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diff --git a/8562-h/8562-h.htm b/8562-h/8562-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8241753 --- /dev/null +++ b/8562-h/8562-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20475 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + The Seaboard Parish, by George Macdonald, Ll.d. + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish, Complete, 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, Complete + +Author: George MacDonald + + +Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8562] +This file was first posted on July 23, 2003 +[Last updated: July 16, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH, COMPLETE *** + + + + +Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE SEABOARD PARISH + </h1> + <h2> + By George MacDonald, LL.D. + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>VOLUME I.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. HOMILETIC. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. CONSTANCE’S BIRTHDAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. THE SICK CHAMBER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. A SUNDAY EVENING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. MY DREAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. THE NEW BABY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. THEODORA’S DOOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. A SPRING CHAPTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. AN IMPORTANT LETTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. CONNIE’S DREAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. THE JOURNEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. THE OLD CHURCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. CONNIE’S WATCH-TOWER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD + PARISH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> <b>VOLUME II.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER I. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER II. NICEBOOTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER III. THE BLACKSMITH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER IV. THE LIFE-BOAT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER V. MR. PERCIVALE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW OP DEATH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER VII. AT THE FARM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER VIII. THE KEEVE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER IX. THE WALK TO CHURCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER X. THE OLD CASTLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XI. JOE AND HIS TROUBLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XII. A SMALL ADVENTURE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XIII. THE HARVEST. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> <b>VOLUME III.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER II. OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER III. A PASTORAL VISIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER IV. THE ART OF NATURE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER V. THE SORE SPOT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER VI. THE GATHERING STORM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER VII. THE GATHERED STORM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER VIII. THE SHIPWRECK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER IX. THE FUNERAL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER X. THE SERMON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XI. CHANGED PLANS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XII. THE STUDIO. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XIII. HOME AGAIN. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + VOLUME I. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. HOMILETIC. + </h2> + <p> + Dear Friends,—I am beginning a new book like an old sermon; but, as + you know, I have been so accustomed to preach all my life, that whatever I + say or write will more or less take the shape of a sermon; and if you had + not by this time learned at least to bear with my oddities, you would not + have wanted any more of my teaching. And, indeed, I did not think you + would want any more. I thought I had bidden you farewell. But I am seated + once again at my writing-table, to write for you—with a strange + feeling, however, that I am in the heart of some curious, rather awful + acoustic contrivance, by means of which the words which I have a habit of + whispering over to myself as I write them, are heard aloud by multitudes + of people whom I cannot see or hear. I will favour the fancy, that, by a + sense of your presence, I may speak the more truly, as man to man. + </p> + <p> + But let me, for a moment, suppose that I am your grandfather, and that you + have all come to beg for a story; and that, therefore, as usually happens + in such cases, I am sitting with a puzzled face, indicating a more puzzled + mind. I know that there are a great many stories in the holes and corners + of my brain; indeed, here is one, there is one, peeping out at me like a + rabbit; but alas, like a rabbit, showing me almost at the same instant the + tail-end of it, and vanishing with a contemptuous <i>thud</i> of its hind + feet on the ground. For I must have suitable regard to the desires of my + children. It is a fine thing to be able to give people what they want, if + at the same time you can give them what you want. To give people what they + want, would sometimes be to give them only dirt and poison. To give them + what you want, might be to set before them something of which they could + not eat a mouthful. What both you and I want, I am willing to think, is a + dish of good wholesome venison. Now I suppose my children around me are + neither young enough nor old enough to care about a fairy tale. So that + will not do. What they want is, I believe, something that I know about—that + has happened to myself. Well, I confess, that is the kind of thing I like + best to hear anybody talk to me about. Let anyone tell me something that + has happened to himself, especially if he will give me a peep into how his + heart took it, as it sat in its own little room with the closed door, and + that person will, so telling, absorb my attention: he has something true + and genuine and valuable to communicate. They are mostly old people that + can do so. Not that young people have nothing happen to them; but that + only when they grow old, are they able to see things right, to disentangle + confusions, and judge righteous judgment. Things which at the time + appeared insignificant or wearisome, then give out the light that was in + them, show their own truth, interest, and influence: they are far enough + off to be seen. It is not when we are nearest to anything that we know + best what it is. How I should like to write a story for old people! The + young are always having stories written for them. Why should not the old + people come in for a share? A story without a young person in it at all! + Nobody under fifty admitted! It could hardly be a fairy tale, could it? Or + a love story either? I am not so sure about that. The worst of it would + be, however, that hardly a young person would read it. Now, we old people + would not like that. We can read young people’s books and enjoy them: they + would not try to read old men’s books or old women’s books; they would be + so sure of their being dry. My dear old brothers and sisters, we know + better, do we not? We have nice old jokes, with no end of fun in them; + only they cannot see the fun. We have strange tales, that we know to be + true, and which look more and more marvellous every time we turn them over + again; only somehow they do not belong to the ways of this year—I + was going to say <i>week</i>,—and so the young people generally do + not care to hear them. I have had one pale-faced boy, to be sure, who will + sit at his mother’s feet, and listen for hours to what took place before + he was born. To him his mother’s wedding-gown was as old as Eve’s coat of + skins. But then he was young enough not yet to have had a chance of losing + the childhood common to the young and the old. Ah! I should like to write + for you, old men, old women, to help you to read the past, to help you to + look for the future. Now is your salvation nearer than when you believed; + for, however your souls may be at peace, however your quietness and + confidence may give you strength, in the decay of your earthly tabernacle, + in the shortening of its cords, in the weakening of its stakes, in the + rents through which you see the stars, you have yet your share in the cry + of the creation after the sonship. But the one thing I should keep saying + to you, my companions in old age, would be, “Friends, let us not grow + old.” Old age is but a mask; let us not call the mask the face. Is the + acorn old, because its cup dries and drops it from its hold—because + its skin has grown brown and cracks in the earth? Then only is a man + growing old when he ceases to have sympathy with the young. That is a sign + that his heart has begun to wither. And that is a dreadful kind of old + age. The heart needs never be old. Indeed it should always be growing + younger. Some of us feel younger, do we not, than when we were nine or + ten? It is not necessary to be able to play at leapfrog to enjoy the game. + There are young creatures whose turn it is, and perhaps whose duty it + would be, to play at leap-frog if there was any necessity for putting the + matter in that light; and for us, we have the privilege, or if we will not + accept the privilege, then I say we have the duty, of enjoying their + leap-frog. But if we must withdraw in a measure from sociable relations + with our fellows, let it be as the wise creatures that creep aside and + wrap themselves up and lay themselves by that their wings may grow and put + on the lovely hues of their coming resurrection. Such a withdrawing is in + the name of youth. And while it is pleasant—no one knows how + pleasant except him who experiences it—to sit apart and see the + drama of life going on around him, while his feelings are calm and free, + his vision clear, and his judgment righteous, the old man must ever be + ready, should the sweep of action catch him in its skirts, to get on his + tottering old legs, and go with brave heart to do the work of a true man, + none the less true that his hands tremble, and that he would gladly return + to his chimney-corner. If he is never thus called out, let him examine + himself, lest he should be falling into the number of those that say, “I + go, sir,” and go not; who are content with thinking beautiful things in an + Atlantis, Oceana, Arcadia, or what it may be, but put not forth one of + their fingers to work a salvation in the earth. Better than such is the + man who, using just weights and a true balance, sells good flour, and + never has a thought of his own. + </p> + <p> + I have been talking—to my reader is it? or to my supposed group of + grandchildren? I remember—to my companions in old age. It is time I + returned to the company who are hearing my whispers at the other side of + the great thundering gallery. I take leave of my old friends with one + word: We have yet a work to do, my friends; but a work we shall never do + aright after ceasing to understand the new generation. We are not the men, + neither shall wisdom die with us. The Lord hath not forsaken his people + because the young ones do not think just as the old ones choose. The Lord + has something fresh to tell them, and is getting them ready to receive his + message. When we are out of sympathy with the young, then I think our work + in this world is over. It might end more honourably. + </p> + <p> + Now, readers in general, I have had time to consider what to tell you + about, and how to begin. My story will be rather about my family than + myself now. I was as it were a little withdrawn, even by the time of which + I am about to write. I had settled into a gray-haired, quite elderly, yet + active man—young still, in fact, to what I am now. But even then, + though my faith had grown stronger, life had grown sadder, and needed all + my stronger faith; for the vanishing of beloved faces, and the trials of + them that are dear, will make even those that look for a better country + both for themselves and their friends, sad, though it will be with a + preponderance of the first meaning of the word <i>sad</i>, which was <i>settled</i>, + <i>thoughtful</i>. + </p> + <p> + I am again seated in the little octagonal room, which I have made my study + because I like it best. It is rather a shame, for my books cover over + every foot of the old oak panelling. But they make the room all the + pleasanter to the eye, and after I am gone, there is the old oak, none the + worse, for anyone who prefers it to books. + </p> + <p> + I intend to use as the central portion of my present narrative the history + of a year during part of which I took charge of a friend’s parish, while + my brother-in-law, Thomas Weir, who was and is still my curate, took the + entire charge of Marshmallows. What led to this will soon appear. I will + try to be minute enough in my narrative to make my story interesting, + although it will cost me suffering to recall some of the incidents I have + to narrate. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. CONSTANCE’S BIRTHDAY. + </h2> + <p> + Was it from observation of nature in its association with human nature, or + from artistic feeling alone, that Shakspere so often represents Nature’s + mood as in harmony with the mood of the principal actors in his drama? I + know I have so often found Nature’s mood in harmony with my own, even when + she had nothing to do with forming mine, that in looking back I have + wondered at the fact. There may, however, be some self-deception about it. + At all events, on the morning of my Constance’s eighteenth birthday, a + lovely October day with a golden east, clouds of golden foliage about the + ways, and an air that seemed filled with the ether of an <i>aurum potabile</i>, + there came yet an occasional blast of wind, which, without being + absolutely cold, smelt of winter, and made one draw one’s shoulders + together with the sense of an unfriendly presence. I do not think + Constance felt it at all, however, as she stood on the steps in her + riding-habit, waiting till the horses made their appearance. It had + somehow grown into a custom with us that each of the children, as his or + her birthday came round, should be king or queen for that day, and, + subject to the veto of father and mother, should have everything his or + her own way. Let me say for them, however, that in the matter of choosing + the dinner, which of course was included in the royal prerogative, I came + to see that it was almost invariably the favourite dishes of others of the + family that were chosen, and not those especially agreeable to the royal + palate. Members of families where children have not been taught from their + earliest years that the great privilege of possession is the right to + bestow, may regard this as an improbable assertion; but others will know + that it might well enough be true, even if I did not say that so it was. + But there was always the choice of some individual treat, which was + determined solely by the preference of the individual in authority. + Constance had chosen “a long ride with papa.” + </p> + <p> + I suppose a parent may sometimes be right when he speaks with admiration + of his own children. The probability of his being correct is to be + determined by the amount of capacity he has for admiring other people’s + children. However this may be in my own case, I venture to assert that + Constance did look very lovely that morning. She was fresh as the young + day: we were early people—breakfast and prayers were over, and it + was nine o’clock as she stood on the steps and I approached her from the + lawn. + </p> + <p> + “O, papa! isn’t it jolly?” she said merrily. + </p> + <p> + “Very jolly indeed, my dear,” I answered, delighted to hear the word from + the lips of my gentle daughter. She very seldom used a slang word, and + when she did, she used it like a lady. Shall I tell you what she was like? + Ah! you could not see her as I saw her that morning if I did. I will, + however, try to give you a general idea, just in order that you and I + should not be picturing to ourselves two very different persons while I + speak of her. + </p> + <p> + She was rather little, and so slight that she looked tall. I have often + observed that the impression of height is an affair of proportion, and has + nothing to do with feet and inches. She was rather fair in complexion, + with her mother’s blue eyes, and her mother’s long dark wavy hair. She was + generally playful, and took greater liberties with me than any of the + others; only with her liberties, as with her slang, she knew instinctively + when, where, and how much. For on the borders of her playfulness there + seemed ever to hang a fringe of thoughtfulness, as if she felt that the + present moment owed all its sparkle and brilliance to the eternal + sunlight. And the appearance was not in the least a deceptive one. The + eternal was not far from her—none the farther that she enjoyed life + like a bird, that her laugh was merry, that her heart was careless, and + that her voice rang through the house—a sweet soprano voice—singing + snatches of songs (now a street tune she had caught from a London organ, + now an air from Handel or Mozart), or that she would sometimes tease her + elder sister about her solemn and anxious looks; for Wynnie, the eldest, + had to suffer for her grandmother’s sins against her daughter, and came + into the world with a troubled little heart, that was soon compelled to + flee for refuge to the rock that was higher than she. Ah! my Constance! + But God was good to you and to us in you. + </p> + <p> + “Where shall we go, Connie?” I said, and the same moment the sound of the + horses’ hoofs reached us. + </p> + <p> + “Would it be too far to go to Addicehead?” she returned. + </p> + <p> + “It is a long ride,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “Too much for the pony?” + </p> + <p> + “O dear, no—not at all. I was thinking of you, not of the pony.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m quite as able to ride as the pony is to carry me, papa. And I want to + get something for Wynnie. Do let us go.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, my dear,” I said, and raised her to the saddle—if I may + say <i>raised</i>, for no bird ever hopped more lightly from one twig to + another than she sprung from the ground on her pony’s back. + </p> + <p> + In a moment I was beside her, and away we rode. + </p> + <p> + The shadows were still long, the dew still pearly on the spiders’ webs, as + we trotted out of our own grounds into a lane that led away towards the + high road. Our horses were fresh and the air was exciting; so we turned + from the hard road into the first suitable field, and had a gallop to + begin with. Constance was a good horse-woman, for she had been used to the + saddle longer than she could remember. She was now riding a tall well-bred + pony, with plenty of life—rather too much, I sometimes thought, when + I was out with Wynnie; but I never thought so when I was with Constance. + Another field or two sufficiently quieted both animals—I did not + want to have all our time taken up with their frolics—and then we + began to talk. + </p> + <p> + “You are getting quite a woman now, Connie, my dear,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Quite an old grannie, papa,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Old enough to think about what’s coming next,” I said gravely. + </p> + <p> + “O, papa! And you are always telling us that we must not think about the + morrow, or even the next hour. But, then, that’s in the pulpit,” she + added, with a sly look up at me from under the drooping feather of her + pretty hat. + </p> + <p> + “You know very well what I mean, you puss,” I answered. “And I don’t say + one thing in the pulpit and another out of it.” + </p> + <p> + She was at my horse’s shoulder with a bound, as if Spry, her pony, had + been of one mind and one piece with her. She was afraid she had offended + me. She looked up into mine with as anxious a face as ever I saw upon + Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “O, thank you, papa!” she said when I smiled. “I thought I had been rude. + I didn’t mean it, indeed I didn’t. But I do wish you would make it a + little plainer to me. I do think about things sometimes, though you would + hardly believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want made plainer, my child?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “When we’re to think, and when we’re not to think,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + I remember all of this conversation because of what came so soon after. + </p> + <p> + “If the known duty of to-morrow depends on the work of to-day,” I + answered, “if it cannot be done right except you think about it and lay + your plans for it, then that thought is to-day’s business, not + to-morrow’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear papa, some of your explanations are more difficult than the things + themselves. May I be as impertinent as I like on my birthday?” she asked + suddenly, again looking up in my face. + </p> + <p> + We were walking now, and she had a hold of my horse’s mane, so as to keep + her pony close up. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear, as impertinent as you like—not an atom more, mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, papa, I sometimes wish you wouldn’t explain things so much. I seem + to understand you all the time you are preaching, but when I try the text + afterwards by myself, I can’t make anything of it, and I’ve forgotten + every word you said about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that is because you have no right to understand it.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought all Protestants had a right to understand every word of the + Bible,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + “If they can,” I rejoined. “But last Sunday, for instance, I did not + expect anybody there to understand a certain bit of my sermon, except your + mamma and Thomas Weir.” + </p> + <p> + “How funny! What part of it was that?” + </p> + <p> + “O! I’m not going to tell you. You have no right to understand it. But + most likely you thought you understood it perfectly, and it appeared to + you, in consequence, very commonplace.” + </p> + <p> + “In consequence of what?” + </p> + <p> + “In consequence of your thinking you understood it.” + </p> + <p> + “O, papa dear! you’re getting worse and worse. It’s not often I ask you + anything—and on my birthday too! It is really too bad of you to + bewilder my poor little brains in this way.” + </p> + <p> + “I will try to make you see what I mean, my pet. No talk about an idea + that you never had in your head at all, can make you have that idea. If + you had never seen a horse, no description even, not to say no amount of + remark, would bring the figure of a horse before your mind. Much more is + this the case with truths that belong to the convictions and feelings of + the heart. Suppose a man had never in his life asked God for anything, or + thanked God for anything, would his opinion as to what David meant in one + of his worshipping psalms be worth much? The whole thing would be beyond + him. If you have never known what it is to have care of any kind upon you, + you cannot understand what our Lord means when he tells us to take no + thought for the morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “But indeed, papa, I am very full of care sometimes, though not perhaps + about to-morrow precisely. But that does not matter, does it?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. Tell me what you are full of care about, my child, and + perhaps I can help you.” + </p> + <p> + “You often say, papa, that half the misery in this world comes from + idleness, and that you do not believe that in a world where God is at work + every day, Sundays not excepted, it could have been intended that women + any more than men should have nothing to do. Now what am I to do? What + have I been sent into the world for? I don’t see it; and I feel very + useless and wrong sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think there is very much to complain of you in that respect, + Connie. You, and your sister as well, help me very much in my parish. You + take much off your mother’s hands too. And you do a good deal for the + poor. You teach your younger brothers and sister, and meantime you are + learning yourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but that’s not work.” + </p> + <p> + “It is work. And it is the work that is given you to do at present. And + you would do it much better if you were to look at it in that light. Not + that I have anything to complain of.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t want to stop at home and lead an easy, comfortable life, when + there are so many to help everywhere in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything better in doing something where God has not placed you, + than in doing it where he has placed you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, papa. But my sisters are quite enough for all you have for us to do + at home. Is nobody ever to go away to find the work meant for her? You + won’t think, dear papa, that I want to get away from home, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear. I believe that you are really thinking about duty. And now + comes the moment for considering the passage to which you began by + referring:—What God may hereafter require of you, you must not give + yourself the least trouble about. Everything he gives you to do, you must + do as well as ever you can, and that is the best possible preparation for + what he may want you to do next. If people would but do what they have to + do, they would always find themselves ready for what came next. And I do + not believe that those who follow this rule are ever left floundering on + the sea-deserted sands of inaction, unable to find water enough to swim + in.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, dear papa. That’s a little sermon all to myself, and I think I + shall understand it even when I think about it afterwards. Now let’s have + a trot.” + </p> + <p> + “There is one thing more I ought to speak about though, Connie. It is not + your moral nature alone you ought to cultivate. You ought to make yourself + as worth God’s making as you possibly can. Now I am a little doubtful + whether you keep up your studies at all.” + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her pretty shoulders playfully, looking up in my face again. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like dry things, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody does.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody!” she exclaimed. “How do the grammars and history-books come to be + written then?” + </p> + <p> + In talking to me, somehow, the child always put on a more childish tone + than when she talked to anyone else. I am certain there was no affection + in it, though. Indeed, how could she be affected with her fault-finding + old father? + </p> + <p> + “No. Those books are exceedingly interesting to the people that make them. + Dry things are just things that you do not know enough about to care for + them. And all you learn at school is next to nothing to what you have to + learn.” + </p> + <p> + “What must I do then?” she asked with a sigh. “Must I go all over my + French Grammar again? O dear! I do hate it so!” + </p> + <p> + “If you will tell me something you like, Connie, instead of something you + don’t like, I may be able to give you advice. Is there nothing you are + fond of?” I continued, finding that she remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know anything in particular—that is, I don’t know anything + in the way of school-work that I really liked. I don’t mean that I didn’t + try to do what I had to do, for I did. There was just one thing I liked—the + poetry we had to learn once a week. But I suppose gentlemen count that + silly—don’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, my dear, I would make that liking of yours the + foundation of all your work. Besides, I think poetry the grandest thing + God has given us—though perhaps you and I might not quite agree + about what poetry was poetry enough to be counted an especial gift of God. + Now, what poetry do you like best?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Hemans’s, I think, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, very well, to begin with. ‘There is,’ as Mr. Carlyle said to a + friend of mine—‘There is a thin vein of true poetry in Mrs. Hemans.’ + But it is time you had done with thin things, however good they may be. + Most people never get beyond spoon-meat—in this world, at least, and + they expect nothing else in the world to come. I must take you in hand + myself, and see what I can do for you. It is wretched to see capable + enough creatures, all for want of a little guidance, bursting with + admiration of what owes its principal charm to novelty of form, gained at + the cost of expression and sense. Not that that applies to Mrs. Hemans. + She is simple enough, only diluted to a degree. But I hold that whatever + mental food you take should be just a little too strong for you. That + implies trouble, necessitates growth, and involves delight.” + </p> + <p> + “I sha’n’t mind how difficult it is if you help me, papa. But it is + anything but satisfactory to go groping on without knowing what you are + about.” + </p> + <p> + I ought to have mentioned that Constance had been at school for two years, + and had only been home a month that very day, in order to account for my + knowing so little about her tastes and habits of mind. We went on talking + a little more in the same way, and if I were writing for young people + only, I should be tempted to go on a little farther with the account of + what we said to each other; for it might help some of them to see that the + thing they like best should, circumstances and conscience permitting, be + made the centre from which they start to learn; that they should go on + enlarging their knowledge all round from that one point at which God + intended them to begin. But at length we fell into a silence, a very happy + one on my part; for I was more than delighted to find that this one too of + my children was following after the truth—wanting to do what was + right, namely, to obey the word of the Lord, whether openly spoken to all, + or to herself in the voice of her own conscience and the light of that + understanding which is the candle of the Lord. I had often said to myself + in past years, when I had found myself in the company of young ladies who + announced their opinions—probably of no deeper origin than the + prejudices of their nurses—as if these distinguished them from all + the world besides; who were profound upon passion and ignorant of grace; + who had not a notion whether a dress was beautiful, but only whether it + was of the newest cut—I had often said to myself: “What shall I do + if my daughters come to talk and think like that—if thinking it can + be called?” but being confident that instruction for which the mind is not + prepared only lies in a rotting heap, producing all kinds of mental evils + correspondent to the results of successive loads of food which the system + cannot assimilate, my hope had been to rouse wise questions in the minds + of my children, in place of overwhelming their digestions with what could + be of no instruction or edification without the foregoing appetite. Now my + Constance had begun to ask me questions, and it made me very happy. We had + thus come a long way nearer to each other; for however near the affection + of human animals may bring them, there are abysses between soul and soul—the + souls even of father and daughter—over which they must pass to meet. + And I do not believe that any two human beings alive know yet what it is + to love as love is in the glorious will of the Father of lights. + </p> + <p> + I linger on with my talk, for I shrink from what I must relate. + </p> + <p> + We were going at a gentle trot, silent, along a woodland path—a + brown, soft, shady road, nearly five miles from home, our horses + scattering about the withered leaves that lay thick upon it. A good deal + of underwood and a few large trees had been lately cleared from the place. + There were many piles of fagots about, and a great log lying here and + there along the side of the path. One of these, when a tree, had been + struck by lightning, and had stood till the frosts and rains had bared it + of its bark. Now it lay white as a skeleton by the side of the path, and + was, I think, the cause of what followed. All at once my daughter’s pony + sprang to the other side of the road, shying sideways; unsettled her so, I + presume; then rearing and plunging, threw her from the saddle across one + of the logs of which I have spoken. I was by her side in a moment. To my + horror she lay motionless. Her eyes were closed, and when I took her up in + my arms she did not open them. I laid her on the moss, and got some water + and sprinkled her face. Then she revived a little; but seemed in much + pain, and all at once went off into another faint. I was in terrible + perplexity. + </p> + <p> + Presently a man who, having been cutting fagots at a little distance, had + seen the pony careering through the wood, came up and asked what he could + do to help me. I told him to take my horse, whose bridle I had thrown over + the latch of a gate, and ride to Oldcastle Hall, and ask Mrs. Walton to + come with the carriage as quickly as possible. “Tell her,” I said, “that + her daughter has had a fall from her pony, and is rather shaken. Ride as + hard as you can go.” + </p> + <p> + The man was off in a moment; and there I sat watching my poor child, for + what seemed to be a dreadfully long time before the carriage arrived. She + had come to herself quite, but complained of much pain in her back; and, + to my distress, I found that she could not move herself enough to make the + least change of her position. She evidently tried to keep up as well as + she could; but her face expressed great suffering: it was dreadfully pale, + and looked worn with a month’s illness. All my fear was for her spine. + </p> + <p> + At length I caught sight of the carriage, coming through the wood as fast + as the road would allow, with the woodman on the box, directing the + coachman. It drew up, and my wife got out. She was as pale as Constance, + but quiet and firm, her features composed almost to determination. I had + never seen her look like that before. She asked no questions: there was + time enough for that afterwards. She had brought plenty of cushions and + pillows, and we did all we could to make an easy couch for the poor girl; + but she moaned dreadfully as we lifted her into the carriage. We did our + best to keep her from being shaken; but those few miles were the longest + journey I ever made in my life. + </p> + <p> + When we reached home at length, we found that Ethel, or, as we commonly + called her, using the other end of her name, Wynnie—for she was + named after her mother—had got a room on the ground-floor, usually + given to visitors, ready for her sister; and we were glad indeed not to + have to carry her up the stairs. Before my wife left, she had sent the + groom off to Addicehead for both physician and surgeon. A young man who + had settled at Marshmallows as general practitioner a year or two before, + was waiting for us when we arrived. He helped us to lay her upon a + mattress in the position in which she felt the least pain. But why should + I linger over the sorrowful detail? All agreed that the poor child’s spine + was seriously injured, and that probably years of suffering were before + her. Everything was done that could be done; but she was not moved from + that room for nine months, during which, though her pain certainly grew + less by degrees, her want of power to move herself remained almost the + same. + </p> + <p> + When I had left her at last a little composed, with her mother seated by + her bedside, I called my other two daughters—Wynnie, the eldest, and + Dorothy, the youngest, whom I found seated on the floor outside, one on + each side of the door, weeping—into my study, and said to them: “My + darlings, this is very sad; but you must remember that it is God’s will; + and as you would both try to bear it cheerfully if it had fallen to your + lot to bear, you must try to be cheerful even when it is your sister’s + part to endure.” + </p> + <p> + “O, papa! poor Connie!” cried Dora, and burst into fresh tears. + </p> + <p> + Wynnie said nothing, but knelt down by my knee, and laid her cheek upon + it. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell you what Constance said to me just before I left the room?” + I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Please do, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “She whispered, ‘You must try to bear it, all of you, as well as you can. + I don’t mind it very much, only for you.’ So, you see, if you want to make + her comfortable, you must not look gloomy and troubled. Sick people like + to see cheerful faces about them; and I am sure Connie will not suffer + nearly so much if she finds that she does not make the household gloomy.” + </p> + <p> + This I had learned from being ill myself once or twice since my marriage. + My wife never came near me with a gloomy face, and I had found that it was + quite possible to be sympathetic with those of my flock who were ill + without putting on a long face when I went to see them. Of course, I do + not mean that I could, or that it was desirable that I should, look + cheerful when any were in great pain or mental distress. But in ordinary + conditions of illness a cheerful countenance is as a message of <i>all’s + well</i>, which may surely be carried into a sick chamber by the man who + believes that the heart of a loving Father is at the centre of things, + that he is light all about the darkness, and that he will not only bring + good out of evil at last, but will be with the sufferer all the time, + making endurance possible, and pain tolerable. There are a thousand + alleviations that people do not often think of, coming from God himself. + Would you not say, for instance, that time must pass very slowly in pain? + But have you never observed, or has no one ever made the remark to you, + how strangely fast, even in severe pain, the time passes after all? + </p> + <p> + “We will do all we can, will we not,” I went on, “to make her as + comfortable as possible? You, Dora, must attend to your little brothers, + that your mother may not have too much to think about now that she will + have Connie to nurse.” + </p> + <p> + They could not say much, but they both kissed me, and went away leaving me + to understand clearly enough that they had quite understood me. I then + returned to the sick chamber, where I found that the poor child had fallen + asleep. + </p> + <p> + My wife and I watched by her bedside on alternate nights, until the pain + had so far subsided, and the fever was so far reduced, that we could allow + Wynnie to take a share in the office. We could not think of giving her + over to the care of any but one of ourselves during the night. Her chief + suffering came from its being necessary that she should keep nearly one + position on her back, because of her spine, while the external bruise and + the swelling of the muscles were in consequence so painful, that it needed + all that mechanical contrivance could do to render the position endurable. + But these outward conditions were greatly ameliorated before many days + were over. + </p> + <p> + This is a dreary beginning of my story, is it not? But sickness of all + kinds is such a common thing in the world, that it is well sometimes to + let our minds rest upon it, lest it should take us altogether at unawares, + either in ourselves or our friends, when it comes. If it were not a good + thing in the end, surely it would not be; and perhaps before I have done + my readers will not be sorry that my tale began so gloomily. The sickness + in Judaea eighteen hundred and thirty-five years ago, or thereabouts, has + no small part in the story of him who came to put all things under our + feet. Praise be to him for evermore! + </p> + <p> + It soon became evident to me that that room was like a new and more sacred + heart to the house. At first it radiated gloom to the remotest corners; + but soon rays of light began to appear mingling with the gloom. I could + see that bits of news were carried from it to the servants in the kitchen, + in the garden, in the stable, and over the way to the home-farm. Even in + the village, and everywhere over the parish, I was received more kindly, + and listened to more willingly, because of the trouble I and my family + were in; while in the house, although we had never been anything else than + a loving family, it was easy to discover that we all drew more closely + together in consequence of our common anxiety. Previous to this, it had + been no unusual thing to see Wynnie and Dora impatient with each other; + for Dora was none the less a wild, somewhat lawless child, that she was a + profoundly affectionate one. She rather resembled her cousin Judy, in fact—whom + she called Aunt Judy, and with whom she was naturally a great favourite. + Wynnie, on the other hand, was sedate, and rather severe—more + severe, I must in justice say, with herself than with anyone else. I had + sometimes wished, it is true, that her mother, in regard to the younger + children, were more like her; but there I was wrong. For one of the great + goods that come of having two parents, is that the one balances and + rectifies the motions of the other. No one is good but God. No one holds + the truth, or can hold it, in one and the same thought, but God. Our human + life is often, at best, but an oscillation between the extremes which + together make the truth; and it is not a bad thing in a family, that the + pendulums of father and mother should differ in movement so far, that when + the one is at one extremity of the swing, the other should be at the + other, so that they meet only in the point of <i>indifference</i>, in the + middle; that the predominant tendency of the one should not be the + predominant tendency of the other. I was a very strict disciplinarian—too + much so, perhaps, sometimes: Ethelwyn, on the other hand, was too much + inclined, I thought, to excuse everything. I was law, she was grace. But + grace often yielded to law, and law sometimes yielded to grace. Yet she + represented the higher; for in the ultimate triumph of grace, in the glad + performance of the command from love of what is commanded, the law is + fulfilled: the law is a schoolmaster to bring us to Christ. I must say + this for myself, however, that, although obedience was the one thing I + enforced, believing it the one thing upon which all family economy + primarily depends, yet my object always was to set my children free from + my law as soon as possible; in a word, to help them to become, as soon as + it might be, a law unto themselves. Then they would need no more of mine. + Then I would go entirely over to the mother’s higher side, and become to + them, as much as in me lay, no longer law and truth, but grace and truth. + But to return to my children—it was soon evident not only that + Wynnie had grown more indulgent to Dora’s vagaries, but that Dora was more + submissive to Wynnie, while the younger children began to obey their + eldest sister with a willing obedience, keeping down their effervescence + within doors, and letting it off only out of doors, or in the out-houses. + </p> + <p> + When Constance began to recover a little, then the sacredness of that + chamber began to show itself more powerfully, radiating on all sides a yet + stronger influence of peace and goodwill. It was like a fountain of gentle + light, quieting and bringing more or less into tune all that came within + the circle of its sweetness. This brings me to speak again of my lovely + child. For surely a father may speak thus of a child of God. He cannot + regard his child as his even as a book he has written may be his. A man’s + child is his because God has said to him, “Take this child and nurse it + for me.” She is God’s making; God’s marvellous invention, to be tended and + cared for, and ministered unto as one of his precious things; a young + angel, let me say, who needs the air of this lower world to make her wings + grow. And while he regards her thus, he will see all other children in the + same light, and will not dare to set up his own against others of God’s + brood with the new-budding wings. The universal heart of truth will thus + rectify, while it intensifies, the individual feeling towards one’s own; + and the man who is most free from poor partisanship in regard to his own + family, will feel the most individual tenderness for the lovely human + creatures whom God has given into his own especial care and + responsibility. Show me the man who is tender, reverential, gracious + towards the children of other men, and I will show you the man who will + love and tend his own best, to whose heart his own will flee for their + first refuge after God, when they catch sight of the cloud in the wind. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. THE SICK CHAMBER. + </h2> + <p> + In the course of a month there was a good deal more of light in the smile + with which my darling greeted me when I entered her room in the morning. + Her pain was greatly gone, but the power of moving her limbs had not yet + even begun to show itself. + </p> + <p> + One day she received me with a still happier smile than I had yet seen + upon her face, put out her thin white hand, took mine and kissed it, and + said, “Papa,” with a lingering on the last syllable. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, my pet?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am so happy!” + </p> + <p> + “What makes you so happy?” I asked again. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” she answered. “I haven’t thought about it yet. But + everything looks so pleasant round me. Is it nearly winter yet, papa? I’ve + forgotten all about how the time has been going.” + </p> + <p> + “It is almost winter, my dear. There is hardly a leaf left on the trees—just + two or three disconsolate yellow ones that want to get away down to the + rest. They go fluttering and fluttering and trying to break away, but they + can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “That is just as I felt a little while ago. I wanted to die and get away, + papa; for I thought I should never be well again, and I should be in + everybody’s way.—I am afraid I shall not get well, after all,” she + added, and the light clouded on her sweet face. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my darling, we are in God’s hands. We shall never get tired of you, + and you must not get tired of us. Would you get tired of nursing me, if I + were ill?” + </p> + <p> + “O, papa!” And the tears began to gather in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Then you must think we are not able to love so well as you.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what you mean. I did not think of it that way. I will never think + so about it again. I was only thinking how useless I was.” + </p> + <p> + “There you are quite mistaken, my dear. No living creature ever was + useless. You’ve got plenty to do there.” + </p> + <p> + “But what have I got to do? I don’t feel able for anything,” she said; and + again the tears came in her eyes, as if I had been telling her to get up + and she could not. + </p> + <p> + “A great deal of our work,” I answered, “we do without knowing what it is. + But I’ll tell you what you have got to do: you have got to believe in God, + and in everybody in this house.” + </p> + <p> + “I do, I do. But that is easy to do,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + “And do you think that the work God gives us to do is never easy? Jesus + says his yoke is easy, his burden is light. People sometimes refuse to do + God’s work just because it is easy. This is, sometimes, because they + cannot believe that easy work is his work; but there may be a very bad + pride in it: it may be because they think that there is little or no + honour to be got in that way; and therefore they despise it. Some again + accept it with half a heart, and do it with half a hand. But, however easy + any work may be, it cannot be well done without taking thought about it. + And such people, instead of taking thought about their work, generally + take thought about the morrow, in which no work can be done any more than + in yesterday. The Holy Present!—I think I must make one more sermon + about it—although you, Connie,” I said, meaning it for a little + joke, “do think that I have said too much about it already.” + </p> + <p> + “Papa, papa! do forgive me. This is a judgment on me for talking to you as + I did that dreadful morning. But I was so happy that I was impertinent.” + </p> + <p> + “You silly darling!” I said. “A judgment! God be angry with you for that! + Even if it had been anything wrong, which it was not, do you think God has + no patience? No, Connie. I will tell you what seems to me much more + likely. You wanted something to do; and so God gave you something to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Lying in bed and doing nothing!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Just lying in bed, and doing his will.” + </p> + <p> + “If I could but feel that I was doing his will!” + </p> + <p> + “When you do it, then you will feel you are doing it.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you are coming to something, papa. Please make haste, for my back + is getting so bad.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve tired you, my pet. It was very thoughtless of me. I will tell you + the rest another time,” I said, rising. + </p> + <p> + “No, no. It will make me much worse not to hear it all now.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will tell you. Be still, my darling, I won’t be long. In the time + of the old sacrifices, when God so kindly told his ignorant children to do + something for him in that way, poor people were told to bring, not a + bullock or a sheep, for that was more than they could get, but a pair of + turtledoves, or two young pigeons. But now, as Crashaw the poet says, + ‘Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.’ God wanted to teach people to + offer themselves. Now, you are poor, my pet, and you cannot offer yourself + in great things done for your fellow-men, which was the way Jesus did. But + you must remember that the two young pigeons of the poor were just as + acceptable to God as the fat bullock of the rich. Therefore you must say + to God something like this:—‘O heavenly Father, I have nothing to + offer thee but my patience. I will bear thy will, and so offer my will a + burnt-offering unto thee. I will be as useless as thou pleasest.’ Depend + upon it, my darling, in the midst of all the science about the world and + its ways, and all the ignorance of God and his greatness, the man or woman + who can thus say, <i>Thy will be done</i>, with the true heart of giving + up is nearer the secret of things than the geologist and theologian. And + now, my darling, be quiet in God’s name.” + </p> + <p> + She held up her mouth to kiss me, but did not speak, and I left her, and + sent Dora to sit with her. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, when I went into her room again, having been out in my + parish all the morning, I began to unload my budget of small events. + Indeed, we all came in like pelicans with stuffed pouches to empty them in + her room, as if she had been the only young one we had, and we must cram + her with news. Or, rather, she was like the queen of the commonwealth + sending out her messages into all parts, and receiving messages in return. + I might call her the brain of the house; but I have used similes enough + for a while. + </p> + <p> + After I had done talking, she said— + </p> + <p> + “And you have been to the school too, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I go to the school almost every day. I fancy in such a school as + ours the young people get more good than they do in church. You know I had + made a great change in the Sunday-school just before you came home.” + </p> + <p> + “I heard of that, papa. You won’t let any of the little ones go to school + on the Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + “No. It is too much for them. And having made this change, I feel the + necessity of being in the school myself nearly every day, that I may do + something direct for the little ones.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’ll have to take me up soon, as you promised, you know, papa—just + before Sprite threw me.” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as you like, my dear, after you are able to read again.” + </p> + <p> + “O, you must begin before that, please.—You could spare time to read + a little to me, couldn’t you?” she said doubtfully, as if she feared she + was asking too much. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my dear; and I will begin to think about it at once.” + </p> + <p> + It was in part the result of this wish of my child’s that it became the + custom to gather in her room on Sunday evenings. She was quite unable for + any kind of work such as she would have had me commence with her, but I + used to take something to read to her every now and then, and always after + our early tea on Sundays. + </p> + <p> + What a thing it is to have one to speak and think about and try to find + out and understand, who is always and altogether and perfectly good! Such + a centre that is for all our thoughts and words and actions and + imaginations! It is indeed blessed to be human beings with Jesus Christ + for the centre of humanity. + </p> + <p> + In the papers wherein I am about to record the chief events of the + following years of my life, I shall give a short account of what passed at + some of these assemblies in my child’s room, in the hope that it may give + my friends something, if not new, yet fresh to think about. For God has so + made us that everyone who thinks at all thinks in a way that must be more + or less fresh to everyone else who thinks, if he only have the gift of + setting forth his thoughts so that we can see what they are. + </p> + <p> + I hope my readers will not be alarmed at this, and suppose that I am about + to inflict long sermons upon them. I am not. I do hope, as I say, to teach + them something; but those whom I succeed in so teaching will share in the + delight it will give me to write about what I love most. + </p> + <p> + As far as I can remember, I will tell how this Sunday-evening class began. + I was sitting by Constance’s bed. The fire was burning brightly, and the + twilight had deepened so nearly into night that it was reflected back from + the window, for the curtains had not yet been drawn. There was no light in + the room but that of the fire. + </p> + <p> + Now Constance was in the way of asking often what kind of day or night it + was, for there never was a girl more a child of nature than she. Her heart + seemed to respond at once to any and every mood of the world around her. + To her the condition of air, earth, and sky was news, and news of poetic + interest too. “What is it like?” she would often say, without any more + definite shaping of the question. This same evening she said: + </p> + <p> + “What is it like, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “It is growing dark,” I answered, “as you can see. It is a still evening, + and what they call a black frost. The trees are standing as still as if + they were carved out of stone, and would snap off everywhere if the wind + were to blow. The ground is dark, and as hard as if it were of cast iron. + A gloomy night rather, my dear. It looks as if there were something upon + its mind that made it sullenly thoughtful; but the stars are coming out + one after another overhead, and the sky will be all awake soon. A strange + thing the life that goes on all night, is it not? The life of owlets, and + mice, and beasts of prey, and bats, and stars,” I said, with no very + categorical arrangement, “and dreams, and flowers that don’t go to sleep + like the rest, but send out their scent all night long. Only those are + gone now. There are no scents abroad, not even of the earth in such a + frost as this.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think it looks sometimes, papa, as if God turned his back on + the world, or went farther away from it for a while?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me a little more what you mean, Connie.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this night now, this dark, frozen, lifeless night, which you have + been describing to me, isn’t like God at all—is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it is not. I see what you mean now.” + </p> + <p> + “It is just as if he had gone away and said, ‘Now you shall see what you + can do without me.’ + </p> + <p> + “Something like that. But do you know that English people—at least I + think so—enjoy the changeful weather of their country much more upon + the whole than those who have fine weather constantly? You see it is not + enough to satisfy God’s goodness that he should give us all things richly + to enjoy, but he must make us able to enjoy them as richly as he gives + them. He has to consider not only the gift, but the receiver of the gift. + He has to make us able to take the gift and make it our own, as well as to + give us the gift. In fact, it is not real giving, with the full, that is, + the divine, meaning of giving, without it. He has to give us to the gift + as well as give the gift to us. Now for this, a break, an interruption is + good, is invaluable, for then we begin to think about the thing, and do + something in the matter ourselves. The wonder of God’s teaching is that, + in great part, he makes us not merely learn, but teach ourselves, and that + is far grander than if he only made our minds as he makes our bodies.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand you, papa. For since I have been ill, you would + wonder, if you could see into me, how even what you tell me about the + world out of doors gives me more pleasure than I think I ever had when I + could go about in it just as I liked.” + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn’t do that, though, you know, if you hadn’t had the other first. + The pleasure you have comes as much from your memory as from my news.” + </p> + <p> + “I see that, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Now can you tell me anything in history that confirms what I have been + saying?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know anything about history, papa. The only thing that comes into + my head is what you were saying yourself the other day about Milton’s + blindness.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes. I had not thought of that. Do you know, I do believe that God + wanted a grand poem from that man, and therefore blinded him that he might + be able to write it. But he had first trained him up to the point—given + him thirty years in which he had not to provide the bread of a single day, + only to learn and think; then set him to teach boys; then placed him at + Cromwell’s side, in the midst of the tumultuous movement of public + affairs, into which the late student entered with all his heart and soul; + and then last of all he cast the veil of a divine darkness over him, sent + him into a chamber far more retired than that in which he laboured at + Cambridge, and set him like the nightingale to sing darkling. The + blackness about him was just the great canvas which God gave him to cover + with forms of light and music. Deep wells of memory burst upwards from + below; the windows of heaven were opened from above; from both rushed the + deluge of song which flooded his soul, and which he has poured out in a + great river to us.” + </p> + <p> + “It was rather hard for poor Milton, though, wasn’t it, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait till he says so, my dear. We are sometimes too ready with our + sympathy, and think things a great deal worse than those who have to + undergo them. Who would not be glad to be struck with <i>such</i> + blindness as Milton’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Those that do not care about his poetry, papa,” answered Constance, with + a deprecatory smile. + </p> + <p> + “Well said, my Connie. And to such it never can come. But, if it please + God, you will love Milton before you are about again. You can’t love one + you know nothing about.” + </p> + <p> + “I have tried to read him a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I daresay. You might as well talk of liking a man whose face you had + never seen, because you did not approve of the back of his coat. But you + and Milton together have led me away from a far grander instance of what + we had been talking about. Are you tired, darling?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the least, papa. You don’t mind what I said about Milton?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, my dear. I like your honesty. But I should mind very much if + you thought, with your ignorance of Milton, that your judgment of him was + more likely to be right than mine, with my knowledge of him.” + </p> + <p> + “O, papa! I am only sorry that I am not capable of appreciating him.” + </p> + <p> + “There you are wrong again. I think you are quite capable of appreciating + him. But you cannot appreciate what you have never seen. You think of him + as dry, and think you ought to be able to like dry things. Now he is not + dry, and you ought not to be able to like dry things. You have a figure + before you in your fancy, which is dry, and which you call Milton. But it + is no more Milton than your dull-faced Dutch doll, which you called after + her, was your merry Aunt Judy. But here comes your mamma; and I haven’t + said what I wanted to say yet.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely, husband, you can say it all the same,” said my wife. “I will + go away if you can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I can say it all the better, my love. Come and sit down here beside me. I + was trying to show Connie—” + </p> + <p> + “You did show me, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I was showing Connie that a gift has sometimes to be taken away + again before we can know what it is worth, and so receive it right.” + </p> + <p> + Ethelwyn sighed. She was always more open to the mournful than the glad. + Her heart had been dreadfully wrung in her youth. + </p> + <p> + “And I was going on to give her the greatest instance of it in human + history. As long as our Lord was with his disciples, they could not see + him right: he was too near them. Too much light, too many words, too much + revelation, blinds or stupefies. The Lord had been with them long enough. + They loved him dearly, and yet often forgot his words almost as soon as he + said them. He could not get it into them, for instance, that he had not + come to be a king. Whatever he said, they shaped it over again after their + own fancy; and their minds were so full of their own worldly notions of + grandeur and command, that they could not receive into their souls the + gift of God present before their eyes. Therefore he was taken away, that + his Spirit, which was more himself than his bodily presence, might come + into them—that they might receive the gift of God into their + innermost being. After he had gone out of their sight, and they might look + all around and down in the grave and up in the air, and not see him + anywhere—when they thought they had lost him, he began to come to + them again from the other side—from the inside. They found that the + image of him which his presence with them had printed in light upon their + souls, began to revive in the dark of his absence; and not that only, but + that in looking at it without the overwhelming of his bodily presence, + lines and forms and meanings began to dawn out of it which they had never + seen before. And his words came back to them, no longer as they had + received them, but as he meant them. The spirit of Christ filling their + hearts and giving them new power, made them remember, by making them able + to understand, all that he had said to them. They were then always saying + to each other, ‘You remember how;’ whereas before, they had been always + staring at each other with astonishment and something very near + incredulity, while he spoke to them. So that after he had gone away, he + was really nearer to them than he had been before. The meaning of anything + is more than its visible presence. There is a soul in everything, and that + soul is the meaning of it. The soul of the world and all its beauty has + come nearer to you, my dear, just because you are separated from it for a + time.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, dear papa. I do like to get a little sermon all to myself now + and then. That is another good of being ill.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean me to have a share in it, then, Connie, do you?” said my + wife, smiling at her daughter’s pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “O, mamma! I should have thought you knew all papa had got to say by this + time. I daresay he has given you a thousand sermons all to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you suppose, Connie, that I came into the world with just a boxful + of sermons, and after I had taken them all out there were no more. I + should be sorry to think I should not have a good many new things to say + by this time next year.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, papa, I wish I could be sure of knowing more next year.” + </p> + <p> + “Most people do learn, whether they will or not. But the kind of learning + is very different in the two cases.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want to ask you one question, papa: do you think that we should not + know Jesus better now if he were to come and let us see him—as he + came to the disciples so long, long ago? I wish it were not so long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “As to the time, it makes no difference whether it was last year or two + thousand years ago. The whole question is how much we understand, and + understanding, obey him. And I do not think we should be any nearer that + if he came amongst us bodily again. If we should, he would come. I believe + we should be further off it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think, then,” said Connie, in an almost despairing tone, as if I + were the prophet of great evil, “that we shall never, never, never see + him?” + </p> + <p> + “That is <i>quite</i> another thing, my Connie. That is the heart of my + hopes by day and my dreams by night. To behold the face of Jesus seems to + me the one thing to be desired. I do not know that it is to be prayed for; + but I think it will be given us as the great bounty of God, so soon as + ever we are capable of it. That sight of the face of Jesus is, I think, + what is meant by his glorious appearing, but it will come as a consequence + of his spirit in us, not as a cause of that spirit in us. The pure in + heart shall see God. The seeing of him will be the sign that we are like + him, for only by being like him can we see him as he is. All the time that + he was with them, the disciples never saw him as he was. You must + understand a man before you can see and read his face aright; and as the + disciples did not understand our Lord’s heart, they could neither see nor + read his face aright. But when we shall be fit to look that man in the + face, God only knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Then do you think, papa, that we, who have never seen him, could know him + better than the disciples? I don’t mean, of course, better than they knew + him after he was taken away from them, but better than they knew him while + he was still with them?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I do, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “O, papa! Is it possible? Why don’t we all, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Because we won’t take the trouble; that is the reason.” + </p> + <p> + “O, what a grand thing to think! That would be worth living—worth + being ill for. But how? how? Can’t you help me? Mayn’t one human being + help another?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the highest duty one human being owes to another. But whoever wants + to learn must pray, and think, and, above all, obey—that is simply, + do what Jesus says.” + </p> + <p> + There followed a little silence, and I could hear my child sobbing. And + the tears stood in; my wife’s eyes—tears of gladness to hear her + daughter’s sobs. + </p> + <p> + “I will try, papa,” Constance said at last. “But you <i>will</i> help me?” + </p> + <p> + “That I will, my love. I will help you in the best way I know; by trying + to tell you what I have heard and learned about him—heard and + learned of the Father, I hope and trust. It is coming near to the time + when he was born;—but I have spoken quite as long as you are able to + bear to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, papa. Do go on.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear; no more to-night. That would be to offend against the very + truth I have been trying to set forth to you. But next Sunday—you + have plenty to think about till then—I will talk to you about the + baby Jesus; and perhaps I may find something more to help you by that + time, besides what I have got to say now.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said my wife, “don’t you think, Connie, this is too good to keep + all to ourselves? Don’t you think we ought to have Wynnie and Dora in?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, mamma. Do let us have them in. And Harry and Charlie too.” + </p> + <p> + “I fear they are rather young yet,” I said. “Perhaps it might do them + harm.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be all the better for us to have them anyhow,” said Ethelwyn, + smiling. + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you will say things more simply if you have them by you. Besides, + you always say such things to children as delight grown people, though + they could never get them out of you.” + </p> + <p> + It was a wife’s speech, reader. Forgive me for writing it. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I said, “I don’t mind them coming in, but I don’t promise to say + anything directly to them. And you must let them go away the moment they + wish it.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” answered my wife; and so the matter was arranged. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. A SUNDAY EVENING. + </h2> + <p> + When I went in to see Constance the next Sunday morning before going to + church, I knew by her face that she was expecting the evening. I took care + to get into no conversation with her during the day, that she might be + quite fresh. In the evening, when I went into her room again with my Bible + in my hand, I found all our little company assembled. There was a glorious + fire, for it was very cold, and the little ones were seated on the rug + before it, one on each side of their mother; Wynnie sat by the further + side of the bed, for she always avoided any place or thing she thought + another might like; and Dora sat by the further chimney-corner, leaving + the space between the fire and my chair open that I might see and share + the glow. + </p> + <p> + “The wind is very high, papa,” said Constance, as I seated myself beside + her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear. It has been blowing all day, and since sundown it has blown + harder. Do you like the wind, Connie?” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I do like it. When it roars like that in the chimneys, and + shakes the windows with a great rush as if it <i>would</i> get into the + house and tear us to pieces, and then goes moaning away into the woods and + grumbles about in them till it grows savage again, and rushes up at us + with fresh fury, I am afraid I delight in it. I feel so safe in the very + jaws of danger.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you are quite poetic, Connie,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t laugh at me, Wynnie. Mind I’m an invalid, and I can’t bear to be + laughed at,” returned Connie, half laughing herself, and a little more + than a quarter crying. + </p> + <p> + Wynnie rose and kissed her, whispered something to her which made her + laugh outright, and then sat down again. + </p> + <p> + “But tell me, Connie,” I said, “why you are <i>afraid</i> you enjoy + hearing the wind about the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Because it must be so dreadful for those that are out in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not quite so bad as we think. You must not suppose that God has + forgotten them, or cares less for them than for you because they are out + in the wind.” + </p> + <p> + “But if we thought like that, papa,” said Wynnie, “shouldn’t we come to + feel that their sufferings were none of our business?” + </p> + <p> + “If our benevolence rests on the belief that God is less loving than we, + it will come to a bad end somehow before long, Wynnie.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I could not think that,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + “Then your kindness would be such that you dared not, in God’s name, think + hopefully for those you could not help, lest you should, believing in his + kindness, cease to help those whom you could help! Either God intended + that there should be poverty and suffering, or he did not. If he did not + intend it—for similar reasons to those for which he allows all sorts + of evils—then there is nothing between but that we should sell + everything that we have and give it away to the poor.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why don’t we?” said Wynnie, looking truth itself in my face. + </p> + <p> + “Because that is not God’s way, and we should do no end of harm by so + doing. We should make so many more of those who will not help themselves + who will not be set free from themselves by rising above themselves. We + are not to gratify our own benevolence at the expense of its object—not + to save our own souls as we fancy, by putting other souls into more danger + than God meant for them.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds hard doctrine from your lips, papa,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “Many things will look hard in so many words, which yet will be found + kindness itself when they are interpreted by a higher theory. If the one + thing is to let people have everything they want, then of course everyone + ought to be rich. I have no doubt such a man as we were reading of in the + papers the other day, who saw his servant girl drown without making the + least effort to save her, and then bemoaned the loss of her labour for the + coming harvest, thinking himself ill-used in her death, would hug his own + selfishness on hearing my words, and say, ‘All right, parson! Every man + for himself! I made my own money, and they may make theirs!’ <i>You</i> + know that is not exactly the way I should think or act with regard to my + neighbour. But if it were only that I have seen such noble characters cast + in the mould of poverty, I should be compelled to regard poverty as one of + God’s powers in the world for raising the children of the kingdom, and to + believe that it was not because it could not be helped that our Lord said, + ‘The poor ye have always with you.’ But what I wanted to say was, that + there can be no reason why Connie should not enjoy what God has given her, + although he has not thought fit to give as much to everybody; and above + all, that we shall not help those right whom God gives us to help, if we + do not believe that God is caring for every one of them as much as he is + caring for every one of us. There was once a baby born in a stable, + because his poor mother could get no room in a decent house. Where she lay + I can hardly think. They must have made a bed of hay and straw for her in + the stall, for we know the baby’s cradle was the manger. Had God forsaken + them? or would they not have been more <i>comfortable</i>, if that was the + main thing, somewhere else? Ah! if the disciples, who were being born + about the same time of fisher-fathers and cottage-mothers, to get ready + for him to call and teach by the time he should be thirty years of age—if + they had only been old enough, and had known that he was coming—would + they not have got everything ready for him? They would have clubbed their + little savings together, and worked day and night, and some rich women + would have helped them, and they would have dressed the baby in fine + linen, and got him the richest room their money would get, and they would + have made the gold that the wise men brought into a crown for his little + head, and would have burnt the frankincense before him. And so our little + manger-baby would have been taken away from us. No more the stable-born + Saviour—no more the poor Son of God born for us all, as strong, as + noble, as loving, as worshipful, as beautiful as he was poor! And we + should not have learned that God does not care for money; that if he does + not give more of it it is not that it is scarce with him, or that he is + unkind, but that he does not value it himself. And if he sent his own son + to be not merely brought up in the house of the carpenter of a little + village, but to be born in the stable of a village inn, we need not + suppose because a man sleeps under a haystack and is put in prison for it + next day, that God does not care for him.” + </p> + <p> + “But why did Jesus come so poor, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “That he might be just a human baby. That he might not be distinguished by + this or by that accident of birth; that he might have nothing but a + mother’s love to welcome him, and so belong to everybody; that from the + first he might show that the kingdom of God and the favour of God lie not + in these external things at all—that the poorest little one, born in + the meanest dwelling, or in none at all, is as much God’s own and God’s + care as if he came in a royal chamber with colour and shine all about him. + Had Jesus come amongst the rich, riches would have been more worshipped + than ever. See how so many that count themselves good Christians honour + possession and family and social rank, and I doubt hardly get rid of them + when they are all swept away from them. The furthest most of such reach is + to count Jesus an exception, and therefore not despise him. See how, even + in the services of the church, as they call them, they will accumulate + gorgeousness and cost. Had I my way, though I will never seek to rouse + men’s thoughts about such external things, I would never have any vessel + used in the eucharist but wooden platters and wooden cups.” + </p> + <p> + “But are we not to serve him with our best?” said my wife. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, with our very hearts and souls, with our wills, with our absolute + being. But all external things should be in harmony with the spirit of his + revelation. And if God chose that his Son should visit the earth in homely + fashion, in homely fashion likewise should be everything that enforces and + commemorates that revelation. All church-forms should be on the other side + from show and expense. Let the money go to build decent houses for God’s + poor, not to give them his holy bread and wine out of silver and gold and + precious stones—stealing from the significance of the <i>content</i> + by the meretricious grandeur of the <i>continent</i>. I would send all the + church-plate to fight the devil with his own weapons in our overcrowded + cities, and in our villages where the husbandmen are housed like swine, by + giving them room to be clean and decent air from heaven to breathe. When + the people find the clergy thus in earnest, they will follow them fast + enough, and the money will come in like salt and oil upon the sacrifice. I + would there were a few of our dignitaries that could think grandly about + things, even as Jesus thought—even as God thought when he sent him. + There are many of them willing to stand any amount of persecution about + trifles: the same enthusiasm directed by high thoughts about the kingdom + of heaven as within men and not around them, would redeem a vast region + from that indifference which comes of judging the gospel of God by the + church of Christ with its phylacteries and hems.” + </p> + <p> + “There is one thing,” said Wynnie, after a pause, “that I have often + thought about—why it was necessary for Jesus to come as a baby: he + could not do anything for so long.” + </p> + <p> + “First, I would answer, Wynnie, that if you would tell me why it is + necessary for all of us to come as babies, it would be less necessary for + me to tell you why he came so: whatever was human must be his. But I would + say next, Are you sure that he could not do anything for so long? Does a + baby do nothing? Ask mamma there. Is it for nothing that the mother lifts + up such heartfuls of thanks to God for the baby on her knee? Is it nothing + that the baby opens such fountains of love in almost all the hearts + around? Ah! you do not think how much every baby has to do with the saving + of the world—the saving of it from selfishness, and folly, and + greed. And for Jesus, was he not going to establish the reign of love in + the earth? How could he do better than begin from babyhood? He had to lay + hold of the heart of the world. How could he do better than begin with his + mother’s—the best one in it. Through his mother’s love first, he + grew into the world. It was first by the door of all the holy relations of + the family that he entered the human world, laying hold of mother, father, + brothers, sisters, all his friends; then by the door of labour, for he + took his share of his father’s work; then, when he was thirty years of + age, by the door of teaching; by kind deeds, and sufferings, and through + all by obedience unto the death. You must not think little of the grand + thirty years wherein he got ready for the chief work to follow. You must + not think that while he was thus preparing for his public ministrations, + he was not all the time saving the world even by that which he was in the + midst of it, ever laying hold of it more and more. These were things not + so easy to tell. And you must remember that our records are very scanty. + It is a small biography we have of a man who became—to say nothing + more—the Man of the world—the Son of Man. No doubt it is + enough, or God would have told us more; but surely we are not to suppose + that there was nothing significant, nothing of saving power in that which + we are not told.—Charlie, wouldn’t you have liked to see the little + baby Jesus?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that I would. I would have given him my white rabbit with the pink + eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “That is what the great painter Titian must have thought, Charlie; for he + has painted him playing with a white rabbit,—not such a pretty one + as yours.” + </p> + <p> + “I would have carried him about all day,” said Dora, “as little Henny + Parsons does her baby-brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he have any brother or sister to carry him about, papa?” asked Harry. + </p> + <p> + “No, my boy; for he was the eldest. But you may be pretty sure he carried + about his brothers and sisters that came after him.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t he take care of them, just!” said Charlie. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had been one of them,” said Constance. + </p> + <p> + “You are one of them, my Connie. Now he is so great and so strong that he + can carry father and mother and all of us in his bosom.” + </p> + <p> + Then we sung a child’s hymn in praise of the God of little children, and + the little ones went to bed. Constance was tired now, and we left her with + Wynnie. We too went early to bed. + </p> + <p> + About midnight my wife and I awoke together—at least neither knew + which waked the other. The wind was still raving about the house, with + lulls between its charges. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a child crying!” said my wife, starting up. + </p> + <p> + I sat up too, and listened. + </p> + <p> + “There is some creature,” I granted. + </p> + <p> + “It is an infant,” insisted my wife. “It can’t be either of the boys.” + </p> + <p> + I was out of bed in a moment, and my wife the same instant. We hurried on + some of our clothes, going to the windows and listening as we did so. We + seemed to hear the wailing through the loudest of the wind, and in the + lulls were sure of it. But it grew fainter as we listened. The night was + pitch dark. I got a lantern, and hurried out. I went round the house till + I came under our bed-room windows, and there listened. I heard it, but not + so clearly as before. I set out as well as I could judge in the direction + of the sound. I could find nothing. My lantern lighted only a few yards + around me, and the wind was so strong that it blew through every chink, + and threatened momently to blow it out. My wife was by my side before I + knew she was coming. + </p> + <p> + “My dear!” I said, “it is not fit for you to be out.” + </p> + <p> + “It is as fit for me as for a child, anyhow,” she said. “Do listen.” + </p> + <p> + It was certainly no time for expostulation. All the mother was awake in + Ethelwyn’s bosom. It would have been cruelty to make her go in, though she + was indeed ill-fitted to encounter such a night-wind. + </p> + <p> + Another wail reached us. It seemed to come from a thicket at one corner of + the lawn. We hurried thither. Again a cry, and we knew we were much nearer + to it. Searching and searching we went. + </p> + <p> + “There it is!” Ethelwyn almost screamed, as the feeble light of the + lantern fell on a dark bundle of something under a bush. She caught at it. + It gave another pitiful wail—the poor baby of some tramp, rolled up + in a dirty, ragged shawl, and tied round with a bit of string, as if it + had been a parcel of clouts. She set off running with it to the house, and + I followed, much fearing she would miss her way in the dark, and fall. I + could hardly get up with her, so eager was she to save the child. She + darted up to her own room, where the fire was not yet out. + </p> + <p> + “Run to the kitchen, Harry, and get some hot water. Take the two jugs + there—you can empty them in the sink: you won’t know where to find + anything. There will be plenty in the boiler.” + </p> + <p> + By the time I returned with the hot water, she had taken off the child’s + covering, and was sitting with it, wrapped in a blanket, before the fire. + The little thing was cold as a stone, and now silent and motionless. We + had found it just in time. Ethelwyn ordered me about as if I had been a + nursemaid. I poured the hot water into a footbath. + </p> + <p> + “Some cold water, Harry. You would boil the child.” + </p> + <p> + “You made me throw away the cold water,” I said, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “There’s some in the bottles,” she returned. “Make haste.” + </p> + <p> + I did try to make haste, but I could not be quick enough to satisfy + Ethelwyn. + </p> + <p> + “The child will be dead,” she cried, “before we get it in the water.” + </p> + <p> + She had its rags off in a moment—there was very little to remove + after the shawl. How white the little thing was, though dreadfully + neglected! It was a girl—not more than a few weeks old, we agreed. + Her little heart was still beating feebly; and as she was a well-made, + apparently healthy infant, we had every hope of recovering her. And we + were not disappointed. She began to move her little legs and arms with + short, convulsive motions. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where the dairy is, Harry?” asked my wife, with no great + compliment to my bumps of locality, which I had always flattered myself + were beyond the average in development. + </p> + <p> + “I think I do,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “Could you tell which was this night’s milk, now?” + </p> + <p> + “There will be less cream on it,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “Bring a little of that and some more hot water. I’ve got some sugar here. + I wish we had a bottle.” + </p> + <p> + I executed her commands faithfully. By the time I returned the child was + lying on her lap clean and dry—a fine baby I thought. Ethelwyn went + on talking to her, and praising her as if she had not only been the finest + specimen of mortality in the world, but her own child to boot. She got her + to take a few spoonfuls of milk and water, and then the little thing fell + fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + Ethelwyn’s nursing days were not so far gone by that she did not know + where her baby’s clothes were. She gave me the child, and going to a + wardrobe in the room brought out some night-things, and put them on. I + could not understand in the least why the sleeping darling must be indued + with little chemise, and flannel, and nightgown, and I do not know what + all, requiring a world of nice care, and a hundred turnings to and fro, + now on its little stomach, now on its back, now sitting up, now lying + down, when it would have slept just as well, and I venture to think much + more comfortably, if laid in blankets and well covered over. But I had + never ventured to interfere with any of my own children, devoutly + believing up to this moment, though in a dim unquestioning way, that there + must be some hidden feminine wisdom in the whole process; and now that I + had begun to question it, I found that my opportunity had long gone by, if + I had ever had one. And after all there may be some reason for it, though + I confess I do strongly suspect that all these matters are so wonderfully + complicated in order that the girl left in the woman may have her heart’s + content of playing with her doll; just as the woman hid in the girl + expends no end of lovely affection upon the dull stupidity of wooden + cheeks and a body of sawdust. But it was a delight to my heart to see how + Ethelwyn could not be satisfied without treating the foundling in + precisely the same fashion as one of her own. And if this was a necessary + preparation for what, should follow, I would be the very last to complain + of it. + </p> + <p> + We went to bed again, and the forsaken child of some half-animal mother, + now perhaps asleep in some filthy lodging for tramps, lay in my Ethelwyn’s + bosom. I loved her the more for it; though, I confess, it would have been + very painful to me had she shown it possible for her to treat the baby + otherwise, especially after what we had been talking about that same + evening. + </p> + <p> + So we had another child in the house, and nobody knew anything about it + but ourselves two. The household had never been disturbed by all the going + and coming. After everything had been done for her, we had a good laugh + over the whole matter, and then Ethelwyn fell a-crying. + </p> + <p> + “Pray for the poor thing, Harry,” she sobbed, “before you come to bed.” + </p> + <p> + I knelt down, and said: + </p> + <p> + “O Lord our Father, this is as much thy child and as certainly sent to us + as if she had been born of us. Help us to keep the child for thee. Take + thou care of thy own, and teach us what to do with her, and how to order + our ways towards her.” + </p> + <p> + Then I said to Ethelwyn, + </p> + <p> + “We will not say one word more about it tonight. You must try to go to + sleep. I daresay the little thing will sleep till the morning, and I am + sure I shall if she does. Good-night, my love. You are a true mother. Mind + you go to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “I am half asleep already, Harry. Good-night,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + I know nothing more about anything till I in the morning, except that I + had a dream, which I have not made up my mind yet whether I shall tell or + not. We slept soundly—God’s baby and all. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. MY DREAM. + </h2> + <p> + I think I will tell the dream I had. I cannot well account for the + beginning of it: the end will appear sufficiently explicable to those who + are quite satisfied that they get rid of the mystery of a thing when they + can associate it with something else with which they are familiar. Such do + not care to see that the thing with which they associate it may be as + mysterious as the other. For although use too often destroys marvel, it + cannot destroy the marvellous. The origin of our thoughts is just as + wonderful as the origin of our dreams. + </p> + <p> + In my dream I found myself in a pleasant field full of daisies and white + clover. The sun was setting. The wind was going one way, and the shadows + another. I felt rather tired, I neither knew nor thought why. With an old + man’s prudence, I would not sit down upon the grass, but looked about for + a more suitable seat. Then I saw, for often in our dreams there is an + immediate response to our wishes, a long, rather narrow stone lying a few + yards from me. I wondered how it could have come there, for there were no + mountains or rocks near: the field was part of a level country. + Carelessly, I sat down upon it astride, and watched the setting of the + sun. Somehow I fancied that his light was more sorrowful than the light of + the setting sun should be, and I began to feel very heavy at the heart. No + sooner had the last brilliant spark of his light vanished, than I felt the + stone under me begin to move. With the inactivity of a dreamer, however, I + did not care to rise, but wondered only what would come next. My seat, + after several strange tumbling motions, seemed to rise into the air a + little way, and then I found that I was astride of a gaunt, bony horse—a + skeleton horse almost, only he had a gray skin on him. He began, + apparently with pain, as if his joints were all but too stiff to move, to + go forward in the direction in which he found himself. I kept my seat. + Indeed, I never thought of dismounting. I was going on to meet what might + come. Slowly, feebly, trembling at every step, the strange steed went, and + as he went his joints seemed to become less stiff, and he went a little + faster. All at once I found that the pleasant field had vanished, and that + we were on the borders of a moor. Straight forward the horse carried me, + and the moor grew very rough, and he went stumbling dreadfully, but always + recovering himself. Every moment it seemed as if he would fall to rise no + more, but as often he found fresh footing. At length the surface became a + little smoother, and he began a horrible canter which lasted till he + reached a low, broken wall, over which he half walked, half fell into what + was plainly an ancient neglected churchyard. The mounds were low and + covered with rank grass. In some parts, hollows had taken the place of + mounds. Gravestones lay in every position except the level or the upright, + and broken masses of monuments were scattered about. My horse bore me into + the midst of it, and there, slow and stiff as he had risen, he lay down + again. Once more I was astride of a long narrow stone. And now I found + that it was an ancient gravestone which I knew well in a certain Sussex + churchyard, the top of it carved into the rough resemblance of a human + skeleton—that of a man, tradition said, who had been killed by a + serpent that came out of a bottomless pool in the next field. How long I + sat there I do not know; but at last I saw the faint gray light of morning + begin to appear in front of me. The horse of death had carried me + eastward. The dawn grew over the top of a hill that here rose against the + horizon. But it was a wild dreary dawn—a blot of gray first, which + then stretched into long lines of dreary yellow and gray, looking more + like a blasted and withered sunset than a fresh sunrise. And well it + suited that waste, wide, deserted churchyard, if churchyard I ought to + call it where no church was to be seen—only a vast hideous square of + graves. Before me I noticed especially one old grave, the flat stone of + which had broken in two and sunk in the middle. While I sat with my eyes + fixed on this stone, it began to move; the crack in the middle closed, + then widened again as the two halves of the stone were lifted up, and + flung outward, like the two halves of a folding door. From the grave rose + a little child, smiling such perfect contentment as if he had just come + from kissing his mother. His little arms had flung the stones apart, and + as he stood on the edge of the grave next to me, they remained outspread + from the action for a moment, as if blessing the sleeping people. Then he + came towards me with the same smile, and took my hand. I rose, and he led + me away over another broken wall towards the hill that lay before us. And + as we went the sun came nearer, the pale yellow bars flushed into orange + and rosy red, till at length the edges of the clouds were swept with an + agony of golden light, which even my dreamy eyes could not endure, and I + awoke weeping for joy. + </p> + <p> + This waking woke my wife, who said in some alarm: + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, husband?” + </p> + <p> + So I told her my dream, and how in my sleep my gladness had overcome me. + </p> + <p> + “It was this little darling that set you dreaming so,” she said, and + turning, put the baby in my arms. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE NEW BABY. + </h2> + <p> + I will not attempt to describe the astonishment of the members of our + household, each in succession, as the news of the child spread. Charlie + was heard shouting across the stable-yard to his brother: + </p> + <p> + “Harry, Harry! Mamma has got a new baby. Isn’t it jolly?” + </p> + <p> + “Where did she get it?” cried Harry in return. + </p> + <p> + “In the parsley-bed, I suppose,” answered Charlie, and was nearer right + than usual, for the information on which his conclusion was founded had no + doubt been imparted as belonging to the history of the human race. + </p> + <p> + But my reader can easily imagine the utter bewilderment of those of the + family whose knowledge of human affairs would not allow of their curiosity + being so easily satisfied as that of the boys. In them was exemplified + that confusion of the intellectual being which is produced by the witness + of incontestable truth to a thing incredible—in which case the + probability always is, that the incredibility results from something in + the mind of the hearer falsely associated with and disturbing the true + perception of the thing to which witness is borne. + </p> + <p> + Nor was the astonishment confined to the family, for it spread over the + parish that Mrs. Walton had got another baby. And so, indeed, she had. And + seldom has baby met with a more hearty welcome than this baby met with + from everyone of our family. They hugged it first, and then asked + questions. And that, I say, is the right way of receiving every good gift + of God. Ask what questions you will, but when you see that the gift is a + good one, make sure that you take it. There is plenty of time for you to + ask questions afterwards. Then the better you love the gift, the more + ready you will be to ask, and the more fearless in asking. + </p> + <p> + The truth, however, soon became known. And then, strange to relate, we + began to receive visits of condolence. O, that poor baby! how it was + frowned upon, and how it had heads shaken over it, just because it was not + Ethelwyn’s baby! It could not help that, poor darling! + </p> + <p> + “Of course, you’ll give information to the police,” said, I am sorry to + say, one of my brethren in the neighbourhood, who had the misfortune to be + a magistrate as well. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why! That they may discover the parents, to be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t it be as hard a matter to prove the parentage, as it would be + easy to suspect it?” I asked. “And just think what it would be to give the + baby to a woman who not only did not want her, but who was not her mother. + But if her own mother came to claim her now, I don’t say I would refuse + her, but I should think twice about giving her up after she had once + abandoned her for a whole night in the open air. In fact I don’t want the + parents.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t want the child.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” I returned—rather rudely, I am afraid, for I + am easily annoyed at anything that seems to me heartless—about + children especially. + </p> + <p> + “O! of course, if you want to have an orphan asylum of your own, no one + has a right to interfere. But you ought to consider other people.” + </p> + <p> + “That is just what I thought I was doing,” I answered; but he went on + without heeding my reply— + </p> + <p> + “We shall all be having babies left at our doors, and some of us are not + so fond of them as you are. Remember, you are your brother’s keeper.” + </p> + <p> + “And my sister’s too,” I answered. “And if the question lies between + keeping a big, burly brother like you, and a tiny, wee sister like that, I + venture to choose for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “She ought to go to the workhouse,” said the magistrate—a friendly, + good-natured man enough in ordinary—and rising, he took his hat and + departed. + </p> + <p> + This man had no children. So he was—or was not, so much to blame. + Which? <i>I</i> say the latter. + </p> + <p> + Some of Ethelwyn’s friends were no less positive about her duty in the + affair. I happened to go into the drawing-room during the visit of one of + them—Miss Bowdler. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear Mrs. Walton,” she was saying, “you’ll be having all the + tramps in England leaving their babies at your door.” + </p> + <p> + “The better for the babies,” interposed I, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t think of your wife, Mr. Walton.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t I? I thought I did,” I returned dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Depend upon it, you’ll repent it.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope I shall never repent of anything but what is bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! but, really! it’s not a thing to be made game of.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. The baby shall be treated with all due respect in this + house.” + </p> + <p> + “What a provoking man you are! You know what I mean well enough.” + </p> + <p> + “As well as I choose to know—certainly,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + This lady was one of my oldest parishioners, and took liberties for which + she had no other justification, except indeed an unhesitating belief in + the superior rectitude of whatever came into her own head can be counted + as one. When she was gone, my wife turned to me with a half-comic, + half-anxious look, and said: + </p> + <p> + “But it would be rather alarming, Harry, if this were to get abroad, and + we couldn’t go out at the door in the morning without being in danger of + stepping on a baby on the door-step.” + </p> + <p> + “You might as well have said, when you were going to be married, ‘If God + should send me twenty children, whatever should I do?’ He who sent us this + one can surely prevent any more from coming than he wants to come. All + that we have to think of is to do right—not the consequences of + doing right. But leaving all that aside, you must not suppose that + wandering mothers have not even the attachment of animals to their + offspring. There are not so many that are willing to part with babies as + all that would come to. If you believe that God sent this one, that is + enough for the present. If he should send another, we should know by that + that we had to take it in.” + </p> + <p> + My wife said the baby was a beauty. I could see that she was a plump, + well-to-do baby; and being by nature no particular lover of babies as + babies—that is, feeling none of the inclination of mothers and + nurses and elder sisters to eat them, or rather, perhaps, loving more for + what I believed than what I saw—that was all I could pretend to + discover. But even the aforementioned elderly parishioner was compelled to + allow before three months were over that little Theodora—for we + turned the name of my youngest daughter upside down for her—“was a + proper child.” To none, however, did she seem to bring so much delight as + to our dear Constance. Oftener than not, when I went into her room, I + found the sleepy, useless little thing lying beside her on the bed, and + her staring at it with such loving eyes! How it began, I do not know, but + it came at last to be called Connie’s Dora, or Miss Connie’s baby, all + over the house, and nothing pleased Connie better. Not till she saw this + did her old nurse take quite kindly to the infant; for she regarded her as + an interloper, who had no right to the tenderness which was lavished upon + her. But she had no sooner given in than the baby began to grow dear to + her as well as to the rest. In fact, the house was ere long full of + nurses. The staff included everyone but myself, who only occasionally, at + the entreaty of some one or other of the younger ones, took her in my + arms. + </p> + <p> + But before she was three months old, anxious thoughts began to intrude, + all centering round the question in what manner the child was to be + brought up. Certainly there was time enough to think of this, as Ethelwyn + constantly reminded me; but what made me anxious was that I could not + discover the principle that ought to guide me. Now no one can tell how + soon a principle in such a case will begin, even unconsciously, to + operate; and the danger was that the moment when it ought to begin to + operate would be long past before the principle was discovered, except I + did what I could now to find it out. I had again and again to remind + myself that there was no cause for anxiety; for that I might certainly + claim the enlightenment which all who want to do right are sure to + receive; but still I continued uneasy just from feeling a vacancy where a + principle ought to have been. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + </h2> + <p> + During all this time Connie made no very perceptible progress—in the + recovery of her bodily powers, I mean, for her heart and mind advanced + remarkably. We held our Sunday-evening assemblies in her room pretty + regularly, my occasional absence in the exercise of my duties alone + interfering with them. In connection with one of these, I will show how I + came at length to make up my mind as to what I would endeavour to keep + before me as my object in the training of little Theodora, always + remembering that my preparation might be used for a very different end + from what I purposed. If my intention was right, the fact that it might be + turned aside would not trouble me. + </p> + <p> + We had spoken a good deal together about the infancy and childhood of + Jesus, about the shepherds, and the wise men, and the star in the east, + and the children of Bethlehem. I encouraged the thoughts of all the + children to rest and brood upon the fragments that are given us, and, + believing that the imagination is one of the most powerful of all the + faculties for aiding the growth of truth in the mind, I would ask them + questions as to what they thought he might have said or done in ordinary + family occurrences, thus giving a reality in their minds to this part of + his history, and trying to rouse in them a habit of referring their + conduct to the standard of his. If we do not thus employ our imagination + on sacred things, his example can be of no use to us except in exactly + corresponding circumstances—and when can such occur from one end to + another of our lives? The very effort to think how he would have done, is + a wonderful purifier of the conscience, and, even if the conclusion + arrived at should not be correct from lack of sufficient knowledge of his + character and principles, it will be better than any that can be arrived + at without this inquiry. Besides, the asking of such questions gave me + good opportunity, through the answers they returned, of seeing what their + notions of Jesus and of duty were, and thus of discovering how to help the + dawn of the light in their growing minds. Nor let anyone fear that such + employment of the divine gift of imagination will lead to foolish vagaries + and useless inventions; while the object is to discover the right way—the + truth—there is little danger of that. Besides, there I was to help + hereby in the actual training of their imaginations to truth and wisdom. + To aid in this, I told them some of the stories that were circulated about + him in the early centuries of the church, but which the church has + rejected as of no authority; and I showed them how some of them could not + be true, because they were so unlike those words and actions which we had + the best of reasons for receiving as true; and how one or two of them + might be true—though, considering the company in which we found + them, we could say nothing for certain concerning them. And such wise + things as those children said sometimes! It is marvellous how children can + reach the heart of the truth at once. Their utterances are sometimes + entirely concordant with the results arrived at through years of thought + by the earnest mind—results which no mind would ever arrive at save + by virtue of the child-like in it. + </p> + <p> + Well, then, upon this evening I read to them the story of the boy Jesus in + the temple. Then I sought to make the story more real to them by dwelling + a little on the growing fears of his parents as they went from group to + group of their friends, tracing back the road towards Jerusalem and asking + every fresh company they knew if they had seen their boy, till at length + they were in great trouble when they could not find him even in Jerusalem. + Then came the delight of his mother when she did find him at last, and his + answer to what she said. Now, while I thus lingered over the simple story, + my children had put many questions to me about Jesus being a boy, and not + seeming to know things which, if he was God, he must have known, they + thought. To some of these I had just to reply that I did not understand + myself, and therefore could not teach them; to others, that I could + explain them, but that they were not yet, some of them, old enough to + receive and understand my explanation; while others I did my best to + answer as simply as I could. But at this point we arrived at a question + put by Wynnie, to answer which aright I considered of the greatest + importance. Wynnie said: + </p> + <p> + “That is just one of the things about Jesus that have always troubled me, + papa.” + </p> + <p> + “What is, my dear?” I said; for although I thought I knew well enough what + she meant, I wished her to set it forth in her own words, both for her own + sake, and the sake of the others, who would probably understand the + difficulty much better if she presented it herself. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that he spoke to his mother—” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you say <i>mamma</i>, Wynnie?” said Charlie. “She was his own + mamma, wasn’t she, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear; but don’t you know that the shoemaker’s children down in + the village always call their mamma <i>mother</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but they are shoemaker’s children.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jesus was one of that class of people. He was the son of a + carpenter. He called his mamma, <i>mother</i>. But, Charlie, <i>mother</i> + is the more beautiful word of the two, by a great deal, I think. <i>Lady</i> + is a very pretty word; but <i>woman</i> is a very beautiful word. Just so + with <i>mamma</i> and <i>mother</i>. <i>Mamma</i> is pretty, but <i>mother</i> + is beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t we always say <i>mother</i> then?” + </p> + <p> + “Just because it is the most beautiful, and so we keep it for Sundays—that + is, for the more solemn times of life. We don’t want it to get common to + us with too much use. We may think it as much as we like; thinking does + not spoil it; but saying spoils many things, and especially beautiful + words. Now we must let Wynnie finish what she was saying.” + </p> + <p> + “I was saying, papa, that I can’t help feeling as if—I know it can’t + be true—but I feel as if Jesus spoke unkindly to his mother when he + said that to her.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at the page and read the words, “How is it that ye sought me? + wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” And I sat silent + for a while. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you speak, papa?” said Harry. + </p> + <p> + “I am sitting wondering at myself, Harry,” I said. “Long after I was your + age, Wynnie, I remember quite well that those words troubled me as they + now trouble you. But when I read them over now, they seemed to me so + lovely that I could hardly read them aloud. I can recall the fact that + they troubled me, but the mode of the fact I scarcely can recall. I can + hardly see now wherein lay the hurt or offence the words gave me. And why + is that? Simply because I understand them now, and I did not understand + them then. I took them as uttered with a tone of reproof; now I hear them + as uttered with a tone of loving surprise. But really I cannot feel sure + what it was that I did not like. And I am confident it is so with a great + many things that we reject. We reject them simply because we do not + understand them. Therefore, indeed, we cannot with truth be said to reject + them at all. It is some false appearance that we reject. Some of the + grandest things in the whole realm of truth look repellent to us, and we + turn away from them, simply because we are not—to use a familiar + phrase—we are not up to them. They appear to us, therefore, to be + what they are not. Instruction sounds to the proud man like reproof; + illumination comes on the vain man like scorn; the manifestation of a + higher condition of motive and action than his own, falls on the + self-esteeming like condemnation; but it is consciousness and conscience + working together that produce this impression; the result is from the man + himself, not from the higher source. From the truth comes the power, but + the shape it assumes to the man is from the man himself.” + </p> + <p> + “You are quite beyond me now, papa,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear,” I answered, “I will return to the words of the boy Jesus, + instead of talking more about them; and when I have shown you what they + mean, I think you will allow that that feeling you have about them is all + and altogether an illusion.” + </p> + <p> + “There is one thing first,” said Connie, “that I want to understand. You + said the words of Jesus rather indicated surprise. But how could he be + surprised at anything? If he was God, he must have known everything.” + </p> + <p> + “He tells us himself that he did not know everything. He says once that + even <i>he</i> did not know one thing—only the Father knew it.” + </p> + <p> + “But how could that be if he was God?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, that is one of the things that it seems to me impossible I + should understand. Certainly I think his trial as a man would not have + been perfect had he known everything. He too had to live by faith in the + Father. And remember that for the Divine Sonship on earth perfect + knowledge was not necessary, only perfect confidence, absolute obedience, + utter holiness. There is a great tendency in our sinful natures to put + knowledge and power on a level with goodness. It was one of the lessons of + our Lord’s life that they are not so; that the one grand thing in humanity + is faith in God; that the highest in God is his truth, his goodness, his + rightness. But if Jesus was a real man, and no mere appearance of a man, + is it any wonder that, with a heart full to the brim of the love of God, + he should be for a moment surprised that his mother, whom he loved so + dearly, the best human being he knew, should not have taken it as a matter + of course that if he was not with her, he must be doing something his + Father wanted him to do? For this is just what his answer means. To turn + it into the ordinary speech of our day, it is just this: ‘Why did you look + for me? Didn’t you know that I must of course be doing something my Father + had given me to do?’ Just think of the quiet sweetness of confidence in + this. And think what a life his must have been up to that twelfth year of + his, that such an expostulation with his mother was justified. It must + have had reference to a good many things that had passed before then, + which ought to have been sufficient to make Mary conclude that her missing + boy must be about God’s business somewhere. If her heart had been as full + of God and God’s business as his, she would not have been in the least + uneasy about him. And here is the lesson of his whole life: it was all his + Father’s business. The boy’s mind and hands were full of it. The man’s + mind and hands were full of it. And the risen conqueror was full of it + still. For the Father’s business is everything, and includes all work that + is worth doing. We may say in a full grand sense, that there is nothing + but the Father and his business.” + </p> + <p> + “But we have so many things to do that are not his business,” said Wynnie, + with a sigh of oppression. + </p> + <p> + “Not one, my darling. If anything is not his business, you not only have + not to do it, but you ought not to do it. Your words come from the want of + spiritual sight. We cannot see the truth in common things—the will + of God in little everyday affairs, and that is how they become so irksome + to us. Show a beautiful picture, one full of quiet imagination and deep + thought, to a common-minded man; he will pass it by with some slight + remark, thinking it very ordinary and commonplace. That is because he is + commonplace. Because our minds are so commonplace, have so little of the + divine imagination in them, therefore we do not recognise the spiritual + meaning and worth, we do not perceive the beautiful will of God, in the + things required of us, though they are full of it. But if we do them we + shall thus make acquaintance with them, and come to see what is in them. + The roughest kernel amongst them has a tree of life in its heart.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish he would tell me something to do,” said Charlie. “Wouldn’t I do + it!” + </p> + <p> + I made no reply, but waited for an opportunity which I was pretty sure was + at hand, while I carried the matter a little further. + </p> + <p> + “But look here, Wynnie; listen to this,” I said, “‘And he went down with + them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.’ Was that not doing + his Father’s business too? Was it not doing the business of his Father in + heaven to honour his father and his mother, though he knew that his days + would not be long in that land? Did not his whole teaching, his whole + doing, rest on the relation of the Son to the Father and surely it was + doing his Father’s business then to obey his parents—to serve them, + to be subject to them. It is true that the business God gives a man to do + may be said to be the peculiar walk in life into which he is led, but that + is only as distinguishing it from another man’s peculiar business. God + gives us all our business, and the business which is common to humanity is + more peculiarly God’s business than that which is one man’s and not + another’s—because it lies nearer the root, and is essential. It does + not matter whether a man is a farmer or a physician, but it greatly + matters whether he is a good son, a good husband, and so on. O my + children!” I said, “if the world could but be brought to believe—the + world did I say?—if the best men in the world could only see, as God + sees it, that service is in itself the noblest exercise of human powers, + if they could see that God is the hardest worker of all, and that his + nobility are those who do the most service, surely it would alter the + whole aspect of the church. Menial offices, for instance, would soon cease + to be talked of with that contempt which shows that there is no true + recognition of the fact that the same principle runs through the highest + duty and the lowest—that the lowest work which God gives a man to do + must be in its nature noble, as certainly noble as the highest. This would + destroy condescension, which is the rudeness, yes, impertinence, of the + higher, as it would destroy insolence, which is the rudeness of the lower. + He who recognised the dignity of his own lower office, would thereby + recognise the superiority of the higher office, and would be the last + either to envy or degrade it. He would see in it his own—only + higher, only better, and revere it. But I am afraid I have wearied you, my + children.” + </p> + <p> + “O, no, papa!” said the elder ones, while the little ones gaped and said + nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I know I am in danger of doing so when I come to speak upon this subject: + it has such a hold of my heart and mind!—Now, Charlie, my boy, go to + bed.” + </p> + <p> + But Charlie was very comfortable before the fire, on the rug, and did not + want to go. First one shoulder went up, and then the other, and the + corners of his mouth went down, as if to keep the balance true. He did not + move to go. I gave him a few moments to recover himself, but as the black + frost still endured, I thought it was time to hold up a mirror to him. + When he was a very little boy, he was much in the habit of getting out of + temper, and then as now, he made a face that was hideous to behold; and to + cure him of this, I used to make him carry a little mirror about his neck, + that the means might be always at hand of showing himself to him: it was a + sort of artificial conscience which, by enabling him to see the picture of + his own condition, which the face always is, was not unfrequently + operative in rousing his real conscience, and making him ashamed of + himself. But now the mirror I wanted to hold up to him was a past mood, in + the light of which the present would show what it was. + </p> + <p> + “Charlie,” I said, “a little while ago you were wishing that God would + give you something to do. And now when he does, you refuse at once, + without even thinking about it.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that God wants me to go to bed?” said Charlie, with + something of surly impertinence, which I did not meet with reproof at once + because there was some sense along with the impudence. + </p> + <p> + “I know that God wants you to do what I tell you, and to do it pleasantly. + Do you think the boy Jesus would have put on such a face as that—I + wish I had the little mirror to show it to you—when his mother told + him it was time to go to bed?” + </p> + <p> + And now Charlie began to look ashamed. I left the truth to work in him, + because I saw it was working. Had I not seen that, I should have compelled + him to go at once, that he might learn the majesty of law. But now that + his own better self, the self enlightened of the light that lighteneth + every man that cometh into the world, was working, time might well be + afforded it to work its perfect work. I went on talking to the others. In + the space of not more than one minute, he rose and came to me, looking + both good and ashamed, and held up his face to kiss me, saying, + “Goodnight, papa.” I bade him good-night, and kissed him more tenderly + than usual, that he might know that it was all right between us. I + required no formal apology, no begging of my pardon, as some parents think + right. It seemed enough to me that his heart was turned. It is a terrible + thing to run the risk of changing humility into humiliation. Humiliation + is one of the proudest conditions in the human world. When he felt that it + would be a relief to say more explicitly, “Father, I have sinned,” then + let him say it; but not till then. To compel manifestation is one surest + way to check feeling. + </p> + <p> + My readers must not judge it silly to record a boy’s unwillingness to go + to bed. It is precisely the same kind of disobedience that some of them + are guilty of themselves, and that in things not one whit more important + than this, only those things happen to be <i>their</i> wish at the moment, + and not Charlie’s, and so gain their superiority. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THEODORA’S DOOM. + </h2> + <p> + Try not to get weary, respected reader, of so much of what I am afraid + most people will call tiresome preaching. But I know if you get anything + practicable out of it, you will not be so soon tired of it. I promise you + more story by and by. Only an old man, like an old horse, must be allowed + to take very much his own way—go his own pace, I should have said. I + am afraid there must be a little more of a similar sort in this chapter. + </p> + <p> + On the Monday morning I set out to visit one or two people whom the + severity of the weather had kept from church on the Sunday. The last + severe frost, as it turned out, of the season, was possessing the earth. + The sun was low in the wintry sky, and what seemed a very cold mist up in + the air hid him from the earth. I was walking along a path in a field + close by a hedge. A tree had been cut down, and lay upon the grass. A + short distance from it lay its own figure marked out in hoar-frost. There + alone was there any hoar-frost on the field; the rest was all of the + loveliest tenderest green. I will not say the figure was such an exact + resemblance as a photograph would have been; still it was an indubitable + likeness. It appeared to the hasty glance that not a branch not a knot of + the upper side of the tree at least was left unrepresented in shining and + glittering whiteness upon the green grass. It was very pretty, and, I + confess, at first, very puzzling. I walked on, meditating on the + phenomenon, till at length I found out its cause. The hoar-frost had been + all over the field in the morning. The sun had been shining for a time, + and had melted the frost away, except where he could only cast a shadow. + As he rose and rose, the shadow of the tree had shortened and come nearer + and nearer to its original, growing more and more like as it came nearer, + while the frost kept disappearing as the shadow withdrew its protection. + When the shadow extended only to a little way from the tree, the clouds + came and covered the sun, and there were no more shadows, only one great + one of the clouds. Then the frost shone out in the shape of the vanished + shadow. It lay at a little distance from the tree, because the tree having + been only partially lopped, some great stumps of boughs held it up from + the ground, and thus, when the sun was low, his light had shone a little + way through beneath, as well as over the trunk. + </p> + <p> + My reader needs not be afraid; I am not going to “moralise this spectacle + with a thousand similes.” I only tell it him as a very pretty phenomenon. + But I confess I walked on moralising it. Any new thing in nature—I + mean new in regard to my knowledge, of course—always made me happy; + and I was full of the quiet pleasure it had given me and of the thoughts + it had brought me, when, as I was getting over a stile, whom should I see + in the next field, coming along the footpath, but the lady who had made + herself so disagreeable about Theodora. The sight was rather a discord in + my feeling at that moment; perhaps it would have been so at any moment. + But I prepared myself to meet her in the strength of the good humour which + nature had just bestowed upon me. For I fear the failing will go with me + to the grave that I am very ready to be annoyed, even to the loss of my + temper, at the urgings of ignoble prudence. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Miss Bowdler,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Mr. Walton,” she returned “I am afraid you thought me + impertinent the other week; but you know by this time it is only my way.” + </p> + <p> + “As such I take it,” I answered with a smile. + </p> + <p> + She did not seem quite satisfied that I did not defend her from her own + accusation; but as it was a just one, I could not do so. Therefore she + went on to repeat the offence by way of justification. + </p> + <p> + “It was all for Mrs. Walton’s sake. You ought to consider her, Mr. Walton. + She has quite enough to do with that dear Connie, who is likely to be an + invalid all her days—too much to take the trouble of a beggar’s brat + as well.” + </p> + <p> + “Has Mrs. Walton been complaining to you about it, Miss Bowdler?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “O dear, no!” she answered. “She is far too good to complain of anything. + That’s just why her friends must look after her a bit, Mr. Walton.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I beg you won’t speak disrespectfully of my little Theodora.” + </p> + <p> + “O dear me! no. Not at all. I don’t speak disrespectfully of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Even amongst the class of which she comes, ‘a beggar’s brat’ would be + regarded as bad language.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, I’m sure, Mr. Walton! If you <i>will</i> take offence—” + </p> + <p> + “I do take offence. And you know there is One who has given especial + warning against offending the little ones.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Bowdler walked away in high displeasure—let me hope in + conviction of sin as well. She did not appear in church for the next two + Sundays. Then she came again. But she called very seldom at the Hall after + this, and I believe my wife was not sorry. + </p> + <p> + Now whether it came in any way from what that lady had said as to my + wife’s trouble with Constance and Theodora together, I can hardly tell; + but, before I had reached home, I had at last got a glimpse of something + like the right way, as it appeared to me, of bringing up Theodora. When I + went into the house, I looked for my wife to have a talk with her about + it; but, indeed, it always necessary to find her every time I got home. I + found her in Connie’s room as I had expected. Now although we were never + in the habit of making mysteries of things in which there was no mystery, + and talked openly before our children, and the more openly the older they + grew, yet there were times when we wanted to have our talks quite alone, + especially when we had not made up our minds about something. So I asked + Ethelwyn to walk out with me. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I can’t just this moment, husband,” she answered. She was in + the way of using that form of address, for she said it meant everything + without saying it aloud. “I can’t just this moment, for there is no one at + liberty to stay with Connie.” + </p> + <p> + “O, never mind me, mamma,” said Connie cheerfully. “Theodora will take + care of me,” and she looked fondly at the child, who was lying by her side + fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + “There!” I said. And both, looked up surprised, for neither knew what I + meant. “I will tell you afterwards,” I said, laughing. “Come along, + Ethel.” + </p> + <p> + “You can ring the bell, you know, Connie, if you should want anything, or + your baby should wake up and be troublesome. You won’t want me long, will + you, husband?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure about that. You must tell Susan to watch for the bell.” + </p> + <p> + Susan was the old nurse. + </p> + <p> + Ethel put on her hooded cloak, and we went out together. I took her across + to the field where I had seen the hoary shadow. The sun had not shone out, + and I hoped it would be there to gladden her dear eyes as it had gladdened + mine; but it was gone. The warmth of the sun, without his direct rays, had + melted it away, as sacred influences will sometimes do with other shadows, + without the mind knowing any more than the grass how the shadow departed. + There, reader! I have got a bit of a moral in about it before you knew + what I was doing. But I was sorry my wife could see it only through my + eyes and words. Then I told her about Miss Bowdler, and what she had said. + Ethel was very angry at her impertinence in speaking so to me. That was a + wife’s feeling, you know, and perhaps excusable in the first impression of + the thing. + </p> + <p> + “She seems to think,” she said, “that she was sent into the world to keep + other people right instead of herself. I am very glad you set her down, as + the maids say.” + </p> + <p> + “O, I don’t think there’s much harm in her,” I returned, which was easy + generosity, seeing my wife was taking my part. “Indeed, I am not sure that + we are not both considerably indebted to her; for it was after I met her + that a thought came into my head as to how we ought to do with Theodora.” + </p> + <p> + “Still troubling yourself about that, husband?” + </p> + <p> + “The longer the difficulty lasts, the more necessary is it that it should + be met,” I answered. “Our measures must begin sometime, and when, who can + tell? We ought to have them in our heads, or they will never begin at + all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I confess they are rather of a general nature at present—belonging + to humanity rather than the individual, as you would say—consisting + chiefly in washing, dressing, feeding, and apostrophe, varied with + lullabying. But our hearts are a better place for our measures than our + heads, aren’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; I walk corrected. Only there’s no fear about your heart. I’m + not quite so sure about your head.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, husband. But with you for a head it doesn’t matter, does it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that. People should always strengthen the weaker part, for + no chain is stronger than its weakest link; no fortification stronger than + its most assailable point. But, seriously, wife, I trust your head nearly, + though not quite, as much as your heart. Now to go to business. There’s + one thing we have both made up our minds about—that there is to be + no concealment with the child. God’s fact must be known by her. It would + be cruel to keep the truth from her, even if it were not sure to come upon + her with a terrible shock some day. She must know from the first, by + hearing it talked of—not by solemn and private communication—that + she came out of the shrubbery. That’s settled, is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. I see that to be the right way,” responded Ethelwyn. + </p> + <p> + “Now, are we bound to bring her up exactly as our own, or are we not?” + </p> + <p> + “We are bound to do as well for her as for our own.” + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly. But if we brought her up just as our own, would that, the + facts being as they are, be to do as well for her as for our own?” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt it; for other people would not choose to receive her as we have + done.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true. She would be continually reminded of her origin. Not that + that in itself would be any evil; but as they would do it by excluding or + neglecting her, or, still worse, by taking liberties with her, it would be + a great pain. But keeping that out of view, would it be good for herself, + knowing what she will know, to be thus brought up? Would it not be kinder + to bring her up in a way that would make it easier for her to relieve the + gratitude which I trust she will feel, not for our sakes—I hope we + are above doing anything for the sake of the gratitude which will be given + for it, and which is so often far beyond the worth of the thing done—” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Alas! the gratitude of men + Hath oftener left me mourning,” + </pre> + <p> + said Ethel. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you understand that now, my Ethel!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thank you, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “But we must wish for gratitude for others’ sake, though we may be willing + to go without it for our own. Indeed, gratitude is often just as painful + as Wordsworth there represents it. It makes us so ashamed; makes us think + how much more we <i>might</i> have done; how lovely a thing it is to give + in return for such common gifts as ours; how needy the man or woman must + be in whom a trifle awakes so much emotion.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but we must not in justice think that it is merely that our little + doing seems great to them: it is the kindness shown them therein, for + which, often, they are more grateful than for the gift, though they can’t + show the difference in their thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “And, indeed, are not aware of it themselves, though it is so. And yet, + the same remarks hold good about the kindness as about the gift. But to + return to Theodora. If we put her in a way of life that would be + recognisant of whence she came, and how she had been brought thence, might + it not be better for her? Would it not be building on the truth? Would she + not be happier for it?” + </p> + <p> + “You are putting general propositions, while all the time you have + something particular and definite in your own mind; and that is not fair + to my place in the conference,” said Ethel. “In fact, you think you are + trying to approach me wisely, in order to persuade, I will not say <i>wheedle</i>, + me into something. It’s a good thing you have the harmlessness of the + dove, Harry, for you’ve got the other thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I will be as plain as ever I can be, only premising that what + you call the cunning of the serpent—” + </p> + <p> + “Wisdom, Harry, not cunning.” + </p> + <p> + “Is only that I like to give my arguments before my proposition. But here + it is—bare and defenceless, only—let me warn you—with a + whole battery behind it: it is, to bring up little Theodora as a servant + to Constance.” + </p> + <p> + My wife laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “for one who says so much about not thinking of the + morrow, you do look rather far forward.” + </p> + <p> + “Not with any anxiety, however, if only I know that I am doing right.” + </p> + <p> + “But just think: the child is about three months old.” + </p> + <p> + “Well; Connie will be none the worse that she is being trained for her. I + don’t say that she is to commence her duties at once.” + </p> + <p> + “But Connie may be at the head of a house of her own long before that.” + </p> + <p> + “The training won’t be lost to the child though. But I much fear, my love, + that Connie will never be herself again. There is no sign of it. And + Turner does not give much hope.” + </p> + <p> + “O Harry, Harry, don’t say so! I can’t bear it. To think of the darling + child lying like that all her life!” + </p> + <p> + “It is sad, indeed; but no such awful misfortune surely, Ethel. Haven’t + you seen, as well as I, that the growth of that child’s nature since her + accident has been marvellous? Ten times rather would I have her lying + there such as she is, than have her well and strong and silly, with her + bonnets inside instead of outside her head.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but she needn’t have been like that. Wynnie never will.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but God does all things not only well, but best, absolutely best. + But just think what it would be in any circumstances to have a maid that + had begun to wait upon her from the first days that she was able to toddle + after something to fetch it for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t it be like making a slave of her?” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t it be like giving her a divine freedom from the first? The lack of + service is the ruin of humanity.” + </p> + <p> + “But we can’t train her then like one of our own.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Could we not give her all the love and all the teaching?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it would not be fair to give her the education of a lady, and + then make a servant of her.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget that the service would be part of her training from the first; + and she would know no change of position in it. When we tell her that she + was found in the shrubbery, we will add that we think God sent her to take + care of Constance. I do not believe myself that you can have perfect + service except from a lady. Do not forget the true notion of service as + the essence of Christianity, yea, of divinity. It is not education that + unfits for service: it is the want of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I know that the reading girls I have had, have, as a rule, served + me worse than the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you have called one of those girls educated? Or even if they had + been educated, as any of them might well have been, better than + nine-tenths of the girls that go to boarding-schools, you must remember + that they had never been taught service—the highest accomplishment + of all. To that everything aids, when any true feeling of it is there. But + for service of this high sort, the education must begin with the beginning + of the dawn of will. How often have you wished that you had servants who + would believe in you, and serve you with the same truth with which you + regarded them! The servants born in a man’s house in the old times were + more like his children than his servants. Here is a chance for you, as it + were of a servant born in your own house. Connie loves the child: the + child will love Connie, and find her delight in serving her like a little + cherub. Not one of the maids to whom you have referred had ever been + taught to think service other than an unavoidable necessity, the end of + life being to serve yourself, not to serve others; and hence most of them + would escape from it by any marriage almost that they had a chance of + making. I don’t say all servants are like that; but I do think that most + of them are. I know very well that most mistresses are as much to blame + for this result as the servants are; but we are not talking about them. + Servants nowadays despise work, and yet are forced to do it—a most + degrading condition to be in. But they would not be in any better + condition if delivered from the work. The lady who despises work is in as + bad a condition as they are. The only way to set them free is to get them + to regard service not only as their duty, but as therefore honourable, and + besides and beyond this, in its own nature divine. In America, the very + name of servant is repudiated as inconsistent with human dignity. There is + <i>no</i> dignity but of service. How different the whole notion of + training is now from what it was in the middle ages! Service was + honourable then. No doubt we have made progress as a whole, but in some + things we have degenerated sadly. The first thing taught then was how to + serve. No man could rise to the honour of knighthood without service. A + nobleman’s son even had to wait on his father, or to go into the family of + another nobleman, and wait upon him as a page, standing behind his chair + at dinner. This was an honour. No notion of degradation was in it. It was + a necessary step to higher honour. And what was the next higher honour? To + be set free from service? No. To serve in the harder service of the field; + to be a squire to some noble knight; to tend his horse, to clean his + armour, to see that every rivet was sound, every buckle true, every strap + strong; to ride behind him, and carry his spear, and if more than one + attacked him, to rush to his aid. This service was the more honourable + because it was harder, and was the next step to higher honour yet. And + what was this higher honour? That of knighthood. Wherein did this + knighthood consist? The very word means simply <i>service</i>. And for + what was the knight thus waited upon by his squire? That he might be free + to do as he pleased? No, but that he might be free to be the servant of + all. By being a squire first, the servant of one, he learned to rise to + the higher rank, that of servant of all. His horse was tended, this armour + observed, his sword and spear and shield held to his hand, that he might + have no trouble looking after himself, but might be free, strong, + unwearied, to shoot like an arrow to the rescue of any and every one who + needed his ready aid. There was a grand heart of Christianity in that old + chivalry, notwithstanding all its abuses which must be no more laid to its + charge than the burning of Jews and heretics to Christianity. It was the + lack of it, not the presence of it that occasioned the abuses that + coexisted with it. Train our Theodora as a holy child-servant, and there + will be no need to restrain any impulse of wise affection from pouring + itself forth upon her. My firm belief is that we should then love and + honour her far more than if we made her just like one of our own.” + </p> + <p> + “But what if she should turn out utterly unfit for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! then would come an obstacle. But it will not come till that discovery + is made.” + </p> + <p> + “But if we should be going wrong all the time?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, there comes the kind of care that never troubles me, and which I so + strongly object to. It won’t hurt her anyhow. And we ought always to act + upon the ideal; it is the only safe ground of action. When that which + contradicts and resists, and would ruin our ideal, opposes us, then we + must take measures; but not till then can we take measures, or know what + measures it may be necessary to take. But the ideal itself is the only + thing worth striving after. Remember what our Lord himself said: ‘Be ye + therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.’” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will think about it, Harry. There is time enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Plenty. No time only not to think about it. The more you think about it + the better. If a thing be a good thing, the more you think about it the + better it will look; for its real nature will go on coming out and showing + itself. I cannot doubt that you will soon see how good it is.” + </p> + <p> + We then went home. It was only two days after that my wife said to me— + </p> + <p> + “I am more than reconciled to your plan, husband. It seems to me + delightful.” + </p> + <p> + When we reentered Connie’s room, we found that her baby had just waked, + and she had managed to get one arm under her, and was trying to comfort + her, for she was crying. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. A SPRING CHAPTER. + </h2> + <p> + More especially now in my old age, I find myself “to a lingering motion + bound.” I would, if I might, tell a tale day by day, hour by hour, + following the movement of the year in its sweet change of seasons. This + may not be, but I will indulge myself now so far as to call this a spring + chapter, and so pass to the summer, when my reader will see why I have + called my story “The Seaboard Parish.” + </p> + <p> + I was out one day amongst my people, and I found two precious things: one, + a lovely little fact, the other a lovely little primrose. This was a + pinched, dwarfish thing, for the spring was but a baby herself, and so + could not mother more than a brave-hearted weakling. The frost lay all + about it under the hedge, but its rough leaves kept it just warm enough, + and hardly. Now, I should never have pulled the little darling; it would + have seemed a kind of small sacrilege committed on the church of nature, + seeing she had but this one; only with my sickly cub at home, I felt + justified in ravening like a beast of prey. I even went so far in my greed + as to dig up the little plant with my fingers, and bear it, leaves and + all, with a lump of earth about it to keep it alive, home to my little + woman—a present from the outside world which she loved so much. And + as I went there dawned upon me the recollection of a little mirror in + which, if I could find it, she would see it still more lovely than in a + direct looking at itself. So I set myself to find it; for it lay in + fragments in the drawers and cabinets of my memory. And before I got home + I had found all the pieces and put them together; and then it was a lovely + little sonnet which a friend of mine had written and allowed me to see + many years before. I was in the way of writing verses myself; but I should + have been proud to have written this one. I never could have done that. + Yet, as far as I knew, it had never seen the light through the windows of + print. It was with some difficulty that I got it all right; but I thought + I had succeeded very nearly, if not absolutely, and I said it over and + over, till I was sure I should not spoil its music or its meaning by + halting in the delivery of it. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, my Connie, what I have brought you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She held out her two white, half-transparent hands, took it as if it had + been a human baby and looked at it lovingly till the tears came in her + eyes. She would have made a tender picture, as she then lay, with her two + hands up, holding the little beauty before her eyes. Then I said what I + have already written about the mirror, and repeated the sonnet to her. + Here it is, and my readers will owe me gratitude for it. My friend had + found the snowdrop in February, and in frost. Indeed he told me that there + was a tolerable sprinkling of snow upon the ground: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I know not what among the grass thou art, + Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower, + Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power + To send thine image through them to the heart; + But when I push the frosty leaves apart, + And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower, + Thou growest up within me from that hour, + And through the snow I with the spring depart. + + I have no words. But fragrant is the breath, + Pale Beauty, of thy second life within. + There is a wind that cometh for thy death, + But thou a life immortal dost begin, + Where, in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell + Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!” + </pre> + <p> + “Will you say it again, papa?” said Connie; “I do not quite understand + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I will, my dear. But I will do something better as well. I will go and + write it out for you, as soon as I have given you something else that I + have brought.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, papa. And please write it in your best Sunday hand, that I may + read it quite easily.” + </p> + <p> + I promised, and repeated the poem. + </p> + <p> + “I understand it a little better,” she said; “but the meaning is just like + the primrose itself, hidden up in its green leaves. When you give it me in + writing, I will push them apart and find it. Now, tell me what else you + have brought me.” + </p> + <p> + I was greatly pleased with the resemblance the child saw between the plant + and the sonnet; but I did not say anything in praise; I only expressed + satisfaction. Before I began my story, Wynnie came in and sat down with + us. + </p> + <p> + “I have been to see Miss Aylmer, this morning,” I said. “She feels the + loss of her mother very much, poor thing.” + </p> + <p> + “How old was she, papa?” asked Connie. + </p> + <p> + “She was over ninety, my dear; but she had forgotten how much herself, and + her daughter could not be sure about it. She was a peculiar old lady, you + know. She once reproved me for inadvertently putting my hat on the + tablecloth. ‘Mr. Shafton,’ she said, ‘was one of the old school; he would + never have done that. I don’t know what the world is coming to.’” + </p> + <p> + My two girls laughed at the idea of their papa being reproved for bad + manners. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say, papa?” they asked. + </p> + <p> + “I begged her pardon, and lifted it instantly. ‘O, it’s all right now, my + dear,’ she said, ‘when you’ve taken it up again. But I like good manners, + though I live in a cottage now.’” + </p> + <p> + “Had she seen better days, then?” asked Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “She was a farmer’s daughter, and a farmer’s widow. I suppose the chief + difference in her mode of life was that she lived in a cottage instead of + a good-sized farmhouse.” + </p> + <p> + “But what is the story you have to tell us?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m coming to that when you have done with your questions.” + </p> + <p> + “We have done, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “After talking awhile, during which she went bustling a little about the + cottage, in order to hide her feelings, as I thought, for she has a good + deal of her mother’s sense of dignity about her,—but I want your + mother to hear the story. Run and fetch her, Wynnie.” + </p> + <p> + “O, do make haste, Wynnie,” said Connie. + </p> + <p> + When Ethelwyn came, I went on. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Aylmer was bustling a little about the cottage, putting things to + rights. All at once she gave a cry of surprise, and said, ‘Here it is, at + last!’ She had taken up a stuff dress of her mother’s, and was holding it + in one hand, while with the other she drew from the pocket—what do + you think?” + </p> + <p> + Various guesses were hazarded. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—nothing like it. I know you <i>could</i> never guess. + Therefore it would not be fair to keep you trying. A great iron horseshoe. + The old woman of ninety years had in the pocket of the dress that she was + wearing at the very moment when she died, for her death was sudden, an + iron horseshoe.” + </p> + <p> + “What did it mean? Could her daughter explain it?” + </p> + <p> + “That she proceeded at once to do. ‘Do you remember, sir,’ she said, ‘how + that horseshoe used to hang on a nail over the chimneypiece?’ ‘I do + remember having observed it there,’ I answered; ‘for once when I took + notice of it, I said to your mother, laughing, “I hope you are not afraid + of witches, Mrs. Aylmer?” And she looked a little offended, and assured me + to the contrary.’ ‘Well,’ her daughter went on, ‘about three months ago, I + missed it. My mother would not tell me anything about it. And here it is! + I can hardly think she can have carried it about all that time without me + finding it out, but I don’t know. Here it is, anyhow. Perhaps when she + felt death drawing nearer, she took it from somewhere where she had hidden + it, and put it in her pocket. If I had found it in time, I would have put + it in her coffin.’ ‘But why?’ I asked. ‘Do tell me the story about it, if + you know it.’ ‘I know it quite well, for she told me all about it once. It + is the shoe of a favourite mare of my father’s—one he used to ride + when he went courting my mother. My grandfather did not like to have a + young man coming about the house, and so he came after the old folks were + gone to bed. But he had a long way to come, and he rode that mare. She had + to go over some stones to get to the stable, and my mother used to spread + straw there, for it was under the window of my grandfather’s room, that + her shoes mightn’t make a noise and wake him. And that’s one of the + shoes,’ she said, holding it up to me. ‘When the mare died, my mother + begged my father for the one off her near forefoot, where she had so often + stood and patted her neck when my father was mounted to ride home again.’” + </p> + <p> + “But it was very naughty of her, wasn’t it,” said Wynnie, “to do that + without her father’s knowledge?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say it was right, my dear. But in looking at what is wrong, we + ought to look for the beginning of the wrong; and possibly we might find + that in this case farther back. If, for instance, a father isn’t a father, + we must not be too hard in blaming the child for not being a child. The + father’s part has to come first, and teach the child’s part. Now, if I + might guess from what I know of the old lady, in whom probably it was much + softened, her father was very possibly a hard, unreasoning, and + unreasonable man—such that it scarcely ever came into the daughter’s + head that she had anything else to do with regard to him than beware of + the consequences of letting him know that she had a lover. The whole + thing, I allow, was wrong; but I suspect the father was first to blame, + and far more to blame than the daughter. And that is the more likely from + the high character of the old dame, and the romantic way in which she + clung to the memory of the courtship. A true heart only does not grow old. + And I have, therefore, no doubt that the marriage was a happy one. + Besides, I daresay it was very much the custom of the country where they + were, and that makes some difference.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m sure, papa, you wouldn’t like any of us to go and do like + that,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly not, my dear,” I answered, laughing. “Nor have I any fear of + it. But shall I tell you what I think would be one of the chief things to + trouble me if you did?” + </p> + <p> + “If you like, papa. But it sounds rather dreadful to hear such an <i>if</i>” + said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “It would be to think how much I had failed of being such a father to you + as I ought to be, and as I wished to be, if it should prove at all + possible for you to do such a thing.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too dreadful to talk about, papa,” said Wynnie; and the subject was + dropped. + </p> + <p> + She was a strange child, this Wynnie of ours. Whereas most people are in + danger of thinking themselves in the right, or insisting that they are + whether they think so or not, she was always thinking herself in the + wrong. Nay more, she always expected to find herself in the wrong. If the + perpetrator of any mischief was inquired after, she always looked into her + own bosom to see whether she could not with justice aver that she was the + doer of the deed. I believe she felt at that moment as if she had been + deceiving me already, and deserved to be driven out of the house. This + came of an over-sensitiveness, accompanied by a general dissatisfaction + with herself, which was not upheld by a sufficient faith in the divine + sympathy, or sufficient confidence of final purification. She never spared + herself; and if she was a little severe on the younger ones sometimes, no + one was yet more indulgent to them. She would eat all their hard crusts + for them, always give them the best and take the worst for herself. If + there was any part in the dish that she was helping that she thought + nobody would like, she invariably assigned it to her own share. It looked + like a determined self-mortification sometimes; but that was not it. She + did not care for her own comfort enough to feel it any mortification; + though I observed that when her mother or I helped her to anything nice, + she ate it with as much relish as the youngest of the party. And her sweet + smile was always ready to meet the least kindness that was offered her. + Her obedience was perfect, and had been so for very many years, as far as + we could see. Indeed, not since she was the merest child had there been + any contest between us. Now, of course, there was no demand of obedience: + she was simply the best earthly friend that her father and mother had. It + often caused me some passing anxiety to think that her temperament, as + well as her devotion to her home, might cause her great suffering some + day; but when those thoughts came, I just gave her to God to take care of. + Her mother sometimes said to her that she would make an excellent wife for + a poor man. She would brighten up greatly at this, taking it for a + compliment of the best sort. And she did not forget it, as the sequel will + show. She would choose to sit with one candle lit when there were two on + the table, wasting her eyes to save the candles. “Which will you have for + dinner to-day, papa, roast beef or boiled?” she asked me once, when her + mother was too unwell to attend to the housekeeping. And when I replied + that I would have whichever she liked best—“The boiled beef lasts + longest, I think,” she said. Yet she was not only as liberal and kind as + any to the poor, but she was, which is rarer, and perhaps more important + for the final formation of a character, carefully just to everyone with + whom she had any dealings. Her sense of law was very strong. Law with her + was something absolute, and not to be questioned. In her childhood there + was one lady to whom for years she showed a decided aversion, and we could + not understand it, for it was the most inoffensive Miss Boulderstone. When + she was nearly grown up, one of us happening to allude to the fact, she + volunteered an explanation. Miss Boulderstone had happened to call one day + when Wynnie, then between three and four was in disgrace—<i>in the + corner</i>, in fact. Miss Boulderstone interceded for her; and this was + the whole front of her offending. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>was</i> so angry!” she said. “‘As if my papa did not know best when + I ought to come out of the corner!’ I said to myself. And I couldn’t bear + her for ever so long after that.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Boulderstone, however, though not very interesting, was quite a + favourite before she died. She left Wynnie—for she and her brother + were the last of their race—a death’s-head watch, which had been in + the family she did not know how long. I think it is as old as Queen + Elizabeth’s time. I took it to London to a skilful man, and had it as well + repaired as its age would admit of; and it has gone ever since, though not + with the greatest accuracy; for what could be expected of an old + death’s-head, the most transitory thing in creation? Wynnie wears it to + this day, and wouldn’t part with it for the best watch in the world. + </p> + <p> + I tell the reader all this about my daughter that he may be the more able + to understand what will follow in due time. He will think that as yet my + story has been nothing but promises. Let him only hope that I will fulfil + them, and I shall be content. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Boulderstone did not long outlive his sister. Though the old couple, + for they were rather old before they died, if, indeed, they were not born + old, which I strongly suspect, being the last of a decaying family that + had not left the land on which they were born for a great many generations—though + the old people had not, of what the French call sentiments, one between + them, they were yet capable of a stronger and, I had almost said, more + romantic attachment, than many couples who have married from love; for the + lady’s sole trouble in dying was what her brother <i>would</i> do without + her; and from the day of her death, he grew more and more dull and + seemingly stupid. Nothing gave him any pleasure but having Wynnie to + dinner with him. I knew that it must be very dull for her, but she went + often, and I never heard her complain of it, though she certainly did look + fagged—not <i>bored</i>, observe, but fagged—showing that she + had been exerting herself to meet the difficulties of the situation. When + the good man died, we found that he had left all his money in my hands, in + trust for the poor of the parish, to be applied in any way I thought best. + This involved me in much perplexity, for nothing is more difficult than to + make money useful to the poor. But I was very glad of it, notwithstanding. + </p> + <p> + My own means were not so large as my readers may think. The property my + wife brought me was much encumbered. With the help of her private fortune, + and the income of several years (not my income from the church, it may be + as well to say), I succeeded in clearing off the encumbrances. But even + then there remained much to be done, if I would be the good steward that + was not to be ashamed at his Lord’s coming. First of all there were many + cottages to be built for the labourers on the estate. If the farmers would + not, or could not, help, I must do it; for to provide decent dwellings for + them, was clearly one of the divine conditions in the righteous tenure of + property, whatever the human might be; for it was not for myself alone, or + for myself chiefly, that this property was given to me; it was for those + who lived upon it. Therefore I laid out what money I could, not only in + getting all the land clearly in its right relation to its owner, but in + doing the best I could for those attached to it who could not help + themselves. And when I hint to my reader that I had some conscience in + paying my curate, though, as they had no children, they did not require so + much as I should otherwise have felt compelled to give them, he will + easily see that as my family grew up I could not have so much to give away + of my own as I should have liked. Therefore this trust of the good Mr. + Boulderstone was the more acceptable to me. + </p> + <p> + One word more ere I finish this chapter.—I should not like my + friends to think that I had got tired of our Christmas gatherings, because + I have made no mention of one this year. It had been pretermitted for the + first time, because of my daughter’s illness. It was much easier to give + them now than when I lived at the vicarage, for there was plenty of room + in the old hall. But my curate, Mr. Weir, still held a similar gathering + there every Easter. + </p> + <p> + Another one word more about him. Some may wonder why I have not mentioned + him or my sister, especially in connection with Connie’s accident. The + fact was, that he had taken, or rather I had given him, a long holiday. + Martha had had several disappointing illnesses, and her general health had + suffered so much in consequence that there was even some fear of her + lungs, and a winter in the south of France had been strongly recommended. + Upon this I came in with more than a recommendation, and insisted that + they should go. They had started in the beginning of October, and had not + returned up to the time of which I am now about to write—somewhere + in the beginning of the month of April. But my sister was now almost quite + well, and I was not sorry to think that I should soon have a little more + leisure for such small literary pursuits as I delighted in—to my own + enrichment, and consequently to the good of my parishioners and friends. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. AN IMPORTANT LETTER. + </h2> + <p> + It was, then, in the beginning of April that I received one morning an + epistle from an old college friend of mine, with whom I had renewed my + acquaintance of late, through the pleasure which he was kind enough to say + he had derived from reading a little book of mine upon the relation of the + mind of St. Paul to the gospel story. His name was Shepherd—a good + name for a clergyman. In his case both Christian name and patronymic might + remind him well of his duty. David Shepherd ought to be a good clergyman. + </p> + <p> + As soon as I had read the letter, I went with it open in my hand to find + my wife. + </p> + <p> + “Here is Shepherd,” I said, “with a clerical sore-throat, and forced to + give up his duty for a whole summer. He writes to ask me whether, as he + understands I have a curate as good as myself—that is what the old + fellow says—it might not suit me to take my family to his place for + the summer. He assures me I should like it, and that it would do us all + good. His house, he says, is large enough to hold us, and he knows I + should not like to be without duty wherever I was. And so on Read the + letter for yourself, and turn it over in your mind. Weir will come back so + fresh and active that it will be no oppression to him to take the whole of + the duty here. I will run and ask Turner whether it would be safe to move + Connie, and whether the sea-air would be good for her.” + </p> + <p> + “One would think you were only twenty, husband—you make up your mind + so quickly, and are in such a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + The fact was, a vision of the sea had rushed in upon me. It was many years + since I had seen the sea, and the thought of looking on it once more, in + its most glorious show, the Atlantic itself, with nothing between us and + America, but the round of the ridgy water, had excited me so that my + wife’s reproof, if reproof it was, was quite necessary to bring me to my + usually quiet and sober senses. I laughed, begged old grannie’s pardon, + and set off to see Turner notwithstanding, leaving her to read and ponder + Shepherd’s letter. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think, Turner?” I said, and told him the case. He looked + rather grave. + </p> + <p> + “When would you think of going?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “About the beginning of June.” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly two months,” he said, thoughtfully. “And Miss Connie was not the + worse for getting on the sofa yesterday?” + </p> + <p> + “The better, I do think.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she had any increase of pain since?” + </p> + <p> + “None, I quite believe; for I questioned her as to that.” + </p> + <p> + He thought again. He was a careful man, although young. + </p> + <p> + “It is a long journey.” + </p> + <p> + “She could make it by easy stages.” + </p> + <p> + “It would certainly do her good to breathe the sea-air and have such a + thorough change in every way—if only it could be managed without + fatigue and suffering. I think, if you can get her up every day between + this and that, we shall be justified in trying it at least. The sooner you + get her out of doors the better too; but the weather is scarcely fit for + that yet.” + </p> + <p> + “A good deal will depend on how she is inclined, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But in her case you must not mind that too much. An invalid’s + instincts as to eating and drinking are more to be depended upon than + those of a healthy person; but it is not so, I think with regard to + anything involving effort. That she must sometimes be urged to. She must + not judge that by inclination. I have had, in my short practice, two + patients, who considered themselves <i>bedlars</i>, as you will find the + common people in the part you are going to, call them—bedridden, + that is. One of them I persuaded to make the attempt to rise, and although + her sense of inability was anything but feigned, and she will be a + sufferer to the end of her days, yet she goes about the house without much + inconvenience, and I suspect is not only physically but morally the better + for it. The other would not consent to try, and I believe lies there + still.” + </p> + <p> + “The will has more to do with most things than people generally suppose,” + I said. “Could you manage, now, do you think, supposing we resolve to make + the experiment, to accompany us the first stage or two?” + </p> + <p> + “It is very likely I could. Only you must not depend upon me. I cannot + tell beforehand. You yourself would teach me that I must not be a + respecter of persons, you know.” + </p> + <p> + I returned to my wife. She was in Connie’s room. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear,” I said, “what do you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of what?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, of Shepherd’s letter, of course,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been ordering the dinner since, Harry.” + </p> + <p> + “The dinner!” I returned with some show of contempt, for I knew my wife + was only teasing me. “What’s the dinner to the Atlantic?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by the Atlantic, papa?” said Connie, from whose roguish + eyes I could see that her mother had told her all about it, and that <i>she</i> + was not disinclined to get up, if only she could. + </p> + <p> + “The Atlantic, my dear, is the name given to that portion of the waters of + the globe which divides Europe from America. I will fetch you the + Universal Gazetteer, if you would like to consult it on the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “O papa!” laughed Connie; “you know what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and you know what I mean too, you squirrel!” + </p> + <p> + “But do you really mean, papa,” she said “that you will take me to the + Atlantic?” + </p> + <p> + “If you will only oblige me by getting Well enough to go as soon as + possible.” + </p> + <p> + The poor child half rose on her elbow, but sank back again with a moan, + which I took for a cry of pain. I was beside her in a moment. + </p> + <p> + “My darling! You have hurt yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “O no, papa. I felt for the moment as if I could get up if I liked. But I + soon found that I hadn’t any back or legs. O! what a plague I am to you!” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, you are the nicest plaything in the world, Connie. One + always knows where to find you.” + </p> + <p> + She half laughed and half cried, and the two halves made a very bewitching + whole. + </p> + <p> + “But,” I went on, “I mean to try whether my dolly won’t bear moving. One + thing is clear, I can’t go without it. Do you think you could be got on + the sofa to-day without hurting you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure I could, papa. I feel better today than I have felt yet. Mamma, + do send for Susan, and get me up before dinner.” + </p> + <p> + When I went in after a couple of hours or so, I found her lying on the + conch, propped up with pillows. She lay looking out of the window on the + lawn at the back of the house. A smile hovered about her bloodless lips, + and the blue of her eyes, though very gray, looked sunny. Her white face + showed the whiter because her dark brown hair was all about it. We had had + to cut her hair, but it had grown to her neck again. + </p> + <p> + “I have been trying to count the daisies on the lawn,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “What a sharp sight you must have, child!” + </p> + <p> + “I see them all as clear as if they were enamelled on that table before + me.” + </p> + <p> + I was not so anxious to get rid of the daisies as some people are. Neither + did I keep the grass quite so close shaved. + </p> + <p> + “But,” she went on, “I could not count them, for it gave me the fidgets in + my feet.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t say so!” I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + She looked at me with some surprise, but concluding that I was only making + a little of my mild fun at her expense, she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Isn’t it a wonderful fact?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It is a fact, my dear, that I feel ready to go on my knees and thank God + for. I may be wrong, but I take it as a sign that you are beginning to + recover a little. But we mustn’t make too much of it, lest I should be + mistaken,” I added, checking myself, for I feared exciting her too much. + </p> + <p> + But she lay very still; only the tears rose slowly and lay shimmering in + her eyes. After about five minutes, during which we were both silent,— + </p> + <p> + “O papa!” she said, “to think of ever walking out with you again, and + feeling the wind on my face! I can hardly believe it possible.” + </p> + <p> + “It is so mild, I think you might have half that pleasure at once,” I + answered.. + </p> + <p> + And I opened the window, let the spring air gently move her hair for one + moment, and then shut it again. Connie breathed deep, and said after a + little pause,— + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea how delightful it was. To think that I have been in the way + of breathing that every moment for so many years and never thought about + it!” + </p> + <p> + “It is not always just like that in this climate. But I ought not to have + made that remark when I wanted to make this other: that I suspect we shall + find some day that the loss of the human paradise consists chiefly in the + closing of the human eyes; that at least far more of it than people think + remains about us still, only we are so filled with foolish desires and + evil cares, that we cannot see or hear, cannot even smell or taste the + pleasant things round about us. We have need to pray in regard to the + right receiving of the things of the senses even, ‘Lord, open thou our + hearts to understand thy word;’ for each of these things is as certainly a + word of God as Jesus is the Word of God. He has made nothing in vain. All + is for our teaching. Shall I tell you what such a breath of fresh air + makes me think of?” + </p> + <p> + “It comes to me,” said Connie, “like forgiveness when I was a little girl + and was naughty. I used to feel just like that.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the same kind of thing I feel,” I said—“as if life from the + Spirit of God were coming into my soul: I think of the wind that bloweth + where it listeth. Wind and spirit are the same word in the Greek; and the + Latin word <i>spirit</i> comes even nearer to what we are saying, for it + is the wind as <i>breathed</i>. And now, Connie, I will tell you—and + you will see how I am growing able to talk to you like quite an old friend—what + put me in such a delight with Mr. Shepherd’s letter and so exposed me to + be teased by mamma and you. As I read it, there rose up before me a vision + of one sight of the sea which I had when I was a young man, long before I + saw your mamma. I had gone out for a walk along some high downs. But I + ought to tell you that I had been working rather hard at Cambridge, and + the life seemed to be all gone out of me. Though my holidays had come, + they did not feel quite like holidays—not as holidays used to feel + when I was a boy. Even when walking along those downs with the scents of + sixteen grasses or so in my brain, like a melody with the odour of the + earth for the accompaniment upon which it floated, and with just enough of + wind to stir them up and set them in motion, I could not feel at all. I + remembered something of what I had used to feel in such places, but + instead of believing in that, I doubted now whether it had not been all a + trick that I played myself—a fancied pleasure only. I was walking + along, then, with the sea behind me. It was a warm, cloudy day—I had + had no sunshine since I came out. All at once I turned—I don’t know + why. There lay the gray sea, but not as I had seen it last, not all gray. + It was dotted, spotted, and splashed all over with drops, pools, and lakes + of light, of all shades of depth, from a light shimmer of tremulous gray, + through a half light that turned the prevailing lead colour into + translucent green that seemed to grow out of its depths—through + this, I say, to brilliant light, deepening and deepening till my very soul + was stung by the triumph of the intensity of its molten silver. There was + no sun upon me. But there were breaks in the clouds over the sea, through + which, the air being filled with vapour, I could see the long lines of the + sun-rays descending on the waters like rain—so like a rain of light + that the water seemed to plash up in light under their fall. I questioned + the past no more; the present seized upon me, and I knew that the past was + true, and that nature was more lovely, more awful in her loveliness than I + could grasp. It was a lonely place: I fell on my knees, and worshipped the + God that made the glory and my soul.” + </p> + <p> + While I spoke Connie’s tears had been flowing quietly. + </p> + <p> + “And mamma and I were making fun while you were seeing such things as + those!” she said pitifully. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t hurt them one bit, my darling—neither mamma nor you. If + I had been the least cross about it, as I should have been when I was as + young as at the time of which I was thinking, that would have ruined the + vision entirely. But your merriment only made me enjoy it more. And, my + Connie, I hope you will see the Atlantic before long; and if one vision + should come as brilliant as that, we shall be fortunate indeed, if we went + all the way to the west to see that only.” + </p> + <p> + “O papa! I dare hardly think of it—it is too delightful. But do you + think we shall really go?” + </p> + <p> + “I do. Here comes your mamma—I am going to say to Shepherd, my dear, + that I will take his parish in hand, and if I cannot, after all, go + myself, will find some one, so that he need be in no anxiety from the + uncertainty which must hang over our movements even till the experiment + itself is made.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, husband. I am quite satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + And as I watched Connie, I saw that hope and expectation did much to + prepare her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. CONNIE’S DREAM. + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Turner, being a good mechanic as well as surgeon, proceeded to invent, + and with his own hands in a great measure construct, a kind of litter, + which, with a water-bed laid upon it, could be placed in our own carriage + for Connie to lie upon, and from that lifted, without disturbing her, and + placed in a similar manner in the railway carriage. He had laid Connie + repeatedly upon it before he was satisfied that the arrangement of the + springs, &c., was successful. But at length she declared that it was + perfect, and that she would not mind being carried across the Arabian + desert on a camel’s back with that under her. + </p> + <p> + As the season advanced, she continued to improve. I shall never forget the + first time she was carried out upon the lawn. If you can imagine an infant + coming into the world capable of the observation and delight of a child of + eight or ten, you will have some idea of how Connie received the new + impressions of everything around her. They were almost too much for her at + first, however. She who had been used to scamper about like a wild thing + on a pony, found the delight of a breath of wind almost more than she + could bear. After she was laid down she closed her eyes, and the smile + that flickered about her mouth was of a sort that harmonised entirely with + the two great tears that crept softly out from under her eyelids, and + sank, rather than ran, down her cheeks. She lay so that she faced a rich + tract of gently receding upland, plentifully wooded to the horizon’s edge, + and through the wood peeped the white and red houses of a little hamlet, + with the square tower of its church just rising above the trees. A kind of + frame was made to the whole picture by the nearer trees of our own woods, + through an opening in which, evidently made or left for its sake, the + distant prospect was visible. It was a morning in early summer, when the + leaves were not quite full-grown but almost, and their green was shining + and pure as the blue of the sky, when the air had no touch of bitterness + or of lassitude, but was thoroughly warm, and yet filled the lungs with + the reviving as of a draught of cold water. We had fastened the carriage + umbrella to the sofa, so that it should shade her perfectly without + obscuring her prospect; and behind this we all crept, leaving her to come + to herself without being looked at, for emotion is a shy and sacred thing + and should be tenderly hidden by those who are near. The bees kept very <i>beesy</i> + all about us. To see one huge fellow, as big as three ordinary ones with + pieces of red and yellow about him, as if he were the beadle of all + bee-dom, and overgrown in consequence—to see him, I say, down in a + little tuft of white clover, rolling about in it, hardly able to move for + fatness, yet bumming away as if his business was to express the delight of + the whole creation—was a sight! Then there were the butterflies, so + light that they seemed to tumble up into the air, and get down again with + difficulty. They bewildered me with their inscrutable variations of + purpose. “If I could but see once, for an hour, into the mind of a + butterfly,” I thought, “it would be to me worth all the natural history I + ever read. If I could but see why he changes his mind so often and so + suddenly—what he saw about that flower to make him seek it—then + why, on a nearer approach, he should decline further acquaintance with it, + and go rocking away through the air, to do the same fifty times over again—it + would give me an insight into all animal and vegetable life that ages of + study could not bring me up to.” I was thinking all this behind my + daughter’s umbrella, while a lark, whose body had melted quite away in the + heavenly spaces, was scattering bright beads of ringing melody straight + down upon our heads; while a cock was crowing like a clarion from the + home-farm, as if in defiance of the golden glitter of his silent brother + on the roof of the stable; while a little stream that scampered down the + same slope as the lawn lay upon, from a well in the stable-yard, mingled + its sweet undertone of contentment with the jubilation of the lark and the + business-like hum of the bees; and while white clouds floated in the + majesty of silence across the blue deeps of the heavens. The air was so + full of life and reviving, that it seemed like the crude substance that + God might take to make babies’ souls of—only the very simile smells + of materialism, and therefore I do not like it. + </p> + <p> + “Papa,” said Connie at length, and I was beside her in a moment. Her face + looked almost glorified with delight: there was a hush of that awe upon it + which is perhaps one of the deepest kinds of delight. She put out her thin + white hand, took hold of a button of my coat, drew me down towards her, + and said in a whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think God is here, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do, my darling,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t <i>he</i> enjoy this?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear. He wouldn’t make us enjoy it if he did not enjoy it. It + would be to deceive us to make us glad and blessed, while our Father did + not care about it, or how it came to us. At least it would amount to + making us no longer his children.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad you think so. I do. And I shall enjoy it so much more now.” + </p> + <p> + She could hardly finish her sentence, but burst out sobbing so that I was + afraid she would hurt herself. I saw, however, that it was best to leave + her to quiet herself, and motioned to the rest to keep back and let her + recover as she could. The emotion passed off in a summer shower, and when + I went round once more, her face was shining just like a wet landscape + after the sun has come out and Nature has begun to make gentle game of her + own past sorrows. In a little while, she was merry—merrier, + notwithstanding her weakness, than I think I had ever seen her before. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that comical sparrow,” she said. “Look how he cocks his head + first on one side and then on the other. Does he want us to see him? Is he + bumptious, or what?” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know, my dear. I think sparrows are very like schoolboys; and I + suspect that if we understood the one class thoroughly, we should + understand the other. But I confess I do not yet understand either.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will when Charlie and Harry are old enough to go to school,” + said Connie. + </p> + <p> + “It is my only chance of making any true acquaintance with the sparrows,” + I answered. “Look at them now,” I exclaimed, as a little crowd of them + suddenly appeared where only one had stood a moment before, and exploded + in objurgation and general unintelligible excitement. After some obscure + fluttering of wings and pecking, they all vanished except two, which + walked about in a dignified manner, trying apparently to seem quite + unconscious each of the other’s presence. + </p> + <p> + “I think it was a political meeting of some sort,” said Connie, laughing + merrily. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they have this advantage over us,” I answered, “that they get + through their business whatever it may be, with considerably greater + expedition than we get through ours.” + </p> + <p> + A short silence followed, during which Connie lay contemplating + everything. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think we girls are like, then, papa?” she asked at length. + “Don’t say you don’t know, now.” + </p> + <p> + “I ought to know something more about you than I do about schoolboys. And + I think I do know a little about girls—not much though. They puzzle + me a good deal sometimes. I know what a great-hearted woman is, Connie.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t help doing that, papa,” interrupted Connie, adding with her old + roguishness, “You mustn’t pass yourself off for very knowing for that. By + the time Wynnie is quite grown up, your skill will be tried.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope I shall understand her then, and you too, Connie.” + </p> + <p> + A shadow, just like the shadow of one of those white clouds above us, + passed over her face, and she said, trying to smile: + </p> + <p> + “I shall never grow up, papa. If I live, I shall only be a girl at best—a + creature you can’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, Connie, I think I understand you almost as well as + mamma. But there isn’t so much to understand yet, you know, as there will + be.” + </p> + <p> + Her merriment returned. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what girls are like, then, or I shall sulk all day because you + say there isn’t so much in me as in mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I think, if the boys are like sparrows, the girls are like + swallows. Did you ever watch them before rain, Connie, skimming about over + the lawn as if it were water, low towards its surface, but never + alighting? You never see them grubbing after worms. Nothing less than + things with wings like themselves will satisfy them. They will be obliged + to the earth only for a little mud to build themselves nests with. For the + rest, they live in the air, and on the creatures of the air. And then, + when they fancy the air begins to be uncivil, sending little shoots of + cold through their warm feathers, they vanish. They won’t stand it. + They’re off to a warmer climate, and you never know till you find they’re + not there any more. There, Connie!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, papa, whether you are making game of us or not. If you are + not, then I wish all you say were quite true of us. If you are then I + think it is not quite like you to be satirical.” + </p> + <p> + “I am no believer in satire, Connie. And I didn’t mean any. The swallows + are lovely creatures, and there would be no harm if the girls were a + little steadier than the swallows. Further satire than that I am innocent + of.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mind that much, papa. Only I’m steady enough, and no thanks to me + for it,” she added with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Connie,” I said, “it’s all for the sake of your wings that you’re kept in + your nest.” + </p> + <p> + She did not stay out long this first day, for the life the air gave her + soon tired her weak body. But the next morning she was brighter and + better, and longing to get up and go out again. When she was once more + laid on her couch on the lawn, in the midst of the world of light and + busy-ness, in which the light was the busiest of all, she said to me: + </p> + <p> + “Papa, I had such a strange dream last night: shall I tell it you?” + </p> + <p> + “If you please, my dear. I am very fond of dreams that have any sense in + them—or even of any that have good nonsense in them. I woke this + morning, saying to myself, ‘Dante, the poet, must have been a respectable + man, for he was permitted by the council of Florence to carry the Nicene + Creed and the Multiplication Table in his coat of arms.’ Now tell me your + dream.” + </p> + <p> + Connie laughed. All the household tried to make Connie laugh, and + generally succeeded. It was quite a triumph to Charlie or Harry, and was + sure to be recounted with glee at the next meal, when he succeeded in + making Connie laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Mine wasn’t a dream to make me laugh. It was too dreadful at first, and + too delightful afterwards. I suppose it was getting out for the first time + yesterday that made me dream it. I thought I was lying quite still, + without breathing even, with my hands straight down by my sides and my + eyes closed. I did not choose to open them, for I knew that if I did I + should see nothing but the inside of the lid of my coffin. I did not mind + it much at first, for I was very quiet, and not uncomfortable. Everything + was as silent as it should be, for I was ten feet and a half under the + surface of the earth in the churchyard. Old Sogers was not far from me on + one side, and that was a comfort; only there was a thick wall of earth + between. But as the time went on, I began to get uncomfortable. I could + not help thinking how long I should have to wait for the resurrection. + Somehow I had forgotten all that you teach us about that. Perhaps it was a + punishment—the dream—for forgetting it.” + </p> + <p> + “Silly child! Your dream is far better than your reflections.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ll go on with my dream. I lay a long time till I got very tired, + and wanted to get up, O, so much! But still I lay, and although I tried, I + could not move hand or foot. At last I burst out crying. I was ashamed of + crying in my coffin, but I couldn’t bear it any longer. I thought I was + quite disgraced, for everybody was expected to be perfectly quiet and + patient down there. But the moment I began to cry, I heard a sound. And + when I listened it was the sound of spades and pickaxes. It went on and + on, and came nearer and nearer. And then—it was so strange—I + was dreadfully frightened at the idea of the light and the wind, and of + the people seeing me in my coffin and my night-dress, and tried to + persuade myself that it was somebody else they were digging for, or that + they were only going to lay another coffin over mine. And I thought that + if it was you, papa, I shouldn’t mind how long I lay there, for I + shouldn’t feel a bit lonely, even though we could not speak a word to each + other all the time. But the sounds came on, nearer and nearer, and at last + a pickaxe struck, with a blow that jarred me all through, upon the lid of + the coffin, right over my head. + </p> + <p> + “‘Here she is, poor thing!’ I heard a sweet voice say. + </p> + <p> + “‘I’m so glad we’ve found her,’ said another voice. + </p> + <p> + “‘She couldn’t bear it any longer,’ said a third more pitiful voice than + either of the others. ‘I heard her first,’ it went on. ‘I was away up in + Orion, when I thought I heard a woman crying that oughtn’t to be crying. + And I stopped and listened. And I heard her again. Then I knew that it was + one of the buried ones, and that she had been buried long enough, and was + ready for the resurrection. So as any business can wait except that, I + flew here and there till I fell in with the rest of you.’ + </p> + <p> + “I think, papa, that this must have been because of what you were saying + the other evening about the mysticism of St. Paul; that while he defended + with all his might the actual resurrection of Christ and the resurrection + of those he came to save, he used it as meaning something more yet, as a + symbol for our coming out of the death of sin into the life of truth. + Isn’t that right, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear; I believe so. But I want to hear your dream first, and then + your way of accounting for it.” + </p> + <p> + “There isn’t much more of it now.” + </p> + <p> + “There must be the best of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I allow that. Well, while they spoke—it was a wonderfully + clear and connected dream: I never had one like it for that, or for + anything else—they were clearing away the earth and stones from the + top of my coffin. And I lay trembling and expecting to be looked at, like + a thing in a box as I was, every moment. But they lifted me, coffin and + all, out of the grave, for I felt the motion of it up. Then they set it + down, and I heard them taking the lid off. But after the lid was off, it + did not seem to make much difference to me. I could not open my eyes. I + saw no light, and felt no wind blowing upon me. But I heard whispering + about me. Then I felt warm, soft hands washing my face, and then I felt + wafts of wind coming on my face, and thought they came from the waving of + wings. And when they had washed my eyes, the air came upon them so sweet + and cool! and I opened them, I thought, and here I was lying on this + couch, with butterflies and bees flitting and buzzing about me, the brook + singing somewhere near me, and a lark up in the sky. But there were no + angels—only plenty of light and wind and living creatures. And I + don’t think I ever knew before what happiness meant. Wasn’t it a + resurrection, papa, to come out of the grave into such a world as this?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it was, my darling—and a very beautiful and true dream. + There is no need for me to moralise it to you, for you have done so for + yourself already. But not only do I think that the coming out of sin into + goodness, out of unbelief into faith in God, is like your dream; but I do + expect that no dream of such delight can come up to the sense of fresh + life and being that we shall have when we get on the higher body after + this one won’t serve our purpose any longer, and is worn out and cast + aside. The very ability of the mind, whether of itself, or by some + inspiration of the Almighty, to dream such things, is a proof of our + capacity for such things, a proof, I think, that for such things we were + made. Here comes in the chance for faith in God—the confidence in + his being and perfection that he would not have made us capable without + meaning to fill that capacity. If he is able to make us capable, that is + the harder half done already. The other he can easily do. And if he is + love he will do it. You should thank God for that dream, Connie.” + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid to do that, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “That is as much as to fear that there is one place to which David might + have fled, where God would not find him—the most terrible of all + thoughts.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you mean, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Dreamland, my dear. If it is right to thank God for a beautiful thought—I + mean a thought of strength and grace giving you fresh life and hope—why + should you be less bold to thank him when such thoughts arise in plainer + shape—take such vivid forms to your mind that they seem to come + through the doors of the eyes into the vestibule of the brain, and thence + into the inner chambers of the soul?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. THE JOURNEY. + </h2> + <p> + For more than two months Charlie and Harry had been preparing for the + journey. The moment they heard of the prospect of it, they began to + prepare, accumulate, and pack stores both for the transit and the sojourn. + First of all there was an extensive preparation of ginger-beer, + consisting, as I was informed in confidence, of brown sugar, ground + ginger, and cold water. This store was, however, as near as I can judge, + exhausted and renewed about twelve times before the day of departure + arrived; and when at last the auspicious morning dawned, they remembered + with dismay that they had drunk the last drop two days before, and there + was none in stock. Then there was a wonderful and more successful hoarding + of marbles, of a variety so great that my memory refuses to bear the names + of the different kinds, which, I think, must have greatly increased since + the time when I too was a boy, when some marbles—one of real, white + marble with red veins especially—produced in my mind something of + the delight that a work of art produces now. These were carefully + deposited in one of the many divisions of a huge old hair-trunk, which + they had got their uncle Weir, who could use his father’s tools with + pleasure if not to profit, to fit up for them with a multiplicity of + boxes, and cupboards, and drawers, and trays, and slides, that was quite + bewildering. In this same box was stowed also a quantity of hair, the + gleanings of all the horse-tails upon the premises. This was for making + fishing-tackle, with a vague notion on the part of Harry that it was to be + employed in catching whales and crocodiles. Then all their favourite books + were stowed away in the same chest, in especial a packet of a dozen penny + books, of which I think I could give a complete list now. For one + afternoon as I searched about in the lumber-room after a set of old + library steps, which I wanted to get repaired, I came upon the chest, and + opening it, discovered my boys’ hoard, and in it this packet of books. I + sat down on the top of the chest and read them all through, from Jack the + Giant-killer down to Hop o’ my Thumb without rising, and this in the broad + daylight, with the yellow sunshine nestling beside me on the rose-coloured + silken seat, richly worked, of a large stately-looking chair with three + golden legs. Yes I could tell you all those stories, not to say the names + of them, over yet. Only I knew every one of them before; finding now that + they had fared like good vintages, for if they had lost something in + potency, they had gained much in flavour. Harry could not read these, and + Charlie not very well, but they put confidence in them notwithstanding, in + virtue of the red, blue, and yellow prints. Then there was a box of + sawdust, the design of which I have not yet discovered; a huge ball of + string; a rabbit’s skin; a Noah’s ark; an American clock, that refused to + go for all the variety of treatment they gave it; a box of lead-soldiers, + and twenty other things, amongst which was a huge gilt ball having an + eagle of brass with outspread wings on the top of it. + </p> + <p> + Great was their consternation and dismay when they found that this + magazine could not be taken in the post-chaise in which they were to + follow us to the station. A good part of our luggage had been sent on + before us, but the boys had intended the precious box to go with + themselves. Knowing well, however, how little they would miss it, and with + what shouts of south-sea discovery they would greet the forgotten treasure + when they returned, I insisted on the lumbering article being left in + peace. So that, as man goeth treasureless to his grave, whatever he may + have accumulated before the fatal moment, they had to set off for the far + country without chest or ginger-beer—not therefore altogether so + desolate and unprovided for as they imagined. The abandoned treasure was + forgotten the moment the few tears it had occasioned were wiped away. + </p> + <p> + It was the loveliest of mornings when we started upon our journey. The sun + shone, the wind was quiet, and everything was glad. The swallows were + twittering from the corbels they had added to the adornment of the dear + old house. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry to leave the swallows behind,” said Wynnie, as she stepped into + the carriage after her mother. Connie, of course, was already there, eager + and strong-hearted for the journey. + </p> + <p> + We set off. Connie was in delight with everything, especially with all + forms of animal life and enjoyment that we saw on the road. She seemed to + enter into the spirit of the cows feeding on the rich green grass of the + meadows, of the donkeys eating by the roadside, of the horses we met + bravely diligent at their day’s work, as they trudged along the road with + wagon or cart behind them. I sat by the coachman, but so that I could see + her face by the slightest turning of my head. I knew by its expression + that she gave a silent blessing to the little troop of a brown-faced gipsy + family, which came out of a dingy tent to look at the passing carriage. A + fleet of ducklings in a pool, paddling along under the convoy of the + parent duck, next attracted her. + </p> + <p> + “Look; look. Isn’t that delicious?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I should like it though,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “What shouldn’t you like, Wynnie?” asked her mother. + </p> + <p> + “To be in the water and not feel it wet. Those feathers!” + </p> + <p> + “They feel it with their legs and their webby toes,” said Connie. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is some consolation,” answered Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “And if you were a duck, you would feel the good of your feathers in + winter, when you got into your cold bath of a morning.” + </p> + <p> + I give all this chat for the sake of showing how Connie’s illness had not + in the least withdrawn her from nature and her sympathies—had + rather, as it were, made all the fibres of her being more delicate and + sympathetic, so that the things around her could enter her soul even more + easily than before, and what had seemed to shut her out had in reality + brought her into closer contact with the movements of all vitality. + </p> + <p> + We had to pass through the village to reach the railway station. Everybody + almost was out to bid us good-bye. I did not want, for Connie’s sake + chiefly, to have any scene, but recalling something I had forgotten to say + to one of my people, I stopped the carriage to speak to him. The same + instant there was a crowd of women about us. But Connie was the centre of + all their regards. They hardly looked at her mother or sister. Had she + been a martyr who had stood the test and received her aureole, she could + hardly have been more regarded. The common use of the word martyr is a + curious instance of how words get degraded. The sufferings involved in + martyrdom, and not the pure will giving occasion to that suffering, is + fixed upon by the common mind as the martyrdom. The witness-bearing is + lost sight of, except we can suppose that “a martyr to the toothache” + means a witness of the fact of the toothache and its tortures. But while + <i>martyrdom</i> really means a bearing for the sake of the truth, yet + there is a way in which any suffering, even that we have brought upon + ourselves, may become martyrdom. When it is so borne that the sufferer + therein bears witness to the presence and fatherhood of God, in quiet, + hopeful submission to his will, in gentle endurance, and that effort after + cheerfulness which is not seldom to be seen where the effort is hardest to + make; more than all, perhaps, and rarest of all, when it is accepted as + the just and merciful consequence of wrong-doing, and is endured humbly, + and with righteous shame, as the cleansing of the Father’s hand, + indicating that repentance unto life which lifts the sinner out of his + sins, and makes him such that the holiest men of old would talk to him + with gladness and respect, then indeed it may be called a martyrdom. This + latter could not be Connie’s case, but the former was hers, and so far she + might be called a martyr, even as the old women of the village designated + her. + </p> + <p> + After we had again started, our ears were invaded with shouts from the + post-chaise behind us, in which Charlie and Harry, their grief at the + abandoned chest forgotten as if it had never been, were yelling in the + exuberance of their gladness. Dora, more staid as became her years, was + trying to act the matron with them in vain, and old nursie had enough to + do with Miss Connie’s baby to heed what the young gentlemen were about, so + long as explosions of noise was all the mischief. Walter, the man-servant, + who had been with us ten years, and was the main prop of the + establishment, looking after everything and putting his hand to + everything, with an indefinite charge ranging from the nursery to the + wine-cellar, and from the corn-bin to the pig-trough, and who, as we could + not possibly get on without him, sat on the box of the post-chaise beside + the driver from the Griffin, rather connived, I fear, than otherwise at + the noise of the youngsters. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Marshmallows,” they were shouting at the top of their voices, + as if they had just been released from a prison, where they had spent a + wretched childhood; and, as it could hardly offend anybody’s ears on the + open country road I allowed them to shout till they were tired, which + condition fortunately arrived before we reached the station, so that there + was no occasion for me to interfere. I always sought to give them as much + liberty as could be afforded them. + </p> + <p> + At the station we found Weir waiting to see us off, with my sister, now in + wonderful health. Turner was likewise there, and ready to accompany us a + good part of the way. But beyond the valuable assistance he lent us in + moving Connie, no occasion arose for the exercise of his professional + skill. She bore the journey wonderfully, slept not unfrequently, and only + at the end showed herself at length wearied. We stopped three times on the + way: first at Salisbury, where the streams running through the streets + delighted her. There we remained one whole day, but sent the children and + servants, all but my wife’s maid, on before us, under the charge of + Walter. This left us more at our ease. At Exeter, we stopped only the + night, for Connie found herself quite able to go on the next morning. Here + Turner left us, and we missed him very much. Connie looked a little out of + spirits after his departure, but soon recovered herself. The next night we + spent at a small town on the borders of Devonshire, which was the limit of + our railway travelling. Here we remained for another whole day, for the + remnant of the journey across part of Devonshire and Cornwall to the shore + must be posted, and was a good five hours’ work. We started about eleven + o’clock, full of spirits at the thought that we had all but accomplished + the only part of the undertaking about which we had had any uneasiness. + Connie was quite merry. The air was thoroughly warm. We had an open + carriage with a hood. Wynnie sat opposite her mother, Dora and Eliza the + maid in the rumble, and I by the coachman. The road being very hilly, we + had four horses; and with four horses, sunshine, a gentle wind, hope and + thankfulness, who would not be happy? + </p> + <p> + There is a strange delight in motion, which I am not sure that I + altogether understand. The hope of the end as bringing fresh enjoyment has + something to do with it, no doubt; the accompaniments of the motion, the + change of scene, the mystery that lies beyond the next hill or the next + turn in the road, the breath of the summer wind, the scent of the + pine-trees especially, and of all the earth, the tinkling jangle of the + harness as you pass the trees on the roadside, the life of the horses, the + glitter and the shadow, the cottages and the roses and the rosy faces, the + scent of burning wood or peat from the chimneys, these and a thousand + other things combine to make such a journey delightful. But I believe it + needs something more than this—something even closer to the human + life—to account for the pleasure that motion gives us. I suspect it + is its living symbolism; the hidden relations which it bears to the + eternal soul in its aspirations and longings—ever following after, + ever attaining, never satisfied. Do not misunderstand me, my reader. A + man, you will allow, perhaps, may be content although he is not and cannot + be happy: I feel inclined to turn all this the other way, saying that a + man ought always to be happy, never to be content. You will see I do not + say <i>contented</i>; I say <i>content</i>. Here comes in his faith: his + life is hid with Christ in God, measureless, unbounded. All things are + his, to become his by blessed lovely gradations of gift, as his being + enlarges to receive; and if ever the shadow of his own necessary + incompleteness falls upon the man, he has only to remember that in God’s + idea he is complete, only his life is hid from himself with Christ in God + the Infinite. If anyone accuses me here of mysticism, I plead guilty with + gladness: I only hope it may be of that true mysticism which, inasmuch as + he makes constant use of it, St. Paul would understand at once. I leave + it, however. + </p> + <p> + I think I must have been the very happiest of the party myself. No doubt I + was younger much than I am now, but then I was quite middle-aged, with + full confession thereof in gray hairs and wrinkles. Why should not a man + be happy when he is growing old, so long as his faith strengthens the + feeble knees which chiefly suffer in the process of going down the hill? + True, the fever heat is over, and the oil burns more slowly in the lamp of + life; but if there is less fervour, there is more pervading warmth; if + less of fire, more of sunshine; there is less smoke and more light. + Verily, youth is good, but old age is better—to the man who forsakes + not his youth when his youth forsakes him. The sweet visitings of nature + do not depend upon youth or romance, but upon that quiet spirit whose + meekness inherits the earth. The smell of that field of beans gives me + more delight now than ever it could have given me when I was a youth. And + if I ask myself why I find it is simply because I have more faith now than + I had then. It came to me then as an accident of nature—a passing + pleasure flung to me only as the dogs’ share of the crumbs. Now I believe + that God <i>means</i> that odour of the bean-field; that when Jesus + smelled such a scent about Jerusalem or in Galilee, he thought of his + Father. And if God means it, it is mine, even if I should never smell it + again. The music of the spheres is mine if old age should make me deaf as + the adder. Am I mystical again, reader? Then I hope you are too, or will + be before you have done with this same beautiful mystical life of ours. + More and more nature becomes to me one of God’s books of poetry—not + his grandest—that is history—but his loveliest, perhaps. + </p> + <p> + And ought I not to have been happy when all who were with me were happy? I + will not run the risk of wearying even my contemplative reader by + describing to him the various reflexes of happiness that shone from the + countenances behind me in the carriage, but I will try to hit each off in + a word, or a single simile. My Ethelwyn’s face was bright with the + brightness of a pale silvery moon that has done her harvest work, and, a + little weary, lifts herself again into the deeper heavens from stooping + towards the earth. Wynnie’s face was bright with the brightness of the + morning star, ever growing pale and faint over the amber ocean that + brightens at the sun’s approach; for life looked to Wynnie severe in its + light, and somewhat sad because severe. Connie’s face was bright with the + brightness of a lake in the rosy evening, the sound of the river flowing + in and the sound of the river flowing forth just audible, but itself + still, and content to be still and mirror the sunset. Dora’s was bright + with the brightness of a marigold that follows the sun without knowing it; + and Eliza’s was bright with the brightness of a half-blown cabbage rose, + radiating good-humour. This last is not a good simile, but I cannot find a + better. I confess failure, and go on. + </p> + <p> + After stopping once to bait, during which operation Connie begged to be + carried into the parlour of the little inn that she might see the china + figures that were certain to be on the chimney-piece, as indeed they were, + where she drank a whole tumbler of new milk before we lifted her to carry + her back, we came upon a wide high moorland country the roads through + which were lined with gorse in full golden bloom, while patches of heather + all about were showing their bells, though not yet in their autumnal + outburst of purple fire. Here I began to be reminded of Scotland, in which + I had travelled a good deal between the ages of twenty and + five-and-twenty. The further I went the stronger I felt the resemblance. + The look of the fields, the stone fences that divided them, the shape and + colour and materials of the houses, the aspect of the people, the feeling + of the air, and of the earth and sky generally, made me imagine myself in + a milder and more favoured Scotland. The west wind was fresh, but had none + of that sharp edge which one can so often detect in otherwise warm winds + blowing under a hot sun. Though she had already travelled so many miles, + Connie brightened up within a few minutes after we got on this moor; and + we had not gone much farther before a shout from the rumble informed us + that keen-eyed little Dora had discovered the Atlantic: a dip in the high + coast revealed it blue and bright. We soon lost sight of it again, but in + Connie’s eyes it seemed to linger still. As often as I looked round, the + blue of them seemed the reflection of the sea in their little convex + mirrors. Ethelwyn’s eyes, too, were full of it, and a flush on her + generally pale cheek showed that she too expected the ocean. After a few + miles along this breezy expanse, we began to descend towards the + sea-level. Down the winding of a gradual slope, interrupted by steep + descents, we approached this new chapter in our history. We came again + upon a few trees here and there, all with their tops cut off in a plane + inclined upwards away from the sea. For the sea-winds, like a sweeping + scythe, bend the trees all away towards the land, and keep their tops mown + with their sharp rushing, keen with salt spray off the crests of the + broken waves. Then we passed through some ancient villages, with streets + narrow, and steep and sharp-angled, that needed careful driving and the + frequent pressure of the break upon the wheel. And now the sea shone upon + us with nearer greeting, and we began to fancy we could hear its talk with + the shore. At length we descended a sharp hill, reached the last level, + drove over a bridge and down the line of the stream, saw the land vanish + in the sea—a wide bay; then drove over another wooden drawbridge, + and along the side of a canal in which lay half-a-dozen sloops and + schooners. Then came a row of pretty cottages; then a gate, and an ascent, + and ere we reached the rectory, we were aware of its proximity by loud + shouts, and the sight of Charlie and Harry scampering along the top of a + stone wall to meet us. This made their mother nervous, but she kept quiet, + knowing that unrestrained anxiety is always in danger of bringing about + the evil it fears. A moment after, we drew up at a long porch, leading + through the segment of a circle to the door of the house. The journey was + over. We got down in the little village of Kilkhaven, in the county of + Cornwall. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED. + </h2> + <p> + We carried Connie in first of all, of course, and into the room which + nurse had fixed upon for her—the best in the house, of course, + again. She did seem tired now, and no wonder. She had a cup of tea at + once, and in half an hour dinner was ready, of which we were all very + glad. After dinner I went up to Connie’s room. There I found her fast + asleep on the sofa, and Wynnie as fast asleep on the floor beside her. The + drive and the sea air had had the same effect on both of them. But pleased + as I was to see Connie sleeping so sweetly, I was even more pleased to see + Wynnie asleep on the floor. What a wonderful satisfaction it may give to a + father and mother to see this or that child asleep! It is when her kittens + are asleep that the cat creeps away to look after her own comforts. Our + cat chose to have her kittens in my study once, and as I would not have + her further disturbed than to give them another cushion to lie on in place + of that which belonged to my sofa, I had many opportunities of watching + them as I wrote, or prepared my sermons. But I must not talk about the cat + and her kittens now. When parents see their children asleep, especially if + they have been suffering in any way, they breathe more freely; a load is + lifted off their minds; their responsibility seems over; the children have + gone back to their Father, and he alone is looking after them for a while. + Now, I had not been comfortable about Wynnie for some time, and especially + during our journey, and still more especially during the last part of our + journey. There was something amiss with her. She seemed constantly more or + less dejected, as if she had something to think about that was too much + for her, although, to tell the truth, I really believe now that she had + not quite enough to think about. Some people can thrive tolerably without + much thought: at least, they both live comfortably without it, and do not + seem to be capable of effecting it if it were required of them; while for + others a large amount of mental and spiritual operation is necessary for + the health of both body and mind, and when the matter or occasion for so + much is not afforded them, the consequence is analogous to what follows + when a healthy physical system is not supplied with sufficient food: the + oxygen, the source of life, begins to consume the life itself; it tears up + the timbers of the house to burn against the cold. Or, to use a different + simile, when the Moses-rod of circumstance does not strike the rock and + make the waters flow, such a mind—one that must think to live—will + go digging into itself, and is in danger of injuring the very fountain of + thought, by drawing away its living water into ditches and stagnant pools. + This was, I say, the case in part with my Wynnie, although I did not + understand it at that moment. She did not look quite happy, did not always + meet a smile with a smile, looked almost reprovingly upon the frolics of + the little brother-imps, and though kindness itself when any real hurt or + grief befell them, had reverted to her old, somewhat dictatorial manner, + of which I have already spoken as interrupted by Connie’s accident. To her + mother and me she was service itself, only service without the smile which + is as the flame of the sacrifice and makes it holy. So we were both a + little uneasy about her, for we did not understand her. On the journey she + had seemed almost annoyed at Connie’s ecstasies, and said to Dora many + times: “Do be quiet, Dora;” although there was not a single creature but + ourselves within hearing, and poor Connie seemed only delighted with the + child’s explosions. So I was—but although I say <i>so</i>, I hardly + know why I was pleased to see her thus, except it was from a vague belief + in the anodyne of slumber. But this pleasure did not last long; for as I + stood regarding my two treasures, even as if my eyes had made her + uncomfortable, she suddenly opened hers, and started to her feet, with the + words, “I beg your pardon, papa,” looking almost guiltily round her, and + putting up her hair hurriedly, as if she had committed an impropriety in + being caught untidy. This was fresh sign of a condition of mind that was + not healthy. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” I said, “what do you beg my pardon for? I was so pleased to see + you asleep! and you look as if you thought I were going to scold you.” + </p> + <p> + “O papa,” she said, laying her head on my shoulder, “I am afraid I must be + very naughty. I so often feel now as if I were doing something wrong, or + rather as if you would think I was doing something wrong. I am sure there + must be something wicked in me somewhere, though I do not clearly know + what it is. When I woke up now, I felt as if I had neglected something, + and you had come to find fault with me. <i>Is</i> there anything, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing whatever, my child. But you cannot be well when you feel like + that.” + </p> + <p> + “I am perfectly well, so far as I know. I was so cross to Dora to-day! Why + shouldn’t I feel happy when everybody else is? I must be wicked, papa.” + </p> + <p> + Here Connie woke up. + </p> + <p> + “There now! I’ve waked Connie,” Wynnie resumed. “I’m always doing + something I ought not to do. Please go to sleep again, Connie, and take + that sin off my poor conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense is Wynnie talking about being wicked?” asked Connie. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t nonsense, Connie. You know I am.” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing of the sort, Wynnie. If it were me now! And yet I don’t <i>feel</i> + wicked.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear children,” I said, “we must all pray to God for his Spirit, and + then we shall feel just as we ought to feel. It is not for anyone to say + to himself how he ought to feel at any given moment; still less for one + man to say to another how he ought to feel; that is in the former case to + do as St. Paul says he had learned to give up doing—to judge our own + selves, which ought to be left to God; in the latter case it is to do what + our Lord has told us expressly we are not to do—to judge other + people. You get your bonnet, Wynnie, and come out with me. I am going to + explore a little of this desert island upon which we have been cast away. + And you, Connie, just to please Wynnie, must try and go to sleep again.” + </p> + <p> + Wynnie ran for her bonnet, a little afraid perhaps that I was going to + talk seriously to her, but showing no reluctance anyhow to accompany me. + </p> + <p> + Now I wonder whether it will be better to tell what we saw, or only what + we talked about, and give what we saw in the shape in which we reported it + to Connie, when we came back into her room, bearing, like the spies who + went to search the land, our bunch of grapes, that is, of sweet news of + nature, to her who could not go to gather them for herself. I think it + will be the best plan to take part of both plans. + </p> + <p> + When we left the door of the house, we went up the few steps of a stair + leading on to the downs, against and amidst, and indeed <i>in</i>, the + rocks, buttressing the sea-edge of which our new abode was built. A life + for a big-winged angel seemed waiting us upon those downs. The wind still + blew from the west, both warm and strong—I mean strength-giving—and + the wind was the first thing we were aware of. The ground underfoot was + green and soft and springy, and sprinkled all over with the bright + flowers, chiefly yellow, that live amidst the short grasses of the downs, + the shadows of whose unequal surface were now beginning to be thrown east, + for the sun was going seawards. I stood up, stretched out my arms, threw + back my shoulders and my head, and filled my chest with a draught of the + delicious wind, feeling thereafter like a giant refreshed with wine. + Wynnie stood apparently unmoved amidst the life-nectar, thoughtful, and + turning her eyes hither and thither. + </p> + <p> + “That makes me feel young again,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I wish it would make me feel old then,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “Because then I should have a chance of knowing what it is like to feel + young,” she answered rather enigmatically. I did not reply. We were + walking up the brow which hid the sea from us. The smell of the down-turf + was indescribable in its homely delicacy; and by the time we had reached + the top, almost every sense was filled with its own delight. The top of + the hill was the edge of the great shore-cliff; and the sun was hanging on + the face of the mightier sky-cliff opposite, and the sea stretched for + visible miles and miles along the shore on either hand, its wide blue + mantle fringed with lovely white wherever it met the land, and scalloped + into all fantastic curves, according to the whim of the nether fires which + had formed its bed; and the rush of the waves, as they bore the rising + tide up on the shore, was the one music fit for the whole. Ear and eye, + touch and smell, were alike invaded with blessedness. I ought to have kept + this to give my reader in Connie’s room; but he shall share with her + presently. The sense of space—of mighty room for life and growth—filled + my soul, and I thanked God in my heart. The wind seemed to bear that + growth into my soul, even as the wind of God first breathed into man’s + nostrils the breath of life, and the sun was the pledge of the fulfilment + of every aspiration. I turned and looked at Wynnie. She stood pleased but + listless amidst that which lifted me into the heaven of the Presence. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you enjoy all this grandeur, Wynnie?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you I was very wicked, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “And I told you not to say so, Wynnie.” + </p> + <p> + “You see I cannot enjoy it, papa. I wonder why it is.” + </p> + <p> + “I suspect it is because you haven’t room, Wynnie.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you mean something more than I know, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean, my dear, that it is not because you are wicked, but because you + do not know God well enough, and therefore your being, which can only live + in him, is ‘cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in.’ It is only in him that + the soul has room. In knowing him is life and its gladness. The secret of + your own heart you can never know; but you can know Him who knows its + secret. Look up, my darling; see the heavens and the earth. You do not + feel them, and I do not call upon you to feel them. It would be both + useless and absurd to do so. But just let them look at you for a moment, + and then tell me whether it must not be a blessed life that creates such a + glory as this All.” + </p> + <p> + She stood silent for a moment, looked up at the sky, looked round on the + earth, looked far across the sea to the setting sun, and then turned her + eyes upon me. They were filled with tears, but whether from feeling, or + sorrow that she could not feel, I would not inquire. I made haste to speak + again. + </p> + <p> + “As this world of delight surrounds and enters your bodily frame, so does + God surround your soul and live in it. To be at home with the awful source + of your being, through the child-like faith which he not only permits, but + requires, and is ever teaching you, or rather seeking to rouse up in you, + is the only cure for such feelings as those that trouble you. Do not say + it is too high for you. God made you in his own image, therefore capable + of understanding him. For this final end he sent his Son, that the Father + might with him come into you, and dwell with you. Till he does so, the + temple of your soul is vacant; there is no light behind the veil, no + cloudy pillar over it; and the priests, your thoughts, feelings, loves, + and desires, moan, and are troubled—for where is the work of the + priest when the God is not there? When He comes to you, no mystery, no + unknown feeling, will any longer distress you. You will say, ‘He knows, + though I do not.’ And you will be at the secret of the things he has made. + You will feel what they are, and that which his will created in gladness + you will receive in joy. One glimmer of the present God in this glory + would send you home singing. But do not think I blame you, Wynnie, for + feeling sad. I take it rather as the sign of a large life in you, that + will not be satisfied with little things. I do not know when or how it may + please God to give you the quiet of mind that you need; but I tell you + that I believe it is to be had; and in the mean time, you must go on doing + your work, trusting in God even for this. Tell him to look at your sorrow, + ask him to come and set it right, making the joy go up in your heart by + his presence. I do not know when this may be, I say, but you must have + patience, and till he lays his hand on your head, you must be content to + wash his feet with your tears. Only he will be better pleased if your + faith keep you from weeping and from going about your duties mournful. Try + to be brave and cheerful for the sake of Christ, and for the sake of your + confidence in the beautiful teaching of God, whose course and scope you + cannot yet understand. Trust, my daughter, and let that give you courage + and strength.” + </p> + <p> + Now the sky and the sea and the earth must have made me able to say these + things to her; but I knew that, whatever the immediate occasion of her + sadness, such was its only real cure. Other things might, in virtue of the + will of God that was in them, give her occupation and interest enough for + a time, but nothing would do finally, but God himself. Here I was sure I + was safe; here I knew lay the hunger of humanity. Humanity may, like other + vital forms, diseased systems, fix on this or that as the object not + merely of its desire but of its need: it can never be stilled by less than + the bread of life—the very presence in the innermost nature of the + Father and the Son. + </p> + <p> + We walked on together. Wynnie made me no reply, but, weeping silently, + clung to my arm. We walked a long way by the edge of the cliffs, beheld + the sun go down, and then turned and went home. When we reached the house, + Wynnie left me, saying only, “Thank you, papa. I think it is all true. I + will try to be a better girl.” + </p> + <p> + I went straight to Connie’s room: she was lying as I saw her last, looking + out of her window. + </p> + <p> + “Connie,” I said, “Wynnie and I have had such a treat—such a + sunset!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen a little of the light of it on the waves in the bay there, but + the high ground kept me from seeing the sunset itself. Did it set in the + sea?” + </p> + <p> + “You do want the General Gazetteer, after all, Connie. Is that water the + Atlantic, or is it not? And if it be, where on earth could the sun set but + in it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, papa. What a goose I am! But don’t make game of me—<i>please</i>. + I am too deliciously happy to be made game of to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t make game of you, my darling. I will tell you about the sunset—the + colours of it, at least. This must be one of the best places in the whole + world to see sunsets.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have had no tea, papa. I thought you would come and have your tea + with me. But you were so long, that mamma would not let me wait any + longer.” + </p> + <p> + “O, never mind the tea, my dear. But Wynnie has had none. You’ve got a + tea-caddy of your own, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and a teapot; and there’s the kettle on the hob—for I can’t do + without a little fire in the evenings.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll make some tea for Wynnie and myself, and tell you at the same + time about the sunset. I never saw such colours. I cannot tell you what it + was like while the sun was yet going down, for the glory of it has burned + the memory of it out of me. But after the sun was down, the sky remained + thinking about him; and the thought of the sky was in delicate translucent + green on the horizon, just the colour of the earth etherealised and + glorified—a broad band; then came another broad band of pale + rose-colour; and above that came the sky’s own eternal blue, pale + likewise, but so sure and changeless. I never saw the green and the blue + divided and harmonised by the rose-colour before. It was a wonderful + sight. If it is warm enough to-morrow, we will carry you out on the + height, that you may see what the evening will bring.” + </p> + <p> + “There is one thing about sunsets,” returned Connie—“two things, + that make me rather sad—about themselves, not about anything else. + Shall I tell you them?” + </p> + <p> + “Do, my love. There are few things more precious to learn than the effects + of Nature upon individual minds. And there is not a feeling of yours, my + child, that is not of value to me.” + </p> + <p> + “You are so kind, papa! I am so glad of my accident. I think I should + never have known how good you are but for that. But my thoughts seem so + little worth after you say so much about them.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me be judge of that, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, one thing is, that we shall never, never, never, see the same + sunset again.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true. But why should we? God does not care to do the same thing + over again. When it is once done, it is done, and he goes on doing + something new. For, to all eternity, he never will have done showing + himself by new, fresh things. It would be a loss to do the same thing + again.” + </p> + <p> + “But that just brings me to my second trouble. The thing is lost. I forget + it. Do what I can, I cannot remember sunsets. I try to fix them fast in my + memory, that I may recall them when I want them; but just as they fade out + of the sky, all into blue or gray, so they fade out of my mind and leave + it as if they had never been there—except perhaps two or three. Now, + though I did not see this one, yet, after you have talked about it, I + shall never forget <i>it</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not, and never will be, as if they had never been. They have their + influence, and leave that far deeper than your memory—in your very + being, Connie. But I have more to say about it, although it is only an + idea, hardly an assurance. Our brain is necessarily an imperfect + instrument. For its right work, perhaps it is needful that it should + forget in part. But there are grounds for believing that nothing is ever + really forgotten. I think that, when we have a higher existence than we + have now, when we are clothed with that spiritual body of which St. Paul + speaks, you will be able to recall any sunset you have ever seen with an + intensity proportioned to the degree of regard and attention you gave it + when it was present to you. But here comes Wynnie to see how you are.—I’ve + been making some tea for you, Wynnie, my love.” + </p> + <p> + “O, thank you, papa—I shall be so glad of some tea!” said Wynnie, + the paleness of whose face showed the red rims of her eyes the more + plainly. She had had what girls call a good cry, and was clearly the + better for it. + </p> + <p> + The same moment my wife came in. “Why didn’t you send for me, Harry, to + get your tea?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I did not deserve any, seeing I had disregarded proper times and seasons. + But I knew you must be busy.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been superintending the arrangement of bedrooms, and the + unpacking, and twenty different things,” said Ethelwyn. “We shall be so + comfortable! It is such a curious house! Have you had a nice walk?” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, I never had such a walk in my life,” returned Wynnie. “You would + think the shore had been built for the sake of the show—just for a + platform to see sunsets from. And the sea! Only the cliffs will be rather + dangerous for the children.” + </p> + <p> + “I have just been telling Connie about the sunset. She could see something + of the colours on the water, but not much more.” + </p> + <p> + “O, Connie, it will be so delightful to get you out here! Everything is so + big! There is such room everywhere! But it must be awfully windy in + winter,” said Wynnie, whose nature was always a little prospective, if not + apprehensive. + </p> + <p> + But I must not keep my reader longer upon mere family chat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN. + </h2> + <p> + Our dining-room was one story below the level at which we had entered the + parsonage; for, as I have said, the house was built into the face of the + cliff, just where it sunk nearly to the level of the shores of the bay. + While at dinner, on the evening of our arrival, I kept looking from the + window, of course, and I saw before me, first a little bit of garden, + mostly in turf, then a low stone wall; beyond, over the top of the wall, + the blue water of the bay; then beyond the water, all alive with light and + motion, the rocks and sand-hills of the opposite side of the little bay, + not a quarter of a mile across. I could likewise see where the shore went + sweeping out and away to the north, with rock after rock standing far into + the water, as if gazing over the awful wild, where there was nothing to + break the deathly waste between Cornwall and Newfoundland. But for the + moment I did not regard the huge power lying outside so much as the merry + blue bay between me and those rocks and sand-hills. If I moved my head a + little to the right, I saw, over the top of the low wall already + mentioned, and apparently quite close to it the slender yellow masts of a + schooner, her mainsail hanging loose from the gaff, whose peak was + lowered. We must, I thought, be on the very harbour-quay. When I went out + for my walk with Wynnie, I had turned from the bay, and gone to the brow + of the cliffs overhanging the open sea on our own side of it. + </p> + <p> + When I came down to breakfast in the same room next morning, I stared. The + blue had changed to yellow. The life of the water was gone. Nothing met my + eyes but a wide expanse of dead sand. You could walk straight across the + bay to the hills opposite. From the look of the rocks, from the + perpendicular cliffs on the coast, I had almost, without thinking, + concluded that we were on the shore of a deep-water bay. It was + high-water, or nearly so, then; and now, when I looked westward, it was + over a long reach of sands, on the far border of which the white fringe of + the waves was visible, as if there was their <i>hitherto</i>, and further + towards us they could not come. Beyond the fringe lay the low hill of the + Atlantic. To add to my confusion, when I looked to the right, that is, up + the bay towards the land, there was no schooner there. I went out at the + window, which opened from the room upon the little lawn, to look, and then + saw in a moment how it was. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, my dear,” I said to my wife, “we are just at the mouth of + that canal we saw as we came along? There are gates and a lock just + outside there. The schooner that was under this window last night must + have gone in with the tide. She is lying in the basin above now.” + </p> + <p> + “O, yes, papa,” Charlie and Harry broke in together. “We saw it go up this + morning. We’ve been out ever so long. It was so funny,” Charlie went on—everything + was <i>funny</i> with Charlie—“to see it rise up like a + Jack-in-the-box, and then slip into the quiet water through the other + gates!” + </p> + <p> + And when I thought about the waves tumbling and breaking away out there, + and the wide yellow sands between, it was wonderful—which was what + Charlie meant by funny—to see the little vessel lying so many feet + above it all, in a still plenty of repose, gathering strength, one might + fancy to rush out again, when its time was come, into the turmoil beyond, + and dash its way through the breasts of the billows. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast we had prayers, as usual, and after a visit to Connie, + whom I found tired, but wonderfully well, I went out for a walk by myself, + to explore the neighbourhood, find the church, and, in a word, do + something to shake myself into my new garments. The day was glorious. I + wandered along a green path, in the opposite direction from our walk the + evening before, with a fir-wood on my right hand, and a belt of feathery + tamarisks on my left, behind which lay gardens sloping steeply to a lower + road, where stood a few pretty cottages. Turning a corner, I came suddenly + in sight of the church, on the green down above me—a sheltered yet + commanding situation; for, while the hill rose above it, protecting it + from the east, it looked down the bay, and the Atlantic lay open before + it. All the earth seemed to lie behind it, and all its gaze to be fixed on + the symbol of the infinite. It stood as the church ought to stand, leading + men up the mount of vision, to the verge of the eternal, to send them back + with their hearts full of the strength that springs from hope, by which + alone the true work of the world can be done. And when I saw it I rejoiced + to think that once more I was favoured with a church that had a history. + Of course it is a happy thing to see new churches built wherever there is + need of such; but to the full idea of the building it is necessary that it + should be one in which the hopes and fears, the cares and consolations, + the loves and desires of our forefathers should have been roofed; where + the hearts of those through whom our country has become that which it is—from + whom not merely the life-blood of our bodies, but the life-blood of our + spirits, has come down to us, whose existence and whose efforts have made + it possible for us to be that which we are—have before us worshipped + that Spirit from whose fountain the whole torrent of being flows, who ever + pours fresh streams into the wearying waters of humanity, so ready to + settle down into a stagnant repose. Therefore I would far rather, when I + may, worship in an old church, whose very stones are a history of how men + strove to realise the infinite, compelling even the powers of nature into + the task—as I soon found on the very doorway of this church, where + the ripples of the outspread ocean, and grotesque imaginations of the + monsters of its deeps, fixed, as it might seem, for ever in stone, gave a + distorted reflex, from the little mirror of the artist’s mind, of that + mighty water, so awful, so significant to the human eye, which yet lies in + the hollow of the Father’s palm, like the handful that the weary traveller + lifts from the brook by the way. It is in virtue of the truth that went + forth in such and such like attempts that we are able to hold our portion + of the infinite reality which God only knows. They have founded our Church + for us, and such a church as this will stand for the symbol of it; for + here we too can worship the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob—the + God of Sidney, of Hooker, of Herbert. This church of Kilkhaven, old and + worn, rose before me a history in stone—so beaten and swept about by + the “wild west wind,” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers + Cleave themselves into chasms,” + </pre> + <p> + and so streamed upon, and washed, and dissolved, by the waters lifted from + the sea and borne against it on the upper tide of the wind, that you could + almost fancy it one of those churches that have been buried for ages + beneath the encroaching waters, lifted again, by some mighty revulsion of + nature’s heart, into the air of the sweet heavens, there to stand marked + for ever with the tide-flows of the nether world—scooped, and + hollowed, and worn like aeonian rocks that have slowly, but for ever, + responded to the swirl and eddy of the wearing waters. So, from the most + troublous of times, will the Church of our land arise, in virtue of what + truth she holds, and in spite, if she rises at all, of the worldliness of + those who, instead of seeking her service, have sought and gained the + dignities which, if it be good that she have it in her power to bestow + them, need the corrective of a sharply wholesome persecution which of late + times she has not known. But God knows, and the fire will come in its + course—first in the form of just indignation, it may be, against her + professed servants, and then in the form of the furnace seven times + heated, in which the true builders shall yet walk unhurt save as to their + mortal part. + </p> + <p> + I looked about for some cottage where the sexton might be supposed to + live, and spied a slated roof, nearly on a level with the road, at a + little distance in front of me. I could at least inquire there. Before I + reached it, however, an elderly woman came out and approached me. She was + dressed in a white cap and a dark-coloured gown. On her face lay a certain + repose which attracted me. She looked as if she had suffered but had + consented to it, and therefore could smile. Her smile lay near the + surface. A kind word was enough to draw it up from the well where it lay + shimmering: you could always see the smile there, whether it was born or + not. But even when she smiled, in the very glimmering of that moonbeam, + you could see the deep, still, perhaps dark, waters under. O! if one could + but understand what goes on in the souls that have no words, perhaps no + inclination, to set it forth! What had she endured? How had she learned to + have that smile always near? What had consoled her, and yet left her her + grief—turned it, perhaps, into hope? Should I ever know? + </p> + <p> + She drew near me, as if she would have passed me, as she would have done, + had I not spoken. I think she came towards me to give me the opportunity + of speaking if I wished, but she would not address me. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning,” I said. “Can you tell me where to find the sexton?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” she answered, with a gleam of the smile brightening + underneath her old skin, as it were, “I be all the sexton you be likely to + find this mornin’, sir. My husband, he be gone out to see one o’ Squire + Tregarva’s hounds as was took ill last night. So if you want to see the + old church, sir, you’ll have to be content with an old woman to show you, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be quite content, I assure you,” I answered. “Will you go and get + the key?” + </p> + <p> + “I have the key in my pocket, sir; for I thought that would be what you’d + be after, sir. And by the time you come to my age, sir, you’ll learn to + think of your old bones, sir. I beg your pardon for making so free. For + mayhap, says I to myself, he be the gentleman as be come to take Mr. + Shepherd’s duty for him. Be ye now, sir?” + </p> + <p> + All this was said in a slow sweet subdued tone, nearly of one pitch. You + would have felt that she claimed the privilege of age with a kind of + mournful gaiety, but was careful, and anxious even, not to presume upon + it, and, therefore, gentle as a young girl. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I answered. “My name is Walton I have come to take the place of my + friend Mr. Shepherd; and, of course, I want to see the church.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she be a bee-utiful old church. Some things, I think, sir, grows + more beautiful the older they grows. But it ain’t us, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not so sure of that,” I said. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, there’s my little grandson in the cottage there: he’ll never + be so beautiful again. Them children du be the loves. But we all grows + uglier as we grows older. Churches don’t seem to, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not so sure about all that,” I said again. + </p> + <p> + “They did say, sir, that I was a pretty girl once. I’m not much to look at + now.” + </p> + <p> + And she smiled with such a gracious amusement, that I felt at once that if + there was any vanity left in this memory of her past loveliness, it was + sweet as the memory of their old fragrance left in the withered leaves of + the roses. + </p> + <p> + “But it du not matter, du it, sir? Beauty is only skin-deep.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe that,” I answered. “Beauty is as deep as the heart at + least.” + </p> + <p> + “Well to be sure, my old husband du say I be as handsome in his eyes as + ever I be. But I beg your pardon, sir, for talkin’ about myself. I believe + it was the old church—she set us on to it.” + </p> + <p> + “The old church didn’t lead you into any harm then,” I answered. “The + beauty that is in the heart will shine out of the face again some day—be + sure of that. And after all, there is just the same kind of beauty in a + good old face that there is in an old church. You can’t say the church is + so trim and neat as it was the day that the first blast of the organ + filled it as with, a living soul. The carving is not quite so sharp, the + timbers are not quite so clean. There is a good deal of mould and + worm-eating and cobwebs about the old place. Yet both you and I think it + more beautiful now than it was then. Well, I believe it is, as nearly as + possible, the same with an old face. It has got stained, and + weather-beaten, and worn; but if the organ of truth has been playing on + inside the temple of the Lord, which St. Paul says our bodies are, there + is in the old face, though both form and complexion are gone, just the + beauty of the music inside. The wrinkles and the brownness can’t spoil it. + A light shines through it all—that of the indwelling spirit. I wish + we all grew old like the old churches.” + </p> + <p> + She did not reply, but I thought I saw in her face that she understood my + mysticism. We had been walking very slowly, had passed through the quaint + lych-gate, and now the old woman had got the key in the lock of the door, + whose archway was figured and fashioned as I have described above, with a + dozen mouldings or more, most of them “carved so curiously.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. THE OLD CHURCH. + </h2> + <p> + The awe that dwells in churches fell upon me as I crossed the threshold—an + awe I never fail to feel—heightened in many cases, no doubt, by the + sense of antiquity and of art, but an awe which I have felt all the same + in crossing the threshold of an old Puritan conventicle, as the place + where men worship and have worshipped the God of their fathers, although + for art there was only the science of common bricklaying, and for beauty + staring ugliness. To the involuntary fancy, the air of petition and of + holy need seems to linger in the place, and the uncovered head + acknowledges the sacred symbols of human inspiration and divine revealing. + But this was no ordinary church into which I followed the gentlewoman who + was my guide. As entering I turned my eyes eastward, a flush of subdued + glory invaded them from the chancel, all the windows of which were of + richly stained glass, and the roof of carved oak lavishly gilded. I had my + thoughts about this chancel, and thence about chancels generally which may + appear in another part of my story. Now I have to do only with the church, + not with the cogitations to which it gave rise. But I will not trouble my + reader with even what I could tell him of the blending and contradicting + of styles and modes of architectural thought in the edifice. Age is to the + work of contesting human hands a wonderful harmoniser of differences. As + nature brings into harmony all fractures of her frame, and even positive + intrusions upon her realm, clothes and discolours them, in the old sense + of the word, so that at length there is no immediate shock at sight of + that which in itself was crude, and is yet coarse, so the various + architecture of this building had been gone over after the builders by the + musical hand of Eld, with wonder of delicate transition and change of key, + that one could almost fancy the music of its exquisite organ had been at + work <i>informing</i> the building, half melting the sutures, wearing the + sharpness, and blending the angles, until in some parts there was but the + gentle flickering of the original conception left, all its self-assertion + vanished under the file of the air and the gnawing of the worm. True, the + hand of the restorer had been busy, but it had wrought lovingly and + gently, and wherein it had erred, the same influences of nature, though as + yet their effects were invisible, were already at work—of the many + making one. I will not trouble my reader, I say, with any architectural + description, which, possibly even more than a detailed description of + natural beauty dissociated from human feeling, would only weary him, even + if it were not unintelligible. When we are reading a poem, we do not first + of all examine the construction and dwell on the rhymes and rhythms; all + that comes after, if we find that the poem itself is so good that its + parts are therefore worth examining, as being probably good in themselves, + and elucidatory of the main work. There were carvings on the ends of the + benches all along the aisle on both sides, well worth examination, and + some of them even of description; but I shall not linger on these. A word + only about the columns: they supported arches of different fashion on the + opposite sides, but they were themselves similar in matter and + construction, both remarkable. They were of coarse granite of the country, + chiselled, but very far from smooth, not to say polished. Each pillar was + a single stone with chamfered sides. + </p> + <p> + Walking softly through the ancient house, forgetting in the many thoughts + that arose within me that I had a companion, I came at length into the + tower, the basement of which was open, forming part of the body of the + church. There hung many ropes through holes in a ceiling above, for + bell-ringing was encouraged and indeed practised by my friend Shepherd. + And as I regarded them, I thought within myself how delightful it would be + if in these days as in those of Samuel, the word of God was precious; so + that when it came to the minister of his people—a fresh vision of + his glory, a discovery of his meaning—he might make haste to the + church, and into the tower, lay hold of the rope that hung from the + deepest-toned bell of all, and constrain it by the force of strong arms to + utter its voice of call, “Come hither, come hear, my people, for God hath + spoken;” and from the streets or the lanes would troop the eager folk; the + plough be left in the furrow, the cream in the churn; and the crowding + people bring faces into the church, all with one question upon them—“What + hath the Lord spoken?” But now it would be answer sufficient to such a + call to say, “But what will become of the butter?” or, “An hour’s + ploughing will be lost.” And the clergy—how would they bring about + such a time? They do not even believe that God has a word to his people + through them. They think that his word is petrified for use in the Bible + and Prayer-book; that the wise men of old heard so much of the word of + God, and have so set it down, that there is no need for any more words of + the Lord coming to the prophets of a land; therefore they look down upon + the prophesying—that is, the preaching of the word—make light + of it, the best of them, say these prayers are everything, or all but + everything: <i>their</i> hearts are not set upon hearing what God the Lord + will speak that they may speak it abroad to his people again. Therefore it + is no wonder if the church bells are obedient only to the clock, are no + longer subject to the spirit of the minister, and have nothing to do in + telegraphing between heaven and earth. They make little of this part of + their duty; and no wonder, if what is to be spoken must remain such as + they speak. They put the Church for God, and the prayers which are the + word of man to God, for the word of God to man. But when the prophets see + no vision, how should they have any word to speak? + </p> + <p> + These thoughts were passing through my mind when my eye fell upon my + guide. She was seated against the south wall of the tower, on a stool, I + thought, or small table. While I was wandering about the church she had + taken her stocking and wires out of her pocket, and was now knitting + busily. How her needles did go! Her eyes never regarded them, however, + but, fixed on the slabs that paved the tower at a yard or two from her + feet, seemed to be gazing far out to sea, for they had an infinite + objectless outlook. To try her, I took for the moment the position of an + accuser. + </p> + <p> + “So you don’t mind working in church?” I said. + </p> + <p> + When I spoke she instantly rose, her eyes turned as from the far sea-waves + to my face, and light came out of them. With a smile she answered— + </p> + <p> + “The church knows me, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “But what has that to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think she minds it. We are told to be diligent in business, you + know, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but it does not say in church and out of church. You could be + diligent somewhere else, couldn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + As soon as I said this, I began to fear she would think I meant it. But + she only smiled and said, “It won’t hurt she, sir; and my good man, who + does all he can to keep her tidy, is out at toes and heels, and if I don’t + keep he warm he’ll be laid up, and then the church won’t be kep’ nice, + sir, till he’s up again.” + </p> + <p> + I was tempted to go on. + </p> + <p> + “But you could have sat down outside—there are some nice gravestones + near—and waited till I came out.” + </p> + <p> + “But what’s the church for, sir? The sun’s werry hot to-day, sir; and Mr. + Shepherd, he say, sir, that the church is like the shadow of a great rock + in a weary land. So, you see, if I was to sit out in the sun, instead of + comin’ in here to the cool o’ the shadow, I wouldn’t be takin’ the church + at her word. It does my heart good to sit in the old church, sir. There’s + a something do seem to come out o’ the old walls and settle down like the + cool o’ the day upon my old heart that’s nearly tired o’ crying, and would + fain keep its eyes dry for the rest o’ the journey. My old man’s stockin’ + won’t hurt the church, sir, and, bein’ a good deed as I suppose it is, + it’s none the worse for the place. I think, if He was to come by wi’ the + whip o’ small cords, I wouldn’t be afeared of his layin’ it upo’ my old + back. Do you think he would, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Thus driven to speak as I thought, I made haste to reply, more delighted + with the result of my experiment than I cared to let her know. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I do not. I was only talking. It is but selfish, cheating, or + ill-done work that the church’s Master drives away. All our work ought to + be done in the shadow of the church.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you be only having a talk about it, sir,” she said, smiling her + sweet old smile. “Nobody knows what this old church is to me.” + </p> + <p> + Now the old woman had a good husband, apparently: the sorrows which had + left their mark even upon her smile, must have come from her family, I + thought. + </p> + <p> + “You have had a family?” I said, interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had thirteen,” she answered. “Six bys and seven maidens.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you are rich!” I returned. “And where are they all?” + </p> + <p> + “Four maidens be lying in the churchyard, sir; two be married, and one be + down in the mill, there.” + </p> + <p> + “And your boys?” + </p> + <p> + “One of them be lyin’ beside his sisters—drownded afore my eyes, + sir. Three o’ them be at sea, and two o’ them in it, sir.” + </p> + <p> + At sea! I thought. What a wide <i>where</i>! As vague to the imagination, + almost, as <i>in the other world</i>. How a mother’s thoughts must go + roaming about the waste, like birds that have lost their nest, to find + them! + </p> + <p> + As this thought kept me silent for a few moments, she resumed. + </p> + <p> + “It be no wonder, be it, sir? that I like to creep into the church with my + knitting. Many’s the stormy night, when my husband couldn’t keep still, + but would be out on the cliffs or on the breakwater, for no good in life, + but just to hear the roar of the waves that he could only see by the white + of them, with the balls o’ foam flying in his face in the dark—many’s + the such a night that I have left the house after he was gone, with this + blessed key in my hand, and crept into the old church here, and sat down + where I’m sittin’ now—leastways where I was sittin’ when your + reverence spoke to me—and hearkened to the wind howling about the + place. The church windows never rattle, sir—like the cottage + windows, as I suppose you know, sir. Somehow, I feel safe in the church.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you had sons at sea,” said I, again wishing to draw her out, “it + would not be of much good to you to feel safe yourself, so long as they + were in danger.” + </p> + <p> + “O! yes, it be, sir. What’s the good of feeling safe yourself but it let + you know other people be safe too? It’s when you don’t feel safe yourself + that you feel other people ben’t safe.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” I said—and such confidence I had from what she had already + uttered, that I was sure the experiment was not a cruel one—“some of + your sons <i>were</i> drowned for all that you say about their safety.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” she answered, with a sigh, “I trust they’re none the less + safe for that. It would be a strange thing for an old woman like me, + well-nigh threescore and ten, to suppose that safety lay in not being + drownded. Why, they might ha’ been cast on a desert island, and wasted to + skin an’ bone, and got home again wi’ the loss of half the wits they set + out with. Wouldn’t that ha’ been worse than being drownded right off? And + that wouldn’t ha’ been the worst, either. The church she seem to tell me + all the time, that for all the roaring outside, there be really no danger + after all. What matter if they go to the bottom? What is the bottom of the + sea, sir? You bein’ a clergyman can tell that, sir. I shouldn’t ha’ known + it if I hadn’t had bys o’ my own at sea, sir. But you can tell, sir, + though you ain’t got none there.” + </p> + <p> + And though she was putting her parson to his catechism, the smile that + returned on her face was as modest as if she had only been listening to + his instruction. I had not long to look for my answer. + </p> + <p> + “The hollow of his hand,” I said, and said no more. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you would know it, sir,” she returned, with a little glow of + triumph in her tone. “Well, then, that’s just what the church tells me + when I come in here in the stormy nights. I bring my knitting then too, + sir, for I can knit in the dark as well as in the light almost; and when + they come home, if they do come home, they’re none the worse that I went + to the old church to pray for them. There it goes roaring about them poor + dears, all out there; and their old mother sitting still as a stone almost + in the quiet old church, a caring for them. And then it do come across me, + sir, that God be a sitting in his own house at home, hearing all the noise + and all the roaring in which his children are tossed about in the world, + watching it all, letting it drown some o’ them and take them back to him, + and keeping it from going too far with others of them that are not quite + ready for that same. I have my thoughts, you see, sir, though I be an old + woman; and not nice to look at.” + </p> + <p> + I had come upon a genius. How nature laughs at our schools sometimes! + Education, so-called, is a fine thing, and might be a better thing; but + there is an education, that of life, which, when seconded by a pure will + to learn, leaves the schools behind, even as the horse of the desert would + leave behind the slow pomposity of the common-fed goose. For life is God’s + school, and they that will listen to the Master there will learn at God’s + speed. For one moment, I am ashamed to say, I was envious of Shepherd, and + repined that, now old Rogers was gone, I had no such glorious old + stained-glass window in my church to let in the eternal upon my + light-thirsty soul. I must say for myself that the feeling lasted but for + a moment, and that no sooner had the shadow of it passed and the true + light shined after it, than I was heartily ashamed of it. Why should not + Shepherd have the old woman as well as I? True, Shepherd was more of what + would now be called a ritualist than I; true, I thought my doctrine + simpler and therefore better than his; but was this any reason why I + should have all the grand people to minister to in my parish! Recovering + myself, I found her last words still in my ears. + </p> + <p> + “You are very nice to look at,” I said. “You must not find fault with the + work of God, because you would like better to be young and pretty than to + be as you now are. Time and time’s rents and furrows are all his making + and his doing. God makes nothing ugly.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure of that, sir?” + </p> + <p> + I paused. Such a question from such a woman “must give us pause.” And, as + I paused, the thought of certain animals flashed into my mind and I could + not insist that God had never made anything ugly. + </p> + <p> + “No. I am not sure of it,” I answered. For of all things my soul recoiled + from, any professional pretence of knowing more than I did know seemed to + me the most repugnant to the spirit and mind of the Master, whose servants + we are, or but the servants of mere priestly delusion and self-seeking. + “But if he does,” I went on to say, “it must be that we may see what it is + like, and therefore not like it.” + </p> + <p> + Then, unwilling all at once to plunge with her into such an abyss as the + question opened, I turned the conversation to an object on which my eyes + had been for some time resting half-unconsciously. It was the sort of + stool or bench on which my guide had been sitting. I now thought it was + some kind of box or chest. It was curiously carved in old oak, very much + like the ends of the benches and book-boards. + </p> + <p> + “What is that you were sitting on?” I asked. “A chest or what?” + </p> + <p> + “It be there when we come to this place, and that be nigh fifty years + agone, sir. But what it be, you’ll be better able to tell than I be, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps a chest for holding the communion-plate in old time,” I said. + “But how should it then come to be banished to the tower?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; it can’t be that. It be some sort of ancient musical piano, I be + thinking.” + </p> + <p> + I stooped and saw that its lid was shaped like the cover of an organ. With + some difficulty I opened it; and there, to be sure, was a row of huge + keys, fit for the fingers of a Cyclops. I pressed upon them, one after + another, but no sound followed. They were stiff to the touch; and once + down, so they mostly remained until lifted again. I looked if there was + any sign of a bellows, thinking it must have been some primitive kind of + reed-instrument, like what we call a seraphine or harmonium now-a-days. + But there was no hole through which there could have been any + communication with or from a bellows, although there might have been a + small one inside. There were, however, a dozen little round holes in the + fixed part of the top, which might afford some clue to the mystery of its + former life. I could not find any way of reaching the inside of it, so + strongly was it put together; therefore I was left, I thought, to the + efforts of my imagination alone for any hope of discovery with regard to + the instrument, seeing further observation was impossible. But here I + found that I was mistaken in two important conclusions, the latter of + which depended on the former. The first of these was that it was an + instrument: it was only one end of an instrument; therefore, secondly, + there might be room for observation still. But I found this out by + accident, which has had a share in most discoveries, and which, meaning a + something that falls into our hands unlocked for, is so far an + unobjectionable word even to the man who does not believe in chance. I had + for the time given up the question as insoluble, and was gazing about the + place, when, glancing up at the holes in the ceiling through which the + bell-ropes went, I spied two or three thick wires hanging through the same + ceiling close to the wall, and right over the box with the keys. The vague + suspicion of a discovery dawned upon me. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the key of the tower?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. But I’ll run home for it at once,” she answered. And rising, she + went out in haste. + </p> + <p> + “Run!” thought I, looking after her. “It is a word of the will and the + feeling, not of the body.” But I was mistaken. The dear old creature had + no sooner got outside of the church-yard, within which, I presume, she + felt that she must be decorous, than she did run, and ran well too. I was + on the point of starting after her at full speed, to prevent her from + hurting herself, but reflecting that her own judgment ought to be as good + as mine in such a case, I returned, and sitting down on her seat, awaited + her reappearance, gazing at the ceiling. There I either saw or imagined I + saw signs of openings corresponding in number and position with those in + the lid under me. In about three minutes the old woman returned, panting + but not distressed, with a great crooked old key in her hand. Why are all + the keys of a church so crooked? I did not ask her that question, though. + What I said to her, was— + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn’t run like that. I am in no hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “Be you not, sir? I thought, by the way you spoke, you be taken with a + longing to get a-top o’ the tower, and see all about you like. For you + see, sir, fond as I be of the old church, I du feel sometimes as if she’d + smother me; and then nothing will do but I must get at the top of the old + tower. And then, what with the sun, if there be any sun, and what with the + fresh air which there always be up there, sir,—it du always be fresh + up there, sir,” she repeated, “I come back down again blessing the old + church for its tower.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she was toiling up the winding staircase after me, where + there was just room enough for my shoulders to get through by turning + themselves a little across the lie of the steps. They were very high, but + she kept up with me bravely, bearing out her statement that she was no + stranger to them. As I ascended, however, I was not thinking of her, but + of what she had said. Strange to tell, the significance of the towers or + spires of our churches had never been clear to me before. True, I was + quite awake to their significance, at least to that of the spires, as + fingers pointing ever upwards to + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “regions mild of calm and serene air, + Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, + Which men call Earth;” + </pre> + <p> + but I had not thought of their symbolism as lifting one up above the + church itself into a region where no church is wanted because the Lord God + almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it. + </p> + <p> + Happy church indeed, if it destroys the need of itself by lifting men up + into the eternal kingdom! Would that I and all her servants lived pervaded + with the sense of this her high end, her one high calling! We need the + church towers to remind us that the mephitic airs in the church below are + from the churchyard at its feet, which so many take for the church, + worshipping over the graves and believing in death—or at least in + the material substance over which alone death hath power. Thus the church, + even in her corruption, lifts us out of her corruption, sending us up her + towers and her spires to admonish us that she too lives in the air of + truth: that her form too must pass away, while the truth that is embodied + in her lives beyond forms and customs and prejudices, shining as the stars + for ever and ever. He whom the church does not lift up above the church is + not worthy to be a doorkeeper therein. + </p> + <p> + Such thoughts passed through me, satisfied me, and left me peaceful, so + that before I had reached the top, I was thanking the Lord—not for + his church-tower, but for his sexton’s wife. The old woman was a jewel. If + her husband was like her, which was too much to expect—if he + believed in her, it would be enough, quite—then indeed the little + child, who answered on being questioned thereanent, as the Scotch would + say, that the three orders of ministers in the church were the parson, + clerk, and sexton, might not be so far wrong in respect of this individual + case. So in the ascent, and the thinking associated therewith, I forgot + all about the special object for which I had requested the key of the + tower, and led the way myself up to the summit, where stepping out of a + little door, which being turned only heavenwards had no pretence for, or + claim upon a curiously crooked key, but opened to the hand laid upon the + latch, I thought of the words of the judicious Hooker, that “the + assembling of the church to learn” was “the receiving of angels descended + from above;” and in such a whimsical turn as our thoughts will often take + when we are not heeding them, I wondered for a moment whether that was why + the upper door was left on the latch, forgetting that that could not be of + much use, if the door in the basement was kept locked with the crooked + key. But the whole suggested something true about my own heart and that of + my fellows, if not about the church: Revelation is not enough, the open + trap-door is not enough, if the door of the heart is not open likewise. + </p> + <p> + As soon, however, as I stepped out upon the roof of the tower, I forgot + again all that had thus passed through my mind, swift as a dream. For, + filling the west, lay the ocean beneath, with a dark curtain of storm + hanging in perpendicular lines over part of its horizon, and on the other + side was the peaceful solid land, with its numberless shades of green, its + heights and hollows, its farms and wooded vales—there was not much + wood—its scattered villages and country dwellings, lighted and + shadowed by the sun and the clouds. Beyond lay the blue heights of + Dartmoor. And over all, bathing us as it passed, moved the wind, the + life-bearing spirit of the whole, the servant of the sun. The old woman + stood beside me, silently enjoying my enjoyment, with a still smile that + seemed to say in kindly triumph, “Was I not right about the tower and the + wind that dwells among its pinnacles?” I drank deep of the universal + flood, the outspread peace, the glory of the sun, and the haunting shadow + of the sea that lay beyond like the visual image of the eternal silence—as + it looks to us—that rounds our little earthly life. + </p> + <p> + There were a good many trees in the church-yard, and as I looked down, the + tops of them in their richest foliage hid all the graves directly below + me, except a single flat stone looking up through an opening in the + leaves, which seemed to have been just made for it to let it see the top + of the tower. Upon the stone a child was seated playing with a few flowers + she had gathered, not once looking up to the gilded vanes that rose from + the four pinnacles at the corners of the tower. I turned to the eastern + side, and looked over upon the church roof. It lay far below—looking + very narrow and small, but long, with the four ridges of four steep roofs + stretching away to the eastern end. It was in excellent repair, for the + parish was almost all in one lord’s possession, and he was proud of his + church: between them he and Mr. Shepherd had made it beautiful to behold + and strong to endure. + </p> + <p> + When I turned to look again, the little child was gone. Some butterfly + fancy had seized her, and she was away. A little lamb was in her place, + nibbling at the grass that grew on the side of the next mound. And when I + looked seaward there was a sloop, like a white-winged sea-bird, rounding + the end of a high projecting rock from the south, to bear up the little + channel that led to the gates of the harbour canal. Out of the circling + waters it had flown home, not from a long voyage, but hardly the less + welcome therefore to those that waited and looked for her signal from the + barrier rock. + </p> + <p> + Reentering by the angels’ door to descend the narrow cork-screw stair, so + dark and cool, I caught a glimpse, one turn down, by the feeble light that + came through its chinks after it was shut behind us, of a tiny maiden-hair + fern growing out of the wall. I stopped, and said to the old woman— + </p> + <p> + “I have a sick daughter at home, or I wouldn’t rob your tower of this + lovely little thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, what eyes you have! I never saw the thing before. Do take it + home to miss. It’ll do her good to see it. I be main sorry to hear you’ve + got a sick maiden. She ben’t a bedlar, be she, sir?” + </p> + <p> + I was busy with my knife getting out all the roots I could without hurting + them, and before I had succeeded I had remembered Turner’s using the word. + </p> + <p> + “Not quite that,” I answered, “but she can’t even sit up, and must be + carried everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor dear! Everyone has their troubles, sir. The sea’s been mine.” + </p> + <p> + She continued talking and asking kind questions about Connie as we went + down the stair. Not till she opened a little door I had passed without + observing it as we came up, was I reminded of my first object in ascending + the tower. For this door revealed a number of bells hanging in silent + power in the brown twilight of the place. I entered carefully, for there + were only some planks laid upon the joists to keep one’s feet from going + through the ceiling. In a few moments I had satisfied myself that my + conjecture about the keys below was correct. The small iron rods I had + seen from beneath hung down from this place. There were more of them + hanging shorter above, and there was yet enough of a further mechanism + remaining to prove that those keys, by means of the looped and cranked + rods, had been in connection with hammers, one of them indeed remaining + also, which struck the bells, so that a tune could be played upon them as + upon any other keyed instrument. This was the first contrivance of the + kind I had ever seen, though I have heard of it in other churches since. + </p> + <p> + “If I could find a clever blacksmith in the neighbourhood, now,” I said to + myself, “I would get this all repaired, so that it should not interfere + with the bell-ringing when the ringers were to be had, and yet Shepherd + could play a psalm tune to his parish at large when he pleased.” For + Shepherd was a very fair musician, and gave a good deal of time to the + organ. “It’s a grand notion, to think of him sitting here in the gloom, + with that great musical instrument towering above him, whence he sends + forth the voice of gladness, almost of song to his people, while they are + mowing the grass, binding the sheaves, or gazing abroad over the stormy + ocean in doubt, anxiety, and fear. ‘There’s the parson at his bells,’ they + would say, and stop and listen; and some phrase might sink into their + hearts, waking some memory, or giving birth to some hope or faint + aspiration. I will see what can be done.” Having come to this conclusion, + I left the abode of the bells, descended to the church, bade my + conductress good morning, saying I would visit her soon in her own house, + and bore home to my child the spoil which, without kirk-rapine, I had torn + from the wall of the sanctuary. By this time the stormy veil had lifted + from the horizon, and the sun was shining in full power without one + darkening cloud. + </p> + <p> + Ere I left the churchyard I would have a glance at the stone which ever + seemed to lie gazing up at the tower. I soon found it, because it was the + only one in that quarter from which I could see the top of the tower. It + recorded the life and death of an aged pair who had been married fifty + years, concluding with the couplet— + </p> + <p> + “A long time this may seem to be, But it did not seem long to we.” + </p> + <p> + The whole story of a human life lay in that last verse. True, it was not + good grammar; but they had got through fifty years of wedded life probably + without any knowledge of grammar to harmonise or to shorten them, and I + daresay, had they been acquainted with the lesson he had put into their + dumb mouths, they would have been aware of no ground of quarrel with the + poetic stone-cutter, who most likely had thrown the verses in when he made + his claim for the stone and the cutting. Having learnt this one by heart, + I went about looking for anything more in the shape of sepulchral flora + that might interest or amuse my crippled darling; nor had I searched long + before I found one, the sole but triumphant recommendation of which was + the thorough “puzzle-headedness” of its construction. I quite reckoned on + seeing Connie trying to make it out, looking as bewildered over its + excellent grammar, as the poet of the other ought to have looked over his + rhymes, ere he gave in to the use of the nominative after a preposition. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If you could view the heavenly shore, + Where heart’s content you hope to find, + You would not murmur were you gone before, + But grieve that you are left behind.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. CONNIE’S WATCH-TOWER. + </h2> + <p> + As I walked home, the rush of the rising tide was in my ears. To my fancy, + the ocean, awaking from a swoon in which its life had ebbed to its heart, + was sending that life abroad to its extremities, and waves breaking in + white were the beats of its reviving pulse, the flashes of returning + light. But so gentle was its motion, and so lovely its hue, that I could + not help contrasting it with its reflex in the mind of her who took refuge + from the tumult of its noises in the hollow of the old church. To her, let + it look as blue as the sky, as peaceful and as moveless, it was a wild, + reckless, false, devouring creature, a prey to its own moods, and to that + of the blind winds which, careless of consequences, urged it to raving + fury. Only, while the sea took this form to her imagination, she believed + in that which held the sea, and knew that, when it pleased God to part his + confining fingers, there would be no more sea. + </p> + <p> + When I reached home, I went straight to Connie’s room. Now the house was + one of a class to every individual of which, whatever be its style or + shape, I instantly become attached almost as if it possessed a measure of + the life which it has sheltered. This class of human dwellings consists of + the houses that have <i>grown</i>. They have not been, built after a + straight-up-and-down model of uninteresting convenience or money-loving + pinchedness. They must have had some plan, good, bad, or indifferent, as + the case may be, at first, I suppose; but that plan they have left far + behind, having grown with the necessities or ambitions of succeeding + possessors, until the fact that they have a history is as plainly written + on their aspect as on that of any son or daughter of Adam. These are the + houses which the fairies used to haunt, and if there is any truth in + ghost-stories, the houses which ghosts will yet haunt; and hence perhaps + the sense of soothing comfort which pervades us when we cross their + thresholds. You do not know, the moment you have cast a glance about the + hall, where the dining-room, drawing-room, and best bedroom are. You have + got it all to find out, just as the character of a man; and thus had I to + find out this house of my friend Shepherd. It had formerly been a kind of + manor-house, though altogether unlike any other manor-house I ever saw; + for after exercising all my constructive ingenuity reversed in pulling it + to pieces in my mind, I came to the conclusion that the germ-cell of it + was a cottage of the simplest sort which had grown by the addition of + other cells, till it had reached the development in which we found it. + </p> + <p> + I have said that the dining-room was almost on the level of the shore. + Certainly some of the flat stones that coped the low wall in front of it + were thrown into the garden before the next winter by the waves. But + Connie’s room looked out on a little flower-garden almost on the downs, + only sheltered a little by the rise of a short grassy slope above it. + This, however, left the prospect, from her window down the bay and out to + sea, almost open. To reach this room I had now to go up but one simple + cottage stair; for the door of the house entered on the first floor, that + is, as regards the building, midway between heaven and earth. It had a + large bay-window; and in this window Connie was lying on her couch, with + the lower sash wide open, through which the breeze entered, smelling of + sea-weed tempered with sweet grasses and the wall-flowers and stocks that + were in the little plot under it. I thought I could see an improvement in + her already. Certainly she looked very happy. + </p> + <p> + “O, papa!” she said, “isn’t it delightful?” + </p> + <p> + “What is, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “O, everything. The wind, and the sky, and the sea, and the smell of the + flowers. Do look at that sea-bird. His wings are like the barb of a + terrible arrow. How he goes undulating, neck and body, up and down as he + flies. I never felt before that a bird moves his wings. It always looked + as if the wings flew with the bird. But I see the effort in him.” + </p> + <p> + “An easy effort, though, I should certainly think.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt. But I see that he chooses and means to fly, and so does it. It + makes one almost reconciled to the idea of wings. Do angels really have + wings, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “It is generally so represented, I think, in the Bible. But whether it is + meant as a natural fact about them, is more than I take upon me to decide. + For one thing, I should have to examine whether in simple narrative they + are ever represented with them, as, I think, in records of visions they + are never represented without them. But wings are very beautiful things, + and I do not exactly see why you should need reconciling to them.” + </p> + <p> + Connie gave a little shrug of her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like the notion of them growing out at my shoulder-blades. And + however would you get on your clothes? If you put them over your wings, + they would be of no use, and would, besides, make you hump-backed; and if + you did not, everything would have to be buttoned round the roots of them. + You could not do it yourself, and even on Wynnie I don’t think I could + bear to touch the things—I don’t mean the feathers, but the skinny, + folding-up bits of them.” + </p> + <p> + I laughed at her fastidious fancy. + </p> + <p> + “You want to fly, I suppose?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “O, yes; I should like that.” + </p> + <p> + “And you don’t want to have wings?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I shouldn’t mind the wings exactly; but however would one be able + to keep them nice?” + </p> + <p> + “There you go; starting from one thing to another, like a real bird + already. When you can’t answer one thing, off to another, and, from your + new perch on the hawthorn, talk as if you were still on the topmost branch + of the lilac!” + </p> + <p> + “O, yes, papa! That’s what I’ve heard you say to mamma twenty times.” + </p> + <p> + “And did I ever say to your mamma anything but the truth? or to you + either, you puss?” + </p> + <p> + I had not yet discovered that when I used this epithet to my Connie, she + always thought she had gone too far. She looked troubled. I hastened to + relieve her. + </p> + <p> + “When women have wings,” I said, “their logic will be good.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you make that out, papa?” she asked, a little re-assured. + </p> + <p> + “Because then every shadow of feeling that turns your speech aside from + the straight course will be recognised in that speech; the whole utterance + will be instinct not only with the meaning of what you are thinking, but + with the reflex of the forces in you that make the utterance take this or + that shape; just as to a perfect palate, the source and course of a stream + would be revealed in every draught of its water. + </p> + <p> + “I have just a glimmering of your meaning, papa. Would you like to have + wings?” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to fly like a bird, to swim like a fish, to gallop like a + horse, to creep like a serpent, but I suspect the good of all these is to + be got without doing any of them.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what you mean now, but I can’t put it in words.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean by a perfect sympathy with the creatures that do these things: + what it may please God to give to ourselves, we can quite comfortably + leave to him. A higher stratum of the same kind is the need we feel of + knowing our fellow-creatures through and through, of walking into and out + of their worlds as if we were, because we are, perfectly at home in them.—But + I am talking what the people who do not understand such things lump all + together as mysticism, which is their name for a kind of spiritual + ash-pit, whither they consign dust and stones, never asking whether they + may not be gold-dust and rubies, all in a heap.—You had better begin + to think about getting out, Connie.” + </p> + <p> + “Think about it, papa! I have been thinking about it ever since daylight.” + </p> + <p> + “I will go and see what your mother is doing then, and if she is ready to + go out with us.” + </p> + <p> + In a few moments all was arranged. Without killing more than a snail or + two, which we could not take time to beware of, Walter and I—finding + that the window did not open down to the ground in French fashion, for + which there were two good reasons, one the fierceness of the winds in + winter, the other, the fact that the means of egress were elsewise + provided—lifted the sofa, Connie and all, out over the window-sill, + and then there was only a little door in the garden-wall to get her + through before we found ourselves upon the down. I think the ascent of + this hill was the first experience I had—a little to my humiliation, + nothing to my sorrow—that I was descending another hill. I had to + set down the precious burden rather oftener before we reached the brow of + the cliffs than would have been necessary ten years before. But this was + all right, and the newly-discovered weakness then was strength to the + power which carries me about on my two legs now. It is all right still. I + shall be stronger by and by. + </p> + <p> + We carried her high enough for her to see the brilliant waters lying many + feet below her, with the sea-birds of which we had talked winging their + undulating way between heaven and ocean. It is when first you have a + chance of looking a bird in the face on the wing that you know what the + marvel of flight is. There it hangs or rests, which you please, borne up, + as far as eye or any of the senses can witness, by its own will alone. + This Connie, quicker than I in her observation of nature, had already + observed. Seated on the warm grass by her side, while neither talked, but + both regarded the blue spaces, I saw one of those same barb-winged birds + rest over my head, regarding me from above, as if doubtful whether I did + not afford some claim to his theory of treasure-trove. I knew at once that + what Connie had been saying to me just before was true. + </p> + <p> + She lay silent a long time. I too was silent. At length I spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Are you longing to be running about amongst the rocks, my Connie?” + </p> + <p> + “No, papa; not a bit. I don’t know how it is, but I don’t think I ever + wished much for anything I knew I could not have. I am enjoying everything + more than I can tell you. I wish Wynnie were as happy as I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Do you think she’s not happy, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t want any thinking, papa. You can see that.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid you’re right, Connie. What do you think is the cause of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is because she can’t wait. She’s always going out to meet + things; and then when they’re not there waiting for her, she thinks + they’re nowhere. But I always think her way is finer than mine. If + everybody were like me, there wouldn’t be much done in the world, would + there, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “At all events, my dear, your way is wise for you, and I am glad you do + not judge your sister.” + </p> + <p> + “Judge Wynnie, papa! That would be cool impudence. She’s worth ten of me. + Don’t you think, papa,” she added, after a pause, “that if Mary had said + the smallest word against Martha, as Martha did against Mary, Jesus would + have had a word to say on Martha’s side next?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I do, my dear. And I think that Mary did not sit very long without + asking Jesus if she mightn’t go and help her sister. There is but one + thing needful—that is, the will of God; and when people love that + above everything, they soon come to see that to everything else there are + two sides, and that only the will of God gives fair play, as we call it, + to both of them.” + </p> + <p> + Another silence followed. Then Connie spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Is it not strange, papa, that the only time here that makes me want to + get up to look, is nothing of all the grand things round about me? I am + just lying like the convex mirror in the school-room at home, letting them + all paint themselves in me.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it then that makes you wish to get up and go and see?” I asked + with real curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see down there—away across the bay—amongst the rocks + at the other side, a man sitting sketching?” + </p> + <p> + I looked for some time before I could discover him. + </p> + <p> + “Your sight is good, Connie: I see the man, but I could not tell what he + was doing.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you see him lifting his head every now and then for a moment, and + then keeping it down for a longer while?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot distinguish that. But then I am shortsighted rather, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder how you see so many little things that nobody else seems to + notice, then, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “That is because I have trained myself to observe. The degree of power in + the sight is of less consequence than the habit of seeing. But you have + not yet told me what it is that makes you desirous of getting up.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to look over his shoulder, and see what he is doing. Is it not + strange that in the midst of all this plenty of beautifulness, I should + want to rise to look at a few lines and scratches, or smears of colour, + upon a bit of paper?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear; I don’t think it is strange. There a new element of interest + is introduced—the human. No doubt there is deep humanity in all this + around us. No doubt all the world, in all its moods, is human, as those + for whose abode and instruction it was made. No doubt, it would be void of + both beauty and significance to our eyes, were it not that it is one crowd + of pictures of the human mind, blended in one living fluctuating whole. + But these meanings are there in solution as it were. The individual is a + centre of crystallisation to this solution. Around him meanings gather, + are separated from other meanings; and if he be an artist, by which I mean + true painter, true poet, or true musician, as the case may be he so + isolates and represents them, that we see them—not what nature shows + to us, but what nature has shown, to him, determined by his nature and + choice. With it is mingled therefore so much of his own individuality, + manifested both in this choice and certain modifications determined by his + way of working, that you have not only a representation of an aspect of + nature, as far as that may be with limited powers and materials, but a + revelation of the man’s own mind and nature. Consequently there is a human + interest in every true attempt to reproduce nature, an interest of + individuality which does not belong to nature herself, who is for all and + every man. You have just been saying that you were lying there like a + convex mirror reflecting all nature around you. Every man is such a convex + mirror; and his drawing, if he can make one, is an attempt to show what is + in this little mirror of his, kindled there by the grand world outside. + And the human mirrors being all differently formed, vary infinitely in + what they would thus represent of the same scene. I have been greatly + interested in looking alternately over the shoulders of two artists, both + sketching in colour the same, absolutely the same scene, both trying to + represent it with all the truth in their power. How different, + notwithstanding, the two representations came out!” + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand you, papa. But look a little farther off. Don’t you + see over the top of another rock a lady’s bonnet. I do believe that’s + Wynnie. I know she took her box of water-colours out with her this + morning, just before you came home. Dora went with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you tell by her ribbons, Connie? You seem sharp-sighted enough to + see her face if she would show it. I don’t even see the bonnet. If I were + like some people I know, I should feel justified in denying its presence, + attributing the whole to your fancy, and refusing anything to superiority + of vision.” + </p> + <p> + “That wouldn’t be like you, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not; for I have no fancy for being shut up in my own blindness, + when other people offer me their eyes to eke out the defects of my own + with. But here comes mamma at last.” + </p> + <p> + Connie’s face brightened as if she had not seen her mother for a + fortnight. My Ethelwyn always brought the home gladness that her name + signified with her. She was a centre of radiating peace. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, don’t you think that’s Wynnie’s bonnet over that black rock there, + just beyond where you see that man drawing?” + </p> + <p> + “You absurd child! How should I know Wynnie’s bonnet at this distance?” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you see the little white feather you gave her out of your wardrobe + just before we left? She put it in this morning before she went out.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I do see something white. But I want you to look out there, + towards what they call the Chapel Rock, at the other end of that long + mound they call the breakwater. You will soon see a boat appear full of + the coast-guard. I saw them going on board just as I left the house to + come up to you. Their officer came down with his sword, and each of the + men had a cutlass. I wonder what it can mean.” + </p> + <p> + We looked. But before the boat made its appearance, Connie cried out— + </p> + <p> + “Look there! What a big boat that is rowing for the land, away northwards + there!” + </p> + <p> + I turned my eyes in the direction she indicated, and saw a long boat with + some half-dozen oars, full of men, rowing hard, apparently for some spot + on the shore at a considerable distance to the north of our bay. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” I said, “that boat has something to do with the coast-guard and + their cutlasses. You’ll see that, as soon as they get out of the bay, they + will row in the same direction.” + </p> + <p> + So it was. Our boat appeared presently from under the concealment of the + heights on which we were, and made at full speed after the other boat. + </p> + <p> + “Surely they can’t be smugglers,” I said. “I thought all that was over and + done with.” + </p> + <p> + In the course of another twenty minutes, during which we watched their + progress, both boats had disappeared behind the headland to the northward. + Then, thinking Connie had had nearly enough of the sea air for her first + experience of its influences, I went and fetched Walter, and we carried + her back as we had brought her. She had not been in the shadow of her own + room for five minutes before she was fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + It was now nearly time for our early dinner. We always dined early when we + could, that we might eat along with our children. We were both convinced + that the only way to make them behave like ladies and gentlemen was to + have them always with us at meals. We had seen very unpleasant results in + the children of those who allowed them to dine with no other supervision + than the nursery afforded: they were a constant anxiety and occasional + horror to those whom they visited—snatching like monkeys, and + devouring like jackals, as selfishly as if they were mere animals. + </p> + <p> + “O! we’ve seen such a nice gentleman!” said Dora, becoming lively under + the influence of her soup. + </p> + <p> + “Have you, Dora? Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Sitting on the rocks, taking a portrait of the sea.” + </p> + <p> + “What makes you say he was a nice gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “He had such beautiful boots!” answered Dora, at which there was a great + laugh about the table. + </p> + <p> + “O! we must run and tell Connie that,” said Harry. “It will make her + laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “What will you tell Connie, then, Harry?” + </p> + <p> + “O! what was it, Charlie? I’ve forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + Another laugh followed at Harry’s expense now, and we were all very merry, + when Dora, who sat opposite to the window, called out, clapping her hands— + </p> + <p> + “There’s Niceboots again! There’s Niceboots again!” + </p> + <p> + The same moment the head of a young man appeared over the wall that + separated the garden from the little beach that lay by the entrance of the + canal. I saw at once that he must be more than ordinarily tall to show his + face, for he was not close to the wall. It was a dark countenance, with a + long beard, which few at that time wore, though now it is getting not + uncommon, even in my own profession—a noble, handsome face, a little + sad, with downbent eyes, which, released from their more immediate duty + towards nature, had now bent themselves upon the earth. + </p> + <p> + “Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he’s contemplating his boots,” said Wynnie, with apparent + maliciousness. + </p> + <p> + “That’s too bad of you, Wynnie,” I said, and the child blushed. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora’s wise + discrimination,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “He is a fine-looking fellow,” said I, “and ought, with that face and + head, to be able to paint good pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see what he has done,” said Wynnie; “for, by the way we + were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing.” + </p> + <p> + “And what was that then, Wynnie?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “A rock,” she answered, “that you could not see from where you were + sitting. I saw you on the top of the cliff.” + </p> + <p> + “Connie said it was you, by your bonnet. She, too, was wishing she could + look over the shoulder of the artist at work beside you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not beside me. There were yards and yards of solid rock between us.” + </p> + <p> + “Space, you see, in removing things from the beholder, seems always to + bring them nearer to each other, and the most differing things are classed + under one name by the man who knows nothing about them. But what sort of a + rock was it you were trying to draw?” + </p> + <p> + “A strange-looking, conical rock, that stands alone in front of one of the + ridges that project from the shore into the water. Three sea-birds, with + long white wings, were flying about it, and the little waves of the rising + tide were beating themselves against it and breaking in white plashes. So + the rock stood between the blue and white below and the blue and white + above; for, though there were no clouds, the birds gave the touches of + white to the upper sea.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Dora,” I said, “I don’t know if you are old enough to understand me; + but sometimes little people are long in understanding, just because the + older people think they can’t, and don’t try them.—Do you see, Dora, + why I want you to learn to draw? Look how Wynnie sees things. That is, in + a great measure, because she draws things, and has, by that, learned to + watch in order to find out. It is a great thing to have your eyes open.” + </p> + <p> + Dora’s eyes were large, and she opened them to their full width, as if she + would take in the universe at their little doors. Whether that indicated + that she did not in the least understand what I had been saying, or that + she was in sympathy with it, I cannot tell. + </p> + <p> + “Now let us go up to Connie, and tell her about the rock and everything + else you have seen since you went out. We are all her messengers sent out + to discover things, and bring back news of them.” + </p> + <p> + After a little talk with Connie, I retired to the study, which was on the + same floor as her room completing, indeed, the whole of that part of the + house, which, seen from without, looked like a separate building; for it + had a roof of its own, and stood higher up the rock than the rest of the + dwelling. Here I began to glance over the books. To have the run of + another man’s library, especially if it has all been gathered by himself, + is like having a pass-key into the chambers of his thought. Only, one must + be wary, when he opens them, what marks on the books he takes for those of + the present owner. A mistake here would breed considerable confusion and + falsehood in any judgment formed from the library. I found, however, one + thing plain enough, that Shepherd had kept up that love for an older + English literature, which had been one of the cords to draw us towards + each other when we were students together. There had been one point on + which we especially agreed—that a true knowledge of the present, in + literature, as in everything else, could only be founded upon a knowledge + of what had gone before; therefore, that any judgment, in regard to the + literature of the present day, was of no value which was not guided and + influenced by a real acquaintance with the best of what had gone before, + being liable to be dazzled and misled by novelty of form and other + qualities which, whatever might be the real worth of the substance, were, + in themselves, purely ephemeral. I had taken down a last-century edition + of the poems of the brothers Fletcher, and, having begun to read a lovely + passage in “Christ’s Victory and Triumph,” had gone into what I can only + call an intellectual rage, at the impudence of the editor, who had altered + innumerable words and phrases to suit the degenerate taste of his own + time,—when a knock came to the door, and Charlie entered, breathless + with eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “There’s the boat with the men with the swords in it, and another boat + behind them, twice as big.” + </p> + <p> + I hurried out upon the road, and there, close under our windows, were the + two boats we had seen in the morning, landing their crews on the little + beach. The second boat was full of weather-beaten men, in all kinds of + attire, some in blue jerseys, some in red shirts, some in ragged coats. + One man, who looked their superior, was dressed in blue from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” I asked the officer of the coast-guard, a sedate, + thoughtful-looking man. + </p> + <p> + “Vessel foundered, sir,” he answered. “Sprung a leak on Sunday morning. + She was laden with iron, and in a heavy ground swell it shifted and + knocked a hole in her. The poor fellows are worn out with the pump and + rowing, upon little or nothing to eat.” + </p> + <p> + They were trooping past us by this time, looking rather dismal, though not + by any means abject. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do with them now?” + </p> + <p> + “They’ll be taken in by the people. We’ll get up a little subscription for + them, but they all belong to the society the sailors have for sending the + shipwrecked to their homes, or where they want to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, here’s something to help,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir. They’ll be very glad of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And if there’s anything wanted that I can do for them, you must let me + know.” + </p> + <p> + “I will, sir. But I don’t think there will be any occasion to trouble you. + You are our new clergyman, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly that. Only for a little while, till my friend Mr. Shepherd is + able to come back to you.” + </p> + <p> + “We don’t want to lose Mr. Shepherd, sir. He’s what they call high in + these parts, but he’s a great favourite with all the poor people, because + you see he understands them as if he was of the same flesh and blood with + themselves—as, for that matter, I suppose we all are.” + </p> + <p> + “If we weren’t there would be nothing to say at all. Will any of these men + be at church to-morrow, do you suppose? I am afraid sailors are not much + in the way of going to church?” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid not. You see they are all anxious to get home. Most likely + they’ll be all travelling to-morrow. It’s a pity. It would be a good + chance for saying something to them that they might think of again. But I + often think that, perhaps—it’s only my own fancy, and I don’t set it + up for anything—that sailors won’t be judged exactly like other + people. They’re so knocked about, you see, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Nobody will be judged like any other body. To his own + Master, who knows all about him, every man stands or falls. Depend upon + it, God likes fair play, to use a homely phrase, far better than any + sailor of them all. But that’s not exactly the question. It seems to me + the question is this: shall we, who know what a blessed thing life is + because we know what God is like, who can trust in him with all our hearts + because he is the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the friend of sinners, + shall we not try all we can to let them, too, know the blessedness of + trusting in their Father in heaven? If we could only get them to say the + Lord’s prayer, <i>meaning</i> it, think what that would be! Look here! + This can’t be called bribery, for they are in want of it, and it will show + them I am friendly. Here’s another sovereign. Give them my compliments, + and say that if any of them happen to be in Kilkhaven tomorrow, I shall be + quite pleased to welcome them to church. Tell them I will give them of my + best there if they will come. Make the invitation merrily, you know. No + long faces and solemn speech. I will give them the solemn speech when they + come to church. But even there I hope God will keep the long face far from + me. That is fittest for fear and suffering. And the house of God is the + casket that holds the antidote against all fear and most suffering. But I + am preaching my sermon on Saturday instead of Sunday, and keeping you from + your ministration to the poor fellows. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “I will give them your message as near as I can,” he said, and we shook + hands and parted. + </p> + <p> + This was the first experience we had of the might and battle of the ocean. + To our eyes it lay quiet as a baby asleep. On that Sunday morning there + had been no commotion here. Yet now at last, on the Saturday morning, home + come the conquered and spoiled of the sea. As if with a mock she takes all + they have, and flings them on shore again, with her weeds, and her shells, + and her sand. Before the winter was over we had learned—how much + more of that awful power that surrounds the habitable earth! By slow + degrees the sense of its might grew upon us, first by the vision of its + many aspects and moods, and then by more awful things that followed; for + there are few coasts upon which the sea rages so wildly as upon this, the + whole force of the Atlantic breaking upon it. Even when there is no storm + within perhaps hundreds of miles, when all is still as a church on the + land, the storm that raves somewhere out upon the vast waste, will drive + the waves in upon the shore with such fury that not even a lifeboat could + make its way through their yawning hollows, and their fierce, shattered, + and tumbling crests. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH. + </h2> + <p> + In the hope that some of the shipwrecked mariners might be present in the + church the next day, I proceeded to consider my morning’s sermon for the + occasion. There was no difficulty in taking care at the same time that it + should be suitable to the congregation, whether those sailors were there + or not. I turned over in my mind several subjects. I thought, for + instance, of showing them how this ocean that lay watchful and ready all + about our island, all about the earth, was but a visible type or symbol of + two other oceans, one very still, the other very awful and fierce; in + fact, that three oceans surrounded us: one of the known world; one of the + unseen world, that is, of death; one of the spirit—the devouring + ocean of evil—and might I not have added yet another, encompassing + and silencing all the rest—that of truth! The visible ocean seemed + to make war upon the land, and the dwellers thereon. Restrained by the + will of God and by him made subject more and more to the advancing + knowledge of those who were created to rule over it, it was yet like a + half-tamed beast ever ready to break loose and devour its masters. Of + course this would have been but one aspect or appearance of it—for + it was in truth all service; but this was the aspect I knew it must bear + to those, seafaring themselves or not, to whom I had to speak. Then I + thought I might show, that its power, like that of all things that man is + ready to fear, had one barrier over which no commotion, no might of + driving wind, could carry it, beyond which its loudest waves were dumb—the + barrier of death. Hitherto and no further could its power reach. It could + kill the body. It could dash in pieces the last little cock-boat to which + the man clung, but thus it swept the man beyond its own region into the + second sea of stillness, which we call death, out upon which the thoughts + of those that are left behind can follow him only in great longings, vague + conjectures, and mighty faith. Then I thought I could show them how, + raving in fear, or lying still in calm deceit, there lay about the life of + man a far more fearful ocean than that which threatened his body; for this + would cast, could it but get a hold of him, both body and soul into hell—the + sea of evil, of vice, of sin, of wrong-doing—they might call it by + what name they pleased. This made war against the very essence of life, + against God who is the truth, against love, against fairness, against + fatherhood, motherhood, sisterhood, brotherhood, manhood, womanhood, + against tenderness and grace and beauty, gathering into one pulp of + festering death all that is noble, lovely, worshipful in the human nature + made so divine that the one fearless man, the Lord Jesus Christ, shared it + with us. This, I thought I might make them understand, was the only + terrible sea, the only hopeless ocean from whose awful shore we must + shrink and flee, the end of every voyage upon whose bosom was the bottom + of its filthy waters, beyond the reach of all that is thought or spoken in + the light, beyond life itself, but for the hand that reaches down from the + upper ocean of truth, the hand of the Redeemer of men. I thought, I say, + for a while, that I could make this, not definite, but very real to them. + But I did not feel quite confident about it. Might they not in the + symbolism forget the thing symbolised? And would not the symbol itself be + ready to fade quite from their memory, or to return only in the vaguest + shadow? And with the thought I perceived a far more excellent way. For the + power of the truth lies of course in its revelation to the mind, and while + for this there are a thousand means, none are so mighty as its embodiment + in human beings and human life. There it is itself alive and active. And + amongst these, what embodiment comes near to that in him who was perfect + man in virtue of being at the root of the secret of humanity, in virtue of + being the eternal Son of God? We are his sons in time: he is his Son in + eternity, of whose sea time is but the broken sparkle. Therefore, I would + talk to them about—but I will treat my reader now as if he were not + my reader, but one of my congregation on that bright Sunday, my first in + the Seaboard Parish, with the sea outside the church, flashing in the + sunlight. + </p> + <p> + While I stood at the lectern, which was in front of the altar-screen, I + could see little of my congregation, partly from my being on a level with + them, partly from the necessity for keeping my eyes and thoughts upon that + which I read. When, however, I rose from prayer in the pulpit; then I + felt, as usual with me, that I was personally present for personal + influence with my people, and then I saw, to my great pleasure, that one + long bench nearly in the middle of the church was full of such sunburnt + men as could not be mistaken for any but mariners, even if their torn and + worn garments had not revealed that they must be the very men about whom + we had been so much interested. Not only were they behaving with perfect + decorum, but their rough faces wore an aspect of solemnity which I do not + suppose was by any means their usual aspect. + </p> + <p> + I gave them no text. I had one myself, which was the necessary thing. They + should have it by and by. + </p> + <p> + “Once upon a time,” I said, “a man went up a mountain, and stayed there + till it was dark, and stayed on. Now, a man who finds himself on a + mountain as the sun is going down, especially if he is alone, makes haste + to get down before it is dark. But this man went up when the sun was going + down, and, as I say, continued there for a good long while after it was + dark. You will want to know why. I will tell you. He wished to be alone. + He hadn’t a house of his own. He never had all the time he lived. He + hadn’t even a room of his own into which he could go, and bolt the door of + it. True, he had kind friends, who gave him a bed: but they were all poor + people, and their houses were small, and very likely they had large + families, and he could not always find a quiet place to go into. And I + dare say, if he had had a room, he would have been a little troubled with + the children constantly coming to find him; for however much he loved them—and + no man was ever so fond of children as he was—he needed to be left + quiet sometimes. So, upon this occasion, he went up the mountain just to + be quiet. He had been all day with a crowd of people, and he felt that it + was time to be alone. For he had been talking with men all day, which + tires and sometimes confuses a man’s thoughts, and now he wanted to talk + with God—for that makes a man strong, and puts all the confusion in + order again, and lets a man know what he is about. So he went to the top + of the hill. That was his secret chamber. It had no door; but that did not + matter—no one could see him but God. There he stayed for hours—sometimes, + I suppose, kneeling in his prayer to God; sometimes sitting, tired with + his own thinking, on a stone; sometimes walking about, looking forward to + what would come next—not anxious about it, but contemplating it. For + just before he came up here, some of the people who had been with him + wanted to make him a king; and this would not do—this was not what + God wanted of him, and therefore he got rid of them, and came up here to + talk to God. It was so quiet up here! The earth had almost vanished. He + could see just the bare hilltop beneath him, a glimmer below, and the sky + and the stars over his head. The people had all gone away to their own + homes, and perhaps next day would hardly think about him at all, busy + catching fish, or digging their gardens, or making things for their + houses. But he knew that God would not forget him the next day any more + than this day, and that God had sent him not to be the king that these + people wanted him to be, but their servant. So, to make his heart strong, + I say, he went up into the mountain alone to have a talk with his Father. + How quiet it all was up here, I say, and how noisy it had been down there + a little while ago! But God had been in the noise then as much as he was + in the quiet now—the only difference being that he could not then be + alone with him. I need not tell you who this man was—it was the king + of men, the servant of men, the Lord Jesus Christ, the everlasting son of + our Father in heaven. + </p> + <p> + “Now this mountain on which he was praying had a small lake at the foot of + it—that is, about thirteen miles long, and five miles broad. Not + wanting even his usual companions to be with him this evening—partly, + I presume, because they were of the same mind as those who desired to take + him by force and make him a king—he had sent them away in their + boat, to go across this water to the other side, where were their homes + and their families. Now, it was not pitch dark either on the mountain-top + or on the water down below; yet I doubt if any other man than he would + have been keen-eyed enough to discover that little boat down in the middle + of the lake, much distressed by the west wind that blew right in their + teeth. But he loved every man in it so much, that I think even as he was + talking to his Father, his eyes would now and then go looking for and + finding it—watching it on its way across to the other side. You must + remember that it was a little boat; and there are often tremendous storms + upon these small lakes with great mountains about them. For the wind will + come all at once, rushing down through the clefts in as sudden a squall as + ever overtook a sailor at sea. And then, you know, there is no sea-room. + If the wind get the better of them, they are on the shore in a few + minutes, whichever way the wind may blow. He saw them worn out at the oar, + toiling in rowing, for the wind was contrary unto them. So the time for + loneliness and prayer was over, and the time to go down out of his secret + chamber and help his brethren was come. He did not need to turn and say + good-bye to his Father, as if he dwelt on that mountain-top alone: his + Father was down there on the lake as well. He went straight down. Could + not his Father, if he too was down on the lake, help them without him? + Yes. But he wanted him to do it, that they might see that he did it. + Otherwise they would only have thought that the wind fell and the waves + lay down, without supposing for a moment that their Master or his Father + had had anything to do with it. They would have done just as people do + now-a-days: they think that the help comes of itself, instead of by the + will of him who determined from the first that men should be helped. So + the Master went down the hill. When he reached the border of the lake, the + wind being from the other side, he must have found the waves breaking + furiously upon the rocks. But that made no difference to him. He looked + out as he stood alone on the edge amidst the rushing wind and the noise of + the water, out over the waves under the clear, starry sky, saw where the + tiny boat was tossed about like a nutshell, and set out.” + </p> + <p> + The mariners had been staring at me up to this point, leaning forward on + their benches, for sailors are nearly as fond of a good yarn as they are + of tobacco; and I heard afterwards that they had voted parson’s yarn a + good one. Now, however, I saw one of them, probably more ignorant than the + others, cast a questioning glance at his neighbour. It was not returned, + and he fell again into a listening attitude. He had no idea of what was + coming. He probably thought parson had forgotten to say how Jesus had come + by a boat. + </p> + <p> + “The companions of our Lord had not been willing to go away and leave him + behind. Now, I dare say, they wished more than ever that he had been with + them—not that they thought he could do anything with a storm, only + that somehow they would have been less afraid with his face to look at. + They had seen him cure men of dreadful diseases; they had seen him turn + water into wine—some of them; they had seen him feed five thousand + people the day before with five loaves and two small fishes; but had one + of their number suggested that if he had been with them, they would have + been safe from the storm, they would not have talked any nonsense about + the laws of nature, not having learned that kind of nonsense, but they + would have said that was quite a different thing—altogether too much + to expect or believe: <i>nobody</i> could make the wind mind what it was + about, or keep the water from drowning you if you fell into it and + couldn’t swim; or such-like. + </p> + <p> + “At length, when they were nearly worn out, taking feebler and feebler + strokes, sometimes missing the water altogether, at other times burying + their oars in it up to the handles—as they rose on the crest of a + huge wave, one of them gave a cry, and they all stopped rowing and stared, + leaning forward to peer through the darkness. And through the spray which + the wind tore from the tops of the waves and scattered before it like + dust, they saw, perhaps a hundred yards or so from the boat, something + standing up from the surface of the water. It seemed to move towards them. + It was a shape like a man. They all cried out with fear, as was natural, + for they thought it must be a ghost.” + </p> + <p> + How the faces of the sailors strained towards me at this part of the + story! I was afraid one of them especially was on the point of getting up + to speak, as we have heard of sailors doing in church. I went on. + </p> + <p> + “But then, over the noise of the wind and the waters came the voice they + knew so well. It said, ‘Be of good cheer: it is I. Be not afraid.’ I + should think, between wonder and gladness, they hardly knew for some + moments where they were or what they were about. Peter was the first to + recover himself apparently. In the first flush of his delight he felt + strong and full of courage. ‘Lord, if it be thou,’ he said, ‘bid me come + unto thee on the water.’ Jesus just said, ‘Come;’ and Peter unshipped his + oar, and scrambled over the gunwale on to the sea. But when he let go his + hold of the boat, and began to look about him, and saw how the wind was + tearing the water, and how it tossed and raved between him and Jesus, he + began to be afraid. And as soon as he began to be afraid he began to sink; + but he had, notwithstanding his fear, just sense enough to do the one + sensible thing; he cried out, ‘Lord, save me.’ And Jesus put out his hand, + and took hold of him, and lifted him up out of the water, and said to him, + ‘O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? And then they got + into the boat, and the wind fell all at once, and altogether. + </p> + <p> + “Now, you will not think that Peter was a coward, will you? It wasn’t that + he hadn’t courage, but that he hadn’t enough of it. And why was it that he + hadn’t enough of it? Because he hadn’t faith enough. Peter was always very + easily impressed with the look of things. It wasn’t at all likely that a + man should be able to walk on the water; and yet Peter found himself + standing on the water: you would have thought that when once he found + himself standing on the water, he need not be afraid of the wind and the + waves that lay between him and Jesus. But they looked so ugly that the + fearfulness of them took hold of his heart, and his courage went. You + would have thought that the greatest trial of his courage was over when he + got out of the boat, and that there was comparatively little more ahead of + him. Yet the sight of the waves and the blast of the boisterous wind were + too much for him. I will tell you how I fancy it was; and I think there + are several instances of the same kind of thing in Peter’s life. When he + got out of the boat, and found himself standing on the water, he began to + think much of himself for being able to do so, and fancy himself better + and greater than his companions, and an especial favourite of God above + them. Now, there is nothing that kills faith sooner than pride. The two + are directly against each other. The moment that Peter grew proud, and + began to think about himself instead of about his Master, he began to lose + his faith, and then he grew afraid, and then he began to sink—and + that brought him to his senses. Then he forgot himself and remembered his + Master, and then the hand of the Lord caught him, and the voice of the + Lord gently rebuked him for the smallness of his faith, asking, ‘Wherefore + didst thou doubt?’ I wonder if Peter was able to read his own heart + sufficiently well to answer that <i>wherefore</i>. I do not think it + likely at this period of his history. But God has immeasurable patience, + and before he had done teaching Peter, even in this life, he had made him + know quite well that pride and conceit were at the root of all his + failures. Jesus did not point it out to him now. Faith was the only thing + that would reveal that to him, as well as cure him of it; and was, + therefore, the only thing he required of him in his rebuke. I suspect + Peter was helped back into the boat by the eager hands of his companions + already in a humbler state of mind than when he left it; but before his + pride would be quite overcome, it would need that same voice of + loving-kindness to call him Satan, and the voice of the cock to bring to + his mind his loud boast, and his sneaking denial; nay, even the voice of + one who had never seen the Lord till after his death, but was yet a + readier disciple than he—the voice of St. Paul, to rebuke him + because he dissembled, and was not downright honest. But at the last even + he gained the crown of martyrdom, enduring all extremes, nailed to the + cross like his Master, rather than deny his name. This should teach us to + distrust ourselves, and yet have great hope for ourselves, and endless + patience with other people. But to return to the story and what the story + itself teaches us. + </p> + <p> + “If the disciples had known that Jesus saw them from the top of the + mountain, and was watching them all the time, would they have been + frightened at the storm, as I have little doubt they were, for they were + only fresh-water fishermen, you know? Well, to answer my own question”—I + went on in haste, for I saw one or two of the sailors with an audible + answer hovering on their lips—“I don’t know that, as they then were, + it would have made so much difference to them; for none of them had risen + much above the look of the things nearest them yet. But supposing you, who + know something about him, were alone on the sea, and expecting your boat + to be swamped every moment—if you found out all at once, that he was + looking down at you from some lofty hilltop, and seeing all round about + you in time and space too, would you be afraid? He might mean you to go to + the bottom, you know. Would you mind going to the bottom with him looking + at you? I do not think I should mind it myself. But I must take care lest + I be boastful like Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Why should we be afraid of anything with him looking at us who is the + Saviour of men? But we are afraid of him instead, because we do not + believe that he is what he says he is—the Saviour of men. We do not + believe what he offers us is salvation. We think it is slavery, and + therefore continue slaves. Friends, I will speak to you who think you do + believe in him. I am not going to say that you do not believe in him; but + I hope I am going to make you say to yourselves that you too deserve to + have those words of the Saviour spoken to you that were spoken to Peter, + ‘O ye of little faith!’ Floating on the sea of your troubles, all kinds of + fears and anxieties assailing you, is He not on the mountain-top? Sees he + not the little boat of your fortunes tossed with the waves and the + contrary wind? Assuredly he will come to you walking on the waters. It may + not be in the way you wish, but if not, you will say at last, ‘This is + better.’ It may be that he will come in a form that will make you cry out + for fear in the weakness of your faith, as the disciples cried out—not + believing any more than they did, that it can be he. But will not each of + you arouse his courage that to you also he may say, as to the woman with + the sick daughter whose confidence he so sorely tried, ‘Great is thy + faith’? Will you not rouse yourself, I say, that you may do him justice, + and cast off the slavery of your own dread? O ye of little faith, + wherefore will ye doubt? Do not think that the Lord sees and will not + come. Down the mountain assuredly he will come, and you are now as safe in + your troubles as the disciples were in theirs with Jesus looking on. They + did not know it, but it was so: the Lord was watching them. And when you + look back upon your past lives, cannot you see some instances of the same + kind—when you felt and acted as if the Lord had forgotten you, and + found afterwards that he had been watching you all the time? + </p> + <p> + “But the reason why you do not trust him more is that you obey him so + little. If you would only, ask what God would have you to do, you would + soon find your confidence growing. It is because you are proud, and + envious, and greedy after gain, that you do not trust him more. Ah! trust + him if it were only to get rid of these evil things, and be clean and + beautiful in heart. + </p> + <p> + “O sailors with me on the ocean of life, will you, knowing that he is + watching you from his mountain-top, do and say the things that hurt, and + wrong, and disappoint him? Sailors on the waters that surround this globe, + though there be no great mountain that overlooks the little lake on which + you float, not the less does he behold you, and care for you, and watch + over you. Will you do that which is unpleasing, distressful to him? Will + you be irreverent, cruel, coarse? Will you say evil things, lie, and + delight in vile stories and reports, with his eye on you, watching your + ship on its watery ways, ever ready to come over the waves to help you? It + is a fine thing, sailors, to fear nothing; but it would be far finer to + fear nothing <i>because</i> he is above all, and over all, and in you all. + For his sake and for his love, give up everything bad, and take him for + your captain. He will be both captain and pilot to you, and steer you safe + into the port of glory. Now to God the Father,” &c. + </p> + <p> + This is very nearly the sermon I preached that first Sunday morning. I + followed it up with a short enforcement in the afternoon. + </p> + <h3> + END OF VOL. I. + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + VOLUME II. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + </h2> + <p> + In the evening we met in Connie’s room, as usual, to have our talk. And + this is what came out of it. + </p> + <p> + The window was open. The sun was in the west. We sat a little aside out of + the course of his radiance, and let him look full into the room. Only + Wynnie sat back in a dark corner, as if she would get out of his way. + Below him the sea lay bluer than you could believe even when you saw it—blue + with a delicate yet deep silky blue, the exquisiteness of which was thrown + up by the brilliant white lines of its lapping on the high coast, to the + northward. We had just sat down, when Dora broke out with— + </p> + <p> + “I saw Niceboots at church. He did stare at you, papa, as if he had never + heard a sermon before.” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay he never heard such a sermon before!” said Connie, with the + perfect confidence of inexperience and partiality—not to say + ignorance, seeing she had not heard the sermon herself. + </p> + <p> + Here Wynnie spoke from her dark corner, apparently forcing herself to + speak, and thereby giving what seemed an unpleasant tone to what she said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, papa, I don’t know what to think. You are always telling us to + trust in Him; but how can we, if we are not good?” + </p> + <p> + “The first good thing you can do is to look up to him. That is the + beginning of trust in him, and the most sensible thing that it is possible + for us to do. That is faith.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s no use sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you—I mean I—can’t feel good, or care about it at + all.” + </p> + <p> + “But is that any ground for saying that it is no use—that he does + not heed you? that he disregards the look cast up to him? that, till the + heart goes with the will, he who made himself strong to be the helper of + the weak, who pities most those who are most destitute—and who so + destitute as those who do not love what they want to love—except, + indeed, those who don’t want to love?—that, till you are well on + towards all right by earnestly seeking it, he won’t help you? You are to + judge him from yourself, are you?—forgetting that all the misery in + you is just because you have not got his grand presence with you?” + </p> + <p> + I spoke so earnestly as to be somewhat incoherent in words. But my reader + will understand. Wynnie was silent. Connie, as if partly to help her + sister, followed on the same side. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know exactly how to say what I mean, papa, but I wish I could get + this lovely afternoon, all full of sunshine and blue, into unity with all + that you teach us about Jesus Christ. I wish this beautiful day came in + with my thought of him, like the frame—gold and red and blue—that + you have to that picture of him at home. Why doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Just because you have not enough of faith in him, my dear. You do not + know him well enough yet. You do not yet believe that he means you all + gladness, heartily, honestly, thoroughly.” + </p> + <p> + “And no suffering, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not say that, my dear. There you are on your couch and can’t move. + But he does mean you such gladness, such a full sunny air and blue sea of + blessedness that this suffering shall count for little in it; nay more, + shall be taken in for part, and, like the rocks that interfere with the + roll of the sea, flash out the white that glorifies and intensifies the + whole—to pass away by and by, I trust, none the less. What a chance + you have, my Connie, of believing in him, of offering upon his altar!” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said my wife, “are not these feelings in a great measure dependent + upon the state of one’s health? I find it so different when the sunshine + is inside me as well as outside me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a doubt of it, my dear. But that is only the more reason for rising + above all that. From the way some people speak of physical difficulties—I + don’t mean you, wife—you would think that they were not merely the + inevitable which they are, but the insurmountable which they are not. That + they are physical and not spiritual is not only a great consolation, but a + strong argument for overcoming them. For all that is physical is put, or + is in the process of being put, under the feet of the spiritual. Do not + mistake me. I do not say you can make yourself feel merry or happy when + you are in a physical condition which is contrary to such mental + condition. But you can withdraw from it—not all at once; but by + practice and effort you can learn to withdraw from it, refusing to allow + your judgments and actions to be ruled by it. You can climb up out of the + fogs, and sit quiet in the sunlight on the hillside of faith. You cannot + be merry down below in the fog, for there is the fog; but you can every + now and then fly with the dove-wings of the soul up into the clear, to + remind yourself that all this passes away, is but an accident, and that + the sun shines always, although it may not at any given moment be shining + on you. ‘What does that matter?’ you will learn to say. ‘It is enough for + me to know that the sun does shine, and that this is only a weary fog that + is round about me for the moment. I shall come out into the light beyond + presently.’ This is faith—faith in God, who is the light, and is all + in all. I believe that the most glorious instances of calmness in + suffering are thus achieved; that the sufferers really do not suffer what + one of us would if thrown into their physical condition without the refuge + of their spiritual condition as well; for they have taken refuge in the + inner chamber. Out of the spring of their life a power goes forth that + quenches the flames of the furnace of their suffering, so far at least + that it does not touch the deep life, cannot make them miserable, does not + drive them from the possession of their soul in patience, which is the + divine citadel of the suffering. Do you understand me, Connie?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, papa. I think perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “Still less, then, is the fact that the difficulty is physical to be used + as an excuse for giving way to ill-temper, and, in fact, leaving ourselves + to be tossed and shaken by every tremble of our nerves. That is as if a + man should give himself into the hands and will and caprice of an + organ-grinder, to work upon him, not with the music of the spheres, but + with the wretched growling of the streets.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Wynnie, “I have heard you yourself, papa, make excuse for + people’s ill-temper on this very ground, that they were out of health. + Indeed,” she went on, half-crying, “I have heard you do so for myself, + when you did not know that I was within hearing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear, most assuredly. It is no fiction, but a real difference + that lies between excusing ourselves and excusing other people. No doubt + the same excuse is just for ourselves that is just for other people. But + we can do something to put ourselves right upon a higher principle, and + therefore we should not waste our time in excusing, or even in condemning + ourselves, but make haste up the hill. Where we cannot work—that is, + in the life of another—we have time to make all the excuse we can. + Nay more; it is only justice there. We are not bound to insist on our own + rights, even of excuse; the wisest thing often is to forego them. But we + are bound by heaven, earth, and hell to give them to other people. And, + besides, what a comfort to ourselves to be able to say, ‘It is true + So-and-so was cross to-day. But it wasn’t in the least that he wasn’t + friendly, or didn’t like me; it was only that he had eaten something that + hadn’t agreed with him. I could see it in his eye. He had one of his + headaches.’ Thus, you see, justice to our neighbour, and comfort to + ourselves, is one and the same thing. But it would be a sad thing to have + to think that when we found ourselves in the same ungracious condition, + from whatever cause, we had only to submit to it, saying, ‘It is a law of + nature,’ as even those who talk most about laws will not do, when those + laws come between them and their own comfort. They are ready enough then + to call in the aid of higher laws, which, so far from being contradictory, + overrule the lower to get things into something like habitable, endurable + condition. It may be a law of nature; but what has the Law of the Spirit + of Life to <i>propound anent</i> it? as the Scotch lawyers would say.” + </p> + <p> + A little pause followed, during which I hope some of us were thinking. + That Wynnie, at least, was, her next question made evident. + </p> + <p> + “What you say about a law of nature and a law of the Spirit makes me think + again how that walking on the water has always been a puzzle to me.” + </p> + <p> + “It could hardly be other, seeing that we cannot possibly understand it,” + I answered. + </p> + <p> + “But I find it so hard to believe. Can’t you say something, papa, to help + me to believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “I think if you admit what goes before, you will find there is nothing + against reason in the story.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, please, what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “If all things were made by Jesus, the Word of God, would it be reasonable + that the water that he had created should be able to drown him?” + </p> + <p> + “It might drown his body.” + </p> + <p> + “It would if he had not the power over it still, to prevent it from laying + hold of him. But just think for a moment. God is a Spirit. Spirit is + greater than matter. Spirit makes matter. Think what it was for a human + body to have such a divine creative power dwelling in it as that which + dwelt in the human form of Jesus! What power, and influence, and utter + rule that spirit must have over the body in which it dwells! We cannot + imagine how much; but if we have so much power over our bodies, how much + more must the pure, divine Jesus, have had over his! I suspect this + miracle was wrought, not through anything done to the water, but through + the power of the spirit over the body of Jesus, which was all obedient + thereto. I am not explaining the miracle, for that I cannot do. One day I + think it will be plain common sense to us. But now I am only showing you + what seems to me to bring us a step nearer to the essential region of the + miracle, and so far make it easier to believe. If we look at the history + of our Lord, we shall find that, true real human body as his was, it was + yet used by his spirit after a fashion in which we cannot yet use our + bodies. And this is only reasonable. Let me give you an instance. You + remember how, on the Mount of Transfiguration, that body shone so that the + light of it illuminated all his garments. You do not surely suppose that + this shine was external—physical light, as we say, <i>merely?</i> No + doubt it was physical light, for how else would their eyes have seen it? + But where did it come from? What was its source? I think it was a natural + outburst of glory from the mind of Jesus, filled with the perfect life of + communion with his Father—the light of his divine blessedness taking + form in physical radiance that permeated and glorified all that surrounded + him. As the body is the expression of the soul, as the face of Jesus + himself was the expression of the being, the thought, the love of Jesus in + like manner this radiance was the natural expression of his gladness, even + in the face of that of which they had been talking—Moses, Elias, and + he—namely, the decease that he should accomplish at Jerusalem. + Again, after his resurrection, he convinced the hands, as well as eyes, of + doubting Thomas, that he was indeed there in the body; and yet that body + could appear and disappear as the Lord willed. All this is full of marvel, + I grant you; but probably far more intelligible to us in a further state + of existence than some of the most simple facts with regard to our own + bodies are to us now, only that we are so used to them that we never think + how unintelligible they really are.” + </p> + <p> + “But then about Peter, papa? What you have been saying will not apply to + Peter’s body, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I confess there is more difficulty there. But if you can suppose that + such power were indwelling in Jesus, you cannot limit the sphere of its + action. As he is the head of the body, his church, in all spiritual + things, so I firmly believe, however little we can understand about it, is + he in all natural things as well. Peter’s faith in him brought even + Peter’s body within the sphere of the outgoing power of the Master. Do you + suppose that because Peter ceased to be brave and trusting, therefore + Jesus withdrew from him some sustaining power, and allowed him to sink? I + do not believe it. I believe Peter’s sinking followed naturally upon his + loss of confidence. Thus he fell away from the life of the Master; was no + longer, in that way I mean, connected with the Head, was instantly under + the dominion of the natural law of gravitation, as we call it, and began + to sink. Therefore the Lord must take other means to save him. He must + draw nigh to him in a bodily manner. The pride of Peter had withdrawn him + from the immediate spiritual influence of Christ, conquering his matter; + and therefore the Lord must come over the stormy space between, come + nearer to him in the body, and from his own height of safety above the + sphere of the natural law, stretch out to him the arm of physical aid, + lift him up, lead him to the boat. The whole salvation of the human race + is figured in this story. It is all Christ, my love.—Does this help + you to believe at all?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it does, papa. But it wants thinking over a good deal. I always + find as I think, that lighter bits shine out here and there in a thing I + have no hope of understanding altogether. That always helps me to believe + that the rest might be understood too, if I were only clever enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Simple enough, not clever enough, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “But there’s one thing,” said my wife, “that is more interesting to me + than what you have been talking about. It is the other instances in the + life of St. Peter in which you said he failed in a similar manner from + pride or self-satisfaction.” + </p> + <p> + “One, at least, seems to me very clear. You have often remarked to me, + Ethel, how little praise servants can stand; how almost invariably after + you have commended the diligence or skill of any of your household, as you + felt bound to do, one of the first visible results was either a falling + away in the performance by which she had gained the praise, or a more or + less violent access, according to the nature of the individual, of + self-conceit, soon breaking out in bad temper or impertinence. Now you + will see precisely the same kind of thing in Peter.” + </p> + <p> + Here I opened my New Testament, and read fragmentarily, “‘But whom say ye + that I am?... Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.... Blessed + art thou, Simon.... My Father hath revealed that unto thee. I will give + unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.... I must suffer many things, + and be killed, and be raised again the third day.... Be it far from thee, + Lord. This shall not be unto thee.... Get thee behind me, Satan. Thou art + an offence unto me.’ Just contemplate the change here in the words of our + Lord. ‘Blessed art thou.’ ‘Thou art an offence unto me.’ Think what change + has passed on Peter’s mood before the second of these words could be + addressed to him to whom the first had just been spoken. The Lord had + praised him. Peter grew self-sufficient, even to the rebuking of him whose + praise had so uplifted him. But it is ever so. A man will gain a great + moral victory: glad first, then uplifted, he will fall before a paltry + temptation. I have sometimes wondered, too, whether his denial of our Lord + had anything to do with his satisfaction with himself for making that + onslaught upon the high priest’s servant. It was a brave thing and a + faithful to draw a single sword against a multitude. In his fiery + eagerness and inexperience, the blow, well meant to cleave Malchus’s head, + missed, and only cut off his ear; but Peter had herein justified his + confident saying that he would not deny him. He was not one to deny his + Lord who had been the first to confess him! Yet ere the cock had crowed, + ere the morning had dawned, the vulgar grandeur of the palace of the high + priest (for let it be art itself, it was vulgar grandeur beside that + grandeur which it caused Peter to deny), and the accusing tone of a + maid-servant, were enough to make him quail whom the crowd with lanterns, + and torches, and weapons, had only roused to fight. True, he was excited + then, and now he was cold in the middle of the night, with Jesus gone from + his sight a prisoner, and for the faces of friends that had there + surrounded him and strengthened him with their sympathy, now only the + faces of those who were, or whom at least Peter thought to be on the other + side, looking at him curiously, as a strange intruder into their domains. + Alas, that the courage which led him to follow the Lord should have thus + led him, not to deny him, but into the denial of him! Yet why should I say + <i>alas?</i> If the denial of our Lord lay in his heart a possible thing, + only prevented by his being kept in favourable circumstances for + confessing him, it was a thousand times better that he should deny him, + and thus know what a poor weak thing that heart of his was, trust it no + more, and give it up to the Master to make it strong, and pure, and grand. + For such an end the Lord was willing to bear all the pain of Peter’s + denial. O, the love of that Son of Man, who in the midst of all the + wretched weaknesses of those who surrounded him, loved the best in them, + and looked forward to his own victory for them that they might become all + that they were meant to be—like him; that the lovely glimmerings of + truth and love that were in them now—the breakings forth of the + light that lighteneth every man—might grow into the perfect human + day; loving them even the more that they were so helpless, so oppressed, + so far from that ideal which was their life, and which all their dim + desires were reaching after!” + </p> + <p> + Here I ceased, and a little overcome with the great picture in my soul to + which I had been able only to give the poorest expression, rose, and + retired to my own room. There I could only fall on my knees and pray that + the Lord Christ, who had died for me, might have his own way with me—that + it might be worth his while to have done what he did and what he was doing + now for me. To my Elder Brother, my Lord, and my God, I gave myself yet + again, confidently, because he cared to have me, and my very breath was + his. I <i>would</i> be what he wanted, who knew all about it, and had done + everything that I might be a son of God—a living glory of gladness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. NICEBOOTS. + </h2> + <p> + The next morning the captain of the lost vessel called upon me early to + thank me for himself and his men. He was a fine honest-looking burly + fellow, dressed in blue from head to heel. He might have sat for a + portrait of Chaucer’s shipman, as far as his hue and the first look of him + went. It was clear that “in many a tempest had his beard be shake,” and + certainly “the hote somer had made his hew all broun;” but farther the + likeness would hardly go, for the “good fellow” which Chaucer applies with + such irony to the shipman of his time, who would filch wine, and drown all + the captives he made in a sea-fight, was clearly applicable in good + earnest to this shipman. Still, I thought I had something to bring against + him, and therefore before we parted I said to him— + </p> + <p> + “They tell me, captain, that your vessel was not seaworthy, and that you + could not but have known that.” + </p> + <p> + “She was my own craft, sir, and I judged her fit for several voyages more. + If she had been A 1 she couldn’t have been mine; and a man must do what he + can for his family.” + </p> + <p> + “But you were risking your life, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “A few chances more or less don’t much signify to a sailor, sir. There + ain’t nothing to be done without risk. You’ll find an old tub go voyage + after voyage, and she beyond bail, and a clipper fresh off the stocks go + down in the harbour. It’s all in the luck, sir, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if it were your own life I should have nothing to say, seeing you + have a family to look after; but what about the poor fellows who made the + voyage with you? Did they know what kind of a vessel they were embarking + in?” + </p> + <p> + “Wherever the captain’s ready to go he’ll always find men ready to follow + him. Bless you, sir, they never asks no questions. If a sailor was always + to be thinking of the chances, he’d never set his foot off shore.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, I don’t think it’s right they shouldn’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay they knowed all about the old brig as well as I did myself. You + gets to know all about a craft just as you do about her captain. She’s got + a character of her own, and she can’t hide it long, any more than you can + hide yours, sir, begging your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay that’s all correct, but still I shouldn’t like anyone to say to + me, ‘You ought to have told me, captain.’ Therefore, you see, I’m telling + you, captain, and now I’m clear.—Have a glass of wine before you + go,” I concluded, ringing the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir. I’ll turn over what you’ve been saying, and anyhow I take + it kind of you.” + </p> + <p> + So we parted. I have never seen him since, and shall not, most likely, in + this world. But he looked like a man that could understand why and + wherefore I spoke as I did. And I had the advantage of having had a chance + of doing something for him first of all. Let no man who wants to do + anything for the soul of a man lose a chance of doing something for his + body. He ought to be willing, and ready, which is more than willing, to do + that whether or not; but there are those who need this reminder. Of many a + soul Jesus laid hold by healing the suffering the body brought upon it. No + one but himself can tell how much the nucleus of the church was composed + of and by those who had received health from his hands, loving-kindness + from the word of his mouth. My own opinion is that herein lay the very + germ of the kernel of what is now the ancient, was then the infant church; + that from them, next to the disciples themselves, went forth the chief + power of life in love, for they too had seen the Lord, and in their own + humble way could preach and teach concerning him. What memories of him + theirs must have been! + </p> + <p> + Things went on very quietly, that is, as I mean now, from the view-point + of a historian, without much to record bearing notably upon after events, + for the greater part of the next week. I wandered about my parish, making + acquaintance with different people in an outside sort of way, only now and + then finding an opportunity of seeing into their souls except by + conclusion. But I enjoyed endlessly the aspects of the country. It was not + picturesque except in parts. There was little wood and there were no + hills, only undulations, though many of them were steep enough even from a + pedestrian’s point of view. Neither, however, were there any plains except + high moorland tracts. But the impression of the whole country was large, + airy, sunshiny, and it was clasped in the arms of the infinite, awful, yet + how bountiful sea—if one will look at the ocean in its world-wide, + not to say its eternal aspects, and not out of the fears of a hidebound + love of life! The sea and the sky, I must confess, dwarfed the earth, made + it of small account beside them; but who could complain of such an + influence? At least, not I. My children bathed in this sea every day, and + gathered strength and knowledge from it. It was, as I have indicated, a + dangerous coast to bathe upon. The sweep of the tides varied with the + varying sands that were cast up. There was now in one place, now in + another, a strong <i>undertow</i>, as they called it—a reflux, that + is, of the inflowing waters, which was quite sufficient to carry those who + could not swim out into the great deep, and rendered much exertion + necessary, even in those who could, to regain the shore. But there was a + fine strong Cornish woman to take charge of the ladies and the little + boys, and she, watching the ways of the wild monster, knew the when and + the where, and all about it. + </p> + <p> + Connie got out upon the downs every day. She improved in health certainly, + and we thought a little even in her powers of motion. The weather + continued superb. What rain there was fell at night, just enough for + Nature to wash her face with and so look quite fresh in the morning. We + contrived a dinner on the sands on the other side of the bay, for the + Friday of this same week. + </p> + <p> + The morning rose gloriously. Harry and Charlie were turning the house + upside down, to judge by their noise, long before I was in the humour to + get up, for I had been reading late the night before. I never made much + objection to mere noise, knowing that I could stop it the moment I + pleased, and knowing, which was of more consequence, that so far from + there being anything wrong in making a noise, the sea would make noise + enough in our ears before we left Kilkhaven. The moment, however, that I + heard a thread of whining or a burst of anger in the noise, I would + interfere at once—treating these just as things that must be + dismissed at once. Harry and Charlie were, I say, to use their own form of + speech, making such a row that morning, however, that I was afraid of some + injury to the house or furniture, which were not our own. So I opened my + door and called out— + </p> + <p> + “Harry! Charlie! What on earth are you about?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, papa,” answered Charlie. “Only it’s so jolly!” + </p> + <p> + “What is jolly, my boy?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “O, I don’t know, papa! It’s <i>so</i> jolly!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it the sunshine?” thought I; “and the wind? God’s world all over? The + God of gladness in the hearts of the lads? Is it that? No wonder, then, + that they cannot tell yet what it is!” + </p> + <p> + I withdrew into my room; and so far from seeking to put an end to the + noise—I knew Connie did not mind it—listened to it with a kind + of reverence, as the outcome of a gladness which the God of joy had + kindled in their hearts. Soon after, however, I heard certain dim growls + of expostulation from Harry, and having, from experience, ground for + believing that the elder was tyrannising over the younger, I stopped that + and the noise together, sending Charlie to find out where the tide would + be between one and two o’clock, and Harry to run to the top of the hill, + and find out the direction of the wind. Before I was dressed, Charlie was + knocking at my door with the news that it would be half-tide about one; + and Harry speedily followed with the discovery that the wind was + north-east by south-west, which of course determined that the sun would + shine all day. + </p> + <p> + As the dinner-hour drew near, the servants went over, with Walter at their + head, to choose a rock convenient for a table, under the shelter of the + rocks on the sands across the bay. Thither, when Walter returned, we bore + our Connie, carrying her litter close by the edge of the retreating tide, + which sometimes broke in a ripple of music under her, wetting our feet + with innocuous rush. The child’s delight was extreme, as she thus skimmed + the edge of the ocean, with the little ones gambolling about her, and her + mamma and Wynnie walking quietly on the landward side, for she wished to + have no one between her and the sea. + </p> + <p> + After scrambling with difficulty over some rocky ledges, and stopping at + Connie’s request, to let her look into a deep pool in the sand, which + somehow or other retained the water after the rest had retreated, we set + her down near the mouth of a cave, in the shadow of a rock. And there was + our dinner nicely laid for us on a flat rock in front of the cave. The + cliffs rose behind us, with curiously curved and variously angled strata. + The sun in his full splendour threw dark shadows on the brilliant yellow + sand, more and more of which appeared as the bright blue water withdrew + itself, now rippling over it as if it meant to hide it all up again, now + uncovering more as it withdrew for another rush. Before we had finished + our dinner, the foremost wavelets appeared so far away over the plain of + the sand, that it seemed a long walk to the edge that had been almost at + our feet a little while ago. Between us and it lay a lovely desert of + glittering sand. + </p> + <p> + When even Charlie and Harry had arrived at the conclusion that it was time + to stop eating, we left the shadow and went out into the sun, carrying + Connie and laying her down in the midst of “the ribbed sea-sand,” which + was very ribby to-day. On a shawl a little way off from her lay her baby, + crowing and kicking with the same jollity that had possessed the boys ever + since the morning. I wandered about with Wynnie on the sands, picking up + amongst other things strange creatures in thin shells ending in + vegetable-like tufts, if I remember rightly. My wife sat on the end of + Connie’s litter, and Dora and the boys, a little way off, were trying how + far the full force of three wooden spades could, in digging a hole, keep + ahead of the water which was ever tumbling in the sand from the sides of + the same. Behind, the servants were busy washing the plates in a pool, and + burying the fragments of the feast; for I made it a rule wherever we went + that the fair face of nature was not to be defiled. I have always taken + the part of excursionists in these latter days of running to and fro, + against those who complain that the loveliest places are being destroyed + by their inroads. But there is one most offensive, even disgusting habit + amongst them—that of leaving bones, fragments of meat pies, and + worse than all, pieces of greasy paper about the place, which I cannot + excuse, or at least defend. Even the surface of Cumberland and + Westmoreland lakes will be defiled with these floating abominations—not + abominations at all if they are decently burned or buried when done with, + but certainly abominations when left to be cast hither and thither in the + wind, over the grass, or on the eddy and ripple of the pure water, for + days after those who have thus left their shame behind them have returned + to their shops or factories. I forgive them for trampling down the grass + and the ferns. That cannot be helped, and in comparison of the good they + get, is not to be considered at all. But why should they leave such a + savage trail behind them as this, forgetting too that though they have + done with the spot, there are others coming after them to whom these + remnants must be an offence? + </p> + <p> + At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of + rock, rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came + suddenly upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with a + small easel before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had his + back towards us, so that we saw at once what he was painting. + </p> + <p> + “O, papa!” cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” I said. “We came over from the other side, and did + not see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least,” he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + I saw that the subject on his easel suggested that of which Wynnie had + been making a sketch at the same time, on the day when Connie first lay on + the top of the opposite cliff. But he was not even looking in the same + direction now. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind having your work seen before it is finished?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least, if the spectators will do me the favour to remember + that most processes have to go through a seemingly chaotic stage,” he + answered. + </p> + <p> + I was struck with the mode and tone of the remark. + </p> + <p> + “Here is no common man,” I said to myself, and responded to him in + something of a similar style. + </p> + <p> + “I wish we could always keep that in mind with regard to human beings + themselves, as well as their works,” I said aloud. + </p> + <p> + The painter looked at me, and I looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “We speak each from the experience of his own profession, I presume,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “But,” I returned, glancing at the little picture in oils upon his easel, + “your work here, though my knowledge of painting is next to nothing—perhaps + I ought to say nothing at all—this picture must have long ago passed + the chaotic stage.” + </p> + <p> + “It is nearly as much finished as I care to make it,” he returned. “I + hardly count this work at all. I am chiefly amusing, or rather pleasing, + my own fancy at present.” + </p> + <p> + “Apparently,” I remarked, “you had the conical rock outside the hay for + your model, and now you are finishing it with your back turned towards it. + How is that?” + </p> + <p> + “I will soon explain,” he answered. “The moment I saw this rock, it + reminded me of Dante’s Purgatory.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you are a reader of Dante?” I said. “In the original, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. A friend of mine, a brother painter, an Italian, set me going with + that, and once going with Dante, nobody could well stop. I never knew what + intensity <i>per se</i> was till I began to read Dante.” + </p> + <p> + “That is quite my own feeling. Now, to return to your picture.” + </p> + <p> + “Without departing at all from natural forms, I thought to make it suggest + the Purgatorio to anyone who remembered the description given of the place + <i>ab extra</i> by Ulysses, in the end of the twenty-sixth canto of the + Inferno. Of course, that thing there is a mere rock, yet it has certain + mountain forms about it. I have put it at a much greater distance, you + see, and have sought to make it look a solitary mountain in the midst of a + great water. You will discover even now that the circles of the Purgatory + are suggested without any approach, I think, to artificial structure; and + there are occasional hints at figures, which you cannot definitely detach + from the rocks—which, by the way, you must remember, were in one + part full of sculptures. I have kept the mountain near enough, however, to + indicate the great expanse of wild flowers on the top, which Matilda was + so busy gathering. I want to indicate too the wind up there in the + terrestrial paradise, ever and always blowing one way. You remember, Mr. + Walton?”—for the young man, getting animated, began to talk as if we + had known each other for some time—and here he repeated the purport + of Dante’s words in English: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow, + With no more strength than in a soft wind lies, + Smote peacefully against me on the brow. + By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise, + Did every one bend thitherward to where + The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise.” + </pre> + <p> + “I thought you said you did not use translations?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it possible that—Miss Walton (?)” interrogatively this—“might + not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem pedantic.” + </p> + <p> + “She won’t lag far behind, I flatter myself,” I returned. “Whose + translation do you quote?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly: + </p> + <p> + “I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself.” + </p> + <p> + “It has the merit of being near the original at least,” I returned; “and + that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can possess.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further + remark upon his verses, “you see those white things in the air above?” + Here he turned to Wynnie. “Miss Walton will remember—I think she was + making a drawing of the rock at the same time I was—how the + seagulls, or some such birds—only two or three of them—kept + flitting about the top of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember quite well,” answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I interposed; “my daughter, in describing what she had been + attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For she + said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to get + loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, and risen + in triumph into the air.” + </p> + <p> + Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, + looked at Wynnie almost with a start. + </p> + <p> + “How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!” he said. + “Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the free + souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind of + purgatory anyhow—is it not, Mr. Walton?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work is—whether + wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious stones.” + </p> + <p> + “You see,” resumed the painter, “if anybody only glanced at my little + picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, and + began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and Beatrice + on their way to the sphere of the moon.” + </p> + <p> + “In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of + corresponding to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what group + of things, in which the natural man will not see merely the things of + nature, but the spiritual man the things of the spirit?” + </p> + <p> + “I am no theologian,” said the painter, turning away, I thought somewhat + coldly. + </p> + <p> + But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she + thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for + her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my way + of it: here might be something new. + </p> + <p> + “If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be + happy,” he said, turning again towards me. + </p> + <p> + But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I + received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not wish + to make more marked than his own towards my last observation. + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind,” I said; “but Miss Walton does not presume to be an + artist.” + </p> + <p> + I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie’s countenance. When I turned to Mr. + Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had said + something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste to make + amends. + </p> + <p> + “We are just going to have some coffee,” I said, “for my servants, I see, + have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to introduce you + to Mrs. Walton?” + </p> + <p> + “With much pleasure,” he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as he + spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a fine-built, + black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes notwithstanding, a + rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But there was an air of + suppression, if not of sadness, about him, however, did not in the least + interfere with the manliness of his countenance, or of its expression. + </p> + <p> + “But,” I said, “how am I to effect an introduction, seeing I do not yet + know your name.” + </p> + <p> + I had had to keep a sharp look-out on myself lest I should call him Mr. + Niceboots. He smiled very graciously and replied, + </p> + <p> + “My name is Percivale—Charles Percivale.” + </p> + <p> + “A descendant of Sir Percivale of King Arthur’s Round Table?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot count quite so far back,” he answered, “as that—not quite + to the Conquest,” he added, with a slight deepening of his sunburnt hue. + “I do come of a fighting race, but I cannot claim Sir Percivale.” + </p> + <p> + We were now walking along the edge of the still retreating waves towards + the group upon the sands, Mr. Percivale and I foremost, and Wynnie + lingering behind. + </p> + <p> + “O, do look here papa!” she cried, from some little distance. + </p> + <p> + We turned and saw her gazing at something on the sand at her feet. + Hastening back, we found it to be a little narrow line of foam-bubbles, + which the water had left behind it on the sand, slowly breaking and + passing out of sight. Why there should be foam-bubbles there then, and not + always, I do not know. But there they were—and such colours! deep + rose and grassy green and ultramarine blue; and, above all, one dark, yet + brilliant and intensely-burnished, metallic gold. All of them were of a + solid-looking burnished colour, like opaque body-colour laid on behind + translucent crystal. Those little ocean bubbles were well worth turning to + see; and so I said to Wynnie. But, as we gazed, they went on vanishing, + one by one. Every moment a heavenly glory of hue burst, and was nowhere. + </p> + <p> + We walked away again towards the rest of our party. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think those bubbles more beautiful than any precious stones you + ever saw, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my love, I think they are, except it be the opal. In the opal, God + seems to have fixed the evanescent and made the vanishing eternal.” + </p> + <p> + “And flowers are more beautiful things than jewels?’ she said + interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + “Many—perhaps most flowers are,” I granted. “And did you ever see + such curves and delicate textures anywhere else as in the clouds, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not—in the cirrhous clouds at least—the frozen ones. + But what are you putting me to my catechism for in this way, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “O, papa, I could go on a long time with that catechism; but I will end + with one question more, which you will perhaps find a little harder to + answer. Only I daresay you have had an answer ready for years lest one of + us should ask you some day.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my love. I never got an answer ready for anything lest one of my + children should ask me. But it is not surprising either that children + should be puzzled about the things that have puzzled their father, or that + by the time they are able to put the questions, he should have found out + some sort of an answer to most of them. Go on with your catechism, Wynnie. + Now for your puzzle!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not a funny question, papa; it’s a very serious one. I can’t think + why the unchanging God should have made all the most beautiful things + wither and grow ugly, or burst and vanish, or die somehow and be no more. + Mamma is not so beautiful as she once was, is she?” + </p> + <p> + “In one way, no; but in another and better way, much more so. But we will + not talk about her kind of beauty just now; we will keep to the more + material loveliness of which you have been speaking—though, in + truth, no loveliness can be only material. Well, then, for my answer; it + is, I think, because God loves the beauty so much that he makes all + beautiful things vanish quickly.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand you, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay not, my dear. But I will explain to you a little, if Mr. + Percivale will excuse me.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, I am greatly interested, both in the question and the + answer.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Wynnie; everything has a soul and a body, or something like + them. By the body we know the soul. But we are always ready to love the + body instead of the soul. Therefore, God makes the body die continually, + that we may learn to love the soul indeed. The world is full of beautiful + things, but God has saved many men from loving the mere bodies of them, by + making them poor; and more still by reminding them that if they be as rich + as Croesus all their lives, they will be as poor as Diogenes—poorer, + without even a tub—when this world, with all its pictures, scenery, + books, and—alas for some Christians!—bibles even, shall have + vanished away.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say <i>alas</i>, papa—if they are Christians + especially?” + </p> + <p> + “I say <i>alas</i> only from their point of view, not from mine. I mean + such as are always talking and arguing from the Bible, and never giving + themselves any trouble to do what it tells them. They insist on the anise + and cummin, and forget the judgment, mercy, and faith. These worship the + body of the truth, and forget the soul of it. If the flowers were not + perishable, we should cease to contemplate their beauty, either blinded by + the passion for hoarding the bodies of them, or dulled by the hebetude of + commonplaceness that the constant presence of them would occasion. To + compare great things with small, the flowers wither, the bubbles break, + the clouds and sunsets pass, for the very same holy reason, in the degree + of its application to them, for which the Lord withdrew from his disciples + and ascended again to his Father—that the Comforter, the Spirit of + Truth, the Soul of things, might come to them and abide with them, and so + the Son return, and the Father be revealed. The flower is not its + loveliness, and its loveliness we must love, else we shall only treat them + as flower-greedy children, who gather and gather, and fill hands and + baskets, from a mere desire of acquisition, excusable enough in them, but + the same in kind, however harmless in mode, and degree, and object, as the + avarice of the miser. Therefore God, that we may always have them, and + ever learn to love their beauty, and yet more their truth, sends the + beneficent winter that we may think about what we have lost, and welcome + them when they come again with greater tenderness and love, with clearer + eyes to see, and purer hearts to understand, the spirit that dwells in + them. We cannot do without the ‘winter of our discontent.’ Shakspere + surely saw that when he makes Titania say, in <i>A Midsummer Night’s Dream</i>: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘The human mortals want their winter here’— +</pre> + <p> + namely, to set things right; and none of those editors who would alter the + line seem to have been capable of understanding its import.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand you a little,” answered Wynnie. Then, changing her + tone, “I told you, papa, you would have an answer ready; didn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my child; but with this difference—I found the answer to meet + my own necessities, not yours.” + </p> + <p> + “And so you had it ready for me when I wanted it.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so. That is the only certainty you have in regard to what you give + away. No one who has not tasted it and found it good has a right to offer + any spiritual dish to his neighbour.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Percivale took no part in our conversation. The moment I had presented + him to Mrs. Walton and Connie, and he had paid his respects by a somewhat + stately old-world obeisance, he merged the salutation into a farewell, + and, either forgetting my offer of coffee, or having changed his mind, + withdrew, a little to my disappointment, for, notwithstanding his lack of + response where some things he said would have led me to expect it, I had + begun to feel much interested in him. + </p> + <p> + He was scarcely beyond hearing, when Dora came up to me from her digging, + with an eager look on her sunny face. + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t he got nice boots, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, my dear, I am unable to support you in that assertion, for I + never saw his boots.” + </p> + <p> + “I did, then,” returned the child; “and I never saw such nice boots.” + </p> + <p> + “I accept the statement willingly,” I replied; and we heard no more of the + boots, for his name was now substituted for his nickname. Nor did I see + himself again for some days—not in fact till next Sunday—though + why he should come to church at all was something of a puzzle to me, + especially when I knew him better. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. THE BLACKSMITH. + </h2> + <p> + The next day I set out after breakfast to inquire about a blacksmith. It + was not every or any blacksmith that would do. I must not fix on the first + to do my work because he was the first. There was one in the village, I + soon learned; but I found him an ordinary man, who, I have no doubt, could + shoe a horse and avoid the quick, but from whom any greater delicacy of + touch was not to be expected. Inquiring further, I heard of a young smith + who had lately settled in a hamlet a couple of miles distant, but still + within the parish. In the afternoon I set out to find him. To my surprise, + he was a pale-faced, thoughtful-looking man, with a huge frame, which + appeared worn rather than naturally thin, and large eyes that looked at + the anvil as if it was the horizon of the world. He had got a horse-shoe + in his tongs when I entered. Notwithstanding the fire that glowed on the + hearth, and the sparks that flew like a nimbus in eruption from about his + person, the place looked very dark to me entering from the glorious blaze + of the almost noontide sun, and felt cool after the deep lane through + which I had come, and which had seemed a very reservoir of sunbeams. I + could see the smith by the glow of his horse-shoe; but all between me and + the shoe was dark. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” I said. “It is a good thing to find a man by his work. I + heard you half a mile off or so, and now I see you, but only by the glow + of your work. It is a grand thing to work in fire.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his hammered hand to his forehead courteously, and as lightly as + if the hammer had been the butt-end of a whip. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know if you would say the same if you had to work at it in + weather like this,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “If I did not,” I returned, “that would be the fault of my weakness, and + would not affect the assertion I have just made, that it is a fine thing + to work in fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you may be right,” he rejoined with a sigh, as, throwing the + horse-shoe he had been fashioning from the tongs on the ground, he next + let the hammer drop beside the anvil, and leaning against it held his head + for a moment between his hands, and regarded the floor. “It does not much + matter to me,” he went on, “if I only get through my work and have done + with it. No man shall say I shirked what I’d got to do. And then when it’s + over there won’t be a word to say agen me, or—” + </p> + <p> + He did not finish the sentence. And now I could see the sunlight lying in + a somewhat dreary patch, if the word <i>dreary</i> can be truly used with + respect to any manifestation of sunlight, on the dark clay floor. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you are not ill,” I said. + </p> + <p> + He made no answer, but taking up his tongs caught with it from a beam one + of a number of roughly-finished horse-shoes which hung there, and put it + on the fire to be fashioned to a certain fit. While he turned it in the + fire, and blew the bellows, I stood regarding him. “This man will do for + my work,” I said to myself; “though I should not wonder from the look of + him if it was the last piece of work he ever did under the New Jerusalem.” + The smith’s words broke in on my meditations. + </p> + <p> + “When I was a little boy,” he said, “I once wanted to stay at home from + school. I had, I believe, a little headache, but nothing worth minding. I + told my mother that I had a headache, and she kept me, and I helped her at + her spinning, which was what I liked best of anything. But in the + afternoon the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he asked me + what was the matter with me, and my mother answered for me that I had a + bad head, and he looked at me; and as my head was quite well by this time, + I could not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, I suppose, sir, for I + can’t account for what he said any other way; and he turned to me, and he + said to me, solemn-like, ‘Is your head bad enough to send you to the Lord + Jesus to make you whole?’ I could not speak a word, partly from + bashfulness, I suppose, for I was but ten years old. So he followed it up, + as they say: ‘Then you ought to be at school,’ says he. I said nothing, + because I couldn’t. But never since then have I given in as long as I + could stand. And I can stand now, and lift my hammer, too,” he said, as he + took the horse-shoe from the forge, laid it on the anvil, and again made a + nimbus of coruscating iron. + </p> + <p> + “You are just the man I want,” I said. “I’ve got a job for you, down to + Kilkhaven, as you say in these parts.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, sir? Something about the church? I should ha’ thought the + church was all spick and span by this time.” + </p> + <p> + “I see you know who I am,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do,” he answered. “I don’t go to church myself, being brought + up a Methodist; but anything that happens in the parish is known the next + day all over it.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t mind doing my job though you are a Methodist, will you?” I + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not I, sir. If I’ve read right, it’s the fault of the Church that we + don’t pull all alongside. You turned us out, sir; we didn’t go out of + ourselves. At least, if all they say is true, which I can’t be sure of, + you know, in this world.” + </p> + <p> + “You are quite right there though,” I answered. “And in doing so, the + Church had the worst of it—as all that judge and punish their + neighbours have. But you have been the worse for it, too: all of which is + to be laid to the charge of the Church. For there is not one clergyman I + know—mind, I say, that I know—who would have made such a cruel + speech to a boy as that the Methodist parson made to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But it did me good, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure of that? I am not. Are you sure, first of all, it did not + make you proud? Are you sure it has not made you work beyond your strength—I + don’t mean your strength of arm, for clearly that is all that could be + wished, but of your chest, your lungs? Is there not some danger of your + leaving someone who is dependent on you too soon unprovided for? Is there + not some danger of your having worked as if God were a hard master?—of + your having worked fiercely, indignantly, as if he wronged you by not + caring for you, not understanding you?” + </p> + <p> + He returned me no answer, but hammered momently on his anvil. Whether he + felt what I meant, or was offended at my remark, I could not then tell. I + thought it best to conclude the interview with business. + </p> + <p> + “I have a delicate little job that wants nice handling, and I fancy you + are just the man to do it to my mind,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, sir?” he asked, in a friendly manner enough. + </p> + <p> + “If you will excuse me, I would rather show it to you than talk about it,” + I returned. + </p> + <p> + “As you please, sir. When do you want me?” + </p> + <p> + “The first hour you can come.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow morning?” + </p> + <p> + “If you feel inclined.” + </p> + <p> + “For that matter, I’d rather go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “Come to me instead: it’s light work.” + </p> + <p> + “I will, sir—at ten o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “If you please.” + </p> + <p> + And so it was arranged. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. THE LIFE-BOAT. + </h2> + <p> + The next day rose glorious. Indeed, early as the sun rose, I saw him rise—saw + him, from the down above the house, over the land to the east and north, + ascend triumphant into his own light, which had prepared the way for him; + while the clouds that hung over the sea glowed out with a faint flush, as + anticipating the hour when the west should clasp the declining glory in a + richer though less dazzling splendour, and shine out the bride of the + bridegroom east, which behold each other from afar across the intervening + world, and never mingle but in the sight of the eyes. The clear pure light + of the morning made me long for the truth in my heart, which alone could + make me pure and clear as the morning, tune me up to the concert-pitch of + the nature around me. And the wind that blew from the sunrise made me hope + in the God who had first breathed into my nostrils the breath of life, + that he would at length so fill me with his breath, his wind, his spirit, + that I should think only his thoughts and live his life, finding therein + my own life, only glorified infinitely. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast and prayers, I would go to the church to await the arrival + of my new acquaintance the smith. In order to obtain entrance, I had, + however, to go to the cottage of the sexton. This was not my first visit + there, so that I may now venture to take my reader with me. To reach the + door, I had to cross a hollow by a bridge, built, for the sake of the + road, over what had once been the course of a rivulet from the heights + above. Now it was a kind of little glen, or what would in Scotland be + called a den, I think, grown with grass and wild flowers and ferns, some + of them, rare and fine. The roof of the cottage came down to the road, + and, until you came quite near, you could not but wonder where the body + that supported this head could be. But you soon saw that the ground fell + suddenly away, leaving a bank against which the cottage was built. + Crossing a garden of the smallest, the principal flowers of which were the + stonecrop on its walls, by a flag-paved path, you entered the building, + and, to your surprise, found yourself, not in a little cottage kitchen, as + you expected, but in a waste-looking space, that seemed to have forgotten + the use for which it had been built. There was a sort of loft along one + side of it, and it was heaped with indescribable lumber-looking stuff with + here and there a hint at possible machinery. The place had been a mill for + grinding corn, and its wheel had been driven by the stream which had run + for ages in the hollow of which I have already spoken. But when the canal + came to be constructed, the stream had to be turned aside from its former + course, and indeed was now employed upon occasion to feed the canal; so + that the mill of necessity had fallen into disuse and decay. Crossing this + floor, you entered another door, and turning sharp to the left, went down + a few steps of a ladder-sort of stair, and after knocking your hat against + a beam, emerged in the comfortable quaint little cottage kitchen you had + expected earlier. A cheerful though small fire burns in the grate—for + even here the hearth-fire has vanished from the records of cottage-life—and + is pleasant here even in the height of summer, though it is counted + needful only for cooking purposes. The ceiling, which consists only of the + joists and the boards that floor the bedroom above, is so low, that + necessity, if not politeness, would compel you to take off your + already-bruised hat. Some of these joists, you will find, are made further + useful by supporting each a shelf, before which hangs a little curtain of + printed cotton, concealing the few stores and postponed eatables of the + house—forming, in fact, both store-room and larder of the family. On + the walls hang several coloured prints, and within a deep glazed frame the + figure of a ship in full dress, carved in rather high relief in sycamore. + </p> + <p> + As I now entered, Mrs. Coombes rose from a high-backed settle near the + fire, and bade me good-morning with a courtesy. + </p> + <p> + “What a lovely day it is, Mrs. Coombes! It is so bright over the sea,” I + said, going to the one little window which looked out on the great + Atlantic, “that one almost expects a great merchant navy to come sailing + into Kilkhaven—sunk to the water’s edge with silks, and ivory, and + spices, and apes, and peacocks, like the ships of Solomon that we read + about—just as the sun gets up to the noonstead.” + </p> + <p> + Before I record her answer, I turn to my reader, who in the spirit + accompanies me, and have a little talk with him. I always make it a rule + to speak freely with the less as with the more educated of my friends. I + never <i>talk down</i> to them, except I be expressly explaining something + to them. The law of the world is as the law of the family. Those children + grow much the faster who hear all that is going on in the house. Reaching + ever above themselves, they arrive at an understanding at fifteen, which, + in the usual way of things, they would not reach before five-and-twenty or + thirty; and this in a natural way, and without any necessary priggishness, + except such as may belong to their parents. Therefore I always spoke to + the poor and uneducated as to my own people,—freely, not much caring + whether I should be quite understood or not; for I believed in influences + not to be measured by the measure of the understanding. + </p> + <p> + But what was the old woman’s answer? It was this: + </p> + <p> + “I know, sir. And when I was as young as you”—I was not so very + young, my reader may well think—“I thought like that about the sea + myself. Everything come from the sea. For my boy Willie he du bring me + home the beautifullest parrot and the talkingest you ever see, and the red + shawl all worked over with flowers: I’ll show it to you some day, sir, + when you have time. He made that ship you see in the frame there, sir, all + with his own knife, out on a bit o’ wood that he got at the Marishes, as + they calls it, sir—a bit of an island somewheres in the great sea. + But the parrot’s gone dead like the rest of them, sir.—Where am I? + and what am I talking about?” she added, looking down at her knitting as + if she had dropped a stitch, or rather as if she had forgotten what she + was making, and therefore what was to come next. + </p> + <p> + “You were telling me how you used to think of the sea—” + </p> + <p> + “When I was as young as you. I remember, sir. Well, that lasted a long + time—lasted till my third boy fell asleep in the wide water; for it + du call it falling asleep, don’t it, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “The Bible certainly does,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the Bible I be meaning, of course,” she returned. “Well, after that, + but I don’t know what began it, only I did begin to think about the sea as + something that took away things and didn’t bring them no more. And somehow + or other she never look so blue after that, and she give me the shivers. + But now, sir, she always looks to me like one o’ the shining ones that + come to fetch the pilgrims. You’ve heard tell of the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>, + I daresay, sir, among the poor people; for they du say it was written by a + tinker, though there be a power o’ good things in it that I think the + gentlefolk would like if they knowed it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do know the book—nearly as well as I know the Bible,” I answered; + “and the shining ones are very beautiful in it. I am glad you can think of + the sea that way.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s looking in at the window all day as I go about the house,” she + answered, “and all night too when I’m asleep; and if I hadn’t learned to + think of it that way, it would have driven me mad, I du believe. I was + forced to think that way about it, or not think at all. And that wouldn’t + be easy, with the sound of it in your ears the last thing at night and the + first thing in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “The truth of things is indeed the only refuge from the look of things,” I + replied. “But now I want the key of the church, if you will trust me with + it, for I have something to do there this morning; and the key of the + tower as well, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + With her old smile, ripened only by age, she reached the ponderous keys + from the nail where they hung, and gave them into my hand. I left her in + the shadow of her dwelling, and stepped forth into the sunlight. The first + thing I observed was the blacksmith waiting for me at the church door. + </p> + <p> + Now that I saw him in the full light of day, and now that he wore his + morning face upon which the blackness of labour had not yet gathered, I + could see more plainly how far he was from well. There was a flush on his + thin cheek by which the less used exercise of walking revealed his inward + weakness, and the light in his eyes had something of the far-country in + them—“the light that never was on sea or shore.” But his speech was + cheerful, for he had been walking in the light of this world, and that had + done something to make the light within him shine a little more freely. + </p> + <p> + “How do you find yourself to-day?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Quite well, sir, I thank you,” he answered. “A day like this does a man + good. But,” he added, and his countenance fell, “the heart knoweth its own + bitterness.” + </p> + <p> + “It may know it too much,” I returned, “just because it refuses to let a + stranger intermeddle therewith.” + </p> + <p> + He made no reply. I turned the key in the great lock, and the iron-studded + oak opened and let us into the solemn gloom. + </p> + <p> + It did not require many minutes to make the man understand what I wanted + of him. + </p> + <p> + “We must begin at the bells and work down,” he said. + </p> + <p> + So we went up into the tower, where, with the help of a candle I fetched + for him from the cottage, he made a good many minute measurements; found + that carpenter’s work was necessary for the adjustment of the hammers and + cranks and the leading of the rods, undertook the management of the whole, + and in the course of an hour and a half went home to do what had to be + done before any fixing could be commenced, assuring me that he had no + doubt of bringing the job to a satisfactory conclusion, although the force + of the blow on the bell would doubtless have to be regulated afterwards by + repeated trials. + </p> + <p> + “In a fortnight, I hope you will be able to play a tune to the parish, + sir,” he added, as he took his leave. + </p> + <p> + I resolved, if possible, to know more of the man, and find out his + trouble, if haply I might be able to give him any comfort, for I was all + but certain that there was a deeper cause for his gloom than the state of + his health. + </p> + <p> + When he was gone I stood with the key of the church in my hand, and looked + about me. Nature at least was in glorious health—sunshine in her + eyes, light fantastic cloud-images passing through her brain, her breath + coming and going in soft breezes perfumed with the scents of meadows and + wild flowers, and her green robe shining in the motions of her gladness. I + turned to lock the church door, though in my heart I greatly disapproved + of locking the doors of churches, and only did so now because it was not + my church, and I had no business to force my opinions upon other customs. + But when I turned I received a kind of questioning shock. There was the + fallen world, as men call it, shining in glory and gladness, because God + was there; here was the way into the lost Paradise, yea, the door into an + infinitely higher Eden than that ever had or ever could have been, + iron-clamped and riveted, gloomy and low-browed like the entrance to a + sepulchre, and surrounded with the grim heads of grotesque monsters of the + deep. What did it mean? Here was contrast enough to require harmonising, + or if that might not be, then accounting for. Perhaps it was enough to say + that although God made both the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of + grace, yet the symbol of the latter was the work of man, and might not + altogether correspond to God’s idea of the matter. I turned away + thoughtful, and went through the churchyard with my eye on the graves. + </p> + <p> + As I left the churchyard, still looking to the earth, the sound of voices + reached my ear. I looked up. There, down below me, at the foot of the high + bank on which I stood, lay a gorgeous shining thing upon the bosom of the + canal, full of men, and surrounded by men, women, and children, delighting + in its beauty. I had never seen such a thing before, but I knew at once, + as by instinct, which of course it could not have been, that it was the + life-boat. But in its gorgeous colours, red and white and green, it looked + more like the galley that bore Cleopatra to Actium. Nor, floating so light + on the top of the water, and broad in the beam withal, curved upward and + ornamented at stern and stem, did it look at all like a creature formed to + battle with the fierce elements. A pleasure-boat for floating between + river banks it seemed, drawn by swans mayhap, and regarded in its course + by fair eyes from green terrace-walks, or oriel windows of ancient houses + on verdant lawns. Ten men sat on the thwarts, and one in the stern by the + yet useless rudder, while men and boys drew the showy thing by a rope + downward to the lock-gates. The men in the boat, wore blue jerseys, but + you could see little of the colour for strange unshapely things that they + wore above them, like an armour cut out of a row of organ pipes. They were + their cork-jackets; for every man had to be made into a life-boat himself. + I descended the bank, and stood on the edge of the canal as it drew near. + Then I saw that every oar was loosely but firmly fastened to the rowlock, + so that it could be dropped and caught again in a moment; and that the gay + sides of the unwieldy-looking creature were festooned with ropes from the + gunwale, for the men to lay hold of when she capsized, for the earlier + custom of fastening the men to their seats had been quite given up, + because their weight under the water might prevent the boat from righting + itself again, and the men could not come to the surface. Now they had a + better chance in their freedom, though why they should not be loosely + attached to the boat, I do not quite see. + </p> + <p> + They towed the shining thing through the upper gate of the lock, and + slowly she sank from my sight, and for some moments was no more to be + seen, for I had remained standing where first she passed me. All at once + there she was beyond the covert of the lock-head, abroad and free, + fleeting from the strokes of ten swift oars over the still waters of the + bay towards the waves that roared further out where the ground-swell was + broken by the rise of the sandy coast. There was no vessel in danger now, + as the talk of the spectators informed me; it was only for exercise and + show that they went out. It seemed all child’s play for a time; but when + they got among the broken waves, then it looked quite another thing. The + motion of the waters laid hold upon her, and soon tossed her fearfully, + now revealing the whole of her capacity on the near side of one of their + slopes, now hiding her whole bulk in one of their hollows beyond. She, + careless as a child in the troubles of the world, floated about amongst + them with what appeared too much buoyancy for the promise of a safe + return. Again and again she was driven from her course towards the low + rocks on the other side of the bay, and again and again, returned to + disport herself, like a sea-animal, as it seemed, upon the backs of the + wild, rolling, and bursting billows. + </p> + <p> + “Can she go no further?” I asked of the captain of the coastguard, whom I + found standing by my side. + </p> + <p> + “Not without some danger,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “What, then, must it be in a storm!” I remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Then of course,” he returned, “they must take their chance. But there is + no good in running risks for nothing. That swell is quite enough for + exercise.” + </p> + <p> + “But is it enough to accustom them to face the danger that will come?” I + asked. + </p> + <p> + “With danger comes courage,” said the old sailor. + </p> + <p> + “Were you ever afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. I don’t think I ever was afraid. Yes, I believe I was once for + one moment, no more, when I fell from the maintop-gallant yard, and felt + myself falling. But it was soon over, for I only fell into the maintop. I + was expecting the smash on deck when I was brought up there. But,” he + resumed, “I don’t care much about the life-boat. My rockets are worth a + good deal more, as you may see, sir, before the winter is over; for seldom + does a winter pass without at least two or three wrecks close by here on + this coast. The full force of the Atlantic breaks here, sir. I <i>have</i> + seen a life-boat—not that one—<i>she’s</i> done nothing yet—pitched + stern over stem; not capsized, you know, sir, in the ordinary way, but + struck by a wave behind while she was just hanging in the balance on the + knife-edge of a wave, and flung a somerset, as I say, stern over stem, and + four of her men lost.” + </p> + <p> + While we spoke I saw on the pier-head the tall figure of the painter + looking earnestly at the boat. I thought he was regarding it chiefly from + an artistic point of view, but I became aware before long that that would + not have been consistent with the character of Charles Percivale. He had + been, I learned afterwards, a crack oarsman at Oxford, and had belonged to + the University boat, so that he had some almost class-sympathy with the + doings of the crew. + </p> + <p> + In a little while the boat sped swiftly back, entered the lock, was lifted + above the level of the storm-heaved ocean, and floated up the smooth canal + calmly as if she had never known what trouble was. Away up to the pretty + little Tudor-fashioned house in which she lay—one could almost fancy + dreaming of storms to come—she went, as softly as if moved only by + her “own sweet will,” in the calm consolation for her imprisonment of + having tried her strength, and found therein good hope of success for the + time when she should rush to the rescue of men from that to which, as a + monster that begets monsters, she a watching Perseis, lay ready to offer + battle. The poor little boat lying in her little house watching the ocean, + was something signified in my eyes, and not less so after what came in the + course of changing seasons and gathered storms. + </p> + <p> + All this time I had the keys in my hand, and now went back to the cottage + to restore them to their place upon the wall. When I entered there was a + young woman of a sweet interesting countenance talking to Mrs. Coombes. + Now as it happened, I had never yet seen the daughter who lived with her, + and thought this was she. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve found your daughter at last then?” I said, approaching them. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, sir. She goes out to work, and her hands be pretty full at + present. But this be almost my daughter, sir,” she added. “This is my next + daughter, Mary Trehern, from the south. She’s got a place near by, to be + near her mother that is to be, that’s me.” + </p> + <p> + Mary was hanging her head and blushing, as the old woman spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” I said. “And when are you going to get your new mother, + Mary? Soon I hope.” + </p> + <p> + But she gave me no reply—only hung her head lower and blushed + deeper. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Coombes spoke for her. + </p> + <p> + “She’s shy, you see, sir. But if she was to speak her mind, she would ask + you whether you wouldn’t marry her and Willie when he comes home from his + next voyage.” + </p> + <p> + Mary’s hands were trembling now, and she turned half away. + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart,” I said. + </p> + <p> + The girl tried to turn towards me, but could not. I looked at her face a + little more closely. Through all its tremor, there was a look of constancy + that greatly pleased me. I tried to make her speak. + </p> + <p> + “When do you expect Willie home?” I said. + </p> + <p> + She made a little gasp and murmur, but no articulate words came. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be frightened, Mary,” said her mother, as I found she always called + her. “The gentleman won’t be sharp with you.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted a pair of soft brown eyes with one glance and a smile, and then + sank them again. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll be home in about a month, we think,” answered the mother. “She’s a + good ship he’s aboard of, and makes good voyages.” + </p> + <p> + “It is time to think about the bans, then,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “If you please, sir,” said the mother. + </p> + <p> + “Just come to me about it, and I will attend to it—when you think + proper.” + </p> + <p> + I thought I could hear a murmured “Thank you, sir,” from the girl, but I + could not be certain that she spoke. I shook hands with them, and went for + a stroll on the other side of the bay. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. MR. PERCIVALE. + </h2> + <p> + When I reached home I found that Connie was already on her watch-tower. + For while I was away, they had carried her out that she might see the + life-boat. I followed her, and found the whole family about her couch, and + with them Mr. Percivale, who was showing her some sketches that he had + made in the neighbourhood. Connie knew nothing of drawing; but she seemed + to me always to catch the feeling of a thing. Her remarks therefore were + generally worth listening to, and Mr. Percivale was evidently interested + in them. Wynnie stood behind Connie, looking over her shoulder at the + drawing in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “How do you get that shade of green?” I heard her ask as I came up. + </p> + <p> + And then Mr. Percivale proceeded to tell her; from which beginning they + went on to other things, till Mr. Percivale said— + </p> + <p> + “But it is hardly fair, Miss Walton; to criticise my work while you keep + your own under cover.” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn’t criticising, Mr. Percivale; was I, Connie?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t hear her make a single remark, Mr. Percivale,” said Connie, + taking her sister’s side. + </p> + <p> + To my surprise they were talking away with the young man as if they had + known him for years, and my wife was seated at the foot of the couch, + apparently taking no exception to the suddenness of the intimacy. I am + afraid, when I think of it, that a good many springs would be missing from + the world’s history if they might not flow till the papas gave their wise + consideration to everything about the course they were to take. + </p> + <p> + “I think, though,” added Connie, “it is only fair that Mr. Percivale <i>should</i> + see your work, Wynnie.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will fetch my portfolio, if Mr. Percivale will promise to remember + that I have no opinion of it. At the same time, if I could do what I + wanted to do, I think I should not be ashamed of showing my drawings even + to him.” + </p> + <p> + And now I was surprised to find how like grown women my daughters could + talk. To me they always spoke like the children they were; but when I + heard them now it seemed as if they had started all at once into ladies + experienced in the ways of society. There they were chatting lightly, + airily, and yet decidedly, a slight tone of badinage interwoven, with a + young man of grace and dignity, whom they had only seen once before, and + who had advanced no farther, with Connie at least, than a stately bow. + They had, however, been a whole hour together before I arrived, and their + mother had been with them all the while, which gives great courage to good + girls, while, I am told, it shuts the mouths of those who are sly. But + then it must be remembered that there are as great differences in mothers + as in girls. And besides, I believe wise girls have an instinct about men + that all the experience of other men cannot overtake. But yet again, there + are many girls foolish enough to mistake a mere impulse for instinct, and + vanity for insight. + </p> + <p> + As Wynnie spoke, she turned and went back to the house to fetch some of + her work. Now, had she been going a message for me, she would have gone + like the wind; but on this occasion she stepped along in a stately manner, + far from devoid of grace, but equally free from frolic or eagerness. And I + could not help noting as well that Mr. Percivale’s eyes followed her. What + I felt or fancied is of no consequence to anybody. I do not think, even if + I were writing an autobiography, I should be forced to tell <i>all</i> + about myself. But an autobiography is further from my fancy, however much + I may have trenched upon its limits, than any other form of literature + with which I am acquainted. + </p> + <p> + She was not long in returning, however, though she came back with the same + dignified motion. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing really worth either showing or concealing,” she said to + Mr. Percivale, as she handed him the portfolio, to help himself, as it + were. She then turned away, as if a little feeling of shyness had come + over her, and began to look for something to do about Connie. I could see + that, although she had hitherto been almost indifferent about the merit of + her drawings, she had a new-born wish that they might not appear + altogether contemptible in the eyes of Mr. Percivale. And I saw, too, that + Connie’s wide eyes were taking in everything. It was wonderful how + Connie’s deprivations had made her keen in observing. Now she hastened to + her sister’s rescue even from such a slight inconvenience as the shadow of + embarrassment in which she found herself—perhaps from having seen + some unusual expression in my face, of which I was unconscious, though + conscious enough of what might have occasioned such. + </p> + <p> + “Give me your hand, Wynnie,” said Connie, “and help me to move one inch + further on my side.—I may move just that much on my side, mayn’t I, + papa?” + </p> + <p> + “I think you had better not, my dear, if you can do without it,” I + answered; for the doctor’s injunctions had been strong. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, papa; but I feel as if it would do me good.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Turner will be here next week, you know; and you must try to stick to + his rules till he comes to see you. Perhaps he will let you relax a + little.” + </p> + <p> + Connie smiled very sweetly and lay still, while Wynnie stood holding her + hand. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Mr. Percivale, having received the drawings, had walked away with + them towards what they called the storm tower—a little building + standing square to the points of the compass, from little windows, in + which the coastguard could see with their telescopes along the coast on + both sides and far out to sea. This tower stood on the very edge of the + cliff, but behind it there was a steep descent, to reach which apparently + he went round the tower and disappeared. He evidently wanted to make a + leisurely examination of the drawings—somewhat formidable for + Wynnie, I thought. At the same time, it impressed me favourably with + regard to the young man that he was not inclined to pay a set of stupid + and untrue compliments the instant the portfolio was opened, but, on the + contrary, in order to speak what was real about them, would take the + trouble to make himself in some adequate measure acquainted with them. I + therefore, to Wynnie’s relief, I fear, strolled after him, seeing no harm + in taking a peep at his person, while he was taking a peep at my + daughter’s mind. I went round the tower to the other side, and there saw + him at a little distance below me, but further out on a great rock that + overhung the sea, connected with the cliff by a long narrow isthmus, a few + yards lower than the cliff itself, only just broad enough to admit of a + footpath along its top, and on one side going sheer down with a smooth + hard rock-face to the sands below. The other side was less steep, and had + some grass upon it. But the path was too narrow, and the precipice too + steep, for me to trust my head with the business of guiding my feet along + it. So I stood and saw him from the mainland—saw his head at least + bent over the drawings; saw how slowly he turned from one to the other; + saw how, after having gone over them once, he turned to the beginning and + went over them again, even more slowly than before; saw how he turned the + third time to the first. Then, getting tired, I went back to the group on + the down; caught sight of Charlie and Harry turning heels over head down + the slope toward the house; found that my wife had gone home—in + fact, that only Connie and Wynnie were left. The sun had disappeared under + a cloud, and the sea had turned a little slaty; the yellow flowers in the + short down-grass no longer caught the eye with their gold, and the wind + that bent their tops had just the suspicion of an edge in it. And Wynnie’s + face looked a little cloudy too, I thought, and I feared that it was my + fault. I fancied there was just a tinge of beseeching in Connie’s eye, as + I looked at her, thinking there might be danger for her in the sunlessness + of the wind. But I do not know that all this, even the clouding of the + sun, may not have come out of my own mind, the result of my not being + quite satisfied with myself because of the mood I had been in. My feeling + had altered considerably in the mean time. + </p> + <p> + “Run, Wynnie, and ask Mr. Percivale, with my compliments, to come and + lunch with us,” I said—more to let her see I was not displeased, + however I might have looked, than for any other reason. She went—sedately + as before. + </p> + <p> + Almost as soon as she was gone, I saw that I had put her in a difficulty. + For I had discovered, very soon after coming into these parts, that her + head was no more steady than my own on high places, for she up had never + been used to such in our own level country, except, indeed, on the stair + that led down to the old quarry and the well, where, I can remember now, + she always laid her hand on the balustrade with some degree of tremor, + although she had been in the way of going up and down from childhood. But + if she could not cross that narrow and really dangerous isthmus, still + less could she call to a man she had never seen but once, across the + intervening chasm. I therefore set off after her, leaving Connie lying + there in loneliness, between the sea and the sky. But when I got to the + other side of the little tower, instead of finding her standing hesitating + on the brink of action, there she was on the rock beyond. Mr. Percivale + had risen, and was evidently giving an answer to my invitation; at least, + the next moment she turned to come back, and he followed. I stood + trembling almost to see her cross the knife-back of that ledge. If I had + not been almost fascinated, I should have turned and left them to come + together, lest the evil fancy should cross her mind that I was watching + them, for it was one thing to watch him with her drawings, and quite + another to watch him with herself. But I stood and stared as she crossed. + In the middle of the path, however—up to which point she had been + walking with perfect steadiness and composure—she lifted her eyes—by + what influence I cannot tell—saw me, looked as if she saw ghost, + half lifted her arms, swayed as if she would fall, and, indeed, was + falling over the precipice when Percivale, who was close behind her caught + her in his arms, almost too late for both of them. So nearly down was she + already, that her weight bent him over the rocky side, till it seemed as + if he must yield, or his body snap. For he bent from the waist, and looked + as if his feet only kept a hold on the ground. It was all over in a + moment, but in that moment it made a sun-picture on my brain, which + returns, ever and again, with such vivid agony that I cannot hope to get + rid of it till I get rid of the brain itself in which lies the impress. In + another moment they were at my side—she with a wan, terrified smile, + he in a ruddy alarm. I was unable to speak, and could only, with trembling + steps, lead the way from the dreadful spot. I reproached myself afterwards + for my want of faith in God; but I had not had time to correct myself yet. + Without a word on their side either, they followed me. Before we reached + Connie, I recovered myself sufficiently to say, “Not a word to Connie,” + and they understood me. I told Wynnie to run to the house, and send Walter + to help me to carry Connie home. She went, and, until Walter came, I + talked to Mr. Percivale as if nothing had happened. And what made me feel + yet more friendly towards him was, that he did not do as some young men + wishing to ingratiate themselves would have done: he did not offer to help + me to carry Connie home. I saw that the offer rose in his mind, and that + he repressed it. He understood that I must consider such a permission as a + privilege not to be accorded to the acquaintance of a day; that I must + know him better before I could allow the weight of my child to rest on his + strength. I was even grateful to him for this knowledge of human nature. + But he responded cordially to my invitation to lunch with us, and walked + by my side as Walter and I bore the precious burden home. + </p> + <p> + During our meal, he made himself quite agreeable; talked well on the + topics of the day, not altogether as a man who had made up his mind, but + not the less, rather the more, as a man who had thought about them, and + one who did not find it so easy to come to a conclusion as most people do—or + possibly as not feeling the necessity of coming to a conclusion, and + therefore preferring to allow the conclusion to grow instead of + constructing one for immediate use. This I rather liked than otherwise. + His behaviour, I need hardly say, after what I have told of him already, + was entirely that of a gentleman; and his education was good. But what I + did not like was, that as often as the conversation made a bend in the + direction of religious matters, he was sure to bend it away in some other + direction as soon as ever he laid his next hold upon it. This, however, + might have various reasons to account for it, and I would wait. + </p> + <p> + After lunch, as we rose from the table, he took Wynnie’s portfolio from + the side-table where he had laid it, and with no more than a bow and + thanks returned it to her. She, I thought, looked a little disappointed, + though she said as lightly as she could: + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid you have not found anything worthy of criticism in my poor + attempts, Mr. Percivale?” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, I shall be most happy to tell you what I think of them + if you would like to hear the impression they have made upon me,” he + replied, holding out his hand to take the portfolio again. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be greatly obliged to you,” she said, returning it, “for I have + had no one to help me since I left school, except a book called <i>Modern + Painters</i>, which I think has the most beautiful things in it I ever + read, but which I lay down every now and then with a kind of despair, as + if I never could do anything worth doing. How long the next volume is in + coming! Do you know the author, Mr. Percivale?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I did. He has given me much help. I do not say I can agree with + everything he writes; but when I do not, I have such a respect for him + that I always feel as if he must be right whether he seems to me to be + right or not. And if he is severe, it is with the severity of love that + will speak only the truth.” + </p> + <p> + This last speech fell on my ear like the tone of a church bell. “That will + do, my friend,” thought I. But I said nothing to interrupt. + </p> + <p> + By this time he had laid the portfolio open on the side-table, and placed + a chair in front of it for my daughter. Then seating himself by her side, + but without the least approach to familiarity, he began to talk to her + about her drawings, praising, in general, the feeling, but finding fault + with the want of nicety in the execution—at least so it appeared to + me from what I could understand of the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said my daughter, “it seems to me that if you get the feeling + right, that is the main thing.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt,” returned Mr. Percivale; “so much the main thing that any + imperfection or coarseness or untruth which interferes with it becomes of + the greatest consequence.” + </p> + <p> + “But can it really interfere with the feeling?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not with most people, simply because most people observe so badly + that their recollections of nature are all blurred and blotted and + indistinct, and therefore the imperfections we are speaking of do not + affect them. But with the more cultivated it is otherwise. It is for them + you ought to work, for you do not thereby lose the others. Besides, the + feeling is always intensified by the finish, for that belongs to the + feeling too, and must, I should think, have some influence even where it + is not noted.” + </p> + <p> + “But is it not a hopeless thing to attempt the finish of nature?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all; to the degree, that is, in which you can represent anything + else of nature. But in this drawing now you have no representative of, + nothing to hint at or recall the feeling of the exquisiteness of nature’s + finish. Why should you not at least have drawn a true horizon-line there? + Has the absolute truth of the meeting of sea and sky nothing to do with + the feeling which such a landscape produces? I should have thought you + would have learned that, if anything, from Mr. Ruskin.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Percivale spoke earnestly. Wynnie, either from disappointment or + despair, probably from a mixture of both, apparently fancied that, or + rather felt as if, he was scolding her, and got cross. This was anything + but dignified, especially with a stranger, and one who was doing his best + to help her. And yet, somehow, I must with shame confess I was not + altogether sorry to see it. In fact, my reader, I must just uncover my + sin, and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. The negative + reason was that I had not yet learned to love him. The only cure for + jealousy is love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie’s behaving so + childishly. Her face flushed, the tears came in her eyes, and she rose, + saying, with a little choke in her voice— + </p> + <p> + “I see it’s no use trying. I won’t intrude any more into things I am + incapable of. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Percivale, for showing me how + presumptuous I have been.” + </p> + <p> + The painter rose as she rose, looking greatly concerned. But he did not + attempt to answer her. Indeed she gave him no time. He could only spring + after her to open the door for her. A more than respectful bow as she left + the room was his only adieu. But when he turned his face again towards me, + it expressed even a degree of consternation. + </p> + <p> + “I fear,” he said, approaching me with an almost military step, much at + variance with the shadow upon his countenance, “I fear I have been rude to + Miss Walton, but nothing was farther—” + </p> + <p> + “You mistake entirely, Mr. Percivale. I heard all you were saying, and you + were not in the least rude. On the contrary, I consider you were very kind + to take the trouble with her you did. Allow me to make the apology for my + daughter which I am sure she will wish made when she recovers from the + disappointment of finding more obstacles in the way of her favourite + pursuit than she had previously supposed. She is only too ready to lose + heart, and she paid too little attention to your approbation and too much—in + proportion, I mean—to your—criticism. She felt discouraged and + lost her temper, but more with herself and her poor attempts, I venture to + assure you, than with your remarks upon them. She is too much given to + despising her own efforts.” + </p> + <p> + “But I must have been to blame if I caused any such feeling with regard to + those drawings, for I assure you they contain great promise.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you think so. That I should myself be of the same opinion can + be of no consequence.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Walton at least sees what ought to be represented. All she needs is + greater severity in the quality of representation. And that would have + grown without any remark from onlookers. Only a friendly criticism is + sometimes a great help. It opens the eyes a little sooner than they would + have opened of themselves. And time,” he added, with a half sigh and with + an appeal in his tone, as if he would justify himself to my conscience, + “is half the battle in this world. It is over so soon.” + </p> + <p> + “No sooner than it ought to be,” I rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “So it may appear to you,” he returned; “for you, I presume to conjecture, + have worked hard and done much. I may or may not have worked hard—sometimes + I think I have, sometimes I think I have not—but I certainly have + done little. Here I am nearly thirty, and have made no mark on the world + yet.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that that is of so much consequence,” I said. “I have never + hoped for more than to rub out a few of the marks already made.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right,” he returned. “Every man has something he can do, + and more, I suppose, that he can’t do. But I have no right to turn a visit + into a visitation. Will you please tell Miss Walton that I am very sorry I + presumed on the privileges of a drawing-master, and gave her pain. It was + so far from my intention that it will be a lesson to me for the future.” + </p> + <p> + With these words he took his leave, and I could not help being greatly + pleased both with them and with his bearing. He was clearly anything but a + common man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW OP DEATH. + </h2> + <p> + When Wynnie appeared at dinner she looked ashamed of herself, and her face + betrayed that she had been crying. But I said nothing, for I had + confidence that all she needed was time to come to herself, that the voice + that speaks louder than any thunder might make its stillness heard. And + when I came home from my walk the next morning I found Mr. Percivale once + more in the group about Connie, and evidently on the best possible terms + with all. The same afternoon Wynnie went out sketching with Dora. I had no + doubt that she had made some sort of apology to Mr. Percivale; but I did + not make the slightest attempt to discover what had passed between them, + for though it is of all things desirable that children should be quite + open with their parents, I was most anxious to lay upon them no burden of + obligation. For such burden lies against the door of utterance, and makes + it the more difficult to open. It paralyses the speech of the soul. What I + desired was that they should trust me so that faith should overcome all + difficulty that might lie in the way of their being open with me. That end + is not to be gained by any urging of admonition. Against such, growing + years at least, if nothing else, will bring a strong reaction. Nor even, + if so gained would the gain be at all of the right sort. The openness + would not be faith. Besides, a parent must respect the spiritual person of + his child, and approach it with reverence, for that too looks the Father + in the face, and has an audience with him into which no earthly parent can + enter even if he dared to desire it. Therefore I trusted my child. And + when I saw that she looked at me a little shyly when we next met, I only + sought to show her the more tenderness and confidence, telling her all + about my plans with the bells, and my talks with the smith and Mrs. + Coombes. She listened with just such interest as I had always been + accustomed to see in her, asking such questions, and making such remarks + as I might have expected, but I still felt that there was the thread of a + little uneasiness through the web of our intercourse,—such a thread + of a false colour as one may sometimes find wandering through the labour + of the loom, and seek with pains to draw from the woven stuff. But it was + for Wynnie to take it out, not for me. And she did not leave it long. For + as she bade me good-night in my study, she said suddenly, yet with + hesitating openness, + </p> + <p> + “Papa, I told Mr. Percivale that I was sorry I had behaved so badly about + the drawings.” + </p> + <p> + “You did right, my child,” I replied. At the same moment a pang of anxiety + passed through me lest under the influence of her repentance she should + have said anything more than becoming. But I banished the doubt instantly + as faithlessness in the womanly instincts of my child. For we men are + always so ready and anxious to keep women right, like the wretched + creature, Laertes, in <i>Hamlet</i>, who reads his sister such a lesson on + her maidenly duties, but declines almost with contempt to listen to a word + from her as to any co-relative obligation on his side! + </p> + <p> + And here I may remark in regard to one of the vexed questions of the day—the + rights of women—that what women demand it is not for men to + withhold. It is not their business to lay the law for women. That women + must lay down for themselves. I confess that, although I must herein seem + to many of my readers old-fashioned and conservative, I should not like to + see any woman I cared much for either in parliament or in an anatomical + class-room; but on the other hand I feel that women must be left free to + settle that matter. If it is not good, good women will find it out and + recoil from it. If it is good then God give them good speed. One thing + they <i>have</i> a right to—a far wider and more valuable education + than they have been in the way of receiving. When the mothers are well + taught the generations will grow in knowledge at a fourfold rate. But + still the teaching of life is better than all the schools, and common + sense than all learning. This common sense is a rare gift, scantier in + none than in those who lay claim to it on the ground of following + commonplace, worldly, and prudential maxims. But I must return to my + Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “And what did Mr. Percivale say?” I resumed, for she was silent. + </p> + <p> + “He took the blame all on himself, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Like a gentleman,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “But I could not leave it so, you know, papa, because that was not the + truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I told him that I had lost my temper from disappointment; that I had + thought I did not care for my drawings because I was so far from satisfied + with them, but when he made me feel that they were worth nothing, then I + found from the vexation I felt that I had cared for them. But I do think, + papa, I was more ashamed of having shown them, and vexed with myself, than + cross with him. But I was very silly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He began to praise them then. But you know I could not take much of that, + for what could he do?” + </p> + <p> + “You might give him credit for a little honesty, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but things may be true in a way, you know, and not mean much.” + </p> + <p> + “He seems to have succeeded in reconciling you to the prosecution of your + efforts, however; for I saw you go out with your sketching apparatus this + afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered shyly. “He was so kind that somehow I got heart to try + again. He’s very nice, isn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + My answer was not quite ready. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you like him, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I like him—yes. But we must not be in haste with our + judgments, you know. I have had very little opportunity of seeing into + him. There is much in him that I like, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But what? please, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “To tell the truth then, Wynnie, for I can speak my mind to you, my child, + there is a certain shyness of approaching the subject of religion; so that + I have my fears lest he should belong to any of these new schools of a + fragmentary philosophy which acknowledge no source of truth but the + testimony of the senses and the deductions made therefrom by the + intellect.” + </p> + <p> + “But is not that a hasty conclusion, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “That is a hasty question, my dear. I have come to no conclusion. I was + only speaking confidentially about my fears.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, papa, it’s only that he’s not sure enough, and is afraid of + appearing to profess more than he believes. I’m sure, if that’s it, I have + the greatest sympathy with him.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at her, and saw the tears gathering fast in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Pray to God on the chance of his hearing you, my darling, and go to + sleep,” I said. “I will not think hardly of you because you cannot be so + sure as I am. How could you be? You have not had my experience. Perhaps + you are right about Mr. Percivale too. But it would be an awkward thing to + get intimate with him, you know, and then find out that we did not like + him after all. You couldn’t like a man much, could you, who did not + believe in anything greater than himself, anything marvellous, grand, + beyond our understanding—who thought that he had come out of the + dirt and was going back to the dirt?” + </p> + <p> + “I could, papa, if he tried to do his duty notwithstanding—for I’m + sure I couldn’t. I should cry myself to death.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right, my child. I should honour him too. But I should be very + sorry for him. For he would be so disappointed in himself.” + </p> + <p> + I do not know whether this was the best answer to make, but I had little + time to think. + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t know that he’s like that.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not, my dear. And more, I will not associate the idea with him till + I know for certain. We will leave it to ignorant old ladies who lay claim + to an instinct for theology to jump at conclusions, and reserve ours—as + even such a man as we have been supposing might well teach us—till + we have sufficient facts from which to draw them. Now go to bed, my + child.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night then, dear papa,” she said, and left me with a kiss. + </p> + <p> + I was not altogether comfortable after this conversation. I had tried to + be fair to the young man both in word and thought, but I could not relish + the idea of my daughter falling in love with him, which looked likely + enough, before I knew more about him, and found that <i>more</i> good and + hope-giving. There was but one rational thing left to do, and that was to + cast my care on him that careth for us—on the Father who loved my + child more than even I could love her—and loved the young man too, + and regarded my anxiety, and would take its cause upon himself. After I + had lifted up my heart to him I was at ease, read a canto of Dante’s <i>Paradise</i>, + and then went to bed. The prematurity of a conversation with my wife, in + which I found that she was very favourably impressed with Mr. Percivale, + must be pardoned to the forecasting hearts of fathers and mothers. + </p> + <p> + As I went out for my walk the next morning, I caught sight of the sexton, + with whom as yet I had had but little communication, busily trimming some + of the newer graves in the churchyard. I turned in through the nearer + gate, which was fashioned like a lych-gate, with seats on the sides and a + stone table in the centre, but had no roof. The one on the other side of + the church was roofed, but probably they had found that here no roof could + resist the sea-blasts in winter. The top of the wall where the roof should + have rested, was simply covered with flat slates to protect it from the + rain. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Coombes,” I said. + </p> + <p> + He turned up a wizened, humorous old face, the very type of a + gravedigger’s, and with one hand leaning on the edge of the green mound, + upon which he had been cropping with a pair of shears the too long and too + thin grass, touched his cap with the other, and bade me a cheerful + good-morning in return. + </p> + <p> + “You’re making things tidy,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “It take time to make them all comfortable, you see, sir,” he returned, + taking up his shears again and clipping away at the top and sides of the + mound. + </p> + <p> + “You mean the dead, Coombes?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; to be sure, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think it makes much difference to their comfort, do you, + whether the grass is one length or another upon their graves?” + </p> + <p> + “Well no, sir. I don’t suppose it makes <i>much</i> difference to them. + But it look more comfortable, you know. And I like things to look + comfortable. Don’t you, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure I do, Coombes. And you are quite right. The resting-place of + the body, although the person it belonged to be far away, should be + respected.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I think, though I don’t get no credit for it. I du believe + the people hereabouts thinks me only a single hair better than a Jack + Ketch. But I’m sure I du my best to make the poor things comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed unable to rid his mind of the idea that the comfort of the + departed was dependent upon his ministrations. + </p> + <p> + “The trouble I have with them sometimes! There’s now this same one as lies + here, old Jonathan Giles. He have the gout so bad! and just as I come + within a couple o’ inches o’ the right depth, out come the edge of a great + stone in the near corner at the foot of the bed. Thinks I, he’ll never lie + comfortable with that same under his gouty toe. But the trouble I had to + get out that stone! I du assure you, sir, it took me nigh half the day.—But + this be one of the nicest places to lie in all up and down the coast—a + nice gravelly soil, you see, sir; dry, and warm, and comfortable. Them + poor things as comes out of the sea must quite enjoy the change, sir.” + </p> + <p> + There was something grotesque in the man’s persistence in regarding the + objects of his interest from this point of view. It was a curious way for + the humanity that was in him to find expression; but I did not like to let + him go on thus. It was so much opposed to all that I believed and felt + about the change from this world to the next! + </p> + <p> + “But, Coombes,” I said, “why will you go on talking as if it made an atom + of difference to the dead bodies where they were buried? They care no more + about it than your old coat would care where it was thrown after you had + done with it.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and regarded his coat where it hung beside him on the headstone + of the same grave at which he was working, shook his head with a smile + that seemed to hint a doubt whether the said old coat would be altogether + so indifferent to its treatment when, it was past use as I had implied. + Then he turned again to his work, and after a moment’s silence began to + approach me from another side. I confess he had the better of me before I + was aware of what he was about. + </p> + <p> + “The church of Boscastle stands high on the cliff. You’ve been to + Boscastle, sir?” + </p> + <p> + I told him I had not yet, but hoped to go before the summer was over. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you should see Boscastle, sir. It’s a wonderful place. That’s where I + was born, sir. When I was a by that church was haunted, sir. It’s a damp + place, and the wind in it awful. I du believe it stand higher than any + church in the country, and have got more wind in it of a stormy night than + any church whatsomever. Well, they said it was haunted; and sure enough + every now and then there was a knocking heard down below. And this always + took place of a stormy night, as if there was some poor thing down in the + low wouts (<i>vaults</i>), and he wasn’t comfortable and wanted to get + out. Well, one night it was so plain and so fearful it was that the sexton + he went and took the blacksmith and a ship’s carpenter down to the + harbour, and they go up together, and they hearken all over the floor, and + they open one of the old family wouts that belongs to the Penhaligans, and + they go down with a light. Now the wind it was a-blowing all as usual, + only worse than common. And there to be sure what do they see but the wout + half-full of sea-water, and nows and thens a great spout coming in through + a hole in the rock; for it was high-water and a wind off the sea, as I + tell you. And there was a coffin afloat on the water, and every time the + spout come through, it set it knocking agen the side o’ the wout, and that + was the ghost.” + </p> + <p> + “What a horrible idea!” I said, with a half-shudder at the unrest of the + dead. + </p> + <p> + The old man uttered a queer long-drawn sound,—neither a chuckle, a + crow, nor a laugh, but a mixture of all three,—and turned himself + yet again to the work which, as he approached the end of his narration, he + had suspended, that he might make his story <i>tell</i>, I suppose, by + looking me in the face. And as he turned he said, “I thought you would + like to be comfortable then as well as other people, sir.” + </p> + <p> + I could not help laughing to see how the cunning old fellow had caught me. + I have not yet been able to find out how much of truth there was in his + story. From the twinkle of his eye I cannot help suspecting that if he did + not invent the tale, he embellished it, at least, in order to produce the + effect which he certainly did produce. Humour was clearly his predominant + disposition, the reflex of which was to be seen, after a mild lunar + fashion, on the countenance of his wife. Neither could I help thinking + with pleasure, as I turned away, how the merry little old man would enjoy + telling his companions how he had posed the new parson. Very welcome was + he to his laugh for my part. Yet I gladly left the churchyard, with its + sunshine above and its darkness below. Indeed I had to look up to the + glittering vanes on the four pinnacles of the church-tower, dwelling aloft + in the clean sunny air, to get the feeling of the dark vault, and the + floating coffin, and the knocking heard in the windy church, out of my + brain. But the thing that did free me was the reflection with what supreme + disregard the disincarcerated spirit would look upon any possible + vicissitudes of its abandoned vault. For in proportion as the body of + man’s revelation ceases to be in harmony with the spirit that dwells + therein, it becomes a vault, a prison, from which it must be freedom to + escape at length. The house we like best would be a prison of awful sort + if doors and windows were built up. Man’s abode, as age begins to draw + nigh, fares thus. Age is in fact the mason that builds up the doors and + the windows, and death is the angel that breaks the prison-house and lets + the captives free. Thus I got something out of the sexton’s horrible + story. + </p> + <p> + But before the week was over, death came near indeed—in far other + fashion than any funereal tale could have brought it. + </p> + <p> + One day, after lunch, I had retired to my study, and was dozing in my + chair, for the day was hot, when I was waked by Charlie rushing into the + room with the cry, “Papa, papa, there’s a man drowning.” + </p> + <p> + I started up, and hurried down to the drawing-room, which looked out over + the bay. I could see nothing but people running about on the edge of the + quiet waves. No sign of human being was on—the water. But the one + boat belonging to the pilot was coming out from the shelter of the lock of + the canal where it usually lay, and my friend of the coastguard was + running down from the tower on the cliff with ropes in his hand. He would + not stop the boat even for the moment it would need to take him on board, + but threw them in and urged to haste. I stood at the window and watched. + Every now and then I fancied I saw something white heaved up on the swell + of a wave, and as often was satisfied that I had but fancied it. The boat + seemed to be floating about lazily, if not idly. The eagerness to help + made it appear as if nothing was going on. Could it, after all, have been + a false alarm? Was there, after all, no insensible form swinging about in + the sweep of those waves, with life gradually oozing away? Long, long as + it seemed to me, I watched, and still the boat kept moving from place to + place, so far out that I could see nothing distinctly of the motions of + its crew. At length I saw something. Yes; a long white thing rose from the + water slowly, and was drawn into the boat. It rowed swiftly to the shore. + There was but one place fit to land upon,—a little patch of sand, + nearly covered at high-water, but now lying yellow in the sun, under the + window at which I stood, and immediately under our garden-wall. Thither + the boat shot along; and there my friend of the coastguard, earnest and + sad, was waiting to use, though without hope, every appliance so well + known to him from the frequent occurrence of such necessity in the course + of his watchful duties along miles and miles of stormy coast. + </p> + <p> + I will not linger over the sad details of vain endeavour. The honoured + head of a family, he had departed and left a good name behind him. But + even in the midst of my poor attentions to the quiet, speechless, + pale-faced wife, who sat at the head of the corpse, I could not help + feeling anxious about the effect on my Connie. It was impossible to keep + the matter concealed from her. The undoubted concern on the faces of the + two boys was enough to reveal that something serious and painful had + occurred; while my wife and Wynnie, and indeed the whole household, were + busy in attending to every remotest suggestion of aid that reached them + from the little crowd gathered about the body. At length it was concluded, + on the verdict of the medical man who had been sent for, that all further + effort was useless. The body was borne away, and I led the poor lady to + her lodging, and remained there with her till I found that, as she lay on + the sofa, the sleep that so often dogs the steps of sorrow had at length + thrown its veil over her consciousness, and put her for the time to rest. + There is a gentle consolation in the firmness of the grasp of the + inevitable, known but to those who are led through the valley of the + shadow. I left her with her son and daughter, and returned to my own + family. They too were of course in the skirts of the cloud. Had they only + heard of the occurrence, it would have had little effect; but death had + appeared to them. Everyone but Connie had seen the dead lying there; and + before the day was over, I wished that she too had seen the dead. For I + found from what she said at intervals, and from the shudder that now and + then passed through her, that her imagination was at work, showing but the + horrors that belong to death; for the enfolding peace that accompanies it + can be known but by sight of the dead. When I spoke to her, she seemed, + and I suppose for the time felt tolerably quiet and comfortable; but I + could see that the words she had heard fall in the going and coming, and + the communications of Charlie and Harry to each other, had made as it were + an excoriation on her fancy, to which her consciousness was ever + returning. And now I became more grateful than I had yet been for the gift + of that gipsy-child. For I felt no anxiety about Connie so long as she was + with her. The presence even of her mother could not relieve her, for she + and Wynnie were both clouded with the same awe, and its reflex in Connie + was distorted by her fancy. But the sweet ignorance of the baby, which + rightly considered is more than a type or symbol of faith, operated most + healingly; for she appeared in her sweet merry ways—no baby was ever + more filled with the mere gladness of life than Connie’s baby—to the + mood in which they all were, like a little sunny window in a cathedral + crypt, telling of a whole universe of sunshine and motion beyond those + oppressed pillars and low-groined arches. And why should not the baby know + best? I believe the babies do know best. I therefore favoured her having + the child more than I might otherwise have thought good for her, being + anxious to get the dreary, unhealthy impression healed as soon as + possible, lest it should, in the delicate physical condition in which she + was, turn to a sore. + </p> + <p> + But my wife suffered for a time nearly as much as Connie. As long as she + was going about the house or attending to the wants of her family, she was + free; but no sooner did she lay her head on the pillow than in rushed the + cry of the sea, fierce, unkind, craving like a wild beast. Again and again + she spoke of it to me, for it came to her mingled with the voice of the + tempter, saying, “<i>Cruel chance</i>,” over and over again. For although + the two words contradict each other when put together thus, each in its + turn would assert itself. + </p> + <p> + A great part of the doubt in the world comes from the fact that there are + in it so many more of the impressible as compared with the originating + minds. Where the openness to impression is balanced by the power of + production, the painful questions of the world are speedily met by their + answers; where such is not the case, there are often long periods of + suffering till the child-answer of truth is brought to the birth. Hence + the need for every impressible mind to be, by reading or speech, held in + living association with an original mind able to combat those suggestions + of doubt and even unbelief, which the look of things must often occasion—a + look which comes from our inability to gain other than fragmentary visions + of the work that the Father worketh hitherto. When the kingdom of heaven + is at hand, one sign thereof will be that all clergymen will be more or + less of the latter sort, and mere receptive goodness, no more than + education and moral character, will be considered sufficient reason for a + man’s occupying the high position of an instructor of his fellows. But + even now this possession of original power is not by any means to be + limited to those who make public show of the same. In many a humble parish + priest it shows itself at the bedside of the suffering, or in the + admonition of the closet, although as yet there are many of the clergy + who, so far from being able to console wisely, are incapable of + understanding the condition of those that need consolation. + </p> + <p> + “It is all a fancy, my dear,” I said to her. “There is nothing more + terrible in this than in any other death. On the contrary, I can hardly + imagine a less fearful one. A big wave falls on the man’s head and stuns + him, and without further suffering he floats gently out on the sea of the + unknown.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is so terrible for those left behind!” + </p> + <p> + “Had you seen the face of his widow, so gentle, so loving, so resigned in + its pallor, you would not have thought it so <i>terrible</i>.” + </p> + <p> + But though she always seemed satisfied, and no doubt felt nearly so, after + any conversation of the sort, yet every night she would call out once and + again, “O, that sea, out there!” I was very glad indeed when Mr. Turner, + who had arranged to spend a short holiday with us, arrived. + </p> + <p> + He was concerned at the news I gave him of the shock both Connie and her + mother had received, and counselled an immediate change, that time might, + in the absence of surrounding associations, obliterate something of the + impression that had been made. The consequence was, that we resolved to + remove our household, for a short time, to some place not too far off to + permit of my attending to my duties at Kilkhaven, but out of the sight and + sound of the sea. It was Thursday when Mr. Turner arrived, and he spent + the next two days in inquiring and looking about for a suitable spot to + which we might repair as early in the week as possible. + </p> + <p> + On the Saturday the blacksmith was busy in the church-tower, and I went in + to see how he was getting on. + </p> + <p> + “You had a sad business here the last week, sir,” he said, after we had + done talking about the repairs. + </p> + <p> + “A very sad business indeed,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “It was a warning to us all,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “We may well take it so,” I returned. “But it seems to me that we are too + ready to think of such remarkable things only by themselves, instead of + being roused by them to regard everything, common and uncommon, as ordered + by the same care and wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + “One of our local preachers made a grand use of it.” + </p> + <p> + I made no reply. He resumed. + </p> + <p> + “They tell me you took no notice of it last Sunday, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I made no immediate allusion to it, certainly. But I preached under the + influence of it. And I thought it better that those who could reflect on + the matter should be thus led to think for themselves than that they + should be subjected to the reception of my thoughts and feelings about it; + for in the main it is life and not death that we have to preach.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t quite understand you, sir. But then you don’t care much for + preaching in your church.” + </p> + <p> + “I confess,” I answered, “that there has been much indifference on that + point. I could, however, mention to you many and grand exceptions. Still + there is, even in some of the best in the church, a great amount of + disbelief in the efficacy of preaching. And I allow that a great deal of + what is called preaching, partakes of its nature only in the remotest + degree. But, while I hold a strong opinion of its value—that is, + where it is genuine—I venture just to suggest that the nature of the + preaching to which the body you belong to has resorted, has had something + to do, by way of a reaction, in driving the church to the other extreme.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean that, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “You try to work upon people’s feelings without reference to their + judgment. Anyone who can preach what you call rousing sermons is + considered a grand preacher amongst you, and there is a great danger of + his being led thereby to talk more nonsense than sense. And then when the + excitement goes off, there is no seed left in the soil to grow in peace, + and they are always craving after more excitement.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there is the preacher to rouse them up again.” + </p> + <p> + “And the consequence is that they continue like children—the good + ones, I mean—and have hardly a chance of making a calm, deliberate + choice of that which is good; while those who have been only excited and + nothing more, are hardened and seared by the recurrence of such feeling as + is neither aroused by truth nor followed by action.” + </p> + <p> + “You daren’t talk like that if you knew the kind of people in this country + that the Methodists, as you call them, have got a hold of. They tell me it + was like hell itself down in those mines before Wesley come among them.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be a fool or a bigot to doubt that the Wesleyans have done + incalculable good in the country. And that not alone to the people who + never went to church. The whole Church of England is under obligations to + Methodism such as no words can overstate.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder you can say such things against them, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Now there you show the evil of thinking too much about the party you + belong to. It makes a man touchy; and then he fancies when another is + merely, it may be, analysing a difference, or insisting strongly on some + great truth, that he is talking against his party.” + </p> + <p> + “But you said, sir, that our clergy don’t care about moving our judgments, + only our feelings. Now I know preachers amongst us of whom that would be + anything but true.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course there must be. But there is what I say—your party-feeling + makes you touchy. A man can’t always be saying in the press of utterance, + ‘<i>Of course there are exceptions</i>.’ That is understood. I confess I + do not know much about your clergy, for I have not had the opportunity. + But I do know this, that some of the best and most liberal people I have + ever known have belonged to your community.” + </p> + <p> + “They do gather a deal of money for good purposes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But that was not what I meant by <i>liberal</i>. It is far easier to + give money than to be generous in judgment. I meant by <i>liberal</i>, + able to see the good and true in people that differ from you—glad to + be roused to the reception of truth in God’s name from whatever quarter it + may come, and not readily finding offence where a remark may have chanced + to be too sweeping or unguarded. But I see that I ought to be more + careful, for I have made you, who certainly are not one of the quarrelsome + people I have been speaking of, misunderstand me.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, sir. I was hasty. But I do think I am more ready to + lose my temper since—” + </p> + <p> + Here he stopped. A fit of coughing came on, and, to my concern, was + followed by what I saw plainly could be the result only of a rupture in + the lungs. I insisted on his dropping his work and coming home with me, + where I made him rest the remainder of the day and all Sunday, sending + word to his mother that I could not let him go home. When we left on the + Monday morning, we took him with us in the carriage hired for the journey, + and set him down at his mother’s, apparently no worse than usual. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. AT THE FARM. + </h2> + <p> + Leaving the younger members of the family at home with the servants, we + set out for a farmhouse, some twenty miles off, which Turner had + discovered for us. Connie had stood the journey down so well, and was now + so much stronger, that we had no anxiety about her so far as regarded the + travelling. Through deep lanes with many cottages, and here and there a + very ugly little chapel, over steep hills, up which Turner and Wynnie and + I walked, and along sterile moors we drove, stopping at roadside inns, and + often besides to raise Connie and let her look about upon the extended + prospect, so that it was drawing towards evening before we arrived at our + destination. On the way Turner had warned us that we were not to expect a + beautiful country, although the place was within reach of much that was + remarkable. Therefore we were not surprised when we drew up at the door of + a bare-looking, shelterless house, with scarcely a tree in sight, and a + stretch of undulating fields on every side. + </p> + <p> + “A dreary place in winter, Turner,” I said, after we had seen Connie + comfortably deposited in the nice white-curtained parlour, smelling of + dried roses even in the height of the fresh ones, and had strolled out + while our tea—dinner was being got ready for us. + </p> + <p> + “Not a doubt of it; but just the place I wanted for Miss Connie,” he + replied. “We are high above the sea, and the air is very bracing, and not, + at this season, too cold. A month later I should not on any account have + brought her here.” + </p> + <p> + “I think even now there is a certain freshness in the wind that calls up a + kind of will in the nerves to meet it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is precisely what I wanted for you all. You observe there is no rasp + in its touch, however. There are regions in this island of ours where even + in the hottest day in summer you would frequently discover a certain + unfriendly edge in the air, that would set you wondering whether the + seasons had not changed since you were a boy, and used to lie on the grass + half the idle day.” + </p> + <p> + “I often do wonder whether it may not be so, but I always come to the + conclusion that even this is but an example of the involuntary tendency of + the mind of man towards the ideal. He forgets all that comes between and + divides the hints of perfection scattered here and there along the scope + of his experience. I especially remember one summer day in my childhood, + which has coloured all my ideas of summer and bliss and fulfilment of + content. It is made up of only mossy grass, and the scent of the earth and + wild flowers, and hot sun, and perfect sky—deep and blue, and + traversed by blinding white clouds. I could not have been more than five + or six, I think, from the kind of dress I wore, the very pearl buttons of + which, encircled on their face with a ring of half-spherical hollows, have + their undeniable relation in my memory to the heavens and the earth, to + the march of the glorious clouds, and the tender scent of the rooted + flowers; and, indeed, when I think of it, must, by the delight they gave + me, have opened my mind the more to the enjoyment of the eternal paradise + around me. What a thing it is to please a child!” + </p> + <p> + “I know what you mean perfectly,” answered Turner. “It is as I get older + that I understand what Wordsworth says about childhood. It is indeed a + mercy that we were not born grown men, with what we consider our wits + about us. They are blinding things those wits we gather. I fancy that the + single thread by which God sometimes keeps hold of a man is such an + impression of his childhood as that of which you have been speaking.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not doubt it; for conscience is so near in all those memories to + which you refer. The whole surrounding of them is so at variance with sin! + A sense of purity, not in himself, for the child is not feeling that he is + pure, is all about him; and when afterwards the condition returns upon + him,—returns when he is conscious of so much that is evil and so + much that is unsatisfied in him,—it brings with it a longing after + the high clear air of moral well-being.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think, then, that it is only by association that nature thus + impresses us? that she has no power of meaning these things?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. No doubt there is something in the recollection of the + associations of childhood to strengthen the power of nature upon us; but + the power is in nature herself, else it would be but a poor weak thing to + what it is. There <i>is</i> purity and state in that sky. There <i>is</i> + a peace now in this wide still earth—not so very beautiful, you own—and + in that overhanging blue, which my heart cries out that it needs and + cannot be well till it gains—gains in the truth, gains in God, who + is the power of truth, the living and causing truth. There is indeed a + rest that remaineth, a rest pictured out even here this night, to rouse my + dull heart to desire it and follow after it, a rest that consists in + thinking the thoughts of Him who is the Peace because the Unity, in being + filled with that spirit which now pictures itself forth in this repose of + the heavens and the earth.” + </p> + <p> + “True,” said Turner, after a pause. “I must think more about such things. + The science the present day is going wild about will not give us that + rest.” + </p> + <p> + “No; but that rest will do much to give you that science. A man with this + repose in his heart will do more by far, other capabilities being equal, + to find out the laws that govern things. For all law is living rest.” + </p> + <p> + “What you have been saying,” resumed Turner, after another pause, “reminds + me much of one of Wordsworth’s poems. I do not mean the famous ode.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean the ‘Ninth Evening Voluntary,’ I know—one of his finest + and truest and deepest poems. It begins, ‘Had this effulgence + disappeared.’” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is the one I mean. I shall read it again when I go home. But + you don’t agree with Wordsworth, do you, about our having had an existence + previous to this?” + </p> + <p> + He gave a little laugh as he asked the question. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. But an opinion held by such men as Plato, Origen, and + Wordsworth, is not to be laughed at, Mr. Turner. It cannot be in its + nature absurd. I might have mentioned Shelley as holding it, too, had his + opinion been worth anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t think much of Shelley?” + </p> + <p> + “I think his <i>feeling</i> most valuable; his <i>opinion</i> nearly + worthless.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps I had no business to laugh, at it; but—” + </p> + <p> + “Do not suppose for a moment that I even lean to it. I dislike it. It + would make me unhappy to think there was the least of sound argument for + it. But I respect the men who have held it, and know there must be <i>something</i> + good in it, else they could not have held it.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you able then to sympathise with that ode of Wordsworth’s? Does it + not depend for all its worth on the admission of this theory?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. Is it necessary to admit that we must have had a + conscious life before this life to find meaning in the words,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘But trailing clouds of glory do we come + From God who is our home’? +</pre> + <p> + Is not all the good in us his image? Imperfect and sinful as we are, is + not all the foundation of our being his image? Is not the sin all ours, + and the life in us all God’s? We cannot be the creatures of God without + partaking of his nature. Every motion of our conscience, every admiration + of what is pure and noble, is a sign and a result of this. Is not every + self-accusation a proof of the presence of his spirit? That comes not of + ourselves—that is not without him. These are the clouds of glory we + come trailing from him. All feelings of beauty and peace and loveliness + and right and goodness, we trail with us from our home. God is the only + home of the human soul. To interpret in this manner what Wordsworth says, + will enable us to enter into perfect sympathy with all that grandest of + his poems. I do not say this is what he meant; but I think it includes + what he meant by being greater and wider than what he meant. Nor am I + guilty of presumption in saying so, for surely the idea that we are born + of God is a greater idea than that we have lived with him a life before + this life. But Wordsworth is not the first among our religious poets to + give us at least what is valuable in the notion. I came upon a volume + amongst my friend Shepherd’s books, with which I had made no acquaintance + before—Henry Vaughan’s poems. I brought it with me, for it has finer + lines, I almost think, than any in George Herbert, though not so fine + poems by any means as his best. When we go into the house I will read one + of them to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Turner. “I wish I could have such talk once a week. The + shades of the prison-house, you know, Mr. Walton, are always trying to + close about us, and shut out the vision of the glories we have come from, + as Wordsworth says.” + </p> + <p> + “A man,” I answered, “who ministers to the miserable necessities of his + fellows has even more need than another to believe in the light and the + gladness—else a poor Job’s comforter will he be. <i>I</i> don’t want + to be treated like a musical snuff-box.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor laughed. + </p> + <p> + “No man can <i>prove</i>,” he said, “that there is not a being inside the + snuff-box, existing in virtue of the harmony of its parts, comfortable + when they go well, sick when they go badly, and dying when it is + dismembered, or even when it stops.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I answered. “No man can prove it. But no man can convince a human + being of it. And just as little can anyone convince me that my conscience, + making me do sometimes what I <i>don’t</i> like, comes from a harmonious + action of the particles of my brain. But it is time we went in, for by the + law of things in general, I being ready for my dinner, my dinner ought to + be ready for me.” + </p> + <p> + “A law with more exceptions than instances, I fear,” said Turner. + </p> + <p> + “I doubt that,” I answered. “The readiness is everything, and that we + constantly blunder in. But we had better see whether we are really ready + for it, by trying whether it is ready for us.” + </p> + <p> + Connie went to bed early, as indeed we all did, and she was rather better + than worse the next morning. My wife, for the first time for many nights, + said nothing about the crying of the sea. The following day Turner and I + set out to explore the neighbourhood. The rest remained quietly at home. + </p> + <p> + It was, as I have said, a high bare country. The fields lay side by side, + parted from each other chiefly, as so often in Scotland, by stone walls; + and these stones being of a laminated nature, the walls were not + unfrequently built by laying thin plates on their edges, which gave a + neatness to them not found in other parts of the country as far as I am + aware. In the middle of the fields came here and there patches of yet + unreclaimed moorland. + </p> + <p> + Now in a region like this, beauty must be looked for below the surface. + There is a probability of finding hollows of repose, sunken spots of + loveliness, hidden away altogether from the general aspect of sternness, + or perhaps sterility, that meets the eye in glancing over the outspread + landscape; just as in the natures of stern men you may expect to find, if + opportunity should be afforded you, sunny spots of tender verdure, kept + ever green by that very sternness which is turned towards the common gaze—thus + existent because they are below the surface, and not laid bare to the + sweep of the cold winds that roam the world. How often have not men + started with amaze at the discovery of some feminine sweetness, some grace + of protection in the man whom they had judged cold and hard and rugged, + inaccessible to the more genial influences of humanity! It may be that + such men are only fighting against the wind, and keep their hearts open to + the sun. + </p> + <p> + I knew this; and when Turner and I set out that morning to explore, I + expected to light upon some instance of it—some mine or other in + which nature had hidden away rare jewels; but I was not prepared to find + such as I did find. With our hearts full of a glad secret we returned + home, but we said nothing about it, in order that Ethelwyn and Wynnie + might enjoy the discovery even as we had enjoyed it. + </p> + <p> + There was another grand fact with regard to the neighbourhood about which + we judged it better to be silent for a few days, that the inland + influences might be free to work. We were considerably nearer the ocean + than my wife and daughters supposed, for we had made a great round in + order to arrive from the land-side. We were, however, out of the sound of + its waves, which broke all along the shore, in this part, at the foot of + tremendous cliffs. What cliffs they were we shall soon find. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THE KEEVE. + </h2> + <p> + “Now, my dear! now, Wynnie!” I said, after prayers the next morning, “you + must come out for a walk as soon as ever you can get your bonnets on.” + </p> + <p> + “But we can’t leave Connie, papa,” objected Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “O, yes, you can, quite well. There’s nursie to look after her. What do + you say, Connie?” + </p> + <p> + For, for some time now, Connie had been able to get up so early, that it + was no unusual thing to have prayers in her room. + </p> + <p> + “I am entirely independent of help from my family,” returned Connie + grandiloquently. “I am a woman of independent means,” she added. “If you + say another word, I will rise and leave the room.” + </p> + <p> + And she made a movement as if she would actually do as she had said. + Seized with an involuntary terror, I rushed towards her, and the + impertinent girl burst out laughing in my face—threw herself back on + her pillows, and laughed delightedly. + </p> + <p> + “Take care, papa,” she said. “I carry a terrible club for rebellious + people.” Then, her mood changing, she added, as if to suppress the tears + gathering in her eyes, “I am the queen—of luxury and self-will—and + I won’t have anybody come near me till dinner-time. I mean to enjoy + myself.” + </p> + <p> + So the matter was settled, and we went out for our walk. Ethelwyn was not + such a good walker as she had been; but even if she had retained the + strength of her youth, we should not have got on much the better for it—so + often did she and Wynnie stop to grub ferns out of the chinks and roots of + the stone-walls. Now, I admire ferns as much as anybody—that is, + not, I fear, so much as my wife and daughter, but quite enough + notwithstanding—but I do not quite enjoy being pulled up like a fern + at every turn. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my dear, what is the use of stopping to torture that harmless + vegetable?” I say, but say in vain. “It is much more beautiful where it is + than it will be anywhere where you can put it. Besides, you know they + never come to anything with you. They <i>always</i> die.” + </p> + <p> + Thereupon my wife reminds me of this fern and that fern, gathered in such + and such places, and now in such and such corners of the garden or the + greenhouse, or under glass-shades in this or that room, of the very + existence of which I am ignorant, whether from original inattention, or + merely from forgetfulness, I do not know. Certainly, out of their own + place I do not care much for them. + </p> + <p> + At length, partly by the inducement I held out to them of a much greater + variety of ferns where we were bound, I succeeded in getting them over the + two miles in little more than two hours. After passing from the lanes into + the fields, our way led downwards till we reached a very steep large + slope, with a delightful southern exposure, and covered with the sweetest + down-grasses. It was just the place to lie in, as on the edge of the + earth, and look abroad upon the universe of air and floating worlds. + </p> + <p> + “Let us have a rest here, Ethel,” I said. “I am sure this is much more + delightful than uprooting ferns. What an awful thing to think that here we + are on this great round tumbling ball of a world, held by the feet, and + lifting up the head into infinite space—without choice or wish of + our own—compelled to think and to be, whether we will or not! Just + God must know it to be very good, or he would not have taken it in his + hands to make individual lives without a possible will of theirs. He must + be our Father, or we are wretched creatures—the slaves of a fatal + necessity! Did it ever strike you, Turner, that each one of us stands on + the apex of the world? With a sphere, you know, it must be so. And thus is + typified, as it seems to me, that each one of us must look up for himself + to find God, and then look abroad to find his fellows.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I know what you mean,” was all Turner’s reply. + </p> + <p> + “No doubt,” I resumed, “the apprehension of this truth has, in otherwise + ill-ordered minds, given rise to all sorts of fierce and grotesque + fanaticism. But the minds which have thus conceived the truth, would have + been immeasurably worse without it; nay, this truth affords at last the + only possible door out of the miseries of their own chaos, whether + inherited or the result of their own misconduct.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that in the grass?” cried Wynnie, in a tone of alarm. + </p> + <p> + I looked where she indicated, and saw a slow-worm, or blind-worm, lying + basking in the sun. I rose and went towards it. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s your stick,” said Turner. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” I asked. “Why should I kill it? It is perfectly harmless, and, + to my mind, beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + I took it in my hands, and brought it to my wife. She gave an involuntary + shudder as it came near her. + </p> + <p> + “I assure you it is harmless,” I said, “though it has a forked tongue.” + And I opened its mouth as I spoke. “I do not think the serpent form is + essentially ugly.” + </p> + <p> + “It makes me feel ugly,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “I allow I do not quite understand the mystery of it,” I said. “But you + never saw lovelier ornamentation than these silvery scales, with all the + neatness of what you ladies call a set pattern, and none of the stiffness, + for there are not two of them the same in form. And you never saw lovelier + curves than this little patient creature, which does not even try to get + away from me, makes with the queer long thin body of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder how it can look after its tail, it is so far off,” said Wynnie. + </p> + <p> + “It does though—better than you ladies look after your long dresses. + I wonder whether it is descended from creatures that once had feet, and + did not make a good use of them. Perhaps they had wings even, and would + not use them at all, and so lost them. Its ancestors may have had + poison-fangs; it is innocent enough. But it is a terrible thing to be all + feet, is it not? There is an awful significance in the condemnation of the + serpent—‘On thy belly shalt thou go, and eat dust.’ But it is better + to talk of beautiful things. <i>My</i> soul at least has dropped from its + world apex. Let us go on. Come, wife. Come, Turner.” + </p> + <p> + They did not seem willing to rise. But the glen drew me. I rose, and my + wife followed my example with the help of my hand. She returned to the + subject, however, as we descended the slope. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible that in the course of ever so many ages wings and feet + should be both lost?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “The most presumptuous thing in the world is to pronounce on the possible + and the impossible. I do not know what is possible and what is impossible. + I can only tell a little of what is true and what is untrue. But I do say + this, that between the condition of many decent members of society and + that for the sake of which God made them, there is a gulf quite as vast as + that between a serpent and a bird. I get peeps now and then into the + condition of my own heart, which, for the moment, make it seem impossible + that I should ever rise into a true state of nature—that is, into + the simplicity of God’s will concerning me. The only hope for ourselves + and for others lies in him—in the power the creating spirit has over + the spirits he has made.” + </p> + <p> + By this time the descent on the grass was getting too steep and slippery + to admit of our continuing to advance in that direction. We turned, + therefore, down the valley in the direction of the sea. It was but a + narrow cleft, and narrowed much towards a deeper cleft, in which we now + saw the tops of trees, and from which we heard the rush of water. Nor had + we gone far in this direction before we came upon a gate in a stone wall, + which led into what seemed a neglected garden. We entered, and found a + path turning and winding, among small trees, and luxuriant ferns, and + great stones, and fragments of ruins down towards the bottom of the chasm. + The noise of falling water increased as we went on, and at length, after + some scrambling and several sharp turns, we found ourselves with a nearly + precipitous wall on each side, clothed with shrubs and ivy, and creeping + things of the vegetable world. Up this cleft there was no advance. The + head of it was a precipice down which shot the stream from the vale above, + pouring out of a deep slit it had itself cut in the rock as with a knife. + Halfway down, it tumbled into a great basin of hollowed stone, and flowing + from a chasm in its side, which left part of the lip of the basin standing + like the arch of a vanished bridge, it fell into a black pool below, + whence it crept as if half-stunned or weary down the gentle decline of the + ravine. It was a perfect little picture. I, for my part, had never seen + such a picturesque fall. It was a little gem of nature, complete in + effect. The ladies were full of pleasure. Wynnie, forgetting her usual + reserve, broke out in frantic exclamations of delight. + </p> + <p> + We stood for a while regarding the ceaseless pour of the water down the + precipice, here shot slanting in a little trough of the rock, full of + force and purpose, here falling in great curls of green and gray, with an + expression of absolute helplessness and conscious perdition, as if sheer + to the centre, but rejoicing the next moment to find itself brought up + boiling and bubbling in the basin, to issue in the gathered hope of + experience. Then we turned down the stream a little way, crossed it by a + plank, and stood again to regard it from the opposite side. Small as the + whole affair was—not more than about a hundred and fifty feet in + height—it was so full of variety that I saw it was all my memory + could do, if it carried away anything like a correct picture of its + aspect. I was contemplating it fixedly, when a little stifled cry from + Wynnie made me start and look round. Her face was flushed, yet she was + trying to look unconcerned. + </p> + <p> + “I thought we were quite alone, papa,” she said; “but I see a gentleman + sketching.” + </p> + <p> + I looked whither she indicated. A little way down, the bed of the ravine + widened considerably, and was no doubt filled with water in rainy weather. + Now it was swampy—full of reeds and willow bushes. But on the + opposite side of the stream, with a little canal from it going all around + it, lay a great flat rectangular stone, not more than a foot above the + level of the water, and upon a camp-stool in the centre of this stone sat + a gentleman sketching. I had no doubt that Wynnie had recognised him at + once. And I was annoyed, and indeed angry, to think that Mr. Percivale had + followed us here. But while I regarded him, he looked up, rose very + quietly, and, with his pencil in his hand, came towards us. With no nearer + approach to familiarity than a bow, and no expression of either much + pleasure or any surprise, he said— + </p> + <p> + “I have seen your party for some time, Mr. Walton—since you crossed + the stream; but I would not break in upon your enjoyment with the surprise + which my presence here must cause you.” + </p> + <p> + I suppose I answered with a bow of some sort; for I could not say with + truth that I was glad to see him. He resumed, doubtless penetrating my + suspicion— + </p> + <p> + “I have been here almost a week. I certainly had no expectation of the + pleasure of seeing you.” + </p> + <p> + This he said lightly, though no doubt with the object of clearing himself. + And I was, if not reassured, yet disarmed, by his statement; for I could + not believe, from what I knew of him, that he would be guilty of such a + white lie as many a gentleman would have thought justifiable on the + occasion. Still, I suppose he found me a little stiff, for presently he + said— + </p> + <p> + “If you will excuse me, I will return to my work.” + </p> + <p> + Then I felt as if I must say something, for I had shown him no courtesy + during the interview. + </p> + <p> + “It must be a great pleasure to carry away such talismans with you—capable + of bringing the place back to your mental vision at any moment.” + </p> + <p> + “To tell the truth,” he answered, “I am a little ashamed of being found + sketching here. Such bits of scenery are not of my favourite studies. But + it is a change.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very beautiful here,” I said, in a tone of contravention. + </p> + <p> + “It is very pretty,” he answered—“very lovely, if you will—not + very beautiful, I think. I would keep that word for things of larger + regard. Beauty requires width, and here is none. I had almost said this + place was fanciful—the work of imagination in her play-hours, not in + her large serious moods. It affects me like the face of a woman only + pretty, about which boys and guardsmen will rave—to me not very + interesting, save for its single lines.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, do you sketch the place?” + </p> + <p> + “A very fair question,” he returned, with a smile. “Just because it is + soothing from the very absence of beauty. I would far rather, however, if + I were only following my taste, take the barest bit of the moor above, + with a streak of the cold sky over it. That gives room.” + </p> + <p> + “You would like to put a skylark in it, wouldn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “That I would if I knew how. I see you know what I mean. But the mere + romantic I never had much taste for; though if you saw the kind of + pictures I try to paint, you would not wonder that I take sketches of + places like this, while in my heart of hearts I do not care much for them. + They are so different, and just <i>therefore</i> they are good for me. I + am not working now; I am only playing.” + </p> + <p> + “With a view to working better afterwards, I have no doubt,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “You are right there, I hope,” was his quiet reply, as he turned and + walked back to the island. + </p> + <p> + He had not made a step towards joining us. He had only taken his hat off + to the ladies. He was gaining ground upon me rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “Have you quarrelled with our new friend, Harry?” said my wife, as I came + up to her. + </p> + <p> + She was sitting on a stone. Turner and Wynnie were farther off towards the + foot of the fall. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least,” I answered, slightly outraged—I did not at first + know why—by the question. “He is only gone to his work, which is a + duty belonging both to the first and second tables of the law.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you have asked him to come home to our early dinner, then,” she + rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “I have not. That remains for you to do. Come, I will take you to him.” + </p> + <p> + Ethelwyn rose at once, put her hand in mine, and with a little help soon + reached the table-rock. When Percivale saw that she was really on a visit + to him on his island-perch, he rose, and when she came near enough, held + out his hand. It was but a step, and she was beside him in a moment. After + the usual greetings, which on her part, although very quiet, like every + motion and word of hers, were yet indubitably cordial and kind, she said, + “When you get back to London, Mr. Percivale, might I ask you to allow some + friends of mine to call at your studio, and see your paintings?” + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart,” answered Percivale. “I must warn you, however, that I + have not much they will care to see. They will perhaps go away less happy + than they entered. Not many people care to see my pictures twice.” + </p> + <p> + “I would not send you anyone I thought unworthy of the honour,” answered + my wife. + </p> + <p> + Percivale bowed—one of his stately, old-world bows, which I greatly + liked. + </p> + <p> + “Any friend of yours—that is guarantee sufficient,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + There was this peculiarity about any compliment that Percivale paid, that + you had not a doubt of its being genuine. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come and take an early dinner with us?” said my wife. “My + invalid daughter will be very pleased to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “I will with pleasure,” he answered, but in a tone of some hesitation, as + he glanced from Ethelwyn to me. + </p> + <p> + “My wife speaks for us all,” I said. “It will give us all pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “I am only afraid it will break in upon your morning’s work,” remarked + Ethelwyn. + </p> + <p> + “O, that is not of the least consequence,” he rejoined. “In fact, as I + have just been saying to Mr. Walton, I am not working at all at present. + This is pure recreation.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he turned towards his easel, and began hastily to bundle up + his things. + </p> + <p> + “We’re not quite ready to go yet,” said my wife, loath to leave the lovely + spot. “What a curious flat stone this is!” she added. + </p> + <p> + “It is,” said Percivale. “The man to whom the place belongs, a worthy + yeoman of the old school, says that this wider part of the channel must + have been the fish-pond, and that the portly monks stood on this stone and + fished in the pond.” + </p> + <p> + “Then was there a monastery here?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. The ruins of the chapel, one of the smallest, are on the top, + just above the fall—rather a fearful place to look down from. I + wonder you did not observe them as you came. They say it had a silver bell + in the days of its glory, which now lies in a deep hole under the basin, + half-way between the top and bottom of the fall. But the old man says that + nothing will make him look, or let anyone else lift the huge stone; for he + is much better pleased to believe that it may be there, than he would be + to know it was not there; for certainly, if it were found, it would not be + left there long.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke Percivale had continued packing his gear. He now led our party + up to the chapel, and thence down a few yards to the edge of the chasm, + where the water fell headlong. I turned away with that fear of high places + which is one of my many weaknesses; and when I turned again towards the + spot, there was Wynnie on the very edge, looking over into the flash and + tumult of the water below, but with a nervous grasp of the hand of + Percivale, who stood a little farther back. + </p> + <p> + In going home, the painter led us by an easier way out of the valley, left + his little easel and other things at a cottage, and then walked on in + front between my wife and daughter, while Turner and I followed. He seemed + quite at his ease with them, and plenty of talk and laughter rose on the + way. I, however, was chiefly occupied with finding out Turner’s impression + of Connie’s condition. + </p> + <p> + “She is certainly better,” he said. “I wonder you do not see it as plainly + as I do. The pain is nearly gone from her spine, and she can move herself + a good deal more, I am certain, than she could when she left. She asked me + yesterday if she might not turn upon one side. ‘Do you think you could?’ I + asked.—‘I think so,’ she answered. ‘At any rate, I have often a + great inclination to try; only papa said I had better wait till you came.’ + I do think she might be allowed a little more change of posture now.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you have really some hope of her final recovery?” + </p> + <p> + “I have <i>hope</i> most certainly. But what is hope in me, you must not + allow to become certainty in you. I am nearly sure, though, that she can + never be other than an invalid; that is, if I am to judge by what I know + of such cases.” + </p> + <p> + “I am thankful for the hope,” I answered. “You need not be afraid of my + turning upon you, should the hope never pass into sight. I should do so + only if I found that you had been treating me irrationally—inspiring + me with hope which you knew to be false. The element of uncertainty is + essential to hope, and for all true hope, even as hope, man has to be + unspeakably thankful.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. THE WALK TO CHURCH. + </h2> + <p> + I was glad to be able to arrange with a young clergyman who was on a visit + to Kilkhaven, that he should take my duty for me the next Sunday, for that + was the only one Turner could spend with us. He and I and Wynnie walked + together two miles to church. It was a lovely morning, with just a tint of + autumn in the air. But even that tint, though all else was of the summer, + brought a shadow, I could see, on Wynnie’s face. + </p> + <p> + “You said you would show me a poem of—Vaughan, I think you said, was + the name of the writer. I am too ignorant of our older literature,” said + Turner. + </p> + <p> + “I have only just made acquaintance with him,” I answered. “But I think I + can repeat the poem. You shall judge whether it is not like Wordsworth’s + Ode. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Happy those early days, when I + Shined in my angel infancy; + Before I understood the place + Appointed for my second race, + Or taught my soul to fancy ought + But a white, celestial thought; + When yet I had not walked above + A mile or two from my first love, + And looking back, at that short space, + Could see a glimpse of his bright face; + When on some gilded cloud or flower + My gazing soul would dwell an hour, + And in those weaker glories spy + Some shadows of eternity; + Before I taught my tongue to wound + My conscience with a sinful sound, + But felt through all this fleshly dress + Bright shoots of everlastingness. + O how I long to travel back——‘” + </pre> + <p> + But here I broke down, for I could not remember the rest with even + approximate accuracy. + </p> + <p> + “When did this Vaughan live?” asked Turner. + </p> + <p> + “He was born, I find, in 1621—five years, that is, after Shakspere’s + death, and when Milton was about thirteen years old. He lived to the age + of seventy-three, but seems to have been little known. In politics he was + on the Cavalier side. By the way, he was a medical man, like you, Turner—an + M.D. We’ll have a glance at the little book when we go back. Don’t let me + forget to show it you. A good many of your profession have distinguished + themselves in literature, and as profound believers too.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have thought the profession had been chiefly remarkable for such + as believe only in the evidence of the senses.” + </p> + <p> + “As if having searched into the innermost recesses of the body, and not + having found a soul, they considered themselves justified in declaring + there was none.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that is true of the commonplace amongst them, I do believe. You + will find the exceptions have been men of fine minds and characters—not + such as he of whom Chaucer says, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘His study was but little on the Bible;’ +</pre> + <p> + for if you look at the rest of the description of the man, you will find + that he was in alliance with his apothecary for their mutual advantage, + that he was a money-loving man, and that some of Chaucer’s keenest irony + is spent on him in an off-hand, quiet manner. Compare the tone in which he + writes of the doctor of physic, with the profound reverence wherewith he + bows himself before the poor country-parson.” + </p> + <p> + Here Wynnie spoke, though with some tremor in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “I never know, papa, what people mean by talking about childhood in that + way. I never seem to have been a bit younger and more innocent than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you remember a time, Wynnie, when the things about you—the + sky and the earth, say—seemed to you much grander than they seem + now? You are old enough to have lost something.” + </p> + <p> + She thought for a little while before she answered. + </p> + <p> + “My dreams were, I know. I cannot say so of anything else.” + </p> + <p> + I in my turn had to be silent, for I did not see the true answer, though I + was sure there was one somewhere, if I could only find it. All I could + reply, however, even after I had meditated a good while, was—and + perhaps, after all, it was the best thing I could have said: + </p> + <p> + “Then you must make a good use of your dreams, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Because they are the only memorials of childhood you have left.” + </p> + <p> + “How am I to make a good use of them? I don’t know what to do with my + silly old dreams.” + </p> + <p> + But she gave a sigh as she spoke that testified her silly old dreams had a + charm for her still. + </p> + <p> + “If your dreams, my child, have ever testified to you of a condition of + things beyond that which you see around you, if they have been to you the + hints of a wonder and glory beyond what visits you now, you must not call + them silly, for they are just what the scents of Paradise borne on the air + were to Adam and Eve as they delved and spun, reminding them that they + must aspire yet again through labour into that childhood of obedience + which is the only paradise of humanity—into that oneness with the + will of the Father, which our race, our individual selves, need just as + much as if we had personally fallen with Adam, and from which we fall + every time we are disobedient to the voice of the Father within our souls—to + the conscience which is his making and his witness. If you have had no + childhood, my Wynnie, yet permit your old father to say that everything I + see in you indicates more strongly in you than in most people that it is + this childhood after which you are blindly longing, without which you find + that life is hardly to be endured. Thank God for your dreams, my child. In + him you will find that the essence of those dreams is fulfilled. We are + saved by hope, Turner. Never man hoped too much, or repented that he had + hoped. The plague is that we don’t hope in God half enough. The very fact + that hope is strength, and strength the outcome, the body of life, shows + that hope is at one with life, with the very essence of what says ‘I am’—yea, + of what doubts and says ‘Am I?’ and therefore is reasonable to creatures + who cannot even doubt save in that they live.” + </p> + <p> + By this time, for I have, of course, only given the outlines, or rather + salient points, of our conversation, we had reached the church, where, if + I found the sermon neither healing nor inspiring, I found the prayers full + of hope and consolation. They at least are safe beyond human caprice, + conceit, or incapacity. Upon them, too, the man who is distressed at the + thought of how little of the needful food he had been able to provide for + his people, may fall back for comfort, in the thought that there at least + was what ought to have done them good, what it was well worth their while + to go to church for. But I did think they were too long for any individual + Christian soul, to sympathise with from beginning to end, that is, to + respond to, like organ-tube to the fingered key, in every touch of the + utterance of the general Christian soul. For my reader must remember that + it is one thing to read prayers and another to respond; and that I had had + very few opportunities of being in the position of the latter duty. I had + had suspicions before, and now they were confirmed—that the present + crowding of services was most inexpedient. And as I pondered on the + matter, instead of trying to go on praying after I had already uttered my + soul, which is but a heathenish attempt after much speaking, I thought how + our Lord had given us such a short prayer to pray, and I began to wonder + when or how the services came to be so heaped the one on the back of the + other as they now were. No doubt many people defended them; no doubt many + people could sit them out; but how many people could pray from beginning + to end of them? On this point we had some talk as we went home. Wynnie + was opposed to any change of the present use on the ground that we should + only have the longer sermons. + </p> + <p> + “Still,” I said, “I do not think even that so great an evil. A sensitive + conscience will not reproach itself so much for not listening to the whole + of a sermon, as for kneeling in prayer and not praying. I think myself, + however, that after the prayers are over, everyone should be at liberty to + go out and leave the sermon unheard, if he pleases. I think the result + would be in the end a good one both for parson and people. It would break + through the deadness of this custom, this use and wont. Many a young mind + is turned for life against the influences of church-going—one of the + most sacred influences when <i>pure</i>, that is, un-mingled with + non-essentials—just by the feeling that he <i>must</i> do so and so, + that he must go through a certain round of duty. It is a willing service + that the Lord wants; no forced devotions are either acceptable to him, or + other than injurious to the worshipper, if such he can be called.” + </p> + <p> + After an early dinner, I said to Turner—“Come out with me, and we + will read that poem of Vaughan’s in which I broke down today.” + </p> + <p> + “O, papa!” said Connie, in a tone of injury, from the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, my dear?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t it be as good for us as for Mr. Turner?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite, my dear. Well, I will keep it for the evening, and meantime Mr. + Turner and I will go and see if we can find out anything about the change + in the church-service.” + </p> + <p> + For I had thrown into my bag as I left the rectory a copy of <i>The + Clergyman’s Vade Mecum</i>—a treatise occupied with the externals of + the churchman’s relations—in which I soon came upon the following + passage: + </p> + <p> + “So then it appears that the common practice of reading all three + together, is an innovation, and if an ancient or infirm clergyman do read + them at two or three several times, he is more strictly conformable; + however, this is much better than to omit any part of the liturgy, or to + read all three offices into one, as is now commonly done, without any + pause or distinction.” + </p> + <p> + “On the part of the clergyman, you see, Turner,” I said, when I had + finished reading the whole passage to him. “There is no care taken of the + delicate women of the congregation, but only of the ancient or infirm + clergyman. And the logic, to say the least, is rather queer: is it only in + virtue of his antiquity and infirmity that he is to be upheld in being + more strictly conformable? The writer’s honesty has its heels trodden upon + by the fear of giving offence. Nevertheless there should perhaps be a + certain slowness to admit change, even back to a more ancient form.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that I can quite agree with you there,” said Turner. “If the + form is better, no one should hesitate to advocate the change. If it is + worse, then slowness is not sufficient—utter obstinacy is the right + condition.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right, Turner. For the right must be the rule, and where <i>the + right</i> is beyond our understanding or our reach, then <i>the better</i>, + as indeed not only right compared with the other, but the sole ascent + towards the right.” + </p> + <p> + In the evening I took Henry Vaughan’s poems into the common sitting-room, + and to Connie’s great delight read the whole of the lovely, though unequal + little poem, called “The Retreat,” in recalling which I had failed in the + morning. She was especially delighted with the “white celestial thought,” + and the “bright shoots of everlastingness.” Then I gave a few lines from + another yet more unequal poem, worthy in themselves of the best of the + other. I quote the first strophe entire: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CHILDHOOD. + + “I cannot reach it; and my striving eye + Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, + Those white designs which children drive, + And the thoughts of each harmless hour, + With their content too in my power, + Quickly would I make my path even, + And by mere playing go to heaven. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And yet the practice worldlings call + Business and weighty action all, + Checking the poor child for his play, + But gravely cast themselves away. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An age of mysteries! which he + Must live twice that would God’s face see; + Which angels guard, and with it play, + Angels! which foul men drive away. + How do I study now, and scan + Thee more than ere I studied man, + And only see through a long night + Thy edges and thy bordering light! + O for thy centre and midday! + For sure that is the <i>narrow way!</i>” + </pre> + <p> + “For of such is the kingdom of heaven.” said my wife softly, as I closed + the book. + </p> + <p> + “May I have the book, papa?” said Connie, holding out her thin white cloud + of a hand to take it. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my child. And if Wynnie would read it with you, she will feel + more of the truth of what Mr. Percivale was saying to her about finish. + Here are the finest, grandest thoughts, set forth sometimes with such + carelessness, at least such lack of neatness, that, instead of their + falling on the mind with all their power of loveliness, they are like a + beautiful face disfigured with patches, and, what is worse, they put the + mind out of the right, quiet, unquestioning, open mood, which is the only + fit one for the reception of such true things as are embodied in the + poems. But they are too beautiful after all to be more than a little + spoiled by such a lack of the finish with which Art ends off all her + labours. A gentleman, however, thinks it of no little importance to have + his nails nice as well as his face and his shirt.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE OLD CASTLE. + </h2> + <p> + The place Turner had chosen suited us all so well, that after attending to + my duties on the two following Sundays at Kilkhaven, I returned on the + Monday or Tuesday to the farmhouse. But Turner left us in the middle of + the second week, for he could not be longer absent from his charge at + home, and we missed him much. It was some days before Connie was quite as + cheerful again as usual. I do not mean that she was in the least gloomy—that + she never was; she was only a little less merry. But whether it was that + Turner had opened our eyes, or that she had visibly improved since he + allowed her to make a little change in her posture—certainly she + appeared to us to have made considerable progress, and every now and then + we were discovering some little proof of the fact. One evening, while we + were still at the farm, she startled us by calling out suddenly,— + </p> + <p> + “Papa, papa! I moved my big toe! I did indeed.” + </p> + <p> + We were all about her in a moment. But I saw that she was excited, and + fearing a reaction I sought to calm her. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear,” I said, as quietly as I could, “you are probably still + aware that you are possessed of two big toes: which of them are we to + congratulate on this first stride in the march of improvement?” + </p> + <p> + She broke out in the merriest laugh. A pause followed in which her face + wore a puzzled expression. Then she said all at once, “Papa, it is very + odd, but I can’t tell which of them,” and burst into tears. I was afraid + that I had done more harm than good. + </p> + <p> + “It is not of the slightest consequence, my child,” I said. “You have had + so little communication with the twins of late, that it is no wonder you + should not be able to tell the one from the other.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled again through her sobs, but was silent, with shining face, for + the rest of the evening. Our hopes took a fresh start, but we heard no + more from her of her power over her big toe. As often as I inquired she + said she was afraid she had made a mistake, for she had not had another + hint of its existence. Still I thought it could not have been a fancy, and + I would cleave to my belief in the good sign. + </p> + <p> + Percivale called to see us several times, but always appeared anxious not + to intrude more of his society upon us than might be agreeable. He grew in + my regard, however; and at length I asked him if he would assist me in + another surprise which I meditated for my companions, and this time for + Connie as well, and which I hoped would prevent the painful influences of + the sight of the sea from returning upon them when they went back to + Kilkhaven: they must see the sea from a quite different shore first. In a + word I would take them to Tintagel, of the near position of which they + were not aware, although in some of our walks we had seen the ocean in the + distance. An early day was fixed for carrying out our project, and I + proceeded to get everything ready. The only difficulty was to find a + carriage in the neighbourhood suitable for receiving Connie’s litter. In + this, however, I at length succeeded, and on the morning of a glorious day + of blue and gold, we set out for the little village of Trevenna, now far + better known than at the time of which I write. Connie had been out every + day since she came, now in one part of the fields, now in another, + enjoying the expanse of earth and sky, but she had had no drive, and + consequently had seen no variety of scenery. Therefore, believing she was + now thoroughly able to bear it, I quite reckoned of the good she would get + from the inevitable excitement. We resolved, however, after finding how + much she enjoyed the few miles’ drive, that we would not demand more, of + her strength that day, and therefore put up at the little inn, where, + after ordering dinner, Percivale and I left the ladies, and sallied forth + to reconnoitre. + </p> + <p> + We walked through the village and down the valley beyond, sloping steeply + between hills towards the sea, the opening closed at the end by the blue + of the ocean below and the more ethereal blue of the sky above. But when + we reached the mouth of the valley we found that we were not yet on the + shore, for a precipice lay between us and the little beach below. On the + left a great peninsula of rock stood out into the sea, upon which rose the + ruins of the keep of Tintagel, while behind on the mainland stood the + ruins of the castle itself, connected with the other only by a narrow + isthmus. We had read that this peninsula had once been an island, and that + the two parts of the castle were formerly connected by a drawbridge. + Looking up at the great gap which now divided the two portions, it seemed + at first impossible to believe that they had ever been thus united; but a + little reflection cleared up the mystery. + </p> + <p> + The fact was that the isthmus, of half the height of the two parts + connected by it, had been formed entirely by the fall of portions of the + rock and soil on each side into the narrow dividing space, through which + the waters of the Atlantic had been wont to sweep. And now the fragments + of walls stood on the very verge of the precipice, and showed that large + portions of the castle itself had fallen into the gulf between. We turned + to the left along the edge of the rock, and so by a narrow path reached + and crossed to the other side of the isthmus. We then found that the path + led to the foot of the rock, formerly island, of the keep, and thence in a + zigzag up the face of it to the top. We followed it, and after a great + climb reached a door in a modern battlement. Entering, we found ourselves + amidst grass, and ruins haggard with age. We turned and surveyed the path + by which we had come. It was steep and somewhat difficult. But the outlook + was glorious. It was indeed one of God’s mounts of vision upon which we + stood. The thought, “O that Connie could see this!” was swelling in my + heart, when Percivale broke the silence—not with any remark on the + glory around us, but with the commonplace question— + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t got your man with you, I think, Mr. Walton?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I answered; “we thought it better to leave him to look after the + boys.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a few minutes, while I gazed in delight. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think,” he said, “it would be possible to bring Miss Constance + up here?” + </p> + <p> + I almost started at the idea, and had not replied before he resumed: + </p> + <p> + “It would be something for her to recur to with delight all the rest of + her life.” + </p> + <p> + “It would indeed. But it is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think so—if you would allow me the honour to assist you. I + think we could do it perfectly between us.” + </p> + <p> + I was again silent for a while. Looking down on the way we had come, it + seemed an almost dreadful undertaking. Percivale spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “As we shall come here to-morrow, we need not explore the place now. Shall + we go down at once and observe the whole path, with a view to the + practicability of carrying her up?” + </p> + <p> + “There can be no objection to that,” I answered, as a little hope, and + courage with it, began to dawn in my heart. “But you must allow it does + not look very practicable.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it would seem more so to you, if you had come up with the idea in + your head all the way, as I did. Any path seems more difficult in looking + back than at the time when the difficulties themselves have to be met and + overcome.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but then you must remember that we have to take the way back whether + we will or no, if we once take the way forward.” + </p> + <p> + “True; and now I will go down with the descent in my head as well as under + my feet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there can be no harm in reconnoitring it at least. Let us go.” + </p> + <p> + “You know we can rest almost as often as we please,” said Percivale, and + turned to lead the way. + </p> + <p> + It certainly was steep, and required care even in our own descent; but for + a man who had climbed mountains, as I had done in my youth, it could + hardly be called difficult even in middle age. By the time we had got + again into the valley road I was all but convinced of the practicability + of the proposal. I was a little vexed, however, I must confess, that a + stranger should have thought of giving such a pleasure to Connie, when the + bare wish that she might have enjoyed it had alone arisen in my mind. I + comforted myself with the reflection that this was one of the ways in + which we were to be weaned from the world and knit the faster to our + fellows. For even the middle-aged, in the decay of their daring, must look + for the fresh thought and the fresh impulse to the youth which follows at + their heels in the march of life. Their part is to <i>will</i> the + relation and the obligation, and so, by love to and faith in the young, + keep themselves in the line along which the electric current flows, till + at length they too shall once more be young and daring in the strength of + the Lord. A man must always seek to rise above his moods and feelings, to + let them move within him, but not allow them to storm or gloom around him. + By the time we reached home we had agreed to make the attempt, and to + judge by the path to the foot of the rock, which was difficult in parts, + whether we should be likely to succeed, without danger, in attempting the + rest of the way and the following descent. As soon as we had arrived at + this conclusion, I felt so happy in the prospect that I grew quite merry, + especially after we had further agreed that, both for the sake of her + nerves and for the sake of the lordly surprise, we should bind Connie’s + eyes so that she should see nothing till we had placed her in a certain + position, concerning the preferableness of which we were not of two minds. + </p> + <p> + “What mischief have you two been about?” said my wife, as we entered our + room in the inn, where the cloth was already laid for dinner. “You look + just like two schoolboys that have been laying some plot, and can hardly + hold their tongues about it.” + </p> + <p> + “We have been enjoying our little walk amazingly,” I answered. “So much + so, that we mean to set out for another the moment dinner is over.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you will take Wynnie with you then.” + </p> + <p> + “Or you, my love,” I returned. + </p> + <p> + “No; I will stay with Connie.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. You, and Connie too, shall go out to-morrow, for we have found + a place we want to take you to. And, indeed, I believe it was our + anticipation of the pleasure you and she would have in the view that made + us so merry when you accused us of plotting mischief.” + </p> + <p> + My wife replied only with a loving look, and dinner appearing at this + moment, we sat down a happy party. + </p> + <p> + When that was over—and a very good dinner it was, just what I like, + homely in material but admirable in cooking—Wynnie and Percivale and + I set out again. For as Percivale and I came back in the morning we had + seen the church standing far aloft and aloof on the other side of the + little valley, and we wanted to go to it. It was rather a steep climb, and + Wynnie accepted Percivale’s offered arm. I led the way, therefore, and + left them to follow—not so far in the rear, however, but that I + could take a share in the conversation. It was some little time before any + arose, and it was Wynnie who led the way into it. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of things do you like best to paint, Mr. Percivale?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He hesitated for several seconds, which between a question and an answer + look so long, that most people would call them minutes. + </p> + <p> + “I would rather you should see some of my pictures—I should prefer + that to answering your question,” he said, at length. + </p> + <p> + “But I have seen some of your pictures,” she returned. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me. Indeed you have not, Miss Walton.” + </p> + <p> + “At least I have seen some of your sketches and studies.” + </p> + <p> + “Some of my sketches—none of my studies.” + </p> + <p> + “But you make use of your sketches for your pictures, do you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Never of such as you have seen. They are only a slight antidote to my + pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not wonder at that. But I would rather, I repeat, say nothing about + my pictures till you see some of them.” + </p> + <p> + “But how am I to have that pleasure, then?” + </p> + <p> + “You go to London sometimes, do you not?” + </p> + <p> + “Very rarely. More rarely still when the Royal Academy is open.” + </p> + <p> + “That does not matter much. My pictures are seldom to be found there.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you not care to send them there?” + </p> + <p> + “I send one, at least, every year. But they are rarely accepted.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + This was a very improper question, I thought; but if Wynnie had thought so + she would not have put it. He hesitated a little before he replied— + </p> + <p> + “It is hardly for me to say why,” he answered; “but I cannot wonder much + at it, considering the subjects I choose.—But I daresay,” he added, + in a lighter tone, “after all, that has little to do with it, and there is + something about the things themselves that precludes a favourable + judgment. I avoid thinking about it. A man ought to try to look at his own + work as if it were none of his, but not as with the eyes of other people. + That is an impossibility, and the attempt a bewilderment. It is with his + own eyes he must look, with his own judgment he must judge. The only + effort is to get it set far away enough from him to be able to use his own + eyes and his own judgment upon it.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I see what you mean. A man has but his own eyes and his own + judgment. To look with those of other people is but a fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so. You understand me quite.” + </p> + <p> + He said no more in explanation of his rejection by the Academy. Till we + reached the church, nothing more of significance passed between them. + </p> + <p> + What a waste, bare churchyard that was! It had two or three lych-gates, + but they had no roofs. They were just small enclosures, with the low stone + tables, to rest the living from the weight of the dead, while the + clergyman, as the keeper of heaven’s wardrobe, came forth to receive the + garment they restored—to be laid aside as having ended its work, as + having been worn done in the winds, and rains, and labours of the world. + Not a tree stood in that churchyard. Hank grass was the sole covering of + the soil heaved up with the dead beneath. What blasts from the awful space + of the sea must rush athwart the undefended garden! The ancient church + stood in the midst, with its low, strong, square tower, and its long, + narrow nave, the ridge bowed with age, like the back of a horse worn out + in the service of man, and its little homely chancel, like a small cottage + that had leaned up against its end for shelter from the western blasts. It + was locked, and we could not enter. But of all world-worn, sad-looking + churches, that one—sad, even in the sunset—was the dreariest I + had ever beheld. Surely, it needed the gospel of the resurrection + fervently preached therein, to keep it from sinking to the dust with + dismay and weariness. Such a soul alone could keep it from vanishing + utterly of dismal old age. Near it was one huge mound of grass-grown + rubbish, looking like the grave where some former church of the dead had + been buried, when it could stand erect no longer before the onsets of + Atlantic winds. I walked round and round it, gathering its architecture, + and peeping in at every window I could reach. Suddenly I was aware that I + was alone. Returning to the other side, I found that Percivale was seated + on the churchyard wall, next the sea—it would have been less dismal + had it stood immediately on the cliffs, but they were at some little + distance beyond bare downs and rough stone walls; he was sketching the + place, and Wynnie stood beside him, looking over his shoulder. I did not + interrupt him, but walked among the graves, reading the poor memorials of + the dead, and wondering how many of the words of laudation that were + inscribed on their tombs were spoken of them while they were yet alive. + Yet, surely, in the lives of those to whom they applied the least, there + had been moments when the true nature, the nature God had given them, + broke forth in faith and tenderness, and would have justified the words + inscribed on their gravestones! I was yet wandering and reading, and + stumbling over the mounds, when my companions joined me, and, without a + word, we walked out of the churchyard. We were nearly home before one of + us spoke. + </p> + <p> + “That church is oppressive,” said Percivale. “It looks like a great + sepulchre, a place built only for the dead—the church of the dead.” + </p> + <p> + “It is only that it partakes with the living,” I returned; “suffers with + them the buffetings of life, outlasts them, but shows, like the shield of + the Red-Cross Knight, the ‘old dints of deep wounds.’” + </p> + <p> + “Still, is it not a dreary place to choose for a church to stand in?” + </p> + <p> + “The church must stand everywhere. There is no region into which it must + not, ought not to enter. If it refuses any earthly spot, it is shrinking + from its calling. Here this one stands for the sea as for the land, + high-uplifted, looking out over the waters as a sign of the haven from all + storms, the rest in God. And down beneath in its storehouse lie the bodies + of men—you saw the grave of some of them on the other side—flung + ashore from the gulfing sea. It may be a weakness, but one would rather + have the bones of his friend laid in the still Sabbath of the churchyard + earth, than sweeping and swaying about as Milton imagines the bones of his + friend Edward King, in that wonderful ‘Lycidas.’” Then I told them the + conversation I had had with the sexton at Kilkhaven. “But,” I went on, + “these fancies are only the ghostly mists that hang about the eastern + hills before the sun rises. We shall look down on all that with a smile by + and by; for the Lord tells us that if we believe in him we shall never + die.” + </p> + <p> + By this time we were back once more at the inn. We gave Connie a + description of what we had seen. + </p> + <p> + “What a brave old church!” said Connie. + </p> + <p> + The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got up + at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of all to + have a look at Connie’s litter, and see that it was quite sound. Satisfied + of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and strength. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast I went to Connie’s room, and told her that Mr. Percivale + and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once. + </p> + <p> + “But we want to do it our own way.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, papa,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Will you let us tie your eyes up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and my ears and my hands too. It would be no good tying my feet, + when I don’t know one big toe from the other.” + </p> + <p> + And she laughed merrily. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll try to keep up the talk all the way, so that you sha’n’t weary of + the journey.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re going to carry me somewhere with my eyes tied up. O! how jolly! + And then I shall see something all at once! Jolly! jolly!—Getting + tired!” she repeated. “Even the wind on my face would be pleasure enough + for half a day. I sha’n’t get tired so soon as you will—you dear, + kind papa! I am afraid I shall be dreadfully heavy. But I sha’n’t jerk + your arms much. I will lie so still!” + </p> + <p> + “And you won’t mind letting Mr. Percivale help me to carry you?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Why should I, if he doesn’t mind it? He looks strong enough; and I am + sure he is nice, and won’t think me heavier than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then. I will send mamma and Wynnie to dress you at once; and + we shall set out as soon as you are ready.” + </p> + <p> + She clapped her hands with delight, then caught me round the neck and gave + me one of my own kisses as she called the best she had, and began to call + as loud as she could on her mamma and Wynnie to come and dress her. + </p> + <p> + It was indeed a glorious morning. The wind came in little wafts, like + veins of cool white silver amid the great, warm, yellow gold of the + sunshine. The sea lay before us a mound of blue closing up the end of the + valley, as if overpowered into quietness by the lordliness of the sun + overhead; and the hills between which we went lay like great sheep, with + green wool, basking in the blissful heat. The gleam from the waters came + up the pass; the grand castle crowned the left-hand steep, seeming to warm + its old bones, like the ruins of some awful megatherium in the lighted + air; one white sail sped like a glad thought across the spandrel of the + sea; the shadows of the rocks lay over our path, like transient, cool, + benignant deaths, through which we had to pass again and again to yet + higher glory beyond; and one lark was somewhere in whose little breast the + whole world was reflected as in the convex mirror of a dewdrop, where it + swelled so that he could not hold it, but let it out again through his + throat, metamorphosed into music, which he poured forth over all as the + libation on the outspread altar of worship. + </p> + <p> + And of all this we talked to Connie as we went; and every now and then she + would clap her hands gently in the fulness of her delight, although she + beheld the splendour only as with her ears, or from the kisses of the wind + on her cheeks. But she seemed, since her accident, to have approached that + condition which Milton represents Samson as longing for in his blindness, + wherein the sight should be + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “through all parts diffused, + That she might look at will through every pore.” + </pre> + <p> + I had, however, arranged with the rest of the company, that the moment we + reached the cliff over the shore, and turned to the left to cross the + isthmus, the conversation should no longer be about the things around us; + and especially I warned my wife and Wynnie that no exclamation of surprise + or delight should break from them before Connie’s eyes were uncovered. I + had said nothing to either of them about the difficulties of the way, + that, seeing us take them as ordinary things, they might take them so too, + and not be uneasy. + </p> + <p> + We never stopped till we reached the foot of the peninsula, <i>née</i> + island, upon which the keep of Tintagel stands. There we set Connie down, + to take breath and ease our arms before we began the arduous way. + </p> + <p> + “Now, now!” said Connie eagerly, lifting her hands in the belief that we + were on the point of undoing the bandage from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, my love, not yet,” I said, and she lay still again, only she + looked more eager than before. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I have tired out you and Mr. Percivale, papa,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Percivale laughed so amusedly, that she rejoined roguishly— + </p> + <p> + “O yes! I know every gentleman is a Hercules—at least, he chooses to + be considered one! But, notwithstanding my firm faith in the fact, I have + a little womanly conscience left that is hard to hoodwink.” + </p> + <p> + There was a speech for my wee Connie to make! The best answer and the best + revenge was to lift her and go on. This we did, trying as well as we might + to prevent the difference of level between us from tilting the litter too + much for her comfort. + </p> + <p> + “Where <i>are</i> you going, papa?” she said once, but without a sign of + fear in her voice, as a little slip I made lowered my end of the litter + suddenly. “You must be going up a steep place. Don’t hurt yourself, dear + papa.” + </p> + <p> + We had changed our positions, and were now carrying her, head foremost, up + the hill. Percivale led, and I followed. Now I could see every change on + her lovely face, and it made me strong to endure; for I did find it hard + work, I confess, to get to the top. It lay like a little sunny pool, on + which all the cloudy thoughts that moved in some unseen heaven cast + exquisitely delicate changes of light and shade as they floated over it. + Percivale strode on as if he bore a feather behind him. I did wish we were + at the top, for my arms began to feel like iron-cables, stiff and stark—only + I was afraid of my fingers giving way. My heart was beating uncomfortably + too. But Percivale, I felt almost inclined to quarrel with him before it + was over, he strode on so unconcernedly, turning every corner of the + zigzag where I expected him to propose a halt, and striding on again, as + if there could be no pretence for any change of procedure. But I held out, + strengthened by the play on my daughter’s face, delicate as the play on an + opal—one that inclines more to the milk than the fire. + </p> + <p> + When at length we turned in through the gothic door in the battlemented + wall, and set our lovely burden down upon the grass— + </p> + <p> + “Percivale,” I said, forgetting the proprieties in the affected humour of + being angry with him, so glad was I that we had her at length on the mount + of glory, “why did you go on walking like a castle, and pay no heed to + me?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t speak, did you, Mr. Walton,” he returned, with just a shadow + of solicitude in the question. + </p> + <p> + “No. Of course not,” I rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “O, then,” he returned, in a tone of relief, “how could I? You were my + captain: how could I give in so long as you were holding on?” + </p> + <p> + I am afraid the <i>Percivale</i>, without the <i>Mister</i>, came again + and again after this, though I pulled myself up for it as often as I + caught myself. + </p> + <p> + “Now, papa!” said Connie from the grass. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, my dear. Wait till your mamma and Wynnie come. Let us go and + meet them, Mr. Percivale.” + </p> + <p> + “O yes, do, papa. Leave me alone here without knowing where I am or what + kind of a place I am in. I should like to know how it feels. I have never + been alone in all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, my dear,” I said; and Percivale and I left her alone in the + ruins. + </p> + <p> + We found Ethelwyn toiling up with Wynnie helping her all she could. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Harry,” she said, “how could you think of bringing Connie up such an + awful place? I wonder you dared to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s done you see, wife,” I answered, “thanks to Mr. Percivale, who has + nearly torn the breath out of me. But now we must get you up, and you will + say that to see Connie’s delight, not to mention your own, is quite wages + for the labour.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t she afraid to find herself so high up?” + </p> + <p> + “She knows nothing about it yet.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not mean you have left the child there with her eyes tied up.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure. We could not uncover them before you came. It would spoil + half the pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “Do let us make haste then. It is surely dangerous to leave her so.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least; but she must be getting tired of the darkness. Take my + arm now.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think Mrs. Walton had better take my arm,” said Percivale, “and + then you can put your hand on her back, and help her a little that way.” + </p> + <p> + We tried the plan, found it a good one, and soon reached the top. The + moment our eyes fell upon Connie, we could see that she had found the + place neither fearful nor lonely. The sweetest ghost of a smile hovered on + her pale face, which shone in the shadow of the old gateway of the keep, + with light from within her own sunny soul. She lay in such still + expectation, that you would have thought she had just fallen asleep after + receiving an answer to a prayer, reminding me of a little-known sonnet of + Wordsworth’s, in which he describes as the type of Death— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “the face of one + Sleeping alone within a mossy cave + With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have + Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; + A lovely beauty in a summer grave.” + </pre> + <p> + [Footnote: <i>Miscellaneous Sonnets</i>, part i.28.] + </p> + <p> + But she heard our steps, and her face awoke. + </p> + <p> + “Is mamma come?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my darling. I am here,” said her mother. “How do you feel?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly well, mamma, thank you. Now, papa!” + </p> + <p> + “One moment more, my love. Now, Percivale.” + </p> + <p> + We carried her to the spot we had agreed upon, and while we held her a + little inclined that she might see the better, her mother undid the + bandage from her head. + </p> + <p> + “Hold your hands over her eyes, a little way from them,” I said to her as + she untied the handkerchief, “that the light may reach them by degrees, + and not blind her.” + </p> + <p> + Ethelwyn did so for a few moments, then removed them. Still for a moment + or two more, it was plain from her look of utter bewilderment, that all + was a confused mass of light and colour. Then she gave a little cry, and + to my astonishment, almost fear, half rose to a sitting posture. One + moment more and she laid herself gently back, and wept and sobbed. + </p> + <p> + And now I may admit my reader to a share, though at best but a dim reflex + in my poor words, of the glory that made her weep. + </p> + <p> + Through the gothic-arched door in the battlemented wall, which stood on + the very edge of the precipitous descent, so that nothing of the descent + was seen, and the door was as a framework to the picture, Connie saw a + great gulf at her feet, full to the brim of a splendour of light and + colour. Before her rose the great ruins of rock and castle, the ruin of + rock with castle; rough stone below, clear green happy grass above, even + to the verge of the abrupt and awful precipice; over it the summer sky so + clear that it must have been clarified by sorrow and thought; at the foot + of the rocks, hundreds of feet below, the blue waters breaking in white + upon the dark gray sands; all full of the gladness of the sun overflowing + in speechless delight, and reflected in fresh gladness from stone and + water and flower, like new springs of light rippling forth from the earth + itself to swell the universal tide of glory—all this seen through + the narrow gothic archway of a door in a wall—up—down—on + either hand. But the main marvel was the look sheer below into the abyss + full of light and air and colour, its sides lined with rock and grass, and + its bottom lined with blue ripples and sand. Was it any wonder that my + Connie should cry aloud when the vision dawned upon her, and then weep to + ease a heart ready to burst with delight? “O Lord God,” I said, almost + involuntarily, “thou art very rich. Thou art the one poet, the one maker. + We worship thee. Make but our souls as full of glory in thy sight as this + chasm is to our eyes glorious with the forms which thou hast cloven and + carved out of nothingness, and we shall be worthy to worship thee, O Lord, + our God.” For I was carried beyond myself with delight, and with sympathy + with Connie’s delight and with the calm worship of gladness in my wife’s + countenance. But when my eye fell on Wynnie, I saw a trouble mingled with + her admiration, a self-accusation, I think, that she did not and could not + enjoy it more; and when I turned from her, there were the eyes of + Percivale fixed on me in wonderment; and for the moment I felt as David + must have felt when, in his dance of undignified delight that he had got + the ark home again, he saw the contemptuous eyes of Michal fixed on him + from the window. But I could not leave it so. I said to him—coldly I + daresay: + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Mr. Percivale; I forgot for the moment that I was not amongst + my own family.” + </p> + <p> + Percivale took his hat off. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive my seeming rudeness, Mr. Walton. I was half-envying and + half-wondering. You would not be surprised at my unconscious behaviour if + you had seen as much of the wrong side of the stuff as I have seen in + London.” + </p> + <p> + I had some idea of what he meant; but this was no time to enter upon a + discussion. I could only say— + </p> + <p> + “My heart was full, Mr. Percivale, and I let it overflow.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me at least share in its overflow,” he rejoined, and nothing more + passed on the subject. + </p> + <p> + For the next ten minutes we stood in absolute silence. We had set Connie + down on the grass again, but propped up so that she could see through the + doorway. And she lay in still ecstasy. But there was more to be seen ere + we descended. There was the rest of the little islet with its crop of + down-grass, on which the horses of all the knights of King Arthur’s round + table might have fed for a week—yes, for a fortnight, without, by + any means, encountering the short commons of war. There were the ruins of + the castle so built of plates of the laminated stone of the rocks on which + they stood, and so woven in or more properly incorporated with the + outstanding rocks themselves, that in some parts I found it impossible to + tell which was building and which was rock—the walls themselves + seeming like a growth out of the island itself, so perfectly were they in + harmony with, and in kind the same as, the natural ground upon which and + of which they had been constructed. And this would seem to me to be the + perfection of architecture. The work of man’s hands should be so in + harmony with the place where it stands that it must look as if it had + grown out of the soil. But the walls were in some parts so thin that one + wondered how they could have stood so long. They must have been built + before the time of any formidable artillery—enough only for defence + from arrows. But then the island was nowhere commanded, and its own steep + cliffs would be more easily defended than any erections upon it. Clearly + the intention was that no enemy should thereon find rest for the sole of + his foot; for if he was able to land, farewell to the notion of any + further defence. Then there was outside the walls the little chapel—such + a tiny chapel! of which little more than the foundation remained, with the + ruins of the altar still standing, and outside the chancel, nestling by + its wall, a coffin hollowed in the rock; then the churchyard a little way + off full of graves, which, I presume, would have vanished long ago were it + not that the very graves were founded on the rock. There still stood old + worn-out headstones of thin slate, but no memorials were left. Then there + was the fragment of arched passage underground laid open to the air in the + centre of the islet; and last, and grandest of all, the awful edges of the + rock, broken by time, and carved by the winds and the waters into + grotesque shapes and threatening forms. Over all the surface of the islet + we carried Connie, and from three sides of this sea-fortress she looked + abroad over “the Atlantic’s level powers.” It blew a gentle ethereal + breeze on the top; but had there been such a wind as I have since stood + against on that fearful citadel of nature, I should have been in terror + lest we should all be blown, into the deep. Over the edge she peeped at + the strange fantastic needle-rock, and round the corner she peeped to see + Wynnie and her mother seated in what they call Arthur’s chair—a + canopied hollow wrought in the plated rock by the mightiest of all + solvents—air and water; till at length it was time that we should + take our leave of the few sheep that fed over the place, and issuing by + the gothic door, wind away down the dangerous path to the safe ground + below. + </p> + <p> + “I think we had better tie up your eyes again, Connie?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she asked, in wonderment. “There’s nothing higher yet, is there?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my love. If there were, you would hardly be able for it to-day, I + should think. It is only to keep you from being frightened at the + precipice as you go down.” + </p> + <p> + “But I sha’n’t be frightened, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you are going to carry me.” + </p> + <p> + “But what if I should slip? I might, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mind. I sha’n’t mind being tumbled over the precipice, if you do + it. I sha’n’t be to blame, and I’m sure you won’t, papa.” Then she drew my + head down and whispered in my ear, “If I get as much more by being killed, + as I have got by having my poor back hurt, I’m sure it will be well worth + it.” + </p> + <p> + I tried to smile a reply, for I could not speak one. We took her just as + she was, and with some tremor on my part, but not a single slip, we bore + her down the winding path, her face showing all the time that, instead of + being afraid, she was in a state of ecstatic delight. My wife, I could + see, was nervous, however; and she breathed a sigh of relief when we were + once more at the foot. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m glad that’s over,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” I returned, as we set down the litter. + </p> + <p> + “Poor papa! I’ve pulled his arms to pieces! and Mr. Percivale’s too!” + </p> + <p> + Percivale answered first by taking up a huge piece of stone. Then turning + towards her, he said, “Look here, Miss Connie;” and flung it far out from + the isthmus on which we were resting. We heard it strike on a rock below, + and then fall in a shower of fragments. “My arms are all right, you see,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the shore, where we had not yet + been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us + out of breath with the news: + </p> + <p> + “Papa! Mr. Percivale! there’s such a grand cave down there! It goes right + through under the island.” + </p> + <p> + Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and + without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way that + we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch more + difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a + contrast to the vision overhead!—nothing to be seen but the cool, + dark vault of the cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on + its pebbly floor, and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide + rolled through in rising and falling—the waters on the opposite + sides of the islet greeting through this cave; the blue shimmer of the + rising sea, and the forms of huge outlying rocks, looking in at the + further end, where the roof rose like a grand cathedral arch; and the + green gleam of veins rich with copper, dashing and streaking the darkness + in gloomy little chapels, where the floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and + rose within till it met the descending roof. It was like a going-down from + Paradise into the grave—but a cool, friendly, brown-lighted grave, + which even in its darkest recesses bore some witness to the wind of God + outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed light, from the play of the + sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected, wandered across its jagged + roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the damp coolness; and I have + given my reader quite enough of description for one hour’s reading. He can + scarcely be equal to more. + </p> + <p> + My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I no + longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days after, + and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner’s place in the carriage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. JOE AND HIS TROUBLE. + </h2> + <p> + How bright the yellow shores of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands of + Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty rampart + of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce guardians! It + was pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to look like home, and + was indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of Dora and the boys. + Connie’s baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her chubby arms at sight + of her. The wind blew gently around us, full both of the freshness of the + clean waters and the scents of the down-grasses, to welcome us back. And + the dread vision of the shore had now receded so far into the past, that + it was no longer able to hurt. + </p> + <p> + We had called at the blacksmith’s house on our way home, and found that he + was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother said he + was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, feared that + they indicated an approaching break-down. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, sir,” she said, “Joe might be well enough if he liked. It’s all + his own fault.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” I asked. “I cannot believe that your son is in any way + guilty of his own illness.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a well-behaved lad, my Joe,” she answered; “but he hasn’t learned + what I had to learn long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other.” + </p> + <p> + She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she + spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in + mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all + her face under the nose. + </p> + <p> + “And what is it he won’t do?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mind whether he does it or not, if he would only make—up—his—mind—and—stick—to—it.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it you want him to do, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want him to do it, I’m sure. It’s no good to me—and + wouldn’t be much to him, that I’ll be bound. Howsomever, he must please + himself.” + </p> + <p> + I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was no + more sunshine for him at home than his mother’s face indicated. Few things + can make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, whose + rays are smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the door,—the + face of wife or mother or sister. Now his mother’s face certainly was not + sunny. No doubt it must have shone upon him when he was a baby. God has + made that provision for babies, who need sunshine so much that a mother’s + face cannot help being sunny to them: why should the sunshine depart as + the child grows older? + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose I must not ask. But I fear your son is very far from + well. Such attacks do not often occur without serious mischief somewhere. + And if there is anything troubling him, he is less likely to get over it.” + </p> + <p> + “If he would let somebody make up his mind for him, and then stick to it—” + </p> + <p> + “O, but that is impossible, you know. A man must make up his own mind.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what he won’t do.” + </p> + <p> + All the time she looked naughty, only after a self-righteous fashion. It + was evident that whatever was the cause of it, she was not in sympathy + with her son, and therefore could not help him out of any difficulty he + might be in. I made no further attempt to learn from her the cause of her + son’s discomfort, clearly a deeper cause than his illness. In passing his + workshop, we stopped for a moment, and I made an arrangement to meet him + at the church the next day. + </p> + <p> + I was there before him, and found that he had done a good deal since we + left. Little remained except to get the keys put to rights, and the rods + attached to the cranks in the box. To-day he was to bring a carpenter, a + cousin of his own, with him. + </p> + <p> + They soon arrived, and a small consultation followed. The cousin was a + bright-eyed, cheruby-cheeked little man, with a ready smile and white + teeth: I thought he might help me to understand what was amiss in Joseph’s + affairs. But I would not make the attempt except openly. I therefore said + half in a jocular fashion, as with gloomy, self-withdrawn countenance the + smith was fitting one loop into another in two of his iron rods,— + </p> + <p> + “I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more cheerful. + You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine.” + </p> + <p> + The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, if you’ll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the + rest of us. He’s a religious man, is Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t see how that should make him miserable. It hasn’t made me + miserable. I hope I’m a religious man myself. It makes me happy every day + of my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked + away gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, “I + don’t say it’s the religion, for I don’t know; but perhaps it’s the way he + takes it up. He don’t look after hisself enough; he’s always thinking + about other people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, that if you + don’t look after yourself, why, who is to look after you? That’s common + sense, <i>I</i> think.” + </p> + <p> + It was a curious contrast—the merry friendly face, which shone + good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe, + even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much about + other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might be correct + in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, healthy + inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was a smile very + unlike his cousin’s with which Joe heard his remarks on himself. + </p> + <p> + “But,” I said, “you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take + Joe’s way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see why, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so well, I doubt, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and a great deal better.” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate, that’s a long way off; and mean time, <i>who’s</i> to take + care of the odd man like Joe there, that don’t look after hisself?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, God, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there’s just where I’m out. I don’t know nothing about that branch, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe’s gloomy eyes as I spoke thus upon + his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin + volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I might + have gained. + </p> + <p> + At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have their + dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and I dropped + behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in meditation. + </p> + <p> + Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the + rectory, when I saw the sexton’s daughter meeting us. She had almost come + up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the ground, and he + started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, constrained, yet + familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted to talk, but without + speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of recognition to the young + woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners to look behind. I glanced at + Harry, and he answered me with a queer look. When we reached the turning + that would hide them from our view, I looked back almost involuntarily, + and there they were still standing. But before we reached the door of the + rectory, Joe got up with us. + </p> + <p> + There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the + sexton’s daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, the + youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, somewhat + sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall and slender, + and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good hair’s-breadth further + into the smith’s affairs. Beyond the hair’s-breadth, however, all was + dark. But I saw likewise that the well of truth, whence I might draw the + whole business, must be the girl’s mother. + </p> + <p> + After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back to + the church, and I went to the sexton’s cottage. I found the old man seated + at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty plate beside + it. + </p> + <p> + “Come in, sir,” he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. “The + mis’ess ben’t in, but she’ll be here in a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “O, it’s of no consequence,” I said. “Are they all well?” + </p> + <p> + “All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It be + in winter it be worst for them.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s a snug enough shelter you’ve got here. It seems such, anyhow; + though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak + places both in house and body.” + </p> + <p> + “It ben’t the wind touch <i>them</i>” he said; “they be safe enough from + the wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben’t much snow in these parts; but + when it du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!” + </p> + <p> + Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again? + </p> + <p> + “But at least this cottage keeps out the wet,” I said. “If not, we must + have it seen to.” + </p> + <p> + “This cottage du well enough, sir. It’ll last my time, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?” + </p> + <p> + “Bless your heart, sir! It’s not them. They du well enough. It’s my people + out yonder. You’ve got the souls to look after, and I’ve got the bodies. + That’s what it be, sir. To be sure!” + </p> + <p> + The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my + stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and none + to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed that + night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination in + which the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, and he + would magnify that office. He could not bear that there should be no + further outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out of sight + should be “the be-all and the end-all.” He was God’s vicar, the gardener + in God’s Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When all others had + forsaken the dead, he remained their friend, caring for what little + comfort yet remained possible to them. Hence in all changes of air and sky + above, he attributed to them some knowledge of the same, and some share in + their consequences even down in the darkness of the tomb. It was his way + of keeping up the relation between the living and the dead. Finding I made + him no reply, he took up the word again. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got your part, sir, and I’ve got mine. You up into the pulpit, and + I down into the grave. But it’ll be all the same by and by.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope it will,” I answered. “But when you do go down into your own + grave, you’ll know a good deal less about it than you do now. You’ll find + you’ve got other things to think about. But here comes your wife. She’ll + talk about the living rather than the dead.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s natural, sir. She brought ‘em to life, and I buried ‘em—at + least, best part of ‘em. If only I had the other two safe down with the + rest!” + </p> + <p> + I remembered what the old woman had told me—that she had two boys <i>in</i> + the sea; and I knew therefore what he meant. He regarded his drowned boys + as still tossed about in the weary wet cold ocean, and would have gladly + laid them to rest in the warm dry churchyard. + </p> + <p> + He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, and + saying, “Well, I must be off to my gardening,” left me with his wife. I + saw then that, humorist as the old man might be, his humour, like that of + all true humorists, lay close about the wells of weeping. + </p> + <p> + “The old man seems a little out of sorts,” I said to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” she answered, with her usual gentleness, a gentleness which + obedient suffering had perfected, “this be the day he buried our Nancy, + this day two years; and to-day Agnes be come home from her work poorly; + and the two things together they’ve upset him a bit.” + </p> + <p> + “I met Agnes coming this way. Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she be in the churchyard, sir. I’ve been to the doctor about + her.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope it’s nothing serious.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not, sir; but you see—four on ‘em, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she’s in God’s hands, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “That she be, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to ask you about something, Mrs. Coombes.” + </p> + <p> + “What be that, sir? If I can tell, I will, you may be sure, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to know what’s the matter with Joe Harper, the blacksmith.” + </p> + <p> + “They du say it be a consumption, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “But what has he got on his mind?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s got nothing on his mind, sir. He be as good a by as ever stepped, I + assure you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am sure there is something or other on his mind. He’s not so happy + as he should be. He’s not the man, it seems to me, to be unhappy because + he’s ill. A man like him would not be miserable because he was going to + die. It might make him look sad sometimes, but not gloomy as he looks.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, I believe you be right, and perhaps I know summat. But it’s + part guessing.—I believe my Agnes and Joe Harper are as fond upon + one another as any two in the county.” + </p> + <p> + “Are they not going to be married then?” + </p> + <p> + “There be the pint, sir. I don’t believe Joe ever said a word o’ the sort + to Aggy. She never could ha’ kep it from me, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn’t he then?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the pint again, sir. All as knows him says it’s because he be in + such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn’t to go marrying with one foot in + the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that be it.” + </p> + <p> + “For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we’ve all got one foot in the grave, I + think.” + </p> + <p> + “That be very true, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And what does your daughter think?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she thinks the same. And so they go on talking to each other, + quiet-like, like old married folks, not like lovers at all, sir. But I + can’t help fancying it have something to do with my Aggy’s pale face.” + </p> + <p> + “And something to do with Joe’s pale face too, Mrs. Coombes,” I said. + “Thank you. You’ve told me more than I expected. It explains everything. I + must have it out with Joe now.” + </p> + <p> + “O deary me! sir, don’t go and tell him I said anything, as if I wanted + him to marry my daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you be afraid. I’ll take good care of that. And don’t fancy I’m + fond of meddling with other people’s affairs. But this is a case in which + I ought to do something. Joe’s a fine fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “That he be, sir. I couldn’t wish a better for a son-in-law.” + </p> + <p> + I put on my hat. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t get me into no trouble with Joe, will ye, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I will not, Mrs. Coombes. I should be doing a great deal more harm + than good if I said a word to make him doubt you.” + </p> + <p> + I went straight to the church. There were the two men working away in the + shadowy tower, and there was Agnes standing beside, knitting like her + mother, so quiet, so solemn even, that it did indeed look as if she were a + long-married wife, hovering about her husband at his work. Harry was + saying something to her as I went in, but when they saw me they were + silent, and Agnes gently withdrew. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you will get through to-night?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Sure of it, sir,” answered Harry. + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn’t be sure of anything, Harry. We are told in the New + Testament that we ought to say <i>If the Lord will</i>,” said Joe. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Joe, you’re too hard upon Harry,” I said. “You don’t think that the + Bible means to pull a man up every step like that, till he’s afraid to + speak a word. It was about a long journey and a year’s residence that the + Apostle James was speaking.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt, sir. But the principle’s the same. Harry can no more be sure of + finishing his work before it be dark, than those people could be of going + their long journey.” + </p> + <p> + “That is perfectly true. But you are taking the letter for the spirit, and + that, I suspect, in more ways than one. The religion does not lie in not + being sure about anything, but in a loving desire that the will of God in + the matter, whatever it be, may be done. And if Harry has not learned yet + to care about the will of God, what is the good of coming down upon him + that way, as if that would teach him in the least. When he loves God, + then, and not till then, will he care about his will. Nor does the + religion lie in saying, <i>if the Lord will</i>, every time anything is to + be done. It is a most dangerous thing to use sacred words often. It makes + them so common to our ear that at length, when used most solemnly, they + have not half the effect they ought to have, and that is a serious loss. + What the Apostle means is, that we should always be in the mood of looking + up to God and having regard to his will, not always writing D.V. for + instance, as so many do—most irreverently, I think—using a + Latin contraction for the beautiful words, just as if they were a charm, + or as if God would take offence if they did not make the salvo of + acknowledgment. It seems to me quite heathenish. Our hearts ought ever to + be in the spirit of those words; our lips ought to utter them rarely. + Besides, there are some things a man might be pretty sure the Lord wills.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds fine, sir; but I’m not sure that I understand what you mean to + say. It sounds to me like a darkening of wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + I saw that I had irritated him, and so had in some measure lost ground. + But Harry struck in— + </p> + <p> + “How <i>can</i> you say that now, Joe? <i>I</i> know what the parson means + well enough, and everybody knows I ain’t got half the brains you’ve got.” + </p> + <p> + “The reason is, Harry, that he’s got something in his head that stands in + the way.” + </p> + <p> + “And there’s nothing in my head <i>to</i> stand in the way!” returned + Harry, laughing. + </p> + <p> + This made me laugh too, and even Joe could not help a sympathetic grin. By + this time it was getting dark. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid, Harry, after all, you won’t get through to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I begin to think so too, sir. And there’s Joe saying, ‘I told you so,’ + over and over to himself, though he won’t say it out like a man.” + </p> + <p> + Joe answered only with another grin. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what it is, Harry,” I said—“you must come again on + Monday. And on your way home, just look in and tell Joe’s mother that I + have kept him over to-morrow. The change will do him good.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, that can’t he. I haven’t got a clean shirt.” + </p> + <p> + “You can have a shirt of mine,” I said. “But I’m afraid you’ll want your + Sunday clothes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bring them for you, Joe—before you’re up,” interposed Harry. + “And then you can go to church with Aggy Coombes, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Here was just what I wanted. + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue, Harry,” said Joe angrily. “You’re talking of what you + don’t know anything about.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Joe, I ben’t a fool, if I ben’t so religious as you be. You ben’t a + bad fellow, though you be a Methodist, and I ben’t a fool, though I be + Harry Cobb.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Harry? Do hold your tongue.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ll tell you what I mean first, and then I’ll hold my tongue. I + mean this—that nobody with two eyes, or one eye, for that matter, in + his head, could help seeing the eyes you and Aggy make at each other, and + why you don’t port your helm and board her—I won’t say it’s more + than I know, but I du say it to be more than I think be fair to the young + woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue, Harry.” + </p> + <p> + “I said I would when I’d answered you as to what I meaned. So no more at + present; but I’ll be over with your clothes afore you’re up in the + morning.” + </p> + <p> + As Harry spoke he was busy gathering his tools. + </p> + <p> + “They won’t be in the way, will they, sir?” he said, as he heaped them + together in the furthest corner of the tower. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least,” I returned. “If I had my way, all the tools used in + building the church should be carved on the posts and pillars of it, to + indicate the sacredness of labour, and the worship of God that lies, not + in building the church merely, but in every honest trade honestly pursued + for the good of mankind and the need of the workman. For a necessity of + God is laid upon every workman as well as on St. Paul. Only St. Paul saw + it, and every workman doesn’t, Harry.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, sir. I like that way of it. I almost think I could be a little + bit religious after your way of it, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Almost, Harry!” growled Joe—not unkindly. + </p> + <p> + “Now, you hold your tongue, Joe,” I said. “Leave Harry to me. You may take + him, if you like, after I’ve done with him.” + </p> + <p> + Laughing merrily, but making no other reply than a hearty good-night, + Harry strode away out of the church, and Joe and I went home together. + </p> + <p> + When he had had his tea, I asked him to go out with me for a walk. + </p> + <p> + The sun was shining aslant upon the downs from over the sea. We rose out + of the shadowy hollow to the sunlit brow. I was a little in advance of + Joe. Happening to turn, I saw the light full on his head and face, while + the rest of his body had not yet emerged from the shadow. + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Joe,” I said. “I want to see you so for a moment.” + </p> + <p> + He stood—a little surprised. + </p> + <p> + “You look just like a man rising from the dead, Joe,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he returned. + </p> + <p> + “I will describe yourself to you. Your head and face are full of sunlight, + the rest of your body is still buried in the shadow. Look; I will stand + where you are now; and you come here. You will soon see what I mean.” + </p> + <p> + We changed places. Joe stared for a moment. Then his face brightened. + </p> + <p> + “I see what you mean, sir,” he said. “I fancy you don’t mean the + resurrection of the body, but the resurrection of righteousness.” + </p> + <p> + “I do, Joe. Did it ever strike you that the whole history of the Christian + life is a series of such resurrections? Every time a man bethinks himself + that he is not walking in the light, that he has been forgetting himself, + and must repent, that he has been asleep and must awake, that he has been + letting his garments trail, and must gird up the loins of his mind—every + time this takes place, there is a resurrection in the world. Yes, Joe; and + every time that a man finds that his heart is troubled, that he is not + rejoicing in God, a resurrection must follow—a resurrection out of + the night of troubled thoughts into the gladness of the truth. For the + truth is, and ever was, and ever must be, gladness, however much the souls + on which it shines may be obscured by the clouds of sorrow, troubled by + the thunders of fear, or shot through with the lightnings of pain. Now, + Joe, will you let me tell you what you are like—I do not know your + thoughts; I am only judging from your words and looks?” + </p> + <p> + “You may if you like, sir,” answered Joe, a little sulkily. But I was not + to be repelled. + </p> + <p> + I stood up in the sunlight, so that my eyes caught only about half the + sun’s disc. Then I bent my face towards the earth. + </p> + <p> + “What part of me is the light shining on now, Joe?” + </p> + <p> + “Just the top of your head,” answered he. + </p> + <p> + “There, then,” I returned, “that is just what you are like—a man + with the light on his head, but not on his face. And why not on your face? + Because you hold your head down.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it possible, sir, that a man might lose the light on his face, as + you put it, by doing his duty?” + </p> + <p> + “That is a difficult question,” I replied. “I must think before I answer + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” added Joe—“mightn’t his duty be a painful one?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I think that would rather etherealise than destroy the light. + Behind the sorrow would spring a yet greater light from the very duty + itself. I have expressed myself badly, but you will see what I mean.—To + be frank with you, Joe, I do not see that light in your face. Therefore I + think something must be wrong with you. Remember a good man is not + necessarily in the right. St. Peter was a good man, yet our Lord called + him Satan—and meant it of course, for he never said what he did not + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “How can I be wrong when all my trouble comes from doing my duty—nothing + else, as far as I know?” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” I replied, a sudden light breaking in on my mind, “I doubt whether + what you suppose to be your duty can be your duty. If it were, I do not + think it would make you so miserable. At least—I may be wrong, but I + venture to think so.” + </p> + <p> + “What is a man to go by, then? If he thinks a thing is his duty, is he not + to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Most assuredly—until he knows better. But it is of the greatest + consequence whether the supposed duty be the will of God or the invention + of one’s own fancy or mistaken judgment. A real duty is always something + right in itself. The duty a man makes his for the time, by supposing it to + be a duty, may be something quite wrong in itself. The duty of a Hindoo + widow is to burn herself on the body of her husband. But that duty lasts + no longer than till she sees that, not being the will of God, it is not + her duty. A real duty, on the other hand, is a necessity of the human + nature, without seeing and doing which a man can never attain to the truth + and blessedness of his own being. It was the duty of the early hermits to + encourage the growth of vermin upon their bodies, for they supposed that + was pleasing to God; but they could not fare so well as if they had seen + the truth that the will of God was cleanliness. And there may be far more + serious things done by Christian people against the will of God, in the + fancy of doing their duty, than such a trifle as swarming with worms. In a + word, thinking a thing is your duty makes it your duty only till you know + better. And the prime duty of every man is to seek and find, that he may + do, the will of God.” + </p> + <p> + “But do you think, sir, that a man is likely to be doing what he ought + not, if he is doing what he don’t like?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so likely, I allow. But there may be ambition in it. A man must not + want to be better than the right. That is the delusion of the anchorite—a + delusion in which the man forgets the rights of others for the sake of his + own sanctity.” + </p> + <p> + “It might be for the sake of another person, and not for the person’s own + sake at all.” + </p> + <p> + “It might be; but except it were the will of God for that other person, it + would be doing him or her a real injury.” + </p> + <p> + We were coming gradually towards what I wanted to make the point in + question. I wished him to tell me all about it himself, however, for I + knew that while advice given on request is generally disregarded, to offer + advice unasked is worthy only of a fool. + </p> + <p> + “But how are you to know the will of God in every case?” asked Joe. + </p> + <p> + “By looking at the general laws of life, and obeying them—except + there be anything special in a particular case to bring it under a higher + law.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! but that be just what there is here.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear fellow, that may be; but the special conduct may not be + right for the special case for all that. The speciality of the case may + not be even sufficient to take it from under the ordinary rule. But it is + of no use talking generals. Let us come to particulars. If you can trust + me, tell me all about it, and we may be able to let some light in. I am + sure there is darkness somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “I will turn it over in my mind, sir; and if I can bring myself to talk + about it, I will. I would rather tell you than anyone else.” + </p> + <p> + I said no more. We watched a glorious sunset—there never was a + grander place for sunsets—and went home. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. A SMALL ADVENTURE. + </h2> + <p> + The next morning Harry came with the clothes. But Joe did not go to + church. Neither did Agnes make her appearance that morning. They were both + present at the evening service, however. + </p> + <p> + When we came out of church, it was cloudy and dark, and the wind was + blowing cold from the sea. The sky was covered with one cloud, but the + waves tossing themselves against the rocks, flashed whiteness out of the + general gloom. As the tide rose the wind increased. It was a night of + surly temper—hard and gloomy. Not a star cracked the blue above—there + was no blue; and the wind was <i>gurly</i>; I once heard that word in + Scotland, and never forgot it. + </p> + <p> + After one of our usual gatherings in Connie’s room, which were much + shorter here because of the evening service in summer, I withdrew till + supper should be ready. + </p> + <p> + Now I have always had, as I think I have incidentally stated before, a + certain peculiar pleasure in the surly aspects of nature. When I was a + young man this took form in opposition and defiance; since I had begun to + grow old the form had changed into a sense of safety. I welcomed such + aspects, partly at least, because they roused my faith to look through and + beyond the small region of human conditions in which alone the storm can + be and blow, and thus induced a feeling like that of the child who lies in + his warm crib and listens to the howling of one of these same storms + outside the strong-built house which yet trembles at its fiercer onsets: + the house is not in danger; or, if it be, that is his father’s business, + not his. Hence it came that, after supper, I put on my great-coat and + travelling-cap, and went out into the ill-tempered night—speaking of + it in its human symbolism. + </p> + <p> + I meant to have a stroll down to the breakwater, of which I have yet said + little, but which was a favourite resort, both of myself and my children. + At the further end of it, always covered at high water, was an outlying + cluster of low rocks, in the heart of which the lord of the manor, a + noble-hearted Christian gentleman of the old school, had constructed a + bath of graduated depth—an open-air swimming-pool—the only + really safe place for men who were swimmers to bathe in. Thither I was in + the habit of taking my two little men every morning, and bathing with + them, that I might develop the fish that was in them; for, as George + Herbert says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Man is everything, + And more: he is a tree, yet bears no fruit; + A beast, yet is, or should be, more;” + </pre> + <p> + and he might have gone on to say that he is, or should be, a fish as well. + </p> + <p> + It will seem strange to any reader who can recall the position of my + Connie’s room, that the nearest way to the breakwater should be through + that room; but so it was. I mention the fact because I want my readers to + understand a certain peculiarity of the room. By the side of the window + which looked out upon the breakwater was a narrow door, apparently of a + closet or cupboard, which communicated, however, with a narrow, curving, + wood-built passage, leading into a little wooden hut, the walls of which + were by no means impervious to the wind, for they were formed of + outside-planks, with the bark still upon them. From this hut one or two + little windows looked seaward, and a door led out on the bit of sward in + which lay the flower-bed under Connie’s window. From this spot again a + door in the low wall and thick hedge led out on the downs, where a path + wound along the cliffs that formed the side of the bay, till, descending + under the storm-tower, it brought you to the root of the breakwater. + </p> + <p> + This mole stretched its long strong low back to a rock a good way out, + breaking the force of the waves, and rendering the channel of a small + river, that here flowed into the sea across the sands from the mouth of + the canal, a refuge from the Atlantic. But it was a roadway often hard to + reach. In fair weather even, the wind falling as the vessel rounded the + point of the breakwater into the calm of the projecting headlands, the + under-current would sometimes dash her helpless on the rocks. During all + this heavenly summer there had been no thought or fear of any such + disaster. The present night was a hint of what weather would yet come. + </p> + <p> + When I went into Connie’s room, I found her lying in bed a very picture of + peace. But my entrance destroyed the picture. + </p> + <p> + “Papa,” she said, “why have you got your coat on? Surely you are not going + out to-night. The wind is blowing dreadfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very dreadfully, Connie. It blew much worse the night we found your + baby.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is very dark.” + </p> + <p> + “I allow that; but there is a glimmer from the sea. I am only going on the + breakwater for a few minutes. You know I like a stormy night quite as much + as a fine one.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be miserable till you come home, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Connie. You don’t think your father hasn’t sense to take care + of himself! Or rather, Connie, for I grant that is poor ground of comfort, + you don’t think I can go anywhere without my Father to take care of me?” + </p> + <p> + “But there is no occasion—is there, papa?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I should be better pleased with my boys if they shrunk from + everything involving the least possibility of danger because there was no + occasion for it? That is just the way to make cowards. And I am certain + God would not like his children to indulge in such moods of + self-preservation as that. He might well be ashamed of them. The fearful + are far more likely to meet with accidents than the courageous. But + really, Connie, I am almost ashamed of talking so. It is all your fault. + There is positively no ground for apprehension, and I hope you won’t spoil + my walk by the thought that my foolish little girl is frightened.” + </p> + <p> + “I will be good—indeed I will, papa,” she said, holding up her mouth + to kiss me. + </p> + <p> + I left her room, and went through the wooden passage into the bark hut. + The wind roared about it, shook it, and pawed it, and sung and whistled in + the chinks of the planks. I went out and shut the door. That moment the + wind seized upon me, and I had to fight with it. When I got on the path + leading along the edge of the downs, I felt something lighter than any + feather fly in my face. When I put up my hand, I found my cheek wet. Again + and again I was thus assailed, but when I got to the breakwater I found + what it was. They were flakes of foam, bubbles worked up into little + masses of adhering thousands, which the wind blew off the waters and + across the downs, carrying some of them miles inland. When I reached the + breakwater, and looked along its ridge through the darkness of the night, + I was bewildered to see a whiteness lying here and there in a great patch + upon its top. They were but accumulations of these foam-flakes, like + soap-suds, lying so thick that I expected to have to wade through them, + only they vanished at the touch of my feet. Till then I had almost + believed it was snow I saw. On the edge of the waves, in quieter spots, + they lay like yeast, foaming and working. Now and then a little rush of + water from a higher wave swept over the top of the broad breakwater, as + with head bowed sideways against the wind, I struggled along towards the + rock at its end; but I said to myself, “The tide is falling fast, and salt + water hurts nobody,” and struggled on over the huge rough stones of the + mighty heap, outside which the waves were white with wrath, inside which + they had fallen asleep, only heaving with the memory of their late unrest. + I reached the tall rock at length, climbed the rude stair leading up to + the flagstaff, and looked abroad, if looking it could be called, into the + thick dark. But the wind blew so strong on the top that I was glad to + descend. Between me and the basin where yesterday morning I had bathed in + still water and sunshine with my boys, rolled the deathly waves. I + wandered on the rough narrow space yet uncovered, stumbling over the + stones and the rocky points between which they lay, stood here and there + half-meditating, and at length, finding a sheltered nook in a mass of + rock, sat with the wind howling and the waves bursting around me. There I + fell into a sort of brown study—almost a half-sleep. + </p> + <p> + But I had not sat long before I came broad awake, for I heard voices, low + and earnest. One I recognised as Joe’s voice. The other was a woman’s. I + could not tell what they said for some time, and therefore felt no + immediate necessity for disclosing my proximity, but sat debating with + myself whether I should speak to them or not. At length, in a lull of the + wind, I heard the woman say—I could fancy with a sigh— + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure you’ll du what is right, Joe. Don’t ‘e think o’ me, Joe.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s just of you that I du think, Aggy. You know it ben’t for my sake. + Surely you know that?” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer for a moment. I was still doubting what I had best do—go + away quietly or let them know I was there—when she spoke again. + There was a momentary lull now in the noises of both wind and water, and I + heard what she said well enough. + </p> + <p> + “It ben’t for me to contradict you, Joe. But I don’t think you be going to + die. You be no worse than last year. Be you now, Joe?” + </p> + <p> + It flashed across me how once before, a stormy night and darkness had + brought me close to a soul in agony. Then I was in agony myself; now the + world was all fair and hopeful around me—the portals of the world + beyond ever opening wider as I approached them, and letting out more of + their glory to gladden the path to their threshold. But here were two + souls straying in a mist which faith might roll away, and leave them + walking in the light. The moment was come. I must speak. + </p> + <p> + “Joe!” I called out. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there?” he cried; and I heard him start to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Only Mr. Walton. Where are you?” + </p> + <p> + “We can’t be very far off,” he answered, not in a tone of any pleasure at + finding me so nigh. + </p> + <p> + I rose, and peering about through the darkness, found that they were a + little higher up on the same rock by which I was sheltered. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t think,” I said, “that I have been eavesdropping. I had no + idea anyone was near me till I heard your voices, and I did not hear a + word till just the last sentence or two.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw someone go up the Castle-rock,” said Joe; “but I thought he was + gone away again. It will be a lesson to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m no tell-tale, Joe,” I returned, as I scrambled up the rock. “You will + have no cause to regret that I happened to overhear a little. I am sure, + Joe, you will never say anything you need be ashamed of. But what I heard + was sufficient to let me into the secret of your trouble. Will you let me + talk to Joe, Agnes? I’ve been young myself, and, to tell the truth, I + don’t think I’m old yet.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure, sir,” she answered, “you won’t be hard on Joe and me. I don’t + suppose there be anything wrong in liking each other, though we can’t be—married.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke in a low tone, and her voice trembled very much; yet there was a + certain womanly composure in her utterance. “I’m sure it’s very bold of me + to talk so,” she added, “but Joe will tell you all about it.” + </p> + <p> + I was close beside them now, and fancied I saw through the dusk the motion + of her hand stealing into his. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Joe, this is just what I wanted,” I said. “A woman can be braver + than a big smith sometimes. Agnes has done her part. Now you do yours, and + tell me all about it.” + </p> + <p> + No response followed my adjuration. I must help him. + </p> + <p> + “I think I know how the matter lies, Joe. You think you are not going to + live long, and that therefore you ought not to marry. Am I right?” + </p> + <p> + “Not far off it, sir,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Joe,” I said, “can’t we talk as friends about this matter? I have no + right to intrude into your affairs—none in the least—except + what friendship gives me. If you say I am not to talk about it, I shall be + silent. To force advice upon you would be as impertinent as useless.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s all the same, I’m afraid, sir. My mind has been made up for a long + time. What right have I to bring other people into trouble? But I take it + kind of you, sir, though I mayn’t look over-pleased. Agnes wants to hear + your way of it. I’m agreeable.” + </p> + <p> + This was not very encouraging. Still I thought it sufficient ground for + proceeding. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you will allow that the root of all Christian behaviour is the + will of God?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it not the will of God, then, that when a man and woman love each + other, they should marry?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, sir—where there be no reasons against it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. And you judge you see reason for not doing so, else you + would?” + </p> + <p> + “I do see that a man should not bring a woman into trouble for the sake of + being comfortable himself for the rest of a few weary days.” + </p> + <p> + Agnes was sobbing gently behind her handkerchief. I knew how gladly she + would be Joe’s wife, if only to nurse him through his last illness. + </p> + <p> + “Not except it would make her comfortable too, I grant you, Joe. But + listen to me. In the first place, you don’t know, and you are not required + to know, when you are going to die. In fact, you have nothing to do with + it. Many a life has been injured by the constant expectation of death. It + is life we have to do with, not death. The best preparation for the night + is to work while the day lasts, diligently. The best preparation for death + is life. Besides, I have known delicate people who have outlived all their + strong relations, and been left alone in the earth—because they had + possibly taken too much care of themselves. But marriage is God’s will, + and death is God’s will, and you have no business to set the one over + against, as antagonistic to, the other. For anything you know, the + gladness and the peace of marriage may be the very means intended for your + restoration to health and strength. I suspect your desire to marry, + fighting against the fancy that you ought not to marry, has a good deal to + do with the state of health in which you now find yourself. A man would + get over many things if he were happy, that he cannot get over when he is + miserable.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s for Aggy. You forget that.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not forget it. What right have you to seek for her another kind of + welfare than you would have yourself? Are you to treat her as if she were + worldly when you are not—to provide for her a comfort which yourself + you would despise? Why should you not marry because you have to die soon?—if + you <i>are</i> thus doomed, which to me is by no means clear. Why not have + what happiness you may for the rest of your sojourn? If you find at the + end of twenty years that here you are after all, you will be rather sorry + you did not do as I say.” + </p> + <p> + “And if I find myself dying at the end of six months’?” + </p> + <p> + “You will thank God for those six months. The whole thing, my dear fellow, + is a want of faith in God. I do not doubt you think you are doing right, + but, I repeat, the whole thing comes from want of faith in God. You will + take things into your own hands, and order them after a preventive and + self-protective fashion, lest God should have ordained the worst for you, + which worst, after all, would be best met by doing his will without + inquiry into the future; and which worst is no evil. Death is no more an + evil than marriage is.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t see it as I do,” persisted the blacksmith. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I don’t. I think you see it as it is not.” + </p> + <p> + He remained silent for a little. A shower of spray fell upon us. He + started. + </p> + <p> + “What a wave!” he cried. “That spray came over the top of the rock. We + shall have to run for it.” + </p> + <p> + I fancied that he only wanted to avoid further conversation. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no hurry,” I said. “It was high water an hour and a half ago.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know this coast, sir,” returned he, “or you wouldn’t talk like + that.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke he rose, and going from under the shelter of the rock, looked + along. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, Aggy!” he cried in terror, “come at once. Every other + wave be rushing across the breakwater as if it was on the level.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, he hurried back, caught her by the hand, and began to draw her + along. + </p> + <p> + “Hadn’t we better stay where we are?” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + “If you can stand the night in the cold. But Aggy here is delicate; and I + don’t care about being out all night. It’s not the tide, sir; it’s a + ground swell—from a storm somewhere out at sea. That never asks no + questions about tide or no tide.” + </p> + <p> + “Come along, then,” I said. “But just wait one minute more. It is better + to be ready for the worst.” + </p> + <p> + For I remembered that the day before I had seen a crowbar lying among the + stones, and I thought it might be useful. In a moment or two I had found + it, and returning, gave it to Joe. Then I took the girl’s disengaged hand. + She thanked me in a voice perfectly calm and firm. Joe took the bar in + haste, and drew Agnes towards the breakwater. + </p> + <p> + Any real thought of danger had not yet crossed my mind. But when I looked + along the outstretched back of the mole, and saw a dim sheet of white + sweep across it, I felt that there was ground for his anxiety, and + prepared myself for a struggle. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what to do with the crowbar, Joe?” I said, grasping my own + stout oak-stick more firmly. + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” answered Joe. “To stick between the stones and hold on. We + must watch our time between the waves.” + </p> + <p> + “You take the command, then, Joe,” I returned. “You see better than I do, + and you know the ways of that raging wild beast there better than I do. I + will obey orders—one of which, no doubt, will be, not for wind or + sea to lose hold of Agnes—eh, Joe?” + </p> + <p> + Joe gave a grim enough laugh in reply, and we started, he carrying his + crowbar in his right hand towards the advancing sea, and I my oak-stick in + my left towards the still water within. + </p> + <p> + “Quick march!” said Joe, and away we went out on the breakwater. + </p> + <p> + Now the back of the breakwater was very rugged, for it was formed of huge + stones, with wide gaps between, where the waters had washed out the + cement, and worn their edges. But what impeded our progress secured our + safety. + </p> + <p> + “Halt!” cried Joe, when we were yet but a few yards beyond the shelter of + the rocks. “There’s a topper coming.” + </p> + <p> + We halted at the word of command, as a huge wave, with combing crest, + rushed against the far out-sloping base of the mole, and flung its heavy + top right over the middle of the mass, a score or two of yards in front of + us. + </p> + <p> + “Now for it!” cried Joe. “Run!” + </p> + <p> + We did run. In my mind there was just sense enough of danger to add to the + pleasure of the excitement. I did not know how much danger there was. Over + the rough worn stones we sped stumbling. + </p> + <p> + “Halt!” cried the smith once more, and we did halt; but this time, as it + turned out, in the middle front of the coming danger. + </p> + <p> + “God be with us!” I exclaimed, when the huge billow showed itself through + the night, rushing towards the mole. The smith stuck his crowbar between + two great stones. To this he held on with one hand, and threw the other + arm round Agnes’s waist. I, too, had got my oak firmly fixed, held on with + one hand, and threw the other arm round Agnes. It took but a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Now then!” cried Joe. “Here she comes! Hold on, sir. Hold on, Aggy!” + </p> + <p> + But when I saw the height of the water, as it rushed on us up the sloping + side of the mound, I cried out in my turn, “Down, Joe! Down on your face, + and let it over us easy! Down Agnes!” + </p> + <p> + They obeyed. We threw ourselves across the breakwater, with our heads to + the coming foe, and I grasped my stick close to the stones with all the + power of a hand that was then strong. Over us burst the mighty wave, + floating us up from the stones where we lay. But we held on, the wave + passed, and we sprung gasping to our feet. + </p> + <p> + “Now, now!” cried Joe and I together, and, heavy as we were, with the + water pouring from us, we flew across the remainder of the heap, and + arrived, panting and safe, at the other end, ere one wave more had swept + the surface. The moment we were in safety we turned and looked back over + the danger we had traversed. It was to see a huge billow sweep the + breakwater from end to end. We looked at each other for a moment without + speaking. + </p> + <p> + “I believe, sir,” said Joe at length, with slow and solemn speech, “if you + hadn’t taken the command at that moment we should all have been lost.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems likely enough, when I look back on it. For one thing, I was not + sure that my stick would stand, so I thought I had better grasp it low + down.” + </p> + <p> + “We were awfully near death,” said Joe. + </p> + <p> + “Nearer than you thought, Joe; and yet we escaped it. Things don’t go all + as we fancy, you see. Faith is as essential to manhood as foresight—believe + me, Joe. It is very absurd to trust God for the future, and not trust him + for the present. The man who is not anxious is the man most likely to do + the right thing. He is cool and collected and ready. Our Lord therefore + told his disciples that when they should be brought before kings and + rulers, they were to take no thought what answer they should make, for it + would be given them when the time came.” + </p> + <p> + We were climbing the steep path up to the downs. Neither of my companions + spoke. + </p> + <p> + “You have escaped one death together,” I said at length: “dare another.” + </p> + <p> + Still neither of them returned an answer. When we came near the parsonage, + I said, “Now, Joe, you must go in and get to bed at once. I will take + Agnes home. You can trust me not to say anything against you?” + </p> + <p> + Joe laughed rather hoarsely, and replied: “As you please, sir. Good night, + Aggie. Mind you get to bed as fast as you can.” + </p> + <p> + When I returned from giving Agnes over to her parents, I made haste to + change my clothes, and put on my warm dressing-gown. I may as well mention + at once, that not one of us was the worse for our ducking. I then went up + to Connie’s room. + </p> + <p> + “Here I am, you see, Connie, quite safe.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been lying listening to every blast of wind since you went out, + papa. But all I could do was to trust in God.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you call that <i>all</i>, Connie? Believe me, there is more power in + that than any human being knows the tenth part of yet. It is indeed <i>all</i>.” + </p> + <p> + I said no more then. I told my wife about it that night, but we were well + into another month before I told Connie. + </p> + <p> + When I left her, I went to Joe’s room to see how he was, and found him + having some gruel. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Well, Joe, this is better than under water. I hope you won’t be the worse + for it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t much care what comes of me, sir. It will be all over soon.” + </p> + <p> + “But you ought to care what comes of you, Joe. I will tell you why. You + are an instrument out of which ought to come praise to God, and, + therefore, you ought to care for the instrument.” + </p> + <p> + “That way, yes, sir, I ought.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have no business to be like some children who say, ‘Mamma won’t + give me so and so,’ instead of asking her to give it them.” + </p> + <p> + “I see what you mean, sir. But really you put me out before the young + woman. I couldn’t say before her what I meant. Suppose, you know, sir, + there was to come a family. It might be, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. What else would you have?” + </p> + <p> + “But if I was to die, where would she be then?” + </p> + <p> + “In God’s hands; just as she is now.” + </p> + <p> + “But I ought to take care that she is not left with a burden like that to + provide for.” + </p> + <p> + “O, Joe! how little you know a woman’s heart! It would just be the + greatest comfort she could have for losing you—that’s all. Many a + woman has married a man she did not care enough for, just that she might + have a child of her own to let out her heart upon. I don’t say that is + right, you know. Such love cannot be perfect. A woman ought to love her + child because it is her husband’s more than because it is her own, and + because it is God’s more than either’s. I saw in the papers the other day, + that a woman was brought before the Recorder of London for stealing a + baby, when the judge himself said that there was no imaginable motive for + her action but a motherly passion to possess the child. It is the need of + a child that makes so many women take to poor miserable, broken-nosed + lap-dogs; for they are self-indulgent, and cannot face the troubles and + dangers of adopting a child. They would if they might get one of a good + family, or from a respectable home; but they dare not take an orphan out + of the dirt, lest it should spoil their silken chairs. But that has + nothing to do with our argument. What I mean is this, that if Agnes really + loves you, as no one can look in her face and doubt, she will be far + happier if you leave her a child—yes, she will be happier if you + only leave her your name for hers—than if you died without calling + her your wife.” + </p> + <p> + I took Joe’s basin from him, and he lay down. He turned his face to the + wall. I waited a moment, but finding him silent, bade him good-night, and + left the room. + </p> + <p> + A month after, I married them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. THE HARVEST. + </h2> + <p> + It was some time before we got the bells to work to our mind, but at last + we succeeded. The worst of it was to get the cranks, which at first + required strong pressure on the keys, to work easily enough. But neither + Joe nor his cousin spared any pains to perfect the attempt, and, as I say, + at length we succeeded. I took Wynnie down to the instrument and made her + try whether she could not do something, and she succeeded in making the + old tower discourse loudly and eloquently. + </p> + <p> + By this time the thanksgiving for the harvest was at hand: on the morning + of that first of all would I summon the folk to their prayers with the + sound of the full peal. And I wrote a little hymn of praise to the God of + the harvest, modelling it to one of the oldest tunes in that part of the + country, and I had it printed on slips of paper and laid plentifully on + the benches. What with the calling of the bells, like voices in the + highway, and the solemn meditation of the organ within to bear aloft the + thoughts of those who heard, and came to the prayer and thanksgiving in + common, and the message which God had given me to utter to them, I hoped + that we should indeed keep holiday. + </p> + <p> + Wynnie summoned the parish with the hundredth psalm pealed from aloft, + dropping from the airy regions of the tower on village and hamlet and + cottage, calling aloud—for who could dissociate the words from the + music, though the words are in the Scotch psalms?—written none the + less by an Englishman, however English wits may amuse themselves with + laughing at their quaintness—calling aloud, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All people that on earth do dwell + Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice; + Him serve with mirth, his praise forth tell— + Come ye before him and rejoice.” + </pre> + <p> + Then we sang the psalm before the communion service, making bold in the + name of the Lord to serve him with <i>mirth</i> as in the old version, and + not with the <i>fear</i> with which some editor, weak in faith, has + presumed to alter the line. Then before the sermon we sang the hymn I had + prepared—a proceeding justifiable by many an example in the history + of the church while she was not only able to number singers amongst her + clergy, but those singers were capable of influencing the whole heart and + judgment of the nation with their songs. Ethelwyn played the organ. The + song I had prepared was this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We praise the Life of All; + From buried seeds so small + Who makes the ordered ranks of autumn stand; + Who stores the corn + In rick and barn + To feed the winter of the land. + + We praise the Life of Light! + Who from the brooding night + Draws out the morning holy, calm, and grand; + Veils up the moon, + Sends out the sun, + To glad the face of all the land. + + We praise the Life of Work, + Who from sleep’s lonely dark + Leads forth his children to arise and stand, + Then go their way, + The live-long day, + To trust and labour in the land. + + We praise the Life of Good, + Who breaks sin’s lazy mood, + Toilsomely ploughing up the fruitless sand. + The furrowed waste + They leave, and haste + Home, home, to till their Father’s land. + + We praise the Life of Life, + Who in this soil of strife + Casts us at birth, like seed from sower’s hand; + To die and so + Like corn to grow + A golden harvest in his land.” + </pre> + <p> + After we had sung this hymn, the meaning of which is far better than the + versification, I preached from the words of St. Paul, “If by any means I + might attain unto the resurrection of the dead. Not as though I had + already attained, either were already perfect.” And this is something like + what I said to them: + </p> + <p> + “The world, my friends, is full of resurrections, and it is not always of + the same resurrection that St. Paul speaks. Every night that folds us up + in darkness is a death; and those of you that have been out early and have + seen the first of the dawn, will know it—the day rises out of the + night like a being that has burst its tomb and escaped into life. That you + may feel that the sunrise is a resurrection—the word resurrection + just means a rising again—I will read you a little description of it + from a sermon by a great writer and great preacher called Jeremy Taylor. + Listen. ‘But as when the sun approaching towards the gates of the morning, + he first opens a little eye of heaven and sends away the spirits of + darkness, and gives light to a cock, and calls up the lark to matins, and + by and by gilds the fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, + thrusting out his golden horns like those which decked the brows of Moses, + when he was forced to wear a veil, because himself had seen the face of + God; and still, while a man tells the story, the sun gets up higher, till + he shows a fair face and a full light, and then he shines one whole day, + under a cloud often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and + sets quickly; so is a man’s reason and his life.’ Is not this a + resurrection of the day out of the night? Or hear how Milton makes his + Adam and Eve praise God in the morning,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Ye mists and exhalations that now rise + From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, + Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, + In honour to the world’s great Author rise, + Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky, + Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, + Rising or falling still advance his praise.’ +</pre> + <p> + But it is yet more of a resurrection to you. Think of your own condition + through the night and in the morning. You die, as it were, every night. + The death of darkness comes down over the earth; but a deeper death, the + death of sleep, descends on you. A power overshadows you; your eyelids + close, you cannot keep them open if you would; your limbs lie moveless; + the day is gone; your whole life is gone; you have forgotten everything; + an evil man might come and do with your goods as he pleased; you are + helpless. But the God of the Resurrection is awake all the time, watching + his sleeping men and women, even as a mother who watches her sleeping + baby, only with larger eyes and more full of love than hers; and so, you + know not how, all at once you know that you are what you are; that there + is a world that wants you outside of you, and a God that wants you inside + of you; you rise from the death of sleep, not by your own power, for you + knew nothing about it; God put his hand over your eyes, and you were dead; + he lifted his hand and breathed light on you and you rose from the dead, + thanked the God who raised you up, and went forth to do your work. From + darkness to light; from blindness to seeing; from knowing nothing to + looking abroad on the mighty world; from helpless submission to willing + obedience,—is not this a resurrection indeed? That St. Paul saw it + to be such may be shown from his using the two things with the same + meaning when he says, ‘Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, + and Christ shall give thee light.’ No doubt he meant a great deal more. No + man who understands what he is speaking about can well mean only one thing + at a time. + </p> + <p> + “But to return to the resurrections we see around us in nature. Look at + the death that falls upon the world in winter. And look how it revives + when the sun draws near enough in the spring to wile the life in it once + more out of its grave. See how the pale, meek snowdrops come up with their + bowed heads, as if full of the memory of the fierce winds they encountered + last spring, and yet ready in the strength of their weakness to encounter + them again. Up comes the crocus, bringing its gold safe from the dark of + its colourless grave into the light of its parent gold. Primroses, and + anemones, and blue-bells, and a thousand other children of the spring, + hear the resurrection-trumpet of the wind from the west and south, obey, + and leave their graves behind to breathe the air of the sweet heavens. Up + and up they come till the year is glorious with the rose and the lily, + till the trees are not only clothed upon with new garments of loveliest + green, but the fruit-tree bringeth forth its fruit, and the little + children of men are made glad with apples, and cherries, and hazel-nuts. + The earth laughs out in green and gold. The sky shares in the grand + resurrection. The garments of its mourning, wherewith it made men sad, its + clouds of snow and hail and stormy vapours, are swept away, have sunk + indeed to the earth, and are now humbly feeding the roots of the flowers + whose dead stalks they beat upon all the winter long. Instead, the sky has + put on the garments of praise. Her blue, coloured after the sapphire-floor + on which stands the throne of him who is the Resurrection and the Life, is + dashed and glorified with the pure white of sailing clouds, and at morning + and evening prayer, puts on colours in which the human heart drowns itself + with delight—green and gold and purple and rose. Even the icebergs + floating about in the lonely summer seas of the north are flashing all the + glories of the rainbow. But, indeed, is not this whole world itself a + monument of the Resurrection? The earth was without form and void. The + wind of God moved on the face of the waters, and up arose this fair world. + Darkness was on the face of the deep: God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and + there was light. + </p> + <p> + “In the animal world as well, you behold the goings of the Resurrection. + Plainest of all, look at the story of the butterfly—so plain that + the pagan Greeks called it and the soul by one name—Psyche. Psyche + meant with them a butterfly or the soul, either. Look how the creeping + thing, ugly to our eyes, so that we can hardly handle it without a + shudder, finding itself growing sick with age, straightway falls a + spinning and weaving at its own shroud, coffin, and grave, all in one—to + prepare, in fact, for its resurrection; for it is for the sake of the + resurrection that death exists. Patiently it spins its strength, but not + its life, away, folds itself up decently, that its body may rest in quiet + till the new body is formed within it; and at length when the appointed + hour has arrived, out of the body of this crawling thing breaks forth the + winged splendour of the butterfly—not the same body—a new one + built out of the ruins of the old—even as St. Paul tells us that it + is not the same body <i>we</i> have in the resurrection, but a nobler body + like ourselves, with all the imperfect and evil thing taken away. No more + creeping for the butterfly; wings of splendour now. Neither yet has it + lost the feet wherewith to alight on all that is lovely and sweet. Think + of it—up from the toilsome journey over the low ground, exposed to + the foot of every passer-by, destroying the lovely leaves upon which it + fed, and the fruit which they should shelter, up to the path at will + through the air, and a gathering of food which hurts not the source of it, + a food which is but as a tribute from the loveliness of the flowers to the + yet higher loveliness of the flower-angel: is not this a resurrection? Its + children too shall pass through the same process, to wing the air of a + summer noon, and rejoice in the ethereal and the pure. + </p> + <p> + “To return yet again from the human thoughts suggested by the symbol of + the butterfly”— + </p> + <p> + Here let me pause for a moment—and there was a corresponding pause, + though but momentary, in the sermon as I spoke it—to mention a + curious, and to me at the moment an interesting fact. At this point of my + address, I caught sight of a white butterfly, a belated one, flitting + about the church. Absorbed for a moment, my eye wandered after it. It was + near the bench where my own people sat, and, for one flash of thought, I + longed that the butterfly would alight on my Wynnie, for I was more + anxious about her resurrection at the time than about anything else. But + the butterfly would not. And then I told myself that God would, and that + the butterfly was only the symbol of a grand truth, and of no private + interpretation, to make which of it was both selfishness and superstition. + But all this passed in a flash, and I resumed my discourse. + </p> + <p> + —“I come now naturally to speak of what we commonly call the + Resurrection. Some say: ‘How can the same dust be raised again, when it + may be scattered to the winds of heaven?’ It is a question I hardly care + to answer. The mere difficulty can in reason stand for nothing with God; + but the apparent worthlessness of the supposition renders the question + uninteresting to me. What is of import is, that I should stand clothed + upon, with a body which is <i>my</i> body because it serves my ends, + justifies my consciousness of identity by being, in all that was good in + it, like that which I had before, while now it is tenfold capable of + expressing the thoughts and feelings that move within me. How can I care + whether the atoms that form a certain inch of bone should be the same as + those which formed that bone when I died? All my life-time I never felt or + thought of the existence of such a bone! On the other hand, I object to + having the same worn muscles, the same shrivelled skin with which I may + happen to die. Why give me the same body as that? Why not rather my + youthful body, which was strong, and facile, and capable? The matter in + the muscle of my arm at death would not serve to make half the muscle I + had when young. But I thank God that St. Paul says it will <i>not</i> be + the same body. That body dies—up springs another body. I suspect + myself that those are right who say that this body being the seed, the + moment it dies in the soil of this world, that moment is the resurrection + of the new body. The life in it rises out of it in a new body. This is not + after it is put in the mere earth; for it is dead then, and the germ of + life gone out of it. If a seed rots, no new body comes of it. The seed + dies into a new life, and so does man. Dying and rotting are two very + different things.—But I am not sure by any means. As I say, the + whole question is rather uninteresting to me. What do I care about my old + clothes after I have done with them? What is it to me to know what becomes + of an old coat or an old pulpit gown? I have no such clinging to the + flesh. It seems to me that people believe their bodies to be themselves, + and are therefore very anxious about them—and no wonder then. Enough + for me that I shall have eyes to see my friends, a face that they shall + know me by, and a mouth to praise God withal. I leave the matter with one + remark, that I am well content to rise as Jesus rose, however that was. + For me the will of God is so good that I would rather have his will done + than my own choice given me. + </p> + <p> + “But I now come to the last, because infinitely the most important part of + my subject—the resurrection for the sake of which all the other + resurrections exist—the resurrection unto Life. This is the one of + which St. Paul speaks in my text. This is the one I am most anxious—indeed, + the only one I am anxious to set forth, and impress upon you. + </p> + <p> + “Think, then, of all the deaths you know; the death of the night, when the + sun is gone, when friend says not a word to friend, but both lie drowned + and parted in the sea of sleep; the death of the year, when winter lies + heavy on the graves of the children of summer, when the leafless trees + moan in the blasts from the ocean, when the beasts even look dull and + oppressed, when the children go about shivering with cold, when the poor + and improvident are miserable with suffering or think of such a death of + disease as befalls us at times, when the man who says, ‘Would God it were + morning!’ changes but his word, and not his tune, when the morning comes, + crying, ‘Would God it were evening!’ when what life is left is known to us + only by suffering, and hope is amongst the things that were once and are + no more—think of all these, think of them all together, and you will + have but the dimmest, faintest picture of the death from which the + resurrection of which I have now to speak, is the rising. I shrink from + the attempt, knowing how weak words are to set forth <i>the</i> death, set + forth <i>the</i> resurrection. Were I to sit down to yonder organ, and + crash out the most horrible dissonances that ever took shape in sound, I + should give you but a weak figure of this death; were I capable of drawing + from many a row of pipes an exhalation of dulcet symphonies and voices + sweet, such as Milton himself could have invaded our ears withal, I could + give you but a faint figure of this resurrection. Nevertheless, I must try + what I can do in my own way. + </p> + <p> + “If into the face of the dead body, lying on the bed, waiting for its + burial, the soul of the man should begin to dawn again, drawing near from + afar to look out once more at those eyes, to smile once again through + those lips, the change on that face would be indeed great and wondrous, + but nothing for marvel or greatness to that which passes on the + countenance, the very outward bodily face of the man who wakes from his + sleep, arises from the dead and receives light from Christ. Too often + indeed, the reposeful look on the face of the dead body would be troubled, + would vanish away at the revisiting of the restless ghost; but when a + man’s own right true mind, which God made in him, is restored to him + again, and he wakes from the death of sin, then comes the repose without + the death. It may take long for the new spirit to complete the visible + change, but it begins at once, and will be perfected. The bloated look of + self-indulgence passes away like the leprosy of Naaman, the cheek grows + pure, the lips return to the smile of hope instead of the grin of greed, + and the eyes that made innocence shrink and shudder with their yellow leer + grow childlike and sweet and faithful. The mammon-eyes, hitherto fixed on + the earth, are lifted to meet their kind; the lips that mumbled over + figures and sums of gold learn to say words of grace and tenderness. The + truculent, repellent, self-satisfied face begins to look thoughtful and + doubtful, as if searching for some treasure of whose whereabouts it had no + certain sign. The face anxious, wrinkled, peering, troubled, on whose + lines you read the dread of hunger, poverty, and nakedness, thaws into a + smile; the eyes reflect in courage the light of the Father’s care, the + back grows erect under its burden with the assurance that the hairs of its + head are all numbered. But the face can with all its changes set but dimly + forth the rising from the dead which passes within. The heart, which cared + but for itself, becomes aware of surrounding thousands like itself, in the + love and care of which it feels a dawning blessedness undreamt of before. + From selfishness to love—is not this a rising from the dead? The man + whose ambition declares that his way in the world would be to subject + everything to his desires, to bring every human care, affection, power, + and aspiration to his feet—such a world it would be, and such a king + it would have, if individual ambition might work its will! if a man’s + opinion of himself could be made out in the world, degrading, compelling, + oppressing, doing everything for his own glory!—and such a glory!—but + a pang of light strikes this man to the heart; an arrow of truth, + feathered with suffering and loss and dismay, finds out—the open + joint in his armour, I was going to say—no, finds out the joint in + the coffin where his heart lies festering in a death so dead that itself + calls it life. He trembles, he awakes, he rises from the dead. No more he + seeks the slavery of all: where can he find whom to serve? how can he + become if but a threshold in the temple of Christ, where all serve all, + and no man thinks first of himself? He to whom the mass of his fellows, as + he massed them, was common and unclean, bows before every human sign of + the presence of the making God. The sun, which was to him but a candle + with which to search after his own ends, wealth, power, place, praise—the + world, which was but the cavern where he thus searched—are now full + of the mystery of loveliness, full of the truth of which sun and wind and + land and sea are symbols and signs. From a withered old age of unbelief, + the dim eyes of which refuse the glory of things a passage to the heart, + he is raised up a child full of admiration, wonder, and gladness. + Everything is glorious to him; he can believe, and therefore he sees. It + is from the grave into the sunshine, from the night into the morning, from + death into life. To come out of the ugly into the beautiful; out of the + mean and selfish into the noble and loving; out of the paltry into the + great; out of the false into the true; out of the filthy into the clean; + out of the commonplace into the glorious; out of the corruption of disease + into the fine vigour and gracious movements of health; in a word, out of + evil into good—is not this a resurrection indeed—<i>the</i> + resurrection of all, the resurrection of Life? God grant that with St. + Paul we may attain to this resurrection of the dead. + </p> + <p> + “This rising from the dead is often a long and a painful process. Even + after he had preached the gospel to the Gentiles, and suffered much for + the sake of his Master, Paul sees the resurrection of the dead towering + grandly before him, not yet climbed, not yet attained unto—a + mountainous splendour and marvel, still shining aloft in the air of + existence, still, thank God, to be attained, but ever growing in height + and beauty as, forgetting those things that are behind, he presses towards + the mark, if by any means he may attain to the resurrection of the dead. + Every blessed moment in which a man bethinks himself that he has been + forgetting his high calling, and sends up to the Father a prayer for aid; + every time a man resolves that what he has been doing he will do no more; + every time that the love of God, or the feeling of the truth, rouses a man + to look first up at the light, then down at the skirts of his own garments—that + moment a divine resurrection is wrought in the earth. Yea, every time that + a man passes from resentment to forgiveness, from cruelty to compassion, + from hardness to tenderness, from indifference to carefulness, from + selfishness to honesty, from honesty to generosity, from generosity to + love,—a resurrection, the bursting of a fresh bud of life out of the + grave of evil, gladdens the eye of the Father watching his children. + Awake, then, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ will + give thee light. As the harvest rises from the wintry earth, so rise thou + up from the trials of this world a full ear in the harvest of Him who + sowed thee in the soil that thou mightest rise above it. As the summer + rises from the winter, so rise thou from the cares of eating and drinking + and clothing into the fearless sunshine of confidence in the Father. As + the morning rises out of the night, so rise thou from the darkness of + ignorance to do the will of God in the daylight; and as a man feels that + he is himself when he wakes from the troubled and grotesque visions of the + night into the glory of the sunrise, even so wilt thou feel that then + first thou knowest what thy life, the gladness of thy being, is. As from + painful tossing in disease, rise into the health of well-being. As from + the awful embrace of thy own dead body, burst forth in thy spiritual body. + Arise thou, responsive to the indwelling will of the Father, even as thy + body will respond to thy indwelling soul. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘White wings are crossing; + Glad waves are tossing; + The earth flames out in crimson and green: + + Spring is appearing, + Summer is nearing— + Where hast thou been? + + Down in some cavern, + Death’s sleepy tavern, + Housing, carousing with spectres of night? + The trumpet is pealing + Sunshine and healing— + Spring to the light.’” + </pre> + <p> + With this quotation from a friend’s poem, I closed my sermon, oppressed + with a sense of failure; for ever the marvel of simple awaking, the mere + type of the resurrection eluded all my efforts to fix it in words. I had + to comfort myself with the thought that God is so strong that he can work + even with our failures. + </p> + <h3> + END OF VOL. II. + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + VOLUME III. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE. + </h2> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER. + </h2> + <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> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His ancient dreamless, uninvaded sleep,” + </pre> + <p> + while + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “faintest sunlights flee + About his shadowy sides,” + </pre> + <p> + as he lies + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep.” + </pre> + <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> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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.” + </pre> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. A PASTORAL VISIT. + </h2> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. THE ART OF NATURE. + </h2> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. THE SORE SPOT. + </h2> + <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 he 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? 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> + 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> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE GATHERING STORM. + </h2> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. THE GATHERED STORM. + </h2> + <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> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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.” + </pre> + <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> + “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 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.’” + </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> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THE SHIPWRECK. + </h2> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. THE FUNERAL. + </h2> + <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> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “frail thoughts dally with false surmise.” + </pre> + <p> + With him, too, she might well add— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away.” + </pre> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE SERMON. + </h2> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. CHANGED PLANS. + </h2> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. THE STUDIO. + </h2> + <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> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. HOME AGAIN. + </h2> + <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> + “Now faith is the essence of hopes, the trying of things unseen.” + </p> + <p> + Good-bye. + </p> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Seaboard Parish, Complete, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 8562-h.htm or 8562-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/6/8562/ + + +Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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