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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/8553-8.txt b/8553-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..acd03d7 --- /dev/null +++ b/8553-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5962 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3, 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. 3 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: March 29, 2014 [EBook #8553] +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. 3 *** + + + + +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. III. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. III. + + + I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE + II. OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER + III. A PASTORAL VISIT. + IV. THE ART OF NATURE + V. THE SORE SPOT + VI. THE GATHERING STORM. + VII. THE GATHERED STORM. + VIII. THE SHIPWRECK + IX. THE FUNERAL + X. THE SERMON. + XI. CHANGED PLANS. + XII. THE STUDIO. + XIII. HOME AGAIN. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A WALK WITH MY WIFE. + + +The autumn was creeping up on the earth, with winter holding by its skirts +behind; but before I loose my hold of the garments of summer, I must write +a chapter about a walk and a talk I had one night with my wife. It had +rained a good deal during the day, but as the sun went down the air began +to clear, and when the moon shone out, near the full, she walked the +heavens, not "like one that hath been led astray," but as "queen and +huntress, chaste and fair." + +"What a lovely night it is!" said Ethelwyn, who had come into my +study--where I always sat with unblinded windows, that the night and her +creatures might look in upon me--and had stood gazing out for a moment. + +"Shall we go for a little turn?" I said. + +"I should like it very much," she answered. "I will go and put on my bonnet +at once." + +In a minute or two she looked in again, all ready. I rose, laid aside my +Plato, and went with her. We turned our steps along the edge of the down, +and descended upon the breakwater, where we seated ourselves upon the same +spot where in the darkness I had heard the voices of Joe and Agnes. What a +different night it was from that! The sea lay as quiet as if it could not +move for the moonlight that lay upon it. The glory over it was so mighty in +its peacefulness, that the wild element beneath was afraid to toss itself +even with the motions of its natural unrest. The moon was like the face of +a saint before which the stormy people has grown dumb. The rocks stood up +solid and dark in the universal aether, and the pulse of the ocean throbbed +against them with a lapping gush, soft as the voice of a passionate child +soothed into shame of its vanished petulance. But the sky was the glory. +Although no breath moved below, there was a gentle wind abroad in the upper +regions. The air was full of masses of cloud, the vanishing fragments of +the one great vapour which had been pouring down in rain the most of the +day. These masses were all setting with one steady motion eastward into the +abysses of space; now obscuring the fair moon, now solemnly sweeping away +from before her. As they departed, out shone her marvellous radiance, as +calm as ever. It was plain that she knew nothing of what we called her +covering, her obscuration, the dimming of her glory. She had been busy all +the time weaving her lovely opaline damask on the other side of the mass in +which we said she was swallowed up. + +"Have you ever noticed, wifie," I said, "how the eyes of our minds--almost +our bodily eyes--are opened sometimes to the cubicalness of nature, as it +were?" + +"I don't know, Harry, for I don't understand your question," she answered. + +"Well, it was a stupid way of expressing what I meant. No human being could +have understood it from that. I will make you understand in a moment, +though. Sometimes--perhaps generally--we see the sky as a flat dome, +spangled with star-points, and painted blue. _Now_ I see it as an awful +depth of blue air, depth within depth; and the clouds before me are not +passing away to the left, but sinking away from the front of me into the +marvellous unknown regions, which, let philosophers say what they will +about time and space,--and I daresay they are right,--are yet very awful +to me. Thank God, my dear," I said, catching hold of her arm, as the terror +of mere space grew upon me, "for himself. He is deeper than space, deeper +than time; he is the heart of all the cube of history." + +"I understand you now, husband," said my wife. + +"I knew you would," I answered. + +"But," she said again, "is it not something the same with the things inside +us? I can't put it in words as you do. Do you understand me now?" + +"I am not sure that I do. You must try again." + +"You understand me well enough, only you like to make me blunder where +you can talk," said my wife, putting her hand in mine. "But I will try. +Sometimes, after thinking about something for a long time, you come to a +conclusion about it, and you think you have settled it plain and clear to +yourself, for ever and a day. You hang it upon your wall, like a picture, +and are satisfied for a fortnight. But some day, when you happen to cast a +look at it, you find that instead of hanging flat on the wall, your picture +has gone through it--opens out into some region you don't know where--shows +you far-receding distances of air and sea--in short, where you thought one +question was settled for ever, a hundred are opened up for the present +hour." + +"Bravo, wife!" I cried in true delight. "I do indeed understand you now. +You have said it better than I could ever have done. That's the plague of +you women! You have been taught for centuries and centuries that there is +little or nothing to be expected of you, and so you won't try. Therefore we +men know no more than you do whether it is in you or not. And when you do +try, instead of trying to think, you want to be in Parliament all at once." + +"Do you apply that remark to me, sir?" demanded Ethelwyn. + +"You must submit to bear the sins of your kind upon occasion," I answered. + +"I am content to do that, so long as yours will help mine," she replied. + +"Then I may go on?" I said, with interrogation. + +"Till sunrise if you like. We were talking of the cubicalness--I believe +you called it--of nature." + +"And you capped it with the cubicalness of thought. And quite right +too. There are people, as a dear friend of mine used to say, who are so +accustomed to regard everything in the _flat_, as dogma cut and--not +_always_ dried my moral olfactories aver--that if you prove to them the +very thing they believe, but after another mode than that they have been +accustomed to, they are offended, and count you a heretic. There is no help +for it. Even St. Paul's chief opposition came from the Judaizing Christians +of his time, who did not believe that God _could_ love the Gentiles, and +therefore regarded him as a teacher of falsehood. We must not be fierce +with them. Who knows what wickedness of their ancestors goes to account for +their stupidity? For that there are stupid people, and that they are, in +very consequence of their stupidity, conceited, who can deny? The worst of +it is, that no man who is conceited can be convinced of the fact." + +"Don't say that, Harry. That is to deny conversion." + +"You are right, Ethelwyn. The moment a man is convinced of his folly, he +ceases to be a fool. The moment a man is convinced of his conceit, he +ceases to be conceited. But there _must_ be a final judgment, and the true +man will welcome it, even if he is to appear a convicted fool. A man's +business is to see first that he is not acting the part of a fool, and +next, to help any honest people who care about the matter to take heed +likewise that they be not offering to pull the mote out of their brother's +eye. But there are even societies established and supported by good +people for the express purpose of pulling out motes.--'The Mote-Pulling +Society!'--That ought to take with a certain part of the public." + +"Come, come, Harry. You are absurd. Such people don't come near you." + +"They can't touch me. No. But they come near good people whom I know, +brandishing the long pins with which they pull the motes out, and +threatening them with judgment before their time. They are but pins, to be +sure--not daggers." + +"But you have wandered, Harry, into the narrowest underground, musty ways, +and have forgotten all about 'the cubicalness of nature.'" + +"You are right, my love, as you generally are," I answered, laughing. "Look +at that great antlered elk, or moose--fit quarry for Diana of the silver +bow. Look how it glides solemnly away into the unpastured depths of the +aerial deserts. Look again at that reclining giant, half raised upon his +arm, with his face turned towards the wilderness. What eyes they must be +under those huge brows! On what message to the nations is he borne as by +the slow sweep of ages, on towards his mysterious goal?" + +"Stop, stop, Harry," said my wife. "It makes me unhappy to hear grand words +clothing only cloudy fancies. Such words ought to be used about the truth, +and the truth only." + +"If I could carry it no further, my dear, then it would indeed be a +degrading of words. But there never was a vagary that uplifted the soul, +or made the grand words flow from the gates of speech, that had not its +counterpart in truth itself. Man can imagine nothing, even in the clouds of +the air, that God has not done, or is not doing. Even as that cloudy giant +yields, and is 'shepherded by the slow unwilling wind,' so is each of us +borne onward to an unseen destiny--a glorious one if we will but yield to +the Spirit of God that bloweth where it listeth--with a grand +listing--coming whence we know not, and going whither we know not. The +very clouds of the air are hung up as dim pictures of the thoughts and +history of man." + +"I do not mind how long you talk like that, husband, even if you take the +clouds for your text. But it did make me miserable to think that what you +were saying had no more basis than the fantastic forms which the clouds +assume. I see I was wrong, though." + +"The clouds themselves, in such a solemn stately march as this, used to +make me sad for the very same reason. I used to think, What is it all for? +They are but vapours blown by the wind. They come nowhence, and they go +nowhither. But now I see them and all things as ever moving symbols of the +motions of man's spirit and destiny." + +A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth +of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since, +covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing +forms--great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm--the icebergs of the +upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but floating +near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted by a golden +rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke. + +"I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night," she said. "How he must be enjoying +it if he is!" + +"I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours," I +said. "Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking." + +"He is laying in stock, though, I suppose," answered my wife. + +"I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember." + +"Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he gets +with the things God cares to fashion." + +"Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at +present is our Wynnie." + +"Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?" returned Ethelwyn, looking +up in my face with an arch expression. + +"Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so much +in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about." + +My wife made no answer for a moment. Then she said, + +"Don't you like him, Harry?" + +"Yes. I like him very much." + +"Then why should you not like Wynnie to like him?" + +"I should like to be surer of his principles, for one thing." + +"I should like to be surer of Wynnie's." + +I was silent. Ethelwyn resumed. + +"Don't you think they might do each other good?" + +Still I could not reply. + +"They both love the truth, I am sure; only they don't perhaps know what it +is yet. I think if they were to fall in love with each other, it would very +likely make them both more desirous of finding it still." + +"Perhaps," I said at last. "But you are talking about awfully serious +things, Ethelwyn." + +"Yes, as serious as life," she answered. + +"You make me very anxious," I said. "The young man has not, I fear, any +means of gaining a livelihood for more than himself." + +"Why should he before he wanted it? I like to see a man who can be content +with an art and a living by it." + +"I hope I have not been to blame in allowing them to see so much of each +other," I said, hardly heeding my wife's words. + +"It came about quite naturally," she rejoined. "If you had opposed +their meeting, you would have been interfering just as if you had been +Providence. And you would have only made them think more about each other." + +"He hasn't said anything--has he?" I asked in positive alarm. + +"O dear no. It may be all my fancy. I am only looking a little ahead. I +confess I should like him for a son-in-law. I approve of him," she added, +with a sweet laugh. + +"Well," I said, "I suppose sons-in-law are possible, however disagreeable, +results of having daughters." + +I tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded. + +"Harry," said my wife, "I don't like you in such a mood. It is not like you +at all. It is unworthy of you." + +"How can I help being anxious when you speak of such dreadful things as the +possibility of having to give away my daughter, my precious wonder that +came to me through you, out of the infinite--the tender little darling!" + +"'Out of the heart of God,' you used to say, Henry. Yes, and with a destiny +he had ordained. It is strange to me how you forget your best and noblest +teaching sometimes. You are always telling us to trust in God. Surely it is +a poor creed that will only allow us to trust in God for ourselves--a very +selfish creed. There must be something wrong there. I should say that the +man who can only trust God for himself is not half a Christian. Either he +is so selfish that that satisfies him, or he has such a poor notion of God +that he cannot trust him with what most concerns him. The former is not +your case, Harry: is the latter, then?--You see I must take my turn at the +preaching sometimes. Mayn't I, dearest?" + +She took my hand in both of hers. The truth arose in my heart. I never +loved my wife more than at that moment. And now I could not speak for other +reasons. I saw that I had been faithless to my God, and the moment I could +command my speech, I hastened to confess it. + +"You are right, my dear," I said, "quite right. I have been wicked, for I +have been denying my God. I have been putting my providence in the place +of his--trying, like an anxious fool, to count the hairs on Wynnie's head, +instead of being content that the grand loving Father should count them. My +love, let us pray for Wynnie; for what is prayer but giving her to God and +his holy, blessed will?" + +We sat hand in hand. Neither spoke aloud for some minutes, but we spoke in +our hearts to God, talking to him about Wynnie. Then we rose together, and +walked homeward, still in silence. But my heart and hand clung to my wife +as to the angel whom God had sent to deliver me out of the prison of my +faithlessness. And as we went, lo! the sky was glorious again. It had faded +from my sight, had grown flat as a dogma, uninteresting as "a foul and +pestilent congregation of vapours;" the moon had been but a round thing +with the sun shining upon it, and the stars were only minding their own +business. But now the solemn march towards an unseen, unimagined goal had +again begun. Wynnie's life was hid with Christ in God. Away strode the +cloudy pageant with its banners blowing in the wind, which blew where it +grandly listed, marching as to a solemn triumphal music that drew them from +afar towards the gates of pearl by which the morning walks out of the New +Jerusalem to gladden the nations of the earth. Solitary stars, with all +their sparkles drawn in, shone, quiet as human eyes, in the deep solemn +clefts of dark blue air. They looked restrained and still, as if they +knew all about it--all about the secret of this midnight march. For the +moon--she saw the sun, and therefore made the earth glad. + +"You have been a moon to me this night, my wife," I said. "You were looking +full at the truth, while I was dark. I saw its light in your face, and +believed, and turned my soul to the sun. And now I am both ashamed and +glad. God keep me from sinning so again." + +"My dear husband, it was only a mood--a passing mood," said Ethelwyn, +seeking to comfort me. + +"It was a mood, and thank God it is now past; but it was a wicked one. It +was a mood in which the Lord might have called me a devil, as he did St. +Peter. Such moods have to be grappled with and fought the moment they +appear. They must not have their way for a single thought even." + +"But we can't help it always, can we, husband?" + +"We can't help it out and out, because our wills are not yet free with the +freedom God is giving us as fast as we will let him. When we are able to +will thoroughly, then we shall do what we will. At least, I think we shall. +But there is a mystery in it God only understands. All we know is, that we +can struggle and pray. But a mood is an awful oppression sometimes when you +least believe in it and most wish to get rid of it. It is like a headache +in the soul." + +"What do the people do that don't believe in God?" said Ethelwyn. + +The same moment Wynnie, who had seen us pass the window, opened the door of +the bark-house for us, and we passed into Connie's chamber and found her +lying in the moonlight, gazing at the same heavens as her father and mother +had been revelling in. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER. + + +The next day was very lovely. I think it is the last of the kind of which +I shall have occasion to write in my narrative of the Seaboard Parish. I +wonder if my readers are tired of so much about the common things of +Nature. I reason about it something in this way: We are so easily affected +by the smallest things that are of the unpleasant kind, that we ought to +train ourselves to the influence of those that are of an opposite nature. +The unpleasant ones are like the thorns which make themselves felt as we +scramble--for we often do scramble in a very undignified manner--through +the thickets of life; and, feeling the thorns, we grumble, and are blind +to all but the thorns. The flowers, and the lovely leaves, and the red +berries, and the clusters of filberts, and the birds'-nests do not force +themselves upon our attention as the thorns do, and the thorns make us +forget to look for them. But a scratch would be forgotten--and that in +mental hurts is often equivalent to a cure, for a forgotten scratch on the +mind or heart will never fester--if we but allowed our being a moment's +repose upon any of the quiet, waiting, unobtrusive beauties that lie +around the half-trodden way, offering their gentle healing. And when I +think how, not unfrequently, otherwise noble characters are anything but +admirable when under the influence of trifling irritations, the very +paltriness of which seems what the mind, which would at once rouse itself +to a noble endurance of any mighty evil, is unable to endure, I would +gladly help so with sweet antidotes to defeat the fly in the ointment of +the apothecary that the whole pot shall send forth a pure savour. We ought +for this to cultivate the friendships of little things. Beauty is one of +the surest antidotes to vexation. Often when life looked dreary about me, +from some real or fancied injustice or indignity, has a thought of truth +been flashed into my mind from a flower, a shape of frost, or even a +lingering shadow--not to mention such glories as angel-winged clouds, +rainbows, stars, and sunrises. Therefore I hope that in my loving delay +over such aspects of Nature as impressed themselves upon me in this most +memorable part of my history I shall not prove wearisome to my reader, for +therein I should utterly contravene my hope and intent in the recording of +them. + +This day there was to be an unusually low tide, and we had reckoned on +enlarging our acquaintance with the bed of the ocean--of knowing a few +yards more of the millions of miles lapt in the mystery of waters. It was +to be low water about two o'clock, and we resolved to dine upon the sands. +But all the morning the children were out playing on the threshold of old +Neptune's palace; for in his quieter mood he will, like a fierce +mastiff, let children do with him what they will. I gave myself a whole +holiday--sometimes the most precious part of my life both for myself and +those for whom I labour--and wandered about on the shore, now passing the +children, and assailed with a volley of cries and entreaties to look at +this one's castle and that one's ditch, now leaving them behind, with what +in its ungraduated flatness might well enough personate an endless +desert of sand between, over the expanse of which I could imagine them +disappearing on a far horizon, whence however a faint occasional cry of +excitement and pleasure would reach my ears. The sea was so calm, and the +shore so gently sloping, that you could hardly tell where the sand ceased +and the sea began--the water sloped to such a thin pellicle, thinner +than any knife-edge, upon the shining brown sand, and you saw the sand +underneath the water to such a distance out. Yet this depth, which would +not drown a red spider, was the ocean. In my mind I followed that bed of +shining sand, bared of its hiding waters, out and out, till I was lost in +an awful wilderness of chasms, precipices, and mountain-peaks, in whose +caverns the sea-serpent may dwell, with his breath of pestilence; the +kraken, with "his skaly rind," may there be sleeping + + "His ancient dreamless, uninvaded sleep," + +while + + "faintest sunlights flee + About his shadowy sides," + +as he lies + + "Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep." + +There may lie all the horrors that Schiller's diver encountered--the +frightful Molch, and that worst of all, to which he gives no name, which +came creeping with a hundred knots at once; but here are only the gracious +rainbow-woven shells, an evanescent jelly or two, and the queer baby-crabs +that crawl out from the holes of the bordering rocks. What awful gradations +of gentleness lead from such as these down to those cabins where wallow +the inventions of Nature's infancy, when, like a child of untutored +imagination, she drew on the slate of her fancy creations in which flitting +shadows of beauty serve only to heighten the shuddering, gruesome horror. +The sweet sun and air, the hand of man, and the growth of the ages, have +all but swept such from the upper plains of the earth. What hunter's bow +has twanged, what adventurer's rifle has cracked in those leagues of +mountain-waste, vaster than all the upper world can show, where the beasts +of the ocean "graze the sea-weed, their pasture"! Diana of the silver bow +herself, when she descends into the interlunar caves of hell, sends no such +monsters fleeing from her spells. Yet if such there be, such horrors too +must lie in the undiscovered caves of man's nature, of which all this outer +world is but a typical analysis. By equally slow gradations may the inner +eye descend from the truth of a Cordelia to the falsehood of an Iago. As +these golden sands slope from the sunlight into the wallowing abyss of +darkness, even so from the love of the child to his holy mother slopes the +inclined plane of humanity to the hell of the sensualist. "But with one +difference in the moral world," I said aloud, as I paced up and down on the +shimmering margin, "that everywhere in the scale the eye of the all-seeing +Father can detect the first quiver of the eyelid that would raise itself +heavenward, responsive to his waking spirit." I lifted my eyes in the +relief of the thought, and saw how the sun of the autumn hung above the +waters oppressed with a mist of his own glory; far away to the left a man +who had been clambering on a low rock, inaccessible save in such a tide, +gathering mussels, threw himself into the sea and swam ashore; above his +head the storm-tower stood in the stormless air; the sea glittered and +shone, and the long-winged birds knew not which to choose, the balmy air or +the cool deep, now flitting like arrow-heads through the one, now alighting +eagerly upon the other, to forsake it anew for the thinner element. I +thanked God for his glory. + +"O, papa, it's so jolly--so jolly!" shouted the children as I passed them +again. + +"What is it that's so jolly, Charlie?" I asked. + +"My castle," screeched Harry in reply; "only it's tumbled down. The water +_would_ keep coming in underneath." + +"I tried to stop it with a newspaper," cried Charlie, "but it wouldn't. So +we were forced to let it be, and down it went into the ditch." + +"We blew it up rather than surrender," said Dora. "We did; only Harry +always forgets, and says it was the water did it." + +I drew near the rock that held the bath. I had never approached it from +this side before. It was high above my head, and a stream of water was +flowing from it. I scrambled up, undressed, and plunged into its dark +hollow, where I felt like one of the sea-beasts of which I had been +dreaming, down in the caves of the unvisited ocean. But the sun was over +my head, and the air with an edge of the winter was about me. I dressed +quickly, descended on the other side of the rock, and wandered again on the +sands to seaward of the breakwater, which lay above, looking dry and +weary, and worn with years of contest with the waves, which had at length +withdrawn defeated to their own country, and left it as if to victory and a +useless age of peace. How different was the scene when a raving mountain of +water filled all the hollow where I now wandered, and rushed over the top +of that mole now so high above me; and I had to cling to its stones to keep +me from being carried off like a bit of floating sea-weed! This was the +loveliest and strangest part of the shore. Several long low ridges of rock, +of whose existence I scarcely knew, worn to a level with the sand, hollowed +and channelled with the terrible run of the tide across them, and looking +like the old and outworn cheek-teeth of some awful beast of prey, stretched +out seawards. Here and there amongst them rose a well-known rock, but now +so changed in look by being lifted all the height between the base on the +waters, and the second base in the sand, that I wondered at each, walking +round and viewing it on all sides. It seemed almost a fresh growth out of +the garden of the shore, with uncouth hollows around its fungous root, +and a forsaken air about its brows as it stood in the dry sand and looked +seaward. But what made the chief delight of the spot, closed in by rocks +from the open sands, was the multitude of fairy rivers that flowed across +it to the sea. The gladness these streams gave me I cannot communicate. The +tide had filled thousands of hollows in the breakwater, hundreds of cracked +basins in the rocks, huge sponges of sand; from all of which--from cranny +and crack, and oozing sponge--the water flowed in restricted haste back, +back to the sea, tumbling in tiny cataracts down the faces of the rocks, +bubbling from their roots as from wells, gathering in tanks of sand, and +overflowing in broad shallow streams, curving and sweeping in their sandy +channels, just like, the great rivers of a continent;--here spreading into +smooth silent lakes and reaches, here babbling along in ripples and waves +innumerable--flowing, flowing, to lose their small beings in the same ocean +that met on the other side the waters of the Mississippi, the Orinoco, the +Amazon. All their channels were of golden sand, and the golden sunlight +was above and through and in them all: gold and gold met, with the waters +between. And what gave an added life to their motion was, that all the +ripples made shadows on the clear yellow below them. The eye could not +see the rippling on the surface; but the sun saw it, and drew it in +multitudinous shadowy motion upon the sand, with the play of a thousand +fancies of gold burnished and dead, of sunlight and yellow, trembling, +melting, curving, blending, vanishing ever, ever renewed. It was as if all +the water-marks upon a web of golden silk had been set in wildest yet most +graceful curvilinear motion by the breath of a hundred playful zephyrs. My +eye could not be filled with seeing. I stood in speechless delight for a +while, gazing at the "endless ending" which was "the humour of the game," +and thinking how in all God's works the laws of beauty are wrought out +in evanishment, in birth and death. There, there is no hoarding, but +an ever-fresh creating, an eternal flow of life from the heart of the +All-beautiful. Hence even the heart of man cannot hoard. His brain or his +hand may gather into its box and hoard; but the moment the thing has passed +into the box, the heart has lost it and is hungry again. If man would +_have,_ it is the giver he must have; the eternal, the original, the +ever-outpouring is alone within his reach; the everlasting _creation_ is +his heritage. Therefore all that he makes must be free to come and go +through the heart of his child; he can enjoy it only as it passes, can +enjoy only its life, its soul, its vision, its meaning, not itself. To +hoard rubies and sapphires is as useless and hopeless for the heart, as if +I were to attempt to hoard this marvel of sand and water and sunlight in +the same iron chest with the musty deeds of my wife's inheritance. + +"Father," I murmured half aloud, "thou alone art, and I am because thou +art. Thy will shall be mine." + +I know that I must have spoken aloud, because I remember the start of +consciousness and discomposure occasioned by the voice of Percivale +greeting me. + +"I beg your pardon," he added; "I did not mean to startle you, Mr. Walton. +I thought you were only looking at Nature's childplay--not thinking." + +"I know few things _more_ fit to set one thinking than what you have very +well called Nature's childplay," I returned. "Is Nature very heartless now, +do you think, to go on with this kind of thing at our feet, when away up +yonder lies the awful London, with so many sores festering in her heart?" + +"You must answer your own question, Mr. Walton. You know I cannot. I +confess I feel the difficulty deeply. I will go further, and confess that +the discrepancy makes me doubt many things I would gladly believe. I know +_you_ are able to distinguish between a glad unbelief and a sorrowful +doubt." + +"Else were I unworthy of the humblest place in the kingdom--unworthy to be +a doorkeeper in the house of my God," I answered, and recoiled from the +sound of my own words; for they seemed to imply that I believed myself +worthy of the position I occupied. I hastened to correct them: "But do not +mistake my thoughts," I said; "I do not dream of worthiness in the way of +honour--only of fitness for the work to be done. For that I think God has +fitted me in some measure. The doorkeeper's office may be given him, not +because he has done some great deed worthy of the honour, but because he +can sweep the porch and scour the threshold, and will, in the main, try to +keep them clean. That is all the worthiness I dare to claim, even to hope +that I possess." + +"No one who knows you can mistake your words, except wilfully," returned +Percivale courteously. + +"Thank you," I said. "Now I will just ask you, in reference to the contrast +between human life and nature, how you will go back to your work in London, +after seeing all this child's and other play of Nature? Suppose you had +had nothing here but rain and high winds and sea-fogs, would you have been +better fitted for doing something to comfort those who know nothing of such +influences than you will be now? One of the most important qualifications +of a sick-nurse is a ready smile. A long-faced nurse in a sickroom is a +visible embodiment and presence of the disease against which the eager life +of the patient is fighting in agony. Such ought to be banished, with their +black dresses and their mourning-shop looks, from every sick-chamber, and +permitted to minister only to the dead, who do not mind looks. With what a +power of life and hope does a woman--young or old I do not care--with a +face of the morning, a dress like the spring, a bunch of wild flowers in +her hand, with the dew upon them, and perhaps in her eyes too (I don't +object to that--that is sympathy, not the worship of darkness),--with +what a message from nature and life does she, looking death in the face +with a smile, dawn upon the vision of the invalid! She brings a little +health, a little strength to fight, a little hope to endure, actually lapt +in the folds of her gracious garments; for the soul itself can do more than +any medicine, if it be fed with the truth of life." + +"But are you not--I beg your pardon for interposing on your eloquence with +dull objection," said Percivale--"are you not begging all the question? +_Is_ life such an affair of sunshine and gladness?" + +"If life is not, then I confess all this show of nature is worse than +vanity--it is a vile mockery. Life is gladness; it is the death in it that +makes the misery. We call life-in-death life, and hence the mistake. If +gladness were not at the root, whence its opposite sorrow, against which +we arise, from which we recoil, with which we fight? We recognise it as +death--the contrary of life. There could be no sorrow but for a recognition +of primordial bliss. This in us that fights must be life. It is of the +nature of light, not of darkness; darkness is nothing until the light +comes. This very childplay, as you call it, of Nature, is her assertion of +the secret that life is the deepest, that life shall conquer death. Those +who believe this must bear the good news to them that sit in darkness and +the shadow of death. Our Lord has conquered death--yea, the moral death +that he called the world; and now, having sown the seed of light, the +harvest is springing in human hearts, is springing in this dance of +radiance, and will grow and grow until the hearts of the children of the +kingdom shall frolic in the sunlight of the Father's presence. Nature has +God at her heart; she is but the garment of the Invisible. God wears his +singing robes in a day like this, and says to his children, 'Be not afraid: +your brothers and sisters up there in London are in my hands; go and help +them. I am with you. Bear to them the message of joy. Tell them to be of +good cheer: I have overcome the world. Tell them to endure hunger, and not +sin; to endure passion, and not yield; to admire, and not desire. Sorrow +and pain are serving my ends; for by them will I slay sin; and save my +children.'" + +"I wish I could believe as you do, Mr. Walton." + +"I wish you could. But God will teach you, if you are willing to be +taught." + +"I desire the truth, Mr. Walton." + +"God bless you! God is blessing you," I said. + +"Amen," returned Percivale devoutly; and we strolled away together in +silence towards the cliffs. + +The recession of the tide allowed us to get far enough away from the face +of the rocks to see the general effect. With the lisping of the inch-deep +wavelets at our heels we stood and regarded the worn yet defiant, the +wasted and jagged yet reposeful face of the guardians of the shore. + +"Who could imagine, in weather like this, and with this baby of a tide +lying behind us, low at our feet, and shallow as the water a schoolboy +pours upon his slate to wash it withal, that those grand cliffs before +us bear on their front the scars and dints of centuries, of chiliads of +stubborn resistance, of passionate contest with this same creature that is +at this moment unable to rock the cradle of an infant? Look behind you, at +your feet, Mr. Percivale; look before you at the chasms, rents, caves, and +hollows of those rocks." + +"I wish you were a painter, Mr. Walton," he said. + +"I wish I were," I returned. "At least I know I should rejoice in it, if it +had been given me to be one. But why do you say so now?" + +"Because you have always some individual predominating idea, which +would give interpretation to Nature while it gave harmony, reality, and +individuality to your representation of her." + +"I know what you mean," I answered; "but I have no gift whatever in that +direction. I have no idea of drawing, or of producing the effects of light +and shade; though I think I have a little notion of colour--perhaps about +as much as the little London boy, who stopped a friend of mine once to ask +the way to the field where the buttercups grew, had of nature." + +"I wish I could ask your opinion of some of my pictures." + +"That I should never presume to give. I could only tell you what they made +me feel, or perhaps only think. Some day I may have the pleasure of looking +at them." + +"May I offer you my address?" he said, and took a card from his +pocket-book. "It is a poor place, but if you should happen to think of +me when you are next in London, I shall be honoured by your paying me a +visit." + +"I shall be most happy," I returned, taking his card.--"Did it ever occur +to you, in reference to the subject we were upon a few minutes ago, how +little you can do without shadow in making a picture?" + +"Little indeed," answered Percivale. "In fact, it would be no picture at +all." + +"I doubt if the world would fare better without its shadows." + +"But it would be a poor satisfaction, with regard to the nature of God, to +be told that he allowed evil for artistic purposes." + +"It would indeed, if you regard the world as a picture. But if you think of +his art as expended, not upon the making of a history or a drama, but upon +the making of an individual, a being, a character, then I think a great +part of the difficulty concerning the existence of evil which oppresses you +will vanish. So long as a creature has not sinned, sin is possible to him. +Does it seem inconsistent with the character of God that in order that sin +should become impossible he should allow sin to come? that, in order that +his creatures should choose the good and refuse the evil, in order that +they might become such, with their whole nature infinitely enlarged, as to +turn from sin with a perfect repugnance of the will, he should allow them +to fall? that, in order that, from being sweet childish children, they +should become noble, child-like men and women, he should let them try to +walk alone? Why should he not allow the possible in order that it should +become impossible? for possible it would ever have been, even in the midst +of all the blessedness, until it had been, and had been thus destroyed. +Thus sin is slain, uprooted. And the war must ever exist, it seems to me, +where there is creation still going on. How could I be content to guard my +children so that they should never have temptation, knowing that in all +probability they would fail if at any moment it should cross their path? +Would the deepest communion of father and child ever be possible between +us? Evil would ever seem to be in the child, so long as it was possible it +should be there developed. And if this can be said for the existence of +moral evil, the existence of all other evil becomes a comparative trifle; +nay, a positive good, for by this the other is combated." + +"I think I understand you," returned Percivale. "I will think over what you +have said. These are very difficult questions." + +"Very. I don't think argument is of much use about them, except as it may +help to quiet a man's uneasiness a little, and so give his mind peace to +think about duty. For about the doing of duty there can be no question, +once it is seen. And the doing of duty is the shortest--in very fact, the +only way into the light." + +As we spoke, we had turned from the cliffs, and wandered back across the +salt streams to the sands beyond. From the direction of the house came +a little procession of servants, with Walter at their head, bearing the +preparations for our dinner--over the gates of the lock, down the sides of +the embankment of the canal, and across the sands, in the direction of the +children, who were still playing merrily. + +"Will you join our early dinner, which is to be out of doors, as you see, +somewhere hereabout on the sands?" I said. + +"I shall be delighted," he answered, "if you will let me be of some use +first. I presume you mean to bring your invalid out." + +"Yes; and you shall help me to carry her, if you will." + +"That is what I hoped," said Percivale; and we went together towards the +parsonage. + +As we approached, I saw Wynnie sitting at the drawing-room window; but when +we entered the room, she was gone. My wife was there, however. + +"Where is Wynnie?" I asked. + +"She saw you coming," she answered, "and went to get Connie ready; for I +guessed Mr. Percivale had come to help you to carry her out." + +But I could not help doubting there might be more than that in Wynnie's +disappearance. "What if she should have fallen in love with him," I +thought, "and he should never say a word on the subject? That would be +dreadful for us all." + +They had been repeatedly but not very much together of late, and I was +compelled to allow to myself that if they did fall in love with each other +it would be very natural on both sides, for there was evidently a great +mental resemblance between them, so that they could not help sympathising +with each other's peculiarities. And anyone could see what a fine couple +they would make. + +Wynnie was much taller than Connie--almost the height of her mother. She +had a very fair skin, and brown hair, a broad forehead, a wise, thoughtful, +often troubled face, a mouth that seldom smiled, but on which a smile +seemed always asleep, and round soft cheeks that dimpled like water when +she did smile. I have described Percivale before. Why should not two such +walk together along the path to the gates of the light? And yet I could +not help some anxiety. I did not know anything of his history. I had no +testimony concerning him from anyone that knew him. His past life was a +blank to me; his means of livelihood probably insufficient--certainly, +I judged, precarious; and his position in society--but there I checked +myself: I had had enough of that kind of thing already. I would not +willingly offend in that worldliness again. The God of the whole earth +could not choose that I should look at such works of his hands after that +fashion. And I was his servant--not Mammon's or Belial's. + +All this passed through my mind in about three turns of the winnowing-fan +of thought. Mr. Percivale had begun talking to my wife, who took no pains +to conceal that his presence was pleasant to her, and I went upstairs, +almost unconsciously, to Connie's room. + +When I opened the door, forgetting to announce my approach as I ought to +have done, I saw Wynnie leaning over Connie, and Connie's arm round her +waist. Wynnie started back, and Connie gave a little cry, for the jerk thus +occasioned had hurt her. Wynnie had turned her head away, but turned it +again at Connie's cry, and I saw a tear on her face. + +"My darlings, I beg your pardon," I said. "It was very stupid of me not to +knock at the door." + +Connie looked up at me with large resting eyes, and said-- + +"It's nothing, papa, Wynnie is in one of her gloomy moods, and didn't want +you to see her crying. She gave me a little pull, that was all. It didn't +hurt me much, only I'm such a goose! I'm in terror before the pain comes. +Look at me," she added, seeing, doubtless, some perturbation on my +countenance, "I'm all right now." And she smiled in my face perfectly. + +I turned to Wynnie, put my arm about her, kissed her cheek, and left the +room. I looked round at the door, and saw that Connie was following me with +her eyes, but Wynnie's were hidden in her handkerchief. + +I went back to the drawing-room, and in a few minutes Walter came to +announce that dinner was about to be served. The same moment Wynnie came to +say that Connie was ready. She did not lift her eyes, or approach to +give Percivale any greeting, but went again as soon as she had given her +message. I saw that he looked first concerned and then thoughtful. + +"Come, Mr. Percivale," I said; and he followed me up to Connie's room. + +Wynnie was not there; but Connie lay, looking lovely, all ready for going. +We lifted her, and carried her by the window out on the down, for the +easiest way, though the longest, was by the path to the breakwater, along +its broad back and down from the end of it upon the sands. Before we +reached the breakwater, I found that Wynnie was following behind us. We +stopped in the middle of it, and set Connie down, as if I wanted to take +breath. But I had thought of something to say to her, which I wanted Wynnie +to hear without its being addressed to her. + +"Do you see, Connie," I said, "how far off the water is?" + +"Yes, papa; it is a long way off. I wish I could get up and run down to +it." + +"You can hardly believe that all between, all those rocks, and all that +sand, will be covered before sunset." + +"I know it will be. But it doesn't _look_ likely, does it, papa!" + +"Not the least likely, my dear. Do you remember that stormy night when I +came through your room to go out for a walk in the dark?" + +"Remember it, papa? I cannot forget it. Every time I hear the wind blowing +when I wake in the night I fancy you are out in it, and have to wake myself +up' quite to get rid of the thought." + +"Well, Connie, look down into the great hollow there, with rocks and sand +at the bottom of it, stretching far away." + +"Yes, papa." + +"Now look over the side of your litter. You see those holes all about +between the stones?" + +"Yes, papa." + +"Well, one of those little holes saved my life that night, when the great +gulf there was full of huge mounds of roaring water, which rushed across +this breakwater with force enough to sweep a whole cavalry regiment off its +back." + +"Papa!" exclaimed Connie, turning pale. + +Then first I told her all the story. And Wynnie listened behind. + +"Then I _was_ right in being frightened, papa!" cried Connie, bursting into +tears; for since her accident she could not well command her feelings. + +"You were right in trusting in God, Connie." + +"But you might have been drowned, papa!" she sobbed. + +"Nobody has a right to say that anything might have been other than what +has been. Before a thing has happened we can say might or might not; but +that has to do only with our ignorance. Of course I am not speaking +of things wherein we ought to exercise will and choice. That is _our_ +department. But this does not look like that now, does it? Think what a +change--from the dark night and the roaring water to this fulness of +sunlight and the bare sands, with the water lisping on their edge away +there in the distance. Now, I want you to think that in life troubles will +come which look as if they would never pass away; the night and the storm +look as if they would last for ever; but the calm and the morning cannot be +stayed; the storm in its very nature is transient. The effort of Nature, +as that of the human heart, ever is to return to its repose, for God is +Peace." + +"But if you will excuse me, Mr. Walton," said Percivale, "you can hardly +expect experience to be of use to any but those who have had it. It seems +to me that its influences cannot be imparted." + +"That depends on the amount of faith in those to whom its results are +offered. Of course, as experience, it can have no weight with another; for +it is no longer experience. One remove, and it ceases. But faith in the +person who has experienced can draw over or derive--to use an old Italian +word--some of its benefits to him who has the faith. Experience may thus, +in a sense, be accumulated, and we may go on to fresh experience of our +own. At least I can hope that the experience of a father may take the form +of hope in the minds of his daughters. Hope never hurt anyone, never yet +interfered with duty; nay, always strengthens to the performance of duty, +gives courage, and clears the judgment. St. Paul says we are saved by hope. +Hope is the most rational thing in the universe. Even the ancient poets, +who believed it was delusive, yet regarded it as an antidote given by the +mercy of the gods against some, at least, of the ills of life." + +"But they counted it delusive. A wise man cannot consent to be deluded." + +"Assuredly not. The sorest truth rather than a false hope! But what is a +false hope? Only one that ought not to be fulfilled. The old poets could +give themselves little room for hope, and less for its fulfilment; for what +were the gods in whom they believed--I cannot say in whom they trusted? +Gods who did the best their own poverty of being was capable of doing for +men when they gave them the _illusion_ of hope. But I see they are waiting +for us below. One thing I repeat--the waves that foamed across the spot +where we now stand are gone away, have sunk and vanished." + +"But they will come again, papa," faltered Wynnie. + +"And God will come with them, my love," I said, as we lifted the litter. + +In a few minutes more we were all seated on the sand around a table-cloth +spread upon it. I shall never forgot the peace and the light outside and +in, as far as I was concerned at least, and I hope the others too, that +afternoon. The tide had turned, and the waves were creeping up over the +level, soundless almost as thought; but it would be time to go home long +before they had reached us. The sun was in the western half of the sky, and +now and then a breath of wind came from the sea, with a slight saw-edge in +it, but not enough to hurt. Connie could stand much more in that way now. +And when I saw how she could move herself on her couch, and thought how +much she had improved since first she was laid upon it, hope for her kept +fluttering joyously in my heart. I could not help fancying even that I saw +her move her legs a little; but I could not be in the least sure; and she, +if she did move them, was clearly unconscious of it. Charles and Harry were +every now and then starting up from their dinner and running off with a +shout, to return with apparently increased appetite for the rest of it; +and neither their mother nor I cared to interfere with the indecorum. Dora +alone took it upon her to rebuke them. Wynnie was very silent, but looked +more cheerful. Connie seemed full of quiet bliss. My wife's face was a +picture of heavenly repose. The old nurse was walking about with the baby, +occasionally with one hand helping the other servants to wait upon us. +They, too, seemed to have a share in the gladness of the hour, and, like +Ariel, did their spiriting gently. + +"This is the will of God," I said, after the things were removed, and we +had sat for a few moments in silence. + +"What is the will of God, husband?" asked Ethelwyn. + +"Why, this, my love," I answered; "this living air, and wind, and sea, +and light, and land all about us; this consenting, consorting harmony of +Nature, that mirrors a like peace in our souls. The perfection of such +visions, the gathering of them all in one was, is, I should say, in the +face of Christ Jesus. You will say that face was troubled sometimes. Yes, +but with a trouble that broke not the music, but deepened the harmony. +When he wept at the grave of Lazarus, you do not think it was for Lazarus +himself, or for his own loss of him, that he wept? That could not be, +seeing he had the power to call him back when he would. The grief was for +the poor troubled hearts left behind, to whom it was so dreadful because +they had not faith enough in his Father, the God of life and love, who was +looking after it all, full of tenderness and grace, with whom Lazarus was +present and blessed. It was the aching, loving heart of humanity for which +he wept, that needed God so awfully, and could not yet trust in him. Their +brother was only hidden in the skirts of their Father's garment, but they +could not believe that: they said he was dead--lost--away--all gone, as +the children say. And it was so sad to think of a whole world full of the +grief of death, that he could not bear it without the human tears to help +his heart, as they help ours. It was for our dark sorrows that he wept. But +the peace could be no less plain on the face that saw God. Did you ever +think of that wonderful saying: 'Again a little while, and ye shall see +me, because I go to the Father'? The heart of man would have joined the +'because I go to the Father' with the former result--the not seeing of him. +The heart of man is not able, without more and more light, to understand +that all vision is in the light of the Father. Because Jesus went to the +Father, therefore the disciples saw him tenfold more. His body no longer in +their eyes, his very being, his very self was in their hearts--not in their +affections only--in their spirits, their heavenly consciousness." + +As I said this, a certain hymn, for which I had and have an especial +affection, came into my mind, and, without prologue or introduction, I +repeated it: + + "If I Him but have, + If he be but mine, + If my heart, hence to the grave, + Ne'er forgets his love divine-- + Know I nought of sadness, + Feel I nought but worship, love, and gladness. + + If I Him but have, + Glad with all I part; + Follow on my pilgrim staff + My Lord only, with true heart; + Leave them, nothing saying, + On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying. + + If I Him but have, + Glad I fall asleep; + Aye the flood that his heart gave + Strength within my heart shall keep, + And with soft compelling + Make it tender, through and through it swelling. + + If I Him but have, + Mine the world I hail! + Glad as cherub smiling grave, + Holding back the virgin's veil. + Sunk and lost in seeing, + Earthly fears have died from all my being. + + Where I have but Him + Is my Fatherland; + And all gifts and graces come + Heritage into my hand: + Brothers long deplored + I in his disciples find restored." + +"What a lovely hymn, papa!" exclaimed Connie. She could always speak more +easily than either her mother or sister. "Who wrote it?" + +"Friedrich von Hardenberg, known, where he is known, as Novalis." + +"But he must have written it in German. Did you translate it?" + +"Yes. You will find, I think, that I have kept form, thought, and feeling, +however I may have failed in making an English poem of it." + +"O, you dear papa, it is lovely! Is it long since you did it?" + +"Years before you were born, Connie." + +"To think of you having lived so long, and being one of us!" she returned. +"Was he a Roman Catholic, papa?" + +"No, he was a Moravian. At least, his parents were. I don't think he +belonged to any section of the church in particular." + +"But oughtn't he, papa?" + +"Certainly not, my dear, except he saw good reason for it. But what is the +use of asking such questions, after a hymn like that?" + +"O, I didn't think anything bad, papa, I assure you. It was only that I +wanted to know more about him." + +The tears were in her eyes, and I was sorry I had treated as significant +what was really not so. But the constant tendency to consider Christianity +as associated of necessity with this or that form of it, instead of as +simply obedience to Christ, had grown more and more repulsive to me as I +had grown myself, for it always seemed like an insult to my brethren in +Christ; hence the least hint of it in my children I was too ready to be +down upon like a most unchristian ogre. I took her hand in mine, and she +was comforted, for she saw in my face that I was sorry, and yet she could +see that there was reason at the root of my haste. + +"But," said Wynnie, who, I thought afterwards, must have strengthened +herself to speak from the instinctive desire to show Percivale how far she +was from being out of sympathy with what he might suppose formed a barrier +between him and me--"But," she said, "the lovely feeling in that poem +seems to me, as in all the rest of such poems, to belong only to the New +Testament, and have nothing to do with this world round about us. These +things look as if they were only for drawing and painting and being glad +in, not as if they had relations with all those awful and solemn things. As +soon as I try to get the two together, I lose both of them." + +"That is because the human mind must begin with one thing and grow to the +rest. At first, Christianity seemed to men to have only to do with their +conscience. That was the first relation, of course. But even with art +it was regarded as having no relation except for the presentment of its +history. Afterwards, men forgot the conscience almost in trying to make +Christianity comprehensible to the understanding. Now, I trust, we are +beginning to see that Christianity is everything or nothing. Either the +whole is a lovely fable setting forth the loftiest longing of the human +soul after the vision of the divine, or it is such a fact as is the heart +not only of theology so called, but of history, politics, science, and art. +The treasures of the Godhead must be hidden in him, and therefore by him +only can be revealed. This will interpret all things, or it has not yet +been. Teachers of men have not taught this, because they have not seen it. +If we do not find him in nature, we may conclude either that we do not +understand the expression of nature, or have mistaken ideas or poor +feelings about him. It is one great business in our life to find the +interpretation which will render this harmony visible. Till we find it, we +have not seen him to be all in all. Recognising a discord when they touched +the notes of nature and society, the hermits forsook the instrument +altogether, and contented themselves with a partial symphony--lofty, +narrow, and weak. Their example, more or less, has been followed by almost +all Christians. Exclusion is so much the easier way of getting harmony +in the orchestra than study, insight, and interpretation, that most have +adopted it. It is for us, and all who have hope in the infinite God, to +widen its basis as we may, to search and find the true tone and right idea, +place, and combination of instruments, until to our enraptured ear they +all, with one voice of multiform yet harmonious utterance, declare the +glory of God and of his Christ." + +"A grand idea," said Percivale. + +"Therefore likely to be a true one," I returned. "People find it hard +to believe grand things; but why? If there be a God, is it not likely +everything is grand, save where the reflection of his great thoughts is +shaken, broken, distorted by the watery mirrors of our unbelieving and +troubled souls? Things ought to be grand, simple, and noble. The ages of +eternity will go on showing that such they are and ever have been. God will +yet be victorious over our wretched unbeliefs." + +I was sitting facing the sea, but with my eyes fixed on the sand, boring +holes in it with my stick, for I could talk better when I did not look my +familiar faces in the face. I did not feel thus in the pulpit; there I +sought the faces of my flock, to assist me in speaking to their needs. As +I drew to the close of my last monologue, a colder and stronger blast from +the sea blew in my face. I lifted my head, and saw that the tide had crept +up a long way, and was coming in fast. A luminous fog had sunk down over +the western horizon, and almost hidden the sun, had obscured the half of +the sea, and destroyed all our hopes of a sunset. A certain veil as of the +commonplace, like that which so often settles down over the spirit of man +after a season of vision and glory and gladness, had dropped over the face +of Nature. The wind came in little bitter gusts across the dull waters. It +was time to lift Connie and take her home. + +This was the last time we ate together on the open shore. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A PASTORAL VISIT. + + +The next morning rose neither "cherchef't in a comely cloud" nor "roab'd in +flames and amber light," but covered all in a rainy mist, which the wind +mingled with salt spray torn from the tops of the waves. Every now and then +the wind blew a blastful of larger drops against the window of my study +with an angry clatter and clash, as if daring me to go out and meet its +ire. The earth was very dreary, for there were no shadows anywhere. The +sun was hustled away by the crowding vapours; and earth, sea, and sky were +possessed by a gray spirit that threatened wrath. The breakfast-bell rang, +and I went down, expecting to find my Wynnie, who was always down first to +make the tea, standing at the window with a sad face, giving fit response +to the aspect of nature without, her soul talking with the gray spirit. I +did find her at the window, looking out upon the restless tossing of the +waters, but with no despondent answer to the trouble of nature. On the +contrary, her cheek, though neither rosy nor radiant, looked luminous, and +her eyes were flashing out upon the ebb-tide which was sinking away into +the troubled ocean beyond. Does my girl-reader expect me to tell her next +that something had happened? that Percivale had said something to her? or +that, at least, he had just passed the window, and given her a look which +she might interpret as she pleased? I must disappoint her. It was nothing +of the sort. I knew the heart and feeling of my child. It was only that +kind nature was in sympathy with her mood. The girl was always more +peaceful in storm than in sunshine. I remembered that now. A movement of +life instantly began in her when the obligation of gladness had departed +with the light. Her own being arose to provide for its own needs. She could +smile now when nature required from her no smile in response to hers. And I +could not help saying to myself, "She must marry a poor man some day; she +is a creature of the north, and not of the south; the hot sun of prosperity +would wither her up. Give her a bleak hill-side, and a glint or two of +sunshine between the hailstorms, and she will live and grow; give her +poverty and love, and life will be interesting to her as a romance; give +her money and position, and she will grow dull and haughty. She will +believe in nothing that poet can sing or architect build. She will, like +Cassius, scorn her spirit for being moved to smile at anything." + +I had stood regarding her for a moment. She turned and saw me, and came +forward with her usual morning greeting. + +"I beg your pardon, papa: I thought it was Walter." + +"I am glad to see a smile on your face, my love." + +"Don't think me very disagreeable, papa. I know I am a trouble to you. But +I am a trouble to myself first. I fear I have a discontented mind and a +complaining temper. But I do try, and I will try hard to overcome it." + +"It will not get the better of you, so long as you do the duty of the +moment. But I think, as I told you before, that you are not very well, and +that your indisposition is going to do you good by making you think about +some things you are ready to think about, but which you might have banished +if you had been in good health and spirits. You are feeling as you never +felt before, that you need a presence in your soul of which at least you +haven't enough yet. But I preached quite enough to you yesterday, and I +won't go on the same way to-day again. Only I wanted to comfort you. Come +and give me my breakfast." + +"You do comfort me, papa," she answered, approaching the table. "I know I +don't show what I feel as I ought, but you do comfort me much. Don't you +like a day like this, papa?" + +"I do, my dear. I always did. And I think you take after me in that, as you +do in a good many things besides. That is how I understand you so well." + +"Do I really take after you, papa? Are you sure that you understand me so +well?" she asked, brightening up. + +"I know I do," I returned, replying to her last question. + +"Better than I do myself?" she asked with an arch smile. + +"Considerably, if I mistake not," I answered. + +"How delightful! To think that I am understood even when I don't understand +myself!" + +"But even if I am wrong, you are yet understood. The blessedness of life is +that we can hide nothing from God. If we could hide anything from God, that +hidden thing would by and by turn into a terrible disease. It is the sight +of God that keeps and makes things clean. But as we are both, by mutual +confession, fond of this kind of weather, what do you say to going out with +me? I have to visit a sick woman." + +"You don't mean Mrs. Coombes, papa?" + +"No, my dear. I did not hear she was ill." + +"O, I daresay it is nothing much. Only old nursey said yesterday she was in +bed with a bad cold, or something of that sort." + +"We'll call and inquire as we pass,--that is, if you are inclined to go +with me." + +"How can you put an _if_ to that, papa?" + +"I have just had a message from that cottage that stands all alone on the +corner of Mr. Barton's farm--over the cliff, you know--that the woman is +ill, and would like to see me. So the sooner we start the better." + +"I shall have done my breakfast in five minutes, papa. O, here's +mamma!--Mamma, I'm going out for a walk in the rain with papa. You won't +mind, will you?" + +"I don't think it will do you any harm, my dear. That's all I mind, you +know. It was only once or twice when you were not well that I objected to +it. I quite agree with your papa, that only lazy people are _glad_ to stay +in-doors when it rains." + +"And it does blow so delightfully!" said Wynnie, as she left the room to +put on her long cloak and her bonnet. + +We called at the sexton's cottage, and found him sitting gloomily by the +low window, looking seaward. + +"I hope your wife is not _very_ poorly, Coombes," I said. + +"No, sir. She be very comfortable in bed. Bed's not a bad place to be in +in such weather," he answered, turning again a dreary look towards the +Atlantic. "Poor things!" + +"What a passion for comfort you have, Coombes! How does that come about, do +you think?" + +"I suppose I was made so, sir." + +"To be sure you were. God made you so." + +"Surely, sir. Who else?" + +"Then I suppose he likes making people comfortable if he makes people like +to be comfortable." + +"It du look likely enough, sir." + +"Then when he takes it out of your hands, you mustn't think he doesn't look +after the people you would make comfortable if you could." + +"I must mind my work, you know, sir." + +"Yes, surely. And you mustn't want to take his out of his hands, and go +grumbling as if you would do it so much better if he would only let you get +_your_ hand to it." + +"I daresay you be right, sir," he said. "I must just go and have a look +about, though. Here's Agnes. She'll tell you about mother." + +He took his spade from the corner, and went out. He often brought his tools +into the cottage. He had carved the handle of his spade all over with the +names of the people he had buried. + +"Tell your mother, Agnes, that I will call in the evening and see her, if +she would like to see me. We are going now to see Mrs. Stokes. She is very +poorly, I hear." + +"Let us go through the churchyard, papa," said Wynnie, "and see what the +old man is doing." + +"Very well, my dear. It is only a few steps round." + +"Why do you humour the sexton's foolish fancy so much, papa? It is +such nonsense! You taught us it was, surely, in your sermon about the +resurrection?" + +"Most certainly, my dear. But it would be of no use to try to get it out of +his head by any argument. He has a kind of craze in that direction. To get +people's hearts right is of much more importance than convincing their +judgments. Right judgment will follow. All such fixed ideas should be +encountered from the deepest grounds of truth, and not from the outsides of +their relations. Coombes has to be taught that God cares for the dead more +than he does, and _therefore_ it is unreasonable for him to be anxious +about them." + +When we reached the churchyard we found the old man kneeling on a grave +before its headstone. It was a very old one, with a death's-head and +cross-bones carved upon the top of it in very high relief. With his +pocket-knife he was removing the lumps of green moss out of the hollows of +the eyes of the carven skull. We did not interrupt him, but walked past +with a nod. + +"You saw what he was doing, Wynnie? That reminds me of almost the only +thing in Dante's grand poem that troubles me. I cannot think of it without +a renewal of my concern, though I have no doubt he is as sorry now as I am +that ever he could have written it. When, in the _Inferno,_ he reaches the +lowest region of torture, which is a solid lake of ice, he finds the lost +plunged in it to various depths, some, if I remember rightly, entirely +submerged, and visible only through the ice, transparent as crystal, like +the insects found in amber. One man with his head only above the ice, +appeals to him as condemned to the same punishment to take pity on him, and +remove the lumps of frozen tears from his eyes, that he may weep a little +before they freeze again and stop the relief once more. Dante says to him, +'Tell me who you are, and if I do not assist you, I deserve to lie at the +bottom of the ice myself.' The man tells him who he is, and explains to him +one awful mystery of these regions. Then he says, 'Now stretch forth thy +hand, and open my eyes.' 'And,' says Dante, I did not open them for him; +and rudeness to him was courtesy.'" + +"But he promised, you said." + +"He did; and yet he did not do it. Pity and truth had abandoned him +together. One would think little of it comparatively, were it not that +Dante is so full of tenderness and grand religion. It is very awful, and +may teach us many things." + +"But what made you think of that now?" + +"Merely what Coombes was about. The visual image was all. He was scooping +the green moss out of the eyes of the death's-head on the gravestone." + +By this time we were on the top of the downs, and the wind was buffeting +us, and every other minute assailing us with a blast of rain. Wynnie drew +her cloak closer about her, bent her head towards the blast, and struggled +on bravely by my side. No one who wants to enjoy a walk in the rain must +carry an umbrella; it is pure folly. When we came to one of the stone +fences, we cowered down by its side for a few moments to recover our +breath, and then struggled on again. Anything like conversation was out of +the question. At length we dropped into a hollow, which gave us a little +repose. Down below the sea was dashing into the mouth of the glen, or +coomb, as they call it there. On the opposite side of the hollow, the +little house to which we were going stood up against the gray sky. + +"I begin to doubt whether I ought to have brought you, Wynnie. It was +thoughtless of me; I don't mean for your sake, but because your presence +may be embarrassing in a small house; for probably the poor woman may +prefer seeing me alone." + +"I will go back, papa. I sha'n't mind it a bit." + +"No; you had better come on. I shall not be long with her, I daresay. We +may find some place that you can wait in. Are you wet?" + +"Only my cloak. I am as dry as a tortoise inside." + +"Come along, then. We shall soon be there." + +When we reached the house I found that Wynnie would not be in the way. I +left her seated by the kitchen-fire, and was shown into the room where Mrs. +Stokes lay. I cannot say I perceived. But I guessed somehow, the moment I +saw her that there was something upon her mind. She was a hard-featured +woman, with a cold, troubled black eye that rolled restlessly about. She +lay on her back, moving her head from side to side. When I entered she only +looked at me, and turned her eyes away towards the wall. I approached the +bedside, and seated myself by it. I always do so at once; for the patient +feels more at rest than if you stand tall up before her. I laid my hand on +hers. + +"Are you very ill, Mrs. Stokes?" I said. + +"Yes, very," she answered with a groan. "It be come to the last with me." + +"I hope not, indeed, Mrs. Stokes. It's not come to the last with us, so +long as we have a Father in heaven." + +"Ah! but it be with me. He can't take any notice of the like of me." + +"But indeed he does, whether you think it or not. He takes notice of every +thought we think, and every deed we do, and every sin we commit." + +I said the last words with emphasis, for I suspected something more than +usual upon her conscience. She gave another groan, but made no reply. I +therefore went on. + +"Our Father in heaven is not like some fathers on earth, who, so long as +their children don't bother them, let them do anything they like. He will +not have them do what is wrong. He loves them too much for that." + +"He won't look at me," she said half murmuring, half sighing it out, so +that I could hardly, hear what she said. + +"It is because he _is_ looking at you that you are feeling uncomfortable," +I answered. "He wants you to confess your sins. I don't mean to me, but to +himself; though if you would like to tell me anything, and I can help you, +I shall be _very_ glad. You know Jesus Christ came to save us from our +sins; and that's why we call him our Saviour. But he can't save us from our +sins if we won't confess that we have any." + +"I'm sure I never said but what I be a great sinner, as well as other +people." + +"You don't suppose that's confessing your sins?" I said. "I once knew a +woman of very bad character, who allowed to me she was a great sinner; but +when I said, 'Yes, you have done so and so,' she would not allow one of +those deeds to be worthy of being reckoned amongst her sins. When I asked +her what great sins she had been guilty of, then, seeing these counted for +nothing, I could get no more out of her than that she was a great sinner, +like other people, as you have just been saying." + +"I hope you don't be thinking I ha' done anything of that sort," she said +with wakening energy. "No man or woman dare say I've done anything to be +ashamed of." + +"Then you've committed no sins?" I returned. "But why did you send for me? +You must have something to say to me." + +"I never did send for you. It must ha' been my husband." + +"Ah, then I'm afraid I've no business here!" I returned, rising. "I thought +you had sent for me." + +She returned no answer. I hoped that by retiring I should set her thinking, +and make her more willing to listen the next time I came. I think clergymen +may do much harm by insisting when people are in a bad mood, as if they +had everything to do, and the Spirit of God nothing at all. I bade her +good-day, hoped she would be better soon, and returned to Wynnie. + +As we walked home together, I said: + +"Wynnie, I was right. It would not have done at all to take you into the +sick-room. Mrs. Stokes had not sent for me herself, and rather resented my +appearance. But I think she will send for me before many days are over." + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE ART OF NATURE. + + +We had a week of hazy weather after this. I spent it chiefly in my study +and in Connie's room. A world of mist hung over the sea; it refused to hold +any communion with mortals. As if ill-tempered or unhappy, it folded itself +in its mantle and lay still. + +What was it thinking about? All Nature is so full of meaning, that we +cannot help fancying sometimes that she knows her own meanings. She is +busy with every human mood in turn--sometimes with ten of them at +once--picturing our own inner world before us, that we may see, understand, +develop, reform it. + +I was turning over some such thought in my mind one morning, when Dora +knocked at the door, saying that Mr. Percivale had called, and that mamma +was busy, and would I mind if she brought him up to the study. + +"Not in the least, my dear," I answered; "I shall be very glad to see him." + +"Not much of weather for your sacred craft, Percivale," I said as he +entered. "I suppose, if you were asked to make a sketch to-day, it would be +much the same as if a stupid woman were to ask you to take her portrait?" + +"Not quite so bad as that," said Percivale. + +"Surely the human face is more than nature." + +"Nature is never stupid." + +"The woman might be pretty." + +"Nature is full of beauty in her worst moods; while the prettier such a +woman, the more stupid she would look, and the more irksome you would feel +the task; for you could not help making claims upon her which you would +never think of making upon Nature." + +"I daresay you are right. Such stupidity has a good deal to do with moral +causes. You do not ever feel that Nature is to blame." + +"Nature is never ugly. She may be dull, sorrowful, troubled; she may be +lost in tears and pallor, but she cannot be ugly. It is only when you rise +into animal nature that you find ugliness." + +"True in the main only; for no lines of absolute division can be drawn in +nature. I have seen ugly flowers." + +"I grant it; but they are exceptional; and none of them are without +beauty." + +"Surely not. The ugliest soul even is not without some beauty. But I grant +you that the higher you rise the more is ugliness possible, just because +the greater beauty is possible. There is no ugliness to equal in its +repulsiveness the ugliness of a beautiful face." + +A pause followed. + +"I presume," I said, "you are thinking of returning to London now, there +seems so little to be gained by remaining here. When this weather begins to +show itself I could wish myself in my own parish; but I am sure the change, +even through the winter, will be good for my daughter." + +"I must be going soon," he answered; "but it would be too bad to take +offence at the old lady's first touch of temper. I mean to wait and see +whether we shall not have a little bit of St. Martin's summer, as Shakspere +calls it; after which, hail London, queen of smoke and--" + +"And what?" I asked, seeing he hesitated. + +"'And soap,' I was fancying you would say; for you never will allow the +worst of things, Mr. Walton." + +"No, surely I will not. For one thing, the worst has never been seen by +anybody yet. We have no experience to justify it." + +We were chatting in this loose manner when Walter came to the door to tell +me that a messenger had come from Mrs. Stokes. + +I went down to see him, and found her husband. + +"My wife be very bad, sir," he said. "I wish you could come and see her." + +"Does she want to see me?' I asked. + +"She's been more uncomfortable than ever since you was there last," he +said. + +"But," I repeated, "has she said she would like to see me?" + +"I can't say it, sir," answered the man. + +"Then it is you who want me to see her?" + +"Yes, sir; but I be sure she do want to see you. I know her way, you see, +sir. She never would say she wanted anything in her life; she would always +leave you to find it out: so I got sharp at that, sir." + +"And then would she allow she had wanted it when you got it her?" + +"No, never, sir. She be peculiar--my wife; she always be." + +"Does she know that you have come to ask me now?" + +"No, sir." + +"Have you courage to tell her?" + +The man hesitated. + +"If you haven't courage to tell her," I resumed, "I have nothing more to +say. I can't go; or, rather, I will not go." + +"I will tell her, sir." + +"Then you will tell her that I refused to come until she sent for me +herself." + +"Ben't that rather hard on a dying woman, sir?" + +"I have my reasons. Except she send for me herself, the moment I go she +will take refuge in the fact that she did not send for me. I know your +wife's peculiarity too, Mr. Stokes." + +"Well, I _will_ tell her, sir. It's time to speak my own mind." + +"I think so. It was time long ago. When she sends for me, if it be in the +middle of the night, I shall be with her at once." + +He left me and I returned to Percivale. + +"I was just thinking before you came," I said, "about the relation of +Nature to our inner world. You know I am quite ignorant of your art, but I +often think about the truths that lie at the root of it." + +"I am greatly obliged to you," he said, "for talking about these things. I +assure you it is of more service to me than any professional talk. I always +think the professions should not herd together so much as they do; they +want to be shone upon from other quarters." + +"I believe we have all to help each other, Percivale. The sun himself could +give us no light that would be of any service to us but for the reflective +power of the airy particles through which he shines. But anything I know I +have found out merely by foraging for my own necessities." + +"That is just what makes the result valuable," he replied. "Tell me what +you were thinking." + +"I was thinking," I answered, "how everyone likes to see his own thoughts +set outside of him, that he may contemplate them _objectively,_ as the +philosophers call it. He likes to see the other side of them, as it were." + +"Yes, that is, of course, true; else, I suppose, there would be no art at +all." + +"Surely. But that is not the aspect in which I was considering the +question. Those who can so set them forth are artists; and however they +may fail of effecting such a representation of their ideas as will satisfy +themselves, they yet experience satisfaction in the measure in which they +have succeeded. But there are many more men who cannot yet utter their +ideas in any form. Mind, I do expect that, if they will only be good, they +shall have this power some day; for I do think that many things we call +differences in kind, may in God's grand scale prove to be only differences +in degree. And indeed the artist--by artist, I mean, of course, architect, +musician, painter, poet, sculptor--in many things requires it just as much +as the most helpless and dumb of his brethren, seeing in proportion to the +things that he can do, he is aware of the things he cannot do, the thoughts +he cannot express. Hence arises the enthusiasm with which people hail the +work of an artist; they rejoice, namely, in seeing their own thoughts, or +feelings, or something like them, expressed; and hence it comes that of +those who have money, some hang their walls with pictures of their own +choice, others--" + +"I beg your pardon," said Percivale, interrupting; "but most people, I +fear, hang their walls with pictures of other people's choice, for they +don't buy them at all till the artist has got a name." + +"That is true. And yet there is a shadow of choice even there; for they +won't at least buy what they dislike. And again the growth in popularity +may be only what first attracted their attention--not determined their +choice." + +"But there are others who only buy them for their value in the market." + +"'Of such is not the talk,' as the Germans would say. In as far as your +description applies, such are only tradesmen, and have no claim to be +considered now." + +"Then I beg your pardon for interrupting. I am punished more than I +deserve, if you have lost your thread." + +"I don't think I have. Let me see. Yes. I was saying that people hang +their walls with pictures of their choice; or provide music, &c., of +their choice. Let me keep to the pictures: their choice, consciously or +unconsciously, is determined by some expression that these pictures give +to what is in themselves--the buyers, I mean. They like to see their own +feelings outside of themselves." + +"Is there not another possible motive--that the pictures teach them +something?" + +"That, I venture to think, shows a higher moral condition than the other, +but still partakes of the other; for it is only what is in us already +that makes us able to lay hold of a lesson. It is there in the germ, else +nothing from without would wake it up." + +"I do not quite see what all this has to do with Nature and her +influences." + +"One step more, and I shall arrive at it. You will admit that the pictures +and objects of art of all kinds, with which a man adorns the house he has +chosen or built to live in, have thenceforward not a little to do with the +education of his tastes and feelings. Even when he is not aware of it, they +are working upon him,--for good, if he has chosen what is good, which alone +shall be our supposition." + +"Certainly; that is clear." + +"Now I come to it. God, knowing our needs, built our house for our +needs--not as one man may build for another, but as no man can build for +himself. For our comfort, education, training, he has put into form for us +all the otherwise hidden thoughts and feelings of our heart. Even when he +speaks of the hidden things of the Spirit of God, he uses the forms or +pictures of Nature. The world is, as it were, the human, unseen world +turned inside out, that we may see it. On the walls of the house that he +has built for us, God has hung up the pictures--ever-living, ever-changing +pictures--of all that passes in our souls. Form and colour and motion are +there,--ever-modelling, ever-renewing, never wearying. Without this living +portraiture from within, we should have no word to utter that should +represent a single act of the inner world. Metaphysics could have no +existence, not to speak of poetry, not to speak of the commonest language +of affection. But all is done in such spiritual suggestion, portrait and +definition are so avoided, the whole is in such fluent evanescence, that +the producing mind is only aided, never overwhelmed. It never amounts to +representation. It affords but the material which the thinking, feeling +soul can use, interpret, and apply for its own purposes of speech. It is, +as it were, the forms of thought cast into a lovely chaos by the inferior +laws of matter, thence to be withdrawn by what we call the creative genius +that God has given to men, and moulded, and modelled, and arranged, and +built up to its own shapes and its own purposes." + +"Then I presume you would say that no mere transcript, if I may use the +word, of nature is the worthy work of an artist." + +"It is an impossibility to make a mere transcript. No man can help seeing +nature as he is himself, for she has all in her; but if he sees no meaning +in especial that he wants to give, his portrait of her will represent only +her dead face, not her living impassioned countenance." + +"Then artists ought to interpret nature?" + +"Indubitably; but that will only be to interpret themselves--something of +humanity that is theirs, whether they have discovered it already or not. If +to this they can add some teaching for humanity, then indeed they may claim +to belong to the higher order of art, however imperfect they may be in +their powers of representing--however lowly, therefore, their position may +be in that order." + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE SORE SPOT. + + +We went on talking for some time. Indeed we talked so long that the +dinner-hour was approaching, when one of the maids came with the message +that Mr. Stokes had called again, wishing to see me. I could not help +smiling inwardly at the news. I went down at once, and found him smiling +too. + +"My wife do send me for you this time, sir," he said. "Between you and me, +I cannot help thinking she have something on her mind she wants to tell +you, sir." + +"Why shouldn't she tell you, Mr. Stokes? That would be most natural. And +then, if you wanted any help about it, why, of course, here I am." + +"She don't think well enough of my judgment for that, sir; and I daresay +she be quite right. She always do make me give in before she have done +talking. But she have been a right good wife to me, sir." + +"Perhaps she would have been a better if you hadn't given in quite so much. +It is very wrong to give in when you think you are right." + +"But I never be sure of it when she talk to me awhile." + +"Ah, then I have nothing to say except that you ought to have been +surer--_sometimes;_ I don't say _always."_ + +"But she do want you very bad now, sir. I don't think she'll behave to you +as she did before. Do come, sir." + +"Of course I will--instantly." + +I returned to the study, and asked Percivale if he would like to go with +me. He looked, I thought, as if he would rather not. I saw that it was +hardly kind to ask him. + +"Well, perhaps it is better not," I said; "for I do not know how long I may +have to be with the poor woman. You had better wait here and take my place +at the dinner-table. I promise not to depose you if I should return before +the meal is over." + +He thanked me very heartily. I showed him into the drawing-room, told my +wife where I was going, and not to wait dinner for me--I would take my +chance--and joined Mr. Stokes. + +"You have no idea, then," I said, after we had gone about half-way, "what +makes your wife so uneasy?" + +"No, I haven't," he answered; "except it be," he resumed, "that she was too +hard, as I thought, upon our Mary, when she wanted to marry beneath her, as +wife thought." + +"How beneath her? Who was it she wanted to marry?" + +"She did marry him, sir. She has a bit of her mother's temper, you see, and +she would take her own way." + +"Ah, there's a lesson to mothers, is it not? If they want to have their own +way, they mustn't give their own temper to their daughters." + +"But how are they to help it, sir?" + +"Ah, how indeed? But what is your daughter's husband?" + +"A labourer, sir. He works on a farm out by Carpstone." + +"But you have worked on Mr. Barton's farm for many years, if I don't +mistake?" + +"I have, sir; but I am a sort of a foreman now, you see." + +"But you weren't so always; and your son-in-law, whether he work his way up +or not, is, I presume, much where you were when you married Mrs. Stokes?" + +"True as you say, sir; and it's not me that has anything to say about it. I +never gave the man a nay. But you see, my wife, she always do be wanting to +get her head up in the world; and since she took to the shopkeeping--" + +"The shopkeeping!" I said, with some surprise; "I didn't know that." + +"Well, you see, sir, it's only for a quarter or so of the year. You know +it's a favourite walk for the folks as comes here for the bathing--past our +house, to see the great cave down below; and my wife, she got a bit of a +sign put up, and put a few ginger-beer bottles in the window, and--" + +"A bad place for the ginger-beer," I said. + +"They were only empty ones, with corks and strings, you know, sir. My wife, +she know better than put the ginger-beer its own self in the sun. But I do +think she carry her head higher after that; and a farm-labourer, as they +call them, was none good enough for her daughter." + +"And hasn't she been kind to her since she married, then?" + +"She's never done her no harm, sir." + +"But she hasn't gone to see her very often, or asked her to come and see +you very often, I suppose?" + +"There's ne'er a one o' them crossed the door of the other," he answered, +with some evident feeling of his own in the matter. + +"Ah; but you don't approve of that yourself, Stokes?" + +"Approve of it? No, sir. I be a farm-labourer once myself; and so I do want +to see my own daughter now and then. But she take after her mother, she do. +I don't know which of the two it is as does it, but there's no coming and +going between Carpstone and this." + +We were approaching the house. I told Stokes he had better let her know I +was there; for that, if she had changed her mind, it was not too late for +me to go home again without disturbing her. He came back saying she was +still very anxious to see me. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes, how do you feel to-day?" I asked, by way of opening the +conversation. "I don't think you look much worse." + +"I be much worse, sir. You don't know what I suffer, or you wouldn't make +so little of it. I be very bad." + +"I know you are very ill, but I hope you are not too ill to tell me why you +are so anxious to see me. You have got something to tell me, I suppose." + +With pale and death-like countenance, she appeared to be fighting more with +herself than with the disease which yet had nearly overcome her. The drops +stood upon her forehead, and she did not speak. Wishing to help her, if I +might, I said-- + +"Was it about your daughter you wanted to speak to me?" + +"No," she muttered. "I have nothing to say about my daughter. She was my +own. I could do as I pleased with her." + +I thought with myself, we must have a word about that by and by, but +meantime she must relieve her heart of the one thing whose pressure she +feels. + +"Then," I said, "you want to tell me about something that was not your +own?" + +"Who said I ever took what was not my own?" she returned fiercely. "Did +Stokes dare to say I took anything that wasn't my own?" + +"No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from +your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause of +your misery." + +"It is very hard that the parson should think such things," she muttered +again. + +"My poor woman," I said, "you sent for me because you had something to +confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to +confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does you +harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, confess +to God." + +"God knows it, I suppose, without that." + +"Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. How +is he to forgive you, if you won't allow that you have done wrong?" + +"It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had +took something that wasn't your own?" + +"Well, I shouldn't like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I +should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it." + +"But that's the worst of it; I can't get rid of it." + +"But," I said, laying my hand on hers, and trying to speak as kindly as I +could, although her whole behaviour would have been exceedingly repulsive +but for her evidently great suffering, "you have now all but confessed +taking something that did not belong to you. Why don't you summon courage +and tell me all about it? I want to help you out of the trouble as easily +as ever I can; but I can't if you don't tell me what you've got that isn't +yours." + +"I haven't got anything," she muttered. + +"You had something, then, whatever may have become of it now." + +She was again silent. + +"What did you do with it?" + +"Nothing." + +I rose and took up my hat. She stretched out her hand, as if to lay hold of +me, with a cry. + +"Stop, stop. I'll tell you all about it. I lost it again. That's the worst +of it. I got no good of it." + +"What was it?" + +"A sovereign," she said, with a groan. "And now I'm a thief, I suppose." + +"No more a thief than you were before. Rather less, I hope. But do you +think it would have been any better for you if you hadn't lost it, and had +got some good of it, as you say?" + +She was silent yet again. + +"If you hadn't lost it you would most likely have been a great deal worse +for it than you are--a more wicked woman altogether." + +"I'm not a wicked woman." + +"It is wicked to steal, is it not?" + +"I didn't steal it." + +"How did you come by it, then?" + +"I found it." + +"Did you try to find out the owner?" + +"No. I knew whose it was." + +"Then it was very wicked not to return it. And I say again, that if you had +not lost the sovereign you would have been most likely a more wicked woman +than you are." + +"It was very hard to lose it. I could have given it back. And then I +wouldn't have lost my character as I have done this day." + +"Yes, you could; but I doubt if you would." + +"I would." + +"Now, if you had it, you are sure you would give it back?" + +"Yes, that I would," she said, looking me so full in the face that I was +sure she meant it. + +"How would you give it back? Would you get your husband to take it?" + +"No; I wouldn't trust him." + +"With the story, you mean I You do not wish to imply that he would not +restore it?" + +"I don't mean that. He would do what I told him." + +"How would you return it, then?" + +"I should make a parcel of it, and send it." + +"Without saying anything about it?" + +"Yes. Where's the good? The man would have his own." + +"No, he would not. He has a right to your confession, for you have wronged +him. That would never do." + +"You are too hard upon me," she said, beginning to weep angrily. + +"Do you want to get the weight of this sin off your mind?" I said. + +"Of course I do. I am going to die. O dear! O dear!" + +"Then that is just what I want to help you in. You must confess, or the +weight of it will stick there." + +"But, if I confess, I shall be expected to pay it back?" + +"Of course. That is only reasonable." + +"But I haven't got it, I tell you. I have lost it." + +"Have you not a sovereign in your possession?" + +"No, not one." + +"Can't you ask your husband to let you have one?" + +"There! I knew it was no use. I knew you would only make matters worse. I +do wish I had never seen that wicked money." + +"You ought not to abuse the money; it was not wicked. You ought to wish +that you had returned it. But that is no use; the thing is to return it +now. Has your husband got a sovereign?" + +"No. He may ha' got one since I be laid up. But I never can tell him about +it; and I should be main sorry to spend one of his hard earning in that +way, poor man." + +"Well, I'll tell him, and we'll manage it somehow." + +I thought for a few moments she would break out in opposition; but she hid +her face with the sheet instead, and burst into a great weeping. + +I took this as a permission to do as I had said, and went to the room-door +and called her husband. He came, looking scared. His wife did not look up, +but lay weeping. I hoped much for her and him too from this humiliation +before him, for I had little doubt she needed it. + +"Your wife, poor woman," I said, "is in great distress because--I do not +know when or how--she picked up a sovereign that did not belong to her, +and, instead of returning, put it away somewhere and lost it. This is what +is making her so miserable." + +"Deary me!" said Stokes, in the tone with which he would have spoken to a +sick child; and going up to his wife, he sought to draw down the sheet from +her face, apparently that he might kiss her; but she kept tight hold of +it, and he could not. "Deary me!" he went on; "we'll soon put that all to +rights. When was it, Jane, that you found it?" + +"When we wanted so to have a pig of our own; and I thought I could soon +return it," she sobbed from under the sheet. + +"Deary me! Ten years ago! Where did you find it, old woman?" + +"I saw Squire Tresham drop it, as he paid me for some ginger-beer he got +for some ladies that was with him. I do believe I should ha' given it back +at the time; but he made faces at the ginger-beer, and said it was very +nasty; and I thought, well, I would punish him for it." + +"You see it was your temper that made a thief of you, then," I said. + +"My old man won't be so hard on me as you, sir. I wish I had told him +first." + +"I would wish that too," I said, "were it not that I am afraid you might +have persuaded him to be silent about it, and so have made him miserable +and wicked too. But now, Stokes, what is to be done? This money must be +paid. Have you got it?" + +The poor man looked blank. + +"She will never be at ease till this money is paid," I insisted. + +"Well, sir, I ain't got it, but I'll borrow it of someone; I'll go to +master, and ask him." + +"No, my good fellow, that won't do. Your master would want to know what +you were going to do with it, perhaps; and we mustn't let more people know +about it than just ourselves and Squire Tresham. There is no occasion for +that. I'll tell you what: I'll give you the money, and you must take it; +or, if you like, I will take it to the squire, and tell him all about it. +Do you authorise me to do this, Mrs. Stokes?" + +"Please, sir. It's very kind of you. I will work hard to pay you again, if +it please God to spare me. I am very sorry I was so cross-tempered to you, +sir; but I couldn't bear the disgrace of it." + +She said all this from under the bed-clothes. + +"Well, I'll go," I said; "and as soon as I've had my dinner I'll get a +horse and ride over to Squire Tresham's. I'll come back to-night and tell +you about it. And now I hope you will be able to thank God for forgiving +you this sin; but you must not hide and cover it up, but confess it clean +out to him, you know." + +She made me no answer, but went on sobbing. + +I hastened home, and as I entered sent Walter to ask the loan of a horse +which a gentleman, a neighbour, had placed at my disposal. + +When I went into the dining-room, I found that they had not sat down to +dinner. I expostulated: it was against the rule of the house, when my +return was uncertain. + +"But, my love," said my wife, "why should you not let us please ourselves +sometimes? Dinner is so much nicer when you are with us." + +"I am very glad you think so," I answered. "But there are the children: it +is not good for growing creatures to be kept waiting for their meals." + +"You see there are no children; they have had their dinner." + +"Always in the right, wife; but there's Mr. Percivale." + +"I never dine till seven o'clock, to save daylight," he said. + +"Then I am beaten on all points. Let us dine." + +During dinner I could scarcely help observing how Percivale's eyes followed +Wynnie, or, rather, every now and then settled down upon her face. That she +was aware, almost conscious of this, I could not doubt. One glance at her +satisfied me of that. But certain words of the apostle kept coming again +and again into my mind; for they were winged words those, and even when +they did not enter they fluttered their wings at my window: "Whatsoever is +not of faith is sin." And I kept reminding myself that I must heave the +load of sin off me, as I had been urging poor Mrs. Stokes to do; for God +was ever seeking to lift it, only he could not without my help, for that +would be to do me more harm than good by taking the one thing in which I +was like him away from me--my action. Therefore I must have faith in +him, and not be afraid; for surely all fear is sin, and one of the most +oppressive sins from which the Lord came to save us. + +Before dinner was over the horse was at the door. I mounted, and set out +for Squire Tresham's. + + +I found him a rough but kind-hearted elderly man. When I told him the story +of the poor woman's misery, he was quite concerned at her suffering. When I +produced the sovereign he would not receive it at first, but requested me +to take it back to her and say she must keep it by way of an apology for +his rudeness about her ginger-beer; for I took care to tell him the whole +story, thinking it might be a lesson to him too. But I begged him to take +it; for it would, I thought, not only relieve her mind more thoroughly, but +help to keep her from coming to think lightly of the affair afterwards. Of +course I could not tell him that I had advanced the money, for that would +have quite prevented him from receiving it. I then got on my horse again, +and rode straight to the cottage. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes," I said, "it's all over now. That's one good thing +done. How do you feel yourself now?" + +"I feel better now, sir. I hope God will forgive me." + +"God does forgive you. But there are more things you need forgiveness for. +It is not enough to get rid of one sin. We must get rid of all our sins, +you know. They're not nice things, are they, to keep in our hearts? It is +just like shutting up nasty corrupting things, dead carcasses, under lock +and key, in our most secret drawers, as if they were precious jewels." + +"I wish I could be good, like some people, but I wasn't made so. There's my +husband now. I do believe he never do anything wrong in his life. But then, +you see, he would let a child take him in." + +"And far better too. Infinitely better to be taken in. Indeed there is no +harm in being taken in; but there is awful harm in taking in." + +She did not reply, and I went on: + +"I think you would feel a good deal better yet, if you would send for your +daughter and her husband now, and make it up with them, especially seeing +you are so ill." + +"I will, sir. I will directly. I'm tired of having my own way. But I was +made so." + +"You weren't made to continue so, at all events. God gives us the necessary +strength to resist what is bad in us. He is making at you now; only you +must give in, else he cannot get on with the making of you. I think very +likely he made you ill now, just that you might bethink yourself, and feel +that you had done wrong." + +"I have been feeling that for many a year." + +"That made it the more needful to make you ill; for you had been feeling +your duty, and yet not doing it; and that was worst of all. You know Jesus +came to lift the weight of our sins, our very sins themselves, off our +hearts, by forgiving them and helping us to cast them away from us. +Everything that makes you uncomfortable must have sin in it somewhere, and +he came to save you from it. Send for your daughter and her husband, and +when you have done that you will think of something else to set right +that's wrong." + +"But there would be no end to that way of it, sir." + +"Certainly not, till everything was put right." + +"But a body might have nothing else to do, that way." + +"Well, that's the very first thing that has to be done. It is our business +in this world. We were not sent here to have our own way and try to enjoy +ourselves." + +"That is hard on a poor woman that has to work for her bread." + +"To work for your bread is not to take your own way, for it is God's way. +But you have wanted many things your own way. Now, if you would just take +his way, you would find that he would take care you should enjoy your +life." + +"I'm sure I haven't had much enjoyment in mine." + +"That was just because you would not trust him with his own business, but +must take it into your hands. If you will but do his will, he will take +care that you have a life to be very glad of and very thankful for. And the +longer you live, the more blessed you will find it. But I must leave you +now, for I have talked to you long enough. You must try and get a sleep. I +will come and see you again to-morrow, if you like." + +"Please do, sir; I shall be very grateful." + +As I rode home I thought, if the lifting of one sin off the human heart was +like a resurrection, what would it be when every sin was lifted from every +heart! Every sin, then, discovered in one's own soul must be a pledge of +renewed bliss in its removing. And when the thought came again of what St. +Paul had said somewhere, "whatsoever is not of faith is sin," I thought +what a weight of sin had to be lifted from the earth, and how blessed it +might be. But what could I do for it? I could just begin with myself, and +pray God for that inward light which is his Spirit, that so I might see him +in everything and rejoice in everything as his gift, and then all things +would be holy, for whatsoever is of faith must be the opposite of sin; and +that was my part towards heaving the weight of sin, which, like myriads +of gravestones, was pressing the life out of us men, off the whole world. +Faith in God is life and righteousness--the faith that trusts so that it +will obey--none other. Lord, lift the people thou hast made into holy +obedience and thanksgiving, that they may be glad in this thy world. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE GATHERING STORM. + + +The weather cleared up again the next day, and for a fortnight it was +lovely. In this region we saw less of the sadness of the dying year than in +our own parish, for there being so few trees in the vicinity of the ocean, +the autumn had nowhere to hang out her mourning flags. But there, indeed, +so mild is the air, and so equable the temperature all the winter through, +compared with the inland counties, that the bitterness of the season is +almost unknown. This, however, is no guarantee against furious storms of +wind and rain. + +Not long after the occurrence last recorded, Turner paid us another visit. +I confess I was a little surprised at his being able to get away so soon +again; for of all men a country surgeon can least easily find time for a +holiday; but he had managed it, and I had no doubt, from what I knew of +him, had made thorough provision for his cure in his absence. + +He brought us good news from home. Everything was going on well. Weir was +working as hard as usual; and everybody agreed that I could not have got a +man to take my place better. + +He said he found Connie much improved; and, from my own observations, I was +sure he was right. She was now able to turn a good way from one side to the +other, and finding her health so steady besides, Turner encouraged her in +making gentle and frequent use of her strength, impressing it upon her, +however, that everything depended on avoiding everything like a jerk or +twist of any sort. I was with them when he said this. She looked up at him +with a happy smile. + +"I will do all I can, Mr. Turner," she said, "to get out of people's way as +soon as possible." + +Perhaps she saw something in our faces that made her add-- + +"I know you don't mind the bother I am; but I do. I want to help, and not +be helped--more than other people--as soon as possible. I will therefore be +as gentle as mamma and as brave as papa, and see if we don't get well, Mr. +Turner. I mean to have a ride on old Spry next summer.--I do," she added, +nodding her pretty head up from the pillow, when she saw the glance the +doctor and I exchanged. "Look here," she went on, poking the eider-down +quilt up with her foot. + +"Magnificent!" said Turner; "but mind, you must do nothing out of bravado. +That won't do at all." + +"I have done," said Connie, putting on a face of mock submission. + +That day we carried her out for a few minutes, but hardly laid her down, +for we were afraid of the damp from the earth. A few feet nearer or farther +from the soil will make a difference. It was the last time for many weeks. +Anyone interested in my Connie need not be alarmed: it was only because of +the weather, not because of her health. + +One day I was walking home from a visit I had been paying to Mrs. Stokes. +She was much better, in a fair way to recover indeed, and her mental health +was improved as well. Her manner to me was certainly very different, and +the tone of her voice, when she spoke to her husband especially, was +changed: a certain roughness in it was much modified, and I had good +hopes that she had begun to climb up instead of sliding down the hill of +difficulty, as she had been doing hitherto. + +It was a cold and gusty afternoon. The sky eastward and overhead was +tolerably clear when I set out from home; but when I left the cottage to +return, I could see that some change was at hand. Shaggy vapours of light +gray were blowing rapidly across the sky from the west. A wind was blowing +fiercely up there, although the gusts down below came from the east. +The clouds it swept along with it were formless, with loose +fringes--disreputable, troubled, hasty clouds they were, looking like +mischief. They reminded me of Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind," in which +he compares the "loose clouds" to hair, and calls them "the locks of the +approaching storm." Away to the west, a great thick curtain of fog, of a +luminous yellow, covered all the sea-horizon, extending north and south as +far as the eye could reach. It looked ominous. A surly secret seemed to +lie in its bosom. Now and then I could discern the dim ghost of a vessel +through it, as tacking for north or south it came near enough to the edge +of the fog to show itself for a few moments, ere it retreated again +into its bosom. There was exhaustion, it seemed to me, in the air, +notwithstanding the coolness of the wind, and I was glad when I found +myself comfortably seated by the drawing-room fire, and saw Wynnie +bestirring herself to make the tea. + +"It looks stormy, I think, Wynnie," I said. + +Her eye lightened, as she looked out to sea from the window. + +"You seem to like the idea of it," I added. + +"You told me I was like you, papa; and you look as if you liked the idea of +it too." + +"_Per se_, certainly, a storm is pleasant to me. I should not like a world +without storms any more than I should like that Frenchman's idea of the +perfection of the earth, when all was to be smooth as a trim-shaven lawn, +rocks and mountains banished, and the sea breaking on the shore only in +wavelets of ginger-beer or lemonade, I forget which. But the older +you grow, the more sides of a thing will present themselves to your +contemplation. The storm may be grand and exciting in itself, but you +cannot help thinking of the people that are in it. Think for a moment of +the multitude of vessels, great and small, which are gathered within the +skirts of that angry vapour out there. I fear the toils of the storm are +around them. Look at the barometer in the hall, my dear, and tell me what +it says." + +She went and returned. + +"It was not very low, papa--only at rain; but the moment I touched it, the +hand dropped an inch." + +"Yes, I thought so. All things look stormy. It may not be very bad here, +however." + +"That doesn't make much difference though, does it, papa?" + +"No further than that being creatures in time and space, we must think of +things from our own standpoint." + +"But I remember very well how, when we were children, you would not let +nurse teach us Dr. Watts's hymns for children, because you said they tended +to encourage selfishness." + +"Yes; I remember it very well. Some of them make the contrast between the +misery of others and our own comforts so immediately the apparent--mind, +I only say apparent--ground of thankfulness, that they are not fit for +teaching. I do think that if you could put Dr. Watts to the question, he +would abjure any such intention, saying that only he meant to heighten +the sense of our obligation. But it does tend to selfishness and, what is +worse, self-righteousness, and is very dangerous therefore. What right have +I to thank God that I am not as other men are in anything? I have to thank +God for the good things he has given to me; but how dare I suppose that he +is not doing the same for other people in proportion to their capacity? I +don't like to appear to condemn Dr. Watts's hymns. Certainly he has written +the very worst hymns I know; but he has likewise written the best--for +public worship, I mean." + +"Well, but, papa, I have heard you say that any simple feeling that comes +of itself cannot be wrong in itself. If I feel a delight in the idea of a +storm, I cannot help it coming." + +"I never said you could, my dear. I only said that as we get older, other +things we did not feel at first come to show themselves more to us, and +impress us more." + +Thus my child and I went on, like two pendulums crossing each other in +their swing, trying to reach the same dead beat of mutual intelligence. + +"But," said Wynnie, "you say everybody is in God's hands as well as we." + +"Yes, surely, my dear; as much out in yon stormy haze as here beside the +fire." + +"Then we ought not to be miserable about them, even if there comes a storm, +ought we?" + +"No, surely. And, besides, I think if we could help any of them, the very +persons that enjoyed the storm the most would be the busiest to rescue them +from it. At least, I fancy so. But isn't the tea ready?" + +"Yes, papa. I'll just go and tell mamma." + +When she returned with her mother, and the children had joined us, Wynnie +resumed the talk. + +"I know what I am going to say is absurd, papa, and yet I don't see my +way out of it--logically, I suppose you would call it. What is the use of +taking any trouble about them if they are in God's hands? Why should we try +to take them out of God's hands?" + +"Ah, Wynnie! at least you do not seek to hide your bad logic, or whatever +you call it. Take them out of God's hands! If you could do that, it would +be perdition indeed. God's hands is the only safe place in the universe; +and the universe is in his hands. Are we not in God's hands on the shore +because we say they are in his hands who go down to the sea in ships? If we +draw them on shore, surely they are not out of God's hands." + +"I see--I see. But God could save them without us." + +"Yes; but what would become of us then? God is so good to us, that we must +work our little salvation in the earth with him. Just as a father lets his +little child help him a little, that the child may learn to be and to do, +so God puts it in our hearts to save this life to our fellows, because we +would instinctively save it to ourselves, if we could. He requires us to do +our best." + +"But God may not mean to save them." + +"He may mean them to be drowned--we do not know. But we know that we must +try our little salvation, for it will never interfere with God's great and +good and perfect will. Ours will be foiled if he sees that best." + +"But people always say, when anyone escapes unhurt from an accident, 'by +the mercy of God.' They don't say it is by the mercy of God when he is +drowned." + +"But _people_ cannot be expected, ought not, to say what they do not feel. +Their own first sensation of deliverance from impending death would break +out in a 'thank God,' and therefore they say it is God's mercy when another +is saved. If they go farther, and refuse to consider it God's mercy when a +man is drowned, that is just the sin of the world--the want of faith. But +the man who creeps out of the drowning, choking billows into the glory of +the new heavens and the new earth--do you think his thanksgiving for the +mercy of God which has delivered him is less than that of the man who +creeps, exhausted and worn, out of the waves on to the dreary, surf-beaten +shore? In nothing do we show less faith than the way in which we think and +speak about death. 'O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy +victory?' says the apostle. 'Here, here, here,' cry the Christian people, +'everywhere. It is an awful sting, a fearful victory. But God keeps it away +from us many a time when we ask him--to let it pierce us to the heart, at +last, to be sure; but that can't be helped.' I mean this is how they feel +in their hearts who do not believe that God is as merciful when he sends +death as when he sends life; who, Christian people as they are, yet look +upon death as an evil thing which cannot be avoided, and would, if they +might live always, be content to live always. Death or Life--each is God's; +for he is not the God of the dead, but of the living: there are no dead, +for all live to him." + +"But don't you think we naturally shrink from death, Harry?" said my wife. + +"There can be no doubt about that, my dear." + +"Then, if it be natural, God must have meant that it should be so." + +"Doubtless, to begin with, but not to continue or end with. A child's sole +desire is for food--the very best possible to begin with. But how would it +be if the child should reach, say, two years of age, and refuse to share +this same food with his little brother? Or what comes of the man who never +so far rises above the desire for food that _nothing_ could make him forget +his dinner-hour? Just so the life of Christians should be strong enough to +overcome the fear of death. We ought to love and believe him so much, that +when he says we shall not die, we should at least believe that death must +be something very different from what it looks to us to be--so different, +that what we mean by the word does not apply to the reality at all; and so +Jesus cannot use the word, because it would seem to us that he meant what +we mean by it, which he, seeing it all round, cannot mean." + +"That does seem quite reasonable," said Ethelwyn. + +Turner had taken no part in the conversation. He, too, had just come in +from a walk over the hills. He was now standing looking out at the sea. + +"She looks uneasy, does she not?" I said. + +"You mean the Atlantic?" he returned, looking round. "Yes, I think so. I am +glad she is not a patient of mine. I fear she is going to be very feverish, +probably delirious before morning. She won't sleep much, and will talk +rather loud when the tide comes in." + +"Disease has often an ebb and flow like the tide, has it not?" + +"Often. Some diseases are like a plant that has its time to grow and +blossom, then dies; others, as you say, ebb and flow again and again before +they vanish." + +"It seems to me, however, that the ebb and flow does not belong to the +disease, but to Nature, which works through the disease. It seems to +me that my life has its tides, just like the ocean, only a little more +regularly. It is high water with me always in the morning and the evening; +in the afternoon life is at its lowest; and I believe it is lowest again +while we sleep, and hence it comes that to work the brain at night has such +an injurious effect on the system. But this is perhaps all a fancy." + +"There may be some truth in it. But I was just thinking when you spoke to +me what a happy thing it is that the tide does not vary by an even six +hours, but has the odd minutes; whence we see endless changes in the +relation of the water to the times of the day. And then the spring-tides +and the neap-tides! What a provision there is in the world for change!" + +"Yes. Change is one of the forms that infinitude takes for the use of us +human immortals. But come and have some tea, Turner. You will not care to +go out again. What shall we do this evening? Shall we all go to Connie's +room and have some Shakspere?" + +"I could wish nothing better. What play shall we have?" + +"Let us have the _Midsummer Night's Dream,"_ said Ethelwyn. + +"You like to go by contraries, apparently, Ethel. But you're quite right. +It is in the winter of the year that art must give us its summer. I suspect +that most of the poetry about spring and summer is written in the winter. +It is generally when we do not possess that we lay full value upon what we +lack." + +"There is one reason," said Wynnie with a roguish look, "why I like that +play." + +"I should think there might be more than one, Wynnie." + +"But one reason is enough for a woman at once; isn't it, papa?" + +"I'm not sure of that. But what is your reason?" + +"That the fairies are not allowed to play any tricks with the women. _They_ +are true throughout." + +"I might choose to say that was because they were not tried." + +"And I might venture to answer that Shakspere--being true to nature always, +as you say, papa--knew very well how absurd it would be to represent a +woman's feelings as under the influence of the juice of a paltry flower." + +"Capital, Wynnie!" said her mother; and Turner and I chimed in with our +approbation. + +"Shall I tell you what I like best in the play?" said Turner. "It is the +common sense of Theseus in accounting for all the bewilderments of the +night." + +"But," said Ethelwyn, "he was wrong after all. What is the use of common +sense if it leads you wrong? The common sense of Theseus simply amounted to +this, that he would only believe his own eyes." + +"I think Mrs. Walton is right, Turner," I said. "For my part, I have more +admired the open-mindedness of Hippolyta, who would yield more weight +to the consistency of the various testimony than could be altogether +counterbalanced by the negation of her own experience. Now I will tell you +what I most admire in the play: it is the reconciling power of the poet. He +brings together such marvellous contrasts, without a single shock or jar +to your feeling of the artistic harmony of the conjunction. Think for a +moment--the ordinary commonplace courtiers; the lovers, men and women in +the condition of all conditions in which fairy-powers might get a hold of +them; the quarrelling king and queen of Fairyland, with their courtiers, +Blossom, Cobweb, and the rest, and the court-jester, Puck; the ignorant, +clownish artisans, rehearsing their play,--fairies and clowns, lovers and +courtiers, are all mingled in one exquisite harmony, clothed with a night +of early summer, rounded in by the wedding of the king and queen. But I +have talked enough about it. Let us get our books." + +As we sat in Connie's room, delighting ourselves with the reflex of +the poet's fancy, the sound of the rising tide kept mingling with the +fairy-talk and the foolish rehearsal. "Musk roses," said Titania; and the +first of the blast, going round by south to west, rattled the window. "Good +hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow," said Bottom; and the roar of the waters +was in our ears. "So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently +entwist," said Titania; and the blast poured the rain in a spout against +the window. "Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells," said +Theseus; and the wind whistled shrill through the chinks of the bark-house +opening from the room. We drew the curtains closer, made up the fire +higher, and read on. It was time for supper ere we had done; and when +we left Connie to have hers and go to sleep, it was with the hope that, +through all the rising storm, she would dream of breeze-haunted summer +woods. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE GATHERED STORM. + + +I woke in the middle of the night and the darkness to hear the wind +howling. It was wide awake now, and up with intent. It seized the house, +and shook it furiously; and the rain kept pouring, only I could not hear it +save in the _rallentondo_ passages of the wind; but through all the wind +I could hear the roaring of the big waves on the shore. I did not wake my +wife; but I got up, put on my dressing-gown, and went softly to Connie's +room, to see whether she was awake; for I feared, if she were, she would be +frightened. Wynnie always slept in a little bed in the same room. I opened +the door very gently, and peeped in. The fire was burning, for Wynnie was +an admirable stoker, and could generally keep the fire in all night. I +crept to the bedside: there was just light enough to see that Connie was +fast asleep, and that her dreams were not of storms. It was a marvel how +well the child always slept. But, as I turned to leave the room, Wynnie's +voice called me in a whisper. Approaching her bed, I saw her wide eyes, +like the eyes of the darkness, for I could scarcely see anything of her +face. + +"Awake, darling?" I said. + +"Yes, papa. I have been awake a long time; but isn't Connie sleeping +delightfully? She does sleep so well! Sleep is surely very good for her." + +"It is the best thing for us all, next to God's spirit, I sometimes think, +my dear. But are you frightened by the storm? Is that what keeps you +awake?" + +"I don't think that is what keeps me awake; but sometimes the house shakes +so that I do feel a little nervous. I don't know how it is. I never felt +afraid of anything natural before." + +"What our Lord said about not being afraid of anything that could only hurt +the body applies here, and in all the terrors of the night. Think about +him, dear." + +"I do try, papa. Don't you stop; you will get cold. It is a dreadful storm, +is it not? Suppose there should be people drowning out there now!" + +"There may be, my love. People are dying almost every other moment, I +suppose, on the face of the earth. Drowning is only an easy way of dying. +Mind, they are all in God's hands." + +"Yes, papa. I will turn round and shut my eyes, and fancy that his hand is +over them, making them dark with his care." + +"And it will not be fancy, my darling, if you do. You remember those +odd but no less devout lines of George Herbert? Just after he says, so +beautifully, 'And now with darkness closest weary eyes,' he adds: + + Thus in thy ebony box + Thou dost enclose us, till the day + Put our amendment in our way, + And give new wheels to our disordered clocks." + +"He is very fond of boxes, by the way. So go to sleep, dear. You are a good +clock of God's making; but you want new wheels, according to our beloved +brother George Herbert. Therefore sleep. Good-night." + +This was tiresome talk--was it--in the middle of the night, reader? Well, +but my child did not think so, I know. + +Dark, dank, weeping, the morning dawned. All dreary was the earth and sky. +The wind was still hunting the clouds across the heavens. It lulled a +little while we sat at breakfast, but soon the storm was up again, and +the wind raved. I went out. The wind caught me as if with invisible human +hands, and shook me. I fought with it, and made my way into the village. +The streets were deserted. I peeped up the inn-yard as I passed: not a man +or horse was to be seen. The little shops looked as if nobody had crossed +their thresholds for a week. Not a door was open. One child came out of the +baker's with a big loaf in her apron. The wind threatened to blow the hair +off her head, if not herself first into the canal. I took her by the hand +and led her, or rather, let her lead me home, while I kept her from being +carried away by the wind. Having landed her safely inside her mother's +door, I went on, climbed the heights above the village, and looked abroad +over the Atlantic. What a waste of aimless tossing to and fro! Gray mist +above, full of falling rain; gray, wrathful waters underneath, foaming and +bursting as billow broke upon billow. The tide was ebbing now, but almost +every other wave swept the breakwater. They burst on the rocks at the end +of it, and rushed in shattered spouts and clouds of spray far into the air +over their heads. "Will the time ever come," I thought, "when man shall +be able to store up even this force for his own ends? Who can tell?" The +solitary form of a man stood at some distance gazing, as I was gazing, out +on the ocean. I walked towards him, thinking with myself who it could be +that loved Nature so well that he did not shrink from her even in her most +uncompanionable moods. I suspected, and soon found I was right; it was +Percivale. + +"What a clashing of water-drops!" I said, thinking of a line somewhere in +Coleridge's Remorse. "They are but water-drops, after all, that make this +great noise upon the rocks; only there is a great many of them." + +"Yes," said Percivale. "But look out yonder. You see a single sail, +close-reefed--that is all I can see--away in the mist there? As soon as you +think of the human struggle with the elements, as soon as you know that +hearts are in the midst of it, it is a clashing of water-drops no more. It +is an awful power, with which the will and all that it rules have to fight +for the mastery, or at least for freedom." + +"Surely you are right. It is the presence of thought, feeling, effort that +gives the majesty to everything. It is even a dim attribution of human +feelings to this tormented, passionate sea that gives it much of its awe; +although, as we were saying the other day, it is only _a picture_ of the +troubled mind. But as I have now seen how matters are with the elements, +and have had a good pluvial bath as well, I think I will go home and change +my clothes." + +"I have hardly had enough of it yet," returned Percivale. "I shall have a +stroll along the heights here, and when the tide has fallen a little way +from the foot of the cliffs I shall go down on the sands and watch awhile +there." + +"Well, you're a younger man than I am; but I've seen the day, as Lear says. +What an odd tendency we old men have to boast of the past: we would be +judged by the past, not by the present. We always speak of the strength +that is withered and gone, as if we had some claim upon it still. But I am +not going to talk in this storm. I am always talking." + +"I will go with you as far as the village, and then I will turn and take my +way along the downs for a mile or two; I don't mind being wet." + +"I didn't once." + +"Don't you think," resumed Percivale, "that in some sense the old man--not +that I can allow _you_ that dignity yet, Mr. Walton--has a right to regard +the past as his own?" + +"That would be scanned," I answered, as we walked towards the village. +"Surely the results of the past are the man's own. Any action of the man's, +upon which the life in him reposes, remains his. But suppose a man had done +a good deed once, and instead of making that a foundation upon which to +build more good, grew so vain of it that he became incapable of doing +anything more of the same sort, you could not say that the action belonged +to him still. Therein he has severed his connection with the past. Again, +what has never in any deep sense been a man's own, cannot surely continue +to be his afterwards. Thus the things that a man has merely possessed once, +the very people who most admired him for their sakes when he had them, +give him no credit for after he has lost them. Riches that have taken +to themselves wings leave with the poor man only a surpassing poverty. +Strength, likewise, which can so little depend on any exercise of the will +in man, passes from him with the years. It was not his all the time; it was +but lent him, and had nothing to do with his inward force. A bodily feeble +man may put forth a mighty life-strength in effort, and show nothing to the +eyes of his neighbour; while the strong man gains endless admiration for +what he could hardly help. But the effort of the one remains, for it was +his own; the strength of the other passes from him, for it was never his +own. So with beauty, which the commonest woman acknowledges never to have +been hers in seeking to restore it by deception. So, likewise, in a great +measure with intellect." + +"But if you take away intellect as well, what do you leave a man that can +in any way be called his own?" + +"Certainly his intellect is not his own. One thing only is his own--to will +the truth. This, too, is as much God's gift as everything else: I ought to +say is more God's gift than anything else, for he gives it to be the man's +own more than anything else can be. And when he wills the truth, he has +God himself. Man _can_ possess God: all other things follow as necessary +results. What poor creatures we should have been if God had not made us to +do something--to look heavenwards--to lift up the hands that hang down, and +strengthen the feeble knees! Something like this was in the mind of the +prophet Jeremiah when he said, 'Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wise man +glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might, let not +the rich man glory in his riches; but let him that glorieth glory in this, +that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise +loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth: for in these +things I delight, saith the Lord.' My own conviction is, that a vague sense +of a far higher life in ourselves than we yet know anything about is at the +root of all our false efforts to be able to think something of ourselves. +We cannot commend ourselves, and therefore we set about priding ourselves. +We have little or no strength of mind, faculty of operation, or worth of +will, and therefore we talk of our strength of body, worship the riches +we have, or have not, it is all one, and boast of our paltry intellectual +successes. The man most ambitious of being considered a universal genius +must at last confess himself a conceited dabbler, and be ready to part with +all he knows for one glimpse more of that understanding of God which the +wise men of old held to be essential to every man, but which the growing +luminaries of the present day will not allow to be even possible for any +man." + +We had reached the brow of the heights, and here we parted. A fierce blast +of wind rushed at me, and I hastened down the hill. How dreary the streets +did look!--how much more dreary than the stormy down! I saw no living +creature as I returned but a terribly draggled dog, a cat that seemed to +have a bad conscience, and a lovely little girl-face, which, forgetful of +its own rights, would flatten the tip of the nose belonging to it against a +window-pane. Every rain-pool was a mimic sea, and had a mimic storm within +its own narrow bounds. The water went hurrying down the kennels like a long +brown snake anxious to get to its hole and hide from the tormenting wind, +and every now and then the rain came in full rout before the conquering +blast. + +When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw that +she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of the conch +against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was sitting +staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she could see +over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately looked. Her +face was paler and keener than usual. + +"Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?" + +"Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He says I +am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as I like." + +"But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?" + +"It's only the storm, papa." + +"The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so." + +"It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is going +to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow." + +"You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The storm was +raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its reach--fast +asleep. Now it is too much for you. You must lie down." + +"Very well, papa." + +I lowered the support, and when I returned from changing my wet garments +she was already looking much better. + +After dinner I went to my study, but when evening began to fall I went out +again. I wanted to see how our next neighbours, the sexton and his wife, +were faring. The wind had already increased in violence. It threatened to +blow a hurricane. The tide was again rising, and was coming in with great +rapidity. The old mill shook to the foundation as I passed through it to +reach the lower part where they lived. When I peeped in from the bottom +of the stair, I saw no one; but, hearing the steps of someone overhead, I +called out. + +Agnes's voice made answer, as she descended an inner stair which led to the +bedrooms above-- + +"Mother's gone to church, sir." + +"Gone to church!" I said, a vague pang darting through me as I thought +whether I had forgotten any service; but the next moment I recalled what +the old woman had herself told me of her preference for the church during a +storm. + +"O yes, Agnes, I remember!" I said; "your mother thinks the weather bad +enough to take to the church, does she? How do you come to be here now? +Where is your husband?" + +"He'll be here in an hour or so, sir. He don't mind the wet. You see, we +don't like the old people to be left alone when it blows what the sailors +call 'great guns.'" + +"And what becomes of his mother then?" + +"There don't be any sea out there, sir. Leastways," she added with a quiet +smile, and stopped. + +"You mean, I suppose, Agnes, that there is never any perturbation of the +elements out there?" + +She laughed; for she understood me well enough. The temper of Joe's mother +was proverbial. + +"But really, sir," she said, "she don't mind the weather a bit; and though +we don't live in the same cottage with her, for Joe wouldn't hear of that, +we see her far oftener than we see my mother, you know." + +"I'm sure it's quite fair, Agnes. Is Joe very sorry that he married you, +now?" + +She hung her head, and blushed so deeply through all her sallow complexion, +that I was sorry I had teased her, and said so. This brought a reply. + +"I don't think he be, sir. I do think he gets better. He's been working +very hard the last week or two, and he says it agrees with him." + +"And how are you?" + +"Quite well, thank you, sir." + +I had never seen her look half so well. Life was evidently a very different +thing to both of them now. I left her, and took my way to the church. + +When I reached the churchyard, there, in the middle of the rain and the +gathering darkness, was the old man busy with the duties of his calling. A +certain headstone stood right under a drip from the roof of the southern +transept; and this drip had caused the mould at the foot of the stone, on +the side next the wall, to sink, so that there was a considerable crack +between the stone and the soil. The old man had cut some sod from another +part of the churchyard, and was now standing, with the rain pouring on him +from the roof, beating this sod down in the crack. He was sheltered from +the wind by the church, but he was as wet as he could be. I may mention +that he never appeared in the least disconcerted when I came upon him in +the discharge of his functions: he was so content with his own feeling in +the matter, that no difference of opinion could disturb him. + +"This will never do, Coombes," I said. "You will get your death of cold. +You must be as full of water as a sponge. Old man, there's rheumatism in +the world!" + +"It be only my work, sir. But I believe I ha' done now for a night. I think +he'll be a bit more comfortable now. The very wind could get at him through +that hole." + +"Do go home, then," I said, "and change your clothes. Is your wife in the +church?" + +"She be, sir. This door, sir--this door," he added, as he saw me going +round to the usual entrance. "You'll find her in there." + +I lifted the great latch and entered. I could not see her at first, for it +was much darker inside the church. It felt very quiet in there somehow, +although the place was full of the noise of winds and waters. Mrs. Coombes +was not sitting on the bell-keys, where I looked for her first, for the +wind blew down the tower in many currents and draughts--how it did roar up +there--as if the louvres had been a windsail to catch the wind and send +it down to ventilate the church!--she was sitting at the foot of the +chancel-rail, with her stocking as usual. + +The sight of her sweet old face, lighted up by a moonlike smile as I drew +near her, in the middle of the ancient dusk filled with sounds, but only +sounds of tempest, gave me a sense of one dwelling in the secret place of +the Most High, such as I shall never forget. It was no time to say much, +however. + +"How long do you mean to stay here, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. "Not all +night?" + +"No, not all night, surely, sir. But I hadn't thought o' going yet for a +bit." + +"Why there's Coombes out there, wet to the skin; and I'm afraid he'll go on +pottering at the churchyard bed-clothes till he gets his bones as full of +rheumatism as they can hold." + +"Deary me! I didn't know as my old man was there. He tould me he had them +all comforble for the winter a week ago. But to be sure there's always some +mendin' to do." + +I heard the voice of Joe outside, and the next moment he came into the +church. After speaking to me, he turned to Mrs. Coombes. + +"You be comin' home with me, mother. This will never do. Father's as wet as +a mop. I ha' brought something for your supper, and Aggy's a-cookin' of it; +and we're going to be comfortable over the fire, and have a chapter or two +of the New Testament to keep down the noise of the sea. There! Come along." + +The old woman drew her cloak over her head, put her knitting carefully in +her pocket, and stood aside for me to lead the way. + +"No, no," I said; "I'm the shepherd and you're the sheep, so I'll drive you +before me--at least, you and Coombes. Joe here will be offended if I take +on me to say I am _his_ shepherd." + + +"Nay, nay, don't say that, sir. You've been a good shepherd to me when I +was a very sulky sheep. But if you'll please to go, sir, I'll lock the door +behind; for you know in them parts the shepherd goes first and the sheep +follow the shepherd. And I'll follow like a good sheep," he added, +laughing. + +"You're right, Joe," I said, and took the lead without more ado. + +I was struck by his saying _them parts_, which seemed to indicate a habit +of pondering on the places as well as circumstances of the gospel-story. +The sexton joined us at the door, and we all walked to his cottage, Joe +taking care of his mother-in-law and I taking what care I could of Coombes +by carrying his tools for him. But as we went I feared I had done ill in +that, for the wind blew so fiercely that I thought the thin feeble little +man would have got on better if he had been more heavily weighted against +it. But I made him take a hold of my arm, and so we got in. The old man +took his tools from me and set them down in the mill, for the roof of which +I felt some anxiety as we passed through, so full of wind was the whole +space. But when we opened the inner door the welcome of a glowing fire +burst up the stair as if that had been a well of warmth and light below. I +went down with them. Coombes departed to change his clothes, and the rest +of us stood round the fire, where Agnes was busy cooking something like +white puddings for their supper. + +"Did you hear, sir," said Joe, "that the coastguard is off to the +Goose-pot? There's a vessel ashore there, they say. I met them on the road +with the rocket-cart." + +"How far off is that, Joe?" + +"Some five or six miles, I suppose, along the coast nor'ards." + +"What sort of a vessel is she?" + +"That I don't know. Some say she be a schooner, others a brigantine. The +coast-guard didn't know themselves." + +"Poor things!" said Mrs. Coombes. "If any of them comes ashore, they'll be +sadly knocked to pieces on the rocks in a night like this." + +She had caught a little infection of her husband's mode of thought. + +"It's not likely to clear up before morning, I fear; is it, Joe?" + +"I don't think so, sir. There's no likelihood." + +"Will you condescend to sit down and take a share with us, sir?" said the +old woman. + +"There would be no condescension in that, Mrs. Coombes. I will another time +with all my heart; but in such a night I ought to be at home with my own +people. They will be more uneasy if I am away." + +"Of coorse, of coorse, sir." + +"So I'll bid you good-night. I wish this storm were well over." + +I buttoned my great-coat, pulled my hat down on my head, and set out. It +was getting on for high water. The night was growing very dark. There would +be a moon some time, but the clouds were so dense she could not do much +while they came between. The roaring of the waves on the shore was +terrible; all I could see of them now was the whiteness of their breaking, +but they filled the earth and the air with their furious noises. The wind +roared from the sea; two oceans were breaking on the land, only to the one +had been set a hitherto--to the other none. Ere the night was far gone, +however, I had begun to doubt whether the ocean itself had not broken its +bars. + +I found the whole household full of the storm. The children kept pressing +their faces to the windows, trying to pierce, as by force of will, through +the darkness, and discover what the wild thing out there was doing. They +could see nothing: all was one mass of blackness and dismay, with a soul in +it of ceaseless roaring. I ran up to Connie's room, and found that she was +left alone. She looked restless, pale, and frightened. The house quivered, +and still the wind howled and whistled through the adjoining bark-hut. + +"Connie, darling, have they left you alone?" I said. + +"Only for a few minutes, papa. I don't mind it." + +"Don't be frightened at the storm, my dear. He who could walk on the sea +of Galilee, and still the storm of that little pool, can rule the Atlantic +just as well. Jeremiah says he 'divideth the sea when the waves thereof +roar.'" + +The same moment Dora came running into the room. + +"Papa," she cried, "the spray--such a lot of it--came dashing on the +windows in the dining-room. Will it break them?" + +"I hope not, my dear. Just stay with Connie while I run down." + +"O, papa! I do want to see." + +"What do you want to see, Dora?" + +"The storm, papa." + +"It is as black as pitch. You can't see anything." + +"O, but I want to--to--be beside it." + +"Well, you sha'n't stay with Connie, if you are not willing. Go along. Ask +Wynnie to come here." + +The child was so possessed by the commotion without that she did not +seem even to see my rebuke, not to say feel it. She ran off, and Wynnie +presently came. I left her with Connie, put on a long waterproof cloak, +and went down to the dining-room. A door led from it immediately on to the +little green in front of the house, between it and the sea. The dining-room +was dark, for they had put out the lights that they might see better from +the windows. The children and some of the servants were there looking out. +I opened the door cautiously. It needed the strength of two of the women +to shut it behind me. The moment I opened it a great sheet of spray rushed +over me. I went down the little grassy slope. The rain had ceased, and it +was not quite so dark as I had expected. I could see the gleaming whiteness +all before me. The next moment a wave rolled over the low wall in front of +me, breaking on it and wrapping me round in a sheet of water. Something +hurt me sharply on the leg; and I found, on searching, that one of the +large flat stones that lay for coping on the top of the wall was on the +grass beside me. If it had struck me straight, it must have broken my leg. + +There came a little lull in the wind, and just as I turned to go into the +house again, I thought I heard a gun. I stood and listened, but heard +nothing more, and fancied I must have been mistaken. I returned and tapped +at the door; but I had to knock loudly before they heard me within. When I +went up to the drawing-room, I found that Percivale had joined our party. +He and Turner were talking together at one of the windows. + +"Did you hear a gun?" I asked them. + +"No. Was there one?" + +"I'm not sure. I half-fancied I heard one, but no other followed. There +will be a good many fired to-night, though, along this awful coast." + +"I suppose they keep the life-boat always ready," said Turner. + +"No life-boat even, I fear, would live in such a sea," I said, remembering +what the officer of the coast-guard had told me. + +"They would try, though, I suppose," said Turner. + +"I do not know," said Percivale. "I don't know the people. But I have seen +a life-boat out in as bad a night--whether in as bad a sea, I cannot tell: +that depends on the coast, I suppose." + +We went on chatting for some time, wondering how the coast-guard had fared +with the vessel ashore at the Goose-pot. Wynnie joined us. + +"How is Connie, now, my dear?" + +"Very restless and excited, papa. I came down to say, that if Mr. Turner +didn't mind, I wish he would go up and see her." + +"Of course--instantly," said Turner, and moved to follow Winnie. + +But the same moment, as if it had been beside us in the room, so clear, so +shrill was it, we heard Connie's voice shrieking, "Papa, papa! There's a +great ship ashore down there. Come, come!" + +Turner and I rushed from the room in fear and dismay. "How? What? Where +could the voice come from?" was the unformed movement of our thoughts. But +the moment we left the drawing-room the thing was clear, though not the +less marvellous and alarming. We forgot all about the ship, and thought +only of our Connie. So much does the near hide the greater that is afar! +Connie kept on calling, and her voice guided our eyes. + +A little stair led immediately from this floor up to the bark-hut, so that +it might be reached without passing through the bedroom. The door at the +top of it was open. The door that led from Connie's room into the bark-hut +was likewise open, and light shone through it into the place--enough to +show a figure standing by the furthest window with face pressed against the +glass. And from this figure came the cry, "Papa, papa! Quick, quick! The +waves will knock her to pieces!" + +In very truth it was Connie standing there. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE SHIPWRECK. + + +Things that happen altogether have to be told one after the other. Turner +and I both rushed at the narrow stair. There was not room for more than one +upon it. I was first, but stumbled on the lowest step and fell. Turner +put his foot on my back, jumped over me, sprang up the stair, and when I +reached the top of it after him, he was meeting me with Connie in his arms, +carrying her back to her room. But the girl kept crying--"Papa, papa, the +ship, the ship!" + +My duty woke in me. Turner could attend to Connie far better than I could. +I made one spring to the window. The moon was not to be seen, but the +clouds were thinner, and light enough was soaking through them to show a +wave-tormented mass some little way out in the bay; and in that one moment +in which I stood looking, a shriek pierced the howling of the wind, cutting +through it like a knife. I rushed bare-headed from the house. When or +how the resolve was born in me I do not know, but I flew straight to the +sexton's, snatched the key from the wall, crying only "ship ashore!" and +rushed to the church. + +I remember my hand trembled so that I could hardly get the key into the +lock. I made myself quieter, opened the door, and feeling my way to the +tower, knelt before the keys of the bell-hammers, opened the chest, and +struck them wildly, fiercely. An awful jangling, out of tune and harsh, +burst into monstrous being in the storm-vexed air. Music itself was +untuned, corrupted, and returning to chaos. I struck and struck at the +keys. I knew nothing of their normal use. Noise, outcry, _reveillé_ was all +I meant. + +In a few minutes I heard voices and footsteps. From some parts of the +village, out of sight of the shore, men and women gathered to the summons. +Through the door of the church, which I had left open, came voices in +hurried question. "Ship ashore!" was all I could answer, for what was to be +done I was helpless to think. + +I wondered that so few appeared at the cry of the bells. After those first +nobody came for what seemed a long time. I believe, however, I was beating +the alarum for only a few minutes altogether, though when I look back upon +the time in the dark church, it looks like half-an-hour at least. But +indeed I feel so confused about all the doings of that night that in +attempting to describe them in order, I feel as if I were walking in a +dream. Still, from comparing mine with the recollected impressions of +others, I think I am able to give a tolerably correct result. Most of the +incidents seem burnt into my memory so that nothing could destroy the depth +of the impression; but the order in which they took place is none the less +doubtful. + +A hand was laid on my shoulder. + +"Who is there?" I said; for it was far too dark to know anyone. + +"Percivale. What is to be done? The coastguard is away. Nobody seems to +know about anything. It is of no use to go on ringing more. Everybody is +out, even to the maid-servants. Come down to the shore, and you will see." + +"But is there not the life-boat?" + +"Nobody seems to know anything about it, except 'it's no manner of use to +go trying of that with such a sea on.'" + +"But there must be someone in command of it," I said. + +"Yes," returned Percivale; "but there doesn't seem to be one of the crew +amongst the crowd. All the sailor-like fellows are going about with their +hands in their pockets." + +"Let us make haste, then," I said; "perhaps we can find out. Are you sure +the coastguard have nothing to do with the life-boat?" + +"I believe not. They have enough to do with their rockets." + +"I remember now that Roxton told me he had far more confidence in his +rockets than in anything a life-boat could do, upon this coast at least." + +While we spoke we came to the bank of the canal. This we had to cross, in +order to reach that part of the shore opposite which the wreck lay. To my +surprise the canal itself was in a storm, heaving and tossing and dashing +over its banks. + +"Percivale," I exclaimed, "the gates are gone; the sea has torn them away." + +"Yes, I suppose so. Would God I could get half-a-dozen men to help me. I +have been doing what I could; but I have no influence amongst them." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "What could you do if you had a thousand men +at your command?" + +He made me no answer for a few moments, during which we were hurrying on +for the bridge over the canal. Then he said: + +"They regard me only as a meddling stranger, I suppose; for I have been +able to get no useful answer. They are all excited; but nobody is doing +anything." + +"They must know about it a great deal better than we," I returned; "and we +must take care not to do them the injustice of supposing they are not ready +to do all that can be done." + +Percivale was silent yet again. + +The record of our conversation looks as quiet on the paper as if we had +been talking in a curtained room; but all the time the ocean was raving in +my very ear, and the awful tragedy was going on in the dark behind us. The +wind was almost as loud as ever, but the rain had quite ceased, and when we +reached the bridge the moon shone out white, as if aghast at what she had +at length succeeded in pushing the clouds aside that she might see. Awe +and helplessness oppressed us. Having crossed the canal, we turned to the +shore. There was little of it left; for the waves had rushed up almost to +the village. The sand and the roads, every garden wall, every window that +looked seaward was crowded with gazers. But it was a wonderfully quiet +crowd, or seemed so at least; for the noise of the wind and the waves +filled the whole vault, and what was spoken was heard only in the ear to +which it was spoken. When we came amongst them we heard only a murmur as of +more articulated confusion. One turn, and we saw the centre of strife and +anxiety--the heart of the storm that filled heaven and earth, upon which +all the blasts and the billows broke and raved. + +Out there in the moonlight lay a mass of something whose place was +discernible by the flashing of the waves as they burst over it. She was far +above low-water mark--lay nearer the village by a furlong than the spot +where we had taken our last dinner on the shore. It was strange to think +that yesterday the spot lay bare to human feet, where now so many men and +women were isolated in a howling waste of angry waters; for the cry of +women came plainly to our ears, and we were helpless to save them. It was +terrible to have to do nothing. Percivale went about hurriedly, talking to +this one and that one, as if he still thought something might be done. He +turned to me. + +"Do try, Mr. Walton, and find out for me where the captain of the life-boat +is." + +I turned to a sailor-like man who stood at my elbow and asked him. + +"It's no use, I assure you, sir," he answered; "no boat could live in such +a sea. It would be throwing away the men's lives." + +"Do you know where the captain lives?" Percivale asked. + +"If I did, I tell you it is of no use." + +"Are you the captain yourself?" returned Percivale. + +"What is that to you?" he answered, surly now. "I know my own business." + +The same moment several of the crowd nearest the edge of the water made a +simultaneous rush into the surf, and laid hold of something, which, as they +returned drawing it to the shore, I saw to be a human form. It was the body +of a woman--alive or dead I could not tell. I could just see the long hair +hanging from the head, which itself hung backward helplessly as they bore +her up the bank. I saw, too, a white face, and I can recall no more. + +"Run, Percivale," I said, "and fetch Turner. She may not be dead yet." + +"I can't," answered Percivale. "You had better go yourself, Mr. Walton." + +He spoke hurriedly. I saw he must have some reason for answering me so +abruptly. He was talking to a young fellow whom I recognised as one of the +most dissolute in the village; and just as I turned to go they walked away +together. + +I sped home as fast as I could. It was easier to get along now that the +moon shone. I found that Turner had given Connie a composing draught, and +that he had good hopes she would at least be nothing the worse for the +marvellous result of her excitement. She was asleep exhausted, and her +mother was watching by her side. It, seemed strange that she could sleep; +but Turner said it was the safest reaction, partly, however, occasioned by +what he had given her. In her sleep she kept on talking about the ship. + +We hurried back to see if anything could be done for the woman. As we went +up the side of the canal we perceived a dark body meeting us. The clouds +had again obscured, though not quite hidden the moon, and we could not at +first make out what it was. When we came nearer it showed itself a body +of men hauling something along. Yes, it was the life-boat, afloat on the +troubled waves of the canal, each man seated in his own place, his hands +quiet upon his oar, his cork-jacket braced about him, his feet out before +him, ready to pull the moment they should pass beyond the broken gates of +the lock out on the awful tossing of the waves. They sat very silent, and +the men on the path towed them swiftly along. The moon uncovered her face +for a moment, and shone upon the faces of two of the rowers. + +"Percivale! Joe!" I cried. + +"All right, sir!" said Joe. + +"Does your wife know of it, Joe?" I almost gasped. + +"To be sure," answered Joe. "It's the first chance I've had of returning +thanks for her. Please God, I shall see her again to-night." + +"That's good, Joe. Trust in God, my men, whether you sink or swim." + +"Ay, ay, sir!" they answered as one man. + +"This is your doing, Percivale," I said, turning and walking alongside of +the boat for a little way. + +"It's more Jim Allen's," said Percivale. "If I hadn't got a hold of him I +couldn't have done anything." + +"God bless you, Jim Allen!" I said. "You'll be a better man after this, I +think." + +"Donnow, sir," returned Jim cheerily. "It's harder work than pulling an +oar." + +The captain himself was on board. Percivale having persuaded Jim Allen, the +two had gone about in the crowd seeking proselytes. In a wonderfully short +space they had found almost all the crew, each fresh one picking up another +or more; till at length the captain, protesting against the folly of it, +gave in, and once having yielded, was, like a true Englishman, as much in +earnest as any of them. The places of two who were missing were supplied by +Percivale and Joe, the latter of whom would listen to no remonstrance. + +"I've nothing to lose," Percivale had said. "You have a young wife, Joe." + +"I've everything to win," Joe had returned. "The only thing that makes me +feel a bit faint-hearted over it, is that I'm afraid it's not my duty that +drives me to it, but the praise of men, leastways of a woman. What would +Aggy think of me if I was to let them drown out there and go to my bed and +sleep? I must go." + +"Very well, Joe," returned Percivale, "I daresay you are right. You can +row, of course?" + +"I can row hard, and do as I'm told," said Joe. + +"All right," said Percivale; "come along." + +This I heard afterwards. We were now hurrying against the wind towards the +mouth of the canal, some twenty men hauling on the tow-rope. The critical +moment would be in the clearing of the gates, I thought, some parts of +which might remain swinging; but they encountered no difficulty there, as +I heard afterwards. For I remembered that this was not my post, and turned +again to follow the doctor. + +"God bless you, my men!" I said, and left them. + +They gave a great hurrah, and sped on to meet their fate. I found Turner in +the little public-house, whither they had carried the body. The woman was +quite dead. + +"I fear it is an emigrant vessel," he said. + +"Why do you think so?" I asked, in some consternation. + +"Come and look at the body," he said. + +It was that of a woman about twenty, tall, and finely formed. The face was +very handsome, but it did not need the evidence of the hands to prove that +she was one of our sisters who have to labour for their bread. + +"What should such a girl be doing on board ship but going out to America or +Australia--to her lover, perhaps," said Turner. "You see she has a locket +on her neck; I hope nobody will dare to take it off. Some of these people +are not far derived from those who thought a wreck a Godsend." + +A sound of many feet was at the door just as we turned to leave the house. +They were bringing another body--that of an elderly woman--dead, quite +dead. Turner had ceased examining her, and we were going out together, +when, through all the tumult of the wind and waves, a fierce hiss, +vindictive, wrathful, tore the air over our heads. Far up, seawards, +something like a fiery snake shot from the high ground on the right side of +the bay, over the vessel, and into the water beyond it. + +"Thank God! that's the coastguard," I cried. + +We rushed through the village, and up on the heights, where they had +planted their apparatus. A little crowd surrounded them. How dismal the sea +looked in the struggling moonlight! I felt as if I were wandering in the +mazes of an evil dream. But when I approached the cliff, and saw down below +the great mass, of the vessel's hulk, with the waves breaking every moment +upon her side, I felt the reality awful indeed. Now and then there would +come a kind of lull in the wild sequence of rolling waters, and then I +fancied for a moment that I saw how she rocked on the bottom. Her masts had +all gone by the board, and a perfect chaos of cordage floated and swung in +the waves that broke over her. But her bowsprit remained entire, and shot +out into the foamy dark, crowded with human beings. The first rocket +had missed. They were preparing to fire another. Roxton stood with his +telescope in his hand, ready to watch the result. + +"This is a terrible job, sir," he said when I approached him; "I doubt if +we shall save one of them." + +"There's the life-boat!" I cried, as a dark spot appeared on the waters +approaching the vessel from the other side. + +"The life-boat!" he returned with contempt. "You don't mean to say they've +got _her_ out! She'll only add to the mischief. We'll have to save her +too." + +She was still some way from the vessel, and in comparatively smooth water. +But between her and the hull the sea raved in madness; the billows rode +over each other, in pursuit, as it seemed, of some invisible prey. Another +hiss, as of concentrated hatred, and the second rocket was shooting its +parabola through the dusky air. Roxton raised his telescope to his eye the +same moment. + +"Over her starn!" he cried. "There's a fellow getting down from the +cat-head to run aft.--Stop, stop!" he shouted involuntarily. "There's an +awful wave on your quarter." + +His voice was swallowed in the roaring of the storm. I fancied I could +distinguish a dark something shoot from the bows towards the stern. But the +huge wave fell upon the wreck. The same moment Roxton exclaimed--so coolly +as to amaze me, forgetting how men must come to regard familiar things +without discomposure-- + +"He's gone! I said so. The next'll have better luck, I hope." + +That man came ashore alive, though. + +All were forward of the foremast. The bowsprit, when I looked through +Roxton's telescope, was shapeless as with a swarm of bees. Now and then a +single shriek rose upon the wild air. But now my attention was fixed on the +life-boat. She had got into the wildest of the broken water; at one +moment she was down in a huge cleft, the next balanced like a beam on the +knife-edge of a wave, tossed about hither and thither, as if the waves +delighted in mocking the rudder; but hitherto she had shipped no water. I +am here drawing upon the information I have since received; but I did +see how a huge wave, following close upon the back of that on which she +floated, rushed, towered up over her, toppled, and fell upon the life-boat +with tons of water: the moon was shining brightly enough to show this with +tolerable distinctness. The boat vanished. The next moment, there she was, +floating helplessly about, like a living thing stunned by the blow of the +falling wave. The struggle was over. As far as I could see, every man was +in his place; but the boat drifted away before the storm shore-wards, and +the men let her drift. Were they all killed as they sat? I thought of my +Wynnie, and turned to Roxton. + +"That wave has done for them," he said. "I told you it was no use. There +they go." + +"But what is the matter?" I asked. "The men are sitting every man in his +place." + +"I think so," he answered. "Two were swept overboard, but they caught the +ropes and got in again. But don't you see they have no oars?" + +That wave had broken every one of them off at the rowlocks, and now they +were as helpless as a sponge. + +I turned and ran. Before I reached the brow of the hill another rocket was +fired and fell wide shorewards, partly because the wind blew with fresh +fury at the very moment. I heard Roxton say--"She's breaking up. It's no +use. That last did for her;" but I hurried off for the other side of the +bay, to see what became of the life-boat. I heard a great cry from the +vessel as I reached the brow of the hill, and turned for a parting glance. +The dark mass had vanished, and the waves were rushing at will over the +space. When I got to the shore the crowd was less. Many were running, like +myself, towards the other side, anxious about the life-boat. I hastened +after them; for Percivale and Joe filled my heart. + +They led the way to the little beach in front of the parsonage. It would +be well for the crew if they were driven ashore there, for it was the only +spot where they could escape being dashed on rocks. + +There was a crowd before the garden-wall, a bustle, and great confusion of +speech. The people, men and women, boys and girls, were all gathered about +the crew of the life-boat,--which already lay, as if it knew of nothing but +repose, on the grass within. + +"Percivale!" I cried, making my way through the crowd. + +There was no answer. + +"Joe Harper!" I cried again, searching with eager eyes amongst the crew, to +whom everybody was talking. + +Still there was no answer; and from the disjointed phrases I heard, I could +gather nothing. All at once I saw Wynnie looking over the wall, despair in +her face, her wide eyes searching wildly through the crowd. I could not +look at her till I knew the worst. The captain was talking to old Coombes. +I went up to him. As soon as he saw me, he gave me his attention. + +"Where is Mr. Percivale?" I asked, with all the calmness I could assume. + +He took me by the arm, and drew me out of the crowd, nearer to the waves, +and a little nearer to the mouth of the canal. The tide had fallen +considerably, else there would not have been standing-room, narrow as it +was, which the people now occupied. He pointed in the direction of the +Castle-rock. + +"If you mean the stranger gentleman--" + +"And Joe Harper, the blacksmith," I interposed. + +"They're there, sir." + +"You don't mean those two--just those two--are drowned?" I said. + +"No, sir; I don't say that; but God knows they have little chance." + +I could not help thinking that God might know they were not in the smallest +danger. But I only begged him to tell me where they were. + +"Do you see that schooner there, just between you and the Castle-rock?" + +"No," I answered; "I can see nothing. Stay. I fancy I can. But I am always +ready to fancy I see a thing when I am told it is there. I can't say I see +it." + +"I can, though. The gentleman you mean, and Joe Harper too, are, I believe, +on board of that schooner." + +"Is she aground?" + +"O dear no, sir. She's a light craft, and can swim there well enough. If +she'd been aground, she'd ha' been ashore in pieces hours ago. But whether +she'll ride it out, God only knows, as I said afore." + +"How ever did they get aboard of her? I never saw her from the heights +opposite." + +"You were all taken up by the ship ashore, you see, sir. And she don't make +much show in this light. But there she is, and they're aboard of her. And +this is how it was." + +He went on to give me his part of the story; but I will now give the whole +of it myself, as I have gathered and pieced it together. + +Two men had been swept overboard, as Roxton said--one of them was +Percivale--but they had both got on board again, to drift, oarless, with +the rest--now in a windless valley--now aloft on a tempest-swept hill of +water--away towards a goal they knew not, neither had chosen, and which yet +they could by no means avoid. + +A little out of the full force of the current, and not far from the channel +of the small stream, which, when the tide was out, flowed across the sands +nearly from the canal gates to the Castle-rock, lay a little schooner, +belonging to a neighbouring port, Boscastle, I think, which, caught in +the storm, had been driven into the bay when it was almost dark, some +considerable time before the great ship. The master, however, knew the +ground well. The current carried him a little out of the wind, and would +have thrown him upon the rocks next, but he managed to drop anchor just in +time, and the cable held; and there the little schooner hung in the skirts +of the storm, with the jagged teeth of the rocks within an arrow flight. In +the excitement of the great wreck, no one had observed the danger of the +little coasting bird. If the cable held till the tide went down, and the +anchor did not drag, she would be safe; if not, she must be dashed to +pieces. + +In the schooner were two men and a boy: two men had been washed overboard +an hour or so before they reached the bay. When they had dropped their +anchor, they lay down exhausted on the deck. Indeed they were so worn out +that they had been unable to drop their sheet anchor, and were holding on +only by their best bower. Had they not been a good deal out of the wind, +this would have been useless. Even if it held she was in danger of having +her bottom stove in by bumping against the sands as the tide went out. But +that they had not to think of yet. The moment they lay down they fell +fast asleep in the middle of the storm. While they slept it increased in +violence. + +Suddenly one of them awoke, and thought he saw a vision of angels. For over +his head faces looked down upon him from the air--that is, from the top of +a great wave. The same moment he heard a voice, two of the angels dropped +on the deck beside him, and the rest vanished. Those angels were Percivale +and Joe. And angels they were, for they came just in time, as all angels +do--never a moment too soon or a moment too late: the schooner _was_ +dragging her anchor. This was soon plain even to the less experienced eyes +of the said angels. + +But it did not take them many minutes now to drop their strongest anchor, +and they were soon riding in perfect safety for some time to come. + +One of the two men was the son of old Coombes, the sexton, who was engaged +to marry the girl I have spoken of in the end of the fourth chapter in the +second volume. + +Percivale's account of the matter, as far as he was concerned, was, that as +they drifted helplessly along, he suddenly saw from the top of a huge wave +the little vessel below him. They were, in fact, almost upon the rigging. +The wave on which they rode swept the quarter-deck of the schooner. + +Percivale says the captain of the lifeboat called out "Aboard!" The captain +said he remembered nothing of the sort. If he did, he must have meant +it for the men on the schooner to get on board the lifeboat. Percivale, +however, who had a most chivalrous (ought I not to say Christian?) notion +of obedience, fancying the captain meant them to board the schooner, sprang +at her fore-shrouds. Thereupon the wave sweeping them along the schooner's +side, Joe sprang at the main-shrouds, and they dropped on the deck +together. + +But although my reader is at ease about their fate, we who were in the +affair were anything but easy at the time corresponding to this point of +the narrative. It was a terrible night we passed through. + +When I returned, which was almost instantly, for I could do nothing by +staring out in the direction of the schooner, I found that the crowd was +nearly gone. One little group alone remained behind, the centre of which +was a woman. Wynnie had disappeared. The woman who remained behind was +Agnes Harper. + +The moon shone out clear as I approached the group; indeed, the clouds were +breaking-up and drifting away off the heavens. The storm had raved out its +business, and was departing into the past. + +"Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered, and looked up as if waiting for a command. There +was no colour in her cheeks or in her lips--at least it seemed so in the +moonlight--only in her eyes. But she was perfectly calm. She was leaning +against the low wall, with her hands clasped, but hanging quietly down +before her. + +"The storm is breaking-up, Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered in the same still tone. Then, after just a +moment's pause, she spoke out of her heart. + +"Joe's at his duty, sir?" + +I have given the utterance a point of interrogation; whether she meant that +point I am not quite sure. + +"Indubitably," I returned. "I have such faith in Joe, that I should be sure +of that in any case. At all events, he's not taking care of his own life. +And if one is to go wrong, I would ten thousand times rather err on that +side. But I am sure Joe has been doing right, and nothing else." + +"Then there's nothing to be said, sir, is there?" she returned, with a sigh +that sounded as of relief. + +I presume some of the surrounding condolers had been giving her Job's +comfort by blaming her husband. + +"Do you remember, Agnes, what the Lord said to his mother when she +reproached him with having left her and his father?" + +"I can't remember anything at this moment, sir," was her touching answer. + +"Then I will tell you. He said, 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know +that I must be about something my Father had given me to do?' Now, Joe was +and is about his Father's business, and you must not be anxious about him. +There could be no better reason for not being anxious." + +Agnes was a very quiet woman. When without a word she took my hand and +kissed it, I felt what a depth there was in the feeling she could not +utter. I did not withdraw my hand, for I knew that would be to rebuke her +love for Joe. + +"Will you come in and wait?" I said indefinitely. + +"No, thank you, sir. I must go to my mother. God will look after Joe, won't +he, sir?" + +"As sure as there is a God, Agnes," I said; and she went away without +another word. + +I put my hand on the top of the wall and jumped over. I started back with +terror, for I had almost alighted on the body of a woman lying there. The +first insane suggestion was that it had been cast ashore; but the next +moment I knew that it was my own Wynnie. + +She had not even fainted. She was lying with her handkerchief stuffed into +her mouth to keep her from screaming. When I uttered her name she rose, +and, without looking at me, walked away towards the house. I followed. She +went straight to her own room and shut the door. I went to find her mother. +She was with Connie, who was now awake, lying pale and frightened. I told +Ethelwyn that Percivale and Joe were on board the little schooner, which +was holding on by her anchor, that Wynnie was in terror about Percivale, +that I had found her lying on the wet grass, and that she must get her into +a warm bath and to bed. We went together to her room. + +She was standing in the middle of the floor, with her hands pressed against +her temples. + +"Wynnie," I said, "our friends are not drowned. I think you will see them +quite safe in the morning. Pray to God for them." + +She did not hear a word. + +"Leave her with me," said Ethelwyn, proceeding to undress her; "and tell +nurse to bring up the large bath. There is plenty of hot water in the +boiler. I gave orders to that effect, not knowing what might happen." + +Wynnie shuddered as her mother said this; but I waited no longer, for when +Ethelwyn spoke everyone felt her authority. I obeyed her, and then went to +Connie's room. + +"Do you mind being left alone a little while?" I asked her. + +"No, papa; only--are they all drowned?" she said with a shudder. + +"I hope not, my dear; but be sure of the mercy of God, whatever you fear. +You must rest in him, my love; for he is life, and will conquer death both +in the soul and in the body." + +"I was not thinking of myself, papa." + +"I know that, my dear. But God is thinking of you and every creature that +he has made. And for our sakes you must be quiet in heart, that you may get +better, and be able to help us." + +"I will try, papa," she said; and, turning slowly on her side, she lay +quite still. + +Dora and the boys were all fast asleep, for it was very late. I cannot, +however, say what hour it was. + +Telling nurse to be on the watch because Connie was alone, I went again to +the beach. I called first, however, to inquire after Agnes. I found her +quite composed, sitting with her parents by the fire, none of them doing +anything, scarcely speaking, only listening intently to the sounds of the +storm now beginning to die away. + +I next went to the place where I had left Turner. Five bodies lay there, +and he was busy with a sixth. The surgeon of the place was with him, and +they quite expected to recover this man. + +I then went down to the sands. An officer of the revenue was taking charge +of all that came ashore--chests, and bales, and everything. For a week the +sea went on casting out the fragments of that which she had destroyed. I +have heard that, for years after, the shifting of the sands would now and +then discover things buried that night by the waves. + +All the next day the bodies kept coming ashore, some peaceful as in sleep, +others broken and mutilated. Many were cast upon other parts of the coast. +Some four or five only, all men, were recovered. It was strange to me how +I got used to it. The first horror over, the cry that yet another body had +come awoke only a gentle pity--no more dismay or shuddering. But, finding +I could be of no use, I did not wait longer than just till the morning +began to dawn with a pale ghastly light over the seething raging sea; for +the sea raged on, although the wind had gone down. There were many strong +men about, with two surgeons and all the coastguard, who were well +accustomed to similar though not such extensive destruction. The houses +along the shore were at the disposal of any who wanted aid; the Parsonage +was at some distance; and I confess that when I thought of the state of my +daughters, as well as remembered former influences upon my wife, I was very +glad to think there was no necessity for carrying thither any of those whom +the waves cast on the shore. + +When I reached home, and found Wynnie quieter and Connie again asleep, I +walked out along our own downs till I came whence I could see the little +schooner still safe at anchor. From her position I concluded--correctly as +I found afterwards--that they had let out her cable far enough to allow her +to reach the bed of the little stream, where the tide would leave her more +gently. She was clearly out of all danger now; and if Percivale and Joe had +got safe on board of her, we might confidently expect to see them before +many hours were passed. I went home with the good news. + +For a few moments I doubted whether I should tell Wynnie, for I could not +know with any certainty that Percivale was in the schooner. But presently I +recalled former conclusions to the effect that we have no right to modify +God's facts for fear of what may be to come. A little hope founded on a +present appearance, even if that hope should never be realised, may be the +very means of enabling a soul to bear the weight of a sorrow past the point +at which it would otherwise break down. I would therefore tell Wynnie, and +let her share my expectation of deliverance. + +I think she had been half-asleep, for when I entered her room she started +up in a sitting posture, looking wild, and putting her hands to her head. + +"I have brought you good news, Wynnie," I said. "I have been out on the +downs, and there is light enough now to see that the little schooner is +quite safe." + +"What schooner?" she asked listlessly, and lay down again, her eyes still +staring, awfully unappeased. + +"Why the schooner they say Percivale got on board." + +"He isn't drowned then!" she cried with a choking voice, and put her hands +to her face and burst into tears and sobs. + +"Wynnie," I said, "look what your faithlessness brings upon you. Everybody +but you has known all night that Percivale and Joe Harper are probably +quite safe. They may be ashore in a couple of hours." + +"But you don't know it. He may be drowned yet." + +"Of course there is room for doubt, but none for despair. See what a poor +helpless creature hopelessness makes you." + +"But how can I help it, papa?" she asked piteously. "I am made so." + +But as she spoke the dawn was clear upon the height of her forehead. + +"You are not made yet, as I am always telling you; and God has ordained +that you shall have a hand in your own making. You have to consent, to +desire that what you know for a fault shall be set right by his loving will +and spirit." + +"I don't know God, papa." + +"Ah, my dear, that is where it all lies. You do not know him, or you would +never be without hope." + +"But what am I to do to know him!" she asked, rising on her elbow. + +The saving power of hope was already working in her. She was once more +turning her face towards the Life. + +"Read as you have never read before about Christ Jesus, my love. Read with +the express object of finding out what God is like, that you may know him +and may trust him. And now give yourself to him, and he will give you +sleep." + +"What are we to do," I said to my wife, "if Percivale continue silent? For +even if he be in love with her, I doubt if he will speak." + +"We must leave all that, Harry," she answered. + +She was turning on myself the counsel I had been giving Wynnie. It is +strange how easily we can tell our brother what he ought to do, and yet, +when the case comes to be our own, do precisely as we had rebuked him for +doing. I lay down and fell fast asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE FUNERAL. + + +It was a lovely morning when I woke once more. The sun was flashing back +from the sea, which was still tossing, but no longer furiously, only as if +it wanted to turn itself every way to flash the sunlight about. The madness +of the night was over and gone; the light was abroad, and the world was +rejoicing. When I reached the drawing-room, which afforded the best outlook +over the shore, there was the schooner lying dry on the sands, her two +cables and anchors stretching out yards behind her; but half way between +the two sides of the bay rose a mass of something shapeless, drifted over +with sand. It was all that remained together of the great ship that had the +day before swept over the waters like a live thing with wings--of all the +works of man's hands the nearest to the shape and sign of life. The wind +had ceased altogether, only now and then a little breeze arose which +murmured "I am very sorry," and lay down again. And I knew that in the +houses on the shore dead men and women were lying. + +I went down to the dining-room. The three children were busy at their +breakfast, but neither wife, daughter, nor visitor had yet appeared. I made +a hurried meal, and was just rising to go and inquire further into the +events of the night, when the door opened, and in walked Percivale, looking +very solemn, but in perfect health and well-being. I grasped his hand +warmly. + +"Thank God," I said, "that you are returned to us, Percivale." + +"I doubt if that is much to give thanks for," he said. + +"We are the judges of that," I rejoined. "Tell me all about it." + +While he was narrating the events I have already communicated, Wynnie +entered. She started, turned pale and then very red, and for a moment +hesitated in the doorway. + +"Here is another to rejoice at your safety, Percivale," I said. + +Thereupon he stepped forward to meet her, and she gave him her hand with an +emotion so evident that I felt a little distressed--why, I could not easily +have told, for she looked most charming in the act,--more lovely than I had +ever seen her. Her beauty was unconsciously praising God, and her heart +would soon praise him too. But Percivale was a modest man, and I think +attributed her emotion to the fact that he had been in danger in the way of +duty,--a fact sufficient to move the heart of any good woman. + +She sat down and began to busy herself with the teapot. Her hand trembled. +I requested Percivale to begin his story once more; and he evidently +enjoyed recounting to her the adventures of the night. + +I asked him to sit down and have a second breakfast while I went into the +village, whereto he seemed nothing loth. + +As I crossed the floor of the old mill to see how Joe was, the head of +the sexton appeared emerging from it. He looked full of weighty solemn +business. Bidding me good-morning, he turned to the corner where his tools +lay, and proceeded to shoulder spade and pickaxe. + +"Ah, Coombes! you'll want them," I said. + +"A good many o' my people be come all at once, you see, sir," he returned. +"I shall have enough ado to make 'em all comfortable like." + +"But you must get help, you know; you can never make them all comfortable +yourself alone." + +"We'll see what I can do," he returned. "I ben't a bit willin' to let no +one do my work for me, I do assure you, sir." + +"How many are there wanting your services?" I asked. + +"There be fifteen of them now, and there be more, I don't doubt, on the +way." + +"But you won't think of making separate graves for them all," I said. "They +died together: let them lie together." + +The old man set down his tools, and looked me in the face with indignation. +The face was so honest and old, that, without feeling I had deserved it, I +yet felt the rebuke. + +"How would you like, sir," he said, at length, "to be put in the same bed +with a lot of people you didn't know nothing about?" + +I knew the old man's way, and that any argument which denied the premiss +of his peculiar fancy was worse than thrown away upon him. I therefore +ventured no farther than to say that I had heard death was a leveller. + +"That be very true; and, mayhap, they mightn't think of it after they'd +been down awhile--six weeks, mayhap, or so. But anyhow, it can't be +comfortable for 'em, poor things. One on 'em be a baby: I daresay he'd +rather lie with his mother. The doctor he say one o' the women be a mother. +I don't know," he went on reflectively, "whether she be the baby's own +mother, but I daresay neither o' them 'll mind it if I take it for granted, +and lay 'em down together. So that's one bed less." + +One thing was clear, that the old man could not dig fourteen graves within +the needful time. But I would not interfere with his office in the church, +having no reason to doubt that he would perform its duties to perfection. +He shouldered his tools again and walked out. I descended the stair, +thinking to see Joe; but there was no one there but the old woman. + +"Where are Joe and Agnes?" I asked. + +"You see, sir, Joe had promised a little job of work to be ready to-day, +and so he couldn't stop. He did say Agnes needn't go with him; but she +thought she couldn't part with him so soon, you see, sir." + +"She had received him from the dead--raised to life again," I said; "it was +most natural. But what a fine fellow Joe is; nothing will make him neglect +his work!" + +"I tried to get him to stop, sir, saying he had done quite enough last +night for all next day; but he told me it was his business to get the tire +put on Farmer Wheatstone's cart-wheel to-day just as much as it was his +business to go in the life-boat yesterday. So he would go, and Aggy +wouldn't stay behind." + +"Fine fellow, Joe!" I said, and took my leave. + +As I drew near the village, I heard the sound of hammering and sawing, and +apparently everything at once in the way of joinery; they were making the +coffins in the joiners' shops, of which there were two in the place. + +I do not like coffins. They seem to me relics of barbarism. If I had my +way, I would have the old thing decently wound in a fair linen cloth, and +so laid in the bosom of the earth, whence it was taken. I would have it +vanish, not merely from the world of vision, but from the world of form, as +soon as may be. The embrace of the fine life-hoarding, life-giving mould, +seems to me comforting, in the vague, foolish fancy that will sometimes +emerge from the froth of reverie--I mean, of subdued consciousness +remaining in the outworn frame. But the coffin is altogether and vilely +repellent. Of this, however, enough, I hate even the shadow of sentiment, +though some of my readers, who may not yet have learned to distinguish +between sentiment and feeling, may wonder how I dare to utter such a +barbarism. + +I went to the house of the county magistrate hard by, for I thought +something might have to be done in which I had a share. I found that he had +sent a notice of the loss of the vessel to the Liverpool papers, requesting +those who might wish to identify or claim any of the bodies to appear +within four days at Kilkhaven. + +This threw the last upon Saturday, and before the end of the week it was +clear that they must not remain above ground over Sunday. I therefore +arranged that they should be buried late on the Saturday night. + +On the Friday morning, a young woman and an old man, unknown to each other, +arrived by the coach from Barnstaple. They had come to see the last of +their friends in this world; to look, if they might, at the shadow left +behind by the departing soul. For as the shadow of any object remains a +moment upon the magic curtain of the eye after the object itself has gone, +so the shadow of the soul, namely, the body, lingers a moment upon the +earth after the object itself has gone to the "high countries." It was +well to see with what a sober sorrow the dignified little old man bore his +grief. It was as if he felt that the loss of his son was only for a moment. +But the young woman had taken on the hue of the corpse she came to seek. +Her eyes were sunken as if with the weight of the light she cared not for, +and her cheeks had already pined away as if to be ready for the grave. A +being thus emptied of its glory seized and possessed my thoughts. She never +even told us whom she came seeking, and after one involuntary question, +which simply received no answer, I was very careful not even to approach +another. I do not think the form she sought was there; and she may have +gone home with the lingering hope to cast the gray aurora of a doubtful +dawn over her coming days, that, after all, that one had escaped. + +On the Friday afternoon, with the approbation of the magistrate, I had +all the bodies removed to the church. Some in their coffins, others on +stretchers, they were laid in front of the communion-rail. In the evening +these two went to see them. I took care to be present. The old man soon +found his son. I was at his elbow as he walked between the rows of the +dead. He turned to me and said quietly-- + +"That's him, sir. He was a good lad. God rest his soul. He's with his +mother; and if I'm sorry, she's glad." + +With that he smiled, or tried to smile. I could only lay my hand on his +arm, to let him know that I understood him, and was with him. He walked +out of the church, sat down, upon a stone, and stared at the mould of a +new-made grave in front of him. What was passing behind those eyes God only +knew--certainly the man himself did not know. Our lightest thoughts are of +more awful significance than the most serious of us can imagine. + +For the young woman, I thought she left the church with a little light in +her eyes; but she had said nothing. Alas! that the body was not there could +no more justify her than Milton in letting her + + "frail thoughts dally with false surmise." + +With him, too, she might well add-- + + "Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away." + +But God had them in his teaching, and all I could do was to ask them to be +my guests till the funeral and the following Sunday were over. To this +they kindly consented, and I took them to my wife, who received them like +herself, and had in a few minutes made them at home with her, to which no +doubt their sorrow tended, for that brings out the relations of humanity +and destroys its distinctions. + +The next morning a Scotchman of a very decided type, originally from +Aberdeen, but resident in Liverpool, appeared, seeking the form of his +daughter. I had arranged that whoever came should be brought to me first. I +went with him to the church. He was a tall, gaunt, bony man, with long arms +and huge hands, a rugged granite-like face, and a slow ponderous utterance, +which I had some difficulty in understanding. He treated the object of his +visit with a certain hardness, and at the same time lightness, which also I +had some difficulty in understanding. + +"You want to see the--" I said, and hesitated. + +"Ow ay--the boadies," he answered. "She winna be there, I daursay, but I +wad jist like to see; for I wadna like her to be beeried gin sae be 'at she +was there, wi'oot biddin' her good-bye like." + +When we reached the church, I opened the door and entered. An awe fell upon +me fresh and new. The beautiful church had become a tomb: solemn, grand, +ancient, it rose as a memorial of the dead who lay in peace before her +altar-rail, as if they had fled thither for sanctuary from a sea of +troubles. And I thought with myself, Will the time ever come when the +churches shall stand as the tombs of holy things that have passed away, +when Christ shall have rendered up the kingdom to his Father, and no man +shall need to teach his neighbour or his brother, saying, "Know the Lord"? +The thought passed through my mind and vanished, as I led my companion up +to the dead. He glanced at one and another, and passed on. He had looked +at ten or twelve ere he stopped, gazing on the face of the beautiful form +which had first come ashore. He stooped and stroked the white cheeks, +taking the head in his great rough hands, and smoothed the brown hair +tenderly, saying, as if he had quite forgotten that she was dead-- + +"Eh, Maggie! hoo cam _ye_ here, lass?" + +Then, as if for the first time the reality had grown comprehensible, he put +his hands before his face, and burst into tears. His huge frame was shaken +with sobs for one long minute, while I stood looking on with awe and +reverence. He ceased suddenly, pulled a blue cotton handkerchief with +yellow spots on it--I see it now--from his pocket, rubbed his face with +it as if drying it with a towel, put it back, turned, and said, without +looking at me, "I'll awa' hame." + +"Wouldn't you like a piece of her hair?" I asked. + +"Gin ye please," he answered gently, as if his daughter's form had been +mine now, and her hair were mine to give. + +By the vestry door sat Mrs. Coombes, watching the dead, with her sweet +solemn smile, and her constant ministration of knitting. + +"Have you got a pair of scissors there, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. + +"Yes, to be sure, sir," she answered, rising, and lifting a huge pair by +the string suspending them from her waist. + +"Cut off a nice piece of this beautiful hair," I said. + +She lifted the lovely head, chose, and cut off a long piece, and handed it +respectfully to the father. + +He took it without a word, sat down on the step before the communion-rail, +and began to smooth out the wonderful sleave of dusky gold. It was, indeed, +beautiful hair. As he drew it out, I thought it must be a yard long. He +passed his big fingers through and through it, but tenderly, as if it had +been still growing on the live lovely head, stopping every moment to pick +out the bits of sea-weed and shells, and shake out the sand that had been +wrought into its mass. He sat thus for nearly half-an-hour, and we stood +looking on with something closely akin to awe. At length he folded it up, +drew from his pocket an old black leather book, laid it carefully in the +innermost pocket, and rose. I led the way from the church, and he followed +me. + +Outside the church, he laid his hand on my arm, and said, groping with his +other hand in his trousers-pocket-- + +"She'll hae putten ye to some expense--for the coffin an' sic like." + +"We'll talk about that afterwards," I answered. "Come home with me now, and +have some refreshment." + +"Na, I thank ye. I hae putten ye to eneuch o' tribble already. I'll jist +awa' hame." + +"We are going to lay them down this evening. You won't go before the +funeral. Indeed, I think you can't get away till Monday morning. My wife +and I will be glad of your company till then." + +"I'm no company for gentle-fowk, sir." + +"Come and show me in which of these graves you would like to have her +laid," I said. + +He yielded and followed me. + +Coombes had not dug many spadefuls before he saw what had been plain +enough--that ten such men as he could not dig the graves in time. But there +was plenty of help to be had from the village and the neighbouring farms. +Most of them were now ready, but a good many men were still at work. The +brown hillocks lay all about the church-yard--the mole-heaps of burrowing +Death. + +The stranger looked around him. His face grew critical. He stepped a little +hither and thither. At length he turned to me and said-- + +"I wadna like to be greedy; but gin ye wad lat her lie next the kirk +there--i' that neuk, I wad tak' it kindly. And syne gin ever it cam' aboot +that I cam' here again, I wad ken whaur she was. Could ye get a sma' bit +heidstane putten up? I wad leave the siller wi' ye to pay for't." + +"To be sure I can. What will you have put on the stone?" + +"Ow jist--let me see--Maggie Jamieson--nae Marget, but jist Maggie. She was +aye Maggie at home. Maggie Jamieson, frae her father. It's the last thing I +can gie her. Maybe ye micht put a verse o' Scripter aneath't, ye ken." + +"What verse would you like?" + +He thought for a little. + +"Isna there a text that says, 'The deid shall hear his voice'?" + +"Yes: 'The dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God.'" + +"Ay. That's it. Weel, jist put that on.--They canna do better than hear his +voice," he added, with a strange mixture of Scotch ratiocination. + +I led the way home, and he accompanied me without further objection or +apology. After dinner, I proposed that we should go upon the downs, for the +day was warm and bright. We sat on the grass. I felt that I could not talk +to them as from myself. I knew nothing of the possible gulfs of sorrow in +their hearts. To me their forms seemed each like a hill in whose unseen +bosom lay a cavern of dripping waters, perhaps with a subterranean torrent +of anguish raving through its hollows and tumbling down hidden precipices, +whose voice God only heard, and God only could still. This daughter +_might_, though from her face I did not think it, have gone away against +her father's will. That son _might_ have been a ne'er-do-well at home--how +could I tell? The woman _might_ be looking for the lover that had forsaken +her--I could not divine. I would speak no words of my own. The Son of +God had spoken words of comfort to his mourning friends, when he was the +present God and they were the forefront of humanity; I would read some of +the words he spoke. From them the human nature in each would draw what +comfort it could. I took my New Testament from my pocket, and said, without +any preamble, + +"When our Lord was going to die, he knew that his friends loved him enough +to be very wretched about it. He knew that they would be overwhelmed for a +time with trouble. He knew, too, that they could not believe the glad end +of it all, to which end he looked, across the awful death that awaited +him--a death to which that of our friends in the wreck was ease itself. I +will just read to you what he said." + +I read from the fourteenth to the seventeenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. +I knew there were worlds of meaning in the words into which I could hardly +hope any of them would enter. But I knew likewise that the best things are +just those from which the humble will draw the truth they are capable of +seeing. Therefore I read as for myself, and left it to them to hear for +themselves. Nor did I add any word of comment, fearful of darkening counsel +by words without knowledge. For the Bible is awfully set against what is +not wise. + +When I had finished, I closed the book, rose from the grass, and walked +towards the brow of the shore. They rose likewise and followed me. I talked +of slight things; the tone was all that communicated between us. But little +of any sort was said. The sea lay still before us, knowing nothing of the +sorrow it had caused. + +We wandered a little way along the cliff. The burial-service was at seven +o'clock. + +"I have an invalid to visit out in this direction," I said; "would you mind +walking with me? I shall not stay more than five minutes, and we shall get +back just in time for tea." + +They assented kindly. I walked first with one, then with another; heard a +little of the story of each; was able to say a few words of sympathy, and +point, as it were, a few times towards the hills whence cometh our aid. I +may just mention here, that since our return to Marshmallows I have had two +of them, the young woman and the Scotchman, to visit us there. + +The bell began to toll, and we went to church. My companions placed +themselves near the dead. I went into the vestry till the appointed hour. +I thought as I put on my surplice how, in all religions but the Christian, +the dead body was a pollution to the temple. Here the church received it, +as a holy thing, for a last embrace ere it went to the earth. + +As the dead were already in the church, the usual form could not be carried +out. I therefore stood by the communion-table, and there began to read, "I +am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, +though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth +in me shall never die." + +I advanced, as I read, till I came outside the rails and stood before the +dead. There I read the Psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our refuge," and +the glorious lesson, "Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the +first-fruits of them that slept." Then the men of the neighbourhood came +forward, and in long solemn procession bore the bodies out of the church, +each to its grave. At the church-door I stood and read, "Man that is born +of a woman;" then went from one to another of the graves, and read over +each, as the earth fell on the coffin-lid, "Forasmuch as it hath pleased +Almighty God, of his great mercy." Then again, I went back to the +church-door and read, "I heard a voice from heaven;" and so to the end of +the service. + +Leaving the men to fill up the graves, I hastened to lay aside my +canonicals, that I might join my guests; but my wife and daughter had +already prevailed on them to leave the churchyard. + +A word now concerning my own family. Turner insisted on Connie's remaining +in bed for two or three days. She looked worse in face--pale and worn; but +it was clear, from the way she moved in bed, that the fresh power called +forth by the shock had not vanished with the moment. + +Wynnie was quieter almost than ever; but there was a constant _secret_ +light, if I may use the paradox, in her eyes. Percivale was at the +house every day, always ready to make himself useful. My wife bore up +wonderfully. As yet the much greater catastrophe had come far short of the +impression made by the less. When quieter hours should come, however, I +could not help fearing that the place would be dreadfully painful to +all but the younger ones, who, of course, had the usual child-gift of +forgetting. The servants--even Walter--looked thin and anxious. + +That Saturday night I found myself, as I had once or twice found myself +before, entirely unprepared to preach. I did not feel anxious, because I +did not feel that I was to blame: I had been so much occupied. I had again +and again turned my thoughts thitherward, but nothing recommended itself to +me so that I could say "I must take that;" nothing said plainly, "This is +what you have to speak of." + +As often as I had sought to find fitting matter for my sermon, my mind +had turned to death and the grave; but I shrunk from every suggestion, or +rather nothing had come to me that interested myself enough to justify me +in giving it to my people. And I always took it as my sole justification, +in speaking of anything to the flock of Christ, that I cared heartily in my +own soul for that thing. Without this consciousness I was dumb. And I do +think, highly as I value prophecy, that a clergyman ought to be at liberty +upon occasion to say, "My friends, I cannot preach to-day." What a riddance +it would be for the Church, I do not say if every priest were to speak +sense, but only if every priest were to abstain from speaking of that in +which, at the moment, he feels little or no interest! + +I went to bed, which is often the very best thing a man can do; for sleep +will bring him from God that which no effort of his own will can compass. +I have read somewhere--I will verify it by present search--that Luther's +translation, of the verse in the psalm, "So he giveth to his beloved +sleep," is, "He giveth his beloved sleeping," or while asleep. Yes, so it +is, literally, in English, "It is in vain that ye rise early, and then +sit long, and eat your bread with care, for to his friends he gives it +sleeping." This was my experience in the present instance; for the thought +of which I was first conscious when I awoke was, "Why should I talk about +death? Every man's heart is now full of death. We have enough of that--even +the sum that God has sent us on the wings of the tempest. What I have to +do, as the minister of the new covenant, is to speak of life." It flashed +in on my mind: "Death is over and gone. The resurrection comes next. I will +speak of the raising of Lazarus." + +The same moment I knew that I was ready to speak. Shall I or shall I not +give my reader the substance of what I said? I wish I knew how many of them +would like it, and how many would not. I do not want to bore them with +sermons, especially seeing I have always said that no sermons ought to +be printed; for in print they are but what the old alchymists would have +called a _caput mortuum_, or death's head, namely, a lifeless lump of +residuum at the bottom of the crucible; for they have no longer the living +human utterance which gives all the power on the minds of the hearers. But +I have not, either in this or in my preceding narrative, attempted to give +a sermon as I preached it. I have only sought to present the substance of +it in a form fitter for being read, somewhat cleared of the unavoidable, +let me say necessary--yes, I will say _valuable_--repetitions and +enforcements by which the various considerations are pressed upon the minds +of the hearers. These are entirely wearisome in print--useless too, for +the reader may ponder over every phrase till he finds out the purport of +it--if indeed there be such readers nowadays. + +I rose, went down to the bath in the rocks, had a joyous physical ablution, +and a swim up and down the narrow cleft, from which I emerged as if myself +newly born or raised anew, and then wandered about on the downs full of +hope and thankfulness, seeking all I could to plant deep in my mind the +long-rooted truths of resurrection, that they might be not only ready to +blossom in the warmth of the spring-tides to come, but able to send out +some leaves and promissory buds even in the wintry time of the soul, when +the fogs of pain steam up from the frozen clay soil of the body, and make +the monarch-will totter dizzily upon his throne, to comfort the eyes of the +bewildered king, reminding him that the King of kings hath conquered Death +and the Grave. There is no perfect faith that cannot laugh at winters and +graveyards, and all the whole array of defiant appearances. The fresh +breeze of the morning visited me. "O God," I said in my heart, "would that +when the dark day comes, in which I can feel nothing, I may be able to +front it with the memory of this day's strength, and so help myself to +trust in the Father! I would call to mind the days of old, with David the +king." + +When I returned to the house, I found that one of the sailors, who had been +cast ashore with his leg broken, wished to see me. I obeyed, and found him +very pale and worn. + +"I think I am going, sir," he said; "and I wanted to see you before I die." + +"Trust in Christ, and do not be afraid," I returned. + +"I prayed to him to save me when I was hanging to the rigging, and if I +wasn't afraid then, I'm not going to be afraid now, dying quietly in my +bed. But just look here, sir." + +He took from under his pillow something wrapped up in paper, unfolded the +envelope, and showed a lump of something--I could not at first tell what. +He put it in my hand, and then I saw that it was part of a bible, with +nearly the upper half of it worn or cut away, and the rest partly in a +state of pulp. + +"That's the bible my mother gave me when I left home first," he said. "I +don't know how I came to put it in my pocket, but I think the rope that cut +through that when I was lashed to the shrouds would a'most have cut through +my ribs if it hadn't been for it." + +"Very likely," I returned. "The body of the Bible has saved your bodily +life: may the spirit of it save your spiritual life." + +"I think I know what you mean, sir," he panted out. "My mother was a good +woman, and I know she prayed to God for me." + +"Would you like us to pray for you in church to-day?" + +"If you please, sir; me and Bob Fox. He's nearly as bad as I am." + +"We won't forget you," I said. "I will come in after church and see how you +are." + +I knelt and offered the prayers for the sick, and then took my leave. I did +not think the poor fellow was going to die. + +I may as well mention here, that he has been in my service ever since. We +took him with us to Marshmallows, where he works in the garden and stables, +and is very useful. We have to look after him though, for his health +continues delicate. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE SERMON. + + +When I stood up to preach, I gave them no text; but, with the eleventh +chapter of the Gospel of St. John open before me, to keep me correct, I +proceeded to tell the story in the words God gave me; for who can dare to +say that he makes his own commonest speech? + +"When Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and therefore our elder brother, +was going about on the earth, eating and drinking with his brothers and +sisters, there was one family he loved especially--a family of two sisters +and a brother; for, although he loves everybody as much as they can be +loved, there are some who can be loved more than others. Only God is always +trying to make us such that we can be loved more and more. There are +several stories--O, such lovely stories!--about that family and Jesus; and +we have to do with one of them now. + +"They lived near the capital of the country, Jerusalem, in a village they +called Bethany; and it must have been a great relief to our Lord, when he +was worn out with the obstinacy and pride of the great men of the city, to +go out to the quiet little town and into the refuge of Lazarus's house, +where everyone was more glad at the sound of his feet than at any news that +could come to them. + +"They had at this time behaved so ill to him in Jerusalem--taking up stones +to stone him even, though they dared not quite do it, mad with anger as +they were--and all because he told them the truth--that he had gone away to +the other side of the great river that divided the country, and taught the +people in that quiet place. While he was there his friend Lazarus was taken +ill; and the two sisters, Martha and Mary, sent a messenger to him, to say +to him, 'Lord, your friend is very ill.' Only they said it more beautifully +than that: 'Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick.' You know, when +anyone is ill, we always want the person whom he loves most to come to him. +This is very wonderful. In the worst things that can come to us the first +thought is of love. People, like the Scribes and Pharisees, might say, +'What good can that do him?' And we may not in the least suppose that the +person we want knows any secret that can cure his pain; yet love is the +first thing we think of. And here we are more right than we know; for, at +the long last, love will cure everything: which truth, indeed, this story +will set forth to us. No doubt the heart of Lazarus, ill as he was, longed +after his friend; and, very likely, even the sight of Jesus might have +given him such strength that the life in him could have driven out the +death which had already got one foot across the threshold. But the sisters +expected more than this: they believed that Jesus, whom they knew to have +driven disease and death out of so many hearts, had only to come and touch +him--nay, only to speak a word, to look at him, and their brother was +saved. Do you think they presumed in thus expecting? The fact was, they did +not believe enough; they had not yet learned to believe that he could cure +him all the same whether he came to them or not, because he was always with +them. We cannot understand this; but our understanding is never a measure +of what is true. + +"Whether Jesus knew exactly all that was going to take place I cannot tell. +Some people may feel certain upon points that I dare not feel certain upon. +One thing I am sure of: that he did not always know everything beforehand, +for he said so himself. It is infinitely more valuable to us, because more +beautiful and godlike in him, that he should trust his Father than that he +should foresee everything. At all events he knew that his Father did not +want him to go to his friends yet. So he sent them a message to the effect +that there was a particular reason for this sickness--that the end of it +was not the death of Lazarus, but the glory of God. This, I think, he told +them by the same messenger they sent to him; and then, instead of going to +them, he remained where he was. + +"But O, my friends, what shall I say about this wonderful message? Think of +being sick for the glory of God! of being shipwrecked for the glory of God! +of being drowned for the glory of God! How can the sickness, the fear, the +broken-heartedness of his creatures be for the glory of God? What kind of +a God can that be? Why just a God so perfectly, absolutely good, that the +things that look least like it are only the means of clearing our eyes to +let us see how good he is. For he is so good that he is not satisfied with +_being_ good. He loves his children, so that except he can make them good +like himself, make them blessed by seeing how good he is, and desiring the +same goodness in themselves, he is not satisfied. He is not like a fine +proud benefactor, who is content with doing that which will satisfy his +sense of his own glory, but like a mother who puts her arm round her child, +and whose heart is sore till she can make her child see the love which is +her glory. The glorification of the Son of God is the glorification of the +human race; for the glory of God is the glory of man, and that glory is +love. Welcome sickness, welcome sorrow, welcome death, revealing that +glory! + +"The next two verses sound very strangely together, and yet they almost +seem typical of all the perplexities of God's dealings. The old painters +and poets represented Faith as a beautiful woman, holding in her hand a cup +of wine and water, with a serpent coiled up within. Highhearted Faith! +she scruples not to drink of the life-giving wine and water; she is not +repelled by the upcoiled serpent. The serpent she takes but for the type of +the eternal wisdom that looks repellent because it is not understood. The +wine is good, the water is good; and if the hand of the supreme Fate put +that cup in her hand, the serpent itself must be good too,--harmless, at +least, to hurt the truth of the water and the wine. But let us read the +verses. + +"'Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. When he had heard +therefore that he was sick, he abode two days still in the same place where +he was.' + +"Strange! his friend was sick: he abode two days where he was! But remember +what we have already heard. The glory of God was infinitely more for the +final cure of a dying Lazarus, who, give him all the life he could have, +would yet, without that glory, be in death, than the mere presence of the +Son of God. I say _mere_ presence, for, compared with the glory of God, the +very presence of his Son, so dissociated, is nothing. He abode where he was +that the glory of God, the final cure of humanity, the love that triumphs +over death, might shine out and redeem the hearts of men, so that death +could not touch them. + +"After the two days, the hour had arrived. He said to his disciples, 'Let +us go back to Judæa.' They expostulated, because of the danger, saying, +'Master, the Jews of late sought to stone thee; and goest thou thither +again?' The answer which he gave them I am not sure whether I can +thoroughly understand; but I think, in fact I know, it must bear on the +same region of life--the will of God. I think what he means by walking +in the day is simply doing the will of God. That was the sole, the +all-embracing light in which Jesus ever walked. I think he means that now +he saw plainly what the Father wanted him to do. If he did not see that the +Father wanted him to go back to Judæa, and yet went, that would be to +go stumblingly, to walk in the darkness. There are twelve hours in the +day--one time to act--a time of light and the clear call of duty; there is +a night when a man, not seeing where or hearing how, must be content to +rest. Something not inharmonious with this, I think, he must have intended; +but I do not see the whole thought clearly enough to be sure that I am +right. I do think, further, that it points at a clearer condition of human +vision and conviction than I am good enough to understand; though I hope +one day to rise into this upper stratum of light. + +"Whether his scholars had heard anything of Lazarus yet, I do not know. It +looks a little as if Jesus had not told them the message he had had from +the sisters. But he told them now that he was asleep, and that he was going +to wake him. You would think they might have understood this. The idea of +going so many miles to wake a man might have surely suggested death. But +the disciples were sorely perplexed with many of his words. Sometimes they +looked far away for the meaning when the meaning lay in their very hearts; +sometimes they looked into their hands for it when it was lost in the +grandeur of the ages. But he meant them to see into all that he said by +and by, although they could not see into it now. When they understood him +better, then they would understand what he said better. And to understand +him better they must be more like him; and to make them more like him he +must go away and give them his spirit--awful mystery which no man but +himself can understand. + +"Now he had to tell them plainly that Lazarus was dead. They had not +thought of death as a sleep. I suppose this was altogether a new and +Christian idea. Do not suppose that it applied more to Lazarus than to +other dead people. He was none the less dead that Jesus meant to take a +weary two days' journey to his sepulchre and wake him. If death is not a +sleep, Jesus did not speak the truth when he said Lazarus slept. You may +say it was a figure; but a figure that is not like the thing it figures is +simply a lie. + +"They set out to go back to Judæa. Here we have a glimpse of the faith of +Thomas, the doubter. For a doubter is not without faith. The very fact +that he doubts, shows that he has some faith. When I find anyone hard upon +doubters, I always doubt the _quality_ of his faith. It is of little use to +have a great cable, if the hemp is so poor that it breaks like the painter +of a boat. I have known people whose power of believing chiefly consisted +in their incapacity for seeing difficulties. Of what fine sort a faith must +be that is founded in stupidity, or far worse, in indifference to the truth +and the mere desire to get out of hell! That is not a grand belief in the +Son of God, the radiation of the Father. Thomas's want of faith was shown +in the grumbling, self-pitying way in which he said, 'Let us also go that +we may die with him.' His Master had said that he was going to wake +him. Thomas said, 'that we may die with him.' You may say, 'He did not +understand him.' True, it may be, but his unbelief was the cause of his not +understanding him. I suppose Thomas meant this as a reproach to Jesus for +putting them all in danger by going back to Judæa; if not, it was only a +poor piece of sentimentality. So much for Thomas's unbelief. But he had +good and true faith notwithstanding; for _he went with his Master_. + +"By the time they reached the neighbourhood of Bethany, Lazarus had been +dead four days. Someone ran to the house and told the sisters that Jesus +was coming. Martha, as soon as she heard it, rose and went to meet him. +It might be interesting at another time to compare the difference of the +behaviour of the two sisters upon this occasion with the difference of +their behaviour upon another occasion, likewise recorded; but with the man +dead in his sepulchre, and the hope dead in these two hearts, we have no +inclination to enter upon fine distinctions of character. Death and grief +bring out the great family likenesses in the living as well as in the dead. + +"When Martha came to Jesus, she showed her true though imperfect faith by +almost attributing her brother's death to Jesus' absence. But even in the +moment, looking in the face of the Master, a fresh hope, a new budding of +faith, began in her soul. She thought--'What if, after all, he were +to bring him to life again!' O, trusting heart, how thou leavest the +dull-plodding intellect behind thee! While the conceited intellect is +reasoning upon the impossibility of the thing, the expectant faith beholds +it accomplished. Jesus, responding instantly to her faith, granting her +half-born prayer, says, 'Thy brother shall rise again;' not meaning the +general truth recognised, or at least assented to by all but the Sadducees, +concerning the final resurrection of the dead, but meaning, 'Be it unto +thee as thou wilt. I will raise him again.' For there is no steering for a +fine effect in the words of Jesus. But these words are too good for Martha +to take them as he meant them. Her faith is not quite equal to the belief +that he actually will do it. The thing she could hope for afar off she +could hardly believe when it came to her very door. 'O, yes,' she said, her +mood falling again to the level of the commonplace, 'of course, at the last +day.' Then the Lord turns away her thoughts from the dogmas of her faith +to himself, the Life, saying, 'I am the resurrection and the life: he that +believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever +liveth and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this?' Martha, +without understanding what he said more than in a very poor part, answered +in words which preserved her honesty entire, and yet included all he asked, +and a thousandfold more than she could yet believe: 'Yea, Lord; I believe +that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the +world.' + +"I dare not pretend to have more than a grand glimmering of the truth of +Jesus' words 'shall never die;' but I am pretty sure that when Martha came +to die, she found that there was indeed no such thing as she had meant when +she used the ghastly word _death_, and said with her first new breath, +'Verily, Lord, I am not dead.' + +"But look how this declaration of her confidence in the Christ operated +upon herself. She instantly thought of her sister; the hope that the Lord +would do something swelled within her, and, leaving Jesus, she went to find +Mary. Whoever has had a true word with the elder brother, straightway +will look around him to find his brother, his sister. The family feeling +blossoms: he wants his friend to share the glory withal. Martha wants Mary +to go to Jesus too. + +"Mary heard her, forgot her visitors, rose, and went. They thought she went +to the grave: she went to meet its conqueror. But when she came to him, the +woman who had chosen the good part praised of Jesus, had but the same words +to embody her hope and her grief that her careful and troubled sister had +uttered a few minutes before. How often during those four days had not the +self-same words passed between them! 'Ah, if he had been here, our brother +had not died!' She said so to himself now, and wept, and her friends who +had followed her wept likewise. A moment more, and the Master groaned; yet +a moment, and he too wept. 'Sorrow is catching;' but this was not the mere +infection of sorrow. It went deeper than mere sympathy; for he groaned in +his spirit and was troubled. What made him weep? It was when he saw them +weeping that he wept. But why should he weep, when he knew how soon their +weeping would be turned into rejoicing? It was not for their weeping, so +soon to be over, that he wept, but for the human heart everywhere swollen +with tears, yea, with griefs that can find no such relief as tears; for +these, and for all his brothers and sisters tormented with pain for lack of +faith in his Father in heaven, Jesus wept. He saw the blessed well-being +of Lazarus on the one side, and on the other the streaming eyes from whose +sight he had vanished. The veil between was so thin! yet the sight of those +eyes could not pierce it: their hearts must go on weeping--without cause, +for his Father was so good. I think it was the helplessness he felt in +the impossibility of at once sweeping away the phantasm death from their +imagination that drew the tears from the eyes of Jesus. Certainly it was +not for Lazarus; it could hardly be for these his friends--save as they +represented the humanity which he would help, but could not help even as he +was about to help them. + +"The Jews saw herein proof that he loved Lazarus; but they little thought +it was for them and their people, and for the Gentiles whom they despised, +that his tears were now flowing--that the love which pressed the fountains +of his weeping was love for every human heart, from Adam on through the +ages. + +"Some of them went a little farther, nearly as far as the sisters, saying, +'Could he not have kept the man from dying?' But it was such a poor thing, +after all, that they thought he might have done. They regarded merely this +unexpected illness, this early death; for I daresay Lazarus was not much +older than Jesus. They did not think that, after all, Lazarus must die some +time; that the beloved could be saved, at best, only for a little while. +Jesus seems to have heard the remark, for he again groaned in himself. + +"Meantime they were drawing near the place where he was buried. It was a +hollow in the face of a rock, with a stone laid against it. I suppose the +bodies were laid on something like shelves inside the rock, as they are in +many sepulchres. They were not put into coffins, but wound round and round +with linen. + +"When they came before the door of death, Jesus said to them, 'Take away +the stone.' The nature of Martha's reply--the realism of it, as they would +say now-a-days--would seem to indicate that her dawning faith had sunk +again below the horizon, that in the presence of the insignia of death, her +faith yielded, even as the faith of Peter failed him when he saw around him +the grandeur of the high-priest, and his Master bound and helpless. Jesus +answered--O, what an answer!--To meet the corruption and the stink which +filled her poor human fancy, 'the glory of God' came from his lips: human +fear; horror speaking from the lips of a woman in the very jaws of the +devouring death; and the 'said I not unto thee?' from the mouth of him who +was so soon to pass worn and bloodless through such a door! 'He stinketh,' +said Martha. 'The glory of God,' said Jesus. 'Said I not unto thee, that, +if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?' + +"Before the open throat of the sepulchre Jesus began to speak to his Father +aloud. He had prayed to him in his heart before, most likely while he +groaned in his spirit. Now he thanked him that he had comforted him, and +given him Lazarus as a first-fruit from the dead. But he will be true to +the listening people as well as to his ever-hearing Father; therefore he +tells why he said the word of thanks aloud--a thing not usual with him, for +his Father was always hearing, him. Having spoken it for the people, he +would say that it was for the people. + +"The end of it all was that they might believe that God had sent him--a far +grander gift than having the dearest brought back from the grave; for he is +the life of men. + +"'Lazarus, come forth!" + +"And Lazarus came forth, creeping helplessly with inch-long steps of his +linen-bound limbs. 'Ha, ha! brother, sister!' cries the human heart. The +Lord of Life hath taken the prey from the spoiler; he hath emptied the +grave. Here comes the dead man, welcome as never was child from the +womb--new-born, and in him all the human race new-born from the grave! +'Loose him and let him go,' and the work is done. The sorrow is over, and +the joy is come. Home, home, Martha, Mary, with your Lazarus! He too will +go with you, the Lord of the Living. Home and get the feast ready, Martha! +Prepare the food for him who comes hungry from the grave, for him who has +called him thence. Home, Mary, to help Martha! What a household will yours +be! What wondrous speech will pass between the dead come to life and the +living come to die! + +"But what pang is this that makes Lazarus draw hurried breath, and turns +Martha's cheek so pale? Ah, at the little window of the heart the pale eyes +of the defeated Horror look in. What! is he there still! Ah, yes, he will +come for Martha, come for Mary, come yet again for Lazarus--yea, come for +the Lord of Life himself, and carry all away. But look at the Lord: he +knows all about it, and he smiles. Does Martha think of the words he spoke, +'He that liveth and believeth in me shall never die'? Perhaps she does, +and, like the moon before the sun, her face returns the smile of her Lord. + +"This, my friends, is a fancy in form, but it embodies a dear truth. What +is it to you and me that he raised Lazarus? We are not called upon to +believe that he will raise from the tomb that joy of our hearts which lies +buried there beyond our sight. Stop! Are we not? We are called upon to +believe this; else the whole story were for us a poor mockery. What is it +to us that the Lord raised Lazarus?--Is it nothing to know that our Brother +is Lord over the grave? Will the harvest be behind the first-fruits? If he +tells us he cannot, for good reasons, raise up our vanished love to-day, or +to-morrow, or for all the years of our life to come, shall we not mingle +the smile of faithful thanks with the sorrow of present loss, and walk +diligently waiting? That he called forth Lazarus showed that he was in his +keeping, that he is Lord of the living, and that all live to him, that he +has a hold of them, and can draw them forth when he will. If this is not +true, then the raising of Lazarus is false; I do not mean merely false in +fact, but false in meaning. If we believe in him, then in his name, both +for ourselves and for our friends, we must deny death and believe in life. +Lord Christ, fill our hearts with thy Life!" + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +CHANGED PLANS. + + +In a day or two Connie was permitted to rise and take to her couch once +more. It seemed strange that she should look so much worse, and yet be so +much stronger. The growth of her power of motion was wonderful. As they +carried her, she begged to be allowed to put her feet to the ground. Turner +yielded, though without quite ceasing to support her. He was satisfied, +however, that she could have stood upright for a moment at least. He would +not, of course, risk it, and made haste to lay her down. + +The time of his departure was coming near, and he seemed more anxious the +nearer it came; for Connie continued worn-looking and pale; and her smile, +though ever ready to greet me when I entered, had lost much of its light. I +noticed, too, that she had the curtain of her window constantly so arranged +as to shut out the sea. I said something to her about it once. Her reply +was: + +"Papa, I can't bear it. I know it is very silly; but I think I can make you +understand how it is: I was so fond of the sea when I came down; it seemed +to lie close to my window, with a friendly smile ready for me every morning +when I looked out. I daresay it is all from want of faith, but I can't help +it: it looks so far away now, like a friend that had failed me, that I +would rather not see it." + +I saw that the struggling life within her was grievously oppressed, that +the things which surrounded her were no longer helpful. Her life had been +driven as to its innermost cave; and now, when it had been enticed to +venture forth and look abroad, a sudden pall had descended upon nature. I +could not help thinking that the good of our visit to Kilkhaven had come, +and that evil, from which I hoped we might yet escape, was following. I +left her, and sought Turner. + +"It strikes me, Turner," I said, "that the sooner we get out of this the +better for Connie." + +"I am quite of your opinion. I think the very prospect of leaving the place +would do something to restore her. If she is so uncomfortable now, think +what it will be in the many winter nights at hand." + +"Do you think it would be safe to move her?" + +"Far safer than to let her remain. At the worst, she is now far better than +when she came. Try her. Hint at the possibility of going home, and see how +she will take it." + +"Well, I sha'n't like to be left alone; but if she goes they must all go, +except, perhaps, I might keep Wynnie. But I don't know how her mother would +get on without her." + +"I don't see why you should stay behind. Mr. Weir would be as glad to come +as you would be to go; and it can make no difference to Mr. Shepherd." + +It seemed a very sensible suggestion. I thought a moment. Certainly it was +a desirable thing for both my sister and her husband. They had no such +reasons as we had for disliking the place; and it would enable her to avoid +the severity of yet another winter. I said as much to Turner, and went back +to Connie's room. + +The light of a lovely sunset was lying outside her window. She was sitting +so that she could not see it. I would find out her feeling in the matter +without any preamble. + +"Would you like to go back to Marshmallows, Connie?" I asked. + +Her countenance flashed into light. + +"O, dear papa, do let us go," she said; "that would be delightful." + +"Well, I think we can manage it, if you will only get a little stronger for +the journey. The weather is not so good to travel in as when we came down." + +"No; but I am ever so much better, you know, than I was then." + +The poor girl was already stronger from the mere prospect of going home +again. She moved restlessly on her couch, half mechanically put her hand to +the curtain, pulled it aside, looked out, faced the sun and the sea, and +did not draw back. My mind was made up. I left her, and went to find +Ethelwyn. She heartily approved of the proposal for Connie's sake, and said +that it would be scarcely less agreeable to herself. I could see a certain +troubled look above her eyes, however. + +"You are thinking of Wynnie," I said. + +"Yes. It is hard to make one sad for the sake of the rest." + +"True. But it is one of the world's recognised necessities." + +"No doubt." + +"Besides, you don't suppose Percivale can stay here the whole winter. They +must part some time." + +"Of course. Only they did not expect it so soon." + +But here my wife was mistaken. + +I went to my study to write to Weir. I had hardly finished my letter when +Walter came to say that Mr. Percivale wished to see me. I told him to show +him in. + +"I am just writing home to say that I want my curate to change places with +me here, which I know he will be glad enough to do. I see Connie had better +go home." + +"You will all go, then, I presume?" returned Percivale. + +"Yes, yes; of course." + +"Then I need not so much regret that I can stay no longer. I came to tell +you that I must leave to-morrow." + +"Ah! Going to London?" + +"Yes. I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness. You have made my +summer something like a summer; very different, indeed, from what it would +otherwise have been." + +"We have had our share of advantage, and that a large one. We are all glad +to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Percivale." + +He made no answer. + +"We shall be passing through London within a week or ten days in all +probability. Perhaps you will allow us the pleasure of looking at some of +your pictures then?" + +His face flushed. What did the flush mean? It was not one of mere pleasure. +There was confusion and perplexity in it. But he answered at once: + +"I will show you them with pleasure. I fear, however, you will not care for +them." + +Would this fear account for his embarrassment? I hardly thought it would; +but I could not for a moment imagine, with his fine form and countenance +before me, that he had any serious reason for shrinking from a visit. + +He began to search for a card. + +"O, I have your address. I shall be sure to pay you a visit. But you will +dine with us to-day, of course?" I said. + +"I shall have much pleasure," he answered; and took his leave. + +I finished my letter to Weir, and went out for a walk. + +I remember particularly the thoughts that moved in me and made that walk +memorable. Indeed, I think I remember all outside events chiefly by virtue +of the inward conditions with which they were associated. Mere outside +things I am very ready to forget. Moods of my own mind do not so readily +pass away; and with the memory of some of them every outward circumstance +returns; for a man's life is where the kingdom of heaven is--within him. +There are people who, if you ask the story of their lives, have nothing to +tell you but the course of the outward events that have constituted, as it +were, the clothes of their history. But I know, at the same time, that some +of the most important crises in my own history (by which word _history_ I +mean my growth towards the right conditions of existence) have been beyond +the grasp and interpretation of my intellect. They have passed, as it were, +without my consciousness being awake enough to lay hold of their phenomena. +The wind had been blowing; I had heard the sound of it, but knew not whence +it came nor whither it went; only, when it was gone, I found myself more +responsible, more eager than before. + +I remember this walk from the thoughts I had about the great change hanging +over us all. I had now arrived at the prime of middle life; and that change +which so many would escape if they could, but which will let no man pass, +had begun to show itself a real fact upon the horizon of the future. Death +looks so far away to the young, that while they acknowledge it unavoidable, +the path stretches on in such vanishing perspective before them, that they +see no necessity for thinking about the end of it yet; and far would I be +from saying they ought to think of it. Life is the true object of a man's +care: there is no occasion to make himself think about death. But when +the vision of the inevitable draws nigh, when it appears plainly on the +horizon, though but as a cloud the size of a man's hand, then it is equally +foolish to meet it by refusing to meet it, to answer the questions that +will arise by declining to think about them. Indeed, it is a question of +life then, and not of death. We want to keep fast hold of our life, and, in +the strength of that, to look the threatening death in the face. But to my +walk that morning. + +I wandered on the downs till I came to the place where a solitary rock +stands on the top of a cliff looking seaward, in the suggested shape of a +monk praying. On the base on which he knelt I seated myself, and looked out +over the Atlantic. How faded the ocean appeared! It seemed as if all the +sunny dyes of the summer had been diluted and washed with the fogs of the +coming winter, when I thought of the splendour it wore when first from +these downs I gazed on the outspread infinitude of space and colour. + +"What," I said to myself at length, "has she done since then? Where is +her work visible? She has riven, and battered, and destroyed, and her +destruction too has passed away. So worketh Time and its powers! The +exultation of my youth is gone; my head is gray; my wife is growing old; +our children are pushing us from our stools; we are yielding to the new +generation; the glory for us hath departed; our life lies weary before us +like that sea; and the night cometh when we can no longer work." + +Something like this was passing vaguely through my mind. I sat in a +mournful stupor, with a half-consciousness that my mood was false, and that +I ought to rouse myself and shake it off. There is such a thing as a state +of moral dreaming, which closely resembles the intellectual dreaming in +sleep. I went on in this false dreamful mood, pitying myself like a child +tender over his hurt and nursing his own cowardice, till, all at once, "a +little pipling wind" blew on my cheek. The morning was very still: what +roused that little wind I cannot tell; but what that little wind roused I +will try to tell. With that breath on my cheek, something within me began +to stir. It grew, and grew, until the memory of a certain glorious sunset +of red and green and gold and blue, which I had beheld from these same +heights, dawned within me. I knew that the glory of my youth had not +departed, that the very power of recalling with delight that which I had +once felt in seeing, was proof enough of that; I knew that I could believe +in God all the night long, even if the night were long. And the next moment +I thought how I had been reviling in my fancy God's servant, the sea. To +how many vessels had she not opened a bounteous highway through the waters, +with labour, and food, and help, and ministration, glad breezes and +swelling sails, healthful struggle, cleansing fear and sorrow, yea, and +friendly death! Because she had been commissioned to carry this one or that +one, this hundred or that thousand of his own creatures from one world to +another, was I to revile the servant of a grand and gracious Master? It was +blameless in Connie to feel the late trouble so deeply that she could not +be glad: she had not had the experience of life, yea, of God, that I had +had; she must be helped from without. But for me, it was shameful that I, +who knew the heart of my Master, to whom at least he had so often shown his +truth, should ever be doleful and oppressed. Yet even me he had now helped +from within. The glory of existence as the child of the Infinite had +again dawned upon me. The first hour of the evening of my life had indeed +arrived; the shadows had begun to grow long--so long that I had begun to +mark their length; this last little portion of my history had vanished, +leaving its few gray ashes behind in the crucible of my life; and the final +evening must come, when all my life would lie behind me, and all the memory +of it return, with its mornings of gold and red, with its evenings of +purple and green; with its dashes of storm, and its foggy glooms; with its +white-winged aspirations, its dull-red passions, its creeping envies in +brown and black and earthy yellow. But from all the accusations of my +conscience, I would turn me to the Lord, for he was called Jesus because he +should save his people from their sins. Then I thought what a grand gift it +would be to give his people the power hereafter to fight the consequences +of their sins. Anyhow, I would trust the Father, who loved me with a +perfect love, to lead the soul he had made, had compelled to be, through +the gates of the death-birth, into the light of life beyond. I would cast +on him the care, humbly challenge him with the responsibility he had +himself undertaken, praying only for perfect confidence in him, absolute +submission to his will. + +I rose from my seat beside the praying monk, and walked on. The thought of +seeing my own people again filled me with gladness. I would leave those +I had here learned to love with regret; but I trusted I had taught them +something, and they had taught me much; therefore there could be no end +to our relation to each other--it could not be broken, for it was _in the +Lord_, which alone can give security to any tie. I should not, therefore, +sorrow as if I were to see their faces no more. + +I now took my farewell of that sea and those cliffs. I should see them +often ere we went, but I should not feel so near them again. Even this +parting said that I must "sit loose to the world"--an old Puritan phrase, +I suppose; that I could gather up only its uses, treasure its best things, +and must let all the rest go; that those things I called mine--earth, sky, +and sea, home, books, the treasured gifts of friends--had all to leave +me, belong to others, and help to educate them. I should not need them. I +should have my people, my souls, my beloved faces tenfold more, and could +well afford to part with these. Why should I mind this chain passing to +my eldest boy, when it was only his mother's hair, and I should have his +mother still? + +So my thoughts went on thinking themselves, until at length I yielded +passively to their flow. + +I found Wynnie looking very grave when I went into the drawing-room. Her +mother was there, too, and Mr. Percivale. It seemed rather a moody party. +They wakened up a little, however, after I entered, and before dinner was +over we were all chatting together merrily. + +"How is Connie?" I asked Ethelwyn. + +"Wonderfully better already," she answered. + +"I think everybody seems better," I said. "The very idea of home seems +reviving to us all." + +Wynnie darted a quick glance at me, caught my eyes, which was more than +she had intended, and blushed; sought refuge in a bewildered glance at +Percivale, caught his eye in turn, and blushed yet deeper. He plunged +instantly into conversation, not without a certain involuntary sparkle in +his eye. + +"Did you go to see Mrs. Stokes this morning?" he asked. + +"No," I answered. "She does not want much visiting now; she is going about +her work, apparently in good health. Her husband says she is not like the +same woman; and I hope he means that in more senses than one, though I do +not choose to ask him any questions about his wife." + +I did my best to keep up the conversation, but every now and then after +this it fell like a wind that would not blow. I withdrew to my study. +Percivale and Wynnie went out for a walk. The next morning he left by the +coach--early. Turner went with him. + +Wynnie did not seem very much dejected. I thought that perhaps the prospect +of meeting him again in London kept her up. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE STUDIO. + + +I will not linger over our preparations or our leave-takings. The most +ponderous of the former were those of the two boys, who, as they had wanted +to bring down a chest as big as a corn-bin, full of lumber, now wanted to +take home two or three boxes filled with pebbles, great oystershells, and +sea-weed. + +Weir, as I had expected, was quite pleased to make the exchange. An early +day had been fixed for his arrival; for I thought it might be of service +to him to be introduced to the field of his labours. Before he came, I had +gone about among the people, explaining to them some of my reasons for +leaving them sooner than I had intended, and telling them a little about my +successor, that he might not appear among them quite as a stranger. He was +much gratified with their reception of him, and had no fear of not finding +himself quite at home with them. I promised, if I could comfortably manage +it, to pay them a short visit the following summer, and as the weather was +now getting quite cold, hastened our preparations for departure. + +I could have wished that Turner had been with us on the journey, but he +had been absent from his cure to the full extent that his conscience would +permit, and I had not urged him. He would be there to receive us, and we +had got so used to the management of Connie, that we did not feel much +anxiety about the travelling. We resolved, if she seemed strong enough as +we went along, to go right through to London, making a few days there the +only break in the transit. + +It was a bright, cold morning when we started. But Connie could now bear +the air so well, that we set out with the carriage open, nor had we +occasion to close it. The first part of our railway journey was very +pleasant. But when we drew near London, we entered a thick fog, and before +we arrived, a small dense November rain was falling. Connie looked a little +dispirited, partly from weariness, but no doubt from the change in the +weather. + +"Not very cheerful, this, Connie, my dear," I said. + +"No, papa," she answered; "but we are going home, you know." + +_Going home._ It set me thinking--as I had often been set thinking before, +always with fresh discovery and a new colour on the dawning sky of hope. I +lay back in the carriage and thought how the November fog this evening in +London, was the valley of the shadow of death we had to go through on the +way _home._ A. shadow like this would fall upon me; the world would grow +dark and life grow weary; but I should know it was the last of the way +home. + +Then I began to question myself wherein the idea of this home consisted. I +knew that my soul had ever yet felt the discomfort of strangeness, more or +less, in the midst of its greatest blessedness. I knew that as the thought +of water to the thirsty _soul_, for it is the soul far more than the body +that thirsts even for the material water, such is the thought of home to +the wanderer in a strange country. As the weary soul pines for sleep, and +every heart for the cure of its own bitterness, so my heart and soul had +often pined for their home. Did I know, I asked myself, where or what that +home was? It could consist in no change of place or of circumstance; no +mere absence of care; no accumulation of repose; no blessed communion even +with those whom my soul loved; in the midst of it all I should be longing +for a homelier home--one into which I might enter with a sense of +infinitely more absolute peace, than a conscious child could know in the +arms, upon the bosom of his mother. In the closest contact of human soul +with human soul, when all the atmosphere of thought was rosy with love, +again and yet again on the far horizon would the dun, lurid flame of unrest +shoot for a moment through the enchanted air, and Psyche would know that +not yet had she reached her home. As I thought this I lifted my eyes, and +saw those of my wife and Connie fixed on mine, as if they were reproaching +me for saying in my soul that I could not be quite at home with them. Then +I said in my heart, "Come home with me, beloved--there is but one home for +us all. When we find--in proportion as each of us finds--that home, shall +we be gardens of delight to each other--little chambers of rest--galleries +of pictures--wells of water." + +Again, what was this home? God himself. His thoughts, his will, his love, +his judgment, are man's home. To think his thoughts, to choose his will, to +love his loves, to judge his judgments, and thus to know that he is in us, +with us, is to be at home. And to pass through the valley of the shadow of +death is the way home, but only thus, that as all changes have hitherto +led us nearer to this home, the knowledge of God, so this greatest of all +outward changes--for it is but an outward change--will surely usher us into +a region where there will be fresh possibilities of drawing nigh in heart, +soul, and mind to the Father of us. It is the father, the mother, that make +for the child his home. Indeed, I doubt if the home-idea is complete to the +parents of a family themselves, when they remember that their fathers and +mothers have vanished. + +At this point something rose in me seeking utterance. + +"Won't it be delightful, wife," I began, "to see our fathers and mothers +such a long way back in heaven?" + +But Ethelwyn's face gave so little response, that I felt at once how +dreadful a thing it was not to have had a good father or mother. I do not +know what would have become of me but for a good father. I wonder how +anybody ever can be good that has not had a good father. How dreadful not +to be a good father or good mother! Every father who is not good, every +mother who is not good, just makes it as impossible to believe in God as +it can be made. But he is our one good Father, and does not leave us, even +should our fathers and mothers have thus forsaken us, and left him without +a witness. + +Here the evil odour of brick-burning invaded my nostrils, and I knew that +London was about us. A few moments after, we reached the station, where a +carriage was waiting to take us to our hotel. + +Dreary was the change from the stillness and sunshine of Kilkhaven to the +fog and noise of London; but Connie slept better that night than she had +slept for a good many nights before. + +After breakfast the next morning, I said to Wynnie, + +"I am going to see Mr. Percivale's studio, my dear: have you any objection +to going with me?" + +"No, papa," she answered, blushing. "I have never seen an artist's studio +in my life." + +"Come along, then. Get your bonnet at once. It rains, but we shall take a +cab, and it won't matter." + +She ran off, and was ready in a few minutes. We gave the driver directions, +and set off. It was a long drive. At length he stopped at the door of a +very common-looking house, in a very dreary-looking street, in which no man +could possibly identify his own door except by the number. I knocked. A +woman who looked at once dirty and cross, the former probably the cause of +the latter, opened the door, gave a bare assent to my question whether Mr. +Percivale was at home, withdrew to her den with the words "second-floor," +and left us to find our own way up the two flights of stairs. This, +however, involved no great difficulty. We knocked at the door of the front +room. A well-known voice cried, "Come in," and we entered. + +Percivale, in a short velvet coat, with his palette on his thumb, advanced +to meet us cordially. His face wore a slight flush, which I attributed +solely to pleasure, and nothing to any awkwardness in receiving us in such +a poor place as he occupied. I cast my eyes round the room. Any romantic +notions Wynnie might have indulged concerning the marvels of a studio, +must have paled considerably at the first glance around Percivale's +room--plainly the abode if not of poverty, then of self-denial, although I +suspected both. A common room, with no carpet save a square in front of the +fireplace; no curtains except a piece of something like drugget nailed +flat across all the lower half of the window to make the light fall from +upwards; two or three horsehair chairs, nearly worn out; a table in a +corner, littered with books and papers; a horrible lay-figure, at the +present moment dressed apparently for a scarecrow; a large easel, on which +stood a half-finished oil-painting--these constituted almost the whole +furniture of the room. With his pocket-handkerchief Percivale dusted one +chair for Wynnie and another for me. Then standing before us, he said: + +"This is a very shabby place to receive you in, Miss Walton, but it is all +I have got." + +"A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesses," +I ventured to say. + +"Thank you," said Percivale. "I hope not. It is well for me it should not." + +"It is well for the richest man in England that it should not," I returned. +"If it were not so, the man who could eat most would be the most blessed." + +"There are people, even of my acquaintance, however, who seem to think it +does." + +"No doubt; but happily their thinking so will not make it so even for +themselves." + +"Have you been very busy since you left us, Mr. Percivale?" asked Wynnie. + +"Tolerably," he answered. "But I have not much to show for it. That on the +easel is all. I hardly like to let you look at it, though." + +"Why?" asked Wynnie. + +"First, because the subject is painful. Next, because it is so unfinished +that none but a painter could do it justice." + +"But why should you paint subjects you would not like people to look at?" + +"I very much want people to look at them." + +"Why not us, then?" said Wynnie. + +"Because you do not need to be pained." + +"Are you sure it is good for you to pain anybody?" I said. + +"Good is done by pain--is it not?" he asked. + +"Undoubtedly. But whether _we_ are wise enough to know when and where and +how much, is the question." + +"Of course I do not make the pain my object." + +"If it comes only as a necessary accompaniment, that may alter the matter +greatly," I said. "But still I am not sure that anything in which the pain +predominates can be useful in the best way." + +"Perhaps not," he returned.--"Will you look at the daub?" + +"With much pleasure," I replied, and we rose and stood before the easel. +Percivale made no remark, but left us to find out what the picture meant. +Nor had I long to look before I understood it--in a measure at least. + +It represented a garret-room in a wretchedly ruinous condition. The plaster +had come away in several places, and through between the laths in one spot +hung the tail of a great rat. In a dark corner lay a man dying. A woman sat +by his side, with her eyes fixed, not on his face, though she held his hand +in hers, but on the open door, where in the gloom you could just see the +struggles of two undertaker's men to get the coffin past the turn of the +landing towards the door. Through the window there was one peep of the blue +sky, whence a ray of sunlight fell on the one scarlet blossom of a geranium +in a broken pot on the window-sill outside. + +"I do not wonder you did not like to show it," I said. "How can you bear to +paint such a dreadful picture?" + +"It is a true one. It only represents a fact." + +"All facts have not a right to be represented." + +"Surely you would not get rid of painful things by huddling them out of +sight?" + +"No; nor yet by gloating upon them." + +"You will believe me that it gives me anything but pleasure to paint such +pictures--as far as the subject goes," he said with some discomposure. + +"Of course. I know you well enough by this time to know that. But no one +could hang it on his wall who would not either gloat on suffering or grow +callous to it. Whence, then, would come the good I cannot doubt you propose +to yourself as your object in painting the picture? If it had come into my +possession, I would--" + +"Put it in the fire," suggested Percivale with a strange smile. + +"No. Still less would I sell it. I would hang it up with a curtain before +it, and only look at it now and then, when I thought my heart was in danger +of growing hardened to the sufferings of my fellow-men, and forgetting that +they need the Saviour." + +"I could not wish it a better fate. That would answer my end." + +"Would it, now? Is it not rather those who care little or nothing about +such matters that you would like to influence? Would you be content with +one solitary person like me? And, remember, I wouldn't buy it. I would +rather not have it. I could hardly bear to know it was in my house. I am +certain you cannot do people good by showing them _only_ the painful. Make +it as painful as you will, but put some hope into it--something to show +that action is worth taking in the affair. From mere suffering people will +turn away, and you cannot blame them. Every show of it, without hinting at +some door of escape, only urges them to forget it all. Why should they be +pained if it can do no good?" + +"For the sake of sympathy, I should say," answered Percivale. + +"They would rejoin, 'It is only a picture. Come along.' No; give people +hope, if you would have them act at all, in anything." + +"I was almost hoping you would read the picture rather differently. You see +there is a bit of blue sky up there, and a bit of sunshiny scarlet in the +window." + +He looked at me curiously as he spoke. + +"I can read it so for myself, and have metamorphosed its meaning so. But +you only put in the sky and the scarlet to heighten the perplexity, and +make the other look more terrible." + +"Now I know that as an artist I have succeeded, however I may have failed +otherwise. I did so mean it; but knowing you would dislike the picture, +I almost hoped in my cowardice, as I said, that you would read your own +meaning into it." + +Wynnie had not said a word. As I turned away from the picture, I saw that +she was looking quite distressed, but whether by the picture or the freedom +with which I had remarked upon it, I do not know. My eyes falling on a +little sketch in sepia, I began to examine it, in the hope of finding +something more pleasant to say. I perceived in a moment, however, that it +was nearly the same thought, only treated in a gentler and more poetic +mode. A girl lay dying on her bed. A youth held her hand. A torrent of +summer sunshine fell through the window, and made a lake of glory upon the +floor. I turned away. + +"You like that better, don't you, papa?" said Wynnie tremulously. + +"It is beautiful, certainly," I answered. "And if it were only one, I +should enjoy it--as a mood. But coming after the other, it seems but the +same thing more weakly embodied." + +I confess I was a little vexed; for I had got much interested in Percivale, +for his own sake as well as for my daughter's, and I had expected better +things from him. But I saw that I had gone too far. + +"I beg your pardon, Mr. Percivale," I said. + +"I fear I have been too free in my remarks. I know, likewise, that I am a +clergyman, and not a painter, and therefore incapable of giving the praise +which I have little doubt your art at least deserves." + +"I trust that honesty cannot offend me, however much and justly it may pain +me." + +"But now I have said my worst, I should much like to see what else you have +at hand to show me." + +"Unfortunately I have too much at hand. Let me see." + +He strode to the other end of the room, where several pictures were leaning +against the wall, with their faces turned towards it. From these he chose +one, but, before showing it, fitted it into an empty frame that stood +beside. He then brought it forward and set it on the easel. I will describe +it, and then my reader will understand the admiration which broke from me +after I had regarded it for a time. + +A dark hill rose against the evening sky, which shone through a few thin +pines on its top. Along a road on the hill-side four squires bore a dying +knight--a man past the middle age. One behind carried his helm, and another +led his horse, whose fine head only appeared in the picture. The head and +countenance of the knight were very noble, telling of many a battle, and +ever for the right. The last had doubtless been gained, for one might read +victory as well as peace in the dying look. The party had just reached the +edge of a steep descent, from which you saw the valley beneath, with the +last of the harvest just being reaped, while the shocks stood all about in +the fields, under the place of the sunset. The sun had been down for some +little time. There was no gold left in the sky, only a little dull saffron, +but plenty of that lovely liquid green of the autumn sky, divided with a +few streaks of pale rose. The depth of the sky overhead, which you could +not see for the arrangement of the picture, was mirrored lovelily in a +piece of water that lay in the centre of the valley. + +"My dear fellow," I cried, "why did you not show me this first, and save me +from saying so many unkind things? Here is a picture to my own heart; it is +glorious. Look here, Wynnie," I went on; "you see it is evening; the sun's +work is done, and he has set in glory, leaving his good name behind him in +a lovely harmony of colour. The old knight's work is done too; his day has +set in the storm of battle, and he is lying lapt in the coming peace. They +are bearing him home to his couch and his grave. Look at their faces in +the dusky light. They are all mourning for and honouring the life that is +ebbing away. But he is gathered to his fathers like a shock of corn fully +ripe; and so the harvest stands golden in the valley beneath. The picture +would not be complete, however, if it did not tell us of the deep heaven +overhead, the symbol of that heaven whither he who has done his work is +bound. What a lovely idea to represent it by means of the water, the heaven +embodying itself in the earth, as it were, that we may see it! And observe +how that dusky hill-side, and those tall slender mournful-looking pines, +with that sorrowful sky between, lead the eye and point the heart upward +towards that heaven. It is indeed a grand picture, full of feeling--a +picture and a parable." + +[Footnote: This is a description, from memory only, of a picture painted by +Arthur Hughes.] + +I looked at the girl. Her eyes were full of tears, either called forth +by the picture itself or by the pleasure of finding Percivale's work +appreciated by me, who had spoken so hardly of the others. + +"I cannot tell you how glad I am that you like it," she said. + +"Like it!" I returned; "I am simply delighted with it, more than I can +express--so much delighted that if I could have this alongside of it, I +should not mind hanging that other--that hopeless garret--on the most +public wall I have." + +"Then," said Wynnie bravely, though in a tremulous voice, "you +confess--don't you, papa?--that you were _too_ hard on Mr. Percivale at +first?" + +"Not too hard on his picture, my dear; and that was all he had yet given me +to judge by. No man should paint a picture like that. You are not bound to +disseminate hopelessness; for where there is no hope there can be no sense +of duty." + +"But surely, papa, Mr. Percivale has _some_ sense of duty," said Wynnie in +an almost angry tone. + +"Assuredly my love. Therefore I argue that he has some hope, and therefore, +again, that he has no right to publish such a picture." + +At the word _publish_ Percivale smiled. But Wynnie went on with her +defence: + +"But you see, papa, that Mr. Percivale does not paint such pictures only. +Look at the other." + +"Yes, my dear. But pictures are not like poems, lying side by side in the +same book, so that the one can counteract the other. The one of these might +go to the stormy Hebrides, and the other to the Vale of Avalon; but even +then I should be strongly inclined to criticise the poem, whatever position +it stood in, that had _nothing_--positively nothing--of the aurora in it." + +Here let me interrupt the course of our conversation to illustrate it by a +remark on a poem which has appeared within the last twelvemonth from the +pen of the greatest living poet, and one who, if I may dare to judge, will +continue the greatest for many, many years to come. It is only a little +song, "I stood on a tower in the wet." I have found few men who, whether +from the influence of those prints which are always on the outlook for +something to ridicule, or from some other cause, did not laugh at the poem. +I thought and think it a lovely poem, although I am not quite sure of the +transposition of words in the last two lines. But I do not _approve_ of the +poem, just because there is no hope in it. It lacks that touch or hint +of _red_ which is as essential, I think, to every poem as to every +picture--the life-blood--the one pure colour. In his hopeful moods, let a +man put on his singing robes, and chant aloud the words of gladness--or of +grief, I care not which--to his fellows; in his hours of hopelessness, +let him utter his thoughts only to his inarticulate violin, or in the +evanescent sounds of any his other stringed instrument; let him commune +with his own heart on his bed, and be still; let him speak to God face to +face if he may--only he cannot do that and continue hopeless; but let him +not sing aloud in such a mood into the hearts of his fellows, for he cannot +do them much good thereby. If it were a fact that there is no hope, it +would not be a _truth_. No doubt, if it were a fact, it ought to be known; +but who will dare be confident that there is no hope? Therefore, I say, let +the hopeless moods, at least, if not the hopeless men, be silent. + +"He could refuse to let the one go without the other," said Wynnie. + +"Now you are talking like a child, Wynnie, as indeed all partisans do at +the best. He might sell them together, but the owner would part them.--If +you will allow me, I will come and see both the pictures again to-morrow." + +Percivale assured me of welcome, and we parted, I declining to look at any +more pictures that day, but not till we had arranged that he should dine +with us in the evening. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +HOME AGAIN. + + +I will not detain my readers with the record of the few days we spent in +London. In writing the account of it, as in the experience of the time +itself, I feel that I am near home, and grow the more anxious to reach it. +Ah! I am growing a little anxious after another home, too; for the house of +my tabernacle is falling to ruins about me. What a word _home_ is! To think +that God has made the world so that you have only to be born in a certain +place, and live long enough in it to get at the secret of it, and +henceforth that place is to you a _home_ with all the wonderful meaning in +the word. Thus the whole earth is a home to the race; for every spot of it +shares in the feeling: some one of the family loves it as _his_ home. How +rich the earth seems when we so regard it--crowded with the loves of home! +Yet I am now getting ready to _go home_--to leave this world of homes and +go home. When I reach that home, shall I even then seek yet to go home? +Even then, I believe, I shall seek a yet warmer, deeper, truer home in the +deeper knowledge of God--in the truer love of my fellow-man. Eternity will +be, my heart and my faith tell me, a travelling homeward, but in jubilation +and confidence and the vision of the beloved. + +When we had laid Connie once more in her own room, at least the room which +since her illness had come to be called hers, I went up to my study. The +familiar faces of my books welcomed me. I threw myself in my reading-chair, +and gazed around me with pleasure. I felt it so homely here. All my old +friends--whom somehow I hoped to see some day--present there in the spirit +ready to talk with me any moment when I was in the mood, making no claim +upon my attention when I was not! I felt as if I should like, when the +hour should come, to die in that chair, and pass into the society of the +witnesses in the presence of the tokens they had left behind them. + +I heard shouts on the stair, and in rushed the two boys. + +"Papa, papa!" they were crying together. + +"What is the matter?" + +"We've found the big chest just where we left it." + +"Well, did you expect it would have taken itself off?" + +"But there's everything in it just as we left it." + +"Were you afraid, then, that the moment you left it it would turn itself +upside down, and empty itself of all its contents on the floor?" + +They laughed, but apparently with no very keen appreciation of the attempt +at a joke. + +"Well, papa, I did not think anything about it; but--but--but--there +everything is as we left it." + +With this triumphant answer they turned and hurried, a little abashed, out +of the room; but not many moments elapsed before the sounds that arose from +them were sufficiently reassuring as to the state of their spirits. +When they were gone, I forgot my books in the attempt to penetrate and +understand the condition of my boys' thoughts; and I soon came to see that +they were right and I was wrong. It was the movement of that undeveloped +something in us which makes it possible for us in everything to give +thanks. It was the wonder of the discovery of the existence of law. There +was nothing that they could understand, _à priori_, to necessitate the +remaining of the things where they had left them. No doubt there was a +reason in the nature of God, why all things should hold together, whence +springs the law of gravitation, as we call it; but as far as the boys could +understand of this, all things might as well have been arranged for flying +asunder, so that no one could expect to find anything where he had left it. +I began to see yet further into the truth that in everything we must give +thanks, and whatever is not of faith is sin. Even the laws of nature reveal +the character of God, not merely as regards their ends, but as regards +their kind, being of necessity fashioned after ideal facts of his own being +and will. + +I rose and went down to see if everybody was getting settled, and how the +place looked. I found Ethel already going about the house as if she had +never left it, and as if we all had just returned from a long absence and +she had to show us home-hospitality. Wynnie had vanished; but I found her +by and by in the favourite haunt of her mother before her marriage--beside +the little pond called the Bishop's Basin, of which I do not think I have +ever told my readers the legend. But why should I mention it, for I cannot +tell it now? The frost lay thick in the hollow when I went down there to +find her; the branches, lately clothed with leaves, stood bare and icy +around her. Ethelwyn and I had almost forgotten that there was anything out +of the common in connection with the house. The horror of this mysterious +spot had laid hold upon Wynnie. I resolved that that night I would, in her +mother's presence, tell her all the legend of the place, and the whole +story of how I won her mother. I did so; and I think it made her trust us +more. But now I left her there, and went to Connie. She lay in her bed; +for her mother had got her thither at once, a perfect picture of blessed +comfort. There was no occasion to be uneasy about her. I was so pleased +to be at home again with such good hopes, that I could not rest, but went +wandering everywhere--into places even which I had not entered for ten +years at least, and found fresh interest in everything; for this was home, +and here I was. + +Now I fancy my readers, looking forward to the end, and seeing what a small +amount of print is left, blaming me; some, that I have roused curiosity +without satisfying it; others, that I have kept them so long over a dull +book and a lame conclusion. But out of a life one cannot always cut +complete portions, and serve them up in nice shapes. I am well aware that I +have not told them the _fate_, as some of them would call it, of either of +my daughters. This I cannot develop now, even as far as it is known to me; +but, if it is any satisfaction to them to know this much--and it will be +all that some of them mean by _fate_, I fear--I may as well tell them now +that Wynnie has been Mrs. Percivale for many years, with a history well +worth recounting; and that Connie has had a quiet, happy life for nearly +as long, as Mrs. Turner. She has never got strong, but has very tolerable +health. Her husband watches her with the utmost care and devotion. My +Ethelwyn is still with me. Harry is gone home. Charlie is a barrister of +the Middle Temple. And Dora--I must not forget Dora--well, I will say +nothing about her _fate_, for good reasons--it is not quite determined yet. +Meantime she puts up with the society of her old father and mother, and is +something else than unhappy, I fully believe. + +"And Connie's baby?" asks some one out of ten thousand readers. I have no +time to tell you about her now; but as you know her so little, it cannot be +such a trial to remain, for a time at least, unenlightened with regard to +her _fate._ + +The only other part of my history which could contain anything like +incident enough to make it interesting in print, is a period I spent in +London some few years after the time of which I have now been writing. But +I am getting too old to regard the commencement of another history with +composure. The labour of thinking into sequences, even the bodily labour of +writing, grows more and more severe. I fancy I can think correctly still; +but the effort necessary to express myself with corresponding correctness +becomes, in prospect, at least, sometimes almost appalling. I must +therefore take leave of my patient reader--for surely every one who +has followed me through all that I have here written, well deserves the +epithet--as if the probability that I shall write no more were a certainty, +bidding him farewell with one word: _"Friend, hope thou in God,"_ and for +a parting gift offering him a new, and, I think, a true rendering of the +first verse of the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews: + + "Now faith is the essence of hopes, the trying of things unseen." + +Good-bye. + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 3 *** + +***** This file should be named 8553-8.txt or 8553-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8553/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: March 29, 2014 [EBook #8553] +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. 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al +Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1> +<br /><br /><br /> +THE SEABOARD PARISH +</h1> + +<p class="t2"> +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. +</p> + +<p class="t3b"> +VOL. III. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +CONTENTS OF VOL. III. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> + I. <a href="#chap01">A WALK WITH MY WIFE</a><br /> + II. <a href="#chap02">OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER</a><br /> + III. <a href="#chap03">A PASTORAL VISIT.</a><br /> + IV. <a href="#chap04">THE ART OF NATURE</a><br /> + V. <a href="#chap05">THE SORE SPOT</a><br /> + VI. <a href="#chap06">THE GATHERING STORM.</a><br /> + VII. <a href="#chap07">THE GATHERED STORM.</a><br /> + VIII. <a href="#chap08">THE SHIPWRECK</a><br /> + IX. <a href="#chap09">THE FUNERAL</a><br /> + X. <a href="#chap10">THE SERMON.</a><br /> + XI. <a href="#chap11">CHANGED PLANS.</a><br /> + XII. <a href="#chap12">THE STUDIO.</a><br /> + XIII. <a href="#chap13">HOME AGAIN.</a><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER I. +</h3> + +<h3> +A WALK WITH MY WIFE. +</h3> + +<p> +The autumn was creeping up on the earth, with winter holding by its skirts +behind; but before I loose my hold of the garments of summer, I must write +a chapter about a walk and a talk I had one night with my wife. It had +rained a good deal during the day, but as the sun went down the air began +to clear, and when the moon shone out, near the full, she walked the +heavens, not "like one that hath been led astray," but as "queen and +huntress, chaste and fair." +</p> + +<p> +"What a lovely night it is!" said Ethelwyn, who had come into my +study—where I always sat with unblinded windows, that the night and her +creatures might look in upon me—and had stood gazing out for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +"Shall we go for a little turn?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"I should like it very much," she answered. "I will go and put on my bonnet +at once." +</p> + +<p> +In a minute or two she looked in again, all ready. I rose, laid aside my +Plato, and went with her. We turned our steps along the edge of the down, +and descended upon the breakwater, where we seated ourselves upon the same +spot where in the darkness I had heard the voices of Joe and Agnes. What a +different night it was from that! The sea lay as quiet as if it could not +move for the moonlight that lay upon it. The glory over it was so mighty in +its peacefulness, that the wild element beneath was afraid to toss itself +even with the motions of its natural unrest. The moon was like the face of +a saint before which the stormy people has grown dumb. The rocks stood up +solid and dark in the universal aether, and the pulse of the ocean throbbed +against them with a lapping gush, soft as the voice of a passionate child +soothed into shame of its vanished petulance. But the sky was the glory. +Although no breath moved below, there was a gentle wind abroad in the upper +regions. The air was full of masses of cloud, the vanishing fragments of +the one great vapour which had been pouring down in rain the most of the +day. These masses were all setting with one steady motion eastward into the +abysses of space; now obscuring the fair moon, now solemnly sweeping away +from before her. As they departed, out shone her marvellous radiance, as +calm as ever. It was plain that she knew nothing of what we called her +covering, her obscuration, the dimming of her glory. She had been busy all +the time weaving her lovely opaline damask on the other side of the mass in +which we said she was swallowed up. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you ever noticed, wifie," I said, "how the eyes of our minds—almost +our bodily eyes—are opened sometimes to the cubicalness of nature, as it +were?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know, Harry, for I don't understand your question," she answered. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it was a stupid way of expressing what I meant. No human being could +have understood it from that. I will make you understand in a moment, +though. Sometimes—perhaps generally—we see the sky as a flat dome, +spangled with star-points, and painted blue. <i>Now</i> I see it as an awful +depth of blue air, depth within depth; and the clouds before me are not +passing away to the left, but sinking away from the front of me into the +marvellous unknown regions, which, let philosophers say what they will +about time and space,—and I daresay they are right,—are yet very awful +to me. Thank God, my dear," I said, catching hold of her arm, as the terror +of mere space grew upon me, "for himself. He is deeper than space, deeper +than time; he is the heart of all the cube of history." +</p> + +<p> +"I understand you now, husband," said my wife. +</p> + +<p> +"I knew you would," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"But," she said again, "is it not something the same with the things inside +us? I can't put it in words as you do. Do you understand me now?" +</p> + +<p> +"I am not sure that I do. You must try again." +</p> + +<p> +"You understand me well enough, only you like to make me blunder where +you can talk," said my wife, putting her hand in mine. "But I will try. +Sometimes, after thinking about something for a long time, you come to a +conclusion about it, and you think you have settled it plain and clear to +yourself, for ever and a day. You hang it upon your wall, like a picture, +and are satisfied for a fortnight. But some day, when you happen to cast a +look at it, you find that instead of hanging flat on the wall, your picture +has gone through it—opens out into some region you don't know where—shows +you far-receding distances of air and sea—in short, where you thought one +question was settled for ever, a hundred are opened up for the present +hour." +</p> + +<p> +"Bravo, wife!" I cried in true delight. "I do indeed understand you now. +You have said it better than I could ever have done. That's the plague of +you women! You have been taught for centuries and centuries that there is +little or nothing to be expected of you, and so you won't try. Therefore we +men know no more than you do whether it is in you or not. And when you do +try, instead of trying to think, you want to be in Parliament all at once." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you apply that remark to me, sir?" demanded Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +"You must submit to bear the sins of your kind upon occasion," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"I am content to do that, so long as yours will help mine," she replied. +</p> + +<p> +"Then I may go on?" I said, with interrogation. +</p> + +<p> +"Till sunrise if you like. We were talking of the cubicalness—I believe +you called it—of nature." +</p> + +<p> +"And you capped it with the cubicalness of thought. And quite right +too. There are people, as a dear friend of mine used to say, who are so +accustomed to regard everything in the <i>flat</i>, as dogma cut and—not +<i>always</i> dried my moral olfactories aver—that if you prove to them the +very thing they believe, but after another mode than that they have been +accustomed to, they are offended, and count you a heretic. There is no help +for it. Even St. Paul's chief opposition came from the Judaizing Christians +of his time, who did not believe that God <i>could</i> love the Gentiles, and +therefore regarded him as a teacher of falsehood. We must not be fierce +with them. Who knows what wickedness of their ancestors goes to account for +their stupidity? For that there are stupid people, and that they are, in +very consequence of their stupidity, conceited, who can deny? The worst of +it is, that no man who is conceited can be convinced of the fact." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't say that, Harry. That is to deny conversion." +</p> + +<p> +"You are right, Ethelwyn. The moment a man is convinced of his folly, he +ceases to be a fool. The moment a man is convinced of his conceit, he +ceases to be conceited. But there <i>must</i> be a final judgment, and the true +man will welcome it, even if he is to appear a convicted fool. A man's +business is to see first that he is not acting the part of a fool, and +next, to help any honest people who care about the matter to take heed +likewise that they be not offering to pull the mote out of their brother's +eye. But there are even societies established and supported by good +people for the express purpose of pulling out motes.—'The Mote-Pulling +Society!'—That ought to take with a certain part of the public." +</p> + +<p> +"Come, come, Harry. You are absurd. Such people don't come near you." +</p> + +<p> +"They can't touch me. No. But they come near good people whom I know, +brandishing the long pins with which they pull the motes out, and +threatening them with judgment before their time. They are but pins, to be +sure—not daggers." +</p> + +<p> +"But you have wandered, Harry, into the narrowest underground, musty ways, +and have forgotten all about 'the cubicalness of nature.'" +</p> + +<p> +"You are right, my love, as you generally are," I answered, laughing. "Look +at that great antlered elk, or moose—fit quarry for Diana of the silver +bow. Look how it glides solemnly away into the unpastured depths of the +aerial deserts. Look again at that reclining giant, half raised upon his +arm, with his face turned towards the wilderness. What eyes they must be +under those huge brows! On what message to the nations is he borne as by +the slow sweep of ages, on towards his mysterious goal?" +</p> + +<p> +"Stop, stop, Harry," said my wife. "It makes me unhappy to hear grand words +clothing only cloudy fancies. Such words ought to be used about the truth, +and the truth only." +</p> + +<p> +"If I could carry it no further, my dear, then it would indeed be a +degrading of words. But there never was a vagary that uplifted the soul, +or made the grand words flow from the gates of speech, that had not its +counterpart in truth itself. Man can imagine nothing, even in the clouds of +the air, that God has not done, or is not doing. Even as that cloudy giant +yields, and is 'shepherded by the slow unwilling wind,' so is each of us +borne onward to an unseen destiny—a glorious one if we will but yield to +the Spirit of God that bloweth where it listeth—with a grand +listing—coming whence we know not, and going whither we know not. The +very clouds of the air are hung up as dim pictures of the thoughts and +history of man." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not mind how long you talk like that, husband, even if you take the +clouds for your text. But it did make me miserable to think that what you +were saying had no more basis than the fantastic forms which the clouds +assume. I see I was wrong, though." +</p> + +<p> +"The clouds themselves, in such a solemn stately march as this, used to +make me sad for the very same reason. I used to think, What is it all for? +They are but vapours blown by the wind. They come nowhence, and they go +nowhither. But now I see them and all things as ever moving symbols of the +motions of man's spirit and destiny." +</p> + +<p> +A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth +of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since, +covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing +forms—great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm—the icebergs of the +upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but floating +near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted by a golden +rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night," she said. "How he must be enjoying +it if he is!" +</p> + +<p> +"I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours," I +said. "Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking." +</p> + +<p> +"He is laying in stock, though, I suppose," answered my wife. +</p> + +<p> +"I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he gets +with the things God cares to fashion." +</p> + +<p> +"Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at +present is our Wynnie." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?" returned Ethelwyn, looking +up in my face with an arch expression. +</p> + +<p> +"Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so much +in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about." +</p> + +<p> +My wife made no answer for a moment. Then she said, +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you like him, Harry?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. I like him very much." +</p> + +<p> +"Then why should you not like Wynnie to like him?" +</p> + +<p> +"I should like to be surer of his principles, for one thing." +</p> + +<p> +"I should like to be surer of Wynnie's." +</p> + +<p> +I was silent. Ethelwyn resumed. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you think they might do each other good?" +</p> + +<p> +Still I could not reply. +</p> + +<p> +"They both love the truth, I am sure; only they don't perhaps know what it +is yet. I think if they were to fall in love with each other, it would very +likely make them both more desirous of finding it still." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps," I said at last. "But you are talking about awfully serious +things, Ethelwyn." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, as serious as life," she answered. +</p> + +<p> +"You make me very anxious," I said. "The young man has not, I fear, any +means of gaining a livelihood for more than himself." +</p> + +<p> +"Why should he before he wanted it? I like to see a man who can be content +with an art and a living by it." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope I have not been to blame in allowing them to see so much of each +other," I said, hardly heeding my wife's words. +</p> + +<p> +"It came about quite naturally," she rejoined. "If you had opposed +their meeting, you would have been interfering just as if you had been +Providence. And you would have only made them think more about each other." +</p> + +<p> +"He hasn't said anything—has he?" I asked in positive alarm. +</p> + +<p> +"O dear no. It may be all my fancy. I am only looking a little ahead. I +confess I should like him for a son-in-law. I approve of him," she added, +with a sweet laugh. +</p> + +<p> +"Well," I said, "I suppose sons-in-law are possible, however disagreeable, +results of having daughters." +</p> + +<p> +I tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded. +</p> + +<p> +"Harry," said my wife, "I don't like you in such a mood. It is not like you +at all. It is unworthy of you." +</p> + +<p> +"How can I help being anxious when you speak of such dreadful things as the +possibility of having to give away my daughter, my precious wonder that +came to me through you, out of the infinite—the tender little darling!" +</p> + +<p> +"'Out of the heart of God,' you used to say, Henry. Yes, and with a destiny +he had ordained. It is strange to me how you forget your best and noblest +teaching sometimes. You are always telling us to trust in God. Surely it is +a poor creed that will only allow us to trust in God for ourselves—a very +selfish creed. There must be something wrong there. I should say that the +man who can only trust God for himself is not half a Christian. Either he +is so selfish that that satisfies him, or he has such a poor notion of God +that he cannot trust him with what most concerns him. The former is not +your case, Harry: is the latter, then?—You see I must take my turn at the +preaching sometimes. Mayn't I, dearest?" +</p> + +<p> +She took my hand in both of hers. The truth arose in my heart. I never +loved my wife more than at that moment. And now I could not speak for other +reasons. I saw that I had been faithless to my God, and the moment I could +command my speech, I hastened to confess it. +</p> + +<p> +"You are right, my dear," I said, "quite right. I have been wicked, for I +have been denying my God. I have been putting my providence in the place +of his—trying, like an anxious fool, to count the hairs on Wynnie's head, +instead of being content that the grand loving Father should count them. My +love, let us pray for Wynnie; for what is prayer but giving her to God and +his holy, blessed will?" +</p> + +<p> +We sat hand in hand. Neither spoke aloud for some minutes, but we spoke in +our hearts to God, talking to him about Wynnie. Then we rose together, and +walked homeward, still in silence. But my heart and hand clung to my wife +as to the angel whom God had sent to deliver me out of the prison of my +faithlessness. And as we went, lo! the sky was glorious again. It had faded +from my sight, had grown flat as a dogma, uninteresting as "a foul and +pestilent congregation of vapours;" the moon had been but a round thing +with the sun shining upon it, and the stars were only minding their own +business. But now the solemn march towards an unseen, unimagined goal had +again begun. Wynnie's life was hid with Christ in God. Away strode the +cloudy pageant with its banners blowing in the wind, which blew where it +grandly listed, marching as to a solemn triumphal music that drew them from +afar towards the gates of pearl by which the morning walks out of the New +Jerusalem to gladden the nations of the earth. Solitary stars, with all +their sparkles drawn in, shone, quiet as human eyes, in the deep solemn +clefts of dark blue air. They looked restrained and still, as if they +knew all about it—all about the secret of this midnight march. For the +moon—she saw the sun, and therefore made the earth glad. +</p> + +<p> +"You have been a moon to me this night, my wife," I said. "You were looking +full at the truth, while I was dark. I saw its light in your face, and +believed, and turned my soul to the sun. And now I am both ashamed and +glad. God keep me from sinning so again." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear husband, it was only a mood—a passing mood," said Ethelwyn, +seeking to comfort me. +</p> + +<p> +"It was a mood, and thank God it is now past; but it was a wicked one. It +was a mood in which the Lord might have called me a devil, as he did St. +Peter. Such moods have to be grappled with and fought the moment they +appear. They must not have their way for a single thought even." +</p> + +<p> +"But we can't help it always, can we, husband?" +</p> + +<p> +"We can't help it out and out, because our wills are not yet free with the +freedom God is giving us as fast as we will let him. When we are able to +will thoroughly, then we shall do what we will. At least, I think we shall. +But there is a mystery in it God only understands. All we know is, that we +can struggle and pray. But a mood is an awful oppression sometimes when you +least believe in it and most wish to get rid of it. It is like a headache +in the soul." +</p> + +<p> +"What do the people do that don't believe in God?" said Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +The same moment Wynnie, who had seen us pass the window, opened the door of +the bark-house for us, and we passed into Connie's chamber and found her +lying in the moonlight, gazing at the same heavens as her father and mother +had been revelling in. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER II. +</h3> + +<h3> +OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER. +</h3> + +<p> +The next day was very lovely. I think it is the last of the kind of which +I shall have occasion to write in my narrative of the Seaboard Parish. I +wonder if my readers are tired of so much about the common things of +Nature. I reason about it something in this way: We are so easily affected +by the smallest things that are of the unpleasant kind, that we ought to +train ourselves to the influence of those that are of an opposite nature. +The unpleasant ones are like the thorns which make themselves felt as we +scramble—for we often do scramble in a very undignified manner—through +the thickets of life; and, feeling the thorns, we grumble, and are blind +to all but the thorns. The flowers, and the lovely leaves, and the red +berries, and the clusters of filberts, and the birds'-nests do not force +themselves upon our attention as the thorns do, and the thorns make us +forget to look for them. But a scratch would be forgotten—and that in +mental hurts is often equivalent to a cure, for a forgotten scratch on the +mind or heart will never fester—if we but allowed our being a moment's +repose upon any of the quiet, waiting, unobtrusive beauties that lie +around the half-trodden way, offering their gentle healing. And when I +think how, not unfrequently, otherwise noble characters are anything but +admirable when under the influence of trifling irritations, the very +paltriness of which seems what the mind, which would at once rouse itself +to a noble endurance of any mighty evil, is unable to endure, I would +gladly help so with sweet antidotes to defeat the fly in the ointment of +the apothecary that the whole pot shall send forth a pure savour. We ought +for this to cultivate the friendships of little things. Beauty is one of +the surest antidotes to vexation. Often when life looked dreary about me, +from some real or fancied injustice or indignity, has a thought of truth +been flashed into my mind from a flower, a shape of frost, or even a +lingering shadow—not to mention such glories as angel-winged clouds, +rainbows, stars, and sunrises. Therefore I hope that in my loving delay +over such aspects of Nature as impressed themselves upon me in this most +memorable part of my history I shall not prove wearisome to my reader, for +therein I should utterly contravene my hope and intent in the recording of +them. +</p> + +<p> +This day there was to be an unusually low tide, and we had reckoned on +enlarging our acquaintance with the bed of the ocean—of knowing a few +yards more of the millions of miles lapt in the mystery of waters. It was +to be low water about two o'clock, and we resolved to dine upon the sands. +But all the morning the children were out playing on the threshold of old +Neptune's palace; for in his quieter mood he will, like a fierce +mastiff, let children do with him what they will. I gave myself a whole +holiday—sometimes the most precious part of my life both for myself and +those for whom I labour—and wandered about on the shore, now passing the +children, and assailed with a volley of cries and entreaties to look at +this one's castle and that one's ditch, now leaving them behind, with what +in its ungraduated flatness might well enough personate an endless +desert of sand between, over the expanse of which I could imagine them +disappearing on a far horizon, whence however a faint occasional cry of +excitement and pleasure would reach my ears. The sea was so calm, and the +shore so gently sloping, that you could hardly tell where the sand ceased +and the sea began—the water sloped to such a thin pellicle, thinner +than any knife-edge, upon the shining brown sand, and you saw the sand +underneath the water to such a distance out. Yet this depth, which would +not drown a red spider, was the ocean. In my mind I followed that bed of +shining sand, bared of its hiding waters, out and out, till I was lost in +an awful wilderness of chasms, precipices, and mountain-peaks, in whose +caverns the sea-serpent may dwell, with his breath of pestilence; the +kraken, with "his skaly rind," may there be sleeping +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "His ancient dreamless, uninvaded sleep,"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +while +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "faintest sunlights flee<br /> + About his shadowy sides,"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +as he lies +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +There may lie all the horrors that Schiller's diver encountered—the +frightful Molch, and that worst of all, to which he gives no name, which +came creeping with a hundred knots at once; but here are only the gracious +rainbow-woven shells, an evanescent jelly or two, and the queer baby-crabs +that crawl out from the holes of the bordering rocks. What awful gradations +of gentleness lead from such as these down to those cabins where wallow +the inventions of Nature's infancy, when, like a child of untutored +imagination, she drew on the slate of her fancy creations in which flitting +shadows of beauty serve only to heighten the shuddering, gruesome horror. +The sweet sun and air, the hand of man, and the growth of the ages, have +all but swept such from the upper plains of the earth. What hunter's bow +has twanged, what adventurer's rifle has cracked in those leagues of +mountain-waste, vaster than all the upper world can show, where the beasts +of the ocean "graze the sea-weed, their pasture"! Diana of the silver bow +herself, when she descends into the interlunar caves of hell, sends no such +monsters fleeing from her spells. Yet if such there be, such horrors too +must lie in the undiscovered caves of man's nature, of which all this outer +world is but a typical analysis. By equally slow gradations may the inner +eye descend from the truth of a Cordelia to the falsehood of an Iago. As +these golden sands slope from the sunlight into the wallowing abyss of +darkness, even so from the love of the child to his holy mother slopes the +inclined plane of humanity to the hell of the sensualist. "But with one +difference in the moral world," I said aloud, as I paced up and down on the +shimmering margin, "that everywhere in the scale the eye of the all-seeing +Father can detect the first quiver of the eyelid that would raise itself +heavenward, responsive to his waking spirit." I lifted my eyes in the +relief of the thought, and saw how the sun of the autumn hung above the +waters oppressed with a mist of his own glory; far away to the left a man +who had been clambering on a low rock, inaccessible save in such a tide, +gathering mussels, threw himself into the sea and swam ashore; above his +head the storm-tower stood in the stormless air; the sea glittered and +shone, and the long-winged birds knew not which to choose, the balmy air or +the cool deep, now flitting like arrow-heads through the one, now alighting +eagerly upon the other, to forsake it anew for the thinner element. I +thanked God for his glory. +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa, it's so jolly—so jolly!" shouted the children as I passed them +again. +</p> + +<p> +"What is it that's so jolly, Charlie?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"My castle," screeched Harry in reply; "only it's tumbled down. The water +<i>would</i> keep coming in underneath." +</p> + +<p> +"I tried to stop it with a newspaper," cried Charlie, "but it wouldn't. So +we were forced to let it be, and down it went into the ditch." +</p> + +<p> +"We blew it up rather than surrender," said Dora. "We did; only Harry +always forgets, and says it was the water did it." +</p> + +<p> +I drew near the rock that held the bath. I had never approached it from +this side before. It was high above my head, and a stream of water was +flowing from it. I scrambled up, undressed, and plunged into its dark +hollow, where I felt like one of the sea-beasts of which I had been +dreaming, down in the caves of the unvisited ocean. But the sun was over +my head, and the air with an edge of the winter was about me. I dressed +quickly, descended on the other side of the rock, and wandered again on the +sands to seaward of the breakwater, which lay above, looking dry and +weary, and worn with years of contest with the waves, which had at length +withdrawn defeated to their own country, and left it as if to victory and a +useless age of peace. How different was the scene when a raving mountain of +water filled all the hollow where I now wandered, and rushed over the top +of that mole now so high above me; and I had to cling to its stones to keep +me from being carried off like a bit of floating sea-weed! This was the +loveliest and strangest part of the shore. Several long low ridges of rock, +of whose existence I scarcely knew, worn to a level with the sand, hollowed +and channelled with the terrible run of the tide across them, and looking +like the old and outworn cheek-teeth of some awful beast of prey, stretched +out seawards. Here and there amongst them rose a well-known rock, but now +so changed in look by being lifted all the height between the base on the +waters, and the second base in the sand, that I wondered at each, walking +round and viewing it on all sides. It seemed almost a fresh growth out of +the garden of the shore, with uncouth hollows around its fungous root, +and a forsaken air about its brows as it stood in the dry sand and looked +seaward. But what made the chief delight of the spot, closed in by rocks +from the open sands, was the multitude of fairy rivers that flowed across +it to the sea. The gladness these streams gave me I cannot communicate. The +tide had filled thousands of hollows in the breakwater, hundreds of cracked +basins in the rocks, huge sponges of sand; from all of which—from cranny +and crack, and oozing sponge—the water flowed in restricted haste back, +back to the sea, tumbling in tiny cataracts down the faces of the rocks, +bubbling from their roots as from wells, gathering in tanks of sand, and +overflowing in broad shallow streams, curving and sweeping in their sandy +channels, just like, the great rivers of a continent;—here spreading into +smooth silent lakes and reaches, here babbling along in ripples and waves +innumerable—flowing, flowing, to lose their small beings in the same ocean +that met on the other side the waters of the Mississippi, the Orinoco, the +Amazon. All their channels were of golden sand, and the golden sunlight +was above and through and in them all: gold and gold met, with the waters +between. And what gave an added life to their motion was, that all the +ripples made shadows on the clear yellow below them. The eye could not +see the rippling on the surface; but the sun saw it, and drew it in +multitudinous shadowy motion upon the sand, with the play of a thousand +fancies of gold burnished and dead, of sunlight and yellow, trembling, +melting, curving, blending, vanishing ever, ever renewed. It was as if all +the water-marks upon a web of golden silk had been set in wildest yet most +graceful curvilinear motion by the breath of a hundred playful zephyrs. My +eye could not be filled with seeing. I stood in speechless delight for a +while, gazing at the "endless ending" which was "the humour of the game," +and thinking how in all God's works the laws of beauty are wrought out +in evanishment, in birth and death. There, there is no hoarding, but +an ever-fresh creating, an eternal flow of life from the heart of the +All-beautiful. Hence even the heart of man cannot hoard. His brain or his +hand may gather into its box and hoard; but the moment the thing has passed +into the box, the heart has lost it and is hungry again. If man would +<i>have,</i> it is the giver he must have; the eternal, the original, the +ever-outpouring is alone within his reach; the everlasting <i>creation</i> is +his heritage. Therefore all that he makes must be free to come and go +through the heart of his child; he can enjoy it only as it passes, can +enjoy only its life, its soul, its vision, its meaning, not itself. To +hoard rubies and sapphires is as useless and hopeless for the heart, as if +I were to attempt to hoard this marvel of sand and water and sunlight in +the same iron chest with the musty deeds of my wife's inheritance. +</p> + +<p> +"Father," I murmured half aloud, "thou alone art, and I am because thou +art. Thy will shall be mine." +</p> + +<p> +I know that I must have spoken aloud, because I remember the start of +consciousness and discomposure occasioned by the voice of Percivale +greeting me. +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon," he added; "I did not mean to startle you, Mr. Walton. +I thought you were only looking at Nature's childplay—not thinking." +</p> + +<p> +"I know few things <i>more</i> fit to set one thinking than what you have very +well called Nature's childplay," I returned. "Is Nature very heartless now, +do you think, to go on with this kind of thing at our feet, when away up +yonder lies the awful London, with so many sores festering in her heart?" +</p> + +<p> +"You must answer your own question, Mr. Walton. You know I cannot. I +confess I feel the difficulty deeply. I will go further, and confess that +the discrepancy makes me doubt many things I would gladly believe. I know +<i>you</i> are able to distinguish between a glad unbelief and a sorrowful +doubt." +</p> + +<p> +"Else were I unworthy of the humblest place in the kingdom—unworthy to be +a doorkeeper in the house of my God," I answered, and recoiled from the +sound of my own words; for they seemed to imply that I believed myself +worthy of the position I occupied. I hastened to correct them: "But do not +mistake my thoughts," I said; "I do not dream of worthiness in the way of +honour—only of fitness for the work to be done. For that I think God has +fitted me in some measure. The doorkeeper's office may be given him, not +because he has done some great deed worthy of the honour, but because he +can sweep the porch and scour the threshold, and will, in the main, try to +keep them clean. That is all the worthiness I dare to claim, even to hope +that I possess." +</p> + +<p> +"No one who knows you can mistake your words, except wilfully," returned +Percivale courteously. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you," I said. "Now I will just ask you, in reference to the contrast +between human life and nature, how you will go back to your work in London, +after seeing all this child's and other play of Nature? Suppose you had +had nothing here but rain and high winds and sea-fogs, would you have been +better fitted for doing something to comfort those who know nothing of such +influences than you will be now? One of the most important qualifications +of a sick-nurse is a ready smile. A long-faced nurse in a sickroom is a +visible embodiment and presence of the disease against which the eager life +of the patient is fighting in agony. Such ought to be banished, with their +black dresses and their mourning-shop looks, from every sick-chamber, and +permitted to minister only to the dead, who do not mind looks. With what a +power of life and hope does a woman—young or old I do not care—with a +face of the morning, a dress like the spring, a bunch of wild flowers in +her hand, with the dew upon them, and perhaps in her eyes too (I don't +object to that—that is sympathy, not the worship of darkness),—with +what a message from nature and life does she, looking death in the face +with a smile, dawn upon the vision of the invalid! She brings a little +health, a little strength to fight, a little hope to endure, actually lapt +in the folds of her gracious garments; for the soul itself can do more than +any medicine, if it be fed with the truth of life." +</p> + +<p> +"But are you not—I beg your pardon for interposing on your eloquence with +dull objection," said Percivale—"are you not begging all the question? +<i>Is</i> life such an affair of sunshine and gladness?" +</p> + +<p> +"If life is not, then I confess all this show of nature is worse than +vanity—it is a vile mockery. Life is gladness; it is the death in it that +makes the misery. We call life-in-death life, and hence the mistake. If +gladness were not at the root, whence its opposite sorrow, against which +we arise, from which we recoil, with which we fight? We recognise it as +death—the contrary of life. There could be no sorrow but for a recognition +of primordial bliss. This in us that fights must be life. It is of the +nature of light, not of darkness; darkness is nothing until the light +comes. This very childplay, as you call it, of Nature, is her assertion of +the secret that life is the deepest, that life shall conquer death. Those +who believe this must bear the good news to them that sit in darkness and +the shadow of death. Our Lord has conquered death—yea, the moral death +that he called the world; and now, having sown the seed of light, the +harvest is springing in human hearts, is springing in this dance of +radiance, and will grow and grow until the hearts of the children of the +kingdom shall frolic in the sunlight of the Father's presence. Nature has +God at her heart; she is but the garment of the Invisible. God wears his +singing robes in a day like this, and says to his children, 'Be not afraid: +your brothers and sisters up there in London are in my hands; go and help +them. I am with you. Bear to them the message of joy. Tell them to be of +good cheer: I have overcome the world. Tell them to endure hunger, and not +sin; to endure passion, and not yield; to admire, and not desire. Sorrow +and pain are serving my ends; for by them will I slay sin; and save my +children.'" +</p> + +<p> +"I wish I could believe as you do, Mr. Walton." +</p> + +<p> +"I wish you could. But God will teach you, if you are willing to be +taught." +</p> + +<p> +"I desire the truth, Mr. Walton." +</p> + +<p> +"God bless you! God is blessing you," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Amen," returned Percivale devoutly; and we strolled away together in +silence towards the cliffs. +</p> + +<p> +The recession of the tide allowed us to get far enough away from the face +of the rocks to see the general effect. With the lisping of the inch-deep +wavelets at our heels we stood and regarded the worn yet defiant, the +wasted and jagged yet reposeful face of the guardians of the shore. +</p> + +<p> +"Who could imagine, in weather like this, and with this baby of a tide +lying behind us, low at our feet, and shallow as the water a schoolboy +pours upon his slate to wash it withal, that those grand cliffs before +us bear on their front the scars and dints of centuries, of chiliads of +stubborn resistance, of passionate contest with this same creature that is +at this moment unable to rock the cradle of an infant? Look behind you, at +your feet, Mr. Percivale; look before you at the chasms, rents, caves, and +hollows of those rocks." +</p> + +<p> +"I wish you were a painter, Mr. Walton," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"I wish I were," I returned. "At least I know I should rejoice in it, if it +had been given me to be one. But why do you say so now?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because you have always some individual predominating idea, which +would give interpretation to Nature while it gave harmony, reality, and +individuality to your representation of her." +</p> + +<p> +"I know what you mean," I answered; "but I have no gift whatever in that +direction. I have no idea of drawing, or of producing the effects of light +and shade; though I think I have a little notion of colour—perhaps about +as much as the little London boy, who stopped a friend of mine once to ask +the way to the field where the buttercups grew, had of nature." +</p> + +<p> +"I wish I could ask your opinion of some of my pictures." +</p> + +<p> +"That I should never presume to give. I could only tell you what they made +me feel, or perhaps only think. Some day I may have the pleasure of looking +at them." +</p> + +<p> +"May I offer you my address?" he said, and took a card from his +pocket-book. "It is a poor place, but if you should happen to think of +me when you are next in London, I shall be honoured by your paying me a +visit." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall be most happy," I returned, taking his card.—"Did it ever occur +to you, in reference to the subject we were upon a few minutes ago, how +little you can do without shadow in making a picture?" +</p> + +<p> +"Little indeed," answered Percivale. "In fact, it would be no picture at +all." +</p> + +<p> +"I doubt if the world would fare better without its shadows." +</p> + +<p> +"But it would be a poor satisfaction, with regard to the nature of God, to +be told that he allowed evil for artistic purposes." +</p> + +<p> +"It would indeed, if you regard the world as a picture. But if you think of +his art as expended, not upon the making of a history or a drama, but upon +the making of an individual, a being, a character, then I think a great +part of the difficulty concerning the existence of evil which oppresses you +will vanish. So long as a creature has not sinned, sin is possible to him. +Does it seem inconsistent with the character of God that in order that sin +should become impossible he should allow sin to come? that, in order that +his creatures should choose the good and refuse the evil, in order that +they might become such, with their whole nature infinitely enlarged, as to +turn from sin with a perfect repugnance of the will, he should allow them +to fall? that, in order that, from being sweet childish children, they +should become noble, child-like men and women, he should let them try to +walk alone? Why should he not allow the possible in order that it should +become impossible? for possible it would ever have been, even in the midst +of all the blessedness, until it had been, and had been thus destroyed. +Thus sin is slain, uprooted. And the war must ever exist, it seems to me, +where there is creation still going on. How could I be content to guard my +children so that they should never have temptation, knowing that in all +probability they would fail if at any moment it should cross their path? +Would the deepest communion of father and child ever be possible between +us? Evil would ever seem to be in the child, so long as it was possible it +should be there developed. And if this can be said for the existence of +moral evil, the existence of all other evil becomes a comparative trifle; +nay, a positive good, for by this the other is combated." +</p> + +<p> +"I think I understand you," returned Percivale. "I will think over what you +have said. These are very difficult questions." +</p> + +<p> +"Very. I don't think argument is of much use about them, except as it may +help to quiet a man's uneasiness a little, and so give his mind peace to +think about duty. For about the doing of duty there can be no question, +once it is seen. And the doing of duty is the shortest—in very fact, the +only way into the light." +</p> + +<p> +As we spoke, we had turned from the cliffs, and wandered back across the +salt streams to the sands beyond. From the direction of the house came +a little procession of servants, with Walter at their head, bearing the +preparations for our dinner—over the gates of the lock, down the sides of +the embankment of the canal, and across the sands, in the direction of the +children, who were still playing merrily. +</p> + +<p> +"Will you join our early dinner, which is to be out of doors, as you see, +somewhere hereabout on the sands?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"I shall be delighted," he answered, "if you will let me be of some use +first. I presume you mean to bring your invalid out." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; and you shall help me to carry her, if you will." +</p> + +<p> +"That is what I hoped," said Percivale; and we went together towards the +parsonage. +</p> + +<p> +As we approached, I saw Wynnie sitting at the drawing-room window; but when +we entered the room, she was gone. My wife was there, however. +</p> + +<p> +"Where is Wynnie?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"She saw you coming," she answered, "and went to get Connie ready; for I +guessed Mr. Percivale had come to help you to carry her out." +</p> + +<p> +But I could not help doubting there might be more than that in Wynnie's +disappearance. "What if she should have fallen in love with him," I +thought, "and he should never say a word on the subject? That would be +dreadful for us all." +</p> + +<p> +They had been repeatedly but not very much together of late, and I was +compelled to allow to myself that if they did fall in love with each other +it would be very natural on both sides, for there was evidently a great +mental resemblance between them, so that they could not help sympathising +with each other's peculiarities. And anyone could see what a fine couple +they would make. +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie was much taller than Connie—almost the height of her mother. She +had a very fair skin, and brown hair, a broad forehead, a wise, thoughtful, +often troubled face, a mouth that seldom smiled, but on which a smile +seemed always asleep, and round soft cheeks that dimpled like water when +she did smile. I have described Percivale before. Why should not two such +walk together along the path to the gates of the light? And yet I could +not help some anxiety. I did not know anything of his history. I had no +testimony concerning him from anyone that knew him. His past life was a +blank to me; his means of livelihood probably insufficient—certainly, +I judged, precarious; and his position in society—but there I checked +myself: I had had enough of that kind of thing already. I would not +willingly offend in that worldliness again. The God of the whole earth +could not choose that I should look at such works of his hands after that +fashion. And I was his servant—not Mammon's or Belial's. +</p> + +<p> +All this passed through my mind in about three turns of the winnowing-fan +of thought. Mr. Percivale had begun talking to my wife, who took no pains +to conceal that his presence was pleasant to her, and I went upstairs, +almost unconsciously, to Connie's room. +</p> + +<p> +When I opened the door, forgetting to announce my approach as I ought to +have done, I saw Wynnie leaning over Connie, and Connie's arm round her +waist. Wynnie started back, and Connie gave a little cry, for the jerk thus +occasioned had hurt her. Wynnie had turned her head away, but turned it +again at Connie's cry, and I saw a tear on her face. +</p> + +<p> +"My darlings, I beg your pardon," I said. "It was very stupid of me not to +knock at the door." +</p> + +<p> +Connie looked up at me with large resting eyes, and said— +</p> + +<p> +"It's nothing, papa, Wynnie is in one of her gloomy moods, and didn't want +you to see her crying. She gave me a little pull, that was all. It didn't +hurt me much, only I'm such a goose! I'm in terror before the pain comes. +Look at me," she added, seeing, doubtless, some perturbation on my +countenance, "I'm all right now." And she smiled in my face perfectly. +</p> + +<p> +I turned to Wynnie, put my arm about her, kissed her cheek, and left the +room. I looked round at the door, and saw that Connie was following me with +her eyes, but Wynnie's were hidden in her handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +I went back to the drawing-room, and in a few minutes Walter came to +announce that dinner was about to be served. The same moment Wynnie came to +say that Connie was ready. She did not lift her eyes, or approach to +give Percivale any greeting, but went again as soon as she had given her +message. I saw that he looked first concerned and then thoughtful. +</p> + +<p> +"Come, Mr. Percivale," I said; and he followed me up to Connie's room. +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie was not there; but Connie lay, looking lovely, all ready for going. +We lifted her, and carried her by the window out on the down, for the +easiest way, though the longest, was by the path to the breakwater, along +its broad back and down from the end of it upon the sands. Before we +reached the breakwater, I found that Wynnie was following behind us. We +stopped in the middle of it, and set Connie down, as if I wanted to take +breath. But I had thought of something to say to her, which I wanted Wynnie +to hear without its being addressed to her. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you see, Connie," I said, "how far off the water is?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, papa; it is a long way off. I wish I could get up and run down to +it." +</p> + +<p> +"You can hardly believe that all between, all those rocks, and all that +sand, will be covered before sunset." +</p> + +<p> +"I know it will be. But it doesn't <i>look</i> likely, does it, papa!" +</p> + +<p> +"Not the least likely, my dear. Do you remember that stormy night when I +came through your room to go out for a walk in the dark?" +</p> + +<p> +"Remember it, papa? I cannot forget it. Every time I hear the wind blowing +when I wake in the night I fancy you are out in it, and have to wake myself +up' quite to get rid of the thought." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Connie, look down into the great hollow there, with rocks and sand +at the bottom of it, stretching far away." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Now look over the side of your litter. You see those holes all about +between the stones?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, one of those little holes saved my life that night, when the great +gulf there was full of huge mounds of roaring water, which rushed across +this breakwater with force enough to sweep a whole cavalry regiment off its +back." +</p> + +<p> +"Papa!" exclaimed Connie, turning pale. +</p> + +<p> +Then first I told her all the story. And Wynnie listened behind. +</p> + +<p> +"Then I <i>was</i> right in being frightened, papa!" cried Connie, bursting into +tears; for since her accident she could not well command her feelings. +</p> + +<p> +"You were right in trusting in God, Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"But you might have been drowned, papa!" she sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +"Nobody has a right to say that anything might have been other than what +has been. Before a thing has happened we can say might or might not; but +that has to do only with our ignorance. Of course I am not speaking +of things wherein we ought to exercise will and choice. That is <i>our</i> +department. But this does not look like that now, does it? Think what a +change—from the dark night and the roaring water to this fulness of +sunlight and the bare sands, with the water lisping on their edge away +there in the distance. Now, I want you to think that in life troubles will +come which look as if they would never pass away; the night and the storm +look as if they would last for ever; but the calm and the morning cannot be +stayed; the storm in its very nature is transient. The effort of Nature, +as that of the human heart, ever is to return to its repose, for God is +Peace." +</p> + +<p> +"But if you will excuse me, Mr. Walton," said Percivale, "you can hardly +expect experience to be of use to any but those who have had it. It seems +to me that its influences cannot be imparted." +</p> + +<p> +"That depends on the amount of faith in those to whom its results are +offered. Of course, as experience, it can have no weight with another; for +it is no longer experience. One remove, and it ceases. But faith in the +person who has experienced can draw over or derive—to use an old Italian +word—some of its benefits to him who has the faith. Experience may thus, +in a sense, be accumulated, and we may go on to fresh experience of our +own. At least I can hope that the experience of a father may take the form +of hope in the minds of his daughters. Hope never hurt anyone, never yet +interfered with duty; nay, always strengthens to the performance of duty, +gives courage, and clears the judgment. St. Paul says we are saved by hope. +Hope is the most rational thing in the universe. Even the ancient poets, +who believed it was delusive, yet regarded it as an antidote given by the +mercy of the gods against some, at least, of the ills of life." +</p> + +<p> +"But they counted it delusive. A wise man cannot consent to be deluded." +</p> + +<p> +"Assuredly not. The sorest truth rather than a false hope! But what is a +false hope? Only one that ought not to be fulfilled. The old poets could +give themselves little room for hope, and less for its fulfilment; for what +were the gods in whom they believed—I cannot say in whom they trusted? +Gods who did the best their own poverty of being was capable of doing for +men when they gave them the <i>illusion</i> of hope. But I see they are waiting +for us below. One thing I repeat—the waves that foamed across the spot +where we now stand are gone away, have sunk and vanished." +</p> + +<p> +"But they will come again, papa," faltered Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"And God will come with them, my love," I said, as we lifted the litter. +</p> + +<p> +In a few minutes more we were all seated on the sand around a table-cloth +spread upon it. I shall never forgot the peace and the light outside and +in, as far as I was concerned at least, and I hope the others too, that +afternoon. The tide had turned, and the waves were creeping up over the +level, soundless almost as thought; but it would be time to go home long +before they had reached us. The sun was in the western half of the sky, and +now and then a breath of wind came from the sea, with a slight saw-edge in +it, but not enough to hurt. Connie could stand much more in that way now. +And when I saw how she could move herself on her couch, and thought how +much she had improved since first she was laid upon it, hope for her kept +fluttering joyously in my heart. I could not help fancying even that I saw +her move her legs a little; but I could not be in the least sure; and she, +if she did move them, was clearly unconscious of it. Charles and Harry were +every now and then starting up from their dinner and running off with a +shout, to return with apparently increased appetite for the rest of it; +and neither their mother nor I cared to interfere with the indecorum. Dora +alone took it upon her to rebuke them. Wynnie was very silent, but looked +more cheerful. Connie seemed full of quiet bliss. My wife's face was a +picture of heavenly repose. The old nurse was walking about with the baby, +occasionally with one hand helping the other servants to wait upon us. +They, too, seemed to have a share in the gladness of the hour, and, like +Ariel, did their spiriting gently. +</p> + +<p> +"This is the will of God," I said, after the things were removed, and we +had sat for a few moments in silence. +</p> + +<p> +"What is the will of God, husband?" asked Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, this, my love," I answered; "this living air, and wind, and sea, +and light, and land all about us; this consenting, consorting harmony of +Nature, that mirrors a like peace in our souls. The perfection of such +visions, the gathering of them all in one was, is, I should say, in the +face of Christ Jesus. You will say that face was troubled sometimes. Yes, +but with a trouble that broke not the music, but deepened the harmony. +When he wept at the grave of Lazarus, you do not think it was for Lazarus +himself, or for his own loss of him, that he wept? That could not be, +seeing he had the power to call him back when he would. The grief was for +the poor troubled hearts left behind, to whom it was so dreadful because +they had not faith enough in his Father, the God of life and love, who was +looking after it all, full of tenderness and grace, with whom Lazarus was +present and blessed. It was the aching, loving heart of humanity for which +he wept, that needed God so awfully, and could not yet trust in him. Their +brother was only hidden in the skirts of their Father's garment, but they +could not believe that: they said he was dead—lost—away—all gone, as +the children say. And it was so sad to think of a whole world full of the +grief of death, that he could not bear it without the human tears to help +his heart, as they help ours. It was for our dark sorrows that he wept. But +the peace could be no less plain on the face that saw God. Did you ever +think of that wonderful saying: 'Again a little while, and ye shall see +me, because I go to the Father'? The heart of man would have joined the +'because I go to the Father' with the former result—the not seeing of him. +The heart of man is not able, without more and more light, to understand +that all vision is in the light of the Father. Because Jesus went to the +Father, therefore the disciples saw him tenfold more. His body no longer in +their eyes, his very being, his very self was in their hearts—not in their +affections only—in their spirits, their heavenly consciousness." +</p> + +<p> +As I said this, a certain hymn, for which I had and have an especial +affection, came into my mind, and, without prologue or introduction, I +repeated it: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "If I Him but have,<br /> + If he be but mine,<br /> + If my heart, hence to the grave,<br /> + Ne'er forgets his love divine—<br /> + Know I nought of sadness,<br /> + Feel I nought but worship, love, and gladness.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + If I Him but have,<br /> + Glad with all I part;<br /> + Follow on my pilgrim staff<br /> + My Lord only, with true heart;<br /> + Leave them, nothing saying,<br /> + On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + If I Him but have,<br /> + Glad I fall asleep;<br /> + Aye the flood that his heart gave<br /> + Strength within my heart shall keep,<br /> + And with soft compelling<br /> + Make it tender, through and through it swelling.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + If I Him but have,<br /> + Mine the world I hail!<br /> + Glad as cherub smiling grave,<br /> + Holding back the virgin's veil.<br /> + Sunk and lost in seeing,<br /> + Earthly fears have died from all my being.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Where I have but Him<br /> + Is my Fatherland;<br /> + And all gifts and graces come<br /> + Heritage into my hand:<br /> + Brothers long deplored<br /> + I in his disciples find restored."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +"What a lovely hymn, papa!" exclaimed Connie. She could always speak more +easily than either her mother or sister. "Who wrote it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Friedrich von Hardenberg, known, where he is known, as Novalis." +</p> + +<p> +"But he must have written it in German. Did you translate it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. You will find, I think, that I have kept form, thought, and feeling, +however I may have failed in making an English poem of it." +</p> + +<p> +"O, you dear papa, it is lovely! Is it long since you did it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Years before you were born, Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"To think of you having lived so long, and being one of us!" she returned. +"Was he a Roman Catholic, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, he was a Moravian. At least, his parents were. I don't think he +belonged to any section of the church in particular." +</p> + +<p> +"But oughtn't he, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly not, my dear, except he saw good reason for it. But what is the +use of asking such questions, after a hymn like that?" +</p> + +<p> +"O, I didn't think anything bad, papa, I assure you. It was only that I +wanted to know more about him." +</p> + +<p> +The tears were in her eyes, and I was sorry I had treated as significant +what was really not so. But the constant tendency to consider Christianity +as associated of necessity with this or that form of it, instead of as +simply obedience to Christ, had grown more and more repulsive to me as I +had grown myself, for it always seemed like an insult to my brethren in +Christ; hence the least hint of it in my children I was too ready to be +down upon like a most unchristian ogre. I took her hand in mine, and she +was comforted, for she saw in my face that I was sorry, and yet she could +see that there was reason at the root of my haste. +</p> + +<p> +"But," said Wynnie, who, I thought afterwards, must have strengthened +herself to speak from the instinctive desire to show Percivale how far she +was from being out of sympathy with what he might suppose formed a barrier +between him and me—"But," she said, "the lovely feeling in that poem +seems to me, as in all the rest of such poems, to belong only to the New +Testament, and have nothing to do with this world round about us. These +things look as if they were only for drawing and painting and being glad +in, not as if they had relations with all those awful and solemn things. As +soon as I try to get the two together, I lose both of them." +</p> + +<p> +"That is because the human mind must begin with one thing and grow to the +rest. At first, Christianity seemed to men to have only to do with their +conscience. That was the first relation, of course. But even with art +it was regarded as having no relation except for the presentment of its +history. Afterwards, men forgot the conscience almost in trying to make +Christianity comprehensible to the understanding. Now, I trust, we are +beginning to see that Christianity is everything or nothing. Either the +whole is a lovely fable setting forth the loftiest longing of the human +soul after the vision of the divine, or it is such a fact as is the heart +not only of theology so called, but of history, politics, science, and art. +The treasures of the Godhead must be hidden in him, and therefore by him +only can be revealed. This will interpret all things, or it has not yet +been. Teachers of men have not taught this, because they have not seen it. +If we do not find him in nature, we may conclude either that we do not +understand the expression of nature, or have mistaken ideas or poor +feelings about him. It is one great business in our life to find the +interpretation which will render this harmony visible. Till we find it, we +have not seen him to be all in all. Recognising a discord when they touched +the notes of nature and society, the hermits forsook the instrument +altogether, and contented themselves with a partial symphony—lofty, +narrow, and weak. Their example, more or less, has been followed by almost +all Christians. Exclusion is so much the easier way of getting harmony +in the orchestra than study, insight, and interpretation, that most have +adopted it. It is for us, and all who have hope in the infinite God, to +widen its basis as we may, to search and find the true tone and right idea, +place, and combination of instruments, until to our enraptured ear they +all, with one voice of multiform yet harmonious utterance, declare the +glory of God and of his Christ." +</p> + +<p> +"A grand idea," said Percivale. +</p> + +<p> +"Therefore likely to be a true one," I returned. "People find it hard +to believe grand things; but why? If there be a God, is it not likely +everything is grand, save where the reflection of his great thoughts is +shaken, broken, distorted by the watery mirrors of our unbelieving and +troubled souls? Things ought to be grand, simple, and noble. The ages of +eternity will go on showing that such they are and ever have been. God will +yet be victorious over our wretched unbeliefs." +</p> + +<p> +I was sitting facing the sea, but with my eyes fixed on the sand, boring +holes in it with my stick, for I could talk better when I did not look my +familiar faces in the face. I did not feel thus in the pulpit; there I +sought the faces of my flock, to assist me in speaking to their needs. As +I drew to the close of my last monologue, a colder and stronger blast from +the sea blew in my face. I lifted my head, and saw that the tide had crept +up a long way, and was coming in fast. A luminous fog had sunk down over +the western horizon, and almost hidden the sun, had obscured the half of +the sea, and destroyed all our hopes of a sunset. A certain veil as of the +commonplace, like that which so often settles down over the spirit of man +after a season of vision and glory and gladness, had dropped over the face +of Nature. The wind came in little bitter gusts across the dull waters. It +was time to lift Connie and take her home. +</p> + +<p> +This was the last time we ate together on the open shore. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER III. +</h3> + +<h3> +A PASTORAL VISIT. +</h3> + +<p> +The next morning rose neither "cherchef't in a comely cloud" nor "roab'd in +flames and amber light," but covered all in a rainy mist, which the wind +mingled with salt spray torn from the tops of the waves. Every now and then +the wind blew a blastful of larger drops against the window of my study +with an angry clatter and clash, as if daring me to go out and meet its +ire. The earth was very dreary, for there were no shadows anywhere. The +sun was hustled away by the crowding vapours; and earth, sea, and sky were +possessed by a gray spirit that threatened wrath. The breakfast-bell rang, +and I went down, expecting to find my Wynnie, who was always down first to +make the tea, standing at the window with a sad face, giving fit response +to the aspect of nature without, her soul talking with the gray spirit. I +did find her at the window, looking out upon the restless tossing of the +waters, but with no despondent answer to the trouble of nature. On the +contrary, her cheek, though neither rosy nor radiant, looked luminous, and +her eyes were flashing out upon the ebb-tide which was sinking away into +the troubled ocean beyond. Does my girl-reader expect me to tell her next +that something had happened? that Percivale had said something to her? or +that, at least, he had just passed the window, and given her a look which +she might interpret as she pleased? I must disappoint her. It was nothing +of the sort. I knew the heart and feeling of my child. It was only that +kind nature was in sympathy with her mood. The girl was always more +peaceful in storm than in sunshine. I remembered that now. A movement of +life instantly began in her when the obligation of gladness had departed +with the light. Her own being arose to provide for its own needs. She could +smile now when nature required from her no smile in response to hers. And I +could not help saying to myself, "She must marry a poor man some day; she +is a creature of the north, and not of the south; the hot sun of prosperity +would wither her up. Give her a bleak hill-side, and a glint or two of +sunshine between the hailstorms, and she will live and grow; give her +poverty and love, and life will be interesting to her as a romance; give +her money and position, and she will grow dull and haughty. She will +believe in nothing that poet can sing or architect build. She will, like +Cassius, scorn her spirit for being moved to smile at anything." +</p> + +<p> +I had stood regarding her for a moment. She turned and saw me, and came +forward with her usual morning greeting. +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon, papa: I thought it was Walter." +</p> + +<p> +"I am glad to see a smile on your face, my love." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't think me very disagreeable, papa. I know I am a trouble to you. But +I am a trouble to myself first. I fear I have a discontented mind and a +complaining temper. But I do try, and I will try hard to overcome it." +</p> + +<p> +"It will not get the better of you, so long as you do the duty of the +moment. But I think, as I told you before, that you are not very well, and +that your indisposition is going to do you good by making you think about +some things you are ready to think about, but which you might have banished +if you had been in good health and spirits. You are feeling as you never +felt before, that you need a presence in your soul of which at least you +haven't enough yet. But I preached quite enough to you yesterday, and I +won't go on the same way to-day again. Only I wanted to comfort you. Come +and give me my breakfast." +</p> + +<p> +"You do comfort me, papa," she answered, approaching the table. "I know I +don't show what I feel as I ought, but you do comfort me much. Don't you +like a day like this, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"I do, my dear. I always did. And I think you take after me in that, as you +do in a good many things besides. That is how I understand you so well." +</p> + +<p> +"Do I really take after you, papa? Are you sure that you understand me so +well?" she asked, brightening up. +</p> + +<p> +"I know I do," I returned, replying to her last question. +</p> + +<p> +"Better than I do myself?" she asked with an arch smile. +</p> + +<p> +"Considerably, if I mistake not," I answered. +</p> + +<p> +"How delightful! To think that I am understood even when I don't understand +myself!" +</p> + +<p> +"But even if I am wrong, you are yet understood. The blessedness of life is +that we can hide nothing from God. If we could hide anything from God, that +hidden thing would by and by turn into a terrible disease. It is the sight +of God that keeps and makes things clean. But as we are both, by mutual +confession, fond of this kind of weather, what do you say to going out with +me? I have to visit a sick woman." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't mean Mrs. Coombes, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, my dear. I did not hear she was ill." +</p> + +<p> +"O, I daresay it is nothing much. Only old nursey said yesterday she was in +bed with a bad cold, or something of that sort." +</p> + +<p> +"We'll call and inquire as we pass,—that is, if you are inclined to go +with me." +</p> + +<p> +"How can you put an <i>if</i> to that, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"I have just had a message from that cottage that stands all alone on the +corner of Mr. Barton's farm—over the cliff, you know—that the woman is +ill, and would like to see me. So the sooner we start the better." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall have done my breakfast in five minutes, papa. O, here's +mamma!—Mamma, I'm going out for a walk in the rain with papa. You won't +mind, will you?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think it will do you any harm, my dear. That's all I mind, you +know. It was only once or twice when you were not well that I objected to +it. I quite agree with your papa, that only lazy people are <i>glad</i> to stay +in-doors when it rains." +</p> + +<p> +"And it does blow so delightfully!" said Wynnie, as she left the room to +put on her long cloak and her bonnet. +</p> + +<p> +We called at the sexton's cottage, and found him sitting gloomily by the +low window, looking seaward. +</p> + +<p> +"I hope your wife is not <i>very</i> poorly, Coombes," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir. She be very comfortable in bed. Bed's not a bad place to be in +in such weather," he answered, turning again a dreary look towards the +Atlantic. "Poor things!" +</p> + +<p> +"What a passion for comfort you have, Coombes! How does that come about, do +you think?" +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose I was made so, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"To be sure you were. God made you so." +</p> + +<p> +"Surely, sir. Who else?" +</p> + +<p> +"Then I suppose he likes making people comfortable if he makes people like +to be comfortable." +</p> + +<p> +"It du look likely enough, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Then when he takes it out of your hands, you mustn't think he doesn't look +after the people you would make comfortable if you could." +</p> + +<p> +"I must mind my work, you know, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, surely. And you mustn't want to take his out of his hands, and go +grumbling as if you would do it so much better if he would only let you get +<i>your</i> hand to it." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay you be right, sir," he said. "I must just go and have a look +about, though. Here's Agnes. She'll tell you about mother." +</p> + +<p> +He took his spade from the corner, and went out. He often brought his tools +into the cottage. He had carved the handle of his spade all over with the +names of the people he had buried. +</p> + +<p> +"Tell your mother, Agnes, that I will call in the evening and see her, if +she would like to see me. We are going now to see Mrs. Stokes. She is very +poorly, I hear." +</p> + +<p> +"Let us go through the churchyard, papa," said Wynnie, "and see what the +old man is doing." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, my dear. It is only a few steps round." +</p> + +<p> +"Why do you humour the sexton's foolish fancy so much, papa? It is +such nonsense! You taught us it was, surely, in your sermon about the +resurrection?" +</p> + +<p> +"Most certainly, my dear. But it would be of no use to try to get it out of +his head by any argument. He has a kind of craze in that direction. To get +people's hearts right is of much more importance than convincing their +judgments. Right judgment will follow. All such fixed ideas should be +encountered from the deepest grounds of truth, and not from the outsides of +their relations. Coombes has to be taught that God cares for the dead more +than he does, and <i>therefore</i> it is unreasonable for him to be anxious +about them." +</p> + +<p> +When we reached the churchyard we found the old man kneeling on a grave +before its headstone. It was a very old one, with a death's-head and +cross-bones carved upon the top of it in very high relief. With his +pocket-knife he was removing the lumps of green moss out of the hollows of +the eyes of the carven skull. We did not interrupt him, but walked past +with a nod. +</p> + +<p> +"You saw what he was doing, Wynnie? That reminds me of almost the only +thing in Dante's grand poem that troubles me. I cannot think of it without +a renewal of my concern, though I have no doubt he is as sorry now as I am +that ever he could have written it. When, in the <i>Inferno,</i> he reaches the +lowest region of torture, which is a solid lake of ice, he finds the lost +plunged in it to various depths, some, if I remember rightly, entirely +submerged, and visible only through the ice, transparent as crystal, like +the insects found in amber. One man with his head only above the ice, +appeals to him as condemned to the same punishment to take pity on him, and +remove the lumps of frozen tears from his eyes, that he may weep a little +before they freeze again and stop the relief once more. Dante says to him, +'Tell me who you are, and if I do not assist you, I deserve to lie at the +bottom of the ice myself.' The man tells him who he is, and explains to him +one awful mystery of these regions. Then he says, 'Now stretch forth thy +hand, and open my eyes.' 'And,' says Dante, I did not open them for him; +and rudeness to him was courtesy.'" +</p> + +<p> +"But he promised, you said." +</p> + +<p> +"He did; and yet he did not do it. Pity and truth had abandoned him +together. One would think little of it comparatively, were it not that +Dante is so full of tenderness and grand religion. It is very awful, and +may teach us many things." +</p> + +<p> +"But what made you think of that now?" +</p> + +<p> +"Merely what Coombes was about. The visual image was all. He was scooping +the green moss out of the eyes of the death's-head on the gravestone." +</p> + +<p> +By this time we were on the top of the downs, and the wind was buffeting +us, and every other minute assailing us with a blast of rain. Wynnie drew +her cloak closer about her, bent her head towards the blast, and struggled +on bravely by my side. No one who wants to enjoy a walk in the rain must +carry an umbrella; it is pure folly. When we came to one of the stone +fences, we cowered down by its side for a few moments to recover our +breath, and then struggled on again. Anything like conversation was out of +the question. At length we dropped into a hollow, which gave us a little +repose. Down below the sea was dashing into the mouth of the glen, or +coomb, as they call it there. On the opposite side of the hollow, the +little house to which we were going stood up against the gray sky. +</p> + +<p> +"I begin to doubt whether I ought to have brought you, Wynnie. It was +thoughtless of me; I don't mean for your sake, but because your presence +may be embarrassing in a small house; for probably the poor woman may +prefer seeing me alone." +</p> + +<p> +"I will go back, papa. I sha'n't mind it a bit." +</p> + +<p> +"No; you had better come on. I shall not be long with her, I daresay. We +may find some place that you can wait in. Are you wet?" +</p> + +<p> +"Only my cloak. I am as dry as a tortoise inside." +</p> + +<p> +"Come along, then. We shall soon be there." +</p> + +<p> +When we reached the house I found that Wynnie would not be in the way. I +left her seated by the kitchen-fire, and was shown into the room where Mrs. +Stokes lay. I cannot say I perceived. But I guessed somehow, the moment I +saw her that there was something upon her mind. She was a hard-featured +woman, with a cold, troubled black eye that rolled restlessly about. She +lay on her back, moving her head from side to side. When I entered she only +looked at me, and turned her eyes away towards the wall. I approached the +bedside, and seated myself by it. I always do so at once; for the patient +feels more at rest than if you stand tall up before her. I laid my hand on +hers. +</p> + +<p> +"Are you very ill, Mrs. Stokes?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, very," she answered with a groan. "It be come to the last with me." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope not, indeed, Mrs. Stokes. It's not come to the last with us, so +long as we have a Father in heaven." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! but it be with me. He can't take any notice of the like of me." +</p> + +<p> +"But indeed he does, whether you think it or not. He takes notice of every +thought we think, and every deed we do, and every sin we commit." +</p> + +<p> +I said the last words with emphasis, for I suspected something more than +usual upon her conscience. She gave another groan, but made no reply. I +therefore went on. +</p> + +<p> +"Our Father in heaven is not like some fathers on earth, who, so long as +their children don't bother them, let them do anything they like. He will +not have them do what is wrong. He loves them too much for that." +</p> + +<p> +"He won't look at me," she said half murmuring, half sighing it out, so +that I could hardly, hear what she said. +</p> + +<p> +"It is because he <i>is</i> looking at you that you are feeling uncomfortable," +I answered. "He wants you to confess your sins. I don't mean to me, but to +himself; though if you would like to tell me anything, and I can help you, +I shall be <i>very</i> glad. You know Jesus Christ came to save us from our +sins; and that's why we call him our Saviour. But he can't save us from our +sins if we won't confess that we have any." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sure I never said but what I be a great sinner, as well as other +people." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't suppose that's confessing your sins?" I said. "I once knew a +woman of very bad character, who allowed to me she was a great sinner; but +when I said, 'Yes, you have done so and so,' she would not allow one of +those deeds to be worthy of being reckoned amongst her sins. When I asked +her what great sins she had been guilty of, then, seeing these counted for +nothing, I could get no more out of her than that she was a great sinner, +like other people, as you have just been saying." +</p> + +<p> +"I hope you don't be thinking I ha' done anything of that sort," she said +with wakening energy. "No man or woman dare say I've done anything to be +ashamed of." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you've committed no sins?" I returned. "But why did you send for me? +You must have something to say to me." +</p> + +<p> +"I never did send for you. It must ha' been my husband." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, then I'm afraid I've no business here!" I returned, rising. "I thought +you had sent for me." +</p> + +<p> +She returned no answer. I hoped that by retiring I should set her thinking, +and make her more willing to listen the next time I came. I think clergymen +may do much harm by insisting when people are in a bad mood, as if they +had everything to do, and the Spirit of God nothing at all. I bade her +good-day, hoped she would be better soon, and returned to Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +As we walked home together, I said: +</p> + +<p> +"Wynnie, I was right. It would not have done at all to take you into the +sick-room. Mrs. Stokes had not sent for me herself, and rather resented my +appearance. But I think she will send for me before many days are over." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IV. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE ART OF NATURE. +</h3> + +<p> +We had a week of hazy weather after this. I spent it chiefly in my study +and in Connie's room. A world of mist hung over the sea; it refused to hold +any communion with mortals. As if ill-tempered or unhappy, it folded itself +in its mantle and lay still. +</p> + +<p> +What was it thinking about? All Nature is so full of meaning, that we +cannot help fancying sometimes that she knows her own meanings. She is +busy with every human mood in turn—sometimes with ten of them at +once—picturing our own inner world before us, that we may see, understand, +develop, reform it. +</p> + +<p> +I was turning over some such thought in my mind one morning, when Dora +knocked at the door, saying that Mr. Percivale had called, and that mamma +was busy, and would I mind if she brought him up to the study. +</p> + +<p> +"Not in the least, my dear," I answered; "I shall be very glad to see him." +</p> + +<p> +"Not much of weather for your sacred craft, Percivale," I said as he +entered. "I suppose, if you were asked to make a sketch to-day, it would be +much the same as if a stupid woman were to ask you to take her portrait?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not quite so bad as that," said Percivale. +</p> + +<p> +"Surely the human face is more than nature." +</p> + +<p> +"Nature is never stupid." +</p> + +<p> +"The woman might be pretty." +</p> + +<p> +"Nature is full of beauty in her worst moods; while the prettier such a +woman, the more stupid she would look, and the more irksome you would feel +the task; for you could not help making claims upon her which you would +never think of making upon Nature." +</p> + +<p> +"I daresay you are right. Such stupidity has a good deal to do with moral +causes. You do not ever feel that Nature is to blame." +</p> + +<p> +"Nature is never ugly. She may be dull, sorrowful, troubled; she may be +lost in tears and pallor, but she cannot be ugly. It is only when you rise +into animal nature that you find ugliness." +</p> + +<p> +"True in the main only; for no lines of absolute division can be drawn in +nature. I have seen ugly flowers." +</p> + +<p> +"I grant it; but they are exceptional; and none of them are without +beauty." +</p> + +<p> +"Surely not. The ugliest soul even is not without some beauty. But I grant +you that the higher you rise the more is ugliness possible, just because +the greater beauty is possible. There is no ugliness to equal in its +repulsiveness the ugliness of a beautiful face." +</p> + +<p> +A pause followed. +</p> + +<p> +"I presume," I said, "you are thinking of returning to London now, there +seems so little to be gained by remaining here. When this weather begins to +show itself I could wish myself in my own parish; but I am sure the change, +even through the winter, will be good for my daughter." +</p> + +<p> +"I must be going soon," he answered; "but it would be too bad to take +offence at the old lady's first touch of temper. I mean to wait and see +whether we shall not have a little bit of St. Martin's summer, as Shakspere +calls it; after which, hail London, queen of smoke and—" +</p> + +<p> +"And what?" I asked, seeing he hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +"'And soap,' I was fancying you would say; for you never will allow the +worst of things, Mr. Walton." +</p> + +<p> +"No, surely I will not. For one thing, the worst has never been seen by +anybody yet. We have no experience to justify it." +</p> + +<p> +We were chatting in this loose manner when Walter came to the door to tell +me that a messenger had come from Mrs. Stokes. +</p> + +<p> +I went down to see him, and found her husband. +</p> + +<p> +"My wife be very bad, sir," he said. "I wish you could come and see her." +</p> + +<p> +"Does she want to see me?' I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"She's been more uncomfortable than ever since you was there last," he +said. +</p> + +<p> +"But," I repeated, "has she said she would like to see me?" +</p> + +<p> +"I can't say it, sir," answered the man. +</p> + +<p> +"Then it is you who want me to see her?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir; but I be sure she do want to see you. I know her way, you see, +sir. She never would say she wanted anything in her life; she would always +leave you to find it out: so I got sharp at that, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"And then would she allow she had wanted it when you got it her?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, never, sir. She be peculiar—my wife; she always be." +</p> + +<p> +"Does she know that you have come to ask me now?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Have you courage to tell her?" +</p> + +<p> +The man hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +"If you haven't courage to tell her," I resumed, "I have nothing more to +say. I can't go; or, rather, I will not go." +</p> + +<p> +"I will tell her, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you will tell her that I refused to come until she sent for me +herself." +</p> + +<p> +"Ben't that rather hard on a dying woman, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"I have my reasons. Except she send for me herself, the moment I go she +will take refuge in the fact that she did not send for me. I know your +wife's peculiarity too, Mr. Stokes." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I <i>will</i> tell her, sir. It's time to speak my own mind." +</p> + +<p> +"I think so. It was time long ago. When she sends for me, if it be in the +middle of the night, I shall be with her at once." +</p> + +<p> +He left me and I returned to Percivale. +</p> + +<p> +"I was just thinking before you came," I said, "about the relation of +Nature to our inner world. You know I am quite ignorant of your art, but I +often think about the truths that lie at the root of it." +</p> + +<p> +"I am greatly obliged to you," he said, "for talking about these things. I +assure you it is of more service to me than any professional talk. I always +think the professions should not herd together so much as they do; they +want to be shone upon from other quarters." +</p> + +<p> +"I believe we have all to help each other, Percivale. The sun himself could +give us no light that would be of any service to us but for the reflective +power of the airy particles through which he shines. But anything I know I +have found out merely by foraging for my own necessities." +</p> + +<p> +"That is just what makes the result valuable," he replied. "Tell me what +you were thinking." +</p> + +<p> +"I was thinking," I answered, "how everyone likes to see his own thoughts +set outside of him, that he may contemplate them <i>objectively,</i> as the +philosophers call it. He likes to see the other side of them, as it were." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that is, of course, true; else, I suppose, there would be no art at +all." +</p> + +<p> +"Surely. But that is not the aspect in which I was considering the +question. Those who can so set them forth are artists; and however they +may fail of effecting such a representation of their ideas as will satisfy +themselves, they yet experience satisfaction in the measure in which they +have succeeded. But there are many more men who cannot yet utter their +ideas in any form. Mind, I do expect that, if they will only be good, they +shall have this power some day; for I do think that many things we call +differences in kind, may in God's grand scale prove to be only differences +in degree. And indeed the artist—by artist, I mean, of course, architect, +musician, painter, poet, sculptor—in many things requires it just as much +as the most helpless and dumb of his brethren, seeing in proportion to the +things that he can do, he is aware of the things he cannot do, the thoughts +he cannot express. Hence arises the enthusiasm with which people hail the +work of an artist; they rejoice, namely, in seeing their own thoughts, or +feelings, or something like them, expressed; and hence it comes that of +those who have money, some hang their walls with pictures of their own +choice, others—" +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon," said Percivale, interrupting; "but most people, I +fear, hang their walls with pictures of other people's choice, for they +don't buy them at all till the artist has got a name." +</p> + +<p> +"That is true. And yet there is a shadow of choice even there; for they +won't at least buy what they dislike. And again the growth in popularity +may be only what first attracted their attention—not determined their +choice." +</p> + +<p> +"But there are others who only buy them for their value in the market." +</p> + +<p> +"'Of such is not the talk,' as the Germans would say. In as far as your +description applies, such are only tradesmen, and have no claim to be +considered now." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I beg your pardon for interrupting. I am punished more than I +deserve, if you have lost your thread." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think I have. Let me see. Yes. I was saying that people hang +their walls with pictures of their choice; or provide music, &c., of +their choice. Let me keep to the pictures: their choice, consciously or +unconsciously, is determined by some expression that these pictures give +to what is in themselves—the buyers, I mean. They like to see their own +feelings outside of themselves." +</p> + +<p> +"Is there not another possible motive—that the pictures teach them +something?" +</p> + +<p> +"That, I venture to think, shows a higher moral condition than the other, +but still partakes of the other; for it is only what is in us already +that makes us able to lay hold of a lesson. It is there in the germ, else +nothing from without would wake it up." +</p> + +<p> +"I do not quite see what all this has to do with Nature and her +influences." +</p> + +<p> +"One step more, and I shall arrive at it. You will admit that the pictures +and objects of art of all kinds, with which a man adorns the house he has +chosen or built to live in, have thenceforward not a little to do with the +education of his tastes and feelings. Even when he is not aware of it, they +are working upon him,—for good, if he has chosen what is good, which alone +shall be our supposition." +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly; that is clear." +</p> + +<p> +"Now I come to it. God, knowing our needs, built our house for our +needs—not as one man may build for another, but as no man can build for +himself. For our comfort, education, training, he has put into form for us +all the otherwise hidden thoughts and feelings of our heart. Even when he +speaks of the hidden things of the Spirit of God, he uses the forms or +pictures of Nature. The world is, as it were, the human, unseen world +turned inside out, that we may see it. On the walls of the house that he +has built for us, God has hung up the pictures—ever-living, ever-changing +pictures—of all that passes in our souls. Form and colour and motion are +there,—ever-modelling, ever-renewing, never wearying. Without this living +portraiture from within, we should have no word to utter that should +represent a single act of the inner world. Metaphysics could have no +existence, not to speak of poetry, not to speak of the commonest language +of affection. But all is done in such spiritual suggestion, portrait and +definition are so avoided, the whole is in such fluent evanescence, that +the producing mind is only aided, never overwhelmed. It never amounts to +representation. It affords but the material which the thinking, feeling +soul can use, interpret, and apply for its own purposes of speech. It is, +as it were, the forms of thought cast into a lovely chaos by the inferior +laws of matter, thence to be withdrawn by what we call the creative genius +that God has given to men, and moulded, and modelled, and arranged, and +built up to its own shapes and its own purposes." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I presume you would say that no mere transcript, if I may use the +word, of nature is the worthy work of an artist." +</p> + +<p> +"It is an impossibility to make a mere transcript. No man can help seeing +nature as he is himself, for she has all in her; but if he sees no meaning +in especial that he wants to give, his portrait of her will represent only +her dead face, not her living impassioned countenance." +</p> + +<p> +"Then artists ought to interpret nature?" +</p> + +<p> +"Indubitably; but that will only be to interpret themselves—something of +humanity that is theirs, whether they have discovered it already or not. If +to this they can add some teaching for humanity, then indeed they may claim +to belong to the higher order of art, however imperfect they may be in +their powers of representing—however lowly, therefore, their position may +be in that order." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER V. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE SORE SPOT. +</h3> + +<p> +We went on talking for some time. Indeed we talked so long that the +dinner-hour was approaching, when one of the maids came with the message +that Mr. Stokes had called again, wishing to see me. I could not help +smiling inwardly at the news. I went down at once, and found him smiling +too. +</p> + +<p> +"My wife do send me for you this time, sir," he said. "Between you and me, +I cannot help thinking she have something on her mind she wants to tell +you, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Why shouldn't she tell you, Mr. Stokes? That would be most natural. And +then, if you wanted any help about it, why, of course, here I am." +</p> + +<p> +"She don't think well enough of my judgment for that, sir; and I daresay +she be quite right. She always do make me give in before she have done +talking. But she have been a right good wife to me, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps she would have been a better if you hadn't given in quite so much. +It is very wrong to give in when you think you are right." +</p> + +<p> +"But I never be sure of it when she talk to me awhile." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, then I have nothing to say except that you ought to have been +surer—<i>sometimes;</i> I don't say <i>always."</i> +</p> + +<p> +"But she do want you very bad now, sir. I don't think she'll behave to you +as she did before. Do come, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I will—instantly." +</p> + +<p> +I returned to the study, and asked Percivale if he would like to go with +me. He looked, I thought, as if he would rather not. I saw that it was +hardly kind to ask him. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, perhaps it is better not," I said; "for I do not know how long I may +have to be with the poor woman. You had better wait here and take my place +at the dinner-table. I promise not to depose you if I should return before +the meal is over." +</p> + +<p> +He thanked me very heartily. I showed him into the drawing-room, told my +wife where I was going, and not to wait dinner for me—I would take my +chance—and joined Mr. Stokes. +</p> + +<p> +"You have no idea, then," I said, after we had gone about half-way, "what +makes your wife so uneasy?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I haven't," he answered; "except it be," he resumed, "that she was too +hard, as I thought, upon our Mary, when she wanted to marry beneath her, as +wife thought." +</p> + +<p> +"How beneath her? Who was it she wanted to marry?" +</p> + +<p> +"She did marry him, sir. She has a bit of her mother's temper, you see, and +she would take her own way." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, there's a lesson to mothers, is it not? If they want to have their own +way, they mustn't give their own temper to their daughters." +</p> + +<p> +"But how are they to help it, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, how indeed? But what is your daughter's husband?" +</p> + +<p> +"A labourer, sir. He works on a farm out by Carpstone." +</p> + +<p> +"But you have worked on Mr. Barton's farm for many years, if I don't +mistake?" +</p> + +<p> +"I have, sir; but I am a sort of a foreman now, you see." +</p> + +<p> +"But you weren't so always; and your son-in-law, whether he work his way up +or not, is, I presume, much where you were when you married Mrs. Stokes?" +</p> + +<p> +"True as you say, sir; and it's not me that has anything to say about it. I +never gave the man a nay. But you see, my wife, she always do be wanting to +get her head up in the world; and since she took to the shopkeeping—" +</p> + +<p> +"The shopkeeping!" I said, with some surprise; "I didn't know that." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you see, sir, it's only for a quarter or so of the year. You know +it's a favourite walk for the folks as comes here for the bathing—past our +house, to see the great cave down below; and my wife, she got a bit of a +sign put up, and put a few ginger-beer bottles in the window, and—" +</p> + +<p> +"A bad place for the ginger-beer," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"They were only empty ones, with corks and strings, you know, sir. My wife, +she know better than put the ginger-beer its own self in the sun. But I do +think she carry her head higher after that; and a farm-labourer, as they +call them, was none good enough for her daughter." +</p> + +<p> +"And hasn't she been kind to her since she married, then?" +</p> + +<p> +"She's never done her no harm, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"But she hasn't gone to see her very often, or asked her to come and see +you very often, I suppose?" +</p> + +<p> +"There's ne'er a one o' them crossed the door of the other," he answered, +with some evident feeling of his own in the matter. +</p> + +<p> +"Ah; but you don't approve of that yourself, Stokes?" +</p> + +<p> +"Approve of it? No, sir. I be a farm-labourer once myself; and so I do want +to see my own daughter now and then. But she take after her mother, she do. +I don't know which of the two it is as does it, but there's no coming and +going between Carpstone and this." +</p> + +<p> +We were approaching the house. I told Stokes he had better let her know I +was there; for that, if she had changed her mind, it was not too late for +me to go home again without disturbing her. He came back saying she was +still very anxious to see me. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Mrs. Stokes, how do you feel to-day?" I asked, by way of opening the +conversation. "I don't think you look much worse." +</p> + +<p> +"I be much worse, sir. You don't know what I suffer, or you wouldn't make +so little of it. I be very bad." +</p> + +<p> +"I know you are very ill, but I hope you are not too ill to tell me why you +are so anxious to see me. You have got something to tell me, I suppose." +</p> + +<p> +With pale and death-like countenance, she appeared to be fighting more with +herself than with the disease which yet had nearly overcome her. The drops +stood upon her forehead, and she did not speak. Wishing to help her, if I +might, I said— +</p> + +<p> +"Was it about your daughter you wanted to speak to me?" +</p> + +<p> +"No," she muttered. "I have nothing to say about my daughter. She was my +own. I could do as I pleased with her." +</p> + +<p> +I thought with myself, we must have a word about that by and by, but +meantime she must relieve her heart of the one thing whose pressure she +feels. +</p> + +<p> +"Then," I said, "you want to tell me about something that was not your +own?" +</p> + +<p> +"Who said I ever took what was not my own?" she returned fiercely. "Did +Stokes dare to say I took anything that wasn't my own?" +</p> + +<p> +"No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from +your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause of +your misery." +</p> + +<p> +"It is very hard that the parson should think such things," she muttered +again. +</p> + +<p> +"My poor woman," I said, "you sent for me because you had something to +confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to +confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does you +harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, confess +to God." +</p> + +<p> +"God knows it, I suppose, without that." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. How +is he to forgive you, if you won't allow that you have done wrong?" +</p> + +<p> +"It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had +took something that wasn't your own?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I shouldn't like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I +should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it." +</p> + +<p> +"But that's the worst of it; I can't get rid of it." +</p> + +<p> +"But," I said, laying my hand on hers, and trying to speak as kindly as I +could, although her whole behaviour would have been exceedingly repulsive +but for her evidently great suffering, "you have now all but confessed +taking something that did not belong to you. Why don't you summon courage +and tell me all about it? I want to help you out of the trouble as easily +as ever I can; but I can't if you don't tell me what you've got that isn't +yours." +</p> + +<p> +"I haven't got anything," she muttered. +</p> + +<p> +"You had something, then, whatever may have become of it now." +</p> + +<p> +She was again silent. +</p> + +<p> +"What did you do with it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing." +</p> + +<p> +I rose and took up my hat. She stretched out her hand, as if to lay hold of +me, with a cry. +</p> + +<p> +"Stop, stop. I'll tell you all about it. I lost it again. That's the worst +of it. I got no good of it." +</p> + +<p> +"What was it?" +</p> + +<p> +"A sovereign," she said, with a groan. "And now I'm a thief, I suppose." +</p> + +<p> +"No more a thief than you were before. Rather less, I hope. But do you +think it would have been any better for you if you hadn't lost it, and had +got some good of it, as you say?" +</p> + +<p> +She was silent yet again. +</p> + +<p> +"If you hadn't lost it you would most likely have been a great deal worse +for it than you are—a more wicked woman altogether." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not a wicked woman." +</p> + +<p> +"It is wicked to steal, is it not?" +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't steal it." +</p> + +<p> +"How did you come by it, then?" +</p> + +<p> +"I found it." +</p> + +<p> +"Did you try to find out the owner?" +</p> + +<p> +"No. I knew whose it was." +</p> + +<p> +"Then it was very wicked not to return it. And I say again, that if you had +not lost the sovereign you would have been most likely a more wicked woman +than you are." +</p> + +<p> +"It was very hard to lose it. I could have given it back. And then I +wouldn't have lost my character as I have done this day." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, you could; but I doubt if you would." +</p> + +<p> +"I would." +</p> + +<p> +"Now, if you had it, you are sure you would give it back?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, that I would," she said, looking me so full in the face that I was +sure she meant it. +</p> + +<p> +"How would you give it back? Would you get your husband to take it?" +</p> + +<p> +"No; I wouldn't trust him." +</p> + +<p> +"With the story, you mean I You do not wish to imply that he would not +restore it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't mean that. He would do what I told him." +</p> + +<p> +"How would you return it, then?" +</p> + +<p> +"I should make a parcel of it, and send it." +</p> + +<p> +"Without saying anything about it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Where's the good? The man would have his own." +</p> + +<p> +"No, he would not. He has a right to your confession, for you have wronged +him. That would never do." +</p> + +<p> +"You are too hard upon me," she said, beginning to weep angrily. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you want to get the weight of this sin off your mind?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I do. I am going to die. O dear! O dear!" +</p> + +<p> +"Then that is just what I want to help you in. You must confess, or the +weight of it will stick there." +</p> + +<p> +"But, if I confess, I shall be expected to pay it back?" +</p> + +<p> +"Of course. That is only reasonable." +</p> + +<p> +"But I haven't got it, I tell you. I have lost it." +</p> + +<p> +"Have you not a sovereign in your possession?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, not one." +</p> + +<p> +"Can't you ask your husband to let you have one?" +</p> + +<p> +"There! I knew it was no use. I knew you would only make matters worse. I +do wish I had never seen that wicked money." +</p> + +<p> +"You ought not to abuse the money; it was not wicked. You ought to wish +that you had returned it. But that is no use; the thing is to return it +now. Has your husband got a sovereign?" +</p> + +<p> +"No. He may ha' got one since I be laid up. But I never can tell him about +it; and I should be main sorry to spend one of his hard earning in that +way, poor man." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'll tell him, and we'll manage it somehow." +</p> + +<p> +I thought for a few moments she would break out in opposition; but she hid +her face with the sheet instead, and burst into a great weeping. +</p> + +<p> +I took this as a permission to do as I had said, and went to the room-door +and called her husband. He came, looking scared. His wife did not look up, +but lay weeping. I hoped much for her and him too from this humiliation +before him, for I had little doubt she needed it. +</p> + +<p> +"Your wife, poor woman," I said, "is in great distress because—I do not +know when or how—she picked up a sovereign that did not belong to her, +and, instead of returning, put it away somewhere and lost it. This is what +is making her so miserable." +</p> + +<p> +"Deary me!" said Stokes, in the tone with which he would have spoken to a +sick child; and going up to his wife, he sought to draw down the sheet from +her face, apparently that he might kiss her; but she kept tight hold of +it, and he could not. "Deary me!" he went on; "we'll soon put that all to +rights. When was it, Jane, that you found it?" +</p> + +<p> +"When we wanted so to have a pig of our own; and I thought I could soon +return it," she sobbed from under the sheet. +</p> + +<p> +"Deary me! Ten years ago! Where did you find it, old woman?" +</p> + +<p> +"I saw Squire Tresham drop it, as he paid me for some ginger-beer he got +for some ladies that was with him. I do believe I should ha' given it back +at the time; but he made faces at the ginger-beer, and said it was very +nasty; and I thought, well, I would punish him for it." +</p> + +<p> +"You see it was your temper that made a thief of you, then," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"My old man won't be so hard on me as you, sir. I wish I had told him +first." +</p> + +<p> +"I would wish that too," I said, "were it not that I am afraid you might +have persuaded him to be silent about it, and so have made him miserable +and wicked too. But now, Stokes, what is to be done? This money must be +paid. Have you got it?" +</p> + +<p> +The poor man looked blank. +</p> + +<p> +"She will never be at ease till this money is paid," I insisted. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, sir, I ain't got it, but I'll borrow it of someone; I'll go to +master, and ask him." +</p> + +<p> +"No, my good fellow, that won't do. Your master would want to know what +you were going to do with it, perhaps; and we mustn't let more people know +about it than just ourselves and Squire Tresham. There is no occasion for +that. I'll tell you what: I'll give you the money, and you must take it; +or, if you like, I will take it to the squire, and tell him all about it. +Do you authorise me to do this, Mrs. Stokes?" +</p> + +<p> +"Please, sir. It's very kind of you. I will work hard to pay you again, if +it please God to spare me. I am very sorry I was so cross-tempered to you, +sir; but I couldn't bear the disgrace of it." +</p> + +<p> +She said all this from under the bed-clothes. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'll go," I said; "and as soon as I've had my dinner I'll get a +horse and ride over to Squire Tresham's. I'll come back to-night and tell +you about it. And now I hope you will be able to thank God for forgiving +you this sin; but you must not hide and cover it up, but confess it clean +out to him, you know." +</p> + +<p> +She made me no answer, but went on sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +I hastened home, and as I entered sent Walter to ask the loan of a horse +which a gentleman, a neighbour, had placed at my disposal. +</p> + +<p> +When I went into the dining-room, I found that they had not sat down to +dinner. I expostulated: it was against the rule of the house, when my +return was uncertain. +</p> + +<p> +"But, my love," said my wife, "why should you not let us please ourselves +sometimes? Dinner is so much nicer when you are with us." +</p> + +<p> +"I am very glad you think so," I answered. "But there are the children: it +is not good for growing creatures to be kept waiting for their meals." +</p> + +<p> +"You see there are no children; they have had their dinner." +</p> + +<p> +"Always in the right, wife; but there's Mr. Percivale." +</p> + +<p> +"I never dine till seven o'clock, to save daylight," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"Then I am beaten on all points. Let us dine." +</p> + +<p> +During dinner I could scarcely help observing how Percivale's eyes followed +Wynnie, or, rather, every now and then settled down upon her face. That she +was aware, almost conscious of this, I could not doubt. One glance at her +satisfied me of that. But certain words of the apostle kept coming again +and again into my mind; for they were winged words those, and even when +they did not enter they fluttered their wings at my window: "Whatsoever is +not of faith is sin." And I kept reminding myself that I must heave the +load of sin off me, as I had been urging poor Mrs. Stokes to do; for God +was ever seeking to lift it, only he could not without my help, for that +would be to do me more harm than good by taking the one thing in which I +was like him away from me—my action. Therefore I must have faith in +him, and not be afraid; for surely all fear is sin, and one of the most +oppressive sins from which the Lord came to save us. +</p> + +<p> +Before dinner was over the horse was at the door. I mounted, and set out +for Squire Tresham's. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +I found him a rough but kind-hearted elderly man. When I told him the story +of the poor woman's misery, he was quite concerned at her suffering. When I +produced the sovereign he would not receive it at first, but requested me +to take it back to her and say she must keep it by way of an apology for +his rudeness about her ginger-beer; for I took care to tell him the whole +story, thinking it might be a lesson to him too. But I begged him to take +it; for it would, I thought, not only relieve her mind more thoroughly, but +help to keep her from coming to think lightly of the affair afterwards. Of +course I could not tell him that I had advanced the money, for that would +have quite prevented him from receiving it. I then got on my horse again, +and rode straight to the cottage. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, Mrs. Stokes," I said, "it's all over now. That's one good thing +done. How do you feel yourself now?" +</p> + +<p> +"I feel better now, sir. I hope God will forgive me." +</p> + +<p> +"God does forgive you. But there are more things you need forgiveness for. +It is not enough to get rid of one sin. We must get rid of all our sins, +you know. They're not nice things, are they, to keep in our hearts? It is +just like shutting up nasty corrupting things, dead carcasses, under lock +and key, in our most secret drawers, as if they were precious jewels." +</p> + +<p> +"I wish I could be good, like some people, but I wasn't made so. There's my +husband now. I do believe he never do anything wrong in his life. But then, +you see, he would let a child take him in." +</p> + +<p> +"And far better too. Infinitely better to be taken in. Indeed there is no +harm in being taken in; but there is awful harm in taking in." +</p> + +<p> +She did not reply, and I went on: +</p> + +<p> +"I think you would feel a good deal better yet, if you would send for your +daughter and her husband now, and make it up with them, especially seeing +you are so ill." +</p> + +<p> +"I will, sir. I will directly. I'm tired of having my own way. But I was +made so." +</p> + +<p> +"You weren't made to continue so, at all events. God gives us the necessary +strength to resist what is bad in us. He is making at you now; only you +must give in, else he cannot get on with the making of you. I think very +likely he made you ill now, just that you might bethink yourself, and feel +that you had done wrong." +</p> + +<p> +"I have been feeling that for many a year." +</p> + +<p> +"That made it the more needful to make you ill; for you had been feeling +your duty, and yet not doing it; and that was worst of all. You know Jesus +came to lift the weight of our sins, our very sins themselves, off our +hearts, by forgiving them and helping us to cast them away from us. +Everything that makes you uncomfortable must have sin in it somewhere, and +he came to save you from it. Send for your daughter and her husband, and +when you have done that you will think of something else to set right +that's wrong." +</p> + +<p> +"But there would be no end to that way of it, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly not, till everything was put right." +</p> + +<p> +"But a body might have nothing else to do, that way." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, that's the very first thing that has to be done. It is our business +in this world. We were not sent here to have our own way and try to enjoy +ourselves." +</p> + +<p> +"That is hard on a poor woman that has to work for her bread." +</p> + +<p> +"To work for your bread is not to take your own way, for it is God's way. +But you have wanted many things your own way. Now, if you would just take +his way, you would find that he would take care you should enjoy your +life." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sure I haven't had much enjoyment in mine." +</p> + +<p> +"That was just because you would not trust him with his own business, but +must take it into your hands. If you will but do his will, he will take +care that you have a life to be very glad of and very thankful for. And the +longer you live, the more blessed you will find it. But I must leave you +now, for I have talked to you long enough. You must try and get a sleep. I +will come and see you again to-morrow, if you like." +</p> + +<p> +"Please do, sir; I shall be very grateful." +</p> + +<p> +As I rode home I thought, if the lifting of one sin off the human heart was +like a resurrection, what would it be when every sin was lifted from every +heart! Every sin, then, discovered in one's own soul must be a pledge of +renewed bliss in its removing. And when the thought came again of what St. +Paul had said somewhere, "whatsoever is not of faith is sin," I thought +what a weight of sin had to be lifted from the earth, and how blessed it +might be. But what could I do for it? I could just begin with myself, and +pray God for that inward light which is his Spirit, that so I might see him +in everything and rejoice in everything as his gift, and then all things +would be holy, for whatsoever is of faith must be the opposite of sin; and +that was my part towards heaving the weight of sin, which, like myriads +of gravestones, was pressing the life out of us men, off the whole world. +Faith in God is life and righteousness—the faith that trusts so that it +will obey—none other. Lord, lift the people thou hast made into holy +obedience and thanksgiving, that they may be glad in this thy world. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VI. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE GATHERING STORM. +</h3> + +<p> +The weather cleared up again the next day, and for a fortnight it was +lovely. In this region we saw less of the sadness of the dying year than in +our own parish, for there being so few trees in the vicinity of the ocean, +the autumn had nowhere to hang out her mourning flags. But there, indeed, +so mild is the air, and so equable the temperature all the winter through, +compared with the inland counties, that the bitterness of the season is +almost unknown. This, however, is no guarantee against furious storms of +wind and rain. +</p> + +<p> +Not long after the occurrence last recorded, Turner paid us another visit. +I confess I was a little surprised at his being able to get away so soon +again; for of all men a country surgeon can least easily find time for a +holiday; but he had managed it, and I had no doubt, from what I knew of +him, had made thorough provision for his cure in his absence. +</p> + +<p> +He brought us good news from home. Everything was going on well. Weir was +working as hard as usual; and everybody agreed that I could not have got a +man to take my place better. +</p> + +<p> +He said he found Connie much improved; and, from my own observations, I was +sure he was right. She was now able to turn a good way from one side to the +other, and finding her health so steady besides, Turner encouraged her in +making gentle and frequent use of her strength, impressing it upon her, +however, that everything depended on avoiding everything like a jerk or +twist of any sort. I was with them when he said this. She looked up at him +with a happy smile. +</p> + +<p> +"I will do all I can, Mr. Turner," she said, "to get out of people's way as +soon as possible." +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps she saw something in our faces that made her add— +</p> + +<p> +"I know you don't mind the bother I am; but I do. I want to help, and not +be helped—more than other people—as soon as possible. I will therefore be +as gentle as mamma and as brave as papa, and see if we don't get well, Mr. +Turner. I mean to have a ride on old Spry next summer.—I do," she added, +nodding her pretty head up from the pillow, when she saw the glance the +doctor and I exchanged. "Look here," she went on, poking the eider-down +quilt up with her foot. +</p> + +<p> +"Magnificent!" said Turner; "but mind, you must do nothing out of bravado. +That won't do at all." +</p> + +<p> +"I have done," said Connie, putting on a face of mock submission. +</p> + +<p> +That day we carried her out for a few minutes, but hardly laid her down, +for we were afraid of the damp from the earth. A few feet nearer or farther +from the soil will make a difference. It was the last time for many weeks. +Anyone interested in my Connie need not be alarmed: it was only because of +the weather, not because of her health. +</p> + +<p> +One day I was walking home from a visit I had been paying to Mrs. Stokes. +She was much better, in a fair way to recover indeed, and her mental health +was improved as well. Her manner to me was certainly very different, and +the tone of her voice, when she spoke to her husband especially, was +changed: a certain roughness in it was much modified, and I had good +hopes that she had begun to climb up instead of sliding down the hill of +difficulty, as she had been doing hitherto. +</p> + +<p> +It was a cold and gusty afternoon. The sky eastward and overhead was +tolerably clear when I set out from home; but when I left the cottage to +return, I could see that some change was at hand. Shaggy vapours of light +gray were blowing rapidly across the sky from the west. A wind was blowing +fiercely up there, although the gusts down below came from the east. +The clouds it swept along with it were formless, with loose +fringes—disreputable, troubled, hasty clouds they were, looking like +mischief. They reminded me of Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind," in which +he compares the "loose clouds" to hair, and calls them "the locks of the +approaching storm." Away to the west, a great thick curtain of fog, of a +luminous yellow, covered all the sea-horizon, extending north and south as +far as the eye could reach. It looked ominous. A surly secret seemed to +lie in its bosom. Now and then I could discern the dim ghost of a vessel +through it, as tacking for north or south it came near enough to the edge +of the fog to show itself for a few moments, ere it retreated again +into its bosom. There was exhaustion, it seemed to me, in the air, +notwithstanding the coolness of the wind, and I was glad when I found +myself comfortably seated by the drawing-room fire, and saw Wynnie +bestirring herself to make the tea. +</p> + +<p> +"It looks stormy, I think, Wynnie," I said. +</p> + +<p> +Her eye lightened, as she looked out to sea from the window. +</p> + +<p> +"You seem to like the idea of it," I added. +</p> + +<p> +"You told me I was like you, papa; and you look as if you liked the idea of +it too." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Per se</i>, certainly, a storm is pleasant to me. I should not like a world +without storms any more than I should like that Frenchman's idea of the +perfection of the earth, when all was to be smooth as a trim-shaven lawn, +rocks and mountains banished, and the sea breaking on the shore only in +wavelets of ginger-beer or lemonade, I forget which. But the older +you grow, the more sides of a thing will present themselves to your +contemplation. The storm may be grand and exciting in itself, but you +cannot help thinking of the people that are in it. Think for a moment of +the multitude of vessels, great and small, which are gathered within the +skirts of that angry vapour out there. I fear the toils of the storm are +around them. Look at the barometer in the hall, my dear, and tell me what +it says." +</p> + +<p> +She went and returned. +</p> + +<p> +"It was not very low, papa—only at rain; but the moment I touched it, the +hand dropped an inch." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I thought so. All things look stormy. It may not be very bad here, +however." +</p> + +<p> +"That doesn't make much difference though, does it, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"No further than that being creatures in time and space, we must think of +things from our own standpoint." +</p> + +<p> +"But I remember very well how, when we were children, you would not let +nurse teach us Dr. Watts's hymns for children, because you said they tended +to encourage selfishness." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; I remember it very well. Some of them make the contrast between the +misery of others and our own comforts so immediately the apparent—mind, +I only say apparent—ground of thankfulness, that they are not fit for +teaching. I do think that if you could put Dr. Watts to the question, he +would abjure any such intention, saying that only he meant to heighten +the sense of our obligation. But it does tend to selfishness and, what is +worse, self-righteousness, and is very dangerous therefore. What right have +I to thank God that I am not as other men are in anything? I have to thank +God for the good things he has given to me; but how dare I suppose that he +is not doing the same for other people in proportion to their capacity? I +don't like to appear to condemn Dr. Watts's hymns. Certainly he has written +the very worst hymns I know; but he has likewise written the best—for +public worship, I mean." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, but, papa, I have heard you say that any simple feeling that comes +of itself cannot be wrong in itself. If I feel a delight in the idea of a +storm, I cannot help it coming." +</p> + +<p> +"I never said you could, my dear. I only said that as we get older, other +things we did not feel at first come to show themselves more to us, and +impress us more." +</p> + +<p> +Thus my child and I went on, like two pendulums crossing each other in +their swing, trying to reach the same dead beat of mutual intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +"But," said Wynnie, "you say everybody is in God's hands as well as we." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, surely, my dear; as much out in yon stormy haze as here beside the +fire." +</p> + +<p> +"Then we ought not to be miserable about them, even if there comes a storm, +ought we?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, surely. And, besides, I think if we could help any of them, the very +persons that enjoyed the storm the most would be the busiest to rescue them +from it. At least, I fancy so. But isn't the tea ready?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, papa. I'll just go and tell mamma." +</p> + +<p> +When she returned with her mother, and the children had joined us, Wynnie +resumed the talk. +</p> + +<p> +"I know what I am going to say is absurd, papa, and yet I don't see my +way out of it—logically, I suppose you would call it. What is the use of +taking any trouble about them if they are in God's hands? Why should we try +to take them out of God's hands?" +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, Wynnie! at least you do not seek to hide your bad logic, or whatever +you call it. Take them out of God's hands! If you could do that, it would +be perdition indeed. God's hands is the only safe place in the universe; +and the universe is in his hands. Are we not in God's hands on the shore +because we say they are in his hands who go down to the sea in ships? If we +draw them on shore, surely they are not out of God's hands." +</p> + +<p> +"I see—I see. But God could save them without us." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes; but what would become of us then? God is so good to us, that we must +work our little salvation in the earth with him. Just as a father lets his +little child help him a little, that the child may learn to be and to do, +so God puts it in our hearts to save this life to our fellows, because we +would instinctively save it to ourselves, if we could. He requires us to do +our best." +</p> + +<p> +"But God may not mean to save them." +</p> + +<p> +"He may mean them to be drowned—we do not know. But we know that we must +try our little salvation, for it will never interfere with God's great and +good and perfect will. Ours will be foiled if he sees that best." +</p> + +<p> +"But people always say, when anyone escapes unhurt from an accident, 'by +the mercy of God.' They don't say it is by the mercy of God when he is +drowned." +</p> + +<p> +"But <i>people</i> cannot be expected, ought not, to say what they do not feel. +Their own first sensation of deliverance from impending death would break +out in a 'thank God,' and therefore they say it is God's mercy when another +is saved. If they go farther, and refuse to consider it God's mercy when a +man is drowned, that is just the sin of the world—the want of faith. But +the man who creeps out of the drowning, choking billows into the glory of +the new heavens and the new earth—do you think his thanksgiving for the +mercy of God which has delivered him is less than that of the man who +creeps, exhausted and worn, out of the waves on to the dreary, surf-beaten +shore? In nothing do we show less faith than the way in which we think and +speak about death. 'O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy +victory?' says the apostle. 'Here, here, here,' cry the Christian people, +'everywhere. It is an awful sting, a fearful victory. But God keeps it away +from us many a time when we ask him—to let it pierce us to the heart, at +last, to be sure; but that can't be helped.' I mean this is how they feel +in their hearts who do not believe that God is as merciful when he sends +death as when he sends life; who, Christian people as they are, yet look +upon death as an evil thing which cannot be avoided, and would, if they +might live always, be content to live always. Death or Life—each is God's; +for he is not the God of the dead, but of the living: there are no dead, +for all live to him." +</p> + +<p> +"But don't you think we naturally shrink from death, Harry?" said my wife. +</p> + +<p> +"There can be no doubt about that, my dear." +</p> + +<p> +"Then, if it be natural, God must have meant that it should be so." +</p> + +<p> +"Doubtless, to begin with, but not to continue or end with. A child's sole +desire is for food—the very best possible to begin with. But how would it +be if the child should reach, say, two years of age, and refuse to share +this same food with his little brother? Or what comes of the man who never +so far rises above the desire for food that <i>nothing</i> could make him forget +his dinner-hour? Just so the life of Christians should be strong enough to +overcome the fear of death. We ought to love and believe him so much, that +when he says we shall not die, we should at least believe that death must +be something very different from what it looks to us to be—so different, +that what we mean by the word does not apply to the reality at all; and so +Jesus cannot use the word, because it would seem to us that he meant what +we mean by it, which he, seeing it all round, cannot mean." +</p> + +<p> +"That does seem quite reasonable," said Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +Turner had taken no part in the conversation. He, too, had just come in +from a walk over the hills. He was now standing looking out at the sea. +</p> + +<p> +"She looks uneasy, does she not?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"You mean the Atlantic?" he returned, looking round. "Yes, I think so. I am +glad she is not a patient of mine. I fear she is going to be very feverish, +probably delirious before morning. She won't sleep much, and will talk +rather loud when the tide comes in." +</p> + +<p> +"Disease has often an ebb and flow like the tide, has it not?" +</p> + +<p> +"Often. Some diseases are like a plant that has its time to grow and +blossom, then dies; others, as you say, ebb and flow again and again before +they vanish." +</p> + +<p> +"It seems to me, however, that the ebb and flow does not belong to the +disease, but to Nature, which works through the disease. It seems to +me that my life has its tides, just like the ocean, only a little more +regularly. It is high water with me always in the morning and the evening; +in the afternoon life is at its lowest; and I believe it is lowest again +while we sleep, and hence it comes that to work the brain at night has such +an injurious effect on the system. But this is perhaps all a fancy." +</p> + +<p> +"There may be some truth in it. But I was just thinking when you spoke to +me what a happy thing it is that the tide does not vary by an even six +hours, but has the odd minutes; whence we see endless changes in the +relation of the water to the times of the day. And then the spring-tides +and the neap-tides! What a provision there is in the world for change!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. Change is one of the forms that infinitude takes for the use of us +human immortals. But come and have some tea, Turner. You will not care to +go out again. What shall we do this evening? Shall we all go to Connie's +room and have some Shakspere?" +</p> + +<p> +"I could wish nothing better. What play shall we have?" +</p> + +<p> +"Let us have the <i>Midsummer Night's Dream,"</i> said Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +"You like to go by contraries, apparently, Ethel. But you're quite right. +It is in the winter of the year that art must give us its summer. I suspect +that most of the poetry about spring and summer is written in the winter. +It is generally when we do not possess that we lay full value upon what we +lack." +</p> + +<p> +"There is one reason," said Wynnie with a roguish look, "why I like that +play." +</p> + +<p> +"I should think there might be more than one, Wynnie." +</p> + +<p> +"But one reason is enough for a woman at once; isn't it, papa?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not sure of that. But what is your reason?" +</p> + +<p> +"That the fairies are not allowed to play any tricks with the women. <i>They</i> +are true throughout." +</p> + +<p> +"I might choose to say that was because they were not tried." +</p> + +<p> +"And I might venture to answer that Shakspere—being true to nature always, +as you say, papa—knew very well how absurd it would be to represent a +woman's feelings as under the influence of the juice of a paltry flower." +</p> + +<p> +"Capital, Wynnie!" said her mother; and Turner and I chimed in with our +approbation. +</p> + +<p> +"Shall I tell you what I like best in the play?" said Turner. "It is the +common sense of Theseus in accounting for all the bewilderments of the +night." +</p> + +<p> +"But," said Ethelwyn, "he was wrong after all. What is the use of common +sense if it leads you wrong? The common sense of Theseus simply amounted to +this, that he would only believe his own eyes." +</p> + +<p> +"I think Mrs. Walton is right, Turner," I said. "For my part, I have more +admired the open-mindedness of Hippolyta, who would yield more weight +to the consistency of the various testimony than could be altogether +counterbalanced by the negation of her own experience. Now I will tell you +what I most admire in the play: it is the reconciling power of the poet. He +brings together such marvellous contrasts, without a single shock or jar +to your feeling of the artistic harmony of the conjunction. Think for a +moment—the ordinary commonplace courtiers; the lovers, men and women in +the condition of all conditions in which fairy-powers might get a hold of +them; the quarrelling king and queen of Fairyland, with their courtiers, +Blossom, Cobweb, and the rest, and the court-jester, Puck; the ignorant, +clownish artisans, rehearsing their play,—fairies and clowns, lovers and +courtiers, are all mingled in one exquisite harmony, clothed with a night +of early summer, rounded in by the wedding of the king and queen. But I +have talked enough about it. Let us get our books." +</p> + +<p> +As we sat in Connie's room, delighting ourselves with the reflex of +the poet's fancy, the sound of the rising tide kept mingling with the +fairy-talk and the foolish rehearsal. "Musk roses," said Titania; and the +first of the blast, going round by south to west, rattled the window. "Good +hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow," said Bottom; and the roar of the waters +was in our ears. "So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently +entwist," said Titania; and the blast poured the rain in a spout against +the window. "Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells," said +Theseus; and the wind whistled shrill through the chinks of the bark-house +opening from the room. We drew the curtains closer, made up the fire +higher, and read on. It was time for supper ere we had done; and when +we left Connie to have hers and go to sleep, it was with the hope that, +through all the rising storm, she would dream of breeze-haunted summer +woods. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE GATHERED STORM. +</h3> + +<p> +I woke in the middle of the night and the darkness to hear the wind +howling. It was wide awake now, and up with intent. It seized the house, +and shook it furiously; and the rain kept pouring, only I could not hear it +save in the <i>rallentondo</i> passages of the wind; but through all the wind +I could hear the roaring of the big waves on the shore. I did not wake my +wife; but I got up, put on my dressing-gown, and went softly to Connie's +room, to see whether she was awake; for I feared, if she were, she would be +frightened. Wynnie always slept in a little bed in the same room. I opened +the door very gently, and peeped in. The fire was burning, for Wynnie was +an admirable stoker, and could generally keep the fire in all night. I +crept to the bedside: there was just light enough to see that Connie was +fast asleep, and that her dreams were not of storms. It was a marvel how +well the child always slept. But, as I turned to leave the room, Wynnie's +voice called me in a whisper. Approaching her bed, I saw her wide eyes, +like the eyes of the darkness, for I could scarcely see anything of her +face. +</p> + +<p> +"Awake, darling?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, papa. I have been awake a long time; but isn't Connie sleeping +delightfully? She does sleep so well! Sleep is surely very good for her." +</p> + +<p> +"It is the best thing for us all, next to God's spirit, I sometimes think, +my dear. But are you frightened by the storm? Is that what keeps you +awake?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think that is what keeps me awake; but sometimes the house shakes +so that I do feel a little nervous. I don't know how it is. I never felt +afraid of anything natural before." +</p> + +<p> +"What our Lord said about not being afraid of anything that could only hurt +the body applies here, and in all the terrors of the night. Think about +him, dear." +</p> + +<p> +"I do try, papa. Don't you stop; you will get cold. It is a dreadful storm, +is it not? Suppose there should be people drowning out there now!" +</p> + +<p> +"There may be, my love. People are dying almost every other moment, I +suppose, on the face of the earth. Drowning is only an easy way of dying. +Mind, they are all in God's hands." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, papa. I will turn round and shut my eyes, and fancy that his hand is +over them, making them dark with his care." +</p> + +<p> +"And it will not be fancy, my darling, if you do. You remember those +odd but no less devout lines of George Herbert? Just after he says, so +beautifully, 'And now with darkness closest weary eyes,' he adds: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Thus in thy ebony box<br /> + Thou dost enclose us, till the day<br /> + Put our amendment in our way,<br /> + And give new wheels to our disordered clocks."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +"He is very fond of boxes, by the way. So go to sleep, dear. You are a good +clock of God's making; but you want new wheels, according to our beloved +brother George Herbert. Therefore sleep. Good-night." +</p> + +<p> +This was tiresome talk—was it—in the middle of the night, reader? Well, +but my child did not think so, I know. +</p> + +<p> +Dark, dank, weeping, the morning dawned. All dreary was the earth and sky. +The wind was still hunting the clouds across the heavens. It lulled a +little while we sat at breakfast, but soon the storm was up again, and +the wind raved. I went out. The wind caught me as if with invisible human +hands, and shook me. I fought with it, and made my way into the village. +The streets were deserted. I peeped up the inn-yard as I passed: not a man +or horse was to be seen. The little shops looked as if nobody had crossed +their thresholds for a week. Not a door was open. One child came out of the +baker's with a big loaf in her apron. The wind threatened to blow the hair +off her head, if not herself first into the canal. I took her by the hand +and led her, or rather, let her lead me home, while I kept her from being +carried away by the wind. Having landed her safely inside her mother's +door, I went on, climbed the heights above the village, and looked abroad +over the Atlantic. What a waste of aimless tossing to and fro! Gray mist +above, full of falling rain; gray, wrathful waters underneath, foaming and +bursting as billow broke upon billow. The tide was ebbing now, but almost +every other wave swept the breakwater. They burst on the rocks at the end +of it, and rushed in shattered spouts and clouds of spray far into the air +over their heads. "Will the time ever come," I thought, "when man shall +be able to store up even this force for his own ends? Who can tell?" The +solitary form of a man stood at some distance gazing, as I was gazing, out +on the ocean. I walked towards him, thinking with myself who it could be +that loved Nature so well that he did not shrink from her even in her most +uncompanionable moods. I suspected, and soon found I was right; it was +Percivale. +</p> + +<p> +"What a clashing of water-drops!" I said, thinking of a line somewhere in +Coleridge's Remorse. "They are but water-drops, after all, that make this +great noise upon the rocks; only there is a great many of them." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Percivale. "But look out yonder. You see a single sail, +close-reefed—that is all I can see—away in the mist there? As soon as you +think of the human struggle with the elements, as soon as you know that +hearts are in the midst of it, it is a clashing of water-drops no more. It +is an awful power, with which the will and all that it rules have to fight +for the mastery, or at least for freedom." +</p> + +<p> +"Surely you are right. It is the presence of thought, feeling, effort that +gives the majesty to everything. It is even a dim attribution of human +feelings to this tormented, passionate sea that gives it much of its awe; +although, as we were saying the other day, it is only <i>a picture</i> of the +troubled mind. But as I have now seen how matters are with the elements, +and have had a good pluvial bath as well, I think I will go home and change +my clothes." +</p> + +<p> +"I have hardly had enough of it yet," returned Percivale. "I shall have a +stroll along the heights here, and when the tide has fallen a little way +from the foot of the cliffs I shall go down on the sands and watch awhile +there." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you're a younger man than I am; but I've seen the day, as Lear says. +What an odd tendency we old men have to boast of the past: we would be +judged by the past, not by the present. We always speak of the strength +that is withered and gone, as if we had some claim upon it still. But I am +not going to talk in this storm. I am always talking." +</p> + +<p> +"I will go with you as far as the village, and then I will turn and take my +way along the downs for a mile or two; I don't mind being wet." +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't once." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you think," resumed Percivale, "that in some sense the old man—not +that I can allow <i>you</i> that dignity yet, Mr. Walton—has a right to regard +the past as his own?" +</p> + +<p> +"That would be scanned," I answered, as we walked towards the village. +"Surely the results of the past are the man's own. Any action of the man's, +upon which the life in him reposes, remains his. But suppose a man had done +a good deed once, and instead of making that a foundation upon which to +build more good, grew so vain of it that he became incapable of doing +anything more of the same sort, you could not say that the action belonged +to him still. Therein he has severed his connection with the past. Again, +what has never in any deep sense been a man's own, cannot surely continue +to be his afterwards. Thus the things that a man has merely possessed once, +the very people who most admired him for their sakes when he had them, +give him no credit for after he has lost them. Riches that have taken +to themselves wings leave with the poor man only a surpassing poverty. +Strength, likewise, which can so little depend on any exercise of the will +in man, passes from him with the years. It was not his all the time; it was +but lent him, and had nothing to do with his inward force. A bodily feeble +man may put forth a mighty life-strength in effort, and show nothing to the +eyes of his neighbour; while the strong man gains endless admiration for +what he could hardly help. But the effort of the one remains, for it was +his own; the strength of the other passes from him, for it was never his +own. So with beauty, which the commonest woman acknowledges never to have +been hers in seeking to restore it by deception. So, likewise, in a great +measure with intellect." +</p> + +<p> +"But if you take away intellect as well, what do you leave a man that can +in any way be called his own?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly his intellect is not his own. One thing only is his own—to will +the truth. This, too, is as much God's gift as everything else: I ought to +say is more God's gift than anything else, for he gives it to be the man's +own more than anything else can be. And when he wills the truth, he has +God himself. Man <i>can</i> possess God: all other things follow as necessary +results. What poor creatures we should have been if God had not made us to +do something—to look heavenwards—to lift up the hands that hang down, and +strengthen the feeble knees! Something like this was in the mind of the +prophet Jeremiah when he said, 'Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wise man +glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might, let not +the rich man glory in his riches; but let him that glorieth glory in this, +that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise +loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth: for in these +things I delight, saith the Lord.' My own conviction is, that a vague sense +of a far higher life in ourselves than we yet know anything about is at the +root of all our false efforts to be able to think something of ourselves. +We cannot commend ourselves, and therefore we set about priding ourselves. +We have little or no strength of mind, faculty of operation, or worth of +will, and therefore we talk of our strength of body, worship the riches +we have, or have not, it is all one, and boast of our paltry intellectual +successes. The man most ambitious of being considered a universal genius +must at last confess himself a conceited dabbler, and be ready to part with +all he knows for one glimpse more of that understanding of God which the +wise men of old held to be essential to every man, but which the growing +luminaries of the present day will not allow to be even possible for any +man." +</p> + +<p> +We had reached the brow of the heights, and here we parted. A fierce blast +of wind rushed at me, and I hastened down the hill. How dreary the streets +did look!—how much more dreary than the stormy down! I saw no living +creature as I returned but a terribly draggled dog, a cat that seemed to +have a bad conscience, and a lovely little girl-face, which, forgetful of +its own rights, would flatten the tip of the nose belonging to it against a +window-pane. Every rain-pool was a mimic sea, and had a mimic storm within +its own narrow bounds. The water went hurrying down the kennels like a long +brown snake anxious to get to its hole and hide from the tormenting wind, +and every now and then the rain came in full rout before the conquering +blast. +</p> + +<p> +When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw that +she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of the conch +against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was sitting +staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she could see +over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately looked. Her +face was paler and keener than usual. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?" +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He says I +am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as I like." +</p> + +<p> +"But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?" +</p> + +<p> +"It's only the storm, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so." +</p> + +<p> +"It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is going +to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow." +</p> + +<p> +"You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The storm was +raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its reach—fast +asleep. Now it is too much for you. You must lie down." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, papa." +</p> + +<p> +I lowered the support, and when I returned from changing my wet garments +she was already looking much better. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner I went to my study, but when evening began to fall I went out +again. I wanted to see how our next neighbours, the sexton and his wife, +were faring. The wind had already increased in violence. It threatened to +blow a hurricane. The tide was again rising, and was coming in with great +rapidity. The old mill shook to the foundation as I passed through it to +reach the lower part where they lived. When I peeped in from the bottom +of the stair, I saw no one; but, hearing the steps of someone overhead, I +called out. +</p> + +<p> +Agnes's voice made answer, as she descended an inner stair which led to the +bedrooms above— +</p> + +<p> +"Mother's gone to church, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Gone to church!" I said, a vague pang darting through me as I thought +whether I had forgotten any service; but the next moment I recalled what +the old woman had herself told me of her preference for the church during a +storm. +</p> + +<p> +"O yes, Agnes, I remember!" I said; "your mother thinks the weather bad +enough to take to the church, does she? How do you come to be here now? +Where is your husband?" +</p> + +<p> +"He'll be here in an hour or so, sir. He don't mind the wet. You see, we +don't like the old people to be left alone when it blows what the sailors +call 'great guns.'" +</p> + +<p> +"And what becomes of his mother then?" +</p> + +<p> +"There don't be any sea out there, sir. Leastways," she added with a quiet +smile, and stopped. +</p> + +<p> +"You mean, I suppose, Agnes, that there is never any perturbation of the +elements out there?" +</p> + +<p> +She laughed; for she understood me well enough. The temper of Joe's mother +was proverbial. +</p> + +<p> +"But really, sir," she said, "she don't mind the weather a bit; and though +we don't live in the same cottage with her, for Joe wouldn't hear of that, +we see her far oftener than we see my mother, you know." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sure it's quite fair, Agnes. Is Joe very sorry that he married you, +now?" +</p> + +<p> +She hung her head, and blushed so deeply through all her sallow complexion, +that I was sorry I had teased her, and said so. This brought a reply. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think he be, sir. I do think he gets better. He's been working +very hard the last week or two, and he says it agrees with him." +</p> + +<p> +"And how are you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Quite well, thank you, sir." +</p> + +<p> +I had never seen her look half so well. Life was evidently a very different +thing to both of them now. I left her, and took my way to the church. +</p> + +<p> +When I reached the churchyard, there, in the middle of the rain and the +gathering darkness, was the old man busy with the duties of his calling. A +certain headstone stood right under a drip from the roof of the southern +transept; and this drip had caused the mould at the foot of the stone, on +the side next the wall, to sink, so that there was a considerable crack +between the stone and the soil. The old man had cut some sod from another +part of the churchyard, and was now standing, with the rain pouring on him +from the roof, beating this sod down in the crack. He was sheltered from +the wind by the church, but he was as wet as he could be. I may mention +that he never appeared in the least disconcerted when I came upon him in +the discharge of his functions: he was so content with his own feeling in +the matter, that no difference of opinion could disturb him. +</p> + +<p> +"This will never do, Coombes," I said. "You will get your death of cold. +You must be as full of water as a sponge. Old man, there's rheumatism in +the world!" +</p> + +<p> +"It be only my work, sir. But I believe I ha' done now for a night. I think +he'll be a bit more comfortable now. The very wind could get at him through +that hole." +</p> + +<p> +"Do go home, then," I said, "and change your clothes. Is your wife in the +church?" +</p> + +<p> +"She be, sir. This door, sir—this door," he added, as he saw me going +round to the usual entrance. "You'll find her in there." +</p> + +<p> +I lifted the great latch and entered. I could not see her at first, for it +was much darker inside the church. It felt very quiet in there somehow, +although the place was full of the noise of winds and waters. Mrs. Coombes +was not sitting on the bell-keys, where I looked for her first, for the +wind blew down the tower in many currents and draughts—how it did roar up +there—as if the louvres had been a windsail to catch the wind and send +it down to ventilate the church!—she was sitting at the foot of the +chancel-rail, with her stocking as usual. +</p> + +<p> +The sight of her sweet old face, lighted up by a moonlike smile as I drew +near her, in the middle of the ancient dusk filled with sounds, but only +sounds of tempest, gave me a sense of one dwelling in the secret place of +the Most High, such as I shall never forget. It was no time to say much, +however. +</p> + +<p> +"How long do you mean to stay here, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. "Not all +night?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, not all night, surely, sir. But I hadn't thought o' going yet for a +bit." +</p> + +<p> +"Why there's Coombes out there, wet to the skin; and I'm afraid he'll go on +pottering at the churchyard bed-clothes till he gets his bones as full of +rheumatism as they can hold." +</p> + +<p> +"Deary me! I didn't know as my old man was there. He tould me he had them +all comforble for the winter a week ago. But to be sure there's always some +mendin' to do." +</p> + +<p> +I heard the voice of Joe outside, and the next moment he came into the +church. After speaking to me, he turned to Mrs. Coombes. +</p> + +<p> +"You be comin' home with me, mother. This will never do. Father's as wet as +a mop. I ha' brought something for your supper, and Aggy's a-cookin' of it; +and we're going to be comfortable over the fire, and have a chapter or two +of the New Testament to keep down the noise of the sea. There! Come along." +</p> + +<p> +The old woman drew her cloak over her head, put her knitting carefully in +her pocket, and stood aside for me to lead the way. +</p> + +<p> +"No, no," I said; "I'm the shepherd and you're the sheep, so I'll drive you +before me—at least, you and Coombes. Joe here will be offended if I take +on me to say I am <i>his</i> shepherd." +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"Nay, nay, don't say that, sir. You've been a good shepherd to me when I +was a very sulky sheep. But if you'll please to go, sir, I'll lock the door +behind; for you know in them parts the shepherd goes first and the sheep +follow the shepherd. And I'll follow like a good sheep," he added, +laughing. +</p> + +<p> +"You're right, Joe," I said, and took the lead without more ado. +</p> + +<p> +I was struck by his saying <i>them parts</i>, which seemed to indicate a habit +of pondering on the places as well as circumstances of the gospel-story. +The sexton joined us at the door, and we all walked to his cottage, Joe +taking care of his mother-in-law and I taking what care I could of Coombes +by carrying his tools for him. But as we went I feared I had done ill in +that, for the wind blew so fiercely that I thought the thin feeble little +man would have got on better if he had been more heavily weighted against +it. But I made him take a hold of my arm, and so we got in. The old man +took his tools from me and set them down in the mill, for the roof of which +I felt some anxiety as we passed through, so full of wind was the whole +space. But when we opened the inner door the welcome of a glowing fire +burst up the stair as if that had been a well of warmth and light below. I +went down with them. Coombes departed to change his clothes, and the rest +of us stood round the fire, where Agnes was busy cooking something like +white puddings for their supper. +</p> + +<p> +"Did you hear, sir," said Joe, "that the coastguard is off to the +Goose-pot? There's a vessel ashore there, they say. I met them on the road +with the rocket-cart." +</p> + +<p> +"How far off is that, Joe?" +</p> + +<p> +"Some five or six miles, I suppose, along the coast nor'ards." +</p> + +<p> +"What sort of a vessel is she?" +</p> + +<p> +"That I don't know. Some say she be a schooner, others a brigantine. The +coast-guard didn't know themselves." +</p> + +<p> +"Poor things!" said Mrs. Coombes. "If any of them comes ashore, they'll be +sadly knocked to pieces on the rocks in a night like this." +</p> + +<p> +She had caught a little infection of her husband's mode of thought. +</p> + +<p> +"It's not likely to clear up before morning, I fear; is it, Joe?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't think so, sir. There's no likelihood." +</p> + +<p> +"Will you condescend to sit down and take a share with us, sir?" said the +old woman. +</p> + +<p> +"There would be no condescension in that, Mrs. Coombes. I will another time +with all my heart; but in such a night I ought to be at home with my own +people. They will be more uneasy if I am away." +</p> + +<p> +"Of coorse, of coorse, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"So I'll bid you good-night. I wish this storm were well over." +</p> + +<p> +I buttoned my great-coat, pulled my hat down on my head, and set out. It +was getting on for high water. The night was growing very dark. There would +be a moon some time, but the clouds were so dense she could not do much +while they came between. The roaring of the waves on the shore was +terrible; all I could see of them now was the whiteness of their breaking, +but they filled the earth and the air with their furious noises. The wind +roared from the sea; two oceans were breaking on the land, only to the one +had been set a hitherto—to the other none. Ere the night was far gone, +however, I had begun to doubt whether the ocean itself had not broken its +bars. +</p> + +<p> +I found the whole household full of the storm. The children kept pressing +their faces to the windows, trying to pierce, as by force of will, through +the darkness, and discover what the wild thing out there was doing. They +could see nothing: all was one mass of blackness and dismay, with a soul in +it of ceaseless roaring. I ran up to Connie's room, and found that she was +left alone. She looked restless, pale, and frightened. The house quivered, +and still the wind howled and whistled through the adjoining bark-hut. +</p> + +<p> +"Connie, darling, have they left you alone?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Only for a few minutes, papa. I don't mind it." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't be frightened at the storm, my dear. He who could walk on the sea +of Galilee, and still the storm of that little pool, can rule the Atlantic +just as well. Jeremiah says he 'divideth the sea when the waves thereof +roar.'" +</p> + +<p> +The same moment Dora came running into the room. +</p> + +<p> +"Papa," she cried, "the spray—such a lot of it—came dashing on the +windows in the dining-room. Will it break them?" +</p> + +<p> +"I hope not, my dear. Just stay with Connie while I run down." +</p> + +<p> +"O, papa! I do want to see." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you want to see, Dora?" +</p> + +<p> +"The storm, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"It is as black as pitch. You can't see anything." +</p> + +<p> +"O, but I want to—to—be beside it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you sha'n't stay with Connie, if you are not willing. Go along. Ask +Wynnie to come here." +</p> + +<p> +The child was so possessed by the commotion without that she did not +seem even to see my rebuke, not to say feel it. She ran off, and Wynnie +presently came. I left her with Connie, put on a long waterproof cloak, +and went down to the dining-room. A door led from it immediately on to the +little green in front of the house, between it and the sea. The dining-room +was dark, for they had put out the lights that they might see better from +the windows. The children and some of the servants were there looking out. +I opened the door cautiously. It needed the strength of two of the women +to shut it behind me. The moment I opened it a great sheet of spray rushed +over me. I went down the little grassy slope. The rain had ceased, and it +was not quite so dark as I had expected. I could see the gleaming whiteness +all before me. The next moment a wave rolled over the low wall in front of +me, breaking on it and wrapping me round in a sheet of water. Something +hurt me sharply on the leg; and I found, on searching, that one of the +large flat stones that lay for coping on the top of the wall was on the +grass beside me. If it had struck me straight, it must have broken my leg. +</p> + +<p> +There came a little lull in the wind, and just as I turned to go into the +house again, I thought I heard a gun. I stood and listened, but heard +nothing more, and fancied I must have been mistaken. I returned and tapped +at the door; but I had to knock loudly before they heard me within. When I +went up to the drawing-room, I found that Percivale had joined our party. +He and Turner were talking together at one of the windows. +</p> + +<p> +"Did you hear a gun?" I asked them. +</p> + +<p> +"No. Was there one?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not sure. I half-fancied I heard one, but no other followed. There +will be a good many fired to-night, though, along this awful coast." +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose they keep the life-boat always ready," said Turner. +</p> + +<p> +"No life-boat even, I fear, would live in such a sea," I said, remembering +what the officer of the coast-guard had told me. +</p> + +<p> +"They would try, though, I suppose," said Turner. +</p> + +<p> +"I do not know," said Percivale. "I don't know the people. But I have seen +a life-boat out in as bad a night—whether in as bad a sea, I cannot tell: +that depends on the coast, I suppose." +</p> + +<p> +We went on chatting for some time, wondering how the coast-guard had fared +with the vessel ashore at the Goose-pot. Wynnie joined us. +</p> + +<p> +"How is Connie, now, my dear?" +</p> + +<p> +"Very restless and excited, papa. I came down to say, that if Mr. Turner +didn't mind, I wish he would go up and see her." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course—instantly," said Turner, and moved to follow Winnie. +</p> + +<p> +But the same moment, as if it had been beside us in the room, so clear, so +shrill was it, we heard Connie's voice shrieking, "Papa, papa! There's a +great ship ashore down there. Come, come!" +</p> + +<p> +Turner and I rushed from the room in fear and dismay. "How? What? Where +could the voice come from?" was the unformed movement of our thoughts. But +the moment we left the drawing-room the thing was clear, though not the +less marvellous and alarming. We forgot all about the ship, and thought +only of our Connie. So much does the near hide the greater that is afar! +Connie kept on calling, and her voice guided our eyes. +</p> + +<p> +A little stair led immediately from this floor up to the bark-hut, so that +it might be reached without passing through the bedroom. The door at the +top of it was open. The door that led from Connie's room into the bark-hut +was likewise open, and light shone through it into the place—enough to +show a figure standing by the furthest window with face pressed against the +glass. And from this figure came the cry, "Papa, papa! Quick, quick! The +waves will knock her to pieces!" +</p> + +<p> +In very truth it was Connie standing there. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE SHIPWRECK. +</h3> + +<p> +Things that happen altogether have to be told one after the other. Turner +and I both rushed at the narrow stair. There was not room for more than one +upon it. I was first, but stumbled on the lowest step and fell. Turner +put his foot on my back, jumped over me, sprang up the stair, and when I +reached the top of it after him, he was meeting me with Connie in his arms, +carrying her back to her room. But the girl kept crying—"Papa, papa, the +ship, the ship!" +</p> + +<p> +My duty woke in me. Turner could attend to Connie far better than I could. +I made one spring to the window. The moon was not to be seen, but the +clouds were thinner, and light enough was soaking through them to show a +wave-tormented mass some little way out in the bay; and in that one moment +in which I stood looking, a shriek pierced the howling of the wind, cutting +through it like a knife. I rushed bare-headed from the house. When or +how the resolve was born in me I do not know, but I flew straight to the +sexton's, snatched the key from the wall, crying only "ship ashore!" and +rushed to the church. +</p> + +<p> +I remember my hand trembled so that I could hardly get the key into the +lock. I made myself quieter, opened the door, and feeling my way to the +tower, knelt before the keys of the bell-hammers, opened the chest, and +struck them wildly, fiercely. An awful jangling, out of tune and harsh, +burst into monstrous being in the storm-vexed air. Music itself was +untuned, corrupted, and returning to chaos. I struck and struck at the +keys. I knew nothing of their normal use. Noise, outcry, <i>reveillé</i> was all +I meant. +</p> + +<p> +In a few minutes I heard voices and footsteps. From some parts of the +village, out of sight of the shore, men and women gathered to the summons. +Through the door of the church, which I had left open, came voices in +hurried question. "Ship ashore!" was all I could answer, for what was to be +done I was helpless to think. +</p> + +<p> +I wondered that so few appeared at the cry of the bells. After those first +nobody came for what seemed a long time. I believe, however, I was beating +the alarum for only a few minutes altogether, though when I look back upon +the time in the dark church, it looks like half-an-hour at least. But +indeed I feel so confused about all the doings of that night that in +attempting to describe them in order, I feel as if I were walking in a +dream. Still, from comparing mine with the recollected impressions of +others, I think I am able to give a tolerably correct result. Most of the +incidents seem burnt into my memory so that nothing could destroy the depth +of the impression; but the order in which they took place is none the less +doubtful. +</p> + +<p> +A hand was laid on my shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +"Who is there?" I said; for it was far too dark to know anyone. +</p> + +<p> +"Percivale. What is to be done? The coastguard is away. Nobody seems to +know about anything. It is of no use to go on ringing more. Everybody is +out, even to the maid-servants. Come down to the shore, and you will see." +</p> + +<p> +"But is there not the life-boat?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nobody seems to know anything about it, except 'it's no manner of use to +go trying of that with such a sea on.'" +</p> + +<p> +"But there must be someone in command of it," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," returned Percivale; "but there doesn't seem to be one of the crew +amongst the crowd. All the sailor-like fellows are going about with their +hands in their pockets." +</p> + +<p> +"Let us make haste, then," I said; "perhaps we can find out. Are you sure +the coastguard have nothing to do with the life-boat?" +</p> + +<p> +"I believe not. They have enough to do with their rockets." +</p> + +<p> +"I remember now that Roxton told me he had far more confidence in his +rockets than in anything a life-boat could do, upon this coast at least." +</p> + +<p> +While we spoke we came to the bank of the canal. This we had to cross, in +order to reach that part of the shore opposite which the wreck lay. To my +surprise the canal itself was in a storm, heaving and tossing and dashing +over its banks. +</p> + +<p> +"Percivale," I exclaimed, "the gates are gone; the sea has torn them away." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I suppose so. Would God I could get half-a-dozen men to help me. I +have been doing what I could; but I have no influence amongst them." +</p> + +<p> +"What do you mean?" I asked. "What could you do if you had a thousand men +at your command?" +</p> + +<p> +He made me no answer for a few moments, during which we were hurrying on +for the bridge over the canal. Then he said: +</p> + +<p> +"They regard me only as a meddling stranger, I suppose; for I have been +able to get no useful answer. They are all excited; but nobody is doing +anything." +</p> + +<p> +"They must know about it a great deal better than we," I returned; "and we +must take care not to do them the injustice of supposing they are not ready +to do all that can be done." +</p> + +<p> +Percivale was silent yet again. +</p> + +<p> +The record of our conversation looks as quiet on the paper as if we had +been talking in a curtained room; but all the time the ocean was raving in +my very ear, and the awful tragedy was going on in the dark behind us. The +wind was almost as loud as ever, but the rain had quite ceased, and when we +reached the bridge the moon shone out white, as if aghast at what she had +at length succeeded in pushing the clouds aside that she might see. Awe +and helplessness oppressed us. Having crossed the canal, we turned to the +shore. There was little of it left; for the waves had rushed up almost to +the village. The sand and the roads, every garden wall, every window that +looked seaward was crowded with gazers. But it was a wonderfully quiet +crowd, or seemed so at least; for the noise of the wind and the waves +filled the whole vault, and what was spoken was heard only in the ear to +which it was spoken. When we came amongst them we heard only a murmur as of +more articulated confusion. One turn, and we saw the centre of strife and +anxiety—the heart of the storm that filled heaven and earth, upon which +all the blasts and the billows broke and raved. +</p> + +<p> +Out there in the moonlight lay a mass of something whose place was +discernible by the flashing of the waves as they burst over it. She was far +above low-water mark—lay nearer the village by a furlong than the spot +where we had taken our last dinner on the shore. It was strange to think +that yesterday the spot lay bare to human feet, where now so many men and +women were isolated in a howling waste of angry waters; for the cry of +women came plainly to our ears, and we were helpless to save them. It was +terrible to have to do nothing. Percivale went about hurriedly, talking to +this one and that one, as if he still thought something might be done. He +turned to me. +</p> + +<p> +"Do try, Mr. Walton, and find out for me where the captain of the life-boat +is." +</p> + +<p> +I turned to a sailor-like man who stood at my elbow and asked him. +</p> + +<p> +"It's no use, I assure you, sir," he answered; "no boat could live in such +a sea. It would be throwing away the men's lives." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know where the captain lives?" Percivale asked. +</p> + +<p> +"If I did, I tell you it is of no use." +</p> + +<p> +"Are you the captain yourself?" returned Percivale. +</p> + +<p> +"What is that to you?" he answered, surly now. "I know my own business." +</p> + +<p> +The same moment several of the crowd nearest the edge of the water made a +simultaneous rush into the surf, and laid hold of something, which, as they +returned drawing it to the shore, I saw to be a human form. It was the body +of a woman—alive or dead I could not tell. I could just see the long hair +hanging from the head, which itself hung backward helplessly as they bore +her up the bank. I saw, too, a white face, and I can recall no more. +</p> + +<p> +"Run, Percivale," I said, "and fetch Turner. She may not be dead yet." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't," answered Percivale. "You had better go yourself, Mr. Walton." +</p> + +<p> +He spoke hurriedly. I saw he must have some reason for answering me so +abruptly. He was talking to a young fellow whom I recognised as one of the +most dissolute in the village; and just as I turned to go they walked away +together. +</p> + +<p> +I sped home as fast as I could. It was easier to get along now that the +moon shone. I found that Turner had given Connie a composing draught, and +that he had good hopes she would at least be nothing the worse for the +marvellous result of her excitement. She was asleep exhausted, and her +mother was watching by her side. It, seemed strange that she could sleep; +but Turner said it was the safest reaction, partly, however, occasioned by +what he had given her. In her sleep she kept on talking about the ship. +</p> + +<p> +We hurried back to see if anything could be done for the woman. As we went +up the side of the canal we perceived a dark body meeting us. The clouds +had again obscured, though not quite hidden the moon, and we could not at +first make out what it was. When we came nearer it showed itself a body +of men hauling something along. Yes, it was the life-boat, afloat on the +troubled waves of the canal, each man seated in his own place, his hands +quiet upon his oar, his cork-jacket braced about him, his feet out before +him, ready to pull the moment they should pass beyond the broken gates of +the lock out on the awful tossing of the waves. They sat very silent, and +the men on the path towed them swiftly along. The moon uncovered her face +for a moment, and shone upon the faces of two of the rowers. +</p> + +<p> +"Percivale! Joe!" I cried. +</p> + +<p> +"All right, sir!" said Joe. +</p> + +<p> +"Does your wife know of it, Joe?" I almost gasped. +</p> + +<p> +"To be sure," answered Joe. "It's the first chance I've had of returning +thanks for her. Please God, I shall see her again to-night." +</p> + +<p> +"That's good, Joe. Trust in God, my men, whether you sink or swim." +</p> + +<p> +"Ay, ay, sir!" they answered as one man. +</p> + +<p> +"This is your doing, Percivale," I said, turning and walking alongside of +the boat for a little way. +</p> + +<p> +"It's more Jim Allen's," said Percivale. "If I hadn't got a hold of him I +couldn't have done anything." +</p> + +<p> +"God bless you, Jim Allen!" I said. "You'll be a better man after this, I +think." +</p> + +<p> +"Donnow, sir," returned Jim cheerily. "It's harder work than pulling an +oar." +</p> + +<p> +The captain himself was on board. Percivale having persuaded Jim Allen, the +two had gone about in the crowd seeking proselytes. In a wonderfully short +space they had found almost all the crew, each fresh one picking up another +or more; till at length the captain, protesting against the folly of it, +gave in, and once having yielded, was, like a true Englishman, as much in +earnest as any of them. The places of two who were missing were supplied by +Percivale and Joe, the latter of whom would listen to no remonstrance. +</p> + +<p> +"I've nothing to lose," Percivale had said. "You have a young wife, Joe." +</p> + +<p> +"I've everything to win," Joe had returned. "The only thing that makes me +feel a bit faint-hearted over it, is that I'm afraid it's not my duty that +drives me to it, but the praise of men, leastways of a woman. What would +Aggy think of me if I was to let them drown out there and go to my bed and +sleep? I must go." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, Joe," returned Percivale, "I daresay you are right. You can +row, of course?" +</p> + +<p> +"I can row hard, and do as I'm told," said Joe. +</p> + +<p> +"All right," said Percivale; "come along." +</p> + +<p> +This I heard afterwards. We were now hurrying against the wind towards the +mouth of the canal, some twenty men hauling on the tow-rope. The critical +moment would be in the clearing of the gates, I thought, some parts of +which might remain swinging; but they encountered no difficulty there, as +I heard afterwards. For I remembered that this was not my post, and turned +again to follow the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +"God bless you, my men!" I said, and left them. +</p> + +<p> +They gave a great hurrah, and sped on to meet their fate. I found Turner in +the little public-house, whither they had carried the body. The woman was +quite dead. +</p> + +<p> +"I fear it is an emigrant vessel," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"Why do you think so?" I asked, in some consternation. +</p> + +<p> +"Come and look at the body," he said. +</p> + +<p> +It was that of a woman about twenty, tall, and finely formed. The face was +very handsome, but it did not need the evidence of the hands to prove that +she was one of our sisters who have to labour for their bread. +</p> + +<p> +"What should such a girl be doing on board ship but going out to America or +Australia—to her lover, perhaps," said Turner. "You see she has a locket +on her neck; I hope nobody will dare to take it off. Some of these people +are not far derived from those who thought a wreck a Godsend." +</p> + +<p> +A sound of many feet was at the door just as we turned to leave the house. +They were bringing another body—that of an elderly woman—dead, quite +dead. Turner had ceased examining her, and we were going out together, +when, through all the tumult of the wind and waves, a fierce hiss, +vindictive, wrathful, tore the air over our heads. Far up, seawards, +something like a fiery snake shot from the high ground on the right side of +the bay, over the vessel, and into the water beyond it. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank God! that's the coastguard," I cried. +</p> + +<p> +We rushed through the village, and up on the heights, where they had +planted their apparatus. A little crowd surrounded them. How dismal the sea +looked in the struggling moonlight! I felt as if I were wandering in the +mazes of an evil dream. But when I approached the cliff, and saw down below +the great mass, of the vessel's hulk, with the waves breaking every moment +upon her side, I felt the reality awful indeed. Now and then there would +come a kind of lull in the wild sequence of rolling waters, and then I +fancied for a moment that I saw how she rocked on the bottom. Her masts had +all gone by the board, and a perfect chaos of cordage floated and swung in +the waves that broke over her. But her bowsprit remained entire, and shot +out into the foamy dark, crowded with human beings. The first rocket +had missed. They were preparing to fire another. Roxton stood with his +telescope in his hand, ready to watch the result. +</p> + +<p> +"This is a terrible job, sir," he said when I approached him; "I doubt if +we shall save one of them." +</p> + +<p> +"There's the life-boat!" I cried, as a dark spot appeared on the waters +approaching the vessel from the other side. +</p> + +<p> +"The life-boat!" he returned with contempt. "You don't mean to say they've +got <i>her</i> out! She'll only add to the mischief. We'll have to save her +too." +</p> + +<p> +She was still some way from the vessel, and in comparatively smooth water. +But between her and the hull the sea raved in madness; the billows rode +over each other, in pursuit, as it seemed, of some invisible prey. Another +hiss, as of concentrated hatred, and the second rocket was shooting its +parabola through the dusky air. Roxton raised his telescope to his eye the +same moment. +</p> + +<p> +"Over her starn!" he cried. "There's a fellow getting down from the +cat-head to run aft.—Stop, stop!" he shouted involuntarily. "There's an +awful wave on your quarter." +</p> + +<p> +His voice was swallowed in the roaring of the storm. I fancied I could +distinguish a dark something shoot from the bows towards the stern. But the +huge wave fell upon the wreck. The same moment Roxton exclaimed—so coolly +as to amaze me, forgetting how men must come to regard familiar things +without discomposure— +</p> + +<p> +"He's gone! I said so. The next'll have better luck, I hope." +</p> + +<p> +That man came ashore alive, though. +</p> + +<p> +All were forward of the foremast. The bowsprit, when I looked through +Roxton's telescope, was shapeless as with a swarm of bees. Now and then a +single shriek rose upon the wild air. But now my attention was fixed on the +life-boat. She had got into the wildest of the broken water; at one +moment she was down in a huge cleft, the next balanced like a beam on the +knife-edge of a wave, tossed about hither and thither, as if the waves +delighted in mocking the rudder; but hitherto she had shipped no water. I +am here drawing upon the information I have since received; but I did +see how a huge wave, following close upon the back of that on which she +floated, rushed, towered up over her, toppled, and fell upon the life-boat +with tons of water: the moon was shining brightly enough to show this with +tolerable distinctness. The boat vanished. The next moment, there she was, +floating helplessly about, like a living thing stunned by the blow of the +falling wave. The struggle was over. As far as I could see, every man was +in his place; but the boat drifted away before the storm shore-wards, and +the men let her drift. Were they all killed as they sat? I thought of my +Wynnie, and turned to Roxton. +</p> + +<p> +"That wave has done for them," he said. "I told you it was no use. There +they go." +</p> + +<p> +"But what is the matter?" I asked. "The men are sitting every man in his +place." +</p> + +<p> +"I think so," he answered. "Two were swept overboard, but they caught the +ropes and got in again. But don't you see they have no oars?" +</p> + +<p> +That wave had broken every one of them off at the rowlocks, and now they +were as helpless as a sponge. +</p> + +<p> +I turned and ran. Before I reached the brow of the hill another rocket was +fired and fell wide shorewards, partly because the wind blew with fresh +fury at the very moment. I heard Roxton say—"She's breaking up. It's no +use. That last did for her;" but I hurried off for the other side of the +bay, to see what became of the life-boat. I heard a great cry from the +vessel as I reached the brow of the hill, and turned for a parting glance. +The dark mass had vanished, and the waves were rushing at will over the +space. When I got to the shore the crowd was less. Many were running, like +myself, towards the other side, anxious about the life-boat. I hastened +after them; for Percivale and Joe filled my heart. +</p> + +<p> +They led the way to the little beach in front of the parsonage. It would +be well for the crew if they were driven ashore there, for it was the only +spot where they could escape being dashed on rocks. +</p> + +<p> +There was a crowd before the garden-wall, a bustle, and great confusion of +speech. The people, men and women, boys and girls, were all gathered about +the crew of the life-boat,—which already lay, as if it knew of nothing but +repose, on the grass within. +</p> + +<p> +"Percivale!" I cried, making my way through the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer. +</p> + +<p> +"Joe Harper!" I cried again, searching with eager eyes amongst the crew, to +whom everybody was talking. +</p> + +<p> +Still there was no answer; and from the disjointed phrases I heard, I could +gather nothing. All at once I saw Wynnie looking over the wall, despair in +her face, her wide eyes searching wildly through the crowd. I could not +look at her till I knew the worst. The captain was talking to old Coombes. +I went up to him. As soon as he saw me, he gave me his attention. +</p> + +<p> +"Where is Mr. Percivale?" I asked, with all the calmness I could assume. +</p> + +<p> +He took me by the arm, and drew me out of the crowd, nearer to the waves, +and a little nearer to the mouth of the canal. The tide had fallen +considerably, else there would not have been standing-room, narrow as it +was, which the people now occupied. He pointed in the direction of the +Castle-rock. +</p> + +<p> +"If you mean the stranger gentleman—" +</p> + +<p> +"And Joe Harper, the blacksmith," I interposed. +</p> + +<p> +"They're there, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"You don't mean those two—just those two—are drowned?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir; I don't say that; but God knows they have little chance." +</p> + +<p> +I could not help thinking that God might know they were not in the smallest +danger. But I only begged him to tell me where they were. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you see that schooner there, just between you and the Castle-rock?" +</p> + +<p> +"No," I answered; "I can see nothing. Stay. I fancy I can. But I am always +ready to fancy I see a thing when I am told it is there. I can't say I see +it." +</p> + +<p> +"I can, though. The gentleman you mean, and Joe Harper too, are, I believe, +on board of that schooner." +</p> + +<p> +"Is she aground?" +</p> + +<p> +"O dear no, sir. She's a light craft, and can swim there well enough. If +she'd been aground, she'd ha' been ashore in pieces hours ago. But whether +she'll ride it out, God only knows, as I said afore." +</p> + +<p> +"How ever did they get aboard of her? I never saw her from the heights +opposite." +</p> + +<p> +"You were all taken up by the ship ashore, you see, sir. And she don't make +much show in this light. But there she is, and they're aboard of her. And +this is how it was." +</p> + +<p> +He went on to give me his part of the story; but I will now give the whole +of it myself, as I have gathered and pieced it together. +</p> + +<p> +Two men had been swept overboard, as Roxton said—one of them was +Percivale—but they had both got on board again, to drift, oarless, with +the rest—now in a windless valley—now aloft on a tempest-swept hill of +water—away towards a goal they knew not, neither had chosen, and which yet +they could by no means avoid. +</p> + +<p> +A little out of the full force of the current, and not far from the channel +of the small stream, which, when the tide was out, flowed across the sands +nearly from the canal gates to the Castle-rock, lay a little schooner, +belonging to a neighbouring port, Boscastle, I think, which, caught in +the storm, had been driven into the bay when it was almost dark, some +considerable time before the great ship. The master, however, knew the +ground well. The current carried him a little out of the wind, and would +have thrown him upon the rocks next, but he managed to drop anchor just in +time, and the cable held; and there the little schooner hung in the skirts +of the storm, with the jagged teeth of the rocks within an arrow flight. In +the excitement of the great wreck, no one had observed the danger of the +little coasting bird. If the cable held till the tide went down, and the +anchor did not drag, she would be safe; if not, she must be dashed to +pieces. +</p> + +<p> +In the schooner were two men and a boy: two men had been washed overboard +an hour or so before they reached the bay. When they had dropped their +anchor, they lay down exhausted on the deck. Indeed they were so worn out +that they had been unable to drop their sheet anchor, and were holding on +only by their best bower. Had they not been a good deal out of the wind, +this would have been useless. Even if it held she was in danger of having +her bottom stove in by bumping against the sands as the tide went out. But +that they had not to think of yet. The moment they lay down they fell +fast asleep in the middle of the storm. While they slept it increased in +violence. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly one of them awoke, and thought he saw a vision of angels. For over +his head faces looked down upon him from the air—that is, from the top of +a great wave. The same moment he heard a voice, two of the angels dropped +on the deck beside him, and the rest vanished. Those angels were Percivale +and Joe. And angels they were, for they came just in time, as all angels +do—never a moment too soon or a moment too late: the schooner <i>was</i> +dragging her anchor. This was soon plain even to the less experienced eyes +of the said angels. +</p> + +<p> +But it did not take them many minutes now to drop their strongest anchor, +and they were soon riding in perfect safety for some time to come. +</p> + +<p> +One of the two men was the son of old Coombes, the sexton, who was engaged +to marry the girl I have spoken of in the end of the fourth chapter in the +second volume. +</p> + +<p> +Percivale's account of the matter, as far as he was concerned, was, that as +they drifted helplessly along, he suddenly saw from the top of a huge wave +the little vessel below him. They were, in fact, almost upon the rigging. +The wave on which they rode swept the quarter-deck of the schooner. +</p> + +<p> +Percivale says the captain of the lifeboat called out "Aboard!" The captain +said he remembered nothing of the sort. If he did, he must have meant +it for the men on the schooner to get on board the lifeboat. Percivale, +however, who had a most chivalrous (ought I not to say Christian?) notion +of obedience, fancying the captain meant them to board the schooner, sprang +at her fore-shrouds. Thereupon the wave sweeping them along the schooner's +side, Joe sprang at the main-shrouds, and they dropped on the deck +together. +</p> + +<p> +But although my reader is at ease about their fate, we who were in the +affair were anything but easy at the time corresponding to this point of +the narrative. It was a terrible night we passed through. +</p> + +<p> +When I returned, which was almost instantly, for I could do nothing by +staring out in the direction of the schooner, I found that the crowd was +nearly gone. One little group alone remained behind, the centre of which +was a woman. Wynnie had disappeared. The woman who remained behind was +Agnes Harper. +</p> + +<p> +The moon shone out clear as I approached the group; indeed, the clouds were +breaking-up and drifting away off the heavens. The storm had raved out its +business, and was departing into the past. +</p> + +<p> +"Agnes," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir," she answered, and looked up as if waiting for a command. There +was no colour in her cheeks or in her lips—at least it seemed so in the +moonlight—only in her eyes. But she was perfectly calm. She was leaning +against the low wall, with her hands clasped, but hanging quietly down +before her. +</p> + +<p> +"The storm is breaking-up, Agnes," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir," she answered in the same still tone. Then, after just a +moment's pause, she spoke out of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +"Joe's at his duty, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +I have given the utterance a point of interrogation; whether she meant that +point I am not quite sure. +</p> + +<p> +"Indubitably," I returned. "I have such faith in Joe, that I should be sure +of that in any case. At all events, he's not taking care of his own life. +And if one is to go wrong, I would ten thousand times rather err on that +side. But I am sure Joe has been doing right, and nothing else." +</p> + +<p> +"Then there's nothing to be said, sir, is there?" she returned, with a sigh +that sounded as of relief. +</p> + +<p> +I presume some of the surrounding condolers had been giving her Job's +comfort by blaming her husband. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you remember, Agnes, what the Lord said to his mother when she +reproached him with having left her and his father?" +</p> + +<p> +"I can't remember anything at this moment, sir," was her touching answer. +</p> + +<p> +"Then I will tell you. He said, 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know +that I must be about something my Father had given me to do?' Now, Joe was +and is about his Father's business, and you must not be anxious about him. +There could be no better reason for not being anxious." +</p> + +<p> +Agnes was a very quiet woman. When without a word she took my hand and +kissed it, I felt what a depth there was in the feeling she could not +utter. I did not withdraw my hand, for I knew that would be to rebuke her +love for Joe. +</p> + +<p> +"Will you come in and wait?" I said indefinitely. +</p> + +<p> +"No, thank you, sir. I must go to my mother. God will look after Joe, won't +he, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"As sure as there is a God, Agnes," I said; and she went away without +another word. +</p> + +<p> +I put my hand on the top of the wall and jumped over. I started back with +terror, for I had almost alighted on the body of a woman lying there. The +first insane suggestion was that it had been cast ashore; but the next +moment I knew that it was my own Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +She had not even fainted. She was lying with her handkerchief stuffed into +her mouth to keep her from screaming. When I uttered her name she rose, +and, without looking at me, walked away towards the house. I followed. She +went straight to her own room and shut the door. I went to find her mother. +She was with Connie, who was now awake, lying pale and frightened. I told +Ethelwyn that Percivale and Joe were on board the little schooner, which +was holding on by her anchor, that Wynnie was in terror about Percivale, +that I had found her lying on the wet grass, and that she must get her into +a warm bath and to bed. We went together to her room. +</p> + +<p> +She was standing in the middle of the floor, with her hands pressed against +her temples. +</p> + +<p> +"Wynnie," I said, "our friends are not drowned. I think you will see them +quite safe in the morning. Pray to God for them." +</p> + +<p> +She did not hear a word. +</p> + +<p> +"Leave her with me," said Ethelwyn, proceeding to undress her; "and tell +nurse to bring up the large bath. There is plenty of hot water in the +boiler. I gave orders to that effect, not knowing what might happen." +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie shuddered as her mother said this; but I waited no longer, for when +Ethelwyn spoke everyone felt her authority. I obeyed her, and then went to +Connie's room. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you mind being left alone a little while?" I asked her. +</p> + +<p> +"No, papa; only—are they all drowned?" she said with a shudder. +</p> + +<p> +"I hope not, my dear; but be sure of the mercy of God, whatever you fear. +You must rest in him, my love; for he is life, and will conquer death both +in the soul and in the body." +</p> + +<p> +"I was not thinking of myself, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"I know that, my dear. But God is thinking of you and every creature that +he has made. And for our sakes you must be quiet in heart, that you may get +better, and be able to help us." +</p> + +<p> +"I will try, papa," she said; and, turning slowly on her side, she lay +quite still. +</p> + +<p> +Dora and the boys were all fast asleep, for it was very late. I cannot, +however, say what hour it was. +</p> + +<p> +Telling nurse to be on the watch because Connie was alone, I went again to +the beach. I called first, however, to inquire after Agnes. I found her +quite composed, sitting with her parents by the fire, none of them doing +anything, scarcely speaking, only listening intently to the sounds of the +storm now beginning to die away. +</p> + +<p> +I next went to the place where I had left Turner. Five bodies lay there, +and he was busy with a sixth. The surgeon of the place was with him, and +they quite expected to recover this man. +</p> + +<p> +I then went down to the sands. An officer of the revenue was taking charge +of all that came ashore—chests, and bales, and everything. For a week the +sea went on casting out the fragments of that which she had destroyed. I +have heard that, for years after, the shifting of the sands would now and +then discover things buried that night by the waves. +</p> + +<p> +All the next day the bodies kept coming ashore, some peaceful as in sleep, +others broken and mutilated. Many were cast upon other parts of the coast. +Some four or five only, all men, were recovered. It was strange to me how +I got used to it. The first horror over, the cry that yet another body had +come awoke only a gentle pity—no more dismay or shuddering. But, finding +I could be of no use, I did not wait longer than just till the morning +began to dawn with a pale ghastly light over the seething raging sea; for +the sea raged on, although the wind had gone down. There were many strong +men about, with two surgeons and all the coastguard, who were well +accustomed to similar though not such extensive destruction. The houses +along the shore were at the disposal of any who wanted aid; the Parsonage +was at some distance; and I confess that when I thought of the state of my +daughters, as well as remembered former influences upon my wife, I was very +glad to think there was no necessity for carrying thither any of those whom +the waves cast on the shore. +</p> + +<p> +When I reached home, and found Wynnie quieter and Connie again asleep, I +walked out along our own downs till I came whence I could see the little +schooner still safe at anchor. From her position I concluded—correctly as +I found afterwards—that they had let out her cable far enough to allow her +to reach the bed of the little stream, where the tide would leave her more +gently. She was clearly out of all danger now; and if Percivale and Joe had +got safe on board of her, we might confidently expect to see them before +many hours were passed. I went home with the good news. +</p> + +<p> +For a few moments I doubted whether I should tell Wynnie, for I could not +know with any certainty that Percivale was in the schooner. But presently I +recalled former conclusions to the effect that we have no right to modify +God's facts for fear of what may be to come. A little hope founded on a +present appearance, even if that hope should never be realised, may be the +very means of enabling a soul to bear the weight of a sorrow past the point +at which it would otherwise break down. I would therefore tell Wynnie, and +let her share my expectation of deliverance. +</p> + +<p> +I think she had been half-asleep, for when I entered her room she started +up in a sitting posture, looking wild, and putting her hands to her head. +</p> + +<p> +"I have brought you good news, Wynnie," I said. "I have been out on the +downs, and there is light enough now to see that the little schooner is +quite safe." +</p> + +<p> +"What schooner?" she asked listlessly, and lay down again, her eyes still +staring, awfully unappeased. +</p> + +<p> +"Why the schooner they say Percivale got on board." +</p> + +<p> +"He isn't drowned then!" she cried with a choking voice, and put her hands +to her face and burst into tears and sobs. +</p> + +<p> +"Wynnie," I said, "look what your faithlessness brings upon you. Everybody +but you has known all night that Percivale and Joe Harper are probably +quite safe. They may be ashore in a couple of hours." +</p> + +<p> +"But you don't know it. He may be drowned yet." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course there is room for doubt, but none for despair. See what a poor +helpless creature hopelessness makes you." +</p> + +<p> +"But how can I help it, papa?" she asked piteously. "I am made so." +</p> + +<p> +But as she spoke the dawn was clear upon the height of her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +"You are not made yet, as I am always telling you; and God has ordained +that you shall have a hand in your own making. You have to consent, to +desire that what you know for a fault shall be set right by his loving will +and spirit." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know God, papa." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, my dear, that is where it all lies. You do not know him, or you would +never be without hope." +</p> + +<p> +"But what am I to do to know him!" she asked, rising on her elbow. +</p> + +<p> +The saving power of hope was already working in her. She was once more +turning her face towards the Life. +</p> + +<p> +"Read as you have never read before about Christ Jesus, my love. Read with +the express object of finding out what God is like, that you may know him +and may trust him. And now give yourself to him, and he will give you +sleep." +</p> + +<p> +"What are we to do," I said to my wife, "if Percivale continue silent? For +even if he be in love with her, I doubt if he will speak." +</p> + +<p> +"We must leave all that, Harry," she answered. +</p> + +<p> +She was turning on myself the counsel I had been giving Wynnie. It is +strange how easily we can tell our brother what he ought to do, and yet, +when the case comes to be our own, do precisely as we had rebuked him for +doing. I lay down and fell fast asleep. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER IX. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE FUNERAL. +</h3> + +<p> +It was a lovely morning when I woke once more. The sun was flashing back +from the sea, which was still tossing, but no longer furiously, only as if +it wanted to turn itself every way to flash the sunlight about. The madness +of the night was over and gone; the light was abroad, and the world was +rejoicing. When I reached the drawing-room, which afforded the best outlook +over the shore, there was the schooner lying dry on the sands, her two +cables and anchors stretching out yards behind her; but half way between +the two sides of the bay rose a mass of something shapeless, drifted over +with sand. It was all that remained together of the great ship that had the +day before swept over the waters like a live thing with wings—of all the +works of man's hands the nearest to the shape and sign of life. The wind +had ceased altogether, only now and then a little breeze arose which +murmured "I am very sorry," and lay down again. And I knew that in the +houses on the shore dead men and women were lying. +</p> + +<p> +I went down to the dining-room. The three children were busy at their +breakfast, but neither wife, daughter, nor visitor had yet appeared. I made +a hurried meal, and was just rising to go and inquire further into the +events of the night, when the door opened, and in walked Percivale, looking +very solemn, but in perfect health and well-being. I grasped his hand +warmly. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank God," I said, "that you are returned to us, Percivale." +</p> + +<p> +"I doubt if that is much to give thanks for," he said. +</p> + +<p> +"We are the judges of that," I rejoined. "Tell me all about it." +</p> + +<p> +While he was narrating the events I have already communicated, Wynnie +entered. She started, turned pale and then very red, and for a moment +hesitated in the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +"Here is another to rejoice at your safety, Percivale," I said. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon he stepped forward to meet her, and she gave him her hand with an +emotion so evident that I felt a little distressed—why, I could not easily +have told, for she looked most charming in the act,—more lovely than I had +ever seen her. Her beauty was unconsciously praising God, and her heart +would soon praise him too. But Percivale was a modest man, and I think +attributed her emotion to the fact that he had been in danger in the way of +duty,—a fact sufficient to move the heart of any good woman. +</p> + +<p> +She sat down and began to busy herself with the teapot. Her hand trembled. +I requested Percivale to begin his story once more; and he evidently +enjoyed recounting to her the adventures of the night. +</p> + +<p> +I asked him to sit down and have a second breakfast while I went into the +village, whereto he seemed nothing loth. +</p> + +<p> +As I crossed the floor of the old mill to see how Joe was, the head of +the sexton appeared emerging from it. He looked full of weighty solemn +business. Bidding me good-morning, he turned to the corner where his tools +lay, and proceeded to shoulder spade and pickaxe. +</p> + +<p> +"Ah, Coombes! you'll want them," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"A good many o' my people be come all at once, you see, sir," he returned. +"I shall have enough ado to make 'em all comfortable like." +</p> + +<p> +"But you must get help, you know; you can never make them all comfortable +yourself alone." +</p> + +<p> +"We'll see what I can do," he returned. "I ben't a bit willin' to let no +one do my work for me, I do assure you, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"How many are there wanting your services?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"There be fifteen of them now, and there be more, I don't doubt, on the +way." +</p> + +<p> +"But you won't think of making separate graves for them all," I said. "They +died together: let them lie together." +</p> + +<p> +The old man set down his tools, and looked me in the face with indignation. +The face was so honest and old, that, without feeling I had deserved it, I +yet felt the rebuke. +</p> + +<p> +"How would you like, sir," he said, at length, "to be put in the same bed +with a lot of people you didn't know nothing about?" +</p> + +<p> +I knew the old man's way, and that any argument which denied the premiss +of his peculiar fancy was worse than thrown away upon him. I therefore +ventured no farther than to say that I had heard death was a leveller. +</p> + +<p> +"That be very true; and, mayhap, they mightn't think of it after they'd +been down awhile—six weeks, mayhap, or so. But anyhow, it can't be +comfortable for 'em, poor things. One on 'em be a baby: I daresay he'd +rather lie with his mother. The doctor he say one o' the women be a mother. +I don't know," he went on reflectively, "whether she be the baby's own +mother, but I daresay neither o' them 'll mind it if I take it for granted, +and lay 'em down together. So that's one bed less." +</p> + +<p> +One thing was clear, that the old man could not dig fourteen graves within +the needful time. But I would not interfere with his office in the church, +having no reason to doubt that he would perform its duties to perfection. +He shouldered his tools again and walked out. I descended the stair, +thinking to see Joe; but there was no one there but the old woman. +</p> + +<p> +"Where are Joe and Agnes?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"You see, sir, Joe had promised a little job of work to be ready to-day, +and so he couldn't stop. He did say Agnes needn't go with him; but she +thought she couldn't part with him so soon, you see, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"She had received him from the dead—raised to life again," I said; "it was +most natural. But what a fine fellow Joe is; nothing will make him neglect +his work!" +</p> + +<p> +"I tried to get him to stop, sir, saying he had done quite enough last +night for all next day; but he told me it was his business to get the tire +put on Farmer Wheatstone's cart-wheel to-day just as much as it was his +business to go in the life-boat yesterday. So he would go, and Aggy +wouldn't stay behind." +</p> + +<p> +"Fine fellow, Joe!" I said, and took my leave. +</p> + +<p> +As I drew near the village, I heard the sound of hammering and sawing, and +apparently everything at once in the way of joinery; they were making the +coffins in the joiners' shops, of which there were two in the place. +</p> + +<p> +I do not like coffins. They seem to me relics of barbarism. If I had my +way, I would have the old thing decently wound in a fair linen cloth, and +so laid in the bosom of the earth, whence it was taken. I would have it +vanish, not merely from the world of vision, but from the world of form, as +soon as may be. The embrace of the fine life-hoarding, life-giving mould, +seems to me comforting, in the vague, foolish fancy that will sometimes +emerge from the froth of reverie—I mean, of subdued consciousness +remaining in the outworn frame. But the coffin is altogether and vilely +repellent. Of this, however, enough, I hate even the shadow of sentiment, +though some of my readers, who may not yet have learned to distinguish +between sentiment and feeling, may wonder how I dare to utter such a +barbarism. +</p> + +<p> +I went to the house of the county magistrate hard by, for I thought +something might have to be done in which I had a share. I found that he had +sent a notice of the loss of the vessel to the Liverpool papers, requesting +those who might wish to identify or claim any of the bodies to appear +within four days at Kilkhaven. +</p> + +<p> +This threw the last upon Saturday, and before the end of the week it was +clear that they must not remain above ground over Sunday. I therefore +arranged that they should be buried late on the Saturday night. +</p> + +<p> +On the Friday morning, a young woman and an old man, unknown to each other, +arrived by the coach from Barnstaple. They had come to see the last of +their friends in this world; to look, if they might, at the shadow left +behind by the departing soul. For as the shadow of any object remains a +moment upon the magic curtain of the eye after the object itself has gone, +so the shadow of the soul, namely, the body, lingers a moment upon the +earth after the object itself has gone to the "high countries." It was +well to see with what a sober sorrow the dignified little old man bore his +grief. It was as if he felt that the loss of his son was only for a moment. +But the young woman had taken on the hue of the corpse she came to seek. +Her eyes were sunken as if with the weight of the light she cared not for, +and her cheeks had already pined away as if to be ready for the grave. A +being thus emptied of its glory seized and possessed my thoughts. She never +even told us whom she came seeking, and after one involuntary question, +which simply received no answer, I was very careful not even to approach +another. I do not think the form she sought was there; and she may have +gone home with the lingering hope to cast the gray aurora of a doubtful +dawn over her coming days, that, after all, that one had escaped. +</p> + +<p> +On the Friday afternoon, with the approbation of the magistrate, I had +all the bodies removed to the church. Some in their coffins, others on +stretchers, they were laid in front of the communion-rail. In the evening +these two went to see them. I took care to be present. The old man soon +found his son. I was at his elbow as he walked between the rows of the +dead. He turned to me and said quietly— +</p> + +<p> +"That's him, sir. He was a good lad. God rest his soul. He's with his +mother; and if I'm sorry, she's glad." +</p> + +<p> +With that he smiled, or tried to smile. I could only lay my hand on his +arm, to let him know that I understood him, and was with him. He walked +out of the church, sat down, upon a stone, and stared at the mould of a +new-made grave in front of him. What was passing behind those eyes God only +knew—certainly the man himself did not know. Our lightest thoughts are of +more awful significance than the most serious of us can imagine. +</p> + +<p> +For the young woman, I thought she left the church with a little light in +her eyes; but she had said nothing. Alas! that the body was not there could +no more justify her than Milton in letting her +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "frail thoughts dally with false surmise."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +With him, too, she might well add— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +But God had them in his teaching, and all I could do was to ask them to be +my guests till the funeral and the following Sunday were over. To this +they kindly consented, and I took them to my wife, who received them like +herself, and had in a few minutes made them at home with her, to which no +doubt their sorrow tended, for that brings out the relations of humanity +and destroys its distinctions. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning a Scotchman of a very decided type, originally from +Aberdeen, but resident in Liverpool, appeared, seeking the form of his +daughter. I had arranged that whoever came should be brought to me first. I +went with him to the church. He was a tall, gaunt, bony man, with long arms +and huge hands, a rugged granite-like face, and a slow ponderous utterance, +which I had some difficulty in understanding. He treated the object of his +visit with a certain hardness, and at the same time lightness, which also I +had some difficulty in understanding. +</p> + +<p> +"You want to see the—" I said, and hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +"Ow ay—the boadies," he answered. "She winna be there, I daursay, but I +wad jist like to see; for I wadna like her to be beeried gin sae be 'at she +was there, wi'oot biddin' her good-bye like." +</p> + +<p> +When we reached the church, I opened the door and entered. An awe fell upon +me fresh and new. The beautiful church had become a tomb: solemn, grand, +ancient, it rose as a memorial of the dead who lay in peace before her +altar-rail, as if they had fled thither for sanctuary from a sea of +troubles. And I thought with myself, Will the time ever come when the +churches shall stand as the tombs of holy things that have passed away, +when Christ shall have rendered up the kingdom to his Father, and no man +shall need to teach his neighbour or his brother, saying, "Know the Lord"? +The thought passed through my mind and vanished, as I led my companion up +to the dead. He glanced at one and another, and passed on. He had looked +at ten or twelve ere he stopped, gazing on the face of the beautiful form +which had first come ashore. He stooped and stroked the white cheeks, +taking the head in his great rough hands, and smoothed the brown hair +tenderly, saying, as if he had quite forgotten that she was dead— +</p> + +<p> +"Eh, Maggie! hoo cam <i>ye</i> here, lass?" +</p> + +<p> +Then, as if for the first time the reality had grown comprehensible, he put +his hands before his face, and burst into tears. His huge frame was shaken +with sobs for one long minute, while I stood looking on with awe and +reverence. He ceased suddenly, pulled a blue cotton handkerchief with +yellow spots on it—I see it now—from his pocket, rubbed his face with +it as if drying it with a towel, put it back, turned, and said, without +looking at me, "I'll awa' hame." +</p> + +<p> +"Wouldn't you like a piece of her hair?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Gin ye please," he answered gently, as if his daughter's form had been +mine now, and her hair were mine to give. +</p> + +<p> +By the vestry door sat Mrs. Coombes, watching the dead, with her sweet +solemn smile, and her constant ministration of knitting. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you got a pair of scissors there, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, to be sure, sir," she answered, rising, and lifting a huge pair by +the string suspending them from her waist. +</p> + +<p> +"Cut off a nice piece of this beautiful hair," I said. +</p> + +<p> +She lifted the lovely head, chose, and cut off a long piece, and handed it +respectfully to the father. +</p> + +<p> +He took it without a word, sat down on the step before the communion-rail, +and began to smooth out the wonderful sleave of dusky gold. It was, indeed, +beautiful hair. As he drew it out, I thought it must be a yard long. He +passed his big fingers through and through it, but tenderly, as if it had +been still growing on the live lovely head, stopping every moment to pick +out the bits of sea-weed and shells, and shake out the sand that had been +wrought into its mass. He sat thus for nearly half-an-hour, and we stood +looking on with something closely akin to awe. At length he folded it up, +drew from his pocket an old black leather book, laid it carefully in the +innermost pocket, and rose. I led the way from the church, and he followed +me. +</p> + +<p> +Outside the church, he laid his hand on my arm, and said, groping with his +other hand in his trousers-pocket— +</p> + +<p> +"She'll hae putten ye to some expense—for the coffin an' sic like." +</p> + +<p> +"We'll talk about that afterwards," I answered. "Come home with me now, and +have some refreshment." +</p> + +<p> +"Na, I thank ye. I hae putten ye to eneuch o' tribble already. I'll jist +awa' hame." +</p> + +<p> +"We are going to lay them down this evening. You won't go before the +funeral. Indeed, I think you can't get away till Monday morning. My wife +and I will be glad of your company till then." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm no company for gentle-fowk, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"Come and show me in which of these graves you would like to have her +laid," I said. +</p> + +<p> +He yielded and followed me. +</p> + +<p> +Coombes had not dug many spadefuls before he saw what had been plain +enough—that ten such men as he could not dig the graves in time. But there +was plenty of help to be had from the village and the neighbouring farms. +Most of them were now ready, but a good many men were still at work. The +brown hillocks lay all about the church-yard—the mole-heaps of burrowing +Death. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger looked around him. His face grew critical. He stepped a little +hither and thither. At length he turned to me and said— +</p> + +<p> +"I wadna like to be greedy; but gin ye wad lat her lie next the kirk +there—i' that neuk, I wad tak' it kindly. And syne gin ever it cam' aboot +that I cam' here again, I wad ken whaur she was. Could ye get a sma' bit +heidstane putten up? I wad leave the siller wi' ye to pay for't." +</p> + +<p> +"To be sure I can. What will you have put on the stone?" +</p> + +<p> +"Ow jist—let me see—Maggie Jamieson—nae Marget, but jist Maggie. She was +aye Maggie at home. Maggie Jamieson, frae her father. It's the last thing I +can gie her. Maybe ye micht put a verse o' Scripter aneath't, ye ken." +</p> + +<p> +"What verse would you like?" +</p> + +<p> +He thought for a little. +</p> + +<p> +"Isna there a text that says, 'The deid shall hear his voice'?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes: 'The dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Ay. That's it. Weel, jist put that on.—They canna do better than hear his +voice," he added, with a strange mixture of Scotch ratiocination. +</p> + +<p> +I led the way home, and he accompanied me without further objection or +apology. After dinner, I proposed that we should go upon the downs, for the +day was warm and bright. We sat on the grass. I felt that I could not talk +to them as from myself. I knew nothing of the possible gulfs of sorrow in +their hearts. To me their forms seemed each like a hill in whose unseen +bosom lay a cavern of dripping waters, perhaps with a subterranean torrent +of anguish raving through its hollows and tumbling down hidden precipices, +whose voice God only heard, and God only could still. This daughter +<i>might</i>, though from her face I did not think it, have gone away against +her father's will. That son <i>might</i> have been a ne'er-do-well at home—how +could I tell? The woman <i>might</i> be looking for the lover that had forsaken +her—I could not divine. I would speak no words of my own. The Son of +God had spoken words of comfort to his mourning friends, when he was the +present God and they were the forefront of humanity; I would read some of +the words he spoke. From them the human nature in each would draw what +comfort it could. I took my New Testament from my pocket, and said, without +any preamble, +</p> + +<p> +"When our Lord was going to die, he knew that his friends loved him enough +to be very wretched about it. He knew that they would be overwhelmed for a +time with trouble. He knew, too, that they could not believe the glad end +of it all, to which end he looked, across the awful death that awaited +him—a death to which that of our friends in the wreck was ease itself. I +will just read to you what he said." +</p> + +<p> +I read from the fourteenth to the seventeenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. +I knew there were worlds of meaning in the words into which I could hardly +hope any of them would enter. But I knew likewise that the best things are +just those from which the humble will draw the truth they are capable of +seeing. Therefore I read as for myself, and left it to them to hear for +themselves. Nor did I add any word of comment, fearful of darkening counsel +by words without knowledge. For the Bible is awfully set against what is +not wise. +</p> + +<p> +When I had finished, I closed the book, rose from the grass, and walked +towards the brow of the shore. They rose likewise and followed me. I talked +of slight things; the tone was all that communicated between us. But little +of any sort was said. The sea lay still before us, knowing nothing of the +sorrow it had caused. +</p> + +<p> +We wandered a little way along the cliff. The burial-service was at seven +o'clock. +</p> + +<p> +"I have an invalid to visit out in this direction," I said; "would you mind +walking with me? I shall not stay more than five minutes, and we shall get +back just in time for tea." +</p> + +<p> +They assented kindly. I walked first with one, then with another; heard a +little of the story of each; was able to say a few words of sympathy, and +point, as it were, a few times towards the hills whence cometh our aid. I +may just mention here, that since our return to Marshmallows I have had two +of them, the young woman and the Scotchman, to visit us there. +</p> + +<p> +The bell began to toll, and we went to church. My companions placed +themselves near the dead. I went into the vestry till the appointed hour. +I thought as I put on my surplice how, in all religions but the Christian, +the dead body was a pollution to the temple. Here the church received it, +as a holy thing, for a last embrace ere it went to the earth. +</p> + +<p> +As the dead were already in the church, the usual form could not be carried +out. I therefore stood by the communion-table, and there began to read, "I +am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, +though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth +in me shall never die." +</p> + +<p> +I advanced, as I read, till I came outside the rails and stood before the +dead. There I read the Psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our refuge," and +the glorious lesson, "Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the +first-fruits of them that slept." Then the men of the neighbourhood came +forward, and in long solemn procession bore the bodies out of the church, +each to its grave. At the church-door I stood and read, "Man that is born +of a woman;" then went from one to another of the graves, and read over +each, as the earth fell on the coffin-lid, "Forasmuch as it hath pleased +Almighty God, of his great mercy." Then again, I went back to the +church-door and read, "I heard a voice from heaven;" and so to the end of +the service. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving the men to fill up the graves, I hastened to lay aside my +canonicals, that I might join my guests; but my wife and daughter had +already prevailed on them to leave the churchyard. +</p> + +<p> +A word now concerning my own family. Turner insisted on Connie's remaining +in bed for two or three days. She looked worse in face—pale and worn; but +it was clear, from the way she moved in bed, that the fresh power called +forth by the shock had not vanished with the moment. +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie was quieter almost than ever; but there was a constant <i>secret</i> +light, if I may use the paradox, in her eyes. Percivale was at the +house every day, always ready to make himself useful. My wife bore up +wonderfully. As yet the much greater catastrophe had come far short of the +impression made by the less. When quieter hours should come, however, I +could not help fearing that the place would be dreadfully painful to +all but the younger ones, who, of course, had the usual child-gift of +forgetting. The servants—even Walter—looked thin and anxious. +</p> + +<p> +That Saturday night I found myself, as I had once or twice found myself +before, entirely unprepared to preach. I did not feel anxious, because I +did not feel that I was to blame: I had been so much occupied. I had again +and again turned my thoughts thitherward, but nothing recommended itself to +me so that I could say "I must take that;" nothing said plainly, "This is +what you have to speak of." +</p> + +<p> +As often as I had sought to find fitting matter for my sermon, my mind +had turned to death and the grave; but I shrunk from every suggestion, or +rather nothing had come to me that interested myself enough to justify me +in giving it to my people. And I always took it as my sole justification, +in speaking of anything to the flock of Christ, that I cared heartily in my +own soul for that thing. Without this consciousness I was dumb. And I do +think, highly as I value prophecy, that a clergyman ought to be at liberty +upon occasion to say, "My friends, I cannot preach to-day." What a riddance +it would be for the Church, I do not say if every priest were to speak +sense, but only if every priest were to abstain from speaking of that in +which, at the moment, he feels little or no interest! +</p> + +<p> +I went to bed, which is often the very best thing a man can do; for sleep +will bring him from God that which no effort of his own will can compass. +I have read somewhere—I will verify it by present search—that Luther's +translation, of the verse in the psalm, "So he giveth to his beloved +sleep," is, "He giveth his beloved sleeping," or while asleep. Yes, so it +is, literally, in English, "It is in vain that ye rise early, and then +sit long, and eat your bread with care, for to his friends he gives it +sleeping." This was my experience in the present instance; for the thought +of which I was first conscious when I awoke was, "Why should I talk about +death? Every man's heart is now full of death. We have enough of that—even +the sum that God has sent us on the wings of the tempest. What I have to +do, as the minister of the new covenant, is to speak of life." It flashed +in on my mind: "Death is over and gone. The resurrection comes next. I will +speak of the raising of Lazarus." +</p> + +<p> +The same moment I knew that I was ready to speak. Shall I or shall I not +give my reader the substance of what I said? I wish I knew how many of them +would like it, and how many would not. I do not want to bore them with +sermons, especially seeing I have always said that no sermons ought to +be printed; for in print they are but what the old alchymists would have +called a <i>caput mortuum</i>, or death's head, namely, a lifeless lump of +residuum at the bottom of the crucible; for they have no longer the living +human utterance which gives all the power on the minds of the hearers. But +I have not, either in this or in my preceding narrative, attempted to give +a sermon as I preached it. I have only sought to present the substance of +it in a form fitter for being read, somewhat cleared of the unavoidable, +let me say necessary—yes, I will say <i>valuable</i>—repetitions and +enforcements by which the various considerations are pressed upon the minds +of the hearers. These are entirely wearisome in print—useless too, for +the reader may ponder over every phrase till he finds out the purport of +it—if indeed there be such readers nowadays. +</p> + +<p> +I rose, went down to the bath in the rocks, had a joyous physical ablution, +and a swim up and down the narrow cleft, from which I emerged as if myself +newly born or raised anew, and then wandered about on the downs full of +hope and thankfulness, seeking all I could to plant deep in my mind the +long-rooted truths of resurrection, that they might be not only ready to +blossom in the warmth of the spring-tides to come, but able to send out +some leaves and promissory buds even in the wintry time of the soul, when +the fogs of pain steam up from the frozen clay soil of the body, and make +the monarch-will totter dizzily upon his throne, to comfort the eyes of the +bewildered king, reminding him that the King of kings hath conquered Death +and the Grave. There is no perfect faith that cannot laugh at winters and +graveyards, and all the whole array of defiant appearances. The fresh +breeze of the morning visited me. "O God," I said in my heart, "would that +when the dark day comes, in which I can feel nothing, I may be able to +front it with the memory of this day's strength, and so help myself to +trust in the Father! I would call to mind the days of old, with David the +king." +</p> + +<p> +When I returned to the house, I found that one of the sailors, who had been +cast ashore with his leg broken, wished to see me. I obeyed, and found him +very pale and worn. +</p> + +<p> +"I think I am going, sir," he said; "and I wanted to see you before I die." +</p> + +<p> +"Trust in Christ, and do not be afraid," I returned. +</p> + +<p> +"I prayed to him to save me when I was hanging to the rigging, and if I +wasn't afraid then, I'm not going to be afraid now, dying quietly in my +bed. But just look here, sir." +</p> + +<p> +He took from under his pillow something wrapped up in paper, unfolded the +envelope, and showed a lump of something—I could not at first tell what. +He put it in my hand, and then I saw that it was part of a bible, with +nearly the upper half of it worn or cut away, and the rest partly in a +state of pulp. +</p> + +<p> +"That's the bible my mother gave me when I left home first," he said. "I +don't know how I came to put it in my pocket, but I think the rope that cut +through that when I was lashed to the shrouds would a'most have cut through +my ribs if it hadn't been for it." +</p> + +<p> +"Very likely," I returned. "The body of the Bible has saved your bodily +life: may the spirit of it save your spiritual life." +</p> + +<p> +"I think I know what you mean, sir," he panted out. "My mother was a good +woman, and I know she prayed to God for me." +</p> + +<p> +"Would you like us to pray for you in church to-day?" +</p> + +<p> +"If you please, sir; me and Bob Fox. He's nearly as bad as I am." +</p> + +<p> +"We won't forget you," I said. "I will come in after church and see how you +are." +</p> + +<p> +I knelt and offered the prayers for the sick, and then took my leave. I did +not think the poor fellow was going to die. +</p> + +<p> +I may as well mention here, that he has been in my service ever since. We +took him with us to Marshmallows, where he works in the garden and stables, +and is very useful. We have to look after him though, for his health +continues delicate. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER X. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE SERMON. +</h3> + +<p> +When I stood up to preach, I gave them no text; but, with the eleventh +chapter of the Gospel of St. John open before me, to keep me correct, I +proceeded to tell the story in the words God gave me; for who can dare to +say that he makes his own commonest speech? +</p> + +<p> +"When Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and therefore our elder brother, +was going about on the earth, eating and drinking with his brothers and +sisters, there was one family he loved especially—a family of two sisters +and a brother; for, although he loves everybody as much as they can be +loved, there are some who can be loved more than others. Only God is always +trying to make us such that we can be loved more and more. There are +several stories—O, such lovely stories!—about that family and Jesus; and +we have to do with one of them now. +</p> + +<p> +"They lived near the capital of the country, Jerusalem, in a village they +called Bethany; and it must have been a great relief to our Lord, when he +was worn out with the obstinacy and pride of the great men of the city, to +go out to the quiet little town and into the refuge of Lazarus's house, +where everyone was more glad at the sound of his feet than at any news that +could come to them. +</p> + +<p> +"They had at this time behaved so ill to him in Jerusalem—taking up stones +to stone him even, though they dared not quite do it, mad with anger as +they were—and all because he told them the truth—that he had gone away to +the other side of the great river that divided the country, and taught the +people in that quiet place. While he was there his friend Lazarus was taken +ill; and the two sisters, Martha and Mary, sent a messenger to him, to say +to him, 'Lord, your friend is very ill.' Only they said it more beautifully +than that: 'Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick.' You know, when +anyone is ill, we always want the person whom he loves most to come to him. +This is very wonderful. In the worst things that can come to us the first +thought is of love. People, like the Scribes and Pharisees, might say, +'What good can that do him?' And we may not in the least suppose that the +person we want knows any secret that can cure his pain; yet love is the +first thing we think of. And here we are more right than we know; for, at +the long last, love will cure everything: which truth, indeed, this story +will set forth to us. No doubt the heart of Lazarus, ill as he was, longed +after his friend; and, very likely, even the sight of Jesus might have +given him such strength that the life in him could have driven out the +death which had already got one foot across the threshold. But the sisters +expected more than this: they believed that Jesus, whom they knew to have +driven disease and death out of so many hearts, had only to come and touch +him—nay, only to speak a word, to look at him, and their brother was +saved. Do you think they presumed in thus expecting? The fact was, they did +not believe enough; they had not yet learned to believe that he could cure +him all the same whether he came to them or not, because he was always with +them. We cannot understand this; but our understanding is never a measure +of what is true. +</p> + +<p> +"Whether Jesus knew exactly all that was going to take place I cannot tell. +Some people may feel certain upon points that I dare not feel certain upon. +One thing I am sure of: that he did not always know everything beforehand, +for he said so himself. It is infinitely more valuable to us, because more +beautiful and godlike in him, that he should trust his Father than that he +should foresee everything. At all events he knew that his Father did not +want him to go to his friends yet. So he sent them a message to the effect +that there was a particular reason for this sickness—that the end of it +was not the death of Lazarus, but the glory of God. This, I think, he told +them by the same messenger they sent to him; and then, instead of going to +them, he remained where he was. +</p> + +<p> +"But O, my friends, what shall I say about this wonderful message? Think of +being sick for the glory of God! of being shipwrecked for the glory of God! +of being drowned for the glory of God! How can the sickness, the fear, the +broken-heartedness of his creatures be for the glory of God? What kind of +a God can that be? Why just a God so perfectly, absolutely good, that the +things that look least like it are only the means of clearing our eyes to +let us see how good he is. For he is so good that he is not satisfied with +<i>being</i> good. He loves his children, so that except he can make them good +like himself, make them blessed by seeing how good he is, and desiring the +same goodness in themselves, he is not satisfied. He is not like a fine +proud benefactor, who is content with doing that which will satisfy his +sense of his own glory, but like a mother who puts her arm round her child, +and whose heart is sore till she can make her child see the love which is +her glory. The glorification of the Son of God is the glorification of the +human race; for the glory of God is the glory of man, and that glory is +love. Welcome sickness, welcome sorrow, welcome death, revealing that +glory! +</p> + +<p> +"The next two verses sound very strangely together, and yet they almost +seem typical of all the perplexities of God's dealings. The old painters +and poets represented Faith as a beautiful woman, holding in her hand a cup +of wine and water, with a serpent coiled up within. Highhearted Faith! +she scruples not to drink of the life-giving wine and water; she is not +repelled by the upcoiled serpent. The serpent she takes but for the type of +the eternal wisdom that looks repellent because it is not understood. The +wine is good, the water is good; and if the hand of the supreme Fate put +that cup in her hand, the serpent itself must be good too,—harmless, at +least, to hurt the truth of the water and the wine. But let us read the +verses. +</p> + +<p> +"'Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. When he had heard +therefore that he was sick, he abode two days still in the same place where +he was.' +</p> + +<p> +"Strange! his friend was sick: he abode two days where he was! But remember +what we have already heard. The glory of God was infinitely more for the +final cure of a dying Lazarus, who, give him all the life he could have, +would yet, without that glory, be in death, than the mere presence of the +Son of God. I say <i>mere</i> presence, for, compared with the glory of God, the +very presence of his Son, so dissociated, is nothing. He abode where he was +that the glory of God, the final cure of humanity, the love that triumphs +over death, might shine out and redeem the hearts of men, so that death +could not touch them. +</p> + +<p> +"After the two days, the hour had arrived. He said to his disciples, 'Let +us go back to Judæa.' They expostulated, because of the danger, saying, +'Master, the Jews of late sought to stone thee; and goest thou thither +again?' The answer which he gave them I am not sure whether I can +thoroughly understand; but I think, in fact I know, it must bear on the +same region of life—the will of God. I think what he means by walking +in the day is simply doing the will of God. That was the sole, the +all-embracing light in which Jesus ever walked. I think he means that now +he saw plainly what the Father wanted him to do. If he did not see that the +Father wanted him to go back to Judæa, and yet went, that would be to +go stumblingly, to walk in the darkness. There are twelve hours in the +day—one time to act—a time of light and the clear call of duty; there is +a night when a man, not seeing where or hearing how, must be content to +rest. Something not inharmonious with this, I think, he must have intended; +but I do not see the whole thought clearly enough to be sure that I am +right. I do think, further, that it points at a clearer condition of human +vision and conviction than I am good enough to understand; though I hope +one day to rise into this upper stratum of light. +</p> + +<p> +"Whether his scholars had heard anything of Lazarus yet, I do not know. It +looks a little as if Jesus had not told them the message he had had from +the sisters. But he told them now that he was asleep, and that he was going +to wake him. You would think they might have understood this. The idea of +going so many miles to wake a man might have surely suggested death. But +the disciples were sorely perplexed with many of his words. Sometimes they +looked far away for the meaning when the meaning lay in their very hearts; +sometimes they looked into their hands for it when it was lost in the +grandeur of the ages. But he meant them to see into all that he said by +and by, although they could not see into it now. When they understood him +better, then they would understand what he said better. And to understand +him better they must be more like him; and to make them more like him he +must go away and give them his spirit—awful mystery which no man but +himself can understand. +</p> + +<p> +"Now he had to tell them plainly that Lazarus was dead. They had not +thought of death as a sleep. I suppose this was altogether a new and +Christian idea. Do not suppose that it applied more to Lazarus than to +other dead people. He was none the less dead that Jesus meant to take a +weary two days' journey to his sepulchre and wake him. If death is not a +sleep, Jesus did not speak the truth when he said Lazarus slept. You may +say it was a figure; but a figure that is not like the thing it figures is +simply a lie. +</p> + +<p> +"They set out to go back to Judæa. Here we have a glimpse of the faith of +Thomas, the doubter. For a doubter is not without faith. The very fact +that he doubts, shows that he has some faith. When I find anyone hard upon +doubters, I always doubt the <i>quality</i> of his faith. It is of little use to +have a great cable, if the hemp is so poor that it breaks like the painter +of a boat. I have known people whose power of believing chiefly consisted +in their incapacity for seeing difficulties. Of what fine sort a faith must +be that is founded in stupidity, or far worse, in indifference to the truth +and the mere desire to get out of hell! That is not a grand belief in the +Son of God, the radiation of the Father. Thomas's want of faith was shown +in the grumbling, self-pitying way in which he said, 'Let us also go that +we may die with him.' His Master had said that he was going to wake +him. Thomas said, 'that we may die with him.' You may say, 'He did not +understand him.' True, it may be, but his unbelief was the cause of his not +understanding him. I suppose Thomas meant this as a reproach to Jesus for +putting them all in danger by going back to Judæa; if not, it was only a +poor piece of sentimentality. So much for Thomas's unbelief. But he had +good and true faith notwithstanding; for <i>he went with his Master</i>. +</p> + +<p> +"By the time they reached the neighbourhood of Bethany, Lazarus had been +dead four days. Someone ran to the house and told the sisters that Jesus +was coming. Martha, as soon as she heard it, rose and went to meet him. +It might be interesting at another time to compare the difference of the +behaviour of the two sisters upon this occasion with the difference of +their behaviour upon another occasion, likewise recorded; but with the man +dead in his sepulchre, and the hope dead in these two hearts, we have no +inclination to enter upon fine distinctions of character. Death and grief +bring out the great family likenesses in the living as well as in the dead. +</p> + +<p> +"When Martha came to Jesus, she showed her true though imperfect faith by +almost attributing her brother's death to Jesus' absence. But even in the +moment, looking in the face of the Master, a fresh hope, a new budding of +faith, began in her soul. She thought—'What if, after all, he were +to bring him to life again!' O, trusting heart, how thou leavest the +dull-plodding intellect behind thee! While the conceited intellect is +reasoning upon the impossibility of the thing, the expectant faith beholds +it accomplished. Jesus, responding instantly to her faith, granting her +half-born prayer, says, 'Thy brother shall rise again;' not meaning the +general truth recognised, or at least assented to by all but the Sadducees, +concerning the final resurrection of the dead, but meaning, 'Be it unto +thee as thou wilt. I will raise him again.' For there is no steering for a +fine effect in the words of Jesus. But these words are too good for Martha +to take them as he meant them. Her faith is not quite equal to the belief +that he actually will do it. The thing she could hope for afar off she +could hardly believe when it came to her very door. 'O, yes,' she said, her +mood falling again to the level of the commonplace, 'of course, at the last +day.' Then the Lord turns away her thoughts from the dogmas of her faith +to himself, the Life, saying, 'I am the resurrection and the life: he that +believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever +liveth and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this?' Martha, +without understanding what he said more than in a very poor part, answered +in words which preserved her honesty entire, and yet included all he asked, +and a thousandfold more than she could yet believe: 'Yea, Lord; I believe +that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the +world.' +</p> + +<p> +"I dare not pretend to have more than a grand glimmering of the truth of +Jesus' words 'shall never die;' but I am pretty sure that when Martha came +to die, she found that there was indeed no such thing as she had meant when +she used the ghastly word <i>death</i>, and said with her first new breath, +'Verily, Lord, I am not dead.' +</p> + +<p> +"But look how this declaration of her confidence in the Christ operated +upon herself. She instantly thought of her sister; the hope that the Lord +would do something swelled within her, and, leaving Jesus, she went to find +Mary. Whoever has had a true word with the elder brother, straightway +will look around him to find his brother, his sister. The family feeling +blossoms: he wants his friend to share the glory withal. Martha wants Mary +to go to Jesus too. +</p> + +<p> +"Mary heard her, forgot her visitors, rose, and went. They thought she went +to the grave: she went to meet its conqueror. But when she came to him, the +woman who had chosen the good part praised of Jesus, had but the same words +to embody her hope and her grief that her careful and troubled sister had +uttered a few minutes before. How often during those four days had not the +self-same words passed between them! 'Ah, if he had been here, our brother +had not died!' She said so to himself now, and wept, and her friends who +had followed her wept likewise. A moment more, and the Master groaned; yet +a moment, and he too wept. 'Sorrow is catching;' but this was not the mere +infection of sorrow. It went deeper than mere sympathy; for he groaned in +his spirit and was troubled. What made him weep? It was when he saw them +weeping that he wept. But why should he weep, when he knew how soon their +weeping would be turned into rejoicing? It was not for their weeping, so +soon to be over, that he wept, but for the human heart everywhere swollen +with tears, yea, with griefs that can find no such relief as tears; for +these, and for all his brothers and sisters tormented with pain for lack of +faith in his Father in heaven, Jesus wept. He saw the blessed well-being +of Lazarus on the one side, and on the other the streaming eyes from whose +sight he had vanished. The veil between was so thin! yet the sight of those +eyes could not pierce it: their hearts must go on weeping—without cause, +for his Father was so good. I think it was the helplessness he felt in +the impossibility of at once sweeping away the phantasm death from their +imagination that drew the tears from the eyes of Jesus. Certainly it was +not for Lazarus; it could hardly be for these his friends—save as they +represented the humanity which he would help, but could not help even as he +was about to help them. +</p> + +<p> +"The Jews saw herein proof that he loved Lazarus; but they little thought +it was for them and their people, and for the Gentiles whom they despised, +that his tears were now flowing—that the love which pressed the fountains +of his weeping was love for every human heart, from Adam on through the +ages. +</p> + +<p> +"Some of them went a little farther, nearly as far as the sisters, saying, +'Could he not have kept the man from dying?' But it was such a poor thing, +after all, that they thought he might have done. They regarded merely this +unexpected illness, this early death; for I daresay Lazarus was not much +older than Jesus. They did not think that, after all, Lazarus must die some +time; that the beloved could be saved, at best, only for a little while. +Jesus seems to have heard the remark, for he again groaned in himself. +</p> + +<p> +"Meantime they were drawing near the place where he was buried. It was a +hollow in the face of a rock, with a stone laid against it. I suppose the +bodies were laid on something like shelves inside the rock, as they are in +many sepulchres. They were not put into coffins, but wound round and round +with linen. +</p> + +<p> +"When they came before the door of death, Jesus said to them, 'Take away +the stone.' The nature of Martha's reply—the realism of it, as they would +say now-a-days—would seem to indicate that her dawning faith had sunk +again below the horizon, that in the presence of the insignia of death, her +faith yielded, even as the faith of Peter failed him when he saw around him +the grandeur of the high-priest, and his Master bound and helpless. Jesus +answered—O, what an answer!—To meet the corruption and the stink which +filled her poor human fancy, 'the glory of God' came from his lips: human +fear; horror speaking from the lips of a woman in the very jaws of the +devouring death; and the 'said I not unto thee?' from the mouth of him who +was so soon to pass worn and bloodless through such a door! 'He stinketh,' +said Martha. 'The glory of God,' said Jesus. 'Said I not unto thee, that, +if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?' +</p> + +<p> +"Before the open throat of the sepulchre Jesus began to speak to his Father +aloud. He had prayed to him in his heart before, most likely while he +groaned in his spirit. Now he thanked him that he had comforted him, and +given him Lazarus as a first-fruit from the dead. But he will be true to +the listening people as well as to his ever-hearing Father; therefore he +tells why he said the word of thanks aloud—a thing not usual with him, for +his Father was always hearing, him. Having spoken it for the people, he +would say that it was for the people. +</p> + +<p> +"The end of it all was that they might believe that God had sent him—a far +grander gift than having the dearest brought back from the grave; for he is +the life of men. +</p> + +<p> +"'Lazarus, come forth!" +</p> + +<p> +"And Lazarus came forth, creeping helplessly with inch-long steps of his +linen-bound limbs. 'Ha, ha! brother, sister!' cries the human heart. The +Lord of Life hath taken the prey from the spoiler; he hath emptied the +grave. Here comes the dead man, welcome as never was child from the +womb—new-born, and in him all the human race new-born from the grave! +'Loose him and let him go,' and the work is done. The sorrow is over, and +the joy is come. Home, home, Martha, Mary, with your Lazarus! He too will +go with you, the Lord of the Living. Home and get the feast ready, Martha! +Prepare the food for him who comes hungry from the grave, for him who has +called him thence. Home, Mary, to help Martha! What a household will yours +be! What wondrous speech will pass between the dead come to life and the +living come to die! +</p> + +<p> +"But what pang is this that makes Lazarus draw hurried breath, and turns +Martha's cheek so pale? Ah, at the little window of the heart the pale eyes +of the defeated Horror look in. What! is he there still! Ah, yes, he will +come for Martha, come for Mary, come yet again for Lazarus—yea, come for +the Lord of Life himself, and carry all away. But look at the Lord: he +knows all about it, and he smiles. Does Martha think of the words he spoke, +'He that liveth and believeth in me shall never die'? Perhaps she does, +and, like the moon before the sun, her face returns the smile of her Lord. +</p> + +<p> +"This, my friends, is a fancy in form, but it embodies a dear truth. What +is it to you and me that he raised Lazarus? We are not called upon to +believe that he will raise from the tomb that joy of our hearts which lies +buried there beyond our sight. Stop! Are we not? We are called upon to +believe this; else the whole story were for us a poor mockery. What is it +to us that the Lord raised Lazarus?—Is it nothing to know that our Brother +is Lord over the grave? Will the harvest be behind the first-fruits? If he +tells us he cannot, for good reasons, raise up our vanished love to-day, or +to-morrow, or for all the years of our life to come, shall we not mingle +the smile of faithful thanks with the sorrow of present loss, and walk +diligently waiting? That he called forth Lazarus showed that he was in his +keeping, that he is Lord of the living, and that all live to him, that he +has a hold of them, and can draw them forth when he will. If this is not +true, then the raising of Lazarus is false; I do not mean merely false in +fact, but false in meaning. If we believe in him, then in his name, both +for ourselves and for our friends, we must deny death and believe in life. +Lord Christ, fill our hearts with thy Life!" +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XI. +</h3> + +<h3> +CHANGED PLANS. +</h3> + +<p> +In a day or two Connie was permitted to rise and take to her couch once +more. It seemed strange that she should look so much worse, and yet be so +much stronger. The growth of her power of motion was wonderful. As they +carried her, she begged to be allowed to put her feet to the ground. Turner +yielded, though without quite ceasing to support her. He was satisfied, +however, that she could have stood upright for a moment at least. He would +not, of course, risk it, and made haste to lay her down. +</p> + +<p> +The time of his departure was coming near, and he seemed more anxious the +nearer it came; for Connie continued worn-looking and pale; and her smile, +though ever ready to greet me when I entered, had lost much of its light. I +noticed, too, that she had the curtain of her window constantly so arranged +as to shut out the sea. I said something to her about it once. Her reply +was: +</p> + +<p> +"Papa, I can't bear it. I know it is very silly; but I think I can make you +understand how it is: I was so fond of the sea when I came down; it seemed +to lie close to my window, with a friendly smile ready for me every morning +when I looked out. I daresay it is all from want of faith, but I can't help +it: it looks so far away now, like a friend that had failed me, that I +would rather not see it." +</p> + +<p> +I saw that the struggling life within her was grievously oppressed, that +the things which surrounded her were no longer helpful. Her life had been +driven as to its innermost cave; and now, when it had been enticed to +venture forth and look abroad, a sudden pall had descended upon nature. I +could not help thinking that the good of our visit to Kilkhaven had come, +and that evil, from which I hoped we might yet escape, was following. I +left her, and sought Turner. +</p> + +<p> +"It strikes me, Turner," I said, "that the sooner we get out of this the +better for Connie." +</p> + +<p> +"I am quite of your opinion. I think the very prospect of leaving the place +would do something to restore her. If she is so uncomfortable now, think +what it will be in the many winter nights at hand." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you think it would be safe to move her?" +</p> + +<p> +"Far safer than to let her remain. At the worst, she is now far better than +when she came. Try her. Hint at the possibility of going home, and see how +she will take it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I sha'n't like to be left alone; but if she goes they must all go, +except, perhaps, I might keep Wynnie. But I don't know how her mother would +get on without her." +</p> + +<p> +"I don't see why you should stay behind. Mr. Weir would be as glad to come +as you would be to go; and it can make no difference to Mr. Shepherd." +</p> + +<p> +It seemed a very sensible suggestion. I thought a moment. Certainly it was +a desirable thing for both my sister and her husband. They had no such +reasons as we had for disliking the place; and it would enable her to avoid +the severity of yet another winter. I said as much to Turner, and went back +to Connie's room. +</p> + +<p> +The light of a lovely sunset was lying outside her window. She was sitting +so that she could not see it. I would find out her feeling in the matter +without any preamble. +</p> + +<p> +"Would you like to go back to Marshmallows, Connie?" I asked. +</p> + +<p> +Her countenance flashed into light. +</p> + +<p> +"O, dear papa, do let us go," she said; "that would be delightful." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I think we can manage it, if you will only get a little stronger for +the journey. The weather is not so good to travel in as when we came down." +</p> + +<p> +"No; but I am ever so much better, you know, than I was then." +</p> + +<p> +The poor girl was already stronger from the mere prospect of going home +again. She moved restlessly on her couch, half mechanically put her hand to +the curtain, pulled it aside, looked out, faced the sun and the sea, and +did not draw back. My mind was made up. I left her, and went to find +Ethelwyn. She heartily approved of the proposal for Connie's sake, and said +that it would be scarcely less agreeable to herself. I could see a certain +troubled look above her eyes, however. +</p> + +<p> +"You are thinking of Wynnie," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. It is hard to make one sad for the sake of the rest." +</p> + +<p> +"True. But it is one of the world's recognised necessities." +</p> + +<p> +"No doubt." +</p> + +<p> +"Besides, you don't suppose Percivale can stay here the whole winter. They +must part some time." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course. Only they did not expect it so soon." +</p> + +<p> +But here my wife was mistaken. +</p> + +<p> +I went to my study to write to Weir. I had hardly finished my letter when +Walter came to say that Mr. Percivale wished to see me. I told him to show +him in. +</p> + +<p> +"I am just writing home to say that I want my curate to change places with +me here, which I know he will be glad enough to do. I see Connie had better +go home." +</p> + +<p> +"You will all go, then, I presume?" returned Percivale. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, yes; of course." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I need not so much regret that I can stay no longer. I came to tell +you that I must leave to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +"Ah! Going to London?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness. You have made my +summer something like a summer; very different, indeed, from what it would +otherwise have been." +</p> + +<p> +"We have had our share of advantage, and that a large one. We are all glad +to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Percivale." +</p> + +<p> +He made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +"We shall be passing through London within a week or ten days in all +probability. Perhaps you will allow us the pleasure of looking at some of +your pictures then?" +</p> + +<p> +His face flushed. What did the flush mean? It was not one of mere pleasure. +There was confusion and perplexity in it. But he answered at once: +</p> + +<p> +"I will show you them with pleasure. I fear, however, you will not care for +them." +</p> + +<p> +Would this fear account for his embarrassment? I hardly thought it would; +but I could not for a moment imagine, with his fine form and countenance +before me, that he had any serious reason for shrinking from a visit. +</p> + +<p> +He began to search for a card. +</p> + +<p> +"O, I have your address. I shall be sure to pay you a visit. But you will +dine with us to-day, of course?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"I shall have much pleasure," he answered; and took his leave. +</p> + +<p> +I finished my letter to Weir, and went out for a walk. +</p> + +<p> +I remember particularly the thoughts that moved in me and made that walk +memorable. Indeed, I think I remember all outside events chiefly by virtue +of the inward conditions with which they were associated. Mere outside +things I am very ready to forget. Moods of my own mind do not so readily +pass away; and with the memory of some of them every outward circumstance +returns; for a man's life is where the kingdom of heaven is—within him. +There are people who, if you ask the story of their lives, have nothing to +tell you but the course of the outward events that have constituted, as it +were, the clothes of their history. But I know, at the same time, that some +of the most important crises in my own history (by which word <i>history</i> I +mean my growth towards the right conditions of existence) have been beyond +the grasp and interpretation of my intellect. They have passed, as it were, +without my consciousness being awake enough to lay hold of their phenomena. +The wind had been blowing; I had heard the sound of it, but knew not whence +it came nor whither it went; only, when it was gone, I found myself more +responsible, more eager than before. +</p> + +<p> +I remember this walk from the thoughts I had about the great change hanging +over us all. I had now arrived at the prime of middle life; and that change +which so many would escape if they could, but which will let no man pass, +had begun to show itself a real fact upon the horizon of the future. Death +looks so far away to the young, that while they acknowledge it unavoidable, +the path stretches on in such vanishing perspective before them, that they +see no necessity for thinking about the end of it yet; and far would I be +from saying they ought to think of it. Life is the true object of a man's +care: there is no occasion to make himself think about death. But when +the vision of the inevitable draws nigh, when it appears plainly on the +horizon, though but as a cloud the size of a man's hand, then it is equally +foolish to meet it by refusing to meet it, to answer the questions that +will arise by declining to think about them. Indeed, it is a question of +life then, and not of death. We want to keep fast hold of our life, and, in +the strength of that, to look the threatening death in the face. But to my +walk that morning. +</p> + +<p> +I wandered on the downs till I came to the place where a solitary rock +stands on the top of a cliff looking seaward, in the suggested shape of a +monk praying. On the base on which he knelt I seated myself, and looked out +over the Atlantic. How faded the ocean appeared! It seemed as if all the +sunny dyes of the summer had been diluted and washed with the fogs of the +coming winter, when I thought of the splendour it wore when first from +these downs I gazed on the outspread infinitude of space and colour. +</p> + +<p> +"What," I said to myself at length, "has she done since then? Where is +her work visible? She has riven, and battered, and destroyed, and her +destruction too has passed away. So worketh Time and its powers! The +exultation of my youth is gone; my head is gray; my wife is growing old; +our children are pushing us from our stools; we are yielding to the new +generation; the glory for us hath departed; our life lies weary before us +like that sea; and the night cometh when we can no longer work." +</p> + +<p> +Something like this was passing vaguely through my mind. I sat in a +mournful stupor, with a half-consciousness that my mood was false, and that +I ought to rouse myself and shake it off. There is such a thing as a state +of moral dreaming, which closely resembles the intellectual dreaming in +sleep. I went on in this false dreamful mood, pitying myself like a child +tender over his hurt and nursing his own cowardice, till, all at once, "a +little pipling wind" blew on my cheek. The morning was very still: what +roused that little wind I cannot tell; but what that little wind roused I +will try to tell. With that breath on my cheek, something within me began +to stir. It grew, and grew, until the memory of a certain glorious sunset +of red and green and gold and blue, which I had beheld from these same +heights, dawned within me. I knew that the glory of my youth had not +departed, that the very power of recalling with delight that which I had +once felt in seeing, was proof enough of that; I knew that I could believe +in God all the night long, even if the night were long. And the next moment +I thought how I had been reviling in my fancy God's servant, the sea. To +how many vessels had she not opened a bounteous highway through the waters, +with labour, and food, and help, and ministration, glad breezes and +swelling sails, healthful struggle, cleansing fear and sorrow, yea, and +friendly death! Because she had been commissioned to carry this one or that +one, this hundred or that thousand of his own creatures from one world to +another, was I to revile the servant of a grand and gracious Master? It was +blameless in Connie to feel the late trouble so deeply that she could not +be glad: she had not had the experience of life, yea, of God, that I had +had; she must be helped from without. But for me, it was shameful that I, +who knew the heart of my Master, to whom at least he had so often shown his +truth, should ever be doleful and oppressed. Yet even me he had now helped +from within. The glory of existence as the child of the Infinite had +again dawned upon me. The first hour of the evening of my life had indeed +arrived; the shadows had begun to grow long—so long that I had begun to +mark their length; this last little portion of my history had vanished, +leaving its few gray ashes behind in the crucible of my life; and the final +evening must come, when all my life would lie behind me, and all the memory +of it return, with its mornings of gold and red, with its evenings of +purple and green; with its dashes of storm, and its foggy glooms; with its +white-winged aspirations, its dull-red passions, its creeping envies in +brown and black and earthy yellow. But from all the accusations of my +conscience, I would turn me to the Lord, for he was called Jesus because he +should save his people from their sins. Then I thought what a grand gift it +would be to give his people the power hereafter to fight the consequences +of their sins. Anyhow, I would trust the Father, who loved me with a +perfect love, to lead the soul he had made, had compelled to be, through +the gates of the death-birth, into the light of life beyond. I would cast +on him the care, humbly challenge him with the responsibility he had +himself undertaken, praying only for perfect confidence in him, absolute +submission to his will. +</p> + +<p> +I rose from my seat beside the praying monk, and walked on. The thought of +seeing my own people again filled me with gladness. I would leave those +I had here learned to love with regret; but I trusted I had taught them +something, and they had taught me much; therefore there could be no end +to our relation to each other—it could not be broken, for it was <i>in the +Lord</i>, which alone can give security to any tie. I should not, therefore, +sorrow as if I were to see their faces no more. +</p> + +<p> +I now took my farewell of that sea and those cliffs. I should see them +often ere we went, but I should not feel so near them again. Even this +parting said that I must "sit loose to the world"—an old Puritan phrase, +I suppose; that I could gather up only its uses, treasure its best things, +and must let all the rest go; that those things I called mine—earth, sky, +and sea, home, books, the treasured gifts of friends—had all to leave +me, belong to others, and help to educate them. I should not need them. I +should have my people, my souls, my beloved faces tenfold more, and could +well afford to part with these. Why should I mind this chain passing to +my eldest boy, when it was only his mother's hair, and I should have his +mother still? +</p> + +<p> +So my thoughts went on thinking themselves, until at length I yielded +passively to their flow. +</p> + +<p> +I found Wynnie looking very grave when I went into the drawing-room. Her +mother was there, too, and Mr. Percivale. It seemed rather a moody party. +They wakened up a little, however, after I entered, and before dinner was +over we were all chatting together merrily. +</p> + +<p> +"How is Connie?" I asked Ethelwyn. +</p> + +<p> +"Wonderfully better already," she answered. +</p> + +<p> +"I think everybody seems better," I said. "The very idea of home seems +reviving to us all." +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie darted a quick glance at me, caught my eyes, which was more than +she had intended, and blushed; sought refuge in a bewildered glance at +Percivale, caught his eye in turn, and blushed yet deeper. He plunged +instantly into conversation, not without a certain involuntary sparkle in +his eye. +</p> + +<p> +"Did you go to see Mrs. Stokes this morning?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"No," I answered. "She does not want much visiting now; she is going about +her work, apparently in good health. Her husband says she is not like the +same woman; and I hope he means that in more senses than one, though I do +not choose to ask him any questions about his wife." +</p> + +<p> +I did my best to keep up the conversation, but every now and then after +this it fell like a wind that would not blow. I withdrew to my study. +Percivale and Wynnie went out for a walk. The next morning he left by the +coach—early. Turner went with him. +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie did not seem very much dejected. I thought that perhaps the prospect +of meeting him again in London kept her up. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap12"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XII. +</h3> + +<h3> +THE STUDIO. +</h3> + +<p> +I will not linger over our preparations or our leave-takings. The most +ponderous of the former were those of the two boys, who, as they had wanted +to bring down a chest as big as a corn-bin, full of lumber, now wanted to +take home two or three boxes filled with pebbles, great oystershells, and +sea-weed. +</p> + +<p> +Weir, as I had expected, was quite pleased to make the exchange. An early +day had been fixed for his arrival; for I thought it might be of service +to him to be introduced to the field of his labours. Before he came, I had +gone about among the people, explaining to them some of my reasons for +leaving them sooner than I had intended, and telling them a little about my +successor, that he might not appear among them quite as a stranger. He was +much gratified with their reception of him, and had no fear of not finding +himself quite at home with them. I promised, if I could comfortably manage +it, to pay them a short visit the following summer, and as the weather was +now getting quite cold, hastened our preparations for departure. +</p> + +<p> +I could have wished that Turner had been with us on the journey, but he +had been absent from his cure to the full extent that his conscience would +permit, and I had not urged him. He would be there to receive us, and we +had got so used to the management of Connie, that we did not feel much +anxiety about the travelling. We resolved, if she seemed strong enough as +we went along, to go right through to London, making a few days there the +only break in the transit. +</p> + +<p> +It was a bright, cold morning when we started. But Connie could now bear +the air so well, that we set out with the carriage open, nor had we +occasion to close it. The first part of our railway journey was very +pleasant. But when we drew near London, we entered a thick fog, and before +we arrived, a small dense November rain was falling. Connie looked a little +dispirited, partly from weariness, but no doubt from the change in the +weather. +</p> + +<p> +"Not very cheerful, this, Connie, my dear," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"No, papa," she answered; "but we are going home, you know." +</p> + +<p> +<i>Going home.</i> It set me thinking—as I had often been set thinking before, +always with fresh discovery and a new colour on the dawning sky of hope. I +lay back in the carriage and thought how the November fog this evening in +London, was the valley of the shadow of death we had to go through on the +way <i>home.</i> A. shadow like this would fall upon me; the world would grow +dark and life grow weary; but I should know it was the last of the way +home. +</p> + +<p> +Then I began to question myself wherein the idea of this home consisted. I +knew that my soul had ever yet felt the discomfort of strangeness, more or +less, in the midst of its greatest blessedness. I knew that as the thought +of water to the thirsty <i>soul</i>, for it is the soul far more than the body +that thirsts even for the material water, such is the thought of home to +the wanderer in a strange country. As the weary soul pines for sleep, and +every heart for the cure of its own bitterness, so my heart and soul had +often pined for their home. Did I know, I asked myself, where or what that +home was? It could consist in no change of place or of circumstance; no +mere absence of care; no accumulation of repose; no blessed communion even +with those whom my soul loved; in the midst of it all I should be longing +for a homelier home—one into which I might enter with a sense of +infinitely more absolute peace, than a conscious child could know in the +arms, upon the bosom of his mother. In the closest contact of human soul +with human soul, when all the atmosphere of thought was rosy with love, +again and yet again on the far horizon would the dun, lurid flame of unrest +shoot for a moment through the enchanted air, and Psyche would know that +not yet had she reached her home. As I thought this I lifted my eyes, and +saw those of my wife and Connie fixed on mine, as if they were reproaching +me for saying in my soul that I could not be quite at home with them. Then +I said in my heart, "Come home with me, beloved—there is but one home for +us all. When we find—in proportion as each of us finds—that home, shall +we be gardens of delight to each other—little chambers of rest—galleries +of pictures—wells of water." +</p> + +<p> +Again, what was this home? God himself. His thoughts, his will, his love, +his judgment, are man's home. To think his thoughts, to choose his will, to +love his loves, to judge his judgments, and thus to know that he is in us, +with us, is to be at home. And to pass through the valley of the shadow of +death is the way home, but only thus, that as all changes have hitherto +led us nearer to this home, the knowledge of God, so this greatest of all +outward changes—for it is but an outward change—will surely usher us into +a region where there will be fresh possibilities of drawing nigh in heart, +soul, and mind to the Father of us. It is the father, the mother, that make +for the child his home. Indeed, I doubt if the home-idea is complete to the +parents of a family themselves, when they remember that their fathers and +mothers have vanished. +</p> + +<p> +At this point something rose in me seeking utterance. +</p> + +<p> +"Won't it be delightful, wife," I began, "to see our fathers and mothers +such a long way back in heaven?" +</p> + +<p> +But Ethelwyn's face gave so little response, that I felt at once how +dreadful a thing it was not to have had a good father or mother. I do not +know what would have become of me but for a good father. I wonder how +anybody ever can be good that has not had a good father. How dreadful not +to be a good father or good mother! Every father who is not good, every +mother who is not good, just makes it as impossible to believe in God as +it can be made. But he is our one good Father, and does not leave us, even +should our fathers and mothers have thus forsaken us, and left him without +a witness. +</p> + +<p> +Here the evil odour of brick-burning invaded my nostrils, and I knew that +London was about us. A few moments after, we reached the station, where a +carriage was waiting to take us to our hotel. +</p> + +<p> +Dreary was the change from the stillness and sunshine of Kilkhaven to the +fog and noise of London; but Connie slept better that night than she had +slept for a good many nights before. +</p> + +<p> +After breakfast the next morning, I said to Wynnie, +</p> + +<p> +"I am going to see Mr. Percivale's studio, my dear: have you any objection +to going with me?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, papa," she answered, blushing. "I have never seen an artist's studio +in my life." +</p> + +<p> +"Come along, then. Get your bonnet at once. It rains, but we shall take a +cab, and it won't matter." +</p> + +<p> +She ran off, and was ready in a few minutes. We gave the driver directions, +and set off. It was a long drive. At length he stopped at the door of a +very common-looking house, in a very dreary-looking street, in which no man +could possibly identify his own door except by the number. I knocked. A +woman who looked at once dirty and cross, the former probably the cause of +the latter, opened the door, gave a bare assent to my question whether Mr. +Percivale was at home, withdrew to her den with the words "second-floor," +and left us to find our own way up the two flights of stairs. This, +however, involved no great difficulty. We knocked at the door of the front +room. A well-known voice cried, "Come in," and we entered. +</p> + +<p> +Percivale, in a short velvet coat, with his palette on his thumb, advanced +to meet us cordially. His face wore a slight flush, which I attributed +solely to pleasure, and nothing to any awkwardness in receiving us in such +a poor place as he occupied. I cast my eyes round the room. Any romantic +notions Wynnie might have indulged concerning the marvels of a studio, +must have paled considerably at the first glance around Percivale's +room—plainly the abode if not of poverty, then of self-denial, although I +suspected both. A common room, with no carpet save a square in front of the +fireplace; no curtains except a piece of something like drugget nailed +flat across all the lower half of the window to make the light fall from +upwards; two or three horsehair chairs, nearly worn out; a table in a +corner, littered with books and papers; a horrible lay-figure, at the +present moment dressed apparently for a scarecrow; a large easel, on which +stood a half-finished oil-painting—these constituted almost the whole +furniture of the room. With his pocket-handkerchief Percivale dusted one +chair for Wynnie and another for me. Then standing before us, he said: +</p> + +<p> +"This is a very shabby place to receive you in, Miss Walton, but it is all +I have got." +</p> + +<p> +"A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesses," +I ventured to say. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you," said Percivale. "I hope not. It is well for me it should not." +</p> + +<p> +"It is well for the richest man in England that it should not," I returned. +"If it were not so, the man who could eat most would be the most blessed." +</p> + +<p> +"There are people, even of my acquaintance, however, who seem to think it +does." +</p> + +<p> +"No doubt; but happily their thinking so will not make it so even for +themselves." +</p> + +<p> +"Have you been very busy since you left us, Mr. Percivale?" asked Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"Tolerably," he answered. "But I have not much to show for it. That on the +easel is all. I hardly like to let you look at it, though." +</p> + +<p> +"Why?" asked Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"First, because the subject is painful. Next, because it is so unfinished +that none but a painter could do it justice." +</p> + +<p> +"But why should you paint subjects you would not like people to look at?" +</p> + +<p> +"I very much want people to look at them." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not us, then?" said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"Because you do not need to be pained." +</p> + +<p> +"Are you sure it is good for you to pain anybody?" I said. +</p> + +<p> +"Good is done by pain—is it not?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"Undoubtedly. But whether <i>we</i> are wise enough to know when and where and +how much, is the question." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I do not make the pain my object." +</p> + +<p> +"If it comes only as a necessary accompaniment, that may alter the matter +greatly," I said. "But still I am not sure that anything in which the pain +predominates can be useful in the best way." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps not," he returned.—"Will you look at the daub?" +</p> + +<p> +"With much pleasure," I replied, and we rose and stood before the easel. +Percivale made no remark, but left us to find out what the picture meant. +Nor had I long to look before I understood it—in a measure at least. +</p> + +<p> +It represented a garret-room in a wretchedly ruinous condition. The plaster +had come away in several places, and through between the laths in one spot +hung the tail of a great rat. In a dark corner lay a man dying. A woman sat +by his side, with her eyes fixed, not on his face, though she held his hand +in hers, but on the open door, where in the gloom you could just see the +struggles of two undertaker's men to get the coffin past the turn of the +landing towards the door. Through the window there was one peep of the blue +sky, whence a ray of sunlight fell on the one scarlet blossom of a geranium +in a broken pot on the window-sill outside. +</p> + +<p> +"I do not wonder you did not like to show it," I said. "How can you bear to +paint such a dreadful picture?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is a true one. It only represents a fact." +</p> + +<p> +"All facts have not a right to be represented." +</p> + +<p> +"Surely you would not get rid of painful things by huddling them out of +sight?" +</p> + +<p> +"No; nor yet by gloating upon them." +</p> + +<p> +"You will believe me that it gives me anything but pleasure to paint such +pictures—as far as the subject goes," he said with some discomposure. +</p> + +<p> +"Of course. I know you well enough by this time to know that. But no one +could hang it on his wall who would not either gloat on suffering or grow +callous to it. Whence, then, would come the good I cannot doubt you propose +to yourself as your object in painting the picture? If it had come into my +possession, I would—" +</p> + +<p> +"Put it in the fire," suggested Percivale with a strange smile. +</p> + +<p> +"No. Still less would I sell it. I would hang it up with a curtain before +it, and only look at it now and then, when I thought my heart was in danger +of growing hardened to the sufferings of my fellow-men, and forgetting that +they need the Saviour." +</p> + +<p> +"I could not wish it a better fate. That would answer my end." +</p> + +<p> +"Would it, now? Is it not rather those who care little or nothing about +such matters that you would like to influence? Would you be content with +one solitary person like me? And, remember, I wouldn't buy it. I would +rather not have it. I could hardly bear to know it was in my house. I am +certain you cannot do people good by showing them <i>only</i> the painful. Make +it as painful as you will, but put some hope into it—something to show +that action is worth taking in the affair. From mere suffering people will +turn away, and you cannot blame them. Every show of it, without hinting at +some door of escape, only urges them to forget it all. Why should they be +pained if it can do no good?" +</p> + +<p> +"For the sake of sympathy, I should say," answered Percivale. +</p> + +<p> +"They would rejoin, 'It is only a picture. Come along.' No; give people +hope, if you would have them act at all, in anything." +</p> + +<p> +"I was almost hoping you would read the picture rather differently. You see +there is a bit of blue sky up there, and a bit of sunshiny scarlet in the +window." +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me curiously as he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +"I can read it so for myself, and have metamorphosed its meaning so. But +you only put in the sky and the scarlet to heighten the perplexity, and +make the other look more terrible." +</p> + +<p> +"Now I know that as an artist I have succeeded, however I may have failed +otherwise. I did so mean it; but knowing you would dislike the picture, +I almost hoped in my cowardice, as I said, that you would read your own +meaning into it." +</p> + +<p> +Wynnie had not said a word. As I turned away from the picture, I saw that +she was looking quite distressed, but whether by the picture or the freedom +with which I had remarked upon it, I do not know. My eyes falling on a +little sketch in sepia, I began to examine it, in the hope of finding +something more pleasant to say. I perceived in a moment, however, that it +was nearly the same thought, only treated in a gentler and more poetic +mode. A girl lay dying on her bed. A youth held her hand. A torrent of +summer sunshine fell through the window, and made a lake of glory upon the +floor. I turned away. +</p> + +<p> +"You like that better, don't you, papa?" said Wynnie tremulously. +</p> + +<p> +"It is beautiful, certainly," I answered. "And if it were only one, I +should enjoy it—as a mood. But coming after the other, it seems but the +same thing more weakly embodied." +</p> + +<p> +I confess I was a little vexed; for I had got much interested in Percivale, +for his own sake as well as for my daughter's, and I had expected better +things from him. But I saw that I had gone too far. +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon, Mr. Percivale," I said. +</p> + +<p> +"I fear I have been too free in my remarks. I know, likewise, that I am a +clergyman, and not a painter, and therefore incapable of giving the praise +which I have little doubt your art at least deserves." +</p> + +<p> +"I trust that honesty cannot offend me, however much and justly it may pain +me." +</p> + +<p> +"But now I have said my worst, I should much like to see what else you have +at hand to show me." +</p> + +<p> +"Unfortunately I have too much at hand. Let me see." +</p> + +<p> +He strode to the other end of the room, where several pictures were leaning +against the wall, with their faces turned towards it. From these he chose +one, but, before showing it, fitted it into an empty frame that stood +beside. He then brought it forward and set it on the easel. I will describe +it, and then my reader will understand the admiration which broke from me +after I had regarded it for a time. +</p> + +<p> +A dark hill rose against the evening sky, which shone through a few thin +pines on its top. Along a road on the hill-side four squires bore a dying +knight—a man past the middle age. One behind carried his helm, and another +led his horse, whose fine head only appeared in the picture. The head and +countenance of the knight were very noble, telling of many a battle, and +ever for the right. The last had doubtless been gained, for one might read +victory as well as peace in the dying look. The party had just reached the +edge of a steep descent, from which you saw the valley beneath, with the +last of the harvest just being reaped, while the shocks stood all about in +the fields, under the place of the sunset. The sun had been down for some +little time. There was no gold left in the sky, only a little dull saffron, +but plenty of that lovely liquid green of the autumn sky, divided with a +few streaks of pale rose. The depth of the sky overhead, which you could +not see for the arrangement of the picture, was mirrored lovelily in a +piece of water that lay in the centre of the valley. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear fellow," I cried, "why did you not show me this first, and save me +from saying so many unkind things? Here is a picture to my own heart; it is +glorious. Look here, Wynnie," I went on; "you see it is evening; the sun's +work is done, and he has set in glory, leaving his good name behind him in +a lovely harmony of colour. The old knight's work is done too; his day has +set in the storm of battle, and he is lying lapt in the coming peace. They +are bearing him home to his couch and his grave. Look at their faces in +the dusky light. They are all mourning for and honouring the life that is +ebbing away. But he is gathered to his fathers like a shock of corn fully +ripe; and so the harvest stands golden in the valley beneath. The picture +would not be complete, however, if it did not tell us of the deep heaven +overhead, the symbol of that heaven whither he who has done his work is +bound. What a lovely idea to represent it by means of the water, the heaven +embodying itself in the earth, as it were, that we may see it! And observe +how that dusky hill-side, and those tall slender mournful-looking pines, +with that sorrowful sky between, lead the eye and point the heart upward +towards that heaven. It is indeed a grand picture, full of feeling—a +picture and a parable." +</p> + +<p> +[Footnote: This is a description, from memory only, of a picture painted by +Arthur Hughes.] +</p> + +<p> +I looked at the girl. Her eyes were full of tears, either called forth +by the picture itself or by the pleasure of finding Percivale's work +appreciated by me, who had spoken so hardly of the others. +</p> + +<p> +"I cannot tell you how glad I am that you like it," she said. +</p> + +<p> +"Like it!" I returned; "I am simply delighted with it, more than I can +express—so much delighted that if I could have this alongside of it, I +should not mind hanging that other—that hopeless garret—on the most +public wall I have." +</p> + +<p> +"Then," said Wynnie bravely, though in a tremulous voice, "you +confess—don't you, papa?—that you were <i>too</i> hard on Mr. Percivale at +first?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not too hard on his picture, my dear; and that was all he had yet given me +to judge by. No man should paint a picture like that. You are not bound to +disseminate hopelessness; for where there is no hope there can be no sense +of duty." +</p> + +<p> +"But surely, papa, Mr. Percivale has <i>some</i> sense of duty," said Wynnie in +an almost angry tone. +</p> + +<p> +"Assuredly my love. Therefore I argue that he has some hope, and therefore, +again, that he has no right to publish such a picture." +</p> + +<p> +At the word <i>publish</i> Percivale smiled. But Wynnie went on with her +defence: +</p> + +<p> +"But you see, papa, that Mr. Percivale does not paint such pictures only. +Look at the other." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, my dear. But pictures are not like poems, lying side by side in the +same book, so that the one can counteract the other. The one of these might +go to the stormy Hebrides, and the other to the Vale of Avalon; but even +then I should be strongly inclined to criticise the poem, whatever position +it stood in, that had <i>nothing</i>—positively nothing—of the aurora in it." +</p> + +<p> +Here let me interrupt the course of our conversation to illustrate it by a +remark on a poem which has appeared within the last twelvemonth from the +pen of the greatest living poet, and one who, if I may dare to judge, will +continue the greatest for many, many years to come. It is only a little +song, "I stood on a tower in the wet." I have found few men who, whether +from the influence of those prints which are always on the outlook for +something to ridicule, or from some other cause, did not laugh at the poem. +I thought and think it a lovely poem, although I am not quite sure of the +transposition of words in the last two lines. But I do not <i>approve</i> of the +poem, just because there is no hope in it. It lacks that touch or hint +of <i>red</i> which is as essential, I think, to every poem as to every +picture—the life-blood—the one pure colour. In his hopeful moods, let a +man put on his singing robes, and chant aloud the words of gladness—or of +grief, I care not which—to his fellows; in his hours of hopelessness, +let him utter his thoughts only to his inarticulate violin, or in the +evanescent sounds of any his other stringed instrument; let him commune +with his own heart on his bed, and be still; let him speak to God face to +face if he may—only he cannot do that and continue hopeless; but let him +not sing aloud in such a mood into the hearts of his fellows, for he cannot +do them much good thereby. If it were a fact that there is no hope, it +would not be a <i>truth</i>. No doubt, if it were a fact, it ought to be known; +but who will dare be confident that there is no hope? Therefore, I say, let +the hopeless moods, at least, if not the hopeless men, be silent. +</p> + +<p> +"He could refuse to let the one go without the other," said Wynnie. +</p> + +<p> +"Now you are talking like a child, Wynnie, as indeed all partisans do at +the best. He might sell them together, but the owner would part them.—If +you will allow me, I will come and see both the pictures again to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +Percivale assured me of welcome, and we parted, I declining to look at any +more pictures that day, but not till we had arranged that he should dine +with us in the evening. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap13"></a></p> +<h3> +CHAPTER XIII. +</h3> + +<h3> +HOME AGAIN. +</h3> + +<p> +I will not detain my readers with the record of the few days we spent in +London. In writing the account of it, as in the experience of the time +itself, I feel that I am near home, and grow the more anxious to reach it. +Ah! I am growing a little anxious after another home, too; for the house of +my tabernacle is falling to ruins about me. What a word <i>home</i> is! To think +that God has made the world so that you have only to be born in a certain +place, and live long enough in it to get at the secret of it, and +henceforth that place is to you a <i>home</i> with all the wonderful meaning in +the word. Thus the whole earth is a home to the race; for every spot of it +shares in the feeling: some one of the family loves it as <i>his</i> home. How +rich the earth seems when we so regard it—crowded with the loves of home! +Yet I am now getting ready to <i>go home</i>—to leave this world of homes and +go home. When I reach that home, shall I even then seek yet to go home? +Even then, I believe, I shall seek a yet warmer, deeper, truer home in the +deeper knowledge of God—in the truer love of my fellow-man. Eternity will +be, my heart and my faith tell me, a travelling homeward, but in jubilation +and confidence and the vision of the beloved. +</p> + +<p> +When we had laid Connie once more in her own room, at least the room which +since her illness had come to be called hers, I went up to my study. The +familiar faces of my books welcomed me. I threw myself in my reading-chair, +and gazed around me with pleasure. I felt it so homely here. All my old +friends—whom somehow I hoped to see some day—present there in the spirit +ready to talk with me any moment when I was in the mood, making no claim +upon my attention when I was not! I felt as if I should like, when the +hour should come, to die in that chair, and pass into the society of the +witnesses in the presence of the tokens they had left behind them. +</p> + +<p> +I heard shouts on the stair, and in rushed the two boys. +</p> + +<p> +"Papa, papa!" they were crying together. +</p> + +<p> +"What is the matter?" +</p> + +<p> +"We've found the big chest just where we left it." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, did you expect it would have taken itself off?" +</p> + +<p> +"But there's everything in it just as we left it." +</p> + +<p> +"Were you afraid, then, that the moment you left it it would turn itself +upside down, and empty itself of all its contents on the floor?" +</p> + +<p> +They laughed, but apparently with no very keen appreciation of the attempt +at a joke. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, papa, I did not think anything about it; but—but—but—there +everything is as we left it." +</p> + +<p> +With this triumphant answer they turned and hurried, a little abashed, out +of the room; but not many moments elapsed before the sounds that arose from +them were sufficiently reassuring as to the state of their spirits. +When they were gone, I forgot my books in the attempt to penetrate and +understand the condition of my boys' thoughts; and I soon came to see that +they were right and I was wrong. It was the movement of that undeveloped +something in us which makes it possible for us in everything to give +thanks. It was the wonder of the discovery of the existence of law. There +was nothing that they could understand, <i>à priori</i>, to necessitate the +remaining of the things where they had left them. No doubt there was a +reason in the nature of God, why all things should hold together, whence +springs the law of gravitation, as we call it; but as far as the boys could +understand of this, all things might as well have been arranged for flying +asunder, so that no one could expect to find anything where he had left it. +I began to see yet further into the truth that in everything we must give +thanks, and whatever is not of faith is sin. Even the laws of nature reveal +the character of God, not merely as regards their ends, but as regards +their kind, being of necessity fashioned after ideal facts of his own being +and will. +</p> + +<p> +I rose and went down to see if everybody was getting settled, and how the +place looked. I found Ethel already going about the house as if she had +never left it, and as if we all had just returned from a long absence and +she had to show us home-hospitality. Wynnie had vanished; but I found her +by and by in the favourite haunt of her mother before her marriage—beside +the little pond called the Bishop's Basin, of which I do not think I have +ever told my readers the legend. But why should I mention it, for I cannot +tell it now? The frost lay thick in the hollow when I went down there to +find her; the branches, lately clothed with leaves, stood bare and icy +around her. Ethelwyn and I had almost forgotten that there was anything out +of the common in connection with the house. The horror of this mysterious +spot had laid hold upon Wynnie. I resolved that that night I would, in her +mother's presence, tell her all the legend of the place, and the whole +story of how I won her mother. I did so; and I think it made her trust us +more. But now I left her there, and went to Connie. She lay in her bed; +for her mother had got her thither at once, a perfect picture of blessed +comfort. There was no occasion to be uneasy about her. I was so pleased +to be at home again with such good hopes, that I could not rest, but went +wandering everywhere—into places even which I had not entered for ten +years at least, and found fresh interest in everything; for this was home, +and here I was. +</p> + +<p> +Now I fancy my readers, looking forward to the end, and seeing what a small +amount of print is left, blaming me; some, that I have roused curiosity +without satisfying it; others, that I have kept them so long over a dull +book and a lame conclusion. But out of a life one cannot always cut +complete portions, and serve them up in nice shapes. I am well aware that I +have not told them the <i>fate</i>, as some of them would call it, of either of +my daughters. This I cannot develop now, even as far as it is known to me; +but, if it is any satisfaction to them to know this much—and it will be +all that some of them mean by <i>fate</i>, I fear—I may as well tell them now +that Wynnie has been Mrs. Percivale for many years, with a history well +worth recounting; and that Connie has had a quiet, happy life for nearly +as long, as Mrs. Turner. She has never got strong, but has very tolerable +health. Her husband watches her with the utmost care and devotion. My +Ethelwyn is still with me. Harry is gone home. Charlie is a barrister of +the Middle Temple. And Dora—I must not forget Dora—well, I will say +nothing about her <i>fate</i>, for good reasons—it is not quite determined yet. +Meantime she puts up with the society of her old father and mother, and is +something else than unhappy, I fully believe. +</p> + +<p> +"And Connie's baby?" asks some one out of ten thousand readers. I have no +time to tell you about her now; but as you know her so little, it cannot be +such a trial to remain, for a time at least, unenlightened with regard to +her <i>fate.</i> +</p> + +<p> +The only other part of my history which could contain anything like +incident enough to make it interesting in print, is a period I spent in +London some few years after the time of which I have now been writing. But +I am getting too old to regard the commencement of another history with +composure. The labour of thinking into sequences, even the bodily labour of +writing, grows more and more severe. I fancy I can think correctly still; +but the effort necessary to express myself with corresponding correctness +becomes, in prospect, at least, sometimes almost appalling. I must +therefore take leave of my patient reader—for surely every one who +has followed me through all that I have here written, well deserves the +epithet—as if the probability that I shall write no more were a certainty, +bidding him farewell with one word: <i>"Friend, hope thou in God,"</i> and for +a parting gift offering him a new, and, I think, a true rendering of the +first verse of the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "Now faith is the essence of hopes, the trying of things unseen."<br /> +</p> + +<p> +Good-bye. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="finis"> +THE END. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 3 *** + +***** This file should be named 8553-h.htm or 8553-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8553/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: March 29, 2014 [EBook #8553] +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. 3 *** + + + + +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. III. + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. III. + + + I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE + II. OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER + III. A PASTORAL VISIT. + IV. THE ART OF NATURE + V. THE SORE SPOT + VI. THE GATHERING STORM. + VII. THE GATHERED STORM. + VIII. THE SHIPWRECK + IX. THE FUNERAL + X. THE SERMON. + XI. CHANGED PLANS. + XII. THE STUDIO. + XIII. HOME AGAIN. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A WALK WITH MY WIFE. + + +The autumn was creeping up on the earth, with winter holding by its skirts +behind; but before I loose my hold of the garments of summer, I must write +a chapter about a walk and a talk I had one night with my wife. It had +rained a good deal during the day, but as the sun went down the air began +to clear, and when the moon shone out, near the full, she walked the +heavens, not "like one that hath been led astray," but as "queen and +huntress, chaste and fair." + +"What a lovely night it is!" said Ethelwyn, who had come into my +study--where I always sat with unblinded windows, that the night and her +creatures might look in upon me--and had stood gazing out for a moment. + +"Shall we go for a little turn?" I said. + +"I should like it very much," she answered. "I will go and put on my bonnet +at once." + +In a minute or two she looked in again, all ready. I rose, laid aside my +Plato, and went with her. We turned our steps along the edge of the down, +and descended upon the breakwater, where we seated ourselves upon the same +spot where in the darkness I had heard the voices of Joe and Agnes. What a +different night it was from that! The sea lay as quiet as if it could not +move for the moonlight that lay upon it. The glory over it was so mighty in +its peacefulness, that the wild element beneath was afraid to toss itself +even with the motions of its natural unrest. The moon was like the face of +a saint before which the stormy people has grown dumb. The rocks stood up +solid and dark in the universal aether, and the pulse of the ocean throbbed +against them with a lapping gush, soft as the voice of a passionate child +soothed into shame of its vanished petulance. But the sky was the glory. +Although no breath moved below, there was a gentle wind abroad in the upper +regions. The air was full of masses of cloud, the vanishing fragments of +the one great vapour which had been pouring down in rain the most of the +day. These masses were all setting with one steady motion eastward into the +abysses of space; now obscuring the fair moon, now solemnly sweeping away +from before her. As they departed, out shone her marvellous radiance, as +calm as ever. It was plain that she knew nothing of what we called her +covering, her obscuration, the dimming of her glory. She had been busy all +the time weaving her lovely opaline damask on the other side of the mass in +which we said she was swallowed up. + +"Have you ever noticed, wifie," I said, "how the eyes of our minds--almost +our bodily eyes--are opened sometimes to the cubicalness of nature, as it +were?" + +"I don't know, Harry, for I don't understand your question," she answered. + +"Well, it was a stupid way of expressing what I meant. No human being could +have understood it from that. I will make you understand in a moment, +though. Sometimes--perhaps generally--we see the sky as a flat dome, +spangled with star-points, and painted blue. _Now_ I see it as an awful +depth of blue air, depth within depth; and the clouds before me are not +passing away to the left, but sinking away from the front of me into the +marvellous unknown regions, which, let philosophers say what they will +about time and space,--and I daresay they are right,--are yet very awful +to me. Thank God, my dear," I said, catching hold of her arm, as the terror +of mere space grew upon me, "for himself. He is deeper than space, deeper +than time; he is the heart of all the cube of history." + +"I understand you now, husband," said my wife. + +"I knew you would," I answered. + +"But," she said again, "is it not something the same with the things inside +us? I can't put it in words as you do. Do you understand me now?" + +"I am not sure that I do. You must try again." + +"You understand me well enough, only you like to make me blunder where +you can talk," said my wife, putting her hand in mine. "But I will try. +Sometimes, after thinking about something for a long time, you come to a +conclusion about it, and you think you have settled it plain and clear to +yourself, for ever and a day. You hang it upon your wall, like a picture, +and are satisfied for a fortnight. But some day, when you happen to cast a +look at it, you find that instead of hanging flat on the wall, your picture +has gone through it--opens out into some region you don't know where--shows +you far-receding distances of air and sea--in short, where you thought one +question was settled for ever, a hundred are opened up for the present +hour." + +"Bravo, wife!" I cried in true delight. "I do indeed understand you now. +You have said it better than I could ever have done. That's the plague of +you women! You have been taught for centuries and centuries that there is +little or nothing to be expected of you, and so you won't try. Therefore we +men know no more than you do whether it is in you or not. And when you do +try, instead of trying to think, you want to be in Parliament all at once." + +"Do you apply that remark to me, sir?" demanded Ethelwyn. + +"You must submit to bear the sins of your kind upon occasion," I answered. + +"I am content to do that, so long as yours will help mine," she replied. + +"Then I may go on?" I said, with interrogation. + +"Till sunrise if you like. We were talking of the cubicalness--I believe +you called it--of nature." + +"And you capped it with the cubicalness of thought. And quite right +too. There are people, as a dear friend of mine used to say, who are so +accustomed to regard everything in the _flat_, as dogma cut and--not +_always_ dried my moral olfactories aver--that if you prove to them the +very thing they believe, but after another mode than that they have been +accustomed to, they are offended, and count you a heretic. There is no help +for it. Even St. Paul's chief opposition came from the Judaizing Christians +of his time, who did not believe that God _could_ love the Gentiles, and +therefore regarded him as a teacher of falsehood. We must not be fierce +with them. Who knows what wickedness of their ancestors goes to account for +their stupidity? For that there are stupid people, and that they are, in +very consequence of their stupidity, conceited, who can deny? The worst of +it is, that no man who is conceited can be convinced of the fact." + +"Don't say that, Harry. That is to deny conversion." + +"You are right, Ethelwyn. The moment a man is convinced of his folly, he +ceases to be a fool. The moment a man is convinced of his conceit, he +ceases to be conceited. But there _must_ be a final judgment, and the true +man will welcome it, even if he is to appear a convicted fool. A man's +business is to see first that he is not acting the part of a fool, and +next, to help any honest people who care about the matter to take heed +likewise that they be not offering to pull the mote out of their brother's +eye. But there are even societies established and supported by good +people for the express purpose of pulling out motes.--'The Mote-Pulling +Society!'--That ought to take with a certain part of the public." + +"Come, come, Harry. You are absurd. Such people don't come near you." + +"They can't touch me. No. But they come near good people whom I know, +brandishing the long pins with which they pull the motes out, and +threatening them with judgment before their time. They are but pins, to be +sure--not daggers." + +"But you have wandered, Harry, into the narrowest underground, musty ways, +and have forgotten all about 'the cubicalness of nature.'" + +"You are right, my love, as you generally are," I answered, laughing. "Look +at that great antlered elk, or moose--fit quarry for Diana of the silver +bow. Look how it glides solemnly away into the unpastured depths of the +aerial deserts. Look again at that reclining giant, half raised upon his +arm, with his face turned towards the wilderness. What eyes they must be +under those huge brows! On what message to the nations is he borne as by +the slow sweep of ages, on towards his mysterious goal?" + +"Stop, stop, Harry," said my wife. "It makes me unhappy to hear grand words +clothing only cloudy fancies. Such words ought to be used about the truth, +and the truth only." + +"If I could carry it no further, my dear, then it would indeed be a +degrading of words. But there never was a vagary that uplifted the soul, +or made the grand words flow from the gates of speech, that had not its +counterpart in truth itself. Man can imagine nothing, even in the clouds of +the air, that God has not done, or is not doing. Even as that cloudy giant +yields, and is 'shepherded by the slow unwilling wind,' so is each of us +borne onward to an unseen destiny--a glorious one if we will but yield to +the Spirit of God that bloweth where it listeth--with a grand +listing--coming whence we know not, and going whither we know not. The +very clouds of the air are hung up as dim pictures of the thoughts and +history of man." + +"I do not mind how long you talk like that, husband, even if you take the +clouds for your text. But it did make me miserable to think that what you +were saying had no more basis than the fantastic forms which the clouds +assume. I see I was wrong, though." + +"The clouds themselves, in such a solemn stately march as this, used to +make me sad for the very same reason. I used to think, What is it all for? +They are but vapours blown by the wind. They come nowhence, and they go +nowhither. But now I see them and all things as ever moving symbols of the +motions of man's spirit and destiny." + +A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth +of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since, +covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing +forms--great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm--the icebergs of the +upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but floating +near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted by a golden +rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke. + +"I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night," she said. "How he must be enjoying +it if he is!" + +"I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours," I +said. "Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking." + +"He is laying in stock, though, I suppose," answered my wife. + +"I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember." + +"Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he gets +with the things God cares to fashion." + +"Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at +present is our Wynnie." + +"Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?" returned Ethelwyn, looking +up in my face with an arch expression. + +"Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so much +in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about." + +My wife made no answer for a moment. Then she said, + +"Don't you like him, Harry?" + +"Yes. I like him very much." + +"Then why should you not like Wynnie to like him?" + +"I should like to be surer of his principles, for one thing." + +"I should like to be surer of Wynnie's." + +I was silent. Ethelwyn resumed. + +"Don't you think they might do each other good?" + +Still I could not reply. + +"They both love the truth, I am sure; only they don't perhaps know what it +is yet. I think if they were to fall in love with each other, it would very +likely make them both more desirous of finding it still." + +"Perhaps," I said at last. "But you are talking about awfully serious +things, Ethelwyn." + +"Yes, as serious as life," she answered. + +"You make me very anxious," I said. "The young man has not, I fear, any +means of gaining a livelihood for more than himself." + +"Why should he before he wanted it? I like to see a man who can be content +with an art and a living by it." + +"I hope I have not been to blame in allowing them to see so much of each +other," I said, hardly heeding my wife's words. + +"It came about quite naturally," she rejoined. "If you had opposed +their meeting, you would have been interfering just as if you had been +Providence. And you would have only made them think more about each other." + +"He hasn't said anything--has he?" I asked in positive alarm. + +"O dear no. It may be all my fancy. I am only looking a little ahead. I +confess I should like him for a son-in-law. I approve of him," she added, +with a sweet laugh. + +"Well," I said, "I suppose sons-in-law are possible, however disagreeable, +results of having daughters." + +I tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded. + +"Harry," said my wife, "I don't like you in such a mood. It is not like you +at all. It is unworthy of you." + +"How can I help being anxious when you speak of such dreadful things as the +possibility of having to give away my daughter, my precious wonder that +came to me through you, out of the infinite--the tender little darling!" + +"'Out of the heart of God,' you used to say, Henry. Yes, and with a destiny +he had ordained. It is strange to me how you forget your best and noblest +teaching sometimes. You are always telling us to trust in God. Surely it is +a poor creed that will only allow us to trust in God for ourselves--a very +selfish creed. There must be something wrong there. I should say that the +man who can only trust God for himself is not half a Christian. Either he +is so selfish that that satisfies him, or he has such a poor notion of God +that he cannot trust him with what most concerns him. The former is not +your case, Harry: is the latter, then?--You see I must take my turn at the +preaching sometimes. Mayn't I, dearest?" + +She took my hand in both of hers. The truth arose in my heart. I never +loved my wife more than at that moment. And now I could not speak for other +reasons. I saw that I had been faithless to my God, and the moment I could +command my speech, I hastened to confess it. + +"You are right, my dear," I said, "quite right. I have been wicked, for I +have been denying my God. I have been putting my providence in the place +of his--trying, like an anxious fool, to count the hairs on Wynnie's head, +instead of being content that the grand loving Father should count them. My +love, let us pray for Wynnie; for what is prayer but giving her to God and +his holy, blessed will?" + +We sat hand in hand. Neither spoke aloud for some minutes, but we spoke in +our hearts to God, talking to him about Wynnie. Then we rose together, and +walked homeward, still in silence. But my heart and hand clung to my wife +as to the angel whom God had sent to deliver me out of the prison of my +faithlessness. And as we went, lo! the sky was glorious again. It had faded +from my sight, had grown flat as a dogma, uninteresting as "a foul and +pestilent congregation of vapours;" the moon had been but a round thing +with the sun shining upon it, and the stars were only minding their own +business. But now the solemn march towards an unseen, unimagined goal had +again begun. Wynnie's life was hid with Christ in God. Away strode the +cloudy pageant with its banners blowing in the wind, which blew where it +grandly listed, marching as to a solemn triumphal music that drew them from +afar towards the gates of pearl by which the morning walks out of the New +Jerusalem to gladden the nations of the earth. Solitary stars, with all +their sparkles drawn in, shone, quiet as human eyes, in the deep solemn +clefts of dark blue air. They looked restrained and still, as if they +knew all about it--all about the secret of this midnight march. For the +moon--she saw the sun, and therefore made the earth glad. + +"You have been a moon to me this night, my wife," I said. "You were looking +full at the truth, while I was dark. I saw its light in your face, and +believed, and turned my soul to the sun. And now I am both ashamed and +glad. God keep me from sinning so again." + +"My dear husband, it was only a mood--a passing mood," said Ethelwyn, +seeking to comfort me. + +"It was a mood, and thank God it is now past; but it was a wicked one. It +was a mood in which the Lord might have called me a devil, as he did St. +Peter. Such moods have to be grappled with and fought the moment they +appear. They must not have their way for a single thought even." + +"But we can't help it always, can we, husband?" + +"We can't help it out and out, because our wills are not yet free with the +freedom God is giving us as fast as we will let him. When we are able to +will thoroughly, then we shall do what we will. At least, I think we shall. +But there is a mystery in it God only understands. All we know is, that we +can struggle and pray. But a mood is an awful oppression sometimes when you +least believe in it and most wish to get rid of it. It is like a headache +in the soul." + +"What do the people do that don't believe in God?" said Ethelwyn. + +The same moment Wynnie, who had seen us pass the window, opened the door of +the bark-house for us, and we passed into Connie's chamber and found her +lying in the moonlight, gazing at the same heavens as her father and mother +had been revelling in. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER. + + +The next day was very lovely. I think it is the last of the kind of which +I shall have occasion to write in my narrative of the Seaboard Parish. I +wonder if my readers are tired of so much about the common things of +Nature. I reason about it something in this way: We are so easily affected +by the smallest things that are of the unpleasant kind, that we ought to +train ourselves to the influence of those that are of an opposite nature. +The unpleasant ones are like the thorns which make themselves felt as we +scramble--for we often do scramble in a very undignified manner--through +the thickets of life; and, feeling the thorns, we grumble, and are blind +to all but the thorns. The flowers, and the lovely leaves, and the red +berries, and the clusters of filberts, and the birds'-nests do not force +themselves upon our attention as the thorns do, and the thorns make us +forget to look for them. But a scratch would be forgotten--and that in +mental hurts is often equivalent to a cure, for a forgotten scratch on the +mind or heart will never fester--if we but allowed our being a moment's +repose upon any of the quiet, waiting, unobtrusive beauties that lie +around the half-trodden way, offering their gentle healing. And when I +think how, not unfrequently, otherwise noble characters are anything but +admirable when under the influence of trifling irritations, the very +paltriness of which seems what the mind, which would at once rouse itself +to a noble endurance of any mighty evil, is unable to endure, I would +gladly help so with sweet antidotes to defeat the fly in the ointment of +the apothecary that the whole pot shall send forth a pure savour. We ought +for this to cultivate the friendships of little things. Beauty is one of +the surest antidotes to vexation. Often when life looked dreary about me, +from some real or fancied injustice or indignity, has a thought of truth +been flashed into my mind from a flower, a shape of frost, or even a +lingering shadow--not to mention such glories as angel-winged clouds, +rainbows, stars, and sunrises. Therefore I hope that in my loving delay +over such aspects of Nature as impressed themselves upon me in this most +memorable part of my history I shall not prove wearisome to my reader, for +therein I should utterly contravene my hope and intent in the recording of +them. + +This day there was to be an unusually low tide, and we had reckoned on +enlarging our acquaintance with the bed of the ocean--of knowing a few +yards more of the millions of miles lapt in the mystery of waters. It was +to be low water about two o'clock, and we resolved to dine upon the sands. +But all the morning the children were out playing on the threshold of old +Neptune's palace; for in his quieter mood he will, like a fierce +mastiff, let children do with him what they will. I gave myself a whole +holiday--sometimes the most precious part of my life both for myself and +those for whom I labour--and wandered about on the shore, now passing the +children, and assailed with a volley of cries and entreaties to look at +this one's castle and that one's ditch, now leaving them behind, with what +in its ungraduated flatness might well enough personate an endless +desert of sand between, over the expanse of which I could imagine them +disappearing on a far horizon, whence however a faint occasional cry of +excitement and pleasure would reach my ears. The sea was so calm, and the +shore so gently sloping, that you could hardly tell where the sand ceased +and the sea began--the water sloped to such a thin pellicle, thinner +than any knife-edge, upon the shining brown sand, and you saw the sand +underneath the water to such a distance out. Yet this depth, which would +not drown a red spider, was the ocean. In my mind I followed that bed of +shining sand, bared of its hiding waters, out and out, till I was lost in +an awful wilderness of chasms, precipices, and mountain-peaks, in whose +caverns the sea-serpent may dwell, with his breath of pestilence; the +kraken, with "his skaly rind," may there be sleeping + + "His ancient dreamless, uninvaded sleep," + +while + + "faintest sunlights flee + About his shadowy sides," + +as he lies + + "Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep." + +There may lie all the horrors that Schiller's diver encountered--the +frightful Molch, and that worst of all, to which he gives no name, which +came creeping with a hundred knots at once; but here are only the gracious +rainbow-woven shells, an evanescent jelly or two, and the queer baby-crabs +that crawl out from the holes of the bordering rocks. What awful gradations +of gentleness lead from such as these down to those cabins where wallow +the inventions of Nature's infancy, when, like a child of untutored +imagination, she drew on the slate of her fancy creations in which flitting +shadows of beauty serve only to heighten the shuddering, gruesome horror. +The sweet sun and air, the hand of man, and the growth of the ages, have +all but swept such from the upper plains of the earth. What hunter's bow +has twanged, what adventurer's rifle has cracked in those leagues of +mountain-waste, vaster than all the upper world can show, where the beasts +of the ocean "graze the sea-weed, their pasture"! Diana of the silver bow +herself, when she descends into the interlunar caves of hell, sends no such +monsters fleeing from her spells. Yet if such there be, such horrors too +must lie in the undiscovered caves of man's nature, of which all this outer +world is but a typical analysis. By equally slow gradations may the inner +eye descend from the truth of a Cordelia to the falsehood of an Iago. As +these golden sands slope from the sunlight into the wallowing abyss of +darkness, even so from the love of the child to his holy mother slopes the +inclined plane of humanity to the hell of the sensualist. "But with one +difference in the moral world," I said aloud, as I paced up and down on the +shimmering margin, "that everywhere in the scale the eye of the all-seeing +Father can detect the first quiver of the eyelid that would raise itself +heavenward, responsive to his waking spirit." I lifted my eyes in the +relief of the thought, and saw how the sun of the autumn hung above the +waters oppressed with a mist of his own glory; far away to the left a man +who had been clambering on a low rock, inaccessible save in such a tide, +gathering mussels, threw himself into the sea and swam ashore; above his +head the storm-tower stood in the stormless air; the sea glittered and +shone, and the long-winged birds knew not which to choose, the balmy air or +the cool deep, now flitting like arrow-heads through the one, now alighting +eagerly upon the other, to forsake it anew for the thinner element. I +thanked God for his glory. + +"O, papa, it's so jolly--so jolly!" shouted the children as I passed them +again. + +"What is it that's so jolly, Charlie?" I asked. + +"My castle," screeched Harry in reply; "only it's tumbled down. The water +_would_ keep coming in underneath." + +"I tried to stop it with a newspaper," cried Charlie, "but it wouldn't. So +we were forced to let it be, and down it went into the ditch." + +"We blew it up rather than surrender," said Dora. "We did; only Harry +always forgets, and says it was the water did it." + +I drew near the rock that held the bath. I had never approached it from +this side before. It was high above my head, and a stream of water was +flowing from it. I scrambled up, undressed, and plunged into its dark +hollow, where I felt like one of the sea-beasts of which I had been +dreaming, down in the caves of the unvisited ocean. But the sun was over +my head, and the air with an edge of the winter was about me. I dressed +quickly, descended on the other side of the rock, and wandered again on the +sands to seaward of the breakwater, which lay above, looking dry and +weary, and worn with years of contest with the waves, which had at length +withdrawn defeated to their own country, and left it as if to victory and a +useless age of peace. How different was the scene when a raving mountain of +water filled all the hollow where I now wandered, and rushed over the top +of that mole now so high above me; and I had to cling to its stones to keep +me from being carried off like a bit of floating sea-weed! This was the +loveliest and strangest part of the shore. Several long low ridges of rock, +of whose existence I scarcely knew, worn to a level with the sand, hollowed +and channelled with the terrible run of the tide across them, and looking +like the old and outworn cheek-teeth of some awful beast of prey, stretched +out seawards. Here and there amongst them rose a well-known rock, but now +so changed in look by being lifted all the height between the base on the +waters, and the second base in the sand, that I wondered at each, walking +round and viewing it on all sides. It seemed almost a fresh growth out of +the garden of the shore, with uncouth hollows around its fungous root, +and a forsaken air about its brows as it stood in the dry sand and looked +seaward. But what made the chief delight of the spot, closed in by rocks +from the open sands, was the multitude of fairy rivers that flowed across +it to the sea. The gladness these streams gave me I cannot communicate. The +tide had filled thousands of hollows in the breakwater, hundreds of cracked +basins in the rocks, huge sponges of sand; from all of which--from cranny +and crack, and oozing sponge--the water flowed in restricted haste back, +back to the sea, tumbling in tiny cataracts down the faces of the rocks, +bubbling from their roots as from wells, gathering in tanks of sand, and +overflowing in broad shallow streams, curving and sweeping in their sandy +channels, just like, the great rivers of a continent;--here spreading into +smooth silent lakes and reaches, here babbling along in ripples and waves +innumerable--flowing, flowing, to lose their small beings in the same ocean +that met on the other side the waters of the Mississippi, the Orinoco, the +Amazon. All their channels were of golden sand, and the golden sunlight +was above and through and in them all: gold and gold met, with the waters +between. And what gave an added life to their motion was, that all the +ripples made shadows on the clear yellow below them. The eye could not +see the rippling on the surface; but the sun saw it, and drew it in +multitudinous shadowy motion upon the sand, with the play of a thousand +fancies of gold burnished and dead, of sunlight and yellow, trembling, +melting, curving, blending, vanishing ever, ever renewed. It was as if all +the water-marks upon a web of golden silk had been set in wildest yet most +graceful curvilinear motion by the breath of a hundred playful zephyrs. My +eye could not be filled with seeing. I stood in speechless delight for a +while, gazing at the "endless ending" which was "the humour of the game," +and thinking how in all God's works the laws of beauty are wrought out +in evanishment, in birth and death. There, there is no hoarding, but +an ever-fresh creating, an eternal flow of life from the heart of the +All-beautiful. Hence even the heart of man cannot hoard. His brain or his +hand may gather into its box and hoard; but the moment the thing has passed +into the box, the heart has lost it and is hungry again. If man would +_have,_ it is the giver he must have; the eternal, the original, the +ever-outpouring is alone within his reach; the everlasting _creation_ is +his heritage. Therefore all that he makes must be free to come and go +through the heart of his child; he can enjoy it only as it passes, can +enjoy only its life, its soul, its vision, its meaning, not itself. To +hoard rubies and sapphires is as useless and hopeless for the heart, as if +I were to attempt to hoard this marvel of sand and water and sunlight in +the same iron chest with the musty deeds of my wife's inheritance. + +"Father," I murmured half aloud, "thou alone art, and I am because thou +art. Thy will shall be mine." + +I know that I must have spoken aloud, because I remember the start of +consciousness and discomposure occasioned by the voice of Percivale +greeting me. + +"I beg your pardon," he added; "I did not mean to startle you, Mr. Walton. +I thought you were only looking at Nature's childplay--not thinking." + +"I know few things _more_ fit to set one thinking than what you have very +well called Nature's childplay," I returned. "Is Nature very heartless now, +do you think, to go on with this kind of thing at our feet, when away up +yonder lies the awful London, with so many sores festering in her heart?" + +"You must answer your own question, Mr. Walton. You know I cannot. I +confess I feel the difficulty deeply. I will go further, and confess that +the discrepancy makes me doubt many things I would gladly believe. I know +_you_ are able to distinguish between a glad unbelief and a sorrowful +doubt." + +"Else were I unworthy of the humblest place in the kingdom--unworthy to be +a doorkeeper in the house of my God," I answered, and recoiled from the +sound of my own words; for they seemed to imply that I believed myself +worthy of the position I occupied. I hastened to correct them: "But do not +mistake my thoughts," I said; "I do not dream of worthiness in the way of +honour--only of fitness for the work to be done. For that I think God has +fitted me in some measure. The doorkeeper's office may be given him, not +because he has done some great deed worthy of the honour, but because he +can sweep the porch and scour the threshold, and will, in the main, try to +keep them clean. That is all the worthiness I dare to claim, even to hope +that I possess." + +"No one who knows you can mistake your words, except wilfully," returned +Percivale courteously. + +"Thank you," I said. "Now I will just ask you, in reference to the contrast +between human life and nature, how you will go back to your work in London, +after seeing all this child's and other play of Nature? Suppose you had +had nothing here but rain and high winds and sea-fogs, would you have been +better fitted for doing something to comfort those who know nothing of such +influences than you will be now? One of the most important qualifications +of a sick-nurse is a ready smile. A long-faced nurse in a sickroom is a +visible embodiment and presence of the disease against which the eager life +of the patient is fighting in agony. Such ought to be banished, with their +black dresses and their mourning-shop looks, from every sick-chamber, and +permitted to minister only to the dead, who do not mind looks. With what a +power of life and hope does a woman--young or old I do not care--with a +face of the morning, a dress like the spring, a bunch of wild flowers in +her hand, with the dew upon them, and perhaps in her eyes too (I don't +object to that--that is sympathy, not the worship of darkness),--with +what a message from nature and life does she, looking death in the face +with a smile, dawn upon the vision of the invalid! She brings a little +health, a little strength to fight, a little hope to endure, actually lapt +in the folds of her gracious garments; for the soul itself can do more than +any medicine, if it be fed with the truth of life." + +"But are you not--I beg your pardon for interposing on your eloquence with +dull objection," said Percivale--"are you not begging all the question? +_Is_ life such an affair of sunshine and gladness?" + +"If life is not, then I confess all this show of nature is worse than +vanity--it is a vile mockery. Life is gladness; it is the death in it that +makes the misery. We call life-in-death life, and hence the mistake. If +gladness were not at the root, whence its opposite sorrow, against which +we arise, from which we recoil, with which we fight? We recognise it as +death--the contrary of life. There could be no sorrow but for a recognition +of primordial bliss. This in us that fights must be life. It is of the +nature of light, not of darkness; darkness is nothing until the light +comes. This very childplay, as you call it, of Nature, is her assertion of +the secret that life is the deepest, that life shall conquer death. Those +who believe this must bear the good news to them that sit in darkness and +the shadow of death. Our Lord has conquered death--yea, the moral death +that he called the world; and now, having sown the seed of light, the +harvest is springing in human hearts, is springing in this dance of +radiance, and will grow and grow until the hearts of the children of the +kingdom shall frolic in the sunlight of the Father's presence. Nature has +God at her heart; she is but the garment of the Invisible. God wears his +singing robes in a day like this, and says to his children, 'Be not afraid: +your brothers and sisters up there in London are in my hands; go and help +them. I am with you. Bear to them the message of joy. Tell them to be of +good cheer: I have overcome the world. Tell them to endure hunger, and not +sin; to endure passion, and not yield; to admire, and not desire. Sorrow +and pain are serving my ends; for by them will I slay sin; and save my +children.'" + +"I wish I could believe as you do, Mr. Walton." + +"I wish you could. But God will teach you, if you are willing to be +taught." + +"I desire the truth, Mr. Walton." + +"God bless you! God is blessing you," I said. + +"Amen," returned Percivale devoutly; and we strolled away together in +silence towards the cliffs. + +The recession of the tide allowed us to get far enough away from the face +of the rocks to see the general effect. With the lisping of the inch-deep +wavelets at our heels we stood and regarded the worn yet defiant, the +wasted and jagged yet reposeful face of the guardians of the shore. + +"Who could imagine, in weather like this, and with this baby of a tide +lying behind us, low at our feet, and shallow as the water a schoolboy +pours upon his slate to wash it withal, that those grand cliffs before +us bear on their front the scars and dints of centuries, of chiliads of +stubborn resistance, of passionate contest with this same creature that is +at this moment unable to rock the cradle of an infant? Look behind you, at +your feet, Mr. Percivale; look before you at the chasms, rents, caves, and +hollows of those rocks." + +"I wish you were a painter, Mr. Walton," he said. + +"I wish I were," I returned. "At least I know I should rejoice in it, if it +had been given me to be one. But why do you say so now?" + +"Because you have always some individual predominating idea, which +would give interpretation to Nature while it gave harmony, reality, and +individuality to your representation of her." + +"I know what you mean," I answered; "but I have no gift whatever in that +direction. I have no idea of drawing, or of producing the effects of light +and shade; though I think I have a little notion of colour--perhaps about +as much as the little London boy, who stopped a friend of mine once to ask +the way to the field where the buttercups grew, had of nature." + +"I wish I could ask your opinion of some of my pictures." + +"That I should never presume to give. I could only tell you what they made +me feel, or perhaps only think. Some day I may have the pleasure of looking +at them." + +"May I offer you my address?" he said, and took a card from his +pocket-book. "It is a poor place, but if you should happen to think of +me when you are next in London, I shall be honoured by your paying me a +visit." + +"I shall be most happy," I returned, taking his card.--"Did it ever occur +to you, in reference to the subject we were upon a few minutes ago, how +little you can do without shadow in making a picture?" + +"Little indeed," answered Percivale. "In fact, it would be no picture at +all." + +"I doubt if the world would fare better without its shadows." + +"But it would be a poor satisfaction, with regard to the nature of God, to +be told that he allowed evil for artistic purposes." + +"It would indeed, if you regard the world as a picture. But if you think of +his art as expended, not upon the making of a history or a drama, but upon +the making of an individual, a being, a character, then I think a great +part of the difficulty concerning the existence of evil which oppresses you +will vanish. So long as a creature has not sinned, sin is possible to him. +Does it seem inconsistent with the character of God that in order that sin +should become impossible he should allow sin to come? that, in order that +his creatures should choose the good and refuse the evil, in order that +they might become such, with their whole nature infinitely enlarged, as to +turn from sin with a perfect repugnance of the will, he should allow them +to fall? that, in order that, from being sweet childish children, they +should become noble, child-like men and women, he should let them try to +walk alone? Why should he not allow the possible in order that it should +become impossible? for possible it would ever have been, even in the midst +of all the blessedness, until it had been, and had been thus destroyed. +Thus sin is slain, uprooted. And the war must ever exist, it seems to me, +where there is creation still going on. How could I be content to guard my +children so that they should never have temptation, knowing that in all +probability they would fail if at any moment it should cross their path? +Would the deepest communion of father and child ever be possible between +us? Evil would ever seem to be in the child, so long as it was possible it +should be there developed. And if this can be said for the existence of +moral evil, the existence of all other evil becomes a comparative trifle; +nay, a positive good, for by this the other is combated." + +"I think I understand you," returned Percivale. "I will think over what you +have said. These are very difficult questions." + +"Very. I don't think argument is of much use about them, except as it may +help to quiet a man's uneasiness a little, and so give his mind peace to +think about duty. For about the doing of duty there can be no question, +once it is seen. And the doing of duty is the shortest--in very fact, the +only way into the light." + +As we spoke, we had turned from the cliffs, and wandered back across the +salt streams to the sands beyond. From the direction of the house came +a little procession of servants, with Walter at their head, bearing the +preparations for our dinner--over the gates of the lock, down the sides of +the embankment of the canal, and across the sands, in the direction of the +children, who were still playing merrily. + +"Will you join our early dinner, which is to be out of doors, as you see, +somewhere hereabout on the sands?" I said. + +"I shall be delighted," he answered, "if you will let me be of some use +first. I presume you mean to bring your invalid out." + +"Yes; and you shall help me to carry her, if you will." + +"That is what I hoped," said Percivale; and we went together towards the +parsonage. + +As we approached, I saw Wynnie sitting at the drawing-room window; but when +we entered the room, she was gone. My wife was there, however. + +"Where is Wynnie?" I asked. + +"She saw you coming," she answered, "and went to get Connie ready; for I +guessed Mr. Percivale had come to help you to carry her out." + +But I could not help doubting there might be more than that in Wynnie's +disappearance. "What if she should have fallen in love with him," I +thought, "and he should never say a word on the subject? That would be +dreadful for us all." + +They had been repeatedly but not very much together of late, and I was +compelled to allow to myself that if they did fall in love with each other +it would be very natural on both sides, for there was evidently a great +mental resemblance between them, so that they could not help sympathising +with each other's peculiarities. And anyone could see what a fine couple +they would make. + +Wynnie was much taller than Connie--almost the height of her mother. She +had a very fair skin, and brown hair, a broad forehead, a wise, thoughtful, +often troubled face, a mouth that seldom smiled, but on which a smile +seemed always asleep, and round soft cheeks that dimpled like water when +she did smile. I have described Percivale before. Why should not two such +walk together along the path to the gates of the light? And yet I could +not help some anxiety. I did not know anything of his history. I had no +testimony concerning him from anyone that knew him. His past life was a +blank to me; his means of livelihood probably insufficient--certainly, +I judged, precarious; and his position in society--but there I checked +myself: I had had enough of that kind of thing already. I would not +willingly offend in that worldliness again. The God of the whole earth +could not choose that I should look at such works of his hands after that +fashion. And I was his servant--not Mammon's or Belial's. + +All this passed through my mind in about three turns of the winnowing-fan +of thought. Mr. Percivale had begun talking to my wife, who took no pains +to conceal that his presence was pleasant to her, and I went upstairs, +almost unconsciously, to Connie's room. + +When I opened the door, forgetting to announce my approach as I ought to +have done, I saw Wynnie leaning over Connie, and Connie's arm round her +waist. Wynnie started back, and Connie gave a little cry, for the jerk thus +occasioned had hurt her. Wynnie had turned her head away, but turned it +again at Connie's cry, and I saw a tear on her face. + +"My darlings, I beg your pardon," I said. "It was very stupid of me not to +knock at the door." + +Connie looked up at me with large resting eyes, and said-- + +"It's nothing, papa, Wynnie is in one of her gloomy moods, and didn't want +you to see her crying. She gave me a little pull, that was all. It didn't +hurt me much, only I'm such a goose! I'm in terror before the pain comes. +Look at me," she added, seeing, doubtless, some perturbation on my +countenance, "I'm all right now." And she smiled in my face perfectly. + +I turned to Wynnie, put my arm about her, kissed her cheek, and left the +room. I looked round at the door, and saw that Connie was following me with +her eyes, but Wynnie's were hidden in her handkerchief. + +I went back to the drawing-room, and in a few minutes Walter came to +announce that dinner was about to be served. The same moment Wynnie came to +say that Connie was ready. She did not lift her eyes, or approach to +give Percivale any greeting, but went again as soon as she had given her +message. I saw that he looked first concerned and then thoughtful. + +"Come, Mr. Percivale," I said; and he followed me up to Connie's room. + +Wynnie was not there; but Connie lay, looking lovely, all ready for going. +We lifted her, and carried her by the window out on the down, for the +easiest way, though the longest, was by the path to the breakwater, along +its broad back and down from the end of it upon the sands. Before we +reached the breakwater, I found that Wynnie was following behind us. We +stopped in the middle of it, and set Connie down, as if I wanted to take +breath. But I had thought of something to say to her, which I wanted Wynnie +to hear without its being addressed to her. + +"Do you see, Connie," I said, "how far off the water is?" + +"Yes, papa; it is a long way off. I wish I could get up and run down to +it." + +"You can hardly believe that all between, all those rocks, and all that +sand, will be covered before sunset." + +"I know it will be. But it doesn't _look_ likely, does it, papa!" + +"Not the least likely, my dear. Do you remember that stormy night when I +came through your room to go out for a walk in the dark?" + +"Remember it, papa? I cannot forget it. Every time I hear the wind blowing +when I wake in the night I fancy you are out in it, and have to wake myself +up' quite to get rid of the thought." + +"Well, Connie, look down into the great hollow there, with rocks and sand +at the bottom of it, stretching far away." + +"Yes, papa." + +"Now look over the side of your litter. You see those holes all about +between the stones?" + +"Yes, papa." + +"Well, one of those little holes saved my life that night, when the great +gulf there was full of huge mounds of roaring water, which rushed across +this breakwater with force enough to sweep a whole cavalry regiment off its +back." + +"Papa!" exclaimed Connie, turning pale. + +Then first I told her all the story. And Wynnie listened behind. + +"Then I _was_ right in being frightened, papa!" cried Connie, bursting into +tears; for since her accident she could not well command her feelings. + +"You were right in trusting in God, Connie." + +"But you might have been drowned, papa!" she sobbed. + +"Nobody has a right to say that anything might have been other than what +has been. Before a thing has happened we can say might or might not; but +that has to do only with our ignorance. Of course I am not speaking +of things wherein we ought to exercise will and choice. That is _our_ +department. But this does not look like that now, does it? Think what a +change--from the dark night and the roaring water to this fulness of +sunlight and the bare sands, with the water lisping on their edge away +there in the distance. Now, I want you to think that in life troubles will +come which look as if they would never pass away; the night and the storm +look as if they would last for ever; but the calm and the morning cannot be +stayed; the storm in its very nature is transient. The effort of Nature, +as that of the human heart, ever is to return to its repose, for God is +Peace." + +"But if you will excuse me, Mr. Walton," said Percivale, "you can hardly +expect experience to be of use to any but those who have had it. It seems +to me that its influences cannot be imparted." + +"That depends on the amount of faith in those to whom its results are +offered. Of course, as experience, it can have no weight with another; for +it is no longer experience. One remove, and it ceases. But faith in the +person who has experienced can draw over or derive--to use an old Italian +word--some of its benefits to him who has the faith. Experience may thus, +in a sense, be accumulated, and we may go on to fresh experience of our +own. At least I can hope that the experience of a father may take the form +of hope in the minds of his daughters. Hope never hurt anyone, never yet +interfered with duty; nay, always strengthens to the performance of duty, +gives courage, and clears the judgment. St. Paul says we are saved by hope. +Hope is the most rational thing in the universe. Even the ancient poets, +who believed it was delusive, yet regarded it as an antidote given by the +mercy of the gods against some, at least, of the ills of life." + +"But they counted it delusive. A wise man cannot consent to be deluded." + +"Assuredly not. The sorest truth rather than a false hope! But what is a +false hope? Only one that ought not to be fulfilled. The old poets could +give themselves little room for hope, and less for its fulfilment; for what +were the gods in whom they believed--I cannot say in whom they trusted? +Gods who did the best their own poverty of being was capable of doing for +men when they gave them the _illusion_ of hope. But I see they are waiting +for us below. One thing I repeat--the waves that foamed across the spot +where we now stand are gone away, have sunk and vanished." + +"But they will come again, papa," faltered Wynnie. + +"And God will come with them, my love," I said, as we lifted the litter. + +In a few minutes more we were all seated on the sand around a table-cloth +spread upon it. I shall never forgot the peace and the light outside and +in, as far as I was concerned at least, and I hope the others too, that +afternoon. The tide had turned, and the waves were creeping up over the +level, soundless almost as thought; but it would be time to go home long +before they had reached us. The sun was in the western half of the sky, and +now and then a breath of wind came from the sea, with a slight saw-edge in +it, but not enough to hurt. Connie could stand much more in that way now. +And when I saw how she could move herself on her couch, and thought how +much she had improved since first she was laid upon it, hope for her kept +fluttering joyously in my heart. I could not help fancying even that I saw +her move her legs a little; but I could not be in the least sure; and she, +if she did move them, was clearly unconscious of it. Charles and Harry were +every now and then starting up from their dinner and running off with a +shout, to return with apparently increased appetite for the rest of it; +and neither their mother nor I cared to interfere with the indecorum. Dora +alone took it upon her to rebuke them. Wynnie was very silent, but looked +more cheerful. Connie seemed full of quiet bliss. My wife's face was a +picture of heavenly repose. The old nurse was walking about with the baby, +occasionally with one hand helping the other servants to wait upon us. +They, too, seemed to have a share in the gladness of the hour, and, like +Ariel, did their spiriting gently. + +"This is the will of God," I said, after the things were removed, and we +had sat for a few moments in silence. + +"What is the will of God, husband?" asked Ethelwyn. + +"Why, this, my love," I answered; "this living air, and wind, and sea, +and light, and land all about us; this consenting, consorting harmony of +Nature, that mirrors a like peace in our souls. The perfection of such +visions, the gathering of them all in one was, is, I should say, in the +face of Christ Jesus. You will say that face was troubled sometimes. Yes, +but with a trouble that broke not the music, but deepened the harmony. +When he wept at the grave of Lazarus, you do not think it was for Lazarus +himself, or for his own loss of him, that he wept? That could not be, +seeing he had the power to call him back when he would. The grief was for +the poor troubled hearts left behind, to whom it was so dreadful because +they had not faith enough in his Father, the God of life and love, who was +looking after it all, full of tenderness and grace, with whom Lazarus was +present and blessed. It was the aching, loving heart of humanity for which +he wept, that needed God so awfully, and could not yet trust in him. Their +brother was only hidden in the skirts of their Father's garment, but they +could not believe that: they said he was dead--lost--away--all gone, as +the children say. And it was so sad to think of a whole world full of the +grief of death, that he could not bear it without the human tears to help +his heart, as they help ours. It was for our dark sorrows that he wept. But +the peace could be no less plain on the face that saw God. Did you ever +think of that wonderful saying: 'Again a little while, and ye shall see +me, because I go to the Father'? The heart of man would have joined the +'because I go to the Father' with the former result--the not seeing of him. +The heart of man is not able, without more and more light, to understand +that all vision is in the light of the Father. Because Jesus went to the +Father, therefore the disciples saw him tenfold more. His body no longer in +their eyes, his very being, his very self was in their hearts--not in their +affections only--in their spirits, their heavenly consciousness." + +As I said this, a certain hymn, for which I had and have an especial +affection, came into my mind, and, without prologue or introduction, I +repeated it: + + "If I Him but have, + If he be but mine, + If my heart, hence to the grave, + Ne'er forgets his love divine-- + Know I nought of sadness, + Feel I nought but worship, love, and gladness. + + If I Him but have, + Glad with all I part; + Follow on my pilgrim staff + My Lord only, with true heart; + Leave them, nothing saying, + On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying. + + If I Him but have, + Glad I fall asleep; + Aye the flood that his heart gave + Strength within my heart shall keep, + And with soft compelling + Make it tender, through and through it swelling. + + If I Him but have, + Mine the world I hail! + Glad as cherub smiling grave, + Holding back the virgin's veil. + Sunk and lost in seeing, + Earthly fears have died from all my being. + + Where I have but Him + Is my Fatherland; + And all gifts and graces come + Heritage into my hand: + Brothers long deplored + I in his disciples find restored." + +"What a lovely hymn, papa!" exclaimed Connie. She could always speak more +easily than either her mother or sister. "Who wrote it?" + +"Friedrich von Hardenberg, known, where he is known, as Novalis." + +"But he must have written it in German. Did you translate it?" + +"Yes. You will find, I think, that I have kept form, thought, and feeling, +however I may have failed in making an English poem of it." + +"O, you dear papa, it is lovely! Is it long since you did it?" + +"Years before you were born, Connie." + +"To think of you having lived so long, and being one of us!" she returned. +"Was he a Roman Catholic, papa?" + +"No, he was a Moravian. At least, his parents were. I don't think he +belonged to any section of the church in particular." + +"But oughtn't he, papa?" + +"Certainly not, my dear, except he saw good reason for it. But what is the +use of asking such questions, after a hymn like that?" + +"O, I didn't think anything bad, papa, I assure you. It was only that I +wanted to know more about him." + +The tears were in her eyes, and I was sorry I had treated as significant +what was really not so. But the constant tendency to consider Christianity +as associated of necessity with this or that form of it, instead of as +simply obedience to Christ, had grown more and more repulsive to me as I +had grown myself, for it always seemed like an insult to my brethren in +Christ; hence the least hint of it in my children I was too ready to be +down upon like a most unchristian ogre. I took her hand in mine, and she +was comforted, for she saw in my face that I was sorry, and yet she could +see that there was reason at the root of my haste. + +"But," said Wynnie, who, I thought afterwards, must have strengthened +herself to speak from the instinctive desire to show Percivale how far she +was from being out of sympathy with what he might suppose formed a barrier +between him and me--"But," she said, "the lovely feeling in that poem +seems to me, as in all the rest of such poems, to belong only to the New +Testament, and have nothing to do with this world round about us. These +things look as if they were only for drawing and painting and being glad +in, not as if they had relations with all those awful and solemn things. As +soon as I try to get the two together, I lose both of them." + +"That is because the human mind must begin with one thing and grow to the +rest. At first, Christianity seemed to men to have only to do with their +conscience. That was the first relation, of course. But even with art +it was regarded as having no relation except for the presentment of its +history. Afterwards, men forgot the conscience almost in trying to make +Christianity comprehensible to the understanding. Now, I trust, we are +beginning to see that Christianity is everything or nothing. Either the +whole is a lovely fable setting forth the loftiest longing of the human +soul after the vision of the divine, or it is such a fact as is the heart +not only of theology so called, but of history, politics, science, and art. +The treasures of the Godhead must be hidden in him, and therefore by him +only can be revealed. This will interpret all things, or it has not yet +been. Teachers of men have not taught this, because they have not seen it. +If we do not find him in nature, we may conclude either that we do not +understand the expression of nature, or have mistaken ideas or poor +feelings about him. It is one great business in our life to find the +interpretation which will render this harmony visible. Till we find it, we +have not seen him to be all in all. Recognising a discord when they touched +the notes of nature and society, the hermits forsook the instrument +altogether, and contented themselves with a partial symphony--lofty, +narrow, and weak. Their example, more or less, has been followed by almost +all Christians. Exclusion is so much the easier way of getting harmony +in the orchestra than study, insight, and interpretation, that most have +adopted it. It is for us, and all who have hope in the infinite God, to +widen its basis as we may, to search and find the true tone and right idea, +place, and combination of instruments, until to our enraptured ear they +all, with one voice of multiform yet harmonious utterance, declare the +glory of God and of his Christ." + +"A grand idea," said Percivale. + +"Therefore likely to be a true one," I returned. "People find it hard +to believe grand things; but why? If there be a God, is it not likely +everything is grand, save where the reflection of his great thoughts is +shaken, broken, distorted by the watery mirrors of our unbelieving and +troubled souls? Things ought to be grand, simple, and noble. The ages of +eternity will go on showing that such they are and ever have been. God will +yet be victorious over our wretched unbeliefs." + +I was sitting facing the sea, but with my eyes fixed on the sand, boring +holes in it with my stick, for I could talk better when I did not look my +familiar faces in the face. I did not feel thus in the pulpit; there I +sought the faces of my flock, to assist me in speaking to their needs. As +I drew to the close of my last monologue, a colder and stronger blast from +the sea blew in my face. I lifted my head, and saw that the tide had crept +up a long way, and was coming in fast. A luminous fog had sunk down over +the western horizon, and almost hidden the sun, had obscured the half of +the sea, and destroyed all our hopes of a sunset. A certain veil as of the +commonplace, like that which so often settles down over the spirit of man +after a season of vision and glory and gladness, had dropped over the face +of Nature. The wind came in little bitter gusts across the dull waters. It +was time to lift Connie and take her home. + +This was the last time we ate together on the open shore. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A PASTORAL VISIT. + + +The next morning rose neither "cherchef't in a comely cloud" nor "roab'd in +flames and amber light," but covered all in a rainy mist, which the wind +mingled with salt spray torn from the tops of the waves. Every now and then +the wind blew a blastful of larger drops against the window of my study +with an angry clatter and clash, as if daring me to go out and meet its +ire. The earth was very dreary, for there were no shadows anywhere. The +sun was hustled away by the crowding vapours; and earth, sea, and sky were +possessed by a gray spirit that threatened wrath. The breakfast-bell rang, +and I went down, expecting to find my Wynnie, who was always down first to +make the tea, standing at the window with a sad face, giving fit response +to the aspect of nature without, her soul talking with the gray spirit. I +did find her at the window, looking out upon the restless tossing of the +waters, but with no despondent answer to the trouble of nature. On the +contrary, her cheek, though neither rosy nor radiant, looked luminous, and +her eyes were flashing out upon the ebb-tide which was sinking away into +the troubled ocean beyond. Does my girl-reader expect me to tell her next +that something had happened? that Percivale had said something to her? or +that, at least, he had just passed the window, and given her a look which +she might interpret as she pleased? I must disappoint her. It was nothing +of the sort. I knew the heart and feeling of my child. It was only that +kind nature was in sympathy with her mood. The girl was always more +peaceful in storm than in sunshine. I remembered that now. A movement of +life instantly began in her when the obligation of gladness had departed +with the light. Her own being arose to provide for its own needs. She could +smile now when nature required from her no smile in response to hers. And I +could not help saying to myself, "She must marry a poor man some day; she +is a creature of the north, and not of the south; the hot sun of prosperity +would wither her up. Give her a bleak hill-side, and a glint or two of +sunshine between the hailstorms, and she will live and grow; give her +poverty and love, and life will be interesting to her as a romance; give +her money and position, and she will grow dull and haughty. She will +believe in nothing that poet can sing or architect build. She will, like +Cassius, scorn her spirit for being moved to smile at anything." + +I had stood regarding her for a moment. She turned and saw me, and came +forward with her usual morning greeting. + +"I beg your pardon, papa: I thought it was Walter." + +"I am glad to see a smile on your face, my love." + +"Don't think me very disagreeable, papa. I know I am a trouble to you. But +I am a trouble to myself first. I fear I have a discontented mind and a +complaining temper. But I do try, and I will try hard to overcome it." + +"It will not get the better of you, so long as you do the duty of the +moment. But I think, as I told you before, that you are not very well, and +that your indisposition is going to do you good by making you think about +some things you are ready to think about, but which you might have banished +if you had been in good health and spirits. You are feeling as you never +felt before, that you need a presence in your soul of which at least you +haven't enough yet. But I preached quite enough to you yesterday, and I +won't go on the same way to-day again. Only I wanted to comfort you. Come +and give me my breakfast." + +"You do comfort me, papa," she answered, approaching the table. "I know I +don't show what I feel as I ought, but you do comfort me much. Don't you +like a day like this, papa?" + +"I do, my dear. I always did. And I think you take after me in that, as you +do in a good many things besides. That is how I understand you so well." + +"Do I really take after you, papa? Are you sure that you understand me so +well?" she asked, brightening up. + +"I know I do," I returned, replying to her last question. + +"Better than I do myself?" she asked with an arch smile. + +"Considerably, if I mistake not," I answered. + +"How delightful! To think that I am understood even when I don't understand +myself!" + +"But even if I am wrong, you are yet understood. The blessedness of life is +that we can hide nothing from God. If we could hide anything from God, that +hidden thing would by and by turn into a terrible disease. It is the sight +of God that keeps and makes things clean. But as we are both, by mutual +confession, fond of this kind of weather, what do you say to going out with +me? I have to visit a sick woman." + +"You don't mean Mrs. Coombes, papa?" + +"No, my dear. I did not hear she was ill." + +"O, I daresay it is nothing much. Only old nursey said yesterday she was in +bed with a bad cold, or something of that sort." + +"We'll call and inquire as we pass,--that is, if you are inclined to go +with me." + +"How can you put an _if_ to that, papa?" + +"I have just had a message from that cottage that stands all alone on the +corner of Mr. Barton's farm--over the cliff, you know--that the woman is +ill, and would like to see me. So the sooner we start the better." + +"I shall have done my breakfast in five minutes, papa. O, here's +mamma!--Mamma, I'm going out for a walk in the rain with papa. You won't +mind, will you?" + +"I don't think it will do you any harm, my dear. That's all I mind, you +know. It was only once or twice when you were not well that I objected to +it. I quite agree with your papa, that only lazy people are _glad_ to stay +in-doors when it rains." + +"And it does blow so delightfully!" said Wynnie, as she left the room to +put on her long cloak and her bonnet. + +We called at the sexton's cottage, and found him sitting gloomily by the +low window, looking seaward. + +"I hope your wife is not _very_ poorly, Coombes," I said. + +"No, sir. She be very comfortable in bed. Bed's not a bad place to be in +in such weather," he answered, turning again a dreary look towards the +Atlantic. "Poor things!" + +"What a passion for comfort you have, Coombes! How does that come about, do +you think?" + +"I suppose I was made so, sir." + +"To be sure you were. God made you so." + +"Surely, sir. Who else?" + +"Then I suppose he likes making people comfortable if he makes people like +to be comfortable." + +"It du look likely enough, sir." + +"Then when he takes it out of your hands, you mustn't think he doesn't look +after the people you would make comfortable if you could." + +"I must mind my work, you know, sir." + +"Yes, surely. And you mustn't want to take his out of his hands, and go +grumbling as if you would do it so much better if he would only let you get +_your_ hand to it." + +"I daresay you be right, sir," he said. "I must just go and have a look +about, though. Here's Agnes. She'll tell you about mother." + +He took his spade from the corner, and went out. He often brought his tools +into the cottage. He had carved the handle of his spade all over with the +names of the people he had buried. + +"Tell your mother, Agnes, that I will call in the evening and see her, if +she would like to see me. We are going now to see Mrs. Stokes. She is very +poorly, I hear." + +"Let us go through the churchyard, papa," said Wynnie, "and see what the +old man is doing." + +"Very well, my dear. It is only a few steps round." + +"Why do you humour the sexton's foolish fancy so much, papa? It is +such nonsense! You taught us it was, surely, in your sermon about the +resurrection?" + +"Most certainly, my dear. But it would be of no use to try to get it out of +his head by any argument. He has a kind of craze in that direction. To get +people's hearts right is of much more importance than convincing their +judgments. Right judgment will follow. All such fixed ideas should be +encountered from the deepest grounds of truth, and not from the outsides of +their relations. Coombes has to be taught that God cares for the dead more +than he does, and _therefore_ it is unreasonable for him to be anxious +about them." + +When we reached the churchyard we found the old man kneeling on a grave +before its headstone. It was a very old one, with a death's-head and +cross-bones carved upon the top of it in very high relief. With his +pocket-knife he was removing the lumps of green moss out of the hollows of +the eyes of the carven skull. We did not interrupt him, but walked past +with a nod. + +"You saw what he was doing, Wynnie? That reminds me of almost the only +thing in Dante's grand poem that troubles me. I cannot think of it without +a renewal of my concern, though I have no doubt he is as sorry now as I am +that ever he could have written it. When, in the _Inferno,_ he reaches the +lowest region of torture, which is a solid lake of ice, he finds the lost +plunged in it to various depths, some, if I remember rightly, entirely +submerged, and visible only through the ice, transparent as crystal, like +the insects found in amber. One man with his head only above the ice, +appeals to him as condemned to the same punishment to take pity on him, and +remove the lumps of frozen tears from his eyes, that he may weep a little +before they freeze again and stop the relief once more. Dante says to him, +'Tell me who you are, and if I do not assist you, I deserve to lie at the +bottom of the ice myself.' The man tells him who he is, and explains to him +one awful mystery of these regions. Then he says, 'Now stretch forth thy +hand, and open my eyes.' 'And,' says Dante, I did not open them for him; +and rudeness to him was courtesy.'" + +"But he promised, you said." + +"He did; and yet he did not do it. Pity and truth had abandoned him +together. One would think little of it comparatively, were it not that +Dante is so full of tenderness and grand religion. It is very awful, and +may teach us many things." + +"But what made you think of that now?" + +"Merely what Coombes was about. The visual image was all. He was scooping +the green moss out of the eyes of the death's-head on the gravestone." + +By this time we were on the top of the downs, and the wind was buffeting +us, and every other minute assailing us with a blast of rain. Wynnie drew +her cloak closer about her, bent her head towards the blast, and struggled +on bravely by my side. No one who wants to enjoy a walk in the rain must +carry an umbrella; it is pure folly. When we came to one of the stone +fences, we cowered down by its side for a few moments to recover our +breath, and then struggled on again. Anything like conversation was out of +the question. At length we dropped into a hollow, which gave us a little +repose. Down below the sea was dashing into the mouth of the glen, or +coomb, as they call it there. On the opposite side of the hollow, the +little house to which we were going stood up against the gray sky. + +"I begin to doubt whether I ought to have brought you, Wynnie. It was +thoughtless of me; I don't mean for your sake, but because your presence +may be embarrassing in a small house; for probably the poor woman may +prefer seeing me alone." + +"I will go back, papa. I sha'n't mind it a bit." + +"No; you had better come on. I shall not be long with her, I daresay. We +may find some place that you can wait in. Are you wet?" + +"Only my cloak. I am as dry as a tortoise inside." + +"Come along, then. We shall soon be there." + +When we reached the house I found that Wynnie would not be in the way. I +left her seated by the kitchen-fire, and was shown into the room where Mrs. +Stokes lay. I cannot say I perceived. But I guessed somehow, the moment I +saw her that there was something upon her mind. She was a hard-featured +woman, with a cold, troubled black eye that rolled restlessly about. She +lay on her back, moving her head from side to side. When I entered she only +looked at me, and turned her eyes away towards the wall. I approached the +bedside, and seated myself by it. I always do so at once; for the patient +feels more at rest than if you stand tall up before her. I laid my hand on +hers. + +"Are you very ill, Mrs. Stokes?" I said. + +"Yes, very," she answered with a groan. "It be come to the last with me." + +"I hope not, indeed, Mrs. Stokes. It's not come to the last with us, so +long as we have a Father in heaven." + +"Ah! but it be with me. He can't take any notice of the like of me." + +"But indeed he does, whether you think it or not. He takes notice of every +thought we think, and every deed we do, and every sin we commit." + +I said the last words with emphasis, for I suspected something more than +usual upon her conscience. She gave another groan, but made no reply. I +therefore went on. + +"Our Father in heaven is not like some fathers on earth, who, so long as +their children don't bother them, let them do anything they like. He will +not have them do what is wrong. He loves them too much for that." + +"He won't look at me," she said half murmuring, half sighing it out, so +that I could hardly, hear what she said. + +"It is because he _is_ looking at you that you are feeling uncomfortable," +I answered. "He wants you to confess your sins. I don't mean to me, but to +himself; though if you would like to tell me anything, and I can help you, +I shall be _very_ glad. You know Jesus Christ came to save us from our +sins; and that's why we call him our Saviour. But he can't save us from our +sins if we won't confess that we have any." + +"I'm sure I never said but what I be a great sinner, as well as other +people." + +"You don't suppose that's confessing your sins?" I said. "I once knew a +woman of very bad character, who allowed to me she was a great sinner; but +when I said, 'Yes, you have done so and so,' she would not allow one of +those deeds to be worthy of being reckoned amongst her sins. When I asked +her what great sins she had been guilty of, then, seeing these counted for +nothing, I could get no more out of her than that she was a great sinner, +like other people, as you have just been saying." + +"I hope you don't be thinking I ha' done anything of that sort," she said +with wakening energy. "No man or woman dare say I've done anything to be +ashamed of." + +"Then you've committed no sins?" I returned. "But why did you send for me? +You must have something to say to me." + +"I never did send for you. It must ha' been my husband." + +"Ah, then I'm afraid I've no business here!" I returned, rising. "I thought +you had sent for me." + +She returned no answer. I hoped that by retiring I should set her thinking, +and make her more willing to listen the next time I came. I think clergymen +may do much harm by insisting when people are in a bad mood, as if they +had everything to do, and the Spirit of God nothing at all. I bade her +good-day, hoped she would be better soon, and returned to Wynnie. + +As we walked home together, I said: + +"Wynnie, I was right. It would not have done at all to take you into the +sick-room. Mrs. Stokes had not sent for me herself, and rather resented my +appearance. But I think she will send for me before many days are over." + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE ART OF NATURE. + + +We had a week of hazy weather after this. I spent it chiefly in my study +and in Connie's room. A world of mist hung over the sea; it refused to hold +any communion with mortals. As if ill-tempered or unhappy, it folded itself +in its mantle and lay still. + +What was it thinking about? All Nature is so full of meaning, that we +cannot help fancying sometimes that she knows her own meanings. She is +busy with every human mood in turn--sometimes with ten of them at +once--picturing our own inner world before us, that we may see, understand, +develop, reform it. + +I was turning over some such thought in my mind one morning, when Dora +knocked at the door, saying that Mr. Percivale had called, and that mamma +was busy, and would I mind if she brought him up to the study. + +"Not in the least, my dear," I answered; "I shall be very glad to see him." + +"Not much of weather for your sacred craft, Percivale," I said as he +entered. "I suppose, if you were asked to make a sketch to-day, it would be +much the same as if a stupid woman were to ask you to take her portrait?" + +"Not quite so bad as that," said Percivale. + +"Surely the human face is more than nature." + +"Nature is never stupid." + +"The woman might be pretty." + +"Nature is full of beauty in her worst moods; while the prettier such a +woman, the more stupid she would look, and the more irksome you would feel +the task; for you could not help making claims upon her which you would +never think of making upon Nature." + +"I daresay you are right. Such stupidity has a good deal to do with moral +causes. You do not ever feel that Nature is to blame." + +"Nature is never ugly. She may be dull, sorrowful, troubled; she may be +lost in tears and pallor, but she cannot be ugly. It is only when you rise +into animal nature that you find ugliness." + +"True in the main only; for no lines of absolute division can be drawn in +nature. I have seen ugly flowers." + +"I grant it; but they are exceptional; and none of them are without +beauty." + +"Surely not. The ugliest soul even is not without some beauty. But I grant +you that the higher you rise the more is ugliness possible, just because +the greater beauty is possible. There is no ugliness to equal in its +repulsiveness the ugliness of a beautiful face." + +A pause followed. + +"I presume," I said, "you are thinking of returning to London now, there +seems so little to be gained by remaining here. When this weather begins to +show itself I could wish myself in my own parish; but I am sure the change, +even through the winter, will be good for my daughter." + +"I must be going soon," he answered; "but it would be too bad to take +offence at the old lady's first touch of temper. I mean to wait and see +whether we shall not have a little bit of St. Martin's summer, as Shakspere +calls it; after which, hail London, queen of smoke and--" + +"And what?" I asked, seeing he hesitated. + +"'And soap,' I was fancying you would say; for you never will allow the +worst of things, Mr. Walton." + +"No, surely I will not. For one thing, the worst has never been seen by +anybody yet. We have no experience to justify it." + +We were chatting in this loose manner when Walter came to the door to tell +me that a messenger had come from Mrs. Stokes. + +I went down to see him, and found her husband. + +"My wife be very bad, sir," he said. "I wish you could come and see her." + +"Does she want to see me?' I asked. + +"She's been more uncomfortable than ever since you was there last," he +said. + +"But," I repeated, "has she said she would like to see me?" + +"I can't say it, sir," answered the man. + +"Then it is you who want me to see her?" + +"Yes, sir; but I be sure she do want to see you. I know her way, you see, +sir. She never would say she wanted anything in her life; she would always +leave you to find it out: so I got sharp at that, sir." + +"And then would she allow she had wanted it when you got it her?" + +"No, never, sir. She be peculiar--my wife; she always be." + +"Does she know that you have come to ask me now?" + +"No, sir." + +"Have you courage to tell her?" + +The man hesitated. + +"If you haven't courage to tell her," I resumed, "I have nothing more to +say. I can't go; or, rather, I will not go." + +"I will tell her, sir." + +"Then you will tell her that I refused to come until she sent for me +herself." + +"Ben't that rather hard on a dying woman, sir?" + +"I have my reasons. Except she send for me herself, the moment I go she +will take refuge in the fact that she did not send for me. I know your +wife's peculiarity too, Mr. Stokes." + +"Well, I _will_ tell her, sir. It's time to speak my own mind." + +"I think so. It was time long ago. When she sends for me, if it be in the +middle of the night, I shall be with her at once." + +He left me and I returned to Percivale. + +"I was just thinking before you came," I said, "about the relation of +Nature to our inner world. You know I am quite ignorant of your art, but I +often think about the truths that lie at the root of it." + +"I am greatly obliged to you," he said, "for talking about these things. I +assure you it is of more service to me than any professional talk. I always +think the professions should not herd together so much as they do; they +want to be shone upon from other quarters." + +"I believe we have all to help each other, Percivale. The sun himself could +give us no light that would be of any service to us but for the reflective +power of the airy particles through which he shines. But anything I know I +have found out merely by foraging for my own necessities." + +"That is just what makes the result valuable," he replied. "Tell me what +you were thinking." + +"I was thinking," I answered, "how everyone likes to see his own thoughts +set outside of him, that he may contemplate them _objectively,_ as the +philosophers call it. He likes to see the other side of them, as it were." + +"Yes, that is, of course, true; else, I suppose, there would be no art at +all." + +"Surely. But that is not the aspect in which I was considering the +question. Those who can so set them forth are artists; and however they +may fail of effecting such a representation of their ideas as will satisfy +themselves, they yet experience satisfaction in the measure in which they +have succeeded. But there are many more men who cannot yet utter their +ideas in any form. Mind, I do expect that, if they will only be good, they +shall have this power some day; for I do think that many things we call +differences in kind, may in God's grand scale prove to be only differences +in degree. And indeed the artist--by artist, I mean, of course, architect, +musician, painter, poet, sculptor--in many things requires it just as much +as the most helpless and dumb of his brethren, seeing in proportion to the +things that he can do, he is aware of the things he cannot do, the thoughts +he cannot express. Hence arises the enthusiasm with which people hail the +work of an artist; they rejoice, namely, in seeing their own thoughts, or +feelings, or something like them, expressed; and hence it comes that of +those who have money, some hang their walls with pictures of their own +choice, others--" + +"I beg your pardon," said Percivale, interrupting; "but most people, I +fear, hang their walls with pictures of other people's choice, for they +don't buy them at all till the artist has got a name." + +"That is true. And yet there is a shadow of choice even there; for they +won't at least buy what they dislike. And again the growth in popularity +may be only what first attracted their attention--not determined their +choice." + +"But there are others who only buy them for their value in the market." + +"'Of such is not the talk,' as the Germans would say. In as far as your +description applies, such are only tradesmen, and have no claim to be +considered now." + +"Then I beg your pardon for interrupting. I am punished more than I +deserve, if you have lost your thread." + +"I don't think I have. Let me see. Yes. I was saying that people hang +their walls with pictures of their choice; or provide music, &c., of +their choice. Let me keep to the pictures: their choice, consciously or +unconsciously, is determined by some expression that these pictures give +to what is in themselves--the buyers, I mean. They like to see their own +feelings outside of themselves." + +"Is there not another possible motive--that the pictures teach them +something?" + +"That, I venture to think, shows a higher moral condition than the other, +but still partakes of the other; for it is only what is in us already +that makes us able to lay hold of a lesson. It is there in the germ, else +nothing from without would wake it up." + +"I do not quite see what all this has to do with Nature and her +influences." + +"One step more, and I shall arrive at it. You will admit that the pictures +and objects of art of all kinds, with which a man adorns the house he has +chosen or built to live in, have thenceforward not a little to do with the +education of his tastes and feelings. Even when he is not aware of it, they +are working upon him,--for good, if he has chosen what is good, which alone +shall be our supposition." + +"Certainly; that is clear." + +"Now I come to it. God, knowing our needs, built our house for our +needs--not as one man may build for another, but as no man can build for +himself. For our comfort, education, training, he has put into form for us +all the otherwise hidden thoughts and feelings of our heart. Even when he +speaks of the hidden things of the Spirit of God, he uses the forms or +pictures of Nature. The world is, as it were, the human, unseen world +turned inside out, that we may see it. On the walls of the house that he +has built for us, God has hung up the pictures--ever-living, ever-changing +pictures--of all that passes in our souls. Form and colour and motion are +there,--ever-modelling, ever-renewing, never wearying. Without this living +portraiture from within, we should have no word to utter that should +represent a single act of the inner world. Metaphysics could have no +existence, not to speak of poetry, not to speak of the commonest language +of affection. But all is done in such spiritual suggestion, portrait and +definition are so avoided, the whole is in such fluent evanescence, that +the producing mind is only aided, never overwhelmed. It never amounts to +representation. It affords but the material which the thinking, feeling +soul can use, interpret, and apply for its own purposes of speech. It is, +as it were, the forms of thought cast into a lovely chaos by the inferior +laws of matter, thence to be withdrawn by what we call the creative genius +that God has given to men, and moulded, and modelled, and arranged, and +built up to its own shapes and its own purposes." + +"Then I presume you would say that no mere transcript, if I may use the +word, of nature is the worthy work of an artist." + +"It is an impossibility to make a mere transcript. No man can help seeing +nature as he is himself, for she has all in her; but if he sees no meaning +in especial that he wants to give, his portrait of her will represent only +her dead face, not her living impassioned countenance." + +"Then artists ought to interpret nature?" + +"Indubitably; but that will only be to interpret themselves--something of +humanity that is theirs, whether they have discovered it already or not. If +to this they can add some teaching for humanity, then indeed they may claim +to belong to the higher order of art, however imperfect they may be in +their powers of representing--however lowly, therefore, their position may +be in that order." + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE SORE SPOT. + + +We went on talking for some time. Indeed we talked so long that the +dinner-hour was approaching, when one of the maids came with the message +that Mr. Stokes had called again, wishing to see me. I could not help +smiling inwardly at the news. I went down at once, and found him smiling +too. + +"My wife do send me for you this time, sir," he said. "Between you and me, +I cannot help thinking she have something on her mind she wants to tell +you, sir." + +"Why shouldn't she tell you, Mr. Stokes? That would be most natural. And +then, if you wanted any help about it, why, of course, here I am." + +"She don't think well enough of my judgment for that, sir; and I daresay +she be quite right. She always do make me give in before she have done +talking. But she have been a right good wife to me, sir." + +"Perhaps she would have been a better if you hadn't given in quite so much. +It is very wrong to give in when you think you are right." + +"But I never be sure of it when she talk to me awhile." + +"Ah, then I have nothing to say except that you ought to have been +surer--_sometimes;_ I don't say _always."_ + +"But she do want you very bad now, sir. I don't think she'll behave to you +as she did before. Do come, sir." + +"Of course I will--instantly." + +I returned to the study, and asked Percivale if he would like to go with +me. He looked, I thought, as if he would rather not. I saw that it was +hardly kind to ask him. + +"Well, perhaps it is better not," I said; "for I do not know how long I may +have to be with the poor woman. You had better wait here and take my place +at the dinner-table. I promise not to depose you if I should return before +the meal is over." + +He thanked me very heartily. I showed him into the drawing-room, told my +wife where I was going, and not to wait dinner for me--I would take my +chance--and joined Mr. Stokes. + +"You have no idea, then," I said, after we had gone about half-way, "what +makes your wife so uneasy?" + +"No, I haven't," he answered; "except it be," he resumed, "that she was too +hard, as I thought, upon our Mary, when she wanted to marry beneath her, as +wife thought." + +"How beneath her? Who was it she wanted to marry?" + +"She did marry him, sir. She has a bit of her mother's temper, you see, and +she would take her own way." + +"Ah, there's a lesson to mothers, is it not? If they want to have their own +way, they mustn't give their own temper to their daughters." + +"But how are they to help it, sir?" + +"Ah, how indeed? But what is your daughter's husband?" + +"A labourer, sir. He works on a farm out by Carpstone." + +"But you have worked on Mr. Barton's farm for many years, if I don't +mistake?" + +"I have, sir; but I am a sort of a foreman now, you see." + +"But you weren't so always; and your son-in-law, whether he work his way up +or not, is, I presume, much where you were when you married Mrs. Stokes?" + +"True as you say, sir; and it's not me that has anything to say about it. I +never gave the man a nay. But you see, my wife, she always do be wanting to +get her head up in the world; and since she took to the shopkeeping--" + +"The shopkeeping!" I said, with some surprise; "I didn't know that." + +"Well, you see, sir, it's only for a quarter or so of the year. You know +it's a favourite walk for the folks as comes here for the bathing--past our +house, to see the great cave down below; and my wife, she got a bit of a +sign put up, and put a few ginger-beer bottles in the window, and--" + +"A bad place for the ginger-beer," I said. + +"They were only empty ones, with corks and strings, you know, sir. My wife, +she know better than put the ginger-beer its own self in the sun. But I do +think she carry her head higher after that; and a farm-labourer, as they +call them, was none good enough for her daughter." + +"And hasn't she been kind to her since she married, then?" + +"She's never done her no harm, sir." + +"But she hasn't gone to see her very often, or asked her to come and see +you very often, I suppose?" + +"There's ne'er a one o' them crossed the door of the other," he answered, +with some evident feeling of his own in the matter. + +"Ah; but you don't approve of that yourself, Stokes?" + +"Approve of it? No, sir. I be a farm-labourer once myself; and so I do want +to see my own daughter now and then. But she take after her mother, she do. +I don't know which of the two it is as does it, but there's no coming and +going between Carpstone and this." + +We were approaching the house. I told Stokes he had better let her know I +was there; for that, if she had changed her mind, it was not too late for +me to go home again without disturbing her. He came back saying she was +still very anxious to see me. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes, how do you feel to-day?" I asked, by way of opening the +conversation. "I don't think you look much worse." + +"I be much worse, sir. You don't know what I suffer, or you wouldn't make +so little of it. I be very bad." + +"I know you are very ill, but I hope you are not too ill to tell me why you +are so anxious to see me. You have got something to tell me, I suppose." + +With pale and death-like countenance, she appeared to be fighting more with +herself than with the disease which yet had nearly overcome her. The drops +stood upon her forehead, and she did not speak. Wishing to help her, if I +might, I said-- + +"Was it about your daughter you wanted to speak to me?" + +"No," she muttered. "I have nothing to say about my daughter. She was my +own. I could do as I pleased with her." + +I thought with myself, we must have a word about that by and by, but +meantime she must relieve her heart of the one thing whose pressure she +feels. + +"Then," I said, "you want to tell me about something that was not your +own?" + +"Who said I ever took what was not my own?" she returned fiercely. "Did +Stokes dare to say I took anything that wasn't my own?" + +"No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from +your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause of +your misery." + +"It is very hard that the parson should think such things," she muttered +again. + +"My poor woman," I said, "you sent for me because you had something to +confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to +confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does you +harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, confess +to God." + +"God knows it, I suppose, without that." + +"Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. How +is he to forgive you, if you won't allow that you have done wrong?" + +"It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had +took something that wasn't your own?" + +"Well, I shouldn't like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I +should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it." + +"But that's the worst of it; I can't get rid of it." + +"But," I said, laying my hand on hers, and trying to speak as kindly as I +could, although her whole behaviour would have been exceedingly repulsive +but for her evidently great suffering, "you have now all but confessed +taking something that did not belong to you. Why don't you summon courage +and tell me all about it? I want to help you out of the trouble as easily +as ever I can; but I can't if you don't tell me what you've got that isn't +yours." + +"I haven't got anything," she muttered. + +"You had something, then, whatever may have become of it now." + +She was again silent. + +"What did you do with it?" + +"Nothing." + +I rose and took up my hat. She stretched out her hand, as if to lay hold of +me, with a cry. + +"Stop, stop. I'll tell you all about it. I lost it again. That's the worst +of it. I got no good of it." + +"What was it?" + +"A sovereign," she said, with a groan. "And now I'm a thief, I suppose." + +"No more a thief than you were before. Rather less, I hope. But do you +think it would have been any better for you if you hadn't lost it, and had +got some good of it, as you say?" + +She was silent yet again. + +"If you hadn't lost it you would most likely have been a great deal worse +for it than you are--a more wicked woman altogether." + +"I'm not a wicked woman." + +"It is wicked to steal, is it not?" + +"I didn't steal it." + +"How did you come by it, then?" + +"I found it." + +"Did you try to find out the owner?" + +"No. I knew whose it was." + +"Then it was very wicked not to return it. And I say again, that if you had +not lost the sovereign you would have been most likely a more wicked woman +than you are." + +"It was very hard to lose it. I could have given it back. And then I +wouldn't have lost my character as I have done this day." + +"Yes, you could; but I doubt if you would." + +"I would." + +"Now, if you had it, you are sure you would give it back?" + +"Yes, that I would," she said, looking me so full in the face that I was +sure she meant it. + +"How would you give it back? Would you get your husband to take it?" + +"No; I wouldn't trust him." + +"With the story, you mean I You do not wish to imply that he would not +restore it?" + +"I don't mean that. He would do what I told him." + +"How would you return it, then?" + +"I should make a parcel of it, and send it." + +"Without saying anything about it?" + +"Yes. Where's the good? The man would have his own." + +"No, he would not. He has a right to your confession, for you have wronged +him. That would never do." + +"You are too hard upon me," she said, beginning to weep angrily. + +"Do you want to get the weight of this sin off your mind?" I said. + +"Of course I do. I am going to die. O dear! O dear!" + +"Then that is just what I want to help you in. You must confess, or the +weight of it will stick there." + +"But, if I confess, I shall be expected to pay it back?" + +"Of course. That is only reasonable." + +"But I haven't got it, I tell you. I have lost it." + +"Have you not a sovereign in your possession?" + +"No, not one." + +"Can't you ask your husband to let you have one?" + +"There! I knew it was no use. I knew you would only make matters worse. I +do wish I had never seen that wicked money." + +"You ought not to abuse the money; it was not wicked. You ought to wish +that you had returned it. But that is no use; the thing is to return it +now. Has your husband got a sovereign?" + +"No. He may ha' got one since I be laid up. But I never can tell him about +it; and I should be main sorry to spend one of his hard earning in that +way, poor man." + +"Well, I'll tell him, and we'll manage it somehow." + +I thought for a few moments she would break out in opposition; but she hid +her face with the sheet instead, and burst into a great weeping. + +I took this as a permission to do as I had said, and went to the room-door +and called her husband. He came, looking scared. His wife did not look up, +but lay weeping. I hoped much for her and him too from this humiliation +before him, for I had little doubt she needed it. + +"Your wife, poor woman," I said, "is in great distress because--I do not +know when or how--she picked up a sovereign that did not belong to her, +and, instead of returning, put it away somewhere and lost it. This is what +is making her so miserable." + +"Deary me!" said Stokes, in the tone with which he would have spoken to a +sick child; and going up to his wife, he sought to draw down the sheet from +her face, apparently that he might kiss her; but she kept tight hold of +it, and he could not. "Deary me!" he went on; "we'll soon put that all to +rights. When was it, Jane, that you found it?" + +"When we wanted so to have a pig of our own; and I thought I could soon +return it," she sobbed from under the sheet. + +"Deary me! Ten years ago! Where did you find it, old woman?" + +"I saw Squire Tresham drop it, as he paid me for some ginger-beer he got +for some ladies that was with him. I do believe I should ha' given it back +at the time; but he made faces at the ginger-beer, and said it was very +nasty; and I thought, well, I would punish him for it." + +"You see it was your temper that made a thief of you, then," I said. + +"My old man won't be so hard on me as you, sir. I wish I had told him +first." + +"I would wish that too," I said, "were it not that I am afraid you might +have persuaded him to be silent about it, and so have made him miserable +and wicked too. But now, Stokes, what is to be done? This money must be +paid. Have you got it?" + +The poor man looked blank. + +"She will never be at ease till this money is paid," I insisted. + +"Well, sir, I ain't got it, but I'll borrow it of someone; I'll go to +master, and ask him." + +"No, my good fellow, that won't do. Your master would want to know what +you were going to do with it, perhaps; and we mustn't let more people know +about it than just ourselves and Squire Tresham. There is no occasion for +that. I'll tell you what: I'll give you the money, and you must take it; +or, if you like, I will take it to the squire, and tell him all about it. +Do you authorise me to do this, Mrs. Stokes?" + +"Please, sir. It's very kind of you. I will work hard to pay you again, if +it please God to spare me. I am very sorry I was so cross-tempered to you, +sir; but I couldn't bear the disgrace of it." + +She said all this from under the bed-clothes. + +"Well, I'll go," I said; "and as soon as I've had my dinner I'll get a +horse and ride over to Squire Tresham's. I'll come back to-night and tell +you about it. And now I hope you will be able to thank God for forgiving +you this sin; but you must not hide and cover it up, but confess it clean +out to him, you know." + +She made me no answer, but went on sobbing. + +I hastened home, and as I entered sent Walter to ask the loan of a horse +which a gentleman, a neighbour, had placed at my disposal. + +When I went into the dining-room, I found that they had not sat down to +dinner. I expostulated: it was against the rule of the house, when my +return was uncertain. + +"But, my love," said my wife, "why should you not let us please ourselves +sometimes? Dinner is so much nicer when you are with us." + +"I am very glad you think so," I answered. "But there are the children: it +is not good for growing creatures to be kept waiting for their meals." + +"You see there are no children; they have had their dinner." + +"Always in the right, wife; but there's Mr. Percivale." + +"I never dine till seven o'clock, to save daylight," he said. + +"Then I am beaten on all points. Let us dine." + +During dinner I could scarcely help observing how Percivale's eyes followed +Wynnie, or, rather, every now and then settled down upon her face. That she +was aware, almost conscious of this, I could not doubt. One glance at her +satisfied me of that. But certain words of the apostle kept coming again +and again into my mind; for they were winged words those, and even when +they did not enter they fluttered their wings at my window: "Whatsoever is +not of faith is sin." And I kept reminding myself that I must heave the +load of sin off me, as I had been urging poor Mrs. Stokes to do; for God +was ever seeking to lift it, only he could not without my help, for that +would be to do me more harm than good by taking the one thing in which I +was like him away from me--my action. Therefore I must have faith in +him, and not be afraid; for surely all fear is sin, and one of the most +oppressive sins from which the Lord came to save us. + +Before dinner was over the horse was at the door. I mounted, and set out +for Squire Tresham's. + + +I found him a rough but kind-hearted elderly man. When I told him the story +of the poor woman's misery, he was quite concerned at her suffering. When I +produced the sovereign he would not receive it at first, but requested me +to take it back to her and say she must keep it by way of an apology for +his rudeness about her ginger-beer; for I took care to tell him the whole +story, thinking it might be a lesson to him too. But I begged him to take +it; for it would, I thought, not only relieve her mind more thoroughly, but +help to keep her from coming to think lightly of the affair afterwards. Of +course I could not tell him that I had advanced the money, for that would +have quite prevented him from receiving it. I then got on my horse again, +and rode straight to the cottage. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes," I said, "it's all over now. That's one good thing +done. How do you feel yourself now?" + +"I feel better now, sir. I hope God will forgive me." + +"God does forgive you. But there are more things you need forgiveness for. +It is not enough to get rid of one sin. We must get rid of all our sins, +you know. They're not nice things, are they, to keep in our hearts? It is +just like shutting up nasty corrupting things, dead carcasses, under lock +and key, in our most secret drawers, as if they were precious jewels." + +"I wish I could be good, like some people, but I wasn't made so. There's my +husband now. I do believe he never do anything wrong in his life. But then, +you see, he would let a child take him in." + +"And far better too. Infinitely better to be taken in. Indeed there is no +harm in being taken in; but there is awful harm in taking in." + +She did not reply, and I went on: + +"I think you would feel a good deal better yet, if you would send for your +daughter and her husband now, and make it up with them, especially seeing +you are so ill." + +"I will, sir. I will directly. I'm tired of having my own way. But I was +made so." + +"You weren't made to continue so, at all events. God gives us the necessary +strength to resist what is bad in us. He is making at you now; only you +must give in, else he cannot get on with the making of you. I think very +likely he made you ill now, just that you might bethink yourself, and feel +that you had done wrong." + +"I have been feeling that for many a year." + +"That made it the more needful to make you ill; for you had been feeling +your duty, and yet not doing it; and that was worst of all. You know Jesus +came to lift the weight of our sins, our very sins themselves, off our +hearts, by forgiving them and helping us to cast them away from us. +Everything that makes you uncomfortable must have sin in it somewhere, and +he came to save you from it. Send for your daughter and her husband, and +when you have done that you will think of something else to set right +that's wrong." + +"But there would be no end to that way of it, sir." + +"Certainly not, till everything was put right." + +"But a body might have nothing else to do, that way." + +"Well, that's the very first thing that has to be done. It is our business +in this world. We were not sent here to have our own way and try to enjoy +ourselves." + +"That is hard on a poor woman that has to work for her bread." + +"To work for your bread is not to take your own way, for it is God's way. +But you have wanted many things your own way. Now, if you would just take +his way, you would find that he would take care you should enjoy your +life." + +"I'm sure I haven't had much enjoyment in mine." + +"That was just because you would not trust him with his own business, but +must take it into your hands. If you will but do his will, he will take +care that you have a life to be very glad of and very thankful for. And the +longer you live, the more blessed you will find it. But I must leave you +now, for I have talked to you long enough. You must try and get a sleep. I +will come and see you again to-morrow, if you like." + +"Please do, sir; I shall be very grateful." + +As I rode home I thought, if the lifting of one sin off the human heart was +like a resurrection, what would it be when every sin was lifted from every +heart! Every sin, then, discovered in one's own soul must be a pledge of +renewed bliss in its removing. And when the thought came again of what St. +Paul had said somewhere, "whatsoever is not of faith is sin," I thought +what a weight of sin had to be lifted from the earth, and how blessed it +might be. But what could I do for it? I could just begin with myself, and +pray God for that inward light which is his Spirit, that so I might see him +in everything and rejoice in everything as his gift, and then all things +would be holy, for whatsoever is of faith must be the opposite of sin; and +that was my part towards heaving the weight of sin, which, like myriads +of gravestones, was pressing the life out of us men, off the whole world. +Faith in God is life and righteousness--the faith that trusts so that it +will obey--none other. Lord, lift the people thou hast made into holy +obedience and thanksgiving, that they may be glad in this thy world. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE GATHERING STORM. + + +The weather cleared up again the next day, and for a fortnight it was +lovely. In this region we saw less of the sadness of the dying year than in +our own parish, for there being so few trees in the vicinity of the ocean, +the autumn had nowhere to hang out her mourning flags. But there, indeed, +so mild is the air, and so equable the temperature all the winter through, +compared with the inland counties, that the bitterness of the season is +almost unknown. This, however, is no guarantee against furious storms of +wind and rain. + +Not long after the occurrence last recorded, Turner paid us another visit. +I confess I was a little surprised at his being able to get away so soon +again; for of all men a country surgeon can least easily find time for a +holiday; but he had managed it, and I had no doubt, from what I knew of +him, had made thorough provision for his cure in his absence. + +He brought us good news from home. Everything was going on well. Weir was +working as hard as usual; and everybody agreed that I could not have got a +man to take my place better. + +He said he found Connie much improved; and, from my own observations, I was +sure he was right. She was now able to turn a good way from one side to the +other, and finding her health so steady besides, Turner encouraged her in +making gentle and frequent use of her strength, impressing it upon her, +however, that everything depended on avoiding everything like a jerk or +twist of any sort. I was with them when he said this. She looked up at him +with a happy smile. + +"I will do all I can, Mr. Turner," she said, "to get out of people's way as +soon as possible." + +Perhaps she saw something in our faces that made her add-- + +"I know you don't mind the bother I am; but I do. I want to help, and not +be helped--more than other people--as soon as possible. I will therefore be +as gentle as mamma and as brave as papa, and see if we don't get well, Mr. +Turner. I mean to have a ride on old Spry next summer.--I do," she added, +nodding her pretty head up from the pillow, when she saw the glance the +doctor and I exchanged. "Look here," she went on, poking the eider-down +quilt up with her foot. + +"Magnificent!" said Turner; "but mind, you must do nothing out of bravado. +That won't do at all." + +"I have done," said Connie, putting on a face of mock submission. + +That day we carried her out for a few minutes, but hardly laid her down, +for we were afraid of the damp from the earth. A few feet nearer or farther +from the soil will make a difference. It was the last time for many weeks. +Anyone interested in my Connie need not be alarmed: it was only because of +the weather, not because of her health. + +One day I was walking home from a visit I had been paying to Mrs. Stokes. +She was much better, in a fair way to recover indeed, and her mental health +was improved as well. Her manner to me was certainly very different, and +the tone of her voice, when she spoke to her husband especially, was +changed: a certain roughness in it was much modified, and I had good +hopes that she had begun to climb up instead of sliding down the hill of +difficulty, as she had been doing hitherto. + +It was a cold and gusty afternoon. The sky eastward and overhead was +tolerably clear when I set out from home; but when I left the cottage to +return, I could see that some change was at hand. Shaggy vapours of light +gray were blowing rapidly across the sky from the west. A wind was blowing +fiercely up there, although the gusts down below came from the east. +The clouds it swept along with it were formless, with loose +fringes--disreputable, troubled, hasty clouds they were, looking like +mischief. They reminded me of Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind," in which +he compares the "loose clouds" to hair, and calls them "the locks of the +approaching storm." Away to the west, a great thick curtain of fog, of a +luminous yellow, covered all the sea-horizon, extending north and south as +far as the eye could reach. It looked ominous. A surly secret seemed to +lie in its bosom. Now and then I could discern the dim ghost of a vessel +through it, as tacking for north or south it came near enough to the edge +of the fog to show itself for a few moments, ere it retreated again +into its bosom. There was exhaustion, it seemed to me, in the air, +notwithstanding the coolness of the wind, and I was glad when I found +myself comfortably seated by the drawing-room fire, and saw Wynnie +bestirring herself to make the tea. + +"It looks stormy, I think, Wynnie," I said. + +Her eye lightened, as she looked out to sea from the window. + +"You seem to like the idea of it," I added. + +"You told me I was like you, papa; and you look as if you liked the idea of +it too." + +"_Per se_, certainly, a storm is pleasant to me. I should not like a world +without storms any more than I should like that Frenchman's idea of the +perfection of the earth, when all was to be smooth as a trim-shaven lawn, +rocks and mountains banished, and the sea breaking on the shore only in +wavelets of ginger-beer or lemonade, I forget which. But the older +you grow, the more sides of a thing will present themselves to your +contemplation. The storm may be grand and exciting in itself, but you +cannot help thinking of the people that are in it. Think for a moment of +the multitude of vessels, great and small, which are gathered within the +skirts of that angry vapour out there. I fear the toils of the storm are +around them. Look at the barometer in the hall, my dear, and tell me what +it says." + +She went and returned. + +"It was not very low, papa--only at rain; but the moment I touched it, the +hand dropped an inch." + +"Yes, I thought so. All things look stormy. It may not be very bad here, +however." + +"That doesn't make much difference though, does it, papa?" + +"No further than that being creatures in time and space, we must think of +things from our own standpoint." + +"But I remember very well how, when we were children, you would not let +nurse teach us Dr. Watts's hymns for children, because you said they tended +to encourage selfishness." + +"Yes; I remember it very well. Some of them make the contrast between the +misery of others and our own comforts so immediately the apparent--mind, +I only say apparent--ground of thankfulness, that they are not fit for +teaching. I do think that if you could put Dr. Watts to the question, he +would abjure any such intention, saying that only he meant to heighten +the sense of our obligation. But it does tend to selfishness and, what is +worse, self-righteousness, and is very dangerous therefore. What right have +I to thank God that I am not as other men are in anything? I have to thank +God for the good things he has given to me; but how dare I suppose that he +is not doing the same for other people in proportion to their capacity? I +don't like to appear to condemn Dr. Watts's hymns. Certainly he has written +the very worst hymns I know; but he has likewise written the best--for +public worship, I mean." + +"Well, but, papa, I have heard you say that any simple feeling that comes +of itself cannot be wrong in itself. If I feel a delight in the idea of a +storm, I cannot help it coming." + +"I never said you could, my dear. I only said that as we get older, other +things we did not feel at first come to show themselves more to us, and +impress us more." + +Thus my child and I went on, like two pendulums crossing each other in +their swing, trying to reach the same dead beat of mutual intelligence. + +"But," said Wynnie, "you say everybody is in God's hands as well as we." + +"Yes, surely, my dear; as much out in yon stormy haze as here beside the +fire." + +"Then we ought not to be miserable about them, even if there comes a storm, +ought we?" + +"No, surely. And, besides, I think if we could help any of them, the very +persons that enjoyed the storm the most would be the busiest to rescue them +from it. At least, I fancy so. But isn't the tea ready?" + +"Yes, papa. I'll just go and tell mamma." + +When she returned with her mother, and the children had joined us, Wynnie +resumed the talk. + +"I know what I am going to say is absurd, papa, and yet I don't see my +way out of it--logically, I suppose you would call it. What is the use of +taking any trouble about them if they are in God's hands? Why should we try +to take them out of God's hands?" + +"Ah, Wynnie! at least you do not seek to hide your bad logic, or whatever +you call it. Take them out of God's hands! If you could do that, it would +be perdition indeed. God's hands is the only safe place in the universe; +and the universe is in his hands. Are we not in God's hands on the shore +because we say they are in his hands who go down to the sea in ships? If we +draw them on shore, surely they are not out of God's hands." + +"I see--I see. But God could save them without us." + +"Yes; but what would become of us then? God is so good to us, that we must +work our little salvation in the earth with him. Just as a father lets his +little child help him a little, that the child may learn to be and to do, +so God puts it in our hearts to save this life to our fellows, because we +would instinctively save it to ourselves, if we could. He requires us to do +our best." + +"But God may not mean to save them." + +"He may mean them to be drowned--we do not know. But we know that we must +try our little salvation, for it will never interfere with God's great and +good and perfect will. Ours will be foiled if he sees that best." + +"But people always say, when anyone escapes unhurt from an accident, 'by +the mercy of God.' They don't say it is by the mercy of God when he is +drowned." + +"But _people_ cannot be expected, ought not, to say what they do not feel. +Their own first sensation of deliverance from impending death would break +out in a 'thank God,' and therefore they say it is God's mercy when another +is saved. If they go farther, and refuse to consider it God's mercy when a +man is drowned, that is just the sin of the world--the want of faith. But +the man who creeps out of the drowning, choking billows into the glory of +the new heavens and the new earth--do you think his thanksgiving for the +mercy of God which has delivered him is less than that of the man who +creeps, exhausted and worn, out of the waves on to the dreary, surf-beaten +shore? In nothing do we show less faith than the way in which we think and +speak about death. 'O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy +victory?' says the apostle. 'Here, here, here,' cry the Christian people, +'everywhere. It is an awful sting, a fearful victory. But God keeps it away +from us many a time when we ask him--to let it pierce us to the heart, at +last, to be sure; but that can't be helped.' I mean this is how they feel +in their hearts who do not believe that God is as merciful when he sends +death as when he sends life; who, Christian people as they are, yet look +upon death as an evil thing which cannot be avoided, and would, if they +might live always, be content to live always. Death or Life--each is God's; +for he is not the God of the dead, but of the living: there are no dead, +for all live to him." + +"But don't you think we naturally shrink from death, Harry?" said my wife. + +"There can be no doubt about that, my dear." + +"Then, if it be natural, God must have meant that it should be so." + +"Doubtless, to begin with, but not to continue or end with. A child's sole +desire is for food--the very best possible to begin with. But how would it +be if the child should reach, say, two years of age, and refuse to share +this same food with his little brother? Or what comes of the man who never +so far rises above the desire for food that _nothing_ could make him forget +his dinner-hour? Just so the life of Christians should be strong enough to +overcome the fear of death. We ought to love and believe him so much, that +when he says we shall not die, we should at least believe that death must +be something very different from what it looks to us to be--so different, +that what we mean by the word does not apply to the reality at all; and so +Jesus cannot use the word, because it would seem to us that he meant what +we mean by it, which he, seeing it all round, cannot mean." + +"That does seem quite reasonable," said Ethelwyn. + +Turner had taken no part in the conversation. He, too, had just come in +from a walk over the hills. He was now standing looking out at the sea. + +"She looks uneasy, does she not?" I said. + +"You mean the Atlantic?" he returned, looking round. "Yes, I think so. I am +glad she is not a patient of mine. I fear she is going to be very feverish, +probably delirious before morning. She won't sleep much, and will talk +rather loud when the tide comes in." + +"Disease has often an ebb and flow like the tide, has it not?" + +"Often. Some diseases are like a plant that has its time to grow and +blossom, then dies; others, as you say, ebb and flow again and again before +they vanish." + +"It seems to me, however, that the ebb and flow does not belong to the +disease, but to Nature, which works through the disease. It seems to +me that my life has its tides, just like the ocean, only a little more +regularly. It is high water with me always in the morning and the evening; +in the afternoon life is at its lowest; and I believe it is lowest again +while we sleep, and hence it comes that to work the brain at night has such +an injurious effect on the system. But this is perhaps all a fancy." + +"There may be some truth in it. But I was just thinking when you spoke to +me what a happy thing it is that the tide does not vary by an even six +hours, but has the odd minutes; whence we see endless changes in the +relation of the water to the times of the day. And then the spring-tides +and the neap-tides! What a provision there is in the world for change!" + +"Yes. Change is one of the forms that infinitude takes for the use of us +human immortals. But come and have some tea, Turner. You will not care to +go out again. What shall we do this evening? Shall we all go to Connie's +room and have some Shakspere?" + +"I could wish nothing better. What play shall we have?" + +"Let us have the _Midsummer Night's Dream,"_ said Ethelwyn. + +"You like to go by contraries, apparently, Ethel. But you're quite right. +It is in the winter of the year that art must give us its summer. I suspect +that most of the poetry about spring and summer is written in the winter. +It is generally when we do not possess that we lay full value upon what we +lack." + +"There is one reason," said Wynnie with a roguish look, "why I like that +play." + +"I should think there might be more than one, Wynnie." + +"But one reason is enough for a woman at once; isn't it, papa?" + +"I'm not sure of that. But what is your reason?" + +"That the fairies are not allowed to play any tricks with the women. _They_ +are true throughout." + +"I might choose to say that was because they were not tried." + +"And I might venture to answer that Shakspere--being true to nature always, +as you say, papa--knew very well how absurd it would be to represent a +woman's feelings as under the influence of the juice of a paltry flower." + +"Capital, Wynnie!" said her mother; and Turner and I chimed in with our +approbation. + +"Shall I tell you what I like best in the play?" said Turner. "It is the +common sense of Theseus in accounting for all the bewilderments of the +night." + +"But," said Ethelwyn, "he was wrong after all. What is the use of common +sense if it leads you wrong? The common sense of Theseus simply amounted to +this, that he would only believe his own eyes." + +"I think Mrs. Walton is right, Turner," I said. "For my part, I have more +admired the open-mindedness of Hippolyta, who would yield more weight +to the consistency of the various testimony than could be altogether +counterbalanced by the negation of her own experience. Now I will tell you +what I most admire in the play: it is the reconciling power of the poet. He +brings together such marvellous contrasts, without a single shock or jar +to your feeling of the artistic harmony of the conjunction. Think for a +moment--the ordinary commonplace courtiers; the lovers, men and women in +the condition of all conditions in which fairy-powers might get a hold of +them; the quarrelling king and queen of Fairyland, with their courtiers, +Blossom, Cobweb, and the rest, and the court-jester, Puck; the ignorant, +clownish artisans, rehearsing their play,--fairies and clowns, lovers and +courtiers, are all mingled in one exquisite harmony, clothed with a night +of early summer, rounded in by the wedding of the king and queen. But I +have talked enough about it. Let us get our books." + +As we sat in Connie's room, delighting ourselves with the reflex of +the poet's fancy, the sound of the rising tide kept mingling with the +fairy-talk and the foolish rehearsal. "Musk roses," said Titania; and the +first of the blast, going round by south to west, rattled the window. "Good +hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow," said Bottom; and the roar of the waters +was in our ears. "So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently +entwist," said Titania; and the blast poured the rain in a spout against +the window. "Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells," said +Theseus; and the wind whistled shrill through the chinks of the bark-house +opening from the room. We drew the curtains closer, made up the fire +higher, and read on. It was time for supper ere we had done; and when +we left Connie to have hers and go to sleep, it was with the hope that, +through all the rising storm, she would dream of breeze-haunted summer +woods. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE GATHERED STORM. + + +I woke in the middle of the night and the darkness to hear the wind +howling. It was wide awake now, and up with intent. It seized the house, +and shook it furiously; and the rain kept pouring, only I could not hear it +save in the _rallentondo_ passages of the wind; but through all the wind +I could hear the roaring of the big waves on the shore. I did not wake my +wife; but I got up, put on my dressing-gown, and went softly to Connie's +room, to see whether she was awake; for I feared, if she were, she would be +frightened. Wynnie always slept in a little bed in the same room. I opened +the door very gently, and peeped in. The fire was burning, for Wynnie was +an admirable stoker, and could generally keep the fire in all night. I +crept to the bedside: there was just light enough to see that Connie was +fast asleep, and that her dreams were not of storms. It was a marvel how +well the child always slept. But, as I turned to leave the room, Wynnie's +voice called me in a whisper. Approaching her bed, I saw her wide eyes, +like the eyes of the darkness, for I could scarcely see anything of her +face. + +"Awake, darling?" I said. + +"Yes, papa. I have been awake a long time; but isn't Connie sleeping +delightfully? She does sleep so well! Sleep is surely very good for her." + +"It is the best thing for us all, next to God's spirit, I sometimes think, +my dear. But are you frightened by the storm? Is that what keeps you +awake?" + +"I don't think that is what keeps me awake; but sometimes the house shakes +so that I do feel a little nervous. I don't know how it is. I never felt +afraid of anything natural before." + +"What our Lord said about not being afraid of anything that could only hurt +the body applies here, and in all the terrors of the night. Think about +him, dear." + +"I do try, papa. Don't you stop; you will get cold. It is a dreadful storm, +is it not? Suppose there should be people drowning out there now!" + +"There may be, my love. People are dying almost every other moment, I +suppose, on the face of the earth. Drowning is only an easy way of dying. +Mind, they are all in God's hands." + +"Yes, papa. I will turn round and shut my eyes, and fancy that his hand is +over them, making them dark with his care." + +"And it will not be fancy, my darling, if you do. You remember those +odd but no less devout lines of George Herbert? Just after he says, so +beautifully, 'And now with darkness closest weary eyes,' he adds: + + Thus in thy ebony box + Thou dost enclose us, till the day + Put our amendment in our way, + And give new wheels to our disordered clocks." + +"He is very fond of boxes, by the way. So go to sleep, dear. You are a good +clock of God's making; but you want new wheels, according to our beloved +brother George Herbert. Therefore sleep. Good-night." + +This was tiresome talk--was it--in the middle of the night, reader? Well, +but my child did not think so, I know. + +Dark, dank, weeping, the morning dawned. All dreary was the earth and sky. +The wind was still hunting the clouds across the heavens. It lulled a +little while we sat at breakfast, but soon the storm was up again, and +the wind raved. I went out. The wind caught me as if with invisible human +hands, and shook me. I fought with it, and made my way into the village. +The streets were deserted. I peeped up the inn-yard as I passed: not a man +or horse was to be seen. The little shops looked as if nobody had crossed +their thresholds for a week. Not a door was open. One child came out of the +baker's with a big loaf in her apron. The wind threatened to blow the hair +off her head, if not herself first into the canal. I took her by the hand +and led her, or rather, let her lead me home, while I kept her from being +carried away by the wind. Having landed her safely inside her mother's +door, I went on, climbed the heights above the village, and looked abroad +over the Atlantic. What a waste of aimless tossing to and fro! Gray mist +above, full of falling rain; gray, wrathful waters underneath, foaming and +bursting as billow broke upon billow. The tide was ebbing now, but almost +every other wave swept the breakwater. They burst on the rocks at the end +of it, and rushed in shattered spouts and clouds of spray far into the air +over their heads. "Will the time ever come," I thought, "when man shall +be able to store up even this force for his own ends? Who can tell?" The +solitary form of a man stood at some distance gazing, as I was gazing, out +on the ocean. I walked towards him, thinking with myself who it could be +that loved Nature so well that he did not shrink from her even in her most +uncompanionable moods. I suspected, and soon found I was right; it was +Percivale. + +"What a clashing of water-drops!" I said, thinking of a line somewhere in +Coleridge's Remorse. "They are but water-drops, after all, that make this +great noise upon the rocks; only there is a great many of them." + +"Yes," said Percivale. "But look out yonder. You see a single sail, +close-reefed--that is all I can see--away in the mist there? As soon as you +think of the human struggle with the elements, as soon as you know that +hearts are in the midst of it, it is a clashing of water-drops no more. It +is an awful power, with which the will and all that it rules have to fight +for the mastery, or at least for freedom." + +"Surely you are right. It is the presence of thought, feeling, effort that +gives the majesty to everything. It is even a dim attribution of human +feelings to this tormented, passionate sea that gives it much of its awe; +although, as we were saying the other day, it is only _a picture_ of the +troubled mind. But as I have now seen how matters are with the elements, +and have had a good pluvial bath as well, I think I will go home and change +my clothes." + +"I have hardly had enough of it yet," returned Percivale. "I shall have a +stroll along the heights here, and when the tide has fallen a little way +from the foot of the cliffs I shall go down on the sands and watch awhile +there." + +"Well, you're a younger man than I am; but I've seen the day, as Lear says. +What an odd tendency we old men have to boast of the past: we would be +judged by the past, not by the present. We always speak of the strength +that is withered and gone, as if we had some claim upon it still. But I am +not going to talk in this storm. I am always talking." + +"I will go with you as far as the village, and then I will turn and take my +way along the downs for a mile or two; I don't mind being wet." + +"I didn't once." + +"Don't you think," resumed Percivale, "that in some sense the old man--not +that I can allow _you_ that dignity yet, Mr. Walton--has a right to regard +the past as his own?" + +"That would be scanned," I answered, as we walked towards the village. +"Surely the results of the past are the man's own. Any action of the man's, +upon which the life in him reposes, remains his. But suppose a man had done +a good deed once, and instead of making that a foundation upon which to +build more good, grew so vain of it that he became incapable of doing +anything more of the same sort, you could not say that the action belonged +to him still. Therein he has severed his connection with the past. Again, +what has never in any deep sense been a man's own, cannot surely continue +to be his afterwards. Thus the things that a man has merely possessed once, +the very people who most admired him for their sakes when he had them, +give him no credit for after he has lost them. Riches that have taken +to themselves wings leave with the poor man only a surpassing poverty. +Strength, likewise, which can so little depend on any exercise of the will +in man, passes from him with the years. It was not his all the time; it was +but lent him, and had nothing to do with his inward force. A bodily feeble +man may put forth a mighty life-strength in effort, and show nothing to the +eyes of his neighbour; while the strong man gains endless admiration for +what he could hardly help. But the effort of the one remains, for it was +his own; the strength of the other passes from him, for it was never his +own. So with beauty, which the commonest woman acknowledges never to have +been hers in seeking to restore it by deception. So, likewise, in a great +measure with intellect." + +"But if you take away intellect as well, what do you leave a man that can +in any way be called his own?" + +"Certainly his intellect is not his own. One thing only is his own--to will +the truth. This, too, is as much God's gift as everything else: I ought to +say is more God's gift than anything else, for he gives it to be the man's +own more than anything else can be. And when he wills the truth, he has +God himself. Man _can_ possess God: all other things follow as necessary +results. What poor creatures we should have been if God had not made us to +do something--to look heavenwards--to lift up the hands that hang down, and +strengthen the feeble knees! Something like this was in the mind of the +prophet Jeremiah when he said, 'Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wise man +glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might, let not +the rich man glory in his riches; but let him that glorieth glory in this, +that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise +loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth: for in these +things I delight, saith the Lord.' My own conviction is, that a vague sense +of a far higher life in ourselves than we yet know anything about is at the +root of all our false efforts to be able to think something of ourselves. +We cannot commend ourselves, and therefore we set about priding ourselves. +We have little or no strength of mind, faculty of operation, or worth of +will, and therefore we talk of our strength of body, worship the riches +we have, or have not, it is all one, and boast of our paltry intellectual +successes. The man most ambitious of being considered a universal genius +must at last confess himself a conceited dabbler, and be ready to part with +all he knows for one glimpse more of that understanding of God which the +wise men of old held to be essential to every man, but which the growing +luminaries of the present day will not allow to be even possible for any +man." + +We had reached the brow of the heights, and here we parted. A fierce blast +of wind rushed at me, and I hastened down the hill. How dreary the streets +did look!--how much more dreary than the stormy down! I saw no living +creature as I returned but a terribly draggled dog, a cat that seemed to +have a bad conscience, and a lovely little girl-face, which, forgetful of +its own rights, would flatten the tip of the nose belonging to it against a +window-pane. Every rain-pool was a mimic sea, and had a mimic storm within +its own narrow bounds. The water went hurrying down the kennels like a long +brown snake anxious to get to its hole and hide from the tormenting wind, +and every now and then the rain came in full rout before the conquering +blast. + +When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw that +she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of the conch +against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was sitting +staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she could see +over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately looked. Her +face was paler and keener than usual. + +"Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?" + +"Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He says I +am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as I like." + +"But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?" + +"It's only the storm, papa." + +"The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so." + +"It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is going +to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow." + +"You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The storm was +raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its reach--fast +asleep. Now it is too much for you. You must lie down." + +"Very well, papa." + +I lowered the support, and when I returned from changing my wet garments +she was already looking much better. + +After dinner I went to my study, but when evening began to fall I went out +again. I wanted to see how our next neighbours, the sexton and his wife, +were faring. The wind had already increased in violence. It threatened to +blow a hurricane. The tide was again rising, and was coming in with great +rapidity. The old mill shook to the foundation as I passed through it to +reach the lower part where they lived. When I peeped in from the bottom +of the stair, I saw no one; but, hearing the steps of someone overhead, I +called out. + +Agnes's voice made answer, as she descended an inner stair which led to the +bedrooms above-- + +"Mother's gone to church, sir." + +"Gone to church!" I said, a vague pang darting through me as I thought +whether I had forgotten any service; but the next moment I recalled what +the old woman had herself told me of her preference for the church during a +storm. + +"O yes, Agnes, I remember!" I said; "your mother thinks the weather bad +enough to take to the church, does she? How do you come to be here now? +Where is your husband?" + +"He'll be here in an hour or so, sir. He don't mind the wet. You see, we +don't like the old people to be left alone when it blows what the sailors +call 'great guns.'" + +"And what becomes of his mother then?" + +"There don't be any sea out there, sir. Leastways," she added with a quiet +smile, and stopped. + +"You mean, I suppose, Agnes, that there is never any perturbation of the +elements out there?" + +She laughed; for she understood me well enough. The temper of Joe's mother +was proverbial. + +"But really, sir," she said, "she don't mind the weather a bit; and though +we don't live in the same cottage with her, for Joe wouldn't hear of that, +we see her far oftener than we see my mother, you know." + +"I'm sure it's quite fair, Agnes. Is Joe very sorry that he married you, +now?" + +She hung her head, and blushed so deeply through all her sallow complexion, +that I was sorry I had teased her, and said so. This brought a reply. + +"I don't think he be, sir. I do think he gets better. He's been working +very hard the last week or two, and he says it agrees with him." + +"And how are you?" + +"Quite well, thank you, sir." + +I had never seen her look half so well. Life was evidently a very different +thing to both of them now. I left her, and took my way to the church. + +When I reached the churchyard, there, in the middle of the rain and the +gathering darkness, was the old man busy with the duties of his calling. A +certain headstone stood right under a drip from the roof of the southern +transept; and this drip had caused the mould at the foot of the stone, on +the side next the wall, to sink, so that there was a considerable crack +between the stone and the soil. The old man had cut some sod from another +part of the churchyard, and was now standing, with the rain pouring on him +from the roof, beating this sod down in the crack. He was sheltered from +the wind by the church, but he was as wet as he could be. I may mention +that he never appeared in the least disconcerted when I came upon him in +the discharge of his functions: he was so content with his own feeling in +the matter, that no difference of opinion could disturb him. + +"This will never do, Coombes," I said. "You will get your death of cold. +You must be as full of water as a sponge. Old man, there's rheumatism in +the world!" + +"It be only my work, sir. But I believe I ha' done now for a night. I think +he'll be a bit more comfortable now. The very wind could get at him through +that hole." + +"Do go home, then," I said, "and change your clothes. Is your wife in the +church?" + +"She be, sir. This door, sir--this door," he added, as he saw me going +round to the usual entrance. "You'll find her in there." + +I lifted the great latch and entered. I could not see her at first, for it +was much darker inside the church. It felt very quiet in there somehow, +although the place was full of the noise of winds and waters. Mrs. Coombes +was not sitting on the bell-keys, where I looked for her first, for the +wind blew down the tower in many currents and draughts--how it did roar up +there--as if the louvres had been a windsail to catch the wind and send +it down to ventilate the church!--she was sitting at the foot of the +chancel-rail, with her stocking as usual. + +The sight of her sweet old face, lighted up by a moonlike smile as I drew +near her, in the middle of the ancient dusk filled with sounds, but only +sounds of tempest, gave me a sense of one dwelling in the secret place of +the Most High, such as I shall never forget. It was no time to say much, +however. + +"How long do you mean to stay here, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. "Not all +night?" + +"No, not all night, surely, sir. But I hadn't thought o' going yet for a +bit." + +"Why there's Coombes out there, wet to the skin; and I'm afraid he'll go on +pottering at the churchyard bed-clothes till he gets his bones as full of +rheumatism as they can hold." + +"Deary me! I didn't know as my old man was there. He tould me he had them +all comforble for the winter a week ago. But to be sure there's always some +mendin' to do." + +I heard the voice of Joe outside, and the next moment he came into the +church. After speaking to me, he turned to Mrs. Coombes. + +"You be comin' home with me, mother. This will never do. Father's as wet as +a mop. I ha' brought something for your supper, and Aggy's a-cookin' of it; +and we're going to be comfortable over the fire, and have a chapter or two +of the New Testament to keep down the noise of the sea. There! Come along." + +The old woman drew her cloak over her head, put her knitting carefully in +her pocket, and stood aside for me to lead the way. + +"No, no," I said; "I'm the shepherd and you're the sheep, so I'll drive you +before me--at least, you and Coombes. Joe here will be offended if I take +on me to say I am _his_ shepherd." + + +"Nay, nay, don't say that, sir. You've been a good shepherd to me when I +was a very sulky sheep. But if you'll please to go, sir, I'll lock the door +behind; for you know in them parts the shepherd goes first and the sheep +follow the shepherd. And I'll follow like a good sheep," he added, +laughing. + +"You're right, Joe," I said, and took the lead without more ado. + +I was struck by his saying _them parts_, which seemed to indicate a habit +of pondering on the places as well as circumstances of the gospel-story. +The sexton joined us at the door, and we all walked to his cottage, Joe +taking care of his mother-in-law and I taking what care I could of Coombes +by carrying his tools for him. But as we went I feared I had done ill in +that, for the wind blew so fiercely that I thought the thin feeble little +man would have got on better if he had been more heavily weighted against +it. But I made him take a hold of my arm, and so we got in. The old man +took his tools from me and set them down in the mill, for the roof of which +I felt some anxiety as we passed through, so full of wind was the whole +space. But when we opened the inner door the welcome of a glowing fire +burst up the stair as if that had been a well of warmth and light below. I +went down with them. Coombes departed to change his clothes, and the rest +of us stood round the fire, where Agnes was busy cooking something like +white puddings for their supper. + +"Did you hear, sir," said Joe, "that the coastguard is off to the +Goose-pot? There's a vessel ashore there, they say. I met them on the road +with the rocket-cart." + +"How far off is that, Joe?" + +"Some five or six miles, I suppose, along the coast nor'ards." + +"What sort of a vessel is she?" + +"That I don't know. Some say she be a schooner, others a brigantine. The +coast-guard didn't know themselves." + +"Poor things!" said Mrs. Coombes. "If any of them comes ashore, they'll be +sadly knocked to pieces on the rocks in a night like this." + +She had caught a little infection of her husband's mode of thought. + +"It's not likely to clear up before morning, I fear; is it, Joe?" + +"I don't think so, sir. There's no likelihood." + +"Will you condescend to sit down and take a share with us, sir?" said the +old woman. + +"There would be no condescension in that, Mrs. Coombes. I will another time +with all my heart; but in such a night I ought to be at home with my own +people. They will be more uneasy if I am away." + +"Of coorse, of coorse, sir." + +"So I'll bid you good-night. I wish this storm were well over." + +I buttoned my great-coat, pulled my hat down on my head, and set out. It +was getting on for high water. The night was growing very dark. There would +be a moon some time, but the clouds were so dense she could not do much +while they came between. The roaring of the waves on the shore was +terrible; all I could see of them now was the whiteness of their breaking, +but they filled the earth and the air with their furious noises. The wind +roared from the sea; two oceans were breaking on the land, only to the one +had been set a hitherto--to the other none. Ere the night was far gone, +however, I had begun to doubt whether the ocean itself had not broken its +bars. + +I found the whole household full of the storm. The children kept pressing +their faces to the windows, trying to pierce, as by force of will, through +the darkness, and discover what the wild thing out there was doing. They +could see nothing: all was one mass of blackness and dismay, with a soul in +it of ceaseless roaring. I ran up to Connie's room, and found that she was +left alone. She looked restless, pale, and frightened. The house quivered, +and still the wind howled and whistled through the adjoining bark-hut. + +"Connie, darling, have they left you alone?" I said. + +"Only for a few minutes, papa. I don't mind it." + +"Don't be frightened at the storm, my dear. He who could walk on the sea +of Galilee, and still the storm of that little pool, can rule the Atlantic +just as well. Jeremiah says he 'divideth the sea when the waves thereof +roar.'" + +The same moment Dora came running into the room. + +"Papa," she cried, "the spray--such a lot of it--came dashing on the +windows in the dining-room. Will it break them?" + +"I hope not, my dear. Just stay with Connie while I run down." + +"O, papa! I do want to see." + +"What do you want to see, Dora?" + +"The storm, papa." + +"It is as black as pitch. You can't see anything." + +"O, but I want to--to--be beside it." + +"Well, you sha'n't stay with Connie, if you are not willing. Go along. Ask +Wynnie to come here." + +The child was so possessed by the commotion without that she did not +seem even to see my rebuke, not to say feel it. She ran off, and Wynnie +presently came. I left her with Connie, put on a long waterproof cloak, +and went down to the dining-room. A door led from it immediately on to the +little green in front of the house, between it and the sea. The dining-room +was dark, for they had put out the lights that they might see better from +the windows. The children and some of the servants were there looking out. +I opened the door cautiously. It needed the strength of two of the women +to shut it behind me. The moment I opened it a great sheet of spray rushed +over me. I went down the little grassy slope. The rain had ceased, and it +was not quite so dark as I had expected. I could see the gleaming whiteness +all before me. The next moment a wave rolled over the low wall in front of +me, breaking on it and wrapping me round in a sheet of water. Something +hurt me sharply on the leg; and I found, on searching, that one of the +large flat stones that lay for coping on the top of the wall was on the +grass beside me. If it had struck me straight, it must have broken my leg. + +There came a little lull in the wind, and just as I turned to go into the +house again, I thought I heard a gun. I stood and listened, but heard +nothing more, and fancied I must have been mistaken. I returned and tapped +at the door; but I had to knock loudly before they heard me within. When I +went up to the drawing-room, I found that Percivale had joined our party. +He and Turner were talking together at one of the windows. + +"Did you hear a gun?" I asked them. + +"No. Was there one?" + +"I'm not sure. I half-fancied I heard one, but no other followed. There +will be a good many fired to-night, though, along this awful coast." + +"I suppose they keep the life-boat always ready," said Turner. + +"No life-boat even, I fear, would live in such a sea," I said, remembering +what the officer of the coast-guard had told me. + +"They would try, though, I suppose," said Turner. + +"I do not know," said Percivale. "I don't know the people. But I have seen +a life-boat out in as bad a night--whether in as bad a sea, I cannot tell: +that depends on the coast, I suppose." + +We went on chatting for some time, wondering how the coast-guard had fared +with the vessel ashore at the Goose-pot. Wynnie joined us. + +"How is Connie, now, my dear?" + +"Very restless and excited, papa. I came down to say, that if Mr. Turner +didn't mind, I wish he would go up and see her." + +"Of course--instantly," said Turner, and moved to follow Winnie. + +But the same moment, as if it had been beside us in the room, so clear, so +shrill was it, we heard Connie's voice shrieking, "Papa, papa! There's a +great ship ashore down there. Come, come!" + +Turner and I rushed from the room in fear and dismay. "How? What? Where +could the voice come from?" was the unformed movement of our thoughts. But +the moment we left the drawing-room the thing was clear, though not the +less marvellous and alarming. We forgot all about the ship, and thought +only of our Connie. So much does the near hide the greater that is afar! +Connie kept on calling, and her voice guided our eyes. + +A little stair led immediately from this floor up to the bark-hut, so that +it might be reached without passing through the bedroom. The door at the +top of it was open. The door that led from Connie's room into the bark-hut +was likewise open, and light shone through it into the place--enough to +show a figure standing by the furthest window with face pressed against the +glass. And from this figure came the cry, "Papa, papa! Quick, quick! The +waves will knock her to pieces!" + +In very truth it was Connie standing there. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE SHIPWRECK. + + +Things that happen altogether have to be told one after the other. Turner +and I both rushed at the narrow stair. There was not room for more than one +upon it. I was first, but stumbled on the lowest step and fell. Turner +put his foot on my back, jumped over me, sprang up the stair, and when I +reached the top of it after him, he was meeting me with Connie in his arms, +carrying her back to her room. But the girl kept crying--"Papa, papa, the +ship, the ship!" + +My duty woke in me. Turner could attend to Connie far better than I could. +I made one spring to the window. The moon was not to be seen, but the +clouds were thinner, and light enough was soaking through them to show a +wave-tormented mass some little way out in the bay; and in that one moment +in which I stood looking, a shriek pierced the howling of the wind, cutting +through it like a knife. I rushed bare-headed from the house. When or +how the resolve was born in me I do not know, but I flew straight to the +sexton's, snatched the key from the wall, crying only "ship ashore!" and +rushed to the church. + +I remember my hand trembled so that I could hardly get the key into the +lock. I made myself quieter, opened the door, and feeling my way to the +tower, knelt before the keys of the bell-hammers, opened the chest, and +struck them wildly, fiercely. An awful jangling, out of tune and harsh, +burst into monstrous being in the storm-vexed air. Music itself was +untuned, corrupted, and returning to chaos. I struck and struck at the +keys. I knew nothing of their normal use. Noise, outcry, _reveille_ was all +I meant. + +In a few minutes I heard voices and footsteps. From some parts of the +village, out of sight of the shore, men and women gathered to the summons. +Through the door of the church, which I had left open, came voices in +hurried question. "Ship ashore!" was all I could answer, for what was to be +done I was helpless to think. + +I wondered that so few appeared at the cry of the bells. After those first +nobody came for what seemed a long time. I believe, however, I was beating +the alarum for only a few minutes altogether, though when I look back upon +the time in the dark church, it looks like half-an-hour at least. But +indeed I feel so confused about all the doings of that night that in +attempting to describe them in order, I feel as if I were walking in a +dream. Still, from comparing mine with the recollected impressions of +others, I think I am able to give a tolerably correct result. Most of the +incidents seem burnt into my memory so that nothing could destroy the depth +of the impression; but the order in which they took place is none the less +doubtful. + +A hand was laid on my shoulder. + +"Who is there?" I said; for it was far too dark to know anyone. + +"Percivale. What is to be done? The coastguard is away. Nobody seems to +know about anything. It is of no use to go on ringing more. Everybody is +out, even to the maid-servants. Come down to the shore, and you will see." + +"But is there not the life-boat?" + +"Nobody seems to know anything about it, except 'it's no manner of use to +go trying of that with such a sea on.'" + +"But there must be someone in command of it," I said. + +"Yes," returned Percivale; "but there doesn't seem to be one of the crew +amongst the crowd. All the sailor-like fellows are going about with their +hands in their pockets." + +"Let us make haste, then," I said; "perhaps we can find out. Are you sure +the coastguard have nothing to do with the life-boat?" + +"I believe not. They have enough to do with their rockets." + +"I remember now that Roxton told me he had far more confidence in his +rockets than in anything a life-boat could do, upon this coast at least." + +While we spoke we came to the bank of the canal. This we had to cross, in +order to reach that part of the shore opposite which the wreck lay. To my +surprise the canal itself was in a storm, heaving and tossing and dashing +over its banks. + +"Percivale," I exclaimed, "the gates are gone; the sea has torn them away." + +"Yes, I suppose so. Would God I could get half-a-dozen men to help me. I +have been doing what I could; but I have no influence amongst them." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "What could you do if you had a thousand men +at your command?" + +He made me no answer for a few moments, during which we were hurrying on +for the bridge over the canal. Then he said: + +"They regard me only as a meddling stranger, I suppose; for I have been +able to get no useful answer. They are all excited; but nobody is doing +anything." + +"They must know about it a great deal better than we," I returned; "and we +must take care not to do them the injustice of supposing they are not ready +to do all that can be done." + +Percivale was silent yet again. + +The record of our conversation looks as quiet on the paper as if we had +been talking in a curtained room; but all the time the ocean was raving in +my very ear, and the awful tragedy was going on in the dark behind us. The +wind was almost as loud as ever, but the rain had quite ceased, and when we +reached the bridge the moon shone out white, as if aghast at what she had +at length succeeded in pushing the clouds aside that she might see. Awe +and helplessness oppressed us. Having crossed the canal, we turned to the +shore. There was little of it left; for the waves had rushed up almost to +the village. The sand and the roads, every garden wall, every window that +looked seaward was crowded with gazers. But it was a wonderfully quiet +crowd, or seemed so at least; for the noise of the wind and the waves +filled the whole vault, and what was spoken was heard only in the ear to +which it was spoken. When we came amongst them we heard only a murmur as of +more articulated confusion. One turn, and we saw the centre of strife and +anxiety--the heart of the storm that filled heaven and earth, upon which +all the blasts and the billows broke and raved. + +Out there in the moonlight lay a mass of something whose place was +discernible by the flashing of the waves as they burst over it. She was far +above low-water mark--lay nearer the village by a furlong than the spot +where we had taken our last dinner on the shore. It was strange to think +that yesterday the spot lay bare to human feet, where now so many men and +women were isolated in a howling waste of angry waters; for the cry of +women came plainly to our ears, and we were helpless to save them. It was +terrible to have to do nothing. Percivale went about hurriedly, talking to +this one and that one, as if he still thought something might be done. He +turned to me. + +"Do try, Mr. Walton, and find out for me where the captain of the life-boat +is." + +I turned to a sailor-like man who stood at my elbow and asked him. + +"It's no use, I assure you, sir," he answered; "no boat could live in such +a sea. It would be throwing away the men's lives." + +"Do you know where the captain lives?" Percivale asked. + +"If I did, I tell you it is of no use." + +"Are you the captain yourself?" returned Percivale. + +"What is that to you?" he answered, surly now. "I know my own business." + +The same moment several of the crowd nearest the edge of the water made a +simultaneous rush into the surf, and laid hold of something, which, as they +returned drawing it to the shore, I saw to be a human form. It was the body +of a woman--alive or dead I could not tell. I could just see the long hair +hanging from the head, which itself hung backward helplessly as they bore +her up the bank. I saw, too, a white face, and I can recall no more. + +"Run, Percivale," I said, "and fetch Turner. She may not be dead yet." + +"I can't," answered Percivale. "You had better go yourself, Mr. Walton." + +He spoke hurriedly. I saw he must have some reason for answering me so +abruptly. He was talking to a young fellow whom I recognised as one of the +most dissolute in the village; and just as I turned to go they walked away +together. + +I sped home as fast as I could. It was easier to get along now that the +moon shone. I found that Turner had given Connie a composing draught, and +that he had good hopes she would at least be nothing the worse for the +marvellous result of her excitement. She was asleep exhausted, and her +mother was watching by her side. It, seemed strange that she could sleep; +but Turner said it was the safest reaction, partly, however, occasioned by +what he had given her. In her sleep she kept on talking about the ship. + +We hurried back to see if anything could be done for the woman. As we went +up the side of the canal we perceived a dark body meeting us. The clouds +had again obscured, though not quite hidden the moon, and we could not at +first make out what it was. When we came nearer it showed itself a body +of men hauling something along. Yes, it was the life-boat, afloat on the +troubled waves of the canal, each man seated in his own place, his hands +quiet upon his oar, his cork-jacket braced about him, his feet out before +him, ready to pull the moment they should pass beyond the broken gates of +the lock out on the awful tossing of the waves. They sat very silent, and +the men on the path towed them swiftly along. The moon uncovered her face +for a moment, and shone upon the faces of two of the rowers. + +"Percivale! Joe!" I cried. + +"All right, sir!" said Joe. + +"Does your wife know of it, Joe?" I almost gasped. + +"To be sure," answered Joe. "It's the first chance I've had of returning +thanks for her. Please God, I shall see her again to-night." + +"That's good, Joe. Trust in God, my men, whether you sink or swim." + +"Ay, ay, sir!" they answered as one man. + +"This is your doing, Percivale," I said, turning and walking alongside of +the boat for a little way. + +"It's more Jim Allen's," said Percivale. "If I hadn't got a hold of him I +couldn't have done anything." + +"God bless you, Jim Allen!" I said. "You'll be a better man after this, I +think." + +"Donnow, sir," returned Jim cheerily. "It's harder work than pulling an +oar." + +The captain himself was on board. Percivale having persuaded Jim Allen, the +two had gone about in the crowd seeking proselytes. In a wonderfully short +space they had found almost all the crew, each fresh one picking up another +or more; till at length the captain, protesting against the folly of it, +gave in, and once having yielded, was, like a true Englishman, as much in +earnest as any of them. The places of two who were missing were supplied by +Percivale and Joe, the latter of whom would listen to no remonstrance. + +"I've nothing to lose," Percivale had said. "You have a young wife, Joe." + +"I've everything to win," Joe had returned. "The only thing that makes me +feel a bit faint-hearted over it, is that I'm afraid it's not my duty that +drives me to it, but the praise of men, leastways of a woman. What would +Aggy think of me if I was to let them drown out there and go to my bed and +sleep? I must go." + +"Very well, Joe," returned Percivale, "I daresay you are right. You can +row, of course?" + +"I can row hard, and do as I'm told," said Joe. + +"All right," said Percivale; "come along." + +This I heard afterwards. We were now hurrying against the wind towards the +mouth of the canal, some twenty men hauling on the tow-rope. The critical +moment would be in the clearing of the gates, I thought, some parts of +which might remain swinging; but they encountered no difficulty there, as +I heard afterwards. For I remembered that this was not my post, and turned +again to follow the doctor. + +"God bless you, my men!" I said, and left them. + +They gave a great hurrah, and sped on to meet their fate. I found Turner in +the little public-house, whither they had carried the body. The woman was +quite dead. + +"I fear it is an emigrant vessel," he said. + +"Why do you think so?" I asked, in some consternation. + +"Come and look at the body," he said. + +It was that of a woman about twenty, tall, and finely formed. The face was +very handsome, but it did not need the evidence of the hands to prove that +she was one of our sisters who have to labour for their bread. + +"What should such a girl be doing on board ship but going out to America or +Australia--to her lover, perhaps," said Turner. "You see she has a locket +on her neck; I hope nobody will dare to take it off. Some of these people +are not far derived from those who thought a wreck a Godsend." + +A sound of many feet was at the door just as we turned to leave the house. +They were bringing another body--that of an elderly woman--dead, quite +dead. Turner had ceased examining her, and we were going out together, +when, through all the tumult of the wind and waves, a fierce hiss, +vindictive, wrathful, tore the air over our heads. Far up, seawards, +something like a fiery snake shot from the high ground on the right side of +the bay, over the vessel, and into the water beyond it. + +"Thank God! that's the coastguard," I cried. + +We rushed through the village, and up on the heights, where they had +planted their apparatus. A little crowd surrounded them. How dismal the sea +looked in the struggling moonlight! I felt as if I were wandering in the +mazes of an evil dream. But when I approached the cliff, and saw down below +the great mass, of the vessel's hulk, with the waves breaking every moment +upon her side, I felt the reality awful indeed. Now and then there would +come a kind of lull in the wild sequence of rolling waters, and then I +fancied for a moment that I saw how she rocked on the bottom. Her masts had +all gone by the board, and a perfect chaos of cordage floated and swung in +the waves that broke over her. But her bowsprit remained entire, and shot +out into the foamy dark, crowded with human beings. The first rocket +had missed. They were preparing to fire another. Roxton stood with his +telescope in his hand, ready to watch the result. + +"This is a terrible job, sir," he said when I approached him; "I doubt if +we shall save one of them." + +"There's the life-boat!" I cried, as a dark spot appeared on the waters +approaching the vessel from the other side. + +"The life-boat!" he returned with contempt. "You don't mean to say they've +got _her_ out! She'll only add to the mischief. We'll have to save her +too." + +She was still some way from the vessel, and in comparatively smooth water. +But between her and the hull the sea raved in madness; the billows rode +over each other, in pursuit, as it seemed, of some invisible prey. Another +hiss, as of concentrated hatred, and the second rocket was shooting its +parabola through the dusky air. Roxton raised his telescope to his eye the +same moment. + +"Over her starn!" he cried. "There's a fellow getting down from the +cat-head to run aft.--Stop, stop!" he shouted involuntarily. "There's an +awful wave on your quarter." + +His voice was swallowed in the roaring of the storm. I fancied I could +distinguish a dark something shoot from the bows towards the stern. But the +huge wave fell upon the wreck. The same moment Roxton exclaimed--so coolly +as to amaze me, forgetting how men must come to regard familiar things +without discomposure-- + +"He's gone! I said so. The next'll have better luck, I hope." + +That man came ashore alive, though. + +All were forward of the foremast. The bowsprit, when I looked through +Roxton's telescope, was shapeless as with a swarm of bees. Now and then a +single shriek rose upon the wild air. But now my attention was fixed on the +life-boat. She had got into the wildest of the broken water; at one +moment she was down in a huge cleft, the next balanced like a beam on the +knife-edge of a wave, tossed about hither and thither, as if the waves +delighted in mocking the rudder; but hitherto she had shipped no water. I +am here drawing upon the information I have since received; but I did +see how a huge wave, following close upon the back of that on which she +floated, rushed, towered up over her, toppled, and fell upon the life-boat +with tons of water: the moon was shining brightly enough to show this with +tolerable distinctness. The boat vanished. The next moment, there she was, +floating helplessly about, like a living thing stunned by the blow of the +falling wave. The struggle was over. As far as I could see, every man was +in his place; but the boat drifted away before the storm shore-wards, and +the men let her drift. Were they all killed as they sat? I thought of my +Wynnie, and turned to Roxton. + +"That wave has done for them," he said. "I told you it was no use. There +they go." + +"But what is the matter?" I asked. "The men are sitting every man in his +place." + +"I think so," he answered. "Two were swept overboard, but they caught the +ropes and got in again. But don't you see they have no oars?" + +That wave had broken every one of them off at the rowlocks, and now they +were as helpless as a sponge. + +I turned and ran. Before I reached the brow of the hill another rocket was +fired and fell wide shorewards, partly because the wind blew with fresh +fury at the very moment. I heard Roxton say--"She's breaking up. It's no +use. That last did for her;" but I hurried off for the other side of the +bay, to see what became of the life-boat. I heard a great cry from the +vessel as I reached the brow of the hill, and turned for a parting glance. +The dark mass had vanished, and the waves were rushing at will over the +space. When I got to the shore the crowd was less. Many were running, like +myself, towards the other side, anxious about the life-boat. I hastened +after them; for Percivale and Joe filled my heart. + +They led the way to the little beach in front of the parsonage. It would +be well for the crew if they were driven ashore there, for it was the only +spot where they could escape being dashed on rocks. + +There was a crowd before the garden-wall, a bustle, and great confusion of +speech. The people, men and women, boys and girls, were all gathered about +the crew of the life-boat,--which already lay, as if it knew of nothing but +repose, on the grass within. + +"Percivale!" I cried, making my way through the crowd. + +There was no answer. + +"Joe Harper!" I cried again, searching with eager eyes amongst the crew, to +whom everybody was talking. + +Still there was no answer; and from the disjointed phrases I heard, I could +gather nothing. All at once I saw Wynnie looking over the wall, despair in +her face, her wide eyes searching wildly through the crowd. I could not +look at her till I knew the worst. The captain was talking to old Coombes. +I went up to him. As soon as he saw me, he gave me his attention. + +"Where is Mr. Percivale?" I asked, with all the calmness I could assume. + +He took me by the arm, and drew me out of the crowd, nearer to the waves, +and a little nearer to the mouth of the canal. The tide had fallen +considerably, else there would not have been standing-room, narrow as it +was, which the people now occupied. He pointed in the direction of the +Castle-rock. + +"If you mean the stranger gentleman--" + +"And Joe Harper, the blacksmith," I interposed. + +"They're there, sir." + +"You don't mean those two--just those two--are drowned?" I said. + +"No, sir; I don't say that; but God knows they have little chance." + +I could not help thinking that God might know they were not in the smallest +danger. But I only begged him to tell me where they were. + +"Do you see that schooner there, just between you and the Castle-rock?" + +"No," I answered; "I can see nothing. Stay. I fancy I can. But I am always +ready to fancy I see a thing when I am told it is there. I can't say I see +it." + +"I can, though. The gentleman you mean, and Joe Harper too, are, I believe, +on board of that schooner." + +"Is she aground?" + +"O dear no, sir. She's a light craft, and can swim there well enough. If +she'd been aground, she'd ha' been ashore in pieces hours ago. But whether +she'll ride it out, God only knows, as I said afore." + +"How ever did they get aboard of her? I never saw her from the heights +opposite." + +"You were all taken up by the ship ashore, you see, sir. And she don't make +much show in this light. But there she is, and they're aboard of her. And +this is how it was." + +He went on to give me his part of the story; but I will now give the whole +of it myself, as I have gathered and pieced it together. + +Two men had been swept overboard, as Roxton said--one of them was +Percivale--but they had both got on board again, to drift, oarless, with +the rest--now in a windless valley--now aloft on a tempest-swept hill of +water--away towards a goal they knew not, neither had chosen, and which yet +they could by no means avoid. + +A little out of the full force of the current, and not far from the channel +of the small stream, which, when the tide was out, flowed across the sands +nearly from the canal gates to the Castle-rock, lay a little schooner, +belonging to a neighbouring port, Boscastle, I think, which, caught in +the storm, had been driven into the bay when it was almost dark, some +considerable time before the great ship. The master, however, knew the +ground well. The current carried him a little out of the wind, and would +have thrown him upon the rocks next, but he managed to drop anchor just in +time, and the cable held; and there the little schooner hung in the skirts +of the storm, with the jagged teeth of the rocks within an arrow flight. In +the excitement of the great wreck, no one had observed the danger of the +little coasting bird. If the cable held till the tide went down, and the +anchor did not drag, she would be safe; if not, she must be dashed to +pieces. + +In the schooner were two men and a boy: two men had been washed overboard +an hour or so before they reached the bay. When they had dropped their +anchor, they lay down exhausted on the deck. Indeed they were so worn out +that they had been unable to drop their sheet anchor, and were holding on +only by their best bower. Had they not been a good deal out of the wind, +this would have been useless. Even if it held she was in danger of having +her bottom stove in by bumping against the sands as the tide went out. But +that they had not to think of yet. The moment they lay down they fell +fast asleep in the middle of the storm. While they slept it increased in +violence. + +Suddenly one of them awoke, and thought he saw a vision of angels. For over +his head faces looked down upon him from the air--that is, from the top of +a great wave. The same moment he heard a voice, two of the angels dropped +on the deck beside him, and the rest vanished. Those angels were Percivale +and Joe. And angels they were, for they came just in time, as all angels +do--never a moment too soon or a moment too late: the schooner _was_ +dragging her anchor. This was soon plain even to the less experienced eyes +of the said angels. + +But it did not take them many minutes now to drop their strongest anchor, +and they were soon riding in perfect safety for some time to come. + +One of the two men was the son of old Coombes, the sexton, who was engaged +to marry the girl I have spoken of in the end of the fourth chapter in the +second volume. + +Percivale's account of the matter, as far as he was concerned, was, that as +they drifted helplessly along, he suddenly saw from the top of a huge wave +the little vessel below him. They were, in fact, almost upon the rigging. +The wave on which they rode swept the quarter-deck of the schooner. + +Percivale says the captain of the lifeboat called out "Aboard!" The captain +said he remembered nothing of the sort. If he did, he must have meant +it for the men on the schooner to get on board the lifeboat. Percivale, +however, who had a most chivalrous (ought I not to say Christian?) notion +of obedience, fancying the captain meant them to board the schooner, sprang +at her fore-shrouds. Thereupon the wave sweeping them along the schooner's +side, Joe sprang at the main-shrouds, and they dropped on the deck +together. + +But although my reader is at ease about their fate, we who were in the +affair were anything but easy at the time corresponding to this point of +the narrative. It was a terrible night we passed through. + +When I returned, which was almost instantly, for I could do nothing by +staring out in the direction of the schooner, I found that the crowd was +nearly gone. One little group alone remained behind, the centre of which +was a woman. Wynnie had disappeared. The woman who remained behind was +Agnes Harper. + +The moon shone out clear as I approached the group; indeed, the clouds were +breaking-up and drifting away off the heavens. The storm had raved out its +business, and was departing into the past. + +"Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered, and looked up as if waiting for a command. There +was no colour in her cheeks or in her lips--at least it seemed so in the +moonlight--only in her eyes. But she was perfectly calm. She was leaning +against the low wall, with her hands clasped, but hanging quietly down +before her. + +"The storm is breaking-up, Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered in the same still tone. Then, after just a +moment's pause, she spoke out of her heart. + +"Joe's at his duty, sir?" + +I have given the utterance a point of interrogation; whether she meant that +point I am not quite sure. + +"Indubitably," I returned. "I have such faith in Joe, that I should be sure +of that in any case. At all events, he's not taking care of his own life. +And if one is to go wrong, I would ten thousand times rather err on that +side. But I am sure Joe has been doing right, and nothing else." + +"Then there's nothing to be said, sir, is there?" she returned, with a sigh +that sounded as of relief. + +I presume some of the surrounding condolers had been giving her Job's +comfort by blaming her husband. + +"Do you remember, Agnes, what the Lord said to his mother when she +reproached him with having left her and his father?" + +"I can't remember anything at this moment, sir," was her touching answer. + +"Then I will tell you. He said, 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know +that I must be about something my Father had given me to do?' Now, Joe was +and is about his Father's business, and you must not be anxious about him. +There could be no better reason for not being anxious." + +Agnes was a very quiet woman. When without a word she took my hand and +kissed it, I felt what a depth there was in the feeling she could not +utter. I did not withdraw my hand, for I knew that would be to rebuke her +love for Joe. + +"Will you come in and wait?" I said indefinitely. + +"No, thank you, sir. I must go to my mother. God will look after Joe, won't +he, sir?" + +"As sure as there is a God, Agnes," I said; and she went away without +another word. + +I put my hand on the top of the wall and jumped over. I started back with +terror, for I had almost alighted on the body of a woman lying there. The +first insane suggestion was that it had been cast ashore; but the next +moment I knew that it was my own Wynnie. + +She had not even fainted. She was lying with her handkerchief stuffed into +her mouth to keep her from screaming. When I uttered her name she rose, +and, without looking at me, walked away towards the house. I followed. She +went straight to her own room and shut the door. I went to find her mother. +She was with Connie, who was now awake, lying pale and frightened. I told +Ethelwyn that Percivale and Joe were on board the little schooner, which +was holding on by her anchor, that Wynnie was in terror about Percivale, +that I had found her lying on the wet grass, and that she must get her into +a warm bath and to bed. We went together to her room. + +She was standing in the middle of the floor, with her hands pressed against +her temples. + +"Wynnie," I said, "our friends are not drowned. I think you will see them +quite safe in the morning. Pray to God for them." + +She did not hear a word. + +"Leave her with me," said Ethelwyn, proceeding to undress her; "and tell +nurse to bring up the large bath. There is plenty of hot water in the +boiler. I gave orders to that effect, not knowing what might happen." + +Wynnie shuddered as her mother said this; but I waited no longer, for when +Ethelwyn spoke everyone felt her authority. I obeyed her, and then went to +Connie's room. + +"Do you mind being left alone a little while?" I asked her. + +"No, papa; only--are they all drowned?" she said with a shudder. + +"I hope not, my dear; but be sure of the mercy of God, whatever you fear. +You must rest in him, my love; for he is life, and will conquer death both +in the soul and in the body." + +"I was not thinking of myself, papa." + +"I know that, my dear. But God is thinking of you and every creature that +he has made. And for our sakes you must be quiet in heart, that you may get +better, and be able to help us." + +"I will try, papa," she said; and, turning slowly on her side, she lay +quite still. + +Dora and the boys were all fast asleep, for it was very late. I cannot, +however, say what hour it was. + +Telling nurse to be on the watch because Connie was alone, I went again to +the beach. I called first, however, to inquire after Agnes. I found her +quite composed, sitting with her parents by the fire, none of them doing +anything, scarcely speaking, only listening intently to the sounds of the +storm now beginning to die away. + +I next went to the place where I had left Turner. Five bodies lay there, +and he was busy with a sixth. The surgeon of the place was with him, and +they quite expected to recover this man. + +I then went down to the sands. An officer of the revenue was taking charge +of all that came ashore--chests, and bales, and everything. For a week the +sea went on casting out the fragments of that which she had destroyed. I +have heard that, for years after, the shifting of the sands would now and +then discover things buried that night by the waves. + +All the next day the bodies kept coming ashore, some peaceful as in sleep, +others broken and mutilated. Many were cast upon other parts of the coast. +Some four or five only, all men, were recovered. It was strange to me how +I got used to it. The first horror over, the cry that yet another body had +come awoke only a gentle pity--no more dismay or shuddering. But, finding +I could be of no use, I did not wait longer than just till the morning +began to dawn with a pale ghastly light over the seething raging sea; for +the sea raged on, although the wind had gone down. There were many strong +men about, with two surgeons and all the coastguard, who were well +accustomed to similar though not such extensive destruction. The houses +along the shore were at the disposal of any who wanted aid; the Parsonage +was at some distance; and I confess that when I thought of the state of my +daughters, as well as remembered former influences upon my wife, I was very +glad to think there was no necessity for carrying thither any of those whom +the waves cast on the shore. + +When I reached home, and found Wynnie quieter and Connie again asleep, I +walked out along our own downs till I came whence I could see the little +schooner still safe at anchor. From her position I concluded--correctly as +I found afterwards--that they had let out her cable far enough to allow her +to reach the bed of the little stream, where the tide would leave her more +gently. She was clearly out of all danger now; and if Percivale and Joe had +got safe on board of her, we might confidently expect to see them before +many hours were passed. I went home with the good news. + +For a few moments I doubted whether I should tell Wynnie, for I could not +know with any certainty that Percivale was in the schooner. But presently I +recalled former conclusions to the effect that we have no right to modify +God's facts for fear of what may be to come. A little hope founded on a +present appearance, even if that hope should never be realised, may be the +very means of enabling a soul to bear the weight of a sorrow past the point +at which it would otherwise break down. I would therefore tell Wynnie, and +let her share my expectation of deliverance. + +I think she had been half-asleep, for when I entered her room she started +up in a sitting posture, looking wild, and putting her hands to her head. + +"I have brought you good news, Wynnie," I said. "I have been out on the +downs, and there is light enough now to see that the little schooner is +quite safe." + +"What schooner?" she asked listlessly, and lay down again, her eyes still +staring, awfully unappeased. + +"Why the schooner they say Percivale got on board." + +"He isn't drowned then!" she cried with a choking voice, and put her hands +to her face and burst into tears and sobs. + +"Wynnie," I said, "look what your faithlessness brings upon you. Everybody +but you has known all night that Percivale and Joe Harper are probably +quite safe. They may be ashore in a couple of hours." + +"But you don't know it. He may be drowned yet." + +"Of course there is room for doubt, but none for despair. See what a poor +helpless creature hopelessness makes you." + +"But how can I help it, papa?" she asked piteously. "I am made so." + +But as she spoke the dawn was clear upon the height of her forehead. + +"You are not made yet, as I am always telling you; and God has ordained +that you shall have a hand in your own making. You have to consent, to +desire that what you know for a fault shall be set right by his loving will +and spirit." + +"I don't know God, papa." + +"Ah, my dear, that is where it all lies. You do not know him, or you would +never be without hope." + +"But what am I to do to know him!" she asked, rising on her elbow. + +The saving power of hope was already working in her. She was once more +turning her face towards the Life. + +"Read as you have never read before about Christ Jesus, my love. Read with +the express object of finding out what God is like, that you may know him +and may trust him. And now give yourself to him, and he will give you +sleep." + +"What are we to do," I said to my wife, "if Percivale continue silent? For +even if he be in love with her, I doubt if he will speak." + +"We must leave all that, Harry," she answered. + +She was turning on myself the counsel I had been giving Wynnie. It is +strange how easily we can tell our brother what he ought to do, and yet, +when the case comes to be our own, do precisely as we had rebuked him for +doing. I lay down and fell fast asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE FUNERAL. + + +It was a lovely morning when I woke once more. The sun was flashing back +from the sea, which was still tossing, but no longer furiously, only as if +it wanted to turn itself every way to flash the sunlight about. The madness +of the night was over and gone; the light was abroad, and the world was +rejoicing. When I reached the drawing-room, which afforded the best outlook +over the shore, there was the schooner lying dry on the sands, her two +cables and anchors stretching out yards behind her; but half way between +the two sides of the bay rose a mass of something shapeless, drifted over +with sand. It was all that remained together of the great ship that had the +day before swept over the waters like a live thing with wings--of all the +works of man's hands the nearest to the shape and sign of life. The wind +had ceased altogether, only now and then a little breeze arose which +murmured "I am very sorry," and lay down again. And I knew that in the +houses on the shore dead men and women were lying. + +I went down to the dining-room. The three children were busy at their +breakfast, but neither wife, daughter, nor visitor had yet appeared. I made +a hurried meal, and was just rising to go and inquire further into the +events of the night, when the door opened, and in walked Percivale, looking +very solemn, but in perfect health and well-being. I grasped his hand +warmly. + +"Thank God," I said, "that you are returned to us, Percivale." + +"I doubt if that is much to give thanks for," he said. + +"We are the judges of that," I rejoined. "Tell me all about it." + +While he was narrating the events I have already communicated, Wynnie +entered. She started, turned pale and then very red, and for a moment +hesitated in the doorway. + +"Here is another to rejoice at your safety, Percivale," I said. + +Thereupon he stepped forward to meet her, and she gave him her hand with an +emotion so evident that I felt a little distressed--why, I could not easily +have told, for she looked most charming in the act,--more lovely than I had +ever seen her. Her beauty was unconsciously praising God, and her heart +would soon praise him too. But Percivale was a modest man, and I think +attributed her emotion to the fact that he had been in danger in the way of +duty,--a fact sufficient to move the heart of any good woman. + +She sat down and began to busy herself with the teapot. Her hand trembled. +I requested Percivale to begin his story once more; and he evidently +enjoyed recounting to her the adventures of the night. + +I asked him to sit down and have a second breakfast while I went into the +village, whereto he seemed nothing loth. + +As I crossed the floor of the old mill to see how Joe was, the head of +the sexton appeared emerging from it. He looked full of weighty solemn +business. Bidding me good-morning, he turned to the corner where his tools +lay, and proceeded to shoulder spade and pickaxe. + +"Ah, Coombes! you'll want them," I said. + +"A good many o' my people be come all at once, you see, sir," he returned. +"I shall have enough ado to make 'em all comfortable like." + +"But you must get help, you know; you can never make them all comfortable +yourself alone." + +"We'll see what I can do," he returned. "I ben't a bit willin' to let no +one do my work for me, I do assure you, sir." + +"How many are there wanting your services?" I asked. + +"There be fifteen of them now, and there be more, I don't doubt, on the +way." + +"But you won't think of making separate graves for them all," I said. "They +died together: let them lie together." + +The old man set down his tools, and looked me in the face with indignation. +The face was so honest and old, that, without feeling I had deserved it, I +yet felt the rebuke. + +"How would you like, sir," he said, at length, "to be put in the same bed +with a lot of people you didn't know nothing about?" + +I knew the old man's way, and that any argument which denied the premiss +of his peculiar fancy was worse than thrown away upon him. I therefore +ventured no farther than to say that I had heard death was a leveller. + +"That be very true; and, mayhap, they mightn't think of it after they'd +been down awhile--six weeks, mayhap, or so. But anyhow, it can't be +comfortable for 'em, poor things. One on 'em be a baby: I daresay he'd +rather lie with his mother. The doctor he say one o' the women be a mother. +I don't know," he went on reflectively, "whether she be the baby's own +mother, but I daresay neither o' them 'll mind it if I take it for granted, +and lay 'em down together. So that's one bed less." + +One thing was clear, that the old man could not dig fourteen graves within +the needful time. But I would not interfere with his office in the church, +having no reason to doubt that he would perform its duties to perfection. +He shouldered his tools again and walked out. I descended the stair, +thinking to see Joe; but there was no one there but the old woman. + +"Where are Joe and Agnes?" I asked. + +"You see, sir, Joe had promised a little job of work to be ready to-day, +and so he couldn't stop. He did say Agnes needn't go with him; but she +thought she couldn't part with him so soon, you see, sir." + +"She had received him from the dead--raised to life again," I said; "it was +most natural. But what a fine fellow Joe is; nothing will make him neglect +his work!" + +"I tried to get him to stop, sir, saying he had done quite enough last +night for all next day; but he told me it was his business to get the tire +put on Farmer Wheatstone's cart-wheel to-day just as much as it was his +business to go in the life-boat yesterday. So he would go, and Aggy +wouldn't stay behind." + +"Fine fellow, Joe!" I said, and took my leave. + +As I drew near the village, I heard the sound of hammering and sawing, and +apparently everything at once in the way of joinery; they were making the +coffins in the joiners' shops, of which there were two in the place. + +I do not like coffins. They seem to me relics of barbarism. If I had my +way, I would have the old thing decently wound in a fair linen cloth, and +so laid in the bosom of the earth, whence it was taken. I would have it +vanish, not merely from the world of vision, but from the world of form, as +soon as may be. The embrace of the fine life-hoarding, life-giving mould, +seems to me comforting, in the vague, foolish fancy that will sometimes +emerge from the froth of reverie--I mean, of subdued consciousness +remaining in the outworn frame. But the coffin is altogether and vilely +repellent. Of this, however, enough, I hate even the shadow of sentiment, +though some of my readers, who may not yet have learned to distinguish +between sentiment and feeling, may wonder how I dare to utter such a +barbarism. + +I went to the house of the county magistrate hard by, for I thought +something might have to be done in which I had a share. I found that he had +sent a notice of the loss of the vessel to the Liverpool papers, requesting +those who might wish to identify or claim any of the bodies to appear +within four days at Kilkhaven. + +This threw the last upon Saturday, and before the end of the week it was +clear that they must not remain above ground over Sunday. I therefore +arranged that they should be buried late on the Saturday night. + +On the Friday morning, a young woman and an old man, unknown to each other, +arrived by the coach from Barnstaple. They had come to see the last of +their friends in this world; to look, if they might, at the shadow left +behind by the departing soul. For as the shadow of any object remains a +moment upon the magic curtain of the eye after the object itself has gone, +so the shadow of the soul, namely, the body, lingers a moment upon the +earth after the object itself has gone to the "high countries." It was +well to see with what a sober sorrow the dignified little old man bore his +grief. It was as if he felt that the loss of his son was only for a moment. +But the young woman had taken on the hue of the corpse she came to seek. +Her eyes were sunken as if with the weight of the light she cared not for, +and her cheeks had already pined away as if to be ready for the grave. A +being thus emptied of its glory seized and possessed my thoughts. She never +even told us whom she came seeking, and after one involuntary question, +which simply received no answer, I was very careful not even to approach +another. I do not think the form she sought was there; and she may have +gone home with the lingering hope to cast the gray aurora of a doubtful +dawn over her coming days, that, after all, that one had escaped. + +On the Friday afternoon, with the approbation of the magistrate, I had +all the bodies removed to the church. Some in their coffins, others on +stretchers, they were laid in front of the communion-rail. In the evening +these two went to see them. I took care to be present. The old man soon +found his son. I was at his elbow as he walked between the rows of the +dead. He turned to me and said quietly-- + +"That's him, sir. He was a good lad. God rest his soul. He's with his +mother; and if I'm sorry, she's glad." + +With that he smiled, or tried to smile. I could only lay my hand on his +arm, to let him know that I understood him, and was with him. He walked +out of the church, sat down, upon a stone, and stared at the mould of a +new-made grave in front of him. What was passing behind those eyes God only +knew--certainly the man himself did not know. Our lightest thoughts are of +more awful significance than the most serious of us can imagine. + +For the young woman, I thought she left the church with a little light in +her eyes; but she had said nothing. Alas! that the body was not there could +no more justify her than Milton in letting her + + "frail thoughts dally with false surmise." + +With him, too, she might well add-- + + "Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away." + +But God had them in his teaching, and all I could do was to ask them to be +my guests till the funeral and the following Sunday were over. To this +they kindly consented, and I took them to my wife, who received them like +herself, and had in a few minutes made them at home with her, to which no +doubt their sorrow tended, for that brings out the relations of humanity +and destroys its distinctions. + +The next morning a Scotchman of a very decided type, originally from +Aberdeen, but resident in Liverpool, appeared, seeking the form of his +daughter. I had arranged that whoever came should be brought to me first. I +went with him to the church. He was a tall, gaunt, bony man, with long arms +and huge hands, a rugged granite-like face, and a slow ponderous utterance, +which I had some difficulty in understanding. He treated the object of his +visit with a certain hardness, and at the same time lightness, which also I +had some difficulty in understanding. + +"You want to see the--" I said, and hesitated. + +"Ow ay--the boadies," he answered. "She winna be there, I daursay, but I +wad jist like to see; for I wadna like her to be beeried gin sae be 'at she +was there, wi'oot biddin' her good-bye like." + +When we reached the church, I opened the door and entered. An awe fell upon +me fresh and new. The beautiful church had become a tomb: solemn, grand, +ancient, it rose as a memorial of the dead who lay in peace before her +altar-rail, as if they had fled thither for sanctuary from a sea of +troubles. And I thought with myself, Will the time ever come when the +churches shall stand as the tombs of holy things that have passed away, +when Christ shall have rendered up the kingdom to his Father, and no man +shall need to teach his neighbour or his brother, saying, "Know the Lord"? +The thought passed through my mind and vanished, as I led my companion up +to the dead. He glanced at one and another, and passed on. He had looked +at ten or twelve ere he stopped, gazing on the face of the beautiful form +which had first come ashore. He stooped and stroked the white cheeks, +taking the head in his great rough hands, and smoothed the brown hair +tenderly, saying, as if he had quite forgotten that she was dead-- + +"Eh, Maggie! hoo cam _ye_ here, lass?" + +Then, as if for the first time the reality had grown comprehensible, he put +his hands before his face, and burst into tears. His huge frame was shaken +with sobs for one long minute, while I stood looking on with awe and +reverence. He ceased suddenly, pulled a blue cotton handkerchief with +yellow spots on it--I see it now--from his pocket, rubbed his face with +it as if drying it with a towel, put it back, turned, and said, without +looking at me, "I'll awa' hame." + +"Wouldn't you like a piece of her hair?" I asked. + +"Gin ye please," he answered gently, as if his daughter's form had been +mine now, and her hair were mine to give. + +By the vestry door sat Mrs. Coombes, watching the dead, with her sweet +solemn smile, and her constant ministration of knitting. + +"Have you got a pair of scissors there, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. + +"Yes, to be sure, sir," she answered, rising, and lifting a huge pair by +the string suspending them from her waist. + +"Cut off a nice piece of this beautiful hair," I said. + +She lifted the lovely head, chose, and cut off a long piece, and handed it +respectfully to the father. + +He took it without a word, sat down on the step before the communion-rail, +and began to smooth out the wonderful sleave of dusky gold. It was, indeed, +beautiful hair. As he drew it out, I thought it must be a yard long. He +passed his big fingers through and through it, but tenderly, as if it had +been still growing on the live lovely head, stopping every moment to pick +out the bits of sea-weed and shells, and shake out the sand that had been +wrought into its mass. He sat thus for nearly half-an-hour, and we stood +looking on with something closely akin to awe. At length he folded it up, +drew from his pocket an old black leather book, laid it carefully in the +innermost pocket, and rose. I led the way from the church, and he followed +me. + +Outside the church, he laid his hand on my arm, and said, groping with his +other hand in his trousers-pocket-- + +"She'll hae putten ye to some expense--for the coffin an' sic like." + +"We'll talk about that afterwards," I answered. "Come home with me now, and +have some refreshment." + +"Na, I thank ye. I hae putten ye to eneuch o' tribble already. I'll jist +awa' hame." + +"We are going to lay them down this evening. You won't go before the +funeral. Indeed, I think you can't get away till Monday morning. My wife +and I will be glad of your company till then." + +"I'm no company for gentle-fowk, sir." + +"Come and show me in which of these graves you would like to have her +laid," I said. + +He yielded and followed me. + +Coombes had not dug many spadefuls before he saw what had been plain +enough--that ten such men as he could not dig the graves in time. But there +was plenty of help to be had from the village and the neighbouring farms. +Most of them were now ready, but a good many men were still at work. The +brown hillocks lay all about the church-yard--the mole-heaps of burrowing +Death. + +The stranger looked around him. His face grew critical. He stepped a little +hither and thither. At length he turned to me and said-- + +"I wadna like to be greedy; but gin ye wad lat her lie next the kirk +there--i' that neuk, I wad tak' it kindly. And syne gin ever it cam' aboot +that I cam' here again, I wad ken whaur she was. Could ye get a sma' bit +heidstane putten up? I wad leave the siller wi' ye to pay for't." + +"To be sure I can. What will you have put on the stone?" + +"Ow jist--let me see--Maggie Jamieson--nae Marget, but jist Maggie. She was +aye Maggie at home. Maggie Jamieson, frae her father. It's the last thing I +can gie her. Maybe ye micht put a verse o' Scripter aneath't, ye ken." + +"What verse would you like?" + +He thought for a little. + +"Isna there a text that says, 'The deid shall hear his voice'?" + +"Yes: 'The dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God.'" + +"Ay. That's it. Weel, jist put that on.--They canna do better than hear his +voice," he added, with a strange mixture of Scotch ratiocination. + +I led the way home, and he accompanied me without further objection or +apology. After dinner, I proposed that we should go upon the downs, for the +day was warm and bright. We sat on the grass. I felt that I could not talk +to them as from myself. I knew nothing of the possible gulfs of sorrow in +their hearts. To me their forms seemed each like a hill in whose unseen +bosom lay a cavern of dripping waters, perhaps with a subterranean torrent +of anguish raving through its hollows and tumbling down hidden precipices, +whose voice God only heard, and God only could still. This daughter +_might_, though from her face I did not think it, have gone away against +her father's will. That son _might_ have been a ne'er-do-well at home--how +could I tell? The woman _might_ be looking for the lover that had forsaken +her--I could not divine. I would speak no words of my own. The Son of +God had spoken words of comfort to his mourning friends, when he was the +present God and they were the forefront of humanity; I would read some of +the words he spoke. From them the human nature in each would draw what +comfort it could. I took my New Testament from my pocket, and said, without +any preamble, + +"When our Lord was going to die, he knew that his friends loved him enough +to be very wretched about it. He knew that they would be overwhelmed for a +time with trouble. He knew, too, that they could not believe the glad end +of it all, to which end he looked, across the awful death that awaited +him--a death to which that of our friends in the wreck was ease itself. I +will just read to you what he said." + +I read from the fourteenth to the seventeenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. +I knew there were worlds of meaning in the words into which I could hardly +hope any of them would enter. But I knew likewise that the best things are +just those from which the humble will draw the truth they are capable of +seeing. Therefore I read as for myself, and left it to them to hear for +themselves. Nor did I add any word of comment, fearful of darkening counsel +by words without knowledge. For the Bible is awfully set against what is +not wise. + +When I had finished, I closed the book, rose from the grass, and walked +towards the brow of the shore. They rose likewise and followed me. I talked +of slight things; the tone was all that communicated between us. But little +of any sort was said. The sea lay still before us, knowing nothing of the +sorrow it had caused. + +We wandered a little way along the cliff. The burial-service was at seven +o'clock. + +"I have an invalid to visit out in this direction," I said; "would you mind +walking with me? I shall not stay more than five minutes, and we shall get +back just in time for tea." + +They assented kindly. I walked first with one, then with another; heard a +little of the story of each; was able to say a few words of sympathy, and +point, as it were, a few times towards the hills whence cometh our aid. I +may just mention here, that since our return to Marshmallows I have had two +of them, the young woman and the Scotchman, to visit us there. + +The bell began to toll, and we went to church. My companions placed +themselves near the dead. I went into the vestry till the appointed hour. +I thought as I put on my surplice how, in all religions but the Christian, +the dead body was a pollution to the temple. Here the church received it, +as a holy thing, for a last embrace ere it went to the earth. + +As the dead were already in the church, the usual form could not be carried +out. I therefore stood by the communion-table, and there began to read, "I +am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, +though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth +in me shall never die." + +I advanced, as I read, till I came outside the rails and stood before the +dead. There I read the Psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our refuge," and +the glorious lesson, "Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the +first-fruits of them that slept." Then the men of the neighbourhood came +forward, and in long solemn procession bore the bodies out of the church, +each to its grave. At the church-door I stood and read, "Man that is born +of a woman;" then went from one to another of the graves, and read over +each, as the earth fell on the coffin-lid, "Forasmuch as it hath pleased +Almighty God, of his great mercy." Then again, I went back to the +church-door and read, "I heard a voice from heaven;" and so to the end of +the service. + +Leaving the men to fill up the graves, I hastened to lay aside my +canonicals, that I might join my guests; but my wife and daughter had +already prevailed on them to leave the churchyard. + +A word now concerning my own family. Turner insisted on Connie's remaining +in bed for two or three days. She looked worse in face--pale and worn; but +it was clear, from the way she moved in bed, that the fresh power called +forth by the shock had not vanished with the moment. + +Wynnie was quieter almost than ever; but there was a constant _secret_ +light, if I may use the paradox, in her eyes. Percivale was at the +house every day, always ready to make himself useful. My wife bore up +wonderfully. As yet the much greater catastrophe had come far short of the +impression made by the less. When quieter hours should come, however, I +could not help fearing that the place would be dreadfully painful to +all but the younger ones, who, of course, had the usual child-gift of +forgetting. The servants--even Walter--looked thin and anxious. + +That Saturday night I found myself, as I had once or twice found myself +before, entirely unprepared to preach. I did not feel anxious, because I +did not feel that I was to blame: I had been so much occupied. I had again +and again turned my thoughts thitherward, but nothing recommended itself to +me so that I could say "I must take that;" nothing said plainly, "This is +what you have to speak of." + +As often as I had sought to find fitting matter for my sermon, my mind +had turned to death and the grave; but I shrunk from every suggestion, or +rather nothing had come to me that interested myself enough to justify me +in giving it to my people. And I always took it as my sole justification, +in speaking of anything to the flock of Christ, that I cared heartily in my +own soul for that thing. Without this consciousness I was dumb. And I do +think, highly as I value prophecy, that a clergyman ought to be at liberty +upon occasion to say, "My friends, I cannot preach to-day." What a riddance +it would be for the Church, I do not say if every priest were to speak +sense, but only if every priest were to abstain from speaking of that in +which, at the moment, he feels little or no interest! + +I went to bed, which is often the very best thing a man can do; for sleep +will bring him from God that which no effort of his own will can compass. +I have read somewhere--I will verify it by present search--that Luther's +translation, of the verse in the psalm, "So he giveth to his beloved +sleep," is, "He giveth his beloved sleeping," or while asleep. Yes, so it +is, literally, in English, "It is in vain that ye rise early, and then +sit long, and eat your bread with care, for to his friends he gives it +sleeping." This was my experience in the present instance; for the thought +of which I was first conscious when I awoke was, "Why should I talk about +death? Every man's heart is now full of death. We have enough of that--even +the sum that God has sent us on the wings of the tempest. What I have to +do, as the minister of the new covenant, is to speak of life." It flashed +in on my mind: "Death is over and gone. The resurrection comes next. I will +speak of the raising of Lazarus." + +The same moment I knew that I was ready to speak. Shall I or shall I not +give my reader the substance of what I said? I wish I knew how many of them +would like it, and how many would not. I do not want to bore them with +sermons, especially seeing I have always said that no sermons ought to +be printed; for in print they are but what the old alchymists would have +called a _caput mortuum_, or death's head, namely, a lifeless lump of +residuum at the bottom of the crucible; for they have no longer the living +human utterance which gives all the power on the minds of the hearers. But +I have not, either in this or in my preceding narrative, attempted to give +a sermon as I preached it. I have only sought to present the substance of +it in a form fitter for being read, somewhat cleared of the unavoidable, +let me say necessary--yes, I will say _valuable_--repetitions and +enforcements by which the various considerations are pressed upon the minds +of the hearers. These are entirely wearisome in print--useless too, for +the reader may ponder over every phrase till he finds out the purport of +it--if indeed there be such readers nowadays. + +I rose, went down to the bath in the rocks, had a joyous physical ablution, +and a swim up and down the narrow cleft, from which I emerged as if myself +newly born or raised anew, and then wandered about on the downs full of +hope and thankfulness, seeking all I could to plant deep in my mind the +long-rooted truths of resurrection, that they might be not only ready to +blossom in the warmth of the spring-tides to come, but able to send out +some leaves and promissory buds even in the wintry time of the soul, when +the fogs of pain steam up from the frozen clay soil of the body, and make +the monarch-will totter dizzily upon his throne, to comfort the eyes of the +bewildered king, reminding him that the King of kings hath conquered Death +and the Grave. There is no perfect faith that cannot laugh at winters and +graveyards, and all the whole array of defiant appearances. The fresh +breeze of the morning visited me. "O God," I said in my heart, "would that +when the dark day comes, in which I can feel nothing, I may be able to +front it with the memory of this day's strength, and so help myself to +trust in the Father! I would call to mind the days of old, with David the +king." + +When I returned to the house, I found that one of the sailors, who had been +cast ashore with his leg broken, wished to see me. I obeyed, and found him +very pale and worn. + +"I think I am going, sir," he said; "and I wanted to see you before I die." + +"Trust in Christ, and do not be afraid," I returned. + +"I prayed to him to save me when I was hanging to the rigging, and if I +wasn't afraid then, I'm not going to be afraid now, dying quietly in my +bed. But just look here, sir." + +He took from under his pillow something wrapped up in paper, unfolded the +envelope, and showed a lump of something--I could not at first tell what. +He put it in my hand, and then I saw that it was part of a bible, with +nearly the upper half of it worn or cut away, and the rest partly in a +state of pulp. + +"That's the bible my mother gave me when I left home first," he said. "I +don't know how I came to put it in my pocket, but I think the rope that cut +through that when I was lashed to the shrouds would a'most have cut through +my ribs if it hadn't been for it." + +"Very likely," I returned. "The body of the Bible has saved your bodily +life: may the spirit of it save your spiritual life." + +"I think I know what you mean, sir," he panted out. "My mother was a good +woman, and I know she prayed to God for me." + +"Would you like us to pray for you in church to-day?" + +"If you please, sir; me and Bob Fox. He's nearly as bad as I am." + +"We won't forget you," I said. "I will come in after church and see how you +are." + +I knelt and offered the prayers for the sick, and then took my leave. I did +not think the poor fellow was going to die. + +I may as well mention here, that he has been in my service ever since. We +took him with us to Marshmallows, where he works in the garden and stables, +and is very useful. We have to look after him though, for his health +continues delicate. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE SERMON. + + +When I stood up to preach, I gave them no text; but, with the eleventh +chapter of the Gospel of St. John open before me, to keep me correct, I +proceeded to tell the story in the words God gave me; for who can dare to +say that he makes his own commonest speech? + +"When Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and therefore our elder brother, +was going about on the earth, eating and drinking with his brothers and +sisters, there was one family he loved especially--a family of two sisters +and a brother; for, although he loves everybody as much as they can be +loved, there are some who can be loved more than others. Only God is always +trying to make us such that we can be loved more and more. There are +several stories--O, such lovely stories!--about that family and Jesus; and +we have to do with one of them now. + +"They lived near the capital of the country, Jerusalem, in a village they +called Bethany; and it must have been a great relief to our Lord, when he +was worn out with the obstinacy and pride of the great men of the city, to +go out to the quiet little town and into the refuge of Lazarus's house, +where everyone was more glad at the sound of his feet than at any news that +could come to them. + +"They had at this time behaved so ill to him in Jerusalem--taking up stones +to stone him even, though they dared not quite do it, mad with anger as +they were--and all because he told them the truth--that he had gone away to +the other side of the great river that divided the country, and taught the +people in that quiet place. While he was there his friend Lazarus was taken +ill; and the two sisters, Martha and Mary, sent a messenger to him, to say +to him, 'Lord, your friend is very ill.' Only they said it more beautifully +than that: 'Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick.' You know, when +anyone is ill, we always want the person whom he loves most to come to him. +This is very wonderful. In the worst things that can come to us the first +thought is of love. People, like the Scribes and Pharisees, might say, +'What good can that do him?' And we may not in the least suppose that the +person we want knows any secret that can cure his pain; yet love is the +first thing we think of. And here we are more right than we know; for, at +the long last, love will cure everything: which truth, indeed, this story +will set forth to us. No doubt the heart of Lazarus, ill as he was, longed +after his friend; and, very likely, even the sight of Jesus might have +given him such strength that the life in him could have driven out the +death which had already got one foot across the threshold. But the sisters +expected more than this: they believed that Jesus, whom they knew to have +driven disease and death out of so many hearts, had only to come and touch +him--nay, only to speak a word, to look at him, and their brother was +saved. Do you think they presumed in thus expecting? The fact was, they did +not believe enough; they had not yet learned to believe that he could cure +him all the same whether he came to them or not, because he was always with +them. We cannot understand this; but our understanding is never a measure +of what is true. + +"Whether Jesus knew exactly all that was going to take place I cannot tell. +Some people may feel certain upon points that I dare not feel certain upon. +One thing I am sure of: that he did not always know everything beforehand, +for he said so himself. It is infinitely more valuable to us, because more +beautiful and godlike in him, that he should trust his Father than that he +should foresee everything. At all events he knew that his Father did not +want him to go to his friends yet. So he sent them a message to the effect +that there was a particular reason for this sickness--that the end of it +was not the death of Lazarus, but the glory of God. This, I think, he told +them by the same messenger they sent to him; and then, instead of going to +them, he remained where he was. + +"But O, my friends, what shall I say about this wonderful message? Think of +being sick for the glory of God! of being shipwrecked for the glory of God! +of being drowned for the glory of God! How can the sickness, the fear, the +broken-heartedness of his creatures be for the glory of God? What kind of +a God can that be? Why just a God so perfectly, absolutely good, that the +things that look least like it are only the means of clearing our eyes to +let us see how good he is. For he is so good that he is not satisfied with +_being_ good. He loves his children, so that except he can make them good +like himself, make them blessed by seeing how good he is, and desiring the +same goodness in themselves, he is not satisfied. He is not like a fine +proud benefactor, who is content with doing that which will satisfy his +sense of his own glory, but like a mother who puts her arm round her child, +and whose heart is sore till she can make her child see the love which is +her glory. The glorification of the Son of God is the glorification of the +human race; for the glory of God is the glory of man, and that glory is +love. Welcome sickness, welcome sorrow, welcome death, revealing that +glory! + +"The next two verses sound very strangely together, and yet they almost +seem typical of all the perplexities of God's dealings. The old painters +and poets represented Faith as a beautiful woman, holding in her hand a cup +of wine and water, with a serpent coiled up within. Highhearted Faith! +she scruples not to drink of the life-giving wine and water; she is not +repelled by the upcoiled serpent. The serpent she takes but for the type of +the eternal wisdom that looks repellent because it is not understood. The +wine is good, the water is good; and if the hand of the supreme Fate put +that cup in her hand, the serpent itself must be good too,--harmless, at +least, to hurt the truth of the water and the wine. But let us read the +verses. + +"'Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. When he had heard +therefore that he was sick, he abode two days still in the same place where +he was.' + +"Strange! his friend was sick: he abode two days where he was! But remember +what we have already heard. The glory of God was infinitely more for the +final cure of a dying Lazarus, who, give him all the life he could have, +would yet, without that glory, be in death, than the mere presence of the +Son of God. I say _mere_ presence, for, compared with the glory of God, the +very presence of his Son, so dissociated, is nothing. He abode where he was +that the glory of God, the final cure of humanity, the love that triumphs +over death, might shine out and redeem the hearts of men, so that death +could not touch them. + +"After the two days, the hour had arrived. He said to his disciples, 'Let +us go back to Judaea.' They expostulated, because of the danger, saying, +'Master, the Jews of late sought to stone thee; and goest thou thither +again?' The answer which he gave them I am not sure whether I can +thoroughly understand; but I think, in fact I know, it must bear on the +same region of life--the will of God. I think what he means by walking +in the day is simply doing the will of God. That was the sole, the +all-embracing light in which Jesus ever walked. I think he means that now +he saw plainly what the Father wanted him to do. If he did not see that the +Father wanted him to go back to Judaea, and yet went, that would be to +go stumblingly, to walk in the darkness. There are twelve hours in the +day--one time to act--a time of light and the clear call of duty; there is +a night when a man, not seeing where or hearing how, must be content to +rest. Something not inharmonious with this, I think, he must have intended; +but I do not see the whole thought clearly enough to be sure that I am +right. I do think, further, that it points at a clearer condition of human +vision and conviction than I am good enough to understand; though I hope +one day to rise into this upper stratum of light. + +"Whether his scholars had heard anything of Lazarus yet, I do not know. It +looks a little as if Jesus had not told them the message he had had from +the sisters. But he told them now that he was asleep, and that he was going +to wake him. You would think they might have understood this. The idea of +going so many miles to wake a man might have surely suggested death. But +the disciples were sorely perplexed with many of his words. Sometimes they +looked far away for the meaning when the meaning lay in their very hearts; +sometimes they looked into their hands for it when it was lost in the +grandeur of the ages. But he meant them to see into all that he said by +and by, although they could not see into it now. When they understood him +better, then they would understand what he said better. And to understand +him better they must be more like him; and to make them more like him he +must go away and give them his spirit--awful mystery which no man but +himself can understand. + +"Now he had to tell them plainly that Lazarus was dead. They had not +thought of death as a sleep. I suppose this was altogether a new and +Christian idea. Do not suppose that it applied more to Lazarus than to +other dead people. He was none the less dead that Jesus meant to take a +weary two days' journey to his sepulchre and wake him. If death is not a +sleep, Jesus did not speak the truth when he said Lazarus slept. You may +say it was a figure; but a figure that is not like the thing it figures is +simply a lie. + +"They set out to go back to Judaea. Here we have a glimpse of the faith of +Thomas, the doubter. For a doubter is not without faith. The very fact +that he doubts, shows that he has some faith. When I find anyone hard upon +doubters, I always doubt the _quality_ of his faith. It is of little use to +have a great cable, if the hemp is so poor that it breaks like the painter +of a boat. I have known people whose power of believing chiefly consisted +in their incapacity for seeing difficulties. Of what fine sort a faith must +be that is founded in stupidity, or far worse, in indifference to the truth +and the mere desire to get out of hell! That is not a grand belief in the +Son of God, the radiation of the Father. Thomas's want of faith was shown +in the grumbling, self-pitying way in which he said, 'Let us also go that +we may die with him.' His Master had said that he was going to wake +him. Thomas said, 'that we may die with him.' You may say, 'He did not +understand him.' True, it may be, but his unbelief was the cause of his not +understanding him. I suppose Thomas meant this as a reproach to Jesus for +putting them all in danger by going back to Judaea; if not, it was only a +poor piece of sentimentality. So much for Thomas's unbelief. But he had +good and true faith notwithstanding; for _he went with his Master_. + +"By the time they reached the neighbourhood of Bethany, Lazarus had been +dead four days. Someone ran to the house and told the sisters that Jesus +was coming. Martha, as soon as she heard it, rose and went to meet him. +It might be interesting at another time to compare the difference of the +behaviour of the two sisters upon this occasion with the difference of +their behaviour upon another occasion, likewise recorded; but with the man +dead in his sepulchre, and the hope dead in these two hearts, we have no +inclination to enter upon fine distinctions of character. Death and grief +bring out the great family likenesses in the living as well as in the dead. + +"When Martha came to Jesus, she showed her true though imperfect faith by +almost attributing her brother's death to Jesus' absence. But even in the +moment, looking in the face of the Master, a fresh hope, a new budding of +faith, began in her soul. She thought--'What if, after all, he were +to bring him to life again!' O, trusting heart, how thou leavest the +dull-plodding intellect behind thee! While the conceited intellect is +reasoning upon the impossibility of the thing, the expectant faith beholds +it accomplished. Jesus, responding instantly to her faith, granting her +half-born prayer, says, 'Thy brother shall rise again;' not meaning the +general truth recognised, or at least assented to by all but the Sadducees, +concerning the final resurrection of the dead, but meaning, 'Be it unto +thee as thou wilt. I will raise him again.' For there is no steering for a +fine effect in the words of Jesus. But these words are too good for Martha +to take them as he meant them. Her faith is not quite equal to the belief +that he actually will do it. The thing she could hope for afar off she +could hardly believe when it came to her very door. 'O, yes,' she said, her +mood falling again to the level of the commonplace, 'of course, at the last +day.' Then the Lord turns away her thoughts from the dogmas of her faith +to himself, the Life, saying, 'I am the resurrection and the life: he that +believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever +liveth and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this?' Martha, +without understanding what he said more than in a very poor part, answered +in words which preserved her honesty entire, and yet included all he asked, +and a thousandfold more than she could yet believe: 'Yea, Lord; I believe +that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the +world.' + +"I dare not pretend to have more than a grand glimmering of the truth of +Jesus' words 'shall never die;' but I am pretty sure that when Martha came +to die, she found that there was indeed no such thing as she had meant when +she used the ghastly word _death_, and said with her first new breath, +'Verily, Lord, I am not dead.' + +"But look how this declaration of her confidence in the Christ operated +upon herself. She instantly thought of her sister; the hope that the Lord +would do something swelled within her, and, leaving Jesus, she went to find +Mary. Whoever has had a true word with the elder brother, straightway +will look around him to find his brother, his sister. The family feeling +blossoms: he wants his friend to share the glory withal. Martha wants Mary +to go to Jesus too. + +"Mary heard her, forgot her visitors, rose, and went. They thought she went +to the grave: she went to meet its conqueror. But when she came to him, the +woman who had chosen the good part praised of Jesus, had but the same words +to embody her hope and her grief that her careful and troubled sister had +uttered a few minutes before. How often during those four days had not the +self-same words passed between them! 'Ah, if he had been here, our brother +had not died!' She said so to himself now, and wept, and her friends who +had followed her wept likewise. A moment more, and the Master groaned; yet +a moment, and he too wept. 'Sorrow is catching;' but this was not the mere +infection of sorrow. It went deeper than mere sympathy; for he groaned in +his spirit and was troubled. What made him weep? It was when he saw them +weeping that he wept. But why should he weep, when he knew how soon their +weeping would be turned into rejoicing? It was not for their weeping, so +soon to be over, that he wept, but for the human heart everywhere swollen +with tears, yea, with griefs that can find no such relief as tears; for +these, and for all his brothers and sisters tormented with pain for lack of +faith in his Father in heaven, Jesus wept. He saw the blessed well-being +of Lazarus on the one side, and on the other the streaming eyes from whose +sight he had vanished. The veil between was so thin! yet the sight of those +eyes could not pierce it: their hearts must go on weeping--without cause, +for his Father was so good. I think it was the helplessness he felt in +the impossibility of at once sweeping away the phantasm death from their +imagination that drew the tears from the eyes of Jesus. Certainly it was +not for Lazarus; it could hardly be for these his friends--save as they +represented the humanity which he would help, but could not help even as he +was about to help them. + +"The Jews saw herein proof that he loved Lazarus; but they little thought +it was for them and their people, and for the Gentiles whom they despised, +that his tears were now flowing--that the love which pressed the fountains +of his weeping was love for every human heart, from Adam on through the +ages. + +"Some of them went a little farther, nearly as far as the sisters, saying, +'Could he not have kept the man from dying?' But it was such a poor thing, +after all, that they thought he might have done. They regarded merely this +unexpected illness, this early death; for I daresay Lazarus was not much +older than Jesus. They did not think that, after all, Lazarus must die some +time; that the beloved could be saved, at best, only for a little while. +Jesus seems to have heard the remark, for he again groaned in himself. + +"Meantime they were drawing near the place where he was buried. It was a +hollow in the face of a rock, with a stone laid against it. I suppose the +bodies were laid on something like shelves inside the rock, as they are in +many sepulchres. They were not put into coffins, but wound round and round +with linen. + +"When they came before the door of death, Jesus said to them, 'Take away +the stone.' The nature of Martha's reply--the realism of it, as they would +say now-a-days--would seem to indicate that her dawning faith had sunk +again below the horizon, that in the presence of the insignia of death, her +faith yielded, even as the faith of Peter failed him when he saw around him +the grandeur of the high-priest, and his Master bound and helpless. Jesus +answered--O, what an answer!--To meet the corruption and the stink which +filled her poor human fancy, 'the glory of God' came from his lips: human +fear; horror speaking from the lips of a woman in the very jaws of the +devouring death; and the 'said I not unto thee?' from the mouth of him who +was so soon to pass worn and bloodless through such a door! 'He stinketh,' +said Martha. 'The glory of God,' said Jesus. 'Said I not unto thee, that, +if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?' + +"Before the open throat of the sepulchre Jesus began to speak to his Father +aloud. He had prayed to him in his heart before, most likely while he +groaned in his spirit. Now he thanked him that he had comforted him, and +given him Lazarus as a first-fruit from the dead. But he will be true to +the listening people as well as to his ever-hearing Father; therefore he +tells why he said the word of thanks aloud--a thing not usual with him, for +his Father was always hearing, him. Having spoken it for the people, he +would say that it was for the people. + +"The end of it all was that they might believe that God had sent him--a far +grander gift than having the dearest brought back from the grave; for he is +the life of men. + +"'Lazarus, come forth!" + +"And Lazarus came forth, creeping helplessly with inch-long steps of his +linen-bound limbs. 'Ha, ha! brother, sister!' cries the human heart. The +Lord of Life hath taken the prey from the spoiler; he hath emptied the +grave. Here comes the dead man, welcome as never was child from the +womb--new-born, and in him all the human race new-born from the grave! +'Loose him and let him go,' and the work is done. The sorrow is over, and +the joy is come. Home, home, Martha, Mary, with your Lazarus! He too will +go with you, the Lord of the Living. Home and get the feast ready, Martha! +Prepare the food for him who comes hungry from the grave, for him who has +called him thence. Home, Mary, to help Martha! What a household will yours +be! What wondrous speech will pass between the dead come to life and the +living come to die! + +"But what pang is this that makes Lazarus draw hurried breath, and turns +Martha's cheek so pale? Ah, at the little window of the heart the pale eyes +of the defeated Horror look in. What! is he there still! Ah, yes, he will +come for Martha, come for Mary, come yet again for Lazarus--yea, come for +the Lord of Life himself, and carry all away. But look at the Lord: he +knows all about it, and he smiles. Does Martha think of the words he spoke, +'He that liveth and believeth in me shall never die'? Perhaps she does, +and, like the moon before the sun, her face returns the smile of her Lord. + +"This, my friends, is a fancy in form, but it embodies a dear truth. What +is it to you and me that he raised Lazarus? We are not called upon to +believe that he will raise from the tomb that joy of our hearts which lies +buried there beyond our sight. Stop! Are we not? We are called upon to +believe this; else the whole story were for us a poor mockery. What is it +to us that the Lord raised Lazarus?--Is it nothing to know that our Brother +is Lord over the grave? Will the harvest be behind the first-fruits? If he +tells us he cannot, for good reasons, raise up our vanished love to-day, or +to-morrow, or for all the years of our life to come, shall we not mingle +the smile of faithful thanks with the sorrow of present loss, and walk +diligently waiting? That he called forth Lazarus showed that he was in his +keeping, that he is Lord of the living, and that all live to him, that he +has a hold of them, and can draw them forth when he will. If this is not +true, then the raising of Lazarus is false; I do not mean merely false in +fact, but false in meaning. If we believe in him, then in his name, both +for ourselves and for our friends, we must deny death and believe in life. +Lord Christ, fill our hearts with thy Life!" + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +CHANGED PLANS. + + +In a day or two Connie was permitted to rise and take to her couch once +more. It seemed strange that she should look so much worse, and yet be so +much stronger. The growth of her power of motion was wonderful. As they +carried her, she begged to be allowed to put her feet to the ground. Turner +yielded, though without quite ceasing to support her. He was satisfied, +however, that she could have stood upright for a moment at least. He would +not, of course, risk it, and made haste to lay her down. + +The time of his departure was coming near, and he seemed more anxious the +nearer it came; for Connie continued worn-looking and pale; and her smile, +though ever ready to greet me when I entered, had lost much of its light. I +noticed, too, that she had the curtain of her window constantly so arranged +as to shut out the sea. I said something to her about it once. Her reply +was: + +"Papa, I can't bear it. I know it is very silly; but I think I can make you +understand how it is: I was so fond of the sea when I came down; it seemed +to lie close to my window, with a friendly smile ready for me every morning +when I looked out. I daresay it is all from want of faith, but I can't help +it: it looks so far away now, like a friend that had failed me, that I +would rather not see it." + +I saw that the struggling life within her was grievously oppressed, that +the things which surrounded her were no longer helpful. Her life had been +driven as to its innermost cave; and now, when it had been enticed to +venture forth and look abroad, a sudden pall had descended upon nature. I +could not help thinking that the good of our visit to Kilkhaven had come, +and that evil, from which I hoped we might yet escape, was following. I +left her, and sought Turner. + +"It strikes me, Turner," I said, "that the sooner we get out of this the +better for Connie." + +"I am quite of your opinion. I think the very prospect of leaving the place +would do something to restore her. If she is so uncomfortable now, think +what it will be in the many winter nights at hand." + +"Do you think it would be safe to move her?" + +"Far safer than to let her remain. At the worst, she is now far better than +when she came. Try her. Hint at the possibility of going home, and see how +she will take it." + +"Well, I sha'n't like to be left alone; but if she goes they must all go, +except, perhaps, I might keep Wynnie. But I don't know how her mother would +get on without her." + +"I don't see why you should stay behind. Mr. Weir would be as glad to come +as you would be to go; and it can make no difference to Mr. Shepherd." + +It seemed a very sensible suggestion. I thought a moment. Certainly it was +a desirable thing for both my sister and her husband. They had no such +reasons as we had for disliking the place; and it would enable her to avoid +the severity of yet another winter. I said as much to Turner, and went back +to Connie's room. + +The light of a lovely sunset was lying outside her window. She was sitting +so that she could not see it. I would find out her feeling in the matter +without any preamble. + +"Would you like to go back to Marshmallows, Connie?" I asked. + +Her countenance flashed into light. + +"O, dear papa, do let us go," she said; "that would be delightful." + +"Well, I think we can manage it, if you will only get a little stronger for +the journey. The weather is not so good to travel in as when we came down." + +"No; but I am ever so much better, you know, than I was then." + +The poor girl was already stronger from the mere prospect of going home +again. She moved restlessly on her couch, half mechanically put her hand to +the curtain, pulled it aside, looked out, faced the sun and the sea, and +did not draw back. My mind was made up. I left her, and went to find +Ethelwyn. She heartily approved of the proposal for Connie's sake, and said +that it would be scarcely less agreeable to herself. I could see a certain +troubled look above her eyes, however. + +"You are thinking of Wynnie," I said. + +"Yes. It is hard to make one sad for the sake of the rest." + +"True. But it is one of the world's recognised necessities." + +"No doubt." + +"Besides, you don't suppose Percivale can stay here the whole winter. They +must part some time." + +"Of course. Only they did not expect it so soon." + +But here my wife was mistaken. + +I went to my study to write to Weir. I had hardly finished my letter when +Walter came to say that Mr. Percivale wished to see me. I told him to show +him in. + +"I am just writing home to say that I want my curate to change places with +me here, which I know he will be glad enough to do. I see Connie had better +go home." + +"You will all go, then, I presume?" returned Percivale. + +"Yes, yes; of course." + +"Then I need not so much regret that I can stay no longer. I came to tell +you that I must leave to-morrow." + +"Ah! Going to London?" + +"Yes. I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness. You have made my +summer something like a summer; very different, indeed, from what it would +otherwise have been." + +"We have had our share of advantage, and that a large one. We are all glad +to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Percivale." + +He made no answer. + +"We shall be passing through London within a week or ten days in all +probability. Perhaps you will allow us the pleasure of looking at some of +your pictures then?" + +His face flushed. What did the flush mean? It was not one of mere pleasure. +There was confusion and perplexity in it. But he answered at once: + +"I will show you them with pleasure. I fear, however, you will not care for +them." + +Would this fear account for his embarrassment? I hardly thought it would; +but I could not for a moment imagine, with his fine form and countenance +before me, that he had any serious reason for shrinking from a visit. + +He began to search for a card. + +"O, I have your address. I shall be sure to pay you a visit. But you will +dine with us to-day, of course?" I said. + +"I shall have much pleasure," he answered; and took his leave. + +I finished my letter to Weir, and went out for a walk. + +I remember particularly the thoughts that moved in me and made that walk +memorable. Indeed, I think I remember all outside events chiefly by virtue +of the inward conditions with which they were associated. Mere outside +things I am very ready to forget. Moods of my own mind do not so readily +pass away; and with the memory of some of them every outward circumstance +returns; for a man's life is where the kingdom of heaven is--within him. +There are people who, if you ask the story of their lives, have nothing to +tell you but the course of the outward events that have constituted, as it +were, the clothes of their history. But I know, at the same time, that some +of the most important crises in my own history (by which word _history_ I +mean my growth towards the right conditions of existence) have been beyond +the grasp and interpretation of my intellect. They have passed, as it were, +without my consciousness being awake enough to lay hold of their phenomena. +The wind had been blowing; I had heard the sound of it, but knew not whence +it came nor whither it went; only, when it was gone, I found myself more +responsible, more eager than before. + +I remember this walk from the thoughts I had about the great change hanging +over us all. I had now arrived at the prime of middle life; and that change +which so many would escape if they could, but which will let no man pass, +had begun to show itself a real fact upon the horizon of the future. Death +looks so far away to the young, that while they acknowledge it unavoidable, +the path stretches on in such vanishing perspective before them, that they +see no necessity for thinking about the end of it yet; and far would I be +from saying they ought to think of it. Life is the true object of a man's +care: there is no occasion to make himself think about death. But when +the vision of the inevitable draws nigh, when it appears plainly on the +horizon, though but as a cloud the size of a man's hand, then it is equally +foolish to meet it by refusing to meet it, to answer the questions that +will arise by declining to think about them. Indeed, it is a question of +life then, and not of death. We want to keep fast hold of our life, and, in +the strength of that, to look the threatening death in the face. But to my +walk that morning. + +I wandered on the downs till I came to the place where a solitary rock +stands on the top of a cliff looking seaward, in the suggested shape of a +monk praying. On the base on which he knelt I seated myself, and looked out +over the Atlantic. How faded the ocean appeared! It seemed as if all the +sunny dyes of the summer had been diluted and washed with the fogs of the +coming winter, when I thought of the splendour it wore when first from +these downs I gazed on the outspread infinitude of space and colour. + +"What," I said to myself at length, "has she done since then? Where is +her work visible? She has riven, and battered, and destroyed, and her +destruction too has passed away. So worketh Time and its powers! The +exultation of my youth is gone; my head is gray; my wife is growing old; +our children are pushing us from our stools; we are yielding to the new +generation; the glory for us hath departed; our life lies weary before us +like that sea; and the night cometh when we can no longer work." + +Something like this was passing vaguely through my mind. I sat in a +mournful stupor, with a half-consciousness that my mood was false, and that +I ought to rouse myself and shake it off. There is such a thing as a state +of moral dreaming, which closely resembles the intellectual dreaming in +sleep. I went on in this false dreamful mood, pitying myself like a child +tender over his hurt and nursing his own cowardice, till, all at once, "a +little pipling wind" blew on my cheek. The morning was very still: what +roused that little wind I cannot tell; but what that little wind roused I +will try to tell. With that breath on my cheek, something within me began +to stir. It grew, and grew, until the memory of a certain glorious sunset +of red and green and gold and blue, which I had beheld from these same +heights, dawned within me. I knew that the glory of my youth had not +departed, that the very power of recalling with delight that which I had +once felt in seeing, was proof enough of that; I knew that I could believe +in God all the night long, even if the night were long. And the next moment +I thought how I had been reviling in my fancy God's servant, the sea. To +how many vessels had she not opened a bounteous highway through the waters, +with labour, and food, and help, and ministration, glad breezes and +swelling sails, healthful struggle, cleansing fear and sorrow, yea, and +friendly death! Because she had been commissioned to carry this one or that +one, this hundred or that thousand of his own creatures from one world to +another, was I to revile the servant of a grand and gracious Master? It was +blameless in Connie to feel the late trouble so deeply that she could not +be glad: she had not had the experience of life, yea, of God, that I had +had; she must be helped from without. But for me, it was shameful that I, +who knew the heart of my Master, to whom at least he had so often shown his +truth, should ever be doleful and oppressed. Yet even me he had now helped +from within. The glory of existence as the child of the Infinite had +again dawned upon me. The first hour of the evening of my life had indeed +arrived; the shadows had begun to grow long--so long that I had begun to +mark their length; this last little portion of my history had vanished, +leaving its few gray ashes behind in the crucible of my life; and the final +evening must come, when all my life would lie behind me, and all the memory +of it return, with its mornings of gold and red, with its evenings of +purple and green; with its dashes of storm, and its foggy glooms; with its +white-winged aspirations, its dull-red passions, its creeping envies in +brown and black and earthy yellow. But from all the accusations of my +conscience, I would turn me to the Lord, for he was called Jesus because he +should save his people from their sins. Then I thought what a grand gift it +would be to give his people the power hereafter to fight the consequences +of their sins. Anyhow, I would trust the Father, who loved me with a +perfect love, to lead the soul he had made, had compelled to be, through +the gates of the death-birth, into the light of life beyond. I would cast +on him the care, humbly challenge him with the responsibility he had +himself undertaken, praying only for perfect confidence in him, absolute +submission to his will. + +I rose from my seat beside the praying monk, and walked on. The thought of +seeing my own people again filled me with gladness. I would leave those +I had here learned to love with regret; but I trusted I had taught them +something, and they had taught me much; therefore there could be no end +to our relation to each other--it could not be broken, for it was _in the +Lord_, which alone can give security to any tie. I should not, therefore, +sorrow as if I were to see their faces no more. + +I now took my farewell of that sea and those cliffs. I should see them +often ere we went, but I should not feel so near them again. Even this +parting said that I must "sit loose to the world"--an old Puritan phrase, +I suppose; that I could gather up only its uses, treasure its best things, +and must let all the rest go; that those things I called mine--earth, sky, +and sea, home, books, the treasured gifts of friends--had all to leave +me, belong to others, and help to educate them. I should not need them. I +should have my people, my souls, my beloved faces tenfold more, and could +well afford to part with these. Why should I mind this chain passing to +my eldest boy, when it was only his mother's hair, and I should have his +mother still? + +So my thoughts went on thinking themselves, until at length I yielded +passively to their flow. + +I found Wynnie looking very grave when I went into the drawing-room. Her +mother was there, too, and Mr. Percivale. It seemed rather a moody party. +They wakened up a little, however, after I entered, and before dinner was +over we were all chatting together merrily. + +"How is Connie?" I asked Ethelwyn. + +"Wonderfully better already," she answered. + +"I think everybody seems better," I said. "The very idea of home seems +reviving to us all." + +Wynnie darted a quick glance at me, caught my eyes, which was more than +she had intended, and blushed; sought refuge in a bewildered glance at +Percivale, caught his eye in turn, and blushed yet deeper. He plunged +instantly into conversation, not without a certain involuntary sparkle in +his eye. + +"Did you go to see Mrs. Stokes this morning?" he asked. + +"No," I answered. "She does not want much visiting now; she is going about +her work, apparently in good health. Her husband says she is not like the +same woman; and I hope he means that in more senses than one, though I do +not choose to ask him any questions about his wife." + +I did my best to keep up the conversation, but every now and then after +this it fell like a wind that would not blow. I withdrew to my study. +Percivale and Wynnie went out for a walk. The next morning he left by the +coach--early. Turner went with him. + +Wynnie did not seem very much dejected. I thought that perhaps the prospect +of meeting him again in London kept her up. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE STUDIO. + + +I will not linger over our preparations or our leave-takings. The most +ponderous of the former were those of the two boys, who, as they had wanted +to bring down a chest as big as a corn-bin, full of lumber, now wanted to +take home two or three boxes filled with pebbles, great oystershells, and +sea-weed. + +Weir, as I had expected, was quite pleased to make the exchange. An early +day had been fixed for his arrival; for I thought it might be of service +to him to be introduced to the field of his labours. Before he came, I had +gone about among the people, explaining to them some of my reasons for +leaving them sooner than I had intended, and telling them a little about my +successor, that he might not appear among them quite as a stranger. He was +much gratified with their reception of him, and had no fear of not finding +himself quite at home with them. I promised, if I could comfortably manage +it, to pay them a short visit the following summer, and as the weather was +now getting quite cold, hastened our preparations for departure. + +I could have wished that Turner had been with us on the journey, but he +had been absent from his cure to the full extent that his conscience would +permit, and I had not urged him. He would be there to receive us, and we +had got so used to the management of Connie, that we did not feel much +anxiety about the travelling. We resolved, if she seemed strong enough as +we went along, to go right through to London, making a few days there the +only break in the transit. + +It was a bright, cold morning when we started. But Connie could now bear +the air so well, that we set out with the carriage open, nor had we +occasion to close it. The first part of our railway journey was very +pleasant. But when we drew near London, we entered a thick fog, and before +we arrived, a small dense November rain was falling. Connie looked a little +dispirited, partly from weariness, but no doubt from the change in the +weather. + +"Not very cheerful, this, Connie, my dear," I said. + +"No, papa," she answered; "but we are going home, you know." + +_Going home._ It set me thinking--as I had often been set thinking before, +always with fresh discovery and a new colour on the dawning sky of hope. I +lay back in the carriage and thought how the November fog this evening in +London, was the valley of the shadow of death we had to go through on the +way _home._ A. shadow like this would fall upon me; the world would grow +dark and life grow weary; but I should know it was the last of the way +home. + +Then I began to question myself wherein the idea of this home consisted. I +knew that my soul had ever yet felt the discomfort of strangeness, more or +less, in the midst of its greatest blessedness. I knew that as the thought +of water to the thirsty _soul_, for it is the soul far more than the body +that thirsts even for the material water, such is the thought of home to +the wanderer in a strange country. As the weary soul pines for sleep, and +every heart for the cure of its own bitterness, so my heart and soul had +often pined for their home. Did I know, I asked myself, where or what that +home was? It could consist in no change of place or of circumstance; no +mere absence of care; no accumulation of repose; no blessed communion even +with those whom my soul loved; in the midst of it all I should be longing +for a homelier home--one into which I might enter with a sense of +infinitely more absolute peace, than a conscious child could know in the +arms, upon the bosom of his mother. In the closest contact of human soul +with human soul, when all the atmosphere of thought was rosy with love, +again and yet again on the far horizon would the dun, lurid flame of unrest +shoot for a moment through the enchanted air, and Psyche would know that +not yet had she reached her home. As I thought this I lifted my eyes, and +saw those of my wife and Connie fixed on mine, as if they were reproaching +me for saying in my soul that I could not be quite at home with them. Then +I said in my heart, "Come home with me, beloved--there is but one home for +us all. When we find--in proportion as each of us finds--that home, shall +we be gardens of delight to each other--little chambers of rest--galleries +of pictures--wells of water." + +Again, what was this home? God himself. His thoughts, his will, his love, +his judgment, are man's home. To think his thoughts, to choose his will, to +love his loves, to judge his judgments, and thus to know that he is in us, +with us, is to be at home. And to pass through the valley of the shadow of +death is the way home, but only thus, that as all changes have hitherto +led us nearer to this home, the knowledge of God, so this greatest of all +outward changes--for it is but an outward change--will surely usher us into +a region where there will be fresh possibilities of drawing nigh in heart, +soul, and mind to the Father of us. It is the father, the mother, that make +for the child his home. Indeed, I doubt if the home-idea is complete to the +parents of a family themselves, when they remember that their fathers and +mothers have vanished. + +At this point something rose in me seeking utterance. + +"Won't it be delightful, wife," I began, "to see our fathers and mothers +such a long way back in heaven?" + +But Ethelwyn's face gave so little response, that I felt at once how +dreadful a thing it was not to have had a good father or mother. I do not +know what would have become of me but for a good father. I wonder how +anybody ever can be good that has not had a good father. How dreadful not +to be a good father or good mother! Every father who is not good, every +mother who is not good, just makes it as impossible to believe in God as +it can be made. But he is our one good Father, and does not leave us, even +should our fathers and mothers have thus forsaken us, and left him without +a witness. + +Here the evil odour of brick-burning invaded my nostrils, and I knew that +London was about us. A few moments after, we reached the station, where a +carriage was waiting to take us to our hotel. + +Dreary was the change from the stillness and sunshine of Kilkhaven to the +fog and noise of London; but Connie slept better that night than she had +slept for a good many nights before. + +After breakfast the next morning, I said to Wynnie, + +"I am going to see Mr. Percivale's studio, my dear: have you any objection +to going with me?" + +"No, papa," she answered, blushing. "I have never seen an artist's studio +in my life." + +"Come along, then. Get your bonnet at once. It rains, but we shall take a +cab, and it won't matter." + +She ran off, and was ready in a few minutes. We gave the driver directions, +and set off. It was a long drive. At length he stopped at the door of a +very common-looking house, in a very dreary-looking street, in which no man +could possibly identify his own door except by the number. I knocked. A +woman who looked at once dirty and cross, the former probably the cause of +the latter, opened the door, gave a bare assent to my question whether Mr. +Percivale was at home, withdrew to her den with the words "second-floor," +and left us to find our own way up the two flights of stairs. This, +however, involved no great difficulty. We knocked at the door of the front +room. A well-known voice cried, "Come in," and we entered. + +Percivale, in a short velvet coat, with his palette on his thumb, advanced +to meet us cordially. His face wore a slight flush, which I attributed +solely to pleasure, and nothing to any awkwardness in receiving us in such +a poor place as he occupied. I cast my eyes round the room. Any romantic +notions Wynnie might have indulged concerning the marvels of a studio, +must have paled considerably at the first glance around Percivale's +room--plainly the abode if not of poverty, then of self-denial, although I +suspected both. A common room, with no carpet save a square in front of the +fireplace; no curtains except a piece of something like drugget nailed +flat across all the lower half of the window to make the light fall from +upwards; two or three horsehair chairs, nearly worn out; a table in a +corner, littered with books and papers; a horrible lay-figure, at the +present moment dressed apparently for a scarecrow; a large easel, on which +stood a half-finished oil-painting--these constituted almost the whole +furniture of the room. With his pocket-handkerchief Percivale dusted one +chair for Wynnie and another for me. Then standing before us, he said: + +"This is a very shabby place to receive you in, Miss Walton, but it is all +I have got." + +"A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesses," +I ventured to say. + +"Thank you," said Percivale. "I hope not. It is well for me it should not." + +"It is well for the richest man in England that it should not," I returned. +"If it were not so, the man who could eat most would be the most blessed." + +"There are people, even of my acquaintance, however, who seem to think it +does." + +"No doubt; but happily their thinking so will not make it so even for +themselves." + +"Have you been very busy since you left us, Mr. Percivale?" asked Wynnie. + +"Tolerably," he answered. "But I have not much to show for it. That on the +easel is all. I hardly like to let you look at it, though." + +"Why?" asked Wynnie. + +"First, because the subject is painful. Next, because it is so unfinished +that none but a painter could do it justice." + +"But why should you paint subjects you would not like people to look at?" + +"I very much want people to look at them." + +"Why not us, then?" said Wynnie. + +"Because you do not need to be pained." + +"Are you sure it is good for you to pain anybody?" I said. + +"Good is done by pain--is it not?" he asked. + +"Undoubtedly. But whether _we_ are wise enough to know when and where and +how much, is the question." + +"Of course I do not make the pain my object." + +"If it comes only as a necessary accompaniment, that may alter the matter +greatly," I said. "But still I am not sure that anything in which the pain +predominates can be useful in the best way." + +"Perhaps not," he returned.--"Will you look at the daub?" + +"With much pleasure," I replied, and we rose and stood before the easel. +Percivale made no remark, but left us to find out what the picture meant. +Nor had I long to look before I understood it--in a measure at least. + +It represented a garret-room in a wretchedly ruinous condition. The plaster +had come away in several places, and through between the laths in one spot +hung the tail of a great rat. In a dark corner lay a man dying. A woman sat +by his side, with her eyes fixed, not on his face, though she held his hand +in hers, but on the open door, where in the gloom you could just see the +struggles of two undertaker's men to get the coffin past the turn of the +landing towards the door. Through the window there was one peep of the blue +sky, whence a ray of sunlight fell on the one scarlet blossom of a geranium +in a broken pot on the window-sill outside. + +"I do not wonder you did not like to show it," I said. "How can you bear to +paint such a dreadful picture?" + +"It is a true one. It only represents a fact." + +"All facts have not a right to be represented." + +"Surely you would not get rid of painful things by huddling them out of +sight?" + +"No; nor yet by gloating upon them." + +"You will believe me that it gives me anything but pleasure to paint such +pictures--as far as the subject goes," he said with some discomposure. + +"Of course. I know you well enough by this time to know that. But no one +could hang it on his wall who would not either gloat on suffering or grow +callous to it. Whence, then, would come the good I cannot doubt you propose +to yourself as your object in painting the picture? If it had come into my +possession, I would--" + +"Put it in the fire," suggested Percivale with a strange smile. + +"No. Still less would I sell it. I would hang it up with a curtain before +it, and only look at it now and then, when I thought my heart was in danger +of growing hardened to the sufferings of my fellow-men, and forgetting that +they need the Saviour." + +"I could not wish it a better fate. That would answer my end." + +"Would it, now? Is it not rather those who care little or nothing about +such matters that you would like to influence? Would you be content with +one solitary person like me? And, remember, I wouldn't buy it. I would +rather not have it. I could hardly bear to know it was in my house. I am +certain you cannot do people good by showing them _only_ the painful. Make +it as painful as you will, but put some hope into it--something to show +that action is worth taking in the affair. From mere suffering people will +turn away, and you cannot blame them. Every show of it, without hinting at +some door of escape, only urges them to forget it all. Why should they be +pained if it can do no good?" + +"For the sake of sympathy, I should say," answered Percivale. + +"They would rejoin, 'It is only a picture. Come along.' No; give people +hope, if you would have them act at all, in anything." + +"I was almost hoping you would read the picture rather differently. You see +there is a bit of blue sky up there, and a bit of sunshiny scarlet in the +window." + +He looked at me curiously as he spoke. + +"I can read it so for myself, and have metamorphosed its meaning so. But +you only put in the sky and the scarlet to heighten the perplexity, and +make the other look more terrible." + +"Now I know that as an artist I have succeeded, however I may have failed +otherwise. I did so mean it; but knowing you would dislike the picture, +I almost hoped in my cowardice, as I said, that you would read your own +meaning into it." + +Wynnie had not said a word. As I turned away from the picture, I saw that +she was looking quite distressed, but whether by the picture or the freedom +with which I had remarked upon it, I do not know. My eyes falling on a +little sketch in sepia, I began to examine it, in the hope of finding +something more pleasant to say. I perceived in a moment, however, that it +was nearly the same thought, only treated in a gentler and more poetic +mode. A girl lay dying on her bed. A youth held her hand. A torrent of +summer sunshine fell through the window, and made a lake of glory upon the +floor. I turned away. + +"You like that better, don't you, papa?" said Wynnie tremulously. + +"It is beautiful, certainly," I answered. "And if it were only one, I +should enjoy it--as a mood. But coming after the other, it seems but the +same thing more weakly embodied." + +I confess I was a little vexed; for I had got much interested in Percivale, +for his own sake as well as for my daughter's, and I had expected better +things from him. But I saw that I had gone too far. + +"I beg your pardon, Mr. Percivale," I said. + +"I fear I have been too free in my remarks. I know, likewise, that I am a +clergyman, and not a painter, and therefore incapable of giving the praise +which I have little doubt your art at least deserves." + +"I trust that honesty cannot offend me, however much and justly it may pain +me." + +"But now I have said my worst, I should much like to see what else you have +at hand to show me." + +"Unfortunately I have too much at hand. Let me see." + +He strode to the other end of the room, where several pictures were leaning +against the wall, with their faces turned towards it. From these he chose +one, but, before showing it, fitted it into an empty frame that stood +beside. He then brought it forward and set it on the easel. I will describe +it, and then my reader will understand the admiration which broke from me +after I had regarded it for a time. + +A dark hill rose against the evening sky, which shone through a few thin +pines on its top. Along a road on the hill-side four squires bore a dying +knight--a man past the middle age. One behind carried his helm, and another +led his horse, whose fine head only appeared in the picture. The head and +countenance of the knight were very noble, telling of many a battle, and +ever for the right. The last had doubtless been gained, for one might read +victory as well as peace in the dying look. The party had just reached the +edge of a steep descent, from which you saw the valley beneath, with the +last of the harvest just being reaped, while the shocks stood all about in +the fields, under the place of the sunset. The sun had been down for some +little time. There was no gold left in the sky, only a little dull saffron, +but plenty of that lovely liquid green of the autumn sky, divided with a +few streaks of pale rose. The depth of the sky overhead, which you could +not see for the arrangement of the picture, was mirrored lovelily in a +piece of water that lay in the centre of the valley. + +"My dear fellow," I cried, "why did you not show me this first, and save me +from saying so many unkind things? Here is a picture to my own heart; it is +glorious. Look here, Wynnie," I went on; "you see it is evening; the sun's +work is done, and he has set in glory, leaving his good name behind him in +a lovely harmony of colour. The old knight's work is done too; his day has +set in the storm of battle, and he is lying lapt in the coming peace. They +are bearing him home to his couch and his grave. Look at their faces in +the dusky light. They are all mourning for and honouring the life that is +ebbing away. But he is gathered to his fathers like a shock of corn fully +ripe; and so the harvest stands golden in the valley beneath. The picture +would not be complete, however, if it did not tell us of the deep heaven +overhead, the symbol of that heaven whither he who has done his work is +bound. What a lovely idea to represent it by means of the water, the heaven +embodying itself in the earth, as it were, that we may see it! And observe +how that dusky hill-side, and those tall slender mournful-looking pines, +with that sorrowful sky between, lead the eye and point the heart upward +towards that heaven. It is indeed a grand picture, full of feeling--a +picture and a parable." + +[Footnote: This is a description, from memory only, of a picture painted by +Arthur Hughes.] + +I looked at the girl. Her eyes were full of tears, either called forth +by the picture itself or by the pleasure of finding Percivale's work +appreciated by me, who had spoken so hardly of the others. + +"I cannot tell you how glad I am that you like it," she said. + +"Like it!" I returned; "I am simply delighted with it, more than I can +express--so much delighted that if I could have this alongside of it, I +should not mind hanging that other--that hopeless garret--on the most +public wall I have." + +"Then," said Wynnie bravely, though in a tremulous voice, "you +confess--don't you, papa?--that you were _too_ hard on Mr. Percivale at +first?" + +"Not too hard on his picture, my dear; and that was all he had yet given me +to judge by. No man should paint a picture like that. You are not bound to +disseminate hopelessness; for where there is no hope there can be no sense +of duty." + +"But surely, papa, Mr. Percivale has _some_ sense of duty," said Wynnie in +an almost angry tone. + +"Assuredly my love. Therefore I argue that he has some hope, and therefore, +again, that he has no right to publish such a picture." + +At the word _publish_ Percivale smiled. But Wynnie went on with her +defence: + +"But you see, papa, that Mr. Percivale does not paint such pictures only. +Look at the other." + +"Yes, my dear. But pictures are not like poems, lying side by side in the +same book, so that the one can counteract the other. The one of these might +go to the stormy Hebrides, and the other to the Vale of Avalon; but even +then I should be strongly inclined to criticise the poem, whatever position +it stood in, that had _nothing_--positively nothing--of the aurora in it." + +Here let me interrupt the course of our conversation to illustrate it by a +remark on a poem which has appeared within the last twelvemonth from the +pen of the greatest living poet, and one who, if I may dare to judge, will +continue the greatest for many, many years to come. It is only a little +song, "I stood on a tower in the wet." I have found few men who, whether +from the influence of those prints which are always on the outlook for +something to ridicule, or from some other cause, did not laugh at the poem. +I thought and think it a lovely poem, although I am not quite sure of the +transposition of words in the last two lines. But I do not _approve_ of the +poem, just because there is no hope in it. It lacks that touch or hint +of _red_ which is as essential, I think, to every poem as to every +picture--the life-blood--the one pure colour. In his hopeful moods, let a +man put on his singing robes, and chant aloud the words of gladness--or of +grief, I care not which--to his fellows; in his hours of hopelessness, +let him utter his thoughts only to his inarticulate violin, or in the +evanescent sounds of any his other stringed instrument; let him commune +with his own heart on his bed, and be still; let him speak to God face to +face if he may--only he cannot do that and continue hopeless; but let him +not sing aloud in such a mood into the hearts of his fellows, for he cannot +do them much good thereby. If it were a fact that there is no hope, it +would not be a _truth_. No doubt, if it were a fact, it ought to be known; +but who will dare be confident that there is no hope? Therefore, I say, let +the hopeless moods, at least, if not the hopeless men, be silent. + +"He could refuse to let the one go without the other," said Wynnie. + +"Now you are talking like a child, Wynnie, as indeed all partisans do at +the best. He might sell them together, but the owner would part them.--If +you will allow me, I will come and see both the pictures again to-morrow." + +Percivale assured me of welcome, and we parted, I declining to look at any +more pictures that day, but not till we had arranged that he should dine +with us in the evening. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +HOME AGAIN. + + +I will not detain my readers with the record of the few days we spent in +London. In writing the account of it, as in the experience of the time +itself, I feel that I am near home, and grow the more anxious to reach it. +Ah! I am growing a little anxious after another home, too; for the house of +my tabernacle is falling to ruins about me. What a word _home_ is! To think +that God has made the world so that you have only to be born in a certain +place, and live long enough in it to get at the secret of it, and +henceforth that place is to you a _home_ with all the wonderful meaning in +the word. Thus the whole earth is a home to the race; for every spot of it +shares in the feeling: some one of the family loves it as _his_ home. How +rich the earth seems when we so regard it--crowded with the loves of home! +Yet I am now getting ready to _go home_--to leave this world of homes and +go home. When I reach that home, shall I even then seek yet to go home? +Even then, I believe, I shall seek a yet warmer, deeper, truer home in the +deeper knowledge of God--in the truer love of my fellow-man. Eternity will +be, my heart and my faith tell me, a travelling homeward, but in jubilation +and confidence and the vision of the beloved. + +When we had laid Connie once more in her own room, at least the room which +since her illness had come to be called hers, I went up to my study. The +familiar faces of my books welcomed me. I threw myself in my reading-chair, +and gazed around me with pleasure. I felt it so homely here. All my old +friends--whom somehow I hoped to see some day--present there in the spirit +ready to talk with me any moment when I was in the mood, making no claim +upon my attention when I was not! I felt as if I should like, when the +hour should come, to die in that chair, and pass into the society of the +witnesses in the presence of the tokens they had left behind them. + +I heard shouts on the stair, and in rushed the two boys. + +"Papa, papa!" they were crying together. + +"What is the matter?" + +"We've found the big chest just where we left it." + +"Well, did you expect it would have taken itself off?" + +"But there's everything in it just as we left it." + +"Were you afraid, then, that the moment you left it it would turn itself +upside down, and empty itself of all its contents on the floor?" + +They laughed, but apparently with no very keen appreciation of the attempt +at a joke. + +"Well, papa, I did not think anything about it; but--but--but--there +everything is as we left it." + +With this triumphant answer they turned and hurried, a little abashed, out +of the room; but not many moments elapsed before the sounds that arose from +them were sufficiently reassuring as to the state of their spirits. +When they were gone, I forgot my books in the attempt to penetrate and +understand the condition of my boys' thoughts; and I soon came to see that +they were right and I was wrong. It was the movement of that undeveloped +something in us which makes it possible for us in everything to give +thanks. It was the wonder of the discovery of the existence of law. There +was nothing that they could understand, _a priori_, to necessitate the +remaining of the things where they had left them. No doubt there was a +reason in the nature of God, why all things should hold together, whence +springs the law of gravitation, as we call it; but as far as the boys could +understand of this, all things might as well have been arranged for flying +asunder, so that no one could expect to find anything where he had left it. +I began to see yet further into the truth that in everything we must give +thanks, and whatever is not of faith is sin. Even the laws of nature reveal +the character of God, not merely as regards their ends, but as regards +their kind, being of necessity fashioned after ideal facts of his own being +and will. + +I rose and went down to see if everybody was getting settled, and how the +place looked. I found Ethel already going about the house as if she had +never left it, and as if we all had just returned from a long absence and +she had to show us home-hospitality. Wynnie had vanished; but I found her +by and by in the favourite haunt of her mother before her marriage--beside +the little pond called the Bishop's Basin, of which I do not think I have +ever told my readers the legend. But why should I mention it, for I cannot +tell it now? The frost lay thick in the hollow when I went down there to +find her; the branches, lately clothed with leaves, stood bare and icy +around her. Ethelwyn and I had almost forgotten that there was anything out +of the common in connection with the house. The horror of this mysterious +spot had laid hold upon Wynnie. I resolved that that night I would, in her +mother's presence, tell her all the legend of the place, and the whole +story of how I won her mother. I did so; and I think it made her trust us +more. But now I left her there, and went to Connie. She lay in her bed; +for her mother had got her thither at once, a perfect picture of blessed +comfort. There was no occasion to be uneasy about her. I was so pleased +to be at home again with such good hopes, that I could not rest, but went +wandering everywhere--into places even which I had not entered for ten +years at least, and found fresh interest in everything; for this was home, +and here I was. + +Now I fancy my readers, looking forward to the end, and seeing what a small +amount of print is left, blaming me; some, that I have roused curiosity +without satisfying it; others, that I have kept them so long over a dull +book and a lame conclusion. But out of a life one cannot always cut +complete portions, and serve them up in nice shapes. I am well aware that I +have not told them the _fate_, as some of them would call it, of either of +my daughters. This I cannot develop now, even as far as it is known to me; +but, if it is any satisfaction to them to know this much--and it will be +all that some of them mean by _fate_, I fear--I may as well tell them now +that Wynnie has been Mrs. Percivale for many years, with a history well +worth recounting; and that Connie has had a quiet, happy life for nearly +as long, as Mrs. Turner. She has never got strong, but has very tolerable +health. Her husband watches her with the utmost care and devotion. My +Ethelwyn is still with me. Harry is gone home. Charlie is a barrister of +the Middle Temple. And Dora--I must not forget Dora--well, I will say +nothing about her _fate_, for good reasons--it is not quite determined yet. +Meantime she puts up with the society of her old father and mother, and is +something else than unhappy, I fully believe. + +"And Connie's baby?" asks some one out of ten thousand readers. I have no +time to tell you about her now; but as you know her so little, it cannot be +such a trial to remain, for a time at least, unenlightened with regard to +her _fate._ + +The only other part of my history which could contain anything like +incident enough to make it interesting in print, is a period I spent in +London some few years after the time of which I have now been writing. But +I am getting too old to regard the commencement of another history with +composure. The labour of thinking into sequences, even the bodily labour of +writing, grows more and more severe. I fancy I can think correctly still; +but the effort necessary to express myself with corresponding correctness +becomes, in prospect, at least, sometimes almost appalling. I must +therefore take leave of my patient reader--for surely every one who +has followed me through all that I have here written, well deserves the +epithet--as if the probability that I shall write no more were a certainty, +bidding him farewell with one word: _"Friend, hope thou in God,"_ and for +a parting gift offering him a new, and, I think, a true rendering of the +first verse of the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews: + + "Now faith is the essence of hopes, the trying of things unseen." + +Good-bye. + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 3 *** + +***** This file should be named 8553.txt or 8553.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/5/8553/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8553] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 22, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +THE SEABOARD PARISH + +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. + +VOL. III. + + + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. III. + + + + + I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE + II. OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER + III. A PASTORAL VISIT. + IV. THE ART OF NATURE + V. THE SORE SPOT + VI. THE GATHERING STORM. + VII. THE GATHERED STORM. +VIII. THE SHIPWRECK + IX. THE FUNERAL + X. THE SERMON. + XI. CHANGED PLANS. + XII. THE STUDIO. +XIII. HOME AGAIN. + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A WALK WITH MY WIFE. + + + + + +The autumn was creeping up on the earth, with winter holding by its skirts +behind; but before I loose my hold of the garments of summer, I must write +a chapter about a walk and a talk I had one night with my wife. It had +rained a good deal during the day, but as the sun went down the air began +to clear, and when the moon shone out, near the full, she walked the +heavens, not "like one that hath been led astray," but as "queen and +huntress, chaste and fair." + +"What a lovely night it is!" said Ethelwyn, who had come into my +study--where I always sat with unblinded windows, that the night and her +creatures might look in upon me--and had stood gazing out for a moment. + +"Shall we go for a little turn?" I said. + +"I should like it very much," she answered. "I will go and put on my bonnet +at once." + +In a minute or two she looked in again, all ready. I rose, laid aside my +Plato, and went with her. We turned our steps along the edge of the down, +and descended upon the breakwater, where we seated ourselves upon the same +spot where in the darkness I had heard the voices of Joe and Agnes. What a +different night it was from that! The sea lay as quiet as if it could not +move for the moonlight that lay upon it. The glory over it was so mighty in +its peacefulness, that the wild element beneath was afraid to toss itself +even with the motions of its natural unrest. The moon was like the face of +a saint before which the stormy people has grown dumb. The rocks stood up +solid and dark in the universal aether, and the pulse of the ocean throbbed +against them with a lapping gush, soft as the voice of a passionate child +soothed into shame of its vanished petulance. But the sky was the glory. +Although no breath moved below, there was a gentle wind abroad in the upper +regions. The air was full of masses of cloud, the vanishing fragments of +the one great vapour which had been pouring down in rain the most of the +day. These masses were all setting with one steady motion eastward into the +abysses of space; now obscuring the fair moon, now solemnly sweeping away +from before her. As they departed, out shone her marvellous radiance, as +calm as ever. It was plain that she knew nothing of what we called her +covering, her obscuration, the dimming of her glory. She had been busy all +the time weaving her lovely opaline damask on the other side of the mass in +which we said she was swallowed up. + +"Have you ever noticed, wifie," I said, "how the eyes of our minds--almost +our bodily eyes--are opened sometimes to the cubicalness of nature, as it +were?" + +"I don't know, Harry, for I don't understand your question," she answered. + +"Well, it was a stupid way of expressing what I meant. No human being could +have understood it from that. I will make you understand in a moment, +though. Sometimes--perhaps generally--we see the sky as a flat dome, +spangled with star-points, and painted blue. _Now_ I see it as an awful +depth of blue air, depth within depth; and the clouds before me are not +passing away to the left, but sinking away from the front of me into the +marvellous unknown regions, which, let philosophers say what they will +about time and space,--and I daresay they are right,--are yet very awful +to me. Thank God, my dear," I said, catching hold of her arm, as the terror +of mere space grew upon me, "for himself. He is deeper than space, deeper +than time; he is the heart of all the cube of history." + +"I understand you now, husband," said my wife. + +"I knew you would," I answered. + +"But," she said again, "is it not something the same with the things inside +us? I can't put it in words as you do. Do you understand me now?" + +"I am not sure that I do. You must try again." + +"You understand me well enough, only you like to make me blunder where +you can talk," said my wife, putting her hand in mine. "But I will try. +Sometimes, after thinking about something for a long time, you come to a +conclusion about it, and you think you have settled it plain and clear to +yourself, for ever and a day. You hang it upon your wall, like a picture, +and are satisfied for a fortnight. But some day, when you happen to cast a +look at it, you find that instead of hanging flat on the wall, your picture +has gone through it--opens out into some region you don't know where--shows +you far-receding distances of air and sea--in short, where you thought one +question was settled for ever, a hundred are opened up for the present +hour." + +"Bravo, wife !" I cried in true delight. "I do indeed understand you now. +You have said it better than I could ever have done. That's the plague of +you women! You have been taught for centuries and centuries that there is +little or nothing to be expected of you, and so you won't try. Therefore we +men know no more than you do whether it is in you or not. And when you do +try, instead of trying to think, you want to be in Parliament all at once." + +"Do you apply that remark to me, sir?" demanded Ethelwyn. + +"You must submit to bear the sins of your kind upon occasion," I answered. + +"I am content to do that, so long as yours will help mine," she replied. + +"Then I may go on?" I said, with interrogation. + +"Till sunrise if you like. We were talking of the cubicalness--I believe +you called it--of nature." + +"And you capped it with the cubicalness of thought. And quite right +too. There are people, as a dear friend of mine used to say, who are so +accustomed to regard everything in the _flat_, as dogma cut and--not +_always_ dried my moral olfactories aver--that if you prove to them the +very thing they believe, but after another mode than that they have been +accustomed to, they are offended, and count you a heretic. There is no help +for it. Even St. Paul's chief opposition came from the Judaizing Christians +of his time, who did not believe that God _could_ love the Gentiles, and +therefore regarded him as a teacher of falsehood. We must not be fierce +with them. Who knows what wickedness of their ancestors goes to account for +their stupidity? For that there are stupid people, and that they are, in +very consequence of their stupidity, conceited, who can deny? The worst of +it is, that no man who is conceited can be convinced of the fact." + +"Don't say that, Harry. That is to deny conversion." + +"You are right, Ethelwyn. The moment a man is convinced of his folly, he +ceases to be a fool. The moment a man is convinced of his conceit, he +ceases to be conceited. But there _must_ be a final judgment, and the true +man will welcome it, even if he is to appear a convicted fool. A man's +business is to see first that he is not acting the part of a fool, and +next, to help any honest people who care about the matter to take heed +likewise that they be not offering to pull the mote out of their brother's +eye. But there are even societies established and supported by good +people for the express purpose of pulling out motes.--'The Mote-Pulling +Society!'--That ought to take with a certain part of the public." + +"Come, come, Harry. You are absurd. Such people don't come near you." + +"They can't touch me. No. But they come near good people whom I know, +brandishing the long pins with which they pull the motes out, and +threatening them with judgment before their time. They are but pins, to be +sure--not daggers." + +"But you have wandered, Harry, into the narrowest underground, musty ways, +and have forgotten all about 'the cubicalness of nature.'" + +"You are right, my love, as you generally are," I answered, laughing. "Look +at that great antlered elk, or moose--fit quarry for Diana of the silver +bow. Look how it glides solemnly away into the unpastured depths of the +aerial deserts. Look again at that reclining giant, half raised upon his +arm, with his face turned towards the wilderness. What eyes they must be +under those huge brows! On what message to the nations is he borne as by +the slow sweep of ages, on towards his mysterious goal?" + +"Stop, stop, Harry," said my wife. "It makes me unhappy to hear grand words +clothing only cloudy fancies. Such words ought to be used about the truth, +and the truth only." + +"If I could carry it no further, my dear, then it would indeed be a +degrading of words. But there never was a vagary that uplifted the soul, +or made the grand words flow from the gates of speech, that had not its +counterpart in truth itself. Man can imagine nothing, even in the clouds of +the air, that God has not done, or is not doing. Even as that cloudy giant +yields, and is 'shepherded by the slow unwilling wind,' so is each of us +borne onward to an unseen destiny--a glorious one if we will but yield to +the Spirit of God that bloweth where it listeth--with a grand listing-- +coming whence we know not, and going whither we know not. The very clouds +of the air are hung up as dim pictures of the thoughts and history of man." + +"I do not mind how long you talk like that, husband, even if you take the +clouds for your text. But it did make me miserable to think that what you +were saying had no more basis than the fantastic forms which the clouds +assume. I see I was wrong, though." + +"The clouds themselves, in such a solemn stately march as this, used to +make me sad for the very same reason. I used to think, What is it all for? +They are but vapours blown by the wind. They come nowhence, and they go +nowhither. But now I see them and all things as ever moving symbols of the +motions of man's spirit and destiny." + +A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth +of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since, +covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing +forms--great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm--the icebergs of the +upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but floating +near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted by a golden +rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke. + +"I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night," she said. "How he must be enjoying +it if he is!" + +"I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours," I +said. "Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking." + +"He is laying in stock, though, I suppose," answered my wife. + +"I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember." + +"Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he gets +with the things God cares to fashion." + +"Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at +present is our Wynnie." + +"Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?" returned Ethelwyn, looking +up in my face with an arch expression. + +"Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so much +in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about." + +My wife made no answer for a moment. Then she said, + +"Don't you like him, Harry?" + +"Yes. I like him very much." + +"Then why should you not like Wynnie to like him?" + +"I should like to be surer of his principles, for one thing." + +"I should like to be surer of Wynnie's." + +I was silent. Ethelwyn resumed. + +"Don't you think they might do each other good?" + +Still I could not reply. + +"They both love the truth, I am sure; only they don't perhaps know what it +is yet. I think if they were to fall in love with each other, it would very +likely make them both more desirous of finding it still." + +"Perhaps," I said at last. "But you are talking about awfully serious +things, Ethelwyn." + +"Yes, as serious as life," she answered. + +"You make me very anxious," I said. "The young man has not, I fear, any +means of gaining a livelihood for more than himself." + +"Why should he before he wanted it? I like to see a man who can be content +with an art and a living by it." + +"I hope I have not been to blame in allowing them to see so much of each +other," I said, hardly heeding my wife's words. + +"It came about quite naturally," she rejoined. "If you had opposed +their meeting, you would have been interfering just as if you had been +Providence. And you would have only made them think more about each other." + +"He hasn't said anything--has he?" I asked in positive alarm. + +"O dear no. It may be all my fancy. I am only looking a little ahead. I +confess I should like him for a son-in-law. I approve of him," she added, +with a sweet laugh. + +"Well," I said, "I suppose sons-in-law are possible, however disagreeable, +results of having daughters." + +I tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded. + +"Harry," said my wife, "I don't like you in such a mood. It is not like you +at all. It is unworthy of you." + +"How can I help being anxious when you speak of such dreadful things as the +possibility of having to give away my daughter, my precious wonder that +came to me through you, out of the infinite--the tender little darling!" + +"'Out of the heart of God,' you used to say, Henry. Yes, and with a destiny +he had ordained. It is strange to me how you forget your best and noblest +teaching sometimes. You are always telling us to trust in God. Surely it is +a poor creed that will only allow us to trust in God for ourselves--a very +selfish creed. There must be something wrong there. I should say that the +man who can only trust God for himself is not half a Christian. Either he +is so selfish that that satisfies him, or he has such a poor notion of God +that he cannot trust him with what most concerns him. The former is not +your case, Harry: is the latter, then?--You see I must take my turn at the +preaching sometimes. Mayn't I, dearest?" + +She took my hand in both of hers. The truth arose in my heart. I never +loved my wife more than at that moment. And now I could not speak for other +reasons. I saw that I had been faithless to my God, and the moment I could +command my speech, I hastened to confess it. + +"You are right, my dear," I said, "quite right. I have been wicked, for I +have been denying my God. I have been putting my providence in the place +of his--trying, like an anxious fool, to count the hairs on Wynnie's head, +instead of being content that the grand loving Father should count them. My +love, let us pray for Wynnie; for what is prayer but giving her to God and +his holy, blessed will?" + +We sat hand in hand. Neither spoke aloud for some minutes, but we spoke in +our hearts to God, talking to him about Wynnie. Then we rose together, and +walked homeward, still in silence. But my heart and hand clung to my wife +as to the angel whom God had sent to deliver me out of the prison of my +faithlessness. And as we went, lo! the sky was glorious again. It had faded +from my sight, had grown flat as a dogma, uninteresting as "a foul and +pestilent congregation of vapours;" the moon had been but a round thing +with the sun shining upon it, and the stars were only minding their own +business. But now the solemn march towards an unseen, unimagined goal had +again begun. Wynnie's life was hid with Christ in God. Away strode the +cloudy pageant with its banners blowing in the wind, which blew where it +grandly listed, marching as to a solemn triumphal music that drew them from +afar towards the gates of pearl by which the morning walks out of the New +Jerusalem to gladden the nations of the earth. Solitary stars, with all +their sparkles drawn in, shone, quiet as human eyes, in the deep solemn +clefts of dark blue air. They looked restrained and still, as if they +knew all about it--all about the secret of this midnight march. For the +moon--she saw the sun, and therefore made the earth glad. + +"You have been a moon to me this night, my wife," I said. "You were looking +full at the truth, while I was dark. I saw its light in your face, and +believed, and turned my soul to the sun. And now I am both ashamed and +glad. God keep me from sinning so again." + +"My dear husband, it was only a mood--a passing mood," said Ethelwyn, +seeking to comfort me. + +"It was a mood, and thank God it is now past; but it was a wicked one. It +was a mood in which the Lord might have called me a devil, as he did St. +Peter. Such moods have to be grappled with and fought the moment they +appear. They must not have their way for a single thought even." + +"But we can't help it always, can we, husband?" + +"We can't help it out and out, because our wills are not yet free with the +freedom God is giving us as fast as we will let him. When we are able to +will thoroughly, then we shall do what we will. At least, I think we shall. +But there is a mystery in it God only understands. All we know is, that we +can struggle and pray. But a mood is an awful oppression sometimes when you +least believe in it and most wish to get rid of it. It is like a headache +in the soul." + +"What do the people do that don't believe in God?" said Ethelwyn. + +The same moment Wynnie, who had seen us pass the window, opened the door of +the bark-house for us, and we passed into Connie's chamber and found her +lying in the moonlight, gazing at the same heavens as her father and mother +had been revelling in. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER. + + + + + +The next day was very lovely. I think it is the last of the kind of which +I shall have occasion to write in my narrative of the Seaboard Parish. I +wonder if my readers are tired of so much about the common things of +Nature. I reason about it something in this way: We are so easily affected +by the smallest things that are of the unpleasant kind, that we ought to +train ourselves to the influence of those that are of an opposite nature. +The unpleasant ones are like the thorns which make themselves felt as we +scramble--for we often do scramble in a very undignified manner--through +the thickets of life; and, feeling the thorns, we grumble, and are blind +to all but the thorns. The flowers, and the lovely leaves, and the red +berries, and the clusters of filberts, and the birds'-nests do not force +themselves upon our attention as the thorns do, and the thorns make us +forget to look for them. But a scratch would be forgotten--and that in +mental hurts is often equivalent to a cure, for a forgotten scratch on the +mind or heart will never fester--if we but allowed our being a moment's +repose upon any of the quiet, waiting, unobtrusive beauties that lie +around the half-trodden way, offering their gentle healing. And when I +think how, not unfrequently, otherwise noble characters are anything but +admirable when under the influence of trifling irritations, the very +paltriness of which seems what the mind, which would at once rouse itself +to a noble endurance of any mighty evil, is unable to endure, I would +gladly help so with sweet antidotes to defeat the fly in the ointment of +the apothecary that the whole pot shall send forth a pure savour. We ought +for this to cultivate the friendships of little things. Beauty is one of +the surest antidotes to vexation. Often when life looked dreary about me, +from some real or fancied injustice or indignity, has a thought of truth +been flashed into my mind from a flower, a shape of frost, or even a +lingering shadow--not to mention such glories as angel-winged clouds, +rainbows, stars, and sunrises. Therefore I hope that in my loving delay +over such aspects of Nature as impressed themselves upon me in this most +memorable part of my history I shall not prove wearisome to my reader, for +therein I should utterly contravene my hope and intent in the recording of +them. + +This day there was to be an unusually low tide, and we had reckoned on +enlarging our acquaintance with the bed of the ocean--of knowing a few +yards more of the millions of miles lapt in the mystery of waters. It was +to be low water about two o'clock, and we resolved to dine upon the sands. +But all the morning the children were out playing on the threshold of old +Neptune's palace; for in his quieter mood he will, like a fierce +mastiff, let children do with him what they will. I gave myself a whole +holiday--sometimes the most precious part of my life both for myself and +those for whom I labour--and wandered about on the shore, now passing the +children, and assailed with a volley of cries and entreaties to look at +this one's castle and that one's ditch, now leaving them behind, with what +in its ungraduated flatness might well enough personate an endless +desert of sand between, over the expanse of which I could imagine them +disappearing on a far horizon, whence however a faint occasional cry of +excitement and pleasure would reach my ears. The sea was so calm, and the +shore so gently sloping, that you could hardly tell where the sand ceased +and the sea began--the water sloped to such a thin pellicle, thinner +than any knife-edge, upon the shining brown sand, and you saw the sand +underneath the water to such a distance out. Yet this depth, which would +not drown a red spider, was the ocean. In my mind I followed that bed of +shining sand, bared of its hiding waters, out and out, till I was lost in +an awful wilderness of chasms, precipices, and mountain-peaks, in whose +caverns the sea-serpent may dwell, with his breath of pestilence; the +kraken, with "his skaly rind," may there be sleeping + + "His ancient dreamless, uninvaded sleep," + +while + + "faintest sunlights flee + About his shadowy sides," + +as he lies + + "Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep." + +There may lie all the horrors that Schiller's diver encountered--the +frightful Molch, and that worst of all, to which he gives no name, which +came creeping with a hundred knots at once; but here are only the gracious +rainbow-woven shells, an evanescent jelly or two, and the queer baby-crabs +that crawl out from the holes of the bordering rocks. What awful gradations +of gentleness lead from such as these down to those cabins where wallow +the inventions of Nature's infancy, when, like a child of untutored +imagination, she drew on the slate of her fancy creations in which flitting +shadows of beauty serve only to heighten the shuddering, gruesome horror. +The sweet sun and air, the hand of man, and the growth of the ages, have +all but swept such from the upper plains of the earth. What hunter's bow +has twanged, what adventurer's rifle has cracked in those leagues of +mountain-waste, vaster than all the upper world can show, where the beasts +of the ocean "graze the sea-weed, their pasture"! Diana of the silver bow +herself, when she descends into the interlunar caves of hell, sends no such +monsters fleeing from her spells. Yet if such there be, such horrors too +must lie in the undiscovered caves of man's nature, of which all this outer +world is but a typical analysis. By equally slow gradations may the inner +eye descend from the truth of a Cordelia to the falsehood of an Iago. As +these golden sands slope from the sunlight into the wallowing abyss of +darkness, even so from the love of the child to his holy mother slopes the +inclined plane of humanity to the hell of the sensualist. "But with one +difference in the moral world," I said aloud, as I paced up and down on the +shimmering margin, "that everywhere in the scale the eye of the all-seeing +Father can detect the first quiver of the eyelid that would raise itself +heavenward, responsive to his waking spirit." I lifted my eyes in the +relief of the thought, and saw how the sun of the autumn hung above the +waters oppressed with a mist of his own glory; far away to the left a man +who had been clambering on a low rock, inaccessible save in such a tide, +gathering mussels, threw himself into the sea and swam ashore; above his +head the storm-tower stood in the stormless air; the sea glittered and +shone, and the long-winged birds knew not which to choose, the balmy air or +the cool deep, now flitting like arrow-heads through the one, now alighting +eagerly upon the other, to forsake it anew for the thinner element. I +thanked God for his glory. + +"O, papa, it's so jolly--so jolly!" shouted the children as I passed them +again. + +"What is it that's so jolly, Charlie?" I asked. + +"My castle," screeched Harry in reply; "only it's tumbled down. The water +_would_ keep coming in underneath." + +"I tried to stop it with a newspaper," cried Charlie, "but it wouldn't. So +we were forced to let it be, and down it went into the ditch." + +"We blew it up rather than surrender," said Dora. "We did; only Harry +always forgets, and says it was the water did it." + +I drew near the rock that held the bath. I had never approached it from +this side before. It was high above my head, and a stream of water was +flowing from it. I scrambled up, undressed, and plunged into its dark +hollow, where I felt like one of the sea-beasts of which I had been +dreaming, down in the caves of the unvisited ocean. But the sun was over +my head, and the air with an edge of the winter was about me. I dressed +quickly, descended on the other side of the rock, and wandered again on the +sands to seaward of the breakwater, which lay above, looking dry and +weary, and worn with years of contest with the waves, which had at length +withdrawn defeated to their own country, and left it as if to victory and a +useless age of peace. How different was the scene when a raving mountain of +water filled all the hollow where I now wandered, and rushed over the top +of that mole now so high above me; and I had to cling to its stones to keep +me from being carried off like a bit of floating sea-weed! This was the +loveliest and strangest part of the shore. Several long low ridges of rock, +of whose existence I scarcely knew, worn to a level with the sand, hollowed +and channelled with the terrible run of the tide across them, and looking +like the old and outworn cheek-teeth of some awful beast of prey, stretched +out seawards. Here and there amongst them rose a well-known rock, but now +so changed in look by being lifted all the height between the base on the +waters, and the second base in the sand, that I wondered at each, walking +round and viewing it on all sides. It seemed almost a fresh growth out of +the garden of the shore, with uncouth hollows around its fungous root, +and a forsaken air about its brows as it stood in the dry sand and looked +seaward. But what made the chief delight of the spot, closed in by rocks +from the open sands, was the multitude of fairy rivers that flowed across +it to the sea. The gladness these streams gave me I cannot communicate. The +tide had filled thousands of hollows in the breakwater, hundreds of cracked +basins in the rocks, huge sponges of sand; from all of which--from cranny +and crack, and oozing sponge--the water flowed in restricted haste back, +back to the sea, tumbling in tiny cataracts down the faces of the rocks, +bubbling from their roots as from wells, gathering in tanks of sand, and +overflowing in broad shallow streams, curving and sweeping in their sandy +channels, just like, the great rivers of a continent;--here spreading into +smooth silent lakes and reaches, here babbling along in ripples and waves +innumerable--flowing, flowing, to lose their small beings in the same ocean +that met on the other side the waters of the Mississippi, the Orinoco, the +Amazon. All their channels were of golden sand, and the golden sunlight +was above and through and in them all: gold and gold met, with the waters +between. And what gave an added life to their motion was, that all the +ripples made shadows on the clear yellow below them. The eye could not +see the rippling on the surface; but the sun saw it, and drew it in +multitudinous shadowy motion upon the sand, with the play of a thousand +fancies of gold burnished and dead, of sunlight and yellow, trembling, +melting, curving, blending, vanishing ever, ever renewed. It was as if all +the water-marks upon a web of golden silk had been set in wildest yet most +graceful curvilinear motion by the breath of a hundred playful zephyrs. My +eye could not be filled with seeing. I stood in speechless delight for a +while, gazing at the "endless ending" which was "the humour of the game," +and thinking how in all God's works the laws of beauty are wrought out +in evanishment, in birth and death. There, there is no hoarding, but +an ever-fresh creating, an eternal flow of life from the heart of the +All-beautiful. Hence even the heart of man cannot hoard. His brain or his +hand may gather into its box and hoard; but the moment the thing has passed +into the box, the heart has lost it and is hungry again. If man would +_have,_ it is the giver he must have; the eternal, the original, the +ever-outpouring is alone within his reach; the everlasting _creation_ is +his heritage. Therefore all that he makes must be free to come and go +through the heart of his child; he can enjoy it only as it passes, can +enjoy only its life, its soul, its vision, its meaning, not itself. To +hoard rubies and sapphires is as useless and hopeless for the heart, as if +I were to attempt to hoard this marvel of sand and water and sunlight in +the same iron chest with the musty deeds of my wife's inheritance. + +"Father," I murmured half aloud, "thou alone art, and I am because thou +art. Thy will shall be mine." + +I know that I must have spoken aloud, because I remember the start of +consciousness and discomposure occasioned by the voice of Percivale +greeting me. + +"I beg your pardon," he added; "I did not mean to startle you, Mr. Walton. +I thought you were only looking at Nature's childplay--not thinking." + +"I know few things _more_ fit to set one thinking than what you have very +well called Nature's childplay," I returned. "Is Nature very heartless now, +do you think, to go on with this kind of thing at our feet, when away up +yonder lies the awful London, with so many sores festering in her heart?" + +"You must answer your own question, Mr. Walton. You know I cannot. I +confess I feel the difficulty deeply. I will go further, and confess that +the discrepancy makes me doubt many things I would gladly believe. I know +_you_ are able to distinguish between a glad unbelief and a sorrowful +doubt." + +"Else were I unworthy of the humblest place in the kingdom--unworthy to be +a doorkeeper in the house of my God," I answered, and recoiled from the +sound of my own words; for they seemed to imply that I believed myself +worthy of the position I occupied. I hastened to correct them: "But do not +mistake my thoughts," I said; "I do not dream of worthiness in the way of +honour--only of fitness for the work to be done. For that I think God has +fitted me in some measure. The doorkeeper's office may be given him, not +because he has done some great deed worthy of the honour, but because he +can sweep the porch and scour the threshold, and will, in the main, try to +keep them clean. That is all the worthiness I dare to claim, even to hope +that I possess." + +"No one who knows you can mistake your words, except wilfully," returned +Percivale courteously. + +"Thank you," I said. "Now I will just ask you, in reference to the contrast +between human life and nature, how you will go back to your work in London, +after seeing all this child's and other play of Nature? Suppose you had +had nothing here but rain and high winds and sea-fogs, would you have been +better fitted for doing something to comfort those who know nothing of such +influences than you will be now? One of the most important qualifications +of a sick-nurse is a ready smile. A long-faced nurse in a sickroom is a +visible embodiment and presence of the disease against which the eager life +of the patient is fighting in agony. Such ought to be banished, with their +black dresses and their mourning-shop looks, from every sick-chamber, and +permitted to minister only to the dead, who do not mind looks. With what a +power of life and hope does a woman--young or old I do not care--with a +face of the morning, a dress like the spring, a bunch of wild flowers in +her hand, with the dew upon them, and perhaps in her eyes too (I don't +object to that--that is sympathy, not the worship of darkness),--with +what a message from nature and life does she, looking death in the face +with a smile, dawn upon the vision of the invalid! She brings a little +health, a little strength to fight, a little hope to endure, actually lapt +in the folds of her gracious garments; for the soul itself can do more than +any medicine, if it be fed with the truth of life." + +"But are you not--I beg your pardon for interposing on your eloquence with +dull objection," said Percivale--"are you not begging all the question? +_Is_ life such an affair of sunshine and gladness?" + +"If life is not, then I confess all this show of nature is worse than +vanity--it is a vile mockery. Life is gladness; it is the death in it that +makes the misery. We call life-in-death life, and hence the mistake. If +gladness were not at the root, whence its opposite sorrow, against which +we arise, from which we recoil, with which we fight? We recognise it as +death--the contrary of life. There could be no sorrow but for a recognition +of primordial bliss. This in us that fights must be life. It is of the +nature of light, not of darkness; darkness is nothing until the light +comes. This very childplay, as you call it, of Nature, is her assertion of +the secret that life is the deepest, that life shall conquer death. Those +who believe this must bear the good news to them that sit in darkness and +the shadow of death. Our Lord has conquered death--yea, the moral death +that he called the world; and now, having sown the seed of light, the +harvest is springing in human hearts, is springing in this dance of +radiance, and will grow and grow until the hearts of the children of the +kingdom shall frolic in the sunlight of the Father's presence. Nature has +God at her heart; she is but the garment of the Invisible. God wears his +singing robes in a day like this, and says to his children, 'Be not afraid: +your brothers and sisters up there in London are in my hands; go and help +them. I am with you. Bear to them the message of joy. Tell them to be of +good cheer: I have overcome the world. Tell them to endure hunger, and not +sin; to endure passion, and not yield; to admire, and not desire. Sorrow +and pain are serving my ends; for by them will I slay sin; and save my +children.'" + +"I wish I could believe as you do, Mr. Walton." + +"I wish you could. But God will teach you, if you are willing to be +taught." + +"I desire the truth, Mr. Walton." + +"God bless you! God is blessing you," I said. + +"Amen," returned Percivale devoutly; and we strolled away together in +silence towards the cliffs. + +The recession of the tide allowed us to get far enough away from the face +of the rocks to see the general effect. With the lisping of the inch-deep +wavelets at our heels we stood and regarded the worn yet defiant, the +wasted and jagged yet reposeful face of the guardians of the shore. + +"Who could imagine, in weather like this, and with this baby of a tide +lying behind us, low at our feet, and shallow as the water a schoolboy +pours upon his slate to wash it withal, that those grand cliffs before +us bear on their front the scars and dints of centuries, of chiliads of +stubborn resistance, of passionate contest with this same creature that is +at this moment unable to rock the cradle of an infant? Look behind you, at +your feet, Mr. Percivale; look before you at the chasms, rents, caves, and +hollows of those rocks." + +"I wish you were a painter, Mr. Walton," he said. + +"I wish I were," I returned. "At least I know I should rejoice in it, if it +had been given me to be one. But why do you say so now?" + +"Because you have always some individual predominating idea, which +would give interpretation to Nature while it gave harmony, reality, and +individuality to your representation of her." + +"I know what you mean," I answered; "but I have no gift whatever in that +direction. I have no idea of drawing, or of producing the effects of light +and shade; though I think I have a little notion of colour--perhaps about +as much as the little London boy, who stopped a friend of mine once to ask +the way to the field where the buttercups grew, had of nature." + +"I wish I could ask your opinion of some of my pictures." + +"That I should never presume to give. I could only tell you what they made +me feel, or perhaps only think. Some day I may have the pleasure of looking +at them." + +"May I offer you my address?" he said, and took a card from his +pocket-book. "It is a poor place, but if you should happen to think of +me when you are next in London, I shall be honoured by your paying me a +visit." + +"I shall be most happy," I returned, taking his card.--"Did it ever occur +to you, in reference to the subject we were upon a few minutes ago, how +little you can do without shadow in making a picture?" + +"Little indeed," answered Percivale. "In fact, it would be no picture at +all." + +"I doubt if the world would fare better without its shadows." + +"But it would be a poor satisfaction, with regard to the nature of God, to +be told that he allowed evil for artistic purposes." + +"It would indeed, if you regard the world as a picture. But if you think of +his art as expended, not upon the making of a history or a drama, but upon +the making of an individual, a being, a character, then I think a great +part of the difficulty concerning the existence of evil which oppresses you +will vanish. So long as a creature has not sinned, sin is possible to him. +Does it seem inconsistent with the character of God that in order that sin +should become impossible he should allow sin to come? that, in order that +his creatures should choose the good and refuse the evil, in order that +they might become such, with their whole nature infinitely enlarged, as to +turn from sin with a perfect repugnance of the will, he should allow them +to fall? that, in order that, from being sweet childish children, they +should become noble, child-like men and women, he should let them try to +walk alone? Why should he not allow the possible in order that it should +become impossible? for possible it would ever have been, even in the midst +of all the blessedness, until it had been, and had been thus destroyed. +Thus sin is slain, uprooted. And the war must ever exist, it seems to me, +where there is creation still going on. How could I be content to guard my +children so that they should never have temptation, knowing that in all +probability they would fail if at any moment it should cross their path? +Would the deepest communion of father and child ever be possible between +us? Evil would ever seem to be in the child, so long as it was possible it +should be there developed. And if this can be said for the existence of +moral evil, the existence of all other evil becomes a comparative trifle; +nay, a positive good, for by this the other is combated." + +"I think I understand you," returned Percivale. "I will think over what you +have said. These are very difficult questions." + +"Very. I don't think argument is of much use about them, except as it may +help to quiet a man's uneasiness a little, and so give his mind peace to +think about duty. For about the doing of duty there can be no question, +once it is seen. And the doing of duty is the shortest--in very fact, the +only way into the light." + +As we spoke, we had turned from the cliffs, and wandered back across the +salt streams to the sands beyond. From the direction of the house came +a little procession of servants, with Walter at their head, bearing the +preparations for our dinner--over the gates of the lock, down the sides of +the embankment of the canal, and across the sands, in the direction of the +children, who were still playing merrily. + +"Will you join our early dinner, which is to be out of doors, as you see, +somewhere hereabout on the sands?" I said. + +"I shall be delighted," he answered, "if you will let me be of some use +first. I presume you mean to bring your invalid out." + +"Yes; and you shall help me to carry her, if you will." + +"That is what I hoped," said Percivale; and we went together towards the +parsonage. + +As we approached, I saw Wynnie sitting at the drawing-room window; but when +we entered the room, she was gone. My wife was there, however. + +"Where is Wynnie?" I asked. + +"She saw you coming," she answered, "and went to get Connie ready; for I +guessed Mr. Percivale had come to help you to carry her out." + +But I could not help doubting there might be more than that in Wynnie's +disappearance. "What if she should have fallen in love with him," I +thought, "and he should never say a word on the subject? That would be +dreadful for us all." + +They had been repeatedly but not very much together of late, and I was +compelled to allow to myself that if they did fall in love with each other +it would be very natural on both sides, for there was evidently a great +mental resemblance between them, so that they could not help sympathising +with each other's peculiarities. And anyone could see what a fine couple +they would make. + +Wynnie was much taller than Connie--almost the height of her mother. She +had a very fair skin, and brown hair, a broad forehead, a wise, thoughtful, +often troubled face, a mouth that seldom smiled, but on which a smile +seemed always asleep, and round soft cheeks that dimpled like water when +she did smile. I have described Percivale before. Why should not two such +walk together along the path to the gates of the light? And yet I could +not help some anxiety. I did not know anything of his history. I had no +testimony concerning him from anyone that knew him. His past life was a +blank to me; his means of livelihood probably insufficient--certainly, +I judged, precarious; and his position in society--but there I checked +myself: I had had enough of that kind of thing already. I would not +willingly offend in that worldliness again. The God of the whole earth +could not choose that I should look at such works of his hands after that +fashion. And I was his servant--not Mammon's or Belial's. + +All this passed through my mind in about three turns of the winnowing-fan +of thought. Mr. Percivale had begun talking to my wife, who took no pains +to conceal that his presence was pleasant to her, and I went upstairs, +almost unconsciously, to Connie's room. + +When I opened the door, forgetting to announce my approach as I ought to +have done, I saw Wynnie leaning over Connie, and Connie's arm round her +waist. Wynnie started back, and Connie gave a little cry, for the jerk thus +occasioned had hurt her. Wynnie had turned her head away, but turned it +again at Connie's cry, and I saw a tear on her face. + +"My darlings, I beg your pardon," I said. "It was very stupid of me not to +knock at the door." + +Connie looked up at me with large resting eyes, and said-- + +"It's nothing, papa, Wynnie is in one of her gloomy moods, and didn't want +you to see her crying. She gave me a little pull, that was all. It didn't +hurt me much, only I'm such a goose! I'm in terror before the pain comes. +Look at me," she added, seeing, doubtless, some perturbation on my +countenance, "I'm all right now." And she smiled in my face perfectly. + +I turned to Wynnie, put my arm about her, kissed her cheek, and left the +room. I looked round at the door, and saw that Connie was following me with +her eyes, but Wynnie's were hidden in her handkerchief. + +I went back to the drawing-room, and in a few minutes Walter came to +announce that dinner was about to be served. The same moment Wynnie came to +say that Connie was ready. She did not lift her eyes, or approach to +give Percivale any greeting, but went again as soon as she had given her +message. I saw that he looked first concerned and then thoughtful. + +"Come, Mr. Percivale," I said; and he followed me up to Connie's room. + +Wynnie was not there; but Connie lay, looking lovely, all ready for going. +We lifted her, and carried her by the window out on the down, for the +easiest way, though the longest, was by the path to the breakwater, along +its broad back and down from the end of it upon the sands. Before we +reached the breakwater, I found that Wynnie was following behind us. We +stopped in the middle of it, and set Connie down, as if I wanted to take +breath. But I had thought of something to say to her, which I wanted Wynnie +to hear without its being addressed to her. + +"Do you see, Connie," I said, "how far off the water is?" + +"Yes, papa; it is a long way off. I wish I could get up and run down to +it." + +"You can hardly believe that all between, all those rocks, and all that +sand, will be covered before sunset." + +"I know it will be. But it doesn't _look_ likely, does it, papa!" + +"Not the least likely, my dear. Do you remember that stormy night when I +came through your room to go out for a walk in the dark?" + +"Remember it, papa? I cannot forget it. Every time I hear the wind blowing +when I wake in the night I fancy you are out in it, and have to wake myself +up' quite to get rid of the thought." + +"Well, Connie, look down into the great hollow there, with rocks and sand +at the bottom of it, stretching far away." + +"Yes, papa." + +"Now look over the side of your litter. You see those holes all about +between the stones?" + +"Yes, papa." + +"Well, one of those little holes saved my life that night, when the great +gulf there was full of huge mounds of roaring water, which rushed across +this breakwater with force enough to sweep a whole cavalry regiment off its +back." + +"Papa!" exclaimed Connie, turning pale. + +Then first I told her all the story. And Wynnie listened behind. + +"Then I _was_ right in being frightened, papa!" cried Connie, bursting into +tears; for since her accident she could not well command her feelings. + +"You were right in trusting in God, Connie." + +"But you might have been drowned, papa!" she sobbed. + +"Nobody has a right to say that anything might have been other than what +has been. Before a thing has happened we can say might or might not; but +that has to do only with our ignorance. Of course I am not speaking +of things wherein we ought to exercise will and choice. That is _our_ +department. But this does not look like that now, does it? Think what a +change--from the dark night and the roaring water to this fulness of +sunlight and the bare sands, with the water lisping on their edge away +there in the distance. Now, I want you to think that in life troubles will +come which look as if they would never pass away; the night and the storm +look as if they would last for ever; but the calm and the morning cannot be +stayed; the storm in its very nature is transient. The effort of Nature, +as that of the human heart, ever is to return to its repose, for God is +Peace." + +"But if you will excuse me, Mr. Walton," said Percivale, "you can hardly +expect experience to be of use to any but those who have had it. It seems +to me that its influences cannot be imparted." + +"That depends on the amount of faith in those to whom its results are +offered. Of course, as experience, it can have no weight with another; for +it is no longer experience. One remove, and it ceases. But faith in the +person who has experienced can draw over or derive--to use an old Italian +word--some of its benefits to him who has the faith. Experience may thus, +in a sense, be accumulated, and we may go on to fresh experience of our +own. At least I can hope that the experience of a father may take the form +of hope in the minds of his daughters. Hope never hurt anyone, never yet +interfered with duty; nay, always strengthens to the performance of duty, +gives courage, and clears the judgment. St. Paul says we are saved by hope. +Hope is the most rational thing in the universe. Even the ancient poets, +who believed it was delusive, yet regarded it as an antidote given by the +mercy of the gods against some, at least, of the ills of life." + +"But they counted it delusive. A wise man cannot consent to be deluded." + +"Assuredly not. The sorest truth rather than a false hope! But what is a +false hope? Only one that ought not to be fulfilled. The old poets could +give themselves little room for hope, and less for its fulfilment; for what +were the gods in whom they believed--I cannot say in whom they trusted? +Gods who did the best their own poverty of being was capable of doing for +men when they gave them the _illusion_ of hope. But I see they are waiting +for us below. One thing I repeat--the waves that foamed across the spot +where we now stand are gone away, have sunk and vanished." + +"But they will come again, papa," faltered Wynnie. + +"And God will come with them, my love," I said, as we lifted the litter. + +In a few minutes more we were all seated on the sand around a table-cloth +spread upon it. I shall never forgot the peace and the light outside and +in, as far as I was concerned at least, and I hope the others too, that +afternoon. The tide had turned, and the waves were creeping up over the +level, soundless almost as thought; but it would be time to go home long +before they had reached us. The sun was in the western half of the sky, and +now and then a breath of wind came from the sea, with a slight saw-edge in +it, but not enough to hurt. Connie could stand much more in that way now. +And when I saw how she could move herself on her couch, and thought how +much she had improved since first she was laid upon it, hope for her kept +fluttering joyously in my heart. I could not help fancying even that I saw +her move her legs a little; but I could not be in the least sure; and she, +if she did move them, was clearly unconscious of it. Charles and Harry were +every now and then starting up from their dinner and running off with a +shout, to return with apparently increased appetite for the rest of it; +and neither their mother nor I cared to interfere with the indecorum. Dora +alone took it upon her to rebuke them. Wynnie was very silent, but looked +more cheerful. Connie seemed full of quiet bliss. My wife's face was a +picture of heavenly repose. The old nurse was walking about with the baby, +occasionally with one hand helping the other servants to wait upon us. +They, too, seemed to have a share in the gladness of the hour, and, like +Ariel, did their spiriting gently. + +"This is the will of God," I said, after the things were removed, and we +had sat for a few moments in silence. + +"What is the will of God, husband?" asked Ethelwyn. + +"Why, this, my love," I answered; "this living air, and wind, and sea, +and light, and land all about us; this consenting, consorting harmony of +Nature, that mirrors a like peace in our souls. The perfection of such +visions, the gathering of them all in one was, is, I should say, in the +face of Christ Jesus. You will say that face was troubled sometimes. Yes, +but with a trouble that broke not the music, but deepened the harmony. +When he wept at the grave of Lazarus, you do not think it was for Lazarus +himself, or for his own loss of him, that he wept? That could not be, +seeing he had the power to call him back when he would. The grief was for +the poor troubled hearts left behind, to whom it was so dreadful because +they had not faith enough in his Father, the God of life and love, who was +looking after it all, full of tenderness and grace, with whom Lazarus was +present and blessed. It was the aching, loving heart of humanity for which +he wept, that needed God so awfully, and could not yet trust in him. Their +brother was only hidden in the skirts of their Father's garment, but they +could not believe that: they said he was dead--lost--away--all gone, as +the children say. And it was so sad to think of a whole world full of the +grief of death, that he could not bear it without the human tears to help +his heart, as they help ours. It was for our dark sorrows that he wept. But +the peace could be no less plain on the face that saw God. Did you ever +think of that wonderful saying: 'Again a little while, and ye shall see +me, because I go to the Father'? The heart of man would have joined the +'because I go to the Father' with the former result--the not seeing of him. +The heart of man is not able, without more and more light, to understand +that all vision is in the light of the Father. Because Jesus went to the +Father, therefore the disciples saw him tenfold more. His body no longer in +their eyes, his very being, his very self was in their hearts--not in their +affections only--in their spirits, their heavenly consciousness." + +As I said this, a certain hymn, for which I had and have an especial +affection, came into my mind, and, without prologue or introduction, I +repeated it: + + "If I Him but have, + If he be but mine, + If my heart, hence to the grave, + Ne'er forgets his love divine-- + Know I nought of sadness, + Feel I nought but worship, love, and gladness. + + If I Him but have, + Glad with all I part; + Follow on my pilgrim staff + My Lord only, with true heart; + Leave them, nothing saying, + On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying. + + If I Him but have, + Glad I fall asleep; + Aye the flood that his heart gave + Strength within my heart shall keep, + And with soft compelling + Make it tender, through and through it swelling. + + If I Him but have, + Mine the world I hail! + Glad as cherub smiling grave, + Holding back the virgin's veil. + Sunk and lost in seeing, + Earthly fears have died from all my being. + + Where I have but Him + Is my Fatherland; + And all gifts and graces come + Heritage into my hand: + Brothers long deplored + I in his disciples find restored." + +"What a lovely hymn, papa!" exclaimed Connie. She could always speak more +easily than either her mother or sister. "Who wrote it?" + +"Friedrich von Hardenberg, known, where he is known, as Novalis." + +"But he must have written it in German. Did you translate it?" + +"Yes. You will find, I think, that I have kept form, thought, and feeling, +however I may have failed in making an English poem of it." + +"O, you dear papa, it is lovely! Is it long since you did it?" + +"Years before you were born, Connie." + +"To think of you having lived so long, and being one of us!" she returned. +"Was he a Roman Catholic, papa?" + +"No, he was a Moravian. At least, his parents were. I don't think he +belonged to any section of the church in particular." + +"But oughtn't he, papa?" + +"Certainly not, my dear, except he saw good reason for it. But what is the +use of asking such questions, after a hymn like that?" + +"O, I didn't think anything bad, papa, I assure you. It was only that I +wanted to know more about him." + +The tears were in her eyes, and I was sorry I had treated as significant +what was really not so. But the constant tendency to consider Christianity +as associated of necessity with this or that form of it, instead of as +simply obedience to Christ, had grown more and more repulsive to me as I +had grown myself, for it always seemed like an insult to my brethren in +Christ; hence the least hint of it in my children I was too ready to be +down upon like a most unchristian ogre. I took her hand in mine, and she +was comforted, for she saw in my face that I was sorry, and yet she could +see that there was reason at the root of my haste. + +"But," said Wynnie, who, I thought afterwards, must have strengthened +herself to speak from the instinctive desire to show Percivale how far she +was from being out of sympathy with what he might suppose formed a barrier +between him and me--"But," she said, "the lovely feeling in that poem +seems to me, as in all the rest of such poems, to belong only to the New +Testament, and have nothing to do with this world round about us. These +things look as if they were only for drawing and painting and being glad +in, not as if they had relations with all those awful and solemn things. As +soon as I try to get the two together, I lose both of them." + +"That is because the human mind must begin with one thing and grow to the +rest. At first, Christianity seemed to men to have only to do with their +conscience. That was the first relation, of course. But even with art +it was regarded as having no relation except for the presentment of its +history. Afterwards, men forgot the conscience almost in trying to make +Christianity comprehensible to the understanding. Now, I trust, we are +beginning to see that Christianity is everything or nothing. Either the +whole is a lovely fable setting forth the loftiest longing of the human +soul after the vision of the divine, or it is such a fact as is the heart +not only of theology so called, but of history, politics, science, and art. +The treasures of the Godhead must be hidden in him, and therefore by him +only can be revealed. This will interpret all things, or it has not yet +been. Teachers of men have not taught this, because they have not seen it. +If we do not find him in nature, we may conclude either that we do not +understand the expression of nature, or have mistaken ideas or poor +feelings about him. It is one great business in our life to find the +interpretation which will render this harmony visible. Till we find it, we +have not seen him to be all in all. Recognising a discord when they touched +the notes of nature and society, the hermits forsook the instrument +altogether, and contented themselves with a partial symphony--lofty, +narrow, and weak. Their example, more or less, has been followed by almost +all Christians. Exclusion is so much the easier way of getting harmony +in the orchestra than study, insight, and interpretation, that most have +adopted it. It is for us, and all who have hope in the infinite God, to +widen its basis as we may, to search and find the true tone and right idea, +place, and combination of instruments, until to our enraptured ear they +all, with one voice of multiform yet harmonious utterance, declare the +glory of God and of his Christ." + +"A grand idea," said Percivale. + +"Therefore likely to be a true one," I returned. "People find it hard +to believe grand things; but why? If there be a God, is it not likely +everything is grand, save where the reflection of his great thoughts is +shaken, broken, distorted by the watery mirrors of our unbelieving and +troubled souls? Things ought to be grand, simple, and noble. The ages of +eternity will go on showing that such they are and ever have been. God will +yet be victorious over our wretched unbeliefs." + +I was sitting facing the sea, but with my eyes fixed on the sand, boring +holes in it with my stick, for I could talk better when I did not look my +familiar faces in the face. I did not feel thus in the pulpit; there I +sought the faces of my flock, to assist me in speaking to their needs. As +I drew to the close of my last monologue, a colder and stronger blast from +the sea blew in my face. I lifted my head, and saw that the tide had crept +up a long way, and was coming in fast. A luminous fog had sunk down over +the western horizon, and almost hidden the sun, had obscured the half of +the sea, and destroyed all our hopes of a sunset. A certain veil as of the +commonplace, like that which so often settles down over the spirit of man +after a season of vision and glory and gladness, had dropped over the face +of Nature. The wind came in little bitter gusts across the dull waters. It +was time to lift Connie and take her home. + +This was the last time we ate together on the open shore. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A PASTORAL VISIT. + + + + + +The next morning rose neither "cherchef't in a comely cloud" nor "roab'd in +flames and amber light," but covered all in a rainy mist, which the wind +mingled with salt spray torn from the tops of the waves. Every now and then +the wind blew a blastful of larger drops against the window of my study +with an angry clatter and clash, as if daring me to go out and meet its +ire. The earth was very dreary, for there were no shadows anywhere. The +sun was hustled away by the crowding vapours; and earth, sea, and sky were +possessed by a gray spirit that threatened wrath. The breakfast-bell rang, +and I went down, expecting to find my Wynnie, who was always down first to +make the tea, standing at the window with a sad face, giving fit response +to the aspect of nature without, her soul talking with the gray spirit. I +did find her at the window, looking out upon the restless tossing of the +waters, but with no despondent answer to the trouble of nature. On the +contrary, her cheek, though neither rosy nor radiant, looked luminous, and +her eyes were flashing out upon the ebb-tide which was sinking away into +the troubled ocean beyond. Does my girl-reader expect me to tell her next +that something had happened? that Percivale had said something to her? or +that, at least, he had just passed the window, and given her a look which +she might interpret as she pleased? I must disappoint her. It was nothing +of the sort. I knew the heart and feeling of my child. It was only that +kind nature was in sympathy with her mood. The girl was always more +peaceful in storm than in sunshine. I remembered that now. A movement of +life instantly began in her when the obligation of gladness had departed +with the light. Her own being arose to provide for its own needs. She could +smile now when nature required from her no smile in response to hers. And I +could not help saying to myself, "She must marry a poor man some day; she +is a creature of the north, and not of the south; the hot sun of prosperity +would wither her up. Give her a bleak hill-side, and a glint or two of +sunshine between the hailstorms, and she will live and grow; give her +poverty and love, and life will be interesting to her as a romance; give +her money and position, and she will grow dull and haughty. She will +believe in nothing that poet can sing or architect build. She will, like +Cassius, scorn her spirit for being moved to smile at anything." + +I had stood regarding her for a moment. She turned and saw me, and came +forward with her usual morning greeting. + +"I beg your pardon, papa: I thought it was Walter." + +"I am glad to see a smile on your face, my love." + +"Don't think me very disagreeable, papa. I know I am a trouble to you. But +I am a trouble to myself first. I fear I have a discontented mind and a +complaining temper. But I do try, and I will try hard to overcome it." + +"It will not get the better of you, so long as you do the duty of the +moment. But I think, as I told you before, that you are not very well, and +that your indisposition is going to do you good by making you think about +some things you are ready to think about, but which you might have banished +if you had been in good health and spirits. You are feeling as you never +felt before, that you need a presence in your soul of which at least you +haven't enough yet. But I preached quite enough to you yesterday, and I +won't go on the same way to-day again. Only I wanted to comfort you. Come +and give me my breakfast." + +"You do comfort me, papa," she answered, approaching the table. "I know I +don't show what I feel as I ought, but you do comfort me much. Don't you +like a day like this, papa?" + +"I do, my dear. I always did. And I think you take after me in that, as you +do in a good many things besides. That is how I understand you so well." + +"Do I really take after you, papa? Are you sure that you understand me so +well?" she asked, brightening up. + +"I know I do," I returned, replying to her last question. + +"Better than I do myself?" she asked with an arch smile. + +"Considerably, if I mistake not," I answered. + +"How delightful! To think that I am understood even when I don't understand +myself!" + +"But even if I am wrong, you are yet understood. The blessedness of life is +that we can hide nothing from God. If we could hide anything from God, that +hidden thing would by and by turn into a terrible disease. It is the sight +of God that keeps and makes things clean. But as we are both, by mutual +confession, fond of this kind of weather, what do you say to going out with +me? I have to visit a sick woman." + +"You don't mean Mrs. Coombes, papa?" + +"No, my dear. I did not hear she was ill." + +"O, I daresay it is nothing much. Only old nursey said yesterday she was in +bed with a bad cold, or something of that sort." + +"We'll call and inquire as we pass,--that is, if you are inclined to go +with me." + +"How can you put an _if_ to that, papa?" + +"I have just had a message from that cottage that stands all alone on the +corner of Mr. Barton's farm--over the cliff, you know--that the woman is +ill, and would like to see me. So the sooner we start the better." + +"I shall have done my breakfast in five minutes, papa. O, here's +mamma!--Mamma, I'm going out for a walk in the rain with papa. You won't +mind, will you?" + +"I don't think it will do you any harm, my dear. That's all I mind, you +know. It was only once or twice when you were not well that I objected to +it. I quite agree with your papa, that only lazy people are _glad_ to stay +in-doors when it rains." + +"And it does blow so delightfully!" said Wynnie, as she left the room to +put on her long cloak and her bonnet. + +We called at the sexton's cottage, and found him sitting gloomily by the +low window, looking seaward. + +"I hope your wife is not _very_ poorly, Coombes," I said. + +"No, sir. She be very comfortable in bed. Bed's not a bad place to be in +in such weather," he answered, turning again a dreary look towards the +Atlantic. "Poor things!" + +"What a passion for comfort you have, Coombes! How does that come about, do +you think?" + +"I suppose I was made so, sir." + +"To be sure you were. God made you so." + +"Surely, sir. Who else?" + +"Then I suppose he likes making people comfortable if he makes people like +to be comfortable." + +"It du look likely enough, sir." + +"Then when he takes it out of your hands, you mustn't think he doesn't look +after the people you would make comfortable if you could." + +"I must mind my work, you know, sir." + +"Yes, surely. And you mustn't want to take his out of his hands, and go +grumbling as if you would do it so much better if he would only let you get +_your_ hand to it." + +"I daresay you be right, sir," he said. "I must just go and have a look +about, though. Here's Agnes. She'll tell you about mother." + +He took his spade from the corner, and went out. He often brought his tools +into the cottage. He had carved the handle of his spade all over with the +names of the people he had buried. + +"Tell your mother, Agnes, that I will call in the evening and see her, if +she would like to see me. We are going now to see Mrs. Stokes. She is very +poorly, I hear." + +"Let us go through the churchyard, papa," said Wynnie, "and see what the +old man is doing." + +"Very well, my dear. It is only a few steps round." + +"Why do you humour the sexton's foolish fancy so much, papa? It is +such nonsense! You taught us it was, surely, in your sermon about the +resurrection?" + +"Most certainly, my dear. But it would be of no use to try to get it out of +his head by any argument. He has a kind of craze in that direction. To get +people's hearts right is of much more importance than convincing their +judgments. Right judgment will follow. All such fixed ideas should be +encountered from the deepest grounds of truth, and not from the outsides of +their relations. Coombes has to be taught that God cares for the dead more +than he does, and _therefore_ it is unreasonable for him to be anxious +about them." + +When we reached the churchyard we found the old man kneeling on a grave +before its headstone. It was a very old one, with a death's-head and +cross-bones carved upon the top of it in very high relief. With his +pocket-knife he was removing the lumps of green moss out of the hollows of +the eyes of the carven skull. We did not interrupt him, but walked past +with a nod. + +"You saw what he was doing, Wynnie? That reminds me of almost the only +thing in Dante's grand poem that troubles me. I cannot think of it without +a renewal of my concern, though I have no doubt he is as sorry now as I am +that ever he could have written it. When, in the _Inferno,_ he reaches the +lowest region of torture, which is a solid lake of ice, he finds the lost +plunged in it to various depths, some, if I remember rightly, entirely +submerged, and visible only through the ice, transparent as crystal, like +the insects found in amber. One man with his head only above the ice, +appeals to him as condemned to the same punishment to take pity on him, and +remove the lumps of frozen tears from his eyes, that he may weep a little +before they freeze again and stop the relief once more. Dante says to him, +'Tell me who you are, and if I do not assist you, I deserve to lie at the +bottom of the ice myself.' The man tells him who he is, and explains to him +one awful mystery of these regions. Then he says, 'Now stretch forth thy +hand, and open my eyes.' 'And,' says Dante, I did not open them for him; +and rudeness to him was courtesy.'" + +"But he promised, you said." + +"He did; and yet he did not do it. Pity and truth had abandoned him +together. One would think little of it comparatively, were it not that +Dante is so full of tenderness and grand religion. It is very awful, and +may teach us many things." + +"But what made you think of that now?" + +"Merely what Coombes was about. The visual image was all. He was scooping +the green moss out of the eyes of the death's-head on the gravestone." + +By this time we were on the top of the downs, and the wind was buffeting +us, and every other minute assailing us with a blast of rain. Wynnie drew +her cloak closer about her, bent her head towards the blast, and struggled +on bravely by my side. No one who wants to enjoy a walk in the rain must +carry an umbrella; it is pure folly. When we came to one of the stone +fences, we cowered down by its side for a few moments to recover our +breath, and then struggled on again. Anything like conversation was out of +the question. At length we dropped into a hollow, which gave us a little +repose. Down below the sea was dashing into the mouth of the glen, or +coomb, as they call it there. On the opposite side of the hollow, the +little house to which we were going stood up against the gray sky. + +"I begin to doubt whether I ought to have brought you, Wynnie. It was +thoughtless of me; I don't mean for your sake, but because your presence +may be embarrassing in a small house; for probably the poor woman may +prefer seeing me alone." + +"I will go back, papa. I sha'n't mind it a bit." + +"No; you had better come on. I shall not be long with her, I daresay. We +may find some place that you can wait in. Are you wet?" + +"Only my cloak. I am as dry as a tortoise inside." + +"Come along, then. We shall soon be there." + +When we reached the house I found that Wynnie would not be in the way. I +left her seated by the kitchen-fire, and was shown into the room where Mrs. +Stokes lay. I cannot say I perceived. But I guessed somehow, the moment I +saw her that there was something upon her mind. She was a hard-featured +woman, with a cold, troubled black eye that rolled restlessly about. She +lay on her back, moving her head from side to side. When I entered she only +looked at me, and turned her eyes away towards the wall. I approached the +bedside, and seated myself by it. I always do so at once; for the patient +feels more at rest than if you stand tall up before her. I laid my hand on +hers. + +"Are you very ill, Mrs. Stokes?" I said. + +"Yes, very," she answered with a groan. "It be come to the last with me." + +"I hope not, indeed, Mrs. Stokes. It's not come to the last with us, so +long as we have a Father in heaven." + +"Ah! but it be with me. He can't take any notice of the like of me." + +"But indeed he does, whether you think it or not. He takes notice of every +thought we think, and every deed we do, and every sin we commit." + +I said the last words with emphasis, for I suspected something more than +usual upon her conscience. She gave another groan, but made no reply. I +therefore went on. + +"Our Father in heaven is not like some fathers on earth, who, so long as +their children don't bother them, let them do anything they like. He will +not have them do what is wrong. He loves them too much for that." + +"He won't look at me," she said half murmuring, half sighing it out, so +that I could hardly, hear what she said. + +"It is because he _is_ looking at you that you are feeling uncomfortable," +I answered. "He wants you to confess your sins. I don't mean to me, but to +himself; though if you would like to tell me anything, and I can help you, +I shall be _very_ glad. You know Jesus Christ came to save us from our +sins; and that's why we call him our Saviour. But he can't save us from our +sins if we won't confess that we have any." + +"I'm sure I never said but what I be a great sinner, as well as other +people." + +"You don't suppose that's confessing your sins?" I said. "I once knew a +woman of very bad character, who allowed to me she was a great sinner; but +when I said, 'Yes, you have done so and so,' she would not allow one of +those deeds to be worthy of being reckoned amongst her sins. When I asked +her what great sins she had been guilty of, then, seeing these counted for +nothing, I could get no more out of her than that she was a great sinner, +like other people, as you have just been saying." + +"I hope you don't be thinking I ha' done anything of that sort," she said +with wakening energy. "No man or woman dare say I've done anything to be +ashamed of." + +"Then you've committed no sins?" I returned. "But why did you send for me? +You must have something to say to me." + +"I never did send for you. It must ha' been my husband." + +"Ah, then I'm afraid I've no business here!" I returned, rising. "I thought +you had sent for me." + +She returned no answer. I hoped that by retiring I should set her thinking, +and make her more willing to listen the next time I came. I think clergymen +may do much harm by insisting when people are in a bad mood, as if they +had everything to do, and the Spirit of God nothing at all. I bade her +good-day, hoped she would be better soon, and returned to Wynnie. + +As we walked home together, I said: + +"Wynnie, I was right. It would not have done at all to take you into the +sick-room. Mrs. Stokes had not sent for me herself, and rather resented my +appearance. But I think she will send for me before many days are over." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE ART OF NATURE. + + + + + +We had a week of hazy weather after this. I spent it chiefly in my study +and in Connie's room. A world of mist hung over the sea; it refused to hold +any communion with mortals. As if ill-tempered or unhappy, it folded itself +in its mantle and lay still. + +What was it thinking about? All Nature is so full of meaning, that we +cannot help fancying sometimes that she knows her own meanings. She is +busy with every human mood in turn--sometimes with ten of them at +once--picturing our own inner world before us, that we may see, understand, +develop, reform it. + +I was turning over some such thought in my mind one morning, when Dora +knocked at the door, saying that Mr. Percivale had called, and that mamma +was busy, and would I mind if she brought him up to the study. + +"Not in the least, my dear," I answered; "I shall be very glad to see him." + +"Not much of weather for your sacred craft, Percivale," I said as he +entered. "I suppose, if you were asked to make a sketch to-day, it would be +much the same as if a stupid woman were to ask you to take her portrait?" + +"Not quite so bad as that," said Percivale. + +"Surely the human face is more than nature." + +"Nature is never stupid." + +"The woman might be pretty." + +"Nature is full of beauty in her worst moods; while the prettier such a +woman, the more stupid she would look, and the more irksome you would feel +the task; for you could not help making claims upon her which you would +never think of making upon Nature." + +"I daresay you are right. Such stupidity has a good deal to do with moral +causes. You do not ever feel that Nature is to blame." + +"Nature is never ugly. She may be dull, sorrowful, troubled; she may be +lost in tears and pallor, but she cannot be ugly. It is only when you rise +into animal nature that you find ugliness." + +"True in the main only; for no lines of absolute division can be drawn in +nature. I have seen ugly flowers." + +"I grant it; but they are exceptional; and none of them are without +beauty." + +"Surely not. The ugliest soul even is not without some beauty. But I grant +you that the higher you rise the more is ugliness possible, just because +the greater beauty is possible. There is no ugliness to equal in its +repulsiveness the ugliness of a beautiful face." + +A pause followed. + +"I presume," I said, "you are thinking of returning to London now, there +seems so little to be gained by remaining here. When this weather begins to +show itself I could wish myself in my own parish; but I am sure the change, +even through the winter, will be good for my daughter." + +"I must be going soon," he answered; "but it would be too bad to take +offence at the old lady's first touch of temper. I mean to wait and see +whether we shall not have a little bit of St. Martin's summer, as Shakspere +calls it; after which, hail London, queen of smoke and--" + +"And what?" I asked, seeing he hesitated. + +"'And soap,' I was fancying you would say; for you never will allow the +worst of things, Mr. Walton." + +"No, surely I will not. For one thing, the worst has never been seen by +anybody yet. We have no experience to justify it." + +We were chatting in this loose manner when Walter came to the door to tell +me that a messenger had come from Mrs. Stokes. + +I went down to see him, and found her husband. + +"My wife be very bad, sir," he said. "I wish you could come and see her." + +"Does she want to see me?' I asked. + +"She's been more uncomfortable than ever since you was there last," he +said. + +"But," I repeated, "has she said she would like to see me?" + +"I can't say it, sir," answered the man. + +"Then it is you who want me to see her?" + +"Yes, sir; but I be sure she do want to see you. I know her way, you see, +sir. She never would say she wanted anything in her life; she would always +leave you to find it out: so I got sharp at that, sir." + +"And then would she allow she had wanted it when you got it her?" + +"No, never, sir. She be peculiar--my wife; she always be." + +"Does she know that you have come to ask me now?" + +"No, sir." + +"Have you courage to tell her?" + +The man hesitated. + +"If you haven't courage to tell her," I resumed, "I have nothing more to +say. I can't go; or, rather, I will not go." + +"I will tell her, sir." + +"Then you will tell her that I refused to come until she sent for me +herself." + +"Ben't that rather hard on a dying woman, sir?" + +"I have my reasons. Except she send for me herself, the moment I go she +will take refuge in the fact that she did not send for me. I know your +wife's peculiarity too, Mr. Stokes." + +"Well, I _will_ tell her, sir. It's time to speak my own mind." + +"I think so. It was time long ago. When she sends for me, if it be in the +middle of the night, I shall be with her at once." + +He left me and I returned to Percivale. + +"I was just thinking before you came," I said, "about the relation of +Nature to our inner world. You know I am quite ignorant of your art, but I +often think about the truths that lie at the root of it." + +"I am greatly obliged to you," he said, "for talking about these things. I +assure you it is of more service to me than any professional talk. I always +think the professions should not herd together so much as they do; they +want to be shone upon from other quarters." + +"I believe we have all to help each other, Percivale. The sun himself could +give us no light that would be of any service to us but for the reflective +power of the airy particles through which he shines. But anything I know I +have found out merely by foraging for my own necessities." + +"That is just what makes the result valuable," he replied. "Tell me what +you were thinking." + +"I was thinking," I answered, "how everyone likes to see his own thoughts +set outside of him, that he may contemplate them _objectively,_ as the +philosophers call it. He likes to see the other side of them, as it were." + +"Yes, that is, of course, true; else, I suppose, there would be no art at +all." + +"Surely. But that is not the aspect in which I was considering the +question. Those who can so set them forth are artists; and however they +may fail of effecting such a representation of their ideas as will satisfy +themselves, they yet experience satisfaction in the measure in which they +have succeeded. But there are many more men who cannot yet utter their +ideas in any form. Mind, I do expect that, if they will only be good, they +shall have this power some day; for I do think that many things we call +differences in kind, may in God's grand scale prove to be only differences +in degree. And indeed the artist--by artist, I mean, of course, architect, +musician, painter, poet, sculptor--in many things requires it just as much +as the most helpless and dumb of his brethren, seeing in proportion to the +things that he can do, he is aware of the things he cannot do, the thoughts +he cannot express. Hence arises the enthusiasm with which people hail the +work of an artist; they rejoice, namely, in seeing their own thoughts, or +feelings, or something like them, expressed; and hence it comes that of +those who have money, some hang their walls with pictures of their own +choice, others--" + +"I beg your pardon," said Percivale, interrupting; "but most people, I +fear, hang their walls with pictures of other people's choice, for they +don't buy them at all till the artist has got a name." + +"That is true. And yet there is a shadow of choice even there; for they +won't at least buy what they dislike. And again the growth in popularity +may be only what first attracted their attention--not determined their +choice." + +"But there are others who only buy them for their value in the market." + +"'Of such is not the talk,' as the Germans would say. In as far as your +description applies, such are only tradesmen, and have no claim to be +considered now." + +"Then I beg your pardon for interrupting. I am punished more than I +deserve, if you have lost your thread." + +"I don't think I have. Let me see. Yes. I was saying that people hang +their walls with pictures of their choice; or provide music, &c., of +their choice. Let me keep to the pictures: their choice, consciously or +unconsciously, is determined by some expression that these pictures give +to what is in themselves--the buyers, I mean. They like to see their own +feelings outside of themselves." + +"Is there not another possible motive--that the pictures teach them +something?" + +"That, I venture to think, shows a higher moral condition than the other, +but still partakes of the other; for it is only what is in us already +that makes us able to lay hold of a lesson. It is there in the germ, else +nothing from without would wake it up." + +"I do not quite see what all this has to do with Nature and her +influences." + +"One step more, and I shall arrive at it. You will admit that the pictures +and objects of art of all kinds, with which a man adorns the house he has +chosen or built to live in, have thenceforward not a little to do with the +education of his tastes and feelings. Even when he is not aware of it, they +are working upon him,--for good, if he has chosen what is good, which alone +shall be our supposition." + +"Certainly; that is clear." + +"Now I come to it. God, knowing our needs, built our house for our +needs--not as one man may build for another, but as no man can build for +himself. For our comfort, education, training, he has put into form for us +all the otherwise hidden thoughts and feelings of our heart. Even when he +speaks of the hidden things of the Spirit of God, he uses the forms or +pictures of Nature. The world is, as it were, the human, unseen world +turned inside out, that we may see it. On the walls of the house that he +has built for us, God has hung up the pictures--ever-living, ever-changing +pictures--of all that passes in our souls. Form and colour and motion are +there,--ever-modelling, ever-renewing, never wearying. Without this living +portraiture from within, we should have no word to utter that should +represent a single act of the inner world. Metaphysics could have no +existence, not to speak of poetry, not to speak of the commonest language +of affection. But all is done in such spiritual suggestion, portrait and +definition are so avoided, the whole is in such fluent evanescence, that +the producing mind is only aided, never overwhelmed. It never amounts to +representation. It affords but the material which the thinking, feeling +soul can use, interpret, and apply for its own purposes of speech. It is, +as it were, the forms of thought cast into a lovely chaos by the inferior +laws of matter, thence to be withdrawn by what we call the creative genius +that God has given to men, and moulded, and modelled, and arranged, and +built up to its own shapes and its own purposes." + +"Then I presume you would say that no mere transcript, if I may use the +word, of nature is the worthy work of an artist." + +"It is an impossibility to make a mere transcript. No man can help seeing +nature as he is himself, for she has all in her; but if he sees no meaning +in especial that he wants to give, his portrait of her will represent only +her dead face, not her living impassioned countenance." + +"Then artists ought to interpret nature?" + +"Indubitably; but that will only be to interpret themselves--something of +humanity that is theirs, whether they have discovered it already or not. If +to this they can add some teaching for humanity, then indeed they may claim +to belong to the higher order of art, however imperfect they may be in +their powers of representing--however lowly, therefore, their position may +be in that order." + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE SORE SPOT. + + +We went on talking for some time. Indeed we talked so long that the +dinner-hour was approaching, when one of the maids came with the message +that Mr. Stokes had called again, wishing to see me. I could not help +smiling inwardly at the news. I went down at once, and found him smiling +too. + +"My wife do send me for you this time, sir," he said. "Between you and me, +I cannot help thinking she have something on her mind she wants to tell +you, sir." + +"Why shouldn't she tell you, Mr. Stokes? That would be most natural. And +then, if you wanted any help about it, why, of course, here I am." + +"She don't think well enough of my judgment for that, sir; and I daresay +she be quite right. She always do make me give in before she have done +talking. But she have been a right good wife to me, sir." + +"Perhaps she would have been a better if you hadn't given in quite so much. +It is very wrong to give in when you think you are right." + +"But I never be sure of it when she talk to me awhile." + +"Ah, then I have nothing to say except that you ought to have been +surer--_sometimes;_ I don't say _always."_ + +"But she do want you very bad now, sir. I don't think she'll behave to you +as she did before. Do come, sir." + +"Of course I will--instantly." + +I returned to the study, and asked Percivale if he would like to go with +me. He looked, I thought, as if he would rather not. I saw that it was +hardly kind to ask him. + +"Well, perhaps it is better not," I said; "for I do not know how long I may +have to be with the poor woman. You had better wait here and take my place +at the dinner-table. I promise not to depose you if I should return before +the meal is over." + +He thanked me very heartily. I showed him into the drawing-room, told my +wife where I was going, and not to wait dinner for me--I would take my +chance--and joined Mr. Stokes. + +"You have no idea, then," I said, after we had gone about half-way, "what +makes your wife so uneasy?" + +"No, I haven't," he answered; "except it be," he resumed, "that she was too +hard, as I thought, upon our Mary, when she wanted to marry beneath her, as +wife thought." + +"How beneath her? Who was it she wanted to marry?" + +"She did marry him, sir. She has a bit of her mother's temper, you see, and +she would take her own way." + +"Ah, there's a lesson to mothers, is it not? If they want to have their own +way, they mustn't give their own temper to their daughters." + +"But how are they to help it, sir?" + +"Ah, how indeed? But what is your daughter's husband?" + +"A labourer, sir. He works on a farm out by Carpstone." + +"But you have worked on Mr. Barton's farm for many years, if I don't +mistake?" + +"I have, sir; but I am a sort of a foreman now, you see." + +"But you weren't so always; and your son-in-law, whether he work his way up +or not, is, I presume, much where you were when you married Mrs. Stokes?" + +"True as you say, sir; and it's not me that has anything to say about it. I +never gave the man a nay. But you see, my wife, she always do be wanting to +get her head up in the world; and since she took to the shopkeeping--" + +"The shopkeeping!" I said, with some surprise; "I didn't know that." + +"Well, you see, sir, it's only for a quarter or so of the year. You know +it's a favourite walk for the folks as comes here for the bathing--past our +house, to see the great cave down below; and my wife, she got a bit of a +sign put up, and put a few ginger-beer bottles in the window, and--" + +"A bad place for the ginger-beer," I said. + +"They were only empty ones, with corks and strings, you know, sir. My wife, +she know better than put the ginger-beer its own self in the sun. But I do +think she carry her head higher after that; and a farm-labourer, as they +call them, was none good enough for her daughter." + +"And hasn't she been kind to her since she married, then?" + +"She's never done her no harm, sir." + +"But she hasn't gone to see her very often, or asked her to come and see +you very often, I suppose?" + +"There's ne'er a one o' them crossed the door of the other," he answered, +with some evident feeling of his own in the matter. + +"Ah; but you don't approve of that yourself, Stokes?" + +"Approve of it? No, sir. I be a farm-labourer once myself; and so I do want +to see my own daughter now and then. But she take after her mother, she do. +I don't know which of the two it is as does it, but there's no coming and +going between Carpstone and this." + +We were approaching the house. I told Stokes he had better let her know I +was there; for that, if she had changed her mind, it was not too late for +me to go home again without disturbing her. He came back saying she was +still very anxious to see me. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes, how do you feel to-day?" I asked, by way of opening the +conversation. "I don't think you look much worse." + +"I he much worse, sir. You don't know what I suffer, or you wouldn't make +so little of it. I be very bad." + +"I know you are very ill, but I hope you are not too ill to tell me why you +are so anxious to see me. You have got something to tell me, I suppose." + +With pale and death-like countenance, she appeared to be fighting more with +herself than with the disease which yet had nearly overcome her. The drops +stood upon her forehead, and she did not speak. Wishing to help her, if I +might, I said-- + +"Was it about your daughter you wanted to speak to me?" + +"No," she muttered. "I have nothing to say about my daughter. She was my +own. I could do as I pleased with her." + +I thought with myself, we must have a word about that by and by, but +meantime she must relieve her heart of the one thing whose pressure she +feels. + +"Then," I said, "you want to tell me about something that was not your +own?" + +"Who said I ever took what was not my own?" she returned fiercely. "Did +Stokes dare to say I took anything that wasn't my own?" + +"No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from +your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause of +your misery." + +"It is very hard that the parson should think such things," she muttered +again. + +"My poor woman," I said, "you sent for me because you had something to +confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to +confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does you +harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, confess +to God." + +"God knows it, I suppose, without that." + +"Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. How +is he to forgive you, if you won't allow that you have done wrong?" + +"It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had +took something that wasn't your own?" + +"Well, I shouldn't like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I +should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it." + +"But that's the worst of it; I can't get rid of it." + +"But," I said, laying my hand on hers, and trying to speak as kindly as I +could, although her whole behaviour would have been exceedingly repulsive +but for her evidently great suffering, "you have now all but confessed +taking something that did not belong to you. Why don't you summon courage +and tell me all about it? I want to help you out of the trouble as easily +as ever I can; but I can't if you don't tell me what you've got that isn't +yours." + +"I haven't got anything," she muttered. + +"You had something, then, whatever may have become of it now." + +She was again silent. + +"What did you do with it?" + +"Nothing." + +I rose and took up my hat. She stretched out her hand, as if to lay hold of +me, with a cry. + +"Stop, stop. I'll tell you all about it. I lost it again. That's the worst +of it. I got no good of it." + +"What was it?" + +"A sovereign," she said, with a groan. "And now I'm a thief, I suppose." + +"No more a thief than you were before. Rather less, I hope. But do you +think it would have been any better for you if you hadn't lost it, and had +got some good of it, as you say?" + +She was silent yet again. + +"If you hadn't lost it you would most likely have been a great deal worse +for it than you are--a more wicked woman altogether." + +"I'm not a wicked woman." + +"It is wicked to steal, is it not?" + +"I didn't steal it." + +"How did you come by it, then?" + +"I found it." + +"Did you try to find out the owner?" + +"No. I knew whose it was." + +"Then it was very wicked not to return it. And I say again, that if you had +not lost the sovereign you would have been most likely a more wicked woman +than you are." + +"It was very hard to lose it. I could have given it back. And then I +wouldn't have lost my character as I have done this day." + +"Yes, you could; but I doubt if you would." + +"I would." + +"Now, if you had it, you are sure you would give it back?" + +"Yes, that I would," she said, looking me so full in the face that I was +sure she meant it. + +"How would you give it back? Would you get your husband to take it?" + +"No; I wouldn't trust him." + +"With the story, you mean I You do not wish to imply that he would not +restore it?" + +"I don't mean that. He would do what I told him." + +"How would you return it, then?" + +"I should make a parcel of it, and send it." + +"Without saying anything about it?" + +"Yes. Where's the good? The man would have his own." + +"No, he would not. He has a right to your confession, for you have wronged +him. That would never do." + +"You are too hard upon me," she said, beginning to weep angrily. + +"Do you want to get the weight of this sin off your mind?" I said. + +"Of course I do. I am going to die. O dear! O dear!" + +"Then that is just what I want to help you in. You must confess, or the +weight of it will stick there." + +"But, if I confess, I shall be expected to pay it back?" + +"Of course. That is only reasonable." + +"But I haven't got it, I tell you. I have lost it." + +"Have you not a sovereign in your possession?" + +"No, not one." + +"Can't you ask your husband to let you have one?" + +"There! I knew it was no use. I knew you would only make matters worse. I +do wish I had never seen that wicked money." + +"You ought not to abuse the money; it was not wicked. You ought to wish +that you had returned it. But that is no use; the thing is to return it +now. Has your husband got a sovereign?" + +"No. He may ha' got one since I be laid up. But I never can tell him about +it; and I should be main sorry to spend one of his hard earning in that +way, poor man." + +"Well, I'll tell him, and we'll manage it somehow." + +I thought for a few moments she would break out in opposition; but she hid +her face with the sheet instead, and burst into a great weeping. + +I took this as a permission to do as I had said, and went to the room-door +and called her husband. He came, looking scared. His wife did not look up, +but lay weeping. I hoped much for her and him too from this humiliation +before him, for I had little doubt she needed it. + +"Your wife, poor woman," I said, "is in great distress because--I do not +know when or how--she picked up a sovereign that did not belong to her, +and, instead of returning, put it away somewhere and lost it. This is what +is making her so miserable." + +"Deary me!" said Stokes, in the tone with which he would have spoken to a +sick child; and going up to his wife, he sought to draw down the sheet from +her face, apparently that he might kiss her; but she kept tight hold of +it, and he could not. "Deary me!" he went on; "we'll soon put that all to +rights. When was it, Jane, that you found it?" + +"When we wanted so to have a pig of our own; and I thought I could soon +return it," she sobbed from under the sheet. + +"Deary me! Ten years ago! Where did you find it, old woman?" + +"I saw Squire Tresham drop it, as he paid me for some ginger-beer he got +for some ladies that was with him. I do believe I should ha' given it back +at the time; but he made faces at the ginger-beer, and said it was very +nasty; and I thought, well, I would punish him for it." + +"You see it was your temper that made a thief of you, then," I said. + +"My old man won't be so hard on me as you, sir. I wish I had told him +first." + +"I would wish that too," I said, "were it not that I am afraid you might +have persuaded him to be silent about it, and so have made him miserable +and wicked too. But now, Stokes, what is to be done? This money must be +paid. Have you got it?" + +The poor man looked blank. + +"She will never be at ease till this money is paid," I insisted. + +"Well, sir, I ain't got it, but I'll borrow it of someone; I'll go to +master, and ask him." + +"No, my good fellow, that won't do. Your master would want to know what +you were going to do with it, perhaps; and we mustn't let more people know +about it than just ourselves and Squire Tresham. There is no occasion for +that. I'll tell you what: I'll give you the money, and you must take it; +or, if you like, I will take it to the squire, and tell him all about it. +Do you authorise me to do this, Mrs. Stokes?" + +"Please, sir. It's very kind of you. I will work hard to pay you again, if +it please God to spare me. I am very sorry I was so cross-tempered to you, +sir; but I couldn't bear the disgrace of it." + +She said all this from under the bed-clothes. + +"Well, I'll go," I said; "and as soon as I've had my dinner I'll get a +horse and ride over to Squire Tresham's. I'll come back to-night and tell +you about it. And now I hope you will be able to thank God for forgiving +you this sin; but you must not hide and cover it up, but confess it clean +out to him, you know." + +She made me no answer, but went on sobbing. + +I hastened home, and as I entered sent Walter to ask the loan of a horse +which a gentleman, a neighbour, had placed at my disposal. + +When I went into the dining-room, I found that they had not sat down to +dinner. I expostulated: it was against the rule of the house, when my +return was uncertain. + +"But, my love," said my wife, "why should you not let us please ourselves +sometimes?" Dinner is so much nicer when you are with us." + +"I am very glad you think so," I answered. "But there are the children: it +is not good for growing creatures to be kept waiting for their meals." + +"You see there are no children; they have had their dinner." + +"Always in the right, wife; but there's Mr. Percivale." + +"I never dine till seven o'clock, to save daylight," he said. + +"Then I am beaten on all points. Let us dine." + +During dinner I could scarcely help observing how Percivale's eyes followed +Wynnie, or, rather, every now and then settled down upon her face. That she +was aware, almost conscious of this, I could not doubt. One glance at her +satisfied me of that. But certain words of the apostle kept coming again +and again into my mind; for they were winged words those, and even when +they did not enter they fluttered their wings at my window: "Whatsoever is +not of faith is sin." And I kept reminding myself that I must heave the +load of sin off me, as I had been urging poor Mrs. Stokes to do; for God +was ever seeking to lift it, only he could not without my help, for that +would be to do me more harm than good by taking the one thing in which I +was like him away from me--my action. Therefore I must have faith in +him, and not be afraid; for surely all fear is sin, and one of the most +oppressive sins from which the Lord came to save us. + +Before dinner was over the horse was at the door. I mounted, and set out +for Squire Tresham's. + + +I found him a rough but kind-hearted elderly man. When I told him the story +of the poor woman's misery, he was quite concerned at her suffering. When I +produced the sovereign he would not receive it at first, but requested me +to take it back to her and say she must keep it by way of an apology for +his rudeness about her ginger-beer; for I took care to tell him the whole +story, thinking it might be a lesson to him too. But I begged him to take +it; for it would, I thought, not only relieve her mind more thoroughly, but +help to keep her from coming to think lightly of the affair afterwards. Of +course I could not tell him that I had advanced the money, for that would +have quite prevented him from receiving it. I then got on my horse again, +and rode straight to the cottage. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes," I said, "it's all over now. That's one good thing +done. How do you feel yourself now?" + +"I feel better now, sir. I hope God will forgive me." + +"God does forgive you. But there are more things you need forgiveness for. +It is not enough to get rid of one sin. We must get rid of all our sins, +you know. They're not nice things, are they, to keep in our hearts? It is +just like shutting up nasty corrupting things, dead carcasses, under lock +and key, in our most secret drawers, as if they were precious jewels." + +"I wish I could be good, like some people, but I wasn't made so. There's my +husband now. I do believe he never do anything wrong in his life. But then, +you see, he would let a child take him in." + +"And far better too. Infinitely better to be taken in. Indeed there is no +harm in being taken in; but there is awful harm in taking in." + +She did not reply, and I went on: + +"I think you would feel a good deal better yet, if you would send for your +daughter and her husband now, and make it up with them, especially seeing +you are so ill." + +"I will, sir. I will directly. I'm tired of having my own way. But I was +made so." + +"You weren't made to continue so, at all events. God gives us the necessary +strength to resist what is bad in us. He is making at you now; only you +must give in, else he cannot get on with the making of you. I think very +likely he made you ill now, just that you might bethink yourself, and feel +that you had done wrong." + +"I have been feeling that for many a year." + +"That made it the more needful to make you ill; for you had been feeling +your duty, and yet not doing it; and that was worst of all. You know Jesus +came to lift the weight of our sins, our very sins themselves, off our +hearts, by forgiving them and helping us to cast them away from us. +Everything that makes you uncomfortable must have sin in it somewhere, and +he came to save you from it. Send for your daughter and her husband, and +when you have done that you will think of something else to set right +that's wrong." + +"But there would be no end to that way of it, sir." + +"Certainly not, till everything was put right." + +"But a body might have nothing else to do, that way." + +"Well, that's the very first thing that has to be done. It is our business +in this world. We were not sent here to have our own way and try to enjoy +ourselves." + +"That is hard on a poor woman that has to work for her bread." + +"To work for your bread is not to take your own way, for it is God's way. +But you have wanted many things your own way. Now, if you would just take +his way, you would find that he would take care you should enjoy your +life." + +"I'm sure I haven't had much enjoyment in mine." + +"That was just because you would not trust him with his own business, but +must take it into your hands. If you will but do his will, he will take +care that you have a life to be very glad of and very thankful for. And the +longer you live, the more blessed you will find it. But I must leave you +now, for I have talked to you long enough. You must try and get a sleep. I +will come and see you again to-morrow, if you like." + +"Please do, sir; I shall be very grateful." + +As I rode home I thought, if the lifting of one sin off the human heart was +like a resurrection, what would it be when every sin was lifted from every +heart! Every sin, then, discovered in one's own soul must be a pledge of +renewed bliss in its removing. And when the thought came again of what St. +Paul had said somewhere, "whatsoever is not of faith is sin," I thought +what a weight of sin had to be lifted from the earth, and how blessed it +might be. But what could I do for it? I could just begin with myself, and +pray God for that inward light which is his Spirit, that so I might see him +in everything and rejoice in everything as his gift, and then all things +would be holy, for whatsoever is of faith must be the opposite of sin; and +that was my part towards heaving the weight of sin, which, like myriads +of gravestones, was pressing the life out of us men, off the whole world. +Faith in God is life and righteousness--the faith that trusts so that it +will obey--none other. Lord, lift the people thou hast made into holy +obedience and thanksgiving, that they may be glad in this thy world. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE GATHERING STORM. + + + + + +The weather cleared up again the next day, and for a fortnight it was +lovely. In this region we saw less of the sadness of the dying year than in +our own parish, for there being so few trees in the vicinity of the ocean, +the autumn had nowhere to hang out her mourning flags. But there, indeed, +so mild is the air, and so equable the temperature all the winter through, +compared with the inland counties, that the bitterness of the season is +almost unknown. This, however, is no guarantee against furious storms of +wind and rain. + +Not long after the occurrence last recorded, Turner paid us another visit. +I confess I was a little surprised at his being able to get away so soon +again; for of all men a country surgeon can least easily find time for a +holiday; but he had managed it, and I had no doubt, from what I knew of +him, had made thorough provision for his cure in his absence. + +He brought us good news from home. Everything was going on well. Weir was +working as hard as usual; and everybody agreed that I could not have got a +man to take my place better. + +He said he found Connie much improved; and, from my own observations, I was +sure he was right. She was now able to turn a good way from one side to the +other, and finding her health so steady besides, Turner encouraged her in +making gentle and frequent use of her strength, impressing it upon her, +however, that everything depended on avoiding everything like a jerk or +twist of any sort. I was with them when he said this. She looked up at him +with a happy smile. + +"I will do all I can, Mr. Turner," she said, "to get out of people's way as +soon as possible." + +Perhaps she saw something in our faces that made her add-- + +"I know you don't mind the bother I am; but I do. I want to help, and not +be helped--more than other people--as soon as possible. I will therefore be +as gentle as mamma and as brave as papa, and see if we don't get well, Mr. +Turner. I mean to have a ride on old Spry next summer.--I do," she added, +nodding her pretty head up from the pillow, when she saw the glance the +doctor and I exchanged. "Look here," she went on, poking the eider-down +quilt up with her foot. + +"Magnificent!" said Turner; "but mind, you must do nothing out of bravado. +That won't do at all." + +"I have done," said Connie, putting on a face of mock submission. + +That day we carried her out for a few minutes, but hardly laid her down, +for we were afraid of the damp from the earth. A few feet nearer or farther +from the soil will make a difference. It was the last time for many weeks. +Anyone interested in my Connie need not be alarmed: it was only because of +the weather, not because of her health. + +One day I was walking home from a visit I had been paying to Mrs. Stokes. +She was much better, in a fair way to recover indeed, and her mental health +was improved as well. Her manner to me was certainly very different, and +the tone of her voice, when she spoke to her husband especially, was +changed: a certain roughness in it was much modified, and I had good +hopes that she had begun to climb up instead of sliding down the hill of +difficulty, as she had been doing hitherto. + +It was a cold and gusty afternoon. The sky eastward and overhead was +tolerably clear when I set out from home; but when I left the cottage to +return, I could see that some change was at hand. Shaggy vapours of light +gray were blowing rapidly across the sky from the west. A wind was blowing +fiercely up there, although the gusts down below came from the east. +The clouds it swept along with it were formless, with loose +fringes--disreputable, troubled, hasty clouds they were, looking like +mischief. They reminded me of Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind," in which +he compares the "loose clouds" to hair, and calls them "the locks of the +approaching storm." Away to the west, a great thick curtain of fog, of a +luminous yellow, covered all the sea-horizon, extending north and south as +far as the eye could reach. It looked ominous. A surly secret seemed to +lie in its bosom. Now and then I could discern the dim ghost of a vessel +through it, as tacking for north or south it came near enough to the edge +of the fog to show itself for a few moments, ere it retreated again +into its bosom. There was exhaustion, it seemed to me, in the air, +notwithstanding the coolness of the wind, and I was glad when I found +myself comfortably seated by the drawing-room fire, and saw Wynnie +bestirring herself to make the tea. + +"It looks stormy, I think, Wynnie," I said. + +Her eye lightened, as she looked out to sea from the window. + +"You seem to like the idea of it," I added. + +"You told me I was like you, papa; and you look as if you liked the idea of +it too." + +"_Per se_, certainly, a storm is pleasant to me. I should not like a world +without storms any more than I should like that Frenchman's idea of the +perfection of the earth, when all was to be smooth as a trim-shaven lawn, +rocks and mountains banished, and the sea breaking on the shore only in +wavelets of ginger-beer or lemonade, I forget which. But the older +you grow, the more sides of a thing will present themselves to your +contemplation. The storm may be grand and exciting in itself, but you +cannot help thinking of the people that are in it. Think for a moment of +the multitude of vessels, great and small, which are gathered within the +skirts of that angry vapour out there. I fear the toils of the storm are +around them. Look at the barometer in the hall, my dear, and tell me what +it says." + +She went and returned. + +"It was not very low, papa--only at rain; but the moment I touched it, the +hand dropped an inch." + +"Yes, I thought so. All things look stormy. It may not be very bad here, +however." + +"That doesn't make much difference though, does it, papa?" + +"No further than that being creatures in time and space, we must think of +things from our own standpoint." + +"But I remember very well how, when we were children, you would not let +nurse teach us Dr. Watts's hymns for children, because you said they tended +to encourage selfishness." + +"Yes; I remember it very well. Some of them make the contrast between the +misery of others and our own comforts so immediately the apparent--mind, +I only say apparent--ground of thankfulness, that they are not fit for +teaching. I do think that if you could put Dr. Watts to the question, he +would abjure any such intention, saying that only he meant to heighten +the sense of our obligation. But it does tend to selfishness and, what is +worse, self-righteousness, and is very dangerous therefore. What right have +I to thank God that I am not as other men are in anything? I have to thank +God for the good things he has given to me; but how dare I suppose that he +is not doing the same for other people in proportion to their capacity? I +don't like to appear to condemn Dr. Watts's hymns. Certainly he has written +the very worst hymns I know; but he has likewise written the best--for +public worship, I mean." + +"Well, but, papa, I have heard you say that any simple feeling that comes +of itself cannot be wrong in itself. If I feel a delight in the idea of a +storm, I cannot help it coming." + +"I never said you could, my dear. I only said that as we get older, other +things we did not feel at first come to show themselves more to us, and +impress us more." + +Thus my child and I went on, like two pendulums crossing each other in +their swing, trying to reach the same dead beat of mutual intelligence. + +"But," said Wynnie, "you say everybody is in God's hands as well as we." + +"Yes, surely, my dear; as much out in yon stormy haze as here beside the +fire." + +"Then we ought not to be miserable about them, even if there comes a storm, +ought we?" + +"No, surely. And, besides, I think if we could help any of them, the very +persons that enjoyed the storm the most would be the busiest to rescue them +from it. At least, I fancy so. But isn't the tea ready?" + +"Yes, papa. I'll just go and tell mamma." + +When she returned with her mother, and the children had joined us, Wynnie +resumed the talk. + +"I know what I am going to say is absurd, papa, and yet I don't see my +way out of it--logically, I suppose you would call it. What is the use of +taking any trouble about them if they are in God's hands? Why should we try +to take them out of God's hands?" + +"Ah, Wynnie! at least you do not seek to hide your bad logic, or whatever +you call it. Take them out of God's hands! If you could do that, it would +be perdition indeed. God's hands is the only safe place in the universe; +and the universe is in his hands. Are we not in God's hands on the shore +because we say they are in his hands who go down to the sea in ships? If we +draw them on shore, surely they are not out of God's hands." + +"I see--I see. But God could save them without us." + +"Yes; but what would become of us then? God is so good to us, that we must +work our little salvation in the earth with him. Just as a father lets his +little child help him a little, that the child may learn to be and to do, +so God puts it in our hearts to save this life to our fellows, because we +would instinctively save it to ourselves, if we could. He requires us to do +our best." + +"But God may not mean to save them." + +"He may mean them to be drowned--we do not know. But we know that we must +try our little salvation, for it will never interfere with God's great and +good and perfect will. Ours will be foiled if he sees that best." + +"But people always say, when anyone escapes unhurt from an accident, 'by +the mercy of God.' They don't say it is by the mercy of God when he is +drowned." + +"But _people_ cannot be expected, ought not, to say what they do not feel. +Their own first sensation of deliverance from impending death would break +out in a 'thank God,' and therefore they say it is God's mercy when another +is saved. If they go farther, and refuse to consider it God's mercy when a +man is drowned, that is just the sin of the world--the want of faith. But +the man who creeps out of the drowning, choking billows into the glory of +the new heavens and the new earth--do you think his thanksgiving for the +mercy of God which has delivered him is less than that of the man who +creeps, exhausted and worn, out of the waves on to the dreary, surf-beaten +shore? In nothing do we show less faith than the way in which we think and +speak about death. 'O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy +victory?' says the apostle. 'Here, here, here,' cry the Christian people, +'everywhere. It is an awful sting, a fearful victory. But God keeps it away +from us many a time when we ask him--to let it pierce us to the heart, at +last, to be sure; but that can't be helped.' I mean this is how they feel +in their hearts who do not believe that God is as merciful when he sends +death as when he sends life; who, Christian people as they are, yet look +upon death as an evil thing which cannot be avoided, and would, if they +might live always, be content to live always. Death or Life--each is God's; +for he is not the God of the dead, but of the living: there are no dead, +for all live to him." + +"But don't you think we naturally shrink from death, Harry?" said my wife. + +"There can be no doubt about that, my dear." + +"Then, if it be natural, God must have meant that it should be so." + +"Doubtless, to begin with, but not to continue or end with. A child's sole +desire is for food--the very best possible to begin with. But how would it +be if the child should reach, say, two years of age, and refuse to share +this same food with his little brother? Or what comes of the man who never +so far rises above the desire for food that _nothing_ could make him forget +his dinner-hour? Just so the life of Christians should be strong enough to +overcome the fear of death. We ought to love and believe him so much, that +when he says we shall not die, we should at least believe that death must +be something very different from what it looks to us to be--so different, +that what we mean by the word does not apply to the reality at all; and so +Jesus cannot use the word, because it would seem to us that he meant what +we mean by it, which he, seeing it all round, cannot mean." + +"That does seem quite reasonable," said Ethelwyn. + +Turner had taken no part in the conversation. He, too, had just come in +from a walk over the hills. He was now standing looking out at the sea. + +"She looks uneasy, does she not?" I said. + +"You mean the Atlantic?" he returned, looking round. "Yes, I think so. I am +glad she is not a patient of mine. I fear she is going to be very feverish, +probably delirious before morning. She won't sleep much, and will talk +rather loud when the tide comes in." + +"Disease has often an ebb and flow like the tide, has it not?" + +"Often. Some diseases are like a plant that has its time to grow and +blossom, then dies; others, as you say, ebb and flow again and again before +they vanish." + +"It seems to me, however, that the ebb and flow does not belong to the +disease, but to Nature, which works through the disease. It seems to +me that my life has its tides, just like the ocean, only a little more +regularly. It is high water with me always in the morning and the evening; +in the afternoon life is at its lowest; and I believe it is lowest again +while we sleep, and hence it comes that to work the brain at night has such +an injurious effect on the system. But this is perhaps all a fancy." + +"There may be some truth in it. But I was just thinking when you spoke to +me what a happy thing it is that the tide does not vary by an even six +hours, but has the odd minutes; whence we see endless changes in the +relation of the water to the times of the day. And then the spring-tides +and the neap-tides! What a provision there is in the world for change!" + +"Yes. Change is one of the forms that infinitude takes for the use of us +human immortals. But come and have some tea, Turner. You will not care to +go out again. What shall we do this evening? Shall we all go to Connie's +room and have some Shakspere?" + +"I could wish nothing better. What play shall we have?" + +"Let us have the _Midsummer Night's Dream,"_ said Ethelwyn. + +"You like to go by contraries, apparently, Ethel. But you're quite right. +It is in the winter of the year that art must give us its summer. I suspect +that most of the poetry about spring and summer is written in the winter. +It is generally when we do not possess that we lay full value upon what we +lack." + +"There is one reason," said Wynnie with a roguish look, "why I like that +play." + +"I should think there might be more than one," Wynnie." + +"But one reason is enough for a woman at once; isn't it, papa?" + +"I'm not sure of that. But what is your reason?" + +"That the fairies are not allowed to play any tricks with the women. _They_ +are true throughout." + +"I might choose to say that was because they were not tried." + +"And I might venture to answer that Shakspere--being true to nature always, +as you say, papa--knew very well how absurd it would be to represent a +woman's feelings as under the influence of the juice of a paltry flower." + +"Capital, Wynnie!" said her mother; and Turner and I chimed in with our +approbation. + +"Shall I tell you what I like best in the play?" said Turner. "It is the +common sense of Theseus in accounting for all the bewilderments of the +night." + +"But," said Ethelwyn, "he was wrong after all. What is the use of common +sense if it leads you wrong? The common sense of Theseus simply amounted to +this, that he would only believe his own eyes." + +"I think Mrs. Walton is right, Turner," I said. "For my part, I have more +admired the open-mindedness of Hippolyta, who would yield more weight +to the consistency of the various testimony than could be altogether +counterbalanced by the negation of her own experience. Now I will tell you +what I most admire in the play: it is the reconciling power of the poet. He +brings together such marvellous contrasts, without a single shock or jar +to your feeling of the artistic harmony of the conjunction. Think for a +moment--the ordinary commonplace courtiers; the lovers, men and women in +the condition of all conditions in which fairy-powers might get a hold of +them; the quarrelling king and queen of Fairyland, with their courtiers, +Blossom, Cobweb, and the rest, and the court-jester, Puck; the ignorant, +clownish artisans, rehearsing their play,--fairies and clowns, lovers and +courtiers, are all mingled in one exquisite harmony, clothed with a night +of early summer, rounded in by the wedding of the king and queen. But I +have talked enough about it. Let us get our books." + +As we sat in Connie's room, delighting ourselves with the reflex of +the poet's fancy, the sound of the rising tide kept mingling with the +fairy-talk and the foolish rehearsal. "Musk roses," said Titania; and the +first of the blast, going round by south to west, rattled the window. "Good +hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow," said Bottom; and the roar of the waters +was in our ears. "So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently +entwist," said Titania; and the blast poured the rain in a spout against +the window. "Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells," said +Theseus; and the wind whistled shrill through the chinks of the bark-house +opening from the room. We drew the curtains closer, made up the fire +higher, and read on. It was time for supper ere we had done; and when +we left Connie to have hers and go to sleep, it was with the hope that, +through all the rising storm, she would dream of breeze-haunted summer +woods. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE GATHERED STORM. + + + + + +I woke in the middle of the night and the darkness to hear the wind +howling. It was wide awake now, and up with intent. It seized the house, +and shook it furiously; and the rain kept pouring, only I could not hear it +save in the _rallentondo_ passages of the wind; but through all the wind +I could hear the roaring of the big waves on the shore. I did not wake my +wife; but I got up, put on my dressing-gown, and went softly to Connie's +room, to see whether she was awake; for I feared, if she were, she would be +frightened. Wynnie always slept in a little bed in the same room. I opened +the door very gently, and peeped in. The fire was burning, for Wynnie was +an admirable stoker, and could generally keep the fire in all night. I +crept to the bedside: there was just light enough to see that Connie was +fast asleep, and that her dreams were not of storms. It was a marvel how +well the child always slept. But, as I turned to leave the room, Wynnie's +voice called me in a whisper. Approaching her bed, I saw her wide eyes, +like the eyes of the darkness, for I could scarcely see anything of her +face. + +"Awake, darling?" I said. + +"Yes, papa. I have been awake a long time; but isn't Connie sleeping +delightfully? She does sleep so well! Sleep is surely very good for her." + +"It is the best thing for us all, next to God's spirit, I sometimes think, +my dear. But are you frightened by the storm? Is that what keeps you +awake?" + +"I don't think that is what keeps me awake; but sometimes the house shakes +so that I do feel a little nervous. I don't know how it is. I never felt +afraid of anything natural before." + +"What our Lord said about not being afraid of anything that could only hurt +the body applies here, and in all the terrors of the night. Think about +him, dear." + +"I do try, papa. Don't you stop; you will get cold. It is a dreadful storm, +is it not? Suppose there should be people drowning out there now!" + +"There may be, my love. People are dying almost every other moment, I +suppose, on the face of the earth. Drowning is only an easy way of dying. +Mind, they are all in God's hands." + +"Yes, papa. I will turn round and shut my eyes, and fancy that his hand is +over them, making them dark with his care." + +"And it will not be fancy, my darling, if you do. You remember those +odd but no less devout lines of George Herbert? Just after he says, so +beautifully, 'And now with darkness closest weary eyes,' he adds: + + Thus in thy ebony box + Thou dost enclose us, till the day + Put our amendment in our way, + And give new wheels to our disordered clocks." + +"He is very fond of boxes, by the way. So go to sleep, dear. You are a good +clock of God's making; but you want new wheels, according to our beloved +brother George Herbert. Therefore sleep. Good-night." + +This was tiresome talk--was it--in the middle of the night, reader? Well, +but my child did not think so, I know. + +Dark, dank, weeping, the morning dawned. All dreary was the earth and sky. +The wind was still hunting the clouds across the heavens. It lulled a +little while we sat at breakfast, but soon the storm was up again, and +the wind raved. I went out. The wind caught me as if with invisible human +hands, and shook me. I fought with it, and made my way into the village. +The streets were deserted. I peeped up the inn-yard as I passed: not a man +or horse was to be seen. The little shops looked as if nobody had crossed +their thresholds for a week. Not a door was open. One child came out of the +baker's with a big loaf in her apron. The wind threatened to blow the hair +off her head, if not herself first into the canal. I took her by the hand +and led her, or rather, let her lead me home, while I kept her from being +carried away by the wind. Having landed her safely inside her mother's +door, I went on, climbed the heights above the village, and looked abroad +over the Atlantic. What a waste of aimless tossing to and fro! Gray mist +above, full of falling rain; gray, wrathful waters underneath, foaming and +bursting as billow broke upon billow. The tide was ebbing now, but almost +every other wave swept the breakwater. They burst on the rocks at the end +of it, and rushed in shattered spouts and clouds of spray far into the air +over their heads. "Will the time ever come," I thought, "when man shall +be able to store up even this force for his own ends? Who can tell?" The +solitary form of a man stood at some distance gazing, as I was gazing, out +on the ocean. I walked towards him, thinking with myself who it could be +that loved Nature so well that he did not shrink from her even in her most +uncompanionable moods. I suspected, and soon found I was right; it was +Percivale. + +"What a clashing of water-drops!" I said, thinking of a line somewhere in +Coleridge's Remorse. They are but water-drops, after all, that make this +great noise upon the rocks; only there is a great many of them." + +"Yes," said Percivale. "But look out yonder. You see a single sail, +close-reefed--that is all I can see--away in the mist there? As soon as you +think of the human struggle with the elements, as soon as you know that +hearts are in the midst of it, it is a clashing of water-drops no more. It +is an awful power, with which the will and all that it rules have to fight +for the mastery, or at least for freedom." + +"Surely you are right. It is the presence of thought, feeling, effort that +gives the majesty to everything. It is even a dim attribution of human +feelings to this tormented, passionate sea that gives it much of its awe; +although, as we were saying the other day, it is only _a picture_ of the +troubled mind. But as I have now seen how matters are with the elements, +and have had a good pluvial bath as well, I think I will go home and change +my clothes." + +"I have hardly had enough of it yet," returned Percivale. "I shall have a +stroll along the heights here, and when the tide has fallen a little way +from the foot of the cliffs I shall go down on the sands and watch awhile +there." + +"Well, you're a younger man than I am; but I've seen the day, as Lear says. +What an odd tendency we old men have to boast of the past: we would be +judged by the past, not by the present. We always speak of the strength +that is withered and gone, as if we had some claim upon it still. But I am +not going to talk in this storm. I am always talking." + +"I will go with you as far as the village, and then I will turn and take my +way along the downs for a mile or two; I don't mind being wet." + +"I didn't once." + +"Don't you think," resumed Percivale, "that in some sense the old man--not +that I can allow _you that dignity yet, Mr. Walton--has a right to regard +the past as his own?" + +"That would be scanned," I answered, as we walked towards the village. +"Surely the results of the past are the man's own. Any action of the man's, +upon which the life in him reposes, remains his. But suppose a man had done +a good deed once, and instead of making that a foundation upon which to +build more good, grew so vain of it that he became incapable of doing +anything more of the same sort, you could not say that the action belonged +to him still. Therein he has severed his connection with the past. Again, +what has never in any deep sense been a man's own, cannot surely continue +to be his afterwards. Thus the things that a man has merely possessed once, +the very people who most admired him for their sakes when he had them, +give him no credit for after he has lost them. Riches that have taken +to themselves wings leave with the poor man only a surpassing poverty. +Strength, likewise, which can so little depend on any exercise of the will +in man, passes from him with the years. It was not his all the time; it was +but lent him, and had nothing to do with his inward force. A bodily feeble +man may put forth a mighty life-strength in effort, and show nothing to the +eyes of his neighbour; while the strong man gains endless admiration for +what he could hardly help. But the effort of the one remains, for it was +his own; the strength of the other passes from him, for it was never his +own. So with beauty, which the commonest woman acknowledges never to have +been hers in seeking to restore it by deception. So, likewise, in a great +measure with intellect." + +"But if you take away intellect as well, what do you leave a man that can +in any way be called his own?" + +"Certainly his intellect is not his own. One thing only is his own--to will +the truth. This, too, is as much God's gift as everything else: I ought to +say is more God's gift than anything else, for he gives it to be the man's +own more than anything else can be. And when he wills the truth, he has +God himself. Man _can_ possess God: all other things follow as necessary +results. What poor creatures we should have been if God had not made us to +do something--to look heavenwards--to lift up the hands that hang down, and +strengthen the feeble knees! Something like this was in the mind of the +prophet Jeremiah when he said, 'Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wise man +glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might, let not +the rich man glory in his riches; but let him that glorieth glory in this, +that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise +loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth: for in these +things I delight, saith the Lord.' My own conviction is, that a vague sense +of a far higher life in ourselves than we yet know anything about is at the +root of all our false efforts to be able to think something of ourselves. +We cannot commend ourselves, and therefore we set about priding ourselves. +We have little or no strength of mind, faculty of operation, or worth of +will, and therefore we talk of our strength of body, worship the riches +we have, or have not, it is all one, and boast of our paltry intellectual +successes. The man most ambitious of being considered a universal genius +must at last confess himself a conceited dabbler, and be ready to part with +all he knows for one glimpse more of that understanding of God which the +wise men of old held to be essential to every man, but which the growing +luminaries of the present day will not allow to be even possible for any +man." + +We had reached the brow of the heights, and here we parted. A fierce blast +of wind rushed at me, and I hastened down the hill. How dreary the streets +did look!--how much more dreary than the stormy down! I saw no living +creature as I returned but a terribly draggled dog, a cat that seemed to +have a bad conscience, and a lovely little girl-face, which, forgetful of +its own rights, would flatten the tip of the nose belonging to it against a +window-pane. Every rain-pool was a mimic sea, and had a mimic storm within +its own narrow bounds. The water went hurrying down the kennels like a long +brown snake anxious to get to its hole and hide from the tormenting wind, +and every now and then the rain came in full rout before the conquering +blast. + +When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw that +she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of the conch +against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was sitting +staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she could see +over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately looked. Her +face was paler and keener than usual. + +"Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?" + +"Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He says I +am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as I like." + +"But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?" + +"It's only the storm, papa." + +"The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so." + +"It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is going +to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow." + +"You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The storm was +raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its reach--fast +asleep. Now it is too much for you. You must lie down." + +"Very well, papa." + +I lowered the support, and when I returned from changing my wet garments +she was already looking much better. + +After dinner I went to my study, but when evening began to fall I went out +again. I wanted to see how our next neighbours, the sexton and his wife, +were faring. The wind had already increased in violence. It threatened to +blow a hurricane. The tide was again rising, and was coming in with great +rapidity. The old mill shook to the foundation as I passed through it to +reach the lower part where they lived. When I peeped in from the bottom +of the stair, I saw no one; but, hearing the steps of someone overhead, I +called out. + +Agnes's voice made answer, as she descended an inner stair which led to the +bedrooms above-- + +"Mother's gone to church, sir." + +"Gone to church!" I said, a vague pang darting through me as I thought +whether I had forgotten any service; but the next moment I recalled what +the old woman had herself told me of her preference for the church during a +storm. + +"O yes, Agnes, I remember!" I said; "your mother thinks the weather bad +enough to take to the church, does she? How do you come to be here now? +Where is your husband?" + +"He'll be here in an hour or so, sir. He don't mind the wet. You see, we +don't like the old people to be left alone when it blows what the sailors +call 'great guns.'" + +"And what becomes of his mother then?" + +"There don't be any sea out there, sir. Leastways," she added with a quiet +smile, and stopped. + +"You mean, I suppose, Agnes, that there is never any perturbation of the +elements out there?" + +She laughed; for she understood me well enough. The temper of Joe's mother +was proverbial. + +"But really, sir," she said, "she don't mind the weather a bit; and though +we don't live in the same cottage with her, for Joe wouldn't hear of that, +we see her far oftener than we see my mother, you know." + +"I'm sure it's quite fair, Agnes. Is Joe very sorry that he married you, +now?" + +She hung her head, and blushed so deeply through all her sallow complexion, +that I was sorry I had teased her, and said so. This brought a reply. + +"I don't think he be, sir. I do think he gets better. He's been working +very hard the last week or two, and he says it agrees with him." + +"And how are you?" + +"Quite well, thank you, sir." + +I had never seen her look half so well. Life was evidently a very different +thing to both of them now. I left her, and took my way to the church. + +When I reached the churchyard, there, in the middle of the rain and the +gathering darkness, was the old man busy with the duties of his calling. A +certain headstone stood right under a drip from the roof of the southern +transept; and this drip had caused the mould at the foot of the stone, on +the side next the wall, to sink, so that there was a considerable crack +between the stone and the soil. The old man had cut some sod from another +part of the churchyard, and was now standing, with the rain pouring on him +from the roof, beating this sod down in the crack. He was sheltered from +the wind by the church, but he was as wet as he could be. I may mention +that he never appeared in the least disconcerted when I came upon him in +the discharge of his functions: he was so content with his own feeling in +the matter, that no difference of opinion could disturb him. + +"This will never do, Coombes," I said. "You will get your death of cold. +You must be as full of water as a sponge. Old man, there's rheumatism in +the world!" + +"It be only my work, sir. But I believe I ha' done now for a night. I think +he'll be a bit more comfortable now. The very wind could get at him through +that hole." + +"Do go home, then," I said, "and change your clothes. Is your wife in the +church?" + +"She be, sir. This door, sir--this door," he added, as he saw me going +round to the usual entrance. "You'll find her in there." + +I lifted the great latch and entered. I could not see her at first, for it +was much darker inside the church. It felt very quiet in there somehow, +although the place was full of the noise of winds and waters. Mrs. Coombes +was not sitting on the bell-keys, where I looked for her first, for the +wind blew down the tower in many currents and draughts--how it did roar up +there--as if the louvres had been a windsail to catch the wind and send +it down to ventilate the church!--she was sitting at the foot of the +chancel-rail, with her stocking as usual. + +The sight of her sweet old face, lighted up by a moonlike smile as I drew +near her, in the middle of the ancient dusk filled with sounds, but only +sounds of tempest, gave me a sense of one dwelling in the secret place of +the Most High, such as I shall never forget. It was no time to say much, +however. + +"How long do you mean to stay here, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. "Not all +night?" + +"No, not all night, surely, sir. But I hadn't thought o' going yet for a +bit." + +"Why there's Coombes out there, wet to the skin; and I'm afraid he'll go on +pottering at the churchyard bed-clothes till he gets his bones as full of +rheumatism as they can hold." + +"Deary me! I didn't know as my old man was there. He tould me he had them +all comforble for the winter a week ago. But to be sure there's always some +mendin' to do." + +I heard the voice of Joe outside, and the next moment he came into the +church. After speaking to me, he turned to Mrs. Coombes. + +"You be comin' home with me, mother. This will never do. Father's as wet as +a mop. I ha' brought something for your supper, and Aggy's a-cookin' of it; +and we're going to be comfortable over the fire, and have a chapter or two +of the New Testament to keep down the noise of the sea. There! Come along." + +The old woman drew her cloak over her head, put her knitting carefully in +her pocket, and stood aside for me to lead the way. + +"No, no," I said; "I'm the shepherd and you're the sheep, so I'll drive you +before me--at least, you and Coombes. Joe here will be offended if I take +on me to say I am _his_ shepherd." + + +"Nay, nay, don't say that, sir. You've been a good shepherd to me when I +was a very sulky sheep. But if you'll please to go, sir, I'll lock the door +behind; for you know in them parts the shepherd goes first and the sheep +follow the shepherd. And I'll follow like a good sheep," he added, +laughing. + +"You're right, Joe," I said, and took the lead without more ado. + +I was struck by his saying _them parts_, which seemed to indicate a habit +of pondering on the places as well as circumstances of the gospel-story. +The sexton joined us at the door, and we all walked to his cottage, Joe +taking care of his mother-in-law and I taking what care I could of Coombes +by carrying his tools for him. But as we went I feared I had done ill in +that, for the wind blew so fiercely that I thought the thin feeble little +man would have got on better if he had been more heavily weighted against +it. But I made him take a hold of my arm, and so we got in. The old man +took his tools from me and set them down in the mill, for the roof of which +I felt some anxiety as we passed through, so full of wind was the whole +space. But when we opened the inner door the welcome of a glowing fire +burst up the stair as if that had been a well of warmth and light below. I +went down with them. Coombes departed to change his clothes, and the rest +of us stood round the fire, where Agnes was busy cooking something like +white puddings for their supper. + +"Did you hear, sir," said Joe, "that the coastguard is off to the +Goose-pot? There's a vessel ashore there, they say. I met them on the road +with the rocket-cart." + +"How far off is that, Joe?" + +"Some five or six miles, I suppose, along the coast nor'ards." + +"What sort of a vessel is she?" + +"That I don't know. Some say she be a schooner, others a brigantine. The +coast-guard didn't know themselves." + +"Poor things!" said Mrs. Coombes. "If any of them comes ashore, they'll be +sadly knocked to pieces on the rocks in a night like this." + +She had caught a little infection of her husband's mode of thought. + +"It's not likely to clear up before morning, I fear; is it, Joe?" + +"I don't think so, sir. There's no likelihood." + +"Will you condescend to sit down and take a share with us, sir?" said the +old woman. + +"There would be no condescension in that, Mrs. Coombes. I will another time +with all my heart; but in such a night I ought to be at home with my own +people. They will be more uneasy if I am away." + +"Of coorse, of coorse, sir." + +"So I'll bid you good-night. I wish this storm were well over." + +I buttoned my great-coat, pulled my hat down on my head, and set out. It +was getting on for high water. The night was growing very dark. There would +be a moon some time, but the clouds were so dense she could not do much +while they came between. The roaring of the waves on the shore was +terrible; all I could see of them now was the whiteness of their breaking, +but they filled the earth and the air with their furious noises. The wind +roared from the sea; two oceans were breaking on the land, only to the one +had been set a hitherto--to the other none. Ere the night was far gone, +however, I had begun to doubt whether the ocean itself had not broken its +bars. + +I found the whole household full of the storm. The children kept pressing +their faces to the windows, trying to pierce, as by force of will, through +the darkness, and discover what the wild thing out there was doing. They +could see nothing: all was one mass of blackness and dismay, with a soul in +it of ceaseless roaring. I ran up to Connie's room, and found that she was +left alone. She looked restless, pale, and frightened. The house quivered, +and still the wind howled and whistled through the adjoining bark-hut. + +"Connie, darling, have they left you alone?" I said. + +"Only for a few minutes, papa. I don't mind it." + +"Don't he frightened at the storm, my dear. He who could walk on the sea +of Galilee, and still the storm of that little pool, can rule the Atlantic +just as well. Jeremiah says he 'divideth the sea when the waves thereof +roar.'" + +The same moment Dora came running into the room. + +"Papa," she cried, "the spray--such a lot of it--came dashing on the +windows in the dining-room. Will it break them?" + +"I hope not, my dear. Just stay with Connie while I run down." + +"O, papa! I do want to see." + +"What do you want to see, Dora?" + +"The storm, papa." + +"It is as black as pitch. You can't see anything." + +"O, but I want to--to--be beside it." + +"Well, you sha'n't stay with Connie, if you are not willing. Go along. Ask +Wynnie to come here." + +The child was so possessed by the commotion without that she did not +seem even to see my rebuke, not to say feel it. She ran off, and Wynnie +presently came. I left her with Connie, put on a long waterproof cloak, +and went down to the dining-room. A door led from it immediately on to the +little green in front of the house, between it and the sea. The dining-room +was dark, for they had put out the lights that they might see better from +the windows. The children and some of the servants were there looking out. +I opened the door cautiously. It needed the strength of two of the women +to shut it behind me. The moment I opened it a great sheet of spray rushed +over me. I went down the little grassy slope. The rain had ceased, and it +was not quite so dark as I had expected. I could see the gleaming whiteness +all before me. The next moment a wave rolled over the low wall in front of +me, breaking on it and wrapping me round in a sheet of water. Something +hurt me sharply on the leg; and I found, on searching, that one of the +large flat stones that lay for coping on the top of the wall was on the +grass beside me. If it had struck me straight, it must have broken my leg. + +There came a little lull in the wind, and just as I turned to go into the +house again, I thought I heard a gun. I stood and listened, but heard +nothing more, and fancied I must have been mistaken. I returned and tapped +at the door; but I had to knock loudly before they heard me within. When I +went up to the drawing-room, I found that Percivale had joined our party. +He and Turner were talking together at one of the windows. + +"Did you hear a gun?" I asked them. + +"No. Was there one?" + +"I'm not sure. I half-fancied I heard one, but no other followed. There +will be a good many fired to-night, though, along this awful coast." + +"I suppose they keep the life-boat always ready," said Turner. + +"No life-boat even, I fear, would live in such a sea," I said, remembering +what the officer of the coast-guard had told me. + +"They would try, though, I suppose," said Turner. + +"I do not know," said Percivale. "I don't know the people. But I have seen +a life-boat out in as bad a night--whether in as bad a sea, I cannot tell: +that depends on the coast, I suppose." + +We went on chatting for some time, wondering how the coast-guard had fared +with the vessel ashore at the Goose-pot. Wynnie joined us. + +"How is Connie, now, my dear?" + +"Very restless and excited, papa. I came down to say, that if Mr. Turner +didn't mind, I wish he would go up and see her." + +"Of course--instantly," said Turner, and moved to follow Winnie. + +But the same moment, as if it had been beside us in the room, so clear, so +shrill was it, we heard Connie's voice shrieking, "Papa, papa! There's a +great ship ashore down there. Come, come!" + +Turner and I rushed from the room in fear and dismay. "How? What? Where +could the voice come from?" was the unformed movement of our thoughts. But +the moment we left the drawing-room the thing was clear, though not the +less marvellous and alarming. We forgot all about the ship, and thought +only of our Connie. So much does the near hide the greater that is afar! +Connie kept on calling, and her voice guided our eyes. + +A, little stair led immediately from this floor up to the bark-hut, so that +it might be reached without passing through the bedroom. The door at the +top of it was open. The door that led from Connie's room into the bark-hut +was likewise open, and light shone through it into the place--enough to +show a figure standing by the furthest window with face pressed against the +glass. And from this figure came the cry, "Papa, papa! Quick, quick! The +waves will knock her to pieces!" + +In very truth it was Connie standing there. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE SHIPWRECK. + + + + + +Things that happen altogether have to be told one after the other. Turner +and I both rushed at the narrow stair. There was not room for more than one +upon it. I was first, but stumbled on the lowest step and fell. Turner +put his foot on my back, jumped over me, sprang up the stair, and when I +reached the top of it after him, he was meeting me with Connie in his arms, +carrying her back to her room. But the girl kept crying--"Papa, papa, the +ship, the ship!" + +My duty woke in me. Turner could attend to Connie far better than I could. +I made one spring to the window. The moon was not to be seen, but the +clouds were thinner, and light enough was soaking through them to show a +wave-tormented mass some little way out in the bay; and in that one moment +in which I stood looking, a shriek pierced the howling of the wind, cutting +through it like a knife. I rushed bare-headed from the house. When or +how the resolve was born in me I do not know, but I flew straight to the +sexton's, snatched the key from the wall, crying only "ship ashore!" and +rushed to the church. + +I remember my hand trembled so that I could hardly get the key into the +lock. I made myself quieter, opened the door, and feeling my way to the +tower, knelt before the keys of the bell-hammers, opened the chest, and +struck them wildly, fiercely. An awful jangling, out of tune and harsh, +burst into monstrous being in the storm-vexed air. Music itself was +untuned, corrupted, and returning to chaos. I struck and struck at the +keys. I knew nothing of their normal use. Noise, outcry, _reveille_ was all +I meant. + +In a few minutes I heard voices and footsteps. From some parts of the +village, out of sight of the shore, men and women gathered to the summons. +Through the door of the church, which I had left open, came voices in +hurried question. "Ship ashore!" was all I could answer, for what was to be +done I was helpless to think. + +I wondered that so few appeared at the cry of the bells. After those first +nobody came for what seemed a long time. I believe, however, I was beating +the alarum for only a few minutes altogether, though when I look back upon +the time in the dark church, it looks like half-an-hour at least. But +indeed I feel so confused about all the doings of that night that in +attempting to describe them in order, I feel as if I were walking in a +dream. Still, from comparing mine with the recollected impressions of +others, I think I am able to give a tolerably correct result. Most of the +incidents seem burnt into my memory so that nothing could destroy the depth +of the impression; but the order in which they took place is none the less +doubtful. + +A hand was laid on my shoulder. + +"Who is there?" I said; for it was far too dark to know anyone. + +"Percivale. What is to be done? The coastguard is away. Nobody seems to +know about anything. It is of no use to go on ringing more. Everybody is +out, even to the maid-servants. Come down to the shore, and you will see." + +"But is there not the life-boat?" + +"Nobody seems to know anything about it, except 'it's no manner of use to +go trying of that with such a sea on.'" + +"But there must be someone in command of it," I said. + +"Yes," returned Percivale; "but there doesn't seem to be one of the crew +amongst the crowd. All the sailor-like fellows are going about with their +hands in their pockets." + +"Let us make haste, then," I said; "perhaps we can find out. Are you sure +the coastguard have nothing to do with the life-boat?" + +"I believe not. They have enough to do with their rockets." + +"I remember now that Roxton told me he had far more confidence in his +rockets than in anything a life-boat could do, upon this coast at least." + +While we spoke we came to the bank of the canal. This we had to cross, in +order to reach that part of the shore opposite which the wreck lay. To my +surprise the canal itself was in a storm, heaving and tossing and dashing +over its banks. + +"Percivale," I exclaimed, "the gates are gone; the sea has torn them away." + +"Yes, I suppose so. Would God I could get half-a-dozen men to help me. I +have been doing what I could; but I have no influence amongst them." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "What could you do if you had a thousand men +at your command?" + +He made me no answer for a few moments, during which we were hurrying on +for the bridge over the canal. Then he said: + +"They regard me only as a meddling stranger, I suppose; for I have been +able to get no useful answer. They are all excited; but nobody is doing +anything." + +"They must know about it a great deal better than we," I returned; "and we +must take care not to do them the injustice of supposing they are not ready +to do all that can be done." + +Percivale was silent yet again. + +The record of our conversation looks as quiet on the paper as if we had +been talking in a curtained room; but all the time the ocean was raving in +my very ear, and the awful tragedy was going on in the dark behind us. The +wind was almost as loud as ever, but the rain had quite ceased, and when we +reached the bridge the moon shone out white, as if aghast at what she had +at length succeeded in pushing the clouds aside that she might see. Awe +and helplessness oppressed us. Having crossed the canal, we turned to the +shore. There was little of it left; for the waves had rushed up almost to +the village. The sand and the roads, every garden wall, every window that +looked seaward was crowded with gazers. But it was a wonderfully quiet +crowd, or seemed so at least; for the noise of the wind and the waves +filled the whole vault, and what was spoken was heard only in the ear to +which it was spoken. When we came amongst them we heard only a murmur as of +more articulated confusion. One turn, and we saw the centre of strife and +anxiety--the heart of the storm that filled heaven and earth, upon which +all the blasts and the billows broke and raved. + +Out there in the moonlight lay a mass of something whose place was +discernible by the flashing of the waves as they burst over it. She was far +above low-water mark--lay nearer the village by a furlong than the spot +where we had taken our last dinner on the shore. It was strange to think +that yesterday the spot lay bare to human feet, where now so many men and +women were isolated in a howling waste of angry waters; for the cry of +women came plainly to our ears, and we were helpless to save them. It was +terrible to have to do nothing. Percivale went about hurriedly, talking to +this one and that one, as if he still thought something might be done. He +turned to me. + +"Do try, Mr. Walton, and find out for me where the captain of the life-boat +is." + +I turned to a sailor-like man who stood at my elbow and asked him. + +"It's no use, I assure you, sir," he answered; "no boat could live in such +a sea. It would be throwing away the men's lives." + +"Do you know where the captain lives?" Percivale asked. + +"If I did, I tell you it is of no use." + +"Are you the captain yourself?" returned Percivale. + +"What is that to you?" he answered, surly now. "I know my own business." + +The same moment several of the crowd nearest the edge of the water made a +simultaneous rush into the surf, and laid hold of something, which, as they +returned drawing it to the shore, I saw to be a human form. It was the body +of a woman--alive or dead I could not tell. I could just see the long hair +hanging from the head, which itself hung backward helplessly as they bore +her up the bank. I saw, too, a white face, and I can recall no more. + +"Run, Percivale," I said, "and fetch Turner. She may not be dead yet." + +"I can't," answered Percivale. "You had better go yourself, Mr. Walton." + +He spoke hurriedly. I saw he must have some reason for answering me so +abruptly. He was talking to a young fellow whom I recognised as one of the +most dissolute in the village; and just as I turned to go they walked away +together. + +I sped home as fast as I could. It was easier to get along now that the +moon shone. I found that Turner had given Connie a composing draught, and +that he had good hopes she would at least be nothing the worse for the +marvellous result of her excitement. She was asleep exhausted, and her +mother was watching by her side. It, seemed strange that she could sleep; +but Turner said it was the safest reaction, partly, however, occasioned by +what he had given her. In her sleep she kept on talking about the ship. + +We hurried back to see if anything could be done for the woman. As we went +up the side of the canal we perceived a dark body meeting us. The clouds +had again obscured, though not quite hidden the moon, and we could not at +first make out what it was. When we came nearer it showed itself a body +of men hauling something along. Yes, it was the life-boat, afloat on the +troubled waves of the canal, each man seated in his own place, his hands +quiet upon his oar, his cork-jacket braced about him, his feet out before +him, ready to pull the moment they should pass beyond the broken gates of +the lock out on the awful tossing of the waves. They sat very silent, and +the men on the path towed them swiftly along. The moon uncovered her face +for a moment, and shone upon the faces of two of the rowers. + +"Percivale! Joe!" I cried. + +"All right, sir!" said Joe. + +"Does your wife know of it, Joe?" I almost gasped. + +"To be sure," answered Joe. "It's the first chance I've had of returning +thanks for her. Please God, I shall see her again to-night." + +"That's good, Joe. Trust in God, my men, whether you sink or swim." + +"Ay, ay, sir!" they answered as one man. + +"This is your doing, Percivale," I said, turning and walking alongside of +the boat for a little way. + +"It's more Jim Allen's," said Percivale. "If I hadn't got a hold of him I +couldn't have done anything." + +"God bless you, Jim Allen!" I said. "You'll be a better man after this, I +think." + +"Donnow, sir," returned Jim cheerily. "It's harder work than pulling an +oar." + +The captain himself was on board. Percivale having persuaded Jim Allen, the +two had gone about in the crowd seeking proselytes. In a wonderfully short +space they had found almost all the crew, each fresh one picking up another +or more; till at length the captain, protesting against the folly of it, +gave in, and once having yielded, was, like a true Englishman, as much in +earnest as any of them. The places of two who were missing were supplied by +Percivale and Joe, the latter of whom would listen to no remonstrance. + +"I've nothing to lose," Percivale had said. "You have a young wife, Joe." + +"I've everything to win," Joe had returned. "The only thing that makes me +feel a bit faint-hearted over it, is that I'm afraid it's not my duty that +drives me to it, but the praise of men, leastways of a woman. What would +Aggy think of me if I was to let them drown out there and go to my bed and +sleep? I must go." + +"Very well, Joe," returned Percivale, "I daresay you are right. You can +row, of course?" + +"I can row hard, and do as I'm told," said Joe. + +"All right," said Percivale; "come along." + +This I heard afterwards. We were now hurrying against the wind towards the +mouth of the canal, some twenty men hauling on the tow-rope. The critical +moment would be in the clearing of the gates, I thought, some parts of +which might remain swinging; but they encountered no difficulty there, as +I heard afterwards. For I remembered that this was not my post, and turned +again to follow the doctor. + +"God bless you, my men!" I said, and left them. + +They gave a great hurrah, and sped on to meet their fate. I found Turner in +the little public-house, whither they had carried the body. The woman was +quite dead. + +"I fear it is an emigrant vessel," he said. + +"Why do you think so?" I asked, in some consternation. + +"Come and look at the body," he said. + +It was that of a woman about twenty, tall, and finely formed. The face was +very handsome, but it did not need the evidence of the hands to prove that +she was one of our sisters who have to labour for their bread. + +"What should such a girl be doing on board ship but going out to America or +Australia--to her lover, perhaps," said Turner. "You see she has a locket +on her neck; I hope nobody will dare to take it off. Some of these people +are not far derived from those who thought a wreck a Godsend." + +A sound of many feet was at the door just as we turned to leave the house. +They were bringing another body--that of an elderly woman--dead, quite +dead. Turner had ceased examining her, and we were going out together, +when, through all the tumult of the wind and waves, a fierce hiss, +vindictive, wrathful, tore the air over our heads. Far up, seawards, +something like a fiery snake shot from the high ground on the right side of +the bay, over the vessel, and into the water beyond it. + +"Thank God! that's the coastguard," I cried. + +We rushed through the village, and up on the heights, where they had +planted their apparatus. A little crowd surrounded them. How dismal the sea +looked in the struggling moonlight! I felt as if I were wandering in the +mazes of an evil dream. But when I approached the cliff, and saw down below +the great mass, of the vessel's hulk, with the waves breaking every moment +upon her side, I felt the reality awful indeed. Now and then there would +come a kind of lull in the wild sequence of rolling waters, and then I +fancied for a moment that I saw how she rocked on the bottom. Her masts had +all gone by the board, and a perfect chaos of cordage floated and swung in +the waves that broke over her. But her bowsprit remained entire, and shot +out into the foamy dark, crowded with human beings. The first rocket +had missed. They were preparing to fire another. Roxton stood with his +telescope in his hand, ready to watch the result. + +"This is a terrible job, sir," he said when I approached him; "I doubt if +we shall save one of them." + +"There's the life-boat!" I cried, as a dark spot appeared on the waters +approaching the vessel from the other side. + +"The life-boat!" he returned with contempt. "You don't mean to say they've +got _her_ out! She'll only add to the mischief. We'll have to save her +too." + +She was still some way from the vessel, and in comparatively smooth water. +But between her and the hull the sea raved in madness; the billows rode +over each other, in pursuit, as it seemed, of some invisible prey. Another +hiss, as of concentrated hatred, and the second rocket was shooting its +parabola through the dusky air. Roxton raised his telescope to his eye the +same moment. + +"Over her starn!" he cried. "There's a fellow getting down from the +cat-head to run aft.--Stop, stop!" he shouted involuntarily. "There's an +awful wave on your quarter." + +His voice was swallowed in the roaring of the storm. I fancied I could +distinguish a dark something shoot from the bows towards the stern. But the +huge wave fell upon the wreck. The same moment Roxton exclaimed--so coolly +as to amaze me, forgetting how men must come to regard familiar things +without discomposure-- + +"He's gone! I said so. The next'll have better luck, I hope." + +That man came ashore alive, though. + +All were forward of the foremast. The bowsprit, when I looked through +Roxton's telescope, was shapeless as with a swarm of bees. Now and then a +single shriek rose upon the wild air. But now my attention was fixed on the +life-boat. She had got into the wildest of the broken water; at one +moment she was down in a huge cleft, the next balanced like a beam on the +knife-edge of a wave, tossed about hither and thither, as if the waves +delighted in mocking the rudder; but hitherto she had shipped no water. I +am here drawing upon the information I have since received; but I did +see how a huge wave, following close upon the back of that on which she +floated, rushed, towered up over her, toppled, and fell upon the life-boat +with tons of water: the moon was shining brightly enough to show this with +tolerable distinctness. The boat vanished. The next moment, there she was, +floating helplessly about, like a living thing stunned by the blow of the +falling wave. The struggle was over. As far as I could see, every man was +in his place; but the boat drifted away before the storm shore-wards, and +the men let her drift. Were they all killed as they sat? I thought of my +Wynnie, and turned to Roxton. + +"That wave has done for them," he said. "I told you it was no use. There +they go." + +"But what is the matter?" I asked. "The men are sitting every man in his +place." + +"I think so," he answered. "Two were swept overboard, but they caught the +ropes and got in again. But don't you see they have no oars?" + +That wave had broken every one of them off at the rowlocks, and now they +were as helpless as a sponge. + +I turned and ran. Before I reached the brow of the hill another rocket was +fired and fell wide shorewards, partly because the wind blew with fresh +fury at the very moment. I heard Roxton say--"She's breaking up. It's no +use. That last did for her;" but I hurried off for the other side of the +bay, to see what became of the life-boat. I heard a great cry from the +vessel as I reached the brow of the hill, and turned for a parting glance. +The dark mass had vanished, and the waves were rushing at will over the +space. When I got to the shore the crowd was less. Many were running, like +myself, towards the other side, anxious about the life-boat. I hastened +after them; for Percivale and Joe filled my heart. + +They led the way to the little beach in front of the parsonage. It would +be well for the crew if they were driven ashore there, for it was the only +spot where they could escape being dashed on rocks. + +There was a crowd before the garden-wall, a bustle, and great confusion of +speech. The people, men and women, boys and girls, were all gathered about +the crew of the life-boat,--which already lay, as if it knew of nothing but +repose, on the grass within. + +"Percivale!" I cried, making my way through the crowd. + +There was no answer. + +"Joe Harper!" I cried again, searching with eager eyes amongst the crew, to +whom everybody was talking. + +Still there was no answer; and from the disjointed phrases I heard, I could +gather nothing. All at once I saw Wynnie looking over the wall, despair in +her face, her wide eyes searching wildly through the crowd. I could not +look at her till I knew the worst. The captain was talking to old Coombes. +I went up to him. As soon as he saw me, he gave me his attention. + +"Where is Mr. Percivale?" I asked, with all the calmness I could assume. + +He took me by the arm, and drew me out of the crowd, nearer to the waves, +and a little nearer to the mouth of the canal. The tide had fallen +considerably, else there would not have been standing-room, narrow as it +was, which the people now occupied. He pointed in the direction of the +Castle-rock. + +"If you mean the stranger gentleman--" + +"And Joe Harper, the blacksmith," I interposed. + +"They're there, sir." + +"You don't mean those two--just those two--are drowned?" I said. + +"No, sir; I don't say that; but God knows they have little chance." + +I could not help thinking that God might know they were not in the smallest +danger. But I only begged him to tell me where they were. + +"Do you see that schooner there, just between you and the Castle-rock?" + +"No," I answered; "I can see nothing. Stay. I fancy I can. But I am always +ready to fancy I see a thing when I am told it is there. I can't say I see +it." + +"I can, though. The gentleman you mean, and Joe Harper too, are, I believe, +on board of that schooner." + +"Is she aground?" + +"O dear no, sir. She's a light craft, and can swim there well enough. If +she'd been aground, she'd ha' been ashore in pieces hours ago. But whether +she'll ride it out, God only knows, as I said afore." + +"How ever did they get aboard of her? I never saw her from the heights +opposite." + +"You were all taken up by the ship ashore, you see, sir. And she don't make +much show in this light. But there she is, and they're aboard of her. And +this is how it was." + +He went on to give me his part of the story; but I will now give the whole +of it myself, as I have gathered and pieced it together. + +Two men had been swept overboard, as Roxton said--one of them was +Percivale--but they had both got on board again, to drift, oarless, with +the rest--now in a windless valley--now aloft on a tempest-swept hill of +water--away towards a goal they knew not, neither had chosen, and which yet +they could by no means avoid. + +A little out of the full force of the current, and not far from the channel +of the small stream, which, when the tide was out, flowed across the sands +nearly from the canal gates to the Castle-rock, lay a little schooner, +belonging to a neighbouring port, Boscastle, I think, which, caught in +the storm, had been driven into the bay when it was almost dark, some +considerable time before the great ship. The master, however, knew the +ground well. The current carried him a little out of the wind, and would +have thrown him upon the rocks next, but he managed to drop anchor just in +time, and the cable held; and there the little schooner hung in the skirts +of the storm, with the jagged teeth of the rocks within an arrow flight. In +the excitement of the great wreck, no one had observed the danger of the +little coasting bird. If the cable held till the tide went down, and the +anchor did not drag, she would be safe; if not, she must be dashed to +pieces. + +In the schooner were two men and a boy: two men had been washed overboard +an hour or so before they reached the bay. When they had dropped their +anchor, they lay down exhausted on the deck. Indeed they were so worn out +that they had been unable to drop their sheet anchor, and were holding on +only by their best bower. Had they not been a good deal out of the wind, +this would have been useless. Even if it held she was in danger of having +her bottom stove in by bumping against the sands as the tide went out. But +that they had not to think of yet. The moment they lay down they fell +fast asleep in the middle of the storm. While they slept it increased in +violence. + +Suddenly one of them awoke, and thought he saw a vision of angels. For over +his head faces looked down upon him from the air--that is, from the top of +a great wave. The same moment he heard a voice, two of the angels dropped +on the deck beside him, and the rest vanished. Those angels were Percivale +and Joe. And angels they were, for they came just in time, as all angels +do--never a moment too soon or a moment too late: the schooner _was_ +dragging her anchor. This was soon plain even to the less experienced eyes +of the said angels. + +But it did not take them many minutes now to drop their strongest anchor, +and they were soon riding in perfect safety for some time to come. + +One of the two men was the son of old Coombes, the sexton, who was engaged +to marry the girl I have spoken of in the end of the fourth chapter in the +second volume. + +Percivale's account of the matter, as far as he was concerned, was, that as +they drifted helplessly along, he suddenly saw from the top of a huge wave +the little vessel below him. They were, in fact, almost upon the rigging. +The wave on which they rode swept the quarter-deck of the schooner. + +Percivale says the captain of the lifeboat called out "Aboard!" The captain +said he remembered nothing of the sort. If he did, he must have meant +it for the men on the schooner to get on board the lifeboat. Percivale, +however, who had a most chivalrous (ought I not to say Christian?) notion +of obedience, fancying the captain meant them to board the schooner, sprang +at her fore-shrouds. Thereupon the wave sweeping them along the schooner's +side, Joe sprang at the main-shrouds, and they dropped on the deck +together. + +But although my reader is at ease about their fate, we who were in the +affair were anything but easy at the time corresponding to this point of +the narrative. It was a terrible night we passed through. + +When I returned, which was almost instantly, for I could do nothing by +staring out in the direction of the schooner, I found that the crowd was +nearly gone. One little group alone remained behind, the centre of which +was a woman. Wynnie had disappeared. The woman who remained behind was +Agnes Harper. + +The moon shone out clear as I approached the group; indeed, the clouds were +breaking-up and drifting away off the heavens. The storm had raved out its +business, and was departing into the past. + +"Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered, and looked up as if waiting for a command. There +was no colour in her cheeks or in her lips--at least it seemed so in the +moonlight--only in her eyes. But she was perfectly calm. She was leaning +against the low wall, with her hands clasped, but hanging quietly down +before her. + +"The storm is breaking-up, Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered in the same still tone. Then, after just a +moment's pause, she spoke out of her heart. + +"Joe's at his duty, sir?" + +I have given the utterance a point of interrogation; whether she meant that +point I am not quite sure. + +"Indubitably," I returned. "I have such faith in Joe, that I should be sure +of that in any case. At all events, he's not taking care of his own life. +And if one is to go wrong, I would ten thousand times rather err on that +side. But I am sure Joe has been doing right, and nothing else." + +"Then there's nothing to be said, sir, is there?" she returned, with a sigh +that sounded as of relief. + +I presume some of the surrounding condolers had been giving her Job's +comfort by blaming her husband. + +"Do you remember, Agnes, what the Lord said to his mother when she +reproached him with having left her and his father?" + +"I can't remember anything at this moment, sir," was her touching answer. + +"Then I will tell you. He said, 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know +that I must be about something my Father had given me to do?' Now, Joe was +and is about his Father's business, and you must not be anxious about him. +There could be no better reason for not being anxious." + +Agnes was a very quiet woman. When without a word she took my hand and +kissed it, I felt what a depth there was in the feeling she could not +utter. I did not withdraw my hand, for I knew that would be to rebuke her +love for Joe. + +"Will you come in and wait?" I said indefinitely. + +"No, thank you, sir. I must go to my mother. God will look after Joe, won't +he, sir?" + +"As sure as there is a God, Agnes," I said; and she went away without +another word. + +I put my hand on the top of the wall and jumped over. I started back with +terror, for I had almost alighted on the body of a woman lying there. The +first insane suggestion was that it had been cast ashore; but the next +moment I knew that it was my own Wynnie. + +She had not even fainted. She was lying with her handkerchief stuffed into +her mouth to keep her from screaming. When I uttered her name she rose, +and, without looking at me, walked away towards the house. I followed. She +went straight to her own room and shut the door. I went to find her mother. +She was with Connie, who was now awake, lying pale and frightened. I told +Ethelwyn that Percivale and Joe were on board the little schooner, which +was holding on by her anchor, that Wynnie was in terror about Percivale, +that I had found her lying on the wet grass, and that she must get her into +a warm bath and to bed. We went together to her room. + +She was standing in the middle of the floor, with her hands pressed against +her temples. + +"Wynnie," I said, "our friends are not drowned. I think you will see them +quite safe in the morning. Pray to God for them." + +She did not hear a word. + +"Leave her with me," said Ethelwyn, proceeding to undress her; "and tell +nurse to bring up the large bath. There is plenty of hot water in the +boiler. I gave orders to that effect, not knowing what might happen." + +Wynnie shuddered as her mother said this; but I waited no longer, for when +Ethelwyn spoke everyone felt her authority. I obeyed her, and then went to +Connie's room. + +"Do you mind being left alone a little while?" I asked her. + +"No, papa; only--are they all drowned?" she said with a shudder. + +"I hope not, my dear; but be sure of the mercy of God, whatever you fear. +You must rest in him, my love; for he is life, and will conquer death both +in the soul and in the body." + +"I was not thinking of myself, papa." + +"I know that, my dear. But God is thinking of you and every creature that +he has made. And for our sakes you must be quiet in heart, that you may get +better, and be able to help us." + +"I will try, papa," she said; and, turning slowly on her side, she lay +quite still. + +Dora and the boys were all fast asleep, for it was very late. I cannot, +however, say what hour it was. + +Telling nurse to be on the watch because Connie was alone, I went again to +the beach. I called first, however, to inquire after Agnes. I found her +quite composed, sitting with her parents by the fire, none of them doing +anything, scarcely speaking, only listening intently to the sounds of the +storm now beginning to die away. + +I next went to the place where I had left Turner. Five bodies lay there, +and he was busy with a sixth. The surgeon of the place was with him, and +they quite expected to recover this man. + +I then went down to the sands. An officer of the revenue was taking charge +of all that came ashore--chests, and bales, and everything. For a week the +sea went on casting out the fragments of that which she had destroyed. I +have heard that, for years after, the shifting of the sands would now and +then discover things buried that night by the waves. + +All the next day the bodies kept coming ashore, some peaceful as in sleep, +others broken and mutilated. Many were cast upon other parts of the coast. +Some four or five only, all men, were recovered. It was strange to me how +I got used to it. The first horror over, the cry that yet another body had +come awoke only a gentle pity--no more dismay or shuddering. But, finding +I could be of no use, I did not wait longer than just till the morning +began to dawn with a pale ghastly light over the seething raging sea; for +the sea raged on, although the wind had gone down. There were many strong +men about, with two surgeons and all the coastguard, who were well +accustomed to similar though not such extensive destruction. The houses +along the shore were at the disposal of any who wanted aid; the Parsonage +was at some distance; and I confess that when I thought of the state of my +daughters, as well as remembered former influences upon my wife, I was very +glad to think there was no necessity for carrying thither any of those whom +the waves cast on the shore. + +When I reached home, and found Wynnie quieter and Connie again asleep, I +walked out along our own downs till I came whence I could see the little +schooner still safe at anchor. From her position I concluded--correctly as +I found afterwards--that they had let out her cable far enough to allow her +to reach the bed of the little stream, where the tide would leave her more +gently. She was clearly out of all danger now; and if Percivale and Joe had +got safe on board of her, we might confidently expect to see them before +many hours were passed. I went home with the good news. + +For a few moments I doubted whether I should tell Wynnie, for I could not +know with any certainty that Percivale was in the schooner. But presently I +recalled former conclusions to the effect that we have no right to modify +God's facts for fear of what may be to come. A little hope founded on a +present appearance, even if that hope should never be realised, may be the +very means of enabling a soul to bear the weight of a sorrow past the point +at which it would otherwise break down. I would therefore tell Wynnie, and +let her share my expectation of deliverance. + +I think she had been half-asleep, for when I entered her room she started +up in a sitting posture, looking wild, and putting her hands to her head. + +"I have brought you good news, Wynnie," I said. "I have been out on the +downs, and there is light enough now to see that the little schooner is +quite safe." + +"What schooner?" she asked listlessly, and lay down again, her eyes still +staring, awfully unappeased. + +"Why the schooner they say Percivale got on board." + +"He isn't drowned then!" she cried with a choking voice, and put her hands +to her face and burst into tears and sobs. + +"Wynnie," I said, "look what your faithlessness brings upon you. Everybody +but you has known all night that Percivale and Joe Harper are probably +quite safe. They may be ashore in a couple of hours." + +"But you don't know it. He may be drowned yet." + +"Of course there is room for doubt, but none for despair. See what a poor +helpless creature hopelessness makes you." + +"But how can I help it, papa?" she asked piteously. "I am made so." + +But as she spoke the dawn was clear upon the height of her forehead. + +"You are not made yet, as I am always telling you; and God has ordained +that you shall have a hand in your own making. You have to consent, to +desire that what you know for a fault shall be set right by his loving will +and spirit." + +"I don't know God, papa." + +"Ah, my dear, that is where it all lies. You do not know him, or you would +never be without hope." + +"But what am I to do to know him!" she asked, rising on her elbow. + +The saving power of hope was already working in her. She was once more +turning her face towards the Life. + +"Read as you have never read before about Christ Jesus, my love. Read with +the express object of finding out what God is like, that you may know him +and may trust him. And now give yourself to him, and he will give you +sleep." + +"What are we to do," I said to my wife, "if Percivale continue silent? For +even if he be in love with her, I doubt if he will speak." + +"We must leave all that, Harry," she answered. + +She was turning on myself the counsel I had been giving Wynnie. It is +strange how easily we can tell our brother what he ought to do, and yet, +when the case comes to be our own, do precisely as we had rebuked him for +doing. I lay down and fell fast asleep. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + + +It was a lovely morning when I woke once more. The sun was flashing back +from the sea, which was still tossing, but no longer furiously, only as if +it wanted to turn itself every way to flash the sunlight about. The madness +of the night was over and gone; the light was abroad, and the world was +rejoicing. When I reached the drawing-room, which afforded the best outlook +over the shore, there was the schooner lying dry on the sands, her two +cables and anchors stretching out yards behind her; but half way between +the two sides of the bay rose a mass of something shapeless, drifted over +with sand. It was all that remained together of the great ship that had the +day before swept over the waters like a live thing with wings--of all the +works of man's hands the nearest to the shape and sign of life. The wind +had ceased altogether, only now and then a little breeze arose which +murmured "I am very sorry," and lay down again. And I knew that in the +houses on the shore dead men and women were lying. + +I went down to the dining-room. The three children were busy at their +breakfast, but neither wife, daughter, nor visitor had yet appeared. I made +a hurried meal, and was just rising to go and inquire further into the +events of the night, when the door opened, and in walked Percivale, looking +very solemn, but in perfect health and well-being. I grasped his hand +warmly. + +"Thank God," I said, "that you are returned to us, Percivale." + +"I doubt if that is much to give thanks for," he said. + +"We are the judges of that," I rejoined. "Tell me all about it." + +While he was narrating the events I have already communicated, Wynnie +entered. She started, turned pale and then very red, and for a moment +hesitated in the doorway. + +"Here is another to rejoice at your safety, Percivale," I said. + +Thereupon he stepped forward to meet her, and she gave him her hand with an +emotion so evident that I felt a little distressed--why, I could not easily +have told, for she looked most charming in the act,--more lovely than I had +ever seen her. Her beauty was unconsciously praising God, and her heart +would soon praise him too. But Percivale was a modest man, and I think +attributed her emotion to the fact that he had been in danger in the way of +duty,--a fact sufficient to move the heart of any good woman. + +She sat down and began to busy herself with the teapot. Her hand trembled. +I requested Percivale to begin his story once more; and he evidently +enjoyed recounting to her the adventures of the night. + +I asked him to sit down and have a second breakfast while I went into the +village, whereto he seemed nothing loth. + +As I crossed the floor of the old mill to see how Joe was, the head of +the sexton appeared emerging from it. He looked full of weighty solemn +business. Bidding me good-morning, he turned to the corner where his tools +lay, and proceeded to shoulder spade and pickaxe. + +"Ah, Coombes! you'll want them," I said. + +"A good many o' my people be come all at once, you see, sir," he returned. +"I shall have enough ado to make 'em all comfortable like." + +"But you must get help, you know; you can never make them all comfortable +yourself alone." + +"We'll see what I can do," he returned. "I ben't a bit willin' to let no +one do my work for me, I do assure you, sir." + +"How many are there wanting your services?" I asked. + +"There be fifteen of them now, and there be more, I don't doubt, on the +way." + +"But you won't think of making separate graves for them all," I said. "They +died together: let them lie together." + +The old man set down his tools, and looked me in the face with indignation. +The face was so honest and old, that, without feeling I had deserved it, I +yet felt the rebuke. + +"How would you like, sir," he said, at length, "to be put in the same bed +with a lot of people you didn't know nothing about?" + +I knew the old man's way, and that any argument which denied the premiss +of his peculiar fancy was worse than thrown away upon him. I therefore +ventured no farther than to say that I had heard death was a leveller. + +"That be very true; and, mayhap, they mightn't think of it after they'd +been down awhile--six weeks, mayhap, or so. But anyhow, it can't be +comfortable for 'em, poor things. One on 'em be a baby: I daresay he'd +rather lie with his mother. The doctor he say one o' the women be a mother. +I don't know," he went on reflectively, "whether she be the baby's own +mother, but I daresay neither o' them 'll mind it if I take it for granted, +and lay 'em down together. So that's one bed less." + +One thing was clear, that the old man could not dig fourteen graves within +the needful time. But I would not interfere with his office in the church, +having no reason to doubt that he would perform its duties to perfection. +He shouldered his tools again and walked out. I descended the stair, +thinking to see Joe; but there was no one there but the old woman. + +"Where are Joe and Agnes?" I asked. + +"You see, sir, Joe had promised a little job of work to be ready to-day, +and so he couldn't stop. He did say Agnes needn't go with him; but she +thought she couldn't part with him so soon, you see, sir." + +"She had received him from the dead--raised to life again," I said; "it was +most natural. But what a fine fellow Joe is; nothing will make him neglect +his work!" + +"I tried to get him to stop, sir, saying he had done quite enough last +night for all next day; but he told me it was his business to get the tire +put on Farmer Wheatstone's cart-wheel to-day just as much as it was his +business to go in the life-boat yesterday. So he would go, and Aggy +wouldn't stay behind." + +"Fine fellow, Joe!" I said, and took my leave. + +As I drew near the village, I heard the sound of hammering and sawing, and +apparently everything at once in the way of joinery; they were making the +coffins in the joiners' shops, of which there were two in the place. + +I do not like coffins. They seem to me relics of barbarism. If I had my +way, I would have the old thing decently wound in a fair linen cloth, and +so laid in the bosom of the earth, whence it was taken. I would have it +vanish, not merely from the world of vision, but from the world of form, as +soon as may be. The embrace of the fine life-hoarding, life-giving mould, +seems to me comforting, in the vague, foolish fancy that will sometimes +emerge from the froth of reverie--I mean, of subdued consciousness +remaining in the outworn frame. But the coffin is altogether and vilely +repellent. Of this, however, enough, I hate even the shadow of sentiment, +though some of my readers, who may not yet have learned to distinguish +between sentiment and feeling, may wonder how I dare to utter such a +barbarism. + +I went to the house of the county magistrate hard by, for I thought +something might have to be done in which I had a share. I found that he had +sent a notice of the loss of the vessel to the Liverpool papers, requesting +those who might wish to identify or claim any of the bodies to appear +within four days at Kilkhaven. + +This threw the last upon Saturday, and before the end of the week it was +clear that they must not remain above ground over Sunday. I therefore +arranged that they should be buried late on the Saturday night. + +On the Friday morning, a young woman and an old man, unknown to each other, +arrived by the coach from Barnstaple. They had come to see the last of +their friends in this world; to look, if they might, at the shadow left +behind by the departing soul. For as the shadow of any object remains a +moment upon the magic curtain of the eye after the object itself has gone, +so the shadow of the soul, namely, the body, lingers a moment upon the +earth after the object itself has gone to the "high countries." It was +well to see with what a sober sorrow the dignified little old man bore his +grief. It was as if he felt that the loss of his son was only for a moment. +But the young woman had taken on the hue of the corpse she came to seek. +Her eyes were sunken as if with the weight of the light she cared not for, +and her cheeks had already pined away as if to be ready for the grave. A +being thus emptied of its glory seized and possessed my thoughts. She never +even told us whom she came seeking, and after one involuntary question, +which simply received no answer, I was very careful not even to approach +another. I do not think the form she sought was there; and she may have +gone home with the lingering hope to cast the gray aurora of a doubtful +dawn over her coming days, that, after all, that one had escaped. + +On the Friday afternoon, with the approbation of the magistrate, I had +all the bodies removed to the church. Some in their coffins, others on +stretchers, they were laid in front of the communion-rail. In the evening +these two went to see them. I took care to be present. The old man soon +found his son. I was at his elbow as he walked between the rows of the +dead. He turned to me and said quietly-- + +"That's him, sir. He was a good lad. God rest his soul. He's with his +mother; and if I'm sorry, she's glad." + +With that he smiled, or tried to smile. I could only lay my hand on his +arm, to let him know that I understood him, and was with him. He walked +out of the church, sat down, upon a stone, and stared at the mould of a +new-made grave in front of him. What was passing behind those eyes God only +knew--certainly the man himself did not know. Our lightest thoughts are of +more awful significance than the most serious of us can imagine. + +For the young woman, I thought she left the church with a little light in +her eyes; but she had said nothing. Alas! that the body was not there could +no more justify her than Milton in letting her + + "frail thoughts dally with false surmise." + +With him, too, she might well add-- + + "Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away." + +But God had them in his teaching, and all I could do was to ask them to be +my guests till the funeral and the following Sunday were over. To this +they kindly consented, and I took them to my wife, who received them like +herself, and had in a few minutes made them at home with her, to which no +doubt their sorrow tended, for that brings out the relations of humanity +and destroys its distinctions. + +The next morning a Scotchman of a very decided type, originally from +Aberdeen, but resident in Liverpool, appeared, seeking the form of his +daughter. I had arranged that whoever came should be brought to me first. I +went with him to the church. He was a tall, gaunt, bony man, with long arms +and huge hands, a rugged granite-like face, and a slow ponderous utterance, +which I had some difficulty in understanding. He treated the object of his +visit with a certain hardness, and at the same time lightness, which also I +had some difficulty in understanding. + +"You want to see the--" I said, and hesitated. + +"Ow ay--the boadies," he answered. "She winna be there, I daursay, but I +wad jist like to see; for I wadna like her to be beeried gin sae be 'at she +was there, wi'oot biddin' her good-bye like." + +When we reached the church, I opened the door and entered. An awe fell upon +me fresh and new. The beautiful church had become a tomb: solemn, grand, +ancient, it rose as a memorial of the dead who lay in peace before her +altar-rail, as if they had fled thither for sanctuary from a sea of +troubles. And I thought with myself, Will the time ever come when the +churches shall stand as the tombs of holy things that have passed away, +when Christ shall have rendered up the kingdom to his Father, and no man +shall need to teach his neighbour or his brother, saying, "Know the Lord"? +The thought passed through my mind and vanished, as I led my companion up +to the dead. He glanced at one and another, and passed on. He had looked +at ten or twelve ere he stopped, gazing on the face of the beautiful form +which had first come ashore. He stooped and stroked the white cheeks, +taking the head in his great rough hands, and smoothed the brown hair +tenderly, saying, as if he had quite forgotten that she was dead-- + +"Eh, Maggie! hoo cam _ye_ here, lass?" + +Then, as if for the first time the reality had grown comprehensible, he put +his hands before his face, and burst into tears. His huge frame was shaken +with sobs for one long minute, while I stood looking on with awe and +reverence. He ceased suddenly, pulled a blue cotton handkerchief with +yellow spots on it--I see it now--from his pocket, rubbed his face with +it as if drying it with a towel, put it back, turned, and said, without +looking at me, "I'll awa' hame." + +"Wouldn't you like a piece of her hair?" I asked. + +"Gin ye please," he answered gently, as if his daughter's form had been +mine now, and her hair were mine to give. + +By the vestry door sat Mrs. Coombes, watching the dead, with her sweet +solemn smile, and her constant ministration of knitting. + +"Have you got a pair of scissors there, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. + +"Yes, to be sure, sir," she answered, rising, and lifting a huge pair by +the string suspending them from her waist. + +"Cut off a nice piece of this beautiful hair," I said. + +She lifted the lovely head, chose, and cut off a long piece, and handed it +respectfully to the father. + +He took it without a word, sat down on the step before the communion-rail, +and began to smooth out the wonderful sleave of dusky gold. It was, indeed, +beautiful hair. As he drew it out, I thought it must be a yard long. He +passed his big fingers through and through it, but tenderly, as if it had +been still growing on the live lovely head, stopping every moment to pick +out the bits of sea-weed and shells, and shake out the sand that had been +wrought into its mass. He sat thus for nearly half-an-hour, and we stood +looking on with something closely akin to awe. At length he folded it up, +drew from his pocket an old black leather book, laid it carefully in the +innermost pocket, and rose. I led the way from the church, and he followed +me. + +Outside the church, he laid his hand on my arm, and said, groping with his +other hand in his trousers-pocket-- + +"She'll hae putten ye to some expense--for the coffin an' sic like." + +"We'll talk about that afterwards," I answered. "Come home with me now, and +have some refreshment." + +"Na, I thank ye. I hae putten ye to eneuch o' tribble already. I'll jist +awa' hame." + +"We are going to lay them down this evening. You won't go before the +funeral. Indeed, I think you can't get away till Monday morning. My wife +and I will be glad of your company till then." + +"I'm no company for gentle-fowk, sir." + +"Come and show me in which of these graves you would like to have her +laid," I said. + +He yielded and followed me. + +Coombes had not dug many spadefuls before he saw what had been plain +enough--that ten such men as he could not dig the graves in time. But there +was plenty of help to be had from the village and the neighbouring farms. +Most of them were now ready, but a good many men were still at work. The +brown hillocks lay all about the church-yard--the mole-heaps of burrowing +Death. + +The stranger looked around him. His face grew critical. He stepped a little +hither and thither. At length he turned to me and said-- + +"I wadna like to be greedy; but gin ye wad lat her lie next the kirk +there--i' that neuk, I wad tak' it kindly. And syne gin ever it cam' aboot +that I cam' here again, I wad ken whaur she was. Could ye get a sma' bit +heidstane putten up? I wad leave the siller wi' ye to pay for't." + +"To be sure I can. What will you have put on the stone?" + +"Ow jist--let me see--Maggie Jamieson--nae Marget, but jist Maggie. She was +aye Maggie at home. Maggie Jamieson, frae her father. It's the last thing I +can gie her. Maybe ye micht put a verse o' Scripter aneath't, ye ken." + +"What verse would you like?" + +He thought for a little. + +"Isna there a text that says, 'The deid shall hear his voice'?" + +"Yes: 'The dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God.'" + +"Ay. That's it. Weel, jist put that on.--They canna do better than hear his +voice," he added, with a strange mixture of Scotch ratiocination. + +I led the way home, and he accompanied me without further objection or +apology. After dinner, I proposed that we should go upon the downs, for the +day was warm and bright. We sat on the grass. I felt that I could not talk +to them as from myself. I knew nothing of the possible gulfs of sorrow in +their hearts. To me their forms seemed each like a hill in whose unseen +bosom lay a cavern of dripping waters, perhaps with a subterranean torrent +of anguish raving through its hollows and tumbling down hidden precipices, +whose voice God only heard, and God only could still. This daughter +_might_, though from her face I did not think it, have gone away against +her father's will. That son _might_ have been a ne'er-do-well at home--how +could I tell? The woman _might_ be looking for the lover that had forsaken +her--I could not divine. I would speak no words of my own. The Son of +God had spoken words of comfort to his mourning friends, when he was the +present God and they were the forefront of humanity; I would read some of +the words he spoke. From them the human nature in each would draw what +comfort it could. I took my New Testament from my pocket, and said, without +any preamble, + +"When our Lord was going to die, he knew that his friends loved him enough +to be very wretched about it. He knew that they would be overwhelmed for a +time with trouble. He knew, too, that they could not believe the glad end +of it all, to which end he looked, across the awful death that awaited +him--a death to which that of our friends in the wreck was ease itself. I +will just read to you what he said." + +I read from the fourteenth to the seventeenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. +I knew there were worlds of meaning in the words into which I could hardly +hope any of them would enter. But I knew likewise that the best things are +just those from which the humble will draw the truth they are capable of +seeing. Therefore I read as for myself, and left it to them to hear for +themselves. Nor did I add any word of comment, fearful of darkening counsel +by words without knowledge. For the Bible is awfully set against what is +not wise. + +When I had finished, I closed the book, rose from the grass, and walked +towards the brow of the shore. They rose likewise and followed me. I talked +of slight things; the tone was all that communicated between us. But little +of any sort was said. The sea lay still before us, knowing nothing of the +sorrow it had caused. + +We wandered a little way along the cliff. The burial-service was at seven +o'clock. + +"I have an invalid to visit out in this direction," I said; "would you mind +walking with me? I shall not stay more than five minutes, and we shall get +back just in time for tea." + +They assented kindly. I walked first with one, then with another; heard a +little of the story of each; was able to say a few words of sympathy, and +point, as it were, a few times towards the hills whence cometh our aid. I +may just mention here, that since our return to Marshmallows I have had two +of them, the young woman and the Scotchman, to visit us there. + +The bell began to toll, and we went to church. My companions placed +themselves near the dead. I went into the vestry till the appointed hour. +I thought as I put on my surplice how, in all religions but the Christian, +the dead body was a pollution to the temple. Here the church received it, +as a holy thing, for a last embrace ere it went to the earth. + +As the dead were already in the church, the usual form could not be carried +out. I therefore stood by the communion-table, and there began to read, "I +am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, +though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth +in me shall never die." + +I advanced, as I read, till I came outside the rails and stood before the +dead. There I read the Psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our refuge," and +the glorious lesson, "Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the +first-fruits of them that slept." Then the men of the neighbourhood came +forward, and in long solemn procession bore the bodies out of the church, +each to its grave. At the church-door I stood and read, "Man that is born +of a woman;" then went from one to another of the graves, and read over +each, as the earth fell on the coffin-lid, "Forasmuch as it hath pleased +Almighty God, of his great mercy." Then again, I went back to the +church-door and read, "I heard a voice from heaven;" and so to the end of +the service. + +Leaving the men to fill up the graves, I hastened to lay aside my +canonicals, that I might join my guests; but my wife and daughter had +already prevailed on them to leave the churchyard. + +A word now concerning my own family. Turner insisted on Connie's remaining +in bed for two or three days. She looked worse in face--pale and worn; but +it was clear, from the way she moved in bed, that the fresh power called +forth by the shock had not vanished with the moment. + +Wynnie was quieter almost than ever; but there was a constant _secret_ +light, if I may use the paradox, in her eyes. Percivale was at the +house every day, always ready to make himself useful. My wife bore up +wonderfully. As yet the much greater catastrophe had come far short of the +impression made by the less. When quieter hours should come, however, I +could not help fearing that the place would be dreadfully painful to +all but the younger ones, who, of course, had the usual child-gift of +forgetting. The servants--even Walter--looked thin and anxious. + +That Saturday night I found myself, as I had once or twice found myself +before, entirely unprepared to preach. I did not feel anxious, because I +did not feel that I was to blame: I had been so much occupied. I had again +and again turned my thoughts thitherward, but nothing recommended itself to +me so that I could say "I must take that;" nothing said plainly, "This is +what you have to speak of." + +As often as I had sought to find fitting matter for my sermon, my mind +had turned to death and the grave; but I shrunk from every suggestion, or +rather nothing had come to me that interested myself enough to justify me +in giving it to my people. And I always took it as my sole justification, +in speaking of anything to the flock of Christ, that I cared heartily in my +own soul for that thing. Without this consciousness I was dumb. And I do +think, highly as I value prophecy, that a clergyman ought to be at liberty +upon occasion to say, "My friends, I cannot preach to-day." What a riddance +it would be for the Church, I do not say if every priest were to speak +sense, but only if every priest were to abstain from speaking of that in +which, at the moment, he feels little or no interest! + +I went to bed, which is often the very best thing a man can do; for sleep +will bring him from God that which no effort of his own will can compass. +I have read somewhere--I will verify it by present search--that Luther's +translation, of the verse in the psalm, "So he giveth to his beloved +sleep," is, "He giveth his beloved sleeping," or while asleep. Yes, so it +is, literally, in English, "It is in vain that ye rise early, and then +sit long, and eat your bread with care, for to his friends he gives it +sleeping." This was my experience in the present instance; for the thought +of which I was first conscious when I awoke was, "Why should I talk about +death? Every man's heart is now full of death. We have enough of that--even +the sum that God has sent us on the wings of the tempest. What I have to +do, as the minister of the new covenant, is to speak of life." It flashed +in on my mind: "Death is over and gone. The resurrection comes next. I will +speak of the raising of Lazarus." + +The same moment I knew that I was ready to speak. Shall I or shall I not +give my reader the substance of what I said? I wish I knew how many of them +would like it, and how many would not. I do not want to bore them with +sermons, especially seeing I have always said that no sermons ought to +be printed; for in print they are but what the old alchymists would have +called a _caput mortuum_, or death's head, namely, a lifeless lump of +residuum at the bottom of the crucible; for they have no longer the living +human utterance which gives all the power on the minds of the hearers. But +I have not, either in this or in my preceding narrative, attempted to give +a sermon as I preached it. I have only sought to present the substance of +it in a form fitter for being read, somewhat cleared of the unavoidable, +let me say necessary--yes, I will say _valuable_--repetitions and +enforcements by which the various considerations are pressed upon the minds +of the hearers. These are entirely wearisome in print--useless too, for +the reader may ponder over every phrase till he finds out the purport of +it--if indeed there be such readers nowadays. + +I rose, went down to the bath in the rocks, had a joyous physical ablution, +and a swim up and down the narrow cleft, from which I emerged as if myself +newly born or raised anew, and then wandered about on the downs full of +hope and thankfulness, seeking all I could to plant deep in my mind the +long-rooted truths of resurrection, that they might be not only ready to +blossom in the warmth of the spring-tides to come, but able to send out +some leaves and promissory buds even in the wintry time of the soul, when +the fogs of pain steam up from the frozen clay soil of the body, and make +the monarch-will totter dizzily upon his throne, to comfort the eyes of the +bewildered king, reminding him that the King of kings hath conquered Death +and the Grave. There is no perfect faith that cannot laugh at winters and +graveyards, and all the whole array of defiant appearances. The fresh +breeze of the morning visited me. "O God," I said in my heart, "would that +when the dark day comes, in which I can feel nothing, I may be able to +front it with the memory of this day's strength, and so help myself to +trust in the Father! I would call to mind the days of old, with David the +king." + +When I returned to the house, I found that one of the sailors, who had been +cast ashore with his leg broken, wished to see me. I obeyed, and found him +very pale and worn. + +"I think I am going, sir," he said; "and I wanted to see you before I die." + +"Trust in Christ, and do not be afraid," I returned. + +"I prayed to him to save me when I was hanging to the rigging, and if I +wasn't afraid then, I'm not going to be afraid now, dying quietly in my +bed. But just look here, sir." + +He took from under his pillow something wrapped up in paper, unfolded the +envelope, and showed a lump of something--I could not at first tell what. +He put it in my hand, and then I saw that it was part of a bible, with +nearly the upper half of it worn or cut away, and the rest partly in a +state of pulp. + +"That's the bible my mother gave me when I left home first," he said. "I +don't know how I came to put it in my pocket, but I think the rope that cut +through that when I was lashed to the shrouds would a'most have cut through +my ribs if it hadn't been for it." + +"Very likely," I returned. "The body of the Bible has saved your bodily +life: may the spirit of it save your spiritual life." + +"I think I know what you mean, sir," he panted out. "My mother was a good +woman, and I know she prayed to God for me." + +"Would you like us to pray for you in church to-day?" + +"If you please, sir; me and Bob Fox. He's nearly as bad as I am." + +"We won't forget you," I said. "I will come in after church and see how you +are." + +I knelt and offered the prayers for the sick, and then took my leave. I did +not think the poor fellow was going to die. + +I may as well mention here, that he has been in my service ever since. We +took him with us to Marshmallows, where he works in the garden and stables, +and is very useful. We have to look after him though, for his health +continues delicate. + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE SERMON. + + + + + +When I stood up to preach, I gave them no text; but, with the eleventh +chapter of the Gospel of St. John open before me, to keep me correct, I +proceeded to tell the story in the words God gave me; for who can dare to +say that he makes his own commonest speech? + +"When Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and therefore our elder brother, +was going about on the earth, eating and drinking with his brothers and +sisters, there was one family he loved especially--a family of two sisters +and a brother; for, although he loves everybody as much as they can be +loved, there are some who can be loved more than others. Only God is always +trying to make us such that we can be loved more and more. There are +several stories--O, such lovely stories!--about that family and Jesus; and +we have to do with one of them now. + +"They lived near the capital of the country, Jerusalem, in a village they +called Bethany; and it must have been a great relief to our Lord, when he +was worn out with the obstinacy and pride of the great men of the city, to +go out to the quiet little town and into the refuge of Lazarus's house, +where everyone was more glad at the sound of his feet than at any news that +could come to them. + +"They had at this time behaved so ill to him in Jerusalem--taking up stones +to stone him even, though they dared not quite do it, mad with anger as +they were--and all because he told them the truth--that he had gone away to +the other side of the great river that divided the country, and taught the +people in that quiet place. While he was there his friend Lazarus was taken +ill; and the two sisters, Martha and Mary, sent a messenger to him, to say +to him, 'Lord, your friend is very ill.' Only they said it more beautifully +than that: 'Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick.' You know, when +anyone is ill, we always want the person whom he loves most to come to him. +This is very wonderful. In the worst things that can come to us the first +thought is of love. People, like the Scribes and Pharisees, might say, +'What good can that do him?' And we may not in the least suppose that the +person we want knows any secret that can cure his pain; yet love is the +first thing we think of. And here we are more right than we know; for, at +the long last, love will cure everything: which truth, indeed, this story +will set forth to us. No doubt the heart of Lazarus, ill as he was, longed +after his friend; and, very likely, even the sight of Jesus might have +given him such strength that the life in him could have driven out the +death which had already got one foot across the threshold. But the sisters +expected more than this: they believed that Jesus, whom they knew to have +driven disease and death out of so many hearts, had only to come and touch +him--nay, only to speak a word, to look at him, and their brother was +saved. Do you think they presumed in thus expecting? The fact was, they did +not believe enough; they had not yet learned to believe that he could cure +him all the same whether he came to them or not, because he was always with +them. We cannot understand this; but our understanding is never a measure +of what is true. + +"Whether Jesus knew exactly all that was going to take place I cannot tell. +Some people may feel certain upon points that I dare not feel certain upon. +One thing I am sure of: that he did not always know everything beforehand, +for he said so himself. It is infinitely more valuable to us, because more +beautiful and godlike in him, that he should trust his Father than that he +should foresee everything. At all events he knew that his Father did not +want him to go to his friends yet. So he sent them a message to the effect +that there was a particular reason for this sickness--that the end of it +was not the death of Lazarus, but the glory of God. This, I think, he told +them by the same messenger they sent to him; and then, instead of going to +them, he remained where he was. + +"But O, my friends, what shall I say about this wonderful message? Think of +being sick for the glory of God! of being shipwrecked for the glory of God! +of being drowned for the glory of God! How can the sickness, the fear, the +broken-heartedness of his creatures be for the glory of God? What kind of +a God can that be? Why just a God so perfectly, absolutely good, that the +things that look least like it are only the means of clearing our eyes to +let us see how good he is. For he is so good that he is not satisfied with +_being_ good. He loves his children, so that except he can make them good +like himself, make them blessed by seeing how good he is, and desiring the +same goodness in themselves, he is not satisfied. He is not like a fine +proud benefactor, who is content with doing that which will satisfy his +sense of his own glory, but like a mother who puts her arm round her child, +and whose heart is sore till she can make her child see the love which is +her glory. The glorification of the Son of God is the glorification of the +human race; for the glory of God is the glory of man, and that glory is +love. Welcome sickness, welcome sorrow, welcome death, revealing that +glory! + +"The next two verses sound very strangely together, and yet they almost +seem typical of all the perplexities of God's dealings. The old painters +and poets represented Faith as a beautiful woman, holding in her hand a cup +of wine and water, with a serpent coiled up within. Highhearted Faith! +she scruples not to drink of the life-giving wine and water; she is not +repelled by the upcoiled serpent. The serpent she takes but for the type of +the eternal wisdom that looks repellent because it is not understood. The +wine is good, the water is good; and if the hand of the supreme Fate put +that cup in her hand, the serpent itself must be good too,--harmless, at +least, to hurt the truth of the water and the wine. But let us read the +verses. + +"'Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. When he had heard +therefore that he was sick, he abode two days still in the same place where +he was.' + +"Strange! his friend was sick: he abode two days where he was! But remember +what we have already heard. The glory of God was infinitely more for the +final cure of a dying Lazarus, who, give him all the life he could have, +would yet, without that glory, be in death, than the mere presence of the +Son of God. I say _mere_ presence, for, compared with the glory of God, the +very presence of his Son, so dissociated, is nothing. He abode where he was +that the glory of God, the final cure of humanity, the love that triumphs +over death, might shine out and redeem the hearts of men, so that death +could not touch them. + +"After the two days, the hour had arrived. He said to his disciples, 'Let +us go back to Judaea.' They expostulated, because of the danger, saying, +'Master, the Jews of late sought to stone thee; and goest thou thither +again?' The answer which he gave them I am not sure whether I can +thoroughly understand; but I think, in fact I know, it must bear on the +same region of life--the will of God. I think what he means by walking +in the day is simply doing the will of God. That was the sole, the +all-embracing light in which Jesus ever walked. I think he means that now +he saw plainly what the Father wanted him to do. If he did not see that the +Father wanted him to go back to Judaea, and yet went, that would be to +go stumblingly, to walk in the darkness. There are twelve hours in the +day--one time to act--a time of light and the clear call of duty; there is +a night when a man, not seeing where or hearing how, must be content to +rest. Something not inharmonious with this, I think, he must have intended; +but I do not see the whole thought clearly enough to be sure that I am +right. I do think, further, that it points at a clearer condition of human +vision and conviction than I am good enough to understand; though I hope +one day to rise into this upper stratum of light. + +"Whether his scholars had heard anything of Lazarus yet, I do not know. It +looks a little as if Jesus had not told them the message he had had from +the sisters. But he told them now that he was asleep, and that he was going +to wake him. You would think they might have understood this. The idea of +going so many miles to wake a man might have surely suggested death. But +the disciples were sorely perplexed with many of his words. Sometimes they +looked far away for the meaning when the meaning lay in their very hearts; +sometimes they looked into their hands for it when it was lost in the +grandeur of the ages. But he meant them to see into all that he said by +and by, although they could not see into it now. When they understood him +better, then they would understand what he said better. And to understand +him better they must be more like him; and to make them more like him he +must go away and give them his spirit--awful mystery which no man but +himself can understand. + +"Now he had to tell them plainly that Lazarus was dead. They had not +thought of death as a sleep. I suppose this was altogether a new and +Christian idea. Do not suppose that it applied more to Lazarus than to +other dead people. He was none the less dead that Jesus meant to take a +weary two days' journey to his sepulchre and wake him. If death is not a +sleep, Jesus did not speak the truth when he said Lazarus slept. You may +say it was a figure; but a figure that is not like the thing it figures is +simply a lie. + +"They set out to go back to Judaea. Here we have a glimpse of the faith of +Thomas, the doubter. For a doubter is not without faith. The very fact +that he doubts, shows that he has some faith. When I find anyone hard upon +doubters, I always doubt the _quality_ of his faith. It is of little use to +have a great cable, if the hemp is so poor that it breaks like the painter +of a boat. I have known people whose power of believing chiefly consisted +in their incapacity for seeing difficulties. Of what fine sort a faith must +be that is founded in stupidity, or far worse, in indifference to the truth +and the mere desire to get out of hell! That is not a grand belief in the +Son of God, the radiation of the Father. Thomas's want of faith was shown +in the grumbling, self-pitying way in which he said, 'Let us also go that +we may die with him.' His Master had said that he was going to wake +him. Thomas said, 'that we may die with him.' You may say, 'He did not +understand him.' True, it may be, but his unbelief was the cause of his not +understanding him. I suppose Thomas meant this as a reproach to Jesus for +putting them all in danger by going back to Judaea; if not, it was only a +poor piece of sentimentality. So much for Thomas's unbelief. But he had +good and true faith notwithstanding; for _he went with his Master_. + +"By the time they reached the neighbourhood of Bethany, Lazarus had been +dead four days. Someone ran to the house and told the sisters that Jesus +was coming. Martha, as soon as she heard it, rose and went to meet him. +It might be interesting at another time to compare the difference of the +behaviour of the two sisters upon this occasion with the difference of +their behaviour upon another occasion, likewise recorded; but with the man +dead in his sepulchre, and the hope dead in these two hearts, we have no +inclination to enter upon fine distinctions of character. Death and grief +bring out the great family likenesses in the living as well as in the dead. + +"When Martha came to Jesus, she showed her true though imperfect faith by +almost attributing her brother's death to Jesus' absence. But even in the +moment, looking in the face of the Master, a fresh hope, a new budding of +faith, began in her soul. She thought--'What if, after all, he were +to bring him to life again!' O, trusting heart, how thou leavest the +dull-plodding intellect behind thee! While the conceited intellect is +reasoning upon the impossibility of the thing, the expectant faith beholds +it accomplished. Jesus, responding instantly to her faith, granting her +half-born prayer, says, 'Thy brother shall rise again;' not meaning the +general truth recognised, or at least assented to by all but the Sadducees, +concerning the final resurrection of the dead, but meaning, 'Be it unto +thee as thou wilt. I will raise him again.' For there is no steering for a +fine effect in the words of Jesus. But these words are too good for Martha +to take them as he meant them. Her faith is not quite equal to the belief +that he actually will do it. The thing she could hope for afar off she +could hardly believe when it came to her very door. 'O, yes,' she said, her +mood falling again to the level of the commonplace, 'of course, at the last +day.' Then the Lord turns away her thoughts from the dogmas of her faith +to himself, the Life, saying, 'I am the resurrection and the life: he that +believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever +liveth and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this ?' Martha, +without understanding what he said more than in a very poor part, answered +in words which preserved her honesty entire, and yet included all he asked, +and a thousandfold more than she could yet believe: 'Yea, Lord; I believe +that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the +world.' + +"I dare not pretend to have more than a grand glimmering of the truth of +Jesus' words 'shall never die;' but I am pretty sure that when Martha came +to die, she found that there was indeed no such thing as she had meant when +she used the ghastly word _death_, and said with her first new breath, +'Verily, Lord, I am not dead.' + +"But look how this declaration of her confidence in the Christ operated +upon herself. She instantly thought of her sister; the hope that the Lord +would do something swelled within her, and, leaving Jesus, she went to find +Mary. Whoever has had a true word with the elder brother, straightway +will look around him to find his brother, his sister. The family feeling +blossoms: he wants his friend to share the glory withal. Martha wants Mary +to go to Jesus too. + +"Mary heard her, forgot her visitors, rose, and went. They thought she went +to the grave: she went to meet its conqueror. But when she came to him, the +woman who had chosen the good part praised of Jesus, had but the same words +to embody her hope and her grief that her careful and troubled sister had +uttered a few minutes before. How often during those four days had not the +self-same words passed between them! 'Ah, if he had been here, our brother +had not died!' She said so to himself now, and wept, and her friends who +had followed her wept likewise. A moment more, and the Master groaned; yet +a moment, and he too wept. 'Sorrow is catching;' but this was not the mere +infection of sorrow. It went deeper than mere sympathy; for he groaned in +his spirit and was troubled. What made him weep? It was when he saw them +weeping that he wept. But why should he weep, when he knew how soon their +weeping would be turned into rejoicing? It was not for their weeping, so +soon to be over, that he wept, but for the human heart everywhere swollen +with tears, yea, with griefs that can find no such relief as tears; for +these, and for all his brothers and sisters tormented with pain for lack of +faith in his Father in heaven, Jesus wept. He saw the blessed well-being +of Lazarus on the one side, and on the other the streaming eyes from whose +sight he had vanished. The veil between was so thin! yet the sight of those +eyes could not pierce it: their hearts must go on weeping--without cause, +for his Father was so good. I think it was the helplessness he felt in +the impossibility of at once sweeping away the phantasm death from their +imagination that drew the tears from the eyes of Jesus. Certainly it was +not for Lazarus; it could hardly be for these his friends--save as they +represented the humanity which he would help, but could not help even as he +was about to help them. + +"The Jews saw herein proof that he loved Lazarus; but they little thought +it was for them and their people, and for the Gentiles whom they despised, +that his tears were now flowing--that the love which pressed the fountains +of his weeping was love for every human heart, from Adam on through the +ages. + +"Some of them went a little farther, nearly as far as the sisters, saying, +'Could he not have kept the man from dying?' But it was such a poor thing, +after all, that they thought he might have done. They regarded merely this +unexpected illness, this early death; for I daresay Lazarus was not much +older than Jesus. They did not think that, after all, Lazarus must die some +time; that the beloved could be saved, at best, only for a little while. +Jesus seems to have heard the remark, for he again groaned in himself. + +"Meantime they were drawing near the place where he was buried. It was a +hollow in the face of a rock, with a stone laid against it. I suppose the +bodies were laid on something like shelves inside the rock, as they are in +many sepulchres. They were not put into coffins, but wound round and round +with linen. + +"When they came before the door of death, Jesus said to them, 'Take away +the stone.' The nature of Martha's reply--the realism of it, as they would +say now-a-days--would seem to indicate that her dawning faith had sunk +again below the horizon, that in the presence of the insignia of death, her +faith yielded, even as the faith of Peter failed him when he saw around him +the grandeur of the high-priest, and his Master bound and helpless. Jesus +answered--O, what an answer!--To meet the corruption and the stink which +filled her poor human fancy, 'the glory of God' came from his lips: human +fear; horror speaking from the lips of a woman in the very jaws of the +devouring death; and the 'said I not unto thee?' from the mouth of him who +was so soon to pass worn and bloodless through such a door! 'He stinketh,' +said Martha. 'The glory of God,' said Jesus. 'Said I not unto thee, that, +if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?' + +"Before the open throat of the sepulchre Jesus began to speak to his Father +aloud. He had prayed to him in his heart before, most likely while he +groaned in his spirit. Now he thanked him that he had comforted him, and +given him Lazarus as a first-fruit from the dead. But he will be true to +the listening people as well as to his ever-hearing Father; therefore he +tells why he said the word of thanks aloud--a thing not usual with him, for +his Father was always hearing, him. Having spoken it for the people, he +would say that it was for the people. + +"The end of it all was that they might believe that God had sent him--a far +grander gift than having the dearest brought back from the grave; for he is +the life of men. + +"'Lazarus, come forth!" + +"And Lazarus came forth, creeping helplessly with inch-long steps of his +linen-bound limbs. 'Ha, ha! brother, sister!' cries the human heart. The +Lord of Life hath taken the prey from the spoiler; he hath emptied the +grave. Here comes the dead man, welcome as never was child from the +womb--new-born, and in him all the human race new-born from the grave! +'Loose him and let him go,' and the work is done. The sorrow is over, and +the joy is come. Home, home, Martha, Mary, with your Lazarus! He too will +go with you, the Lord of the Living. Home and get the feast ready, Martha! +Prepare the food for him who comes hungry from the grave, for him who has +called him thence. Home, Mary, to help Martha! What a household will yours +be! What wondrous speech will pass between the dead come to life and the +living come to die! + +"But what pang is this that makes Lazarus draw hurried breath, and turns +Martha's cheek so pale? Ah, at the little window of the heart the pale eyes +of the defeated Horror look in. What! is he there still! Ah, yes, he will +come for Martha, come for Mary, come yet again for Lazarus--yea, come for +the Lord of Life himself, and carry all away. But look at the Lord: he +knows all about it, and he smiles. Does Martha think of the words he spoke, +'He that liveth and believeth in me shall never die'? Perhaps she does, +and, like the moon before the sun, her face returns the smile of her Lord. + +"This, my friends, is a fancy in form, but it embodies a dear truth. What +is it to you and me that he raised Lazarus? We are not called upon to +believe that he will raise from the tomb that joy of our hearts which lies +buried there beyond our sight. Stop! Are we not? We are called upon to +believe this; else the whole story were for us a poor mockery. What is it +to us that the Lord raised Lazarus?--Is it nothing to know that our Brother +is Lord over the grave? Will the harvest be behind the first-fruits? If he +tells us he cannot, for good reasons, raise up our vanished love to-day, or +to-morrow, or for all the years of our life to come, shall we not mingle +the smile of faithful thanks with the sorrow of present loss, and walk +diligently waiting? That he called forth Lazarus showed that he was in his +keeping, that he is Lord of the living, and that all live to him, that he +has a hold of them, and can draw them forth when he will. If this is not +true, then the raising of Lazarus is false; I do not mean merely false in +fact, but false in meaning. If we believe in him, then in his name, both +for ourselves and for our friends, we must deny death and believe in life. +Lord Christ, fill our hearts with thy Life!" + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +CHANGED PLANS. + + + + + +In a day or two Connie was permitted to rise and take to her couch once +more. It seemed strange that she should look so much worse, and yet be so +much stronger. The growth of her power of motion was wonderful. As they +carried her, she begged to be allowed to put her feet to the ground. Turner +yielded, though without quite ceasing to support her. He was satisfied, +however, that she could have stood upright for a moment at least. He would +not, of course, risk it, and made haste to lay her down. + +The time of his departure was coming near, and he seemed more anxious the +nearer it came; for Connie continued worn-looking and pale; and her smile, +though ever ready to greet me when I entered, had lost much of its light. I +noticed, too, that she had the curtain of her window constantly so arranged +as to shut out the sea. I said something to her about it once. Her reply +was: + +"Papa, I can't bear it. I know it is very silly; but I think I can make you +understand how it is: I was so fond of the sea when I came down; it seemed +to lie close to my window, with a friendly smile ready for me every morning +when I looked out. I daresay it is all from want of faith, but I can't help +it: it looks so far away now, like a friend that had failed me, that I +would rather not see it." + +I saw that the struggling life within her was grievously oppressed, that +the things which surrounded her were no longer helpful. Her life had been +driven as to its innermost cave; and now, when it had been enticed to +venture forth and look abroad, a sudden pall had descended upon nature. I +could not help thinking that the good of our visit to Kilkhaven had come, +and that evil, from which I hoped we might yet escape, was following. I +left her, and sought Turner. + +"It strikes me, Turner," I said, "that the sooner we get out of this the +better for Connie." + +"I am quite of your opinion. I think the very prospect of leaving the place +would do something to restore her. If she is so uncomfortable now, think +what it will be in the many winter nights at hand." + +"Do you think it would be safe to move her?" + +"Far safer than to let her remain. At the worst, she is now far better than +when she came. Try her. Hint at the possibility of going home, and see how +she will take it." + +"Well, I sha'n't like to be left alone; but if she goes they must all go, +except, perhaps, I might keep Wynnie. But I don't know how her mother would +get on without her." + +"I don't see why you should stay behind. Mr. Weir would be as glad to come +as you would be to go; and it can make no difference to Mr. Shepherd." + +It seemed a very sensible suggestion. I thought a moment. Certainly it was +a desirable thing for both my sister and her husband. They had no such +reasons as we had for disliking the place; and it would enable her to avoid +the severity of yet another winter. I said as much to Turner, and went back +to Connie's room. + +The light of a lovely sunset was lying outside her window. She was sitting +so that she could not see it. I would find out her feeling in the matter +without any preamble. + +"Would you like to go back to Marshmallows, Connie?" I asked. + +Her countenance flashed into light. + +"O, dear papa, do let us go," she said; "that would be delightful." + +"Well, I think we can manage it, if you will only get a little stronger for +the journey. The weather is not so good to travel in as when we came down." + +"No; but I am ever so much better, you know, than I was then." + +The poor girl was already stronger from the mere prospect of going home +again. She moved restlessly on her couch, half mechanically put her hand to +the curtain, pulled it aside, looked out, faced the sun and the sea, and +did not draw back. My mind was made up. I left her, and went to find +Ethelwyn. She heartily approved of the proposal for Connie's sake, and said +that it would be scarcely less agreeable to herself. I could see a certain +troubled look above her eyes, however. + +"You are thinking of Wynnie," I said. + +"Yes. It is hard to make one sad for the sake of the rest." + +"True. But it is one of the world's recognised necessities." + +"No doubt." + +"Besides, you don't suppose Percivale can stay here the whole winter. They +must part some time." + +"Of course. Only they did not expect it so soon." + +But here my wife was mistaken. + +I went to my study to write to Weir. I had hardly finished my letter when +Walter came to say that Mr. Percivale wished to see me. I told him to show +him in. + +"I am just writing home to say that I want my curate to change places with +me here, which I know he will be glad enough to do. I see Connie had better +go home." + +"You will all go, then, I presume?" returned Percivale. + +"Yes, yes; of course." + +"Then I need not so much regret that I can stay no longer. I came to tell +you that I must leave to-morrow." + +"Ah! Going to London?" + +"Yes. I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness. You have made my +summer something like a summer; very different, indeed, from what it would +otherwise have been." + +"We have had our share of advantage, and that a large one. We are all glad +to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Percivale." + +He made no answer. + +"We shall be passing through London within a week or ten days in all +probability. Perhaps you will allow us the pleasure of looking at some of +your pictures then?" + +His face flushed. What did the flush mean? It was not one of mere pleasure. +There was confusion and perplexity in it. But he answered at once: + +"I will show you them with pleasure. I fear, however, you will not care for +them." + +Would this fear account for his embarrassment? I hardly thought it would; +but I could not for a moment imagine, with his fine form and countenance +before me, that he had any serious reason for shrinking from a visit. + +He began to search for a card. + +"O, I have your address. I shall be sure to pay you a visit. But you will +dine with us to-day, of course?" I said. + +"I shall have much pleasure," he answered; and took his leave. + +I finished my letter to Weir, and went out for a walk. + +I remember particularly the thoughts that moved in me and made that walk +memorable. Indeed, I think I remember all outside events chiefly by virtue +of the inward conditions with which they were associated. Mere outside +things I am very ready to forget. Moods of my own mind do not so readily +pass away; and with the memory of some of them every outward circumstance +returns; for a man's life is where the kingdom of heaven is--within him. +There are people who, if you ask the story of their lives, have nothing to +tell you but the course of the outward events that have constituted, as it +were, the clothes of their history. But I know, at the same time, that some +of the most important crises in my own history (by which word _history_ I +mean my growth towards the right conditions of existence) have been beyond +the grasp and interpretation of my intellect. They have passed, as it were, +without my consciousness being awake enough to lay hold of their phenomena. +The wind had been blowing; I had heard the sound of it, but knew not whence +it came nor whither it went; only, when it was gone, I found myself more +responsible, more eager than before. + +I remember this walk from the thoughts I had about the great change hanging +over us all. I had now arrived at the prime of middle life; and that change +which so many would escape if they could, but which will let no man pass, +had begun to show itself a real fact upon the horizon of the future. Death +looks so far away to the young, that while they acknowledge it unavoidable, +the path stretches on in such vanishing perspective before them, that they +see no necessity for thinking about the end of it yet; and far would I be +from saying they ought to think of it. Life is the true object of a man's +care: there is no occasion to make himself think about death. But when +the vision of the inevitable draws nigh, when it appears plainly on the +horizon, though but as a cloud the size of a man's hand, then it is equally +foolish to meet it by refusing to meet it, to answer the questions that +will arise by declining to think about them. Indeed, it is a question of +life then, and not of death. We want to keep fast hold of our life, and, in +the strength of that, to look the threatening death in the face. But to my +walk that morning. + +I wandered on the downs till I came to the place where a solitary rock +stands on the top of a cliff looking seaward, in the suggested shape of a +monk praying. On the base on which he knelt I seated myself, and looked out +over the Atlantic. How faded the ocean appeared! It seemed as if all the +sunny dyes of the summer had been diluted and washed with the fogs of the +coming winter, when I thought of the splendour it wore when first from +these downs I gazed on the outspread infinitude of space and colour. + +"What," I said to myself at length, "has she done since then? Where is +her work visible? She has riven, and battered, and destroyed, and her +destruction too has passed away. So worketh Time and its powers! The +exultation of my youth is gone; my head is gray; my wife is growing old; +our children are pushing us from our stools; we are yielding to the new +generation; the glory for us hath departed; our life lies weary before us +like that sea; and the night cometh when we can no longer work." + +Something like this was passing vaguely through my mind. I sat in a +mournful stupor, with a half-consciousness that my mood was false, and that +I ought to rouse myself and shake it off. There is such a thing as a state +of moral dreaming, which closely resembles the intellectual dreaming in +sleep. I went on in this false dreamful mood, pitying myself like a child +tender over his hurt and nursing his own cowardice, till, all at once, "a +little pipling wind" blew on my cheek. The morning was very still: what +roused that little wind I cannot tell; but what that little wind roused I +will try to tell. With that breath on my cheek, something within me began +to stir. It grew, and grew, until the memory of a certain glorious sunset +of red and green and gold and blue, which I had beheld from these same +heights, dawned within me. I knew that the glory of my youth had not +departed, that the very power of recalling with delight that which I had +once felt in seeing, was proof enough of that; I knew that I could believe +in God all the night long, even if the night were long. And the next moment +I thought how I had been reviling in my fancy God's servant, the sea. To +how many vessels had she not opened a bounteous highway through the waters, +with labour, and food, and help, and ministration, glad breezes and +swelling sails, healthful struggle, cleansing fear and sorrow, yea, and +friendly death! Because she had been commissioned to carry this one or that +one, this hundred or that thousand of his own creatures from one world to +another, was I to revile the servant of a grand and gracious Master? It was +blameless in Connie to feel the late trouble so deeply that she could not +be glad: she had not had the experience of life, yea, of God, that I had +had; she must be helped from without. But for me, it was shameful that I, +who knew the heart of my Master, to whom at least he had so often shown his +truth, should ever be doleful and oppressed. Yet even me he had now helped +from within. The glory of existence as the child of the Infinite had +again dawned upon me. The first hour of the evening of my life had indeed +arrived; the shadows had begun to grow long--so long that I had begun to +mark their length; this last little portion of my history had vanished, +leaving its few gray ashes behind in the crucible of my life; and the final +evening must come, when all my life would lie behind me, and all the memory +of it return, with its mornings of gold and red, with its evenings of +purple and green; with its dashes of storm, and its foggy glooms; with its +white-winged aspirations, its dull-red passions, its creeping envies in +brown and black and earthy yellow. But from all the accusations of my +conscience, I would turn me to the Lord, for he was called Jesus because he +should save his people from their sins. Then I thought what a grand gift it +would be to give his people the power hereafter to fight the consequences +of their sins. Anyhow, I would trust the Father, who loved me with a +perfect love, to lead the soul he had made, had compelled to be, through +the gates of the death-birth, into the light of life beyond. I would cast +on him the care, humbly challenge him with the responsibility he had +himself undertaken, praying only for perfect confidence in him, absolute +submission to his will. + +I rose from my seat beside the praying monk, and walked on. The thought of +seeing my own people again filled me with gladness. I would leave those +I had here learned to love with regret; but I trusted I had taught them +something, and they had taught me much; therefore there could be no end +to our relation to each other--it could not be broken, for it was _in the +Lord_, which alone can give security to any tie. I should not, therefore, +sorrow as if I were to see their faces no more. + +I now took my farewell of that sea and those cliffs. I should see them +often ere we went, but I should not feel so near them again. Even this +parting said that I must "sit loose to the world"--an old Puritan phrase, +I suppose; that I could gather up only its uses, treasure its best things, +and must let all the rest go; that those things I called mine--earth, sky, +and sea, home, books, the treasured gifts of friends--had all to leave +me, belong to others, and help to educate them. I should not need them. I +should have my people, my souls, my beloved faces tenfold more, and could +well afford to part with these. Why should I mind this chain passing to +my eldest boy, when it was only his mother's hair, and I should have his +mother still? + +So my thoughts went on thinking themselves, until at length I yielded +passively to their flow. + +I found Wynnie looking very grave when I went into the drawing-room. Her +mother was there, too, and Mr. Percivale. It seemed rather a moody party. +They wakened up a little, however, after I entered, and before dinner was +over we were all chatting together merrily. + +"How is Connie?" I asked Ethelwyn. + +"Wonderfully better already," she answered. + +"I think everybody seems better," I said. "The very idea of home seems +reviving to us all." + +Wynnie darted a quick glance at me, caught my eyes, which was more than +she had intended, and blushed; sought refuge in a bewildered glance at +Percivale, caught his eye in turn, and blushed yet deeper. He plunged +instantly into conversation, not without a certain involuntary sparkle in +his eye. + +"Did you go to see Mrs. Stokes this morning?" he asked. + +"No," I answered. "She does not want much visiting now; she is going about +her work, apparently in good health. Her husband says she is not like the +same woman; and I hope he means that in more senses than one, though I do +not choose to ask him any questions about his wife." + +I did my best to keep up the conversation, but every now and then after +this it fell like a wind that would not blow. I withdrew to my study. +Percivale and Wynnie went out for a walk. The next morning he left by the +coach--early. Turner went with him. + +Wynnie did not seem very much dejected. I thought that perhaps the prospect +of meeting him again in London kept her up. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE STUDIO. + + + + + +I will not linger over our preparations or our leave-takings. The most +ponderous of the former were those of the two boys, who, as they had wanted +to bring down a chest as big as a corn-bin, full of lumber, now wanted to +take home two or three boxes filled with pebbles, great oystershells, and +sea-weed. + +Weir, as I had expected, was quite pleased to make the exchange. An early +day had been fixed for his arrival; for I thought it might be of service +to him to be introduced to the field of his labours. Before he came, I had +gone about among the people, explaining to them some of my reasons for +leaving them sooner than I had intended, and telling them a little about my +successor, that he might not appear among them quite as a stranger. He was +much gratified with their reception of him, and had no fear of not finding +himself quite at home with them. I promised, if I could comfortably manage +it, to pay them a short visit the following summer, and as the weather was +now getting quite cold, hastened our preparations for departure. + +I could have wished that Turner had been with us on the journey, but he +had been absent from his cure to the full extent that his conscience would +permit, and I had not urged him. He would be there to receive us, and we +had got so used to the management of Connie, that we did not feel much +anxiety about the travelling. We resolved, if she seemed strong enough as +we went along, to go right through to London, making a few days there the +only break in the transit. + +It was a bright, cold morning when we started. But Connie could now bear +the air so well, that we set out with the carriage open, nor had we +occasion to close it. The first part of our railway journey was very +pleasant. But when we drew near London, we entered a thick fog, and before +we arrived, a small dense November rain was falling. Connie looked a little +dispirited, partly from weariness, but no doubt from the change in the +weather. + +"Not very cheerful, this, Connie, my dear," I said. + +"No, papa," she answered; "but we are going home, you know." + +_Going home._ It set me thinking--as I had often been set thinking before, +always with fresh discovery and a new colour on the dawning sky of hope. I +lay back in the carriage and thought how the November fog this evening in +London, was the valley of the shadow of death we had to go through on the +way _home._ A. shadow like this would fall upon me; the world would grow +dark and life grow weary; but I should know it was the last of the way +home. + +Then I began to question myself wherein the idea of this home consisted. I +knew that my soul had ever yet felt the discomfort of strangeness, more or +less, in the midst of its greatest blessedness. I knew that as the thought +of water to the thirsty _soul_, for it is the soul far more than the body +that thirsts even for the material water, such is the thought of home to +the wanderer in a strange country. As the weary soul pines for sleep, and +every heart for the cure of its own bitterness, so my heart and soul had +often pined for their home. Did I know, I asked myself, where or what that +home was? It could consist in no change of place or of circumstance; no +mere absence of care; no accumulation of repose; no blessed communion even +with those whom my soul loved; in the midst of it all I should be longing +for a homelier home--one into which I might enter with a sense of +infinitely more absolute peace, than a conscious child could know in the +arms, upon the bosom of his mother. In the closest contact of human soul +with human soul, when all the atmosphere of thought was rosy with love, +again and yet again on the far horizon would the dun, lurid flame of unrest +shoot for a moment through the enchanted air, and Psyche would know that +not yet had she reached her home. As I thought this I lifted my eyes, and +saw those of my wife and Connie fixed on mine, as if they were reproaching +me for saying in my soul that I could not be quite at home with them. Then +I said in my heart, "Come home with me, beloved--there is but one home for +us all. When we find--in proportion as each of us finds--that home, shall +we be gardens of delight to each other--little chambers of rest--galleries +of pictures--wells of water." + +Again, what was this home? God himself. His thoughts, his will, his love, +his judgment, are man's home. To think his thoughts, to choose his will, to +love his loves, to judge his judgments, and thus to know that he is in us, +with us, is to be at home. And to pass through the valley of the shadow of +death is the way home, but only thus, that as all changes have hitherto +led us nearer to this home, the knowledge of God, so this greatest of all +outward changes--for it is but an outward change--will surely usher us into +a region where there will be fresh possibilities of drawing nigh in heart, +soul, and mind to the Father of us. It is the father, the mother, that make +for the child his home. Indeed, I doubt if the home-idea is complete to the +parents of a family themselves, when they remember that their fathers and +mothers have vanished. + +At this point something rose in me seeking utterance. + +"Won't it be delightful, wife," I began, "to see our fathers and mothers +such a long way back in heaven?" + +But Ethelwyn's face gave so little response, that I felt at once how +dreadful a thing it was not to have had a good father or mother. I do not +know what would have become of me but for a good father. I wonder how +anybody ever can be good that has not had a good father. How dreadful not +to be a good father or good mother! Every father who is not good, every +mother who is not good, just makes it as impossible to believe in God as +it can be made. But he is our one good Father, and does not leave us, even +should our fathers and mothers have thus forsaken us, and left him without +a witness. + +Here the evil odour of brick-burning invaded my nostrils, and I knew that +London was about us. A few moments after, we reached the station, where a +carriage was waiting to take us to our hotel. + +Dreary was the change from the stillness and sunshine of Kilkhaven to the +fog and noise of London; but Connie slept better that night than she had +slept for a good many nights before. + +After breakfast the next morning, I said to Wynnie, + +"I am going to see Mr. Percivale's studio, my dear: have you any objection +to going with me?" + +"No, papa," she answered, blushing. "I have never seen an artist's studio +in my life." + +"Come along, then. Get your bonnet at once. It rains, but we shall take a +cab, and it won't matter." + +She ran off, and was ready in a few minutes. We gave the driver directions, +and set off. It was a long drive. At length he stopped at the door of a +very common-looking house, in a very dreary-looking street, in which no man +could possibly identify his own door except by the number. I knocked. A +woman who looked at once dirty and cross, the former probably the cause of +the latter, opened the door, gave a bare assent to my question whether Mr. +Percivale was at home, withdrew to her den with the words "second-floor," +and left us to find our own way up the two flights of stairs. This, +however, involved no great difficulty. We knocked at the door of the front +room. A well-known voice cried, "Come in," and we entered. + +Percivale, in a short velvet coat, with his palette on his thumb, advanced +to meet us cordially. His face wore a slight flush, which I attributed +solely to pleasure, and nothing to any awkwardness in receiving us in such +a poor place as he occupied. I cast my eyes round the room. Any romantic +notions Wynnie might have indulged concerning the marvels of a studio, +must have paled considerably at the first glance around Percivale's +room--plainly the abode if not of poverty, then of self-denial, although I +suspected both. A common room, with no carpet save a square in front of the +fireplace; no curtains except a piece of something like drugget nailed +flat across all the lower half of the window to make the light fall from +upwards; two or three horsehair chairs, nearly worn out; a table in a +corner, littered with books and papers; a horrible lay-figure, at the +present moment dressed apparently for a scarecrow; a large easel, on which +stood a half-finished oil-painting--these constituted almost the whole +furniture of the room. With his pocket-handkerchief Percivale dusted one +chair for Wynnie and another for me. Then standing before us, he said: + +"This is a very shabby place to receive you in, Miss Walton, but it is all +I have got." + +"A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesses," +I ventured to say. + +"Thank you," said Percivale. "I hope not. It is well for me it should not." + +"It is well for the richest man in England that it should not," I returned. +"If it were not so, the man who could eat most would be the most blessed." + +"There are people, even of my acquaintance, however, who seem to think it +does." + +"No doubt; but happily their thinking so will not make it so even for +themselves." + +"Have you been very busy since you left us, Mr. Percivale?" asked Wynnie. + +"Tolerably," he answered. "But I have not much to show for it. That on the +easel is all. I hardly like to let you look at it, though." + +"Why?" asked Wynnie. + +"First, because the subject is painful. Next, because it is so unfinished +that none but a painter could do it justice." + +"But why should you paint subjects you would not like people to look at?" + +"I very much want people to look at them." + +"Why not us, then?" said Wynnie. + +"Because you do not need to be pained." + +"Are you sure it is good for you to pain anybody?" I said. + +"Good is done by pain--is it not?" he asked. + +"Undoubtedly. But whether _we_ are wise enough to know when and where and +how much, is the question." + +"Of course I do not make the pain my object." + +"If it comes only as a necessary accompaniment, that may alter the matter +greatly," I said. "But still I am not sure that anything in which the pain +predominates can be useful in the best way." + +"Perhaps not," he returned.--"Will you look at the daub?" + +"With much pleasure," I replied, and we rose and stood before the easel. +Percivale made no remark, but left us to find out what the picture meant. +Nor had I long to look before I understood it--in a measure at least. + +It represented a garret-room in a wretchedly ruinous condition. The plaster +had come away in several places, and through between the laths in one spot +hung the tail of a great rat. In a dark corner lay a man dying. A woman sat +by his side, with her eyes fixed, not on his face, though she held his hand +in hers, but on the open door, where in the gloom you could just see the +struggles of two undertaker's men to get the coffin past the turn of the +landing towards the door. Through the window there was one peep of the blue +sky, whence a ray of sunlight fell on the one scarlet blossom of a geranium +in a broken pot on the window-sill outside. + +"I do not wonder you did not like to show it," I said. "How can you bear to +paint such a dreadful picture?" + +"It is a true one. It only represents a fact." + +"All facts have not a right to be represented." + +"Surely you would not get rid of painful things by huddling them out of +sight?" + +"No; nor yet by gloating upon them." + +"You will believe me that it gives me anything but pleasure to paint such +pictures--as far as the subject goes," he said with some discomposure. + +"Of course. I know you well enough by this time to know that. But no one +could hang it on his wall who would not either gloat on suffering or grow +callous to it. Whence, then, would come the good I cannot doubt you propose +to yourself as your object in painting the picture? If it had come into my +possession, I would--" + +"Put it in the fire," suggested Percivale with a strange smile. + +"No. Still less would I sell it. I would hang it up with a curtain before +it, and only look at it now and then, when I thought my heart was in danger +of growing hardened to the sufferings of my fellow-men, and forgetting that +they need the Saviour." + +"I could not wish it a better fate. That would answer my end." + +"Would it, now? Is it not rather those who care little or nothing about +such matters that you would like to influence? Would you be content with +one solitary person like me? And, remember, I wouldn't buy it. I would +rather not have it. I could hardly bear to know it was in my house. I am +certain you cannot do people good by showing them _only_ the painful. Make +it as painful as you will, but put some hope into it--something to show +that action is worth taking in the affair. From mere suffering people will +turn away, and you cannot blame them. Every show of it, without hinting at +some door of escape, only urges them to forget it all. Why should they be +pained if it can do no good?" + +"For the sake of sympathy, I should say," answered Percivale. + +"They would rejoin, 'It is only a picture. Come along.' No; give people +hope, if you would have them act at all, in anything." + +"I was almost hoping you would read the picture rather differently. You see +there is a bit of blue sky up there, and a bit of sunshiny scarlet in the +window." + +He looked at me curiously as he spoke. + +"I can read it so for myself, and have metamorphosed its meaning so. But +you only put in the sky and the scarlet to heighten the perplexity, and +make the other look more terrible." + +"Now I know that as an artist I have succeeded, however I may have failed +otherwise. I did so mean it; but knowing you would dislike the picture, +I almost hoped in my cowardice, as I said, that you would read your own +meaning into it." + +Wynnie had not said a word. As I turned away from the picture, I saw that +she was looking quite distressed, but whether by the picture or the freedom +with which I had remarked upon it, I do not know. My eyes falling on a +little sketch in sepia, I began to examine it, in the hope of finding +something more pleasant to say. I perceived in a moment, however, that it +was nearly the same thought, only treated in a gentler and more poetic +mode. A girl lay dying on her bed. A youth held her hand. A torrent of +summer sunshine fell through the window, and made a lake of glory upon the +floor. I turned away. + +"You like that better, don't you, papa?" said Wynnie tremulously. + +"It is beautiful, certainly," I answered. "And if it were only one, I +should enjoy it--as a mood. But coming after the other, it seems but the +same thing more weakly embodied." + +I confess I was a little vexed; for I had got much interested in Percivale, +for his own sake as well as for my daughter's, and I had expected better +things from him. But I saw that I had gone too far. + +"I beg your pardon, Mr. Percivale," I said. + +"I fear I have been too free in my remarks. I know, likewise, that I am a +clergyman, and not a painter, and therefore incapable of giving the praise +which I have little doubt your art at least deserves." + +"I trust that honesty cannot offend me, however much and justly it may pain +me." + +"But now I have said my worst, I should much like to see what else you have +at hand to show me." + +"Unfortunately I have too much at hand. Let me see." + +He strode to the other end of the room, where several pictures were leaning +against the wall, with their faces turned towards it. From these he chose +one, but, before showing it, fitted it into an empty frame that stood +beside. He then brought it forward and set it on the easel. I will describe +it, and then my reader will understand the admiration which broke from me +after I had regarded it for a time. + +A dark hill rose against the evening sky, which shone through a few thin +pines on its top. Along a road on the hill-side four squires bore a dying +knight--a man past the middle age. One behind carried his helm, and another +led his horse, whose fine head only appeared in the picture. The head and +countenance of the knight were very noble, telling of many a battle, and +ever for the right. The last had doubtless been gained, for one might read +victory as well as peace in the dying look. The party had just reached the +edge of a steep descent, from which you saw the valley beneath, with the +last of the harvest just being reaped, while the shocks stood all about in +the fields, under the place of the sunset. The sun had been down for some +little time. There was no gold left in the sky, only a little dull saffron, +but plenty of that lovely liquid green of the autumn sky, divided with a +few streaks of pale rose. The depth of the sky overhead, which you could +not see for the arrangement of the picture, was mirrored lovelily in a +piece of water that lay in the centre of the valley. + +"My dear fellow," I cried, "why did you not show me this first, and save me +from saying so many unkind things? Here is a picture to my own heart; it is +glorious. Look here, Wynnie," I went on; "you see it is evening; the sun's +work is done, and he has set in glory, leaving his good name behind him in +a lovely harmony of colour. The old knight's work is done too; his day has +set in the storm of battle, and he is lying lapt in the coming peace. They +are bearing him home to his couch and his grave. Look at their faces in +the dusky light. They are all mourning for and honouring the life that is +ebbing away. But he is gathered to his fathers like a shock of corn fully +ripe; and so the harvest stands golden in the valley beneath. The picture +would not be complete, however, if it did not tell us of the deep heaven +overhead, the symbol of that heaven whither he who has done his work is +bound. What a lovely idea to represent it by means of the water, the heaven +embodying itself in the earth, as it were, that we may see it! And observe +how that dusky hill-side, and those tall slender mournful-looking pines, +with that sorrowful sky between, lead the eye and point the heart upward +towards that heaven. It is indeed a grand picture, full of feeling--a +picture and a parable." + +[Footnote: This is a description, from memory only, of a picture painted by +Arthur Hughes.] + +I looked at the girl. Her eyes were full of tears, either called forth +by the picture itself or by the pleasure of finding Percivale's work +appreciated by me, who had spoken so hardly of the others. + +"I cannot tell you how glad I am that you like it," she said. + +"Like it!" I returned; "I am simply delighted with it, more than I can +express--so much delighted that if I could have this alongside of it, I +should not mind hanging that other--that hopeless garret--on the most +public wall I have." + +"Then," said Wynnie bravely, though in a tremulous voice, "you +confess--don't you, papa?--that you were _too_ hard on Mr. Percivale at +first?" + +"Not too hard on his picture, my dear; and that was all he had yet given me +to judge by. No man should paint a picture like that. You are not bound to +disseminate hopelessness; for where there is no hope there can be no sense +of duty." + +"But surely, papa, Mr. Percivale has _some_ sense of duty," said Wynnie in +an almost angry tone. + +"Assuredly my love. Therefore I argue that he has some hope, and therefore, +again, that he has no right to publish such a picture." + +At the word _publish_ Percivale smiled. But Wynnie went on with her +defence: + +"But you see, papa, that Mr. Percivale does not paint such pictures only. +Look at the other." + +"Yes, my dear. But pictures are not like poems, lying side by side in the +same book, so that the one can counteract the other. The one of these might +go to the stormy Hebrides, and the other to the Vale of Avalon; but even +then I should be strongly inclined to criticise the poem, whatever position +it stood in, that had _nothing_--positively nothing--of the aurora in it." + +Here let me interrupt the course of our conversation to illustrate it by a +remark on a poem which has appeared within the last twelvemonth from the +pen of the greatest living poet, and one who, if I may dare to judge, will +continue the greatest for many, many years to come. It is only a little +song, "I stood on a tower in the wet." I have found few men who, whether +from the influence of those prints which are always on the outlook for +something to ridicule, or from some other cause, did not laugh at the poem. +I thought and think it a lovely poem, although I am not quite sure of the +transposition of words in the last two lines. But I do not _approve_ of the +poem, just because there is no hope in it. It lacks that touch or hint +of _red_ which is as essential, I think, to every poem as to every +picture--the life-blood--the one pure colour. In his hopeful moods, let a +man put on his singing robes, and chant aloud the words of gladness--or of +grief, I care not which--to his fellows; in his hours of hopelessness, +let him utter his thoughts only to his inarticulate violin, or in the +evanescent sounds of any his other stringed instrument; let him commune +with his own heart on his bed, and be still; let him speak to God face to +face if he may--only he cannot do that and continue hopeless; but let him +not sing aloud in such a mood into the hearts of his fellows, for he cannot +do them much good thereby. If it were a fact that there is no hope, it +would not be a _truth_. No doubt, if it were a fact, it ought to be known; +but who will dare be confident that there is no hope? Therefore, I say, let +the hopeless moods, at least, if not the hopeless men, be silent. + +"He could refuse to let the one go without the other," said Wynnie. + +"Now you are talking like a child, Wynnie, as indeed all partisans do at +the best. He might sell them together, but the owner would part them.--If +you will allow me, I will come and see both the pictures again to-morrow." + +Percivale assured me of welcome, and we parted, I declining to look at any +more pictures that day, but not till we had arranged that he should dine +with us in the evening. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +HOME AGAIN. + + + + + +I will not detain my readers with the record of the few days we spent in +London. In writing the account of it, as in the experience of the time +itself, I feel that I am near home, and grow the more anxious to reach it. +Ah! I am growing a little anxious after another home, too; for the house of +my tabernacle is falling to ruins about me. What a word _home_ is! To think +that God has made the world so that you have only to be born in a certain +place, and live long enough in it to get at the secret of it, and +henceforth that place is to you a _home_ with all the wonderful meaning in +the word. Thus the whole earth is a home to the race; for every spot of it +shares in the feeling: some one of the family loves it as _his_ home. How +rich the earth seems when we so regard it--crowded with the loves of home! +Yet I am now getting ready to _go home_--to leave this world of homes and +go home. When I reach that home, shall I even then seek yet to go home? +Even then, I believe, I shall seek a yet warmer, deeper, truer home in the +deeper knowledge of God--in the truer love of my fellow-man. Eternity will +be, my heart and my faith tell me, a travelling homeward, but in jubilation +and confidence and the vision of the beloved. + +When we had laid Connie once more in her own room, at least the room which +since her illness had come to be called hers, I went up to my study. The +familiar faces of my books welcomed me. I threw myself in my reading-chair, +and gazed around me with pleasure. I felt it so homely here. All my old +friends--whom somehow I hoped to see some day--present there in the spirit +ready to talk with me any moment when I was in the mood, making no claim +upon my attention when I was not! I felt as if I should like, when the +hour should come, to die in that chair, and pass into the society of the +witnesses in the presence of the tokens they had left behind them. + +I heard shouts on the stair, and in rushed the two boys. + +"Papa, papa!" they were crying together. + +"What is the matter?" + +"We've found the big chest just where we left it." + +"Well, did you expect it would have taken itself off?" + +"But there's everything in it just as we left it." + +"Were you afraid, then, that the moment you left it it would turn itself +upside down, and empty itself of all its contents on the floor?" + +They laughed, but apparently with no very keen appreciation of the attempt +at a joke. + +"Well, papa, I did not think anything about it; but--but--but--there +everything is as we left it." + +With this triumphant answer they turned and hurried, a little abashed, out +of the room; but not many moments elapsed before the sounds that arose from +them were sufficiently reassuring as to the state of their spirits. +When they were gone, I forgot my books in the attempt to penetrate and +understand the condition of my boys' thoughts; and I soon came to see that +they were right and I was wrong. It was the movement of that undeveloped +something in us which makes it possible for us in everything to give +thanks. It was the wonder of the discovery of the existence of law. There +was nothing that they could understand, _a priori_, to necessitate the +remaining of the things where they had left them. No doubt there was a +reason in the nature of God, why all things should hold together, whence +springs the law of gravitation, as we call it; but as far as the boys could +understand of this, all things might as well have been arranged for flying +asunder, so that no one could expect to find anything where he had left it. +I began to see yet further into the truth that in everything we must give +thanks, and whatever is not of faith is sin. Even the laws of nature reveal +the character of God, not merely as regards their ends, but as regards +their kind, being of necessity fashioned after ideal facts of his own being +and will. + +I rose and went down to see if everybody was getting settled, and how the +place looked. I found Ethel already going about the house as if she had +never left it, and as if we all had just returned from a long absence and +she had to show us home-hospitality. Wynnie had vanished; but I found her +by and by in the favourite haunt of her mother before her marriage--beside +the little pond called the Bishop's Basin, of which I do not think I have +ever told my readers the legend. But why should I mention it, for I cannot +tell it now? The frost lay thick in the hollow when I went down there to +find her; the branches, lately clothed with leaves, stood bare and icy +around her. Ethelwyn and I had almost forgotten that there was anything out +of the common in connection with the house. The horror of this mysterious +spot had laid hold upon Wynnie. I resolved that that night I would, in her +mother's presence, tell her all the legend of the place, and the whole +story of how I won her mother. I did so; and I think it made her trust us +more. But now I left her there, and went to Connie. She lay in her bed; +for her mother had got her thither at once, a perfect picture of blessed +comfort. There was no occasion to be uneasy about her. I was so pleased +to be at home again with such good hopes, that I could not rest, but went +wandering everywhere--into places even which I had not entered for ten +years at least, and found fresh interest in everything; for this was home, +and here I was. + +Now I fancy my readers, looking forward to the end, and seeing what a small +amount of print is left, blaming me; some, that I have roused curiosity +without satisfying it; others, that I have kept them so long over a dull +book and a lame conclusion. But out of a life one cannot always cut +complete portions, and serve them up in nice shapes. I am well aware that I +have not told them the _fate_, as some of them would call it, of either of +my daughters. This I cannot develop now, even as far as it is known to me; +but, if it is any satisfaction to them to know this much--and it will be +all that some of them mean by _fate_, I fear--I may as well tell them now +that Wynnie has been Mrs. Percivale for many years, with a history well +worth recounting; and that Connie has had a quiet, happy life for nearly +as long, as Mrs. Turner. She has never got strong, but has very tolerable +health. Her husband watches her with the utmost care and devotion. My +Ethelwyn is still with me. Harry is gone home. Charlie is a barrister of +the Middle Temple. And Dora--I must not forget Dora--well, I will say +nothing about her _fate_, for good reasons--it is not quite determined yet. +Meantime she puts up with the society of her old father and mother, and is +something else than unhappy, I fully believe. + +"And Connie's baby?" asks some one out of ten thousand readers. I have no +time to tell you about her now; but as you know her so little, it cannot be +such a trial to remain, for a time at least, unenlightened with regard to +her _fate._ + +The only other part of my history which could contain anything like +incident enough to make it interesting in print, is a period I spent in +London some few years after the time of which I have now been writing. But +I am getting too old to regard the commencement of another history with +composure. The labour of thinking into sequences, even the bodily labour of +writing, grows more and more severe. I fancy I can think correctly still; +but the effort necessary to express myself with corresponding correctness +becomes, in prospect, at least, sometimes almost appalling. I must +therefore take leave of my patient reader--for surely every one who +has followed me through all that I have here written, well deserves the +epithet--as if the probability that I shall write no more were a certainty, +bidding him farewell with one word: _"Friend, hope thou in God,"_ and for +a parting gift offering him a new, and, I think, a true rendering of the +first verse of the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews: + +"Now faith is the essence of hopes, the trying of things unseen." + +Good-bye. + +THE END. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 3 *** + +This file should be named 7spr310.txt or 7spr310.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7spr311.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7spr310a.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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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3 + +Author: George MacDonald + +Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8553] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 22, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-Latin-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +THE SEABOARD PARISH + +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. + +VOL. III. + + + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. III. + + + + + I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE + II. OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER + III. A PASTORAL VISIT. + IV. THE ART OF NATURE + V. THE SORE SPOT + VI. THE GATHERING STORM. + VII. THE GATHERED STORM. +VIII. THE SHIPWRECK + IX. THE FUNERAL + X. THE SERMON. + XI. CHANGED PLANS. + XII. THE STUDIO. +XIII. HOME AGAIN. + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A WALK WITH MY WIFE. + + + + + +The autumn was creeping up on the earth, with winter holding by its skirts +behind; but before I loose my hold of the garments of summer, I must write +a chapter about a walk and a talk I had one night with my wife. It had +rained a good deal during the day, but as the sun went down the air began +to clear, and when the moon shone out, near the full, she walked the +heavens, not "like one that hath been led astray," but as "queen and +huntress, chaste and fair." + +"What a lovely night it is!" said Ethelwyn, who had come into my +study--where I always sat with unblinded windows, that the night and her +creatures might look in upon me--and had stood gazing out for a moment. + +"Shall we go for a little turn?" I said. + +"I should like it very much," she answered. "I will go and put on my bonnet +at once." + +In a minute or two she looked in again, all ready. I rose, laid aside my +Plato, and went with her. We turned our steps along the edge of the down, +and descended upon the breakwater, where we seated ourselves upon the same +spot where in the darkness I had heard the voices of Joe and Agnes. What a +different night it was from that! The sea lay as quiet as if it could not +move for the moonlight that lay upon it. The glory over it was so mighty in +its peacefulness, that the wild element beneath was afraid to toss itself +even with the motions of its natural unrest. The moon was like the face of +a saint before which the stormy people has grown dumb. The rocks stood up +solid and dark in the universal aether, and the pulse of the ocean throbbed +against them with a lapping gush, soft as the voice of a passionate child +soothed into shame of its vanished petulance. But the sky was the glory. +Although no breath moved below, there was a gentle wind abroad in the upper +regions. The air was full of masses of cloud, the vanishing fragments of +the one great vapour which had been pouring down in rain the most of the +day. These masses were all setting with one steady motion eastward into the +abysses of space; now obscuring the fair moon, now solemnly sweeping away +from before her. As they departed, out shone her marvellous radiance, as +calm as ever. It was plain that she knew nothing of what we called her +covering, her obscuration, the dimming of her glory. She had been busy all +the time weaving her lovely opaline damask on the other side of the mass in +which we said she was swallowed up. + +"Have you ever noticed, wifie," I said, "how the eyes of our minds--almost +our bodily eyes--are opened sometimes to the cubicalness of nature, as it +were?" + +"I don't know, Harry, for I don't understand your question," she answered. + +"Well, it was a stupid way of expressing what I meant. No human being could +have understood it from that. I will make you understand in a moment, +though. Sometimes--perhaps generally--we see the sky as a flat dome, +spangled with star-points, and painted blue. _Now_ I see it as an awful +depth of blue air, depth within depth; and the clouds before me are not +passing away to the left, but sinking away from the front of me into the +marvellous unknown regions, which, let philosophers say what they will +about time and space,--and I daresay they are right,--are yet very awful +to me. Thank God, my dear," I said, catching hold of her arm, as the terror +of mere space grew upon me, "for himself. He is deeper than space, deeper +than time; he is the heart of all the cube of history." + +"I understand you now, husband," said my wife. + +"I knew you would," I answered. + +"But," she said again, "is it not something the same with the things inside +us? I can't put it in words as you do. Do you understand me now?" + +"I am not sure that I do. You must try again." + +"You understand me well enough, only you like to make me blunder where +you can talk," said my wife, putting her hand in mine. "But I will try. +Sometimes, after thinking about something for a long time, you come to a +conclusion about it, and you think you have settled it plain and clear to +yourself, for ever and a day. You hang it upon your wall, like a picture, +and are satisfied for a fortnight. But some day, when you happen to cast a +look at it, you find that instead of hanging flat on the wall, your picture +has gone through it--opens out into some region you don't know where--shows +you far-receding distances of air and sea--in short, where you thought one +question was settled for ever, a hundred are opened up for the present +hour." + +"Bravo, wife !" I cried in true delight. "I do indeed understand you now. +You have said it better than I could ever have done. That's the plague of +you women! You have been taught for centuries and centuries that there is +little or nothing to be expected of you, and so you won't try. Therefore we +men know no more than you do whether it is in you or not. And when you do +try, instead of trying to think, you want to be in Parliament all at once." + +"Do you apply that remark to me, sir?" demanded Ethelwyn. + +"You must submit to bear the sins of your kind upon occasion," I answered. + +"I am content to do that, so long as yours will help mine," she replied. + +"Then I may go on?" I said, with interrogation. + +"Till sunrise if you like. We were talking of the cubicalness--I believe +you called it--of nature." + +"And you capped it with the cubicalness of thought. And quite right +too. There are people, as a dear friend of mine used to say, who are so +accustomed to regard everything in the _flat_, as dogma cut and--not +_always_ dried my moral olfactories aver--that if you prove to them the +very thing they believe, but after another mode than that they have been +accustomed to, they are offended, and count you a heretic. There is no help +for it. Even St. Paul's chief opposition came from the Judaizing Christians +of his time, who did not believe that God _could_ love the Gentiles, and +therefore regarded him as a teacher of falsehood. We must not be fierce +with them. Who knows what wickedness of their ancestors goes to account for +their stupidity? For that there are stupid people, and that they are, in +very consequence of their stupidity, conceited, who can deny? The worst of +it is, that no man who is conceited can be convinced of the fact." + +"Don't say that, Harry. That is to deny conversion." + +"You are right, Ethelwyn. The moment a man is convinced of his folly, he +ceases to be a fool. The moment a man is convinced of his conceit, he +ceases to be conceited. But there _must_ be a final judgment, and the true +man will welcome it, even if he is to appear a convicted fool. A man's +business is to see first that he is not acting the part of a fool, and +next, to help any honest people who care about the matter to take heed +likewise that they be not offering to pull the mote out of their brother's +eye. But there are even societies established and supported by good +people for the express purpose of pulling out motes.--'The Mote-Pulling +Society!'--That ought to take with a certain part of the public." + +"Come, come, Harry. You are absurd. Such people don't come near you." + +"They can't touch me. No. But they come near good people whom I know, +brandishing the long pins with which they pull the motes out, and +threatening them with judgment before their time. They are but pins, to be +sure--not daggers." + +"But you have wandered, Harry, into the narrowest underground, musty ways, +and have forgotten all about 'the cubicalness of nature.'" + +"You are right, my love, as you generally are," I answered, laughing. "Look +at that great antlered elk, or moose--fit quarry for Diana of the silver +bow. Look how it glides solemnly away into the unpastured depths of the +aerial deserts. Look again at that reclining giant, half raised upon his +arm, with his face turned towards the wilderness. What eyes they must be +under those huge brows! On what message to the nations is he borne as by +the slow sweep of ages, on towards his mysterious goal?" + +"Stop, stop, Harry," said my wife. "It makes me unhappy to hear grand words +clothing only cloudy fancies. Such words ought to be used about the truth, +and the truth only." + +"If I could carry it no further, my dear, then it would indeed be a +degrading of words. But there never was a vagary that uplifted the soul, +or made the grand words flow from the gates of speech, that had not its +counterpart in truth itself. Man can imagine nothing, even in the clouds of +the air, that God has not done, or is not doing. Even as that cloudy giant +yields, and is 'shepherded by the slow unwilling wind,' so is each of us +borne onward to an unseen destiny--a glorious one if we will but yield to +the Spirit of God that bloweth where it listeth--with a grand listing-- +coming whence we know not, and going whither we know not. The very clouds +of the air are hung up as dim pictures of the thoughts and history of man." + +"I do not mind how long you talk like that, husband, even if you take the +clouds for your text. But it did make me miserable to think that what you +were saying had no more basis than the fantastic forms which the clouds +assume. I see I was wrong, though." + +"The clouds themselves, in such a solemn stately march as this, used to +make me sad for the very same reason. I used to think, What is it all for? +They are but vapours blown by the wind. They come nowhence, and they go +nowhither. But now I see them and all things as ever moving symbols of the +motions of man's spirit and destiny." + +A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth +of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since, +covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing +forms--great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm--the icebergs of the +upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but floating +near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted by a golden +rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke. + +"I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night," she said. "How he must be enjoying +it if he is!" + +"I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours," I +said. "Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking." + +"He is laying in stock, though, I suppose," answered my wife. + +"I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember." + +"Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he gets +with the things God cares to fashion." + +"Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at +present is our Wynnie." + +"Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?" returned Ethelwyn, looking +up in my face with an arch expression. + +"Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so much +in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about." + +My wife made no answer for a moment. Then she said, + +"Don't you like him, Harry?" + +"Yes. I like him very much." + +"Then why should you not like Wynnie to like him?" + +"I should like to be surer of his principles, for one thing." + +"I should like to be surer of Wynnie's." + +I was silent. Ethelwyn resumed. + +"Don't you think they might do each other good?" + +Still I could not reply. + +"They both love the truth, I am sure; only they don't perhaps know what it +is yet. I think if they were to fall in love with each other, it would very +likely make them both more desirous of finding it still." + +"Perhaps," I said at last. "But you are talking about awfully serious +things, Ethelwyn." + +"Yes, as serious as life," she answered. + +"You make me very anxious," I said. "The young man has not, I fear, any +means of gaining a livelihood for more than himself." + +"Why should he before he wanted it? I like to see a man who can be content +with an art and a living by it." + +"I hope I have not been to blame in allowing them to see so much of each +other," I said, hardly heeding my wife's words. + +"It came about quite naturally," she rejoined. "If you had opposed +their meeting, you would have been interfering just as if you had been +Providence. And you would have only made them think more about each other." + +"He hasn't said anything--has he?" I asked in positive alarm. + +"O dear no. It may be all my fancy. I am only looking a little ahead. I +confess I should like him for a son-in-law. I approve of him," she added, +with a sweet laugh. + +"Well," I said, "I suppose sons-in-law are possible, however disagreeable, +results of having daughters." + +I tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded. + +"Harry," said my wife, "I don't like you in such a mood. It is not like you +at all. It is unworthy of you." + +"How can I help being anxious when you speak of such dreadful things as the +possibility of having to give away my daughter, my precious wonder that +came to me through you, out of the infinite--the tender little darling!" + +"'Out of the heart of God,' you used to say, Henry. Yes, and with a destiny +he had ordained. It is strange to me how you forget your best and noblest +teaching sometimes. You are always telling us to trust in God. Surely it is +a poor creed that will only allow us to trust in God for ourselves--a very +selfish creed. There must be something wrong there. I should say that the +man who can only trust God for himself is not half a Christian. Either he +is so selfish that that satisfies him, or he has such a poor notion of God +that he cannot trust him with what most concerns him. The former is not +your case, Harry: is the latter, then?--You see I must take my turn at the +preaching sometimes. Mayn't I, dearest?" + +She took my hand in both of hers. The truth arose in my heart. I never +loved my wife more than at that moment. And now I could not speak for other +reasons. I saw that I had been faithless to my God, and the moment I could +command my speech, I hastened to confess it. + +"You are right, my dear," I said, "quite right. I have been wicked, for I +have been denying my God. I have been putting my providence in the place +of his--trying, like an anxious fool, to count the hairs on Wynnie's head, +instead of being content that the grand loving Father should count them. My +love, let us pray for Wynnie; for what is prayer but giving her to God and +his holy, blessed will?" + +We sat hand in hand. Neither spoke aloud for some minutes, but we spoke in +our hearts to God, talking to him about Wynnie. Then we rose together, and +walked homeward, still in silence. But my heart and hand clung to my wife +as to the angel whom God had sent to deliver me out of the prison of my +faithlessness. And as we went, lo! the sky was glorious again. It had faded +from my sight, had grown flat as a dogma, uninteresting as "a foul and +pestilent congregation of vapours;" the moon had been but a round thing +with the sun shining upon it, and the stars were only minding their own +business. But now the solemn march towards an unseen, unimagined goal had +again begun. Wynnie's life was hid with Christ in God. Away strode the +cloudy pageant with its banners blowing in the wind, which blew where it +grandly listed, marching as to a solemn triumphal music that drew them from +afar towards the gates of pearl by which the morning walks out of the New +Jerusalem to gladden the nations of the earth. Solitary stars, with all +their sparkles drawn in, shone, quiet as human eyes, in the deep solemn +clefts of dark blue air. They looked restrained and still, as if they +knew all about it--all about the secret of this midnight march. For the +moon--she saw the sun, and therefore made the earth glad. + +"You have been a moon to me this night, my wife," I said. "You were looking +full at the truth, while I was dark. I saw its light in your face, and +believed, and turned my soul to the sun. And now I am both ashamed and +glad. God keep me from sinning so again." + +"My dear husband, it was only a mood--a passing mood," said Ethelwyn, +seeking to comfort me. + +"It was a mood, and thank God it is now past; but it was a wicked one. It +was a mood in which the Lord might have called me a devil, as he did St. +Peter. Such moods have to be grappled with and fought the moment they +appear. They must not have their way for a single thought even." + +"But we can't help it always, can we, husband?" + +"We can't help it out and out, because our wills are not yet free with the +freedom God is giving us as fast as we will let him. When we are able to +will thoroughly, then we shall do what we will. At least, I think we shall. +But there is a mystery in it God only understands. All we know is, that we +can struggle and pray. But a mood is an awful oppression sometimes when you +least believe in it and most wish to get rid of it. It is like a headache +in the soul." + +"What do the people do that don't believe in God?" said Ethelwyn. + +The same moment Wynnie, who had seen us pass the window, opened the door of +the bark-house for us, and we passed into Connie's chamber and found her +lying in the moonlight, gazing at the same heavens as her father and mother +had been revelling in. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER. + + + + + +The next day was very lovely. I think it is the last of the kind of which +I shall have occasion to write in my narrative of the Seaboard Parish. I +wonder if my readers are tired of so much about the common things of +Nature. I reason about it something in this way: We are so easily affected +by the smallest things that are of the unpleasant kind, that we ought to +train ourselves to the influence of those that are of an opposite nature. +The unpleasant ones are like the thorns which make themselves felt as we +scramble--for we often do scramble in a very undignified manner--through +the thickets of life; and, feeling the thorns, we grumble, and are blind +to all but the thorns. The flowers, and the lovely leaves, and the red +berries, and the clusters of filberts, and the birds'-nests do not force +themselves upon our attention as the thorns do, and the thorns make us +forget to look for them. But a scratch would be forgotten--and that in +mental hurts is often equivalent to a cure, for a forgotten scratch on the +mind or heart will never fester--if we but allowed our being a moment's +repose upon any of the quiet, waiting, unobtrusive beauties that lie +around the half-trodden way, offering their gentle healing. And when I +think how, not unfrequently, otherwise noble characters are anything but +admirable when under the influence of trifling irritations, the very +paltriness of which seems what the mind, which would at once rouse itself +to a noble endurance of any mighty evil, is unable to endure, I would +gladly help so with sweet antidotes to defeat the fly in the ointment of +the apothecary that the whole pot shall send forth a pure savour. We ought +for this to cultivate the friendships of little things. Beauty is one of +the surest antidotes to vexation. Often when life looked dreary about me, +from some real or fancied injustice or indignity, has a thought of truth +been flashed into my mind from a flower, a shape of frost, or even a +lingering shadow--not to mention such glories as angel-winged clouds, +rainbows, stars, and sunrises. Therefore I hope that in my loving delay +over such aspects of Nature as impressed themselves upon me in this most +memorable part of my history I shall not prove wearisome to my reader, for +therein I should utterly contravene my hope and intent in the recording of +them. + +This day there was to be an unusually low tide, and we had reckoned on +enlarging our acquaintance with the bed of the ocean--of knowing a few +yards more of the millions of miles lapt in the mystery of waters. It was +to be low water about two o'clock, and we resolved to dine upon the sands. +But all the morning the children were out playing on the threshold of old +Neptune's palace; for in his quieter mood he will, like a fierce +mastiff, let children do with him what they will. I gave myself a whole +holiday--sometimes the most precious part of my life both for myself and +those for whom I labour--and wandered about on the shore, now passing the +children, and assailed with a volley of cries and entreaties to look at +this one's castle and that one's ditch, now leaving them behind, with what +in its ungraduated flatness might well enough personate an endless +desert of sand between, over the expanse of which I could imagine them +disappearing on a far horizon, whence however a faint occasional cry of +excitement and pleasure would reach my ears. The sea was so calm, and the +shore so gently sloping, that you could hardly tell where the sand ceased +and the sea began--the water sloped to such a thin pellicle, thinner +than any knife-edge, upon the shining brown sand, and you saw the sand +underneath the water to such a distance out. Yet this depth, which would +not drown a red spider, was the ocean. In my mind I followed that bed of +shining sand, bared of its hiding waters, out and out, till I was lost in +an awful wilderness of chasms, precipices, and mountain-peaks, in whose +caverns the sea-serpent may dwell, with his breath of pestilence; the +kraken, with "his skaly rind," may there be sleeping + + "His ancient dreamless, uninvaded sleep," + +while + + "faintest sunlights flee + About his shadowy sides," + +as he lies + + "Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep." + +There may lie all the horrors that Schiller's diver encountered--the +frightful Molch, and that worst of all, to which he gives no name, which +came creeping with a hundred knots at once; but here are only the gracious +rainbow-woven shells, an evanescent jelly or two, and the queer baby-crabs +that crawl out from the holes of the bordering rocks. What awful gradations +of gentleness lead from such as these down to those cabins where wallow +the inventions of Nature's infancy, when, like a child of untutored +imagination, she drew on the slate of her fancy creations in which flitting +shadows of beauty serve only to heighten the shuddering, gruesome horror. +The sweet sun and air, the hand of man, and the growth of the ages, have +all but swept such from the upper plains of the earth. What hunter's bow +has twanged, what adventurer's rifle has cracked in those leagues of +mountain-waste, vaster than all the upper world can show, where the beasts +of the ocean "graze the sea-weed, their pasture"! Diana of the silver bow +herself, when she descends into the interlunar caves of hell, sends no such +monsters fleeing from her spells. Yet if such there be, such horrors too +must lie in the undiscovered caves of man's nature, of which all this outer +world is but a typical analysis. By equally slow gradations may the inner +eye descend from the truth of a Cordelia to the falsehood of an Iago. As +these golden sands slope from the sunlight into the wallowing abyss of +darkness, even so from the love of the child to his holy mother slopes the +inclined plane of humanity to the hell of the sensualist. "But with one +difference in the moral world," I said aloud, as I paced up and down on the +shimmering margin, "that everywhere in the scale the eye of the all-seeing +Father can detect the first quiver of the eyelid that would raise itself +heavenward, responsive to his waking spirit." I lifted my eyes in the +relief of the thought, and saw how the sun of the autumn hung above the +waters oppressed with a mist of his own glory; far away to the left a man +who had been clambering on a low rock, inaccessible save in such a tide, +gathering mussels, threw himself into the sea and swam ashore; above his +head the storm-tower stood in the stormless air; the sea glittered and +shone, and the long-winged birds knew not which to choose, the balmy air or +the cool deep, now flitting like arrow-heads through the one, now alighting +eagerly upon the other, to forsake it anew for the thinner element. I +thanked God for his glory. + +"O, papa, it's so jolly--so jolly!" shouted the children as I passed them +again. + +"What is it that's so jolly, Charlie?" I asked. + +"My castle," screeched Harry in reply; "only it's tumbled down. The water +_would_ keep coming in underneath." + +"I tried to stop it with a newspaper," cried Charlie, "but it wouldn't. So +we were forced to let it be, and down it went into the ditch." + +"We blew it up rather than surrender," said Dora. "We did; only Harry +always forgets, and says it was the water did it." + +I drew near the rock that held the bath. I had never approached it from +this side before. It was high above my head, and a stream of water was +flowing from it. I scrambled up, undressed, and plunged into its dark +hollow, where I felt like one of the sea-beasts of which I had been +dreaming, down in the caves of the unvisited ocean. But the sun was over +my head, and the air with an edge of the winter was about me. I dressed +quickly, descended on the other side of the rock, and wandered again on the +sands to seaward of the breakwater, which lay above, looking dry and +weary, and worn with years of contest with the waves, which had at length +withdrawn defeated to their own country, and left it as if to victory and a +useless age of peace. How different was the scene when a raving mountain of +water filled all the hollow where I now wandered, and rushed over the top +of that mole now so high above me; and I had to cling to its stones to keep +me from being carried off like a bit of floating sea-weed! This was the +loveliest and strangest part of the shore. Several long low ridges of rock, +of whose existence I scarcely knew, worn to a level with the sand, hollowed +and channelled with the terrible run of the tide across them, and looking +like the old and outworn cheek-teeth of some awful beast of prey, stretched +out seawards. Here and there amongst them rose a well-known rock, but now +so changed in look by being lifted all the height between the base on the +waters, and the second base in the sand, that I wondered at each, walking +round and viewing it on all sides. It seemed almost a fresh growth out of +the garden of the shore, with uncouth hollows around its fungous root, +and a forsaken air about its brows as it stood in the dry sand and looked +seaward. But what made the chief delight of the spot, closed in by rocks +from the open sands, was the multitude of fairy rivers that flowed across +it to the sea. The gladness these streams gave me I cannot communicate. The +tide had filled thousands of hollows in the breakwater, hundreds of cracked +basins in the rocks, huge sponges of sand; from all of which--from cranny +and crack, and oozing sponge--the water flowed in restricted haste back, +back to the sea, tumbling in tiny cataracts down the faces of the rocks, +bubbling from their roots as from wells, gathering in tanks of sand, and +overflowing in broad shallow streams, curving and sweeping in their sandy +channels, just like, the great rivers of a continent;--here spreading into +smooth silent lakes and reaches, here babbling along in ripples and waves +innumerable--flowing, flowing, to lose their small beings in the same ocean +that met on the other side the waters of the Mississippi, the Orinoco, the +Amazon. All their channels were of golden sand, and the golden sunlight +was above and through and in them all: gold and gold met, with the waters +between. And what gave an added life to their motion was, that all the +ripples made shadows on the clear yellow below them. The eye could not +see the rippling on the surface; but the sun saw it, and drew it in +multitudinous shadowy motion upon the sand, with the play of a thousand +fancies of gold burnished and dead, of sunlight and yellow, trembling, +melting, curving, blending, vanishing ever, ever renewed. It was as if all +the water-marks upon a web of golden silk had been set in wildest yet most +graceful curvilinear motion by the breath of a hundred playful zephyrs. My +eye could not be filled with seeing. I stood in speechless delight for a +while, gazing at the "endless ending" which was "the humour of the game," +and thinking how in all God's works the laws of beauty are wrought out +in evanishment, in birth and death. There, there is no hoarding, but +an ever-fresh creating, an eternal flow of life from the heart of the +All-beautiful. Hence even the heart of man cannot hoard. His brain or his +hand may gather into its box and hoard; but the moment the thing has passed +into the box, the heart has lost it and is hungry again. If man would +_have,_ it is the giver he must have; the eternal, the original, the +ever-outpouring is alone within his reach; the everlasting _creation_ is +his heritage. Therefore all that he makes must be free to come and go +through the heart of his child; he can enjoy it only as it passes, can +enjoy only its life, its soul, its vision, its meaning, not itself. To +hoard rubies and sapphires is as useless and hopeless for the heart, as if +I were to attempt to hoard this marvel of sand and water and sunlight in +the same iron chest with the musty deeds of my wife's inheritance. + +"Father," I murmured half aloud, "thou alone art, and I am because thou +art. Thy will shall be mine." + +I know that I must have spoken aloud, because I remember the start of +consciousness and discomposure occasioned by the voice of Percivale +greeting me. + +"I beg your pardon," he added; "I did not mean to startle you, Mr. Walton. +I thought you were only looking at Nature's childplay--not thinking." + +"I know few things _more_ fit to set one thinking than what you have very +well called Nature's childplay," I returned. "Is Nature very heartless now, +do you think, to go on with this kind of thing at our feet, when away up +yonder lies the awful London, with so many sores festering in her heart?" + +"You must answer your own question, Mr. Walton. You know I cannot. I +confess I feel the difficulty deeply. I will go further, and confess that +the discrepancy makes me doubt many things I would gladly believe. I know +_you_ are able to distinguish between a glad unbelief and a sorrowful +doubt." + +"Else were I unworthy of the humblest place in the kingdom--unworthy to be +a doorkeeper in the house of my God," I answered, and recoiled from the +sound of my own words; for they seemed to imply that I believed myself +worthy of the position I occupied. I hastened to correct them: "But do not +mistake my thoughts," I said; "I do not dream of worthiness in the way of +honour--only of fitness for the work to be done. For that I think God has +fitted me in some measure. The doorkeeper's office may be given him, not +because he has done some great deed worthy of the honour, but because he +can sweep the porch and scour the threshold, and will, in the main, try to +keep them clean. That is all the worthiness I dare to claim, even to hope +that I possess." + +"No one who knows you can mistake your words, except wilfully," returned +Percivale courteously. + +"Thank you," I said. "Now I will just ask you, in reference to the contrast +between human life and nature, how you will go back to your work in London, +after seeing all this child's and other play of Nature? Suppose you had +had nothing here but rain and high winds and sea-fogs, would you have been +better fitted for doing something to comfort those who know nothing of such +influences than you will be now? One of the most important qualifications +of a sick-nurse is a ready smile. A long-faced nurse in a sickroom is a +visible embodiment and presence of the disease against which the eager life +of the patient is fighting in agony. Such ought to be banished, with their +black dresses and their mourning-shop looks, from every sick-chamber, and +permitted to minister only to the dead, who do not mind looks. With what a +power of life and hope does a woman--young or old I do not care--with a +face of the morning, a dress like the spring, a bunch of wild flowers in +her hand, with the dew upon them, and perhaps in her eyes too (I don't +object to that--that is sympathy, not the worship of darkness),--with +what a message from nature and life does she, looking death in the face +with a smile, dawn upon the vision of the invalid! She brings a little +health, a little strength to fight, a little hope to endure, actually lapt +in the folds of her gracious garments; for the soul itself can do more than +any medicine, if it be fed with the truth of life." + +"But are you not--I beg your pardon for interposing on your eloquence with +dull objection," said Percivale--"are you not begging all the question? +_Is_ life such an affair of sunshine and gladness?" + +"If life is not, then I confess all this show of nature is worse than +vanity--it is a vile mockery. Life is gladness; it is the death in it that +makes the misery. We call life-in-death life, and hence the mistake. If +gladness were not at the root, whence its opposite sorrow, against which +we arise, from which we recoil, with which we fight? We recognise it as +death--the contrary of life. There could be no sorrow but for a recognition +of primordial bliss. This in us that fights must be life. It is of the +nature of light, not of darkness; darkness is nothing until the light +comes. This very childplay, as you call it, of Nature, is her assertion of +the secret that life is the deepest, that life shall conquer death. Those +who believe this must bear the good news to them that sit in darkness and +the shadow of death. Our Lord has conquered death--yea, the moral death +that he called the world; and now, having sown the seed of light, the +harvest is springing in human hearts, is springing in this dance of +radiance, and will grow and grow until the hearts of the children of the +kingdom shall frolic in the sunlight of the Father's presence. Nature has +God at her heart; she is but the garment of the Invisible. God wears his +singing robes in a day like this, and says to his children, 'Be not afraid: +your brothers and sisters up there in London are in my hands; go and help +them. I am with you. Bear to them the message of joy. Tell them to be of +good cheer: I have overcome the world. Tell them to endure hunger, and not +sin; to endure passion, and not yield; to admire, and not desire. Sorrow +and pain are serving my ends; for by them will I slay sin; and save my +children.'" + +"I wish I could believe as you do, Mr. Walton." + +"I wish you could. But God will teach you, if you are willing to be +taught." + +"I desire the truth, Mr. Walton." + +"God bless you! God is blessing you," I said. + +"Amen," returned Percivale devoutly; and we strolled away together in +silence towards the cliffs. + +The recession of the tide allowed us to get far enough away from the face +of the rocks to see the general effect. With the lisping of the inch-deep +wavelets at our heels we stood and regarded the worn yet defiant, the +wasted and jagged yet reposeful face of the guardians of the shore. + +"Who could imagine, in weather like this, and with this baby of a tide +lying behind us, low at our feet, and shallow as the water a schoolboy +pours upon his slate to wash it withal, that those grand cliffs before +us bear on their front the scars and dints of centuries, of chiliads of +stubborn resistance, of passionate contest with this same creature that is +at this moment unable to rock the cradle of an infant? Look behind you, at +your feet, Mr. Percivale; look before you at the chasms, rents, caves, and +hollows of those rocks." + +"I wish you were a painter, Mr. Walton," he said. + +"I wish I were," I returned. "At least I know I should rejoice in it, if it +had been given me to be one. But why do you say so now?" + +"Because you have always some individual predominating idea, which +would give interpretation to Nature while it gave harmony, reality, and +individuality to your representation of her." + +"I know what you mean," I answered; "but I have no gift whatever in that +direction. I have no idea of drawing, or of producing the effects of light +and shade; though I think I have a little notion of colour--perhaps about +as much as the little London boy, who stopped a friend of mine once to ask +the way to the field where the buttercups grew, had of nature." + +"I wish I could ask your opinion of some of my pictures." + +"That I should never presume to give. I could only tell you what they made +me feel, or perhaps only think. Some day I may have the pleasure of looking +at them." + +"May I offer you my address?" he said, and took a card from his +pocket-book. "It is a poor place, but if you should happen to think of +me when you are next in London, I shall be honoured by your paying me a +visit." + +"I shall be most happy," I returned, taking his card.--"Did it ever occur +to you, in reference to the subject we were upon a few minutes ago, how +little you can do without shadow in making a picture?" + +"Little indeed," answered Percivale. "In fact, it would be no picture at +all." + +"I doubt if the world would fare better without its shadows." + +"But it would be a poor satisfaction, with regard to the nature of God, to +be told that he allowed evil for artistic purposes." + +"It would indeed, if you regard the world as a picture. But if you think of +his art as expended, not upon the making of a history or a drama, but upon +the making of an individual, a being, a character, then I think a great +part of the difficulty concerning the existence of evil which oppresses you +will vanish. So long as a creature has not sinned, sin is possible to him. +Does it seem inconsistent with the character of God that in order that sin +should become impossible he should allow sin to come? that, in order that +his creatures should choose the good and refuse the evil, in order that +they might become such, with their whole nature infinitely enlarged, as to +turn from sin with a perfect repugnance of the will, he should allow them +to fall? that, in order that, from being sweet childish children, they +should become noble, child-like men and women, he should let them try to +walk alone? Why should he not allow the possible in order that it should +become impossible? for possible it would ever have been, even in the midst +of all the blessedness, until it had been, and had been thus destroyed. +Thus sin is slain, uprooted. And the war must ever exist, it seems to me, +where there is creation still going on. How could I be content to guard my +children so that they should never have temptation, knowing that in all +probability they would fail if at any moment it should cross their path? +Would the deepest communion of father and child ever be possible between +us? Evil would ever seem to be in the child, so long as it was possible it +should be there developed. And if this can be said for the existence of +moral evil, the existence of all other evil becomes a comparative trifle; +nay, a positive good, for by this the other is combated." + +"I think I understand you," returned Percivale. "I will think over what you +have said. These are very difficult questions." + +"Very. I don't think argument is of much use about them, except as it may +help to quiet a man's uneasiness a little, and so give his mind peace to +think about duty. For about the doing of duty there can be no question, +once it is seen. And the doing of duty is the shortest--in very fact, the +only way into the light." + +As we spoke, we had turned from the cliffs, and wandered back across the +salt streams to the sands beyond. From the direction of the house came +a little procession of servants, with Walter at their head, bearing the +preparations for our dinner--over the gates of the lock, down the sides of +the embankment of the canal, and across the sands, in the direction of the +children, who were still playing merrily. + +"Will you join our early dinner, which is to be out of doors, as you see, +somewhere hereabout on the sands?" I said. + +"I shall be delighted," he answered, "if you will let me be of some use +first. I presume you mean to bring your invalid out." + +"Yes; and you shall help me to carry her, if you will." + +"That is what I hoped," said Percivale; and we went together towards the +parsonage. + +As we approached, I saw Wynnie sitting at the drawing-room window; but when +we entered the room, she was gone. My wife was there, however. + +"Where is Wynnie?" I asked. + +"She saw you coming," she answered, "and went to get Connie ready; for I +guessed Mr. Percivale had come to help you to carry her out." + +But I could not help doubting there might be more than that in Wynnie's +disappearance. "What if she should have fallen in love with him," I +thought, "and he should never say a word on the subject? That would be +dreadful for us all." + +They had been repeatedly but not very much together of late, and I was +compelled to allow to myself that if they did fall in love with each other +it would be very natural on both sides, for there was evidently a great +mental resemblance between them, so that they could not help sympathising +with each other's peculiarities. And anyone could see what a fine couple +they would make. + +Wynnie was much taller than Connie--almost the height of her mother. She +had a very fair skin, and brown hair, a broad forehead, a wise, thoughtful, +often troubled face, a mouth that seldom smiled, but on which a smile +seemed always asleep, and round soft cheeks that dimpled like water when +she did smile. I have described Percivale before. Why should not two such +walk together along the path to the gates of the light? And yet I could +not help some anxiety. I did not know anything of his history. I had no +testimony concerning him from anyone that knew him. His past life was a +blank to me; his means of livelihood probably insufficient--certainly, +I judged, precarious; and his position in society--but there I checked +myself: I had had enough of that kind of thing already. I would not +willingly offend in that worldliness again. The God of the whole earth +could not choose that I should look at such works of his hands after that +fashion. And I was his servant--not Mammon's or Belial's. + +All this passed through my mind in about three turns of the winnowing-fan +of thought. Mr. Percivale had begun talking to my wife, who took no pains +to conceal that his presence was pleasant to her, and I went upstairs, +almost unconsciously, to Connie's room. + +When I opened the door, forgetting to announce my approach as I ought to +have done, I saw Wynnie leaning over Connie, and Connie's arm round her +waist. Wynnie started back, and Connie gave a little cry, for the jerk thus +occasioned had hurt her. Wynnie had turned her head away, but turned it +again at Connie's cry, and I saw a tear on her face. + +"My darlings, I beg your pardon," I said. "It was very stupid of me not to +knock at the door." + +Connie looked up at me with large resting eyes, and said-- + +"It's nothing, papa, Wynnie is in one of her gloomy moods, and didn't want +you to see her crying. She gave me a little pull, that was all. It didn't +hurt me much, only I'm such a goose! I'm in terror before the pain comes. +Look at me," she added, seeing, doubtless, some perturbation on my +countenance, "I'm all right now." And she smiled in my face perfectly. + +I turned to Wynnie, put my arm about her, kissed her cheek, and left the +room. I looked round at the door, and saw that Connie was following me with +her eyes, but Wynnie's were hidden in her handkerchief. + +I went back to the drawing-room, and in a few minutes Walter came to +announce that dinner was about to be served. The same moment Wynnie came to +say that Connie was ready. She did not lift her eyes, or approach to +give Percivale any greeting, but went again as soon as she had given her +message. I saw that he looked first concerned and then thoughtful. + +"Come, Mr. Percivale," I said; and he followed me up to Connie's room. + +Wynnie was not there; but Connie lay, looking lovely, all ready for going. +We lifted her, and carried her by the window out on the down, for the +easiest way, though the longest, was by the path to the breakwater, along +its broad back and down from the end of it upon the sands. Before we +reached the breakwater, I found that Wynnie was following behind us. We +stopped in the middle of it, and set Connie down, as if I wanted to take +breath. But I had thought of something to say to her, which I wanted Wynnie +to hear without its being addressed to her. + +"Do you see, Connie," I said, "how far off the water is?" + +"Yes, papa; it is a long way off. I wish I could get up and run down to +it." + +"You can hardly believe that all between, all those rocks, and all that +sand, will be covered before sunset." + +"I know it will be. But it doesn't _look_ likely, does it, papa!" + +"Not the least likely, my dear. Do you remember that stormy night when I +came through your room to go out for a walk in the dark?" + +"Remember it, papa? I cannot forget it. Every time I hear the wind blowing +when I wake in the night I fancy you are out in it, and have to wake myself +up' quite to get rid of the thought." + +"Well, Connie, look down into the great hollow there, with rocks and sand +at the bottom of it, stretching far away." + +"Yes, papa." + +"Now look over the side of your litter. You see those holes all about +between the stones?" + +"Yes, papa." + +"Well, one of those little holes saved my life that night, when the great +gulf there was full of huge mounds of roaring water, which rushed across +this breakwater with force enough to sweep a whole cavalry regiment off its +back." + +"Papa!" exclaimed Connie, turning pale. + +Then first I told her all the story. And Wynnie listened behind. + +"Then I _was_ right in being frightened, papa!" cried Connie, bursting into +tears; for since her accident she could not well command her feelings. + +"You were right in trusting in God, Connie." + +"But you might have been drowned, papa!" she sobbed. + +"Nobody has a right to say that anything might have been other than what +has been. Before a thing has happened we can say might or might not; but +that has to do only with our ignorance. Of course I am not speaking +of things wherein we ought to exercise will and choice. That is _our_ +department. But this does not look like that now, does it? Think what a +change--from the dark night and the roaring water to this fulness of +sunlight and the bare sands, with the water lisping on their edge away +there in the distance. Now, I want you to think that in life troubles will +come which look as if they would never pass away; the night and the storm +look as if they would last for ever; but the calm and the morning cannot be +stayed; the storm in its very nature is transient. The effort of Nature, +as that of the human heart, ever is to return to its repose, for God is +Peace." + +"But if you will excuse me, Mr. Walton," said Percivale, "you can hardly +expect experience to be of use to any but those who have had it. It seems +to me that its influences cannot be imparted." + +"That depends on the amount of faith in those to whom its results are +offered. Of course, as experience, it can have no weight with another; for +it is no longer experience. One remove, and it ceases. But faith in the +person who has experienced can draw over or derive--to use an old Italian +word--some of its benefits to him who has the faith. Experience may thus, +in a sense, be accumulated, and we may go on to fresh experience of our +own. At least I can hope that the experience of a father may take the form +of hope in the minds of his daughters. Hope never hurt anyone, never yet +interfered with duty; nay, always strengthens to the performance of duty, +gives courage, and clears the judgment. St. Paul says we are saved by hope. +Hope is the most rational thing in the universe. Even the ancient poets, +who believed it was delusive, yet regarded it as an antidote given by the +mercy of the gods against some, at least, of the ills of life." + +"But they counted it delusive. A wise man cannot consent to be deluded." + +"Assuredly not. The sorest truth rather than a false hope! But what is a +false hope? Only one that ought not to be fulfilled. The old poets could +give themselves little room for hope, and less for its fulfilment; for what +were the gods in whom they believed--I cannot say in whom they trusted? +Gods who did the best their own poverty of being was capable of doing for +men when they gave them the _illusion_ of hope. But I see they are waiting +for us below. One thing I repeat--the waves that foamed across the spot +where we now stand are gone away, have sunk and vanished." + +"But they will come again, papa," faltered Wynnie. + +"And God will come with them, my love," I said, as we lifted the litter. + +In a few minutes more we were all seated on the sand around a table-cloth +spread upon it. I shall never forgot the peace and the light outside and +in, as far as I was concerned at least, and I hope the others too, that +afternoon. The tide had turned, and the waves were creeping up over the +level, soundless almost as thought; but it would be time to go home long +before they had reached us. The sun was in the western half of the sky, and +now and then a breath of wind came from the sea, with a slight saw-edge in +it, but not enough to hurt. Connie could stand much more in that way now. +And when I saw how she could move herself on her couch, and thought how +much she had improved since first she was laid upon it, hope for her kept +fluttering joyously in my heart. I could not help fancying even that I saw +her move her legs a little; but I could not be in the least sure; and she, +if she did move them, was clearly unconscious of it. Charles and Harry were +every now and then starting up from their dinner and running off with a +shout, to return with apparently increased appetite for the rest of it; +and neither their mother nor I cared to interfere with the indecorum. Dora +alone took it upon her to rebuke them. Wynnie was very silent, but looked +more cheerful. Connie seemed full of quiet bliss. My wife's face was a +picture of heavenly repose. The old nurse was walking about with the baby, +occasionally with one hand helping the other servants to wait upon us. +They, too, seemed to have a share in the gladness of the hour, and, like +Ariel, did their spiriting gently. + +"This is the will of God," I said, after the things were removed, and we +had sat for a few moments in silence. + +"What is the will of God, husband?" asked Ethelwyn. + +"Why, this, my love," I answered; "this living air, and wind, and sea, +and light, and land all about us; this consenting, consorting harmony of +Nature, that mirrors a like peace in our souls. The perfection of such +visions, the gathering of them all in one was, is, I should say, in the +face of Christ Jesus. You will say that face was troubled sometimes. Yes, +but with a trouble that broke not the music, but deepened the harmony. +When he wept at the grave of Lazarus, you do not think it was for Lazarus +himself, or for his own loss of him, that he wept? That could not be, +seeing he had the power to call him back when he would. The grief was for +the poor troubled hearts left behind, to whom it was so dreadful because +they had not faith enough in his Father, the God of life and love, who was +looking after it all, full of tenderness and grace, with whom Lazarus was +present and blessed. It was the aching, loving heart of humanity for which +he wept, that needed God so awfully, and could not yet trust in him. Their +brother was only hidden in the skirts of their Father's garment, but they +could not believe that: they said he was dead--lost--away--all gone, as +the children say. And it was so sad to think of a whole world full of the +grief of death, that he could not bear it without the human tears to help +his heart, as they help ours. It was for our dark sorrows that he wept. But +the peace could be no less plain on the face that saw God. Did you ever +think of that wonderful saying: 'Again a little while, and ye shall see +me, because I go to the Father'? The heart of man would have joined the +'because I go to the Father' with the former result--the not seeing of him. +The heart of man is not able, without more and more light, to understand +that all vision is in the light of the Father. Because Jesus went to the +Father, therefore the disciples saw him tenfold more. His body no longer in +their eyes, his very being, his very self was in their hearts--not in their +affections only--in their spirits, their heavenly consciousness." + +As I said this, a certain hymn, for which I had and have an especial +affection, came into my mind, and, without prologue or introduction, I +repeated it: + + "If I Him but have, + If he be but mine, + If my heart, hence to the grave, + Ne'er forgets his love divine-- + Know I nought of sadness, + Feel I nought but worship, love, and gladness. + + If I Him but have, + Glad with all I part; + Follow on my pilgrim staff + My Lord only, with true heart; + Leave them, nothing saying, + On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying. + + If I Him but have, + Glad I fall asleep; + Aye the flood that his heart gave + Strength within my heart shall keep, + And with soft compelling + Make it tender, through and through it swelling. + + If I Him but have, + Mine the world I hail! + Glad as cherub smiling grave, + Holding back the virgin's veil. + Sunk and lost in seeing, + Earthly fears have died from all my being. + + Where I have but Him + Is my Fatherland; + And all gifts and graces come + Heritage into my hand: + Brothers long deplored + I in his disciples find restored." + +"What a lovely hymn, papa!" exclaimed Connie. She could always speak more +easily than either her mother or sister. "Who wrote it?" + +"Friedrich von Hardenberg, known, where he is known, as Novalis." + +"But he must have written it in German. Did you translate it?" + +"Yes. You will find, I think, that I have kept form, thought, and feeling, +however I may have failed in making an English poem of it." + +"O, you dear papa, it is lovely! Is it long since you did it?" + +"Years before you were born, Connie." + +"To think of you having lived so long, and being one of us!" she returned. +"Was he a Roman Catholic, papa?" + +"No, he was a Moravian. At least, his parents were. I don't think he +belonged to any section of the church in particular." + +"But oughtn't he, papa?" + +"Certainly not, my dear, except he saw good reason for it. But what is the +use of asking such questions, after a hymn like that?" + +"O, I didn't think anything bad, papa, I assure you. It was only that I +wanted to know more about him." + +The tears were in her eyes, and I was sorry I had treated as significant +what was really not so. But the constant tendency to consider Christianity +as associated of necessity with this or that form of it, instead of as +simply obedience to Christ, had grown more and more repulsive to me as I +had grown myself, for it always seemed like an insult to my brethren in +Christ; hence the least hint of it in my children I was too ready to be +down upon like a most unchristian ogre. I took her hand in mine, and she +was comforted, for she saw in my face that I was sorry, and yet she could +see that there was reason at the root of my haste. + +"But," said Wynnie, who, I thought afterwards, must have strengthened +herself to speak from the instinctive desire to show Percivale how far she +was from being out of sympathy with what he might suppose formed a barrier +between him and me--"But," she said, "the lovely feeling in that poem +seems to me, as in all the rest of such poems, to belong only to the New +Testament, and have nothing to do with this world round about us. These +things look as if they were only for drawing and painting and being glad +in, not as if they had relations with all those awful and solemn things. As +soon as I try to get the two together, I lose both of them." + +"That is because the human mind must begin with one thing and grow to the +rest. At first, Christianity seemed to men to have only to do with their +conscience. That was the first relation, of course. But even with art +it was regarded as having no relation except for the presentment of its +history. Afterwards, men forgot the conscience almost in trying to make +Christianity comprehensible to the understanding. Now, I trust, we are +beginning to see that Christianity is everything or nothing. Either the +whole is a lovely fable setting forth the loftiest longing of the human +soul after the vision of the divine, or it is such a fact as is the heart +not only of theology so called, but of history, politics, science, and art. +The treasures of the Godhead must be hidden in him, and therefore by him +only can be revealed. This will interpret all things, or it has not yet +been. Teachers of men have not taught this, because they have not seen it. +If we do not find him in nature, we may conclude either that we do not +understand the expression of nature, or have mistaken ideas or poor +feelings about him. It is one great business in our life to find the +interpretation which will render this harmony visible. Till we find it, we +have not seen him to be all in all. Recognising a discord when they touched +the notes of nature and society, the hermits forsook the instrument +altogether, and contented themselves with a partial symphony--lofty, +narrow, and weak. Their example, more or less, has been followed by almost +all Christians. Exclusion is so much the easier way of getting harmony +in the orchestra than study, insight, and interpretation, that most have +adopted it. It is for us, and all who have hope in the infinite God, to +widen its basis as we may, to search and find the true tone and right idea, +place, and combination of instruments, until to our enraptured ear they +all, with one voice of multiform yet harmonious utterance, declare the +glory of God and of his Christ." + +"A grand idea," said Percivale. + +"Therefore likely to be a true one," I returned. "People find it hard +to believe grand things; but why? If there be a God, is it not likely +everything is grand, save where the reflection of his great thoughts is +shaken, broken, distorted by the watery mirrors of our unbelieving and +troubled souls? Things ought to be grand, simple, and noble. The ages of +eternity will go on showing that such they are and ever have been. God will +yet be victorious over our wretched unbeliefs." + +I was sitting facing the sea, but with my eyes fixed on the sand, boring +holes in it with my stick, for I could talk better when I did not look my +familiar faces in the face. I did not feel thus in the pulpit; there I +sought the faces of my flock, to assist me in speaking to their needs. As +I drew to the close of my last monologue, a colder and stronger blast from +the sea blew in my face. I lifted my head, and saw that the tide had crept +up a long way, and was coming in fast. A luminous fog had sunk down over +the western horizon, and almost hidden the sun, had obscured the half of +the sea, and destroyed all our hopes of a sunset. A certain veil as of the +commonplace, like that which so often settles down over the spirit of man +after a season of vision and glory and gladness, had dropped over the face +of Nature. The wind came in little bitter gusts across the dull waters. It +was time to lift Connie and take her home. + +This was the last time we ate together on the open shore. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A PASTORAL VISIT. + + + + + +The next morning rose neither "cherchef't in a comely cloud" nor "roab'd in +flames and amber light," but covered all in a rainy mist, which the wind +mingled with salt spray torn from the tops of the waves. Every now and then +the wind blew a blastful of larger drops against the window of my study +with an angry clatter and clash, as if daring me to go out and meet its +ire. The earth was very dreary, for there were no shadows anywhere. The +sun was hustled away by the crowding vapours; and earth, sea, and sky were +possessed by a gray spirit that threatened wrath. The breakfast-bell rang, +and I went down, expecting to find my Wynnie, who was always down first to +make the tea, standing at the window with a sad face, giving fit response +to the aspect of nature without, her soul talking with the gray spirit. I +did find her at the window, looking out upon the restless tossing of the +waters, but with no despondent answer to the trouble of nature. On the +contrary, her cheek, though neither rosy nor radiant, looked luminous, and +her eyes were flashing out upon the ebb-tide which was sinking away into +the troubled ocean beyond. Does my girl-reader expect me to tell her next +that something had happened? that Percivale had said something to her? or +that, at least, he had just passed the window, and given her a look which +she might interpret as she pleased? I must disappoint her. It was nothing +of the sort. I knew the heart and feeling of my child. It was only that +kind nature was in sympathy with her mood. The girl was always more +peaceful in storm than in sunshine. I remembered that now. A movement of +life instantly began in her when the obligation of gladness had departed +with the light. Her own being arose to provide for its own needs. She could +smile now when nature required from her no smile in response to hers. And I +could not help saying to myself, "She must marry a poor man some day; she +is a creature of the north, and not of the south; the hot sun of prosperity +would wither her up. Give her a bleak hill-side, and a glint or two of +sunshine between the hailstorms, and she will live and grow; give her +poverty and love, and life will be interesting to her as a romance; give +her money and position, and she will grow dull and haughty. She will +believe in nothing that poet can sing or architect build. She will, like +Cassius, scorn her spirit for being moved to smile at anything." + +I had stood regarding her for a moment. She turned and saw me, and came +forward with her usual morning greeting. + +"I beg your pardon, papa: I thought it was Walter." + +"I am glad to see a smile on your face, my love." + +"Don't think me very disagreeable, papa. I know I am a trouble to you. But +I am a trouble to myself first. I fear I have a discontented mind and a +complaining temper. But I do try, and I will try hard to overcome it." + +"It will not get the better of you, so long as you do the duty of the +moment. But I think, as I told you before, that you are not very well, and +that your indisposition is going to do you good by making you think about +some things you are ready to think about, but which you might have banished +if you had been in good health and spirits. You are feeling as you never +felt before, that you need a presence in your soul of which at least you +haven't enough yet. But I preached quite enough to you yesterday, and I +won't go on the same way to-day again. Only I wanted to comfort you. Come +and give me my breakfast." + +"You do comfort me, papa," she answered, approaching the table. "I know I +don't show what I feel as I ought, but you do comfort me much. Don't you +like a day like this, papa?" + +"I do, my dear. I always did. And I think you take after me in that, as you +do in a good many things besides. That is how I understand you so well." + +"Do I really take after you, papa? Are you sure that you understand me so +well?" she asked, brightening up. + +"I know I do," I returned, replying to her last question. + +"Better than I do myself?" she asked with an arch smile. + +"Considerably, if I mistake not," I answered. + +"How delightful! To think that I am understood even when I don't understand +myself!" + +"But even if I am wrong, you are yet understood. The blessedness of life is +that we can hide nothing from God. If we could hide anything from God, that +hidden thing would by and by turn into a terrible disease. It is the sight +of God that keeps and makes things clean. But as we are both, by mutual +confession, fond of this kind of weather, what do you say to going out with +me? I have to visit a sick woman." + +"You don't mean Mrs. Coombes, papa?" + +"No, my dear. I did not hear she was ill." + +"O, I daresay it is nothing much. Only old nursey said yesterday she was in +bed with a bad cold, or something of that sort." + +"We'll call and inquire as we pass,--that is, if you are inclined to go +with me." + +"How can you put an _if_ to that, papa?" + +"I have just had a message from that cottage that stands all alone on the +corner of Mr. Barton's farm--over the cliff, you know--that the woman is +ill, and would like to see me. So the sooner we start the better." + +"I shall have done my breakfast in five minutes, papa. O, here's +mamma!--Mamma, I'm going out for a walk in the rain with papa. You won't +mind, will you?" + +"I don't think it will do you any harm, my dear. That's all I mind, you +know. It was only once or twice when you were not well that I objected to +it. I quite agree with your papa, that only lazy people are _glad_ to stay +in-doors when it rains." + +"And it does blow so delightfully!" said Wynnie, as she left the room to +put on her long cloak and her bonnet. + +We called at the sexton's cottage, and found him sitting gloomily by the +low window, looking seaward. + +"I hope your wife is not _very_ poorly, Coombes," I said. + +"No, sir. She be very comfortable in bed. Bed's not a bad place to be in +in such weather," he answered, turning again a dreary look towards the +Atlantic. "Poor things!" + +"What a passion for comfort you have, Coombes! How does that come about, do +you think?" + +"I suppose I was made so, sir." + +"To be sure you were. God made you so." + +"Surely, sir. Who else?" + +"Then I suppose he likes making people comfortable if he makes people like +to be comfortable." + +"It du look likely enough, sir." + +"Then when he takes it out of your hands, you mustn't think he doesn't look +after the people you would make comfortable if you could." + +"I must mind my work, you know, sir." + +"Yes, surely. And you mustn't want to take his out of his hands, and go +grumbling as if you would do it so much better if he would only let you get +_your_ hand to it." + +"I daresay you be right, sir," he said. "I must just go and have a look +about, though. Here's Agnes. She'll tell you about mother." + +He took his spade from the corner, and went out. He often brought his tools +into the cottage. He had carved the handle of his spade all over with the +names of the people he had buried. + +"Tell your mother, Agnes, that I will call in the evening and see her, if +she would like to see me. We are going now to see Mrs. Stokes. She is very +poorly, I hear." + +"Let us go through the churchyard, papa," said Wynnie, "and see what the +old man is doing." + +"Very well, my dear. It is only a few steps round." + +"Why do you humour the sexton's foolish fancy so much, papa? It is +such nonsense! You taught us it was, surely, in your sermon about the +resurrection?" + +"Most certainly, my dear. But it would be of no use to try to get it out of +his head by any argument. He has a kind of craze in that direction. To get +people's hearts right is of much more importance than convincing their +judgments. Right judgment will follow. All such fixed ideas should be +encountered from the deepest grounds of truth, and not from the outsides of +their relations. Coombes has to be taught that God cares for the dead more +than he does, and _therefore_ it is unreasonable for him to be anxious +about them." + +When we reached the churchyard we found the old man kneeling on a grave +before its headstone. It was a very old one, with a death's-head and +cross-bones carved upon the top of it in very high relief. With his +pocket-knife he was removing the lumps of green moss out of the hollows of +the eyes of the carven skull. We did not interrupt him, but walked past +with a nod. + +"You saw what he was doing, Wynnie? That reminds me of almost the only +thing in Dante's grand poem that troubles me. I cannot think of it without +a renewal of my concern, though I have no doubt he is as sorry now as I am +that ever he could have written it. When, in the _Inferno,_ he reaches the +lowest region of torture, which is a solid lake of ice, he finds the lost +plunged in it to various depths, some, if I remember rightly, entirely +submerged, and visible only through the ice, transparent as crystal, like +the insects found in amber. One man with his head only above the ice, +appeals to him as condemned to the same punishment to take pity on him, and +remove the lumps of frozen tears from his eyes, that he may weep a little +before they freeze again and stop the relief once more. Dante says to him, +'Tell me who you are, and if I do not assist you, I deserve to lie at the +bottom of the ice myself.' The man tells him who he is, and explains to him +one awful mystery of these regions. Then he says, 'Now stretch forth thy +hand, and open my eyes.' 'And,' says Dante, I did not open them for him; +and rudeness to him was courtesy.'" + +"But he promised, you said." + +"He did; and yet he did not do it. Pity and truth had abandoned him +together. One would think little of it comparatively, were it not that +Dante is so full of tenderness and grand religion. It is very awful, and +may teach us many things." + +"But what made you think of that now?" + +"Merely what Coombes was about. The visual image was all. He was scooping +the green moss out of the eyes of the death's-head on the gravestone." + +By this time we were on the top of the downs, and the wind was buffeting +us, and every other minute assailing us with a blast of rain. Wynnie drew +her cloak closer about her, bent her head towards the blast, and struggled +on bravely by my side. No one who wants to enjoy a walk in the rain must +carry an umbrella; it is pure folly. When we came to one of the stone +fences, we cowered down by its side for a few moments to recover our +breath, and then struggled on again. Anything like conversation was out of +the question. At length we dropped into a hollow, which gave us a little +repose. Down below the sea was dashing into the mouth of the glen, or +coomb, as they call it there. On the opposite side of the hollow, the +little house to which we were going stood up against the gray sky. + +"I begin to doubt whether I ought to have brought you, Wynnie. It was +thoughtless of me; I don't mean for your sake, but because your presence +may be embarrassing in a small house; for probably the poor woman may +prefer seeing me alone." + +"I will go back, papa. I sha'n't mind it a bit." + +"No; you had better come on. I shall not be long with her, I daresay. We +may find some place that you can wait in. Are you wet?" + +"Only my cloak. I am as dry as a tortoise inside." + +"Come along, then. We shall soon be there." + +When we reached the house I found that Wynnie would not be in the way. I +left her seated by the kitchen-fire, and was shown into the room where Mrs. +Stokes lay. I cannot say I perceived. But I guessed somehow, the moment I +saw her that there was something upon her mind. She was a hard-featured +woman, with a cold, troubled black eye that rolled restlessly about. She +lay on her back, moving her head from side to side. When I entered she only +looked at me, and turned her eyes away towards the wall. I approached the +bedside, and seated myself by it. I always do so at once; for the patient +feels more at rest than if you stand tall up before her. I laid my hand on +hers. + +"Are you very ill, Mrs. Stokes?" I said. + +"Yes, very," she answered with a groan. "It be come to the last with me." + +"I hope not, indeed, Mrs. Stokes. It's not come to the last with us, so +long as we have a Father in heaven." + +"Ah! but it be with me. He can't take any notice of the like of me." + +"But indeed he does, whether you think it or not. He takes notice of every +thought we think, and every deed we do, and every sin we commit." + +I said the last words with emphasis, for I suspected something more than +usual upon her conscience. She gave another groan, but made no reply. I +therefore went on. + +"Our Father in heaven is not like some fathers on earth, who, so long as +their children don't bother them, let them do anything they like. He will +not have them do what is wrong. He loves them too much for that." + +"He won't look at me," she said half murmuring, half sighing it out, so +that I could hardly, hear what she said. + +"It is because he _is_ looking at you that you are feeling uncomfortable," +I answered. "He wants you to confess your sins. I don't mean to me, but to +himself; though if you would like to tell me anything, and I can help you, +I shall be _very_ glad. You know Jesus Christ came to save us from our +sins; and that's why we call him our Saviour. But he can't save us from our +sins if we won't confess that we have any." + +"I'm sure I never said but what I be a great sinner, as well as other +people." + +"You don't suppose that's confessing your sins?" I said. "I once knew a +woman of very bad character, who allowed to me she was a great sinner; but +when I said, 'Yes, you have done so and so,' she would not allow one of +those deeds to be worthy of being reckoned amongst her sins. When I asked +her what great sins she had been guilty of, then, seeing these counted for +nothing, I could get no more out of her than that she was a great sinner, +like other people, as you have just been saying." + +"I hope you don't be thinking I ha' done anything of that sort," she said +with wakening energy. "No man or woman dare say I've done anything to be +ashamed of." + +"Then you've committed no sins?" I returned. "But why did you send for me? +You must have something to say to me." + +"I never did send for you. It must ha' been my husband." + +"Ah, then I'm afraid I've no business here!" I returned, rising. "I thought +you had sent for me." + +She returned no answer. I hoped that by retiring I should set her thinking, +and make her more willing to listen the next time I came. I think clergymen +may do much harm by insisting when people are in a bad mood, as if they +had everything to do, and the Spirit of God nothing at all. I bade her +good-day, hoped she would be better soon, and returned to Wynnie. + +As we walked home together, I said: + +"Wynnie, I was right. It would not have done at all to take you into the +sick-room. Mrs. Stokes had not sent for me herself, and rather resented my +appearance. But I think she will send for me before many days are over." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE ART OF NATURE. + + + + + +We had a week of hazy weather after this. I spent it chiefly in my study +and in Connie's room. A world of mist hung over the sea; it refused to hold +any communion with mortals. As if ill-tempered or unhappy, it folded itself +in its mantle and lay still. + +What was it thinking about? All Nature is so full of meaning, that we +cannot help fancying sometimes that she knows her own meanings. She is +busy with every human mood in turn--sometimes with ten of them at +once--picturing our own inner world before us, that we may see, understand, +develop, reform it. + +I was turning over some such thought in my mind one morning, when Dora +knocked at the door, saying that Mr. Percivale had called, and that mamma +was busy, and would I mind if she brought him up to the study. + +"Not in the least, my dear," I answered; "I shall be very glad to see him." + +"Not much of weather for your sacred craft, Percivale," I said as he +entered. "I suppose, if you were asked to make a sketch to-day, it would be +much the same as if a stupid woman were to ask you to take her portrait?" + +"Not quite so bad as that," said Percivale. + +"Surely the human face is more than nature." + +"Nature is never stupid." + +"The woman might be pretty." + +"Nature is full of beauty in her worst moods; while the prettier such a +woman, the more stupid she would look, and the more irksome you would feel +the task; for you could not help making claims upon her which you would +never think of making upon Nature." + +"I daresay you are right. Such stupidity has a good deal to do with moral +causes. You do not ever feel that Nature is to blame." + +"Nature is never ugly. She may be dull, sorrowful, troubled; she may be +lost in tears and pallor, but she cannot be ugly. It is only when you rise +into animal nature that you find ugliness." + +"True in the main only; for no lines of absolute division can be drawn in +nature. I have seen ugly flowers." + +"I grant it; but they are exceptional; and none of them are without +beauty." + +"Surely not. The ugliest soul even is not without some beauty. But I grant +you that the higher you rise the more is ugliness possible, just because +the greater beauty is possible. There is no ugliness to equal in its +repulsiveness the ugliness of a beautiful face." + +A pause followed. + +"I presume," I said, "you are thinking of returning to London now, there +seems so little to be gained by remaining here. When this weather begins to +show itself I could wish myself in my own parish; but I am sure the change, +even through the winter, will be good for my daughter." + +"I must be going soon," he answered; "but it would be too bad to take +offence at the old lady's first touch of temper. I mean to wait and see +whether we shall not have a little bit of St. Martin's summer, as Shakspere +calls it; after which, hail London, queen of smoke and--" + +"And what?" I asked, seeing he hesitated. + +"'And soap,' I was fancying you would say; for you never will allow the +worst of things, Mr. Walton." + +"No, surely I will not. For one thing, the worst has never been seen by +anybody yet. We have no experience to justify it." + +We were chatting in this loose manner when Walter came to the door to tell +me that a messenger had come from Mrs. Stokes. + +I went down to see him, and found her husband. + +"My wife be very bad, sir," he said. "I wish you could come and see her." + +"Does she want to see me?' I asked. + +"She's been more uncomfortable than ever since you was there last," he +said. + +"But," I repeated, "has she said she would like to see me?" + +"I can't say it, sir," answered the man. + +"Then it is you who want me to see her?" + +"Yes, sir; but I be sure she do want to see you. I know her way, you see, +sir. She never would say she wanted anything in her life; she would always +leave you to find it out: so I got sharp at that, sir." + +"And then would she allow she had wanted it when you got it her?" + +"No, never, sir. She be peculiar--my wife; she always be." + +"Does she know that you have come to ask me now?" + +"No, sir." + +"Have you courage to tell her?" + +The man hesitated. + +"If you haven't courage to tell her," I resumed, "I have nothing more to +say. I can't go; or, rather, I will not go." + +"I will tell her, sir." + +"Then you will tell her that I refused to come until she sent for me +herself." + +"Ben't that rather hard on a dying woman, sir?" + +"I have my reasons. Except she send for me herself, the moment I go she +will take refuge in the fact that she did not send for me. I know your +wife's peculiarity too, Mr. Stokes." + +"Well, I _will_ tell her, sir. It's time to speak my own mind." + +"I think so. It was time long ago. When she sends for me, if it be in the +middle of the night, I shall be with her at once." + +He left me and I returned to Percivale. + +"I was just thinking before you came," I said, "about the relation of +Nature to our inner world. You know I am quite ignorant of your art, but I +often think about the truths that lie at the root of it." + +"I am greatly obliged to you," he said, "for talking about these things. I +assure you it is of more service to me than any professional talk. I always +think the professions should not herd together so much as they do; they +want to be shone upon from other quarters." + +"I believe we have all to help each other, Percivale. The sun himself could +give us no light that would be of any service to us but for the reflective +power of the airy particles through which he shines. But anything I know I +have found out merely by foraging for my own necessities." + +"That is just what makes the result valuable," he replied. "Tell me what +you were thinking." + +"I was thinking," I answered, "how everyone likes to see his own thoughts +set outside of him, that he may contemplate them _objectively,_ as the +philosophers call it. He likes to see the other side of them, as it were." + +"Yes, that is, of course, true; else, I suppose, there would be no art at +all." + +"Surely. But that is not the aspect in which I was considering the +question. Those who can so set them forth are artists; and however they +may fail of effecting such a representation of their ideas as will satisfy +themselves, they yet experience satisfaction in the measure in which they +have succeeded. But there are many more men who cannot yet utter their +ideas in any form. Mind, I do expect that, if they will only be good, they +shall have this power some day; for I do think that many things we call +differences in kind, may in God's grand scale prove to be only differences +in degree. And indeed the artist--by artist, I mean, of course, architect, +musician, painter, poet, sculptor--in many things requires it just as much +as the most helpless and dumb of his brethren, seeing in proportion to the +things that he can do, he is aware of the things he cannot do, the thoughts +he cannot express. Hence arises the enthusiasm with which people hail the +work of an artist; they rejoice, namely, in seeing their own thoughts, or +feelings, or something like them, expressed; and hence it comes that of +those who have money, some hang their walls with pictures of their own +choice, others--" + +"I beg your pardon," said Percivale, interrupting; "but most people, I +fear, hang their walls with pictures of other people's choice, for they +don't buy them at all till the artist has got a name." + +"That is true. And yet there is a shadow of choice even there; for they +won't at least buy what they dislike. And again the growth in popularity +may be only what first attracted their attention--not determined their +choice." + +"But there are others who only buy them for their value in the market." + +"'Of such is not the talk,' as the Germans would say. In as far as your +description applies, such are only tradesmen, and have no claim to be +considered now." + +"Then I beg your pardon for interrupting. I am punished more than I +deserve, if you have lost your thread." + +"I don't think I have. Let me see. Yes. I was saying that people hang +their walls with pictures of their choice; or provide music, &c., of +their choice. Let me keep to the pictures: their choice, consciously or +unconsciously, is determined by some expression that these pictures give +to what is in themselves--the buyers, I mean. They like to see their own +feelings outside of themselves." + +"Is there not another possible motive--that the pictures teach them +something?" + +"That, I venture to think, shows a higher moral condition than the other, +but still partakes of the other; for it is only what is in us already +that makes us able to lay hold of a lesson. It is there in the germ, else +nothing from without would wake it up." + +"I do not quite see what all this has to do with Nature and her +influences." + +"One step more, and I shall arrive at it. You will admit that the pictures +and objects of art of all kinds, with which a man adorns the house he has +chosen or built to live in, have thenceforward not a little to do with the +education of his tastes and feelings. Even when he is not aware of it, they +are working upon him,--for good, if he has chosen what is good, which alone +shall be our supposition." + +"Certainly; that is clear." + +"Now I come to it. God, knowing our needs, built our house for our +needs--not as one man may build for another, but as no man can build for +himself. For our comfort, education, training, he has put into form for us +all the otherwise hidden thoughts and feelings of our heart. Even when he +speaks of the hidden things of the Spirit of God, he uses the forms or +pictures of Nature. The world is, as it were, the human, unseen world +turned inside out, that we may see it. On the walls of the house that he +has built for us, God has hung up the pictures--ever-living, ever-changing +pictures--of all that passes in our souls. Form and colour and motion are +there,--ever-modelling, ever-renewing, never wearying. Without this living +portraiture from within, we should have no word to utter that should +represent a single act of the inner world. Metaphysics could have no +existence, not to speak of poetry, not to speak of the commonest language +of affection. But all is done in such spiritual suggestion, portrait and +definition are so avoided, the whole is in such fluent evanescence, that +the producing mind is only aided, never overwhelmed. It never amounts to +representation. It affords but the material which the thinking, feeling +soul can use, interpret, and apply for its own purposes of speech. It is, +as it were, the forms of thought cast into a lovely chaos by the inferior +laws of matter, thence to be withdrawn by what we call the creative genius +that God has given to men, and moulded, and modelled, and arranged, and +built up to its own shapes and its own purposes." + +"Then I presume you would say that no mere transcript, if I may use the +word, of nature is the worthy work of an artist." + +"It is an impossibility to make a mere transcript. No man can help seeing +nature as he is himself, for she has all in her; but if he sees no meaning +in especial that he wants to give, his portrait of her will represent only +her dead face, not her living impassioned countenance." + +"Then artists ought to interpret nature?" + +"Indubitably; but that will only be to interpret themselves--something of +humanity that is theirs, whether they have discovered it already or not. If +to this they can add some teaching for humanity, then indeed they may claim +to belong to the higher order of art, however imperfect they may be in +their powers of representing--however lowly, therefore, their position may +be in that order." + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE SORE SPOT. + + +We went on talking for some time. Indeed we talked so long that the +dinner-hour was approaching, when one of the maids came with the message +that Mr. Stokes had called again, wishing to see me. I could not help +smiling inwardly at the news. I went down at once, and found him smiling +too. + +"My wife do send me for you this time, sir," he said. "Between you and me, +I cannot help thinking she have something on her mind she wants to tell +you, sir." + +"Why shouldn't she tell you, Mr. Stokes? That would be most natural. And +then, if you wanted any help about it, why, of course, here I am." + +"She don't think well enough of my judgment for that, sir; and I daresay +she be quite right. She always do make me give in before she have done +talking. But she have been a right good wife to me, sir." + +"Perhaps she would have been a better if you hadn't given in quite so much. +It is very wrong to give in when you think you are right." + +"But I never be sure of it when she talk to me awhile." + +"Ah, then I have nothing to say except that you ought to have been +surer--_sometimes;_ I don't say _always."_ + +"But she do want you very bad now, sir. I don't think she'll behave to you +as she did before. Do come, sir." + +"Of course I will--instantly." + +I returned to the study, and asked Percivale if he would like to go with +me. He looked, I thought, as if he would rather not. I saw that it was +hardly kind to ask him. + +"Well, perhaps it is better not," I said; "for I do not know how long I may +have to be with the poor woman. You had better wait here and take my place +at the dinner-table. I promise not to depose you if I should return before +the meal is over." + +He thanked me very heartily. I showed him into the drawing-room, told my +wife where I was going, and not to wait dinner for me--I would take my +chance--and joined Mr. Stokes. + +"You have no idea, then," I said, after we had gone about half-way, "what +makes your wife so uneasy?" + +"No, I haven't," he answered; "except it be," he resumed, "that she was too +hard, as I thought, upon our Mary, when she wanted to marry beneath her, as +wife thought." + +"How beneath her? Who was it she wanted to marry?" + +"She did marry him, sir. She has a bit of her mother's temper, you see, and +she would take her own way." + +"Ah, there's a lesson to mothers, is it not? If they want to have their own +way, they mustn't give their own temper to their daughters." + +"But how are they to help it, sir?" + +"Ah, how indeed? But what is your daughter's husband?" + +"A labourer, sir. He works on a farm out by Carpstone." + +"But you have worked on Mr. Barton's farm for many years, if I don't +mistake?" + +"I have, sir; but I am a sort of a foreman now, you see." + +"But you weren't so always; and your son-in-law, whether he work his way up +or not, is, I presume, much where you were when you married Mrs. Stokes?" + +"True as you say, sir; and it's not me that has anything to say about it. I +never gave the man a nay. But you see, my wife, she always do be wanting to +get her head up in the world; and since she took to the shopkeeping--" + +"The shopkeeping!" I said, with some surprise; "I didn't know that." + +"Well, you see, sir, it's only for a quarter or so of the year. You know +it's a favourite walk for the folks as comes here for the bathing--past our +house, to see the great cave down below; and my wife, she got a bit of a +sign put up, and put a few ginger-beer bottles in the window, and--" + +"A bad place for the ginger-beer," I said. + +"They were only empty ones, with corks and strings, you know, sir. My wife, +she know better than put the ginger-beer its own self in the sun. But I do +think she carry her head higher after that; and a farm-labourer, as they +call them, was none good enough for her daughter." + +"And hasn't she been kind to her since she married, then?" + +"She's never done her no harm, sir." + +"But she hasn't gone to see her very often, or asked her to come and see +you very often, I suppose?" + +"There's ne'er a one o' them crossed the door of the other," he answered, +with some evident feeling of his own in the matter. + +"Ah; but you don't approve of that yourself, Stokes?" + +"Approve of it? No, sir. I be a farm-labourer once myself; and so I do want +to see my own daughter now and then. But she take after her mother, she do. +I don't know which of the two it is as does it, but there's no coming and +going between Carpstone and this." + +We were approaching the house. I told Stokes he had better let her know I +was there; for that, if she had changed her mind, it was not too late for +me to go home again without disturbing her. He came back saying she was +still very anxious to see me. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes, how do you feel to-day?" I asked, by way of opening the +conversation. "I don't think you look much worse." + +"I he much worse, sir. You don't know what I suffer, or you wouldn't make +so little of it. I be very bad." + +"I know you are very ill, but I hope you are not too ill to tell me why you +are so anxious to see me. You have got something to tell me, I suppose." + +With pale and death-like countenance, she appeared to be fighting more with +herself than with the disease which yet had nearly overcome her. The drops +stood upon her forehead, and she did not speak. Wishing to help her, if I +might, I said-- + +"Was it about your daughter you wanted to speak to me?" + +"No," she muttered. "I have nothing to say about my daughter. She was my +own. I could do as I pleased with her." + +I thought with myself, we must have a word about that by and by, but +meantime she must relieve her heart of the one thing whose pressure she +feels. + +"Then," I said, "you want to tell me about something that was not your +own?" + +"Who said I ever took what was not my own?" she returned fiercely. "Did +Stokes dare to say I took anything that wasn't my own?" + +"No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from +your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause of +your misery." + +"It is very hard that the parson should think such things," she muttered +again. + +"My poor woman," I said, "you sent for me because you had something to +confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to +confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does you +harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, confess +to God." + +"God knows it, I suppose, without that." + +"Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. How +is he to forgive you, if you won't allow that you have done wrong?" + +"It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had +took something that wasn't your own?" + +"Well, I shouldn't like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I +should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it." + +"But that's the worst of it; I can't get rid of it." + +"But," I said, laying my hand on hers, and trying to speak as kindly as I +could, although her whole behaviour would have been exceedingly repulsive +but for her evidently great suffering, "you have now all but confessed +taking something that did not belong to you. Why don't you summon courage +and tell me all about it? I want to help you out of the trouble as easily +as ever I can; but I can't if you don't tell me what you've got that isn't +yours." + +"I haven't got anything," she muttered. + +"You had something, then, whatever may have become of it now." + +She was again silent. + +"What did you do with it?" + +"Nothing." + +I rose and took up my hat. She stretched out her hand, as if to lay hold of +me, with a cry. + +"Stop, stop. I'll tell you all about it. I lost it again. That's the worst +of it. I got no good of it." + +"What was it?" + +"A sovereign," she said, with a groan. "And now I'm a thief, I suppose." + +"No more a thief than you were before. Rather less, I hope. But do you +think it would have been any better for you if you hadn't lost it, and had +got some good of it, as you say?" + +She was silent yet again. + +"If you hadn't lost it you would most likely have been a great deal worse +for it than you are--a more wicked woman altogether." + +"I'm not a wicked woman." + +"It is wicked to steal, is it not?" + +"I didn't steal it." + +"How did you come by it, then?" + +"I found it." + +"Did you try to find out the owner?" + +"No. I knew whose it was." + +"Then it was very wicked not to return it. And I say again, that if you had +not lost the sovereign you would have been most likely a more wicked woman +than you are." + +"It was very hard to lose it. I could have given it back. And then I +wouldn't have lost my character as I have done this day." + +"Yes, you could; but I doubt if you would." + +"I would." + +"Now, if you had it, you are sure you would give it back?" + +"Yes, that I would," she said, looking me so full in the face that I was +sure she meant it. + +"How would you give it back? Would you get your husband to take it?" + +"No; I wouldn't trust him." + +"With the story, you mean I You do not wish to imply that he would not +restore it?" + +"I don't mean that. He would do what I told him." + +"How would you return it, then?" + +"I should make a parcel of it, and send it." + +"Without saying anything about it?" + +"Yes. Where's the good? The man would have his own." + +"No, he would not. He has a right to your confession, for you have wronged +him. That would never do." + +"You are too hard upon me," she said, beginning to weep angrily. + +"Do you want to get the weight of this sin off your mind?" I said. + +"Of course I do. I am going to die. O dear! O dear!" + +"Then that is just what I want to help you in. You must confess, or the +weight of it will stick there." + +"But, if I confess, I shall be expected to pay it back?" + +"Of course. That is only reasonable." + +"But I haven't got it, I tell you. I have lost it." + +"Have you not a sovereign in your possession?" + +"No, not one." + +"Can't you ask your husband to let you have one?" + +"There! I knew it was no use. I knew you would only make matters worse. I +do wish I had never seen that wicked money." + +"You ought not to abuse the money; it was not wicked. You ought to wish +that you had returned it. But that is no use; the thing is to return it +now. Has your husband got a sovereign?" + +"No. He may ha' got one since I be laid up. But I never can tell him about +it; and I should be main sorry to spend one of his hard earning in that +way, poor man." + +"Well, I'll tell him, and we'll manage it somehow." + +I thought for a few moments she would break out in opposition; but she hid +her face with the sheet instead, and burst into a great weeping. + +I took this as a permission to do as I had said, and went to the room-door +and called her husband. He came, looking scared. His wife did not look up, +but lay weeping. I hoped much for her and him too from this humiliation +before him, for I had little doubt she needed it. + +"Your wife, poor woman," I said, "is in great distress because--I do not +know when or how--she picked up a sovereign that did not belong to her, +and, instead of returning, put it away somewhere and lost it. This is what +is making her so miserable." + +"Deary me!" said Stokes, in the tone with which he would have spoken to a +sick child; and going up to his wife, he sought to draw down the sheet from +her face, apparently that he might kiss her; but she kept tight hold of +it, and he could not. "Deary me!" he went on; "we'll soon put that all to +rights. When was it, Jane, that you found it?" + +"When we wanted so to have a pig of our own; and I thought I could soon +return it," she sobbed from under the sheet. + +"Deary me! Ten years ago! Where did you find it, old woman?" + +"I saw Squire Tresham drop it, as he paid me for some ginger-beer he got +for some ladies that was with him. I do believe I should ha' given it back +at the time; but he made faces at the ginger-beer, and said it was very +nasty; and I thought, well, I would punish him for it." + +"You see it was your temper that made a thief of you, then," I said. + +"My old man won't be so hard on me as you, sir. I wish I had told him +first." + +"I would wish that too," I said, "were it not that I am afraid you might +have persuaded him to be silent about it, and so have made him miserable +and wicked too. But now, Stokes, what is to be done? This money must be +paid. Have you got it?" + +The poor man looked blank. + +"She will never be at ease till this money is paid," I insisted. + +"Well, sir, I ain't got it, but I'll borrow it of someone; I'll go to +master, and ask him." + +"No, my good fellow, that won't do. Your master would want to know what +you were going to do with it, perhaps; and we mustn't let more people know +about it than just ourselves and Squire Tresham. There is no occasion for +that. I'll tell you what: I'll give you the money, and you must take it; +or, if you like, I will take it to the squire, and tell him all about it. +Do you authorise me to do this, Mrs. Stokes?" + +"Please, sir. It's very kind of you. I will work hard to pay you again, if +it please God to spare me. I am very sorry I was so cross-tempered to you, +sir; but I couldn't bear the disgrace of it." + +She said all this from under the bed-clothes. + +"Well, I'll go," I said; "and as soon as I've had my dinner I'll get a +horse and ride over to Squire Tresham's. I'll come back to-night and tell +you about it. And now I hope you will be able to thank God for forgiving +you this sin; but you must not hide and cover it up, but confess it clean +out to him, you know." + +She made me no answer, but went on sobbing. + +I hastened home, and as I entered sent Walter to ask the loan of a horse +which a gentleman, a neighbour, had placed at my disposal. + +When I went into the dining-room, I found that they had not sat down to +dinner. I expostulated: it was against the rule of the house, when my +return was uncertain. + +"But, my love," said my wife, "why should you not let us please ourselves +sometimes?" Dinner is so much nicer when you are with us." + +"I am very glad you think so," I answered. "But there are the children: it +is not good for growing creatures to be kept waiting for their meals." + +"You see there are no children; they have had their dinner." + +"Always in the right, wife; but there's Mr. Percivale." + +"I never dine till seven o'clock, to save daylight," he said. + +"Then I am beaten on all points. Let us dine." + +During dinner I could scarcely help observing how Percivale's eyes followed +Wynnie, or, rather, every now and then settled down upon her face. That she +was aware, almost conscious of this, I could not doubt. One glance at her +satisfied me of that. But certain words of the apostle kept coming again +and again into my mind; for they were winged words those, and even when +they did not enter they fluttered their wings at my window: "Whatsoever is +not of faith is sin." And I kept reminding myself that I must heave the +load of sin off me, as I had been urging poor Mrs. Stokes to do; for God +was ever seeking to lift it, only he could not without my help, for that +would be to do me more harm than good by taking the one thing in which I +was like him away from me--my action. Therefore I must have faith in +him, and not be afraid; for surely all fear is sin, and one of the most +oppressive sins from which the Lord came to save us. + +Before dinner was over the horse was at the door. I mounted, and set out +for Squire Tresham's. + + +I found him a rough but kind-hearted elderly man. When I told him the story +of the poor woman's misery, he was quite concerned at her suffering. When I +produced the sovereign he would not receive it at first, but requested me +to take it back to her and say she must keep it by way of an apology for +his rudeness about her ginger-beer; for I took care to tell him the whole +story, thinking it might be a lesson to him too. But I begged him to take +it; for it would, I thought, not only relieve her mind more thoroughly, but +help to keep her from coming to think lightly of the affair afterwards. Of +course I could not tell him that I had advanced the money, for that would +have quite prevented him from receiving it. I then got on my horse again, +and rode straight to the cottage. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes," I said, "it's all over now. That's one good thing +done. How do you feel yourself now?" + +"I feel better now, sir. I hope God will forgive me." + +"God does forgive you. But there are more things you need forgiveness for. +It is not enough to get rid of one sin. We must get rid of all our sins, +you know. They're not nice things, are they, to keep in our hearts? It is +just like shutting up nasty corrupting things, dead carcasses, under lock +and key, in our most secret drawers, as if they were precious jewels." + +"I wish I could be good, like some people, but I wasn't made so. There's my +husband now. I do believe he never do anything wrong in his life. But then, +you see, he would let a child take him in." + +"And far better too. Infinitely better to be taken in. Indeed there is no +harm in being taken in; but there is awful harm in taking in." + +She did not reply, and I went on: + +"I think you would feel a good deal better yet, if you would send for your +daughter and her husband now, and make it up with them, especially seeing +you are so ill." + +"I will, sir. I will directly. I'm tired of having my own way. But I was +made so." + +"You weren't made to continue so, at all events. God gives us the necessary +strength to resist what is bad in us. He is making at you now; only you +must give in, else he cannot get on with the making of you. I think very +likely he made you ill now, just that you might bethink yourself, and feel +that you had done wrong." + +"I have been feeling that for many a year." + +"That made it the more needful to make you ill; for you had been feeling +your duty, and yet not doing it; and that was worst of all. You know Jesus +came to lift the weight of our sins, our very sins themselves, off our +hearts, by forgiving them and helping us to cast them away from us. +Everything that makes you uncomfortable must have sin in it somewhere, and +he came to save you from it. Send for your daughter and her husband, and +when you have done that you will think of something else to set right +that's wrong." + +"But there would be no end to that way of it, sir." + +"Certainly not, till everything was put right." + +"But a body might have nothing else to do, that way." + +"Well, that's the very first thing that has to be done. It is our business +in this world. We were not sent here to have our own way and try to enjoy +ourselves." + +"That is hard on a poor woman that has to work for her bread." + +"To work for your bread is not to take your own way, for it is God's way. +But you have wanted many things your own way. Now, if you would just take +his way, you would find that he would take care you should enjoy your +life." + +"I'm sure I haven't had much enjoyment in mine." + +"That was just because you would not trust him with his own business, but +must take it into your hands. If you will but do his will, he will take +care that you have a life to be very glad of and very thankful for. And the +longer you live, the more blessed you will find it. But I must leave you +now, for I have talked to you long enough. You must try and get a sleep. I +will come and see you again to-morrow, if you like." + +"Please do, sir; I shall be very grateful." + +As I rode home I thought, if the lifting of one sin off the human heart was +like a resurrection, what would it be when every sin was lifted from every +heart! Every sin, then, discovered in one's own soul must be a pledge of +renewed bliss in its removing. And when the thought came again of what St. +Paul had said somewhere, "whatsoever is not of faith is sin," I thought +what a weight of sin had to be lifted from the earth, and how blessed it +might be. But what could I do for it? I could just begin with myself, and +pray God for that inward light which is his Spirit, that so I might see him +in everything and rejoice in everything as his gift, and then all things +would be holy, for whatsoever is of faith must be the opposite of sin; and +that was my part towards heaving the weight of sin, which, like myriads +of gravestones, was pressing the life out of us men, off the whole world. +Faith in God is life and righteousness--the faith that trusts so that it +will obey--none other. Lord, lift the people thou hast made into holy +obedience and thanksgiving, that they may be glad in this thy world. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE GATHERING STORM. + + + + + +The weather cleared up again the next day, and for a fortnight it was +lovely. In this region we saw less of the sadness of the dying year than in +our own parish, for there being so few trees in the vicinity of the ocean, +the autumn had nowhere to hang out her mourning flags. But there, indeed, +so mild is the air, and so equable the temperature all the winter through, +compared with the inland counties, that the bitterness of the season is +almost unknown. This, however, is no guarantee against furious storms of +wind and rain. + +Not long after the occurrence last recorded, Turner paid us another visit. +I confess I was a little surprised at his being able to get away so soon +again; for of all men a country surgeon can least easily find time for a +holiday; but he had managed it, and I had no doubt, from what I knew of +him, had made thorough provision for his cure in his absence. + +He brought us good news from home. Everything was going on well. Weir was +working as hard as usual; and everybody agreed that I could not have got a +man to take my place better. + +He said he found Connie much improved; and, from my own observations, I was +sure he was right. She was now able to turn a good way from one side to the +other, and finding her health so steady besides, Turner encouraged her in +making gentle and frequent use of her strength, impressing it upon her, +however, that everything depended on avoiding everything like a jerk or +twist of any sort. I was with them when he said this. She looked up at him +with a happy smile. + +"I will do all I can, Mr. Turner," she said, "to get out of people's way as +soon as possible." + +Perhaps she saw something in our faces that made her add-- + +"I know you don't mind the bother I am; but I do. I want to help, and not +be helped--more than other people--as soon as possible. I will therefore be +as gentle as mamma and as brave as papa, and see if we don't get well, Mr. +Turner. I mean to have a ride on old Spry next summer.--I do," she added, +nodding her pretty head up from the pillow, when she saw the glance the +doctor and I exchanged. "Look here," she went on, poking the eider-down +quilt up with her foot. + +"Magnificent!" said Turner; "but mind, you must do nothing out of bravado. +That won't do at all." + +"I have done," said Connie, putting on a face of mock submission. + +That day we carried her out for a few minutes, but hardly laid her down, +for we were afraid of the damp from the earth. A few feet nearer or farther +from the soil will make a difference. It was the last time for many weeks. +Anyone interested in my Connie need not be alarmed: it was only because of +the weather, not because of her health. + +One day I was walking home from a visit I had been paying to Mrs. Stokes. +She was much better, in a fair way to recover indeed, and her mental health +was improved as well. Her manner to me was certainly very different, and +the tone of her voice, when she spoke to her husband especially, was +changed: a certain roughness in it was much modified, and I had good +hopes that she had begun to climb up instead of sliding down the hill of +difficulty, as she had been doing hitherto. + +It was a cold and gusty afternoon. The sky eastward and overhead was +tolerably clear when I set out from home; but when I left the cottage to +return, I could see that some change was at hand. Shaggy vapours of light +gray were blowing rapidly across the sky from the west. A wind was blowing +fiercely up there, although the gusts down below came from the east. +The clouds it swept along with it were formless, with loose +fringes--disreputable, troubled, hasty clouds they were, looking like +mischief. They reminded me of Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind," in which +he compares the "loose clouds" to hair, and calls them "the locks of the +approaching storm." Away to the west, a great thick curtain of fog, of a +luminous yellow, covered all the sea-horizon, extending north and south as +far as the eye could reach. It looked ominous. A surly secret seemed to +lie in its bosom. Now and then I could discern the dim ghost of a vessel +through it, as tacking for north or south it came near enough to the edge +of the fog to show itself for a few moments, ere it retreated again +into its bosom. There was exhaustion, it seemed to me, in the air, +notwithstanding the coolness of the wind, and I was glad when I found +myself comfortably seated by the drawing-room fire, and saw Wynnie +bestirring herself to make the tea. + +"It looks stormy, I think, Wynnie," I said. + +Her eye lightened, as she looked out to sea from the window. + +"You seem to like the idea of it," I added. + +"You told me I was like you, papa; and you look as if you liked the idea of +it too." + +"_Per se_, certainly, a storm is pleasant to me. I should not like a world +without storms any more than I should like that Frenchman's idea of the +perfection of the earth, when all was to be smooth as a trim-shaven lawn, +rocks and mountains banished, and the sea breaking on the shore only in +wavelets of ginger-beer or lemonade, I forget which. But the older +you grow, the more sides of a thing will present themselves to your +contemplation. The storm may be grand and exciting in itself, but you +cannot help thinking of the people that are in it. Think for a moment of +the multitude of vessels, great and small, which are gathered within the +skirts of that angry vapour out there. I fear the toils of the storm are +around them. Look at the barometer in the hall, my dear, and tell me what +it says." + +She went and returned. + +"It was not very low, papa--only at rain; but the moment I touched it, the +hand dropped an inch." + +"Yes, I thought so. All things look stormy. It may not be very bad here, +however." + +"That doesn't make much difference though, does it, papa?" + +"No further than that being creatures in time and space, we must think of +things from our own standpoint." + +"But I remember very well how, when we were children, you would not let +nurse teach us Dr. Watts's hymns for children, because you said they tended +to encourage selfishness." + +"Yes; I remember it very well. Some of them make the contrast between the +misery of others and our own comforts so immediately the apparent--mind, +I only say apparent--ground of thankfulness, that they are not fit for +teaching. I do think that if you could put Dr. Watts to the question, he +would abjure any such intention, saying that only he meant to heighten +the sense of our obligation. But it does tend to selfishness and, what is +worse, self-righteousness, and is very dangerous therefore. What right have +I to thank God that I am not as other men are in anything? I have to thank +God for the good things he has given to me; but how dare I suppose that he +is not doing the same for other people in proportion to their capacity? I +don't like to appear to condemn Dr. Watts's hymns. Certainly he has written +the very worst hymns I know; but he has likewise written the best--for +public worship, I mean." + +"Well, but, papa, I have heard you say that any simple feeling that comes +of itself cannot be wrong in itself. If I feel a delight in the idea of a +storm, I cannot help it coming." + +"I never said you could, my dear. I only said that as we get older, other +things we did not feel at first come to show themselves more to us, and +impress us more." + +Thus my child and I went on, like two pendulums crossing each other in +their swing, trying to reach the same dead beat of mutual intelligence. + +"But," said Wynnie, "you say everybody is in God's hands as well as we." + +"Yes, surely, my dear; as much out in yon stormy haze as here beside the +fire." + +"Then we ought not to be miserable about them, even if there comes a storm, +ought we?" + +"No, surely. And, besides, I think if we could help any of them, the very +persons that enjoyed the storm the most would be the busiest to rescue them +from it. At least, I fancy so. But isn't the tea ready?" + +"Yes, papa. I'll just go and tell mamma." + +When she returned with her mother, and the children had joined us, Wynnie +resumed the talk. + +"I know what I am going to say is absurd, papa, and yet I don't see my +way out of it--logically, I suppose you would call it. What is the use of +taking any trouble about them if they are in God's hands? Why should we try +to take them out of God's hands?" + +"Ah, Wynnie! at least you do not seek to hide your bad logic, or whatever +you call it. Take them out of God's hands! If you could do that, it would +be perdition indeed. God's hands is the only safe place in the universe; +and the universe is in his hands. Are we not in God's hands on the shore +because we say they are in his hands who go down to the sea in ships? If we +draw them on shore, surely they are not out of God's hands." + +"I see--I see. But God could save them without us." + +"Yes; but what would become of us then? God is so good to us, that we must +work our little salvation in the earth with him. Just as a father lets his +little child help him a little, that the child may learn to be and to do, +so God puts it in our hearts to save this life to our fellows, because we +would instinctively save it to ourselves, if we could. He requires us to do +our best." + +"But God may not mean to save them." + +"He may mean them to be drowned--we do not know. But we know that we must +try our little salvation, for it will never interfere with God's great and +good and perfect will. Ours will be foiled if he sees that best." + +"But people always say, when anyone escapes unhurt from an accident, 'by +the mercy of God.' They don't say it is by the mercy of God when he is +drowned." + +"But _people_ cannot be expected, ought not, to say what they do not feel. +Their own first sensation of deliverance from impending death would break +out in a 'thank God,' and therefore they say it is God's mercy when another +is saved. If they go farther, and refuse to consider it God's mercy when a +man is drowned, that is just the sin of the world--the want of faith. But +the man who creeps out of the drowning, choking billows into the glory of +the new heavens and the new earth--do you think his thanksgiving for the +mercy of God which has delivered him is less than that of the man who +creeps, exhausted and worn, out of the waves on to the dreary, surf-beaten +shore? In nothing do we show less faith than the way in which we think and +speak about death. 'O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy +victory?' says the apostle. 'Here, here, here,' cry the Christian people, +'everywhere. It is an awful sting, a fearful victory. But God keeps it away +from us many a time when we ask him--to let it pierce us to the heart, at +last, to be sure; but that can't be helped.' I mean this is how they feel +in their hearts who do not believe that God is as merciful when he sends +death as when he sends life; who, Christian people as they are, yet look +upon death as an evil thing which cannot be avoided, and would, if they +might live always, be content to live always. Death or Life--each is God's; +for he is not the God of the dead, but of the living: there are no dead, +for all live to him." + +"But don't you think we naturally shrink from death, Harry?" said my wife. + +"There can be no doubt about that, my dear." + +"Then, if it be natural, God must have meant that it should be so." + +"Doubtless, to begin with, but not to continue or end with. A child's sole +desire is for food--the very best possible to begin with. But how would it +be if the child should reach, say, two years of age, and refuse to share +this same food with his little brother? Or what comes of the man who never +so far rises above the desire for food that _nothing_ could make him forget +his dinner-hour? Just so the life of Christians should be strong enough to +overcome the fear of death. We ought to love and believe him so much, that +when he says we shall not die, we should at least believe that death must +be something very different from what it looks to us to be--so different, +that what we mean by the word does not apply to the reality at all; and so +Jesus cannot use the word, because it would seem to us that he meant what +we mean by it, which he, seeing it all round, cannot mean." + +"That does seem quite reasonable," said Ethelwyn. + +Turner had taken no part in the conversation. He, too, had just come in +from a walk over the hills. He was now standing looking out at the sea. + +"She looks uneasy, does she not?" I said. + +"You mean the Atlantic?" he returned, looking round. "Yes, I think so. I am +glad she is not a patient of mine. I fear she is going to be very feverish, +probably delirious before morning. She won't sleep much, and will talk +rather loud when the tide comes in." + +"Disease has often an ebb and flow like the tide, has it not?" + +"Often. Some diseases are like a plant that has its time to grow and +blossom, then dies; others, as you say, ebb and flow again and again before +they vanish." + +"It seems to me, however, that the ebb and flow does not belong to the +disease, but to Nature, which works through the disease. It seems to +me that my life has its tides, just like the ocean, only a little more +regularly. It is high water with me always in the morning and the evening; +in the afternoon life is at its lowest; and I believe it is lowest again +while we sleep, and hence it comes that to work the brain at night has such +an injurious effect on the system. But this is perhaps all a fancy." + +"There may be some truth in it. But I was just thinking when you spoke to +me what a happy thing it is that the tide does not vary by an even six +hours, but has the odd minutes; whence we see endless changes in the +relation of the water to the times of the day. And then the spring-tides +and the neap-tides! What a provision there is in the world for change!" + +"Yes. Change is one of the forms that infinitude takes for the use of us +human immortals. But come and have some tea, Turner. You will not care to +go out again. What shall we do this evening? Shall we all go to Connie's +room and have some Shakspere?" + +"I could wish nothing better. What play shall we have?" + +"Let us have the _Midsummer Night's Dream,"_ said Ethelwyn. + +"You like to go by contraries, apparently, Ethel. But you're quite right. +It is in the winter of the year that art must give us its summer. I suspect +that most of the poetry about spring and summer is written in the winter. +It is generally when we do not possess that we lay full value upon what we +lack." + +"There is one reason," said Wynnie with a roguish look, "why I like that +play." + +"I should think there might be more than one," Wynnie." + +"But one reason is enough for a woman at once; isn't it, papa?" + +"I'm not sure of that. But what is your reason?" + +"That the fairies are not allowed to play any tricks with the women. _They_ +are true throughout." + +"I might choose to say that was because they were not tried." + +"And I might venture to answer that Shakspere--being true to nature always, +as you say, papa--knew very well how absurd it would be to represent a +woman's feelings as under the influence of the juice of a paltry flower." + +"Capital, Wynnie!" said her mother; and Turner and I chimed in with our +approbation. + +"Shall I tell you what I like best in the play?" said Turner. "It is the +common sense of Theseus in accounting for all the bewilderments of the +night." + +"But," said Ethelwyn, "he was wrong after all. What is the use of common +sense if it leads you wrong? The common sense of Theseus simply amounted to +this, that he would only believe his own eyes." + +"I think Mrs. Walton is right, Turner," I said. "For my part, I have more +admired the open-mindedness of Hippolyta, who would yield more weight +to the consistency of the various testimony than could be altogether +counterbalanced by the negation of her own experience. Now I will tell you +what I most admire in the play: it is the reconciling power of the poet. He +brings together such marvellous contrasts, without a single shock or jar +to your feeling of the artistic harmony of the conjunction. Think for a +moment--the ordinary commonplace courtiers; the lovers, men and women in +the condition of all conditions in which fairy-powers might get a hold of +them; the quarrelling king and queen of Fairyland, with their courtiers, +Blossom, Cobweb, and the rest, and the court-jester, Puck; the ignorant, +clownish artisans, rehearsing their play,--fairies and clowns, lovers and +courtiers, are all mingled in one exquisite harmony, clothed with a night +of early summer, rounded in by the wedding of the king and queen. But I +have talked enough about it. Let us get our books." + +As we sat in Connie's room, delighting ourselves with the reflex of +the poet's fancy, the sound of the rising tide kept mingling with the +fairy-talk and the foolish rehearsal. "Musk roses," said Titania; and the +first of the blast, going round by south to west, rattled the window. "Good +hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow," said Bottom; and the roar of the waters +was in our ears. "So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently +entwist," said Titania; and the blast poured the rain in a spout against +the window. "Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells," said +Theseus; and the wind whistled shrill through the chinks of the bark-house +opening from the room. We drew the curtains closer, made up the fire +higher, and read on. It was time for supper ere we had done; and when +we left Connie to have hers and go to sleep, it was with the hope that, +through all the rising storm, she would dream of breeze-haunted summer +woods. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE GATHERED STORM. + + + + + +I woke in the middle of the night and the darkness to hear the wind +howling. It was wide awake now, and up with intent. It seized the house, +and shook it furiously; and the rain kept pouring, only I could not hear it +save in the _rallentondo_ passages of the wind; but through all the wind +I could hear the roaring of the big waves on the shore. I did not wake my +wife; but I got up, put on my dressing-gown, and went softly to Connie's +room, to see whether she was awake; for I feared, if she were, she would be +frightened. Wynnie always slept in a little bed in the same room. I opened +the door very gently, and peeped in. The fire was burning, for Wynnie was +an admirable stoker, and could generally keep the fire in all night. I +crept to the bedside: there was just light enough to see that Connie was +fast asleep, and that her dreams were not of storms. It was a marvel how +well the child always slept. But, as I turned to leave the room, Wynnie's +voice called me in a whisper. Approaching her bed, I saw her wide eyes, +like the eyes of the darkness, for I could scarcely see anything of her +face. + +"Awake, darling?" I said. + +"Yes, papa. I have been awake a long time; but isn't Connie sleeping +delightfully? She does sleep so well! Sleep is surely very good for her." + +"It is the best thing for us all, next to God's spirit, I sometimes think, +my dear. But are you frightened by the storm? Is that what keeps you +awake?" + +"I don't think that is what keeps me awake; but sometimes the house shakes +so that I do feel a little nervous. I don't know how it is. I never felt +afraid of anything natural before." + +"What our Lord said about not being afraid of anything that could only hurt +the body applies here, and in all the terrors of the night. Think about +him, dear." + +"I do try, papa. Don't you stop; you will get cold. It is a dreadful storm, +is it not? Suppose there should be people drowning out there now!" + +"There may be, my love. People are dying almost every other moment, I +suppose, on the face of the earth. Drowning is only an easy way of dying. +Mind, they are all in God's hands." + +"Yes, papa. I will turn round and shut my eyes, and fancy that his hand is +over them, making them dark with his care." + +"And it will not be fancy, my darling, if you do. You remember those +odd but no less devout lines of George Herbert? Just after he says, so +beautifully, 'And now with darkness closest weary eyes,' he adds: + + Thus in thy ebony box + Thou dost enclose us, till the day + Put our amendment in our way, + And give new wheels to our disordered clocks." + +"He is very fond of boxes, by the way. So go to sleep, dear. You are a good +clock of God's making; but you want new wheels, according to our beloved +brother George Herbert. Therefore sleep. Good-night." + +This was tiresome talk--was it--in the middle of the night, reader? Well, +but my child did not think so, I know. + +Dark, dank, weeping, the morning dawned. All dreary was the earth and sky. +The wind was still hunting the clouds across the heavens. It lulled a +little while we sat at breakfast, but soon the storm was up again, and +the wind raved. I went out. The wind caught me as if with invisible human +hands, and shook me. I fought with it, and made my way into the village. +The streets were deserted. I peeped up the inn-yard as I passed: not a man +or horse was to be seen. The little shops looked as if nobody had crossed +their thresholds for a week. Not a door was open. One child came out of the +baker's with a big loaf in her apron. The wind threatened to blow the hair +off her head, if not herself first into the canal. I took her by the hand +and led her, or rather, let her lead me home, while I kept her from being +carried away by the wind. Having landed her safely inside her mother's +door, I went on, climbed the heights above the village, and looked abroad +over the Atlantic. What a waste of aimless tossing to and fro! Gray mist +above, full of falling rain; gray, wrathful waters underneath, foaming and +bursting as billow broke upon billow. The tide was ebbing now, but almost +every other wave swept the breakwater. They burst on the rocks at the end +of it, and rushed in shattered spouts and clouds of spray far into the air +over their heads. "Will the time ever come," I thought, "when man shall +be able to store up even this force for his own ends? Who can tell?" The +solitary form of a man stood at some distance gazing, as I was gazing, out +on the ocean. I walked towards him, thinking with myself who it could be +that loved Nature so well that he did not shrink from her even in her most +uncompanionable moods. I suspected, and soon found I was right; it was +Percivale. + +"What a clashing of water-drops!" I said, thinking of a line somewhere in +Coleridge's Remorse. They are but water-drops, after all, that make this +great noise upon the rocks; only there is a great many of them." + +"Yes," said Percivale. "But look out yonder. You see a single sail, +close-reefed--that is all I can see--away in the mist there? As soon as you +think of the human struggle with the elements, as soon as you know that +hearts are in the midst of it, it is a clashing of water-drops no more. It +is an awful power, with which the will and all that it rules have to fight +for the mastery, or at least for freedom." + +"Surely you are right. It is the presence of thought, feeling, effort that +gives the majesty to everything. It is even a dim attribution of human +feelings to this tormented, passionate sea that gives it much of its awe; +although, as we were saying the other day, it is only _a picture_ of the +troubled mind. But as I have now seen how matters are with the elements, +and have had a good pluvial bath as well, I think I will go home and change +my clothes." + +"I have hardly had enough of it yet," returned Percivale. "I shall have a +stroll along the heights here, and when the tide has fallen a little way +from the foot of the cliffs I shall go down on the sands and watch awhile +there." + +"Well, you're a younger man than I am; but I've seen the day, as Lear says. +What an odd tendency we old men have to boast of the past: we would be +judged by the past, not by the present. We always speak of the strength +that is withered and gone, as if we had some claim upon it still. But I am +not going to talk in this storm. I am always talking." + +"I will go with you as far as the village, and then I will turn and take my +way along the downs for a mile or two; I don't mind being wet." + +"I didn't once." + +"Don't you think," resumed Percivale, "that in some sense the old man--not +that I can allow _you that dignity yet, Mr. Walton--has a right to regard +the past as his own?" + +"That would be scanned," I answered, as we walked towards the village. +"Surely the results of the past are the man's own. Any action of the man's, +upon which the life in him reposes, remains his. But suppose a man had done +a good deed once, and instead of making that a foundation upon which to +build more good, grew so vain of it that he became incapable of doing +anything more of the same sort, you could not say that the action belonged +to him still. Therein he has severed his connection with the past. Again, +what has never in any deep sense been a man's own, cannot surely continue +to be his afterwards. Thus the things that a man has merely possessed once, +the very people who most admired him for their sakes when he had them, +give him no credit for after he has lost them. Riches that have taken +to themselves wings leave with the poor man only a surpassing poverty. +Strength, likewise, which can so little depend on any exercise of the will +in man, passes from him with the years. It was not his all the time; it was +but lent him, and had nothing to do with his inward force. A bodily feeble +man may put forth a mighty life-strength in effort, and show nothing to the +eyes of his neighbour; while the strong man gains endless admiration for +what he could hardly help. But the effort of the one remains, for it was +his own; the strength of the other passes from him, for it was never his +own. So with beauty, which the commonest woman acknowledges never to have +been hers in seeking to restore it by deception. So, likewise, in a great +measure with intellect." + +"But if you take away intellect as well, what do you leave a man that can +in any way be called his own?" + +"Certainly his intellect is not his own. One thing only is his own--to will +the truth. This, too, is as much God's gift as everything else: I ought to +say is more God's gift than anything else, for he gives it to be the man's +own more than anything else can be. And when he wills the truth, he has +God himself. Man _can_ possess God: all other things follow as necessary +results. What poor creatures we should have been if God had not made us to +do something--to look heavenwards--to lift up the hands that hang down, and +strengthen the feeble knees! Something like this was in the mind of the +prophet Jeremiah when he said, 'Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wise man +glory in his wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might, let not +the rich man glory in his riches; but let him that glorieth glory in this, +that he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise +loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth: for in these +things I delight, saith the Lord.' My own conviction is, that a vague sense +of a far higher life in ourselves than we yet know anything about is at the +root of all our false efforts to be able to think something of ourselves. +We cannot commend ourselves, and therefore we set about priding ourselves. +We have little or no strength of mind, faculty of operation, or worth of +will, and therefore we talk of our strength of body, worship the riches +we have, or have not, it is all one, and boast of our paltry intellectual +successes. The man most ambitious of being considered a universal genius +must at last confess himself a conceited dabbler, and be ready to part with +all he knows for one glimpse more of that understanding of God which the +wise men of old held to be essential to every man, but which the growing +luminaries of the present day will not allow to be even possible for any +man." + +We had reached the brow of the heights, and here we parted. A fierce blast +of wind rushed at me, and I hastened down the hill. How dreary the streets +did look!--how much more dreary than the stormy down! I saw no living +creature as I returned but a terribly draggled dog, a cat that seemed to +have a bad conscience, and a lovely little girl-face, which, forgetful of +its own rights, would flatten the tip of the nose belonging to it against a +window-pane. Every rain-pool was a mimic sea, and had a mimic storm within +its own narrow bounds. The water went hurrying down the kennels like a long +brown snake anxious to get to its hole and hide from the tormenting wind, +and every now and then the rain came in full rout before the conquering +blast. + +When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw that +she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of the conch +against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was sitting +staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she could see +over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately looked. Her +face was paler and keener than usual. + +"Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?" + +"Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He says I +am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as I like." + +"But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?" + +"It's only the storm, papa." + +"The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so." + +"It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is going +to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow." + +"You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The storm was +raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its reach--fast +asleep. Now it is too much for you. You must lie down." + +"Very well, papa." + +I lowered the support, and when I returned from changing my wet garments +she was already looking much better. + +After dinner I went to my study, but when evening began to fall I went out +again. I wanted to see how our next neighbours, the sexton and his wife, +were faring. The wind had already increased in violence. It threatened to +blow a hurricane. The tide was again rising, and was coming in with great +rapidity. The old mill shook to the foundation as I passed through it to +reach the lower part where they lived. When I peeped in from the bottom +of the stair, I saw no one; but, hearing the steps of someone overhead, I +called out. + +Agnes's voice made answer, as she descended an inner stair which led to the +bedrooms above-- + +"Mother's gone to church, sir." + +"Gone to church!" I said, a vague pang darting through me as I thought +whether I had forgotten any service; but the next moment I recalled what +the old woman had herself told me of her preference for the church during a +storm. + +"O yes, Agnes, I remember!" I said; "your mother thinks the weather bad +enough to take to the church, does she? How do you come to be here now? +Where is your husband?" + +"He'll be here in an hour or so, sir. He don't mind the wet. You see, we +don't like the old people to be left alone when it blows what the sailors +call 'great guns.'" + +"And what becomes of his mother then?" + +"There don't be any sea out there, sir. Leastways," she added with a quiet +smile, and stopped. + +"You mean, I suppose, Agnes, that there is never any perturbation of the +elements out there?" + +She laughed; for she understood me well enough. The temper of Joe's mother +was proverbial. + +"But really, sir," she said, "she don't mind the weather a bit; and though +we don't live in the same cottage with her, for Joe wouldn't hear of that, +we see her far oftener than we see my mother, you know." + +"I'm sure it's quite fair, Agnes. Is Joe very sorry that he married you, +now?" + +She hung her head, and blushed so deeply through all her sallow complexion, +that I was sorry I had teased her, and said so. This brought a reply. + +"I don't think he be, sir. I do think he gets better. He's been working +very hard the last week or two, and he says it agrees with him." + +"And how are you?" + +"Quite well, thank you, sir." + +I had never seen her look half so well. Life was evidently a very different +thing to both of them now. I left her, and took my way to the church. + +When I reached the churchyard, there, in the middle of the rain and the +gathering darkness, was the old man busy with the duties of his calling. A +certain headstone stood right under a drip from the roof of the southern +transept; and this drip had caused the mould at the foot of the stone, on +the side next the wall, to sink, so that there was a considerable crack +between the stone and the soil. The old man had cut some sod from another +part of the churchyard, and was now standing, with the rain pouring on him +from the roof, beating this sod down in the crack. He was sheltered from +the wind by the church, but he was as wet as he could be. I may mention +that he never appeared in the least disconcerted when I came upon him in +the discharge of his functions: he was so content with his own feeling in +the matter, that no difference of opinion could disturb him. + +"This will never do, Coombes," I said. "You will get your death of cold. +You must be as full of water as a sponge. Old man, there's rheumatism in +the world!" + +"It be only my work, sir. But I believe I ha' done now for a night. I think +he'll be a bit more comfortable now. The very wind could get at him through +that hole." + +"Do go home, then," I said, "and change your clothes. Is your wife in the +church?" + +"She be, sir. This door, sir--this door," he added, as he saw me going +round to the usual entrance. "You'll find her in there." + +I lifted the great latch and entered. I could not see her at first, for it +was much darker inside the church. It felt very quiet in there somehow, +although the place was full of the noise of winds and waters. Mrs. Coombes +was not sitting on the bell-keys, where I looked for her first, for the +wind blew down the tower in many currents and draughts--how it did roar up +there--as if the louvres had been a windsail to catch the wind and send +it down to ventilate the church!--she was sitting at the foot of the +chancel-rail, with her stocking as usual. + +The sight of her sweet old face, lighted up by a moonlike smile as I drew +near her, in the middle of the ancient dusk filled with sounds, but only +sounds of tempest, gave me a sense of one dwelling in the secret place of +the Most High, such as I shall never forget. It was no time to say much, +however. + +"How long do you mean to stay here, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. "Not all +night?" + +"No, not all night, surely, sir. But I hadn't thought o' going yet for a +bit." + +"Why there's Coombes out there, wet to the skin; and I'm afraid he'll go on +pottering at the churchyard bed-clothes till he gets his bones as full of +rheumatism as they can hold." + +"Deary me! I didn't know as my old man was there. He tould me he had them +all comforble for the winter a week ago. But to be sure there's always some +mendin' to do." + +I heard the voice of Joe outside, and the next moment he came into the +church. After speaking to me, he turned to Mrs. Coombes. + +"You be comin' home with me, mother. This will never do. Father's as wet as +a mop. I ha' brought something for your supper, and Aggy's a-cookin' of it; +and we're going to be comfortable over the fire, and have a chapter or two +of the New Testament to keep down the noise of the sea. There! Come along." + +The old woman drew her cloak over her head, put her knitting carefully in +her pocket, and stood aside for me to lead the way. + +"No, no," I said; "I'm the shepherd and you're the sheep, so I'll drive you +before me--at least, you and Coombes. Joe here will be offended if I take +on me to say I am _his_ shepherd." + + +"Nay, nay, don't say that, sir. You've been a good shepherd to me when I +was a very sulky sheep. But if you'll please to go, sir, I'll lock the door +behind; for you know in them parts the shepherd goes first and the sheep +follow the shepherd. And I'll follow like a good sheep," he added, +laughing. + +"You're right, Joe," I said, and took the lead without more ado. + +I was struck by his saying _them parts_, which seemed to indicate a habit +of pondering on the places as well as circumstances of the gospel-story. +The sexton joined us at the door, and we all walked to his cottage, Joe +taking care of his mother-in-law and I taking what care I could of Coombes +by carrying his tools for him. But as we went I feared I had done ill in +that, for the wind blew so fiercely that I thought the thin feeble little +man would have got on better if he had been more heavily weighted against +it. But I made him take a hold of my arm, and so we got in. The old man +took his tools from me and set them down in the mill, for the roof of which +I felt some anxiety as we passed through, so full of wind was the whole +space. But when we opened the inner door the welcome of a glowing fire +burst up the stair as if that had been a well of warmth and light below. I +went down with them. Coombes departed to change his clothes, and the rest +of us stood round the fire, where Agnes was busy cooking something like +white puddings for their supper. + +"Did you hear, sir," said Joe, "that the coastguard is off to the +Goose-pot? There's a vessel ashore there, they say. I met them on the road +with the rocket-cart." + +"How far off is that, Joe?" + +"Some five or six miles, I suppose, along the coast nor'ards." + +"What sort of a vessel is she?" + +"That I don't know. Some say she be a schooner, others a brigantine. The +coast-guard didn't know themselves." + +"Poor things!" said Mrs. Coombes. "If any of them comes ashore, they'll be +sadly knocked to pieces on the rocks in a night like this." + +She had caught a little infection of her husband's mode of thought. + +"It's not likely to clear up before morning, I fear; is it, Joe?" + +"I don't think so, sir. There's no likelihood." + +"Will you condescend to sit down and take a share with us, sir?" said the +old woman. + +"There would be no condescension in that, Mrs. Coombes. I will another time +with all my heart; but in such a night I ought to be at home with my own +people. They will be more uneasy if I am away." + +"Of coorse, of coorse, sir." + +"So I'll bid you good-night. I wish this storm were well over." + +I buttoned my great-coat, pulled my hat down on my head, and set out. It +was getting on for high water. The night was growing very dark. There would +be a moon some time, but the clouds were so dense she could not do much +while they came between. The roaring of the waves on the shore was +terrible; all I could see of them now was the whiteness of their breaking, +but they filled the earth and the air with their furious noises. The wind +roared from the sea; two oceans were breaking on the land, only to the one +had been set a hitherto--to the other none. Ere the night was far gone, +however, I had begun to doubt whether the ocean itself had not broken its +bars. + +I found the whole household full of the storm. The children kept pressing +their faces to the windows, trying to pierce, as by force of will, through +the darkness, and discover what the wild thing out there was doing. They +could see nothing: all was one mass of blackness and dismay, with a soul in +it of ceaseless roaring. I ran up to Connie's room, and found that she was +left alone. She looked restless, pale, and frightened. The house quivered, +and still the wind howled and whistled through the adjoining bark-hut. + +"Connie, darling, have they left you alone?" I said. + +"Only for a few minutes, papa. I don't mind it." + +"Don't he frightened at the storm, my dear. He who could walk on the sea +of Galilee, and still the storm of that little pool, can rule the Atlantic +just as well. Jeremiah says he 'divideth the sea when the waves thereof +roar.'" + +The same moment Dora came running into the room. + +"Papa," she cried, "the spray--such a lot of it--came dashing on the +windows in the dining-room. Will it break them?" + +"I hope not, my dear. Just stay with Connie while I run down." + +"O, papa! I do want to see." + +"What do you want to see, Dora?" + +"The storm, papa." + +"It is as black as pitch. You can't see anything." + +"O, but I want to--to--be beside it." + +"Well, you sha'n't stay with Connie, if you are not willing. Go along. Ask +Wynnie to come here." + +The child was so possessed by the commotion without that she did not +seem even to see my rebuke, not to say feel it. She ran off, and Wynnie +presently came. I left her with Connie, put on a long waterproof cloak, +and went down to the dining-room. A door led from it immediately on to the +little green in front of the house, between it and the sea. The dining-room +was dark, for they had put out the lights that they might see better from +the windows. The children and some of the servants were there looking out. +I opened the door cautiously. It needed the strength of two of the women +to shut it behind me. The moment I opened it a great sheet of spray rushed +over me. I went down the little grassy slope. The rain had ceased, and it +was not quite so dark as I had expected. I could see the gleaming whiteness +all before me. The next moment a wave rolled over the low wall in front of +me, breaking on it and wrapping me round in a sheet of water. Something +hurt me sharply on the leg; and I found, on searching, that one of the +large flat stones that lay for coping on the top of the wall was on the +grass beside me. If it had struck me straight, it must have broken my leg. + +There came a little lull in the wind, and just as I turned to go into the +house again, I thought I heard a gun. I stood and listened, but heard +nothing more, and fancied I must have been mistaken. I returned and tapped +at the door; but I had to knock loudly before they heard me within. When I +went up to the drawing-room, I found that Percivale had joined our party. +He and Turner were talking together at one of the windows. + +"Did you hear a gun?" I asked them. + +"No. Was there one?" + +"I'm not sure. I half-fancied I heard one, but no other followed. There +will be a good many fired to-night, though, along this awful coast." + +"I suppose they keep the life-boat always ready," said Turner. + +"No life-boat even, I fear, would live in such a sea," I said, remembering +what the officer of the coast-guard had told me. + +"They would try, though, I suppose," said Turner. + +"I do not know," said Percivale. "I don't know the people. But I have seen +a life-boat out in as bad a night--whether in as bad a sea, I cannot tell: +that depends on the coast, I suppose." + +We went on chatting for some time, wondering how the coast-guard had fared +with the vessel ashore at the Goose-pot. Wynnie joined us. + +"How is Connie, now, my dear?" + +"Very restless and excited, papa. I came down to say, that if Mr. Turner +didn't mind, I wish he would go up and see her." + +"Of course--instantly," said Turner, and moved to follow Winnie. + +But the same moment, as if it had been beside us in the room, so clear, so +shrill was it, we heard Connie's voice shrieking, "Papa, papa! There's a +great ship ashore down there. Come, come!" + +Turner and I rushed from the room in fear and dismay. "How? What? Where +could the voice come from?" was the unformed movement of our thoughts. But +the moment we left the drawing-room the thing was clear, though not the +less marvellous and alarming. We forgot all about the ship, and thought +only of our Connie. So much does the near hide the greater that is afar! +Connie kept on calling, and her voice guided our eyes. + +A, little stair led immediately from this floor up to the bark-hut, so that +it might be reached without passing through the bedroom. The door at the +top of it was open. The door that led from Connie's room into the bark-hut +was likewise open, and light shone through it into the place--enough to +show a figure standing by the furthest window with face pressed against the +glass. And from this figure came the cry, "Papa, papa! Quick, quick! The +waves will knock her to pieces!" + +In very truth it was Connie standing there. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE SHIPWRECK. + + + + + +Things that happen altogether have to be told one after the other. Turner +and I both rushed at the narrow stair. There was not room for more than one +upon it. I was first, but stumbled on the lowest step and fell. Turner +put his foot on my back, jumped over me, sprang up the stair, and when I +reached the top of it after him, he was meeting me with Connie in his arms, +carrying her back to her room. But the girl kept crying--"Papa, papa, the +ship, the ship!" + +My duty woke in me. Turner could attend to Connie far better than I could. +I made one spring to the window. The moon was not to be seen, but the +clouds were thinner, and light enough was soaking through them to show a +wave-tormented mass some little way out in the bay; and in that one moment +in which I stood looking, a shriek pierced the howling of the wind, cutting +through it like a knife. I rushed bare-headed from the house. When or +how the resolve was born in me I do not know, but I flew straight to the +sexton's, snatched the key from the wall, crying only "ship ashore!" and +rushed to the church. + +I remember my hand trembled so that I could hardly get the key into the +lock. I made myself quieter, opened the door, and feeling my way to the +tower, knelt before the keys of the bell-hammers, opened the chest, and +struck them wildly, fiercely. An awful jangling, out of tune and harsh, +burst into monstrous being in the storm-vexed air. Music itself was +untuned, corrupted, and returning to chaos. I struck and struck at the +keys. I knew nothing of their normal use. Noise, outcry, _reveillé_ was all +I meant. + +In a few minutes I heard voices and footsteps. From some parts of the +village, out of sight of the shore, men and women gathered to the summons. +Through the door of the church, which I had left open, came voices in +hurried question. "Ship ashore!" was all I could answer, for what was to be +done I was helpless to think. + +I wondered that so few appeared at the cry of the bells. After those first +nobody came for what seemed a long time. I believe, however, I was beating +the alarum for only a few minutes altogether, though when I look back upon +the time in the dark church, it looks like half-an-hour at least. But +indeed I feel so confused about all the doings of that night that in +attempting to describe them in order, I feel as if I were walking in a +dream. Still, from comparing mine with the recollected impressions of +others, I think I am able to give a tolerably correct result. Most of the +incidents seem burnt into my memory so that nothing could destroy the depth +of the impression; but the order in which they took place is none the less +doubtful. + +A hand was laid on my shoulder. + +"Who is there?" I said; for it was far too dark to know anyone. + +"Percivale. What is to be done? The coastguard is away. Nobody seems to +know about anything. It is of no use to go on ringing more. Everybody is +out, even to the maid-servants. Come down to the shore, and you will see." + +"But is there not the life-boat?" + +"Nobody seems to know anything about it, except 'it's no manner of use to +go trying of that with such a sea on.'" + +"But there must be someone in command of it," I said. + +"Yes," returned Percivale; "but there doesn't seem to be one of the crew +amongst the crowd. All the sailor-like fellows are going about with their +hands in their pockets." + +"Let us make haste, then," I said; "perhaps we can find out. Are you sure +the coastguard have nothing to do with the life-boat?" + +"I believe not. They have enough to do with their rockets." + +"I remember now that Roxton told me he had far more confidence in his +rockets than in anything a life-boat could do, upon this coast at least." + +While we spoke we came to the bank of the canal. This we had to cross, in +order to reach that part of the shore opposite which the wreck lay. To my +surprise the canal itself was in a storm, heaving and tossing and dashing +over its banks. + +"Percivale," I exclaimed, "the gates are gone; the sea has torn them away." + +"Yes, I suppose so. Would God I could get half-a-dozen men to help me. I +have been doing what I could; but I have no influence amongst them." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "What could you do if you had a thousand men +at your command?" + +He made me no answer for a few moments, during which we were hurrying on +for the bridge over the canal. Then he said: + +"They regard me only as a meddling stranger, I suppose; for I have been +able to get no useful answer. They are all excited; but nobody is doing +anything." + +"They must know about it a great deal better than we," I returned; "and we +must take care not to do them the injustice of supposing they are not ready +to do all that can be done." + +Percivale was silent yet again. + +The record of our conversation looks as quiet on the paper as if we had +been talking in a curtained room; but all the time the ocean was raving in +my very ear, and the awful tragedy was going on in the dark behind us. The +wind was almost as loud as ever, but the rain had quite ceased, and when we +reached the bridge the moon shone out white, as if aghast at what she had +at length succeeded in pushing the clouds aside that she might see. Awe +and helplessness oppressed us. Having crossed the canal, we turned to the +shore. There was little of it left; for the waves had rushed up almost to +the village. The sand and the roads, every garden wall, every window that +looked seaward was crowded with gazers. But it was a wonderfully quiet +crowd, or seemed so at least; for the noise of the wind and the waves +filled the whole vault, and what was spoken was heard only in the ear to +which it was spoken. When we came amongst them we heard only a murmur as of +more articulated confusion. One turn, and we saw the centre of strife and +anxiety--the heart of the storm that filled heaven and earth, upon which +all the blasts and the billows broke and raved. + +Out there in the moonlight lay a mass of something whose place was +discernible by the flashing of the waves as they burst over it. She was far +above low-water mark--lay nearer the village by a furlong than the spot +where we had taken our last dinner on the shore. It was strange to think +that yesterday the spot lay bare to human feet, where now so many men and +women were isolated in a howling waste of angry waters; for the cry of +women came plainly to our ears, and we were helpless to save them. It was +terrible to have to do nothing. Percivale went about hurriedly, talking to +this one and that one, as if he still thought something might be done. He +turned to me. + +"Do try, Mr. Walton, and find out for me where the captain of the life-boat +is." + +I turned to a sailor-like man who stood at my elbow and asked him. + +"It's no use, I assure you, sir," he answered; "no boat could live in such +a sea. It would be throwing away the men's lives." + +"Do you know where the captain lives?" Percivale asked. + +"If I did, I tell you it is of no use." + +"Are you the captain yourself?" returned Percivale. + +"What is that to you?" he answered, surly now. "I know my own business." + +The same moment several of the crowd nearest the edge of the water made a +simultaneous rush into the surf, and laid hold of something, which, as they +returned drawing it to the shore, I saw to be a human form. It was the body +of a woman--alive or dead I could not tell. I could just see the long hair +hanging from the head, which itself hung backward helplessly as they bore +her up the bank. I saw, too, a white face, and I can recall no more. + +"Run, Percivale," I said, "and fetch Turner. She may not be dead yet." + +"I can't," answered Percivale. "You had better go yourself, Mr. Walton." + +He spoke hurriedly. I saw he must have some reason for answering me so +abruptly. He was talking to a young fellow whom I recognised as one of the +most dissolute in the village; and just as I turned to go they walked away +together. + +I sped home as fast as I could. It was easier to get along now that the +moon shone. I found that Turner had given Connie a composing draught, and +that he had good hopes she would at least be nothing the worse for the +marvellous result of her excitement. She was asleep exhausted, and her +mother was watching by her side. It, seemed strange that she could sleep; +but Turner said it was the safest reaction, partly, however, occasioned by +what he had given her. In her sleep she kept on talking about the ship. + +We hurried back to see if anything could be done for the woman. As we went +up the side of the canal we perceived a dark body meeting us. The clouds +had again obscured, though not quite hidden the moon, and we could not at +first make out what it was. When we came nearer it showed itself a body +of men hauling something along. Yes, it was the life-boat, afloat on the +troubled waves of the canal, each man seated in his own place, his hands +quiet upon his oar, his cork-jacket braced about him, his feet out before +him, ready to pull the moment they should pass beyond the broken gates of +the lock out on the awful tossing of the waves. They sat very silent, and +the men on the path towed them swiftly along. The moon uncovered her face +for a moment, and shone upon the faces of two of the rowers. + +"Percivale! Joe!" I cried. + +"All right, sir!" said Joe. + +"Does your wife know of it, Joe?" I almost gasped. + +"To be sure," answered Joe. "It's the first chance I've had of returning +thanks for her. Please God, I shall see her again to-night." + +"That's good, Joe. Trust in God, my men, whether you sink or swim." + +"Ay, ay, sir!" they answered as one man. + +"This is your doing, Percivale," I said, turning and walking alongside of +the boat for a little way. + +"It's more Jim Allen's," said Percivale. "If I hadn't got a hold of him I +couldn't have done anything." + +"God bless you, Jim Allen!" I said. "You'll be a better man after this, I +think." + +"Donnow, sir," returned Jim cheerily. "It's harder work than pulling an +oar." + +The captain himself was on board. Percivale having persuaded Jim Allen, the +two had gone about in the crowd seeking proselytes. In a wonderfully short +space they had found almost all the crew, each fresh one picking up another +or more; till at length the captain, protesting against the folly of it, +gave in, and once having yielded, was, like a true Englishman, as much in +earnest as any of them. The places of two who were missing were supplied by +Percivale and Joe, the latter of whom would listen to no remonstrance. + +"I've nothing to lose," Percivale had said. "You have a young wife, Joe." + +"I've everything to win," Joe had returned. "The only thing that makes me +feel a bit faint-hearted over it, is that I'm afraid it's not my duty that +drives me to it, but the praise of men, leastways of a woman. What would +Aggy think of me if I was to let them drown out there and go to my bed and +sleep? I must go." + +"Very well, Joe," returned Percivale, "I daresay you are right. You can +row, of course?" + +"I can row hard, and do as I'm told," said Joe. + +"All right," said Percivale; "come along." + +This I heard afterwards. We were now hurrying against the wind towards the +mouth of the canal, some twenty men hauling on the tow-rope. The critical +moment would be in the clearing of the gates, I thought, some parts of +which might remain swinging; but they encountered no difficulty there, as +I heard afterwards. For I remembered that this was not my post, and turned +again to follow the doctor. + +"God bless you, my men!" I said, and left them. + +They gave a great hurrah, and sped on to meet their fate. I found Turner in +the little public-house, whither they had carried the body. The woman was +quite dead. + +"I fear it is an emigrant vessel," he said. + +"Why do you think so?" I asked, in some consternation. + +"Come and look at the body," he said. + +It was that of a woman about twenty, tall, and finely formed. The face was +very handsome, but it did not need the evidence of the hands to prove that +she was one of our sisters who have to labour for their bread. + +"What should such a girl be doing on board ship but going out to America or +Australia--to her lover, perhaps," said Turner. "You see she has a locket +on her neck; I hope nobody will dare to take it off. Some of these people +are not far derived from those who thought a wreck a Godsend." + +A sound of many feet was at the door just as we turned to leave the house. +They were bringing another body--that of an elderly woman--dead, quite +dead. Turner had ceased examining her, and we were going out together, +when, through all the tumult of the wind and waves, a fierce hiss, +vindictive, wrathful, tore the air over our heads. Far up, seawards, +something like a fiery snake shot from the high ground on the right side of +the bay, over the vessel, and into the water beyond it. + +"Thank God! that's the coastguard," I cried. + +We rushed through the village, and up on the heights, where they had +planted their apparatus. A little crowd surrounded them. How dismal the sea +looked in the struggling moonlight! I felt as if I were wandering in the +mazes of an evil dream. But when I approached the cliff, and saw down below +the great mass, of the vessel's hulk, with the waves breaking every moment +upon her side, I felt the reality awful indeed. Now and then there would +come a kind of lull in the wild sequence of rolling waters, and then I +fancied for a moment that I saw how she rocked on the bottom. Her masts had +all gone by the board, and a perfect chaos of cordage floated and swung in +the waves that broke over her. But her bowsprit remained entire, and shot +out into the foamy dark, crowded with human beings. The first rocket +had missed. They were preparing to fire another. Roxton stood with his +telescope in his hand, ready to watch the result. + +"This is a terrible job, sir," he said when I approached him; "I doubt if +we shall save one of them." + +"There's the life-boat!" I cried, as a dark spot appeared on the waters +approaching the vessel from the other side. + +"The life-boat!" he returned with contempt. "You don't mean to say they've +got _her_ out! She'll only add to the mischief. We'll have to save her +too." + +She was still some way from the vessel, and in comparatively smooth water. +But between her and the hull the sea raved in madness; the billows rode +over each other, in pursuit, as it seemed, of some invisible prey. Another +hiss, as of concentrated hatred, and the second rocket was shooting its +parabola through the dusky air. Roxton raised his telescope to his eye the +same moment. + +"Over her starn!" he cried. "There's a fellow getting down from the +cat-head to run aft.--Stop, stop!" he shouted involuntarily. "There's an +awful wave on your quarter." + +His voice was swallowed in the roaring of the storm. I fancied I could +distinguish a dark something shoot from the bows towards the stern. But the +huge wave fell upon the wreck. The same moment Roxton exclaimed--so coolly +as to amaze me, forgetting how men must come to regard familiar things +without discomposure-- + +"He's gone! I said so. The next'll have better luck, I hope." + +That man came ashore alive, though. + +All were forward of the foremast. The bowsprit, when I looked through +Roxton's telescope, was shapeless as with a swarm of bees. Now and then a +single shriek rose upon the wild air. But now my attention was fixed on the +life-boat. She had got into the wildest of the broken water; at one +moment she was down in a huge cleft, the next balanced like a beam on the +knife-edge of a wave, tossed about hither and thither, as if the waves +delighted in mocking the rudder; but hitherto she had shipped no water. I +am here drawing upon the information I have since received; but I did +see how a huge wave, following close upon the back of that on which she +floated, rushed, towered up over her, toppled, and fell upon the life-boat +with tons of water: the moon was shining brightly enough to show this with +tolerable distinctness. The boat vanished. The next moment, there she was, +floating helplessly about, like a living thing stunned by the blow of the +falling wave. The struggle was over. As far as I could see, every man was +in his place; but the boat drifted away before the storm shore-wards, and +the men let her drift. Were they all killed as they sat? I thought of my +Wynnie, and turned to Roxton. + +"That wave has done for them," he said. "I told you it was no use. There +they go." + +"But what is the matter?" I asked. "The men are sitting every man in his +place." + +"I think so," he answered. "Two were swept overboard, but they caught the +ropes and got in again. But don't you see they have no oars?" + +That wave had broken every one of them off at the rowlocks, and now they +were as helpless as a sponge. + +I turned and ran. Before I reached the brow of the hill another rocket was +fired and fell wide shorewards, partly because the wind blew with fresh +fury at the very moment. I heard Roxton say--"She's breaking up. It's no +use. That last did for her;" but I hurried off for the other side of the +bay, to see what became of the life-boat. I heard a great cry from the +vessel as I reached the brow of the hill, and turned for a parting glance. +The dark mass had vanished, and the waves were rushing at will over the +space. When I got to the shore the crowd was less. Many were running, like +myself, towards the other side, anxious about the life-boat. I hastened +after them; for Percivale and Joe filled my heart. + +They led the way to the little beach in front of the parsonage. It would +be well for the crew if they were driven ashore there, for it was the only +spot where they could escape being dashed on rocks. + +There was a crowd before the garden-wall, a bustle, and great confusion of +speech. The people, men and women, boys and girls, were all gathered about +the crew of the life-boat,--which already lay, as if it knew of nothing but +repose, on the grass within. + +"Percivale!" I cried, making my way through the crowd. + +There was no answer. + +"Joe Harper!" I cried again, searching with eager eyes amongst the crew, to +whom everybody was talking. + +Still there was no answer; and from the disjointed phrases I heard, I could +gather nothing. All at once I saw Wynnie looking over the wall, despair in +her face, her wide eyes searching wildly through the crowd. I could not +look at her till I knew the worst. The captain was talking to old Coombes. +I went up to him. As soon as he saw me, he gave me his attention. + +"Where is Mr. Percivale?" I asked, with all the calmness I could assume. + +He took me by the arm, and drew me out of the crowd, nearer to the waves, +and a little nearer to the mouth of the canal. The tide had fallen +considerably, else there would not have been standing-room, narrow as it +was, which the people now occupied. He pointed in the direction of the +Castle-rock. + +"If you mean the stranger gentleman--" + +"And Joe Harper, the blacksmith," I interposed. + +"They're there, sir." + +"You don't mean those two--just those two--are drowned?" I said. + +"No, sir; I don't say that; but God knows they have little chance." + +I could not help thinking that God might know they were not in the smallest +danger. But I only begged him to tell me where they were. + +"Do you see that schooner there, just between you and the Castle-rock?" + +"No," I answered; "I can see nothing. Stay. I fancy I can. But I am always +ready to fancy I see a thing when I am told it is there. I can't say I see +it." + +"I can, though. The gentleman you mean, and Joe Harper too, are, I believe, +on board of that schooner." + +"Is she aground?" + +"O dear no, sir. She's a light craft, and can swim there well enough. If +she'd been aground, she'd ha' been ashore in pieces hours ago. But whether +she'll ride it out, God only knows, as I said afore." + +"How ever did they get aboard of her? I never saw her from the heights +opposite." + +"You were all taken up by the ship ashore, you see, sir. And she don't make +much show in this light. But there she is, and they're aboard of her. And +this is how it was." + +He went on to give me his part of the story; but I will now give the whole +of it myself, as I have gathered and pieced it together. + +Two men had been swept overboard, as Roxton said--one of them was +Percivale--but they had both got on board again, to drift, oarless, with +the rest--now in a windless valley--now aloft on a tempest-swept hill of +water--away towards a goal they knew not, neither had chosen, and which yet +they could by no means avoid. + +A little out of the full force of the current, and not far from the channel +of the small stream, which, when the tide was out, flowed across the sands +nearly from the canal gates to the Castle-rock, lay a little schooner, +belonging to a neighbouring port, Boscastle, I think, which, caught in +the storm, had been driven into the bay when it was almost dark, some +considerable time before the great ship. The master, however, knew the +ground well. The current carried him a little out of the wind, and would +have thrown him upon the rocks next, but he managed to drop anchor just in +time, and the cable held; and there the little schooner hung in the skirts +of the storm, with the jagged teeth of the rocks within an arrow flight. In +the excitement of the great wreck, no one had observed the danger of the +little coasting bird. If the cable held till the tide went down, and the +anchor did not drag, she would be safe; if not, she must be dashed to +pieces. + +In the schooner were two men and a boy: two men had been washed overboard +an hour or so before they reached the bay. When they had dropped their +anchor, they lay down exhausted on the deck. Indeed they were so worn out +that they had been unable to drop their sheet anchor, and were holding on +only by their best bower. Had they not been a good deal out of the wind, +this would have been useless. Even if it held she was in danger of having +her bottom stove in by bumping against the sands as the tide went out. But +that they had not to think of yet. The moment they lay down they fell +fast asleep in the middle of the storm. While they slept it increased in +violence. + +Suddenly one of them awoke, and thought he saw a vision of angels. For over +his head faces looked down upon him from the air--that is, from the top of +a great wave. The same moment he heard a voice, two of the angels dropped +on the deck beside him, and the rest vanished. Those angels were Percivale +and Joe. And angels they were, for they came just in time, as all angels +do--never a moment too soon or a moment too late: the schooner _was_ +dragging her anchor. This was soon plain even to the less experienced eyes +of the said angels. + +But it did not take them many minutes now to drop their strongest anchor, +and they were soon riding in perfect safety for some time to come. + +One of the two men was the son of old Coombes, the sexton, who was engaged +to marry the girl I have spoken of in the end of the fourth chapter in the +second volume. + +Percivale's account of the matter, as far as he was concerned, was, that as +they drifted helplessly along, he suddenly saw from the top of a huge wave +the little vessel below him. They were, in fact, almost upon the rigging. +The wave on which they rode swept the quarter-deck of the schooner. + +Percivale says the captain of the lifeboat called out "Aboard!" The captain +said he remembered nothing of the sort. If he did, he must have meant +it for the men on the schooner to get on board the lifeboat. Percivale, +however, who had a most chivalrous (ought I not to say Christian?) notion +of obedience, fancying the captain meant them to board the schooner, sprang +at her fore-shrouds. Thereupon the wave sweeping them along the schooner's +side, Joe sprang at the main-shrouds, and they dropped on the deck +together. + +But although my reader is at ease about their fate, we who were in the +affair were anything but easy at the time corresponding to this point of +the narrative. It was a terrible night we passed through. + +When I returned, which was almost instantly, for I could do nothing by +staring out in the direction of the schooner, I found that the crowd was +nearly gone. One little group alone remained behind, the centre of which +was a woman. Wynnie had disappeared. The woman who remained behind was +Agnes Harper. + +The moon shone out clear as I approached the group; indeed, the clouds were +breaking-up and drifting away off the heavens. The storm had raved out its +business, and was departing into the past. + +"Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered, and looked up as if waiting for a command. There +was no colour in her cheeks or in her lips--at least it seemed so in the +moonlight--only in her eyes. But she was perfectly calm. She was leaning +against the low wall, with her hands clasped, but hanging quietly down +before her. + +"The storm is breaking-up, Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered in the same still tone. Then, after just a +moment's pause, she spoke out of her heart. + +"Joe's at his duty, sir?" + +I have given the utterance a point of interrogation; whether she meant that +point I am not quite sure. + +"Indubitably," I returned. "I have such faith in Joe, that I should be sure +of that in any case. At all events, he's not taking care of his own life. +And if one is to go wrong, I would ten thousand times rather err on that +side. But I am sure Joe has been doing right, and nothing else." + +"Then there's nothing to be said, sir, is there?" she returned, with a sigh +that sounded as of relief. + +I presume some of the surrounding condolers had been giving her Job's +comfort by blaming her husband. + +"Do you remember, Agnes, what the Lord said to his mother when she +reproached him with having left her and his father?" + +"I can't remember anything at this moment, sir," was her touching answer. + +"Then I will tell you. He said, 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know +that I must be about something my Father had given me to do?' Now, Joe was +and is about his Father's business, and you must not be anxious about him. +There could be no better reason for not being anxious." + +Agnes was a very quiet woman. When without a word she took my hand and +kissed it, I felt what a depth there was in the feeling she could not +utter. I did not withdraw my hand, for I knew that would be to rebuke her +love for Joe. + +"Will you come in and wait?" I said indefinitely. + +"No, thank you, sir. I must go to my mother. God will look after Joe, won't +he, sir?" + +"As sure as there is a God, Agnes," I said; and she went away without +another word. + +I put my hand on the top of the wall and jumped over. I started back with +terror, for I had almost alighted on the body of a woman lying there. The +first insane suggestion was that it had been cast ashore; but the next +moment I knew that it was my own Wynnie. + +She had not even fainted. She was lying with her handkerchief stuffed into +her mouth to keep her from screaming. When I uttered her name she rose, +and, without looking at me, walked away towards the house. I followed. She +went straight to her own room and shut the door. I went to find her mother. +She was with Connie, who was now awake, lying pale and frightened. I told +Ethelwyn that Percivale and Joe were on board the little schooner, which +was holding on by her anchor, that Wynnie was in terror about Percivale, +that I had found her lying on the wet grass, and that she must get her into +a warm bath and to bed. We went together to her room. + +She was standing in the middle of the floor, with her hands pressed against +her temples. + +"Wynnie," I said, "our friends are not drowned. I think you will see them +quite safe in the morning. Pray to God for them." + +She did not hear a word. + +"Leave her with me," said Ethelwyn, proceeding to undress her; "and tell +nurse to bring up the large bath. There is plenty of hot water in the +boiler. I gave orders to that effect, not knowing what might happen." + +Wynnie shuddered as her mother said this; but I waited no longer, for when +Ethelwyn spoke everyone felt her authority. I obeyed her, and then went to +Connie's room. + +"Do you mind being left alone a little while?" I asked her. + +"No, papa; only--are they all drowned?" she said with a shudder. + +"I hope not, my dear; but be sure of the mercy of God, whatever you fear. +You must rest in him, my love; for he is life, and will conquer death both +in the soul and in the body." + +"I was not thinking of myself, papa." + +"I know that, my dear. But God is thinking of you and every creature that +he has made. And for our sakes you must be quiet in heart, that you may get +better, and be able to help us." + +"I will try, papa," she said; and, turning slowly on her side, she lay +quite still. + +Dora and the boys were all fast asleep, for it was very late. I cannot, +however, say what hour it was. + +Telling nurse to be on the watch because Connie was alone, I went again to +the beach. I called first, however, to inquire after Agnes. I found her +quite composed, sitting with her parents by the fire, none of them doing +anything, scarcely speaking, only listening intently to the sounds of the +storm now beginning to die away. + +I next went to the place where I had left Turner. Five bodies lay there, +and he was busy with a sixth. The surgeon of the place was with him, and +they quite expected to recover this man. + +I then went down to the sands. An officer of the revenue was taking charge +of all that came ashore--chests, and bales, and everything. For a week the +sea went on casting out the fragments of that which she had destroyed. I +have heard that, for years after, the shifting of the sands would now and +then discover things buried that night by the waves. + +All the next day the bodies kept coming ashore, some peaceful as in sleep, +others broken and mutilated. Many were cast upon other parts of the coast. +Some four or five only, all men, were recovered. It was strange to me how +I got used to it. The first horror over, the cry that yet another body had +come awoke only a gentle pity--no more dismay or shuddering. But, finding +I could be of no use, I did not wait longer than just till the morning +began to dawn with a pale ghastly light over the seething raging sea; for +the sea raged on, although the wind had gone down. There were many strong +men about, with two surgeons and all the coastguard, who were well +accustomed to similar though not such extensive destruction. The houses +along the shore were at the disposal of any who wanted aid; the Parsonage +was at some distance; and I confess that when I thought of the state of my +daughters, as well as remembered former influences upon my wife, I was very +glad to think there was no necessity for carrying thither any of those whom +the waves cast on the shore. + +When I reached home, and found Wynnie quieter and Connie again asleep, I +walked out along our own downs till I came whence I could see the little +schooner still safe at anchor. From her position I concluded--correctly as +I found afterwards--that they had let out her cable far enough to allow her +to reach the bed of the little stream, where the tide would leave her more +gently. She was clearly out of all danger now; and if Percivale and Joe had +got safe on board of her, we might confidently expect to see them before +many hours were passed. I went home with the good news. + +For a few moments I doubted whether I should tell Wynnie, for I could not +know with any certainty that Percivale was in the schooner. But presently I +recalled former conclusions to the effect that we have no right to modify +God's facts for fear of what may be to come. A little hope founded on a +present appearance, even if that hope should never be realised, may be the +very means of enabling a soul to bear the weight of a sorrow past the point +at which it would otherwise break down. I would therefore tell Wynnie, and +let her share my expectation of deliverance. + +I think she had been half-asleep, for when I entered her room she started +up in a sitting posture, looking wild, and putting her hands to her head. + +"I have brought you good news, Wynnie," I said. "I have been out on the +downs, and there is light enough now to see that the little schooner is +quite safe." + +"What schooner?" she asked listlessly, and lay down again, her eyes still +staring, awfully unappeased. + +"Why the schooner they say Percivale got on board." + +"He isn't drowned then!" she cried with a choking voice, and put her hands +to her face and burst into tears and sobs. + +"Wynnie," I said, "look what your faithlessness brings upon you. Everybody +but you has known all night that Percivale and Joe Harper are probably +quite safe. They may be ashore in a couple of hours." + +"But you don't know it. He may be drowned yet." + +"Of course there is room for doubt, but none for despair. See what a poor +helpless creature hopelessness makes you." + +"But how can I help it, papa?" she asked piteously. "I am made so." + +But as she spoke the dawn was clear upon the height of her forehead. + +"You are not made yet, as I am always telling you; and God has ordained +that you shall have a hand in your own making. You have to consent, to +desire that what you know for a fault shall be set right by his loving will +and spirit." + +"I don't know God, papa." + +"Ah, my dear, that is where it all lies. You do not know him, or you would +never be without hope." + +"But what am I to do to know him!" she asked, rising on her elbow. + +The saving power of hope was already working in her. She was once more +turning her face towards the Life. + +"Read as you have never read before about Christ Jesus, my love. Read with +the express object of finding out what God is like, that you may know him +and may trust him. And now give yourself to him, and he will give you +sleep." + +"What are we to do," I said to my wife, "if Percivale continue silent? For +even if he be in love with her, I doubt if he will speak." + +"We must leave all that, Harry," she answered. + +She was turning on myself the counsel I had been giving Wynnie. It is +strange how easily we can tell our brother what he ought to do, and yet, +when the case comes to be our own, do precisely as we had rebuked him for +doing. I lay down and fell fast asleep. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + + +It was a lovely morning when I woke once more. The sun was flashing back +from the sea, which was still tossing, but no longer furiously, only as if +it wanted to turn itself every way to flash the sunlight about. The madness +of the night was over and gone; the light was abroad, and the world was +rejoicing. When I reached the drawing-room, which afforded the best outlook +over the shore, there was the schooner lying dry on the sands, her two +cables and anchors stretching out yards behind her; but half way between +the two sides of the bay rose a mass of something shapeless, drifted over +with sand. It was all that remained together of the great ship that had the +day before swept over the waters like a live thing with wings--of all the +works of man's hands the nearest to the shape and sign of life. The wind +had ceased altogether, only now and then a little breeze arose which +murmured "I am very sorry," and lay down again. And I knew that in the +houses on the shore dead men and women were lying. + +I went down to the dining-room. The three children were busy at their +breakfast, but neither wife, daughter, nor visitor had yet appeared. I made +a hurried meal, and was just rising to go and inquire further into the +events of the night, when the door opened, and in walked Percivale, looking +very solemn, but in perfect health and well-being. I grasped his hand +warmly. + +"Thank God," I said, "that you are returned to us, Percivale." + +"I doubt if that is much to give thanks for," he said. + +"We are the judges of that," I rejoined. "Tell me all about it." + +While he was narrating the events I have already communicated, Wynnie +entered. She started, turned pale and then very red, and for a moment +hesitated in the doorway. + +"Here is another to rejoice at your safety, Percivale," I said. + +Thereupon he stepped forward to meet her, and she gave him her hand with an +emotion so evident that I felt a little distressed--why, I could not easily +have told, for she looked most charming in the act,--more lovely than I had +ever seen her. Her beauty was unconsciously praising God, and her heart +would soon praise him too. But Percivale was a modest man, and I think +attributed her emotion to the fact that he had been in danger in the way of +duty,--a fact sufficient to move the heart of any good woman. + +She sat down and began to busy herself with the teapot. Her hand trembled. +I requested Percivale to begin his story once more; and he evidently +enjoyed recounting to her the adventures of the night. + +I asked him to sit down and have a second breakfast while I went into the +village, whereto he seemed nothing loth. + +As I crossed the floor of the old mill to see how Joe was, the head of +the sexton appeared emerging from it. He looked full of weighty solemn +business. Bidding me good-morning, he turned to the corner where his tools +lay, and proceeded to shoulder spade and pickaxe. + +"Ah, Coombes! you'll want them," I said. + +"A good many o' my people be come all at once, you see, sir," he returned. +"I shall have enough ado to make 'em all comfortable like." + +"But you must get help, you know; you can never make them all comfortable +yourself alone." + +"We'll see what I can do," he returned. "I ben't a bit willin' to let no +one do my work for me, I do assure you, sir." + +"How many are there wanting your services?" I asked. + +"There be fifteen of them now, and there be more, I don't doubt, on the +way." + +"But you won't think of making separate graves for them all," I said. "They +died together: let them lie together." + +The old man set down his tools, and looked me in the face with indignation. +The face was so honest and old, that, without feeling I had deserved it, I +yet felt the rebuke. + +"How would you like, sir," he said, at length, "to be put in the same bed +with a lot of people you didn't know nothing about?" + +I knew the old man's way, and that any argument which denied the premiss +of his peculiar fancy was worse than thrown away upon him. I therefore +ventured no farther than to say that I had heard death was a leveller. + +"That be very true; and, mayhap, they mightn't think of it after they'd +been down awhile--six weeks, mayhap, or so. But anyhow, it can't be +comfortable for 'em, poor things. One on 'em be a baby: I daresay he'd +rather lie with his mother. The doctor he say one o' the women be a mother. +I don't know," he went on reflectively, "whether she be the baby's own +mother, but I daresay neither o' them 'll mind it if I take it for granted, +and lay 'em down together. So that's one bed less." + +One thing was clear, that the old man could not dig fourteen graves within +the needful time. But I would not interfere with his office in the church, +having no reason to doubt that he would perform its duties to perfection. +He shouldered his tools again and walked out. I descended the stair, +thinking to see Joe; but there was no one there but the old woman. + +"Where are Joe and Agnes?" I asked. + +"You see, sir, Joe had promised a little job of work to be ready to-day, +and so he couldn't stop. He did say Agnes needn't go with him; but she +thought she couldn't part with him so soon, you see, sir." + +"She had received him from the dead--raised to life again," I said; "it was +most natural. But what a fine fellow Joe is; nothing will make him neglect +his work!" + +"I tried to get him to stop, sir, saying he had done quite enough last +night for all next day; but he told me it was his business to get the tire +put on Farmer Wheatstone's cart-wheel to-day just as much as it was his +business to go in the life-boat yesterday. So he would go, and Aggy +wouldn't stay behind." + +"Fine fellow, Joe!" I said, and took my leave. + +As I drew near the village, I heard the sound of hammering and sawing, and +apparently everything at once in the way of joinery; they were making the +coffins in the joiners' shops, of which there were two in the place. + +I do not like coffins. They seem to me relics of barbarism. If I had my +way, I would have the old thing decently wound in a fair linen cloth, and +so laid in the bosom of the earth, whence it was taken. I would have it +vanish, not merely from the world of vision, but from the world of form, as +soon as may be. The embrace of the fine life-hoarding, life-giving mould, +seems to me comforting, in the vague, foolish fancy that will sometimes +emerge from the froth of reverie--I mean, of subdued consciousness +remaining in the outworn frame. But the coffin is altogether and vilely +repellent. Of this, however, enough, I hate even the shadow of sentiment, +though some of my readers, who may not yet have learned to distinguish +between sentiment and feeling, may wonder how I dare to utter such a +barbarism. + +I went to the house of the county magistrate hard by, for I thought +something might have to be done in which I had a share. I found that he had +sent a notice of the loss of the vessel to the Liverpool papers, requesting +those who might wish to identify or claim any of the bodies to appear +within four days at Kilkhaven. + +This threw the last upon Saturday, and before the end of the week it was +clear that they must not remain above ground over Sunday. I therefore +arranged that they should be buried late on the Saturday night. + +On the Friday morning, a young woman and an old man, unknown to each other, +arrived by the coach from Barnstaple. They had come to see the last of +their friends in this world; to look, if they might, at the shadow left +behind by the departing soul. For as the shadow of any object remains a +moment upon the magic curtain of the eye after the object itself has gone, +so the shadow of the soul, namely, the body, lingers a moment upon the +earth after the object itself has gone to the "high countries." It was +well to see with what a sober sorrow the dignified little old man bore his +grief. It was as if he felt that the loss of his son was only for a moment. +But the young woman had taken on the hue of the corpse she came to seek. +Her eyes were sunken as if with the weight of the light she cared not for, +and her cheeks had already pined away as if to be ready for the grave. A +being thus emptied of its glory seized and possessed my thoughts. She never +even told us whom she came seeking, and after one involuntary question, +which simply received no answer, I was very careful not even to approach +another. I do not think the form she sought was there; and she may have +gone home with the lingering hope to cast the gray aurora of a doubtful +dawn over her coming days, that, after all, that one had escaped. + +On the Friday afternoon, with the approbation of the magistrate, I had +all the bodies removed to the church. Some in their coffins, others on +stretchers, they were laid in front of the communion-rail. In the evening +these two went to see them. I took care to be present. The old man soon +found his son. I was at his elbow as he walked between the rows of the +dead. He turned to me and said quietly-- + +"That's him, sir. He was a good lad. God rest his soul. He's with his +mother; and if I'm sorry, she's glad." + +With that he smiled, or tried to smile. I could only lay my hand on his +arm, to let him know that I understood him, and was with him. He walked +out of the church, sat down, upon a stone, and stared at the mould of a +new-made grave in front of him. What was passing behind those eyes God only +knew--certainly the man himself did not know. Our lightest thoughts are of +more awful significance than the most serious of us can imagine. + +For the young woman, I thought she left the church with a little light in +her eyes; but she had said nothing. Alas! that the body was not there could +no more justify her than Milton in letting her + + "frail thoughts dally with false surmise." + +With him, too, she might well add-- + + "Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away." + +But God had them in his teaching, and all I could do was to ask them to be +my guests till the funeral and the following Sunday were over. To this +they kindly consented, and I took them to my wife, who received them like +herself, and had in a few minutes made them at home with her, to which no +doubt their sorrow tended, for that brings out the relations of humanity +and destroys its distinctions. + +The next morning a Scotchman of a very decided type, originally from +Aberdeen, but resident in Liverpool, appeared, seeking the form of his +daughter. I had arranged that whoever came should be brought to me first. I +went with him to the church. He was a tall, gaunt, bony man, with long arms +and huge hands, a rugged granite-like face, and a slow ponderous utterance, +which I had some difficulty in understanding. He treated the object of his +visit with a certain hardness, and at the same time lightness, which also I +had some difficulty in understanding. + +"You want to see the--" I said, and hesitated. + +"Ow ay--the boadies," he answered. "She winna be there, I daursay, but I +wad jist like to see; for I wadna like her to be beeried gin sae be 'at she +was there, wi'oot biddin' her good-bye like." + +When we reached the church, I opened the door and entered. An awe fell upon +me fresh and new. The beautiful church had become a tomb: solemn, grand, +ancient, it rose as a memorial of the dead who lay in peace before her +altar-rail, as if they had fled thither for sanctuary from a sea of +troubles. And I thought with myself, Will the time ever come when the +churches shall stand as the tombs of holy things that have passed away, +when Christ shall have rendered up the kingdom to his Father, and no man +shall need to teach his neighbour or his brother, saying, "Know the Lord"? +The thought passed through my mind and vanished, as I led my companion up +to the dead. He glanced at one and another, and passed on. He had looked +at ten or twelve ere he stopped, gazing on the face of the beautiful form +which had first come ashore. He stooped and stroked the white cheeks, +taking the head in his great rough hands, and smoothed the brown hair +tenderly, saying, as if he had quite forgotten that she was dead-- + +"Eh, Maggie! hoo cam _ye_ here, lass?" + +Then, as if for the first time the reality had grown comprehensible, he put +his hands before his face, and burst into tears. His huge frame was shaken +with sobs for one long minute, while I stood looking on with awe and +reverence. He ceased suddenly, pulled a blue cotton handkerchief with +yellow spots on it--I see it now--from his pocket, rubbed his face with +it as if drying it with a towel, put it back, turned, and said, without +looking at me, "I'll awa' hame." + +"Wouldn't you like a piece of her hair?" I asked. + +"Gin ye please," he answered gently, as if his daughter's form had been +mine now, and her hair were mine to give. + +By the vestry door sat Mrs. Coombes, watching the dead, with her sweet +solemn smile, and her constant ministration of knitting. + +"Have you got a pair of scissors there, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. + +"Yes, to be sure, sir," she answered, rising, and lifting a huge pair by +the string suspending them from her waist. + +"Cut off a nice piece of this beautiful hair," I said. + +She lifted the lovely head, chose, and cut off a long piece, and handed it +respectfully to the father. + +He took it without a word, sat down on the step before the communion-rail, +and began to smooth out the wonderful sleave of dusky gold. It was, indeed, +beautiful hair. As he drew it out, I thought it must be a yard long. He +passed his big fingers through and through it, but tenderly, as if it had +been still growing on the live lovely head, stopping every moment to pick +out the bits of sea-weed and shells, and shake out the sand that had been +wrought into its mass. He sat thus for nearly half-an-hour, and we stood +looking on with something closely akin to awe. At length he folded it up, +drew from his pocket an old black leather book, laid it carefully in the +innermost pocket, and rose. I led the way from the church, and he followed +me. + +Outside the church, he laid his hand on my arm, and said, groping with his +other hand in his trousers-pocket-- + +"She'll hae putten ye to some expense--for the coffin an' sic like." + +"We'll talk about that afterwards," I answered. "Come home with me now, and +have some refreshment." + +"Na, I thank ye. I hae putten ye to eneuch o' tribble already. I'll jist +awa' hame." + +"We are going to lay them down this evening. You won't go before the +funeral. Indeed, I think you can't get away till Monday morning. My wife +and I will be glad of your company till then." + +"I'm no company for gentle-fowk, sir." + +"Come and show me in which of these graves you would like to have her +laid," I said. + +He yielded and followed me. + +Coombes had not dug many spadefuls before he saw what had been plain +enough--that ten such men as he could not dig the graves in time. But there +was plenty of help to be had from the village and the neighbouring farms. +Most of them were now ready, but a good many men were still at work. The +brown hillocks lay all about the church-yard--the mole-heaps of burrowing +Death. + +The stranger looked around him. His face grew critical. He stepped a little +hither and thither. At length he turned to me and said-- + +"I wadna like to be greedy; but gin ye wad lat her lie next the kirk +there--i' that neuk, I wad tak' it kindly. And syne gin ever it cam' aboot +that I cam' here again, I wad ken whaur she was. Could ye get a sma' bit +heidstane putten up? I wad leave the siller wi' ye to pay for't." + +"To be sure I can. What will you have put on the stone?" + +"Ow jist--let me see--Maggie Jamieson--nae Marget, but jist Maggie. She was +aye Maggie at home. Maggie Jamieson, frae her father. It's the last thing I +can gie her. Maybe ye micht put a verse o' Scripter aneath't, ye ken." + +"What verse would you like?" + +He thought for a little. + +"Isna there a text that says, 'The deid shall hear his voice'?" + +"Yes: 'The dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God.'" + +"Ay. That's it. Weel, jist put that on.--They canna do better than hear his +voice," he added, with a strange mixture of Scotch ratiocination. + +I led the way home, and he accompanied me without further objection or +apology. After dinner, I proposed that we should go upon the downs, for the +day was warm and bright. We sat on the grass. I felt that I could not talk +to them as from myself. I knew nothing of the possible gulfs of sorrow in +their hearts. To me their forms seemed each like a hill in whose unseen +bosom lay a cavern of dripping waters, perhaps with a subterranean torrent +of anguish raving through its hollows and tumbling down hidden precipices, +whose voice God only heard, and God only could still. This daughter +_might_, though from her face I did not think it, have gone away against +her father's will. That son _might_ have been a ne'er-do-well at home--how +could I tell? The woman _might_ be looking for the lover that had forsaken +her--I could not divine. I would speak no words of my own. The Son of +God had spoken words of comfort to his mourning friends, when he was the +present God and they were the forefront of humanity; I would read some of +the words he spoke. From them the human nature in each would draw what +comfort it could. I took my New Testament from my pocket, and said, without +any preamble, + +"When our Lord was going to die, he knew that his friends loved him enough +to be very wretched about it. He knew that they would be overwhelmed for a +time with trouble. He knew, too, that they could not believe the glad end +of it all, to which end he looked, across the awful death that awaited +him--a death to which that of our friends in the wreck was ease itself. I +will just read to you what he said." + +I read from the fourteenth to the seventeenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. +I knew there were worlds of meaning in the words into which I could hardly +hope any of them would enter. But I knew likewise that the best things are +just those from which the humble will draw the truth they are capable of +seeing. Therefore I read as for myself, and left it to them to hear for +themselves. Nor did I add any word of comment, fearful of darkening counsel +by words without knowledge. For the Bible is awfully set against what is +not wise. + +When I had finished, I closed the book, rose from the grass, and walked +towards the brow of the shore. They rose likewise and followed me. I talked +of slight things; the tone was all that communicated between us. But little +of any sort was said. The sea lay still before us, knowing nothing of the +sorrow it had caused. + +We wandered a little way along the cliff. The burial-service was at seven +o'clock. + +"I have an invalid to visit out in this direction," I said; "would you mind +walking with me? I shall not stay more than five minutes, and we shall get +back just in time for tea." + +They assented kindly. I walked first with one, then with another; heard a +little of the story of each; was able to say a few words of sympathy, and +point, as it were, a few times towards the hills whence cometh our aid. I +may just mention here, that since our return to Marshmallows I have had two +of them, the young woman and the Scotchman, to visit us there. + +The bell began to toll, and we went to church. My companions placed +themselves near the dead. I went into the vestry till the appointed hour. +I thought as I put on my surplice how, in all religions but the Christian, +the dead body was a pollution to the temple. Here the church received it, +as a holy thing, for a last embrace ere it went to the earth. + +As the dead were already in the church, the usual form could not be carried +out. I therefore stood by the communion-table, and there began to read, "I +am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, +though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth +in me shall never die." + +I advanced, as I read, till I came outside the rails and stood before the +dead. There I read the Psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our refuge," and +the glorious lesson, "Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the +first-fruits of them that slept." Then the men of the neighbourhood came +forward, and in long solemn procession bore the bodies out of the church, +each to its grave. At the church-door I stood and read, "Man that is born +of a woman;" then went from one to another of the graves, and read over +each, as the earth fell on the coffin-lid, "Forasmuch as it hath pleased +Almighty God, of his great mercy." Then again, I went back to the +church-door and read, "I heard a voice from heaven;" and so to the end of +the service. + +Leaving the men to fill up the graves, I hastened to lay aside my +canonicals, that I might join my guests; but my wife and daughter had +already prevailed on them to leave the churchyard. + +A word now concerning my own family. Turner insisted on Connie's remaining +in bed for two or three days. She looked worse in face--pale and worn; but +it was clear, from the way she moved in bed, that the fresh power called +forth by the shock had not vanished with the moment. + +Wynnie was quieter almost than ever; but there was a constant _secret_ +light, if I may use the paradox, in her eyes. Percivale was at the +house every day, always ready to make himself useful. My wife bore up +wonderfully. As yet the much greater catastrophe had come far short of the +impression made by the less. When quieter hours should come, however, I +could not help fearing that the place would be dreadfully painful to +all but the younger ones, who, of course, had the usual child-gift of +forgetting. The servants--even Walter--looked thin and anxious. + +That Saturday night I found myself, as I had once or twice found myself +before, entirely unprepared to preach. I did not feel anxious, because I +did not feel that I was to blame: I had been so much occupied. I had again +and again turned my thoughts thitherward, but nothing recommended itself to +me so that I could say "I must take that;" nothing said plainly, "This is +what you have to speak of." + +As often as I had sought to find fitting matter for my sermon, my mind +had turned to death and the grave; but I shrunk from every suggestion, or +rather nothing had come to me that interested myself enough to justify me +in giving it to my people. And I always took it as my sole justification, +in speaking of anything to the flock of Christ, that I cared heartily in my +own soul for that thing. Without this consciousness I was dumb. And I do +think, highly as I value prophecy, that a clergyman ought to be at liberty +upon occasion to say, "My friends, I cannot preach to-day." What a riddance +it would be for the Church, I do not say if every priest were to speak +sense, but only if every priest were to abstain from speaking of that in +which, at the moment, he feels little or no interest! + +I went to bed, which is often the very best thing a man can do; for sleep +will bring him from God that which no effort of his own will can compass. +I have read somewhere--I will verify it by present search--that Luther's +translation, of the verse in the psalm, "So he giveth to his beloved +sleep," is, "He giveth his beloved sleeping," or while asleep. Yes, so it +is, literally, in English, "It is in vain that ye rise early, and then +sit long, and eat your bread with care, for to his friends he gives it +sleeping." This was my experience in the present instance; for the thought +of which I was first conscious when I awoke was, "Why should I talk about +death? Every man's heart is now full of death. We have enough of that--even +the sum that God has sent us on the wings of the tempest. What I have to +do, as the minister of the new covenant, is to speak of life." It flashed +in on my mind: "Death is over and gone. The resurrection comes next. I will +speak of the raising of Lazarus." + +The same moment I knew that I was ready to speak. Shall I or shall I not +give my reader the substance of what I said? I wish I knew how many of them +would like it, and how many would not. I do not want to bore them with +sermons, especially seeing I have always said that no sermons ought to +be printed; for in print they are but what the old alchymists would have +called a _caput mortuum_, or death's head, namely, a lifeless lump of +residuum at the bottom of the crucible; for they have no longer the living +human utterance which gives all the power on the minds of the hearers. But +I have not, either in this or in my preceding narrative, attempted to give +a sermon as I preached it. I have only sought to present the substance of +it in a form fitter for being read, somewhat cleared of the unavoidable, +let me say necessary--yes, I will say _valuable_--repetitions and +enforcements by which the various considerations are pressed upon the minds +of the hearers. These are entirely wearisome in print--useless too, for +the reader may ponder over every phrase till he finds out the purport of +it--if indeed there be such readers nowadays. + +I rose, went down to the bath in the rocks, had a joyous physical ablution, +and a swim up and down the narrow cleft, from which I emerged as if myself +newly born or raised anew, and then wandered about on the downs full of +hope and thankfulness, seeking all I could to plant deep in my mind the +long-rooted truths of resurrection, that they might be not only ready to +blossom in the warmth of the spring-tides to come, but able to send out +some leaves and promissory buds even in the wintry time of the soul, when +the fogs of pain steam up from the frozen clay soil of the body, and make +the monarch-will totter dizzily upon his throne, to comfort the eyes of the +bewildered king, reminding him that the King of kings hath conquered Death +and the Grave. There is no perfect faith that cannot laugh at winters and +graveyards, and all the whole array of defiant appearances. The fresh +breeze of the morning visited me. "O God," I said in my heart, "would that +when the dark day comes, in which I can feel nothing, I may be able to +front it with the memory of this day's strength, and so help myself to +trust in the Father! I would call to mind the days of old, with David the +king." + +When I returned to the house, I found that one of the sailors, who had been +cast ashore with his leg broken, wished to see me. I obeyed, and found him +very pale and worn. + +"I think I am going, sir," he said; "and I wanted to see you before I die." + +"Trust in Christ, and do not be afraid," I returned. + +"I prayed to him to save me when I was hanging to the rigging, and if I +wasn't afraid then, I'm not going to be afraid now, dying quietly in my +bed. But just look here, sir." + +He took from under his pillow something wrapped up in paper, unfolded the +envelope, and showed a lump of something--I could not at first tell what. +He put it in my hand, and then I saw that it was part of a bible, with +nearly the upper half of it worn or cut away, and the rest partly in a +state of pulp. + +"That's the bible my mother gave me when I left home first," he said. "I +don't know how I came to put it in my pocket, but I think the rope that cut +through that when I was lashed to the shrouds would a'most have cut through +my ribs if it hadn't been for it." + +"Very likely," I returned. "The body of the Bible has saved your bodily +life: may the spirit of it save your spiritual life." + +"I think I know what you mean, sir," he panted out. "My mother was a good +woman, and I know she prayed to God for me." + +"Would you like us to pray for you in church to-day?" + +"If you please, sir; me and Bob Fox. He's nearly as bad as I am." + +"We won't forget you," I said. "I will come in after church and see how you +are." + +I knelt and offered the prayers for the sick, and then took my leave. I did +not think the poor fellow was going to die. + +I may as well mention here, that he has been in my service ever since. We +took him with us to Marshmallows, where he works in the garden and stables, +and is very useful. We have to look after him though, for his health +continues delicate. + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE SERMON. + + + + + +When I stood up to preach, I gave them no text; but, with the eleventh +chapter of the Gospel of St. John open before me, to keep me correct, I +proceeded to tell the story in the words God gave me; for who can dare to +say that he makes his own commonest speech? + +"When Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and therefore our elder brother, +was going about on the earth, eating and drinking with his brothers and +sisters, there was one family he loved especially--a family of two sisters +and a brother; for, although he loves everybody as much as they can be +loved, there are some who can be loved more than others. Only God is always +trying to make us such that we can be loved more and more. There are +several stories--O, such lovely stories!--about that family and Jesus; and +we have to do with one of them now. + +"They lived near the capital of the country, Jerusalem, in a village they +called Bethany; and it must have been a great relief to our Lord, when he +was worn out with the obstinacy and pride of the great men of the city, to +go out to the quiet little town and into the refuge of Lazarus's house, +where everyone was more glad at the sound of his feet than at any news that +could come to them. + +"They had at this time behaved so ill to him in Jerusalem--taking up stones +to stone him even, though they dared not quite do it, mad with anger as +they were--and all because he told them the truth--that he had gone away to +the other side of the great river that divided the country, and taught the +people in that quiet place. While he was there his friend Lazarus was taken +ill; and the two sisters, Martha and Mary, sent a messenger to him, to say +to him, 'Lord, your friend is very ill.' Only they said it more beautifully +than that: 'Lord, behold, he whom thou lovest is sick.' You know, when +anyone is ill, we always want the person whom he loves most to come to him. +This is very wonderful. In the worst things that can come to us the first +thought is of love. People, like the Scribes and Pharisees, might say, +'What good can that do him?' And we may not in the least suppose that the +person we want knows any secret that can cure his pain; yet love is the +first thing we think of. And here we are more right than we know; for, at +the long last, love will cure everything: which truth, indeed, this story +will set forth to us. No doubt the heart of Lazarus, ill as he was, longed +after his friend; and, very likely, even the sight of Jesus might have +given him such strength that the life in him could have driven out the +death which had already got one foot across the threshold. But the sisters +expected more than this: they believed that Jesus, whom they knew to have +driven disease and death out of so many hearts, had only to come and touch +him--nay, only to speak a word, to look at him, and their brother was +saved. Do you think they presumed in thus expecting? The fact was, they did +not believe enough; they had not yet learned to believe that he could cure +him all the same whether he came to them or not, because he was always with +them. We cannot understand this; but our understanding is never a measure +of what is true. + +"Whether Jesus knew exactly all that was going to take place I cannot tell. +Some people may feel certain upon points that I dare not feel certain upon. +One thing I am sure of: that he did not always know everything beforehand, +for he said so himself. It is infinitely more valuable to us, because more +beautiful and godlike in him, that he should trust his Father than that he +should foresee everything. At all events he knew that his Father did not +want him to go to his friends yet. So he sent them a message to the effect +that there was a particular reason for this sickness--that the end of it +was not the death of Lazarus, but the glory of God. This, I think, he told +them by the same messenger they sent to him; and then, instead of going to +them, he remained where he was. + +"But O, my friends, what shall I say about this wonderful message? Think of +being sick for the glory of God! of being shipwrecked for the glory of God! +of being drowned for the glory of God! How can the sickness, the fear, the +broken-heartedness of his creatures be for the glory of God? What kind of +a God can that be? Why just a God so perfectly, absolutely good, that the +things that look least like it are only the means of clearing our eyes to +let us see how good he is. For he is so good that he is not satisfied with +_being_ good. He loves his children, so that except he can make them good +like himself, make them blessed by seeing how good he is, and desiring the +same goodness in themselves, he is not satisfied. He is not like a fine +proud benefactor, who is content with doing that which will satisfy his +sense of his own glory, but like a mother who puts her arm round her child, +and whose heart is sore till she can make her child see the love which is +her glory. The glorification of the Son of God is the glorification of the +human race; for the glory of God is the glory of man, and that glory is +love. Welcome sickness, welcome sorrow, welcome death, revealing that +glory! + +"The next two verses sound very strangely together, and yet they almost +seem typical of all the perplexities of God's dealings. The old painters +and poets represented Faith as a beautiful woman, holding in her hand a cup +of wine and water, with a serpent coiled up within. Highhearted Faith! +she scruples not to drink of the life-giving wine and water; she is not +repelled by the upcoiled serpent. The serpent she takes but for the type of +the eternal wisdom that looks repellent because it is not understood. The +wine is good, the water is good; and if the hand of the supreme Fate put +that cup in her hand, the serpent itself must be good too,--harmless, at +least, to hurt the truth of the water and the wine. But let us read the +verses. + +"'Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. When he had heard +therefore that he was sick, he abode two days still in the same place where +he was.' + +"Strange! his friend was sick: he abode two days where he was! But remember +what we have already heard. The glory of God was infinitely more for the +final cure of a dying Lazarus, who, give him all the life he could have, +would yet, without that glory, be in death, than the mere presence of the +Son of God. I say _mere_ presence, for, compared with the glory of God, the +very presence of his Son, so dissociated, is nothing. He abode where he was +that the glory of God, the final cure of humanity, the love that triumphs +over death, might shine out and redeem the hearts of men, so that death +could not touch them. + +"After the two days, the hour had arrived. He said to his disciples, 'Let +us go back to Judæa.' They expostulated, because of the danger, saying, +'Master, the Jews of late sought to stone thee; and goest thou thither +again?' The answer which he gave them I am not sure whether I can +thoroughly understand; but I think, in fact I know, it must bear on the +same region of life--the will of God. I think what he means by walking +in the day is simply doing the will of God. That was the sole, the +all-embracing light in which Jesus ever walked. I think he means that now +he saw plainly what the Father wanted him to do. If he did not see that the +Father wanted him to go back to Judæa, and yet went, that would be to +go stumblingly, to walk in the darkness. There are twelve hours in the +day--one time to act--a time of light and the clear call of duty; there is +a night when a man, not seeing where or hearing how, must be content to +rest. Something not inharmonious with this, I think, he must have intended; +but I do not see the whole thought clearly enough to be sure that I am +right. I do think, further, that it points at a clearer condition of human +vision and conviction than I am good enough to understand; though I hope +one day to rise into this upper stratum of light. + +"Whether his scholars had heard anything of Lazarus yet, I do not know. It +looks a little as if Jesus had not told them the message he had had from +the sisters. But he told them now that he was asleep, and that he was going +to wake him. You would think they might have understood this. The idea of +going so many miles to wake a man might have surely suggested death. But +the disciples were sorely perplexed with many of his words. Sometimes they +looked far away for the meaning when the meaning lay in their very hearts; +sometimes they looked into their hands for it when it was lost in the +grandeur of the ages. But he meant them to see into all that he said by +and by, although they could not see into it now. When they understood him +better, then they would understand what he said better. And to understand +him better they must be more like him; and to make them more like him he +must go away and give them his spirit--awful mystery which no man but +himself can understand. + +"Now he had to tell them plainly that Lazarus was dead. They had not +thought of death as a sleep. I suppose this was altogether a new and +Christian idea. Do not suppose that it applied more to Lazarus than to +other dead people. He was none the less dead that Jesus meant to take a +weary two days' journey to his sepulchre and wake him. If death is not a +sleep, Jesus did not speak the truth when he said Lazarus slept. You may +say it was a figure; but a figure that is not like the thing it figures is +simply a lie. + +"They set out to go back to Judæa. Here we have a glimpse of the faith of +Thomas, the doubter. For a doubter is not without faith. The very fact +that he doubts, shows that he has some faith. When I find anyone hard upon +doubters, I always doubt the _quality_ of his faith. It is of little use to +have a great cable, if the hemp is so poor that it breaks like the painter +of a boat. I have known people whose power of believing chiefly consisted +in their incapacity for seeing difficulties. Of what fine sort a faith must +be that is founded in stupidity, or far worse, in indifference to the truth +and the mere desire to get out of hell! That is not a grand belief in the +Son of God, the radiation of the Father. Thomas's want of faith was shown +in the grumbling, self-pitying way in which he said, 'Let us also go that +we may die with him.' His Master had said that he was going to wake +him. Thomas said, 'that we may die with him.' You may say, 'He did not +understand him.' True, it may be, but his unbelief was the cause of his not +understanding him. I suppose Thomas meant this as a reproach to Jesus for +putting them all in danger by going back to Judæa; if not, it was only a +poor piece of sentimentality. So much for Thomas's unbelief. But he had +good and true faith notwithstanding; for _he went with his Master_. + +"By the time they reached the neighbourhood of Bethany, Lazarus had been +dead four days. Someone ran to the house and told the sisters that Jesus +was coming. Martha, as soon as she heard it, rose and went to meet him. +It might be interesting at another time to compare the difference of the +behaviour of the two sisters upon this occasion with the difference of +their behaviour upon another occasion, likewise recorded; but with the man +dead in his sepulchre, and the hope dead in these two hearts, we have no +inclination to enter upon fine distinctions of character. Death and grief +bring out the great family likenesses in the living as well as in the dead. + +"When Martha came to Jesus, she showed her true though imperfect faith by +almost attributing her brother's death to Jesus' absence. But even in the +moment, looking in the face of the Master, a fresh hope, a new budding of +faith, began in her soul. She thought--'What if, after all, he were +to bring him to life again!' O, trusting heart, how thou leavest the +dull-plodding intellect behind thee! While the conceited intellect is +reasoning upon the impossibility of the thing, the expectant faith beholds +it accomplished. Jesus, responding instantly to her faith, granting her +half-born prayer, says, 'Thy brother shall rise again;' not meaning the +general truth recognised, or at least assented to by all but the Sadducees, +concerning the final resurrection of the dead, but meaning, 'Be it unto +thee as thou wilt. I will raise him again.' For there is no steering for a +fine effect in the words of Jesus. But these words are too good for Martha +to take them as he meant them. Her faith is not quite equal to the belief +that he actually will do it. The thing she could hope for afar off she +could hardly believe when it came to her very door. 'O, yes,' she said, her +mood falling again to the level of the commonplace, 'of course, at the last +day.' Then the Lord turns away her thoughts from the dogmas of her faith +to himself, the Life, saying, 'I am the resurrection and the life: he that +believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever +liveth and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou this ?' Martha, +without understanding what he said more than in a very poor part, answered +in words which preserved her honesty entire, and yet included all he asked, +and a thousandfold more than she could yet believe: 'Yea, Lord; I believe +that thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the +world.' + +"I dare not pretend to have more than a grand glimmering of the truth of +Jesus' words 'shall never die;' but I am pretty sure that when Martha came +to die, she found that there was indeed no such thing as she had meant when +she used the ghastly word _death_, and said with her first new breath, +'Verily, Lord, I am not dead.' + +"But look how this declaration of her confidence in the Christ operated +upon herself. She instantly thought of her sister; the hope that the Lord +would do something swelled within her, and, leaving Jesus, she went to find +Mary. Whoever has had a true word with the elder brother, straightway +will look around him to find his brother, his sister. The family feeling +blossoms: he wants his friend to share the glory withal. Martha wants Mary +to go to Jesus too. + +"Mary heard her, forgot her visitors, rose, and went. They thought she went +to the grave: she went to meet its conqueror. But when she came to him, the +woman who had chosen the good part praised of Jesus, had but the same words +to embody her hope and her grief that her careful and troubled sister had +uttered a few minutes before. How often during those four days had not the +self-same words passed between them! 'Ah, if he had been here, our brother +had not died!' She said so to himself now, and wept, and her friends who +had followed her wept likewise. A moment more, and the Master groaned; yet +a moment, and he too wept. 'Sorrow is catching;' but this was not the mere +infection of sorrow. It went deeper than mere sympathy; for he groaned in +his spirit and was troubled. What made him weep? It was when he saw them +weeping that he wept. But why should he weep, when he knew how soon their +weeping would be turned into rejoicing? It was not for their weeping, so +soon to be over, that he wept, but for the human heart everywhere swollen +with tears, yea, with griefs that can find no such relief as tears; for +these, and for all his brothers and sisters tormented with pain for lack of +faith in his Father in heaven, Jesus wept. He saw the blessed well-being +of Lazarus on the one side, and on the other the streaming eyes from whose +sight he had vanished. The veil between was so thin! yet the sight of those +eyes could not pierce it: their hearts must go on weeping--without cause, +for his Father was so good. I think it was the helplessness he felt in +the impossibility of at once sweeping away the phantasm death from their +imagination that drew the tears from the eyes of Jesus. Certainly it was +not for Lazarus; it could hardly be for these his friends--save as they +represented the humanity which he would help, but could not help even as he +was about to help them. + +"The Jews saw herein proof that he loved Lazarus; but they little thought +it was for them and their people, and for the Gentiles whom they despised, +that his tears were now flowing--that the love which pressed the fountains +of his weeping was love for every human heart, from Adam on through the +ages. + +"Some of them went a little farther, nearly as far as the sisters, saying, +'Could he not have kept the man from dying?' But it was such a poor thing, +after all, that they thought he might have done. They regarded merely this +unexpected illness, this early death; for I daresay Lazarus was not much +older than Jesus. They did not think that, after all, Lazarus must die some +time; that the beloved could be saved, at best, only for a little while. +Jesus seems to have heard the remark, for he again groaned in himself. + +"Meantime they were drawing near the place where he was buried. It was a +hollow in the face of a rock, with a stone laid against it. I suppose the +bodies were laid on something like shelves inside the rock, as they are in +many sepulchres. They were not put into coffins, but wound round and round +with linen. + +"When they came before the door of death, Jesus said to them, 'Take away +the stone.' The nature of Martha's reply--the realism of it, as they would +say now-a-days--would seem to indicate that her dawning faith had sunk +again below the horizon, that in the presence of the insignia of death, her +faith yielded, even as the faith of Peter failed him when he saw around him +the grandeur of the high-priest, and his Master bound and helpless. Jesus +answered--O, what an answer!--To meet the corruption and the stink which +filled her poor human fancy, 'the glory of God' came from his lips: human +fear; horror speaking from the lips of a woman in the very jaws of the +devouring death; and the 'said I not unto thee?' from the mouth of him who +was so soon to pass worn and bloodless through such a door! 'He stinketh,' +said Martha. 'The glory of God,' said Jesus. 'Said I not unto thee, that, +if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?' + +"Before the open throat of the sepulchre Jesus began to speak to his Father +aloud. He had prayed to him in his heart before, most likely while he +groaned in his spirit. Now he thanked him that he had comforted him, and +given him Lazarus as a first-fruit from the dead. But he will be true to +the listening people as well as to his ever-hearing Father; therefore he +tells why he said the word of thanks aloud--a thing not usual with him, for +his Father was always hearing, him. Having spoken it for the people, he +would say that it was for the people. + +"The end of it all was that they might believe that God had sent him--a far +grander gift than having the dearest brought back from the grave; for he is +the life of men. + +"'Lazarus, come forth!" + +"And Lazarus came forth, creeping helplessly with inch-long steps of his +linen-bound limbs. 'Ha, ha! brother, sister!' cries the human heart. The +Lord of Life hath taken the prey from the spoiler; he hath emptied the +grave. Here comes the dead man, welcome as never was child from the +womb--new-born, and in him all the human race new-born from the grave! +'Loose him and let him go,' and the work is done. The sorrow is over, and +the joy is come. Home, home, Martha, Mary, with your Lazarus! He too will +go with you, the Lord of the Living. Home and get the feast ready, Martha! +Prepare the food for him who comes hungry from the grave, for him who has +called him thence. Home, Mary, to help Martha! What a household will yours +be! What wondrous speech will pass between the dead come to life and the +living come to die! + +"But what pang is this that makes Lazarus draw hurried breath, and turns +Martha's cheek so pale? Ah, at the little window of the heart the pale eyes +of the defeated Horror look in. What! is he there still! Ah, yes, he will +come for Martha, come for Mary, come yet again for Lazarus--yea, come for +the Lord of Life himself, and carry all away. But look at the Lord: he +knows all about it, and he smiles. Does Martha think of the words he spoke, +'He that liveth and believeth in me shall never die'? Perhaps she does, +and, like the moon before the sun, her face returns the smile of her Lord. + +"This, my friends, is a fancy in form, but it embodies a dear truth. What +is it to you and me that he raised Lazarus? We are not called upon to +believe that he will raise from the tomb that joy of our hearts which lies +buried there beyond our sight. Stop! Are we not? We are called upon to +believe this; else the whole story were for us a poor mockery. What is it +to us that the Lord raised Lazarus?--Is it nothing to know that our Brother +is Lord over the grave? Will the harvest be behind the first-fruits? If he +tells us he cannot, for good reasons, raise up our vanished love to-day, or +to-morrow, or for all the years of our life to come, shall we not mingle +the smile of faithful thanks with the sorrow of present loss, and walk +diligently waiting? That he called forth Lazarus showed that he was in his +keeping, that he is Lord of the living, and that all live to him, that he +has a hold of them, and can draw them forth when he will. If this is not +true, then the raising of Lazarus is false; I do not mean merely false in +fact, but false in meaning. If we believe in him, then in his name, both +for ourselves and for our friends, we must deny death and believe in life. +Lord Christ, fill our hearts with thy Life!" + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +CHANGED PLANS. + + + + + +In a day or two Connie was permitted to rise and take to her couch once +more. It seemed strange that she should look so much worse, and yet be so +much stronger. The growth of her power of motion was wonderful. As they +carried her, she begged to be allowed to put her feet to the ground. Turner +yielded, though without quite ceasing to support her. He was satisfied, +however, that she could have stood upright for a moment at least. He would +not, of course, risk it, and made haste to lay her down. + +The time of his departure was coming near, and he seemed more anxious the +nearer it came; for Connie continued worn-looking and pale; and her smile, +though ever ready to greet me when I entered, had lost much of its light. I +noticed, too, that she had the curtain of her window constantly so arranged +as to shut out the sea. I said something to her about it once. Her reply +was: + +"Papa, I can't bear it. I know it is very silly; but I think I can make you +understand how it is: I was so fond of the sea when I came down; it seemed +to lie close to my window, with a friendly smile ready for me every morning +when I looked out. I daresay it is all from want of faith, but I can't help +it: it looks so far away now, like a friend that had failed me, that I +would rather not see it." + +I saw that the struggling life within her was grievously oppressed, that +the things which surrounded her were no longer helpful. Her life had been +driven as to its innermost cave; and now, when it had been enticed to +venture forth and look abroad, a sudden pall had descended upon nature. I +could not help thinking that the good of our visit to Kilkhaven had come, +and that evil, from which I hoped we might yet escape, was following. I +left her, and sought Turner. + +"It strikes me, Turner," I said, "that the sooner we get out of this the +better for Connie." + +"I am quite of your opinion. I think the very prospect of leaving the place +would do something to restore her. If she is so uncomfortable now, think +what it will be in the many winter nights at hand." + +"Do you think it would be safe to move her?" + +"Far safer than to let her remain. At the worst, she is now far better than +when she came. Try her. Hint at the possibility of going home, and see how +she will take it." + +"Well, I sha'n't like to be left alone; but if she goes they must all go, +except, perhaps, I might keep Wynnie. But I don't know how her mother would +get on without her." + +"I don't see why you should stay behind. Mr. Weir would be as glad to come +as you would be to go; and it can make no difference to Mr. Shepherd." + +It seemed a very sensible suggestion. I thought a moment. Certainly it was +a desirable thing for both my sister and her husband. They had no such +reasons as we had for disliking the place; and it would enable her to avoid +the severity of yet another winter. I said as much to Turner, and went back +to Connie's room. + +The light of a lovely sunset was lying outside her window. She was sitting +so that she could not see it. I would find out her feeling in the matter +without any preamble. + +"Would you like to go back to Marshmallows, Connie?" I asked. + +Her countenance flashed into light. + +"O, dear papa, do let us go," she said; "that would be delightful." + +"Well, I think we can manage it, if you will only get a little stronger for +the journey. The weather is not so good to travel in as when we came down." + +"No; but I am ever so much better, you know, than I was then." + +The poor girl was already stronger from the mere prospect of going home +again. She moved restlessly on her couch, half mechanically put her hand to +the curtain, pulled it aside, looked out, faced the sun and the sea, and +did not draw back. My mind was made up. I left her, and went to find +Ethelwyn. She heartily approved of the proposal for Connie's sake, and said +that it would be scarcely less agreeable to herself. I could see a certain +troubled look above her eyes, however. + +"You are thinking of Wynnie," I said. + +"Yes. It is hard to make one sad for the sake of the rest." + +"True. But it is one of the world's recognised necessities." + +"No doubt." + +"Besides, you don't suppose Percivale can stay here the whole winter. They +must part some time." + +"Of course. Only they did not expect it so soon." + +But here my wife was mistaken. + +I went to my study to write to Weir. I had hardly finished my letter when +Walter came to say that Mr. Percivale wished to see me. I told him to show +him in. + +"I am just writing home to say that I want my curate to change places with +me here, which I know he will be glad enough to do. I see Connie had better +go home." + +"You will all go, then, I presume?" returned Percivale. + +"Yes, yes; of course." + +"Then I need not so much regret that I can stay no longer. I came to tell +you that I must leave to-morrow." + +"Ah! Going to London?" + +"Yes. I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness. You have made my +summer something like a summer; very different, indeed, from what it would +otherwise have been." + +"We have had our share of advantage, and that a large one. We are all glad +to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Percivale." + +He made no answer. + +"We shall be passing through London within a week or ten days in all +probability. Perhaps you will allow us the pleasure of looking at some of +your pictures then?" + +His face flushed. What did the flush mean? It was not one of mere pleasure. +There was confusion and perplexity in it. But he answered at once: + +"I will show you them with pleasure. I fear, however, you will not care for +them." + +Would this fear account for his embarrassment? I hardly thought it would; +but I could not for a moment imagine, with his fine form and countenance +before me, that he had any serious reason for shrinking from a visit. + +He began to search for a card. + +"O, I have your address. I shall be sure to pay you a visit. But you will +dine with us to-day, of course?" I said. + +"I shall have much pleasure," he answered; and took his leave. + +I finished my letter to Weir, and went out for a walk. + +I remember particularly the thoughts that moved in me and made that walk +memorable. Indeed, I think I remember all outside events chiefly by virtue +of the inward conditions with which they were associated. Mere outside +things I am very ready to forget. Moods of my own mind do not so readily +pass away; and with the memory of some of them every outward circumstance +returns; for a man's life is where the kingdom of heaven is--within him. +There are people who, if you ask the story of their lives, have nothing to +tell you but the course of the outward events that have constituted, as it +were, the clothes of their history. But I know, at the same time, that some +of the most important crises in my own history (by which word _history_ I +mean my growth towards the right conditions of existence) have been beyond +the grasp and interpretation of my intellect. They have passed, as it were, +without my consciousness being awake enough to lay hold of their phenomena. +The wind had been blowing; I had heard the sound of it, but knew not whence +it came nor whither it went; only, when it was gone, I found myself more +responsible, more eager than before. + +I remember this walk from the thoughts I had about the great change hanging +over us all. I had now arrived at the prime of middle life; and that change +which so many would escape if they could, but which will let no man pass, +had begun to show itself a real fact upon the horizon of the future. Death +looks so far away to the young, that while they acknowledge it unavoidable, +the path stretches on in such vanishing perspective before them, that they +see no necessity for thinking about the end of it yet; and far would I be +from saying they ought to think of it. Life is the true object of a man's +care: there is no occasion to make himself think about death. But when +the vision of the inevitable draws nigh, when it appears plainly on the +horizon, though but as a cloud the size of a man's hand, then it is equally +foolish to meet it by refusing to meet it, to answer the questions that +will arise by declining to think about them. Indeed, it is a question of +life then, and not of death. We want to keep fast hold of our life, and, in +the strength of that, to look the threatening death in the face. But to my +walk that morning. + +I wandered on the downs till I came to the place where a solitary rock +stands on the top of a cliff looking seaward, in the suggested shape of a +monk praying. On the base on which he knelt I seated myself, and looked out +over the Atlantic. How faded the ocean appeared! It seemed as if all the +sunny dyes of the summer had been diluted and washed with the fogs of the +coming winter, when I thought of the splendour it wore when first from +these downs I gazed on the outspread infinitude of space and colour. + +"What," I said to myself at length, "has she done since then? Where is +her work visible? She has riven, and battered, and destroyed, and her +destruction too has passed away. So worketh Time and its powers! The +exultation of my youth is gone; my head is gray; my wife is growing old; +our children are pushing us from our stools; we are yielding to the new +generation; the glory for us hath departed; our life lies weary before us +like that sea; and the night cometh when we can no longer work." + +Something like this was passing vaguely through my mind. I sat in a +mournful stupor, with a half-consciousness that my mood was false, and that +I ought to rouse myself and shake it off. There is such a thing as a state +of moral dreaming, which closely resembles the intellectual dreaming in +sleep. I went on in this false dreamful mood, pitying myself like a child +tender over his hurt and nursing his own cowardice, till, all at once, "a +little pipling wind" blew on my cheek. The morning was very still: what +roused that little wind I cannot tell; but what that little wind roused I +will try to tell. With that breath on my cheek, something within me began +to stir. It grew, and grew, until the memory of a certain glorious sunset +of red and green and gold and blue, which I had beheld from these same +heights, dawned within me. I knew that the glory of my youth had not +departed, that the very power of recalling with delight that which I had +once felt in seeing, was proof enough of that; I knew that I could believe +in God all the night long, even if the night were long. And the next moment +I thought how I had been reviling in my fancy God's servant, the sea. To +how many vessels had she not opened a bounteous highway through the waters, +with labour, and food, and help, and ministration, glad breezes and +swelling sails, healthful struggle, cleansing fear and sorrow, yea, and +friendly death! Because she had been commissioned to carry this one or that +one, this hundred or that thousand of his own creatures from one world to +another, was I to revile the servant of a grand and gracious Master? It was +blameless in Connie to feel the late trouble so deeply that she could not +be glad: she had not had the experience of life, yea, of God, that I had +had; she must be helped from without. But for me, it was shameful that I, +who knew the heart of my Master, to whom at least he had so often shown his +truth, should ever be doleful and oppressed. Yet even me he had now helped +from within. The glory of existence as the child of the Infinite had +again dawned upon me. The first hour of the evening of my life had indeed +arrived; the shadows had begun to grow long--so long that I had begun to +mark their length; this last little portion of my history had vanished, +leaving its few gray ashes behind in the crucible of my life; and the final +evening must come, when all my life would lie behind me, and all the memory +of it return, with its mornings of gold and red, with its evenings of +purple and green; with its dashes of storm, and its foggy glooms; with its +white-winged aspirations, its dull-red passions, its creeping envies in +brown and black and earthy yellow. But from all the accusations of my +conscience, I would turn me to the Lord, for he was called Jesus because he +should save his people from their sins. Then I thought what a grand gift it +would be to give his people the power hereafter to fight the consequences +of their sins. Anyhow, I would trust the Father, who loved me with a +perfect love, to lead the soul he had made, had compelled to be, through +the gates of the death-birth, into the light of life beyond. I would cast +on him the care, humbly challenge him with the responsibility he had +himself undertaken, praying only for perfect confidence in him, absolute +submission to his will. + +I rose from my seat beside the praying monk, and walked on. The thought of +seeing my own people again filled me with gladness. I would leave those +I had here learned to love with regret; but I trusted I had taught them +something, and they had taught me much; therefore there could be no end +to our relation to each other--it could not be broken, for it was _in the +Lord_, which alone can give security to any tie. I should not, therefore, +sorrow as if I were to see their faces no more. + +I now took my farewell of that sea and those cliffs. I should see them +often ere we went, but I should not feel so near them again. Even this +parting said that I must "sit loose to the world"--an old Puritan phrase, +I suppose; that I could gather up only its uses, treasure its best things, +and must let all the rest go; that those things I called mine--earth, sky, +and sea, home, books, the treasured gifts of friends--had all to leave +me, belong to others, and help to educate them. I should not need them. I +should have my people, my souls, my beloved faces tenfold more, and could +well afford to part with these. Why should I mind this chain passing to +my eldest boy, when it was only his mother's hair, and I should have his +mother still? + +So my thoughts went on thinking themselves, until at length I yielded +passively to their flow. + +I found Wynnie looking very grave when I went into the drawing-room. Her +mother was there, too, and Mr. Percivale. It seemed rather a moody party. +They wakened up a little, however, after I entered, and before dinner was +over we were all chatting together merrily. + +"How is Connie?" I asked Ethelwyn. + +"Wonderfully better already," she answered. + +"I think everybody seems better," I said. "The very idea of home seems +reviving to us all." + +Wynnie darted a quick glance at me, caught my eyes, which was more than +she had intended, and blushed; sought refuge in a bewildered glance at +Percivale, caught his eye in turn, and blushed yet deeper. He plunged +instantly into conversation, not without a certain involuntary sparkle in +his eye. + +"Did you go to see Mrs. Stokes this morning?" he asked. + +"No," I answered. "She does not want much visiting now; she is going about +her work, apparently in good health. Her husband says she is not like the +same woman; and I hope he means that in more senses than one, though I do +not choose to ask him any questions about his wife." + +I did my best to keep up the conversation, but every now and then after +this it fell like a wind that would not blow. I withdrew to my study. +Percivale and Wynnie went out for a walk. The next morning he left by the +coach--early. Turner went with him. + +Wynnie did not seem very much dejected. I thought that perhaps the prospect +of meeting him again in London kept her up. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE STUDIO. + + + + + +I will not linger over our preparations or our leave-takings. The most +ponderous of the former were those of the two boys, who, as they had wanted +to bring down a chest as big as a corn-bin, full of lumber, now wanted to +take home two or three boxes filled with pebbles, great oystershells, and +sea-weed. + +Weir, as I had expected, was quite pleased to make the exchange. An early +day had been fixed for his arrival; for I thought it might be of service +to him to be introduced to the field of his labours. Before he came, I had +gone about among the people, explaining to them some of my reasons for +leaving them sooner than I had intended, and telling them a little about my +successor, that he might not appear among them quite as a stranger. He was +much gratified with their reception of him, and had no fear of not finding +himself quite at home with them. I promised, if I could comfortably manage +it, to pay them a short visit the following summer, and as the weather was +now getting quite cold, hastened our preparations for departure. + +I could have wished that Turner had been with us on the journey, but he +had been absent from his cure to the full extent that his conscience would +permit, and I had not urged him. He would be there to receive us, and we +had got so used to the management of Connie, that we did not feel much +anxiety about the travelling. We resolved, if she seemed strong enough as +we went along, to go right through to London, making a few days there the +only break in the transit. + +It was a bright, cold morning when we started. But Connie could now bear +the air so well, that we set out with the carriage open, nor had we +occasion to close it. The first part of our railway journey was very +pleasant. But when we drew near London, we entered a thick fog, and before +we arrived, a small dense November rain was falling. Connie looked a little +dispirited, partly from weariness, but no doubt from the change in the +weather. + +"Not very cheerful, this, Connie, my dear," I said. + +"No, papa," she answered; "but we are going home, you know." + +_Going home._ It set me thinking--as I had often been set thinking before, +always with fresh discovery and a new colour on the dawning sky of hope. I +lay back in the carriage and thought how the November fog this evening in +London, was the valley of the shadow of death we had to go through on the +way _home._ A. shadow like this would fall upon me; the world would grow +dark and life grow weary; but I should know it was the last of the way +home. + +Then I began to question myself wherein the idea of this home consisted. I +knew that my soul had ever yet felt the discomfort of strangeness, more or +less, in the midst of its greatest blessedness. I knew that as the thought +of water to the thirsty _soul_, for it is the soul far more than the body +that thirsts even for the material water, such is the thought of home to +the wanderer in a strange country. As the weary soul pines for sleep, and +every heart for the cure of its own bitterness, so my heart and soul had +often pined for their home. Did I know, I asked myself, where or what that +home was? It could consist in no change of place or of circumstance; no +mere absence of care; no accumulation of repose; no blessed communion even +with those whom my soul loved; in the midst of it all I should be longing +for a homelier home--one into which I might enter with a sense of +infinitely more absolute peace, than a conscious child could know in the +arms, upon the bosom of his mother. In the closest contact of human soul +with human soul, when all the atmosphere of thought was rosy with love, +again and yet again on the far horizon would the dun, lurid flame of unrest +shoot for a moment through the enchanted air, and Psyche would know that +not yet had she reached her home. As I thought this I lifted my eyes, and +saw those of my wife and Connie fixed on mine, as if they were reproaching +me for saying in my soul that I could not be quite at home with them. Then +I said in my heart, "Come home with me, beloved--there is but one home for +us all. When we find--in proportion as each of us finds--that home, shall +we be gardens of delight to each other--little chambers of rest--galleries +of pictures--wells of water." + +Again, what was this home? God himself. His thoughts, his will, his love, +his judgment, are man's home. To think his thoughts, to choose his will, to +love his loves, to judge his judgments, and thus to know that he is in us, +with us, is to be at home. And to pass through the valley of the shadow of +death is the way home, but only thus, that as all changes have hitherto +led us nearer to this home, the knowledge of God, so this greatest of all +outward changes--for it is but an outward change--will surely usher us into +a region where there will be fresh possibilities of drawing nigh in heart, +soul, and mind to the Father of us. It is the father, the mother, that make +for the child his home. Indeed, I doubt if the home-idea is complete to the +parents of a family themselves, when they remember that their fathers and +mothers have vanished. + +At this point something rose in me seeking utterance. + +"Won't it be delightful, wife," I began, "to see our fathers and mothers +such a long way back in heaven?" + +But Ethelwyn's face gave so little response, that I felt at once how +dreadful a thing it was not to have had a good father or mother. I do not +know what would have become of me but for a good father. I wonder how +anybody ever can be good that has not had a good father. How dreadful not +to be a good father or good mother! Every father who is not good, every +mother who is not good, just makes it as impossible to believe in God as +it can be made. But he is our one good Father, and does not leave us, even +should our fathers and mothers have thus forsaken us, and left him without +a witness. + +Here the evil odour of brick-burning invaded my nostrils, and I knew that +London was about us. A few moments after, we reached the station, where a +carriage was waiting to take us to our hotel. + +Dreary was the change from the stillness and sunshine of Kilkhaven to the +fog and noise of London; but Connie slept better that night than she had +slept for a good many nights before. + +After breakfast the next morning, I said to Wynnie, + +"I am going to see Mr. Percivale's studio, my dear: have you any objection +to going with me?" + +"No, papa," she answered, blushing. "I have never seen an artist's studio +in my life." + +"Come along, then. Get your bonnet at once. It rains, but we shall take a +cab, and it won't matter." + +She ran off, and was ready in a few minutes. We gave the driver directions, +and set off. It was a long drive. At length he stopped at the door of a +very common-looking house, in a very dreary-looking street, in which no man +could possibly identify his own door except by the number. I knocked. A +woman who looked at once dirty and cross, the former probably the cause of +the latter, opened the door, gave a bare assent to my question whether Mr. +Percivale was at home, withdrew to her den with the words "second-floor," +and left us to find our own way up the two flights of stairs. This, +however, involved no great difficulty. We knocked at the door of the front +room. A well-known voice cried, "Come in," and we entered. + +Percivale, in a short velvet coat, with his palette on his thumb, advanced +to meet us cordially. His face wore a slight flush, which I attributed +solely to pleasure, and nothing to any awkwardness in receiving us in such +a poor place as he occupied. I cast my eyes round the room. Any romantic +notions Wynnie might have indulged concerning the marvels of a studio, +must have paled considerably at the first glance around Percivale's +room--plainly the abode if not of poverty, then of self-denial, although I +suspected both. A common room, with no carpet save a square in front of the +fireplace; no curtains except a piece of something like drugget nailed +flat across all the lower half of the window to make the light fall from +upwards; two or three horsehair chairs, nearly worn out; a table in a +corner, littered with books and papers; a horrible lay-figure, at the +present moment dressed apparently for a scarecrow; a large easel, on which +stood a half-finished oil-painting--these constituted almost the whole +furniture of the room. With his pocket-handkerchief Percivale dusted one +chair for Wynnie and another for me. Then standing before us, he said: + +"This is a very shabby place to receive you in, Miss Walton, but it is all +I have got." + +"A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he possesses," +I ventured to say. + +"Thank you," said Percivale. "I hope not. It is well for me it should not." + +"It is well for the richest man in England that it should not," I returned. +"If it were not so, the man who could eat most would be the most blessed." + +"There are people, even of my acquaintance, however, who seem to think it +does." + +"No doubt; but happily their thinking so will not make it so even for +themselves." + +"Have you been very busy since you left us, Mr. Percivale?" asked Wynnie. + +"Tolerably," he answered. "But I have not much to show for it. That on the +easel is all. I hardly like to let you look at it, though." + +"Why?" asked Wynnie. + +"First, because the subject is painful. Next, because it is so unfinished +that none but a painter could do it justice." + +"But why should you paint subjects you would not like people to look at?" + +"I very much want people to look at them." + +"Why not us, then?" said Wynnie. + +"Because you do not need to be pained." + +"Are you sure it is good for you to pain anybody?" I said. + +"Good is done by pain--is it not?" he asked. + +"Undoubtedly. But whether _we_ are wise enough to know when and where and +how much, is the question." + +"Of course I do not make the pain my object." + +"If it comes only as a necessary accompaniment, that may alter the matter +greatly," I said. "But still I am not sure that anything in which the pain +predominates can be useful in the best way." + +"Perhaps not," he returned.--"Will you look at the daub?" + +"With much pleasure," I replied, and we rose and stood before the easel. +Percivale made no remark, but left us to find out what the picture meant. +Nor had I long to look before I understood it--in a measure at least. + +It represented a garret-room in a wretchedly ruinous condition. The plaster +had come away in several places, and through between the laths in one spot +hung the tail of a great rat. In a dark corner lay a man dying. A woman sat +by his side, with her eyes fixed, not on his face, though she held his hand +in hers, but on the open door, where in the gloom you could just see the +struggles of two undertaker's men to get the coffin past the turn of the +landing towards the door. Through the window there was one peep of the blue +sky, whence a ray of sunlight fell on the one scarlet blossom of a geranium +in a broken pot on the window-sill outside. + +"I do not wonder you did not like to show it," I said. "How can you bear to +paint such a dreadful picture?" + +"It is a true one. It only represents a fact." + +"All facts have not a right to be represented." + +"Surely you would not get rid of painful things by huddling them out of +sight?" + +"No; nor yet by gloating upon them." + +"You will believe me that it gives me anything but pleasure to paint such +pictures--as far as the subject goes," he said with some discomposure. + +"Of course. I know you well enough by this time to know that. But no one +could hang it on his wall who would not either gloat on suffering or grow +callous to it. Whence, then, would come the good I cannot doubt you propose +to yourself as your object in painting the picture? If it had come into my +possession, I would--" + +"Put it in the fire," suggested Percivale with a strange smile. + +"No. Still less would I sell it. I would hang it up with a curtain before +it, and only look at it now and then, when I thought my heart was in danger +of growing hardened to the sufferings of my fellow-men, and forgetting that +they need the Saviour." + +"I could not wish it a better fate. That would answer my end." + +"Would it, now? Is it not rather those who care little or nothing about +such matters that you would like to influence? Would you be content with +one solitary person like me? And, remember, I wouldn't buy it. I would +rather not have it. I could hardly bear to know it was in my house. I am +certain you cannot do people good by showing them _only_ the painful. Make +it as painful as you will, but put some hope into it--something to show +that action is worth taking in the affair. From mere suffering people will +turn away, and you cannot blame them. Every show of it, without hinting at +some door of escape, only urges them to forget it all. Why should they be +pained if it can do no good?" + +"For the sake of sympathy, I should say," answered Percivale. + +"They would rejoin, 'It is only a picture. Come along.' No; give people +hope, if you would have them act at all, in anything." + +"I was almost hoping you would read the picture rather differently. You see +there is a bit of blue sky up there, and a bit of sunshiny scarlet in the +window." + +He looked at me curiously as he spoke. + +"I can read it so for myself, and have metamorphosed its meaning so. But +you only put in the sky and the scarlet to heighten the perplexity, and +make the other look more terrible." + +"Now I know that as an artist I have succeeded, however I may have failed +otherwise. I did so mean it; but knowing you would dislike the picture, +I almost hoped in my cowardice, as I said, that you would read your own +meaning into it." + +Wynnie had not said a word. As I turned away from the picture, I saw that +she was looking quite distressed, but whether by the picture or the freedom +with which I had remarked upon it, I do not know. My eyes falling on a +little sketch in sepia, I began to examine it, in the hope of finding +something more pleasant to say. I perceived in a moment, however, that it +was nearly the same thought, only treated in a gentler and more poetic +mode. A girl lay dying on her bed. A youth held her hand. A torrent of +summer sunshine fell through the window, and made a lake of glory upon the +floor. I turned away. + +"You like that better, don't you, papa?" said Wynnie tremulously. + +"It is beautiful, certainly," I answered. "And if it were only one, I +should enjoy it--as a mood. But coming after the other, it seems but the +same thing more weakly embodied." + +I confess I was a little vexed; for I had got much interested in Percivale, +for his own sake as well as for my daughter's, and I had expected better +things from him. But I saw that I had gone too far. + +"I beg your pardon, Mr. Percivale," I said. + +"I fear I have been too free in my remarks. I know, likewise, that I am a +clergyman, and not a painter, and therefore incapable of giving the praise +which I have little doubt your art at least deserves." + +"I trust that honesty cannot offend me, however much and justly it may pain +me." + +"But now I have said my worst, I should much like to see what else you have +at hand to show me." + +"Unfortunately I have too much at hand. Let me see." + +He strode to the other end of the room, where several pictures were leaning +against the wall, with their faces turned towards it. From these he chose +one, but, before showing it, fitted it into an empty frame that stood +beside. He then brought it forward and set it on the easel. I will describe +it, and then my reader will understand the admiration which broke from me +after I had regarded it for a time. + +A dark hill rose against the evening sky, which shone through a few thin +pines on its top. Along a road on the hill-side four squires bore a dying +knight--a man past the middle age. One behind carried his helm, and another +led his horse, whose fine head only appeared in the picture. The head and +countenance of the knight were very noble, telling of many a battle, and +ever for the right. The last had doubtless been gained, for one might read +victory as well as peace in the dying look. The party had just reached the +edge of a steep descent, from which you saw the valley beneath, with the +last of the harvest just being reaped, while the shocks stood all about in +the fields, under the place of the sunset. The sun had been down for some +little time. There was no gold left in the sky, only a little dull saffron, +but plenty of that lovely liquid green of the autumn sky, divided with a +few streaks of pale rose. The depth of the sky overhead, which you could +not see for the arrangement of the picture, was mirrored lovelily in a +piece of water that lay in the centre of the valley. + +"My dear fellow," I cried, "why did you not show me this first, and save me +from saying so many unkind things? Here is a picture to my own heart; it is +glorious. Look here, Wynnie," I went on; "you see it is evening; the sun's +work is done, and he has set in glory, leaving his good name behind him in +a lovely harmony of colour. The old knight's work is done too; his day has +set in the storm of battle, and he is lying lapt in the coming peace. They +are bearing him home to his couch and his grave. Look at their faces in +the dusky light. They are all mourning for and honouring the life that is +ebbing away. But he is gathered to his fathers like a shock of corn fully +ripe; and so the harvest stands golden in the valley beneath. The picture +would not be complete, however, if it did not tell us of the deep heaven +overhead, the symbol of that heaven whither he who has done his work is +bound. What a lovely idea to represent it by means of the water, the heaven +embodying itself in the earth, as it were, that we may see it! And observe +how that dusky hill-side, and those tall slender mournful-looking pines, +with that sorrowful sky between, lead the eye and point the heart upward +towards that heaven. It is indeed a grand picture, full of feeling--a +picture and a parable." + +[Footnote: This is a description, from memory only, of a picture painted by +Arthur Hughes.] + +I looked at the girl. Her eyes were full of tears, either called forth +by the picture itself or by the pleasure of finding Percivale's work +appreciated by me, who had spoken so hardly of the others. + +"I cannot tell you how glad I am that you like it," she said. + +"Like it!" I returned; "I am simply delighted with it, more than I can +express--so much delighted that if I could have this alongside of it, I +should not mind hanging that other--that hopeless garret--on the most +public wall I have." + +"Then," said Wynnie bravely, though in a tremulous voice, "you +confess--don't you, papa?--that you were _too_ hard on Mr. Percivale at +first?" + +"Not too hard on his picture, my dear; and that was all he had yet given me +to judge by. No man should paint a picture like that. You are not bound to +disseminate hopelessness; for where there is no hope there can be no sense +of duty." + +"But surely, papa, Mr. Percivale has _some_ sense of duty," said Wynnie in +an almost angry tone. + +"Assuredly my love. Therefore I argue that he has some hope, and therefore, +again, that he has no right to publish such a picture." + +At the word _publish_ Percivale smiled. But Wynnie went on with her +defence: + +"But you see, papa, that Mr. Percivale does not paint such pictures only. +Look at the other." + +"Yes, my dear. But pictures are not like poems, lying side by side in the +same book, so that the one can counteract the other. The one of these might +go to the stormy Hebrides, and the other to the Vale of Avalon; but even +then I should be strongly inclined to criticise the poem, whatever position +it stood in, that had _nothing_--positively nothing--of the aurora in it." + +Here let me interrupt the course of our conversation to illustrate it by a +remark on a poem which has appeared within the last twelvemonth from the +pen of the greatest living poet, and one who, if I may dare to judge, will +continue the greatest for many, many years to come. It is only a little +song, "I stood on a tower in the wet." I have found few men who, whether +from the influence of those prints which are always on the outlook for +something to ridicule, or from some other cause, did not laugh at the poem. +I thought and think it a lovely poem, although I am not quite sure of the +transposition of words in the last two lines. But I do not _approve_ of the +poem, just because there is no hope in it. It lacks that touch or hint +of _red_ which is as essential, I think, to every poem as to every +picture--the life-blood--the one pure colour. In his hopeful moods, let a +man put on his singing robes, and chant aloud the words of gladness--or of +grief, I care not which--to his fellows; in his hours of hopelessness, +let him utter his thoughts only to his inarticulate violin, or in the +evanescent sounds of any his other stringed instrument; let him commune +with his own heart on his bed, and be still; let him speak to God face to +face if he may--only he cannot do that and continue hopeless; but let him +not sing aloud in such a mood into the hearts of his fellows, for he cannot +do them much good thereby. If it were a fact that there is no hope, it +would not be a _truth_. No doubt, if it were a fact, it ought to be known; +but who will dare be confident that there is no hope? Therefore, I say, let +the hopeless moods, at least, if not the hopeless men, be silent. + +"He could refuse to let the one go without the other," said Wynnie. + +"Now you are talking like a child, Wynnie, as indeed all partisans do at +the best. He might sell them together, but the owner would part them.--If +you will allow me, I will come and see both the pictures again to-morrow." + +Percivale assured me of welcome, and we parted, I declining to look at any +more pictures that day, but not till we had arranged that he should dine +with us in the evening. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +HOME AGAIN. + + + + + +I will not detain my readers with the record of the few days we spent in +London. In writing the account of it, as in the experience of the time +itself, I feel that I am near home, and grow the more anxious to reach it. +Ah! I am growing a little anxious after another home, too; for the house of +my tabernacle is falling to ruins about me. What a word _home_ is! To think +that God has made the world so that you have only to be born in a certain +place, and live long enough in it to get at the secret of it, and +henceforth that place is to you a _home_ with all the wonderful meaning in +the word. Thus the whole earth is a home to the race; for every spot of it +shares in the feeling: some one of the family loves it as _his_ home. How +rich the earth seems when we so regard it--crowded with the loves of home! +Yet I am now getting ready to _go home_--to leave this world of homes and +go home. When I reach that home, shall I even then seek yet to go home? +Even then, I believe, I shall seek a yet warmer, deeper, truer home in the +deeper knowledge of God--in the truer love of my fellow-man. Eternity will +be, my heart and my faith tell me, a travelling homeward, but in jubilation +and confidence and the vision of the beloved. + +When we had laid Connie once more in her own room, at least the room which +since her illness had come to be called hers, I went up to my study. The +familiar faces of my books welcomed me. I threw myself in my reading-chair, +and gazed around me with pleasure. I felt it so homely here. All my old +friends--whom somehow I hoped to see some day--present there in the spirit +ready to talk with me any moment when I was in the mood, making no claim +upon my attention when I was not! I felt as if I should like, when the +hour should come, to die in that chair, and pass into the society of the +witnesses in the presence of the tokens they had left behind them. + +I heard shouts on the stair, and in rushed the two boys. + +"Papa, papa!" they were crying together. + +"What is the matter?" + +"We've found the big chest just where we left it." + +"Well, did you expect it would have taken itself off?" + +"But there's everything in it just as we left it." + +"Were you afraid, then, that the moment you left it it would turn itself +upside down, and empty itself of all its contents on the floor?" + +They laughed, but apparently with no very keen appreciation of the attempt +at a joke. + +"Well, papa, I did not think anything about it; but--but--but--there +everything is as we left it." + +With this triumphant answer they turned and hurried, a little abashed, out +of the room; but not many moments elapsed before the sounds that arose from +them were sufficiently reassuring as to the state of their spirits. +When they were gone, I forgot my books in the attempt to penetrate and +understand the condition of my boys' thoughts; and I soon came to see that +they were right and I was wrong. It was the movement of that undeveloped +something in us which makes it possible for us in everything to give +thanks. It was the wonder of the discovery of the existence of law. There +was nothing that they could understand, _à priori_, to necessitate the +remaining of the things where they had left them. No doubt there was a +reason in the nature of God, why all things should hold together, whence +springs the law of gravitation, as we call it; but as far as the boys could +understand of this, all things might as well have been arranged for flying +asunder, so that no one could expect to find anything where he had left it. +I began to see yet further into the truth that in everything we must give +thanks, and whatever is not of faith is sin. Even the laws of nature reveal +the character of God, not merely as regards their ends, but as regards +their kind, being of necessity fashioned after ideal facts of his own being +and will. + +I rose and went down to see if everybody was getting settled, and how the +place looked. I found Ethel already going about the house as if she had +never left it, and as if we all had just returned from a long absence and +she had to show us home-hospitality. Wynnie had vanished; but I found her +by and by in the favourite haunt of her mother before her marriage--beside +the little pond called the Bishop's Basin, of which I do not think I have +ever told my readers the legend. But why should I mention it, for I cannot +tell it now? The frost lay thick in the hollow when I went down there to +find her; the branches, lately clothed with leaves, stood bare and icy +around her. Ethelwyn and I had almost forgotten that there was anything out +of the common in connection with the house. The horror of this mysterious +spot had laid hold upon Wynnie. I resolved that that night I would, in her +mother's presence, tell her all the legend of the place, and the whole +story of how I won her mother. I did so; and I think it made her trust us +more. But now I left her there, and went to Connie. She lay in her bed; +for her mother had got her thither at once, a perfect picture of blessed +comfort. There was no occasion to be uneasy about her. I was so pleased +to be at home again with such good hopes, that I could not rest, but went +wandering everywhere--into places even which I had not entered for ten +years at least, and found fresh interest in everything; for this was home, +and here I was. + +Now I fancy my readers, looking forward to the end, and seeing what a small +amount of print is left, blaming me; some, that I have roused curiosity +without satisfying it; others, that I have kept them so long over a dull +book and a lame conclusion. But out of a life one cannot always cut +complete portions, and serve them up in nice shapes. I am well aware that I +have not told them the _fate_, as some of them would call it, of either of +my daughters. This I cannot develop now, even as far as it is known to me; +but, if it is any satisfaction to them to know this much--and it will be +all that some of them mean by _fate_, I fear--I may as well tell them now +that Wynnie has been Mrs. Percivale for many years, with a history well +worth recounting; and that Connie has had a quiet, happy life for nearly +as long, as Mrs. Turner. She has never got strong, but has very tolerable +health. Her husband watches her with the utmost care and devotion. My +Ethelwyn is still with me. Harry is gone home. Charlie is a barrister of +the Middle Temple. And Dora--I must not forget Dora--well, I will say +nothing about her _fate_, for good reasons--it is not quite determined yet. +Meantime she puts up with the society of her old father and mother, and is +something else than unhappy, I fully believe. + +"And Connie's baby?" asks some one out of ten thousand readers. I have no +time to tell you about her now; but as you know her so little, it cannot be +such a trial to remain, for a time at least, unenlightened with regard to +her _fate._ + +The only other part of my history which could contain anything like +incident enough to make it interesting in print, is a period I spent in +London some few years after the time of which I have now been writing. But +I am getting too old to regard the commencement of another history with +composure. The labour of thinking into sequences, even the bodily labour of +writing, grows more and more severe. I fancy I can think correctly still; +but the effort necessary to express myself with corresponding correctness +becomes, in prospect, at least, sometimes almost appalling. I must +therefore take leave of my patient reader--for surely every one who +has followed me through all that I have here written, well deserves the +epithet--as if the probability that I shall write no more were a certainty, +bidding him farewell with one word: _"Friend, hope thou in God,"_ and for +a parting gift offering him a new, and, I think, a true rendering of the +first verse of the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews: + +"Now faith is the essence of hopes, the trying of things unseen." + +Good-bye. + +THE END. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish Vol. 3, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH VOL. 3 *** + +This file should be named 8spr310.txt or 8spr310.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8spr311.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8spr310a.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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