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diff --git a/8562.txt b/8562.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d46e248 --- /dev/null +++ b/8562.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17750 @@ +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: April 18, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH, COMPLETE *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + +THE SEABOARD PARISH + +By George MacDonald, LL.D. + + + + +VOLUME I. + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. I. + + + I. HOMILETIC + II. CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY + III. THE SICK CHAMBER + IV. A SUNDAY EVENING + V. MY DREAM + VI. THE KEW BABY + VII. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING +VIII. THEODORA'S DOOM IX. A SPRING CHAPTER + X. AN IMPORTANT LETTER + XI. CONNIE'S DREAM + XII. THE JOURNEY +XIII. WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED XIV. MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN + XV. THE OLD CHURCH + XVI. CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER +XVII. MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +HOMILETIC. + + +Dear Friends,--I am beginning a new book like an old sermon; but, as you +know, I have been so accustomed to preach all my life, that whatever I +say or write will more or less take the shape of a sermon; and if you +had not by this time learned at least to bear with my oddities, you +would not have wanted any more of my teaching. And, indeed, I did not +think you would want any more. I thought I had bidden you farewell. But +I am seated once again at my writing-table, to write for you--with a +strange feeling, however, that I am in the heart of some curious, rather +awful acoustic contrivance, by means of which the words which I have a +habit of whispering over to myself as I write them, are heard aloud by +multitudes of people whom I cannot see or hear. I will favour the fancy, +that, by a sense of your presence, I may speak the more truly, as man to +man. + +But let me, for a moment, suppose that I am your grandfather, and that +you have all come to beg for a story; and that, therefore, as usually +happens in such cases, I am sitting with a puzzled face, indicating a +more puzzled mind. I know that there are a great many stories in the +holes and corners of my brain; indeed, here is one, there is one, +peeping out at me like a rabbit; but alas, like a rabbit, showing me +almost at the same instant the tail-end of it, and vanishing with a +contemptuous _thud_ of its hind feet on the ground. For I must have +suitable regard to the desires of my children. It is a fine thing to +be able to give people what they want, if at the same time you can give +them what you want. To give people what they want, would sometimes be to +give them only dirt and poison. To give them what you want, might be to +set before them something of which they could not eat a mouthful. What +both you and I want, I am willing to think, is a dish of good wholesome +venison. Now I suppose my children around me are neither young enough +nor old enough to care about a fairy tale, go that will not do. What +they want is, I believe, something that I know about--that has happened +to myself. Well, I confess, that is the kind of thing I like best to +hear anybody talk to me about. Let anyone tell me something that has +happened to himself, especially if he will give me a peep into how his +heart took it, as it sat in its own little room with the closed door, +and that person will, so telling, absorb my attention: he has something +true and genuine and valuable to communicate. They are mostly old people +that can do so. Not that young people have nothing happen to them; but +that only when they grow old, are they able to see things right, to +disentangle confusions, and judge righteous judgment. Things which at +the time appeared insignificant or wearisome, then give out the light +that was in them, show their own truth, interest, and influence: they +are far enough off to be seen. It is not when we are nearest to anything +that we know best what it is. How I should like to write a story for old +people! The young are always having stories written for them. Why should +not the old people come in for a share? A story without a young person +in it at all! Nobody under fifty admitted! It could hardly be a fairy +tale, could it? Or a love story either? I am not so sure about that. The +worst of it would be, however, that hardly a young person would read it. +Now, we old people would not like that. We can read young people's +books and enjoy them: they would not try to read old men's books or old +women's books; they would be so sure of their being dry. My dear old +brothers and sisters, we know better, do we not? We have nice old +jokes, with no end of fun in them; only they cannot see the fun. We have +strange tales, that we know to be true, and which look more and more +marvellous every time we turn them over again; only somehow they do not +belong to the ways of this year--I was going to say _week_,--and so +the young people generally do not care to hear them. I have had one +pale-faced boy, to be sure, who will sit at his mother's feet, and +listen for hours to what took place before he was born. To him his +mother's wedding-gown was as old as Eve's coat of skins. But then he was +young enough not yet to have had a chance of losing the childhood common +to the young and the old. Ah! I should like to write for you, old men, +old women, to help you to read the past, to help you to look for the +future. Now is your salvation nearer than when you believed; for, +however your souls may be at peace, however your quietness and +confidence may give you strength, in the decay of your earthly +tabernacle, in the shortening of its cords, in the weakening of its +stakes, in the rents through which you see the stars, you have yet your +share in the cry of the creation after the sonship. But the one thing I +should keep saying to you, my companions in old age, would be, "Friends, +let us not grow old." Old age is but a mask; let us not call the mask +the face. Is the acorn old, because its cup dries and drops it from its +hold--because its skin has grown brown and cracks in the earth? Then +only is a man growing old when he ceases to have sympathy with the +young. That is a sign that his heart has begun to wither. And that is a +dreadful kind of old age. The heart needs never be old. Indeed it should +always be growing younger. Some of us feel younger, do we not, than when +we were nine or ten? It is not necessary to be able to play at leapfrog +to enjoy the game. There are young creatures whose turn it is, and +perhaps whose duty it would be, to play at leap-frog if there was any +necessity for putting the matter in that light; and for us, we have the +privilege, or if we will not accept the privilege, then I say we have +the duty, of enjoying their leap-frog. But if we must withdraw in a +measure from sociable relations with our fellows, let it be as the wise +creatures that creep aside and wrap themselves up and lay themselves +by that their wings may grow and put on the lovely hues of their coming +resurrection. Such a withdrawing is in the name of youth. And while it +is pleasant--no one knows how pleasant except him who experiences it--to +sit apart and see the drama of life going on around him, while +his feelings are calm and free, his vision clear, and his judgment +righteous, the old man must ever be ready, should the sweep of action +catch him in its skirts, to get on his tottering old legs, and go with +brave heart to do the work of a true man, none the less true that his +hands tremble, and that he would gladly return to his chimney-corner. If +he is never thus called out, let him examine himself, lest he should be +falling into the number of those that say, "I go, sir," and go not; +who are content with thinking beautiful things in an Atlantis, Oceana, +Arcadia, or what it may be, but put not forth one of their fingers to +work a salvation in the earth. Better than such is the man who, using +just weights and a true balance, sells good flour, and never has a +thought of his own. + +I have been talking--to my reader is it? or to my supposed group of +grandchildren? I remember--to my companions in old age. It is time I +returned to the company who are hearing my whispers at the other side +of the great thundering gallery. I take leave of my old friends with one +word: We have yet a work to do, my friends; but a work we shall never +do aright after ceasing to understand the new generation. We are not the +men, neither shall wisdom die with us. The Lord hath not forsaken his +people because the young ones do not think just as the old ones choose. +The Lord has something fresh to tell them, and is getting them ready to +receive his message. When we are out of sympathy with the young, then I +think our work in this world is over. It might end more honourably. + +Now, readers in general, I have had time to consider what to tell you +about, and how to begin. My story will be rather about my family than +myself now. I was as it were a little withdrawn, even by the time of +which I am about to write. I had settled into a gray-haired, quite +elderly, yet active man--young still, in fact, to what I am now. But +even then, though my faith had grown stronger, life had grown sadder, +and needed all my stronger faith; for the vanishing of beloved faces, +and the trials of them that are dear, will make even those that look for +a better country both for themselves and their friends, sad, though it +will be with a preponderance of the first meaning of the word _sad_, +which was _settled_, _thoughtful_. + +I am again seated in the little octagonal room, which I have made my +study because I like it best. It is rather a shame, for my books cover +over every foot of the old oak panelling. But they make the room all the +pleasanter to the eye, and after I am gone, there is the old oak, none +the worse, for anyone who prefers it to books. + +I intend to use as the central portion of my present narrative the +history of a year during part of which I took charge of a friend's +parish, while my brother-in-law, Thomas Weir, who was and is still my +curate, took the entire charge of Marshmallows. What led to this will +soon appear. I will try to be minute enough in my narrative to make my +story interesting, although it will cost me suffering to recall some of +the incidents I have to narrate. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +CONSTANCE'S BIRTHDAY. + + + + + +Was it from observation of nature in its association with human nature, +or from artistic feeling alone, that Shakspere so often represents +Nature's mood as in harmony with the mood of the principal actors in +his drama? I know I have so often found Nature's mood in harmony with my +own, even when she had nothing to do with forming mine, that in +looking back I have wondered at the fact. There may, however, be some +self-deception about it. At all events, on the morning of my Constance's +eighteenth birthday, a lovely October day with a golden east, clouds of +golden foliage about the ways, and an air that seemed filled with the +ether of an _aurum potabile_, there came yet an occasional blast of +wind, which, without being absolutely cold, smelt of winter, and made +one draw one's shoulders together with the sense of an unfriendly +presence. I do not think Constance felt it at all, however, as she stood +on the steps in her riding-habit, waiting till the horses made their +appearance. It had somehow grown into a custom with us that each of the +children, as his or her birthday came round, should be king or queen +for that day, and, subject to the veto of father and mother, should have +everything his or her own way. Let me say for them, however, that in the +matter of choosing the dinner, which of course was included in the royal +prerogative, I came to see that it was almost invariably the favourite +dishes of others of the family that were chosen, and not those +especially agreeable to the royal palate. Members of families where +children have not been taught from their earliest years that the great +privilege of possession is the right to bestow, may regard this as an +improbable assertion; but others will know that it might well enough +be true, even if I did not say that so it was. But there was always +the choice of some individual treat, which was determined solely by the +preference of the individual in authority. Constance had chosen "a long +ride with papa." + +I suppose a parent may sometimes be right when he speaks with admiration +of his own children. The probability of his being correct is to be +determined by the amount of capacity he has for admiring other people's +children. However this may be in my own case, I venture to assert that +Constance did look very lovely that morning. She was fresh as the young +day: we were early people--breakfast and prayers were over, and it was +nine o'clock as she stood on the steps and I approached her from the +lawn. + +"O, papa! isn't it jolly?" she said merrily. + +"Very jolly indeed, my dear," I answered, delighted to hear the word +from the lips of my gentle daughter. She very seldom used a slang word, +and when she did, she used it like a lady. Shall I tell you what she was +like? Ah! you could not see her as I saw her that morning if I did. I +will, however, try to give you a general idea, just in order that you +and I should not be picturing to ourselves two very different persons +while I speak of her. + +She was rather little, and so slight that she looked tall. I have often +observed that the impression of height is an affair of proportion, +and has nothing to do with feet and inches. She was rather fair in +complexion, with her mother's blue eyes, and her mother's long dark wavy +hair. She was generally playful, and took greater liberties with me than +any of the others; only with her liberties, as with her slang, she +knew instinctively when, where, and how much. For on the borders of her +playfulness there seemed ever to hang a fringe of thoughtfulness, as if +she felt that the present moment owed all its sparkle and brilliance +to the eternal sunlight. And the appearance was not in the least a +deceptive one. The eternal was not far from her--none the farther that +she enjoyed life like a bird, that her laugh was merry, that her heart +was careless, and that her voice rang through the house--a sweet soprano +voice--singing snatches of songs (now a street tune she had caught from +a London organ, now an air from Handel or Mozart), or that she would +sometimes tease her elder sister about her solemn and anxious looks; for +Wynnie, the eldest, had to suffer for her grandmother's sins against her +daughter, and came into the world with a troubled little heart, that was +soon compelled to flee for refuge to the rock that was higher than she. +Ah! my Constance! But God was good to you and to us in you. + +"Where shall we go, Connie?" I said, and the same moment the sound of +the horses' hoofs reached us. + +"Would it be too far to go to Addicehead?" she returned. + +"It is a long ride," I answered. + +"Too much for the pony?" + +"O dear, no--not at all. I was thinking of you, not of the pony." + +"I'm quite as able to ride as the pony is to carry me, papa. And I want +to get something for Wynnie. Do let us go." + +"Very well, my dear," I said, and raised her to the saddle--if I may say +_raised_, for no bird ever hopped more lightly from one twig to another +than she sprung from the ground on her pony's back. + +In a moment I was beside her, and away we rode. + +The shadows were still long, the dew still pearly on the spiders' webs, +as we trotted out of our own grounds into a lane that led away towards +the high road. Our horses were fresh and the air was exciting; so we +turned from the hard road into the first suitable field, and had a +gallop to begin with. Constance was a good horse-woman, for she had been +used to the saddle longer than she could remember. She was now riding a +tall well-bred pony, with plenty of life--rather too much, I sometimes +thought, when I was out with Wynnie; but I never thought so when I +was with Constance. Another field or two sufficiently quieted both +animals--I did not want to have all our time taken up with their +frolics--and then we began to talk. + +"You are getting quite a woman now, Connie, my dear," I said. + +"Quite an old grannie, papa," she answered. + +"Old enough to think about what's coming next," I said gravely. + +"O, papa! And you are always telling us that we must not think about +the morrow, or even the next hour. But, then, that's in the pulpit," she +added, with a sly look up at me from under the drooping feather of her +pretty hat. + +"You know very well what I mean, you puss," I answered. "And I don't say +one thing in the pulpit and another out of it." + +She was at my horse's shoulder with a bound, as if Spry, her pony, had +been of one mind and one piece with her. She was afraid she had offended +me. She looked up into mine with as anxious a face as ever I saw upon +Wynnie. + +"O, thank you, papa!" she said when I smiled. "I thought I had been +rude. I didn't mean it, indeed I didn't. But I do wish you would make +it a little plainer to me. I do think about things sometimes, though you +would hardly believe it." + +"What do you want made plainer, my child?" I asked. + +"When we're to think, and when we're not to think," she answered. + +I remember all of this conversation because of what came so soon after. + +"If the known duty of to-morrow depends on the work of to-day," I +answered, "if it cannot be done right except you think about it and +lay your plans for it, then that thought is to-day's business, not +to-morrow's." + +"Dear papa, some of your explanations are more difficult than the things +themselves. May I be as impertinent as I like on my birthday?" she asked +suddenly, again looking up in my face. + +We were walking now, and she had a hold of my horse's mane, so as to +keep her pony close up. + +"Yes, my dear, as impertinent as you like--not an atom more, mind." + +"Well, papa, I sometimes wish you wouldn't explain things so much. I +seem to understand you all the time you are preaching, but when I try +the text afterwards by myself, I can't make anything of it, and I've +forgotten every word you said about it." + +"Perhaps that is because you have no right to understand it." + +"I thought all Protestants had a right to understand every word of the +Bible," she returned. + +"If they can," I rejoined. "But last Sunday, for instance, I did not +expect anybody there to understand a certain bit of my sermon, except +your mamma and Thomas Weir." + +"How funny! What part of it was that?" + +"O! I'm not going to tell you. You have no right to understand it. But +most likely you thought you understood it perfectly, and it appeared to +you, in consequence, very commonplace." + +"In consequence of what?" + +"In consequence of your thinking you understood it." + +"O, papa dear! you're getting worse and worse. It's not often I ask +you anything--and on my birthday too! It is really too bad of you to +bewilder my poor little brains in this way." + +"I will try to make you see what I mean, my pet. No talk about an idea +that you never had in your head at all, can make you have that idea. If +you had never seen a horse, no description even, not to say no amount of +remark, would bring the figure of a horse before your mind. Much more is +this the case with truths that belong to the convictions and feelings of +the heart. Suppose a man had never in his life asked God for anything, +or thanked God for anything, would his opinion as to what David meant +in one of his worshipping psalms be worth much? The whole thing would be +beyond him. If you have never known what it is to have care of any kind +upon you, you cannot understand what our Lord means when he tells us to +take no thought for the morrow." + +"But indeed, papa, I am very full of care sometimes, though not perhaps +about to-morrow precisely. But that does not matter, does it?" + +"Certainly not. Tell me what you are full of care about, my child, and +perhaps I can help you." + +"You often say, papa, that half the misery in this world comes from +idleness, and that you do not believe that in a world where God is at +work every day, Sundays not excepted, it could have been intended that +women any more than men should have nothing to do. Now what am I to do? +What have I been sent into the world for? I don't see it; and I feel +very useless and wrong sometimes." + +"I do not think there is very much to complain of you in that respect, +Connie. You, and your sister as well, help me very much in my parish. +You take much off your mother's hands too. And you do a good deal for +the poor. You teach your younger brothers and sister, and meantime you +are learning yourselves." + +"Yes, but that's not work." + +"It is work. And it is the work that is given you to do at present. And +you would do it much better if you were to look at it in that light. Not +that I have anything to complain of." + +"But I don't want to stop at home and lead an easy, comfortable life, +when there are so many to help everywhere in the world." + +"Is there anything better in doing something where God has not placed +you, than in doing it where he has placed you?" + +"No, papa. But my sisters are quite enough for all you have for us to do +at home. Is nobody ever to go away to find the work meant for her? You +won't think, dear papa, that I want to get away from home, will you?" + +"No, my dear. I believe that you are really thinking about duty. And +now comes the moment for considering the passage to which you began by +referring:--What God may hereafter require of you, you must not give +yourself the least trouble about. Everything he gives you to do, +you must do as well as ever you can, and that is the best possible +preparation for what he may want you to do next. If people would but do +what they have to do, they would always find themselves ready for what +came next. And I do not believe that those who follow this rule are ever +left floundering on the sea-deserted sands of inaction, unable to find +water enough to swim in." + +"Thank you, dear papa. That's a little sermon all to myself, and I think +I shall understand it even when I think about it afterwards. Now let's +have a trot." + +"There is one thing more I ought to speak about though, Connie. It is +not your moral nature alone you ought to cultivate. You ought to make +yourself as worth God's making as you possibly can. Now I am a little +doubtful whether you keep up your studies at all." + +She shrugged her pretty shoulders playfully, looking up in my face +again. + +"I don't like dry things, papa." + +"Nobody does." + +"Nobody!" she exclaimed. "How do the grammars and history-books come to +be written then?" + +In talking to me, somehow, the child always put on a more childish tone +than when she talked to anyone else. I am certain there was no affection +in it, though. Indeed, how could she be affected with her fault-finding +old father? + +"No. Those books are exceedingly interesting to the people that make +them. Dry things are just things that you do not know enough about to +care for them. And all you learn at school is next to nothing to what +you have to learn." + +"What must I do then?" she asked with a sigh. "Must I go all over my +French Grammar again? O dear! I do hate it so!" + +"If you will tell me something you like, Connie, instead of something +you don't like, I may be able to give you advice. Is there nothing you +are fond of?" I continued, finding that she remained silent. + +"I don't know anything in particular--that is, I don't know anything in +the way of school-work that I really liked. I don't mean that I didn't +try to do what I had to do, for I did. There was just one thing I +liked--the poetry we had to learn once a week. But I suppose gentlemen +count that silly--don't they?" + +"On the contrary, my dear, I would make that liking of yours the +foundation of all your work. Besides, I think poetry the grandest thing +God has given us--though perhaps you and I might not quite agree about +what poetry was poetry enough to be counted an especial gift of God. +Now, what poetry do you like best?" + +"Mrs. Hemans's, I think, papa." + +"Well, very well, to begin with. 'There is,' as Mr. Carlyle said to a +friend of mine--'There is a thin vein of true poetry in Mrs. Hemans.' +But it is time you had done with thin things, however good they may be. +Most people never get beyond spoon-meat--in this world, at least, and +they expect nothing else in the world to come. I must take you in hand +myself, and see what I can do for you. It is wretched to see capable +enough creatures, all for want of a little guidance, bursting with +admiration of what owes its principal charm to novelty of form, gained +at the cost of expression and sense. Not that that applies to Mrs. +Hemans. She is simple enough, only diluted to a degree. But I hold that +whatever mental food you take should be just a little too strong for +you. That implies trouble, necessitates growth, and involves delight." + +"I sha'n't mind how difficult it is if you help me, papa. But it is +anything but satisfactory to go groping on without knowing what you are +about." + +I ought to have mentioned that Constance had been at school for two +years, and had only been home a month that very day, in order to account +for my knowing so little about her tastes and habits of mind. We went on +talking a little more in the same way, and if I were writing for young +people only, I should be tempted to go on a little farther with the +account of what we said to each other; for it might help some of them to +see that the thing they like best should, circumstances and conscience +permitting, be made the centre from which they start to learn; that they +should go on enlarging their knowledge all round from that one point at +which God intended them to begin. But at length we fell into a silence, +a very happy one on my part; for I was more than delighted to find that +this one too of my children was following after the truth--wanting to +do what was right, namely, to obey the word of the Lord, whether openly +spoken to all, or to herself in the voice of her own conscience and the +light of that understanding which is the candle of the Lord. I had often +said to myself in past years, when I had found myself in the company of +young ladies who announced their opinions--probably of no deeper origin +than the prejudices of their nurses--as if these distinguished them from +all the world besides; who were profound upon passion and ignorant of +grace; who had not a notion whether a dress was beautiful, but only +whether it was of the newest cut--I had often said to myself: "What +shall I do if my daughters come to talk and think like that--if thinking +it can be called?" but being confident that instruction for which the +mind is not prepared only lies in a rotting heap, producing all kinds +of mental evils correspondent to the results of successive loads of +food which the system cannot assimilate, my hope had been to rouse wise +questions in the minds of my children, in place of overwhelming their +digestions with what could be of no instruction or edification without +the foregoing appetite. Now my Constance had begun to ask me questions, +and it made me very happy. We had thus come a long way nearer to each +other; for however near the affection of human animals may bring them, +there are abysses between soul and soul--the souls even of father and +daughter--over which they must pass to meet. And I do not believe that +any two human beings alive know yet what it is to love as love is in the +glorious will of the Father of lights. + +I linger on with my talk, for I shrink from what I must relate. + +We were going at a gentle trot, silent, along a woodland path--a brown, +soft, shady road, nearly five miles from home, our horses scattering +about the withered leaves that lay thick upon it. A good deal of +underwood and a few large trees had been lately cleared from the place. +There were many piles of fagots about, and a great log lying here and +there along the side of the path. One of these, when a tree, had been +struck by lightning, and had stood till the frosts and rains had bared +it of its bark. Now it lay white as a skeleton by the side of the path, +and was, I think, the cause of what followed. All at once my daughter's +pony sprang to the other side of the road, shying sideways; unsettled +her so, I presume; then rearing and plunging, threw her from the saddle +across one of the logs of which I have spoken. I was by her side in a +moment. To my horror she lay motionless. Her eyes were closed, and when +I took her up in my arms she did not open them. I laid her on the moss, +and got some water and sprinkled her face. Then she revived a little; +but seemed in much pain, and all at once went off into another faint. I +was in terrible perplexity. + +Presently a man who, having been cutting fagots at a little distance, +had seen the pony careering through the wood, came up and asked what +he could do to help me. I told him to take my horse, whose bridle I had +thrown over the latch of a gate, and ride to Oldcastle Hall, and ask +Mrs. Walton to come with the carriage as quickly as possible. "Tell +her," I said, "that her daughter has had a fall from her pony, and is +rather shaken. Ride as hard as you can go." + +The man was off in a moment; and there I sat watching my poor child, for +what seemed to be a dreadfully long time before the carriage arrived. +She had come to herself quite, but complained of much pain in her back; +and, to my distress, I found that she could not move herself enough to +make the least change of her position. She evidently tried to keep up +as well as she could; but her face expressed great suffering: it was +dreadfully pale, and looked worn with a month's illness. All my fear was +for her spine. + +At length I caught sight of the carriage, coming through the wood as +fast as the road would allow, with the woodman on the box, directing the +coachman. It drew up, and my wife got out. She was as pale as Constance, +but quiet and firm, her features composed almost to determination. I had +never seen her look like that before. She asked no questions: there was +time enough for that afterwards. She had brought plenty of cushions +and pillows, and we did all we could to make an easy couch for the poor +girl; but she moaned dreadfully as we lifted her into the carriage. We +did our best to keep her from being shaken; but those few miles were the +longest journey I ever made in my life. + +When we reached home at length, we found that Ethel, or, as we commonly +called her, using the other end of her name, Wynnie--for she was named +after her mother--had got a room on the ground-floor, usually given to +visitors, ready for her sister; and we were glad indeed not to have to +carry her up the stairs. Before my wife left, she had sent the groom +off to Addicehead for both physician and surgeon. A young man who had +settled at Marshmallows as general practitioner a year or two before, +was waiting for us when we arrived. He helped us to lay her upon a +mattress in the position in which she felt the least pain. But why +should I linger over the sorrowful detail? All agreed that the poor +child's spine was seriously injured, and that probably years of +suffering were before her. Everything was done that could be done; but +she was not moved from that room for nine months, during which, though +her pain certainly grew less by degrees, her want of power to move +herself remained almost the same. + +When I had left her at last a little composed, with her mother seated +by her bedside, I called my other two daughters--Wynnie, the eldest, and +Dorothy, the youngest, whom I found seated on the floor outside, one +on each side of the door, weeping--into my study, and said to them: "My +darlings, this is very sad; but you must remember that it is God's will; +and as you would both try to bear it cheerfully if it had fallen to your +lot to bear, you must try to be cheerful even when it is your sister's +part to endure." + +"O, papa! poor Connie!" cried Dora, and burst into fresh tears. + +Wynnie said nothing, but knelt down by my knee, and laid her cheek upon +it. + +"Shall I tell you what Constance said to me just before I left the +room?" I asked. + +"Please do, papa." + +"She whispered, 'You must try to bear it, all of you, as well as you +can. I don't mind it very much, only for you.' So, you see, if you want +to make her comfortable, you must not look gloomy and troubled. Sick +people like to see cheerful faces about them; and I am sure Connie +will not suffer nearly so much if she finds that she does not make the +household gloomy." + +This I had learned from being ill myself once or twice since my +marriage. My wife never came near me with a gloomy face, and I had found +that it was quite possible to be sympathetic with those of my flock +who were ill without putting on a long face when I went to see them. +Of course, I do not mean that I could, or that it was desirable that I +should, look cheerful when any were in great pain or mental distress. +But in ordinary conditions of illness a cheerful countenance is as a +message of _all's well_, which may surely be carried into a sick chamber +by the man who believes that the heart of a loving Father is at the +centre of things, that he is light all about the darkness, and that +he will not only bring good out of evil at last, but will be with the +sufferer all the time, making endurance possible, and pain tolerable. +There are a thousand alleviations that people do not often think of, +coming from God himself. Would you not say, for instance, that time must +pass very slowly in pain? But have you never observed, or has no one +ever made the remark to you, how strangely fast, even in severe pain, +the time passes after all? + +"We will do all we can, will we not," I went on, "to make her as +comfortable as possible? You, Dora, must attend to your little brothers, +that your mother may not have too much to think about now that she will +have Connie to nurse." + +They could not say much, but they both kissed me, and went away leaving +me to understand clearly enough that they had quite understood me. I +then returned to the sick chamber, where I found that the poor child had +fallen asleep. + +My wife and I watched by her bedside on alternate nights, until the pain +had so far subsided, and the fever was so far reduced, that we could +allow Wynnie to take a share in the office. We could not think of giving +her over to the care of any but one of ourselves during the night. +Her chief suffering came from its being necessary that she should +keep nearly one position on her back, because of her spine, while the +external bruise and the swelling of the muscles were in consequence +so painful, that it needed all that mechanical contrivance could do to +render the position endurable. But these outward conditions were greatly +ameliorated before many days were over. + +This is a dreary beginning of my story, is it not? But sickness of all +kinds is such a common thing in the world, that it is well sometimes +to let our minds rest upon it, lest it should take us altogether at +unawares, either in ourselves or our friends, when it comes. If it were +not a good thing in the end, surely it would not be; and perhaps before +I have done my readers will not be sorry that my tale began so gloomily. +The sickness in Judaea eighteen hundred and thirty-five years ago, or +thereabouts, has no small part in the story of him who came to put all +things under our feet. Praise be to him for evermore! + +It soon became evident to me that that room was like a new and more +sacred heart to the house. At first it radiated gloom to the remotest +corners; but soon rays of light began to appear mingling with the gloom. +I could see that bits of news were carried from it to the servants +in the kitchen, in the garden, in the stable, and over the way to the +home-farm. Even in the village, and everywhere over the parish, I was +received more kindly, and listened to more willingly, because of the +trouble I and my family were in; while in the house, although we had +never been anything else than a loving family, it was easy to discover +that we all drew more closely together in consequence of our common +anxiety. Previous to this, it had been no unusual thing to see Wynnie +and Dora impatient with each other; for Dora was none the less a wild, +somewhat lawless child, that she was a profoundly affectionate one. She +rather resembled her cousin Judy, in fact--whom she called Aunt Judy, +and with whom she was naturally a great favourite. Wynnie, on the other +hand, was sedate, and rather severe--more severe, I must in justice say, +with herself than with anyone else. I had sometimes wished, it is true, +that her mother, in regard to the younger children, were more like her; +but there I was wrong. For one of the great goods that come of having +two parents, is that the one balances and rectifies the motions of the +other. No one is good but God. No one holds the truth, or can hold it, +in one and the same thought, but God. Our human life is often, at best, +but an oscillation between the extremes which together make the truth; +and it is not a bad thing in a family, that the pendulums of father and +mother should differ in movement so far, that when the one is at one +extremity of the swing, the other should be at the other, so that +they meet only in the point of _indifference_, in the middle; that the +predominant tendency of the one should not be the predominant tendency +of the other. I was a very strict disciplinarian--too much so, perhaps, +sometimes: Ethelwyn, on the other hand, was too much inclined, I +thought, to excuse everything. I was law, she was grace. But grace often +yielded to law, and law sometimes yielded to grace. Yet she represented +the higher; for in the ultimate triumph of grace, in the glad +performance of the command from love of what is commanded, the law is +fulfilled: the law is a schoolmaster to bring us to Christ. I must say +this for myself, however, that, although obedience was the one thing +I enforced, believing it the one thing upon which all family economy +primarily depends, yet my object always was to set my children free from +my law as soon as possible; in a word, to help them to become, as soon +as it might be, a law unto themselves. Then they would need no more of +mine. Then I would go entirely over to the mother's higher side, and +become to them, as much as in me lay, no longer law and truth, but grace +and truth. But to return to my children--it was soon evident not only +that Wynnie had grown more indulgent to Dora's vagaries, but that Dora +was more submissive to Wynnie, while the younger children began to +obey their eldest sister with a willing obedience, keeping down their +effervescence within doors, and letting it off only out of doors, or in +the out-houses. + +When Constance began to recover a little, then the sacredness of that +chamber began to show itself more powerfully, radiating on all sides a +yet stronger influence of peace and goodwill. It was like a fountain of +gentle light, quieting and bringing more or less into tune all that came +within the circle of its sweetness. This brings me to speak again of my +lovely child. For surely a father may speak thus of a child of God. He +cannot regard his child as his even as a book he has written may be his. +A man's child is his because God has said to him, "Take this child and +nurse it for me." She is God's making; God's marvellous invention, to be +tended and cared for, and ministered unto as one of his precious things; +a young angel, let me say, who needs the air of this lower world to make +her wings grow. And while he regards her thus, he will see all other +children in the same light, and will not dare to set up his own against +others of God's brood with the new-budding wings. The universal heart +of truth will thus rectify, while it intensifies, the individual feeling +towards one's own; and the man who is most free from poor partisanship +in regard to his own family, will feel the most individual tenderness +for the lovely human creatures whom God has given into his own especial +care and responsibility. Show me the man who is tender, reverential, +gracious towards the children of other men, and I will show you the man +who will love and tend his own best, to whose heart his own will flee +for their first refuge after God, when they catch sight of the cloud in +the wind. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE SICK CHAMBER. + + + + + +In the course of a month there was a good deal more of light in the +smile with which my darling greeted me when I entered her room in the +morning. Her pain was greatly gone, but the power of moving her limbs +had not yet even begun to show itself. + +One day she received me with a still happier smile than I had yet seen +upon her face, put out her thin white hand, took mine and kissed it, and +said, "Papa," with a lingering on the last syllable. + +"What is it, my pet?" I asked. + +"I am so happy!" + +"What makes you so happy?" I asked again. + +"I don't know," she answered. "I haven't thought about it yet. But +everything looks so pleasant round me. Is it nearly winter yet, papa? +I've forgotten all about how the time has been going." + +"It is almost winter, my dear. There is hardly a leaf left on the +trees--just two or three disconsolate yellow ones that want to get away +down to the rest. They go fluttering and fluttering and trying to break +away, but they can't." + +"That is just as I felt a little while ago. I wanted to die and get +away, papa; for I thought I should never be well again, and I should be +in everybody's way.--I am afraid I shall not get well, after all," she +added, and the light clouded on her sweet face. + +"Well, my darling, we are in God's hands. We shall never get tired of +you, and you must not get tired of us. Would you get tired of nursing +me, if I were ill?" + +"O, papa!" And the tears began to gather in her eyes. + +"Then you must think we are not able to love so well as you." + +"I know what you mean. I did not think of it that way. I will never +think so about it again. I was only thinking how useless I was." + +"There you are quite mistaken, my dear. No living creature ever was +useless. You've got plenty to do there." + +"But what have I got to do? I don't feel able for anything," she said; +and again the tears came in her eyes, as if I had been telling her to +get up and she could not. + +"A great deal of our work," I answered, "we do without knowing what it +is. But I'll tell you what you have got to do: you have got to believe +in God, and in everybody in this house." + +"I do, I do. But that is easy to do," she returned. + +"And do you think that the work God gives us to do is never easy? Jesus +says his yoke is easy, his burden is light. People sometimes refuse to +do God's work just because it is easy. This is, sometimes, because they +cannot believe that easy work is his work; but there may be a very bad +pride in it: it may be because they think that there is little or no +honour to be got in that way; and therefore they despise it. Some again +accept it with half a heart, and do it with half a hand. But, however +easy any work may be, it cannot be well done without taking thought +about it. And such people, instead of taking thought about their work, +generally take thought about the morrow, in which no work can be done +any more than in yesterday. The Holy Present!--I think I must make one +more sermon about it--although you, Connie," I said, meaning it for a +little joke, "do think that I have said too much about it already." + +"Papa, papa! do forgive me. This is a judgment on me for talking to +you as I did that dreadful morning. But I was so happy that I was +impertinent." + +"You silly darling!" I said. "A judgment! God be angry with you for +that! Even if it had been anything wrong, which it was not, do you think +God has no patience? No, Connie. I will tell you what seems to me much +more likely. You wanted something to do; and so God gave you something +to do." + +"Lying in bed and doing nothing!" + +"Yes. Just lying in bed, and doing his will." + +"If I could but feel that I was doing his will!" + +"When you do it, then you will feel you are doing it." + +"I know you are coming to something, papa. Please make haste, for my +back is getting so bad." + +"I've tired you, my pet. It was very thoughtless of me. I will tell you +the rest another time," I said, rising. + +"No, no. It will make me much worse not to hear it all now." + +"Well, I will tell you. Be still, my darling, I won't be long. In +the time of the old sacrifices, when God so kindly told his ignorant +children to do something for him in that way, poor people were told to +bring, not a bullock or a sheep, for that was more than they could get, +but a pair of turtledoves, or two young pigeons. But now, as Crashaw +the poet says, 'Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.' God wanted +to teach people to offer themselves. Now, you are poor, my pet, and you +cannot offer yourself in great things done for your fellow-men, which +was the way Jesus did. But you must remember that the two young pigeons +of the poor were just as acceptable to God as the fat bullock of the +rich. Therefore you must say to God something like this:--'O heavenly +Father, I have nothing to offer thee but my patience. I will bear thy +will, and so offer my will a burnt-offering unto thee. I will be as +useless as thou pleasest.' Depend upon it, my darling, in the midst of +all the science about the world and its ways, and all the ignorance of +God and his greatness, the man or woman who can thus say, _Thy will be +done_, with the true heart of giving up is nearer the secret of things +than the geologist and theologian. And now, my darling, be quiet in +God's name." + +She held up her mouth to kiss me, but did not speak, and I left her, and +sent Dora to sit with her. + +In the evening, when I went into her room again, having been out in my +parish all the morning, I began to unload my budget of small events. +Indeed, we all came in like pelicans with stuffed pouches to empty them +in her room, as if she had been the only young one we had, and we +must cram her with news. Or, rather, she was like the queen of the +commonwealth sending out her messages into all parts, and receiving +messages in return. I might call her the brain of the house; but I have +used similes enough for a while. + +After I had done talking, she said-- + +"And you have been to the school too, papa?" + +"Yes. I go to the school almost every day. I fancy in such a school as +ours the young people get more good than they do in church. You know I +had made a great change in the Sunday-school just before you came home." + +"I heard of that, papa. You won't let any of the little ones go to +school on the Sunday." + +"No. It is too much for them. And having made this change, I feel the +necessity of being in the school myself nearly every day, that I may do +something direct for the little ones." + +"And you'll have to take me up soon, as you promised, you know, +papa--just before Sprite threw me." + +"As soon as you like, my dear, after you are able to read again." + +"O, you must begin before that, please.--You could spare time to read a +little to me, couldn't you?" she said doubtfully, as if she feared she +was asking too much. + +"Certainly, my dear; and I will begin to think about it at once." + +It was in part the result of this wish of my child's that it became the +custom to gather in her room on Sunday evenings. She was quite unable +for any kind of work such as she would have had me commence with her, +but I used to take something to read to her every now and then, and +always after our early tea on Sundays. + +What a thing it is to have one to speak and think about and try to find +out and understand, who is always and altogether and perfectly good! +Such a centre that is for all our thoughts and words and actions and +imaginations! It is indeed blessed to be human beings with Jesus Christ +for the centre of humanity. + +In the papers wherein I am about to record the chief events of the +following years of my life, I shall give a short account of what passed +at some of these assemblies in my child's room, in the hope that it may +give my friends something, if not new, yet fresh to think about. For God +has so made us that everyone who thinks at all thinks in a way that must +be more or less fresh to everyone else who thinks, if he only have the +gift of setting forth his thoughts so that we can see what they are. + +I hope my readers will not be alarmed at this, and suppose that I am +about to inflict long sermons upon them. I am not. I do hope, as I say, +to teach them something; but those whom I succeed in so teaching will +share in the delight it will give me to write about what I love most. + +As far as I can remember, I will tell how this Sunday-evening class +began. I was sitting by Constance's bed. The fire was burning brightly, +and the twilight had deepened so nearly into night that it was reflected +back from the window, for the curtains had not yet been drawn. There was +no light in the room but that of the fire. + +Now Constance was in the way of asking often what kind of day or night +it was, for there never was a girl more a child of nature than she. +Her heart seemed to respond at once to any and every mood of the world +around her. To her the condition of air, earth, and sky was news, and +news of poetic interest too. "What is it like?" she would often say, +without any more definite shaping of the question. This same evening she +said: + +"What is it like, papa?" + +"It is growing dark," I answered, "as you can see. It is a still +evening, and what they call a black frost. The trees are standing as +still as if they were carved out of stone, and would snap off everywhere +if the wind were to blow. The ground is dark, and as hard as if it were +of cast iron. A gloomy night rather, my dear. It looks as if there were +something upon its mind that made it sullenly thoughtful; but the stars +are coming out one after another overhead, and the sky will be all awake +soon. A strange thing the life that goes on all night, is it not? The +life of owlets, and mice, and beasts of prey, and bats, and stars," I +said, with no very categorical arrangement, "and dreams, and flowers +that don't go to sleep like the rest, but send out their scent all night +long. Only those are gone now. There are no scents abroad, not even of +the earth in such a frost as this." + +"Don't you think it looks sometimes, papa, as if God turned his back on +the world, or went farther away from it for a while?" + +"Tell me a little more what you mean, Connie." + +"Well, this night now, this dark, frozen, lifeless night, which you have +been describing to me, isn't like God at all--is it?" + +"No, it is not. I see what you mean now." + +"It is just as if he had gone away and said, 'Now you shall see what you +can do without me.' + +"Something like that. But do you know that English people--at least I +think so--enjoy the changeful weather of their country much more upon +the whole than those who have fine weather constantly? You see it is +not enough to satisfy God's goodness that he should give us all things +richly to enjoy, but he must make us able to enjoy them as richly as he +gives them. He has to consider not only the gift, but the receiver of +the gift. He has to make us able to take the gift and make it our own, +as well as to give us the gift. In fact, it is not real giving, with the +full, that is, the divine, meaning of giving, without it. He has to give +us to the gift as well as give the gift to us. Now for this, a break, +an interruption is good, is invaluable, for then we begin to think about +the thing, and do something in the matter ourselves. The wonder of God's +teaching is that, in great part, he makes us not merely learn, but teach +ourselves, and that is far grander than if he only made our minds as he +makes our bodies." + +"I think I understand you, papa. For since I have been ill, you would +wonder, if you could see into me, how even what you tell me about the +world out of doors gives me more pleasure than I think I ever had when I +could go about in it just as I liked." + +"It wouldn't do that, though, you know, if you hadn't had the other +first. The pleasure you have comes as much from your memory as from my +news." + +"I see that, papa." + +"Now can you tell me anything in history that confirms what I have been +saying?" + +"I don't know anything about history, papa. The only thing that comes +into my head is what you were saying yourself the other day about +Milton's blindness." + +"Ah, yes. I had not thought of that. Do you know, I do believe that God +wanted a grand poem from that man, and therefore blinded him that +he might be able to write it. But he had first trained him up to the +point--given him thirty years in which he had not to provide the bread +of a single day, only to learn and think; then set him to teach boys; +then placed him at Cromwell's side, in the midst of the tumultuous +movement of public affairs, into which the late student entered with all +his heart and soul; and then last of all he cast the veil of a divine +darkness over him, sent him into a chamber far more retired than that in +which he laboured at Cambridge, and set him like the nightingale to sing +darkling. The blackness about him was just the great canvas which God +gave him to cover with forms of light and music. Deep wells of memory +burst upwards from below; the windows of heaven were opened from above; +from both rushed the deluge of song which flooded his soul, and which he +has poured out in a great river to us." + +"It was rather hard for poor Milton, though, wasn't it, papa?" + +"Wait till he says so, my dear. We are sometimes too ready with our +sympathy, and think things a great deal worse than those who have to +undergo them. Who would not be glad to be struck with _such_ blindness +as Milton's?" + +"Those that do not care about his poetry, papa," answered Constance, +with a deprecatory smile. + +"Well said, my Connie. And to such it never can come. But, if it please +God, you will love Milton before you are about again. You can't love one +you know nothing about." + +"I have tried to read him a little." + +"Yes, I daresay. You might as well talk of liking a man whose face you +had never seen, because you did not approve of the back of his coat. But +you and Milton together have led me away from a far grander instance of +what we had been talking about. Are you tired, darling?" + +"Not the least, papa. You don't mind what I said about Milton?" + +"Not at all, my dear. I like your honesty. But I should mind very much +if you thought, with your ignorance of Milton, that your judgment of him +was more likely to be right than mine, with my knowledge of him." + +"O, papa! I am only sorry that I am not capable of appreciating him." + +"There you are wrong again. I think you are quite capable of +appreciating him. But you cannot appreciate what you have never seen. +You think of him as dry, and think you ought to be able to like dry +things. Now he is not dry, and you ought not to be able to like dry +things. You have a figure before you in your fancy, which is dry, and +which you call Milton. But it is no more Milton than your dull-faced +Dutch doll, which you called after her, was your merry Aunt Judy. But +here comes your mamma; and I haven't said what I wanted to say yet." + +"But surely, husband, you can say it all the same," said my wife. "I +will go away if you can't." + +"I can say it all the better, my love. Come and sit down here beside me. +I was trying to show Connie--" + +"You did show me, papa." + +"Well, I was showing Connie that a gift has sometimes to be taken away +again before we can know what it is worth, and so receive it right." + +Ethelwyn sighed. She was always more open to the mournful than the glad. +Her heart had been dreadfully wrung in her youth. + +"And I was going on to give her the greatest instance of it in human +history. As long as our Lord was with his disciples, they could not see +him right: he was too near them. Too much light, too many words, too +much revelation, blinds or stupefies. The Lord had been with them long +enough. They loved him dearly, and yet often forgot his words almost as +soon as he said them. He could not get it into them, for instance, that +he had not come to be a king. Whatever he said, they shaped it over +again after their own fancy; and their minds were so full of their own +worldly notions of grandeur and command, that they could not receive +into their souls the gift of God present before their eyes. Therefore he +was taken away, that his Spirit, which was more himself than his bodily +presence, might come into them--that they might receive the gift of God +into their innermost being. After he had gone out of their sight, and +they might look all around and down in the grave and up in the air, and +not see him anywhere--when they thought they had lost him, he began to +come to them again from the other side--from the inside. They found that +the image of him which his presence with them had printed in light upon +their souls, began to revive in the dark of his absence; and not that +only, but that in looking at it without the overwhelming of his bodily +presence, lines and forms and meanings began to dawn out of it which +they had never seen before. And his words came back to them, no longer +as they had received them, but as he meant them. The spirit of Christ +filling their hearts and giving them new power, made them remember, by +making them able to understand, all that he had said to them. They were +then always saying to each other, 'You remember how;' whereas before, +they had been always staring at each other with astonishment and +something very near incredulity, while he spoke to them. So that after +he had gone away, he was really nearer to them than he had been before. +The meaning of anything is more than its visible presence. There is a +soul in everything, and that soul is the meaning of it. The soul of the +world and all its beauty has come nearer to you, my dear, just because +you are separated from it for a time." + +"Thank you, dear papa. I do like to get a little sermon all to myself +now and then. That is another good of being ill." + +"You don't mean me to have a share in it, then, Connie, do you?" said my +wife, smiling at her daughter's pleasure. + +"O, mamma! I should have thought you knew all papa had got to say +by this time. I daresay he has given you a thousand sermons all to +yourself." + +"Then you suppose, Connie, that I came into the world with just a boxful +of sermons, and after I had taken them all out there were no more. I +should be sorry to think I should not have a good many new things to say +by this time next year." + +"Well, papa, I wish I could be sure of knowing more next year." + +"Most people do learn, whether they will or not. But the kind of +learning is very different in the two cases." + +"But I want to ask you one question, papa: do you think that we should +not know Jesus better now if he were to come and let us see him--as +he came to the disciples so long, long ago? I wish it were not so long +ago." + +"As to the time, it makes no difference whether it was last year or two +thousand years ago. The whole question is how much we understand, and +understanding, obey him. And I do not think we should be any nearer +that if he came amongst us bodily again. If we should, he would come. I +believe we should be further off it." + +"Do you think, then," said Connie, in an almost despairing tone, as if +I were the prophet of great evil, "that we shall never, never, never see +him?" + +"That is _quite_ another thing, my Connie. That is the heart of my hopes +by day and my dreams by night. To behold the face of Jesus seems to me +the one thing to be desired. I do not know that it is to be prayed for; +but I think it will be given us as the great bounty of God, so soon as +ever we are capable of it. That sight of the face of Jesus is, I +think, what is meant by his glorious appearing, but it will come as a +consequence of his spirit in us, not as a cause of that spirit in us. +The pure in heart shall see God. The seeing of him will be the sign that +we are like him, for only by being like him can we see him as he is. All +the time that he was with them, the disciples never saw him as he was. +You must understand a man before you can see and read his face aright; +and as the disciples did not understand our Lord's heart, they could +neither see nor read his face aright. But when we shall be fit to look +that man in the face, God only knows." + +"Then do you think, papa, that we, who have never seen him, could know +him better than the disciples? I don't mean, of course, better than they +knew him after he was taken away from them, but better than they knew +him while he was still with them?" + +"Certainly I do, my dear." + +"O, papa! Is it possible? Why don't we all, then?" + +"Because we won't take the trouble; that is the reason." + +"O, what a grand thing to think! That would be worth living--worth being +ill for. But how? how? Can't you help me? Mayn't one human being help +another?" + +"It is the highest duty one human being owes to another. But whoever +wants to learn must pray, and think, and, above all, obey--that is +simply, do what Jesus says." + +There followed a little silence, and I could hear my child sobbing. +And the tears stood in; my wife's eyes--tears of gladness to hear her +daughter's sobs. + +"I will try, papa," Constance said at last. "But you _will_ help me?" + +"That I will, my love. I will help you in the best way I know; by trying +to tell you what I have heard and learned about him--heard and learned +of the Father, I hope and trust. It is coming near to the time when +he was born;--but I have spoken quite as long as you are able to bear +to-night." + +"No, no, papa. Do go on." + +"No, my dear; no more to-night. That would be to offend against the very +truth I have been trying to set forth to you. But next Sunday--you +have plenty to think about till then--I will talk to you about the baby +Jesus; and perhaps I may find something more to help you by that time, +besides what I have got to say now." + +"But," said my wife, "don't you think, Connie, this is too good to keep +all to ourselves? Don't you think we ought to have Wynnie and Dora in?" + +"Yes, yes, mamma. Do let us have them in. And Harry and Charlie too." + +"I fear they are rather young yet," I said. "Perhaps it might do them +harm." + +"It would be all the better for us to have them anyhow," said Ethelwyn, +smiling. + +"How do you mean, my dear?" + +"Because you will say things more simply if you have them by you. +Besides, you always say such things to children as delight grown people, +though they could never get them out of you." + +It was a wife's speech, reader. Forgive me for writing it. + +"Well," I said, "I don't mind them coming in, but I don't promise to say +anything directly to them. And you must let them go away the moment they +wish it." + +"Certainly," answered my wife; and so the matter was arranged. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +A SUNDAY EVENING. + + + + + +When I went in to see Constance the next Sunday morning before going to +church, I knew by her face that she was expecting the evening. I took +care to get into no conversation with her during the day, that she might +be quite fresh. In the evening, when I went into her room again with my +Bible in my hand, I found all our little company assembled. There was a +glorious fire, for it was very cold, and the little ones were seated on +the rug before it, one on each side of their mother; Wynnie sat by the +further side of the bed, for she always avoided any place or thing she +thought another might like; and Dora sat by the further chimney-corner, +leaving the space between the fire and my chair open that I might see +and share the glow. + +"The wind is very high, papa," said Constance, as I seated myself beside +her. + +"Yes, my dear. It has been blowing all day, and since sundown it has +blown harder. Do you like the wind, Connie?" + +"I am afraid I do like it. When it roars like that in the chimneys, and +shakes the windows with a great rush as if it _would_ get into the house +and tear us to pieces, and then goes moaning away into the woods and +grumbles about in them till it grows savage again, and rushes up at us +with fresh fury, I am afraid I delight in it. I feel so safe in the very +jaws of danger." + +"Why, you are quite poetic, Connie," said Wynnie. + +"Don't laugh at me, Wynnie. Mind I'm an invalid, and I can't bear to be +laughed at," returned Connie, half laughing herself, and a little more +than a quarter crying. + +Wynnie rose and kissed her, whispered something to her which made her +laugh outright, and then sat down again. + +"But tell me, Connie," I said, "why you are _afraid_ you enjoy hearing +the wind about the house." + +"Because it must be so dreadful for those that are out in it." + +"Perhaps not quite so bad as we think. You must not suppose that God has +forgotten them, or cares less for them than for you because they are out +in the wind." + +"But if we thought like that, papa," said Wynnie, "shouldn't we come to +feel that their sufferings were none of our business?" + +"If our benevolence rests on the belief that God is less loving than we, +it will come to a bad end somehow before long, Wynnie." + +"Of course, I could not think that," she returned. + +"Then your kindness would be such that you dared not, in God's name, +think hopefully for those you could not help, lest you should, believing +in his kindness, cease to help those whom you could help! Either God +intended that there should be poverty and suffering, or he did not. If +he did not intend it--for similar reasons to those for which he allows +all sorts of evils--then there is nothing between but that we should +sell everything that we have and give it away to the poor." + +"Then why don't we?" said Wynnie, looking truth itself in my face. + +"Because that is not God's way, and we should do no end of harm by so +doing. We should make so many more of those who will not help themselves +who will not be set free from themselves by rising above themselves. We +are not to gratify our own benevolence at the expense of its object--not +to save our own souls as we fancy, by putting other souls into more +danger than God meant for them." + +"It sounds hard doctrine from your lips, papa," said Wynnie. + +"Many things will look hard in so many words, which yet will be found +kindness itself when they are interpreted by a higher theory. If the +one thing is to let people have everything they want, then of course +everyone ought to be rich. I have no doubt such a man as we were reading +of in the papers the other day, who saw his servant girl drown without +making the least effort to save her, and then bemoaned the loss of her +labour for the coming harvest, thinking himself ill-used in her death, +would hug his own selfishness on hearing my words, and say, 'All right, +parson! Every man for himself! I made my own money, and they may make +theirs!' _You_ know that is not exactly the way I should think or act +with regard to my neighbour. But if it were only that I have seen such +noble characters cast in the mould of poverty, I should be compelled +to regard poverty as one of God's powers in the world for raising the +children of the kingdom, and to believe that it was not because it could +not be helped that our Lord said, 'The poor ye have always with you.' +But what I wanted to say was, that there can be no reason why Connie +should not enjoy what God has given her, although he has not thought +fit to give as much to everybody; and above all, that we shall not help +those right whom God gives us to help, if we do not believe that God is +caring for every one of them as much as he is caring for every one of +us. There was once a baby born in a stable, because his poor mother +could get no room in a decent house. Where she lay I can hardly think. +They must have made a bed of hay and straw for her in the stall, for we +know the baby's cradle was the manger. Had God forsaken them? or would +they not have been more _comfortable_, if that was the main thing, +somewhere else? Ah! if the disciples, who were being born about the same +time of fisher-fathers and cottage-mothers, to get ready for him to call +and teach by the time he should be thirty years of age--if they had only +been old enough, and had known that he was coming--would they not have +got everything ready for him? They would have clubbed their little +savings together, and worked day and night, and some rich women would +have helped them, and they would have dressed the baby in fine linen, +and got him the richest room their money would get, and they would have +made the gold that the wise men brought into a crown for his little +head, and would have burnt the frankincense before him. And so our +little manger-baby would have been taken away from us. No more the +stable-born Saviour--no more the poor Son of God born for us all, as +strong, as noble, as loving, as worshipful, as beautiful as he was poor! +And we should not have learned that God does not care for money; that +if he does not give more of it it is not that it is scarce with him, or +that he is unkind, but that he does not value it himself. And if he sent +his own son to be not merely brought up in the house of the carpenter of +a little village, but to be born in the stable of a village inn, we need +not suppose because a man sleeps under a haystack and is put in prison +for it next day, that God does not care for him." + +"But why did Jesus come so poor, papa?" + +"That he might be just a human baby. That he might not be distinguished +by this or by that accident of birth; that he might have nothing but a +mother's love to welcome him, and so belong to everybody; that from the +first he might show that the kingdom of God and the favour of God lie +not in these external things at all--that the poorest little one, born +in the meanest dwelling, or in none at all, is as much God's own and +God's care as if he came in a royal chamber with colour and shine all +about him. Had Jesus come amongst the rich, riches would have been +more worshipped than ever. See how so many that count themselves good +Christians honour possession and family and social rank, and I doubt +hardly get rid of them when they are all swept away from them. The +furthest most of such reach is to count Jesus an exception, and +therefore not despise him. See how, even in the services of the church, +as they call them, they will accumulate gorgeousness and cost. Had I +my way, though I will never seek to rouse men's thoughts about such +external things, I would never have any vessel used in the eucharist but +wooden platters and wooden cups." + +"But are we not to serve him with our best?" said my wife. + +"Yes, with our very hearts and souls, with our wills, with our absolute +being. But all external things should be in harmony with the spirit of +his revelation. And if God chose that his Son should visit the earth +in homely fashion, in homely fashion likewise should be everything that +enforces and commemorates that revelation. All church-forms should be on +the other side from show and expense. Let the money go to build decent +houses for God's poor, not to give them his holy bread and wine out of +silver and gold and precious stones--stealing from the significance of +the _content_ by the meretricious grandeur of the _continent_. I would +send all the church-plate to fight the devil with his own weapons in our +overcrowded cities, and in our villages where the husbandmen are housed +like swine, by giving them room to be clean and decent air from heaven +to breathe. When the people find the clergy thus in earnest, they will +follow them fast enough, and the money will come in like salt and oil +upon the sacrifice. I would there were a few of our dignitaries that +could think grandly about things, even as Jesus thought--even as God +thought when he sent him. There are many of them willing to stand any +amount of persecution about trifles: the same enthusiasm directed by +high thoughts about the kingdom of heaven as within men and not around +them, would redeem a vast region from that indifference which comes of +judging the gospel of God by the church of Christ with its phylacteries +and hems." + +"There is one thing," said Wynnie, after a pause, "that I have often +thought about--why it was necessary for Jesus to come as a baby: he +could not do anything for so long." + +"First, I would answer, Wynnie, that if you would tell me why it is +necessary for all of us to come as babies, it would be less necessary +for me to tell you why he came so: whatever was human must be his. But I +would say next, Are you sure that he could not do anything for so long? +Does a baby do nothing? Ask mamma there. Is it for nothing that the +mother lifts up such heartfuls of thanks to God for the baby on her +knee? Is it nothing that the baby opens such fountains of love in almost +all the hearts around? Ah! you do not think how much every baby has to +do with the saving of the world--the saving of it from selfishness, and +folly, and greed. And for Jesus, was he not going to establish the reign +of love in the earth? How could he do better than begin from babyhood? +He had to lay hold of the heart of the world. How could he do better +than begin with his mother's--the best one in it. Through his mother's +love first, he grew into the world. It was first by the door of all the +holy relations of the family that he entered the human world, laying +hold of mother, father, brothers, sisters, all his friends; then by the +door of labour, for he took his share of his father's work; then, when +he was thirty years of age, by the door of teaching; by kind deeds, and +sufferings, and through all by obedience unto the death. You must not +think little of the grand thirty years wherein he got ready for +the chief work to follow. You must not think that while he was thus +preparing for his public ministrations, he was not all the time saving +the world even by that which he was in the midst of it, ever laying hold +of it more and more. These were things not so easy to tell. And you must +remember that our records are very scanty. It is a small biography we +have of a man who became--to say nothing more--the Man of the world--the +Son of Man. No doubt it is enough, or God would have told us more; but +surely we are not to suppose that there was nothing significant, nothing +of saving power in that which we are not told.--Charlie, wouldn't you +have liked to see the little baby Jesus?" + +"Yes, that I would. I would have given him my white rabbit with the pink +eyes." + +"That is what the great painter Titian must have thought, Charlie; for +he has painted him playing with a white rabbit,--not such a pretty one +as yours." + +"I would have carried him about all day," said Dora, "as little Henny +Parsons does her baby-brother." + +"Did he have any brother or sister to carry him about, papa?" asked +Harry. + +"No, my boy; for he was the eldest. But you may be pretty sure he +carried about his brothers and sisters that came after him." + +"Wouldn't he take care of them, just!" said Charlie. + +"I wish I had been one of them," said Constance. + +"You are one of them, my Connie. Now he is so great and so strong that +he can carry father and mother and all of us in his bosom." + +Then we sung a child's hymn in praise of the God of little children, and +the little ones went to bed. Constance was tired now, and we left her +with Wynnie. We too went early to bed. + +About midnight my wife and I awoke together--at least neither knew which +waked the other. The wind was still raving about the house, with lulls +between its charges. + +"There's a child crying!" said my wife, starting up. + +I sat up too, and listened. + +"There is some creature," I granted. + +"It is an infant," insisted my wife. "It can't be either of the boys." + +I was out of bed in a moment, and my wife the same instant. We hurried +on some of our clothes, going to the windows and listening as we did so. +We seemed to hear the wailing through the loudest of the wind, and in +the lulls were sure of it. But it grew fainter as we listened. The night +was pitch dark. I got a lantern, and hurried out. I went round the house +till I came under our bed-room windows, and there listened. I heard it, +but not so clearly as before. I set out as well as I could judge in the +direction of the sound. I could find nothing. My lantern lighted only +a few yards around me, and the wind was so strong that it blew through +every chink, and threatened momently to blow it out. My wife was by my +side before I knew she was coming. + +"My dear!" I said, "it is not fit for you to be out." + +"It is as fit for me as for a child, anyhow," she said. "Do listen." + +It was certainly no time for expostulation. All the mother was awake in +Ethelwyn's bosom. It would have been cruelty to make her go in, though +she was indeed ill-fitted to encounter such a night-wind. + +Another wail reached us. It seemed to come from a thicket at one corner +of the lawn. We hurried thither. Again a cry, and we knew we were much +nearer to it. Searching and searching we went. + +"There it is!" Ethelwyn almost screamed, as the feeble light of the +lantern fell on a dark bundle of something under a bush. She caught at +it. It gave another pitiful wail--the poor baby of some tramp, rolled up +in a dirty, ragged shawl, and tied round with a bit of string, as if it +had been a parcel of clouts. She set off running with it to the house, +and I followed, much fearing she would miss her way in the dark, and +fall. I could hardly get up with her, so eager was she to save the +child. She darted up to her own room, where the fire was not yet out. + +"Run to the kitchen, Harry, and get some hot water. Take the two jugs +there--you can empty them in the sink: you won't know where to find +anything. There will be plenty in the boiler." + +By the time I returned with the hot water, she had taken off the child's +covering, and was sitting with it, wrapped in a blanket, before +the fire. The little thing was cold as a stone, and now silent and +motionless. We had found it just in time. Ethelwyn ordered me about as +if I had been a nursemaid. I poured the hot water into a footbath. + +"Some cold water, Harry. You would boil the child." + +"You made me throw away the cold water," I said, laughing. + +"There's some in the bottles," she returned. "Make haste." + +I did try to make haste, but I could not be quick enough to satisfy +Ethelwyn. + +"The child will be dead," she cried, "before we get it in the water." + +She had its rags off in a moment--there was very little to remove after +the shawl. How white the little thing was, though dreadfully neglected! +It was a girl--not more than a few weeks old, we agreed. Her little +heart was still beating feebly; and as she was a well-made, apparently +healthy infant, we had every hope of recovering her. And we were not +disappointed. She began to move her little legs and arms with short, +convulsive motions. + +"Do you know where the dairy is, Harry?" asked my wife, with no great +compliment to my bumps of locality, which I had always flattered myself +were beyond the average in development. + +"I think I do," I answered. + +"Could you tell which was this night's milk, now?" + +"There will be less cream on it," I answered. + +"Bring a little of that and some more hot water. I've got some sugar +here. I wish we had a bottle." + +I executed her commands faithfully. By the time I returned the child was +lying on her lap clean and dry--a fine baby I thought. Ethelwyn went on +talking to her, and praising her as if she had not only been the finest +specimen of mortality in the world, but her own child to boot. She got +her to take a few spoonfuls of milk and water, and then the little thing +fell fast asleep. + +Ethelwyn's nursing days were not so far gone by that she did not know +where her baby's clothes were. She gave me the child, and going to a +wardrobe in the room brought out some night-things, and put them on. +I could not understand in the least why the sleeping darling must be +indued with little chemise, and flannel, and nightgown, and I do not +know what all, requiring a world of nice care, and a hundred turnings +to and fro, now on its little stomach, now on its back, now sitting up, +now lying down, when it would have slept just as well, and I venture to +think much more comfortably, if laid in blankets and well covered over. +But I had never ventured to interfere with any of my own children, +devoutly believing up to this moment, though in a dim unquestioning way, +that there must be some hidden feminine wisdom in the whole process; +and now that I had begun to question it, I found that my opportunity +had long gone by, if I had ever had one. And after all there may be some +reason for it, though I confess I do strongly suspect that all these +matters are so wonderfully complicated in order that the girl left in +the woman may have her heart's content of playing with her doll; just +as the woman hid in the girl expends no end of lovely affection upon +the dull stupidity of wooden cheeks and a body of sawdust. But it was a +delight to my heart to see how Ethelwyn could not be satisfied without +treating the foundling in precisely the same fashion as one of her own. +And if this was a necessary preparation for what, should follow, I would +be the very last to complain of it. + +We went to bed again, and the forsaken child of some half-animal +mother, now perhaps asleep in some filthy lodging for tramps, lay in +my Ethelwyn's bosom. I loved her the more for it; though, I confess, it +would have been very painful to me had she shown it possible for her +to treat the baby otherwise, especially after what we had been talking +about that same evening. + +So we had another child in the house, and nobody knew anything about +it but ourselves two. The household had never been disturbed by all the +going and coming. After everything had been done for her, we had a good +laugh over the whole matter, and then Ethelwyn fell a-crying. + +"Pray for the poor thing, Harry," she sobbed, "before you come to bed." + +I knelt down, and said: + +"O Lord our Father, this is as much thy child and as certainly sent to +us as if she had been born of us. Help us to keep the child for thee. +Take thou care of thy own, and teach us what to do with her, and how to +order our ways towards her." + +Then I said to Ethelwyn, + +"We will not say one word more about it tonight. You must try to go to +sleep. I daresay the little thing will sleep till the morning, and I am +sure I shall if she does. Good-night, my love. You are a true mother. +Mind you go to sleep." + +"I am half asleep already, Harry. Good-night," she returned. + +I know nothing more about anything till I in the morning, except that I +had a dream, which I have not made up my mind yet whether I shall tell +or not. We slept soundly--God's baby and all. + + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +MY DREAM. + + + + + +I think I will tell the dream I had. I cannot well account for the +beginning of it: the end will appear sufficiently explicable to those +who are quite satisfied that they get rid of the mystery of a thing when +they can associate it with something else with which they are familiar. +Such do not care to see that the thing with which they associate it +may be as mysterious as the other. For although use too often destroys +marvel, it cannot destroy the marvellous. The origin of our thoughts is +just as wonderful as the origin of our dreams. + +In my dream I found myself in a pleasant field full of daisies and white +clover. The sun was setting. The wind was going one way, and the shadows +another. I felt rather tired, I neither knew nor thought why. With an +old man's prudence, I would not sit down upon the grass, but looked +about for a more suitable seat. Then I saw, for often in our dreams +there is an immediate response to our wishes, a long, rather narrow +stone lying a few yards from me. I wondered how it could have come +there, for there were no mountains or rocks near: the field was part of +a level country. Carelessly, I sat down upon it astride, and watched the +setting of the sun. Somehow I fancied that his light was more sorrowful +than the light of the setting sun should be, and I began to feel very +heavy at the heart. No sooner had the last brilliant spark of his +light vanished, than I felt the stone under me begin to move. With the +inactivity of a dreamer, however, I did not care to rise, but wondered +only what would come next. My seat, after several strange tumbling +motions, seemed to rise into the air a little way, and then I found that +I was astride of a gaunt, bony horse--a skeleton horse almost, only he +had a gray skin on him. He began, apparently with pain, as if his joints +were all but too stiff to move, to go forward in the direction in +which he found himself. I kept my seat. Indeed, I never thought of +dismounting. I was going on to meet what might come. Slowly, feebly, +trembling at every step, the strange steed went, and as he went his +joints seemed to become less stiff, and he went a little faster. All at +once I found that the pleasant field had vanished, and that we were on +the borders of a moor. Straight forward the horse carried me, and the +moor grew very rough, and he went stumbling dreadfully, but always +recovering himself. Every moment it seemed as if he would fall to rise +no more, but as often he found fresh footing. At length the surface +became a little smoother, and he began a horrible canter which lasted +till he reached a low, broken wall, over which he half walked, half fell +into what was plainly an ancient neglected churchyard. The mounds were +low and covered with rank grass. In some parts, hollows had taken the +place of mounds. Gravestones lay in every position except the level or +the upright, and broken masses of monuments were scattered about. My +horse bore me into the midst of it, and there, slow and stiff as he +had risen, he lay down again. Once more I was astride of a long narrow +stone. And now I found that it was an ancient gravestone which I knew +well in a certain Sussex churchyard, the top of it carved into the rough +resemblance of a human skeleton--that of a man, tradition said, who had +been killed by a serpent that came out of a bottomless pool in the next +field. How long I sat there I do not know; but at last I saw the faint +gray light of morning begin to appear in front of me. The horse of death +had carried me eastward. The dawn grew over the top of a hill that here +rose against the horizon. But it was a wild dreary dawn--a blot of gray +first, which then stretched into long lines of dreary yellow and gray, +looking more like a blasted and withered sunset than a fresh sunrise. +And well it suited that waste, wide, deserted churchyard, if churchyard +I ought to call it where no church was to be seen--only a vast hideous +square of graves. Before me I noticed especially one old grave, the flat +stone of which had broken in two and sunk in the middle. While I sat +with my eyes fixed on this stone, it began to move; the crack in the +middle closed, then widened again as the two halves of the stone were +lifted up, and flung outward, like the two halves of a folding door. +From the grave rose a little child, smiling such perfect contentment as +if he had just come from kissing his mother. His little arms had flung +the stones apart, and as he stood on the edge of the grave next to me, +they remained outspread from the action for a moment, as if blessing the +sleeping people. Then he came towards me with the same smile, and took +my hand. I rose, and he led me away over another broken wall towards the +hill that lay before us. And as we went the sun came nearer, the pale +yellow bars flushed into orange and rosy red, till at length the edges +of the clouds were swept with an agony of golden light, which even my +dreamy eyes could not endure, and I awoke weeping for joy. + +This waking woke my wife, who said in some alarm: + +"What is the matter, husband?" + +So I told her my dream, and how in my sleep my gladness had overcome me. + +"It was this little darling that set you dreaming so," she said, and +turning, put the baby in my arms. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE NEW BABY. + + + + + +I will not attempt to describe the astonishment of the members of our +household, each in succession, as the news of the child spread. Charlie +was heard shouting across the stable-yard to his brother: + +"Harry, Harry! Mamma has got a new baby. Isn't it jolly?" + +"Where did she get it?" cried Harry in return. + +"In the parsley-bed, I suppose," answered Charlie, and was nearer right +than usual, for the information on which his conclusion was founded had +no doubt been imparted as belonging to the history of the human race. + +But my reader can easily imagine the utter bewilderment of those of +the family whose knowledge of human affairs would not allow of their +curiosity being so easily satisfied as that of the boys. In them was +exemplified that confusion of the intellectual being which is produced +by the witness of incontestable truth to a thing incredible--in which +case the probability always is, that the incredibility results from +something in the mind of the hearer falsely associated with and +disturbing the true perception of the thing to which witness is borne. + +Nor was the astonishment confined to the family, for it spread over the +parish that Mrs. Walton had got another baby. And so, indeed, she had. +And seldom has baby met with a more hearty welcome than this baby met +with from everyone of our family. They hugged it first, and then asked +questions. And that, I say, is the right way of receiving every good +gift of God. Ask what questions you will, but when you see that the gift +is a good one, make sure that you take it. There is plenty of time for +you to ask questions afterwards. Then the better you love the gift, the +more ready you will be to ask, and the more fearless in asking. + +The truth, however, soon became known. And then, strange to relate, we +began to receive visits of condolence. O, that poor baby! how it was +frowned upon, and how it had heads shaken over it, just because it was +not Ethelwyn's baby! It could not help that, poor darling! + +"Of course, you'll give information to the police," said, I am sorry to +say, one of my brethren in the neighbourhood, who had the misfortune to +be a magistrate as well. + +"Why?" I asked. + +"Why! That they may discover the parents, to be sure." + +"Wouldn't it be as hard a matter to prove the parentage, as it would be +easy to suspect it?" I asked. "And just think what it would be to give +the baby to a woman who not only did not want her, but who was not her +mother. But if her own mother came to claim her now, I don't say I would +refuse her, but I should think twice about giving her up after she had +once abandoned her for a whole night in the open air. In fact I don't +want the parents." + +"But you don't want the child." + +"How do you know that?" I returned--rather rudely, I am afraid, for I +am easily annoyed at anything that seems to me heartless--about children +especially. + +"O! of course, if you want to have an orphan asylum of your own, no one +has a right to interfere. But you ought to consider other people." + +"That is just what I thought I was doing," I answered; but he went on +without heeding my reply-- + +"We shall all be having babies left at our doors, and some of us are not +so fond of them as you are. Remember, you are your brother's keeper." + +"And my sister's too," I answered. "And if the question lies between +keeping a big, burly brother like you, and a tiny, wee sister like that, +I venture to choose for myself." + +"She ought to go to the workhouse," said the magistrate--a friendly, +good-natured man enough in ordinary--and rising, he took his hat and +departed. + + +This man had no children. So he was--or was not, so much to blame. +Which? _I_ say the latter. + +Some of Ethelwyn's friends were no less positive about her duty in the +affair. I happened to go into the drawing-room during the visit of one +of them--Miss Bowdler. + +"But, my dear Mrs. Walton," she was saying, "you'll be having all the +tramps in England leaving their babies at your door." + +"The better for the babies," interposed I, laughing. + +"But you don't think of your wife, Mr. Walton." + +"Don't I? I thought I did," I returned dryly. + +"Depend upon it, you'll repent it." + +"I hope I shall never repent of anything but what is bad." + +"Ah! but, really! it's not a thing to be made game of." + +"Certainly not. The baby shall be treated with all due respect in this +house." + +"What a provoking man you are! You know what I mean well enough." + +"As well as I choose to know--certainly," I answered. + +This lady was one of my oldest parishioners, and took liberties for +which she had no other justification, except indeed an unhesitating +belief in the superior rectitude of whatever came into her own head +can be counted as one. When she was gone, my wife turned to me with a +half-comic, half-anxious look, and said: + +"But it would be rather alarming, Harry, if this were to get abroad, and +we couldn't go out at the door in the morning without being in danger of +stepping on a baby on the door-step." + +"You might as well have said, when you were going to be married, 'If God +should send me twenty children, whatever should I do?' He who sent us +this one can surely prevent any more from coming than he wants to come. +All that we have to think of is to do right--not the consequences of +doing right. But leaving all that aside, you must not suppose that +wandering mothers have not even the attachment of animals to their +offspring. There are not so many that are willing to part with babies as +all that would come to. If you believe that God sent this one, that is +enough for the present. If he should send another, we should know by +that that we had to take it in." + +My wife said the baby was a beauty. I could see that she was a plump, +well-to-do baby; and being by nature no particular lover of babies as +babies--that is, feeling none of the inclination of mothers and nurses +and elder sisters to eat them, or rather, perhaps, loving more for what +I believed than what I saw--that was all I could pretend to discover. +But even the aforementioned elderly parishioner was compelled to allow +before three months were over that little Theodora--for we turned the +name of my youngest daughter upside down for her--"was a proper child." +To none, however, did she seem to bring so much delight as to our dear +Constance. Oftener than not, when I went into her room, I found the +sleepy, useless little thing lying beside her on the bed, and her +staring at it with such loving eyes! How it began, I do not know, but it +came at last to be called Connie's Dora, or Miss Connie's baby, all over +the house, and nothing pleased Connie better. Not till she saw this did +her old nurse take quite kindly to the infant; for she regarded her as +an interloper, who had no right to the tenderness which was lavished +upon her. But she had no sooner given in than the baby began to grow +dear to her as well as to the rest. In fact, the house was ere long +full of nurses. The staff included everyone but myself, who only +occasionally, at the entreaty of some one or other of the younger ones, +took her in my arms. + +But before she was three months old, anxious thoughts began to intrude, +all centering round the question in what manner the child was to +be brought up. Certainly there was time enough to think of this, as +Ethelwyn constantly reminded me; but what made me anxious was that I +could not discover the principle that ought to guide me. Now no one can +tell how soon a principle in such a case will begin, even unconsciously, +to operate; and the danger was that the moment when it ought to begin to +operate would be long past before the principle was discovered, except +I did what I could now to find it out. I had again and again to remind +myself that there was no cause for anxiety; for that I might certainly +claim the enlightenment which all who want to do right are sure to +receive; but still I continued uneasy just from feeling a vacancy where +a principle ought to have been. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + + + + + +During all this time Connie made no very perceptible progress--in the +recovery of her bodily powers, I mean, for her heart and mind advanced +remarkably. We held our Sunday-evening assemblies in her room pretty +regularly, my occasional absence in the exercise of my duties alone +interfering with them. In connection with one of these, I will show how +I came at length to make up my mind as to what I would endeavour to +keep before me as my object in the training of little Theodora, always +remembering that my preparation might be used for a very different end +from what I purposed. If my intention was right, the fact that it might +be turned aside would not trouble me. + +We had spoken a good deal together about the infancy and childhood of +Jesus, about the shepherds, and the wise men, and the star in the east, +and the children of Bethlehem. I encouraged the thoughts of all the +children to rest and brood upon the fragments that are given us, and, +believing that the imagination is one of the most powerful of all the +faculties for aiding the growth of truth in the mind, I would ask them +questions as to what they thought he might have said or done in ordinary +family occurrences, thus giving a reality in their minds to this part +of his history, and trying to rouse in them a habit of referring their +conduct to the standard of his. If we do not thus employ our imagination +on sacred things, his example can be of no use to us except in exactly +corresponding circumstances--and when can such occur from one end to +another of our lives? The very effort to think how he would have done, +is a wonderful purifier of the conscience, and, even if the conclusion +arrived at should not be correct from lack of sufficient knowledge of +his character and principles, it will be better than any that can be +arrived at without this inquiry. Besides, the asking of such questions +gave me good opportunity, through the answers they returned, of seeing +what their notions of Jesus and of duty were, and thus of discovering +how to help the dawn of the light in their growing minds. Nor let anyone +fear that such employment of the divine gift of imagination will lead to +foolish vagaries and useless inventions; while the object is to discover +the right way--the truth--there is little danger of that. Besides, there +I was to help hereby in the actual training of their imaginations to +truth and wisdom. To aid in this, I told them some of the stories that +were circulated about him in the early centuries of the church, but +which the church has rejected as of no authority; and I showed them how +some of them could not be true, because they were so unlike those words +and actions which we had the best of reasons for receiving as true; and +how one or two of them might be true--though, considering the company in +which we found them, we could say nothing for certain concerning them. +And such wise things as those children said sometimes! It is marvellous +how children can reach the heart of the truth at once. Their utterances +are sometimes entirely concordant with the results arrived at through +years of thought by the earnest mind--results which no mind would ever +arrive at save by virtue of the child-like in it. + +Well, then, upon this evening I read to them the story of the boy Jesus +in the temple. Then I sought to make the story more real to them by +dwelling a little on the growing fears of his parents as they went from +group to group of their friends, tracing back the road towards Jerusalem +and asking every fresh company they knew if they had seen their boy, +till at length they were in great trouble when they could not find him +even in Jerusalem. Then came the delight of his mother when she did find +him at last, and his answer to what she said. Now, while I thus lingered +over the simple story, my children had put many questions to me about +Jesus being a boy, and not seeming to know things which, if he was God, +he must have known, they thought. To some of these I had just to reply +that I did not understand myself, and therefore could not teach them; to +others, that I could explain them, but that they were not yet, some of +them, old enough to receive and understand my explanation; while others +I did my best to answer as simply as I could. But at this point we +arrived at a question put by Wynnie, to answer which aright I considered +of the greatest importance. Wynnie said: + +"That is just one of the things about Jesus that have always troubled +me, papa." + +"What is, my dear?" I said; for although I thought I knew well enough +what she meant, I wished her to set it forth in her own words, both for +her own sake, and the sake of the others, who would probably understand +the difficulty much better if she presented it herself. + +"I mean that he spoke to his mother--" + +"Why don't you say _mamma_, Wynnie?" said Charlie. "She was his own +mamma, wasn't she, papa?" + +"Yes, my dear; but don't you know that the shoemaker's children down in +the village always call their mamma _mother_?" + +"Yes; but they are shoemaker's children." + +"Well, Jesus was one of that class of people. He was the son of a +carpenter. He called his mamma, _mother_. But, Charlie, _mother_ is the +more beautiful word of the two, by a great deal, I think. _Lady_ is a +very pretty word; but _woman_ is a very beautiful word. Just so with +_mamma_ and _mother_. _Mamma_ is pretty, but _mother_ is beautiful." + +"Why don't we always say _mother_ then?" + +"Just because it is the most beautiful, and so we keep it for +Sundays--that is, for the more solemn times of life. We don't want it to +get common to us with too much use. We may think it as much as we +like; thinking does not spoil it; but saying spoils many things, and +especially beautiful words. Now we must let Wynnie finish what she was +saying." + +"I was saying, papa, that I can't help feeling as if--I know it can't be +true--but I feel as if Jesus spoke unkindly to his mother when he said +that to her." + +I looked at the page and read the words, "How is it that ye sought me? +wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" And I sat silent +for a while. + +"Why don't you speak, papa?" said Harry. + +"I am sitting wondering at myself, Harry," I said. "Long after I was +your age, Wynnie, I remember quite well that those words troubled me as +they now trouble you. But when I read them over now, they seemed to me +so lovely that I could hardly read them aloud. I can recall the fact +that they troubled me, but the mode of the fact I scarcely can recall. +I can hardly see now wherein lay the hurt or offence the words gave me. +And why is that? Simply because I understand them now, and I did not +understand them then. I took them as uttered with a tone of reproof; +now I hear them as uttered with a tone of loving surprise. But really I +cannot feel sure what it was that I did not like. And I am confident +it is so with a great many things that we reject. We reject them simply +because we do not understand them. Therefore, indeed, we cannot with +truth be said to reject them at all. It is some false appearance that +we reject. Some of the grandest things in the whole realm of truth +look repellent to us, and we turn away from them, simply because we are +not--to use a familiar phrase--we are not up to them. They appear to us, +therefore, to be what they are not. Instruction sounds to the proud +man like reproof; illumination comes on the vain man like scorn; the +manifestation of a higher condition of motive and action than his own, +falls on the self-esteeming like condemnation; but it is consciousness +and conscience working together that produce this impression; the result +is from the man himself, not from the higher source. From the truth +comes the power, but the shape it assumes to the man is from the man +himself." + +"You are quite beyond me now, papa," said Wynnie. + +"Well, my dear," I answered, "I will return to the words of the boy +Jesus, instead of talking more about them; and when I have shown you +what they mean, I think you will allow that that feeling you have about +them is all and altogether an illusion." + +"There is one thing first," said Connie, "that I want to understand. You +said the words of Jesus rather indicated surprise. But how could he be +surprised at anything? If he was God, he must have known everything." + +"He tells us himself that he did not know everything. He says once that +even _he_ did not know one thing--only the Father knew it." + +"But how could that be if he was God?" + +"My dear, that is one of the things that it seems to me impossible I +should understand. Certainly I think his trial as a man would not have +been perfect had he known everything. He too had to live by faith in +the Father. And remember that for the Divine Sonship on earth perfect +knowledge was not necessary, only perfect confidence, absolute +obedience, utter holiness. There is a great tendency in our sinful +natures to put knowledge and power on a level with goodness. It was one +of the lessons of our Lord's life that they are not so; that the one +grand thing in humanity is faith in God; that the highest in God is his +truth, his goodness, his rightness. But if Jesus was a real man, and no +mere appearance of a man, is it any wonder that, with a heart full to +the brim of the love of God, he should be for a moment surprised that +his mother, whom he loved so dearly, the best human being he knew, +should not have taken it as a matter of course that if he was not with +her, he must be doing something his Father wanted him to do? For this is +just what his answer means. To turn it into the ordinary speech of our +day, it is just this: 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you know that I +must of course be doing something my Father had given me to do?' Just +think of the quiet sweetness of confidence in this. And think what a +life his must have been up to that twelfth year of his, that such an +expostulation with his mother was justified. It must have had reference +to a good many things that had passed before then, which ought to have +been sufficient to make Mary conclude that her missing boy must be about +God's business somewhere. If her heart had been as full of God and God's +business as his, she would not have been in the least uneasy about +him. And here is the lesson of his whole life: it was all his Father's +business. The boy's mind and hands were full of it. The man's mind and +hands were full of it. And the risen conqueror was full of it still. For +the Father's business is everything, and includes all work that is worth +doing. We may say in a full grand sense, that there is nothing but the +Father and his business." + +"But we have so many things to do that are not his business," said +Wynnie, with a sigh of oppression. + +"Not one, my darling. If anything is not his business, you not only have +not to do it, but you ought not to do it. Your words come from the want +of spiritual sight. We cannot see the truth in common things--the +will of God in little everyday affairs, and that is how they become so +irksome to us. Show a beautiful picture, one full of quiet imagination +and deep thought, to a common-minded man; he will pass it by with +some slight remark, thinking it very ordinary and commonplace. That is +because he is commonplace. Because our minds are so commonplace, have so +little of the divine imagination in them, therefore we do not recognise +the spiritual meaning and worth, we do not perceive the beautiful will +of God, in the things required of us, though they are full of it. But +if we do them we shall thus make acquaintance with them, and come to see +what is in them. The roughest kernel amongst them has a tree of life in +its heart." + +"I wish he would tell me something to do," said Charlie. "Wouldn't I do +it!" + +I made no reply, but waited for an opportunity which I was pretty sure +was at hand, while I carried the matter a little further. + +"But look here, Wynnie; listen to this," I said, "'And he went down with +them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject unto them.' Was that not +doing his Father's business too? Was it not doing the business of his +Father in heaven to honour his father and his mother, though he +knew that his days would not be long in that land? Did not his whole +teaching, his whole doing, rest on the relation of the Son to the +Father and surely it was doing his Father's business then to obey his +parents--to serve them, to be subject to them. It is true that the +business God gives a man to do may be said to be the peculiar walk in +life into which he is led, but that is only as distinguishing it from +another man's peculiar business. God gives us all our business, and the +business which is common to humanity is more peculiarly God's business +than that which is one man's and not another's--because it lies nearer +the root, and is essential. It does not matter whether a man is a farmer +or a physician, but it greatly matters whether he is a good son, a good +husband, and so on. O my children!" I said, "if the world could but be +brought to believe--the world did I say?--if the best men in the world +could only see, as God sees it, that service is in itself the noblest +exercise of human powers, if they could see that God is the hardest +worker of all, and that his nobility are those who do the most service, +surely it would alter the whole aspect of the church. Menial offices, +for instance, would soon cease to be talked of with that contempt +which shows that there is no true recognition of the fact that the same +principle runs through the highest duty and the lowest--that the +lowest work which God gives a man to do must be in its nature noble, as +certainly noble as the highest. This would destroy condescension, which +is the rudeness, yes, impertinence, of the higher, as it would destroy +insolence, which is the rudeness of the lower. He who recognised the +dignity of his own lower office, would thereby recognise the superiority +of the higher office, and would be the last either to envy or degrade +it. He would see in it his own--only higher, only better, and revere it. +But I am afraid I have wearied you, my children." + +"O, no, papa!" said the elder ones, while the little ones gaped and said +nothing. + +"I know I am in danger of doing so when I come to speak upon this +subject: it has such a hold of my heart and mind!--Now, Charlie, my boy, +go to bed." + +But Charlie was very comfortable before the fire, on the rug, and did +not want to go. First one shoulder went up, and then the other, and the +corners of his mouth went down, as if to keep the balance true. He did +not move to go. I gave him a few moments to recover himself, but as the +black frost still endured, I thought it was time to hold up a mirror to +him. When he was a very little boy, he was much in the habit of getting +out of temper, and then as now, he made a face that was hideous to +behold; and to cure him of this, I used to make him carry a little +mirror about his neck, that the means might be always at hand of +showing himself to him: it was a sort of artificial conscience which, +by enabling him to see the picture of his own condition, which the +face always is, was not unfrequently operative in rousing his real +conscience, and making him ashamed of himself. But now the mirror I +wanted to hold up to him was a past mood, in the light of which the +present would show what it was. + +"Charlie," I said, "a little while ago you were wishing that God would +give you something to do. And now when he does, you refuse at once, +without even thinking about it." + +"How do you know that God wants me to go to bed?" said Charlie, with +something of surly impertinence, which I did not meet with reproof at +once because there was some sense along with the impudence. + +"I know that God wants you to do what I tell you, and to do it +pleasantly. Do you think the boy Jesus would have put on such a face as +that--I wish I had the little mirror to show it to you--when his mother +told him it was time to go to bed?" + +And now Charlie began to look ashamed. I left the truth to work in +him, because I saw it was working. Had I not seen that, I should have +compelled him to go at once, that he might learn the majesty of law. +But now that his own better self, the self enlightened of the light that +lighteneth every man that cometh into the world, was working, time might +well be afforded it to work its perfect work. I went on talking to the +others. In the space of not more than one minute, he rose and came to +me, looking both good and ashamed, and held up his face to kiss me, +saying, "Goodnight, papa." I bade him good-night, and kissed him more +tenderly than usual, that he might know that it was all right between +us. I required no formal apology, no begging of my pardon, as some +parents think right. It seemed enough to me that his heart was turned. +It is a terrible thing to run the risk of changing humility into +humiliation. Humiliation is one of the proudest conditions in the human +world. When he felt that it would be a relief to say more explicitly, +"Father, I have sinned," then let him say it; but not till then. To +compel manifestation is one surest way to check feeling. + +My readers must not judge it silly to record a boy's unwillingness to go +to bed. It is precisely the same kind of disobedience that some of them +are guilty of themselves, and that in things not one whit more important +than this, only those things happen to be _their_ wish at the moment, +and not Charlie's, and so gain their superiority. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THEODORA'S DOOM. + + + + + +Try not to get weary, respected reader, of so much of what I am afraid +most people will call tiresome preaching. But I know if you get anything +practicable out of it, you will not be so soon tired of it. I promise +you more story by and by. Only an old man, like an old horse, must be +allowed to take very much his own way--go his own pace, I should have +said. I am afraid there must be a little more of a similar sort in this +chapter. + +On the Monday morning I set out to visit one or two people whom the +severity of the weather had kept from church on the Sunday. The last +severe frost, as it turned out, of the season, was possessing the earth. +The sun was low in the wintry sky, and what seemed a very cold mist up +in the air hid him from the earth. I was walking along a path in a field +close by a hedge. A tree had been cut down, and lay upon the grass. +A short distance from it lay its own figure marked out in hoar-frost. +There alone was there any hoar-frost on the field; the rest was all of +the loveliest tenderest green. I will not say the figure was such an +exact resemblance as a photograph would have been; still it was an +indubitable likeness. It appeared to the hasty glance that not a branch +not a knot of the upper side of the tree at least was left unrepresented +in shining and glittering whiteness upon the green grass. It was very +pretty, and, I confess, at first, very puzzling. I walked on, meditating +on the phenomenon, till at length I found out its cause. The hoar-frost +had been all over the field in the morning. The sun had been shining for +a time, and had melted the frost away, except where he could only cast +a shadow. As he rose and rose, the shadow of the tree had shortened and +come nearer and nearer to its original, growing more and more like as +it came nearer, while the frost kept disappearing as the shadow withdrew +its protection. When the shadow extended only to a little way from +the tree, the clouds came and covered the sun, and there were no more +shadows, only one great one of the clouds. Then the frost shone out in +the shape of the vanished shadow. It lay at a little distance from the +tree, because the tree having been only partially lopped, some great +stumps of boughs held it up from the ground, and thus, when the sun was +low, his light had shone a little way through beneath, as well as over +the trunk. + +My reader needs not be afraid; I am not going to "moralise this +spectacle with a thousand similes." I only tell it him as a very pretty +phenomenon. But I confess I walked on moralising it. Any new thing in +nature--I mean new in regard to my knowledge, of course--always made me +happy; and I was full of the quiet pleasure it had given me and of the +thoughts it had brought me, when, as I was getting over a stile, whom +should I see in the next field, coming along the footpath, but the +lady who had made herself so disagreeable about Theodora. The sight was +rather a discord in my feeling at that moment; perhaps it would have +been so at any moment. But I prepared myself to meet her in the strength +of the good humour which nature had just bestowed upon me. For I fear +the failing will go with me to the grave that I am very ready to be +annoyed, even to the loss of my temper, at the urgings of ignoble +prudence. + +"Good-morning, Miss Bowdler," I said. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Walton," she returned "I am afraid you thought me +impertinent the other week; but you know by this time it is only my +way." + +"As such I take it," I answered with a smile. + +She did not seem quite satisfied that I did not defend her from her own +accusation; but as it was a just one, I could not do so. Therefore she +went on to repeat the offence by way of justification. + +"It was all for Mrs. Walton's sake. You ought to consider her, Mr. +Walton. She has quite enough to do with that dear Connie, who is +likely to be an invalid all her days--too much to take the trouble of a +beggar's brat as well." + +"Has Mrs. Walton been complaining to you about it, Miss Bowdler?" I +asked. + +"O dear, no!" she answered. "She is far too good to complain of +anything. That's just why her friends must look after her a bit, Mr. +Walton." + +"Then I beg you won't speak disrespectfully of my little Theodora." + +"O dear me! no. Not at all. I don't speak disrespectfully of her." + +"Even amongst the class of which she comes, 'a beggar's brat' would be +regarded as bad language." + +"I beg your pardon, I'm sure, Mr. Walton! If you _will_ take offence--" + +"I do take offence. And you know there is One who has given especial +warning against offending the little ones." + +Miss Bowdler walked away in high displeasure--let me hope in conviction +of sin as well. She did not appear in church for the next two Sundays. +Then she came again. But she called very seldom at the Hall after this, +and I believe my wife was not sorry. + +Now whether it came in any way from what that lady had said as to my +wife's trouble with Constance and Theodora together, I can hardly tell; +but, before I had reached home, I had at last got a glimpse of something +like the right way, as it appeared to me, of bringing up Theodora. When +I went into the house, I looked for my wife to have a talk with her +about it; but, indeed, it always necessary to find her every time I got +home. I found her in Connie's room as I had expected. Now although we +were never in the habit of making mysteries of things in which there was +no mystery, and talked openly before our children, and the more openly +the older they grew, yet there were times when we wanted to have our +talks quite alone, especially when we had not made up our minds about +something. So I asked Ethelwyn to walk out with me. + +"I'm afraid I can't just this moment, husband," she answered. She was in +the way of using that form of address, for she said it meant everything +without saying it aloud. "I can't just this moment, for there is no one +at liberty to stay with Connie." + +"O, never mind me, mamma," said Connie cheerfully. "Theodora will take +care of me," and she looked fondly at the child, who was lying by her +side fast asleep. + +"There!" I said. And both, looked up surprised, for neither knew what +I meant. "I will tell you afterwards," I said, laughing. "Come along, +Ethel." + +"You can ring the bell, you know, Connie, if you should want anything, +or your baby should wake up and be troublesome. You won't want me long, +will you, husband?" + +"I'm not sure about that. You must tell Susan to watch for the bell." + +Susan was the old nurse. + +Ethel put on her hooded cloak, and we went out together. I took her +across to the field where I had seen the hoary shadow. The sun had not +shone out, and I hoped it would be there to gladden her dear eyes as it +had gladdened mine; but it was gone. The warmth of the sun, without his +direct rays, had melted it away, as sacred influences will sometimes do +with other shadows, without the mind knowing any more than the grass how +the shadow departed. There, reader! I have got a bit of a moral in about +it before you knew what I was doing. But I was sorry my wife could see +it only through my eyes and words. Then I told her about Miss Bowdler, +and what she had said. Ethel was very angry at her impertinence in +speaking so to me. That was a wife's feeling, you know, and perhaps +excusable in the first impression of the thing. + +"She seems to think," she said, "that she was sent into the world to +keep other people right instead of herself. I am very glad you set her +down, as the maids say." + +"O, I don't think there's much harm in her," I returned, which was easy +generosity, seeing my wife was taking my part. "Indeed, I am not sure +that we are not both considerably indebted to her; for it was after I +met her that a thought came into my head as to how we ought to do with +Theodora." + +"Still troubling yourself about that, husband?" + +"The longer the difficulty lasts, the more necessary is it that it +should be met," I answered. "Our measures must begin sometime, and when, +who can tell? We ought to have them in our heads, or they will never +begin at all." + +"Well, I confess they are rather of a general nature at +present--belonging to humanity rather than the individual, as you would +say--consisting chiefly in washing, dressing, feeding, and apostrophe, +varied with lullabying. But our hearts are a better place for our +measures than our heads, aren't they?" + +"Certainly; I walk corrected. Only there's no fear about your heart. I'm +not quite so sure about your head." + +"Thank you, husband. But with you for a head it doesn't matter, does +it?" + +"I don't know that. People should always strengthen the weaker part, for +no chain is stronger than its weakest link; no fortification stronger +than its most assailable point. But, seriously, wife, I trust your head +nearly, though not quite, as much as your heart. Now to go to business. +There's one thing we have both made up our minds about--that there is +to be no concealment with the child. God's fact must be known by her. It +would be cruel to keep the truth from her, even if it were not sure to +come upon her with a terrible shock some day. She must know from +the first, by hearing it talked of--not by solemn and private +communication--that she came out of the shrubbery. That's settled, is it +not?" + +"Certainly. I see that to be the right way," responded Ethelwyn. + +"Now, are we bound to bring her up exactly as our own, or are we not?" + +"We are bound to do as well for her as for our own." + +"Assuredly. But if we brought her up just as our own, would that, the +facts being as they are, be to do as well for her as for our own?" + +"I doubt it; for other people would not choose to receive her as we have +done." + +"That is true. She would be continually reminded of her origin. Not that +that in itself would be any evil; but as they would do it by excluding +or neglecting her, or, still worse, by taking liberties with her, it +would be a great pain. But keeping that out of view, would it be good +for herself, knowing what she will know, to be thus brought up? Would it +not be kinder to bring her up in a way that would make it easier for +her to relieve the gratitude which I trust she will feel, not for our +sakes--I hope we are above doing anything for the sake of the gratitude +which will be given for it, and which is so often far beyond the worth +of the thing done--" + + "Alas! the gratitude of men + Hath oftener left me mourning," + +said Ethel. + +"Ah! you understand that now, my Ethel!" + +"Yes, thank you, I do." + +"But we must wish for gratitude for others' sake, though we may be +willing to go without it for our own. Indeed, gratitude is often just as +painful as Wordsworth there represents it. It makes us so ashamed; makes +us think how much more we _might_ have done; how lovely a thing it is to +give in return for such common gifts as ours; how needy the man or woman +must be in whom a trifle awakes so much emotion." + +"Yes; but we must not in justice think that it is merely that our little +doing seems great to them: it is the kindness shown them therein, for +which, often, they are more grateful than for the gift, though they +can't show the difference in their thanks." + +"And, indeed, are not aware of it themselves, though it is so. And yet, +the same remarks hold good about the kindness as about the gift. But +to return to Theodora. If we put her in a way of life that would be +recognisant of whence she came, and how she had been brought thence, +might it not be better for her? Would it not be building on the truth? +Would she not be happier for it?" + + +"You are putting general propositions, while all the time you have +something particular and definite in your own mind; and that is not fair +to my place in the conference," said Ethel. "In fact, you think you +are trying to approach me wisely, in order to persuade, I will not +say _wheedle_, me into something. It's a good thing you have the +harmlessness of the dove, Harry, for you've got the other thing." + +"Well, then, I will be as plain as ever I can be, only premising that +what you call the cunning of the serpent--" + +"Wisdom, Harry, not cunning." + +"Is only that I like to give my arguments before my proposition. But +here it is--bare and defenceless, only--let me warn you--with a whole +battery behind it: it is, to bring up little Theodora as a servant to +Constance." + +My wife laughed. + +"Well," she said, "for one who says so much about not thinking of the +morrow, you do look rather far forward." + +"Not with any anxiety, however, if only I know that I am doing right." + +"But just think: the child is about three months old." + +"Well; Connie will be none the worse that she is being trained for her. +I don't say that she is to commence her duties at once." + +"But Connie may be at the head of a house of her own long before that." + +"The training won't be lost to the child though. But I much fear, my +love, that Connie will never be herself again. There is no sign of it. +And Turner does not give much hope." + +"O Harry, Harry, don't say so! I can't bear it. To think of the darling +child lying like that all her life!" + +"It is sad, indeed; but no such awful misfortune surely, Ethel. Haven't +you seen, as well as I, that the growth of that child's nature since her +accident has been marvellous? Ten times rather would I have her lying +there such as she is, than have her well and strong and silly, with her +bonnets inside instead of outside her head." + +"Yes, but she needn't have been like that. Wynnie never will." + +"Well, but God does all things not only well, but best, absolutely best. +But just think what it would be in any circumstances to have a maid +that had begun to wait upon her from the first days that she was able to +toddle after something to fetch it for her." + +"Won't it be like making a slave of her?" + +"Won't it be like giving her a divine freedom from the first? The lack +of service is the ruin of humanity." + +"But we can't train her then like one of our own." + +"Why not? Could we not give her all the love and all the teaching?" + +"Because it would not be fair to give her the education of a lady, and +then make a servant of her." + +"You forget that the service would be part of her training from the +first; and she would know no change of position in it. When we tell her +that she was found in the shrubbery, we will add that we think God sent +her to take care of Constance. I do not believe myself that you can have +perfect service except from a lady. Do not forget the true notion of +service as the essence of Christianity, yea, of divinity. It is not +education that unfits for service: it is the want of it." + +"Well, I know that the reading girls I have had, have, as a rule, served +me worse than the rest." + +"Would you have called one of those girls educated? Or even if they +had been educated, as any of them might well have been, better than +nine-tenths of the girls that go to boarding-schools, you must remember +that they had never been taught service--the highest accomplishment of +all. To that everything aids, when any true feeling of it is there. +But for service of this high sort, the education must begin with the +beginning of the dawn of will. How often have you wished that you had +servants who would believe in you, and serve you with the same truth +with which you regarded them! The servants born in a man's house in +the old times were more like his children than his servants. Here is a +chance for you, as it were of a servant born in your own house. Connie +loves the child: the child will love Connie, and find her delight in +serving her like a little cherub. Not one of the maids to whom you have +referred had ever been taught to think service other than an unavoidable +necessity, the end of life being to serve yourself, not to serve others; +and hence most of them would escape from it by any marriage almost that +they had a chance of making. I don't say all servants are like that; but +I do think that most of them are. I know very well that most mistresses +are as much to blame for this result as the servants are; but we are not +talking about them. Servants nowadays despise work, and yet are forced +to do it--a most degrading condition to be in. But they would not be in +any better condition if delivered from the work. The lady who despises +work is in as bad a condition as they are. The only way to set them +free is to get them to regard service not only as their duty, but as +therefore honourable, and besides and beyond this, in its own +nature divine. In America, the very name of servant is repudiated as +inconsistent with human dignity. There is _no_ dignity but of service. +How different the whole notion of training is now from what it was in +the middle ages! Service was honourable then. No doubt we have made +progress as a whole, but in some things we have degenerated sadly. +The first thing taught then was how to serve. No man could rise to the +honour of knighthood without service. A nobleman's son even had to wait +on his father, or to go into the family of another nobleman, and wait +upon him as a page, standing behind his chair at dinner. This was an +honour. No notion of degradation was in it. It was a necessary step to +higher honour. And what was the next higher honour? To be set free from +service? No. To serve in the harder service of the field; to be a squire +to some noble knight; to tend his horse, to clean his armour, to see +that every rivet was sound, every buckle true, every strap strong; to +ride behind him, and carry his spear, and if more than one attacked him, +to rush to his aid. This service was the more honourable because it was +harder, and was the next step to higher honour yet. And what was this +higher honour? That of knighthood. Wherein did this knighthood consist? +The very word means simply _service_. And for what was the knight thus +waited upon by his squire? That he might be free to do as he pleased? +No, but that he might be free to be the servant of all. By being a +squire first, the servant of one, he learned to rise to the higher rank, +that of servant of all. His horse was tended, this armour observed, +his sword and spear and shield held to his hand, that he might have no +trouble looking after himself, but might be free, strong, unwearied, to +shoot like an arrow to the rescue of any and every one who needed his +ready aid. There was a grand heart of Christianity in that old chivalry, +notwithstanding all its abuses which must be no more laid to its charge +than the burning of Jews and heretics to Christianity. It was the lack +of it, not the presence of it that occasioned the abuses that coexisted +with it. Train our Theodora as a holy child-servant, and there will be +no need to restrain any impulse of wise affection from pouring itself +forth upon her. My firm belief is that we should then love and honour +her far more than if we made her just like one of our own." + +"But what if she should turn out utterly unfit for it?" + +"Ah! then would come an obstacle. But it will not come till that +discovery is made." + +"But if we should be going wrong all the time?" + +"Now, there comes the kind of care that never troubles me, and which I +so strongly object to. It won't hurt her anyhow. And we ought always +to act upon the ideal; it is the only safe ground of action. When that +which contradicts and resists, and would ruin our ideal, opposes us, +then we must take measures; but not till then can we take measures, or +know what measures it may be necessary to take. But the ideal itself +is the only thing worth striving after. Remember what our Lord himself +said: 'Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven +is perfect.'" + +"Well, I will think about it, Harry. There is time enough." + +"Plenty. No time only not to think about it. The more you think about it +the better. If a thing be a good thing, the more you think about it +the better it will look; for its real nature will go on coming out and +showing itself. I cannot doubt that you will soon see how good it is." + +We then went home. It was only two days after that my wife said to me-- + +"I am more than reconciled to your plan, husband. It seems to me +delightful." + +When we reentered Connie's room, we found that her baby had just waked, +and she had managed to get one arm under her, and was trying to comfort +her, for she was crying. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A SPRING CHAPTER. + + + + + +More especially now in my old age, I find myself "to a lingering motion +bound." I would, if I might, tell a tale day by day, hour by hour, +following the movement of the year in its sweet change of seasons. +This may not be, but I will indulge myself now so far as to call this a +spring chapter, and so pass to the summer, when my reader will see why I +have called my story "The Seaboard Parish." + +I was out one day amongst my people, and I found two precious things: +one, a lovely little fact, the other a lovely little primrose. This was +a pinched, dwarfish thing, for the spring was but a baby herself, and so +could not mother more than a brave-hearted weakling. The frost lay all +about it under the hedge, but its rough leaves kept it just warm enough, +and hardly. Now, I should never have pulled the little darling; it would +have seemed a kind of small sacrilege committed on the church of nature, +seeing she had but this one; only with my sickly cub at home, I felt +justified in ravening like a beast of prey. I even went so far in my +greed as to dig up the little plant with my fingers, and bear it, leaves +and all, with a lump of earth about it to keep it alive, home to my +little woman--a present from the outside world which she loved so much. +And as I went there dawned upon me the recollection of a little mirror +in which, if I could find it, she would see it still more lovely than +in a direct looking at itself. So I set myself to find it; for it lay +in fragments in the drawers and cabinets of my memory. And before I got +home I had found all the pieces and put them together; and then it was +a lovely little sonnet which a friend of mine had written and allowed me +to see many years before. I was in the way of writing verses myself; but +I should have been proud to have written this one. I never could have +done that. Yet, as far as I knew, it had never seen the light through +the windows of print. It was with some difficulty that I got it all +right; but I thought I had succeeded very nearly, if not absolutely, and +I said it over and over, till I was sure I should not spoil its music or +its meaning by halting in the delivery of it. + +"Look here, my Connie, what I have brought you," I said. + +She held out her two white, half-transparent hands, took it as if it had +been a human baby and looked at it lovingly till the tears came in her +eyes. She would have made a tender picture, as she then lay, with her +two hands up, holding the little beauty before her eyes. Then I said +what I have already written about the mirror, and repeated the sonnet to +her. Here it is, and my readers will owe me gratitude for it. My friend +had found the snowdrop in February, and in frost. Indeed he told me that +there was a tolerable sprinkling of snow upon the ground: + + "I know not what among the grass thou art, + Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower, + Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power + To send thine image through them to the heart; + But when I push the frosty leaves apart, + And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower, + Thou growest up within me from that hour, + And through the snow I with the spring depart. + + I have no words. But fragrant is the breath, + Pale Beauty, of thy second life within. + There is a wind that cometh for thy death, + But thou a life immortal dost begin, + Where, in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell + Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!" + +"Will you say it again, papa?" said Connie; "I do not quite understand +it." + +"I will, my dear. But I will do something better as well. I will go and +write it out for you, as soon as I have given you something else that I +have brought." + +"Thank you, papa. And please write it in your best Sunday hand, that I +may read it quite easily." + +I promised, and repeated the poem. + +"I understand it a little better," she said; "but the meaning is just +like the primrose itself, hidden up in its green leaves. When you give +it me in writing, I will push them apart and find it. Now, tell me what +else you have brought me." + +I was greatly pleased with the resemblance the child saw between the +plant and the sonnet; but I did not say anything in praise; I only +expressed satisfaction. Before I began my story, Wynnie came in and sat +down with us. + +"I have been to see Miss Aylmer, this morning," I said. "She feels the +loss of her mother very much, poor thing." + +"How old was she, papa?" asked Connie. + +"She was over ninety, my dear; but she had forgotten how much herself, +and her daughter could not be sure about it. She was a peculiar old +lady, you know. She once reproved me for inadvertently putting my hat on +the tablecloth. 'Mr. Shafton,' she said, 'was one of the old school; he +would never have done that. I don't know what the world is coming to.'" + +My two girls laughed at the idea of their papa being reproved for bad +manners. + +"What did you say, papa?" they asked. + +"I begged her pardon, and lifted it instantly. 'O, it's all right now, +my dear,' she said, 'when you've taken it up again. But I like good +manners, though I live in a cottage now.'" + +"Had she seen better days, then?" asked Wynnie. + +"She was a farmer's daughter, and a farmer's widow. I suppose the chief +difference in her mode of life was that she lived in a cottage instead +of a good-sized farmhouse." + +"But what is the story you have to tell us?" + +"I'm coming to that when you have done with your questions." + +"We have done, papa." + +"After talking awhile, during which she went bustling a little about the +cottage, in order to hide her feelings, as I thought, for she has a good +deal of her mother's sense of dignity about her,--but I want your mother +to hear the story. Run and fetch her, Wynnie." + +"O, do make haste, Wynnie," said Connie. + +When Ethelwyn came, I went on. + +"Miss Aylmer was bustling a little about the cottage, putting things to +rights. All at once she gave a cry of surprise, and said, 'Here it +is, at last!' She had taken up a stuff dress of her mother's, and +was holding it in one hand, while with the other she drew from the +pocket--what do you think?" + +Various guesses were hazarded. + +"No, no--nothing like it. I know you _could_ never guess. Therefore it +would not be fair to keep you trying. A great iron horseshoe. The +old woman of ninety years had in the pocket of the dress that she was +wearing at the very moment when she died, for her death was sudden, an +iron horseshoe." + +"What did it mean? Could her daughter explain it?" + +"That she proceeded at once to do. 'Do you remember, sir,' she said, +'how that horseshoe used to hang on a nail over the chimneypiece?' 'I +do remember having observed it there,' I answered; 'for once when I +took notice of it, I said to your mother, laughing, "I hope you are not +afraid of witches, Mrs. Aylmer?" And she looked a little offended, and +assured me to the contrary.' 'Well,' her daughter went on, 'about three +months ago, I missed it. My mother would not tell me anything about it. +And here it is! I can hardly think she can have carried it about all +that time without me finding it out, but I don't know. Here it is, +anyhow. Perhaps when she felt death drawing nearer, she took it from +somewhere where she had hidden it, and put it in her pocket. If I had +found it in time, I would have put it in her coffin.' 'But why?' I +asked. 'Do tell me the story about it, if you know it.' 'I know it quite +well, for she told me all about it once. It is the shoe of a favourite +mare of my father's--one he used to ride when he went courting my +mother. My grandfather did not like to have a young man coming about the +house, and so he came after the old folks were gone to bed. But he had a +long way to come, and he rode that mare. She had to go over some stones +to get to the stable, and my mother used to spread straw there, for it +was under the window of my grandfather's room, that her shoes mightn't +make a noise and wake him. And that's one of the shoes,' she said, +holding it up to me. 'When the mare died, my mother begged my father for +the one off her near forefoot, where she had so often stood and patted +her neck when my father was mounted to ride home again.'" + +"But it was very naughty of her, wasn't it," said Wynnie, "to do that +without her father's knowledge?" + +"I don't say it was right, my dear. But in looking at what is wrong, we +ought to look for the beginning of the wrong; and possibly we might +find that in this case farther back. If, for instance, a father isn't +a father, we must not be too hard in blaming the child for not being a +child. The father's part has to come first, and teach the child's part. +Now, if I might guess from what I know of the old lady, in whom probably +it was much softened, her father was very possibly a hard, unreasoning, +and unreasonable man--such that it scarcely ever came into the +daughter's head that she had anything else to do with regard to him than +beware of the consequences of letting him know that she had a lover. The +whole thing, I allow, was wrong; but I suspect the father was first to +blame, and far more to blame than the daughter. And that is the more +likely from the high character of the old dame, and the romantic way in +which she clung to the memory of the courtship. A true heart only does +not grow old. And I have, therefore, no doubt that the marriage was a +happy one. Besides, I daresay it was very much the custom of the country +where they were, and that makes some difference." + +"Well, I'm sure, papa, you wouldn't like any of us to go and do like +that," said Wynnie. + +"Assuredly not, my dear," I answered, laughing. "Nor have I any fear of +it. But shall I tell you what I think would be one of the chief things +to trouble me if you did?" + +"If you like, papa. But it sounds rather dreadful to hear such an _if_" +said Wynnie. + +"It would be to think how much I had failed of being such a father to +you as I ought to be, and as I wished to be, if it should prove at all +possible for you to do such a thing." + +"It's too dreadful to talk about, papa," said Wynnie; and the subject +was dropped. + +She was a strange child, this Wynnie of ours. Whereas most people are in +danger of thinking themselves in the right, or insisting that they are +whether they think so or not, she was always thinking herself in the +wrong. Nay more, she always expected to find herself in the wrong. If +the perpetrator of any mischief was inquired after, she always looked +into her own bosom to see whether she could not with justice aver that +she was the doer of the deed. I believe she felt at that moment as if +she had been deceiving me already, and deserved to be driven out of +the house. This came of an over-sensitiveness, accompanied by a general +dissatisfaction with herself, which was not upheld by a sufficient faith +in the divine sympathy, or sufficient confidence of final purification. +She never spared herself; and if she was a little severe on the younger +ones sometimes, no one was yet more indulgent to them. She would eat all +their hard crusts for them, always give them the best and take the worst +for herself. If there was any part in the dish that she was helping that +she thought nobody would like, she invariably assigned it to her own +share. It looked like a determined self-mortification sometimes; but +that was not it. She did not care for her own comfort enough to feel it +any mortification; though I observed that when her mother or I helped +her to anything nice, she ate it with as much relish as the youngest +of the party. And her sweet smile was always ready to meet the least +kindness that was offered her. Her obedience was perfect, and had been +so for very many years, as far as we could see. Indeed, not since she +was the merest child had there been any contest between us. Now, of +course, there was no demand of obedience: she was simply the best +earthly friend that her father and mother had. It often caused me some +passing anxiety to think that her temperament, as well as her devotion +to her home, might cause her great suffering some day; but when those +thoughts came, I just gave her to God to take care of. Her mother +sometimes said to her that she would make an excellent wife for a poor +man. She would brighten up greatly at this, taking it for a compliment +of the best sort. And she did not forget it, as the sequel will show. +She would choose to sit with one candle lit when there were two on the +table, wasting her eyes to save the candles. "Which will you have for +dinner to-day, papa, roast beef or boiled?" she asked me once, when her +mother was too unwell to attend to the housekeeping. And when I replied +that I would have whichever she liked best--"The boiled beef lasts +longest, I think," she said. Yet she was not only as liberal and kind as +any to the poor, but she was, which is rarer, and perhaps more important +for the final formation of a character, carefully just to everyone with +whom she had any dealings. Her sense of law was very strong. Law with +her was something absolute, and not to be questioned. In her childhood +there was one lady to whom for years she showed a decided aversion, +and we could not understand it, for it was the most inoffensive Miss +Boulderstone. When she was nearly grown up, one of us happening to +allude to the fact, she volunteered an explanation. Miss Boulderstone +had happened to call one day when Wynnie, then between three and four +was in disgrace--_in the corner_, in fact. Miss Boulderstone interceded +for her; and this was the whole front of her offending. + +"I _was_ so angry!" she said. "'As if my papa did not know best when I +ought to come out of the corner!' I said to myself. And I couldn't bear +her for ever so long after that." + +Miss Boulderstone, however, though not very interesting, was quite a +favourite before she died. She left Wynnie--for she and her brother +were the last of their race--a death's-head watch, which had been in +the family she did not know how long. I think it is as old as Queen +Elizabeth's time. I took it to London to a skilful man, and had it as +well repaired as its age would admit of; and it has gone ever since, +though not with the greatest accuracy; for what could be expected of an +old death's-head, the most transitory thing in creation? Wynnie wears it +to this day, and wouldn't part with it for the best watch in the world. + +I tell the reader all this about my daughter that he may be the more +able to understand what will follow in due time. He will think that as +yet my story has been nothing but promises. Let him only hope that I +will fulfil them, and I shall be content. + +Mr. Boulderstone did not long outlive his sister. Though the old couple, +for they were rather old before they died, if, indeed, they were not +born old, which I strongly suspect, being the last of a decaying family +that had not left the land on which they were born for a great many +generations--though the old people had not, of what the French call +sentiments, one between them, they were yet capable of a stronger and, +I had almost said, more romantic attachment, than many couples who have +married from love; for the lady's sole trouble in dying was what her +brother _would_ do without her; and from the day of her death, he grew +more and more dull and seemingly stupid. Nothing gave him any pleasure +but having Wynnie to dinner with him. I knew that it must be very dull +for her, but she went often, and I never heard her complain of it, +though she certainly did look fagged--not _bored_, observe, but +fagged--showing that she had been exerting herself to meet the +difficulties of the situation. When the good man died, we found that he +had left all his money in my hands, in trust for the poor of the parish, +to be applied in any way I thought best. This involved me in much +perplexity, for nothing is more difficult than to make money useful to +the poor. But I was very glad of it, notwithstanding. + +My own means were not so large as my readers may think. The property +my wife brought me was much encumbered. With the help of her private +fortune, and the income of several years (not my income from the church, +it may be as well to say), I succeeded in clearing off the encumbrances. +But even then there remained much to be done, if I would be the good +steward that was not to be ashamed at his Lord's coming. First of all +there were many cottages to be built for the labourers on the estate. If +the farmers would not, or could not, help, I must do it; for to provide +decent dwellings for them, was clearly one of the divine conditions in +the righteous tenure of property, whatever the human might be; for it +was not for myself alone, or for myself chiefly, that this property was +given to me; it was for those who lived upon it. Therefore I laid out +what money I could, not only in getting all the land clearly in its +right relation to its owner, but in doing the best I could for those +attached to it who could not help themselves. And when I hint to my +reader that I had some conscience in paying my curate, though, as they +had no children, they did not require so much as I should otherwise have +felt compelled to give them, he will easily see that as my family grew +up I could not have so much to give away of my own as I should have +liked. Therefore this trust of the good Mr. Boulderstone was the more +acceptable to me. + +One word more ere I finish this chapter.--I should not like my friends +to think that I had got tired of our Christmas gatherings, because I +have made no mention of one this year. It had been pretermitted for the +first time, because of my daughter's illness. It was much easier to give +them now than when I lived at the vicarage, for there was plenty of room +in the old hall. But my curate, Mr. Weir, still held a similar gathering +there every Easter. + +Another one word more about him. Some may wonder why I have not +mentioned him or my sister, especially in connection with Connie's +accident. The fact was, that he had taken, or rather I had given him, +a long holiday. Martha had had several disappointing illnesses, and her +general health had suffered so much in consequence that there was even +some fear of her lungs, and a winter in the south of France had +been strongly recommended. Upon this I came in with more than a +recommendation, and insisted that they should go. They had started in +the beginning of October, and had not returned up to the time of which I +am now about to write--somewhere in the beginning of the month of April. +But my sister was now almost quite well, and I was not sorry to think +that I should soon have a little more leisure for such small literary +pursuits as I delighted in--to my own enrichment, and consequently to +the good of my parishioners and friends. + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +AN IMPORTANT LETTER. + + + + + +It was, then, in the beginning of April that I received one morning an +epistle from an old college friend of mine, with whom I had renewed my +acquaintance of late, through the pleasure which he was kind enough to +say he had derived from reading a little book of mine upon the relation +of the mind of St. Paul to the gospel story. His name was Shepherd--a +good name for a clergyman. In his case both Christian name and +patronymic might remind him well of his duty. David Shepherd ought to be +a good clergyman. + +As soon as I had read the letter, I went with it open in my hand to find +my wife. + +"Here is Shepherd," I said, "with a clerical sore-throat, and forced to +give up his duty for a whole summer. He writes to ask me whether, as +he understands I have a curate as good as myself--that is what the old +fellow says--it might not suit me to take my family to his place for +the summer. He assures me I should like it, and that it would do us all +good. His house, he says, is large enough to hold us, and he knows I +should not like to be without duty wherever I was. And so on Read the +letter for yourself, and turn it over in your mind. Weir will come back +so fresh and active that it will be no oppression to him to take the +whole of the duty here. I will run and ask Turner whether it would be +safe to move Connie, and whether the sea-air would be good for her." + +"One would think you were only twenty, husband--you make up your mind so +quickly, and are in such a hurry." + +The fact was, a vision of the sea had rushed in upon me. It was many +years since I had seen the sea, and the thought of looking on it once +more, in its most glorious show, the Atlantic itself, with nothing +between us and America, but the round of the ridgy water, had excited +me so that my wife's reproof, if reproof it was, was quite necessary +to bring me to my usually quiet and sober senses. I laughed, begged old +grannie's pardon, and set off to see Turner notwithstanding, leaving her +to read and ponder Shepherd's letter. + +"What do you think, Turner?" I said, and told him the case. He looked +rather grave. + +"When would you think of going?" he asked. + +"About the beginning of June." + +"Nearly two months," he said, thoughtfully. "And Miss Connie was not the +worse for getting on the sofa yesterday?" + +"The better, I do think." + +"Has she had any increase of pain since?" + +"None, I quite believe; for I questioned her as to that." + +He thought again. He was a careful man, although young. + +"It is a long journey." + +"She could make it by easy stages." + +"It would certainly do her good to breathe the sea-air and have such +a thorough change in every way--if only it could be managed without +fatigue and suffering. I think, if you can get her up every day between +this and that, we shall be justified in trying it at least. The sooner +you get her out of doors the better too; but the weather is scarcely fit +for that yet." + +"A good deal will depend on how she is inclined, I suppose." + +"Yes. But in her case you must not mind that too much. An invalid's +instincts as to eating and drinking are more to be depended upon than +those of a healthy person; but it is not so, I think with regard to +anything involving effort. That she must sometimes be urged to. She must +not judge that by inclination. I have had, in my short practice, two +patients, who considered themselves _bedlars_, as you will find the +common people in the part you are going to, call them--bedridden, that +is. One of them I persuaded to make the attempt to rise, and although +her sense of inability was anything but feigned, and she will be a +sufferer to the end of her days, yet she goes about the house without +much inconvenience, and I suspect is not only physically but morally the +better for it. The other would not consent to try, and I believe lies +there still." + +"The will has more to do with most things than people generally +suppose," I said. "Could you manage, now, do you think, supposing we +resolve to make the experiment, to accompany us the first stage or two?" + +"It is very likely I could. Only you must not depend upon me. I cannot +tell beforehand. You yourself would teach me that I must not be a +respecter of persons, you know." + +I returned to my wife. She was in Connie's room. + +"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you think of it?" + +"Of what?" she asked. + +"Why, of Shepherd's letter, of course," I answered. + +"I've been ordering the dinner since, Harry." + +"The dinner!" I returned with some show of contempt, for I knew my wife +was only teasing me. "What's the dinner to the Atlantic?" + +"What do you mean by the Atlantic, papa?" said Connie, from whose +roguish eyes I could see that her mother had told her all about it, and +that _she_ was not disinclined to get up, if only she could. + +"The Atlantic, my dear, is the name given to that portion of the waters +of the globe which divides Europe from America. I will fetch you the +Universal Gazetteer, if you would like to consult it on the subject." + +"O papa!" laughed Connie; "you know what I mean." + +"Yes; and you know what I mean too, you squirrel!" + +"But do you really mean, papa," she said "that you will take me to the +Atlantic?" + +"If you will only oblige me by getting Well enough to go as soon as +possible." + +The poor child half rose on her elbow, but sank back again with a moan, +which I took for a cry of pain. I was beside her in a moment. + +"My darling! You have hurt yourself!" + +"O no, papa. I felt for the moment as if I could get up if I liked. But +I soon found that I hadn't any back or legs. O! what a plague I am to +you!" + +"On the contrary, you are the nicest plaything in the world, Connie. One +always knows where to find you." + +She half laughed and half cried, and the two halves made a very +bewitching whole. + +"But," I went on, "I mean to try whether my dolly won't bear moving. One +thing is clear, I can't go without it. Do you think you could be got on +the sofa to-day without hurting you?" + +"I am sure I could, papa. I feel better today than I have felt yet. +Mamma, do send for Susan, and get me up before dinner." + +When I went in after a couple of hours or so, I found her lying on the +conch, propped up with pillows. She lay looking out of the window on the +lawn at the back of the house. A smile hovered about her bloodless lips, +and the blue of her eyes, though very gray, looked sunny. Her white face +showed the whiter because her dark brown hair was all about it. We had +had to cut her hair, but it had grown to her neck again. + +"I have been trying to count the daisies on the lawn," she said. + +"What a sharp sight you must have, child!" + +"I see them all as clear as if they were enamelled on that table before +me." + +I was not so anxious to get rid of the daisies as some people are. +Neither did I keep the grass quite so close shaved. + +"But," she went on, "I could not count them, for it gave me the fidgets +in my feet." + +"You don't say so!" I exclaimed. + +She looked at me with some surprise, but concluding that I was only +making a little of my mild fun at her expense, she laughed. + +"Yes. Isn't it a wonderful fact?" she said. + +"It is a fact, my dear, that I feel ready to go on my knees and thank +God for. I may be wrong, but I take it as a sign that you are beginning +to recover a little. But we mustn't make too much of it, lest I should +be mistaken," I added, checking myself, for I feared exciting her too +much. + +But she lay very still; only the tears rose slowly and lay shimmering in +her eyes. After about five minutes, during which we were both silent,-- + +"O papa!" she said, "to think of ever walking out with you again, and +feeling the wind on my face! I can hardly believe it possible." + +"It is so mild, I think you might have half that pleasure at once," I +answered.. + +And I opened the window, let the spring air gently move her hair for one +moment, and then shut it again. Connie breathed deep, and said after a +little pause,-- + +"I had no idea how delightful it was. To think that I have been in the +way of breathing that every moment for so many years and never thought +about it!" + +"It is not always just like that in this climate. But I ought not to +have made that remark when I wanted to make this other: that I suspect +we shall find some day that the loss of the human paradise consists +chiefly in the closing of the human eyes; that at least far more of it +than people think remains about us still, only we are so filled with +foolish desires and evil cares, that we cannot see or hear, cannot even +smell or taste the pleasant things round about us. We have need to +pray in regard to the right receiving of the things of the senses even, +'Lord, open thou our hearts to understand thy word;' for each of these +things is as certainly a word of God as Jesus is the Word of God. He +has made nothing in vain. All is for our teaching. Shall I tell you what +such a breath of fresh air makes me think of?" + +"It comes to me," said Connie, "like forgiveness when I was a little +girl and was naughty. I used to feel just like that." + +"It is the same kind of thing I feel," I said--"as if life from the +Spirit of God were coming into my soul: I think of the wind that bloweth +where it listeth. Wind and spirit are the same word in the Greek; and +the Latin word _spirit_ comes even nearer to what we are saying, for +it is the wind as _breathed_. And now, Connie, I will tell you--and +you will see how I am growing able to talk to you like quite an old +friend--what put me in such a delight with Mr. Shepherd's letter and so +exposed me to be teased by mamma and you. As I read it, there rose up +before me a vision of one sight of the sea which I had when I was a +young man, long before I saw your mamma. I had gone out for a walk along +some high downs. But I ought to tell you that I had been working rather +hard at Cambridge, and the life seemed to be all gone out of me. Though +my holidays had come, they did not feel quite like holidays--not as +holidays used to feel when I was a boy. Even when walking along those +downs with the scents of sixteen grasses or so in my brain, like a +melody with the odour of the earth for the accompaniment upon which it +floated, and with just enough of wind to stir them up and set them in +motion, I could not feel at all. I remembered something of what I had +used to feel in such places, but instead of believing in that, I doubted +now whether it had not been all a trick that I played myself--a fancied +pleasure only. I was walking along, then, with the sea behind me. It was +a warm, cloudy day--I had had no sunshine since I came out. All at once +I turned--I don't know why. There lay the gray sea, but not as I had +seen it last, not all gray. It was dotted, spotted, and splashed all +over with drops, pools, and lakes of light, of all shades of depth, from +a light shimmer of tremulous gray, through a half light that turned the +prevailing lead colour into translucent green that seemed to grow out +of its depths--through this, I say, to brilliant light, deepening and +deepening till my very soul was stung by the triumph of the intensity +of its molten silver. There was no sun upon me. But there were breaks +in the clouds over the sea, through which, the air being filled with +vapour, I could see the long lines of the sun-rays descending on the +waters like rain--so like a rain of light that the water seemed to plash +up in light under their fall. I questioned the past no more; the present +seized upon me, and I knew that the past was true, and that nature was +more lovely, more awful in her loveliness than I could grasp. It was a +lonely place: I fell on my knees, and worshipped the God that made the +glory and my soul." + +While I spoke Connie's tears had been flowing quietly. + +"And mamma and I were making fun while you were seeing such things as +those!" she said pitifully. + +"You didn't hurt them one bit, my darling--neither mamma nor you. If I +had been the least cross about it, as I should have been when I was as +young as at the time of which I was thinking, that would have ruined the +vision entirely. But your merriment only made me enjoy it more. And, my +Connie, I hope you will see the Atlantic before long; and if one vision +should come as brilliant as that, we shall be fortunate indeed, if we +went all the way to the west to see that only." + +"O papa! I dare hardly think of it--it is too delightful. But do you +think we shall really go?" + +"I do. Here comes your mamma--I am going to say to Shepherd, my dear, +that I will take his parish in hand, and if I cannot, after all, go +myself, will find some one, so that he need be in no anxiety from the +uncertainty which must hang over our movements even till the experiment +itself is made." + +"Very well, husband. I am quite satisfied." + +And as I watched Connie, I saw that hope and expectation did much to +prepare her. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +CONNIE'S DREAM. + + + + + +Mr. Turner, being a good mechanic as well as surgeon, proceeded to +invent, and with his own hands in a great measure construct, a kind of +litter, which, with a water-bed laid upon it, could be placed in our +own carriage for Connie to lie upon, and from that lifted, without +disturbing her, and placed in a similar manner in the railway carriage. +He had laid Connie repeatedly upon it before he was satisfied that +the arrangement of the springs, &c., was successful. But at length she +declared that it was perfect, and that she would not mind being carried +across the Arabian desert on a camel's back with that under her. + +As the season advanced, she continued to improve. I shall never forget +the first time she was carried out upon the lawn. If you can imagine an +infant coming into the world capable of the observation and delight of +a child of eight or ten, you will have some idea of how Connie received +the new impressions of everything around her. They were almost too much +for her at first, however. She who had been used to scamper about like a +wild thing on a pony, found the delight of a breath of wind almost more +than she could bear. After she was laid down she closed her eyes, and +the smile that flickered about her mouth was of a sort that harmonised +entirely with the two great tears that crept softly out from under her +eyelids, and sank, rather than ran, down her cheeks. She lay so that she +faced a rich tract of gently receding upland, plentifully wooded to the +horizon's edge, and through the wood peeped the white and red houses of +a little hamlet, with the square tower of its church just rising above +the trees. A kind of frame was made to the whole picture by the nearer +trees of our own woods, through an opening in which, evidently made or +left for its sake, the distant prospect was visible. It was a morning in +early summer, when the leaves were not quite full-grown but almost, and +their green was shining and pure as the blue of the sky, when the air +had no touch of bitterness or of lassitude, but was thoroughly warm, and +yet filled the lungs with the reviving as of a draught of cold water. We +had fastened the carriage umbrella to the sofa, so that it should shade +her perfectly without obscuring her prospect; and behind this we all +crept, leaving her to come to herself without being looked at, for +emotion is a shy and sacred thing and should be tenderly hidden by those +who are near. The bees kept very _beesy_ all about us. To see one huge +fellow, as big as three ordinary ones with pieces of red and yellow +about him, as if he were the beadle of all bee-dom, and overgrown in +consequence--to see him, I say, down in a little tuft of white clover, +rolling about in it, hardly able to move for fatness, yet bumming away +as if his business was to express the delight of the whole creation--was +a sight! Then there were the butterflies, so light that they seemed +to tumble up into the air, and get down again with difficulty. They +bewildered me with their inscrutable variations of purpose. "If I could +but see once, for an hour, into the mind of a butterfly," I thought, "it +would be to me worth all the natural history I ever read. If I could but +see why he changes his mind so often and so suddenly--what he saw about +that flower to make him seek it--then why, on a nearer approach, he +should decline further acquaintance with it, and go rocking away through +the air, to do the same fifty times over again--it would give me an +insight into all animal and vegetable life that ages of study could not +bring me up to." I was thinking all this behind my daughter's umbrella, +while a lark, whose body had melted quite away in the heavenly spaces, +was scattering bright beads of ringing melody straight down upon our +heads; while a cock was crowing like a clarion from the home-farm, as if +in defiance of the golden glitter of his silent brother on the roof of +the stable; while a little stream that scampered down the same slope +as the lawn lay upon, from a well in the stable-yard, mingled its +sweet undertone of contentment with the jubilation of the lark and the +business-like hum of the bees; and while white clouds floated in the +majesty of silence across the blue deeps of the heavens. The air was so +full of life and reviving, that it seemed like the crude substance that +God might take to make babies' souls of--only the very simile smells of +materialism, and therefore I do not like it. + +"Papa," said Connie at length, and I was beside her in a moment. Her +face looked almost glorified with delight: there was a hush of that awe +upon it which is perhaps one of the deepest kinds of delight. She put +out her thin white hand, took hold of a button of my coat, drew me down +towards her, and said in a whisper: + +"Don't you think God is here, papa?" + +"Yes, I do, my darling," I answered. + +"Doesn't _he_ enjoy this?" + +"Yes, my dear. He wouldn't make us enjoy it if he did not enjoy it. It +would be to deceive us to make us glad and blessed, while our Father +did not care about it, or how it came to us. At least it would amount to +making us no longer his children." + +"I am so glad you think so. I do. And I shall enjoy it so much more +now." + +She could hardly finish her sentence, but burst out sobbing so that I +was afraid she would hurt herself. I saw, however, that it was best to +leave her to quiet herself, and motioned to the rest to keep back and +let her recover as she could. The emotion passed off in a summer shower, +and when I went round once more, her face was shining just like a wet +landscape after the sun has come out and Nature has begun to make gentle +game of her own past sorrows. In a little while, she was merry--merrier, +notwithstanding her weakness, than I think I had ever seen her before. + +"Look at that comical sparrow," she said. "Look how he cocks his head +first on one side and then on the other. Does he want us to see him? Is +he bumptious, or what?" + +"I hardly know, my dear. I think sparrows are very like schoolboys; +and I suspect that if we understood the one class thoroughly, we should +understand the other. But I confess I do not yet understand either." + +"Perhaps you will when Charlie and Harry are old enough to go to +school," said Connie. + +"It is my only chance of making any true acquaintance with the +sparrows," I answered. "Look at them now," I exclaimed, as a little +crowd of them suddenly appeared where only one had stood a moment +before, and exploded in objurgation and general unintelligible +excitement. After some obscure fluttering of wings and pecking, they all +vanished except two, which walked about in a dignified manner, trying +apparently to seem quite unconscious each of the other's presence. + +"I think it was a political meeting of some sort," said Connie, laughing +merrily. + +"Well, they have this advantage over us," I answered, "that they get +through their business whatever it may be, with considerably greater +expedition than we get through ours." + +A short silence followed, during which Connie lay contemplating +everything. + +"What do you think we girls are like, then, papa?" she asked at length. +"Don't say you don't know, now." + +"I ought to know something more about you than I do about schoolboys. +And I think I do know a little about girls--not much though. They puzzle +me a good deal sometimes. I know what a great-hearted woman is, Connie." + +"You can't help doing that, papa," interrupted Connie, adding with her +old roguishness, "You mustn't pass yourself off for very knowing for +that. By the time Wynnie is quite grown up, your skill will be tried." + +"I hope I shall understand her then, and you too, Connie." + +A shadow, just like the shadow of one of those white clouds above us, +passed over her face, and she said, trying to smile: + +"I shall never grow up, papa. If I live, I shall only be a girl at +best--a creature you can't understand." + +"On the contrary, Connie, I think I understand you almost as well as +mamma. But there isn't so much to understand yet, you know, as there +will be." + +Her merriment returned. + +"Tell me what girls are like, then, or I shall sulk all day because you +say there isn't so much in me as in mamma." + +"Well, I think, if the boys are like sparrows, the girls are like +swallows. Did you ever watch them before rain, Connie, skimming about +over the lawn as if it were water, low towards its surface, but never +alighting? You never see them grubbing after worms. Nothing less than +things with wings like themselves will satisfy them. They will be +obliged to the earth only for a little mud to build themselves nests +with. For the rest, they live in the air, and on the creatures of the +air. And then, when they fancy the air begins to be uncivil, sending +little shoots of cold through their warm feathers, they vanish. They +won't stand it. They're off to a warmer climate, and you never know till +you find they're not there any more. There, Connie!" + +"I don't know, papa, whether you are making game of us or not. If you +are not, then I wish all you say were quite true of us. If you are then +I think it is not quite like you to be satirical." + +"I am no believer in satire, Connie. And I didn't mean any. The swallows +are lovely creatures, and there would be no harm if the girls were +a little steadier than the swallows. Further satire than that I am +innocent of." + +"I don't mind that much, papa. Only I'm steady enough, and no thanks to +me for it," she added with a sigh. + +"Connie," I said, "it's all for the sake of your wings that you're kept +in your nest." + +She did not stay out long this first day, for the life the air gave +her soon tired her weak body. But the next morning she was brighter and +better, and longing to get up and go out again. When she was once more +laid on her couch on the lawn, in the midst of the world of light and +busy-ness, in which the light was the busiest of all, she said to me: + +"Papa, I had such a strange dream last night: shall I tell it you?" + +"If you please, my dear. I am very fond of dreams that have any sense +in them--or even of any that have good nonsense in them. I woke +this morning, saying to myself, 'Dante, the poet, must have been a +respectable man, for he was permitted by the council of Florence to +carry the Nicene Creed and the Multiplication Table in his coat of +arms.' Now tell me your dream." + +Connie laughed. All the household tried to make Connie laugh, and +generally succeeded. It was quite a triumph to Charlie or Harry, and was +sure to be recounted with glee at the next meal, when he succeeded in +making Connie laugh. + +"Mine wasn't a dream to make me laugh. It was too dreadful at first, and +too delightful afterwards. I suppose it was getting out for the first +time yesterday that made me dream it. I thought I was lying quite still, +without breathing even, with my hands straight down by my sides and my +eyes closed. I did not choose to open them, for I knew that if I did +I should see nothing but the inside of the lid of my coffin. I did not +mind it much at first, for I was very quiet, and not uncomfortable. +Everything was as silent as it should be, for I was ten feet and a half +under the surface of the earth in the churchyard. Old Sogers was not far +from me on one side, and that was a comfort; only there was a thick wall +of earth between. But as the time went on, I began to get uncomfortable. +I could not help thinking how long I should have to wait for the +resurrection. Somehow I had forgotten all that you teach us about that. +Perhaps it was a punishment--the dream--for forgetting it." + +"Silly child! Your dream is far better than your reflections." + +"Well, I'll go on with my dream. I lay a long time till I got very +tired, and wanted to get up, O, so much! But still I lay, and although I +tried, I could not move hand or foot. At last I burst out crying. I was +ashamed of crying in my coffin, but I couldn't bear it any longer. +I thought I was quite disgraced, for everybody was expected to be +perfectly quiet and patient down there. But the moment I began to cry, +I heard a sound. And when I listened it was the sound of spades and +pickaxes. It went on and on, and came nearer and nearer. And then--it +was so strange--I was dreadfully frightened at the idea of the light and +the wind, and of the people seeing me in my coffin and my night-dress, +and tried to persuade myself that it was somebody else they were digging +for, or that they were only going to lay another coffin over mine. And I +thought that if it was you, papa, I shouldn't mind how long I lay there, +for I shouldn't feel a bit lonely, even though we could not speak a word +to each other all the time. But the sounds came on, nearer and nearer, +and at last a pickaxe struck, with a blow that jarred me all through, +upon the lid of the coffin, right over my head. + +"'Here she is, poor thing!' I heard a sweet voice say. + +"'I'm so glad we've found her,' said another voice. + +"'She couldn't bear it any longer,' said a third more pitiful voice than +either of the others. 'I heard her first,' it went on. 'I was away up in +Orion, when I thought I heard a woman crying that oughtn't to be crying. +And I stopped and listened. And I heard her again. Then I knew that it +was one of the buried ones, and that she had been buried long enough, +and was ready for the resurrection. So as any business can wait except +that, I flew here and there till I fell in with the rest of you.' + +"I think, papa, that this must have been because of what you were +saying the other evening about the mysticism of St. Paul; that while he +defended with all his might the actual resurrection of Christ and the +resurrection of those he came to save, he used it as meaning something +more yet, as a symbol for our coming out of the death of sin into the +life of truth. Isn't that right, papa?" + +"Yes, my dear; I believe so. But I want to hear your dream first, and +then your way of accounting for it." + +"There isn't much more of it now." + +"There must be the best of it." + +"Yes; I allow that. Well, while they spoke--it was a wonderfully clear +and connected dream: I never had one like it for that, or for anything +else--they were clearing away the earth and stones from the top of my +coffin. And I lay trembling and expecting to be looked at, like a thing +in a box as I was, every moment. But they lifted me, coffin and all, out +of the grave, for I felt the motion of it up. Then they set it down, and +I heard them taking the lid off. But after the lid was off, it did not +seem to make much difference to me. I could not open my eyes. I saw no +light, and felt no wind blowing upon me. But I heard whispering about +me. Then I felt warm, soft hands washing my face, and then I felt wafts +of wind coming on my face, and thought they came from the waving of +wings. And when they had washed my eyes, the air came upon them so sweet +and cool! and I opened them, I thought, and here I was lying on this +couch, with butterflies and bees flitting and buzzing about me, the +brook singing somewhere near me, and a lark up in the sky. But there +were no angels--only plenty of light and wind and living creatures. +And I don't think I ever knew before what happiness meant. Wasn't it a +resurrection, papa, to come out of the grave into such a world as this?" + +"Indeed it was, my darling--and a very beautiful and true dream. There +is no need for me to moralise it to you, for you have done so for +yourself already. But not only do I think that the coming out of sin +into goodness, out of unbelief into faith in God, is like your dream; +but I do expect that no dream of such delight can come up to the sense +of fresh life and being that we shall have when we get on the higher +body after this one won't serve our purpose any longer, and is worn out +and cast aside. The very ability of the mind, whether of itself, or by +some inspiration of the Almighty, to dream such things, is a proof of +our capacity for such things, a proof, I think, that for such things we +were made. Here comes in the chance for faith in God--the confidence in +his being and perfection that he would not have made us capable without +meaning to fill that capacity. If he is able to make us capable, that is +the harder half done already. The other he can easily do. And if he is +love he will do it. You should thank God for that dream, Connie." + +"I was afraid to do that, papa." + +"That is as much as to fear that there is one place to which David +might have fled, where God would not find him--the most terrible of all +thoughts." + +"Where do you mean, papa?" + +"Dreamland, my dear. If it is right to thank God for a beautiful +thought--I mean a thought of strength and grace giving you fresh life +and hope--why should you be less bold to thank him when such thoughts +arise in plainer shape--take such vivid forms to your mind that they +seem to come through the doors of the eyes into the vestibule of the +brain, and thence into the inner chambers of the soul?" + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE JOURNEY. + + + + + +For more than two months Charlie and Harry had been preparing for the +journey. The moment they heard of the prospect of it, they began to +prepare, accumulate, and pack stores both for the transit and the +sojourn. First of all there was an extensive preparation of ginger-beer, +consisting, as I was informed in confidence, of brown sugar, ground +ginger, and cold water. This store was, however, as near as I can judge, +exhausted and renewed about twelve times before the day of departure +arrived; and when at last the auspicious morning dawned, they remembered +with dismay that they had drunk the last drop two days before, and +there was none in stock. Then there was a wonderful and more successful +hoarding of marbles, of a variety so great that my memory refuses to +bear the names of the different kinds, which, I think, must have greatly +increased since the time when I too was a boy, when some marbles--one +of real, white marble with red veins especially--produced in my mind +something of the delight that a work of art produces now. These +were carefully deposited in one of the many divisions of a huge old +hair-trunk, which they had got their uncle Weir, who could use his +father's tools with pleasure if not to profit, to fit up for them with +a multiplicity of boxes, and cupboards, and drawers, and trays, and +slides, that was quite bewildering. In this same box was stowed also +a quantity of hair, the gleanings of all the horse-tails upon the +premises. This was for making fishing-tackle, with a vague notion on +the part of Harry that it was to be employed in catching whales and +crocodiles. Then all their favourite books were stowed away in the same +chest, in especial a packet of a dozen penny books, of which I think I +could give a complete list now. For one afternoon as I searched about in +the lumber-room after a set of old library steps, which I wanted to get +repaired, I came upon the chest, and opening it, discovered my boys' +hoard, and in it this packet of books. I sat down on the top of the +chest and read them all through, from Jack the Giant-killer down to Hop +o' my Thumb without rising, and this in the broad daylight, with the +yellow sunshine nestling beside me on the rose-coloured silken seat, +richly worked, of a large stately-looking chair with three golden legs. +Yes I could tell you all those stories, not to say the names of them, +over yet. Only I knew every one of them before; finding now that they +had fared like good vintages, for if they had lost something in potency, +they had gained much in flavour. Harry could not read these, and Charlie +not very well, but they put confidence in them notwithstanding, in +virtue of the red, blue, and yellow prints. Then there was a box of +sawdust, the design of which I have not yet discovered; a huge ball of +string; a rabbit's skin; a Noah's ark; an American clock, that +refused to go for all the variety of treatment they gave it; a box of +lead-soldiers, and twenty other things, amongst which was a huge gilt +ball having an eagle of brass with outspread wings on the top of it. + +Great was their consternation and dismay when they found that this +magazine could not be taken in the post-chaise in which they were to +follow us to the station. A good part of our luggage had been sent +on before us, but the boys had intended the precious box to go with +themselves. Knowing well, however, how little they would miss it, and +with what shouts of south-sea discovery they would greet the forgotten +treasure when they returned, I insisted on the lumbering article being +left in peace. So that, as man goeth treasureless to his grave, whatever +he may have accumulated before the fatal moment, they had to set off for +the far country without chest or ginger-beer--not therefore altogether +so desolate and unprovided for as they imagined. The abandoned treasure +was forgotten the moment the few tears it had occasioned were wiped +away. + +It was the loveliest of mornings when we started upon our journey. The +sun shone, the wind was quiet, and everything was glad. The swallows +were twittering from the corbels they had added to the adornment of the +dear old house. + +"I'm sorry to leave the swallows behind," said Wynnie, as she stepped +into the carriage after her mother. Connie, of course, was already +there, eager and strong-hearted for the journey. + +We set off. Connie was in delight with everything, especially with all +forms of animal life and enjoyment that we saw on the road. She seemed +to enter into the spirit of the cows feeding on the rich green grass of +the meadows, of the donkeys eating by the roadside, of the horses we +met bravely diligent at their day's work, as they trudged along the road +with wagon or cart behind them. I sat by the coachman, but so that I +could see her face by the slightest turning of my head. I knew by its +expression that she gave a silent blessing to the little troop of a +brown-faced gipsy family, which came out of a dingy tent to look at the +passing carriage. A fleet of ducklings in a pool, paddling along under +the convoy of the parent duck, next attracted her. + +"Look; look. Isn't that delicious?" she cried. + +"I don't think I should like it though," said Wynnie. + +"What shouldn't you like, Wynnie?" asked her mother. + +"To be in the water and not feel it wet. Those feathers!" + +"They feel it with their legs and their webby toes," said Connie. + +"Yes, that is some consolation," answered Wynnie. + +"And if you were a duck, you would feel the good of your feathers in +winter, when you got into your cold bath of a morning." + +I give all this chat for the sake of showing how Connie's illness had +not in the least withdrawn her from nature and her sympathies--had +rather, as it were, made all the fibres of her being more delicate and +sympathetic, so that the things around her could enter her soul even +more easily than before, and what had seemed to shut her out had in +reality brought her into closer contact with the movements of all +vitality. + +We had to pass through the village to reach the railway station. +Everybody almost was out to bid us good-bye. I did not want, for +Connie's sake chiefly, to have any scene, but recalling something I had +forgotten to say to one of my people, I stopped the carriage to speak +to him. The same instant there was a crowd of women about us. But Connie +was the centre of all their regards. They hardly looked at her mother +or sister. Had she been a martyr who had stood the test and received her +aureole, she could hardly have been more regarded. The common use of +the word martyr is a curious instance of how words get degraded. The +sufferings involved in martyrdom, and not the pure will giving occasion +to that suffering, is fixed upon by the common mind as the martyrdom. +The witness-bearing is lost sight of, except we can suppose that "a +martyr to the toothache" means a witness of the fact of the toothache +and its tortures. But while _martyrdom_ really means a bearing for the +sake of the truth, yet there is a way in which any suffering, even that +we have brought upon ourselves, may become martyrdom. When it is so +borne that the sufferer therein bears witness to the presence and +fatherhood of God, in quiet, hopeful submission to his will, in gentle +endurance, and that effort after cheerfulness which is not seldom to be +seen where the effort is hardest to make; more than all, perhaps, and +rarest of all, when it is accepted as the just and merciful consequence +of wrong-doing, and is endured humbly, and with righteous shame, as the +cleansing of the Father's hand, indicating that repentance unto life +which lifts the sinner out of his sins, and makes him such that the +holiest men of old would talk to him with gladness and respect, then +indeed it may be called a martyrdom. This latter could not be Connie's +case, but the former was hers, and so far she might be called a martyr, +even as the old women of the village designated her. + +After we had again started, our ears were invaded with shouts from the +post-chaise behind us, in which Charlie and Harry, their grief at the +abandoned chest forgotten as if it had never been, were yelling in the +exuberance of their gladness. Dora, more staid as became her years, was +trying to act the matron with them in vain, and old nursie had enough to +do with Miss Connie's baby to heed what the young gentlemen were +about, so long as explosions of noise was all the mischief. Walter, the +man-servant, who had been with us ten years, and was the main prop of +the establishment, looking after everything and putting his hand to +everything, with an indefinite charge ranging from the nursery to the +wine-cellar, and from the corn-bin to the pig-trough, and who, as we +could not possibly get on without him, sat on the box of the post-chaise +beside the driver from the Griffin, rather connived, I fear, than +otherwise at the noise of the youngsters. + +"Good-bye, Marshmallows," they were shouting at the top of their voices, +as if they had just been released from a prison, where they had spent a +wretched childhood; and, as it could hardly offend anybody's ears on the +open country road I allowed them to shout till they were tired, which +condition fortunately arrived before we reached the station, so that +there was no occasion for me to interfere. I always sought to give them +as much liberty as could be afforded them. + +At the station we found Weir waiting to see us off, with my sister, now +in wonderful health. Turner was likewise there, and ready to accompany +us a good part of the way. But beyond the valuable assistance he lent us +in moving Connie, no occasion arose for the exercise of his professional +skill. She bore the journey wonderfully, slept not unfrequently, and +only at the end showed herself at length wearied. We stopped three times +on the way: first at Salisbury, where the streams running through the +streets delighted her. There we remained one whole day, but sent the +children and servants, all but my wife's maid, on before us, under the +charge of Walter. This left us more at our ease. At Exeter, we stopped +only the night, for Connie found herself quite able to go on the next +morning. Here Turner left us, and we missed him very much. Connie looked +a little out of spirits after his departure, but soon recovered herself. +The next night we spent at a small town on the borders of Devonshire, +which was the limit of our railway travelling. Here we remained for +another whole day, for the remnant of the journey across part of +Devonshire and Cornwall to the shore must be posted, and was a good five +hours' work. We started about eleven o'clock, full of spirits at +the thought that we had all but accomplished the only part of the +undertaking about which we had had any uneasiness. Connie was quite +merry. The air was thoroughly warm. We had an open carriage with a hood. +Wynnie sat opposite her mother, Dora and Eliza the maid in the rumble, +and I by the coachman. The road being very hilly, we had four horses; +and with four horses, sunshine, a gentle wind, hope and thankfulness, +who would not be happy? + +There is a strange delight in motion, which I am not sure that I +altogether understand. The hope of the end as bringing fresh enjoyment +has something to do with it, no doubt; the accompaniments of the motion, +the change of scene, the mystery that lies beyond the next hill or the +next turn in the road, the breath of the summer wind, the scent of the +pine-trees especially, and of all the earth, the tinkling jangle of the +harness as you pass the trees on the roadside, the life of the horses, +the glitter and the shadow, the cottages and the roses and the rosy +faces, the scent of burning wood or peat from the chimneys, these and a +thousand other things combine to make such a journey delightful. But I +believe it needs something more than this--something even closer to the +human life--to account for the pleasure that motion gives us. I suspect +it is its living symbolism; the hidden relations which it bears to the +eternal soul in its aspirations and longings--ever following after, ever +attaining, never satisfied. Do not misunderstand me, my reader. A man, +you will allow, perhaps, may be content although he is not and cannot be +happy: I feel inclined to turn all this the other way, saying that a man +ought always to be happy, never to be content. You will see I do not say +_contented_; I say _content_. Here comes in his faith: his life is +hid with Christ in God, measureless, unbounded. All things are his, to +become his by blessed lovely gradations of gift, as his being enlarges +to receive; and if ever the shadow of his own necessary incompleteness +falls upon the man, he has only to remember that in God's idea he is +complete, only his life is hid from himself with Christ in God the +Infinite. If anyone accuses me here of mysticism, I plead guilty with +gladness: I only hope it may be of that true mysticism which, inasmuch +as he makes constant use of it, St. Paul would understand at once. I +leave it, however. + +I think I must have been the very happiest of the party myself. No doubt +I was younger much than I am now, but then I was quite middle-aged, with +full confession thereof in gray hairs and wrinkles. Why should not a man +be happy when he is growing old, so long as his faith strengthens the +feeble knees which chiefly suffer in the process of going down the hill? +True, the fever heat is over, and the oil burns more slowly in the lamp +of life; but if there is less fervour, there is more pervading warmth; +if less of fire, more of sunshine; there is less smoke and more light. +Verily, youth is good, but old age is better--to the man who forsakes +not his youth when his youth forsakes him. The sweet visitings of nature +do not depend upon youth or romance, but upon that quiet spirit whose +meekness inherits the earth. The smell of that field of beans gives me +more delight now than ever it could have given me when I was a youth. +And if I ask myself why I find it is simply because I have more faith +now than I had then. It came to me then as an accident of nature--a +passing pleasure flung to me only as the dogs' share of the crumbs. Now +I believe that God _means_ that odour of the bean-field; that when Jesus +smelled such a scent about Jerusalem or in Galilee, he thought of his +Father. And if God means it, it is mine, even if I should never smell it +again. The music of the spheres is mine if old age should make me deaf +as the adder. Am I mystical again, reader? Then I hope you are too, or +will be before you have done with this same beautiful mystical life +of ours. More and more nature becomes to me one of God's books of +poetry--not his grandest--that is history--but his loveliest, perhaps. + +And ought I not to have been happy when all who were with me were happy? +I will not run the risk of wearying even my contemplative reader by +describing to him the various reflexes of happiness that shone from the +countenances behind me in the carriage, but I will try to hit each off +in a word, or a single simile. My Ethelwyn's face was bright with the +brightness of a pale silvery moon that has done her harvest work, and, a +little weary, lifts herself again into the deeper heavens from stooping +towards the earth. Wynnie's face was bright with the brightness of the +morning star, ever growing pale and faint over the amber ocean that +brightens at the sun's approach; for life looked to Wynnie severe in its +light, and somewhat sad because severe. Connie's face was bright with +the brightness of a lake in the rosy evening, the sound of the river +flowing in and the sound of the river flowing forth just audible, but +itself still, and content to be still and mirror the sunset. Dora's was +bright with the brightness of a marigold that follows the sun without +knowing it; and Eliza's was bright with the brightness of a half-blown +cabbage rose, radiating good-humour. This last is not a good simile, but +I cannot find a better. I confess failure, and go on. + +After stopping once to bait, during which operation Connie begged to be +carried into the parlour of the little inn that she might see the china +figures that were certain to be on the chimney-piece, as indeed they +were, where she drank a whole tumbler of new milk before we lifted her +to carry her back, we came upon a wide high moorland country the roads +through which were lined with gorse in full golden bloom, while patches +of heather all about were showing their bells, though not yet in +their autumnal outburst of purple fire. Here I began to be reminded +of Scotland, in which I had travelled a good deal between the ages of +twenty and five-and-twenty. The further I went the stronger I felt the +resemblance. The look of the fields, the stone fences that divided them, +the shape and colour and materials of the houses, the aspect of the +people, the feeling of the air, and of the earth and sky generally, made +me imagine myself in a milder and more favoured Scotland. The west wind +was fresh, but had none of that sharp edge which one can so often detect +in otherwise warm winds blowing under a hot sun. Though she had already +travelled so many miles, Connie brightened up within a few minutes after +we got on this moor; and we had not gone much farther before a shout +from the rumble informed us that keen-eyed little Dora had discovered +the Atlantic: a dip in the high coast revealed it blue and bright. We +soon lost sight of it again, but in Connie's eyes it seemed to +linger still. As often as I looked round, the blue of them seemed the +reflection of the sea in their little convex mirrors. Ethelwyn's eyes, +too, were full of it, and a flush on her generally pale cheek showed +that she too expected the ocean. After a few miles along this breezy +expanse, we began to descend towards the sea-level. Down the winding of +a gradual slope, interrupted by steep descents, we approached this new +chapter in our history. We came again upon a few trees here and there, +all with their tops cut off in a plane inclined upwards away from the +sea. For the sea-winds, like a sweeping scythe, bend the trees all away +towards the land, and keep their tops mown with their sharp rushing, +keen with salt spray off the crests of the broken waves. Then we passed +through some ancient villages, with streets narrow, and steep and +sharp-angled, that needed careful driving and the frequent pressure +of the break upon the wheel. And now the sea shone upon us with nearer +greeting, and we began to fancy we could hear its talk with the shore. +At length we descended a sharp hill, reached the last level, drove over +a bridge and down the line of the stream, saw the land vanish in the +sea--a wide bay; then drove over another wooden drawbridge, and along +the side of a canal in which lay half-a-dozen sloops and schooners. Then +came a row of pretty cottages; then a gate, and an ascent, and ere we +reached the rectory, we were aware of its proximity by loud shouts, and +the sight of Charlie and Harry scampering along the top of a stone wall +to meet us. This made their mother nervous, but she kept quiet, knowing +that unrestrained anxiety is always in danger of bringing about the evil +it fears. A moment after, we drew up at a long porch, leading through +the segment of a circle to the door of the house. The journey was +over. We got down in the little village of Kilkhaven, in the county of +Cornwall. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED. + + + + + +We carried Connie in first of all, of course, and into the room which +nurse had fixed upon for her--the best in the house, of course, again. +She did seem tired now, and no wonder. She had a cup of tea at once, and +in half an hour dinner was ready, of which we were all very glad. After +dinner I went up to Connie's room. There I found her fast asleep on the +sofa, and Wynnie as fast asleep on the floor beside her. The drive and +the sea air had had the same effect on both of them. But pleased as I +was to see Connie sleeping so sweetly, I was even more pleased to see +Wynnie asleep on the floor. What a wonderful satisfaction it may give +to a father and mother to see this or that child asleep! It is when +her kittens are asleep that the cat creeps away to look after her own +comforts. Our cat chose to have her kittens in my study once, and as I +would not have her further disturbed than to give them another cushion +to lie on in place of that which belonged to my sofa, I had many +opportunities of watching them as I wrote, or prepared my sermons. But I +must not talk about the cat and her kittens now. When parents see their +children asleep, especially if they have been suffering in any way, +they breathe more freely; a load is lifted off their minds; their +responsibility seems over; the children have gone back to their Father, +and he alone is looking after them for a while. Now, I had not been +comfortable about Wynnie for some time, and especially during our +journey, and still more especially during the last part of our journey. +There was something amiss with her. She seemed constantly more or less +dejected, as if she had something to think about that was too much for +her, although, to tell the truth, I really believe now that she had not +quite enough to think about. Some people can thrive tolerably without +much thought: at least, they both live comfortably without it, and do +not seem to be capable of effecting it if it were required of them; +while for others a large amount of mental and spiritual operation is +necessary for the health of both body and mind, and when the matter or +occasion for so much is not afforded them, the consequence is analogous +to what follows when a healthy physical system is not supplied with +sufficient food: the oxygen, the source of life, begins to consume the +life itself; it tears up the timbers of the house to burn against the +cold. Or, to use a different simile, when the Moses-rod of circumstance +does not strike the rock and make the waters flow, such a mind--one that +must think to live--will go digging into itself, and is in danger of +injuring the very fountain of thought, by drawing away its living water +into ditches and stagnant pools. This was, I say, the case in part with +my Wynnie, although I did not understand it at that moment. She did +not look quite happy, did not always meet a smile with a smile, looked +almost reprovingly upon the frolics of the little brother-imps, and +though kindness itself when any real hurt or grief befell them, had +reverted to her old, somewhat dictatorial manner, of which I have +already spoken as interrupted by Connie's accident. To her mother and me +she was service itself, only service without the smile which is as +the flame of the sacrifice and makes it holy. So we were both a little +uneasy about her, for we did not understand her. On the journey she +had seemed almost annoyed at Connie's ecstasies, and said to Dora many +times: "Do be quiet, Dora;" although there was not a single creature but +ourselves within hearing, and poor Connie seemed only delighted with the +child's explosions. So I was--but although I say _so_, I hardly know why +I was pleased to see her thus, except it was from a vague belief in the +anodyne of slumber. But this pleasure did not last long; for as I +stood regarding my two treasures, even as if my eyes had made her +uncomfortable, she suddenly opened hers, and started to her feet, with +the words, "I beg your pardon, papa," looking almost guiltily round +her, and putting up her hair hurriedly, as if she had committed an +impropriety in being caught untidy. This was fresh sign of a condition +of mind that was not healthy. + +"My dear," I said, "what do you beg my pardon for? I was so pleased to +see you asleep! and you look as if you thought I were going to scold +you." + +"O papa," she said, laying her head on my shoulder, "I am afraid I must +be very naughty. I so often feel now as if I were doing something wrong, +or rather as if you would think I was doing something wrong. I am sure +there must be something wicked in me somewhere, though I do not clearly +know what it is. When I woke up now, I felt as if I had neglected +something, and you had come to find fault with me. _Is_ there anything, +papa?" + +"Nothing whatever, my child. But you cannot be well when you feel like +that." + +"I am perfectly well, so far as I know. I was so cross to Dora to-day! +Why shouldn't I feel happy when everybody else is? I must be wicked, +papa." + +Here Connie woke up. + +"There now! I've waked Connie," Wynnie resumed. "I'm always doing +something I ought not to do. Please go to sleep again, Connie, and take +that sin off my poor conscience." + +"What nonsense is Wynnie talking about being wicked?" asked Connie. + +"It isn't nonsense, Connie. You know I am." + +"I know nothing of the sort, Wynnie. If it were me now! And yet I don't +_feel_ wicked." + +"My dear children," I said, "we must all pray to God for his Spirit, and +then we shall feel just as we ought to feel. It is not for anyone to say +to himself how he ought to feel at any given moment; still less for one +man to say to another how he ought to feel; that is in the former case +to do as St. Paul says he had learned to give up doing--to judge our own +selves, which ought to be left to God; in the latter case it is to do +what our Lord has told us expressly we are not to do--to judge other +people. You get your bonnet, Wynnie, and come out with me. I am going +to explore a little of this desert island upon which we have been cast +away. And you, Connie, just to please Wynnie, must try and go to sleep +again." + +Wynnie ran for her bonnet, a little afraid perhaps that I was going to +talk seriously to her, but showing no reluctance anyhow to accompany me. + +Now I wonder whether it will be better to tell what we saw, or only what +we talked about, and give what we saw in the shape in which we reported +it to Connie, when we came back into her room, bearing, like the spies +who went to search the land, our bunch of grapes, that is, of sweet news +of nature, to her who could not go to gather them for herself. It think +it will be the best plan to take part of both plans. + +When we left the door of the house, we went up the few steps of a stair +leading on to the downs, against and amidst, and indeed _in_, the rocks, +buttressing the sea-edge of which our new abode was built. A life for a +big-winged angel seemed waiting us upon those downs. The wind still blew +from the west, both warm and strong--I mean strength-giving--and the +wind was the first thing we were aware of. The ground underfoot was +green and soft and springy, and sprinkled all over with the bright +flowers, chiefly yellow, that live amidst the short grasses of the +downs, the shadows of whose unequal surface were now beginning to be +thrown east, for the sun was going seawards. I stood up, stretched out +my arms, threw back my shoulders and my head, and filled my chest with a +draught of the delicious wind, feeling thereafter like a giant refreshed +with wine. Wynnie stood apparently unmoved amidst the life-nectar, +thoughtful, and turning her eyes hither and thither. + +"That makes me feel young again," I said. + +"I wish it would make me feel old then," said Wynnie. + +"What do you mean, my child?" + +"Because then I should have a chance of knowing what it is like to feel +young," she answered rather enigmatically. I did not reply. We were +walking up the brow which hid the sea from us. The smell of the +down-turf was indescribable in its homely delicacy; and by the time we +had reached the top, almost every sense was filled with its own delight. +The top of the hill was the edge of the great shore-cliff; and the sun +was hanging on the face of the mightier sky-cliff opposite, and the sea +stretched for visible miles and miles along the shore on either hand, +its wide blue mantle fringed with lovely white wherever it met the land, +and scalloped into all fantastic curves, according to the whim of the +nether fires which had formed its bed; and the rush of the waves, as +they bore the rising tide up on the shore, was the one music fit for +the whole. Ear and eye, touch and smell, were alike invaded with +blessedness. I ought to have kept this to give my reader in Connie's +room; but he shall share with her presently. The sense of space--of +mighty room for life and growth--filled my soul, and I thanked God in +my heart. The wind seemed to bear that growth into my soul, even as the +wind of God first breathed into man's nostrils the breath of life, and +the sun was the pledge of the fulfilment of every aspiration. I turned +and looked at Wynnie. She stood pleased but listless amidst that which +lifted me into the heaven of the Presence. + +"Don't you enjoy all this grandeur, Wynnie?" + +"I told you I was very wicked, papa." + +"And I told you not to say so, Wynnie." + +"You see I cannot enjoy it, papa. I wonder why it is." + +"I suspect it is because you haven't room, Wynnie." + +"I know you mean something more than I know, papa." + +"I mean, my dear, that it is not because you are wicked, but because you +do not know God well enough, and therefore your being, which can only +live in him, is 'cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in.' It is only in +him that the soul has room. In knowing him is life and its gladness. The +secret of your own heart you can never know; but you can know Him who +knows its secret. Look up, my darling; see the heavens and the earth. +You do not feel them, and I do not call upon you to feel them. It would +be both useless and absurd to do so. But just let them look at you for +a moment, and then tell me whether it must not be a blessed life that +creates such a glory as this All." + +She stood silent for a moment, looked up at the sky, looked round on the +earth, looked far across the sea to the setting sun, and then turned her +eyes upon me. They were filled with tears, but whether from feeling, +or sorrow that she could not feel, I would not inquire. I made haste to +speak again. + +"As this world of delight surrounds and enters your bodily frame, so +does God surround your soul and live in it. To be at home with the awful +source of your being, through the child-like faith which he not only +permits, but requires, and is ever teaching you, or rather seeking +to rouse up in you, is the only cure for such feelings as those that +trouble you. Do not say it is too high for you. God made you in his own +image, therefore capable of understanding him. For this final end he +sent his Son, that the Father might with him come into you, and dwell +with you. Till he does so, the temple of your soul is vacant; there is +no light behind the veil, no cloudy pillar over it; and the priests, +your thoughts, feelings, loves, and desires, moan, and are troubled--for +where is the work of the priest when the God is not there? When He comes +to you, no mystery, no unknown feeling, will any longer distress you. +You will say, 'He knows, though I do not.' And you will be at the secret +of the things he has made. You will feel what they are, and that which +his will created in gladness you will receive in joy. One glimmer of the +present God in this glory would send you home singing. But do not think +I blame you, Wynnie, for feeling sad. I take it rather as the sign of a +large life in you, that will not be satisfied with little things. I do +not know when or how it may please God to give you the quiet of mind +that you need; but I tell you that I believe it is to be had; and in +the mean time, you must go on doing your work, trusting in God even for +this. Tell him to look at your sorrow, ask him to come and set it right, +making the joy go up in your heart by his presence. I do not know when +this may be, I say, but you must have patience, and till he lays his +hand on your head, you must be content to wash his feet with your tears. +Only he will be better pleased if your faith keep you from weeping and +from going about your duties mournful. Try to be brave and cheerful for +the sake of Christ, and for the sake of your confidence in the beautiful +teaching of God, whose course and scope you cannot yet understand. +Trust, my daughter, and let that give you courage and strength." + +Now the sky and the sea and the earth must have made me able to say +these things to her; but I knew that, whatever the immediate occasion of +her sadness, such was its only real cure. Other things might, in virtue +of the will of God that was in them, give her occupation and interest +enough for a time, but nothing would do finally, but God himself. Here +I was sure I was safe; here I knew lay the hunger of humanity. Humanity +may, like other vital forms, diseased systems, fix on this or that as +the object not merely of its desire but of its need: it can never +be stilled by less than the bread of life--the very presence in the +innermost nature of the Father and the Son. + +We walked on together. Wynnie made me no reply, but, weeping silently, +clung to my arm. We walked a long way by the edge of the cliffs, beheld +the sun go down, and then turned and went home. When we reached the +house, Wynnie left me, saying only, "Thank you, papa. I think it is all +true. I will try to be a better girl." + +I went straight to Connie's room: she was lying as I saw her last, +looking out of her window. + +"Connie," I said, "Wynnie and I have had such a treat--such a sunset!" + +"I've seen a little of the light of it on the waves in the bay there, +but the high ground kept me from seeing the sunset itself. Did it set in +the sea?" + +"You do want the General Gazetteer, after all, Connie. Is that water the +Atlantic, or is it not? And if it be, where on earth could the sun set +but in it?" + +"Of course, papa. What a goose I am! But don't make game of +me--_please_. I am too deliciously happy to be made game of to-night." + +"I won't make game of you, my darling. I will tell you about the +sunset--the colours of it, at least. This must be one of the best places +in the whole world to see sunsets." + +"But you have had no tea, papa. I thought you would come and have your +tea with me. But you were so long, that mamma would not let me wait any +longer." + +"O, never mind the tea, my dear. But Wynnie has had none. You've got a +tea-caddy of your own, haven't you?" + +"Yes, and a teapot; and there's the kettle on the hob--for I can't do +without a little fire in the evenings." + +"Then I'll make some tea for Wynnie and myself, and tell you at the same +time about the sunset. I never saw such colours. I cannot tell you what +it was like while the sun was yet going down, for the glory of it has +burned the memory of it out of me. But after the sun was down, the sky +remained thinking about him; and the thought of the sky was in +delicate translucent green on the horizon, just the colour of the earth +etherealised and glorified--a broad band; then came another broad band +of pale rose-colour; and above that came the sky's own eternal blue, +pale likewise, but so sure and changeless. I never saw the green and +the blue divided and harmonised by the rose-colour before. It was a +wonderful sight. If it is warm enough to-morrow, we will carry you out +on the height, that you may see what the evening will bring." + +"There is one thing about sunsets," returned Connie--"two things, that +make me rather sad--about themselves, not about anything else. Shall I +tell you them?" + +"Do, my love. There are few things more precious to learn than the +effects of Nature upon individual minds. And there is not a feeling of +yours, my child, that is not of value to me." + +"You are so kind, papa! I am so glad of my accident. I think I should +never have known how good you are but for that. But my thoughts seem so +little worth after you say so much about them." + +"Let me be judge of that, my dear." + +"Well, one thing is, that we shall never, never, never, see the same +sunset again." + +"That is true. But why should we? God does not care to do the same +thing over again. When it is once done, it is done, and he goes on doing +something new. For, to all eternity, he never will have done showing +himself by new, fresh things. It would be a loss to do the same thing +again." + +"But that just brings me to my second trouble. The thing is lost. I +forget it. Do what I can, I cannot remember sunsets. I try to fix them +fast in my memory, that I may recall them when I want them; but just as +they fade out of the sky, all into blue or gray, so they fade out of my +mind and leave it as if they had never been there--except perhaps two +or three. Now, though I did not see this one, yet, after you have talked +about it, I shall never forget _it_." + +"It is not, and never will be, as if they had never been. They have +their influence, and leave that far deeper than your memory--in your +very being, Connie. But I have more to say about it, although it is +only an idea, hardly an assurance. Our brain is necessarily an imperfect +instrument. For its right work, perhaps it is needful that it should +forget in part. But there are grounds for believing that nothing is ever +really forgotten. I think that, when we have a higher existence than we +have now, when we are clothed with that spiritual body of which St. Paul +speaks, you will be able to recall any sunset you have ever seen with an +intensity proportioned to the degree of regard and attention you gave +it when it was present to you. But here comes Wynnie to see how you +are.--I've been making some tea for you, Wynnie, my love." + +"O, thank you, papa--I shall be so glad of some tea!" said Wynnie, the +paleness of whose face showed the red rims of her eyes the more plainly. +She had had what girls call a good cry, and was clearly the better for +it. + +The same moment my wife came in. "Why didn't you send for me, Harry, to +get your tea?" she said. + +"I did not deserve any, seeing I had disregarded proper times and +seasons. But I knew you must be busy." + +"I have been superintending the arrangement of bedrooms, and the +unpacking, and twenty different things," said Ethelwyn. "We shall be so +comfortable! It is such a curious house! Have you had a nice walk?" + +"Mamma, I never had such a walk in my life," returned Wynnie. "You would +think the shore had been built for the sake of the show--just for a +platform to see sunsets from. And the sea! Only the cliffs will be +rather dangerous for the children." + +"I have just been telling Connie about the sunset. She could see +something of the colours on the water, but not much more." + +"O, Connie, it will be so delightful to get you out here! Everything is +so big! There is such room everywhere! But it must be awfully windy in +winter," said Wynnie, whose nature was always a little prospective, if +not apprehensive. + +But I must not keep my reader longer upon mere family chat. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +MORE ABOUT KILKHAVEN. + + + + + +Our dining-room was one story below the level at which we had entered +the parsonage; for, as I have said, the house was built into the face of +the cliff, just where it sunk nearly to the level of the shores of the +bay. While at dinner, on the evening of our arrival, I kept looking +from the window, of course, and I saw before me, first a little bit of +garden, mostly in turf, then a low stone wall; beyond, over the top of +the wall, the blue water of the bay; then beyond the water, all alive +with light and motion, the rocks and sand-hills of the opposite side +of the little bay, not a quarter of a mile across. I could likewise see +where the shore went sweeping out and away to the north, with rock after +rock standing far into the water, as if gazing over the awful wild, +where there was nothing to break the deathly waste between Cornwall and +Newfoundland. But for the moment I did not regard the huge power lying +outside so much as the merry blue bay between me and those rocks and +sand-hills. If I moved my head a little to the right, I saw, over the +top of the low wall already mentioned, and apparently quite close to it +the slender yellow masts of a schooner, her mainsail hanging loose from +the gaff, whose peak was lowered. We must, I thought, be on the very +harbour-quay. When I went out for my walk with Wynnie, I had turned from +the bay, and gone to the brow of the cliffs overhanging the open sea on +our own side of it. + +When I came down to breakfast in the same room next morning, I stared. +The blue had changed to yellow. The life of the water was gone. Nothing +met my eyes but a wide expanse of dead sand. You could walk straight +across the bay to the hills opposite. From the look of the rocks, from +the perpendicular cliffs on the coast, I had almost, without thinking, +concluded that we were on the shore of a deep-water bay. It was +high-water, or nearly so, then; and now, when I looked westward, it was +over a long reach of sands, on the far border of which the white fringe +of the waves was visible, as if there was their _hitherto_, and further +towards us they could not come. Beyond the fringe lay the low hill of +the Atlantic. To add to my confusion, when I looked to the right, that +is, up the bay towards the land, there was no schooner there. I went out +at the window, which opened from the room upon the little lawn, to look, +and then saw in a moment how it was. + +"Do you know, my dear," I said to my wife, "we are just at the mouth +of that canal we saw as we came along? There are gates and a lock just +outside there. The schooner that was under this window last night must +have gone in with the tide. She is lying in the basin above now." + +"O, yes, papa," Charlie and Harry broke in together. "We saw it go up +this morning. We've been out ever so long. It was so funny," Charlie +went on--everything was _funny_ with Charlie--"to see it rise up like +a Jack-in-the-box, and then slip into the quiet water through the other +gates!" + +And when I thought about the waves tumbling and breaking away out there, +and the wide yellow sands between, it was wonderful--which was what +Charlie meant by funny--to see the little vessel lying so many feet +above it all, in a still plenty of repose, gathering strength, one +might fancy to rush out again, when its time was come, into the turmoil +beyond, and dash its way through the breasts of the billows. + +After breakfast we had prayers, as usual, and after a visit to Connie, +whom I found tired, but wonderfully well, I went out for a walk by +myself, to explore the neighbourhood, find the church, and, in a word, +do something to shake myself into my new garments. The day was glorious. +I wandered along a green path, in the opposite direction from our walk +the evening before, with a fir-wood on my right hand, and a belt of +feathery tamarisks on my left, behind which lay gardens sloping steeply +to a lower road, where stood a few pretty cottages. Turning a corner, +I came suddenly in sight of the church, on the green down above me--a +sheltered yet commanding situation; for, while the hill rose above it, +protecting it from the east, it looked down the bay, and the Atlantic +lay open before it. All the earth seemed to lie behind it, and all its +gaze to be fixed on the symbol of the infinite. It stood as the church +ought to stand, leading men up the mount of vision, to the verge of the +eternal, to send them back with their hearts full of the strength that +springs from hope, by which alone the true work of the world can +be done. And when I saw it I rejoiced to think that once more I was +favoured with a church that had a history. Of course it is a happy thing +to see new churches built wherever there is need of such; but to the +full idea of the building it is necessary that it should be one in which +the hopes and fears, the cares and consolations, the loves and desires +of our forefathers should have been roofed; where the hearts of those +through whom our country has become that which it is--from whom not +merely the life-blood of our bodies, but the life-blood of our spirits, +has come down to us, whose existence and whose efforts have made it +possible for us to be that which we are--have before us worshipped that +Spirit from whose fountain the whole torrent of being flows, who ever +pours fresh streams into the wearying waters of humanity, so ready to +settle down into a stagnant repose. Therefore I would far rather, when +I may, worship in an old church, whose very stones are a history of how +men strove to realise the infinite, compelling even the powers of nature +into the task--as I soon found on the very doorway of this church, where +the ripples of the outspread ocean, and grotesque imaginations of the +monsters of its deeps, fixed, as it might seem, for ever in stone, gave +a distorted reflex, from the little mirror of the artist's mind, of that +mighty water, so awful, so significant to the human eye, which yet lies +in the hollow of the Father's palm, like the handful that the weary +traveller lifts from the brook by the way. It is in virtue of the truth +that went forth in such and such like attempts that we are able to hold +our portion of the infinite reality which God only knows. They have +founded our Church for us, and such a church as this will stand for the +symbol of it; for here we too can worship the God of Abraham, of Isaac, +and of Jacob--the God of Sidney, of Hooker, of Herbert. This church of +Kilkhaven, old and worn, rose before me a history in stone--so beaten +and swept about by the "wild west wind," + + "For whose path the Atlantic's level powers + Cleave themselves into chasms," + +and so streamed upon, and washed, and dissolved, by the waters lifted +from the sea and borne against it on the upper tide of the wind, that +you could almost fancy it one of those churches that have been buried +for ages beneath the encroaching waters, lifted again, by some mighty +revulsion of nature's heart, into the air of the sweet heavens, there to +stand marked for ever with the tide-flows of the nether world--scooped, +and hollowed, and worn like aeonian rocks that have slowly, but for +ever, responded to the swirl and eddy of the wearing waters. So, from +the most troublous of times, will the Church of our land arise, in +virtue of what truth she holds, and in spite, if she rises at all, +of the worldliness of those who, instead of seeking her service, have +sought and gained the dignities which, if it be good that she have it +in her power to bestow them, need the corrective of a sharply wholesome +persecution which of late times she has not known. But God knows, and +the fire will come in its course--first in the form of just indignation, +it may be, against her professed servants, and then in the form of the +furnace seven times heated, in which the true builders shall yet walk +unhurt save as to their mortal part. + +I looked about for some cottage where the sexton might be supposed to +live, and spied a slated roof, nearly on a level with the road, at a +little distance in front of me. I could at least inquire there. Before +I reached it, however, an elderly woman came out and approached me. She +was dressed in a white cap and a dark-coloured gown. On her face lay a +certain repose which attracted me. She looked as if she had suffered but +had consented to it, and therefore could smile. Her smile lay near the +surface. A kind word was enough to draw it up from the well where it lay +shimmering: you could always see the smile there, whether it was born or +not. But even when she smiled, in the very glimmering of that moonbeam, +you could see the deep, still, perhaps dark, waters under. O! if one +could but understand what goes on in the souls that have no words, +perhaps no inclination, to set it forth! What had she endured? How had +she learned to have that smile always near? What had consoled her, and +yet left her her grief--turned it, perhaps, into hope? Should I ever +know? + +She drew near me, as if she would have passed me, as she would have +done, had I not spoken. I think she came towards me to give me the +opportunity of speaking if I wished, but she would not address me. + +"Good morning," I said. "Can you tell me where to find the sexton?" + +"Well, sir," she answered, with a gleam of the smile brightening +underneath her old skin, as it were, "I be all the sexton you be likely +to find this mornin', sir. My husband, he be gone out to see one o' +Squire Tregarva's hounds as was took ill last night. So if you want to +see the old church, sir, you'll have to be content with an old woman to +show you, sir." + +"I shall be quite content, I assure you," I answered. "Will you go and +get the key?" + +"I have the key in my pocket, sir; for I thought that would be what +you'd be after, sir. And by the time you come to my age, sir, you'll +learn to think of your old bones, sir. I beg your pardon for making so +free. For mayhap, says I to myself, he be the gentleman as be come to +take Mr. Shepherd's duty for him. Be ye now, sir?" + +All this was said in a slow sweet subdued tone, nearly of one pitch. +You would have felt that she claimed the privilege of age with a kind of +mournful gaiety, but was careful, and anxious even, not to presume upon +it, and, therefore, gentle as a young girl. + +"Yes," I answered. "My name is Walton I have come to take the place of +my friend Mr. Shepherd; and, of course, I want to see the church." + +"Well, she be a bee-utiful old church. Some things, I think, sir, grows +more beautiful the older they grows. But it ain't us, sir." + +"I'm not so sure of that," I said. "What do you mean?" + +"Well, sir, there's my little grandson in the cottage there: he'll never +be so beautiful again. Them children du be the loves. But we all grows +uglier as we grows older. Churches don't seem to, sir." + +"I'm not so sure about all that," I said again. + +"They did say, sir, that I was a pretty girl once. I'm not much to look +at now." + +And she smiled with such a gracious amusement, that I felt at once that +if there was any vanity left in this memory of her past loveliness, +it was sweet as the memory of their old fragrance left in the withered +leaves of the roses. + +"But it du not matter, du it, sir? Beauty is only skin-deep." + +"I don't believe that," I answered. "Beauty is as deep as the heart at +least." + +"Well to be sure, my old husband du say I be as handsome in his eyes +as ever I be. But I beg your pardon, sir, for talkin' about myself. I +believe it was the old church--she set us on to it." + +"The old church didn't lead you into any harm then," I answered. "The +beauty that is in the heart will shine out of the face again some +day--be sure of that. And after all, there is just the same kind of +beauty in a good old face that there is in an old church. You can't say +the church is so trim and neat as it was the day that the first blast of +the organ filled it as with, a living soul. The carving is not quite so +sharp, the timbers are not quite so clean. There is a good deal of mould +and worm-eating and cobwebs about the old place. Yet both you and I +think it more beautiful now than it was then. Well, I believe it is, as +nearly as possible, the same with an old face. It has got stained, and +weather-beaten, and worn; but if the organ of truth has been playing on +inside the temple of the Lord, which St. Paul says our bodies are, there +is in the old face, though both form and complexion are gone, just the +beauty of the music inside. The wrinkles and the brownness can't spoil +it. A light shines through it all--that of the indwelling spirit. I wish +we all grew old like the old churches." + +She did not reply, but I thought I saw in her face that she understood +my mysticism. We had been walking very slowly, had passed through the +quaint lych-gate, and now the old woman had got the key in the lock of +the door, whose archway was figured and fashioned as I have described +above, with a dozen mouldings or more, most of them "carved so +curiously." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +THE OLD CHURCH. + + + + + +The awe that dwells in churches fell upon me as I crossed the +threshold--an awe I never fail to feel--heightened in many cases, no +doubt, by the sense of antiquity and of art, but an awe which I +have felt all the same in crossing the threshold of an old Puritan +conventicle, as the place where men worship and have worshipped the God +of their fathers, although for art there was only the science of common +bricklaying, and for beauty staring ugliness. To the involuntary fancy, +the air of petition and of holy need seems to linger in the place, and +the uncovered head acknowledges the sacred symbols of human inspiration +and divine revealing. But this was no ordinary church into which I +followed the gentlewoman who was my guide. As entering I turned my eyes +eastward, a flush of subdued glory invaded them from the chancel, all +the windows of which were of richly stained glass, and the roof of +carved oak lavishly gilded. I had my thoughts about this chancel, and +thence about chancels generally which may appear in another part of my +story. Now I have to do only with the church, not with the cogitations +to which it gave rise. But I will not trouble my reader with even what I +could tell him of the blending and contradicting of styles and modes of +architectural thought in the edifice. Age is to the work of contesting +human hands a wonderful harmoniser of differences. As nature brings into +harmony all fractures of her frame, and even positive intrusions upon +her realm, clothes and discolours them, in the old sense of the word, +so that at length there is no immediate shock at sight of that which in +itself was crude, and is yet coarse, so the various architecture of this +building had been gone over after the builders by the musical hand of +Eld, with wonder of delicate transition and change of key, that one +could almost fancy the music of its exquisite organ had been at +work _informing_ the building, half melting the sutures, wearing the +sharpness, and blending the angles, until in some parts there was +but the gentle flickering of the original conception left, all its +self-assertion vanished under the file of the air and the gnawing of the +worm. True, the hand of the restorer had been busy, but it had wrought +lovingly and gently, and wherein it had erred, the same influences of +nature, though as yet their effects were invisible, were already at +work--of the many making one. I will not trouble my reader, I say, with +any architectural description, which, possibly even more than a detailed +description of natural beauty dissociated from human feeling, would only +weary him, even if it were not unintelligible. When we are reading a +poem, we do not first of all examine the construction and dwell on +the rhymes and rhythms; all that comes after, if we find that the poem +itself is so good that its parts are therefore worth examining, as being +probably good in themselves, and elucidatory of the main work. There +were carvings on the ends of the benches all along the aisle on both +sides, well worth examination, and some of them even of description; +but I shall not linger on these. A word only about the columns: they +supported arches of different fashion on the opposite sides, but they +were themselves similar in matter and construction, both remarkable. +They were of coarse granite of the country, chiselled, but very far +from smooth, not to say polished. Each pillar was a single stone with +chamfered sides. + +Walking softly through the ancient house, forgetting in the many +thoughts that arose within me that I had a companion, I came at length +into the tower, the basement of which was open, forming part of the body +of the church. There hung many ropes through holes in a ceiling above, +for bell-ringing was encouraged and indeed practised by my friend +Shepherd. And as I regarded them, I thought within myself how delightful +it would be if in these days as in those of Samuel, the word of God was +precious; so that when it came to the minister of his people--a fresh +vision of his glory, a discovery of his meaning--he might make haste to +the church, and into the tower, lay hold of the rope that hung from the +deepest-toned bell of all, and constrain it by the force of strong arms +to utter its voice of call, "Come hither, come hear, my people, for God +hath spoken;" and from the streets or the lanes would troop the eager +folk; the plough be left in the furrow, the cream in the churn; and the +crowding people bring faces into the church, all with one question upon +them--"What hath the Lord spoken?" But now it would be answer sufficient +to such a call to say, "But what will become of the butter?" or, "An +hour's ploughing will be lost." And the clergy--how would they bring +about such a time? They do not even believe that God has a word to his +people through them. They think that his word is petrified for use in +the Bible and Prayer-book; that the wise men of old heard so much of the +word of God, and have so set it down, that there is no need for any more +words of the Lord coming to the prophets of a land; therefore they look +down upon the prophesying--that is, the preaching of the word--make +light of it, the best of them, say these prayers are everything, or all +but everything: _their_ hearts are not set upon hearing what God the +Lord will speak that they may speak it abroad to his people again. +Therefore it is no wonder if the church bells are obedient only to the +clock, are no longer subject to the spirit of the minister, and have +nothing to do in telegraphing between heaven and earth. They make little +of this part of their duty; and no wonder, if what is to be spoken must +remain such as they speak. They put the Church for God, and the prayers +which are the word of man to God, for the word of God to man. But when +the prophets see no vision, how should they have any word to speak? + +These thoughts were passing through my mind when my eye fell upon my +guide. She was seated against the south wall of the tower, on a stool, I +thought, or small table. While I was wandering about the church she had +taken her stocking and wires out of her pocket, and was now knitting +busily. How her needles did go! Her eyes never regarded them, however, +but, fixed on the slabs that paved the tower at a yard or two from +her feet, seemed to be gazing far out to sea, for they had an infinite +objectless outlook. To try her, I took for the moment the position of an +accuser. + +"So you don't mind working in church?" I said. + +When I spoke she instantly rose, her eyes turned as from the far +sea-waves to my face, and light came out of them. With a smile she +answered-- + +"The church knows me, sir." + +"But what has that to do with it?" + +"I don't think she minds it. We are told to be diligent in business, you +know, sir." + +"Yes, but it does not say in church and out of church. You could be +diligent somewhere else, couldn't you?" + +As soon as I said this, I began to fear she would think I meant it. But +she only smiled and said, "It won't hurt she, sir; and my good man, who +does all he can to keep her tidy, is out at toes and heels, and if I +don't keep he warm he'll be laid up, and then the church won't be kep' +nice, sir, till he's up again." + +I was tempted to go on. + +"But you could have sat down outside--there are some nice gravestones +near--and waited till I came out." + +"But what's the church for, sir? The sun's werry hot to-day, sir; and +Mr. Shepherd, he say, sir, that the church is like the shadow of a +great rock in a weary land. So, you see, if I was to sit out in the +sun, instead of comin' in here to the cool o' the shadow, I wouldn't be +takin' the church at her word. It does my heart good to sit in the old +church, sir. There's a something do seem to come out o' the old walls +and settle down like the cool o' the day upon my old heart that's nearly +tired o' crying, and would fain keep its eyes dry for the rest o' the +journey. My old man's stockin' won't hurt the church, sir, and, bein' +a good deed as I suppose it is, it's none the worse for the place. I +think, if He was to come by wi' the whip o' small cords, I wouldn't be +afeared of his layin' it upo' my old back. Do you think he would, sir?" + +Thus driven to speak as I thought, I made haste to reply, more delighted +with the result of my experiment than I cared to let her know. + +"Indeed I do not. I was only talking. It is but selfish, cheating, or +ill-done work that the church's Master drives away. All our work ought +to be done in the shadow of the church." + +"I thought you be only having a talk about it, sir," she said, smiling +her sweet old smile. "Nobody knows what this old church is to me." + +Now the old woman had a good husband, apparently: the sorrows which had +left their mark even upon her smile, must have come from her family, I +thought. + +"You have had a family?" I said, interrogatively. + +"I've had thirteen," she answered. "Six bys and seven maidens." + +"Why, you are rich!" I returned. "And where are they all?" + +"Four maidens be lying in the churchyard, sir; two be married, and one +be down in the mill, there." + +"And your boys?" + +"One of them be lyin' beside his sisters--drownded afore my eyes, sir. +Three o' them be at sea, and two o' them in it, sir." + +At sea! I thought. What a wide _where_! As vague to the imagination, +almost, as _in the other world_. How a mother's thoughts must go roaming +about the waste, like birds that have lost their nest, to find them! + +As this thought kept me silent for a few moments, she resumed. + +"It be no wonder, be it, sir? that I like to creep into the church with +my knitting. Many's the stormy night, when my husband couldn't keep +still, but would be out on the cliffs or on the breakwater, for no good +in life, but just to hear the roar of the waves that he could only see +by the white of them, with the balls o' foam flying in his face in the +dark--many's the such a night that I have left the house after he was +gone, with this blessed key in my hand, and crept into the old church +here, and sat down where I'm sittin' now--leastways where I was sittin' +when your reverence spoke to me--and hearkened to the wind howling +about the place. The church windows never rattle, sir--like the cottage +windows, as I suppose you know, sir. Somehow, I feel safe in the +church." + +"But if you had sons at sea," said I, again wishing to draw her out, "it +would not be of much good to you to feel safe yourself, so long as they +were in danger." + +"O! yes, it be, sir. What's the good of feeling safe yourself but it +let you know other people be safe too? It's when you don't feel safe +yourself that you feel other people ben't safe." + +"But," I said--and such confidence I had from what she had already +uttered, that I was sure the experiment was not a cruel one--"some of +your sons _were_ drowned for all that you say about their safety." + +"Well, sir," she answered, with a sigh, "I trust they're none the less +safe for that. It would be a strange thing for an old woman like me, +well-nigh threescore and ten, to suppose that safety lay in not being +drownded. Why, they might ha' been cast on a desert island, and wasted +to skin an' bone, and got home again wi' the loss of half the wits they +set out with. Wouldn't that ha' been worse than being drownded right +off? And that wouldn't ha' been the worst, either. The church she seem +to tell me all the time, that for all the roaring outside, there be +really no danger after all. What matter if they go to the bottom? What +is the bottom of the sea, sir? You bein' a clergyman can tell that, sir. +I shouldn't ha' known it if I hadn't had bys o' my own at sea, sir. But +you can tell, sir, though you ain't got none there." + +And though she was putting her parson to his catechism, the smile that +returned on her face was as modest as if she had only been listening to +his instruction. I had not long to look for my answer. + +"The hollow of his hand," I said, and said no more. + +"I thought you would know it, sir," she returned, with a little glow of +triumph in her tone. "Well, then, that's just what the church tells me +when I come in here in the stormy nights. I bring my knitting then too, +sir, for I can knit in the dark as well as in the light almost; and when +they come home, if they do come home, they're none the worse that I went +to the old church to pray for them. There it goes roaring about them +poor dears, all out there; and their old mother sitting still as a stone +almost in the quiet old church, a caring for them. And then it do come +across me, sir, that God be a sitting in his own house at home, hearing +all the noise and all the roaring in which his children are tossed about +in the world, watching it all, letting it drown some o' them and take +them back to him, and keeping it from going too far with others of them +that are not quite ready for that same. I have my thoughts, you see, +sir, though I be an old woman; and not nice to look at." + +I had come upon a genius. How nature laughs at our schools sometimes! +Education, so-called, is a fine thing, and might be a better thing; but +there is an education, that of life, which, when seconded by a pure will +to learn, leaves the schools behind, even as the horse of the desert +would leave behind the slow pomposity of the common-fed goose. For life +is God's school, and they that will listen to the Master there will +learn at God's speed. For one moment, I am ashamed to say, I was envious +of Shepherd, and repined that, now old Rogers was gone, I had no such +glorious old stained-glass window in my church to let in the eternal +upon my light-thirsty soul. I must say for myself that the feeling +lasted but for a moment, and that no sooner had the shadow of it passed +and the true light shined after it, than I was heartily ashamed of it. +Why should not Shepherd have the old woman as well as I? True, Shepherd +was more of what would now be called a ritualist than I; true, I thought +my doctrine simpler and therefore better than his; but was this any +reason why I should have all the grand people to minister to in my +parish! Recovering myself, I found her last words still in my ears. + +"You are very nice to look at," I said. "You must not find fault with +the work of God, because you would like better to be young and pretty +than to be as you now are. Time and time's rents and furrows are all his +making and his doing. God makes nothing ugly." + +"Are you quite sure of that, sir?" + +I paused. Such a question from such a woman "must give us pause." And, +as I paused, the thought of certain animals flashed into my mind and I +could not insist that God had never made anything ugly. + +"No. I am not sure of it," I answered. For of all things my soul +recoiled from, any professional pretence of knowing more than I did know +seemed to me the most repugnant to the spirit and mind of the Master, +whose servants we are, or but the servants of mere priestly delusion and +self-seeking. "But if he does," I went on to say, "it must be that we +may see what it is like, and therefore not like it." + +Then, unwilling all at once to plunge with her into such an abyss as the +question opened, I turned the conversation to an object on which my eyes +had been for some time resting half-unconsciously. It was the sort of +stool or bench on which my guide had been sitting. I now thought it was +some kind of box or chest. It was curiously carved in old oak, very much +like the ends of the benches and book-boards. + +"What is that you were sitting on?" I asked. "A chest or what?" + +"It be there when we come to this place, and that be nigh fifty years +agone, sir. But what it be, you'll be better able to tell than I be, +sir." + +"Perhaps a chest for holding the communion-plate in old time," I said. +"But how should it then come to be banished to the tower?" + +"No, sir; it can't be that. It be some sort of ancient musical piano, I +be thinking." + +I stooped and saw that its lid was shaped like the cover of an organ. +With some difficulty I opened it; and there, to be sure, was a row of +huge keys, fit for the fingers of a Cyclops. I pressed upon them, one +after another, but no sound followed. They were stiff to the touch; and +once down, so they mostly remained until lifted again. I looked if there +was any sign of a bellows, thinking it must have been some primitive +kind of reed-instrument, like what we call a seraphine or harmonium +now-a-days. But there was no hole through which there could have been +any communication with or from a bellows, although there might have been +a small one inside. There were, however, a dozen little round holes in +the fixed part of the top, which might afford some clue to the mystery +of its former life. I could not find any way of reaching the inside of +it, so strongly was it put together; therefore I was left, I thought, +to the efforts of my imagination alone for any hope of discovery with +regard to the instrument, seeing further observation was impossible. +But here I found that I was mistaken in two important conclusions, the +latter of which depended on the former. The first of these was that +it was an instrument: it was only one end of an instrument; therefore, +secondly, there might be room for observation still. But I found this +out by accident, which has had a share in most discoveries, and which, +meaning a something that falls into our hands unlocked for, is so far an +unobjectionable word even to the man who does not believe in chance. +I had for the time given up the question as insoluble, and was gazing +about the place, when, glancing up at the holes in the ceiling through +which the bell-ropes went, I spied two or three thick wires hanging +through the same ceiling close to the wall, and right over the box with +the keys. The vague suspicion of a discovery dawned upon me. + +"Have you got the key of the tower?" I asked. + +"No, sir. But I'll run home for it at once," she answered. And rising, +she went out in haste. + +"Run!" thought I, looking after her. "It is a word of the will and the +feeling, not of the body." But I was mistaken. The dear old creature had +no sooner got outside of the church-yard, within which, I presume, she +felt that she must be decorous, than she did run, and ran well too. I +was on the point of starting after her at full speed, to prevent her +from hurting herself, but reflecting that her own judgment ought to +be as good as mine in such a case, I returned, and sitting down on her +seat, awaited her reappearance, gazing at the ceiling. There I either +saw or imagined I saw signs of openings corresponding in number and +position with those in the lid under me. In about three minutes the old +woman returned, panting but not distressed, with a great crooked old key +in her hand. Why are all the keys of a church so crooked? I did not ask +her that question, though. What I said to her, was-- + +"You shouldn't run like that. I am in no hurry." + +"Be you not, sir? I thought, by the way you spoke, you be taken with a +longing to get a-top o' the tower, and see all about you like. For you +see, sir, fond as I be of the old church, I du feel sometimes as if +she'd smother me; and then nothing will do but I must get at the top +of the old tower. And then, what with the sun, if there be any sun, +and what with the fresh air which there always be up there, sir,--it du +always be fresh up there, sir," she repeated, "I come back down again +blessing the old church for its tower." + +As she spoke she was toiling up the winding staircase after me, where +there was just room enough for my shoulders to get through by turning +themselves a little across the lie of the steps. They were very high, +but she kept up with me bravely, bearing out her statement that she was +no stranger to them. As I ascended, however, I was not thinking of +her, but of what she had said. Strange to tell, the significance of +the towers or spires of our churches had never been clear to me before. +True, I was quite awake to their significance, at least to that of the +spires, as fingers pointing ever upwards to + + "regions mild of calm and serene air, + Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, + Which men call Earth;" + +but I had not thought of their symbolism as lifting one up above the +church itself into a region where no church is wanted because the Lord +God almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it. + +Happy church indeed, if it destroys the need of itself by lifting men +up into the eternal kingdom! Would that I and all her servants lived +pervaded with the sense of this her high end, her one high calling! We +need the church towers to remind us that the mephitic airs in the church +below are from the churchyard at its feet, which so many take for the +church, worshipping over the graves and believing in death--or at least +in the material substance over which alone death hath power. Thus the +church, even in her corruption, lifts us out of her corruption, sending +us up her towers and her spires to admonish us that she too lives in the +air of truth: that her form too must pass away, while the truth that is +embodied in her lives beyond forms and customs and prejudices, shining +as the stars for ever and ever. He whom the church does not lift up +above the church is not worthy to be a doorkeeper therein. + +Such thoughts passed through me, satisfied me, and left me peaceful, so +that before I had reached the top, I was thanking the Lord--not for his +church-tower, but for his sexton's wife. The old woman was a jewel. If +her husband was like her, which was too much to expect--if he believed +in her, it would be enough, quite--then indeed the little child, who +answered on being questioned thereanent, as the Scotch would say, that +the three orders of ministers in the church were the parson, clerk, and +sexton, might not be so far wrong in respect of this individual case. So +in the ascent, and the thinking associated therewith, I forgot all about +the special object for which I had requested the key of the tower, and +led the way myself up to the summit, where stepping out of a little +door, which being turned only heavenwards had no pretence for, or claim +upon a curiously crooked key, but opened to the hand laid upon the +latch, I thought of the words of the judicious Hooker, that "the +assembling of the church to learn" was "the receiving of angels +descended from above;" and in such a whimsical turn as our thoughts will +often take when we are not heeding them, I wondered for a moment whether +that was why the upper door was left on the latch, forgetting that that +could not be of much use, if the door in the basement was kept locked +with the crooked key. But the whole suggested something true about my +own heart and that of my fellows, if not about the church: Revelation is +not enough, the open trap-door is not enough, if the door of the heart +is not open likewise. + +As soon, however, as I stepped out upon the roof of the tower, I forgot +again all that had thus passed through my mind, swift as a dream. For, +filling the west, lay the ocean beneath, with a dark curtain of storm +hanging in perpendicular lines over part of its horizon, and on the +other side was the peaceful solid land, with its numberless shades of +green, its heights and hollows, its farms and wooded vales--there was +not much wood--its scattered villages and country dwellings, lighted +and shadowed by the sun and the clouds. Beyond lay the blue heights of +Dartmoor. And over all, bathing us as it passed, moved the wind, the +life-bearing spirit of the whole, the servant of the sun. The old woman +stood beside me, silently enjoying my enjoyment, with a still smile that +seemed to say in kindly triumph, "Was I not right about the tower and +the wind that dwells among its pinnacles?" I drank deep of the universal +flood, the outspread peace, the glory of the sun, and the haunting +shadow of the sea that lay beyond like the visual image of the eternal +silence--as it looks to us--that rounds our little earthly life. + +There were a good many trees in the church-yard, and as I looked down, +the tops of them in their richest foliage hid all the graves directly +below me, except a single flat stone looking up through an opening in +the leaves, which seemed to have been just made for it to let it see the +top of the tower. Upon the stone a child was seated playing with a few +flowers she had gathered, not once looking up to the gilded vanes that +rose from the four pinnacles at the corners of the tower. I turned +to the eastern side, and looked over upon the church roof. It lay far +below--looking very narrow and small, but long, with the four ridges of +four steep roofs stretching away to the eastern end. It was in excellent +repair, for the parish was almost all in one lord's possession, and he +was proud of his church: between them he and Mr. Shepherd had made it +beautiful to behold and strong to endure. + +When I turned to look again, the little child was gone. Some butterfly +fancy had seized her, and she was away. A little lamb was in her place, +nibbling at the grass that grew on the side of the next mound. And +when I looked seaward there was a sloop, like a white-winged sea-bird, +rounding the end of a high projecting rock from the south, to bear up +the little channel that led to the gates of the harbour canal. Out +of the circling waters it had flown home, not from a long voyage, but +hardly the less welcome therefore to those that waited and looked for +her signal from the barrier rock. + +Reentering by the angels' door to descend the narrow cork-screw stair, +so dark and cool, I caught a glimpse, one turn down, by the feeble light +that came through its chinks after it was shut behind us, of a tiny +maiden-hair fern growing out of the wall. I stopped, and said to the old +woman-- + +"I have a sick daughter at home, or I wouldn't rob your tower of this +lovely little thing." + +"Well, sir, what eyes you have! I never saw the thing before. Do take +it home to miss. It'll do her good to see it. I be main sorry to hear +you've got a sick maiden. She ben't a bedlar, be she, sir?" + +I was busy with my knife getting out all the roots I could without +hurting them, and before I had succeeded I had remembered Turner's using +the word. + +"Not quite that," I answered, "but she can't even sit up, and must be +carried everywhere." + +"Poor dear! Everyone has their troubles, sir. The sea's been mine." + +She continued talking and asking kind questions about Connie as we went +down the stair. Not till she opened a little door I had passed without +observing it as we came up, was I reminded of my first object in +ascending the tower. For this door revealed a number of bells hanging +in silent power in the brown twilight of the place. I entered carefully, +for there were only some planks laid upon the joists to keep one's feet +from going through the ceiling. In a few moments I had satisfied myself +that my conjecture about the keys below was correct. The small iron rods +I had seen from beneath hung down from this place. There were more +of them hanging shorter above, and there was yet enough of a further +mechanism remaining to prove that those keys, by means of the looped and +cranked rods, had been in connection with hammers, one of them indeed +remaining also, which struck the bells, so that a tune could be played +upon them as upon any other keyed instrument. This was the first +contrivance of the kind I had ever seen, though I have heard of it in +other churches since. + +"If I could find a clever blacksmith in the neighbourhood, now," I +said to myself, "I would get this all repaired, so that it should not +interfere with the bell-ringing when the ringers were to be had, and +yet Shepherd could play a psalm tune to his parish at large when he +pleased." For Shepherd was a very fair musician, and gave a good deal of +time to the organ. "It's a grand notion, to think of him sitting here in +the gloom, with that great musical instrument towering above him, whence +he sends forth the voice of gladness, almost of song to his people, +while they are mowing the grass, binding the sheaves, or gazing abroad +over the stormy ocean in doubt, anxiety, and fear. 'There's the parson +at his bells,' they would say, and stop and listen; and some phrase +might sink into their hearts, waking some memory, or giving birth to +some hope or faint aspiration. I will see what can be done." Having +come to this conclusion, I left the abode of the bells, descended to the +church, bade my conductress good morning, saying I would visit her soon +in her own house, and bore home to my child the spoil which, without +kirk-rapine, I had torn from the wall of the sanctuary. By this time the +stormy veil had lifted from the horizon, and the sun was shining in full +power without one darkening cloud. + +Ere I left the churchyard I would have a glance at the stone which ever +seemed to lie gazing up at the tower. I soon found it, because it was +the only one in that quarter from which I could see the top of the +tower. It recorded the life and death of an aged pair who had been +married fifty years, concluding with the couplet-- + +"A long time this may seem to be, But it did not seem long to we." + +The whole story of a human life lay in that last verse. True, it was +not good grammar; but they had got through fifty years of wedded life +probably without any knowledge of grammar to harmonise or to shorten +them, and I daresay, had they been acquainted with the lesson he had +put into their dumb mouths, they would have been aware of no ground of +quarrel with the poetic stone-cutter, who most likely had thrown the +verses in when he made his claim for the stone and the cutting. Having +learnt this one by heart, I went about looking for anything more in +the shape of sepulchral flora that might interest or amuse my crippled +darling; nor had I searched long before I found one, the sole but +triumphant recommendation of which was the thorough "puzzle-headedness" +of its construction. I quite reckoned on seeing Connie trying to make +it out, looking as bewildered over its excellent grammar, as the poet +of the other ought to have looked over his rhymes, ere he gave in to the +use of the nominative after a preposition. + + "If you could view the heavenly shore, + Where heart's content you hope to find, + You would not murmur were you gone before, + But grieve that you are left behind." + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +CONNIE'S WATCH-TOWER. + + + + + +As I walked home, the rush of the rising tide was in my ears. To my +fancy, the ocean, awaking from a swoon in which its life had ebbed to +its heart, was sending that life abroad to its extremities, and waves +breaking in white were the beats of its reviving pulse, the flashes of +returning light. But so gentle was its motion, and so lovely its hue, +that I could not help contrasting it with its reflex in the mind of her +who took refuge from the tumult of its noises in the hollow of the +old church. To her, let it look as blue as the sky, as peaceful and as +moveless, it was a wild, reckless, false, devouring creature, a prey +to its own moods, and to that of the blind winds which, careless of +consequences, urged it to raving fury. Only, while the sea took this +form to her imagination, she believed in that which held the sea, and +knew that, when it pleased God to part his confining fingers, there +would be no more sea. + +When I reached home, I went straight to Connie's room. Now the house was +one of a class to every individual of which, whatever be its style or +shape, I instantly become attached almost as if it possessed a measure +of the life which it has sheltered. This class of human dwellings +consists of the houses that have _grown_. They have not been, built +after a straight-up-and-down model of uninteresting convenience or +money-loving pinchedness. They must have had some plan, good, bad, or +indifferent, as the case may be, at first, I suppose; but that plan they +have left far behind, having grown with the necessities or ambitions +of succeeding possessors, until the fact that they have a history is +as plainly written on their aspect as on that of any you or daughter of +Adam. These are the houses which the fairies used to haunt, and if there +is any truth in ghost-stories, the houses which ghosts will yet haunt; +and hence perhaps the sense of soothing comfort which pervades us when +we cross their thresholds. You do not know, the moment you have cast +a glance about the hall, where the dining-room, drawing-room, and best +bedroom are. You have got it all to find out, just as the character of a +man; and thus had I to find out this house of my friend Shepherd. It had +formerly been a kind of manor-house, though altogether unlike any +other manor-house I ever saw; for after exercising all my constructive +ingenuity reversed in pulling it to pieces in my mind, I came to the +conclusion that the germ-cell of it was a cottage of the simplest sort +which had grown by the addition of other cells, till it had reached the +development in which we found it. + +I have said that the dining-room was almost on the level of the shore. +Certainly some of the flat stones that coped the low wall in front of +it were thrown into the garden before the next winter by the waves. But +Connie's room looked out on a little flower-garden almost on the downs, +only sheltered a little by the rise of a short grassy slope above it. +This, however, left the prospect, from her window down the bay and +out to sea, almost open. To reach this room I had now to go up but one +simple cottage stair; for the door of the house entered on the first +floor, that is, as regards the building, midway between heaven and +earth. It had a large bay-window; and in this window Connie was lying +on her couch, with the lower sash wide open, through which the breeze +entered, smelling of sea-weed tempered with sweet grasses and the +wall-flowers and stocks that were in the little plot under it. I thought +I could see an improvement in her already. Certainly she looked very +happy. + +"O, papa!" she said, "isn't it delightful?" + +"What is, my dear?" + +"O, everything. The wind, and the sky, and the sea, and the smell of +the flowers. Do look at that sea-bird. His wings are like the barb of a +terrible arrow. How he goes undulating, neck and body, up and down as he +flies. I never felt before that a bird moves his wings. It always looked +as if the wings flew with the bird. But I see the effort in him." + +"An easy effort, though, I should certainly think." + +"No doubt. But I see that he chooses and means to fly, and so does it. +It makes one almost reconciled to the idea of wings. Do angels really +have wings, papa?" + +"It is generally so represented, I think, in the Bible. But whether it +is meant as a natural fact about them, is more than I take upon me +to decide. For one thing, I should have to examine whether in simple +narrative they are ever represented with them, as, I think, in records +of visions they are never represented without them. But wings are +very beautiful things, and I do not exactly see why you should need +reconciling to them." + +Connie gave a little shrug of her shoulders. + +"I don't like the notion of them growing out at my shoulder-blades. And +however would you get on your clothes? If you put them over your wings, +they would be of no use, and would, besides, make you hump-backed; and +if you did not, everything would have to be buttoned round the roots of +them. You could not do it yourself, and even on Wynnie I don't think +I could bear to touch the things--I don't mean the feathers, but the +skinny, folding-up bits of them." + +I laughed at her fastidious fancy. + +"You want to fly, I suppose?" I said. + +"O, yes; I should like that." + +"And you don't want to have wings?" + +"Well, I shouldn't mind the wings exactly; but however would one be able +to keep them nice?" + +"There you go; starting from one thing to another, like a real bird +already. When you can't answer one thing, off to another, and, from +your new perch on the hawthorn, talk as if you were still on the topmost +branch of the lilac!" + +"O, yes, papa! That's what I've heard you say to mamma twenty times." + +"And did I ever say to your mamma anything but the truth? or to you +either, you puss?" + +I had not yet discovered that when I used this epithet to my Connie, she +always thought she had gone too far. She looked troubled. I hastened to +relieve her. + +"When women have wings," I said, "their logic will be good." + +"How do you make that out, papa?" she asked, a little re-assured. + +"Because then every shadow of feeling that turns your speech aside +from the straight course will be recognised in that speech; the whole +utterance will be instinct not only with the meaning of what you +are thinking, but with the reflex of the forces in you that make the +utterance take this or that shape; just as to a perfect palate, the +source and course of a stream would be revealed in every draught of its +water. + +"I have just a glimmering of your meaning, papa. Would you like to have +wings?" + +"I should like to fly like a bird, to swim like a fish, to gallop like +a horse, to creep like a serpent, but I suspect the good of all these is +to be got without doing any of them." + +"I know what you mean now, but I can't put it in words." + +"I mean by a perfect sympathy with the creatures that do these things: +what it may please God to give to ourselves, we can quite comfortably +leave to him. A higher stratum of the same kind is the need we feel of +knowing our fellow-creatures through and through, of walking into and +out of their worlds as if we were, because we are, perfectly at home +in them.--But I am talking what the people who do not understand such +things lump all together as mysticism, which is their name for a kind +of spiritual ash-pit, whither they consign dust and stones, never asking +whether they may not be gold-dust and rubies, all in a heap.--You had +better begin to think about getting out, Connie." + +"Think about it, papa! I have been thinking about it ever since +daylight." + +"I will go and see what your mother is doing then, and if she is ready +to go out with us." + +In a few moments all was arranged. Without killing more than a snail or +two, which we could not take time to beware of, Walter and I--finding +that the window did not open down to the ground in French fashion, for +which there were two good reasons, one the fierceness of the winds +in winter, the other, the fact that the means of egress were elsewise +provided--lifted the sofa, Connie and all, out over the window-sill, and +then there was only a little door in the garden-wall to get her through +before we found ourselves upon the down. I think the ascent of this hill +was the first experience I had--a little to my humiliation, nothing to +my sorrow--that I was descending another hill. I had to set down the +precious burden rather oftener before we reached the brow of the cliffs +than would have been necessary ten years before. But this was all right, +and the newly-discovered weakness then was strength to the power which +carries me about on my two legs now. It is all right still. I shall be +stronger by and by. + +We carried her high enough for her to see the brilliant waters lying +many feet below her, with the sea-birds of which we had talked winging +their undulating way between heaven and ocean. It is when first you have +a chance of looking a bird in the face on the wing that you know what +the marvel of flight is. There it hangs or rests, which you please, +borne up, as far as eye or any of the senses can witness, by its own +will alone. This Connie, quicker than I in her observation of nature, +had already observed. Seated on the warm grass by her side, while +neither talked, but both regarded the blue spaces, I saw one of those +same barb-winged birds rest over my head, regarding me from above, as +if doubtful whether I did not afford some claim to his theory of +treasure-trove. I knew at once that what Connie had been saying to me +just before was true. + +She lay silent a long time. I too was silent. At length I spoke. + +"Are you longing to be running about amongst the rocks, my Connie?" + +"No, papa; not a bit. I don't know how it is, but I don't think I +ever wished much for anything I knew I could not have. I am enjoying +everything more than I can tell you. I wish Wynnie were as happy as I +am." + +"Why? Do you think she's not happy, my dear?" + +"That doesn't want any thinking, papa. You can see that." + +"I am afraid you're right, Connie. What do you think is the cause of +it?" + +"I think it is because she can't wait. She's always going out to meet +things; and then when they're not there waiting for her, she thinks +they're nowhere. But I always think her way is finer than mine. If +everybody were like me, there wouldn't be much done in the world, would +there, papa?" + +"At all events, my dear, your way is wise for you, and I am glad you do +not judge your sister." + +"Judge Wynnie, papa! That would be cool impudence. She's worth ten of +me. Don't you think, papa," she added, after a pause, "that if Mary had +said the smallest word against Martha, as Martha did against Mary, Jesus +would have had a word to say on Martha's side next?" + +"Indeed I do, my dear. And I think that did not sit very long without +asking Jesus if she mightn't go and help her sister. There is but one +thing needful--that is, the will of God; and when people love that above +everything, they soon come to see that to everything else there are two +sides, and that only the will of God gives fair play, as we call it, to +both of them." + +Another silence followed. Then Connie spoke. + +"Is it not strange, papa, that the only thine here that makes me want to +get up to look, is nothing of all the grand things round about me? I am +just lying like the convex mirror in the school-room at home, letting +them all paint themselves in me." + +"What is it then that makes you wish to get up and go and see?" I asked +with real curiosity. + +"Do you see down there--away across the bay--amongst the rocks at the +other side, a man sitting sketching?" + +I looked for some time before I could discover him. + +"Your sight is good, Connie: I see the man, but I could not tell what he +was doing." + +"Don't you see him lifting his head every now and then for a moment, and +then keeping it down for a longer while?" + +"I cannot distinguish that. But then I am shortsighted rather, you +know." + +"I wonder how you see so many little things that nobody else seems to +notice, then, papa." + +"That is because I have trained myself to observe. The degree of power +in the sight is of less consequence than the habit of seeing. But you +have not yet told me what it is that makes you desirous of getting up." + +"I want to look over his shoulder, and see what he is doing. Is it not +strange that in the midst of all this plenty of beautifulness, I should +want to rise to look at a few lines and scratches, or smears of colour, +upon a bit of paper?" + +"No, my dear; I don't think it is strange. There a new element of +interest is introduced--the human. No doubt there is deep humanity in +all this around us. No doubt all the world, in all its moods, is human, +as those for whose abode and instruction it was made. No doubt, it would +be void of both beauty and significance to our eyes, were it not that +it is one crowd of pictures of the human mind, blended in one living +fluctuating whole. But these meanings are there in solution as it were. +The individual is a centre of crystallisation to this solution. Around +him meanings gather, are separated from other meanings; and if he be an +artist, by which I mean true painter, true poet, or true musician, +as the case may be he so isolates and represents them, that we see +them--not what nature shows to us, but what nature has shown, to him, +determined by his nature and choice. With it is mingled therefore +so much of his own individuality, manifested both in this choice and +certain modifications determined by his way of working, that you have +not only a representation of an aspect of nature, as far as that may +be with limited powers and materials, but a revelation of the man's own +mind and nature. Consequently there is a human interest in every true +attempt to reproduce nature, an interest of individuality which does not +belong to nature herself, who is for all and every man. You have just +been saying that you were lying there like a convex mirror reflecting +all nature around you. Every man is such a convex mirror; and his +drawing, if he can make one, is an attempt to show what is in this +little mirror of his, kindled there by the grand world outside. And the +human mirrors being all differently formed, vary infinitely in what they +would thus represent of the same scene. I have been greatly interested +in looking alternately over the shoulders of two artists, both sketching +in colour the same, absolutely the same scene, both trying to represent +it with all the truth in their power. How different, notwithstanding, +the two representations came out!" + +"I think I understand you, papa. But look a little farther off. Don't +you see over the top of another rock a lady's bonnet. I do believe +that's Wynnie. I know she took her box of water-colours out with her +this morning, just before you came home. Dora went with her." + +"Can't you tell by her ribbons, Connie? You seem sharp-sighted enough +to see her face if she would show it. I don't even see the bonnet. If +I were like some people I know, I should feel justified in denying its +presence, attributing the whole to your fancy, and refusing anything to +superiority of vision." + +"That wouldn't be like you, papa." + +"I hope not; for I have no fancy for being shut up in my own blindness, +when other people offer me their eyes to eke out the defects of my own +with. But here comes mamma at last." + +Connie's face brightened as if she had not seen her mother for a +fortnight. My Ethelwyn always brought the home gladness that her name +signified with her. She was a centre of radiating peace. + +"Mamma, don't you think that's Wynnie's bonnet over that black rock +there, just beyond where you see that man drawing?" + +"You absurd child! How should I know Wynnie's bonnet at this distance?" + +"Can't you see the little white feather you gave her out of your +wardrobe just before we left? She put it in this morning before she went +out." + +"I think I do see something white. But I want you to look out there, +towards what they call the Chapel Rock, at the other end of that long +mound they call the breakwater. You will soon see a boat appear full of +the coast-guard. I saw them going on board just as I left the house to +come up to you. Their officer came down with his sword, and each of the +men had a cutlass. I wonder what it can mean." + +We looked. But before the boat made its appearance, Connie cried out-- + +"Look there! What a big boat that is rowing for the land, away +northwards there!" + +I turned my eyes in the direction she indicated, and saw a long boat +with some half-dozen oars, full of men, rowing hard, apparently for some +spot on the shore at a considerable distance to the north of our bay. + +"Ah!" I said, "that boat has something to do with the coast-guard and +their cutlasses. You'll see that, as soon as they get out of the bay, +they will row in the same direction." + +So it was. Our boat appeared presently from under the concealment of the +heights on which we were, and made at full speed after the other boat. + +"Surely they can't be smugglers," I said. "I thought all that was over +and done with." + +In the course of another twenty minutes, during which we watched +their progress, both boats had disappeared behind the headland to the +northward. Then, thinking Connie had had nearly enough of the sea air +for her first experience of its influences, I went and fetched Walter, +and we carried her back as we had brought her. She had not been in the +shadow of her own room for five minutes before she was fast asleep. + +It was now nearly time for our early dinner. We always dined early +when we could, that we might eat along with our children. We were +both convinced that the only way to make them behave like ladies and +gentlemen was to have them always with us at meals. We had seen very +unpleasant results in the children of those who allowed them to dine +with no other supervision than the nursery afforded: they were +a constant anxiety and occasional horror to those whom they +visited--snatching like monkeys, and devouring like jackals, as +selfishly as if they were mere animals. + +"O! we've seen such a nice gentleman!" said Dora, becoming lively under +the influence of her soup. + +"Have you, Dora? Where?" + +"Sitting on the rocks, taking a portrait of the sea." + +"What makes you say he was a nice gentleman?" + +"He had such beautiful boots!" answered Dora, at which there was a great +laugh about the table. + +"O! we must run and tell Connie that," said Harry. "It will make her +laugh." + +"What will you tell Connie, then, Harry?" + +"O! what was it, Charlie? I've forgotten." + +Another laugh followed at Harry's expense now, and we were all very +merry, when Dora, who sat opposite to the window, called out, clapping +her hands-- + +"There's Niceboots again! There's Niceboots again!" + +The same moment the head of a young man appeared over the wall that +separated the garden from the little beach that lay by the entrance of +the canal. I saw at once that he must be more than ordinarily tall +to show his face, for he was not close to the wall. It was a dark +countenance, with a long beard, which few at that time wore, though now +it is getting not uncommon, even in my own profession--a noble, handsome +face, a little sad, with downbent eyes, which, released from their more +immediate duty towards nature, had now bent themselves upon the earth. + +"Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought." + +"I suppose he's contemplating his boots," said Wynnie, with apparent +maliciousness. + +"That's too bad of you, Wynnie," I said, and the child blushed. + +"I didn't mean anything, papa. It was only following up Dora's wise +discrimination," said Wynnie. + +"He is a fine-looking fellow," said I, "and ought, with that face and +head, to be able to paint good pictures." + +"I should like to see what he has done," said Wynnie; "for, by the way +we were sitting, I should think we were attempting the same thing." + +"And what was that then, Wynnie?" I asked. + +"A rock," she answered, "that you could not see from where you were +sitting. I saw you on the top of the cliff." + +"Connie said it was you, by your bonnet. She, too, was wishing she could +look over the shoulder of the artist at work beside you." + +"Not beside me. There were yards and yards of solid rock between us." + +"Space, you see, in removing things from the beholder, seems always +to bring them nearer to each other, and the most differing things are +classed under one name by the man who knows nothing about them. But what +sort of a rock was it you were trying to draw?" + +"A strange-looking, conical rock, that stands alone in front of one of +the ridges that project from the shore into the water. Three sea-birds, +with long white wings, were flying about it, and the little waves of +the rising tide were beating themselves against it and breaking in white +plashes. So the rock stood between the blue and white below and the blue +and white above; for, though there were no clouds, the birds gave the +touches of white to the upper sea." + +"Now, Dora," I said, "I don't know if you are old enough to understand +me; but sometimes little people are long in understanding, just because +the older people think they can't, and don't try them.--Do you see, +Dora, why I want you to learn to draw? Look how Wynnie sees things. +That is, in a great measure, because she draws things, and has, by that, +learned to watch in order to find out. It is a great thing to have your +eyes open." + +Dora's eyes were large, and she opened them to their full width, as +if she would take in the universe at their little doors. Whether that +indicated that she did not in the least understand what I had been +saying, or that she was in sympathy with it, I cannot tell. + +"Now let us go up to Connie, and tell her about the rock and everything +else you have seen since you went out. We are all her messengers sent +out to discover things, and bring back news of them." + +After a little talk with Connie, I retired to the study, which was on +the same floor as her room completing, indeed, the whole of that part +of the house, which, seen from without, looked like a separate building; +for it had a roof of its own, and stood higher up the rock than the rest +of the dwelling. Here I began to glance over the books. To have the +run of another man's library, especially if it has all been gathered +by himself, is like having a pass-key into the chambers of his thought. +Only, one must be wary, when he opens them, what marks on the books +he takes for those of the present owner. A mistake here would breed +considerable confusion and falsehood in any judgment formed from the +library. I found, however, one thing plain enough, that Shepherd had +kept up that love for an older English literature, which had been one of +the cords to draw us towards each other when we were students together. +There had been one point on which we especially agreed--that a true +knowledge of the present, in literature, as in everything else, could +only be founded upon a knowledge of what had gone before; therefore, +that any judgment, in regard to the literature of the present day, was +of no value which was not guided and influenced by a real acquaintance +with the best of what had gone before, being liable to be dazzled and +misled by novelty of form and other qualities which, whatever might be +the real worth of the substance, were, in themselves, purely ephemeral. +I had taken down a last-century edition of the poems of the brothers +Fletcher, and, having begun to read a lovely passage in "Christ's +Victory and Triumph," had gone into what I can only call an intellectual +rage, at the impudence of the editor, who had altered innumerable words +and phrases to suit the degenerate taste of his own time,--when a knock +came to the door, and Charlie entered, breathless with eagerness. + +"There's the boat with the men with the swords in it, and another boat +behind them, twice as big." + +I hurried out upon the road, and there, close under our windows, were +the two boats we had seen in the morning, landing their crews on the +little beach. The second boat was full of weather-beaten men, in all +kinds of attire, some in blue jerseys, some in red shirts, some in +ragged coats. One man, who looked their superior, was dressed in blue +from head to foot. + +"What's the matter?" I asked the officer of the coast-guard, a sedate, +thoughtful-looking man. + +"Vessel foundered, sir," he answered. "Sprung a leak on Sunday morning. +She was laden with iron, and in a heavy ground swell it shifted and +knocked a hole in her. The poor fellows are worn out with the pump and +rowing, upon little or nothing to eat." + +They were trooping past us by this time, looking rather dismal, though +not by any means abject. + +"What are you going to do with them now?" + +"They'll be taken in by the people. We'll get up a little subscription +for them, but they all belong to the society the sailors have for +sending the shipwrecked to their homes, or where they want to go." + +"Well, here's something to help," I said. + +"Thank you, sir. They'll be very glad of it." + +"And if there's anything wanted that I can do for them, you must let me +know." + +"I will, sir. But I don't think there will be any occasion to trouble +you. You are our new clergyman, I believe." + +"Not exactly that. Only for a little while, till my friend Mr. Shepherd +is able to come back to you." + +"We don't want to lose Mr. Shepherd, sir. He's what they call high +in these parts, but he's a great favourite with all the poor people, +because you see he understands them as if he was of the same flesh and +blood with themselves--as, for that matter, I suppose we all are." + +"If we weren't there would be nothing to say at all. Will any of these +men be at church to-morrow, do you suppose? I am afraid sailors are not +much in the way of going to church?" + +"I am afraid not. You see they are all anxious to get home. Most likely +they'll be all travelling to-morrow. It's a pity. It would be a good +chance for saying something to them that they might think of again. But +I often think that, perhaps--it's only my own fancy, and I don't set it +up for anything--that sailors won't be judged exactly like other people. +They're so knocked about, you see, sir." + +"Of course not. Nobody will be judged like any other body. To his own +Master, who knows all about him, every man stands or falls. Depend upon +it, God likes fair play, to use a homely phrase, far better than any +sailor of them all. But that's not exactly the question. It seems to me +the question is this: shall we, who know what a blessed thing life is +because we know what God is like, who can trust in him with all our +hearts because he is the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the friend +of sinners, shall we not try all we can to let them, too, know the +blessedness of trusting in their Father in heaven? If we could only get +them to say the Lord's prayer, _meaning_ it, think what that would be! +Look here! This can't be called bribery, for they are in want of it, and +it will show them I am friendly. Here's another sovereign. Give them +my compliments, and say that if any of them happen to be in Kilkhaven +tomorrow, I shall be quite pleased to welcome them to church. Tell them +I will give them of my best there if they will come. Make the invitation +merrily, you know. No long faces and solemn speech. I will give them the +solemn speech when they come to church. But even there I hope God will +keep the long face far from me. That is fittest for fear and suffering. +And the house of God is the casket that holds the antidote against +all fear and most suffering. But I am preaching my sermon on Saturday +instead of Sunday, and keeping you from your ministration to the poor +fellows. Good-bye." + +"I will give them your message as near as I can," he said, and we shook +hands and parted. + +This was the first experience we had of the might and battle of the +ocean. To our eyes it lay quiet as a baby asleep. On that Sunday morning +there had been no commotion here. Yet now at last, on the Saturday +morning, home come the conquered and spoiled of the sea. As if with a +mock she takes all they have, and flings them on shore again, with her +weeds, and her shells, and her sand. Before the winter was over we had +learned--how much more of that awful power that surrounds the habitable +earth! By slow degrees the sense of its might grew upon us, first by the +vision of its many aspects and moods, and then by more awful things that +followed; for there are few coasts upon which the sea rages so wildly as +upon this, the whole force of the Atlantic breaking upon it. Even when +there is no storm within perhaps hundreds of miles, when all is still as +a church on the land, the storm that raves somewhere out upon the vast +waste, will drive the waves in upon the shore with such fury that not +even a lifeboat could make its way through their yawning hollows, and +their fierce, shattered, and tumbling crests. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +MY FIRST SERMON IN THE SEABOARD PARISH. + + + + + +In the hope that some of the shipwrecked mariners might be present in +the church the next day, I proceeded to consider my morning's sermon for +the occasion. There was no difficulty in taking care at the same time +that it should be suitable to the congregation, whether those sailors +were there or not. I turned over in my mind several subjects. I thought, +for instance, of showing them how this ocean that lay watchful and ready +all about our island, all about the earth, was but a visible type or +symbol of two other oceans, one very still, the other very awful and +fierce; in fact, that three oceans surrounded us: one of the known +world; one of the unseen world, that is, of death; one of the +spirit--the devouring ocean of evil--and might I not have added yet +another, encompassing and silencing all the rest--that of truth! +The visible ocean seemed to make war upon the land, and the dwellers +thereon. Restrained by the will of God and by him made subject more and +more to the advancing knowledge of those who were created to rule over +it, it was yet like a half-tamed beast ever ready to break loose and +devour its masters. Of course this would have been but one aspect or +appearance of it--for it was in truth all service; but this was the +aspect I knew it must bear to those, seafaring themselves or not, to +whom I had to speak. Then I thought I might show, that its power, like +that of all things that man is ready to fear, had one barrier over which +no commotion, no might of driving wind, could carry it, beyond which its +loudest waves were dumb--the barrier of death. Hitherto and no further +could its power reach. It could kill the body. It could dash in pieces +the last little cock-boat to which the man clung, but thus it swept the +man beyond its own region into the second sea of stillness, which we +call death, out upon which the thoughts of those that are left behind +can follow him only in great longings, vague conjectures, and mighty +faith. Then I thought I could show them how, raving in fear, or lying +still in calm deceit, there lay about the life of man a far more fearful +ocean than that which threatened his body; for this would cast, could it +but get a hold of him, both body and soul into hell--the sea of evil, +of vice, of sin, of wrong-doing--they might call it by what name they +pleased. This made war against the very essence of life, against God +who is the truth, against love, against fairness, against fatherhood, +motherhood, sisterhood, brotherhood, manhood, womanhood, against +tenderness and grace and beauty, gathering into one pulp of festering +death all that is noble, lovely, worshipful in the human nature made so +divine that the one fearless man, the Lord Jesus Christ, shared it with +us. This, I thought I might make them understand, was the only terrible +sea, the only hopeless ocean from whose awful shore we must shrink and +flee, the end of every voyage upon whose bosom was the bottom of its +filthy waters, beyond the reach of all that is thought or spoken in the +light, beyond life itself, but for the hand that reaches down from the +upper ocean of truth, the hand of the Redeemer of men. I thought, I +say, for a while, that I could make this, not definite, but very real to +them. But I did not feel quite confident about it. Might they not in the +symbolism forget the thing symbolised? And would not the symbol itself +be ready to fade quite from their memory, or to return only in the +vaguest shadow? And with the thought I perceived a far more excellent +way. For the power of the truth lies of course in its revelation to the +mind, and while for this there are a thousand means, none are so mighty +as its embodiment in human beings and human life. There it is itself +alive and active. And amongst these, what embodiment comes near to that +in him who was perfect man in virtue of being at the root of the secret +of humanity, in virtue of being the eternal Son of God? We are his sons +in time: he is his Son in eternity, of whose sea time is but the broken +sparkle. Therefore, I would talk to them about--but I will treat my +reader now as if he were not my reader, but one of my congregation +on that bright Sunday, my first in the Seaboard Parish, with the sea +outside the church, flashing in the sunlight. + +While I stood at the lectern, which was in front of the altar-screen, +I could see little of my congregation, partly from my being on a level +with them, partly from the necessity for keeping my eyes and thoughts +upon that which I read. When, however, I rose from prayer in the +pulpit; then I felt, as usual with me, that I was personally present for +personal influence with my people, and then I saw, to my great pleasure, +that one long bench nearly in the middle of the church was full of such +sunburnt men as could not be mistaken for any but mariners, even if +their torn and worn garments had not revealed that they must be the +very men about whom we had been so much interested. Not only were they +behaving with perfect decorum, but their rough faces wore an aspect of +solemnity which I do not suppose was by any means their usual aspect. + +I gave them no text. I had one myself, which was the necessary thing. +They should have it by and by. + +"Once upon a time," I said, "a man went up a mountain, and stayed there +till it was dark, and stayed on. Now, a man who finds himself on a +mountain as the sun is going down, especially if he is alone, makes +haste to get down before it is dark. But this man went up when the sun +was going down, and, as I say, continued there for a good long while +after it was dark. You will want to know why. I will tell you. He wished +to be alone. He hadn't a house of his own. He never had all the time he +lived. He hadn't even a room of his own into which he could go, and bolt +the door of it. True, he had kind friends, who gave him a bed: but they +were all poor people, and their houses were small, and very likely they +had large families, and he could not always find a quiet place to go +into. And I dare say, if he had had a room, he would have been a little +troubled with the children constantly coming to find him; for however +much he loved them--and no man was ever so fond of children as he +was--he needed to be left quiet sometimes. So, upon this occasion, he +went up the mountain just to be quiet. He had been all day with a crowd +of people, and he felt that it was time to be alone. For he had been +talking with men all day, which tires and sometimes confuses a man's +thoughts, and now he wanted to talk with God--for that makes a man +strong, and puts all the confusion in order again, and lets a man know +what he is about. So he went to the top of the hill. That was his secret +chamber. It had no door; but that did not matter--no one could see him +but God. There he stayed for hours--sometimes, I suppose, kneeling in +his prayer to God; sometimes sitting, tired with his own thinking, on +a stone; sometimes walking about, looking forward to what would come +next--not anxious about it, but contemplating it. For just before he +came up here, some of the people who had been with him wanted to make +him a king; and this would not do--this was not what God wanted of him, +and therefore he got rid of them, and came up here to talk to God. It +was so quiet up here! The earth had almost vanished. He could see just +the bare hilltop beneath him, a glimmer below, and the sky and the stars +over his head. The people had all gone away to their own homes, and +perhaps next day would hardly think about him at all, busy catching +fish, or digging their gardens, or making things for their houses. But +he knew that God would not forget him the next day any more than this +day, and that God had sent him not to be the king that these people +wanted him to be, but their servant. So, to make his heart strong, I +say, he went up into the mountain alone to have a talk with his Father. +How quiet it all was up here, I say, and how noisy it had been down +there a little while ago! But God had been in the noise then as much +as he was in the quiet now--the only difference being that he could not +then be alone with him. I need not tell you who this man was--it was the +king of men, the servant of men, the Lord Jesus Christ, the everlasting +son of our Father in heaven. + +"Now this mountain on which he was praying had a small lake at the foot +of it--that is, about thirteen miles long, and five miles broad. Not +wanting even his usual companions to be with him this evening--partly, I +presume, because they were of the same mind as those who desired to take +him by force and make him a king--he had sent them away in their boat, +to go across this water to the other side, where were their homes and +their families. Now, it was not pitch dark either on the mountain-top or +on the water down below; yet I doubt if any other man than he would have +been keen-eyed enough to discover that little boat down in the middle +of the lake, much distressed by the west wind that blew right in their +teeth. But he loved every man in it so much, that I think even as he was +talking to his Father, his eyes would now and then go looking for and +finding it--watching it on its way across to the other side. You must +remember that it was a little boat; and there are often tremendous +storms upon these small lakes with great mountains about them. For the +wind will come all at once, rushing down through the clefts in as sudden +a squall as ever overtook a sailor at sea. And then, you know, there is +no sea-room. If the wind get the better of them, they are on the shore +in a few minutes, whichever way the wind may blow. He saw them worn out +at the oar, toiling in rowing, for the wind was contrary unto them. So +the time for loneliness and prayer was over, and the time to go down out +of his secret chamber and help his brethren was come. He did not need to +turn and say good-bye to his Father, as if he dwelt on that mountain-top +alone: his Father was down there on the lake as well. He went straight +down. Could not his Father, if he too was down on the lake, help them +without him? Yes. But he wanted him to do it, that they might see that +he did it. Otherwise they would only have thought that the wind fell and +the waves lay down, without supposing for a moment that their Master or +his Father had had anything to do with it. They would have done just as +people do now-a-days: they think that the help comes of itself, instead +of by the will of him who determined from the first that men should be +helped. So the Master went down the hill. When he reached the border +of the lake, the wind being from the other side, he must have found the +waves breaking furiously upon the rocks. But that made no difference to +him. He looked out as he stood alone on the edge amidst the rushing wind +and the noise of the water, out over the waves under the clear, starry +sky, saw where the tiny boat was tossed about like a nutshell, and set +out." + +The mariners had been staring at me up to this point, leaning forward on +their benches, for sailors are nearly as fond of a good yarn as they are +of tobacco; and I heard afterwards that they had voted parson's yarn a +good one. Now, however, I saw one of them, probably more ignorant than +the others, cast a questioning glance at his neighbour. It was not +returned, and he fell again into a listening attitude. He had no idea +of what was coming. He probably thought parson had forgotten to say how +Jesus had come by a boat. + +"The companions of our Lord had not been willing to go away and leave +him behind. Now, I dare say, they wished more than ever that he had been +with them--not that they thought he could do anything with a storm, only +that somehow they would have been less afraid with his face to look at. +They had seen him cure men of dreadful diseases; they had seen him turn +water into wine--some of them; they had seen him feed five thousand +people the day before with five loaves and two small fishes; but had one +of their number suggested that if he had been with them, they would have +been safe from the storm, they would not have talked any nonsense about +the laws of nature, not having learned that kind of nonsense, but they +would have said that was quite a different thing--altogether too much to +expect or believe: _nobody_ could make the wind mind what it was about, +or keep the water from drowning you if you fell into it and couldn't +swim; or such-like. + +"At length, when they were nearly worn out, taking feebler and feebler +strokes, sometimes missing the water altogether, at other times burying +their oars in it up to the handles--as they rose on the crest of a huge +wave, one of them gave a cry, and they all stopped rowing and stared, +leaning forward to peer through the darkness. And through the spray +which the wind tore from the tops of the waves and scattered before +it like dust, they saw, perhaps a hundred yards or so from the boat, +something standing up from the surface of the water. It seemed to move +towards them. It was a shape like a man. They all cried out with fear, +as was natural, for they thought it must be a ghost." + +How the faces of the sailors strained towards me at this part of the +story! I was afraid one of them especially was on the point of getting +up to speak, as we have heard of sailors doing in church. I went on. + +"But then, over the noise of the wind and the waters came the voice they +knew so well. It said, 'Be of good cheer: it is I. Be not afraid.' I +should think, between wonder and gladness, they hardly knew for some +moments where they were or what they were about. Peter was the first to +recover himself apparently. In the first flush of his delight he felt +strong and full of courage. 'Lord, if it be thou,' he said, 'bid me come +unto thee on the water.' Jesus just said, 'Come;' and Peter unshipped +his oar, and scrambled over the gunwale on to the sea. But when he let +go his hold of the boat, and began to look about him, and saw how the +wind was tearing the water, and how it tossed and raved between him and +Jesus, he began to be afraid. And as soon as he began to be afraid he +began to sink; but he had, notwithstanding his fear, just sense enough +to do the one sensible thing; he cried out, 'Lord, save me.' And Jesus +put out his hand, and took hold of him, and lifted him up out of the +water, and said to him, 'O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou +doubt? And then they got into the boat, and the wind fell all at once, +and altogether. + +"Now, you will not think that Peter was a coward, will you? It wasn't +that he hadn't courage, but that he hadn't enough of it. And why was it +that he hadn't enough of it? Because he hadn't faith enough. Peter was +always very easily impressed with the look of things. It wasn't at all +likely that a man should be able to walk on the water; and yet Peter +found himself standing on the water: you would have thought that when +once he found himself standing on the water, he need not be afraid of +the wind and the waves that lay between him and Jesus. But they looked +so ugly that the fearfulness of them took hold of his heart, and his +courage went. You would have thought that the greatest trial of his +courage was over when he got out of the boat, and that there was +comparatively little more ahead of him. Yet the sight of the waves and +the blast of the boisterous wind were too much for him. I will tell you +how I fancy it was; and I think there are several instances of the same +kind of thing in Peter's life. When he got out of the boat, and found +himself standing on the water, he began to think much of himself for +being able to do so, and fancy himself better and greater than his +companions, and an especial favourite of God above them. Now, there is +nothing that kills faith sooner than pride. The two are directly against +each other. The moment that Peter grew proud, and began to think about +himself instead of about his Master, he began to lose his faith, and +then he grew afraid, and then he began to sink--and that brought him to +his senses. Then he forgot himself and remembered his Master, and +then the hand of the Lord caught him, and the voice of the Lord gently +rebuked him for the smallness of his faith, asking, 'Wherefore +didst thou doubt?' I wonder if Peter was able to read his own heart +sufficiently well to answer that _wherefore_. I do not think it likely +at this period of his history. But God has immeasurable patience, and +before he had done teaching Peter, even in this life, he had made him +know quite well that pride and conceit were at the root of all his +failures. Jesus did not point it out to him now. Faith was the only +thing that would reveal that to him, as well as cure him of it; and was, +therefore, the only thing he required of him in his rebuke. I suspect +Peter was helped back into the boat by the eager hands of his companions +already in a humbler state of mind than when he left it; but before +his pride would be quite overcome, it would need that same voice of +loving-kindness to call him Satan, and the voice of the cock to bring to +his mind his loud boast, and his sneaking denial; nay, even the voice +of one who had never seen the Lord till after his death, but was yet a +readier disciple than he--the voice of St. Paul, to rebuke him because +he dissembled, and was not downright honest. But at the last even he +gained the crown of martyrdom, enduring all extremes, nailed to the +cross like his Master, rather than deny his name. This should teach +us to distrust ourselves, and yet have great hope for ourselves, and +endless patience with other people. But to return to the story and what +the story itself teaches us. + +"If the disciples had known that Jesus saw them from the top of the +mountain, and was watching them all the time, would they have been +frightened at the storm, as I have little doubt they were, for they +were only fresh-water fishermen, you know? Well, to answer my own +question"--I went on in haste, for I saw one or two of the sailors with +an audible answer hovering on their lips--"I don't know that, as they +then were, it would have made so much difference to them; for none of +them had risen much above the look of the things nearest them yet. But +supposing you, who know something about him, were alone on the sea, and +expecting your boat to be swamped every moment--if you found out all +at once, that he was looking down at you from some lofty hilltop, and +seeing all round about you in time and space too, would you be afraid? +He might mean you to go to the bottom, you know. Would you mind going +to the bottom with him looking at you? I do not think I should mind it +myself. But I must take care lest I be boastful like Peter. + +"Why should we be afraid of anything with him looking at us who is the +Saviour of men? But we are afraid of him instead, because we do not +believe that he is what he says he is--the Saviour of men. We do not +believe what he offers us is salvation. We think it is slavery, and +therefore continue slaves. Friends, I will speak to you who think you +do believe in him. I am not going to say that you do not believe in him; +but I hope I am going to make you say to yourselves that you too deserve +to have those words of the Saviour spoken to you that were spoken to +Peter, 'O ye of little faith!' Floating on the sea of your troubles, +all kinds of fears and anxieties assailing you, is He not on the +mountain-top? Sees he not the little boat of your fortunes tossed with +the waves and the contrary wind? Assuredly he will come to you walking +on the waters. It may not be in the way you wish, but if not, you will +say at last, 'This is better.' It may be that he will come in a form +that will make you cry out for fear in the weakness of your faith, as +the disciples cried out--not believing any more than they did, that it +can be he. But will not each of you arouse his courage that to you also +he may say, as to the woman with the sick daughter whose confidence he +so sorely tried, 'Great is thy faith'? Will you not rouse yourself, I +say, that you may do him justice, and cast off the slavery of your own +dread? O ye of little faith, wherefore will ye doubt? Do not think that +the Lord sees and will not come. Down the mountain assuredly he will +come, and you are now as safe in your troubles as the disciples were in +theirs with Jesus looking on. They did not know it, but it was so: the +Lord was watching them. And when you look back upon your past lives, +cannot you see some instances of the same kind--when you felt and acted +as if the Lord had forgotten you, and found afterwards that he had been +watching you all the time? + +"But the reason why you do not trust him more is that you obey him so +little. If you would only, ask what God would have you to do, you would +soon find your confidence growing. It is because you are proud, and +envious, and greedy after gain, that you do not trust him more. Ah! +trust him if it were only to get rid of these evil things, and be clean +and beautiful in heart. + +"O sailors with me on the ocean of life, will you, knowing that he is +watching you from his mountain-top, do and say the things that hurt, +and wrong, and disappoint him? Sailors on the waters that surround this +globe, though there be no great mountain that overlooks the little lake +on which you float, not the less does he behold you, and care for you, +and watch over you. Will you do that which is unpleasing, distressful +to him? Will you be irreverent, cruel, coarse? Will you say evil things, +lie, and delight in vile stories and reports, with his eye on you, +watching your ship on its watery ways, ever ready to come over the waves +to help you? It is a fine thing, sailors, to fear nothing; but it would +be far finer to fear nothing _because_ he is above all, and over all, +and in you all. For his sake and for his love, give up everything bad, +and take him for your captain. He will be both captain and pilot to you, +and steer you safe into the port of glory. Now to God the Father," &c. + +This is very nearly the sermon I preached that first Sunday morning. I +followed it up with a short enforcement in the afternoon. + +END OF VOL. I. + + + + + + +THE SEABOARD PARISH + +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. + +VOLUME II. + + + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. II. + + + + + + I. ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING + II. NICEBOOTS + III. THE BLACKSMITH + IV. THE LIFE-BOAT + V. MR. PERCIVALE + VI. THE SHADOW OF DEATH + VII. AT THE FARM +VIII. THE KEEVE IX. THE WALK TO CHURCH + X. THE OLD CASTLE + XI. JOE AND HIS TROUBLE + XII. A SMALL ADVENTURE +XIII. THE HARVEST + + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +ANOTHER SUNDAY EVENING. + + + + + +In the evening we met in Connie's room, as usual, to have our talk. And +this is what came out of it. + +The window was open. The sun was in the west. We sat a little aside out +of the course of his radiance, and let him look full into the room. Only +Wynnie sat back in a dark corner, as if she would get out of his way. +Below him the sea lay bluer than you could believe even when you saw +it--blue with a delicate yet deep silky blue, the exquisiteness of which +was thrown up by the brilliant white lines of its lapping on the high +coast, to the northward. We had just sat down, when Dora broke out +with-- + +"I saw Niceboots at church. He did stare at you, papa, as if he had +never heard a sermon before." + +"I daresay he never heard such a sermon before!" said Connie, with the +perfect confidence of inexperience and partiality--not to say ignorance, +seeing she had not heard the sermon herself. + +Here Wynnie spoke from her dark corner, apparently forcing herself to +speak, and thereby giving what seemed an unpleasant tone to what she +said. + +"Well, papa, I don't know what to think. You are always telling us to +trust in Him; but how can we, if we are not good?" + +"The first good thing you can do is to look up to him. That is the +beginning of trust in him, and the most sensible thing that it is +possible for us to do. That is faith." + +"But it's no use sometimes." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because you--I mean I--can't feel good, or care about it at all." + +"But is that any ground for saying that it is no use--that he does not +heed you? that he disregards the look cast up to him? that, till the +heart goes with the will, he who made himself strong to be the helper +of the weak, who pities most those who are most destitute--and who +so destitute as those who do not love what they want to love--except, +indeed, those who don't want to love?--that, till you are well on +towards all right by earnestly seeking it, he won't help you? You are to +judge him from yourself, are you?--forgetting that all the misery in you +is just because you have not got his grand presence with you?" + +I spoke so earnestly as to be somewhat incoherent in words. But my +reader will understand. Wynnie was silent. Connie, as if partly to help +her sister, followed on the same side. + +"I don't know exactly how to say what I mean, papa, but I wish I could +get this lovely afternoon, all full of sunshine and blue, into unity +with all that you teach us about Jesus Christ. I wish this beautiful +day came in with my thought of him, like the frame--gold and red and +blue--that you have to that picture of him at home. Why doesn't it?" + +"Just because you have not enough of faith in him, my dear. You do not +know him well enough yet. You do not yet believe that he means you all +gladness, heartily, honestly, thoroughly." + +"And no suffering, papa?" + +"I did not say that, my dear. There you are on your couch and can't +move. But he does mean you such gladness, such a full sunny air and blue +sea of blessedness that this suffering shall count for little in it; +nay more, shall be taken in for part, and, like the rocks that interfere +with the roll of the sea, flash out the white that glorifies and +intensifies the whole--to pass away by and by, I trust, none the less. +What a chance you have, my Connie, of believing in him, of offering upon +his altar!" + +"But," said my wife, "are not these feelings in a great measure +dependent upon the state of one's health? I find it so different when +the sunshine is inside me as well as outside me." + +"Not a doubt of it, my dear. But that is only the more reason for +rising above all that. From the way some people speak of physical +difficulties--I don't mean you, wife--you would think that they were not +merely the inevitable which they are, but the insurmountable which they +are not. That they are physical and not spiritual is not only a great +consolation, but a strong argument for overcoming them. For all that is +physical is put, or is in the process of being put, under the feet of +the spiritual. Do not mistake me. I do not say you can make yourself +feel merry or happy when you are in a physical condition which is +contrary to such mental condition. But you can withdraw from it--not all +at once; but by practice and effort you can learn to withdraw from it, +refusing to allow your judgments and actions to be ruled by it. You can +climb up out of the fogs, and sit quiet in the sunlight on the hillside +of faith. You cannot be merry down below in the fog, for there is the +fog; but you can every now and then fly with the dove-wings of the soul +up into the clear, to remind yourself that all this passes away, is but +an accident, and that the sun shines always, although it may not at any +given moment be shining on you. 'What does that matter?' you will learn +to say. 'It is enough for me to know that the sun does shine, and that +this is only a weary fog that is round about me for the moment. I shall +come out into the light beyond presently.' This is faith--faith in God, +who is the light, and is all in all. I believe that the most glorious +instances of calmness in suffering are thus achieved; that the sufferers +really do not suffer what one of us would if thrown into their physical +condition without the refuge of their spiritual condition as well; for +they have taken refuge in the inner chamber. Out of the spring of their +life a power goes forth that quenches the flames of the furnace of their +suffering, so far at least that it does not touch the deep life, cannot +make them miserable, does not drive them from the possession of their +soul in patience, which is the divine citadel of the suffering. Do you +understand me, Connie?" + +"I do, papa. I think perfectly." + +"Still less, then, is the fact that the difficulty is physical to be +used as an excuse for giving way to ill-temper, and, in fact, leaving +ourselves to be tossed and shaken by every tremble of our nerves. That +is as if a man should give himself into the hands and will and caprice +of an organ-grinder, to work upon him, not with the music of the +spheres, but with the wretched growling of the streets." + +"But," said Wynnie, "I have heard you yourself, papa, make excuse for +people's ill-temper on this very ground, that they were out of health. +Indeed," she went on, half-crying, "I have heard you do so for myself, +when you did not know that I was within hearing." + +"Yes, my dear, most assuredly. It is no fiction, but a real difference +that lies between excusing ourselves and excusing other people. No doubt +the same excuse is just for ourselves that is just for other people. But +we can do something to put ourselves right upon a higher principle, +and therefore we should not waste our time in excusing, or even in +condemning ourselves, but make haste up the hill. Where we cannot +work--that is, in the life of another--we have time to make all the +excuse we can. Nay more; it is only justice there. We are not bound to +insist on our own rights, even of excuse; the wisest thing often is to +forego them. But we are bound by heaven, earth, and hell to give them +to other people. And, besides, what a comfort to ourselves to be able to +say, 'It is true So-and-so was cross to-day. But it wasn't in the least +that he wasn't friendly, or didn't like me; it was only that he had +eaten something that hadn't agreed with him. I could see it in his eye. +He had one of his headaches.' Thus, you see, justice to our neighbour, +and comfort to ourselves, is one and the same thing. But it would be +a sad thing to have to think that when we found ourselves in the same +ungracious condition, from whatever cause, we had only to submit to it, +saying, 'It is a law of nature,' as even those who talk most about laws +will not do, when those laws come between them and their own comfort. +They are ready enough then to call in the aid of higher laws, which, +so far from being contradictory, overrule the lower to get things +into something like habitable, endurable condition. It may be a law of +nature; but what has the Law of the Spirit of Life to _propound anent_ +it? as the Scotch lawyers would say." + +A little pause followed, during which I hope some of us were thinking. +That Wynnie, at least, was, her next question made evident. + +"What you say about a law of nature and a law of the Spirit makes me +think again how that walking on the water has always been a puzzle to +me." + +"It could hardly be other, seeing that we cannot possibly understand +it," I answered. + +"But I find it so hard to believe. Can't you say something, papa, to +help me to believe it?" + +"I think if you admit what goes before, you will find there is nothing +against reason in the story." + +"Tell me, please, what you mean." + +"If all things were made by Jesus, the Word of God, would it be +reasonable that the water that he had created should be able to drown +him?" + +"It might drown his body." + +"It would if he had not the power over it still, to prevent it from +laying hold of him. But just think for a moment. God is a Spirit. Spirit +is greater than matter. Spirit makes matter. Think what it was for a +human body to have such a divine creative power dwelling in it as that +which dwelt in the human form of Jesus! What power, and influence, and +utter rule that spirit must have over the body in which it dwells! We +cannot imagine how much; but if we have so much power over our bodies, +how much more must the pure, divine Jesus, have had over his! I suspect +this miracle was wrought, not through anything done to the water, but +through the power of the spirit over the body of Jesus, which was all +obedient thereto. I am not explaining the miracle, for that I cannot do. +One day I think it will be plain common sense to us. But now I am only +showing you what seems to me to bring us a step nearer to the essential +region of the miracle, and so far make it easier to believe. If we look +at the history of our Lord, we shall find that, true real human body +as his was, it was yet used by his spirit after a fashion in which we +cannot yet use our bodies. And this is only reasonable. Let me give you +an instance. You remember how, on the Mount of Transfiguration, that +body shone so that the light of it illuminated all his garments. You do +not surely suppose that this shine was external--physical light, as we +say, _merely?_ No doubt it was physical light, for how else would their +eyes have seen it? But where did it come from? What was its source? I +think it was a natural outburst of glory from the mind of Jesus, filled +with the perfect life of communion with his Father--the light of his +divine blessedness taking form in physical radiance that permeated and +glorified all that surrounded him. As the body is the expression of the +soul, as the face of Jesus himself was the expression of the being, the +thought, the love of Jesus in like manner this radiance was the natural +expression of his gladness, even in the face of that of which they had +been talking--Moses, Elias, and he--namely, the decease that he should +accomplish at Jerusalem. Again, after his resurrection, he convinced the +hands, as well as eyes, of doubting Thomas, that he was indeed there +in the body; and yet that body could appear and disappear as the Lord +willed. All this is full of marvel, I grant you; but probably far more +intelligible to us in a further state of existence than some of the most +simple facts with regard to our own bodies are to us now, only that we +are so used to them that we never think how unintelligible they really +are." + +"But then about Peter, papa? What you have been saying will not apply to +Peter's body, you know." + +"I confess there is more difficulty there. But if you can suppose that +such power were indwelling in Jesus, you cannot limit the sphere of +its action. As he is the head of the body, his church, in all spiritual +things, so I firmly believe, however little we can understand about it, +is he in all natural things as well. Peter's faith in him brought even +Peter's body within the sphere of the outgoing power of the Master. +Do you suppose that because Peter ceased to be brave and trusting, +therefore Jesus withdrew from him some sustaining power, and allowed +him to sink? I do not believe it. I believe Peter's sinking followed +naturally upon his loss of confidence. Thus he fell away from the life +of the Master; was no longer, in that way I mean, connected with +the Head, was instantly under the dominion of the natural law of +gravitation, as we call it, and began to sink. Therefore the Lord must +take other means to save him. He must draw nigh to him in a bodily +manner. The pride of Peter had withdrawn him from the immediate +spiritual influence of Christ, conquering his matter; and therefore the +Lord must come over the stormy space between, come nearer to him in the +body, and from his own height of safety above the sphere of the natural +law, stretch out to him the arm of physical aid, lift him up, lead him +to the boat. The whole salvation of the human race is figured in this +story. It is all Christ, my love.--Does this help you to believe at +all?" + +"I think it does, papa. But it wants thinking over a good deal. I always +find as I think, that lighter bits shine out here and there in a thing +I have no hope of understanding altogether. That always helps me to +believe that the rest might be understood too, if I were only clever +enough." + +"Simple enough, not clever enough, my dear." + +"But there's one thing," said my wife, "that is more interesting to me +than what you have been talking about. It is the other instances in the +life of St. Peter in which you said he failed in a similar manner from +pride or self-satisfaction." + +"One, at least, seems to me very clear. You have often remarked to me, +Ethel, how little praise servants can stand; how almost invariably after +you have commended the diligence or skill of any of your household, +as you felt bound to do, one of the first visible results was either a +falling away in the performance by which she had gained the praise, or a +more or less violent access, according to the nature of the individual, +of self-conceit, soon breaking out in bad temper or impertinence. Now +you will see precisely the same kind of thing in Peter." + +Here I opened my New Testament, and read fragmentarily, "'But whom say +ye that I am?... Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.... +Blessed art thou, Simon.... My Father hath revealed that unto thee. I +will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven.... I must suffer +many things, and be killed, and be raised again the third day.... Be it +far from thee, Lord. This shall not be unto thee.... Get thee behind me, +Satan. Thou art an offence unto me.' Just contemplate the change here +in the words of our Lord. 'Blessed art thou.' 'Thou art an offence unto +me.' Think what change has passed on Peter's mood before the second of +these words could be addressed to him to whom the first had just been +spoken. The Lord had praised him. Peter grew self-sufficient, even to +the rebuking of him whose praise had so uplifted him. But it is ever +so. A man will gain a great moral victory: glad first, then uplifted, +he will fall before a paltry temptation. I have sometimes wondered, too, +whether his denial of our Lord had anything to do with his satisfaction +with himself for making that onslaught upon the high priest's servant. +It was a brave thing and a faithful to draw a single sword against a +multitude. In his fiery eagerness and inexperience, the blow, well meant +to cleave Malchus's head, missed, and only cut off his ear; but Peter +had herein justified his confident saying that he would not deny him. He +was not one to deny his Lord who had been the first to confess him! Yet +ere the cock had crowed, ere the morning had dawned, the vulgar grandeur +of the palace of the high priest (for let it be art itself, it was +vulgar grandeur beside that grandeur which it caused Peter to deny), and +the accusing tone of a maid-servant, were enough to make him quail whom +the crowd with lanterns, and torches, and weapons, had only roused to +fight. True, he was excited then, and now he was cold in the middle of +the night, with Jesus gone from his sight a prisoner, and for the faces +of friends that had there surrounded him and strengthened him with their +sympathy, now only the faces of those who were, or whom at least Peter +thought to be on the other side, looking at him curiously, as a strange +intruder into their domains. Alas, that the courage which led him to +follow the Lord should have thus led him, not to deny him, but into the +denial of him! Yet why should I say _alas?_ If the denial of our Lord +lay in his heart a possible thing, only prevented by his being kept in +favourable circumstances for confessing him, it was a thousand times +better that he should deny him, and thus know what a poor weak thing +that heart of his was, trust it no more, and give it up to the Master +to make it strong, and pure, and grand. For such an end the Lord was +willing to bear all the pain of Peter's denial. O, the love of that Son +of Man, who in the midst of all the wretched weaknesses of those who +surrounded him, loved the best in them, and looked forward to his own +victory for them that they might become all that they were meant to +be--like him; that the lovely glimmerings of truth and love that were +in them now--the breakings forth of the light that lighteneth every +man--might grow into the perfect human day; loving them even the more +that they were so helpless, so oppressed, so far from that ideal which +was their life, and which all their dim desires were reaching after!" + +Here I ceased, and a little overcome with the great picture in my soul +to which I had been able only to give the poorest expression, rose, and +retired to my own room. There I could only fall on my knees and pray +that the Lord Christ, who had died for me, might have his own way with +me--that it might be worth his while to have done what he did and what +he was doing now for me. To my Elder Brother, my Lord, and my God, I +gave myself yet again, confidently, because he cared to have me, and my +very breath was his. I _would_ be what he wanted, who knew all about it, +and had done everything that I might be a son of God--a living glory of +gladness. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +NICEBOOTS. + + + + + +The next morning the captain of the lost vessel called upon me early +to thank me for himself and his men. He was a fine honest-looking burly +fellow, dressed in blue from head to heel. He might have sat for a +portrait of Chaucer's shipman, as far as his hue and the first look of +him went. It was clear that "in many a tempest had his beard be shake," +and certainly "the hote somer had made his hew all broun;" but farther +the likeness would hardly go, for the "good fellow" which Chaucer +applies with such irony to the shipman of his time, who would filch +wine, and drown all the captives he made in a sea-fight, was clearly +applicable in good earnest to this shipman. Still, I thought I had +something to bring against him, and therefore before we parted I said to +him-- + +"They tell me, captain, that your vessel was not seaworthy, and that you +could not but have known that." + +"She was my own craft, sir, and I judged her fit for several voyages +more. If she had been A 1 she couldn't have been mine; and a man must do +what he can for his family." + +"But you were risking your life, you know." + +"A few chances more or less don't much signify to a sailor, sir. There +ain't nothing to be done without risk. You'll find an old tub go voyage +after voyage, and she beyond bail, and a clipper fresh off the stocks go +down in the harbour. It's all in the luck, sir, I assure you." + +"Well, if it were your own life I should have nothing to say, seeing you +have a family to look after; but what about the poor fellows who made +the voyage with you? Did they know what kind of a vessel they were +embarking in?" + +"Wherever the captain's ready to go he'll always find men ready to +follow him. Bless you, sir, they never asks no questions. If a sailor +was always to be thinking of the chances, he'd never set his foot off +shore." + +"Still, I don't think it's right they shouldn't know." + +"I daresay they knowed all about the old brig as well as I did myself. +You gets to know all about a craft just as you do about her captain. +She's got a character of her own, and she can't hide it long, any more +than you can hide yours, sir, begging your pardon." + +"I daresay that's all correct, but still I shouldn't like anyone to say +to me, 'You ought to have told me, captain.' Therefore, you see, I'm +telling you, captain, and now I'm clear.--Have a glass of wine before +you go," I concluded, ringing the bell. + +"Thank you, sir. I'll turn over what you've been saying, and anyhow I +take it kind of you." + +So we parted. I have never seen him since, and shall not, most likely, +in this world. But he looked like a man that could understand why and +wherefore I spoke as I did. And I had the advantage of having had a +chance of doing something for him first of all. Let no man who wants to +do anything for the soul of a man lose a chance of doing something for +his body. He ought to be willing, and ready, which is more than willing, +to do that whether or not; but there are those who need this reminder. +Of many a soul Jesus laid hold by healing the suffering the body brought +upon it. No one but himself can tell how much the nucleus of the church +was composed of and by those who had received health from his hands, +loving-kindness from the word of his mouth. My own opinion is that +herein lay the very germ of the kernel of what is now the ancient, +was then the infant church; that from them, next to the disciples +themselves, went forth the chief power of life in love, for they too +had seen the Lord, and in their own humble way could preach and teach +concerning him. What memories of him theirs must have been! + +Things went on very quietly, that is, as I mean now, from the view-point +of a historian, without much to record bearing notably upon after +events, for the greater part of the next week. I wandered about my +parish, making acquaintance with different people in an outside sort of +way, only now and then finding an opportunity of seeing into their +souls except by conclusion. But I enjoyed endlessly the aspects of the +country. It was not picturesque except in parts. There was little wood +and there were no hills, only undulations, though many of them were +steep enough even from a pedestrian's point of view. Neither, however, +were there any plains except high moorland tracts. But the impression of +the whole country was large, airy, sunshiny, and it was clasped in the +arms of the infinite, awful, yet how bountiful sea--if one will look at +the ocean in its world-wide, not to say its eternal aspects, and not out +of the fears of a hidebound love of life! The sea and the sky, I must +confess, dwarfed the earth, made it of small account beside them; but +who could complain of such an influence? At least, not I. + +My children bathed in this sea every day, and gathered strength and +knowledge from it. It was, as I have indicated, a dangerous coast to +bathe upon. The sweep of the tides varied with the varying sands that +were cast up. There was now in one place, now in another, a strong +_undertow_, as they called it--a reflux, that is, of the inflowing +waters, which was quite sufficient to carry those who could not swim out +into the great deep, and rendered much exertion necessary, even in those +who could, to regain the shore. But there was a fine strong Cornish +woman to take charge of the ladies and the little boys, and she, +watching the ways of the wild monster, knew the when and the where, and +all about it. + +Connie got out upon the downs every day. She improved in health +certainly, and we thought a little even in her powers of motion. The +weather continued superb. What rain there was fell at night, just enough +for Nature to wash her face with and so look quite fresh in the morning. +We contrived a dinner on the sands on the other side of the bay, for the +Friday of this same week. + +The morning rose gloriously. Harry and Charlie were turning the house +upside down, to judge by their noise, long before I was in the humour to +get up, for I had been reading late the night before. I never made +much objection to mere noise, knowing that I could stop it the moment +I pleased, and knowing, which was of more consequence, that so far from +there being anything wrong in making a noise, the sea would make noise +enough in our ears before we left Kilkhaven. The moment, however, that +I heard a thread of whining or a burst of anger in the noise, I would +interfere at once--treating these just as things that must be dismissed +at once. Harry and Charlie were, I say, to use their own form of speech, +making such a row that morning, however, that I was afraid of some +injury to the house or furniture, which were not our own. So I opened my +door and called out-- + +"Harry! Charlie! What on earth are you about?" + +"Nothing, papa," answered Charlie. "Only it's so jolly!" + +"What is jolly, my boy?" I asked. + +"O, I don't know, papa! It's _so_ jolly!" + +"Is it the sunshine?" thought I; "and the wind? God's world all over? +The God of gladness in the hearts of the lads? Is it that? No wonder, +then, that they cannot tell yet what it is!" + +I withdrew into my room; and so far from seeking to put an end to the +noise--I knew Connie did not mind it--listened to it with a kind of +reverence, as the outcome of a gladness which the God of joy had kindled +in their hearts. Soon after, however, I heard certain dim growls of +expostulation from Harry, and having, from experience, ground for +believing that the elder was tyrannising over the younger, I stopped +that and the noise together, sending Charlie to find out where the tide +would be between one and two o'clock, and Harry to run to the top of +the hill, and find out the direction of the wind. Before I was dressed, +Charlie was knocking at my door with the news that it would be half-tide +about one; and Harry speedily followed with the discovery that the wind +was north-east by south-west, which of course determined that the sun +would shine all day. + +As the dinner-hour drew near, the servants went over, with Walter at +their head, to choose a rock convenient for a table, under the shelter +of the rocks on the sands across the bay. Thither, when Walter returned, +we bore our Connie, carrying her litter close by the edge of the +retreating tide, which sometimes broke in a ripple of music under her, +wetting our feet with innocuous rush. The child's delight was extreme, +as she thus skimmed the edge of the ocean, with the little ones +gambolling about her, and her mamma and Wynnie walking quietly on the +landward side, for she wished to have no one between her and the sea. + +After scrambling with difficulty over some rocky ledges, and stopping +at Connie's request, to let her look into a deep pool in the sand, which +somehow or other retained the water after the rest had retreated, we set +her down near the mouth of a cave, in the shadow of a rock. And there +was our dinner nicely laid for us on a flat rock in front of the cave. +The cliffs rose behind us, with curiously curved and variously angled +strata. The sun in his full splendour threw dark shadows on the +brilliant yellow sand, more and more of which appeared as the bright +blue water withdrew itself, now rippling over it as if it meant to hide +it all up again, now uncovering more as it withdrew for another rush. +Before we had finished our dinner, the foremost wavelets appeared so far +away over the plain of the sand, that it seemed a long walk to the edge +that had been almost at our feet a little while ago. Between us and it +lay a lovely desert of glittering sand. + +When even Charlie and Harry had arrived at the conclusion that it was +time to stop eating, we left the shadow and went out into the sun, +carrying Connie and laying her down in the midst of "the ribbed +sea-sand," which was very ribby to-day. On a shawl a little way off from +her lay her baby, crowing and kicking with the same jollity that had +possessed the boys ever since the morning. I wandered about with Wynnie +on the sands, picking up amongst other things strange creatures in thin +shells ending in vegetable-like tufts, if I remember rightly. My wife +sat on the end of Connie's litter, and Dora and the boys, a little way +off, were trying how far the full force of three wooden spades could, in +digging a hole, keep ahead of the water which was ever tumbling in the +sand from the sides of the same. Behind, the servants were busy washing +the plates in a pool, and burying the fragments of the feast; for I made +it a rule wherever we went that the fair face of nature was not to be +defiled. I have always taken the part of excursionists in these +latter days of running to and fro, against those who complain that the +loveliest places are being destroyed by their inroads. But there is +one most offensive, even disgusting habit amongst them--that of leaving +bones, fragments of meat pies, and worse than all, pieces of greasy +paper about the place, which I cannot excuse, or at least defend. Even +the surface of Cumberland and Westmoreland lakes will be defiled +with these floating abominations--not abominations at all if they are +decently burned or buried when done with, but certainly abominations +when left to be cast hither and thither in the wind, over the grass, or +on the eddy and ripple of the pure water, for days after those who +have thus left their shame behind them have returned to their shops or +factories. I forgive them for trampling down the grass and the ferns. +That cannot be helped, and in comparison of the good they get, is not +to be considered at all. But why should they leave such a savage trail +behind them as this, forgetting too that though they have done with the +spot, there are others coming after them to whom these remnants must be +an offence? + +At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of +rock, rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came +suddenly upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with a +small easel before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had his +back towards us, so that we saw at once what he was painting. + +"O, papa!" cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round. + +"I beg your pardon," I said. "We came over from the other side, and did +not see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much." + +"Not in the least," he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke. + +I saw that the subject on his easel suggested that of which Wynnie had +been making a sketch at the same time, on the day when Connie first lay +on the top of the opposite cliff. But he was not even looking in the +same direction now. + +"Do you mind having your work seen before it is finished?" + +"Not in the least, if the spectators will do me the favour to remember +that most processes have to go through a seemingly chaotic stage," he +answered. + +I was struck with the mode and tone of the remark. + +"Here is no common man," I said to myself, and responded to him in +something of a similar style. + +"I wish we could always keep that in mind with regard to human beings +themselves, as well as their works," I said aloud. + +The painter looked at me, and I looked at him. + +"We speak each from the experience of his own profession, I presume," he +said. + +"But," I returned, glancing at the little picture in oils upon his +easel, "your work here, though my knowledge of painting is next to +nothing--perhaps I ought to say nothing at all--this picture must have +long ago passed the chaotic stage." + +"It is nearly as much finished as I care to make it," he returned. "I +hardly count this work at all. I am chiefly amusing, or rather pleasing, +my own fancy at present." + +"Apparently," I remarked, "you had the conical rock outside the hay for +your model, and now you are finishing it with your back turned towards +it. How is that?" + +"I will soon explain," he answered. "The moment I saw this rock, it +reminded me of Dante's Purgatory." + +"Ah, you are a reader of Dante?" I said. "In the original, I hope." + +"Yes. A friend of mine, a brother painter, an Italian, set me going with +that, and once going with Dante, nobody could well stop. I never knew +what intensity _per se_ was till I began to read Dante." + +"That is quite my own feeling. Now, to return to your picture." + +"Without departing at all from natural forms, I thought to make it +suggest the Purgatorio to anyone who remembered the description given of +the place _ab extra_ by Ulysses, in the end of the twenty-sixth canto +of the Inferno. Of course, that thing there is a mere rock, yet it +has certain mountain forms about it. I have put it at a much greater +distance, you see, and have sought to make it look a solitary mountain +in the midst of a great water. You will discover even now that the +circles of the Purgatory are suggested without any approach, I think, to +artificial structure; and there are occasional hints at figures, which +you cannot definitely detach from the rocks--which, by the way, you must +remember, were in one part full of sculptures. I have kept the mountain +near enough, however, to indicate the great expanse of wild flowers on +the top, which Matilda was so busy gathering. I want to indicate too the +wind up there in the terrestrial paradise, ever and always blowing one +way. You remember, Mr. Walton?"--for the young man, getting animated, +began to talk as if we had known each other for some time--and here he +repeated the purport of Dante's words in English: + + "An air of sweetness, changeless in its flow, + With no more strength than in a soft wind lies, + Smote peacefully against me on the brow. + By which the leaves all trembling, level-wise, + Did every one bend thitherward to where + The high mount throws its shadow at sunrise." + +"I thought you said you did not use translations?" + +"I thought it possible that--Miss Walton (?)" interrogatively +this--"might not follow the Italian so easily, and I feared to seem +pedantic." + +"She won't lag far behind, I flatter myself," I returned. "Whose +translation do you quote?" + +He hesitated a moment; then said carelessly: + +"I have cobbled a few passages after that fashion myself." + +"It has the merit of being near the original at least," I returned; "and +that seems to me one of the chief merits a translation can possess." + +"Then," the painter resumed, rather hastily, as if to avoid any further +remark upon his verses, "you see those white things in the air above?" +Here he turned to Wynnie. "Miss Walton will remember--I think she was +making a drawing of the rock at the same time I was--how the seagulls, +or some such birds--only two or three of them--kept flitting about the +top of it?" + +"I remember quite well," answered Wynnie, with a look of appeal to me. + +"Yes," I interposed; "my daughter, in describing what she had been +attempting to draw, spoke especially of the birds over the rock. For she +said the white lapping of the waves looked like spirits trying to get +loose, and the white birds like foam that had broken its chains, and +risen in triumph into the air." + +Here Mr. Niceboots, for as yet I did not know what else to call him, +looked at Wynnie almost with a start. + +"How wonderfully that falls in with my fancy about the rock!" he said. +"Purgatory indeed! with imprisoned souls lapping at its foot, and the +free souls winging their way aloft in ether. Well, this world is a kind +of purgatory anyhow--is it not, Mr. Walton?" + +"Certainly it is. We are here tried as by fire, to see what our work +is--whether wood, hay, and stubble, or gold and silver and precious +stones." + +"You see," resumed the painter, "if anybody only glanced at my little +picture, he would take those for sea-birds; but if he looked into it, +and began to suspect me, he would find out that they were Dante and +Beatrice on their way to the sphere of the moon." + +"In one respect at least, then, your picture has the merit of +corresponding to fact; for what thing is there in the world, or what +group of things, in which the natural man will not see merely the things +of nature, but the spiritual man the things of the spirit?" + +"I am no theologian," said the painter, turning away, I thought somewhat +coldly. + +But I could see that Wynnie was greatly interested in him. Perhaps she +thought that here was some enlightenment of the riddle of the world for +her, if she could but get at what he was thinking. She was used to my +way of it: here might be something new. + +"If I can be of any service to Miss Walton with her drawing, I shall be +happy," he said, turning again towards me. + +But his last gesture had made me a little distrustful of him, and I +received his advances on this point with a coldness which I did not wish +to make more marked than his own towards my last observation. + +"You are very kind," I said; "but Miss Walton does not presume to be an +artist." + +I saw a slight shade pass over Wynnie's countenance. When I turned to +Mr. Niceboots, a shade of a different sort was on his. Surely I had said +something wrong to cast a gloom on two young faces. I made haste to make +amends. + +"We are just going to have some coffee," I said, "for my servants, +I see, have managed to kindle a fire. Will you come and allow me to +introduce you to Mrs. Walton?" + +"With much pleasure," he answered, rising from the rock whereon, as +he spoke about his picture, he had again seated himself. He was a +fine-built, black-bearded, sunburnt fellow, with clear gray eyes +notwithstanding, a rather Roman nose, and good features generally. But +there was an air of suppression, if not of sadness, about him, however, +did not in the least interfere with the manliness of his countenance, or +of its expression. + +"But," I said, "how am I to effect an introduction, seeing I do not yet +know your name." + +I had had to keep a sharp look-out on myself lest I should call him Mr. +Niceboots. He smiled very graciously and replied, + +"My name is Percivale--Charles Percivale." + +"A descendant of Sir Percivale of King Arthur's Round Table?" + +"I cannot count quite so far back," he answered, "as that--not quite to +the Conquest," he added, with a slight deepening of his sunburnt hue. "I +do come of a fighting race, but I cannot claim Sir Percivale." + +We were now walking along the edge of the still retreating waves towards +the group upon the sands, Mr. Percivale and I foremost, and Wynnie +lingering behind. + +"O, do look here papa!" she cried, from some little distance. + +We turned and saw her gazing at something on the sand at her feet. +Hastening back, we found it to be a little narrow line of foam-bubbles, +which the water had left behind it on the sand, slowly breaking and +passing out of sight. Why there should be foam-bubbles there then, and +not always, I do not know. But there they were--and such colours! deep +rose and grassy green and ultramarine blue; and, above all, one dark, +yet brilliant and intensely-burnished, metallic gold. All of them were +of a solid-looking burnished colour, like opaque body-colour laid on +behind translucent crystal. Those little ocean bubbles were well worth +turning to see; and so I said to Wynnie. But, as we gazed, they went on +vanishing, one by one. Every moment a heavenly glory of hue burst, and +was nowhere. + +We walked away again towards the rest of our party. + +"Don't you think those bubbles more beautiful than any precious stones +you ever saw, papa?" + +"Yes, my love, I think they are, except it be the opal. In the opal, God +seems to have fixed the evanescent and made the vanishing eternal." + +"And flowers are more beautiful things than jewels?' she said +interrogatively. + +"Many--perhaps most flowers are," I granted. "And did you ever see such +curves and delicate textures anywhere else as in the clouds, papa?" + +"I think not--in the cirrhous clouds at least--the frozen ones. But what +are you putting me to my catechism for in this way, my child?" + +"O, papa, I could go on a long time with that catechism; but I will end +with one question more, which you will perhaps find a little harder to +answer. Only I daresay you have had an answer ready for years lest one +of us should ask you some day." + +"No, my love. I never got an answer ready for anything lest one of my +children should ask me. But it is not surprising either that children +should be puzzled about the things that have puzzled their father, or +that by the time they are able to put the questions, he should have +found out some sort of an answer to most of them. Go on with your +catechism, Wynnie. Now for your puzzle!" + +"It's not a funny question, papa; it's a very serious one. I can't think +why the unchanging God should have made all the most beautiful things +wither and grow ugly, or burst and vanish, or die somehow and be no +more. Mamma is not so beautiful as she once was, is she?" + +"In one way, no; but in another and better way, much more so. But we +will not talk about her kind of beauty just now; we will keep to the +more material loveliness of which you have been speaking--though, in +truth, no loveliness can be only material. Well, then, for my answer; +it is, I think, because God loves the beauty so much that he makes all +beautiful things vanish quickly." + +"I do not understand you, papa." + +"I daresay not, my dear. But I will explain to you a little, if Mr. +Percivale will excuse me." + +"On the contrary, I am greatly interested, both in the question and the +answer." + +"Well, then, Wynnie; everything has a soul and a body, or something like +them. By the body we know the soul. But we are always ready to love the +body instead of the soul. Therefore, God makes the body die continually, +that we may learn to love the soul indeed. The world is full of +beautiful things, but God has saved many men from loving the mere bodies +of them, by making them poor; and more still by reminding them that +if they be as rich as Croesus all their lives, they will be as poor +as Diogenes--poorer, without even a tub--when this world, with all its +pictures, scenery, books, and--alas for some Christians!--bibles even, +shall have vanished away." + +"Why do you say _alas_, papa--if they are Christians especially?" + +"I say _alas_ only from their point of view, not from mine. I mean +such as are always talking and arguing from the Bible, and never giving +themselves any trouble to do what it tells them. They insist on the +anise and cummin, and forget the judgment, mercy, and faith. These +worship the body of the truth, and forget the soul of it. If the flowers +were not perishable, we should cease to contemplate their beauty, either +blinded by the passion for hoarding the bodies of them, or dulled by +the hebetude of commonplaceness that the constant presence of them would +occasion. To compare great things with small, the flowers wither, the +bubbles break, the clouds and sunsets pass, for the very same holy +reason, in the degree of its application to them, for which the Lord +withdrew from his disciples and ascended again to his Father--that the +Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Soul of things, might come to them +and abide with them, and so the Son return, and the Father be revealed. +The flower is not its loveliness, and its loveliness we must love, +else we shall only treat them as flower-greedy children, who gather and +gather, and fill hands and baskets, from a mere desire of acquisition, +excusable enough in them, but the same in kind, however harmless in +mode, and degree, and object, as the avarice of the miser. Therefore +God, that we may always have them, and ever learn to love their beauty, +and yet more their truth, sends the beneficent winter that we may think +about what we have lost, and welcome them when they come again with +greater tenderness and love, with clearer eyes to see, and purer hearts +to understand, the spirit that dwells in them. We cannot do without +the 'winter of our discontent.' Shakspere surely saw that when he makes +Titania say, in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_: + + 'The human mortals want their winter here'-- + +namely, to set things right; and none of those editors who would alter +the line seem to have been capable of understanding its import." + +"I think I understand you a little," answered Wynnie. Then, changing her +tone, "I told you, papa, you would have an answer ready; didn't I?" + +"Yes, my child; but with this difference--I found the answer to meet my +own necessities, not yours." + +"And so you had it ready for me when I wanted it." + +"Just so. That is the only certainty you have in regard to what you +give away. No one who has not tasted it and found it good has a right to +offer any spiritual dish to his neighbour." + +Mr. Percivale took no part in our conversation. The moment I had +presented him to Mrs. Walton and Connie, and he had paid his respects by +a somewhat stately old-world obeisance, he merged the salutation into a +farewell, and, either forgetting my offer of coffee, or having changed +his mind, withdrew, a little to my disappointment, for, notwithstanding +his lack of response where some things he said would have led me to +expect it, I had begun to feel much interested in him. + +He was scarcely beyond hearing, when Dora came up to me from her +digging, with an eager look on her sunny face. + +"Hasn't he got nice boots, papa?" + +"Indeed, my dear, I am unable to support you in that assertion, for I +never saw his boots." + +"I did, then," returned the child; "and I never saw such nice boots." + +"I accept the statement willingly," I replied; and we heard no more of +the boots, for his name was now substituted for his nickname. Nor did +I see himself again for some days--not in fact till next Sunday--though +why he should come to church at all was something of a puzzle to me, +especially when I knew him better. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE BLACKSMITH. + + + + + +The next day I set out after breakfast to inquire about a blacksmith. +It was not every or any blacksmith that would do. I must not fix on +the first to do my work because he was the first. There was one in the +village, I soon learned; but I found him an ordinary man, who, I have no +doubt, could shoe a horse and avoid the quick, but from whom any greater +delicacy of touch was not to be expected. Inquiring further, I heard +of a young smith who had lately settled in a hamlet a couple of miles +distant, but still within the parish. In the afternoon I set out to find +him. To my surprise, he was a pale-faced, thoughtful-looking man, with +a huge frame, which appeared worn rather than naturally thin, and large +eyes that looked at the anvil as if it was the horizon of the world. He +had got a horse-shoe in his tongs when I entered. Notwithstanding the +fire that glowed on the hearth, and the sparks that flew like a nimbus +in eruption from about his person, the place looked very dark to me +entering from the glorious blaze of the almost noontide sun, and felt +cool after the deep lane through which I had come, and which had seemed +a very reservoir of sunbeams. I could see the smith by the glow of his +horse-shoe; but all between me and the shoe was dark. + +"Good-morning," I said. "It is a good thing to find a man by his work. I +heard you half a mile off or so, and now I see you, but only by the glow +of your work. It is a grand thing to work in fire." + +He lifted his hammered hand to his forehead courteously, and as lightly +as if the hammer had been the butt-end of a whip. + +"I don't know if you would say the same if you had to work at it in +weather like this," he answered. + +"If I did not," I returned, "that would be the fault of my weakness, and +would not affect the assertion I have just made, that it is a fine thing +to work in fire." + +"Well, you may be right," he rejoined with a sigh, as, throwing the +horse-shoe he had been fashioning from the tongs on the ground, he next +let the hammer drop beside the anvil, and leaning against it held his +head for a moment between his hands, and regarded the floor. "It does +not much matter to me," he went on, "if I only get through my work and +have done with it. No man shall say I shirked what I'd got to do. And +then when it's over there won't be a word to say agen me, or--" + +He did not finish the sentence. And now I could see the sunlight lying +in a somewhat dreary patch, if the word _dreary_ can be truly used with +respect to any manifestation of sunlight, on the dark clay floor. + +"I hope you are not ill," I said. + +He made no answer, but taking up his tongs caught with it from a beam +one of a number of roughly-finished horse-shoes which hung there, and +put it on the fire to be fashioned to a certain fit. While he turned it +in the fire, and blew the bellows, I stood regarding him. "This man will +do for my work," I said to myself; "though I should not wonder from the +look of him if it was the last piece of work he ever did under the New +Jerusalem." The smith's words broke in on my meditations. + +"When I was a little boy," he said, "I once wanted to stay at home from +school. I had, I believe, a little headache, but nothing worth minding. +I told my mother that I had a headache, and she kept me, and I helped +her at her spinning, which was what I liked best of anything. But in the +afternoon the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he asked +me what was the matter with me, and my mother answered for me that I had +a bad head, and he looked at me; and as my head was quite well by this +time, I could not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, I suppose, +sir, for I can't account for what he said any other way; and he turned +to me, and he said to me, solemn-like, 'Is your head bad enough to send +you to the Lord Jesus to make you whole?' I could not speak a word, +partly from bashfulness, I suppose, for I was but ten years old. So he +followed it up, as they say: 'Then you ought to be at school,' says he. +I said nothing, because I couldn't. But never since then have I given in +as long as I could stand. And I can stand now, and lift my hammer, too," +he said, as he took the horse-shoe from the forge, laid it on the anvil, +and again made a nimbus of coruscating iron. + +"You are just the man I want," I said. "I've got a job for you, down to +Kilkhaven, as you say in these parts." + +"What is it, sir? Something about the church? I should ha' thought the +church was all spick and span by this time." + +"I see you know who I am," I said. + +"Of course I do," he answered. "I don't go to church myself, being +brought up a Methodist; but anything that happens in the parish is known +the next day all over it." + +"You won't mind doing my job though you are a Methodist, will you?" I +asked. + +"Not I, sir. If I've read right, it's the fault of the Church that we +don't pull all alongside. You turned us out, sir; we didn't go out of +ourselves. At least, if all they say is true, which I can't be sure of, +you know, in this world." + +"You are quite right there though," I answered. "And in doing so, +the Church had the worst of it--as all that judge and punish their +neighbours have. But you have been the worse for it, too: all of +which is to be laid to the charge of the Church. For there is not one +clergyman I know--mind, I say, that I know--who would have made such a +cruel speech to a boy as that the Methodist parson made to you." + +"But it did me good, sir?" + +"Are you sure of that? I am not. Are you sure, first of all, it did +not make you proud? Are you sure it has not made you work beyond your +strength--I don't mean your strength of arm, for clearly that is all +that could be wished, but of your chest, your lungs? Is there not +some danger of your leaving someone who is dependent on you too soon +unprovided for? Is there not some danger of your having worked as if God +were a hard master?--of your having worked fiercely, indignantly, as if +he wronged you by not caring for you, not understanding you?" + +He returned me no answer, but hammered momently on his anvil. Whether he +felt what I meant, or was offended at my remark, I could not then tell. +I thought it best to conclude the interview with business. + +"I have a delicate little job that wants nice handling, and I fancy you +are just the man to do it to my mind," I said. + +"What is it, sir?" he asked, in a friendly manner enough. + +"If you will excuse me, I would rather show it to you than talk about +it," I returned. + +"As you please, sir. When do you want me?" + +"The first hour you can come." + +"To-morrow morning?" + +"If you feel inclined." + +"For that matter, I'd rather go to bed." + +"Come to me instead: it's light work." + +"I will, sir--at ten o'clock." + +"If you please." + +And so it was arranged. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE LIFE-BOAT. + + + + + +The next day rose glorious. Indeed, early as the sun rose, I saw him +rise--saw him, from the down above the house, over the land to the east +and north, ascend triumphant into his own light, which had prepared the +way for him; while the clouds that hung over the sea glowed out with +a faint flush, as anticipating the hour when the west should clasp the +declining glory in a richer though less dazzling splendour, and shine +out the bride of the bridegroom east, which behold each other from afar +across the intervening world, and never mingle but in the sight of the +eyes. The clear pure light of the morning made me long for the truth in +my heart, which alone could make me pure and clear as the morning, tune +me up to the concert-pitch of the nature around me. And the wind that +blew from the sunrise made me hope in the God who had first breathed +into my nostrils the breath of life, that he would at length so fill +me with his breath, his wind, his spirit, that I should think only his +thoughts and live his life, finding therein my own life, only glorified +infinitely. + +After breakfast and prayers, I would go to the church to await the +arrival of my new acquaintance the smith. In order to obtain entrance, I +had, however, to go to the cottage of the sexton. This was not my first +visit there, so that I may now venture to take my reader with me. To +reach the door, I had to cross a hollow by a bridge, built, for the sake +of the road, over what had once been the course of a rivulet from +the heights above. Now it was a kind of little glen, or what would in +Scotland be called a den, I think, grown with grass and wild flowers and +ferns, some of them, rare and fine. The roof of the cottage came down to +the road, and, until you came quite near, you could not but wonder where +the body that supported this head could be. But you soon saw that the +ground fell suddenly away, leaving a bank against which the cottage was +built. Crossing a garden of the smallest, the principal flowers of which +were the stonecrop on its walls, by a flag-paved path, you entered the +building, and, to your surprise, found yourself, not in a little cottage +kitchen, as you expected, but in a waste-looking space, that seemed to +have forgotten the use for which it had been built. There was a sort +of loft along one side of it, and it was heaped with indescribable +lumber-looking stuff with here and there a hint at possible machinery. +The place had been a mill for grinding corn, and its wheel had been +driven by the stream which had run for ages in the hollow of which I +have already spoken. But when the canal came to be constructed, the +stream had to be turned aside from its former course, and indeed was now +employed upon occasion to feed the canal; so that the mill of necessity +had fallen into disuse and decay. Crossing this floor, you entered +another door, and turning sharp to the left, went down a few steps of +a ladder-sort of stair, and after knocking your hat against a beam, +emerged in the comfortable quaint little cottage kitchen you had +expected earlier. A cheerful though small fire burns in the +grate--for even here the hearth-fire has vanished from the records of +cottage-life--and is pleasant here even in the height of summer, though +it is counted needful only for cooking purposes. The ceiling, which +consists only of the joists and the boards that floor the bedroom above, +is so low, that necessity, if not politeness, would compel you to take +off your already-bruised hat. Some of these joists, you will find, are +made further useful by supporting each a shelf, before which hangs +a little curtain of printed cotton, concealing the few stores and +postponed eatables of the house--forming, in fact, both store-room and +larder of the family. On the walls hang several coloured prints, and +within a deep glazed frame the figure of a ship in full dress, carved in +rather high relief in sycamore. + +As I now entered, Mrs. Coombes rose from a high-backed settle near the +fire, and bade me good-morning with a courtesy. + +"What a lovely day it is, Mrs. Coombes! It is so bright over the sea," +I said, going to the one little window which looked out on the great +Atlantic, "that one almost expects a great merchant navy to come sailing +into Kilkhaven--sunk to the water's edge with silks, and ivory, and +spices, and apes, and peacocks, like the ships of Solomon that we read +about--just as the sun gets up to the noonstead." + +Before I record her answer, I turn to my reader, who in the spirit +accompanies me, and have a little talk with him. I always make it a rule +to speak freely with the less as with the more educated of my friends. I +never _talk down_ to them, except I be expressly explaining something to +them. The law of the world is as the law of the family. Those children +grow much the faster who hear all that is going on in the house. +Reaching ever above themselves, they arrive at an understanding at +fifteen, which, in the usual way of things, they would not reach before +five-and-twenty or thirty; and this in a natural way, and without any +necessary priggishness, except such as may belong to their parents. +Therefore I always spoke to the poor and uneducated as to my own +people,--freely, not much caring whether I should be quite understood or +not; for I believed in influences not to be measured by the measure of +the understanding. + +But what was the old woman's answer? It was this: + +"I know, sir. And when I was as young as you"--I was not so very young, +my reader may well think--"I thought like that about the sea myself. +Everything come from the sea. For my boy Willie he du bring me home the +beautifullest parrot and the talkingest you ever see, and the red shawl +all worked over with flowers: I'll show it to you some day, sir, when +you have time. He made that ship you see in the frame there, sir, all +with his own knife, out on a bit o' wood that he got at the Marishes, as +they calls it, sir--a bit of an island somewheres in the great sea. But +the parrot's gone dead like the rest of them, sir.--Where am I? and what +am I talking about?" she added, looking down at her knitting as if she +had dropped a stitch, or rather as if she had forgotten what she was +making, and therefore what was to come next. + +"You were telling me how you used to think of the sea--" + +"When I was as young as you. I remember, sir. Well, that lasted a long +time--lasted till my third boy fell asleep in the wide water; for it du +call it falling asleep, don't it, sir?" + +"The Bible certainly does," I answered. + +"It's the Bible I be meaning, of course," she returned. "Well, after +that, but I don't know what began it, only I did begin to think about +the sea as something that took away things and didn't bring them no +more. And somehow or other she never look so blue after that, and she +give me the shivers. But now, sir, she always looks to me like one o' +the shining ones that come to fetch the pilgrims. You've heard tell of +the _Pilgrim's Progress_, I daresay, sir, among the poor people; for +they du say it was written by a tinker, though there be a power o' good +things in it that I think the gentlefolk would like if they knowed it." + +"I do know the book--nearly as well as I know the Bible," I answered; +"and the shining ones are very beautiful in it. I am glad you can think +of the sea that way." + +"It's looking in at the window all day as I go about the house," she +answered, "and all night too when I'm asleep; and if I hadn't learned to +think of it that way, it would have driven me mad, I du believe. I +was forced to think that way about it, or not think at all. And that +wouldn't be easy, with the sound of it in your ears the last thing at +night and the first thing in the morning." + +"The truth of things is indeed the only refuge from the look of things," +I replied. "But now I want the key of the church, if you will trust me +with it, for I have something to do there this morning; and the key of +the tower as well, if you please." + +With her old smile, ripened only by age, she reached the ponderous keys +from the nail where they hung, and gave them into my hand. I left her +in the shadow of her dwelling, and stepped forth into the sunlight. The +first thing I observed was the blacksmith waiting for me at the church +door. + +Now that I saw him in the full light of day, and now that he wore his +morning face upon which the blackness of labour had not yet gathered, +I could see more plainly how far he was from well. There was a flush on +his thin cheek by which the less used exercise of walking revealed +his inward weakness, and the light in his eyes had something of the +far-country in them--"the light that never was on sea or shore." But his +speech was cheerful, for he had been walking in the light of this world, +and that had done something to make the light within him shine a little +more freely. + +"How do you find yourself to-day?" I asked. + +"Quite well, sir, I thank you," he answered. "A day like this does a man +good. But," he added, and his countenance fell, "the heart knoweth its +own bitterness." + +"It may know it too much," I returned, "just because it refuses to let a +stranger intermeddle therewith." + +He made no reply. I turned the key in the great lock, and the +iron-studded oak opened and let us into the solemn gloom. + +It did not require many minutes to make the man understand what I wanted +of him. + +"We must begin at the bells and work down," he said. + +So we went up into the tower, where, with the help of a candle I fetched +for him from the cottage, he made a good many minute measurements; found +that carpenter's work was necessary for the adjustment of the hammers +and cranks and the leading of the rods, undertook the management of the +whole, and in the course of an hour and a half went home to do what had +to be done before any fixing could be commenced, assuring me that he had +no doubt of bringing the job to a satisfactory conclusion, although +the force of the blow on the bell would doubtless have to be regulated +afterwards by repeated trials. + +"In a fortnight, I hope you will be able to play a tune to the parish, +sir," he added, as he took his leave. + +I resolved, if possible, to know more of the man, and find out his +trouble, if haply I might be able to give him any comfort, for I was all +but certain that there was a deeper cause for his gloom than the state +of his health. + +When he was gone I stood with the key of the church in my hand, and +looked about me. Nature at least was in glorious health--sunshine in her +eyes, light fantastic cloud-images passing through her brain, her breath +coming and going in soft breezes perfumed with the scents of meadows and +wild flowers, and her green robe shining in the motions of her +gladness. I turned to lock the church door, though in my heart I greatly +disapproved of locking the doors of churches, and only did so now +because it was not my church, and I had no business to force my opinions +upon other customs. But when I turned I received a kind of questioning +shock. There was the fallen world, as men call it, shining in glory +and gladness, because God was there; here was the way into the lost +Paradise, yea, the door into an infinitely higher Eden than that ever +had or ever could have been, iron-clamped and riveted, gloomy and +low-browed like the entrance to a sepulchre, and surrounded with the +grim heads of grotesque monsters of the deep. What did it mean? Here was +contrast enough to require harmonising, or if that might not be, then +accounting for. Perhaps it was enough to say that although God made both +the kingdom of nature and the kingdom of grace, yet the symbol of the +latter was the work of man, and might not altogether correspond to +God's idea of the matter. I turned away thoughtful, and went through the +churchyard with my eye on the graves. + +As I left the churchyard, still looking to the earth, the sound of +voices reached my ear. I looked up. There, down below me, at the foot +of the high bank on which I stood, lay a gorgeous shining thing upon +the bosom of the canal, full of men, and surrounded by men, women, +and children, delighting in its beauty. I had never seen such a thing +before, but I knew at once, as by instinct, which of course it could not +have been, that it was the life-boat. But in its gorgeous colours, red +and white and green, it looked more like the galley that bore Cleopatra +to Actium. Nor, floating so light on the top of the water, and broad in +the beam withal, curved upward and ornamented at stern and stem, did it +look at all like a creature formed to battle with the fierce elements. A +pleasure-boat for floating between river banks it seemed, drawn by +swans mayhap, and regarded in its course by fair eyes from green +terrace-walks, or oriel windows of ancient houses on verdant lawns. Ten +men sat on the thwarts, and one in the stern by the yet useless rudder, +while men and boys drew the showy thing by a rope downward to the +lock-gates. The men in the boat, wore blue jerseys, but you could see +little of the colour for strange unshapely things that they wore above +them, like an armour cut out of a row of organ pipes. They were their +cork-jackets; for every man had to be made into a life-boat himself. I +descended the bank, and stood on the edge of the canal as it drew +near. Then I saw that every oar was loosely but firmly fastened to the +rowlock, so that it could be dropped and caught again in a moment; and +that the gay sides of the unwieldy-looking creature were festooned with +ropes from the gunwale, for the men to lay hold of when she capsized, +for the earlier custom of fastening the men to their seats had been +quite given up, because their weight under the water might prevent +the boat from righting itself again, and the men could not come to the +surface. Now they had a better chance in their freedom, though why they +should not be loosely attached to the boat, I do not quite see. + +They towed the shining thing through the upper gate of the lock, and +slowly she sank from my sight, and for some moments was no more to be +seen, for I had remained standing where first she passed me. All at +once there she was beyond the covert of the lock-head, abroad and free, +fleeting from the strokes of ten swift oars over the still waters of the +bay towards the waves that roared further out where the ground-swell +was broken by the rise of the sandy coast. There was no vessel in danger +now, as the talk of the spectators informed me; it was only for exercise +and show that they went out. It seemed all child's play for a time; +but when they got among the broken waves, then it looked quite another +thing. The motion of the waters laid hold upon her, and soon tossed her +fearfully, now revealing the whole of her capacity on the near side of +one of their slopes, now hiding her whole bulk in one of their hollows +beyond. She, careless as a child in the troubles of the world, floated +about amongst them with what appeared too much buoyancy for the promise +of a safe return. Again and again she was driven from her course +towards the low rocks on the other side of the bay, and again and again, +returned to disport herself, like a sea-animal, as it seemed, upon the +backs of the wild, rolling, and bursting billows. + +"Can she go no further?" I asked of the captain of the coastguard, whom +I found standing by my side. + +"Not without some danger," he answered. + +"What, then, must it be in a storm!" I remarked. + +"Then of course," he returned, "they must take their chance. But there +is no good in running risks for nothing. That swell is quite enough for +exercise." + +"But is it enough to accustom them to face the danger that will come?" I +asked. + +"With danger comes courage," said the old sailor. + +"Were you ever afraid?" + +"No, sir. I don't think I ever was afraid. Yes, I believe I was once for +one moment, no more, when I fell from the maintop-gallant yard, and felt +myself falling. But it was soon over, for I only fell into the maintop. +I was expecting the smash on deck when I was brought up there. But," he +resumed, "I don't care much about the life-boat. My rockets are worth +a good deal more, as you may see, sir, before the winter is over; for +seldom does a winter pass without at least two or three wrecks close by +here on this coast. The full force of the Atlantic breaks here, sir. I +_have_ seen a life-boat--not that one--_she's_ done nothing yet--pitched +stern over stem; not capsized, you know, sir, in the ordinary way, but +struck by a wave behind while she was just hanging in the balance on the +knife-edge of a wave, and flung a somerset, as I say, stern over stem, +and four of her men lost." + +While we spoke I saw on the pier-head the tall figure of the painter +looking earnestly at the boat. I thought he was regarding it chiefly +from an artistic point of view, but I became aware before long that that +would not have been consistent with the character of Charles Percivale. +He had been, I learned afterwards, a crack oarsman at Oxford, and +had belonged to the University boat, so that he had some almost +class-sympathy with the doings of the crew. + +In a little while the boat sped swiftly back, entered the lock, was +lifted above the level of the storm-heaved ocean, and floated up the +smooth canal calmly as if she had never known what trouble was. Away up +to the pretty little Tudor-fashioned house in which she lay--one could +almost fancy dreaming of storms to come--she went, as softly as if +moved only by her "own sweet will," in the calm consolation for her +imprisonment of having tried her strength, and found therein good hope +of success for the time when she should rush to the rescue of men +from that to which, as a monster that begets monsters, she a watching +Perseis, lay ready to offer battle. The poor little boat lying in her +little house watching the ocean, was something signified in my eyes, +and not less so after what came in the course of changing seasons and +gathered storms. + +All this time I had the keys in my hand, and now went back to the +cottage to restore them to their place upon the wall. When I entered +there was a young woman of a sweet interesting countenance talking to +Mrs. Coombes. Now as it happened, I had never yet seen the daughter who +lived with her, and thought this was she. + +"I've found your daughter at last then?" I said, approaching them. + +"Not yet, sir. She goes out to work, and her hands be pretty full at +present. But this be almost my daughter, sir," she added. "This is my +next daughter, Mary Trehern, from the south. She's got a place near by, +to be near her mother that is to be, that's me." + +Mary was hanging her head and blushing, as the old woman spoke. + +"I understand," I said. "And when are you going to get your new mother, +Mary? Soon I hope." + +But she gave me no reply--only hung her head lower and blushed deeper. + +Mrs. Coombes spoke for her. + +"She's shy, you see, sir. But if she was to speak her mind, she would +ask you whether you wouldn't marry her and Willie when he comes home +from his next voyage." + +Mary's hands were trembling now, and she turned half away. + +"With all my heart," I said. + +The girl tried to turn towards me, but could not. I looked at her face +a little more closely. Through all its tremor, there was a look of +constancy that greatly pleased me. I tried to make her speak. + +"When do you expect Willie home?" I said. + +She made a little gasp and murmur, but no articulate words came. + +"Don't be frightened, Mary," said her mother, as I found she always +called her. "The gentleman won't be sharp with you." + +She lifted a pair of soft brown eyes with one glance and a smile, and +then sank them again. + +"He'll be home in about a month, we think," answered the mother. "She's +a good ship he's aboard of, and makes good voyages." + +"It is time to think about the bans, then," I said. + +"If you please, sir," said the mother. + +"Just come to me about it, and I will attend to it--when you think +proper." + +I thought I could hear a murmured "Thank you, sir," from the girl, but +I could not be certain that she spoke. I shook hands with them, and went +for a stroll on the other side of the bay. + + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +MR. PERCIVALE. + + + + + +When I reached home I found that Connie was already on her watch-tower. +For while I was away, they had carried her out that she might see the +life-boat. I followed her, and found the whole family about her couch, +and with them Mr. Percivale, who was showing her some sketches that he +had made in the neighbourhood. Connie knew nothing of drawing; but +she seemed to me always to catch the feeling of a thing. Her remarks +therefore were generally worth listening to, and Mr. Percivale was +evidently interested in them. Wynnie stood behind Connie, looking over +her shoulder at the drawing in her hand. + +"How do you get that shade of green?" I heard her ask as I came up. + +And then Mr. Percivale proceeded to tell her; from which beginning they +went on to other things, till Mr. Percivale said-- + +"But it is hardly fair, Miss Walton; to criticise my work while you keep +your own under cover." + +"I wasn't criticising, Mr. Percivale; was I, Connie?" + +"I didn't hear her make a single remark, Mr. Percivale," said Connie, +taking her sister's side. + +To my surprise they were talking away with the young man as if they had +known him for years, and my wife was seated at the foot of the couch, +apparently taking no exception to the suddenness of the intimacy. I am +afraid, when I think of it, that a good many springs would be missing +from the world's history if they might not flow till the papas gave +their wise consideration to everything about the course they were to +take. + +"I think, though," added Connie, "it is only fair that Mr. Percivale +_should_ see your work, Wynnie." + +"Then I will fetch my portfolio, if Mr. Percivale will promise to +remember that I have no opinion of it. At the same time, if I could +do what I wanted to do, I think I should not be ashamed of showing my +drawings even to him." + +And now I was surprised to find how like grown women my daughters could +talk. To me they always spoke like the children they were; but when I +heard them now it seemed as if they had started all at once into ladies +experienced in the ways of society. There they were chatting lightly, +airily, and yet decidedly, a slight tone of badinage interwoven, with a +young man of grace and dignity, whom they had only seen once before, and +who had advanced no farther, with Connie at least, than a stately bow. +They had, however, been a whole hour together before I arrived, and +their mother had been with them all the while, which gives great courage +to good girls, while, I am told, it shuts the mouths of those who are +sly. But then it must be remembered that there are as great differences +in mothers as in girls. And besides, I believe wise girls have an +instinct about men that all the experience of other men cannot overtake. +But yet again, there are many girls foolish enough to mistake a mere +impulse for instinct, and vanity for insight. + +As Wynnie spoke, she turned and went back to the house to fetch some of +her work. Now, had she been going a message for me, she would have +gone like the wind; but on this occasion she stepped along in a stately +manner, far from devoid of grace, but equally free from frolic or +eagerness. And I could not help noting as well that Mr. Percivale's eyes +followed her. What I felt or fancied is of no consequence to anybody. +I do not think, even if I were writing an autobiography, I should be +forced to tell _all_ about myself. But an autobiography is further from +my fancy, however much I may have trenched upon its limits, than any +other form of literature with which I am acquainted. + +She was not long in returning, however, though she came back with the +same dignified motion. + +"There is nothing really worth either showing or concealing," she said +to Mr. Percivale, as she handed him the portfolio, to help himself, as +it were. She then turned away, as if a little feeling of shyness had +come over her, and began to look for something to do about Connie. I +could see that, although she had hitherto been almost indifferent about +the merit of her drawings, she had a new-born wish that they might not +appear altogether contemptible in the eyes of Mr. Percivale. And I saw, +too, that Connie's wide eyes were taking in everything. It was wonderful +how Connie's deprivations had made her keen in observing. Now she +hastened to her sister's rescue even from such a slight inconvenience +as the shadow of embarrassment in which she found herself--perhaps +from having seen some unusual expression in my face, of which I was +unconscious, though conscious enough of what might have occasioned such. + +"Give me your hand, Wynnie," said Connie, "and help me to move one inch +further on my side.--I may move just that much on my side, mayn't I, +papa?" + +"I think you had better not, my dear, if you can do without it," I +answered; for the doctor's injunctions had been strong. + +"Very well, papa; but I feel as if it would do me good." + +"Mr. Turner will be here next week, you know; and you must try to stick +to his rules till he comes to see you. Perhaps he will let you relax a +little." + +Connie smiled very sweetly and lay still, while Wynnie stood holding her +hand. + +Meantime Mr. Percivale, having received the drawings, had walked away +with them towards what they called the storm tower--a little building +standing square to the points of the compass, from little windows, in +which the coastguard could see with their telescopes along the coast on +both sides and far out to sea. This tower stood on the very edge of +the cliff, but behind it there was a steep descent, to reach which +apparently he went round the tower and disappeared. He evidently wanted +to make a leisurely examination of the drawings--somewhat formidable +for Wynnie, I thought. At the same time, it impressed me favourably with +regard to the young man that he was not inclined to pay a set of stupid +and untrue compliments the instant the portfolio was opened, but, on +the contrary, in order to speak what was real about them, would take the +trouble to make himself in some adequate measure acquainted with them. +I therefore, to Wynnie's relief, I fear, strolled after him, seeing no +harm in taking a peep at his person, while he was taking a peep at my +daughter's mind. I went round the tower to the other side, and there saw +him at a little distance below me, but further out on a great rock that +overhung the sea, connected with the cliff by a long narrow isthmus, a +few yards lower than the cliff itself, only just broad enough to admit +of a footpath along its top, and on one side going sheer down with a +smooth hard rock-face to the sands below. The other side was less +steep, and had some grass upon it. But the path was too narrow, and +the precipice too steep, for me to trust my head with the business of +guiding my feet along it. So I stood and saw him from the mainland--saw +his head at least bent over the drawings; saw how slowly he turned from +one to the other; saw how, after having gone over them once, he turned +to the beginning and went over them again, even more slowly than before; +saw how he turned the third time to the first. Then, getting tired, I +went back to the group on the down; caught sight of Charlie and Harry +turning heels over head down the slope toward the house; found that my +wife had gone home--in fact, that only Connie and Wynnie were left. +The sun had disappeared under a cloud, and the sea had turned a little +slaty; the yellow flowers in the short down-grass no longer caught the +eye with their gold, and the wind that bent their tops had just the +suspicion of an edge in it. And Wynnie's face looked a little cloudy +too, I thought, and I feared that it was my fault. I fancied there was +just a tinge of beseeching in Connie's eye, as I looked at her, thinking +there might be danger for her in the sunlessness of the wind. But I do +not know that all this, even the clouding of the sun, may not have come +out of my own mind, the result of my not being quite satisfied with +myself because of the mood I had been in. My feeling had altered +considerably in the mean time. + +"Run, Wynnie, and ask Mr. Percivale, with my compliments, to come +and lunch with us," I said--more to let her see I was not displeased, +however I might have looked, than for any other reason. She +went--sedately as before. + +Almost as soon as she was gone, I saw that I had put her in a +difficulty. For I had discovered, very soon after coming into these +parts, that her head was no more steady than my own on high places, for +she up had never been used to such in our own level country, except, +indeed, on the stair that led down to the old quarry and the well, +where, I can remember now, she always laid her hand on the balustrade +with some degree of tremor, although she had been in the way of going +up and down from childhood. But if she could not cross that narrow and +really dangerous isthmus, still less could she call to a man she had +never seen but once, across the intervening chasm. I therefore set off +after her, leaving Connie lying there in loneliness, between the sea and +the sky. But when I got to the other side of the little tower, instead +of finding her standing hesitating on the brink of action, there she was +on the rock beyond. Mr. Percivale had risen, and was evidently giving +an answer to my invitation; at least, the next moment she turned to come +back, and he followed. I stood trembling almost to see her cross the +knife-back of that ledge. If I had not been almost fascinated, I should +have turned and left them to come together, lest the evil fancy should +cross her mind that I was watching them, for it was one thing to watch +him with her drawings, and quite another to watch him with herself. +But I stood and stared as she crossed. In the middle of the path, +however--up to which point she had been walking with perfect steadiness +and composure--she lifted her eyes--by what influence I cannot tell--saw +me, looked as if she saw ghost, half lifted her arms, swayed as if she +would fall, and, indeed, was falling over the precipice when Percivale, +who was close behind her caught her in his arms, almost too late for +both of them. So nearly down was she already, that her weight bent him +over the rocky side, till it seemed as if he must yield, or his body +snap. For he bent from the waist, and looked as if his feet only kept a +hold on the ground. It was all over in a moment, but in that moment it +made a sun-picture on my brain, which returns, ever and again, with such +vivid agony that I cannot hope to get rid of it till I get rid of the +brain itself in which lies the impress. In another moment they were at +my side--she with a wan, terrified smile, he in a ruddy alarm. I was +unable to speak, and could only, with trembling steps, lead the way from +the dreadful spot. I reproached myself afterwards for my want of faith +in God; but I had not had time to correct myself yet. Without a word +on their side either, they followed me. Before we reached Connie, I +recovered myself sufficiently to say, "Not a word to Connie," and they +understood me. I told Wynnie to run to the house, and send Walter to +help me to carry Connie home. She went, and, until Walter came, I talked +to Mr. Percivale as if nothing had happened. And what made me feel yet +more friendly towards him was, that he did not do as some young men +wishing to ingratiate themselves would have done: he did not offer to +help me to carry Connie home. I saw that the offer rose in his mind, +and that he repressed it. He understood that I must consider such a +permission as a privilege not to be accorded to the acquaintance of a +day; that I must know him better before I could allow the weight of +my child to rest on his strength. I was even grateful to him for this +knowledge of human nature. But he responded cordially to my invitation +to lunch with us, and walked by my side as Walter and I bore the +precious burden home. + +During our meal, he made himself quite agreeable; talked well on the +topics of the day, not altogether as a man who had made up his mind, +but not the less, rather the more, as a man who had thought about them, +and one who did not find it so easy to come to a conclusion as most +people do--or possibly as not feeling the necessity of coming to a +conclusion, and therefore preferring to allow the conclusion to grow +instead of constructing one for immediate use. This I rather liked than +otherwise. His behaviour, I need hardly say, after what I have told of +him already, was entirely that of a gentleman; and his education was +good. But what I did not like was, that as often as the conversation +made a bend in the direction of religious matters, he was sure to bend +it away in some other direction as soon as ever he laid his next hold +upon it. This, however, might have various reasons to account for it, +and I would wait. + +After lunch, as we rose from the table, he took Wynnie's portfolio from +the side-table where he had laid it, and with no more than a bow and +thanks returned it to her. She, I thought, looked a little disappointed, +though she said as lightly as she could: + +"I am afraid you have not found anything worthy of criticism in my poor +attempts, Mr. Percivale?" + +"On the contrary, I shall be most happy to tell you what I think of them +if you would like to hear the impression they have made upon me," he +replied, holding out his hand to take the portfolio again. + +"I shall be greatly obliged to you," she said, returning it, "for I have +had no one to help me since I left school, except a book called _Modern +Painters_, which I think has the most beautiful things in it I ever +read, but which I lay down every now and then with a kind of despair, as +if I never could do anything worth doing. How long the next volume is in +coming! Do you know the author, Mr. Percivale?" + +"I wish I did. He has given me much help. I do not say I can agree with +everything he writes; but when I do not, I have such a respect for him +that I always feel as if he must be right whether he seems to me to be +right or not. And if he is severe, it is with the severity of love that +will speak only the truth." + +This last speech fell on my ear like the tone of a church bell. "That +will do, my friend," thought I. But I said nothing to interrupt. + +By this time he had laid the portfolio open on the side-table, and +placed a chair in front of it for my daughter. Then seating himself by +her side, but without the least approach to familiarity, he began to +talk to her about her drawings, praising, in general, the feeling, but +finding fault with the want of nicety in the execution--at least so it +appeared to me from what I could understand of the conversation. + +"But," said my daughter, "it seems to me that if you get the feeling +right, that is the main thing." + +"No doubt," returned Mr. Percivale; "so much the main thing that any +imperfection or coarseness or untruth which interferes with it becomes +of the greatest consequence." + +"But can it really interfere with the feeling?" + +"Perhaps not with most people, simply because most people observe so +badly that their recollections of nature are all blurred and blotted and +indistinct, and therefore the imperfections we are speaking of do not +affect them. But with the more cultivated it is otherwise. It is for +them you ought to work, for you do not thereby lose the others. Besides, +the feeling is always intensified by the finish, for that belongs to the +feeling too, and must, I should think, have some influence even where it +is not noted." + +"But is it not a hopeless thing to attempt the finish of nature?" + +"Not at all; to the degree, that is, in which you can represent anything +else of nature. But in this drawing now you have no representative +of, nothing to hint at or recall the feeling of the exquisiteness +of nature's finish. Why should you not at least have drawn a true +horizon-line there? Has the absolute truth of the meeting of sea and sky +nothing to do with the feeling which such a landscape produces? I should +have thought you would have learned that, if anything, from Mr. Ruskin." + +Mr. Percivale spoke earnestly. Wynnie, either from disappointment or +despair, probably from a mixture of both, apparently fancied that, or +rather felt as if, he was scolding her, and got cross. This was anything +but dignified, especially with a stranger, and one who was doing his +best to help her. And yet, somehow, I must with shame confess I was not +altogether sorry to see it. In fact, my reader, I must just uncover my +sin, and say that I felt a little jealous of Mr. Percivale. The negative +reason was that I had not yet learned to love him. The only cure +for jealousy is love. But I was ashamed too of Wynnie's behaving so +childishly. Her face flushed, the tears came in her eyes, and she rose, +saying, with a little choke in her voice-- + +"I see it's no use trying. I won't intrude any more into things I am +incapable of. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Percivale, for showing me +how presumptuous I have been." + +The painter rose as she rose, looking greatly concerned. But he did not +attempt to answer her. Indeed she gave him no time. He could only spring +after her to open the door for her. A more than respectful bow as she +left the room was his only adieu. But when he turned his face again +towards me, it expressed even a degree of consternation. + +"I fear," he said, approaching me with an almost military step, much at +variance with the shadow upon his countenance, "I fear I have been rude +to Miss Walton, but nothing was farther--" + +"You mistake entirely, Mr. Percivale. I heard all you were saying, and +you were not in the least rude. On the contrary, I consider you were +very kind to take the trouble with her you did. Allow me to make the +apology for my daughter which I am sure she will wish made when she +recovers from the disappointment of finding more obstacles in the way of +her favourite pursuit than she had previously supposed. She is only +too ready to lose heart, and she paid too little attention to your +approbation and too much--in proportion, I mean--to your--criticism. She +felt discouraged and lost her temper, but more with herself and her poor +attempts, I venture to assure you, than with your remarks upon them. She +is too much given to despising her own efforts." + +"But I must have been to blame if I caused any such feeling with regard +to those drawings, for I assure you they contain great promise." + +"I am glad you think so. That I should myself be of the same opinion can +be of no consequence." + +"Miss Walton at least sees what ought to be represented. All she needs +is greater severity in the quality of representation. And that would +have grown without any remark from onlookers. Only a friendly criticism +is sometimes a great help. It opens the eyes a little sooner than they +would have opened of themselves. And time," he added, with a half sigh +and with an appeal in his tone, as if he would justify himself to my +conscience, "is half the battle in this world. It is over so soon." + +"No sooner than it ought to be," I rejoined. + +"So it may appear to you," he returned; "for you, I presume to +conjecture, have worked hard and done much. I may or may not have worked +hard--sometimes I think I have, sometimes I think I have not--but I +certainly have done little. Here I am nearly thirty, and have made no +mark on the world yet." + +"I don't know that that is of so much consequence," I said. "I have +never hoped for more than to rub out a few of the marks already made." + +"Perhaps you are right," he returned. "Every man has something he can +do, and more, I suppose, that he can't do. But I have no right to turn a +visit into a visitation. Will you please tell Miss Walton that I am very +sorry I presumed on the privileges of a drawing-master, and gave her +pain. It was so far from my intention that it will be a lesson to me for +the future." + +With these words he took his leave, and I could not help being greatly +pleased both with them and with his bearing. He was clearly anything but +a common man. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE SHADOW OP DEATH. + + + + + +When Wynnie appeared at dinner she looked ashamed of herself, and her +face betrayed that she had been crying. But I said nothing, for I had +confidence that all she needed was time to come to herself, that the +voice that speaks louder than any thunder might make its stillness +heard. And when I came home from my walk the next morning I found Mr. +Percivale once more in the group about Connie, and evidently on the best +possible terms with all. The same afternoon Wynnie went out sketching +with Dora. I had no doubt that she had made some sort of apology to Mr. +Percivale; but I did not make the slightest attempt to discover what +had passed between them, for though it is of all things desirable that +children should be quite open with their parents, I was most anxious to +lay upon them no burden of obligation. For such burden lies against the +door of utterance, and makes it the more difficult to open. It paralyses +the speech of the soul. What I desired was that they should trust me so +that faith should overcome all difficulty that might lie in the way of +their being open with me. That end is not to be gained by any urging of +admonition. Against such, growing years at least, if nothing else, will +bring a strong reaction. Nor even, if so gained would the gain be at all +of the right sort. The openness would not be faith. Besides, a parent +must respect the spiritual person of his child, and approach it with +reverence, for that too looks the Father in the face, and has an +audience with him into which no earthly parent can enter even if he +dared to desire it. Therefore I trusted my child. And when I saw that +she looked at me a little shyly when we next met, I only sought to show +her the more tenderness and confidence, telling her all about my plans +with the bells, and my talks with the smith and Mrs. Coombes. She +listened with just such interest as I had always been accustomed to see +in her, asking such questions, and making such remarks as I might +have expected, but I still felt that there was the thread of a little +uneasiness through the web of our intercourse,--such a thread of a false +colour as one may sometimes find wandering through the labour of the +loom, and seek with pains to draw from the woven stuff. But it was for +Wynnie to take it out, not for me. And she did not leave it long. For +as she bade me good-night in my study, she said suddenly, yet with +hesitating openness, + +"Papa, I told Mr. Percivale that I was sorry I had behaved so badly +about the drawings." + +"You did right, my child," I replied. At the same moment a pang of +anxiety passed through me lest under the influence of her repentance she +should have said anything more than becoming. But I banished the doubt +instantly as faithlessness in the womanly instincts of my child. For +we men are always so ready and anxious to keep women right, like the +wretched creature, Laertes, in _Hamlet_, who reads his sister such a +lesson on her maidenly duties, but declines almost with contempt to +listen to a word from her as to any co-relative obligation on his side! + +And here I may remark in regard to one of the vexed questions of the +day--the rights of women--that what women demand it is not for men to +withhold. It is not their business to lay the law for women. That women +must lay down for themselves. I confess that, although I must herein +seem to many of my readers old-fashioned and conservative, I should not +like to see any woman I cared much for either in parliament or in an +anatomical class-room; but on the other hand I feel that women must be +left free to settle that matter. If it is not good, good women will find +it out and recoil from it. If it is good then God give them good +speed. One thing they _have_ a right to--a far wider and more valuable +education than they have been in the way of receiving. When the mothers +are well taught the generations will grow in knowledge at a fourfold +rate. But still the teaching of life is better than all the schools, +and common sense than all learning. This common sense is a rare gift, +scantier in none than in those who lay claim to it on the ground of +following commonplace, worldly, and prudential maxims. But I must return +to my Wynnie. + +"And what did Mr. Percivale say?" I resumed, for she was silent. + +"He took the blame all on himself, papa." + +"Like a gentleman," I said. + +"But I could not leave it so, you know, papa, because that was not the +truth." + +"Well?" + +"I told him that I had lost my temper from disappointment; that I +had thought I did not care for my drawings because I was so far from +satisfied with them, but when he made me feel that they were worth +nothing, then I found from the vexation I felt that I had cared for +them. But I do think, papa, I was more ashamed of having shown them, and +vexed with myself, than cross with him. But I was very silly." + +"Well, and what did he say?" + +"He began to praise them then. But you know I could not take much of +that, for what could he do?" + +"You might give him credit for a little honesty, at least." + +"Yes; but things may be true in a way, you know, and not mean much." + +"He seems to have succeeded in reconciling you to the prosecution +of your efforts, however; for I saw you go out with your sketching +apparatus this afternoon." + +"Yes," she answered shyly. "He was so kind that somehow I got heart to +try again. He's very nice, isn't he?" + +My answer was not quite ready. + +"Don't you like him, papa?" + +"Well--I like him--yes. But we must not be in haste with our judgments, +you know. I have had very little opportunity of seeing into him. There +is much in him that I like, but--" + +"But what? please, papa." + +"To tell the truth then, Wynnie, for I can speak my mind to you, +my child, there is a certain shyness of approaching the subject of +religion; so that I have my fears lest he should belong to any of these +new schools of a fragmentary philosophy which acknowledge no source of +truth but the testimony of the senses and the deductions made therefrom +by the intellect." + +"But is not that a hasty conclusion, papa?" + +"That is a hasty question, my dear. I have come to no conclusion. I was +only speaking confidentially about my fears." + +"Perhaps, papa, it's only that he's not sure enough, and is afraid of +appearing to profess more than he believes. I'm sure, if that's it, I +have the greatest sympathy with him." + +I looked at her, and saw the tears gathering fast in her eyes. + +"Pray to God on the chance of his hearing you, my darling, and go to +sleep," I said. "I will not think hardly of you because you cannot be so +sure as I am. How could you be? You have not had my experience. Perhaps +you are right about Mr. Percivale too. But it would be an awkward thing +to get intimate with him, you know, and then find out that we did not +like him after all. You couldn't like a man much, could you, who did not +believe in anything greater than himself, anything marvellous, grand, +beyond our understanding--who thought that he had come out of the dirt +and was going back to the dirt?" + +"I could, papa, if he tried to do his duty notwithstanding--for I'm sure +I couldn't. I should cry myself to death." + +"You are right, my child. I should honour him too. But I should be very +sorry for him. For he would be so disappointed in himself." + +I do not know whether this was the best answer to make, but I had little +time to think. + +"But you don't know that he's like that." + +"I do not, my dear. And more, I will not associate the idea with him +till I know for certain. We will leave it to ignorant old ladies who lay +claim to an instinct for theology to jump at conclusions, and reserve +ours--as even such a man as we have been supposing might well teach +us--till we have sufficient facts from which to draw them. Now go to +bed, my child." + +"Good-night then, dear papa," she said, and left me with a kiss. + +I was not altogether comfortable after this conversation. I had tried +to be fair to the young man both in word and thought, but I could not +relish the idea of my daughter falling in love with him, which looked +likely enough, before I knew more about him, and found that _more_ good +and hope-giving. There was but one rational thing left to do, and that +was to cast my care on him that careth for us--on the Father who loved +my child more than even I could love her--and loved the young man too, +and regarded my anxiety, and would take its cause upon himself. After +I had lifted up my heart to him I was at ease, read a canto of Dante's +_Paradise_, and then went to bed. The prematurity of a conversation with +my wife, in which I found that she was very favourably impressed with +Mr. Percivale, must be pardoned to the forecasting hearts of fathers and +mothers. + +As I went out for my walk the next morning, I caught sight of the +sexton, with whom as yet I had had but little communication, busily +trimming some of the newer graves in the churchyard. I turned in through +the nearer gate, which was fashioned like a lych-gate, with seats on the +sides and a stone table in the centre, but had no roof. The one on the +other side of the church was roofed, but probably they had found that +here no roof could resist the sea-blasts in winter. The top of the wall +where the roof should have rested, was simply covered with flat slates +to protect it from the rain. + +"Good-morning, Coombes," I said. + +He turned up a wizened, humorous old face, the very type of a +gravedigger's, and with one hand leaning on the edge of the green mound, +upon which he had been cropping with a pair of shears the too long and +too thin grass, touched his cap with the other, and bade me a cheerful +good-morning in return. + +"You're making things tidy," I said. + +"It take time to make them all comfortable, you see, sir," he returned, +taking up his shears again and clipping away at the top and sides of the +mound. + +"You mean the dead, Coombes?" + +"Yes, sir; to be sure, sir." + +"You don't think it makes much difference to their comfort, do you, +whether the grass is one length or another upon their graves?" + +"Well no, sir. I don't suppose it makes _much_ difference to them. +But it look more comfortable, you know. And I like things to look +comfortable. Don't you, sir?" + +"To be sure I do, Coombes. And you are quite right. The resting-place +of the body, although the person it belonged to be far away, should be +respected." + +"That's what I think, though I don't get no credit for it. I du believe +the people hereabouts thinks me only a single hair better than a Jack +Ketch. But I'm sure I du my best to make the poor things comfortable." + +He seemed unable to rid his mind of the idea that the comfort of the +departed was dependent upon his ministrations. + +"The trouble I have with them sometimes! There's now this same one as +lies here, old Jonathan Giles. He have the gout so bad! and just as I +come within a couple o' inches o' the right depth, out come the edge of +a great stone in the near corner at the foot of the bed. Thinks I, +he'll never lie comfortable with that same under his gouty toe. But the +trouble I had to get out that stone! I du assure you, sir, it took me +nigh half the day.--But this be one of the nicest places to lie in all +up and down the coast--a nice gravelly soil, you see, sir; dry, and +warm, and comfortable. Them poor things as comes out of the sea must +quite enjoy the change, sir." + +There was something grotesque in the man's persistence in regarding the +objects of his interest from this point of view. It was a curious way +for the humanity that was in him to find expression; but I did not like +to let him go on thus. It was so much opposed to all that I believed and +felt about the change from this world to the next! + +"But, Coombes," I said, "why will you go on talking as if it made an +atom of difference to the dead bodies where they were buried? They care +no more about it than your old coat would care where it was thrown after +you had done with it." + +He turned and regarded his coat where it hung beside him on the +headstone of the same grave at which he was working, shook his head with +a smile that seemed to hint a doubt whether the said old coat would be +altogether so indifferent to its treatment when, it was past use as +I had implied. Then he turned again to his work, and after a moment's +silence began to approach me from another side. I confess he had the +better of me before I was aware of what he was about. + +"The church of Boscastle stands high on the cliff. You've been to +Boscastle, sir?" + +I told him I had not yet, but hoped to go before the summer was over. + +"Ah, you should see Boscastle, sir. It's a wonderful place. That's where +I was born, sir. When I was a by that church was haunted, sir. It's a +damp place, and the wind in it awful. I du believe it stand higher than +any church in the country, and have got more wind in it of a stormy +night than any church whatsomever. Well, they said it was haunted; and +sure enough every now and then there was a knocking heard down below. +And this always took place of a stormy night, as if there was some poor +thing down in the low wouts (_vaults_), and he wasn't comfortable and +wanted to get out. Well, one night it was so plain and so fearful it was +that the sexton he went and took the blacksmith and a ship's carpenter +down to the harbour, and they go up together, and they hearken all over +the floor, and they open one of the old family wouts that belongs to +the Penhaligans, and they go down with a light. Now the wind it was +a-blowing all as usual, only worse than common. And there to be sure +what do they see but the wout half-full of sea-water, and nows and +thens a great spout coming in through a hole in the rock; for it was +high-water and a wind off the sea, as I tell you. And there was a coffin +afloat on the water, and every time the spout come through, it set it +knocking agen the side o' the wout, and that was the ghost." + +"What a horrible idea!" I said, with a half-shudder at the unrest of the +dead. + +The old man uttered a queer long-drawn sound,--neither a chuckle, a +crow, nor a laugh, but a mixture of all three,--and turned himself yet +again to the work which, as he approached the end of his narration, +he had suspended, that he might make his story _tell_, I suppose, by +looking me in the face. And as he turned he said, "I thought you would +like to be comfortable then as well as other people, sir." + +I could not help laughing to see how the cunning old fellow had caught +me. I have not yet been able to find out how much of truth there was in +his story. From the twinkle of his eye I cannot help suspecting that +if he did not invent the tale, he embellished it, at least, in order to +produce the effect which he certainly did produce. Humour was clearly +his predominant disposition, the reflex of which was to be seen, after a +mild lunar fashion, on the countenance of his wife. Neither could I help +thinking with pleasure, as I turned away, how the merry little old man +would enjoy telling his companions how he had posed the new parson. +Very welcome was he to his laugh for my part. Yet I gladly left the +churchyard, with its sunshine above and its darkness below. Indeed I +had to look up to the glittering vanes on the four pinnacles of the +church-tower, dwelling aloft in the clean sunny air, to get the feeling +of the dark vault, and the floating coffin, and the knocking heard in +the windy church, out of my brain. But the thing that did free me was +the reflection with what supreme disregard the disincarcerated spirit +would look upon any possible vicissitudes of its abandoned vault. For in +proportion as the body of man's revelation ceases to be in harmony with +the spirit that dwells therein, it becomes a vault, a prison, from which +it must be freedom to escape at length. The house we like best would be +a prison of awful sort if doors and windows were built up. Man's abode, +as age begins to draw nigh, fares thus. Age is in fact the mason that +builds up the doors and the windows, and death is the angel that breaks +the prison-house and lets the captives free. Thus I got something out of +the sexton's horrible story. + +But before the week was over, death came near indeed--in far other +fashion than any funereal tale could have brought it. + +One day, after lunch, I had retired to my study, and was dozing in my +chair, for the day was hot, when I was waked by Charlie rushing into the +room with the cry, "Papa, papa, there's a man drowning." + +I started up, and hurried down to the drawing-room, which looked out +over the bay. I could see nothing but people running about on the edge +of the quiet waves. No sign of human being was on--the water. But the +one boat belonging to the pilot was coming out from the shelter of the +lock of the canal where it usually lay, and my friend of the coastguard +was running down from the tower on the cliff with ropes in his hand. He +would not stop the boat even for the moment it would need to take him on +board, but threw them in and urged to haste. I stood at the window and +watched. Every now and then I fancied I saw something white heaved up on +the swell of a wave, and as often was satisfied that I had but fancied +it. The boat seemed to be floating about lazily, if not idly. The +eagerness to help made it appear as if nothing was going on. Could it, +after all, have been a false alarm? Was there, after all, no insensible +form swinging about in the sweep of those waves, with life gradually +oozing away? Long, long as it seemed to me, I watched, and still the +boat kept moving from place to place, so far out that I could see +nothing distinctly of the motions of its crew. At length I saw +something. Yes; a long white thing rose from the water slowly, and was +drawn into the boat. It rowed swiftly to the shore. There was but one +place fit to land upon,--a little patch of sand, nearly covered at +high-water, but now lying yellow in the sun, under the window at which +I stood, and immediately under our garden-wall. Thither the boat shot +along; and there my friend of the coastguard, earnest and sad, was +waiting to use, though without hope, every appliance so well known to +him from the frequent occurrence of such necessity in the course of his +watchful duties along miles and miles of stormy coast. + +I will not linger over the sad details of vain endeavour. The honoured +head of a family, he had departed and left a good name behind him. +But even in the midst of my poor attentions to the quiet, speechless, +pale-faced wife, who sat at the head of the corpse, I could not help +feeling anxious about the effect on my Connie. It was impossible to keep +the matter concealed from her. The undoubted concern on the faces of +the two boys was enough to reveal that something serious and painful had +occurred; while my wife and Wynnie, and indeed the whole household, were +busy in attending to every remotest suggestion of aid that reached +them from the little crowd gathered about the body. At length it was +concluded, on the verdict of the medical man who had been sent for, that +all further effort was useless. The body was borne away, and I led the +poor lady to her lodging, and remained there with her till I found that, +as she lay on the sofa, the sleep that so often dogs the steps of sorrow +had at length thrown its veil over her consciousness, and put her for +the time to rest. There is a gentle consolation in the firmness of the +grasp of the inevitable, known but to those who are led through the +valley of the shadow. I left her with her son and daughter, and returned +to my own family. They too were of course in the skirts of the cloud. +Had they only heard of the occurrence, it would have had little effect; +but death had appeared to them. Everyone but Connie had seen the dead +lying there; and before the day was over, I wished that she too had +seen the dead. For I found from what she said at intervals, and from the +shudder that now and then passed through her, that her imagination was +at work, showing but the horrors that belong to death; for the enfolding +peace that accompanies it can be known but by sight of the dead. When +I spoke to her, she seemed, and I suppose for the time felt tolerably +quiet and comfortable; but I could see that the words she had heard fall +in the going and coming, and the communications of Charlie and Harry to +each other, had made as it were an excoriation on her fancy, to which +her consciousness was ever returning. And now I became more grateful +than I had yet been for the gift of that gipsy-child. For I felt no +anxiety about Connie so long as she was with her. The presence even of +her mother could not relieve her, for she and Wynnie were both clouded +with the same awe, and its reflex in Connie was distorted by her fancy. +But the sweet ignorance of the baby, which rightly considered is +more than a type or symbol of faith, operated most healingly; for she +appeared in her sweet merry ways--no baby was ever more filled with the +mere gladness of life than Connie's baby--to the mood in which they +all were, like a little sunny window in a cathedral crypt, telling of a +whole universe of sunshine and motion beyond those oppressed pillars and +low-groined arches. And why should not the baby know best? I believe the +babies do know best. I therefore favoured her having the child more than +I might otherwise have thought good for her, being anxious to get the +dreary, unhealthy impression healed as soon as possible, lest it should, +in the delicate physical condition in which she was, turn to a sore. + +But my wife suffered for a time nearly as much as Connie. As long as she +was going about the house or attending to the wants of her family, +she was free; but no sooner did she lay her head on the pillow than in +rushed the cry of the sea, fierce, unkind, craving like a wild beast. +Again and again she spoke of it to me, for it came to her mingled with +the voice of the tempter, saying, "_Cruel chance_," over and over again. +For although the two words contradict each other when put together thus, +each in its turn would assert itself. + +A great part of the doubt in the world comes from the fact that +there are in it so many more of the impressible as compared with the +originating minds. Where the openness to impression is balanced by the +power of production, the painful questions of the world are speedily +met by their answers; where such is not the case, there are often long +periods of suffering till the child-answer of truth is brought to the +birth. Hence the need for every impressible mind to be, by reading or +speech, held in living association with an original mind able to combat +those suggestions of doubt and even unbelief, which the look of things +must often occasion--a look which comes from our inability to gain other +than fragmentary visions of the work that the Father worketh hitherto. +When the kingdom of heaven is at hand, one sign thereof will be that all +clergymen will be more or less of the latter sort, and mere receptive +goodness, no more than education and moral character, will be considered +sufficient reason for a man's occupying the high position of an +instructor of his fellows. But even now this possession of original +power is not by any means to be limited to those who make public show of +the same. In many a humble parish priest it shows itself at the bedside +of the suffering, or in the admonition of the closet, although as yet +there are many of the clergy who, so far from being able to console +wisely, are incapable of understanding the condition of those that need +consolation. + +"It is all a fancy, my dear," I said to her. "There is nothing more +terrible in this than in any other death. On the contrary, I can hardly +imagine a less fearful one. A big wave falls on the man's head and stuns +him, and without further suffering he floats gently out on the sea of +the unknown." + +"But it is so terrible for those left behind!" + +"Had you seen the face of his widow, so gentle, so loving, so resigned +in its pallor, you would not have thought it so _terrible_." + +But though she always seemed satisfied, and no doubt felt nearly so, +after any conversation of the sort, yet every night she would call out +once and again, "O, that sea, out there!" I was very glad indeed when +Mr. Turner, who had arranged to spend a short holiday with us, arrived. + +He was concerned at the news I gave him of the shock both Connie and +her mother had received, and counselled an immediate change, that time +might, in the absence of surrounding associations, obliterate something +of the impression that had been made. The consequence was, that we +resolved to remove our household, for a short time, to some place not +too far off to permit of my attending to my duties at Kilkhaven, but +out of the sight and sound of the sea. It was Thursday when Mr. Turner +arrived, and he spent the next two days in inquiring and looking about +for a suitable spot to which we might repair as early in the week as +possible. + +On the Saturday the blacksmith was busy in the church-tower, and I went +in to see how he was getting on. + +"You had a sad business here the last week, sir," he said, after we had +done talking about the repairs. + +"A very sad business indeed," I answered. + +"It was a warning to us all," he said. + +"We may well take it so," I returned. "But it seems to me that we are +too ready to think of such remarkable things only by themselves, instead +of being roused by them to regard everything, common and uncommon, as +ordered by the same care and wisdom." + +"One of our local preachers made a grand use of it." + +I made no reply. He resumed. + +"They tell me you took no notice of it last Sunday, sir." + +"I made no immediate allusion to it, certainly. But I preached under the +influence of it. And I thought it better that those who could reflect +on the matter should be thus led to think for themselves than that they +should be subjected to the reception of my thoughts and feelings about +it; for in the main it is life and not death that we have to preach." + +"I don't quite understand you, sir. But then you don't care much for +preaching in your church." + +"I confess," I answered, "that there has been much indifference on that +point. I could, however, mention to you many and grand exceptions. Still +there is, even in some of the best in the church, a great amount of +disbelief in the efficacy of preaching. And I allow that a great deal +of what is called preaching, partakes of its nature only in the remotest +degree. But, while I hold a strong opinion of its value--that is, +where it is genuine--I venture just to suggest that the nature of +the preaching to which the body you belong to has resorted, has had +something to do, by way of a reaction, in driving the church to the +other extreme." + +"How do you mean that, sir?" + +"You try to work upon people's feelings without reference to their +judgment. Anyone who can preach what you call rousing sermons is +considered a grand preacher amongst you, and there is a great danger of +his being led thereby to talk more nonsense than sense. And then when +the excitement goes off, there is no seed left in the soil to grow in +peace, and they are always craving after more excitement." + +"Well, there is the preacher to rouse them up again." + +"And the consequence is that they continue like children--the good ones, +I mean--and have hardly a chance of making a calm, deliberate choice of +that which is good; while those who have been only excited and nothing +more, are hardened and seared by the recurrence of such feeling as is +neither aroused by truth nor followed by action." + +"You daren't talk like that if you knew the kind of people in this +country that the Methodists, as you call them, have got a hold of. They +tell me it was like hell itself down in those mines before Wesley come +among them." + +"I should be a fool or a bigot to doubt that the Wesleyans have done +incalculable good in the country. And that not alone to the people who +never went to church. The whole Church of England is under obligations +to Methodism such as no words can overstate." + +"I wonder you can say such things against them, then." + +"Now there you show the evil of thinking too much about the party you +belong to. It makes a man touchy; and then he fancies when another is +merely, it may be, analysing a difference, or insisting strongly on some +great truth, that he is talking against his party." + +"But you said, sir, that our clergy don't care about moving our +judgments, only our feelings. Now I know preachers amongst us of whom +that would be anything but true." + +"Of course there must be. But there is what I say--your party-feeling +makes you touchy. A man can't always be saying in the press of +utterance, '_Of course there are exceptions_.' That is understood. I +confess I do not know much about your clergy, for I have not had the +opportunity. But I do know this, that some of the best and most liberal +people I have ever known have belonged to your community." + +"They do gather a deal of money for good purposes." + +"Yes. But that was not what I meant by _liberal_. It is far easier to +give money than to be generous in judgment. I meant by _liberal_, able +to see the good and true in people that differ from you--glad to be +roused to the reception of truth in God's name from whatever quarter +it may come, and not readily finding offence where a remark may have +chanced to be too sweeping or unguarded. But I see that I ought to be +more careful, for I have made you, who certainly are not one of the +quarrelsome people I have been speaking of, misunderstand me." + +"I beg your pardon, sir. I was hasty. But I do think I am more ready to +lose my temper since--" + +Here he stopped. A fit of coughing came on, and, to my concern, was +followed by what I saw plainly could be the result only of a rupture in +the lungs. I insisted on his dropping his work and coming home with me, +where I made him rest the remainder of the day and all Sunday, sending +word to his mother that I could not let him go home. When we left on +the Monday morning, we took him with us in the carriage hired for the +journey, and set him down at his mother's, apparently no worse than +usual. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AT THE FARM. + + + + + +Leaving the younger members of the family at home with the servants, +we set out for a farmhouse, some twenty miles off, which Turner had +discovered for us. Connie had stood the journey down so well, and +was now so much stronger, that we had no anxiety about her so far as +regarded the travelling. Through deep lanes with many cottages, and here +and there a very ugly little chapel, over steep hills, up which Turner +and Wynnie and I walked, and along sterile moors we drove, stopping at +roadside inns, and often besides to raise Connie and let her look about +upon the extended prospect, so that it was drawing towards evening +before we arrived at our destination. On the way Turner had warned us +that we were not to expect a beautiful country, although the place +was within reach of much that was remarkable. Therefore we were not +surprised when we drew up at the door of a bare-looking, shelterless +house, with scarcely a tree in sight, and a stretch of undulating fields +on every side. + +"A dreary place in winter, Turner," I said, after we had seen Connie +comfortably deposited in the nice white-curtained parlour, smelling of +dried roses even in the height of the fresh ones, and had strolled out +while our tea--dinner was being got ready for us. + +"Not a doubt of it; but just the place I wanted for Miss Connie," he +replied. "We are high above the sea, and the air is very bracing, and +not, at this season, too cold. A month later I should not on any account +have brought her here." + +"I think even now there is a certain freshness in the wind that calls up +a kind of will in the nerves to meet it." + +"That is precisely what I wanted for you all. You observe there is no +rasp in its touch, however. There are regions in this island of ours +where even in the hottest day in summer you would frequently discover a +certain unfriendly edge in the air, that would set you wondering whether +the seasons had not changed since you were a boy, and used to lie on the +grass half the idle day." + +"I often do wonder whether it may not be so, but I always come to the +conclusion that even this is but an example of the involuntary tendency +of the mind of man towards the ideal. He forgets all that comes between +and divides the hints of perfection scattered here and there along the +scope of his experience. I especially remember one summer day in my +childhood, which has coloured all my ideas of summer and bliss and +fulfilment of content. It is made up of only mossy grass, and the scent +of the earth and wild flowers, and hot sun, and perfect sky--deep and +blue, and traversed by blinding white clouds. I could not have been more +than five or six, I think, from the kind of dress I wore, the very pearl +buttons of which, encircled on their face with a ring of half-spherical +hollows, have their undeniable relation in my memory to the heavens and +the earth, to the march of the glorious clouds, and the tender scent +of the rooted flowers; and, indeed, when I think of it, must, by the +delight they gave me, have opened my mind the more to the enjoyment of +the eternal paradise around me. What a thing it is to please a child!" + +"I know what you mean perfectly," answered Turner. "It is as I get older +that I understand what Wordsworth says about childhood. It is indeed a +mercy that we were not born grown men, with what we consider our wits +about us. They are blinding things those wits we gather. I fancy that +the single thread by which God sometimes keeps hold of a man is such an +impression of his childhood as that of which you have been speaking." + +"I do not doubt it; for conscience is so near in all those memories to +which you refer. The whole surrounding of them is so at variance with +sin! A sense of purity, not in himself, for the child is not feeling +that he is pure, is all about him; and when afterwards the condition +returns upon him,--returns when he is conscious of so much that is evil +and so much that is unsatisfied in him,--it brings with it a longing +after the high clear air of moral well-being." + +"Do you think, then, that it is only by association that nature thus +impresses us? that she has no power of meaning these things?" + +"Not at all. No doubt there is something in the recollection of the +associations of childhood to strengthen the power of nature upon us; but +the power is in nature herself, else it would be but a poor weak thing +to what it is. There _is_ purity and state in that sky. There _is_ a +peace now in this wide still earth--not so very beautiful, you own--and +in that overhanging blue, which my heart cries out that it needs and +cannot be well till it gains--gains in the truth, gains in God, who is +the power of truth, the living and causing truth. There is indeed a rest +that remaineth, a rest pictured out even here this night, to rouse my +dull heart to desire it and follow after it, a rest that consists in +thinking the thoughts of Him who is the Peace because the Unity, in +being filled with that spirit which now pictures itself forth in this +repose of the heavens and the earth." + +"True," said Turner, after a pause. "I must think more about such +things. The science the present day is going wild about will not give us +that rest." + +"No; but that rest will do much to give you that science. A man with +this repose in his heart will do more by far, other capabilities being +equal, to find out the laws that govern things. For all law is living +rest." + +"What you have been saying," resumed Turner, after another pause, +"reminds me much of one of Wordsworth's poems. I do not mean the famous +ode." + +"You mean the 'Ninth Evening Voluntary,' I know--one of his finest and +truest and deepest poems. It begins, 'Had this effulgence disappeared.'" + +"Yes, that is the one I mean. I shall read it again when I go home. +But you don't agree with Wordsworth, do you, about our having had an +existence previous to this?" + +He gave a little laugh as he asked the question. + +"Not in the least. But an opinion held by such men as Plato, Origen, +and Wordsworth, is not to be laughed at, Mr. Turner. It cannot be in its +nature absurd. I might have mentioned Shelley as holding it, too, had +his opinion been worth anything." + +"Then you don't think much of Shelley?" + +"I think his _feeling_ most valuable; his _opinion_ nearly worthless." + +"Well, perhaps I had no business to laugh, at it; but--" + +"Do not suppose for a moment that I even lean to it. I dislike it. It +would make me unhappy to think there was the least of sound argument +for it. But I respect the men who have held it, and know there must be +_something_ good in it, else they could not have held it." + +"Are you able then to sympathise with that ode of Wordsworth's? Does it +not depend for all its worth on the admission of this theory?" + +"Not in the least. Is it necessary to admit that we must have had a +conscious life before this life to find meaning in the words,-- + + 'But trailing clouds of glory do we come + From God who is our home'? + +Is not all the good in us his image? Imperfect and sinful as we are, is +not all the foundation of our being his image? Is not the sin all ours, +and the life in us all God's? We cannot be the creatures of God +without partaking of his nature. Every motion of our conscience, every +admiration of what is pure and noble, is a sign and a result of this. +Is not every self-accusation a proof of the presence of his spirit? That +comes not of ourselves--that is not without him. These are the clouds +of glory we come trailing from him. All feelings of beauty and peace and +loveliness and right and goodness, we trail with us from our home. God +is the only home of the human soul. To interpret in this manner what +Wordsworth says, will enable us to enter into perfect sympathy with all +that grandest of his poems. I do not say this is what he meant; but I +think it includes what he meant by being greater and wider than what he +meant. Nor am I guilty of presumption in saying so, for surely the idea +that we are born of God is a greater idea than that we have lived with +him a life before this life. But Wordsworth is not the first among our +religious poets to give us at least what is valuable in the notion. I +came upon a volume amongst my friend Shepherd's books, with which I had +made no acquaintance before--Henry Vaughan's poems. I brought it with +me, for it has finer lines, I almost think, than any in George Herbert, +though not so fine poems by any means as his best. When we go into the +house I will read one of them to you." + +"Thank you," said Turner. "I wish I could have such talk once a week. +The shades of the prison-house, you know, Mr. Walton, are always trying +to close about us, and shut out the vision of the glories we have come +from, as Wordsworth says." + +"A man," I answered, "who ministers to the miserable necessities of his +fellows has even more need than another to believe in the light and the +gladness--else a poor Job's comforter will he be. _I_ don't want to be +treated like a musical snuff-box." + +The doctor laughed. + +"No man can _prove_," he said, "that there is not a being inside the +snuff-box, existing in virtue of the harmony of its parts, comfortable +when they go well, sick when they go badly, and dying when it is +dismembered, or even when it stops." + +"No," I answered. "No man can prove it. But no man can convince a +human being of it. And just as little can anyone convince me that my +conscience, making me do sometimes what I _don't_ like, comes from a +harmonious action of the particles of my brain. But it is time we went +in, for by the law of things in general, I being ready for my dinner, my +dinner ought to be ready for me." + +"A law with more exceptions than instances, I fear," said Turner. + +"I doubt that," I answered. "The readiness is everything, and that we +constantly blunder in. But we had better see whether we are really ready +for it, by trying whether it is ready for us." + +Connie went to bed early, as indeed we all did, and she was rather +better than worse the next morning. My wife, for the first time for +many nights, said nothing about the crying of the sea. The following +day Turner and I set out to explore the neighbourhood. The rest remained +quietly at home. + +It was, as I have said, a high bare country. The fields lay side by +side, parted from each other chiefly, as so often in Scotland, by stone +walls; and these stones being of a laminated nature, the walls were not +unfrequently built by laying thin plates on their edges, which gave a +neatness to them not found in other parts of the country as far as I am +aware. In the middle of the fields came here and there patches of yet +unreclaimed moorland. + +Now in a region like this, beauty must be looked for below the surface. +There is a probability of finding hollows of repose, sunken spots of +loveliness, hidden away altogether from the general aspect of sternness, +or perhaps sterility, that meets the eye in glancing over the outspread +landscape; just as in the natures of stern men you may expect to find, +if opportunity should be afforded you, sunny spots of tender verdure, +kept ever green by that very sternness which is turned towards the +common gaze--thus existent because they are below the surface, and not +laid bare to the sweep of the cold winds that roam the world. How +often have not men started with amaze at the discovery of some feminine +sweetness, some grace of protection in the man whom they had judged +cold and hard and rugged, inaccessible to the more genial influences of +humanity! It may be that such men are only fighting against the wind, +and keep their hearts open to the sun. + +I knew this; and when Turner and I set out that morning to explore, I +expected to light upon some instance of it--some mine or other in which +nature had hidden away rare jewels; but I was not prepared to find such +as I did find. With our hearts full of a glad secret we returned home, +but we said nothing about it, in order that Ethelwyn and Wynnie might +enjoy the discovery even as we had enjoyed it. + +There was another grand fact with regard to the neighbourhood about +which we judged it better to be silent for a few days, that the inland +influences might be free to work. We were considerably nearer the ocean +than my wife and daughters supposed, for we had made a great round in +order to arrive from the land-side. We were, however, out of the sound +of its waves, which broke all along the shore, in this part, at the foot +of tremendous cliffs. What cliffs they were we shall soon find. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE KEEVE. + + + + + +"Now, my dear! now, Wynnie!" I said, after prayers the next morning, +"you must come out for a walk as soon as ever you can get your bonnets +on." + +"But we can't leave Connie, papa," objected Wynnie. + +"O, yes, you can, quite well. There's nursie to look after her. What do +you say, Connie?" + +For, for some time now, Connie had been able to get up so early, that it +was no unusual thing to have prayers in her room. + +"I am entirely independent of help from my family," returned Connie +grandiloquently. "I am a woman of independent means," she added. "If you +say another word, I will rise and leave the room." + +And she made a movement as if she would actually do as she had said. +Seized with an involuntary terror, I rushed towards her, and the +impertinent girl burst out laughing in my face--threw herself back on +her pillows, and laughed delightedly. + +"Take care, papa," she said. "I carry a terrible club for rebellious +people." Then, her mood changing, she added, as if to suppress the tears +gathering in her eyes, "I am the queen--of luxury and self-will--and +I won't have anybody come near me till dinner-time. I mean to enjoy +myself." + +So the matter was settled, and we went out for our walk. Ethelwyn was +not such a good walker as she had been; but even if she had retained +the strength of her youth, we should not have got on much the better for +it--so often did she and Wynnie stop to grub ferns out of the chinks and +roots of the stone-walls. Now, I admire ferns as much as anybody--that +is, not, I fear, so much as my wife and daughter, but quite enough +notwithstanding--but I do not quite enjoy being pulled up like a fern at +every turn. + +"Now, my dear, what is the use of stopping to torture that harmless +vegetable?" I say, but say in vain. "It is much more beautiful where it +is than it will be anywhere where you can put it. Besides, you know they +never come to anything with you. They _always_ die." + +Thereupon my wife reminds me of this fern and that fern, gathered in +such and such places, and now in such and such corners of the garden or +the greenhouse, or under glass-shades in this or that room, of the very +existence of which I am ignorant, whether from original inattention, or +merely from forgetfulness, I do not know. Certainly, out of their own +place I do not care much for them. + +At length, partly by the inducement I held out to them of a much greater +variety of ferns where we were bound, I succeeded in getting them over +the two miles in little more than two hours. After passing from the +lanes into the fields, our way led downwards till we reached a very +steep large slope, with a delightful southern exposure, and covered with +the sweetest down-grasses. It was just the place to lie in, as on the +edge of the earth, and look abroad upon the universe of air and floating +worlds. + +"Let us have a rest here, Ethel," I said. "I am sure this is much more +delightful than uprooting ferns. What an awful thing to think that here +we are on this great round tumbling ball of a world, held by the feet, +and lifting up the head into infinite space--without choice or wish of +our own--compelled to think and to be, whether we will or not! Just God +must know it to be very good, or he would not have taken it in his hands +to make individual lives without a possible will of theirs. He must +be our Father, or we are wretched creatures--the slaves of a fatal +necessity! Did it ever strike you, Turner, that each one of us stands on +the apex of the world? With a sphere, you know, it must be so. And thus +is typified, as it seems to me, that each one of us must look up for +himself to find God, and then look abroad to find his fellows." + +"I think I know what you mean," was all Turner's reply. + +"No doubt," I resumed, "the apprehension of this truth has, in otherwise +ill-ordered minds, given rise to all sorts of fierce and grotesque +fanaticism. But the minds which have thus conceived the truth, would +have been immeasurably worse without it; nay, this truth affords at last +the only possible door out of the miseries of their own chaos, whether +inherited or the result of their own misconduct." + +"What's that in the grass?" cried Wynnie, in a tone of alarm. + +I looked where she indicated, and saw a slow-worm, or blind-worm, lying +basking in the sun. I rose and went towards it. + +"Here's your stick," said Turner. + +"What for?" I asked. "Why should I kill it? It is perfectly harmless, +and, to my mind, beautiful." + +I took it in my hands, and brought it to my wife. She gave an +involuntary shudder as it came near her. + +"I assure you it is harmless," I said, "though it has a forked tongue." +And I opened its mouth as I spoke. "I do not think the serpent form is +essentially ugly." + +"It makes me feel ugly," said Wynnie. + +"I allow I do not quite understand the mystery of it," I said. "But you +never saw lovelier ornamentation than these silvery scales, with all +the neatness of what you ladies call a set pattern, and none of the +stiffness, for there are not two of them the same in form. And you never +saw lovelier curves than this little patient creature, which does not +even try to get away from me, makes with the queer long thin body of +him." + +"I wonder how it can look after its tail, it is so far off," said +Wynnie. + +"It does though--better than you ladies look after your long dresses. +I wonder whether it is descended from creatures that once had feet, and +did not make a good use of them. Perhaps they had wings even, and +would not use them at all, and so lost them. Its ancestors may have had +poison-fangs; it is innocent enough. But it is a terrible thing to be +all feet, is it not? There is an awful significance in the condemnation +of the serpent--'On thy belly shalt thou go, and eat dust.' But it is +better to talk of beautiful things. _My_ soul at least has dropped from +its world apex. Let us go on. Come, wife. Come, Turner." + +They did not seem willing to rise. But the glen drew me. I rose, and my +wife followed my example with the help of my hand. She returned to the +subject, however, as we descended the slope. + +"Is it possible that in the course of ever so many ages wings and feet +should be both lost?" she said. + +"The most presumptuous thing in the world is to pronounce on the +possible and the impossible. I do not know what is possible and what is +impossible. I can only tell a little of what is true and what is untrue. +But I do say this, that between the condition of many decent members of +society and that for the sake of which God made them, there is a gulf +quite as vast as that between a serpent and a bird. I get peeps now and +then into the condition of my own heart, which, for the moment, make +it seem impossible that I should ever rise into a true state of +nature--that is, into the simplicity of God's will concerning me. The +only hope for ourselves and for others lies in him--in the power the +creating spirit has over the spirits he has made." + +By this time the descent on the grass was getting too steep and slippery +to admit of our continuing to advance in that direction. We turned, +therefore, down the valley in the direction of the sea. It was but a +narrow cleft, and narrowed much towards a deeper cleft, in which we now +saw the tops of trees, and from which we heard the rush of water. Nor +had we gone far in this direction before we came upon a gate in a stone +wall, which led into what seemed a neglected garden. We entered, and +found a path turning and winding, among small trees, and luxuriant +ferns, and great stones, and fragments of ruins down towards the bottom +of the chasm. The noise of falling water increased as we went on, and +at length, after some scrambling and several sharp turns, we found +ourselves with a nearly precipitous wall on each side, clothed with +shrubs and ivy, and creeping things of the vegetable world. Up this +cleft there was no advance. The head of it was a precipice down which +shot the stream from the vale above, pouring out of a deep slit it had +itself cut in the rock as with a knife. Halfway down, it tumbled into +a great basin of hollowed stone, and flowing from a chasm in its side, +which left part of the lip of the basin standing like the arch of a +vanished bridge, it fell into a black pool below, whence it crept as if +half-stunned or weary down the gentle decline of the ravine. It was +a perfect little picture. I, for my part, had never seen such a +picturesque fall. It was a little gem of nature, complete in effect. +The ladies were full of pleasure. Wynnie, forgetting her usual reserve, +broke out in frantic exclamations of delight. + +We stood for a while regarding the ceaseless pour of the water down the +precipice, here shot slanting in a little trough of the rock, full of +force and purpose, here falling in great curls of green and gray, with +an expression of absolute helplessness and conscious perdition, as +if sheer to the centre, but rejoicing the next moment to find itself +brought up boiling and bubbling in the basin, to issue in the gathered +hope of experience. Then we turned down the stream a little way, crossed +it by a plank, and stood again to regard it from the opposite side. +Small as the whole affair was--not more than about a hundred and fifty +feet in height--it was so full of variety that I saw it was all my +memory could do, if it carried away anything like a correct picture of +its aspect. I was contemplating it fixedly, when a little stifled cry +from Wynnie made me start and look round. Her face was flushed, yet she +was trying to look unconcerned. + +"I thought we were quite alone, papa," she said; "but I see a gentleman +sketching." + +I looked whither she indicated. A little way down, the bed of the +ravine widened considerably, and was no doubt filled with water in rainy +weather. Now it was swampy--full of reeds and willow bushes. But on +the opposite side of the stream, with a little canal from it going all +around it, lay a great flat rectangular stone, not more than a foot +above the level of the water, and upon a camp-stool in the centre of +this stone sat a gentleman sketching. I had no doubt that Wynnie had +recognised him at once. And I was annoyed, and indeed angry, to think +that Mr. Percivale had followed us here. But while I regarded him, he +looked up, rose very quietly, and, with his pencil in his hand, came +towards us. With no nearer approach to familiarity than a bow, and no +expression of either much pleasure or any surprise, he said-- + +"I have seen your party for some time, Mr. Walton--since you crossed the +stream; but I would not break in upon your enjoyment with the surprise +which my presence here must cause you." + +I suppose I answered with a bow of some sort; for I could not say with +truth that I was glad to see him. He resumed, doubtless penetrating my +suspicion-- + +"I have been here almost a week. I certainly had no expectation of the +pleasure of seeing you." + +This he said lightly, though no doubt with the object of clearing +himself. And I was, if not reassured, yet disarmed, by his statement; +for I could not believe, from what I knew of him, that he would be +guilty of such a white lie as many a gentleman would have thought +justifiable on the occasion. Still, I suppose he found me a little +stiff, for presently he said-- + +"If you will excuse me, I will return to my work." + +Then I felt as if I must say something, for I had shown him no courtesy +during the interview. + +"It must be a great pleasure to carry away such talismans with +you--capable of bringing the place back to your mental vision at any +moment." + +"To tell the truth," he answered, "I am a little ashamed of being found +sketching here. Such bits of scenery are not of my favourite studies. +But it is a change." + +"It is very beautiful here," I said, in a tone of contravention. + +"It is very pretty," he answered--"very lovely, if you will--not very +beautiful, I think. I would keep that word for things of larger regard. +Beauty requires width, and here is none. I had almost said this place +was fanciful--the work of imagination in her play-hours, not in her +large serious moods. It affects me like the face of a woman only pretty, +about which boys and guardsmen will rave--to me not very interesting, +save for its single lines." + +"Why, then, do you sketch the place?" + +"A very fair question," he returned, with a smile. "Just because it is +soothing from the very absence of beauty. I would far rather, however, +if I were only following my taste, take the barest bit of the moor +above, with a streak of the cold sky over it. That gives room." + +"You would like to put a skylark in it, wouldn't you?" + +"That I would if I knew how. I see you know what I mean. But the mere +romantic I never had much taste for; though if you saw the kind of +pictures I try to paint, you would not wonder that I take sketches of +places like this, while in my heart of hearts I do not care much for +them. They are so different, and just _therefore_ they are good for me. +I am not working now; I am only playing." + +"With a view to working better afterwards, I have no doubt," I answered. + +"You are right there, I hope," was his quiet reply, as he turned and +walked back to the island. + +He had not made a step towards joining us. He had only taken his hat off +to the ladies. He was gaining ground upon me rapidly. + +"Have you quarrelled with our new friend, Harry?" said my wife, as I +came up to her. + +She was sitting on a stone. Turner and Wynnie were farther off towards +the foot of the fall. + +"Not in the least," I answered, slightly outraged--I did not at first +know why--by the question. "He is only gone to his work, which is a duty +belonging both to the first and second tables of the law." + +"I hope you have asked him to come home to our early dinner, then," she +rejoined. + +"I have not. That remains for you to do. Come, I will take you to him." + +Ethelwyn rose at once, put her hand in mine, and with a little help +soon reached the table-rock. When Percivale saw that she was really on +a visit to him on his island-perch, he rose, and when she came near +enough, held out his hand. It was but a step, and she was beside him in +a moment. After the usual greetings, which on her part, although very +quiet, like every motion and word of hers, were yet indubitably cordial +and kind, she said, "When you get back to London, Mr. Percivale, might +I ask you to allow some friends of mine to call at your studio, and see +your paintings?" + +"With all my heart," answered Percivale. "I must warn you, however, that +I have not much they will care to see. They will perhaps go away less +happy than they entered. Not many people care to see my pictures twice." + +"I would not send you anyone I thought unworthy of the honour," answered +my wife. + +Percivale bowed--one of his stately, old-world bows, which I greatly +liked. + +"Any friend of yours--that is guarantee sufficient," he answered. + +There was this peculiarity about any compliment that Percivale paid, +that you had not a doubt of its being genuine. + +"Will you come and take an early dinner with us?" said my wife. "My +invalid daughter will be very pleased to see you." + +"I will with pleasure," he answered, but in a tone of some hesitation, +as he glanced from Ethelwyn to me. + +"My wife speaks for us all," I said. "It will give us all pleasure." + +"I am only afraid it will break in upon your morning's work," remarked +Ethelwyn. + +"O, that is not of the least consequence," he rejoined. "In fact, as I +have just been saying to Mr. Walton, I am not working at all at present. +This is pure recreation." + +As he spoke he turned towards his easel, and began hastily to bundle up +his things. + +"We're not quite ready to go yet," said my wife, loath to leave the +lovely spot. "What a curious flat stone this is!" she added. + +"It is," said Percivale. "The man to whom the place belongs, a worthy +yeoman of the old school, says that this wider part of the channel must +have been the fish-pond, and that the portly monks stood on this stone +and fished in the pond." + +"Then was there a monastery here?" I asked. + +"Certainly. The ruins of the chapel, one of the smallest, are on the +top, just above the fall--rather a fearful place to look down from. I +wonder you did not observe them as you came. They say it had a silver +bell in the days of its glory, which now lies in a deep hole under the +basin, half-way between the top and bottom of the fall. But the old man +says that nothing will make him look, or let anyone else lift the huge +stone; for he is much better pleased to believe that it may be there, +than he would be to know it was not there; for certainly, if it were +found, it would not be left there long." + +As he spoke Percivale had continued packing his gear. He now led our +party up to the chapel, and thence down a few yards to the edge of the +chasm, where the water fell headlong. I turned away with that fear of +high places which is one of my many weaknesses; and when I turned again +towards the spot, there was Wynnie on the very edge, looking over into +the flash and tumult of the water below, but with a nervous grasp of the +hand of Percivale, who stood a little farther back. + +In going home, the painter led us by an easier way out of the valley, +left his little easel and other things at a cottage, and then walked on +in front between my wife and daughter, while Turner and I followed. He +seemed quite at his ease with them, and plenty of talk and laughter rose +on the way. I, however, was chiefly occupied with finding out Turner's +impression of Connie's condition. + +"She is certainly better," he said. "I wonder you do not see it as +plainly as I do. The pain is nearly gone from her spine, and she can +move herself a good deal more, I am certain, than she could when she +left. She asked me yesterday if she might not turn upon one side. 'Do +you think you could?' I asked.--'I think so,' she answered. 'At any +rate, I have often a great inclination to try; only papa said I had +better wait till you came.' I do think she might be allowed a little +more change of posture now." + +"Then you have really some hope of her final recovery?" + +"I have _hope_ most certainly. But what is hope in me, you must not +allow to become certainty in you. I am nearly sure, though, that she can +never be other than an invalid; that is, if I am to judge by what I know +of such cases." + +"I am thankful for the hope," I answered. "You need not be afraid of my +turning upon you, should the hope never pass into sight. I should do so +only if I found that you had been treating me irrationally--inspiring +me with hope which you knew to be false. The element of uncertainty is +essential to hope, and for all true hope, even as hope, man has to be +unspeakably thankful." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE WALK TO CHURCH. + + + + + +I was glad to be able to arrange with a young clergyman who was on a +visit to Kilkhaven, that he should take my duty for me the next Sunday, +for that was the only one Turner could spend with us. He and I and +Wynnie walked together two miles to church. It was a lovely morning, +with just a tint of autumn in the air. But even that tint, though all +else was of the summer, brought a shadow, I could see, on Wynnie's face. + +"You said you would show me a poem of--Vaughan, I think you said, was +the name of the writer. I am too ignorant of our older literature," said +Turner. + +"I have only just made acquaintance with him," I answered. "But I +think I can repeat the poem. You shall judge whether it is not like +Wordsworth's Ode. + + 'Happy those early days, when I + Shined in my angel infancy; + Before I understood the place + Appointed for my second race, + Or taught my soul to fancy ought + But a white, celestial thought; + When yet I had not walked above + A mile or two from my first love, + And looking back, at that short space, + Could see a glimpse of his bright face; + When on some gilded cloud or flower + My gazing soul would dwell an hour, + And in those weaker glories spy + Some shadows of eternity; + Before I taught my tongue to wound + My conscience with a sinful sound, + But felt through all this fleshly dress + Bright shoots of everlastingness. + O how I long to travel back----'" + +But here I broke down, for I could not remember the rest with even +approximate accuracy. + +"When did this Vaughan live?" asked Turner. + +"He was born, I find, in 1621--five years, that is, after Shakspere's +death, and when Milton was about thirteen years old. He lived to the age +of seventy-three, but seems to have been little known. In politics he +was on the Cavalier side. By the way, he was a medical man, like you, +Turner--an M.D. We'll have a glance at the little book when we go back. +Don't let me forget to show it you. A good many of your profession have +distinguished themselves in literature, and as profound believers too." + +"I should have thought the profession had been chiefly remarkable for +such as believe only in the evidence of the senses." + +"As if having searched into the innermost recesses of the body, and not +having found a soul, they considered themselves justified in declaring +there was none." + +"Just so." + +"Well, that is true of the commonplace amongst them, I do believe. You +will find the exceptions have been men of fine minds and characters--not +such as he of whom Chaucer says, + + 'His study was but little on the Bible;' + +for if you look at the rest of the description of the man, you will find +that he was in alliance with his apothecary for their mutual advantage, +that he was a money-loving man, and that some of Chaucer's keenest irony +is spent on him in an off-hand, quiet manner. Compare the tone in which +he writes of the doctor of physic, with the profound reverence wherewith +he bows himself before the poor country-parson." + +Here Wynnie spoke, though with some tremor in her voice. + +"I never know, papa, what people mean by talking about childhood in that +way. I never seem to have been a bit younger and more innocent than I +am." + +"Don't you remember a time, Wynnie, when the things about you--the sky +and the earth, say--seemed to you much grander than they seem now? You +are old enough to have lost something." + +She thought for a little while before she answered. + +"My dreams were, I know. I cannot say so of anything else." + +I in my turn had to be silent, for I did not see the true answer, though +I was sure there was one somewhere, if I could only find it. All I +could reply, however, even after I had meditated a good while, was--and +perhaps, after all, it was the best thing I could have said: + +"Then you must make a good use of your dreams, my child." + +"Why, papa?" + +"Because they are the only memorials of childhood you have left." + +"How am I to make a good use of them? I don't know what to do with my +silly old dreams." + +But she gave a sigh as she spoke that testified her silly old dreams had +a charm for her still. + +"If your dreams, my child, have ever testified to you of a condition of +things beyond that which you see around you, if they have been to you +the hints of a wonder and glory beyond what visits you now, you must not +call them silly, for they are just what the scents of Paradise borne +on the air were to Adam and Eve as they delved and spun, reminding them +that they must aspire yet again through labour into that childhood of +obedience which is the only paradise of humanity--into that oneness with +the will of the Father, which our race, our individual selves, need just +as much as if we had personally fallen with Adam, and from which we +fall every time we are disobedient to the voice of the Father within +our souls--to the conscience which is his making and his witness. If you +have had no childhood, my Wynnie, yet permit your old father to say +that everything I see in you indicates more strongly in you than in most +people that it is this childhood after which you are blindly longing, +without which you find that life is hardly to be endured. Thank God for +your dreams, my child. In him you will find that the essence of those +dreams is fulfilled. We are saved by hope, Turner. Never man hoped too +much, or repented that he had hoped. The plague is that we don't hope in +God half enough. The very fact that hope is strength, and strength the +outcome, the body of life, shows that hope is at one with life, with the +very essence of what says 'I am'--yea, of what doubts and says 'Am I?' +and therefore is reasonable to creatures who cannot even doubt save in +that they live." + +By this time, for I have, of course, only given the outlines, or rather +salient points, of our conversation, we had reached the church, where, +if I found the sermon neither healing nor inspiring, I found the prayers +full of hope and consolation. They at least are safe beyond human +caprice, conceit, or incapacity. Upon them, too, the man who is +distressed at the thought of how little of the needful food he had +been able to provide for his people, may fall back for comfort, in the +thought that there at least was what ought to have done them good, what +it was well worth their while to go to church for. But I did think they +were too long for any individual Christian soul, to sympathise with +from beginning to end, that is, to respond to, like organ-tube to the +fingered key, in every touch of the utterance of the general Christian +soul. For my reader must remember that it is one thing to read prayers +and another to respond; and that I had had very few opportunities of +being in the position of the latter duty. I had had suspicions before, +and now they were confirmed--that the present crowding of services was +most inexpedient. And as I pondered on the matter, instead of trying +to go on praying after I had already uttered my soul, which is but a +heathenish attempt after much speaking, I thought how our Lord had given +us such a short prayer to pray, and I began to wonder when or how the +services came to be so heaped the one on the back of the other as they +now were. No doubt many people defended them; no doubt many people could +sit them out; but how many people could pray from beginning to end +of them I On this point we had some talk as we went home. Wynnie was +opposed to any change of the present use on the ground that we should +only have the longer sermons. + +"Still," I said, "I do not think even that so great an evil. A sensitive +conscience will not reproach itself so much for not listening to the +whole of a sermon, as for kneeling in prayer and not praying. I think +myself, however, that after the prayers are over, everyone should be at +liberty to go out and leave the sermon unheard, if he pleases. I think +the result would be in the end a good one both for parson and people. It +would break through the deadness of this custom, this use and wont. +Many a young mind is turned for life against the influences of +church-going--one of the most sacred influences when _pure_, that is, +un-mingled with non-essentials--just by the feeling that he _must_ do so +and so, that he must go through a certain round of duty. It is a willing +service that the Lord wants; no forced devotions are either acceptable +to him, or other than injurious to the worshipper, if such he can be +called." + +After an early dinner, I said to Turner--"Come out with me, and we will +read that poem of Vaughan's in which I broke down today." + +"O, papa!" said Connie, in a tone of injury, from the sofa. + +"What is it, my dear?" I asked. + +"Wouldn't it be as good for us as for Mr. Turner?" + +"Quite, my dear. Well, I will keep it for the evening, and meantime +Mr. Turner and I will go and see if we can find out anything about the +change in the church-service." + +For I had thrown into my bag as I left the rectory a copy of _The +Clergyman's Vade Mecum_--a treatise occupied with the externals of the +churchman's relations--in which I soon came upon the following passage: + +"So then it appears that the common practice of reading all three +together, is an innovation, and if an ancient or infirm clergyman +do read them at two or three several times, he is more strictly +conformable; however, this is much better than to omit any part of the +liturgy, or to read all three offices into one, as is now commonly done, +without any pause or distinction." + +"On the part of the clergyman, you see, Turner," I said, when I had +finished reading the whole passage to him. "There is no care taken +of the delicate women of the congregation, but only of the ancient or +infirm clergyman. And the logic, to say the least, is rather queer: is +it only in virtue of his antiquity and infirmity that he is to be upheld +in being more strictly conformable? The writer's honesty has its heels +trodden upon by the fear of giving offence. Nevertheless there should +perhaps be a certain slowness to admit change, even back to a more +ancient form." + +"I don't know that I can quite agree with you there," said Turner. "If +the form is better, no one should hesitate to advocate the change. If it +is worse, then slowness is not sufficient--utter obstinacy is the right +condition." + +"You are right, Turner. For the right must be the rule, and where _the +right_ is beyond our understanding or our reach, then _the better_, +as indeed not only right compared with the other, but the sole ascent +towards the right." + +In the evening I took Henry Vaughan's poems into the common +sitting-room, and to Connie's great delight read the whole of the +lovely, though unequal little poem, called "The Retreat," in recalling +which I had failed in the morning. She was especially delighted with the +"white celestial thought," and the "bright shoots of everlastingness." +Then I gave a few lines from another yet more unequal poem, worthy in +themselves of the best of the other. I quote the first strophe entire: + + CHILDHOOD. + + "I cannot reach it; and my striving eye + Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, + Those white designs which children drive, + And the thoughts of each harmless hour, + With their content too in my power, + Quickly would I make my path even, + And by mere playing go to heaven. + + * * * * * + + And yet the practice worldlings call + Business and weighty action all, + Checking the poor child for his play, + But gravely cast themselves away. + + * * * * * + + An age of mysteries! which he + Must live twice that would God's face see; + Which angels guard, and with it play, + Angels! which foul men drive away. + How do I study now, and scan + Thee more than ere I studied man, + And only see through a long night + Thy edges and thy bordering light I + O for thy centre and midday! + For sure that is the _narrow way!_" + +"For of such is the kingdom of heaven." said my wife softly, as I closed +the book. + +"May I have the book, papa?" said Connie, holding out her thin white +cloud of a hand to take it. + +"Certainly, my child. And if Wynnie would read it with you, she will +feel more of the truth of what Mr. Percivale was saying to her about +finish. Here are the finest, grandest thoughts, set forth sometimes +with such carelessness, at least such lack of neatness, that, instead of +their falling on the mind with all their power of loveliness, they are +like a beautiful face disfigured with patches, and, what is worse, they +put the mind out of the right, quiet, unquestioning, open mood, which is +the only fit one for the reception of such true things as are embodied +in the poems. But they are too beautiful after all to be more than a +little spoiled by such a lack of the finish with which Art ends off all +her labours. A gentleman, however, thinks it of no little importance to +have his nails nice as well as his face and his shirt." + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE OLD CASTLE. + + + + + +The place Turner had chosen suited us all so well, that after attending +to my duties on the two following Sundays at Kilkhaven, I returned on +the Monday or Tuesday to the farmhouse. But Turner left us in the middle +of the second week, for he could not be longer absent from his charge at +home, and we missed him much. It was some days before Connie was quite +as cheerful again as usual. I do not mean that she was in the least +gloomy--that she never was; she was only a little less merry. But +whether it was that Turner had opened our eyes, or that she had +visibly improved since he allowed her to make a little change in +her posture--certainly she appeared to us to have made considerable +progress, and every now and then we were discovering some little proof +of the fact. One evening, while we were still at the farm, she startled +us by calling out suddenly,-- + +"Papa, papa! I moved my big toe! I did indeed." + +We were all about her in a moment. But I saw that she was excited, and +fearing a reaction I sought to calm her. + +"But, my dear," I said, as quietly as I could, "you are probably still +aware that you are possessed of two big toes: which of them are we to +congratulate on this first stride in the march of improvement?" + +She broke out in the merriest laugh. A pause followed in which her face +wore a puzzled expression. Then she said all at once, "Papa, it is very +odd, but I can't tell which of them," and burst into tears. I was afraid +that I had done more harm than good. + +"It is not of the slightest consequence, my child," I said. "You have +had so little communication with the twins of late, that it is no wonder +you should not be able to tell the one from the other." + +She smiled again through her sobs, but was silent, with shining face, +for the rest of the evening. Our hopes took a fresh start, but we heard +no more from her of her power over her big toe. As often as I inquired +she said she was afraid she had made a mistake, for she had not had +another hint of its existence. Still I thought it could not have been a +fancy, and I would cleave to my belief in the good sign. + +Percivale called to see us several times, but always appeared anxious +not to intrude more of his society upon us than might be agreeable. He +grew in my regard, however; and at length I asked him if he would assist +me in another surprise which I meditated for my companions, and this +time for Connie as well, and which I hoped would prevent the painful +influences of the sight of the sea from returning upon them when they +went back to Kilkhaven: they must see the sea from a quite different +shore first. In a word I would take them to Tintagel, of the near +position of which they were not aware, although in some of our walks we +had seen the ocean in the distance. An early day was fixed for carrying +out our project, and I proceeded to get everything ready. The only +difficulty was to find a carriage in the neighbourhood suitable for +receiving Connie's litter. In this, however, I at length succeeded, and +on the morning of a glorious day of blue and gold, we set out for the +little village of Trevenna, now far better known than at the time of +which I write. Connie had been out every day since she came, now in one +part of the fields, now in another, enjoying the expanse of earth and +sky, but she had had no drive, and consequently had seen no variety of +scenery. Therefore, believing she was now thoroughly able to bear it, I +quite reckoned of the good she would get from the inevitable excitement. +We resolved, however, after finding how much she enjoyed the few miles' +drive, that we would not demand more, of her strength that day, and +therefore put up at the little inn, where, after ordering dinner, +Percivale and I left the ladies, and sallied forth to reconnoitre. + +We walked through the village and down the valley beyond, sloping +steeply between hills towards the sea, the opening closed at the end by +the blue of the ocean below and the more ethereal blue of the sky above. +But when we reached the mouth of the valley we found that we were not +yet on the shore, for a precipice lay between us and the little beach +below. On the left a great peninsula of rock stood out into the sea, +upon which rose the ruins of the keep of Tintagel, while behind on the +mainland stood the ruins of the castle itself, connected with the other +only by a narrow isthmus. We had read that this peninsula had once been +an island, and that the two parts of the castle were formerly connected +by a drawbridge. Looking up at the great gap which now divided the two +portions, it seemed at first impossible to believe that they had ever +been thus united; but a little reflection cleared up the mystery. + +The fact was that the isthmus, of half the height of the two parts +connected by it, had been formed entirely by the fall of portions of the +rock and soil on each side into the narrow dividing space, through which +the waters of the Atlantic had been wont to sweep. And now the fragments +of walls stood on the very verge of the precipice, and showed that +large portions of the castle itself had fallen into the gulf between. We +turned to the left along the edge of the rock, and so by a narrow path +reached and crossed to the other side of the isthmus. We then found that +the path led to the foot of the rock, formerly island, of the keep, and +thence in a zigzag up the face of it to the top. We followed it, and +after a great climb reached a door in a modern battlement. Entering, we +found ourselves amidst grass, and ruins haggard with age. We turned +and surveyed the path by which we had come. It was steep and somewhat +difficult. But the outlook was glorious. It was indeed one of God's +mounts of vision upon which we stood. The thought, "O that Connie +could see this!" was swelling in my heart, when Percivale broke the +silence--not with any remark on the glory around us, but with the +commonplace question-- + +"You haven't got your man with you, I think, Mr. Walton?" + +"No," I answered; "we thought it better to leave him to look after the +boys." + +He was silent for a few minutes, while I gazed in delight. + +"Don't you think," he said, "it would be possible to bring Miss +Constance up here?" + +I almost started at the idea, and had not replied before he resumed: + +"It would be something for her to recur to with delight all the rest of +her life." + +"It would indeed. But it is impossible." + +"I do not think so--if you would allow me the honour to assist you. I +think we could do it perfectly between us." + +I was again silent for a while. Looking down on the way we had come, it +seemed an almost dreadful undertaking. Percivale spoke again. + +"As we shall come here to-morrow, we need not explore the place now. +Shall we go down at once and observe the whole path, with a view to the +practicability of carrying her up?" + +"There can be no objection to that," I answered, as a little hope, and +courage with it, began to dawn in my heart. "But you must allow it does +not look very practicable." + +"Perhaps it would seem more so to you, if you had come up with the idea +in your head all the way, as I did. Any path seems more difficult in +looking back than at the time when the difficulties themselves have to +be met and overcome." + +"Yes, but then you must remember that we have to take the way back +whether we will or no, if we once take the way forward." + +"True; and now I will go down with the descent in my head as well as +under my feet." + +"Well, there can be no harm in reconnoitring it at least. Let us go." + +"You know we can rest almost as often as we please," said Percivale, and +turned to lead the way. + +It certainly was steep, and required care even in our own descent; but +for a man who had climbed mountains, as I had done in my youth, it could +hardly be called difficult even in middle age. By the time we had got +again into the valley road I was all but convinced of the practicability +of the proposal. I was a little vexed, however, I must confess, that a +stranger should have thought of giving such a pleasure to Connie, when +the bare wish that she might have enjoyed it had alone arisen in my +mind. I comforted myself with the reflection that this was one of the +ways in which we were to be weaned from the world and knit the faster +to our fellows. For even the middle-aged, in the decay of their daring, +must look for the fresh thought and the fresh impulse to the youth which +follows at their heels in the march of life. Their part is to _will_ the +relation and the obligation, and so, by love to and faith in the young, +keep themselves in the line along which the electric current flows, till +at length they too shall once more be young and daring in the strength +of the Lord. A man must always seek to rise above his moods and +feelings, to let them move within him, but not allow them to storm or +gloom around him. By the time we reached home we had agreed to make the +attempt, and to judge by the path to the foot of the rock, which was +difficult in parts, whether we should be likely to succeed, without +danger, in attempting the rest of the way and the following descent. +As soon as we had arrived at this conclusion, I felt so happy in the +prospect that I grew quite merry, especially after we had further agreed +that, both for the sake of her nerves and for the sake of the lordly +surprise, we should bind Connie's eyes so that she should see +nothing till we had placed her in a certain position, concerning the +preferableness of which we were not of two minds. + +"What mischief have you two been about?" said my wife, as we entered our +room in the inn, where the cloth was already laid for dinner. "You look +just like two schoolboys that have been laying some plot, and can hardly +hold their tongues about it." + +"We have been enjoying our little walk amazingly," I answered. "So much +so, that we mean to set out for another the moment dinner is over." + +"I hope you will take Wynnie with you then." + +"Or you, my love," I returned. + +"No; I will stay with Connie." + +"Very well. You, and Connie too, shall go out to-morrow, for we have +found a place we want to take you to. And, indeed, I believe it was our +anticipation of the pleasure you and she would have in the view that +made us so merry when you accused us of plotting mischief." + +My wife replied only with a loving look, and dinner appearing at this +moment, we sat down a happy party. + +When that was over--and a very good dinner it was, just what I like, +homely in material but admirable in cooking--Wynnie and Percivale and +I set out again. For as Percivale and I came back in the morning we had +seen the church standing far aloft and aloof on the other side of the +little valley, and we wanted to go to it. It was rather a steep climb, +and Wynnie accepted Percivale's offered arm. I led the way, therefore, +and left them to follow--not so far in the rear, however, but that I +could take a share in the conversation. It was some little time before +any arose, and it was Wynnie who led the way into it. + +"What kind of things do you like best to paint, Mr. Percivale?" she +asked. + +He hesitated for several seconds, which between a question and an answer +look so long, that most people would call them minutes. + +"I would rather you should see some of my pictures--I should prefer that +to answering your question," he said, at length. + +"But I have seen some of your pictures," she returned. + +"Pardon me. Indeed you have not, Miss Walton." + +"At least I have seen some of your sketches and studies." + +"Some of my sketches--none of my studies." + +"But you make use of your sketches for your pictures, do you not?" + +"Never of such as you have seen. They are only a slight antidote to my +pictures." + +"I cannot understand you." + +"I do not wonder at that. But I would rather, I repeat, say nothing +about my pictures till you see some of them." + +"But how am I to have that pleasure, then?" + +"You go to London sometimes, do you not?" + +"Very rarely. More rarely still when the Royal Academy is open." + +"That does not matter much. My pictures are seldom to be found there." + +"Do you not care to send them there?" + +"I send one, at least, every year. But they are rarely accepted." + +"Why?" + +This was a very improper question, I thought; but if Wynnie had thought +so she would not have put it. He hesitated a little before he replied-- + +"It is hardly for me to say why," he answered; "but I cannot wonder much +at it, considering the subjects I choose.--But I daresay," he added, in +a lighter tone, "after all, that has little to do with it, and there +is something about the things themselves that precludes a favourable +judgment. I avoid thinking about it. A man ought to try to look at his +own work as if it were none of his, but not as with the eyes of other +people. That is an impossibility, and the attempt a bewilderment. It is +with his own eyes he must look, with his own judgment he must judge. The +only effort is to get it set far away enough from him to be able to use +his own eyes and his own judgment upon it." + +"I think I see what you mean. A man has but his own eyes and his own +judgment. To look with those of other people is but a fancy." + +"Quite so. You understand me quite." + +He said no more in explanation of his rejection by the Academy. Till we +reached the church, nothing more of significance passed between them. + +What a waste, bare churchyard that was! It had two or three lych-gates, +but they had no roofs. They were just small enclosures, with the low +stone tables, to rest the living from the weight of the dead, while the +clergyman, as the keeper of heaven's wardrobe, came forth to receive +the garment they restored--to be laid aside as having ended its work, as +having been worn done in the winds, and rains, and labours of the world. +Not a tree stood in that churchyard. Hank grass was the sole covering +of the soil heaved up with the dead beneath. What blasts from the awful +space of the sea must rush athwart the undefended garden! The ancient +church stood in the midst, with its low, strong, square tower, and its +long, narrow nave, the ridge bowed with age, like the back of a horse +worn out in the service of man, and its little homely chancel, like a +small cottage that had leaned up against its end for shelter from +the western blasts. It was locked, and we could not enter. But of all +world-worn, sad-looking churches, that one--sad, even in the sunset--was +the dreariest I had ever beheld. Surely, it needed the gospel of the +resurrection fervently preached therein, to keep it from sinking to the +dust with dismay and weariness. Such a soul alone could keep it from +vanishing utterly of dismal old age. Near it was one huge mound of +grass-grown rubbish, looking like the grave where some former church of +the dead had been buried, when it could stand erect no longer before +the onsets of Atlantic winds. I walked round and round it, gathering its +architecture, and peeping in at every window I could reach. Suddenly I +was aware that I was alone. Returning to the other side, I found that +Percivale was seated on the churchyard wall, next the sea--it would have +been less dismal had it stood immediately on the cliffs, but they were +at some little distance beyond bare downs and rough stone walls; he +was sketching the place, and Wynnie stood beside him, looking over his +shoulder. I did not interrupt him, but walked among the graves, reading +the poor memorials of the dead, and wondering how many of the words of +laudation that were inscribed on their tombs were spoken of them while +they were yet alive. Yet, surely, in the lives of those to whom they +applied the least, there had been moments when the true nature, the +nature God had given them, broke forth in faith and tenderness, and +would have justified the words inscribed on their gravestones! I was yet +wandering and reading, and stumbling over the mounds, when my companions +joined me, and, without a word, we walked out of the churchyard. We were +nearly home before one of us spoke. + +"That church is oppressive," said Percivale. "It looks like a great +sepulchre, a place built only for the dead--the church of the dead." + +"It is only that it partakes with the living," I returned; "suffers with +them the buffetings of life, outlasts them, but shows, like the shield +of the Red-Cross Knight, the 'old dints of deep wounds.'" + +"Still, is it not a dreary place to choose for a church to stand in?" + +"The church must stand everywhere. There is no region into which it must +not, ought not to enter. If it refuses any earthly spot, it is shrinking +from its calling. Here this one stands for the sea as for the land, +high-uplifted, looking out over the waters as a sign of the haven from +all storms, the rest in God. And down beneath in its storehouse lie +the bodies of men--you saw the grave of some of them on the other +side--flung ashore from the gulfing sea. It may be a weakness, but one +would rather have the bones of his friend laid in the still Sabbath of +the churchyard earth, than sweeping and swaying about as Milton imagines +the bones of his friend Edward King, in that wonderful 'Lycidas.'" Then +I told them the conversation I had had with the sexton at Kilkhaven. +"But," I went on, "these fancies are only the ghostly mists that hang +about the eastern hills before the sun rises. We shall look down on all +that with a smile by and by; for the Lord tells us that if we believe in +him we shall never die." + +By this time we were back once more at the inn. We gave Connie a +description of what we had seen. + +"What a brave old church!" said Connie. + +The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got +up at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of +all to have a look at Connie's litter, and see that it was quite sound. +Satisfied of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and +strength. + +After breakfast I went to Connie's room, and told her that Mr. Percivale +and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once. + +"But we want to do it our own way." + +"Of course, papa," she answered. + +"Will you let us tie your eyes up?" + +"Yes; and my ears and my hands too. It would be no good tying my feet, +when I don't know one big toe from the other." + +And she laughed merrily. + +"We'll try to keep up the talk all the way, so that you sha'n't weary of +the journey." + +"You're going to carry me somewhere with my eyes tied up. O! how jolly! +And then I shall see something all at once! Jolly! jolly!--Getting +tired!" she repeated. "Even the wind on my face would be pleasure enough +for half a day. I sha'n't get tired so soon as you will--you dear, kind +papa! I am afraid I shall be dreadfully heavy. But I sha'n't jerk your +arms much. I will lie so still!" + +"And you won't mind letting Mr. Percivale help me to carry you?" + +"No. Why should I, if he doesn't mind it? He looks strong enough; and I +am sure he is nice, and won't think me heavier than I am." + +"Very well, then. I will send mamma and Wynnie to dress you at once; and +we shall set out as soon as you are ready." + +She clapped her hands with delight, then caught me round the neck and +gave me one of my own kisses as she called the best she had, and began +to call as loud as she could on her mamma and Wynnie to come and dress +her. + +It was indeed a glorious morning. The wind came in little wafts, like +veins of cool white silver amid the great, warm, yellow gold of the +sunshine. The sea lay before us a mound of blue closing up the end of +the valley, as if overpowered into quietness by the lordliness of the +sun overhead; and the hills between which we went lay like great sheep, +with green wool, basking in the blissful heat. The gleam from the waters +came up the pass; the grand castle crowned the left-hand steep, seeming +to warm its old bones, like the ruins of some awful megatherium in the +lighted air; one white sail sped like a glad thought across the spandrel +of the sea; the shadows of the rocks lay over our path, like transient, +cool, benignant deaths, through which we had to pass again and again +to yet higher glory beyond; and one lark was somewhere in whose little +breast the whole world was reflected as in the convex mirror of a +dewdrop, where it swelled so that he could not hold it, but let it out +again through his throat, metamorphosed into music, which he poured +forth over all as the libation on the outspread altar of worship. + +And of all this we talked to Connie as we went; and every now and then +she would clap her hands gently in the fulness of her delight, although +she beheld the splendour only as with her ears, or from the kisses of +the wind on her cheeks. But she seemed, since her accident, to have +approached that condition which Milton represents Samson as longing for +in his blindness, wherein the sight should be + + "through all parts diffused, + That she might look at will through every pore." + +I had, however, arranged with the rest of the company, that the moment +we reached the cliff over the shore, and turned to the left to cross the +isthmus, the conversation should no longer be about the things around +us; and especially I warned my wife and Wynnie that no exclamation of +surprise or delight should break from them before Connie's eyes were +uncovered. I had said nothing to either of them about the difficulties +of the way, that, seeing us take them as ordinary things, they might +take them so too, and not be uneasy. + +We never stopped till we reached the foot of the peninsula, _nee_ +island, upon which the keep of Tintagel stands. There we set Connie +down, to take breath and ease our arms before we began the arduous way. + +"Now, now!" said Connie eagerly, lifting her hands in the belief that we +were on the point of undoing the bandage from her eyes. + +"No, no, my love, not yet," I said, and she lay still again, only she +looked more eager than before. + +"I am afraid I have tired out you and Mr. Percivale, papa," she said. + +Percivale laughed so amusedly, that she rejoined roguishly-- + +"O yes! I know every gentleman is a Hercules--at least, he chooses to be +considered one! But, notwithstanding my firm faith in the fact, I have a +little womanly conscience left that is hard to hoodwink." + +There was a speech for my wee Connie to make! The best answer and the +best revenge was to lift her and go on. This we did, trying as well as +we might to prevent the difference of level between us from tilting the +litter too much for her comfort. + +"Where _are_ you going, papa?" she said once, but without a sign of +fear in her voice, as a little slip I made lowered my end of the litter +suddenly. "You must be going up a steep place. Don't hurt yourself, dear +papa." + +We had changed our positions, and were now carrying her, head foremost, +up the hill. Percivale led, and I followed. Now I could see every change +on her lovely face, and it made me strong to endure; for I did find +it hard work, I confess, to get to the top. It lay like a little sunny +pool, on which all the cloudy thoughts that moved in some unseen heaven +cast exquisitely delicate changes of light and shade as they floated +over it. Percivale strode on as if he bore a feather behind him. I did +wish we were at the top, for my arms began to feel like iron-cables, +stiff and stark--only I was afraid of my fingers giving way. My heart +was beating uncomfortably too. But Percivale, I felt almost inclined +to quarrel with him before it was over, he strode on so unconcernedly, +turning every corner of the zigzag where I expected him to propose a +halt, and striding on again, as if there could be no pretence for any +change of procedure. But I held out, strengthened by the play on my +daughter's face, delicate as the play on an opal--one that inclines more +to the milk than the fire. + +When at length we turned in through the gothic door in the battlemented +wall, and set our lovely burden down upon the grass-- + +"Percivale," I said, forgetting the proprieties in the affected humour +of being angry with him, so glad was I that we had her at length on the +mount of glory, "why did you go on walking like a castle, and pay no +heed to me?" + +"You didn't speak, did you, Mr. Walton," he returned, with just a shadow +of solicitude in the question. + +"No. Of course not," I rejoined. + +"O, then," he returned, in a tone of relief, "how could I? You were my +captain: how could I give in so long as you were holding on?" + +I am afraid the _Percivale_, without the _Mister_, came again and +again after this, though I pulled myself up for it as often as I caught +myself. + +"Now, papa!" said Connie from the grass. + +"Not yet, my dear. Wait till your mamma and Wynnie come. Let us go and +meet them, Mr. Percivale." + +"O yes, do, papa. Leave me alone here without knowing where I am or +what kind of a place I am in. I should like to know how it feels. I have +never been alone in all my life." + +"Very well, my dear," I said; and Percivale and I left her alone in the +ruins. + +We found Ethelwyn toiling up with Wynnie helping her all she could. + +"Dear Harry," she said, "how could you think of bringing Connie up such +an awful place? I wonder you dared to do it." + +"It's done you see, wife," I answered, "thanks to Mr. Percivale, who has +nearly torn the breath out of me. But now we must get you up, and you +will say that to see Connie's delight, not to mention your own, is quite +wages for the labour." + +"Isn't she afraid to find herself so high up?" + +"She knows nothing about it yet." + +"You do not mean you have left the child there with her eyes tied up." + +"To be sure. We could not uncover them before you came. It would spoil +half the pleasure." + +"Do let us make haste then. It is surely dangerous to leave her so." + +"Not in the least; but she must be getting tired of the darkness. Take +my arm now." + +"Don't you think Mrs. Walton had better take my arm," said Percivale, +"and then you can put your hand on her back, and help her a little that +way." + +We tried the plan, found it a good one, and soon reached the top. The +moment our eyes fell upon Connie, we could see that she had found the +place neither fearful nor lonely. The sweetest ghost of a smile hovered +on her pale face, which shone in the shadow of the old gateway of the +keep, with light from within her own sunny soul. She lay in such still +expectation, that you would have thought she had just fallen asleep +after receiving an answer to a prayer, reminding me of a little-known +sonnet of Wordsworth's, in which he describes as the type of Death-- + + "the face of one + Sleeping alone within a mossy cave + With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have + Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; + A lovely beauty in a summer grave." + +[Footnote: _Miscellaneous Sonnets_, part i.28.] + +But she heard our steps, and her face awoke. + +"Is mamma come?" + +"Yes, my darling. I am here," said her mother. "How do you feel?" + +"Perfectly well, mamma, thank you. Now, papa!" + +"One moment more, my love. Now, Percivale." + +We carried her to the spot we had agreed upon, and while we held her +a little inclined that she might see the better, her mother undid the +bandage from her head. + +"Hold your hands over her eyes, a little way from them," I said to +her as she untied the handkerchief, "that the light may reach them by +degrees, and not blind her." + +Ethelwyn did so for a few moments, then removed them. Still for a moment +or two more, it was plain from her look of utter bewilderment, that all +was a confused mass of light and colour. Then she gave a little cry, +and to my astonishment, almost fear, half rose to a sitting posture. One +moment more and she laid herself gently back, and wept and sobbed. + +And now I may admit my reader to a share, though at best but a dim +reflex in my poor words, of the glory that made her weep. + +Through the gothic-arched door in the battlemented wall, which stood on +the very edge of the precipitous descent, so that nothing of the descent +was seen, and the door was as a framework to the picture, Connie saw +a great gulf at her feet, full to the brim of a splendour of light and +colour. Before her rose the great ruins of rock and castle, the ruin of +rock with castle; rough stone below, clear green happy grass above, even +to the verge of the abrupt and awful precipice; over it the summer sky +so clear that it must have been clarified by sorrow and thought; at the +foot of the rocks, hundreds of feet below, the blue waters breaking +in white upon the dark gray sands; all full of the gladness of the sun +overflowing in speechless delight, and reflected in fresh gladness from +stone and water and flower, like new springs of light rippling forth +from the earth itself to swell the universal tide of glory--all this +seen through the narrow gothic archway of a door in a wall--up--down--on +either hand. But the main marvel was the look sheer below into the abyss +full of light and air and colour, its sides lined with rock and grass, +and its bottom lined with blue ripples and sand. Was it any wonder that +my Connie should cry aloud when the vision dawned upon her, and then +weep to ease a heart ready to burst with delight? "O Lord God," I said, +almost involuntarily, "thou art very rich. Thou art the one poet, the +one maker. We worship thee. Make but our souls as full of glory in thy +sight as this chasm is to our eyes glorious with the forms which thou +hast cloven and carved out of nothingness, and we shall be worthy to +worship thee, O Lord, our God." For I was carried beyond myself with +delight, and with sympathy with Connie's delight and with the calm +worship of gladness in my wife's countenance. But when my eye fell on +Wynnie, I saw a trouble mingled with her admiration, a self-accusation, +I think, that she did not and could not enjoy it more; and when I turned +from her, there were the eyes of Percivale fixed on me in wonderment; +and for the moment I felt as David must have felt when, in his dance +of undignified delight that he had got the ark home again, he saw the +contemptuous eyes of Michal fixed on him from the window. But I could +not leave it so. I said to him--coldly I daresay: + +"Excuse me, Mr. Percivale; I forgot for the moment that I was not +amongst my own family." + +Percivale took his hat off. + +"Forgive my seeming rudeness, Mr. Walton. I was half-envying and +half-wondering. You would not be surprised at my unconscious behaviour +if you had seen as much of the wrong side of the stuff as I have seen in +London." + +I had some idea of what he meant; but this was no time to enter upon a +discussion. I could only say-- + +"My heart was full, Mr. Percivale, and I let it overflow." + +"Let me at least share in its overflow," he rejoined, and nothing more +passed on the subject. + +For the next ten minutes we stood in absolute silence. We had set Connie +down on the grass again, but propped up so that she could see through +the doorway. And she lay in still ecstasy. But there was more to be seen +ere we descended. There was the rest of the little islet with its crop +of down-grass, on which the horses of all the knights of King Arthur's +round table might have fed for a week--yes, for a fortnight, without, by +any means, encountering the short commons of war. There were the ruins +of the castle so built of plates of the laminated stone of the rocks on +which they stood, and so woven in or more properly incorporated with the +outstanding rocks themselves, that in some parts I found it impossible +to tell which was building and which was rock--the walls themselves +seeming like a growth out of the island itself, so perfectly were they +in harmony with, and in kind the same as, the natural ground upon which +and of which they had been constructed. And this would seem to me to be +the perfection of architecture. The work of man's hands should be so in +harmony with the place where it stands that it must look as if it had +grown out of the soil. But the walls were in some parts so thin that one +wondered how they could have stood so long. They must have been built +before the time of any formidable artillery--enough only for defence +from arrows. But then the island was nowhere commanded, and its own +steep cliffs would be more easily defended than any erections upon it. +Clearly the intention was that no enemy should thereon find rest for the +sole of his foot; for if he was able to land, farewell to the notion +of any further defence. Then there was outside the walls the little +chapel--such a tiny chapel! of which little more than the foundation +remained, with the ruins of the altar still standing, and outside the +chancel, nestling by its wall, a coffin hollowed in the rock; then the +churchyard a little way off full of graves, which, I presume, would have +vanished long ago were it not that the very graves were founded on the +rock. There still stood old worn-out headstones of thin slate, but +no memorials were left. Then there was the fragment of arched passage +underground laid open to the air in the centre of the islet; and last, +and grandest of all, the awful edges of the rock, broken by time, and +carved by the winds and the waters into grotesque shapes and threatening +forms. Over all the surface of the islet we carried Connie, and from +three sides of this sea-fortress she looked abroad over "the Atlantic's +level powers." It blew a gentle ethereal breeze on the top; but had +there been such a wind as I have since stood against on that fearful +citadel of nature, I should have been in terror lest we should all be +blown, into the deep. Over the edge she peeped at the strange fantastic +needle-rock, and round the corner she peeped to see Wynnie and her +mother seated in what they call Arthur's chair--a canopied hollow +wrought in the plated rock by the mightiest of all solvents--air and +water; till at length it was time that we should take our leave of the +few sheep that fed over the place, and issuing by the gothic door, wind +away down the dangerous path to the safe ground below. + +"I think we had better tie up your eyes again, Connie?" I said. + +"Why?" she asked, in wonderment. "There's nothing higher yet, is there?" + +"No, my love. If there were, you would hardly be able for it to-day, +I should think. It is only to keep you from being frightened at the +precipice as you go down." + +"But I sha'n't be frightened, papa." + +"How do you know that?" + +"Because you are going to carry me." + +"But what if I should slip? I might, you know." + +"I don't mind. I sha'n't mind being tumbled over the precipice, if you +do it. I sha'n't be to blame, and I'm sure you won't, papa." Then she +drew my head down and whispered in my ear, "If I get as much more by +being killed, as I have got by having my poor back hurt, I'm sure it +will be well worth it." + +I tried to smile a reply, for I could not speak one. We took her just as +she was, and with some tremor on my part, but not a single slip, we bore +her down the winding path, her face showing all the time that, instead +of being afraid, she was in a state of ecstatic delight. My wife, I +could see, was nervous, however; and she breathed a sigh of relief when +we were once more at the foot. + +"Well, I'm glad that's over," she said. + +"So am I," I returned, as we set down the litter. + +"Poor papa! I've pulled his arms to pieces! and Mr. Percivale's too!" + +Percivale answered first by taking up a huge piece of stone. Then +turning towards her, he said, "Look here, Miss Connie;" and flung it far +out from the isthmus on which we were resting. We heard it strike on +a rock below, and then fall in a shower of fragments. "My arms are all +right, you see," he said. + +Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the shore, where we had not yet +been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us +out of breath with the news: + +"Papa! Mr. Percivale! there's such a grand cave down there! It goes +right through under the island." + +Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and +without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way +that we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch +more difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a +contrast to the vision overhead!--nothing to be seen but the cool, dark +vault of the cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on +its pebbly floor, and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide +rolled through in rising and falling--the waters on the opposite sides +of the islet greeting through this cave; the blue shimmer of the rising +sea, and the forms of huge outlying rocks, looking in at the further +end, where the roof rose like a grand cathedral arch; and the green +gleam of veins rich with copper, dashing and streaking the darkness in +gloomy little chapels, where the floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and +rose within till it met the descending roof. It was like a going-down +from Paradise into the grave--but a cool, friendly, brown-lighted grave, +which even in its darkest recesses bore some witness to the wind of God +outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed light, from the play of +the sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected, wandered across its +jagged roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the damp coolness; +and I have given my reader quite enough of description for one hour's +reading. He can scarcely be equal to more. + +My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I no +longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days after, +and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner's place in the carriage. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +JOE AND HIS TROUBLE. + + + + + +How bright the yellow shores of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands +of Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty +rampart of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce +guardians! It was pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to +look like home, and was indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of +Dora and the boys. Connie's baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her +chubby arms at sight of her. The wind blew gently around us, full both +of the freshness of the clean waters and the scents of the down-grasses, +to welcome us back. And the dread vision of the shore had now receded so +far into the past, that it was no longer able to hurt. + +We had called at the blacksmith's house on our way home, and found that +he was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother +said he was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, +feared that they indicated an approaching break-down. + +"Indeed, sir," she said, "Joe might be well enough if he liked. It's all +his own fault." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "I cannot believe that your son is in any +way guilty of his own illness." + +"He's a well-behaved lad, my Joe," she answered; "but he hasn't learned +what I had to learn long ago." + +"What is that?" I asked. + +"To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other." + +She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she +spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in +mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all +her face under the nose. + +"And what is it he won't do?" + +"I don't mind whether he does it or not, if he would only +make--up--his--mind--and--stick--to--it." + +"What is it you want him to do, then?" + +"I don't want him to do it, I'm sure. It's no good to me--and wouldn't +be much to him, that I'll be bound. Howsomever, he must please himself." + +I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was +no more sunshine for him at home than his mother's face indicated. Few +things can make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, +whose rays are smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the +door,--the face of wife or mother or sister. Now his mother's face +certainly was not sunny. No doubt it must have shone upon him when he +was a baby. God has made that provision for babies, who need sunshine +so much that a mother's face cannot help being sunny to them: why should +the sunshine depart as the child grows older? + +"Well, I suppose I must not ask. But I fear your son is very far +from well. Such attacks do not often occur without serious mischief +somewhere. And if there is anything troubling him, he is less likely to +get over it." + +"If he would let somebody make up his mind for him, and then stick to +it--" + +"O, but that is impossible, you know. A man must make up his own mind." + +"That's just what he won't do." + +All the time she looked naughty, only after a self-righteous fashion. It +was evident that whatever was the cause of it, she was not in sympathy +with her son, and therefore could not help him out of any difficulty he +might be in. I made no further attempt to learn from her the cause +of her son's discomfort, clearly a deeper cause than his illness. In +passing his workshop, we stopped for a moment, and I made an arrangement +to meet him at the church the next day. + +I was there before him, and found that he had done a good deal since we +left. Little remained except to get the keys put to rights, and the rods +attached to the cranks in the box. To-day he was to bring a carpenter, a +cousin of his own, with him. + +They soon arrived, and a small consultation followed. The cousin was a +bright-eyed, cheruby-cheeked little man, with a ready smile and white +teeth: I thought he might help me to understand what was amiss in +Joseph's affairs. But I would not make the attempt except openly. I +therefore said half in a jocular fashion, as with gloomy, self-withdrawn +countenance the smith was fitting one loop into another in two of his +iron rods,-- + +"I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more +cheerful. You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine." + +The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips. + +"Well, sir, if you'll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the +rest of us. He's a religious man, is Joe." + +"But I don't see how that should make him miserable. It hasn't made me +miserable. I hope I'm a religious man myself. It makes me happy every +day of my life." + +"Ah, well," returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked +away gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, +"I don't say it's the religion, for I don't know; but perhaps it's the +way he takes it up. He don't look after hisself enough; he's always +thinking about other people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, that +if you don't look after yourself, why, who is to look after you? That's +common sense, _I_ think." + +It was a curious contrast--the merry friendly face, which shone +good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe, +even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much +about other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might +be correct in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, +healthy inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was +a smile very unlike his cousin's with which Joe heard his remarks on +himself. + +"But," I said, "you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take +Joe's way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of +yourself." + +"I don't see why, sir." + +"Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else." + +"Not so well, I doubt, sir." + +"Yes, and a great deal better." + +"At any rate, that's a long way off; and mean time, _who's_ to take care +of the odd man like Joe there, that don't look after hisself?" + +"Why, God, of course." + +"Well, there's just where I'm out. I don't know nothing about that +branch, sir." + +I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe's gloomy eyes as I spoke thus +upon his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin +volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I +might have gained. + +At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have +their dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and +I dropped behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in +meditation. + +Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the +rectory, when I saw the sexton's daughter meeting us. She had almost +come up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the +ground, and he started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, +constrained, yet familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted +to talk, but without speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of +recognition to the young woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners to +look behind. I glanced at Harry, and he answered me with a queer look. +When we reached the turning that would hide them from our view, I looked +back almost involuntarily, and there they were still standing. But +before we reached the door of the rectory, Joe got up with us. + +There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the +sexton's daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, +the youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, +somewhat sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall +and slender, and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good +hair's-breadth further into the smith's affairs. Beyond the +hair's-breadth, however, all was dark. But I saw likewise that the well +of truth, whence I might draw the whole business, must be the girl's +mother. + +After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back +to the church, and I went to the sexton's cottage. I found the old man +seated at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty +plate beside it. + +"Come in, sir," he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. "The +mis'ess ben't in, but she'll be here in a few minutes." + +"O, it's of no consequence," I said. "Are they all well?" + +"All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It be +in winter it be worst for them." + +"But it's a snug enough shelter you've got here. It seems such, anyhow; +though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak +places both in house and body." + +"It ben't the wind touch _them_" he said; "they be safe enough from the +wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben't much snow in these parts; but when +it du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!" + +Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again? + +"But at least this cottage keeps out the wet," I said. "If not, we must +have it seen to." + +"This cottage du well enough, sir. It'll last my time, anyhow." + +"Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?" + +"Bless your heart, sir! It's not them. They du well enough. It's my +people out yonder. You've got the souls to look after, and I've got the +bodies. That's what it be, sir. To be sure!" + +The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my +stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and +none to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed +that night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination +in which the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, +and he would magnify that office. He could not bear that there should +be no further outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out +of sight should be "the be-all and the end-all." He was God's vicar, +the gardener in God's Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When all +others had forsaken the dead, he remained their friend, caring for what +little comfort yet remained possible to them. Hence in all changes of +air and sky above, he attributed to them some knowledge of the same, and +some share in their consequences even down in the darkness of the tomb. +It was his way of keeping up the relation between the living and the +dead. Finding I made him no reply, he took up the word again. + +"You've got your part, sir, and I've got mine. You up into the pulpit, +and I down into the grave. But it'll be all the same by and by." + +"I hope it will," I answered. "But when you do go down into your own +grave, you'll know a good deal less about it than you do now. You'll +find you've got other things to think about. But here comes your wife. +She'll talk about the living rather than the dead." + +"That's natural, sir. She brought 'em to life, and I buried 'em--at +least, best part of 'em. If only I had the other two safe down with the +rest!" + +I remembered what the old woman had told me--that she had two boys _in_ +the sea; and I knew therefore what he meant. He regarded his drowned +boys as still tossed about in the weary wet cold ocean, and would have +gladly laid them to rest in the warm dry churchyard. + +He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, +and saying, "Well, I must be off to my gardening," left me with his +wife. I saw then that, humorist as the old man might be, his humour, +like that of all true humorists, lay close about the wells of weeping. + +"The old man seems a little out of sorts," I said to his wife. + +"Well, sir," she answered, with her usual gentleness, a gentleness which +obedient suffering had perfected, "this be the day he buried our Nancy, +this day two years; and to-day Agnes be come home from her work poorly; +and the two things together they've upset him a bit." + +"I met Agnes coming this way. Where is she?" + +"I believe she be in the churchyard, sir. I've been to the doctor about +her." + +"I hope it's nothing serious." + +"I hope not, sir; but you see--four on 'em, sir!" + +"Well, she's in God's hands, you know." + +"That she be, sir." + +"I want to ask you about something, Mrs. Coombes." + +"What be that, sir? If I can tell, I will, you may be sure, sir." + +"I want to know what's the matter with Joe Harper, the blacksmith." + +"They du say it be a consumption, sir." + +"But what has he got on his mind?" + +"He's got nothing on his mind, sir. He be as good a by as ever stepped, +I assure you, sir." + +"But I am sure there is something or other on his mind. He's not so +happy as he should be. He's not the man, it seems to me, to be unhappy +because he's ill. A man like him would not be miserable because he was +going to die. It might make him look sad sometimes, but not gloomy as he +looks." + +"Well, sir, I believe you be right, and perhaps I know summat. But it's +part guessing.--I believe my Agnes and Joe Harper are as fond upon one +another as any two in the county." + +"Are they not going to be married then?" + +"There be the pint, sir. I don't believe Joe ever said a word o' the +sort to Aggy. She never could ha' kep it from me, sir." + +"Why doesn't he then?" + +"That's the pint again, sir. All as knows him says it's because he be in +such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn't to go marrying with one foot +in the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that be +it." + +"For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we've all got one foot in the grave, I +think." + +"That be very true, sir." + +"And what does your daughter think?" + +"I believe she thinks the same. And so they go on talking to each other, +quiet-like, like old married folks, not like lovers at all, sir. But I +can't help fancying it have something to do with my Aggy's pale face." + +"And something to do with Joe's pale face too, Mrs. Coombes," I said. +"Thank you. You've told me more than I expected. It explains everything. +I must have it out with Joe now." + +"O deary me! sir, don't go and tell him I said anything, as if I wanted +him to marry my daughter." + +"Don't you be afraid. I'll take good care of that. And don't fancy I'm +fond of meddling with other people's affairs. But this is a case in +which I ought to do something. Joe's a fine fellow." + +"That he be, sir. I couldn't wish a better for a son-in-law." + +I put on my hat. + +"You won't get me into no trouble with Joe, will ye, sir!" + +"Indeed I will not, Mrs. Coombes. I should be doing a great deal more +harm than good if I said a word to make him doubt you." + +I went straight to the church. There were the two men working away in +the shadowy tower, and there was Agnes standing beside, knitting like +her mother, so quiet, so solemn even, that it did indeed look as if she +were a long-married wife, hovering about her husband at his work. Harry +was saying something to her as I went in, but when they saw me they were +silent, and Agnes gently withdrew. + +"Do you think you will get through to-night?" I asked. + +"Sure of it, sir," answered Harry. + +"You shouldn't be sure of anything, Harry. We are told in the New +Testament that we ought to say _If the Lord will_," said Joe. + +"Now, Joe, you're too hard upon Harry," I said. "You don't think that +the Bible means to pull a man up every step like that, till he's afraid +to speak a word. It was about a long journey and a year's residence that +the Apostle James was speaking." + +"No doubt, sir. But the principle's the same. Harry can no more be sure +of finishing his work before it be dark, than those people could be of +going their long journey." + +"That is perfectly true. But you are taking the letter for the spirit, +and that, I suspect, in more ways than one. The religion does not lie in +not being sure about anything, but in a loving desire that the will of +God in the matter, whatever it be, may be done. And if Harry has not +learned yet to care about the will of God, what is the good of coming +down upon him that way, as if that would teach him in the least. When +he loves God, then, and not till then, will he care about his will. Nor +does the religion lie in saying, _if the Lord will_, every time anything +is to be done. It is a most dangerous thing to use sacred words often. +It makes them so common to our ear that at length, when used most +solemnly, they have not half the effect they ought to have, and that is +a serious loss. What the Apostle means is, that we should always be in +the mood of looking up to God and having regard to his will, not +always writing D.V. for instance, as so many do--most irreverently, I +think--using a Latin contraction for the beautiful words, just as if +they were a charm, or as if God would take offence if they did not make +the salvo of acknowledgment. It seems to me quite heathenish. Our hearts +ought ever to be in the spirit of those words; our lips ought to utter +them rarely. Besides, there are some things a man might be pretty sure +the Lord wills." + +"It sounds fine, sir; but I'm not sure that I understand what you mean +to say. It sounds to me like a darkening of wisdom." + +I saw that I had irritated him, and so had in some measure lost ground. +But Harry struck in-- + +"How _can_ you say that now, Joe? _I_ know what the parson means well +enough, and everybody knows I ain't got half the brains you've got." + +"The reason is, Harry, that he's got something in his head that stands +in the way." + +"And there's nothing in my head _to_ stand in the way!" returned Harry, +laughing. + +This made me laugh too, and even Joe could not help a sympathetic grin. +By this time it was getting dark. + +"I'm afraid, Harry, after all, you won't get through to-night." + +"I begin to think so too, sir. And there's Joe saying, 'I told you so,' +over and over to himself, though he won't say it out like a man." + +Joe answered only with another grin. + +"I tell you what it is, Harry," I said--"you must come again on Monday. +And on your way home, just look in and tell Joe's mother that I have +kept him over to-morrow. The change will do him good." + +"No, sir, that can't he. I haven't got a clean shirt." + +"You can have a shirt of mine," I said. "But I'm afraid you'll want your +Sunday clothes." + +"I'll bring them for you, Joe--before you're up," interposed Harry. "And +then you can go to church with Aggy Coombes, you know." + +Here was just what I wanted. + +"Hold your tongue, Harry," said Joe angrily. "You're talking of what you +don't know anything about." + +"Well, Joe, I ben't a fool, if I ben't so religious as you be. You ben't +a bad fellow, though you be a Methodist, and I ben't a fool, though I be +Harry Cobb." + +"What do you mean, Harry? Do hold your tongue." + +"Well, I'll tell you what I mean first, and then I'll hold my tongue. +I mean this--that nobody with two eyes, or one eye, for that matter, in +his head, could help seeing the eyes you and Aggy make at each other, +and why you don't port your helm and board her--I won't say it's more +than I know, but I du say it to be more than I think be fair to the +young woman." + +"Hold your tongue, Harry." + +"I said I would when I'd answered you as to what I meaned. So no more +at present; but I'll be over with your clothes afore you're up in the +morning." + +As Harry spoke he was busy gathering his tools. + +"They won't be in the way, will they, sir?" he said, as he heaped them +together in the furthest corner of the tower. + +"Not in the least," I returned. "If I had my way, all the tools used in +building the church should be carved on the posts and pillars of it, to +indicate the sacredness of labour, and the worship of God that lies, +not in building the church merely, but in every honest trade honestly +pursued for the good of mankind and the need of the workman. For a +necessity of God is laid upon every workman as well as on St. Paul. Only +St. Paul saw it, and every workman doesn't, Harry." + +"Thank you, sir. I like that way of it. I almost think I could be a +little bit religious after your way of it, sir." + +"Almost, Harry!" growled Joe--not unkindly. + +"Now, you hold your tongue, Joe," I said. "Leave Harry to me. You may +take him, if you like, after I've done with him." + +Laughing merrily, but making no other reply than a hearty good-night, +Harry strode away out of the church, and Joe and I went home together. + +When he had had his tea, I asked him to go out with me for a walk. + +The sun was shining aslant upon the downs from over the sea. We rose out +of the shadowy hollow to the sunlit brow. I was a little in advance of +Joe. Happening to turn, I saw the light full on his head and face, while +the rest of his body had not yet emerged from the shadow. + +"Stop, Joe," I said. "I want to see you so for a moment." + +He stood--a little surprised. + +"You look just like a man rising from the dead, Joe," I said. + +"I don't know what you mean, sir," he returned. + +"I will describe yourself to you. Your head and face are full of +sunlight, the rest of your body is still buried in the shadow. Look; I +will stand where you are now; and you come here. You will soon see what +I mean." + +We changed places. Joe stared for a moment. Then his face brightened. + +"I see what you mean, sir," he said. "I fancy you don't mean the +resurrection of the body, but the resurrection of righteousness." + +"I do, Joe. Did it ever strike you that the whole history of the +Christian life is a series of such resurrections? Every time a man +bethinks himself that he is not walking in the light, that he has been +forgetting himself, and must repent, that he has been asleep and must +awake, that he has been letting his garments trail, and must gird up the +loins of his mind--every time this takes place, there is a resurrection +in the world. Yes, Joe; and every time that a man finds that his heart +is troubled, that he is not rejoicing in God, a resurrection must +follow--a resurrection out of the night of troubled thoughts into the +gladness of the truth. For the truth is, and ever was, and ever must be, +gladness, however much the souls on which it shines may be obscured by +the clouds of sorrow, troubled by the thunders of fear, or shot through +with the lightnings of pain. Now, Joe, will you let me tell you what you +are like--I do not know your thoughts; I am only judging from your words +and looks?" + +"You may if you like, sir," answered Joe, a little sulkily. But I was +not to be repelled. + +I stood up in the sunlight, so that my eyes caught only about half the +sun's disc. Then I bent my face towards the earth. + +"What part of me is the light shining on now, Joe?" + +"Just the top of your head," answered he. + +"There, then," I returned, "that is just what you are like--a man with +the light on his head, but not on his face. And why not on your face? +Because you hold your head down." + +"Isn't it possible, sir, that a man might lose the light on his face, as +you put it, by doing his duty?" + +"That is a difficult question," I replied. "I must think before I answer +it." + +"I mean," added Joe--"mightn't his duty be a painful one?" + +"Yes. But I think that would rather etherealise than destroy the light. +Behind the sorrow would spring a yet greater light from the very duty +itself. I have expressed myself badly, but you will see what I mean.--To +be frank with you, Joe, I do not see that light in your face. Therefore +I think something must be wrong with you. Remember a good man is not +necessarily in the right. St. Peter was a good man, yet our Lord called +him Satan--and meant it of course, for he never said what he did not +mean." + +"How can I be wrong when all my trouble comes from doing my +duty--nothing else, as far as I know?" + +"Then," I replied, a sudden light breaking in on my mind, "I doubt +whether what you suppose to be your duty can be your duty. If it were, +I do not think it would make you so miserable. At least--I may be wrong, +but I venture to think so." + +"What is a man to go by, then? If he thinks a thing is his duty, is he +not to do it?" + +"Most assuredly--until he knows better. But it is of the greatest +consequence whether the supposed duty be the will of God or the +invention of one's own fancy or mistaken judgment. A real duty is always +something right in itself. The duty a man makes his for the time, by +supposing it to be a duty, may be something quite wrong in itself. The +duty of a Hindoo widow is to burn herself on the body of her husband. +But that duty lasts no longer than till she sees that, not being the +will of God, it is not her duty. A real duty, on the other hand, is a +necessity of the human nature, without seeing and doing which a man can +never attain to the truth and blessedness of his own being. It was the +duty of the early hermits to encourage the growth of vermin upon their +bodies, for they supposed that was pleasing to God; but they could not +fare so well as if they had seen the truth that the will of God was +cleanliness. And there may be far more serious things done by Christian +people against the will of God, in the fancy of doing their duty, than +such a trifle as swarming with worms. In a word, thinking a thing is +your duty makes it your duty only till you know better. And the prime +duty of every man is to seek and find, that he may do, the will of God." + +"But do you think, sir, that a man is likely to be doing what he ought +not, if he is doing what he don't like?" + +"Not so likely, I allow. But there may be ambition in it. A man must +not want to be better than the right. That is the delusion of the +anchorite--a delusion in which the man forgets the rights of others for +the sake of his own sanctity." + +"It might be for the sake of another person, and not for the person's +own sake at all." + +"It might be; but except it were the will of God for that other person, +it would be doing him or her a real injury." + +We were coming gradually towards what I wanted to make the point in +question. I wished him to tell me all about it himself, however, for +I knew that while advice given on request is generally disregarded, to +offer advice unasked is worthy only of a fool. + +"But how are you to know the will of God in every case?" asked Joe. + +"By looking at the general laws of life, and obeying them--except there +be anything special in a particular case to bring it under a higher +law." + +"Ah! but that be just what there is here." + +"Well, my dear fellow, that may be; but the special conduct may not be +right for the special case for all that. The speciality of the case may +not be even sufficient to take it from under the ordinary rule. But it +is of no use talking generals. Let us come to particulars. If you can +trust me, tell me all about it, and we may be able to let some light in. +I am sure there is darkness somewhere." + +"I will turn it over in my mind, sir; and if I can bring myself to talk +about it, I will. I would rather tell you than anyone else." + +I said no more. We watched a glorious sunset--there never was a grander +place for sunsets--and went home. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +A SMALL ADVENTURE. + + + + + +The next morning Harry came with the clothes. But Joe did not go to +church. Neither did Agnes make her appearance that morning. They were +both present at the evening service, however. + +When we came out of church, it was cloudy and dark, and the wind was +blowing cold from the sea. The sky was covered with one cloud, but the +waves tossing themselves against the rocks, flashed whiteness out of the +general gloom. As the tide rose the wind increased. It was a night of +surly temper--hard and gloomy. Not a star cracked the blue above--there +was no blue; and the wind was _gurly_; I once heard that word in +Scotland, and never forgot it. + +After one of our usual gatherings in Connie's room, which were much +shorter here because of the evening service in summer, I withdrew till +supper should be ready. + +Now I have always had, as I think I have incidentally stated before, a +certain peculiar pleasure in the surly aspects of nature. When I was a +young man this took form in opposition and defiance; since I had begun +to grow old the form had changed into a sense of safety. I welcomed such +aspects, partly at least, because they roused my faith to look through +and beyond the small region of human conditions in which alone the storm +can be and blow, and thus induced a feeling like that of the child who +lies in his warm crib and listens to the howling of one of these same +storms outside the strong-built house which yet trembles at its fiercer +onsets: the house is not in danger; or, if it be, that is his father's +business, not his. Hence it came that, after supper, I put on my +great-coat and travelling-cap, and went out into the ill-tempered +night--speaking of it in its human symbolism. + +I meant to have a stroll down to the breakwater, of which I have yet +said little, but which was a favourite resort, both of myself and my +children. At the further end of it, always covered at high water, was +an outlying cluster of low rocks, in the heart of which the lord of +the manor, a noble-hearted Christian gentleman of the old school, had +constructed a bath of graduated depth--an open-air swimming-pool--the +only really safe place for men who were swimmers to bathe in. Thither I +was in the habit of taking my two little men every morning, and bathing +with them, that I might develop the fish that was in them; for, as +George Herbert says: + + "Man is everything, + And more: he is a tree, yet bears no fruit; + A beast, yet is, or should be, more;" + +and he might have gone on to say that he is, or should be, a fish as +well. + +It will seem strange to any reader who can recall the position of my +Connie's room, that the nearest way to the breakwater should be through +that room; but so it was. I mention the fact because I want my readers +to understand a certain peculiarity of the room. By the side of +the window which looked out upon the breakwater was a narrow door, +apparently of a closet or cupboard, which communicated, however, with a +narrow, curving, wood-built passage, leading into a little wooden hut, +the walls of which were by no means impervious to the wind, for they +were formed of outside-planks, with the bark still upon them. From this +hut one or two little windows looked seaward, and a door led out on the +bit of sward in which lay the flower-bed under Connie's window. From +this spot again a door in the low wall and thick hedge led out on the +downs, where a path wound along the cliffs that formed the side of the +bay, till, descending under the storm-tower, it brought you to the root +of the breakwater. + +This mole stretched its long strong low back to a rock a good way out, +breaking the force of the waves, and rendering the channel of a small +river, that here flowed into the sea across the sands from the mouth of +the canal, a refuge from the Atlantic. But it was a roadway often hard +to reach. In fair weather even, the wind falling as the vessel rounded +the point of the breakwater into the calm of the projecting headlands, +the under-current would sometimes dash her helpless on the rocks. During +all this heavenly summer there had been no thought or fear of any such +disaster. The present night was a hint of what weather would yet come. + +When I went into Connie's room, I found her lying in bed a very picture +of peace. But my entrance destroyed the picture. + +"Papa," she said, "why have you got your coat on? Surely you are not +going out to-night. The wind is blowing dreadfully." + +"Not very dreadfully, Connie. It blew much worse the night we found your +baby." + +"But it is very dark." + +"I allow that; but there is a glimmer from the sea. I am only going on +the breakwater for a few minutes. You know I like a stormy night quite +as much as a fine one." + +"I shall be miserable till you come home, papa." + +"Nonsense, Connie. You don't think your father hasn't sense to take +care of himself! Or rather, Connie, for I grant that is poor ground of +comfort, you don't think I can go anywhere without my Father to take +care of me?" + +"But there is no occasion--is there, papa?" + +"Do you think I should be better pleased with my boys if they shrunk +from everything involving the least possibility of danger because there +was no occasion for it? That is just the way to make cowards. And I +am certain God would not like his children to indulge in such moods of +self-preservation as that. He might well be ashamed of them. The fearful +are far more likely to meet with accidents than the courageous. But +really, Connie, I am almost ashamed of talking so. It is all your fault. +There is positively no ground for apprehension, and I hope you won't +spoil my walk by the thought that my foolish little girl is frightened." + +"I will be good--indeed I will, papa," she said, holding up her mouth to +kiss me. + +I left her room, and went through the wooden passage into the bark hut. +The wind roared about it, shook it, and pawed it, and sung and whistled +in the chinks of the planks. I went out and shut the door. That moment +the wind seized upon me, and I had to fight with it. When I got on the +path leading along the edge of the downs, I felt something lighter than +any feather fly in my face. When I put up my hand, I found my cheek wet. +Again and again I was thus assailed, but when I got to the breakwater +I found what it was. They were flakes of foam, bubbles worked up into +little masses of adhering thousands, which the wind blew off the waters +and across the downs, carrying some of them miles inland. When I reached +the breakwater, and looked along its ridge through the darkness of the +night, I was bewildered to see a whiteness lying here and there in +a great patch upon its top. They were but accumulations of these +foam-flakes, like soap-suds, lying so thick that I expected to have to +wade through them, only they vanished at the touch of my feet. Till then +I had almost believed it was snow I saw. On the edge of the waves, in +quieter spots, they lay like yeast, foaming and working. Now and then a +little rush of water from a higher wave swept over the top of the broad +breakwater, as with head bowed sideways against the wind, I struggled +along towards the rock at its end; but I said to myself, "The tide is +falling fast, and salt water hurts nobody," and struggled on over the +huge rough stones of the mighty heap, outside which the waves were white +with wrath, inside which they had fallen asleep, only heaving with the +memory of their late unrest. I reached the tall rock at length, climbed +the rude stair leading up to the flagstaff, and looked abroad, if +looking it could be called, into the thick dark. But the wind blew so +strong on the top that I was glad to descend. Between me and the basin +where yesterday morning I had bathed in still water and sunshine with my +boys, rolled the deathly waves. I wandered on the rough narrow space yet +uncovered, stumbling over the stones and the rocky points between which +they lay, stood here and there half-meditating, and at length, finding +a sheltered nook in a mass of rock, sat with the wind howling and +the waves bursting around me. There I fell into a sort of brown +study--almost a half-sleep. + +But I had not sat long before I came broad awake, for I heard voices, +low and earnest. One I recognised as Joe's voice. The other was a +woman's. I could not tell what they said for some time, and therefore +felt no immediate necessity for disclosing my proximity, but sat +debating with myself whether I should speak to them or not. At length, +in a lull of the wind, I heard the woman say--I could fancy with a +sigh-- + +"I'm sure you'll du what is right, Joe. Don't 'e think o' me, Joe." + +"It's just of you that I du think, Aggy. You know it ben't for my sake. +Surely you know that?" + +There was no answer for a moment. I was still doubting what I had best +do--go away quietly or let them know I was there--when she spoke again. +There was a momentary lull now in the noises of both wind and water, and +I heard what she said well enough. + +"It ben't for me to contradict you, Joe. But I don't think you be going +to die. You be no worse than last year. Be you now, Joe?" + +It flashed across me how once before, a stormy night and darkness had +brought me close to a soul in agony. Then I was in agony myself; now +the world was all fair and hopeful around me--the portals of the world +beyond ever opening wider as I approached them, and letting out more of +their glory to gladden the path to their threshold. But here were two +souls straying in a mist which faith might roll away, and leave them +walking in the light. The moment was come. I must speak. + +"Joe!" I called out. + +"Who's there?" he cried; and I heard him start to his feet. + +"Only Mr. Walton. Where are you?" + +"We can't be very far off," he answered, not in a tone of any pleasure +at finding me so nigh. + +I rose, and peering about through the darkness, found that they were a +little higher up on the same rock by which I was sheltered. + +"You mustn't think," I said, "that I have been eavesdropping. I had no +idea anyone was near me till I heard your voices, and I did not hear a +word till just the last sentence or two." + +"I saw someone go up the Castle-rock," said Joe; "but I thought he was +gone away again. It will be a lesson to me." + +"I'm no tell-tale, Joe," I returned, as I scrambled up the rock. "You +will have no cause to regret that I happened to overhear a little. I am +sure, Joe, you will never say anything you need be ashamed of. But what +I heard was sufficient to let me into the secret of your trouble. Will +you let me talk to Joe, Agnes? I've been young myself, and, to tell the +truth, I don't think I'm old yet." + +"I am sure, sir," she answered, "you won't be hard on Joe and me. I +don't suppose there be anything wrong in liking each other, though we +can't be--married." + +She spoke in a low tone, and her voice trembled very much; yet there was +a certain womanly composure in her utterance. "I'm sure it's very bold +of me to talk so," she added, "but Joe will tell you all about it." + +I was close beside them now, and fancied I saw through the dusk the +motion of her hand stealing into his. + +"Well, Joe, this is just what I wanted," I said. "A woman can be braver +than a big smith sometimes. Agnes has done her part. Now you do yours, +and tell me all about it." + +No response followed my adjuration. I must help him. + +"I think I know how the matter lies, Joe. You think you are not going to +live long, and that therefore you ought not to marry. Am I right?" + +"Not far off it, sir," he answered. + +"Now, Joe," I said, "can't we talk as friends about this matter? I have +no right to intrude into your affairs--none in the least--except what +friendship gives me. If you say I am not to talk about it, I shall be +silent. To force advice upon you would be as impertinent as useless." + +"It's all the same, I'm afraid, sir. My mind has been made up for a long +time. What right have I to bring other people into trouble? But I take +it kind of you, sir, though I mayn't look over-pleased. Agnes wants to +hear your way of it. I'm agreeable." + +This was not very encouraging. Still I thought it sufficient ground for +proceeding. + +"I suppose you will allow that the root of all Christian behaviour is +the will of God?" + +"Surely, sir." + +"Is it not the will of God, then, that when a man and woman love each +other, they should marry?" + +"Certainly, sir--where there be no reasons against it." + +"Of course. And you judge you see reason for not doing so, else you +would?" + +"I do see that a man should not bring a woman into trouble for the sake +of being comfortable himself for the rest of a few weary days." + +Agnes was sobbing gently behind her handkerchief. I knew how gladly she +would be Joe's wife, if only to nurse him through his last illness. + +"Not except it would make her comfortable too, I grant you, Joe. But +listen to me. In the first place, you don't know, and you are not +required to know, when you are going to die. In fact, you have nothing +to do with it. Many a life has been injured by the constant expectation +of death. It is life we have to do with, not death. The best preparation +for the night is to work while the day lasts, diligently. The best +preparation for death is life. Besides, I have known delicate people +who have outlived all their strong relations, and been left alone in the +earth--because they had possibly taken too much care of themselves. +But marriage is God's will, and death is God's will, and you have no +business to set the one over against, as antagonistic to, the other. +For anything you know, the gladness and the peace of marriage may be +the very means intended for your restoration to health and strength. I +suspect your desire to marry, fighting against the fancy that you ought +not to marry, has a good deal to do with the state of health in which +you now find yourself. A man would get over many things if he were +happy, that he cannot get over when he is miserable." + +"But it's for Aggy. You forget that." + +"I do not forget it. What right have you to seek for her another kind +of welfare than you would have yourself? Are you to treat her as if +she were worldly when you are not--to provide for her a comfort which +yourself you would despise? Why should you not marry because you have to +die soon?--if you _are_ thus doomed, which to me is by no means clear. +Why not have what happiness you may for the rest of your sojourn? If you +find at the end of twenty years that here you are after all, you will be +rather sorry you did not do as I say." + +"And if I find myself dying at the end of six months'?" + +"You will thank God for those six months. The whole thing, my dear +fellow, is a want of faith in God. I do not doubt you think you are +doing right, but, I repeat, the whole thing comes from want of faith in +God. You will take things into your own hands, and order them after a +preventive and self-protective fashion, lest God should have ordained +the worst for you, which worst, after all, would be best met by doing +his will without inquiry into the future; and which worst is no evil. +Death is no more an evil than marriage is." + +"But you don't see it as I do," persisted the blacksmith. + +"Of course I don't. I think you see it as it is not." + +He remained silent for a little. A shower of spray fell upon us. He +started. + +"What a wave!" he cried. "That spray came over the top of the rock. We +shall have to run for it." + +I fancied that he only wanted to avoid further conversation. + +"There's no hurry," I said. "It was high water an hour and a half ago." + +"You don't know this coast, sir," returned he, "or you wouldn't talk +like that." + +As he spoke he rose, and going from under the shelter of the rock, +looked along. + +"For God's sake, Aggy!" he cried in terror, "come at once. Every other +wave be rushing across the breakwater as if it was on the level." + +So saying, he hurried back, caught her by the hand, and began to draw +her along. + +"Hadn't we better stay where we are?" I suggested. + +"If you can stand the night in the cold. But Aggy here is delicate; and +I don't care about being out all night. It's not the tide, sir; it's +a ground swell--from a storm somewhere out at sea. That never asks no +questions about tide or no tide." + +"Come along, then," I said. "But just wait one minute more. It is better +to be ready for the worst." + +For I remembered that the day before I had seen a crowbar lying among +the stones, and I thought it might be useful. In a moment or two I +had found it, and returning, gave it to Joe. Then I took the girl's +disengaged hand. She thanked me in a voice perfectly calm and firm. Joe +took the bar in haste, and drew Agnes towards the breakwater. + +Any real thought of danger had not yet crossed my mind. But when I +looked along the outstretched back of the mole, and saw a dim sheet of +white sweep across it, I felt that there was ground for his anxiety, and +prepared myself for a struggle. + +"Do you know what to do with the crowbar, Joe?" I said, grasping my own +stout oak-stick more firmly. + +"Perfectly," answered Joe. "To stick between the stones and hold on. We +must watch our time between the waves." + +"You take the command, then, Joe," I returned. "You see better than I +do, and you know the ways of that raging wild beast there better than I +do. I will obey orders--one of which, no doubt, will be, not for wind or +sea to lose hold of Agnes--eh, Joe?" + +Joe gave a grim enough laugh in reply, and we started, he carrying his +crowbar in his right hand towards the advancing sea, and I my oak-stick +in my left towards the still water within. + +"Quick march!" said Joe, and away we went out on the breakwater. + +Now the back of the breakwater was very rugged, for it was formed of +huge stones, with wide gaps between, where the waters had washed out the +cement, and worn their edges. But what impeded our progress secured our +safety. + +"Halt!" cried Joe, when we were yet but a few yards beyond the shelter +of the rocks. "There's a topper coming." + +We halted at the word of command, as a huge wave, with combing crest, +rushed against the far out-sloping base of the mole, and flung its heavy +top right over the middle of the mass, a score or two of yards in front +of us. + +"Now for it!" cried Joe. "Run!" + +We did run. In my mind there was just sense enough of danger to add to +the pleasure of the excitement. I did not know how much danger there +was. Over the rough worn stones we sped stumbling. + +"Halt!" cried the smith once more, and we did halt; but this time, as it +turned out, in the middle front of the coming danger. + +"God be with us!" I exclaimed, when the huge billow showed itself +through the night, rushing towards the mole. The smith stuck his crowbar +between two great stones. To this he held on with one hand, and threw +the other arm round Agnes's waist. I, too, had got my oak firmly fixed, +held on with one hand, and threw the other arm round Agnes. It took but +a moment. + +"Now then!" cried Joe. "Here she comes! Hold on, sir. Hold on, Aggy!" + +But when I saw the height of the water, as it rushed on us up the +sloping side of the mound, I cried out in my turn, "Down, Joe! Down on +your face, and let it over us easy! Down Agnes!" + +They obeyed. We threw ourselves across the breakwater, with our heads to +the coming foe, and I grasped my stick close to the stones with all the +power of a hand that was then strong. Over us burst the mighty wave, +floating us up from the stones where we lay. But we held on, the wave +passed, and we sprung gasping to our feet. + +"Now, now!" cried Joe and I together, and, heavy as we were, with the +water pouring from us, we flew across the remainder of the heap, and +arrived, panting and safe, at the other end, ere one wave more had swept +the surface. The moment we were in safety we turned and looked back +over the danger we had traversed. It was to see a huge billow sweep the +breakwater from end to end. We looked at each other for a moment without +speaking. + +"I believe, sir," said Joe at length, with slow and solemn speech, "if +you hadn't taken the command at that moment we should all have been +lost." + +"It seems likely enough, when I look back on it. For one thing, I was +not sure that my stick would stand, so I thought I had better grasp it +low down." + +"We were awfully near death," said Joe. + +"Nearer than you thought, Joe; and yet we escaped it. Things don't +go all as we fancy, you see. Faith is as essential to manhood as +foresight--believe me, Joe. It is very absurd to trust God for the +future, and not trust him for the present. The man who is not anxious is +the man most likely to do the right thing. He is cool and collected and +ready. Our Lord therefore told his disciples that when they should +be brought before kings and rulers, they were to take no thought what +answer they should make, for it would be given them when the time came." + +We were climbing the steep path up to the downs. Neither of my +companions spoke. + +"You have escaped one death together," I said at length: "dare another." + +Still neither of them returned an answer. When we came near the +parsonage, I said, "Now, Joe, you must go in and get to bed at once. I +will take Agnes home. You can trust me not to say anything against you?" + +Joe laughed rather hoarsely, and replied: "As you please, sir. Good +night, Aggie. Mind you get to bed as fast as you can." + +When I returned from giving Agnes over to her parents, I made haste +to change my clothes, and put on my warm dressing-gown. I may as well +mention at once, that not one of us was the worse for our ducking. I +then went up to Connie's room. + +"Here I am, you see, Connie, quite safe." + +"I've been lying listening to every blast of wind since you went out, +papa. But all I could do was to trust in God." + +"Do you call that _all_, Connie? Believe me, there is more power in that +than any human being knows the tenth part of yet. It is indeed _all_." + +I said no more then. I told my wife about it that night, but we were +well into another month before I told Connie. + +When I left her, I went to Joe's room to see how he was, and found him +having some gruel. I sat down on the edge of his bed, and said, + +"Well, Joe, this is better than under water. I hope you won't be the +worse for it." + +"I don't much care what comes of me, sir. It will be all over soon." + +"But you ought to care what comes of you, Joe. I will tell you why. +You are an instrument out of which ought to come praise to God, and, +therefore, you ought to care for the instrument." + +"That way, yes, sir, I ought." + +"And you have no business to be like some children who say, 'Mamma won't +give me so and so,' instead of asking her to give it them." + +"I see what you mean, sir. But really you put me out before the young +woman. I couldn't say before her what I meant. Suppose, you know, sir, +there was to come a family. It might be, you know." + +"Of course. What else would you have?" + +"But if I was to die, where would she be then?" + +"In God's hands; just as she is now." + +"But I ought to take care that she is not left with a burden like that +to provide for." + +"O, Joe! how little you know a woman's heart! It would just be the +greatest comfort she could have for losing you--that's all. Many a woman +has married a man she did not care enough for, just that she might have +a child of her own to let out her heart upon. I don't say that is right, +you know. Such love cannot be perfect. A woman ought to love her child +because it is her husband's more than because it is her own, and because +it is God's more than either's. I saw in the papers the other day, that +a woman was brought before the Recorder of London for stealing a baby, +when the judge himself said that there was no imaginable motive for her +action but a motherly passion to possess the child. It is the need of +a child that makes so many women take to poor miserable, broken-nosed +lap-dogs; for they are self-indulgent, and cannot face the troubles and +dangers of adopting a child. They would if they might get one of a good +family, or from a respectable home; but they dare not take an orphan +out of the dirt, lest it should spoil their silken chairs. But that +has nothing to do with our argument. What I mean is this, that if Agnes +really loves you, as no one can look in her face and doubt, she will be +far happier if you leave her a child--yes, she will be happier if you +only leave her your name for hers--than if you died without calling her +your wife." + +I took Joe's basin from him, and he lay down. He turned his face to the +wall. I waited a moment, but finding him silent, bade him good-night, +and left the room. + +A month after, I married them. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE HARVEST. + + + + + +It was some time before we got the bells to work to our mind, but at +last we succeeded. The worst of it was to get the cranks, which at first +required strong pressure on the keys, to work easily enough. But neither +Joe nor his cousin spared any pains to perfect the attempt, and, as I +say, at length we succeeded. I took Wynnie down to the instrument and +made her try whether she could not do something, and she succeeded in +making the old tower discourse loudly and eloquently. + +By this time the thanksgiving for the harvest was at hand: on the +morning of that first of all would I summon the folk to their prayers +with the sound of the full peal. And I wrote a little hymn of praise to +the God of the harvest, modelling it to one of the oldest tunes in that +part of the country, and I had it printed on slips of paper and laid +plentifully on the benches. What with the calling of the bells, like +voices in the highway, and the solemn meditation of the organ within to +bear aloft the thoughts of those who heard, and came to the prayer and +thanksgiving in common, and the message which God had given me to utter +to them, I hoped that we should indeed keep holiday. + +Wynnie summoned the parish with the hundredth psalm pealed from aloft, +dropping from the airy regions of the tower on village and hamlet and +cottage, calling aloud--for who could dissociate the words from the +music, though the words are in the Scotch psalms?--written none the +less by an Englishman, however English wits may amuse themselves with +laughing at their quaintness--calling aloud, + + "All people that on earth do dwell + Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice; + Him serve with mirth, his praise forth tell-- + Come ye before him and rejoice." + +Then we sang the psalm before the communion service, making bold in the +name of the Lord to serve him with _mirth_ as in the old version, and +not with the _fear_ with which some editor, weak in faith, has presumed +to alter the line. Then before the sermon we sang the hymn I had +prepared--a proceeding justifiable by many an example in the history +of the church while she was not only able to number singers amongst her +clergy, but those singers were capable of influencing the whole heart +and judgment of the nation with their songs. Ethelwyn played the organ. +The song I had prepared was this: + + "We praise the Life of All; + From buried seeds so small + Who makes the ordered ranks of autumn stand; + Who stores the corn + In rick and barn + To feed the winter of the land. + + We praise the Life of Light! + Who from the brooding night + Draws out the morning holy, calm, and grand; + Veils up the moon, + Sends out the sun, + To glad the face of all the land. + + We praise the Life of Work, + Who from sleep's lonely dark + Leads forth his children to arise and stand, + Then go their way, + The live-long day, + To trust and labour in the land. + + We praise the Life of Good, + Who breaks sin's lazy mood, + Toilsomely ploughing up the fruitless sand. + The furrowed waste + They leave, and haste + Home, home, to till their Father's land. + + We praise the Life of Life, + Who in this soil of strife + Casts us at birth, like seed from sower's hand; + To die and so + Like corn to grow + A golden harvest in his land." + +After we had sung this hymn, the meaning of which is far better than the +versification, I preached from the words of St. Paul, "If by any means +I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead. Not as though I had +already attained, either were already perfect." And this is something +like what I said to them: + +"The world, my friends, is full of resurrections, and it is not always +of the same resurrection that St. Paul speaks. Every night that folds us +up in darkness is a death; and those of you that have been out early and +have seen the first of the dawn, will know it--the day rises out of the +night like a being that has burst its tomb and escaped into life. That +you may feel that the sunrise is a resurrection--the word resurrection +just means a rising again--I will read you a little description of it +from a sermon by a great writer and great preacher called Jeremy Taylor. +Listen. 'But as when the sun approaching towards the gates of the +morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven and sends away the +spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and calls up the lark to +matins, and by and by gilds the fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the +eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns like those which decked +the brows of Moses, when he was forced to wear a veil, because himself +had seen the face of God; and still, while a man tells the story, the +sun gets up higher, till he shows a fair face and a full light, and +then he shines one whole day, under a cloud often, and sometimes weeping +great and little showers, and sets quickly; so is a man's reason and his +life.' Is not this a resurrection of the day out of the night? Or hear +how Milton makes his Adam and Eve praise God in the morning,-- + + 'Ye mists and exhalations that now rise + From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, + Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, + In honour to the world's great Author rise, + Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky, + Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, + Rising or falling still advance his praise.' + +But it is yet more of a resurrection to you. Think of your own condition +through the night and in the morning. You die, as it were, every night. +The death of darkness comes down over the earth; but a deeper death, the +death of sleep, descends on you. A power overshadows you; your eyelids +close, you cannot keep them open if you would; your limbs lie moveless; +the day is gone; your whole life is gone; you have forgotten everything; +an evil man might come and do with your goods as he pleased; you +are helpless. But the God of the Resurrection is awake all the time, +watching his sleeping men and women, even as a mother who watches her +sleeping baby, only with larger eyes and more full of love than hers; +and so, you know not how, all at once you know that you are what you +are; that there is a world that wants you outside of you, and a God that +wants you inside of you; you rise from the death of sleep, not by your +own power, for you knew nothing about it; God put his hand over your +eyes, and you were dead; he lifted his hand and breathed light on you +and you rose from the dead, thanked the God who raised you up, and went +forth to do your work. From darkness to light; from blindness to +seeing; from knowing nothing to looking abroad on the mighty world; from +helpless submission to willing obedience,--is not this a resurrection +indeed? That St. Paul saw it to be such may be shown from his using +the two things with the same meaning when he says, 'Awake, thou that +sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.' +No doubt he meant a great deal more. No man who understands what he is +speaking about can well mean only one thing at a time. + +"But to return to the resurrections we see around us in nature. Look at +the death that falls upon the world in winter. And look how it revives +when the sun draws near enough in the spring to wile the life in it once +more out of its grave. See how the pale, meek snowdrops come up with +their bowed heads, as if full of the memory of the fierce winds they +encountered last spring, and yet ready in the strength of their weakness +to encounter them again. Up comes the crocus, bringing its gold safe +from the dark of its colourless grave into the light of its parent gold. +Primroses, and anemones, and blue-bells, and a thousand other children +of the spring, hear the resurrection-trumpet of the wind from the west +and south, obey, and leave their graves behind to breathe the air of the +sweet heavens. Up and up they come till the year is glorious with the +rose and the lily, till the trees are not only clothed upon with new +garments of loveliest green, but the fruit-tree bringeth forth its +fruit, and the little children of men are made glad with apples, and +cherries, and hazel-nuts. The earth laughs out in green and gold. The +sky shares in the grand resurrection. The garments of its mourning, +wherewith it made men sad, its clouds of snow and hail and stormy +vapours, are swept away, have sunk indeed to the earth, and are now +humbly feeding the roots of the flowers whose dead stalks they beat upon +all the winter long. Instead, the sky has put on the garments of praise. +Her blue, coloured after the sapphire-floor on which stands the throne +of him who is the Resurrection and the Life, is dashed and glorified +with the pure white of sailing clouds, and at morning and evening +prayer, puts on colours in which the human heart drowns itself with +delight--green and gold and purple and rose. Even the icebergs floating +about in the lonely summer seas of the north are flashing all the +glories of the rainbow. But, indeed, is not this whole world itself a +monument of the Resurrection? The earth was without form and void. The +wind of God moved on the face of the waters, and up arose this fair +world. Darkness was on the face of the deep: God said, 'Let there be +light,' and there was light. + +"In the animal world as well, you behold the goings of the Resurrection. +Plainest of all, look at the story of the butterfly--so plain that the +pagan Greeks called it and the soul by one name--Psyche. Psyche meant +with them a butterfly or the soul, either. Look how the creeping thing, +ugly to our eyes, so that we can hardly handle it without a shudder, +finding itself growing sick with age, straightway falls a spinning and +weaving at its own shroud, coffin, and grave, all in one--to prepare, in +fact, for its resurrection; for it is for the sake of the resurrection +that death exists. Patiently it spins its strength, but not its life, +away, folds itself up decently, that its body may rest in quiet till the +new body is formed within it; and at length when the appointed hour has +arrived, out of the body of this crawling thing breaks forth the winged +splendour of the butterfly--not the same body--a new one built out of +the ruins of the old--even as St. Paul tells us that it is not the same +body _we_ have in the resurrection, but a nobler body like ourselves, +with all the imperfect and evil thing taken away. No more creeping for +the butterfly; wings of splendour now. Neither yet has it lost the feet +wherewith to alight on all that is lovely and sweet. Think of it--up +from the toilsome journey over the low ground, exposed to the foot of +every passer-by, destroying the lovely leaves upon which it fed, and the +fruit which they should shelter, up to the path at will through the air, +and a gathering of food which hurts not the source of it, a food which +is but as a tribute from the loveliness of the flowers to the yet higher +loveliness of the flower-angel: is not this a resurrection? Its children +too shall pass through the same process, to wing the air of a summer +noon, and rejoice in the ethereal and the pure. + +"To return yet again from the human thoughts suggested by the symbol of +the butterfly"-- + +Here let me pause for a moment--and there was a corresponding pause, +though but momentary, in the sermon as I spoke it--to mention a curious, +and to me at the moment an interesting fact. At this point of my +address, I caught sight of a white butterfly, a belated one, flitting +about the church. Absorbed for a moment, my eye wandered after it. +It was near the bench where my own people sat, and, for one flash of +thought, I longed that the butterfly would alight on my Wynnie, for I +was more anxious about her resurrection at the time than about anything +else. But the butterfly would not. And then I told myself that God +would, and that the butterfly was only the symbol of a grand truth, and +of no private interpretation, to make which of it was both selfishness +and superstition. But all this passed in a flash, and I resumed my +discourse. + +--"I come now naturally to speak of what we commonly call the +Resurrection. Some say: 'How can the same dust be raised again, when it +may be scattered to the winds of heaven?' It is a question I hardly care +to answer. The mere difficulty can in reason stand for nothing with God; +but the apparent worthlessness of the supposition renders the question +uninteresting to me. What is of import is, that I should stand clothed +upon, with a body which is _my_ body because it serves my ends, +justifies my consciousness of identity by being, in all that was good +in it, like that which I had before, while now it is tenfold capable of +expressing the thoughts and feelings that move within me. How can I care +whether the atoms that form a certain inch of bone should be the same as +those which formed that bone when I died? All my life-time I never felt +or thought of the existence of such a bone! On the other hand, I object +to having the same worn muscles, the same shrivelled skin with which I +may happen to die. Why give me the same body as that? Why not rather my +youthful body, which was strong, and facile, and capable? The matter in +the muscle of my arm at death would not serve to make half the muscle I +had when young. But I thank God that St. Paul says it will _not_ be the +same body. That body dies--up springs another body. I suspect myself +that those are right who say that this body being the seed, the moment +it dies in the soil of this world, that moment is the resurrection of +the new body. The life in it rises out of it in a new body. This is not +after it is put in the mere earth; for it is dead then, and the germ of +life gone out of it. If a seed rots, no new body comes of it. The seed +dies into a new life, and so does man. Dying and rotting are two very +different things.--But I am not sure by any means. As I say, the whole +question is rather uninteresting to me. What do I care about my old +clothes after I have done with them? What is it to me to know what +becomes of an old coat or an old pulpit gown? I have no such clinging +to the flesh. It seems to me that people believe their bodies to be +themselves, and are therefore very anxious about them--and no wonder +then. Enough for me that I shall have eyes to see my friends, a face +that they shall know me by, and a mouth to praise God withal. I leave +the matter with one remark, that I am well content to rise as Jesus +rose, however that was. For me the will of God is so good that I would +rather have his will done than my own choice given me. + +"But I now come to the last, because infinitely the most important part +of my subject--the resurrection for the sake of which all the other +resurrections exist--the resurrection unto Life. This is the one +of which St. Paul speaks in my text. This is the one I am most +anxious--indeed, the only one I am anxious to set forth, and impress +upon you. + +"Think, then, of all the deaths you know; the death of the night, when +the sun is gone, when friend says not a word to friend, but both lie +drowned and parted in the sea of sleep; the death of the year, when +winter lies heavy on the graves of the children of summer, when the +leafless trees moan in the blasts from the ocean, when the beasts even +look dull and oppressed, when the children go about shivering with cold, +when the poor and improvident are miserable with suffering or think of +such a death of disease as befalls us at times, when the man who says, +'Would God it were morning!' changes but his word, and not his tune, +when the morning comes, crying, 'Would God it were evening!' when what +life is left is known to us only by suffering, and hope is amongst the +things that were once and are no more--think of all these, think of them +all together, and you will have but the dimmest, faintest picture of the +death from which the resurrection of which I have now to speak, is the +rising. I shrink from the attempt, knowing how weak words are to set +forth _the_ death, set forth _the_ resurrection. Were I to sit down to +yonder organ, and crash out the most horrible dissonances that ever took +shape in sound, I should give you but a weak figure of this death; were +I capable of drawing from many a row of pipes an exhalation of dulcet +symphonies and voices sweet, such as Milton himself could have +invaded our ears withal, I could give you but a faint figure of this +resurrection. Nevertheless, I must try what I can do in my own way. + +"If into the face of the dead body, lying on the bed, waiting for its +burial, the soul of the man should begin to dawn again, drawing near +from afar to look out once more at those eyes, to smile once again +through those lips, the change on that face would be indeed great and +wondrous, but nothing for marvel or greatness to that which passes on +the countenance, the very outward bodily face of the man who wakes from +his sleep, arises from the dead and receives light from Christ. Too +often indeed, the reposeful look on the face of the dead body would be +troubled, would vanish away at the revisiting of the restless ghost; but +when a man's own right true mind, which God made in him, is restored +to him again, and he wakes from the death of sin, then comes the repose +without the death. It may take long for the new spirit to complete +the visible change, but it begins at once, and will be perfected. The +bloated look of self-indulgence passes away like the leprosy of Naaman, +the cheek grows pure, the lips return to the smile of hope instead of +the grin of greed, and the eyes that made innocence shrink and shudder +with their yellow leer grow childlike and sweet and faithful. The +mammon-eyes, hitherto fixed on the earth, are lifted to meet their kind; +the lips that mumbled over figures and sums of gold learn to say words +of grace and tenderness. The truculent, repellent, self-satisfied +face begins to look thoughtful and doubtful, as if searching for some +treasure of whose whereabouts it had no certain sign. The face anxious, +wrinkled, peering, troubled, on whose lines you read the dread of +hunger, poverty, and nakedness, thaws into a smile; the eyes reflect in +courage the light of the Father's care, the back grows erect under its +burden with the assurance that the hairs of its head are all numbered. +But the face can with all its changes set but dimly forth the rising +from the dead which passes within. The heart, which cared but for +itself, becomes aware of surrounding thousands like itself, in the love +and care of which it feels a dawning blessedness undreamt of before. +From selfishness to love--is not this a rising from the dead? The man +whose ambition declares that his way in the world would be to subject +everything to his desires, to bring every human care, affection, power, +and aspiration to his feet--such a world it would be, and such a king +it would have, if individual ambition might work its will! if a +man's opinion of himself could be made out in the world, degrading, +compelling, oppressing, doing everything for his own glory!--and such a +glory!--but a pang of light strikes this man to the heart; an arrow of +truth, feathered with suffering and loss and dismay, finds out--the open +joint in his armour, I was going to say--no, finds out the joint in the +coffin where his heart lies festering in a death so dead that itself +calls it life. He trembles, he awakes, he rises from the dead. No more +he seeks the slavery of all: where can he find whom to serve? how can he +become if but a threshold in the temple of Christ, where all serve all, +and no man thinks first of himself? He to whom the mass of his fellows, +as he massed them, was common and unclean, bows before every human +sign of the presence of the making God. The sun, which was to him but +a candle with which to search after his own ends, wealth, power, place, +praise--the world, which was but the cavern where he thus searched--are +now full of the mystery of loveliness, full of the truth of which sun +and wind and land and sea are symbols and signs. From a withered old age +of unbelief, the dim eyes of which refuse the glory of things a passage +to the heart, he is raised up a child full of admiration, wonder, and +gladness. Everything is glorious to him; he can believe, and therefore +he sees. It is from the grave into the sunshine, from the night into +the morning, from death into life. To come out of the ugly into the +beautiful; out of the mean and selfish into the noble and loving; out +of the paltry into the great; out of the false into the true; out of the +filthy into the clean; out of the commonplace into the glorious; out of +the corruption of disease into the fine vigour and gracious movements +of health; in a word, out of evil into good--is not this a resurrection +indeed--_the_ resurrection of all, the resurrection of Life? God grant +that with St. Paul we may attain to this resurrection of the dead. + +"This rising from the dead is often a long and a painful process. Even +after he had preached the gospel to the Gentiles, and suffered much for +the sake of his Master, Paul sees the resurrection of the dead +towering grandly before him, not yet climbed, not yet attained unto--a +mountainous splendour and marvel, still shining aloft in the air of +existence, still, thank God, to be attained, but ever growing in height +and beauty as, forgetting those things that are behind, he presses +towards the mark, if by any means he may attain to the resurrection of +the dead. Every blessed moment in which a man bethinks himself that +he has been forgetting his high calling, and sends up to the Father a +prayer for aid; every time a man resolves that what he has been doing he +will do no more; every time that the love of God, or the feeling of +the truth, rouses a man to look first up at the light, then down at the +skirts of his own garments--that moment a divine resurrection is wrought +in the earth. Yea, every time that a man passes from resentment to +forgiveness, from cruelty to compassion, from hardness to tenderness, +from indifference to carefulness, from selfishness to honesty, from +honesty to generosity, from generosity to love,--a resurrection, the +bursting of a fresh bud of life out of the grave of evil, gladdens +the eye of the Father watching his children. Awake, then, thou that +sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give thee light. As +the harvest rises from the wintry earth, so rise thou up from the trials +of this world a full ear in the harvest of Him who sowed thee in the +soil that thou mightest rise above it. As the summer rises from the +winter, so rise thou from the cares of eating and drinking and clothing +into the fearless sunshine of confidence in the Father. As the morning +rises out of the night, so rise thou from the darkness of ignorance +to do the will of God in the daylight; and as a man feels that he is +himself when he wakes from the troubled and grotesque visions of the +night into the glory of the sunrise, even so wilt thou feel that then +first thou knowest what thy life, the gladness of thy being, is. As from +painful tossing in disease, rise into the health of well-being. As from +the awful embrace of thy own dead body, burst forth in thy spiritual +body. Arise thou, responsive to the indwelling will of the Father, even +as thy body will respond to thy indwelling soul. + + 'White wings are crossing; + Glad waves are tossing; + The earth flames out in crimson and green: + + Spring is appearing, + Summer is nearing-- + Where hast thou been? + + Down in some cavern, + Death's sleepy tavern, + Housing, carousing with spectres of night? + The trumpet is pealing + Sunshine and healing-- + Spring to the light.'" + +With this quotation from a friend's poem, I closed my sermon, oppressed +with a sense of failure; for ever the marvel of simple awaking, the mere +type of the resurrection eluded all my efforts to fix it in words. I +had to comfort myself with the thought that God is so strong that he can +work even with our failures. + +END OF VOL. II. + + + + + + +THE SEABOARD PARISH + +BY GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. + +VOLUME III. + + + + + + +CONTENTS OF VOL. III. + + + + + I. A WALK WITH MY WIFE + II. OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER + III. A PASTORAL VISIT. + IV. THE ART OF NATURE + V. THE SORE SPOT + VI. THE GATHERING STORM. + VII. THE GATHERED STORM. +VIII. THE SHIPWRECK IX. THE FUNERAL + X. THE SERMON. + XI. CHANGED PLANS. + XII. THE STUDIO. +XIII. HOME AGAIN. + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A WALK WITH MY WIFE. + + + + + +The autumn was creeping up on the earth, with winter holding by its +skirts behind; but before I loose my hold of the garments of summer, +I must write a chapter about a walk and a talk I had one night with my +wife. It had rained a good deal during the day, but as the sun went down +the air began to clear, and when the moon shone out, near the full, she +walked the heavens, not "like one that hath been led astray," but as +"queen and huntress, chaste and fair." + +"What a lovely night it is!" said Ethelwyn, who had come into my +study--where I always sat with unblinded windows, that the night and her +creatures might look in upon me--and had stood gazing out for a moment. + +"Shall we go for a little turn?" I said. + +"I should like it very much," she answered. "I will go and put on my +bonnet at once." + +In a minute or two she looked in again, all ready. I rose, laid aside +my Plato, and went with her. We turned our steps along the edge of the +down, and descended upon the breakwater, where we seated ourselves upon +the same spot where in the darkness I had heard the voices of Joe and +Agnes. What a different night it was from that! The sea lay as quiet as +if it could not move for the moonlight that lay upon it. The glory over +it was so mighty in its peacefulness, that the wild element beneath was +afraid to toss itself even with the motions of its natural unrest. The +moon was like the face of a saint before which the stormy people has +grown dumb. The rocks stood up solid and dark in the universal aether, +and the pulse of the ocean throbbed against them with a lapping gush, +soft as the voice of a passionate child soothed into shame of its +vanished petulance. But the sky was the glory. Although no breath moved +below, there was a gentle wind abroad in the upper regions. The air was +full of masses of cloud, the vanishing fragments of the one great vapour +which had been pouring down in rain the most of the day. These masses +were all setting with one steady motion eastward into the abysses of +space; now obscuring the fair moon, now solemnly sweeping away from +before her. As they departed, out shone her marvellous radiance, as +calm as ever. It was plain that she knew nothing of what we called her +covering, her obscuration, the dimming of her glory. She had been busy +all the time weaving her lovely opaline damask on the other side of the +mass in which we said she was swallowed up. + +"Have you ever noticed, wifie," I said, "how the eyes of our +minds--almost our bodily eyes--are opened sometimes to the cubicalness +of nature, as it were?" + +"I don't know, Harry, for I don't understand your question," she +answered. + +"Well, it was a stupid way of expressing what I meant. No human being +could have understood it from that. I will make you understand in a +moment, though. Sometimes--perhaps generally--we see the sky as a flat +dome, spangled with star-points, and painted blue. _Now_ I see it as an +awful depth of blue air, depth within depth; and the clouds before me +are not passing away to the left, but sinking away from the front of me +into the marvellous unknown regions, which, let philosophers say what +they will about time and space,--and I daresay they are right,--are yet +very awful to me. Thank God, my dear," I said, catching hold of her arm, +as the terror of mere space grew upon me, "for himself. He is deeper +than space, deeper than time; he is the heart of all the cube of +history." + +"I understand you now, husband," said my wife. + +"I knew you would," I answered. + +"But," she said again, "is it not something the same with the things +inside us? I can't put it in words as you do. Do you understand me now?" + +"I am not sure that I do. You must try again." + +"You understand me well enough, only you like to make me blunder where +you can talk," said my wife, putting her hand in mine. "But I will try. +Sometimes, after thinking about something for a long time, you come to +a conclusion about it, and you think you have settled it plain and clear +to yourself, for ever and a day. You hang it upon your wall, like a +picture, and are satisfied for a fortnight. But some day, when you +happen to cast a look at it, you find that instead of hanging flat on +the wall, your picture has gone through it--opens out into some region +you don't know where--shows you far-receding distances of air and +sea--in short, where you thought one question was settled for ever, a +hundred are opened up for the present hour." + +"Bravo, wife!" I cried in true delight. "I do indeed understand you +now. You have said it better than I could ever have done. That's the +plague of you women! You have been taught for centuries and centuries +that there is little or nothing to be expected of you, and so you won't +try. Therefore we men know no more than you do whether it is in you or +not. And when you do try, instead of trying to think, you want to be in +Parliament all at once." + +"Do you apply that remark to me, sir?" demanded Ethelwyn. + +"You must submit to bear the sins of your kind upon occasion," I +answered. + +"I am content to do that, so long as yours will help mine," she replied. + +"Then I may go on?" I said, with interrogation. + +"Till sunrise if you like. We were talking of the cubicalness--I believe +you called it--of nature." + +"And you capped it with the cubicalness of thought. And quite right +too. There are people, as a dear friend of mine used to say, who are +so accustomed to regard everything in the _flat_, as dogma cut and--not +_always_ dried my moral olfactories aver--that if you prove to them the +very thing they believe, but after another mode than that they have been +accustomed to, they are offended, and count you a heretic. There is no +help for it. Even St. Paul's chief opposition came from the Judaizing +Christians of his time, who did not believe that God _could_ love the +Gentiles, and therefore regarded him as a teacher of falsehood. We must +not be fierce with them. Who knows what wickedness of their ancestors +goes to account for their stupidity? For that there are stupid people, +and that they are, in very consequence of their stupidity, conceited, +who can deny? The worst of it is, that no man who is conceited can be +convinced of the fact." + +"Don't say that, Harry. That is to deny conversion." + +"You are right, Ethelwyn. The moment a man is convinced of his folly, +he ceases to be a fool. The moment a man is convinced of his conceit, +he ceases to be conceited. But there _must_ be a final judgment, and the +true man will welcome it, even if he is to appear a convicted fool. A +man's business is to see first that he is not acting the part of a fool, +and next, to help any honest people who care about the matter to take +heed likewise that they be not offering to pull the mote out of their +brother's eye. But there are even societies established and supported +by good people for the express purpose of pulling out motes.--'The +Mote-Pulling Society!'--That ought to take with a certain part of the +public." + +"Come, come, Harry. You are absurd. Such people don't come near you." + +"They can't touch me. No. But they come near good people whom I know, +brandishing the long pins with which they pull the motes out, and +threatening them with judgment before their time. They are but pins, to +be sure--not daggers." + +"But you have wandered, Harry, into the narrowest underground, musty +ways, and have forgotten all about 'the cubicalness of nature.'" + +"You are right, my love, as you generally are," I answered, laughing. +"Look at that great antlered elk, or moose--fit quarry for Diana of the +silver bow. Look how it glides solemnly away into the unpastured depths +of the aerial deserts. Look again at that reclining giant, half raised +upon his arm, with his face turned towards the wilderness. What eyes +they must be under those huge brows! On what message to the nations is +he borne as by the slow sweep of ages, on towards his mysterious goal?" + +"Stop, stop, Harry," said my wife. "It makes me unhappy to hear grand +words clothing only cloudy fancies. Such words ought to be used about +the truth, and the truth only." + +"If I could carry it no further, my dear, then it would indeed be a +degrading of words. But there never was a vagary that uplifted the soul, +or made the grand words flow from the gates of speech, that had not its +counterpart in truth itself. Man can imagine nothing, even in the clouds +of the air, that God has not done, or is not doing. Even as that cloudy +giant yields, and is 'shepherded by the slow unwilling wind,' so is each +of us borne onward to an unseen destiny--a glorious one if we will but +yield to the Spirit of God that bloweth where it listeth--with a grand +listing--coming whence we know not, and going whither we know not. The +very clouds of the air are hung up as dim pictures of the thoughts and +history of man." + +"I do not mind how long you talk like that, husband, even if you take +the clouds for your text. But it did make me miserable to think that +what you were saying had no more basis than the fantastic forms which +the clouds assume. I see I was wrong, though." + +"The clouds themselves, in such a solemn stately march as this, used to +make me sad for the very same reason. I used to think, What is it all +for? They are but vapours blown by the wind. They come nowhence, and +they go nowhither. But now I see them and all things as ever moving +symbols of the motions of man's spirit and destiny." + +A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth +of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since, +covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing +forms--great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm--the icebergs +of the upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but +floating near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted +by a golden rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke. + +"I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night," she said. "How he must be +enjoying it if he is!" + +"I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours," I +said. "Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking." + +"He is laying in stock, though, I suppose," answered my wife. + +"I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember." + +"Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he +gets with the things God cares to fashion." + +"Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at +present is our Wynnie." + +"Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?" returned Ethelwyn, +looking up in my face with an arch expression. + +"Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so +much in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about." + +My wife made no answer for a moment. Then she said, + +"Don't you like him, Harry?" + +"Yes. I like him very much." + +"Then why should you not like Wynnie to like him?" + +"I should like to be surer of his principles, for one thing." + +"I should like to be surer of Wynnie's." + +I was silent. Ethelwyn resumed. + +"Don't you think they might do each other good?" + +Still I could not reply. + +"They both love the truth, I am sure; only they don't perhaps know what +it is yet. I think if they were to fall in love with each other, it +would very likely make them both more desirous of finding it still." + +"Perhaps," I said at last. "But you are talking about awfully serious +things, Ethelwyn." + +"Yes, as serious as life," she answered. + +"You make me very anxious," I said. "The young man has not, I fear, any +means of gaining a livelihood for more than himself." + +"Why should he before he wanted it? I like to see a man who can be +content with an art and a living by it." + +"I hope I have not been to blame in allowing them to see so much of each +other," I said, hardly heeding my wife's words. + +"It came about quite naturally," she rejoined. "If you had opposed +their meeting, you would have been interfering just as if you had been +Providence. And you would have only made them think more about each +other." + +"He hasn't said anything--has he?" I asked in positive alarm. + +"O dear no. It may be all my fancy. I am only looking a little ahead. +I confess I should like him for a son-in-law. I approve of him," she +added, with a sweet laugh. + +"Well," I said, "I suppose sons-in-law are possible, however +disagreeable, results of having daughters." + +I tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded. + +"Harry," said my wife, "I don't like you in such a mood. It is not like +you at all. It is unworthy of you." + +"How can I help being anxious when you speak of such dreadful things as +the possibility of having to give away my daughter, my precious wonder +that came to me through you, out of the infinite--the tender little +darling!" + +"'Out of the heart of God,' you used to say, Henry. Yes, and with a +destiny he had ordained. It is strange to me how you forget your best +and noblest teaching sometimes. You are always telling us to trust in +God. Surely it is a poor creed that will only allow us to trust in +God for ourselves--a very selfish creed. There must be something wrong +there. I should say that the man who can only trust God for himself is +not half a Christian. Either he is so selfish that that satisfies him, +or he has such a poor notion of God that he cannot trust him with what +most concerns him. The former is not your case, Harry: is the latter, +then?--You see I must take my turn at the preaching sometimes. Mayn't I, +dearest?" + +She took my hand in both of hers. The truth arose in my heart. I never +loved my wife more than at that moment. And now I could not speak for +other reasons. I saw that I had been faithless to my God, and the moment +I could command my speech, I hastened to confess it. + +"You are right, my dear," I said, "quite right. I have been wicked, for +I have been denying my God. I have been putting my providence in the +place of his--trying, like an anxious fool, to count the hairs on +Wynnie's head, instead of being content that the grand loving Father +should count them. My love, let us pray for Wynnie; for what is prayer +but giving her to God and his holy, blessed will?" + +We sat hand in hand. Neither spoke aloud for some minutes, but we +spoke in our hearts to God, talking to him about Wynnie. Then we rose +together, and walked homeward, still in silence. But my heart and hand +clung to my wife as to the angel whom God had sent to deliver me out of +the prison of my faithlessness. And as we went, lo! the sky was +glorious again. It had faded from my sight, had grown flat as a dogma, +uninteresting as "a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours;" the +moon had been but a round thing with the sun shining upon it, and the +stars were only minding their own business. But now the solemn march +towards an unseen, unimagined goal had again begun. Wynnie's life was +hid with Christ in God. Away strode the cloudy pageant with its banners +blowing in the wind, which blew where it grandly listed, marching as to +a solemn triumphal music that drew them from afar towards the gates of +pearl by which the morning walks out of the New Jerusalem to gladden the +nations of the earth. Solitary stars, with all their sparkles drawn in, +shone, quiet as human eyes, in the deep solemn clefts of dark blue air. +They looked restrained and still, as if they knew all about it--all +about the secret of this midnight march. For the moon--she saw the sun, +and therefore made the earth glad. + +"You have been a moon to me this night, my wife," I said. "You were +looking full at the truth, while I was dark. I saw its light in your +face, and believed, and turned my soul to the sun. And now I am both +ashamed and glad. God keep me from sinning so again." + +"My dear husband, it was only a mood--a passing mood," said Ethelwyn, +seeking to comfort me. + +"It was a mood, and thank God it is now past; but it was a wicked one. +It was a mood in which the Lord might have called me a devil, as he did +St. Peter. Such moods have to be grappled with and fought the moment +they appear. They must not have their way for a single thought even." + +"But we can't help it always, can we, husband?" + +"We can't help it out and out, because our wills are not yet free with +the freedom God is giving us as fast as we will let him. When we are +able to will thoroughly, then we shall do what we will. At least, I +think we shall. But there is a mystery in it God only understands. +All we know is, that we can struggle and pray. But a mood is an awful +oppression sometimes when you least believe in it and most wish to get +rid of it. It is like a headache in the soul." + +"What do the people do that don't believe in God?" said Ethelwyn. + +The same moment Wynnie, who had seen us pass the window, opened the door +of the bark-house for us, and we passed into Connie's chamber and found +her lying in the moonlight, gazing at the same heavens as her father and +mother had been revelling in. + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +OUR LAST SHORE-DINNER. + + + + + +The next day was very lovely. I think it is the last of the kind of +which I shall have occasion to write in my narrative of the Seaboard +Parish. I wonder if my readers are tired of so much about the common +things of Nature. I reason about it something in this way: We are so +easily affected by the smallest things that are of the unpleasant kind, +that we ought to train ourselves to the influence of those that are of +an opposite nature. The unpleasant ones are like the thorns which make +themselves felt as we scramble--for we often do scramble in a very +undignified manner--through the thickets of life; and, feeling the +thorns, we grumble, and are blind to all but the thorns. The flowers, +and the lovely leaves, and the red berries, and the clusters of +filberts, and the birds'-nests do not force themselves upon our +attention as the thorns do, and the thorns make us forget to look for +them. But a scratch would be forgotten--and that in mental hurts is +often equivalent to a cure, for a forgotten scratch on the mind or heart +will never fester--if we but allowed our being a moment's repose upon +any of the quiet, waiting, unobtrusive beauties that lie around the +half-trodden way, offering their gentle healing. And when I think how, +not unfrequently, otherwise noble characters are anything but admirable +when under the influence of trifling irritations, the very paltriness of +which seems what the mind, which would at once rouse itself to a noble +endurance of any mighty evil, is unable to endure, I would gladly +help so with sweet antidotes to defeat the fly in the ointment of the +apothecary that the whole pot shall send forth a pure savour. We ought +for this to cultivate the friendships of little things. Beauty is one +of the surest antidotes to vexation. Often when life looked dreary about +me, from some real or fancied injustice or indignity, has a thought of +truth been flashed into my mind from a flower, a shape of frost, or even +a lingering shadow--not to mention such glories as angel-winged clouds, +rainbows, stars, and sunrises. Therefore I hope that in my loving delay +over such aspects of Nature as impressed themselves upon me in this most +memorable part of my history I shall not prove wearisome to my reader, +for therein I should utterly contravene my hope and intent in the +recording of them. + +This day there was to be an unusually low tide, and we had reckoned on +enlarging our acquaintance with the bed of the ocean--of knowing a few +yards more of the millions of miles lapt in the mystery of waters. It +was to be low water about two o'clock, and we resolved to dine upon +the sands. But all the morning the children were out playing on the +threshold of old Neptune's palace; for in his quieter mood he will, like +a fierce mastiff, let children do with him what they will. I gave myself +a whole holiday--sometimes the most precious part of my life both for +myself and those for whom I labour--and wandered about on the shore, now +passing the children, and assailed with a volley of cries and entreaties +to look at this one's castle and that one's ditch, now leaving them +behind, with what in its ungraduated flatness might well enough +personate an endless desert of sand between, over the expanse of which I +could imagine them disappearing on a far horizon, whence however a faint +occasional cry of excitement and pleasure would reach my ears. The sea +was so calm, and the shore so gently sloping, that you could hardly tell +where the sand ceased and the sea began--the water sloped to such a thin +pellicle, thinner than any knife-edge, upon the shining brown sand, and +you saw the sand underneath the water to such a distance out. Yet this +depth, which would not drown a red spider, was the ocean. In my mind I +followed that bed of shining sand, bared of its hiding waters, out and +out, till I was lost in an awful wilderness of chasms, precipices, and +mountain-peaks, in whose caverns the sea-serpent may dwell, with his +breath of pestilence; the kraken, with "his skaly rind," may there be +sleeping + + "His ancient dreamless, uninvaded sleep," + +while + + "faintest sunlights flee + About his shadowy sides," + +as he lies + + "Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep." + +There may lie all the horrors that Schiller's diver encountered--the +frightful Molch, and that worst of all, to which he gives no name, +which came creeping with a hundred knots at once; but here are only the +gracious rainbow-woven shells, an evanescent jelly or two, and the queer +baby-crabs that crawl out from the holes of the bordering rocks. What +awful gradations of gentleness lead from such as these down to those +cabins where wallow the inventions of Nature's infancy, when, like +a child of untutored imagination, she drew on the slate of her fancy +creations in which flitting shadows of beauty serve only to heighten the +shuddering, gruesome horror. The sweet sun and air, the hand of man, and +the growth of the ages, have all but swept such from the upper plains +of the earth. What hunter's bow has twanged, what adventurer's rifle has +cracked in those leagues of mountain-waste, vaster than all the upper +world can show, where the beasts of the ocean "graze the sea-weed, their +pasture"! Diana of the silver bow herself, when she descends into +the interlunar caves of hell, sends no such monsters fleeing from +her spells. Yet if such there be, such horrors too must lie in the +undiscovered caves of man's nature, of which all this outer world is but +a typical analysis. By equally slow gradations may the inner eye descend +from the truth of a Cordelia to the falsehood of an Iago. As these +golden sands slope from the sunlight into the wallowing abyss of +darkness, even so from the love of the child to his holy mother slopes +the inclined plane of humanity to the hell of the sensualist. "But with +one difference in the moral world," I said aloud, as I paced up and down +on the shimmering margin, "that everywhere in the scale the eye of the +all-seeing Father can detect the first quiver of the eyelid that would +raise itself heavenward, responsive to his waking spirit." I lifted my +eyes in the relief of the thought, and saw how the sun of the autumn +hung above the waters oppressed with a mist of his own glory; far away +to the left a man who had been clambering on a low rock, inaccessible +save in such a tide, gathering mussels, threw himself into the sea and +swam ashore; above his head the storm-tower stood in the stormless air; +the sea glittered and shone, and the long-winged birds knew not which +to choose, the balmy air or the cool deep, now flitting like arrow-heads +through the one, now alighting eagerly upon the other, to forsake it +anew for the thinner element. I thanked God for his glory. + +"O, papa, it's so jolly--so jolly!" shouted the children as I passed +them again. + +"What is it that's so jolly, Charlie?" I asked. + +"My castle," screeched Harry in reply; "only it's tumbled down. The +water _would_ keep coming in underneath." + +"I tried to stop it with a newspaper," cried Charlie, "but it wouldn't. +So we were forced to let it be, and down it went into the ditch." + +"We blew it up rather than surrender," said Dora. "We did; only Harry +always forgets, and says it was the water did it." + +I drew near the rock that held the bath. I had never approached it from +this side before. It was high above my head, and a stream of water was +flowing from it. I scrambled up, undressed, and plunged into its dark +hollow, where I felt like one of the sea-beasts of which I had been +dreaming, down in the caves of the unvisited ocean. But the sun was over +my head, and the air with an edge of the winter was about me. I dressed +quickly, descended on the other side of the rock, and wandered again on +the sands to seaward of the breakwater, which lay above, looking dry +and weary, and worn with years of contest with the waves, which had at +length withdrawn defeated to their own country, and left it as if to +victory and a useless age of peace. How different was the scene when a +raving mountain of water filled all the hollow where I now wandered, +and rushed over the top of that mole now so high above me; and I had +to cling to its stones to keep me from being carried off like a bit +of floating sea-weed! This was the loveliest and strangest part of the +shore. Several long low ridges of rock, of whose existence I scarcely +knew, worn to a level with the sand, hollowed and channelled with the +terrible run of the tide across them, and looking like the old and +outworn cheek-teeth of some awful beast of prey, stretched out seawards. +Here and there amongst them rose a well-known rock, but now so changed +in look by being lifted all the height between the base on the waters, +and the second base in the sand, that I wondered at each, walking round +and viewing it on all sides. It seemed almost a fresh growth out of the +garden of the shore, with uncouth hollows around its fungous root, and +a forsaken air about its brows as it stood in the dry sand and looked +seaward. But what made the chief delight of the spot, closed in by +rocks from the open sands, was the multitude of fairy rivers that +flowed across it to the sea. The gladness these streams gave me I cannot +communicate. The tide had filled thousands of hollows in the breakwater, +hundreds of cracked basins in the rocks, huge sponges of sand; from all +of which--from cranny and crack, and oozing sponge--the water flowed in +restricted haste back, back to the sea, tumbling in tiny cataracts +down the faces of the rocks, bubbling from their roots as from wells, +gathering in tanks of sand, and overflowing in broad shallow streams, +curving and sweeping in their sandy channels, just like, the great +rivers of a continent;--here spreading into smooth silent lakes and +reaches, here babbling along in ripples and waves innumerable--flowing, +flowing, to lose their small beings in the same ocean that met on the +other side the waters of the Mississippi, the Orinoco, the Amazon. All +their channels were of golden sand, and the golden sunlight was above +and through and in them all: gold and gold met, with the waters between. +And what gave an added life to their motion was, that all the ripples +made shadows on the clear yellow below them. The eye could not see +the rippling on the surface; but the sun saw it, and drew it in +multitudinous shadowy motion upon the sand, with the play of a thousand +fancies of gold burnished and dead, of sunlight and yellow, trembling, +melting, curving, blending, vanishing ever, ever renewed. It was as if +all the water-marks upon a web of golden silk had been set in wildest +yet most graceful curvilinear motion by the breath of a hundred playful +zephyrs. My eye could not be filled with seeing. I stood in speechless +delight for a while, gazing at the "endless ending" which was "the +humour of the game," and thinking how in all God's works the laws of +beauty are wrought out in evanishment, in birth and death. There, there +is no hoarding, but an ever-fresh creating, an eternal flow of life +from the heart of the All-beautiful. Hence even the heart of man cannot +hoard. His brain or his hand may gather into its box and hoard; but the +moment the thing has passed into the box, the heart has lost it and is +hungry again. If man would _have,_ it is the giver he must have; the +eternal, the original, the ever-outpouring is alone within his reach; +the everlasting _creation_ is his heritage. Therefore all that he makes +must be free to come and go through the heart of his child; he can enjoy +it only as it passes, can enjoy only its life, its soul, its vision, +its meaning, not itself. To hoard rubies and sapphires is as useless and +hopeless for the heart, as if I were to attempt to hoard this marvel of +sand and water and sunlight in the same iron chest with the musty deeds +of my wife's inheritance. + +"Father," I murmured half aloud, "thou alone art, and I am because thou +art. Thy will shall be mine." + +I know that I must have spoken aloud, because I remember the start of +consciousness and discomposure occasioned by the voice of Percivale +greeting me. + +"I beg your pardon," he added; "I did not mean to startle you, Mr. +Walton. I thought you were only looking at Nature's childplay--not +thinking." + +"I know few things _more_ fit to set one thinking than what you have +very well called Nature's childplay," I returned. "Is Nature very +heartless now, do you think, to go on with this kind of thing at our +feet, when away up yonder lies the awful London, with so many sores +festering in her heart?" + +"You must answer your own question, Mr. Walton. You know I cannot. I +confess I feel the difficulty deeply. I will go further, and confess +that the discrepancy makes me doubt many things I would gladly believe. +I know _you_ are able to distinguish between a glad unbelief and a +sorrowful doubt." + +"Else were I unworthy of the humblest place in the kingdom--unworthy to +be a doorkeeper in the house of my God," I answered, and recoiled from +the sound of my own words; for they seemed to imply that I believed +myself worthy of the position I occupied. I hastened to correct them: +"But do not mistake my thoughts," I said; "I do not dream of worthiness +in the way of honour--only of fitness for the work to be done. For that +I think God has fitted me in some measure. The doorkeeper's office may +be given him, not because he has done some great deed worthy of the +honour, but because he can sweep the porch and scour the threshold, and +will, in the main, try to keep them clean. That is all the worthiness I +dare to claim, even to hope that I possess." + +"No one who knows you can mistake your words, except wilfully," returned +Percivale courteously. + +"Thank you," I said. "Now I will just ask you, in reference to the +contrast between human life and nature, how you will go back to your +work in London, after seeing all this child's and other play of Nature? +Suppose you had had nothing here but rain and high winds and sea-fogs, +would you have been better fitted for doing something to comfort those +who know nothing of such influences than you will be now? One of the +most important qualifications of a sick-nurse is a ready smile. A +long-faced nurse in a sickroom is a visible embodiment and presence of +the disease against which the eager life of the patient is fighting in +agony. Such ought to be banished, with their black dresses and their +mourning-shop looks, from every sick-chamber, and permitted to minister +only to the dead, who do not mind looks. With what a power of life +and hope does a woman--young or old I do not care--with a face of the +morning, a dress like the spring, a bunch of wild flowers in her hand, +with the dew upon them, and perhaps in her eyes too (I don't object +to that--that is sympathy, not the worship of darkness),--with what a +message from nature and life does she, looking death in the face with a +smile, dawn upon the vision of the invalid! She brings a little health, +a little strength to fight, a little hope to endure, actually lapt in +the folds of her gracious garments; for the soul itself can do more than +any medicine, if it be fed with the truth of life." + +"But are you not--I beg your pardon for interposing on your eloquence +with dull objection," said Percivale--"are you not begging all the +question? _Is_ life such an affair of sunshine and gladness?" + +"If life is not, then I confess all this show of nature is worse than +vanity--it is a vile mockery. Life is gladness; it is the death in +it that makes the misery. We call life-in-death life, and hence the +mistake. If gladness were not at the root, whence its opposite sorrow, +against which we arise, from which we recoil, with which we fight? We +recognise it as death--the contrary of life. There could be no sorrow +but for a recognition of primordial bliss. This in us that fights must +be life. It is of the nature of light, not of darkness; darkness is +nothing until the light comes. This very childplay, as you call it, of +Nature, is her assertion of the secret that life is the deepest, that +life shall conquer death. Those who believe this must bear the good +news to them that sit in darkness and the shadow of death. Our Lord has +conquered death--yea, the moral death that he called the world; and now, +having sown the seed of light, the harvest is springing in human hearts, +is springing in this dance of radiance, and will grow and grow until the +hearts of the children of the kingdom shall frolic in the sunlight +of the Father's presence. Nature has God at her heart; she is but the +garment of the Invisible. God wears his singing robes in a day like +this, and says to his children, 'Be not afraid: your brothers and +sisters up there in London are in my hands; go and help them. I am with +you. Bear to them the message of joy. Tell them to be of good cheer: +I have overcome the world. Tell them to endure hunger, and not sin; to +endure passion, and not yield; to admire, and not desire. Sorrow and +pain are serving my ends; for by them will I slay sin; and save my +children.'" + +"I wish I could believe as you do, Mr. Walton." + +"I wish you could. But God will teach you, if you are willing to be +taught." + +"I desire the truth, Mr. Walton." + +"God bless you! God is blessing you," I said. + +"Amen," returned Percivale devoutly; and we strolled away together in +silence towards the cliffs. + +The recession of the tide allowed us to get far enough away from the +face of the rocks to see the general effect. With the lisping of the +inch-deep wavelets at our heels we stood and regarded the worn yet +defiant, the wasted and jagged yet reposeful face of the guardians of +the shore. + +"Who could imagine, in weather like this, and with this baby of a tide +lying behind us, low at our feet, and shallow as the water a schoolboy +pours upon his slate to wash it withal, that those grand cliffs before +us bear on their front the scars and dints of centuries, of chiliads of +stubborn resistance, of passionate contest with this same creature that +is at this moment unable to rock the cradle of an infant? Look behind +you, at your feet, Mr. Percivale; look before you at the chasms, rents, +caves, and hollows of those rocks." + +"I wish you were a painter, Mr. Walton," he said. + +"I wish I were," I returned. "At least I know I should rejoice in it, if +it had been given me to be one. But why do you say so now?" + +"Because you have always some individual predominating idea, which +would give interpretation to Nature while it gave harmony, reality, and +individuality to your representation of her." + +"I know what you mean," I answered; "but I have no gift whatever in that +direction. I have no idea of drawing, or of producing the effects +of light and shade; though I think I have a little notion of +colour--perhaps about as much as the little London boy, who stopped a +friend of mine once to ask the way to the field where the buttercups +grew, had of nature." + +"I wish I could ask your opinion of some of my pictures." + +"That I should never presume to give. I could only tell you what they +made me feel, or perhaps only think. Some day I may have the pleasure of +looking at them." + +"May I offer you my address?" he said, and took a card from his +pocket-book. "It is a poor place, but if you should happen to think of +me when you are next in London, I shall be honoured by your paying me a +visit." + +"I shall be most happy," I returned, taking his card.--"Did it ever +occur to you, in reference to the subject we were upon a few minutes +ago, how little you can do without shadow in making a picture?" + +"Little indeed," answered Percivale. "In fact, it would be no picture at +all." + +"I doubt if the world would fare better without its shadows." + +"But it would be a poor satisfaction, with regard to the nature of God, +to be told that he allowed evil for artistic purposes." + +"It would indeed, if you regard the world as a picture. But if you think +of his art as expended, not upon the making of a history or a drama, but +upon the making of an individual, a being, a character, then I think +a great part of the difficulty concerning the existence of evil which +oppresses you will vanish. So long as a creature has not sinned, sin +is possible to him. Does it seem inconsistent with the character of God +that in order that sin should become impossible he should allow sin +to come? that, in order that his creatures should choose the good and +refuse the evil, in order that they might become such, with their +whole nature infinitely enlarged, as to turn from sin with a perfect +repugnance of the will, he should allow them to fall? that, in order +that, from being sweet childish children, they should become noble, +child-like men and women, he should let them try to walk alone? +Why should he not allow the possible in order that it should become +impossible? for possible it would ever have been, even in the midst of +all the blessedness, until it had been, and had been thus destroyed. +Thus sin is slain, uprooted. And the war must ever exist, it seems to +me, where there is creation still going on. How could I be content to +guard my children so that they should never have temptation, knowing +that in all probability they would fail if at any moment it should cross +their path? Would the deepest communion of father and child ever be +possible between us? Evil would ever seem to be in the child, so long +as it was possible it should be there developed. And if this can be said +for the existence of moral evil, the existence of all other evil becomes +a comparative trifle; nay, a positive good, for by this the other is +combated." + +"I think I understand you," returned Percivale. "I will think over what +you have said. These are very difficult questions." + +"Very. I don't think argument is of much use about them, except as it +may help to quiet a man's uneasiness a little, and so give his mind +peace to think about duty. For about the doing of duty there can be no +question, once it is seen. And the doing of duty is the shortest--in +very fact, the only way into the light." + +As we spoke, we had turned from the cliffs, and wandered back across the +salt streams to the sands beyond. From the direction of the house came +a little procession of servants, with Walter at their head, bearing the +preparations for our dinner--over the gates of the lock, down the sides +of the embankment of the canal, and across the sands, in the direction +of the children, who were still playing merrily. + +"Will you join our early dinner, which is to be out of doors, as you +see, somewhere hereabout on the sands?" I said. + +"I shall be delighted," he answered, "if you will let me be of some use +first. I presume you mean to bring your invalid out." + +"Yes; and you shall help me to carry her, if you will." + +"That is what I hoped," said Percivale; and we went together towards the +parsonage. + +As we approached, I saw Wynnie sitting at the drawing-room window; but +when we entered the room, she was gone. My wife was there, however. + +"Where is Wynnie?" I asked. + +"She saw you coming," she answered, "and went to get Connie ready; for I +guessed Mr. Percivale had come to help you to carry her out." + +But I could not help doubting there might be more than that in Wynnie's +disappearance. "What if she should have fallen in love with him," I +thought, "and he should never say a word on the subject? That would be +dreadful for us all." + +They had been repeatedly but not very much together of late, and I was +compelled to allow to myself that if they did fall in love with each +other it would be very natural on both sides, for there was evidently +a great mental resemblance between them, so that they could not help +sympathising with each other's peculiarities. And anyone could see what +a fine couple they would make. + +Wynnie was much taller than Connie--almost the height of her mother. +She had a very fair skin, and brown hair, a broad forehead, a wise, +thoughtful, often troubled face, a mouth that seldom smiled, but on +which a smile seemed always asleep, and round soft cheeks that dimpled +like water when she did smile. I have described Percivale before. Why +should not two such walk together along the path to the gates of the +light? And yet I could not help some anxiety. I did not know anything +of his history. I had no testimony concerning him from anyone that knew +him. His past life was a blank to me; his means of livelihood probably +insufficient--certainly, I judged, precarious; and his position in +society--but there I checked myself: I had had enough of that kind of +thing already. I would not willingly offend in that worldliness again. +The God of the whole earth could not choose that I should look at +such works of his hands after that fashion. And I was his servant--not +Mammon's or Belial's. + +All this passed through my mind in about three turns of the +winnowing-fan of thought. Mr. Percivale had begun talking to my wife, +who took no pains to conceal that his presence was pleasant to her, and +I went upstairs, almost unconsciously, to Connie's room. + +When I opened the door, forgetting to announce my approach as I ought to +have done, I saw Wynnie leaning over Connie, and Connie's arm round her +waist. Wynnie started back, and Connie gave a little cry, for the jerk +thus occasioned had hurt her. Wynnie had turned her head away, but +turned it again at Connie's cry, and I saw a tear on her face. + +"My darlings, I beg your pardon," I said. "It was very stupid of me not +to knock at the door." + +Connie looked up at me with large resting eyes, and said-- + +"It's nothing, papa, Wynnie is in one of her gloomy moods, and didn't +want you to see her crying. She gave me a little pull, that was all. +It didn't hurt me much, only I'm such a goose! I'm in terror before the +pain comes. Look at me," she added, seeing, doubtless, some perturbation +on my countenance, "I'm all right now." And she smiled in my face +perfectly. + +I turned to Wynnie, put my arm about her, kissed her cheek, and left the +room. I looked round at the door, and saw that Connie was following me +with her eyes, but Wynnie's were hidden in her handkerchief. + +I went back to the drawing-room, and in a few minutes Walter came to +announce that dinner was about to be served. The same moment Wynnie came +to say that Connie was ready. She did not lift her eyes, or approach to +give Percivale any greeting, but went again as soon as she had given her +message. I saw that he looked first concerned and then thoughtful. + +"Come, Mr. Percivale," I said; and he followed me up to Connie's room. + +Wynnie was not there; but Connie lay, looking lovely, all ready for +going. We lifted her, and carried her by the window out on the down, for +the easiest way, though the longest, was by the path to the breakwater, +along its broad back and down from the end of it upon the sands. Before +we reached the breakwater, I found that Wynnie was following behind us. +We stopped in the middle of it, and set Connie down, as if I wanted +to take breath. But I had thought of something to say to her, which I +wanted Wynnie to hear without its being addressed to her. + +"Do you see, Connie," I said, "how far off the water is?" + +"Yes, papa; it is a long way off. I wish I could get up and run down to +it." + +"You can hardly believe that all between, all those rocks, and all that +sand, will be covered before sunset." + +"I know it will be. But it doesn't _look_ likely, does it, papa!" + +"Not the least likely, my dear. Do you remember that stormy night when I +came through your room to go out for a walk in the dark?" + +"Remember it, papa? I cannot forget it. Every time I hear the wind +blowing when I wake in the night I fancy you are out in it, and have to +wake myself up' quite to get rid of the thought." + +"Well, Connie, look down into the great hollow there, with rocks and +sand at the bottom of it, stretching far away." + +"Yes, papa." + +"Now look over the side of your litter. You see those holes all about +between the stones?" + +"Yes, papa." + +"Well, one of those little holes saved my life that night, when the +great gulf there was full of huge mounds of roaring water, which rushed +across this breakwater with force enough to sweep a whole cavalry +regiment off its back." + +"Papa!" exclaimed Connie, turning pale. + +Then first I told her all the story. And Wynnie listened behind. + +"Then I _was_ right in being frightened, papa!" cried Connie, bursting +into tears; for since her accident she could not well command her +feelings. + +"You were right in trusting in God, Connie." + +"But you might have been drowned, papa!" she sobbed. + +"Nobody has a right to say that anything might have been other than what +has been. Before a thing has happened we can say might or might not; but +that has to do only with our ignorance. Of course I am not speaking +of things wherein we ought to exercise will and choice. That is _our_ +department. But this does not look like that now, does it? Think what +a change--from the dark night and the roaring water to this fulness of +sunlight and the bare sands, with the water lisping on their edge away +there in the distance. Now, I want you to think that in life troubles +will come which look as if they would never pass away; the night and the +storm look as if they would last for ever; but the calm and the morning +cannot be stayed; the storm in its very nature is transient. The effort +of Nature, as that of the human heart, ever is to return to its repose, +for God is Peace." + +"But if you will excuse me, Mr. Walton," said Percivale, "you can hardly +expect experience to be of use to any but those who have had it. It +seems to me that its influences cannot be imparted." + +"That depends on the amount of faith in those to whom its results are +offered. Of course, as experience, it can have no weight with another; +for it is no longer experience. One remove, and it ceases. But faith in +the person who has experienced can draw over or derive--to use an old +Italian word--some of its benefits to him who has the faith. Experience +may thus, in a sense, be accumulated, and we may go on to fresh +experience of our own. At least I can hope that the experience of a +father may take the form of hope in the minds of his daughters. +Hope never hurt anyone, never yet interfered with duty; nay, always +strengthens to the performance of duty, gives courage, and clears the +judgment. St. Paul says we are saved by hope. Hope is the most rational +thing in the universe. Even the ancient poets, who believed it was +delusive, yet regarded it as an antidote given by the mercy of the gods +against some, at least, of the ills of life." + +"But they counted it delusive. A wise man cannot consent to be deluded." + +"Assuredly not. The sorest truth rather than a false hope! But what is a +false hope? Only one that ought not to be fulfilled. The old poets could +give themselves little room for hope, and less for its fulfilment; for +what were the gods in whom they believed--I cannot say in whom they +trusted? Gods who did the best their own poverty of being was capable of +doing for men when they gave them the _illusion_ of hope. But I see +they are waiting for us below. One thing I repeat--the waves that +foamed across the spot where we now stand are gone away, have sunk and +vanished." + +"But they will come again, papa," faltered Wynnie. + +"And God will come with them, my love," I said, as we lifted the litter. + +In a few minutes more we were all seated on the sand around a +table-cloth spread upon it. I shall never forgot the peace and the +light outside and in, as far as I was concerned at least, and I hope +the others too, that afternoon. The tide had turned, and the waves were +creeping up over the level, soundless almost as thought; but it would +be time to go home long before they had reached us. The sun was in the +western half of the sky, and now and then a breath of wind came from the +sea, with a slight saw-edge in it, but not enough to hurt. Connie could +stand much more in that way now. And when I saw how she could move +herself on her couch, and thought how much she had improved since first +she was laid upon it, hope for her kept fluttering joyously in my heart. +I could not help fancying even that I saw her move her legs a little; +but I could not be in the least sure; and she, if she did move them, +was clearly unconscious of it. Charles and Harry were every now and then +starting up from their dinner and running off with a shout, to return +with apparently increased appetite for the rest of it; and neither their +mother nor I cared to interfere with the indecorum. Dora alone took +it upon her to rebuke them. Wynnie was very silent, but looked more +cheerful. Connie seemed full of quiet bliss. My wife's face was a +picture of heavenly repose. The old nurse was walking about with the +baby, occasionally with one hand helping the other servants to wait upon +us. They, too, seemed to have a share in the gladness of the hour, and, +like Ariel, did their spiriting gently. + +"This is the will of God," I said, after the things were removed, and we +had sat for a few moments in silence. + +"What is the will of God, husband?" asked Ethelwyn. + +"Why, this, my love," I answered; "this living air, and wind, and sea, +and light, and land all about us; this consenting, consorting harmony of +Nature, that mirrors a like peace in our souls. The perfection of such +visions, the gathering of them all in one was, is, I should say, in the +face of Christ Jesus. You will say that face was troubled sometimes. +Yes, but with a trouble that broke not the music, but deepened the +harmony. When he wept at the grave of Lazarus, you do not think it was +for Lazarus himself, or for his own loss of him, that he wept? That +could not be, seeing he had the power to call him back when he would. +The grief was for the poor troubled hearts left behind, to whom it was +so dreadful because they had not faith enough in his Father, the God +of life and love, who was looking after it all, full of tenderness and +grace, with whom Lazarus was present and blessed. It was the aching, +loving heart of humanity for which he wept, that needed God so awfully, +and could not yet trust in him. Their brother was only hidden in the +skirts of their Father's garment, but they could not believe that: they +said he was dead--lost--away--all gone, as the children say. And it was +so sad to think of a whole world full of the grief of death, that he +could not bear it without the human tears to help his heart, as they +help ours. It was for our dark sorrows that he wept. But the peace could +be no less plain on the face that saw God. Did you ever think of that +wonderful saying: 'Again a little while, and ye shall see me, because I +go to the Father'? The heart of man would have joined the 'because I go +to the Father' with the former result--the not seeing of him. The heart +of man is not able, without more and more light, to understand that all +vision is in the light of the Father. Because Jesus went to the Father, +therefore the disciples saw him tenfold more. His body no longer in +their eyes, his very being, his very self was in their hearts--not in +their affections only--in their spirits, their heavenly consciousness." + +As I said this, a certain hymn, for which I had and have an especial +affection, came into my mind, and, without prologue or introduction, I +repeated it: + + "If I Him but have, + If he be but mine, + If my heart, hence to the grave, + Ne'er forgets his love divine-- + Know I nought of sadness, + Feel I nought but worship, love, and gladness. + + If I Him but have, + Glad with all I part; + Follow on my pilgrim staff + My Lord only, with true heart; + Leave them, nothing saying, + On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying. + + If I Him but have, + Glad I fall asleep; + Aye the flood that his heart gave + Strength within my heart shall keep, + And with soft compelling + Make it tender, through and through it swelling. + + If I Him but have, + Mine the world I hail! + Glad as cherub smiling grave, + Holding back the virgin's veil. + Sunk and lost in seeing, + Earthly fears have died from all my being. + + Where I have but Him + Is my Fatherland; + And all gifts and graces come + Heritage into my hand: + Brothers long deplored + I in his disciples find restored." + +"What a lovely hymn, papa!" exclaimed Connie. She could always speak +more easily than either her mother or sister. "Who wrote it?" + +"Friedrich von Hardenberg, known, where he is known, as Novalis." + +"But he must have written it in German. Did you translate it?" + +"Yes. You will find, I think, that I have kept form, thought, and +feeling, however I may have failed in making an English poem of it." + +"O, you dear papa, it is lovely! Is it long since you did it?" + +"Years before you were born, Connie." + +"To think of you having lived so long, and being one of us!" she +returned. "Was he a Roman Catholic, papa?" + +"No, he was a Moravian. At least, his parents were. I don't think he +belonged to any section of the church in particular." + +"But oughtn't he, papa?" + +"Certainly not, my dear, except he saw good reason for it. But what is +the use of asking such questions, after a hymn like that?" + +"O, I didn't think anything bad, papa, I assure you. It was only that I +wanted to know more about him." + +The tears were in her eyes, and I was sorry I had treated as significant +what was really not so. But the constant tendency to consider +Christianity as associated of necessity with this or that form of +it, instead of as simply obedience to Christ, had grown more and more +repulsive to me as I had grown myself, for it always seemed like an +insult to my brethren in Christ; hence the least hint of it in my +children I was too ready to be down upon like a most unchristian ogre. +I took her hand in mine, and she was comforted, for she saw in my face +that I was sorry, and yet she could see that there was reason at the +root of my haste. + +"But," said Wynnie, who, I thought afterwards, must have strengthened +herself to speak from the instinctive desire to show Percivale how far +she was from being out of sympathy with what he might suppose formed a +barrier between him and me--"But," she said, "the lovely feeling in that +poem seems to me, as in all the rest of such poems, to belong only to +the New Testament, and have nothing to do with this world round about +us. These things look as if they were only for drawing and painting and +being glad in, not as if they had relations with all those awful and +solemn things. As soon as I try to get the two together, I lose both of +them." + +"That is because the human mind must begin with one thing and grow to +the rest. At first, Christianity seemed to men to have only to do with +their conscience. That was the first relation, of course. But even with +art it was regarded as having no relation except for the presentment of +its history. Afterwards, men forgot the conscience almost in trying to +make Christianity comprehensible to the understanding. Now, I trust, we +are beginning to see that Christianity is everything or nothing. Either +the whole is a lovely fable setting forth the loftiest longing of the +human soul after the vision of the divine, or it is such a fact as is +the heart not only of theology so called, but of history, politics, +science, and art. The treasures of the Godhead must be hidden in him, +and therefore by him only can be revealed. This will interpret all +things, or it has not yet been. Teachers of men have not taught this, +because they have not seen it. If we do not find him in nature, we may +conclude either that we do not understand the expression of nature, or +have mistaken ideas or poor feelings about him. It is one great business +in our life to find the interpretation which will render this harmony +visible. Till we find it, we have not seen him to be all in all. +Recognising a discord when they touched the notes of nature and society, +the hermits forsook the instrument altogether, and contented themselves +with a partial symphony--lofty, narrow, and weak. Their example, more or +less, has been followed by almost all Christians. Exclusion is so much +the easier way of getting harmony in the orchestra than study, insight, +and interpretation, that most have adopted it. It is for us, and all who +have hope in the infinite God, to widen its basis as we may, to search +and find the true tone and right idea, place, and combination of +instruments, until to our enraptured ear they all, with one voice of +multiform yet harmonious utterance, declare the glory of God and of his +Christ." + +"A grand idea," said Percivale. + +"Therefore likely to be a true one," I returned. "People find it hard +to believe grand things; but why? If there be a God, is it not likely +everything is grand, save where the reflection of his great thoughts is +shaken, broken, distorted by the watery mirrors of our unbelieving and +troubled souls? Things ought to be grand, simple, and noble. The ages of +eternity will go on showing that such they are and ever have been. God +will yet be victorious over our wretched unbeliefs." + +I was sitting facing the sea, but with my eyes fixed on the sand, boring +holes in it with my stick, for I could talk better when I did not look +my familiar faces in the face. I did not feel thus in the pulpit; there +I sought the faces of my flock, to assist me in speaking to their needs. +As I drew to the close of my last monologue, a colder and stronger blast +from the sea blew in my face. I lifted my head, and saw that the tide +had crept up a long way, and was coming in fast. A luminous fog had sunk +down over the western horizon, and almost hidden the sun, had obscured +the half of the sea, and destroyed all our hopes of a sunset. A certain +veil as of the commonplace, like that which so often settles down over +the spirit of man after a season of vision and glory and gladness, had +dropped over the face of Nature. The wind came in little bitter gusts +across the dull waters. It was time to lift Connie and take her home. + +This was the last time we ate together on the open shore. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A PASTORAL VISIT. + + + + + +The next morning rose neither "cherchef't in a comely cloud" nor "roab'd +in flames and amber light," but covered all in a rainy mist, which the +wind mingled with salt spray torn from the tops of the waves. Every now +and then the wind blew a blastful of larger drops against the window of +my study with an angry clatter and clash, as if daring me to go out +and meet its ire. The earth was very dreary, for there were no shadows +anywhere. The sun was hustled away by the crowding vapours; and earth, +sea, and sky were possessed by a gray spirit that threatened wrath. The +breakfast-bell rang, and I went down, expecting to find my Wynnie, who +was always down first to make the tea, standing at the window with a +sad face, giving fit response to the aspect of nature without, her soul +talking with the gray spirit. I did find her at the window, looking out +upon the restless tossing of the waters, but with no despondent answer +to the trouble of nature. On the contrary, her cheek, though neither +rosy nor radiant, looked luminous, and her eyes were flashing out upon +the ebb-tide which was sinking away into the troubled ocean beyond. Does +my girl-reader expect me to tell her next that something had happened? +that Percivale had said something to her? or that, at least, he had just +passed the window, and given her a look which she might interpret as she +pleased? I must disappoint her. It was nothing of the sort. I knew +the heart and feeling of my child. It was only that kind nature was in +sympathy with her mood. The girl was always more peaceful in storm than +in sunshine. I remembered that now. A movement of life instantly began +in her when the obligation of gladness had departed with the light. Her +own being arose to provide for its own needs. She could smile now when +nature required from her no smile in response to hers. And I could not +help saying to myself, "She must marry a poor man some day; she is a +creature of the north, and not of the south; the hot sun of prosperity +would wither her up. Give her a bleak hill-side, and a glint or two of +sunshine between the hailstorms, and she will live and grow; give her +poverty and love, and life will be interesting to her as a romance; give +her money and position, and she will grow dull and haughty. She will +believe in nothing that poet can sing or architect build. She will, like +Cassius, scorn her spirit for being moved to smile at anything." + +I had stood regarding her for a moment. She turned and saw me, and came +forward with her usual morning greeting. + +"I beg your pardon, papa: I thought it was Walter." + +"I am glad to see a smile on your face, my love." + +"Don't think me very disagreeable, papa. I know I am a trouble to you. +But I am a trouble to myself first. I fear I have a discontented mind +and a complaining temper. But I do try, and I will try hard to overcome +it." + +"It will not get the better of you, so long as you do the duty of the +moment. But I think, as I told you before, that you are not very well, +and that your indisposition is going to do you good by making you think +about some things you are ready to think about, but which you might have +banished if you had been in good health and spirits. You are feeling as +you never felt before, that you need a presence in your soul of which +at least you haven't enough yet. But I preached quite enough to you +yesterday, and I won't go on the same way to-day again. Only I wanted to +comfort you. Come and give me my breakfast." + +"You do comfort me, papa," she answered, approaching the table. "I know +I don't show what I feel as I ought, but you do comfort me much. Don't +you like a day like this, papa?" + +"I do, my dear. I always did. And I think you take after me in that, as +you do in a good many things besides. That is how I understand you so +well." + +"Do I really take after you, papa? Are you sure that you understand me +so well?" she asked, brightening up. + +"I know I do," I returned, replying to her last question. + +"Better than I do myself?" she asked with an arch smile. + +"Considerably, if I mistake not," I answered. + +"How delightful! To think that I am understood even when I don't +understand myself!" + +"But even if I am wrong, you are yet understood. The blessedness of life +is that we can hide nothing from God. If we could hide anything from +God, that hidden thing would by and by turn into a terrible disease. +It is the sight of God that keeps and makes things clean. But as we are +both, by mutual confession, fond of this kind of weather, what do you +say to going out with me? I have to visit a sick woman." + +"You don't mean Mrs. Coombes, papa?" + +"No, my dear. I did not hear she was ill." + +"O, I daresay it is nothing much. Only old nursey said yesterday she was +in bed with a bad cold, or something of that sort." + +"We'll call and inquire as we pass,--that is, if you are inclined to go +with me." + +"How can you put an _if_ to that, papa?" + +"I have just had a message from that cottage that stands all alone on +the corner of Mr. Barton's farm--over the cliff, you know--that the +woman is ill, and would like to see me. So the sooner we start the +better." + +"I shall have done my breakfast in five minutes, papa. O, here's +mamma!--Mamma, I'm going out for a walk in the rain with papa. You won't +mind, will you?" + +"I don't think it will do you any harm, my dear. That's all I mind, you +know. It was only once or twice when you were not well that I objected +to it. I quite agree with your papa, that only lazy people are _glad_ to +stay in-doors when it rains." + +"And it does blow so delightfully!" said Wynnie, as she left the room to +put on her long cloak and her bonnet. + +We called at the sexton's cottage, and found him sitting gloomily by the +low window, looking seaward. + +"I hope your wife is not _very_ poorly, Coombes," I said. + +"No, sir. She be very comfortable in bed. Bed's not a bad place to be in +in such weather," he answered, turning again a dreary look towards the +Atlantic. "Poor things!" + +"What a passion for comfort you have, Coombes! How does that come about, +do you think?" + +"I suppose I was made so, sir." + +"To be sure you were. God made you so." + +"Surely, sir. Who else?" + +"Then I suppose he likes making people comfortable if he makes people +like to be comfortable." + +"It du look likely enough, sir." + +"Then when he takes it out of your hands, you mustn't think he doesn't +look after the people you would make comfortable if you could." + +"I must mind my work, you know, sir." + +"Yes, surely. And you mustn't want to take his out of his hands, and go +grumbling as if you would do it so much better if he would only let you +get _your_ hand to it." + +"I daresay you be right, sir," he said. "I must just go and have a look +about, though. Here's Agnes. She'll tell you about mother." + +He took his spade from the corner, and went out. He often brought his +tools into the cottage. He had carved the handle of his spade all over +with the names of the people he had buried. + +"Tell your mother, Agnes, that I will call in the evening and see her, +if she would like to see me. We are going now to see Mrs. Stokes. She is +very poorly, I hear." + +"Let us go through the churchyard, papa," said Wynnie, "and see what the +old man is doing." + +"Very well, my dear. It is only a few steps round." + +"Why do you humour the sexton's foolish fancy so much, papa? It is +such nonsense! You taught us it was, surely, in your sermon about the +resurrection?" + +"Most certainly, my dear. But it would be of no use to try to get it out +of his head by any argument. He has a kind of craze in that direction. +To get people's hearts right is of much more importance than convincing +their judgments. Right judgment will follow. All such fixed ideas should +be encountered from the deepest grounds of truth, and not from the +outsides of their relations. Coombes has to be taught that God cares for +the dead more than he does, and _therefore_ it is unreasonable for him +to be anxious about them." + +When we reached the churchyard we found the old man kneeling on a grave +before its headstone. It was a very old one, with a death's-head and +cross-bones carved upon the top of it in very high relief. With his +pocket-knife he was removing the lumps of green moss out of the hollows +of the eyes of the carven skull. We did not interrupt him, but walked +past with a nod. + +"You saw what he was doing, Wynnie? That reminds me of almost the only +thing in Dante's grand poem that troubles me. I cannot think of it +without a renewal of my concern, though I have no doubt he is as sorry +now as I am that ever he could have written it. When, in the _Inferno,_ +he reaches the lowest region of torture, which is a solid lake of ice, +he finds the lost plunged in it to various depths, some, if I remember +rightly, entirely submerged, and visible only through the ice, +transparent as crystal, like the insects found in amber. One man with +his head only above the ice, appeals to him as condemned to the same +punishment to take pity on him, and remove the lumps of frozen tears +from his eyes, that he may weep a little before they freeze again and +stop the relief once more. Dante says to him, 'Tell me who you are, +and if I do not assist you, I deserve to lie at the bottom of the ice +myself.' The man tells him who he is, and explains to him one awful +mystery of these regions. Then he says, 'Now stretch forth thy hand, +and open my eyes.' 'And,' says Dante, I did not open them for him; and +rudeness to him was courtesy.'" + +"But he promised, you said." + +"He did; and yet he did not do it. Pity and truth had abandoned him +together. One would think little of it comparatively, were it not that +Dante is so full of tenderness and grand religion. It is very awful, and +may teach us many things." + +"But what made you think of that now?" + +"Merely what Coombes was about. The visual image was all. He was +scooping the green moss out of the eyes of the death's-head on the +gravestone." + +By this time we were on the top of the downs, and the wind was buffeting +us, and every other minute assailing us with a blast of rain. Wynnie +drew her cloak closer about her, bent her head towards the blast, and +struggled on bravely by my side. No one who wants to enjoy a walk in the +rain must carry an umbrella; it is pure folly. When we came to one +of the stone fences, we cowered down by its side for a few moments +to recover our breath, and then struggled on again. Anything like +conversation was out of the question. At length we dropped into a +hollow, which gave us a little repose. Down below the sea was dashing +into the mouth of the glen, or coomb, as they call it there. On the +opposite side of the hollow, the little house to which we were going +stood up against the gray sky. + +"I begin to doubt whether I ought to have brought you, Wynnie. It was +thoughtless of me; I don't mean for your sake, but because your presence +may be embarrassing in a small house; for probably the poor woman may +prefer seeing me alone." + +"I will go back, papa. I sha'n't mind it a bit." + +"No; you had better come on. I shall not be long with her, I daresay. We +may find some place that you can wait in. Are you wet?" + +"Only my cloak. I am as dry as a tortoise inside." + +"Come along, then. We shall soon be there." + +When we reached the house I found that Wynnie would not be in the way. +I left her seated by the kitchen-fire, and was shown into the room where +Mrs. Stokes lay. I cannot say I perceived. But I guessed somehow, the +moment I saw her that there was something upon her mind. She was +a hard-featured woman, with a cold, troubled black eye that rolled +restlessly about. She lay on her back, moving her head from side to +side. When I entered she only looked at me, and turned her eyes away +towards the wall. I approached the bedside, and seated myself by it. +I always do so at once; for the patient feels more at rest than if you +stand tall up before her. I laid my hand on hers. + +"Are you very ill, Mrs. Stokes?" I said. + +"Yes, very," she answered with a groan. "It be come to the last with +me." + +"I hope not, indeed, Mrs. Stokes. It's not come to the last with us, so +long as we have a Father in heaven." + +"Ah! but it be with me. He can't take any notice of the like of me." + +"But indeed he does, whether you think it or not. He takes notice of +every thought we think, and every deed we do, and every sin we commit." + +I said the last words with emphasis, for I suspected something more than +usual upon her conscience. She gave another groan, but made no reply. I +therefore went on. + +"Our Father in heaven is not like some fathers on earth, who, so long +as their children don't bother them, let them do anything they like. He +will not have them do what is wrong. He loves them too much for that." + +"He won't look at me," she said half murmuring, half sighing it out, so +that I could hardly, hear what she said. + +"It is because he _is_ looking at you that you are feeling +uncomfortable," I answered. "He wants you to confess your sins. I +don't mean to me, but to himself; though if you would like to tell me +anything, and I can help you, I shall be _very_ glad. You know Jesus +Christ came to save us from our sins; and that's why we call him our +Saviour. But he can't save us from our sins if we won't confess that we +have any." + +"I'm sure I never said but what I be a great sinner, as well as other +people." + +"You don't suppose that's confessing your sins?" I said. "I once knew a +woman of very bad character, who allowed to me she was a great sinner; +but when I said, 'Yes, you have done so and so,' she would not allow one +of those deeds to be worthy of being reckoned amongst her sins. When +I asked her what great sins she had been guilty of, then, seeing these +counted for nothing, I could get no more out of her than that she was a +great sinner, like other people, as you have just been saying." + +"I hope you don't be thinking I ha' done anything of that sort," she +said with wakening energy. "No man or woman dare say I've done anything +to be ashamed of." + +"Then you've committed no sins?" I returned. "But why did you send for +me? You must have something to say to me." + +"I never did send for you. It must ha' been my husband." + +"Ah, then I'm afraid I've no business here!" I returned, rising. "I +thought you had sent for me." + +She returned no answer. I hoped that by retiring I should set her +thinking, and make her more willing to listen the next time I came. I +think clergymen may do much harm by insisting when people are in a bad +mood, as if they had everything to do, and the Spirit of God nothing at +all. I bade her good-day, hoped she would be better soon, and returned +to Wynnie. + +As we walked home together, I said: + +"Wynnie, I was right. It would not have done at all to take you into the +sick-room. Mrs. Stokes had not sent for me herself, and rather resented +my appearance. But I think she will send for me before many days are +over." + + + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE ART OF NATURE. + + + + + +We had a week of hazy weather after this. I spent it chiefly in my study +and in Connie's room. A world of mist hung over the sea; it refused +to hold any communion with mortals. As if ill-tempered or unhappy, it +folded itself in its mantle and lay still. + +What was it thinking about? All Nature is so full of meaning, that we +cannot help fancying sometimes that she knows her own meanings. She +is busy with every human mood in turn--sometimes with ten of them +at once--picturing our own inner world before us, that we may see, +understand, develop, reform it. + +I was turning over some such thought in my mind one morning, when Dora +knocked at the door, saying that Mr. Percivale had called, and that +mamma was busy, and would I mind if she brought him up to the study. + +"Not in the least, my dear," I answered; "I shall be very glad to see +him." + +"Not much of weather for your sacred craft, Percivale," I said as he +entered. "I suppose, if you were asked to make a sketch to-day, it +would be much the same as if a stupid woman were to ask you to take her +portrait?" + +"Not quite so bad as that," said Percivale. + +"Surely the human face is more than nature." + +"Nature is never stupid." + +"The woman might be pretty." + +"Nature is full of beauty in her worst moods; while the prettier such +a woman, the more stupid she would look, and the more irksome you would +feel the task; for you could not help making claims upon her which you +would never think of making upon Nature." + +"I daresay you are right. Such stupidity has a good deal to do with +moral causes. You do not ever feel that Nature is to blame." + +"Nature is never ugly. She may be dull, sorrowful, troubled; she may be +lost in tears and pallor, but she cannot be ugly. It is only when you +rise into animal nature that you find ugliness." + +"True in the main only; for no lines of absolute division can be drawn +in nature. I have seen ugly flowers." + +"I grant it; but they are exceptional; and none of them are without +beauty." + +"Surely not. The ugliest soul even is not without some beauty. But I +grant you that the higher you rise the more is ugliness possible, just +because the greater beauty is possible. There is no ugliness to equal in +its repulsiveness the ugliness of a beautiful face." + +A pause followed. + +"I presume," I said, "you are thinking of returning to London now, there +seems so little to be gained by remaining here. When this weather begins +to show itself I could wish myself in my own parish; but I am sure the +change, even through the winter, will be good for my daughter." + +"I must be going soon," he answered; "but it would be too bad to take +offence at the old lady's first touch of temper. I mean to wait and +see whether we shall not have a little bit of St. Martin's summer, as +Shakspere calls it; after which, hail London, queen of smoke and--" + +"And what?" I asked, seeing he hesitated. + +"'And soap,' I was fancying you would say; for you never will allow the +worst of things, Mr. Walton." + +"No, surely I will not. For one thing, the worst has never been seen by +anybody yet. We have no experience to justify it." + +We were chatting in this loose manner when Walter came to the door to +tell me that a messenger had come from Mrs. Stokes. + +I went down to see him, and found her husband. + +"My wife be very bad, sir," he said. "I wish you could come and see +her." + +"Does she want to see me?' I asked. + +"She's been more uncomfortable than ever since you was there last," he +said. + +"But," I repeated, "has she said she would like to see me?" + +"I can't say it, sir," answered the man. + +"Then it is you who want me to see her?" + +"Yes, sir; but I be sure she do want to see you. I know her way, you +see, sir. She never would say she wanted anything in her life; she would +always leave you to find it out: so I got sharp at that, sir." + +"And then would she allow she had wanted it when you got it her?" + +"No, never, sir. She be peculiar--my wife; she always be." + +"Does she know that you have come to ask me now?" + +"No, sir." + +"Have you courage to tell her?" + +The man hesitated. + +"If you haven't courage to tell her," I resumed, "I have nothing more to +say. I can't go; or, rather, I will not go." + +"I will tell her, sir." + +"Then you will tell her that I refused to come until she sent for me +herself." + +"Ben't that rather hard on a dying woman, sir?" + +"I have my reasons. Except she send for me herself, the moment I go she +will take refuge in the fact that she did not send for me. I know your +wife's peculiarity too, Mr. Stokes." + +"Well, I _will_ tell her, sir. It's time to speak my own mind." + +"I think so. It was time long ago. When she sends for me, if it be in +the middle of the night, I shall be with her at once." + +He left me and I returned to Percivale. + +"I was just thinking before you came," I said, "about the relation of +Nature to our inner world. You know I am quite ignorant of your art, but +I often think about the truths that lie at the root of it." + +"I am greatly obliged to you," he said, "for talking about these things. +I assure you it is of more service to me than any professional talk. I +always think the professions should not herd together so much as they +do; they want to be shone upon from other quarters." + +"I believe we have all to help each other, Percivale. The sun himself +could give us no light that would be of any service to us but for the +reflective power of the airy particles through which he shines. +But anything I know I have found out merely by foraging for my own +necessities." + +"That is just what makes the result valuable," he replied. "Tell me what +you were thinking." + +"I was thinking," I answered, "how everyone likes to see his own +thoughts set outside of him, that he may contemplate them _objectively,_ +as the philosophers call it. He likes to see the other side of them, as +it were." + +"Yes, that is, of course, true; else, I suppose, there would be no art +at all." + +"Surely. But that is not the aspect in which I was considering the +question. Those who can so set them forth are artists; and however +they may fail of effecting such a representation of their ideas as will +satisfy themselves, they yet experience satisfaction in the measure in +which they have succeeded. But there are many more men who cannot yet +utter their ideas in any form. Mind, I do expect that, if they will only +be good, they shall have this power some day; for I do think that many +things we call differences in kind, may in God's grand scale prove to be +only differences in degree. And indeed the artist--by artist, I mean, +of course, architect, musician, painter, poet, sculptor--in many things +requires it just as much as the most helpless and dumb of his brethren, +seeing in proportion to the things that he can do, he is aware of the +things he cannot do, the thoughts he cannot express. Hence arises the +enthusiasm with which people hail the work of an artist; they rejoice, +namely, in seeing their own thoughts, or feelings, or something like +them, expressed; and hence it comes that of those who have money, some +hang their walls with pictures of their own choice, others--" + +"I beg your pardon," said Percivale, interrupting; "but most people, I +fear, hang their walls with pictures of other people's choice, for they +don't buy them at all till the artist has got a name." + +"That is true. And yet there is a shadow of choice even there; for they +won't at least buy what they dislike. And again the growth in popularity +may be only what first attracted their attention--not determined their +choice." + +"But there are others who only buy them for their value in the market." + +"'Of such is not the talk,' as the Germans would say. In as far as your +description applies, such are only tradesmen, and have no claim to be +considered now." + +"Then I beg your pardon for interrupting. I am punished more than I +deserve, if you have lost your thread." + +"I don't think I have. Let me see. Yes. I was saying that people hang +their walls with pictures of their choice; or provide music, &c., of +their choice. Let me keep to the pictures: their choice, consciously or +unconsciously, is determined by some expression that these pictures give +to what is in themselves--the buyers, I mean. They like to see their own +feelings outside of themselves." + +"Is there not another possible motive--that the pictures teach them +something?" + +"That, I venture to think, shows a higher moral condition than the +other, but still partakes of the other; for it is only what is in us +already that makes us able to lay hold of a lesson. It is there in the +germ, else nothing from without would wake it up." + +"I do not quite see what all this has to do with Nature and her +influences." + +"One step more, and I shall arrive at it. You will admit that the +pictures and objects of art of all kinds, with which a man adorns the +house he has chosen or built to live in, have thenceforward not a little +to do with the education of his tastes and feelings. Even when he is not +aware of it, they are working upon him,--for good, if he has chosen what +is good, which alone shall be our supposition." + +"Certainly; that is clear." + +"Now I come to it. God, knowing our needs, built our house for our +needs--not as one man may build for another, but as no man can build for +himself. For our comfort, education, training, he has put into form for +us all the otherwise hidden thoughts and feelings of our heart. Even +when he speaks of the hidden things of the Spirit of God, he uses the +forms or pictures of Nature. The world is, as it were, the human, unseen +world turned inside out, that we may see it. On the walls of the house +that he has built for us, God has hung up the pictures--ever-living, +ever-changing pictures--of all that passes in our souls. Form and colour +and motion are there,--ever-modelling, ever-renewing, never wearying. +Without this living portraiture from within, we should have no word to +utter that should represent a single act of the inner world. Metaphysics +could have no existence, not to speak of poetry, not to speak of the +commonest language of affection. But all is done in such spiritual +suggestion, portrait and definition are so avoided, the whole is in +such fluent evanescence, that the producing mind is only aided, never +overwhelmed. It never amounts to representation. It affords but the +material which the thinking, feeling soul can use, interpret, and apply +for its own purposes of speech. It is, as it were, the forms of thought +cast into a lovely chaos by the inferior laws of matter, thence to be +withdrawn by what we call the creative genius that God has given to men, +and moulded, and modelled, and arranged, and built up to its own shapes +and its own purposes." + +"Then I presume you would say that no mere transcript, if I may use the +word, of nature is the worthy work of an artist." + +"It is an impossibility to make a mere transcript. No man can help +seeing nature as he is himself, for she has all in her; but if he sees +no meaning in especial that he wants to give, his portrait of her will +represent only her dead face, not her living impassioned countenance." + +"Then artists ought to interpret nature?" + +"Indubitably; but that will only be to interpret themselves--something +of humanity that is theirs, whether they have discovered it already or +not. If to this they can add some teaching for humanity, then indeed +they may claim to belong to the higher order of art, however imperfect +they may be in their powers of representing--however lowly, therefore, +their position may be in that order." + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE SORE SPOT. + + +We went on talking for some time. Indeed we talked so long that the +dinner-hour was approaching, when one of the maids came with the message +that Mr. Stokes had called again, wishing to see me. I could not help +smiling inwardly at the news. I went down at once, and found him smiling +too. + +"My wife do send me for you this time, sir," he said. "Between you and +me, I cannot help thinking she have something on her mind she wants to +tell you, sir." + +"Why shouldn't she tell you, Mr. Stokes? That would be most natural. And +then, if you wanted any help about it, why, of course, here I am." + +"She don't think well enough of my judgment for that, sir; and I daresay +she be quite right. She always do make me give in before she have done +talking. But she have been a right good wife to me, sir." + +"Perhaps she would have been a better if you hadn't given in quite so +much. It is very wrong to give in when you think you are right." + +"But I never be sure of it when she talk to me awhile." + +"Ah, then I have nothing to say except that you ought to have been +surer--_sometimes;_ I don't say _always."_ + +"But she do want you very bad now, sir. I don't think she'll behave to +you as she did before. Do come, sir." + +"Of course I will--instantly." + +I returned to the study, and asked Percivale if he would like to go with +me. He looked, I thought, as if he would rather not. I saw that it was +hardly kind to ask him. + +"Well, perhaps it is better not," I said; "for I do not know how long I +may have to be with the poor woman. You had better wait here and take +my place at the dinner-table. I promise not to depose you if I should +return before the meal is over." + +He thanked me very heartily. I showed him into the drawing-room, told my +wife where I was going, and not to wait dinner for me--I would take my +chance--and joined Mr. Stokes. + +"You have no idea, then," I said, after we had gone about half-way, +"what makes your wife so uneasy?" + +"No, I haven't," he answered; "except it be," he resumed, "that she was +too hard, as I thought, upon our Mary, when she wanted to marry beneath +her, as wife thought." + +"How beneath her? Who was it she wanted to marry?" + +"She did marry him, sir. She has a bit of her mother's temper, you see, +and she would take her own way." + +"Ah, there's a lesson to mothers, is it not? If they want to have their +own way, they mustn't give their own temper to their daughters." + +"But how are they to help it, sir?" + +"Ah, how indeed? But what is your daughter's husband?" + +"A labourer, sir. He works on a farm out by Carpstone." + +"But you have worked on Mr. Barton's farm for many years, if I don't +mistake?" + +"I have, sir; but I am a sort of a foreman now, you see." + +"But you weren't so always; and your son-in-law, whether he work his +way up or not, is, I presume, much where you were when you married Mrs. +Stokes?" + +"True as you say, sir; and it's not me that has anything to say about +it. I never gave the man a nay. But you see, my wife, she always do +be wanting to get her head up in the world; and since she took to the +shopkeeping--" + +"The shopkeeping!" I said, with some surprise; "I didn't know that." + +"Well, you see, sir, it's only for a quarter or so of the year. You know +it's a favourite walk for the folks as comes here for the bathing--past +our house, to see the great cave down below; and my wife, she got a +bit of a sign put up, and put a few ginger-beer bottles in the window, +and--" + +"A bad place for the ginger-beer," I said. + +"They were only empty ones, with corks and strings, you know, sir. My +wife, she know better than put the ginger-beer its own self in the +sun. But I do think she carry her head higher after that; and a +farm-labourer, as they call them, was none good enough for her +daughter." + +"And hasn't she been kind to her since she married, then?" + +"She's never done her no harm, sir." + +"But she hasn't gone to see her very often, or asked her to come and see +you very often, I suppose?" + +"There's ne'er a one o' them crossed the door of the other," he +answered, with some evident feeling of his own in the matter. + +"Ah; but you don't approve of that yourself, Stokes?" + +"Approve of it? No, sir. I be a farm-labourer once myself; and so I do +want to see my own daughter now and then. But she take after her mother, +she do. I don't know which of the two it is as does it, but there's no +coming and going between Carpstone and this." + +We were approaching the house. I told Stokes he had better let her know +I was there; for that, if she had changed her mind, it was not too late +for me to go home again without disturbing her. He came back saying she +was still very anxious to see me. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes, how do you feel to-day?" I asked, by way of opening +the conversation. "I don't think you look much worse." + +"I he much worse, sir. You don't know what I suffer, or you wouldn't +make so little of it. I be very bad." + +"I know you are very ill, but I hope you are not too ill to tell me +why you are so anxious to see me. You have got something to tell me, I +suppose." + +With pale and death-like countenance, she appeared to be fighting more +with herself than with the disease which yet had nearly overcome her. +The drops stood upon her forehead, and she did not speak. Wishing to +help her, if I might, I said-- + +"Was it about your daughter you wanted to speak to me?" + +"No," she muttered. "I have nothing to say about my daughter. She was my +own. I could do as I pleased with her." + +I thought with myself, we must have a word about that by and by, but +meantime she must relieve her heart of the one thing whose pressure she +feels. + +"Then," I said, "you want to tell me about something that was not your +own?" + +"Who said I ever took what was not my own?" she returned fiercely. "Did +Stokes dare to say I took anything that wasn't my own?" + +"No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from +your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause +of your misery." + +"It is very hard that the parson should think such things," she muttered +again. + +"My poor woman," I said, "you sent for me because you had something to +confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to +confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does +you harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, +confess to God." + +"God knows it, I suppose, without that." + +"Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. +How is he to forgive you, if you won't allow that you have done wrong?" + +"It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had +took something that wasn't your own?" + +"Well, I shouldn't like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I +should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it." + +"But that's the worst of it; I can't get rid of it." + +"But," I said, laying my hand on hers, and trying to speak as kindly +as I could, although her whole behaviour would have been exceedingly +repulsive but for her evidently great suffering, "you have now all but +confessed taking something that did not belong to you. Why don't you +summon courage and tell me all about it? I want to help you out of the +trouble as easily as ever I can; but I can't if you don't tell me what +you've got that isn't yours." + +"I haven't got anything," she muttered. + +"You had something, then, whatever may have become of it now." + +She was again silent. + +"What did you do with it?" + +"Nothing." + +I rose and took up my hat. She stretched out her hand, as if to lay hold +of me, with a cry. + +"Stop, stop. I'll tell you all about it. I lost it again. That's the +worst of it. I got no good of it." + +"What was it?" + +"A sovereign," she said, with a groan. "And now I'm a thief, I suppose." + +"No more a thief than you were before. Rather less, I hope. But do you +think it would have been any better for you if you hadn't lost it, and +had got some good of it, as you say?" + +She was silent yet again. + +"If you hadn't lost it you would most likely have been a great deal +worse for it than you are--a more wicked woman altogether." + +"I'm not a wicked woman." + +"It is wicked to steal, is it not?" + +"I didn't steal it." + +"How did you come by it, then?" + +"I found it." + +"Did you try to find out the owner?" + +"No. I knew whose it was." + +"Then it was very wicked not to return it. And I say again, that if you +had not lost the sovereign you would have been most likely a more wicked +woman than you are." + +"It was very hard to lose it. I could have given it back. And then I +wouldn't have lost my character as I have done this day." + +"Yes, you could; but I doubt if you would." + +"I would." + +"Now, if you had it, you are sure you would give it back?" + +"Yes, that I would," she said, looking me so full in the face that I was +sure she meant it. + +"How would you give it back? Would you get your husband to take it?" + +"No; I wouldn't trust him." + +"With the story, you mean I You do not wish to imply that he would not +restore it?" + +"I don't mean that. He would do what I told him." + +"How would you return it, then?" + +"I should make a parcel of it, and send it." + +"Without saying anything about it?" + +"Yes. Where's the good? The man would have his own." + +"No, he would not. He has a right to your confession, for you have +wronged him. That would never do." + +"You are too hard upon me," she said, beginning to weep angrily. + +"Do you want to get the weight of this sin off your mind?" I said. + +"Of course I do. I am going to die. O dear! O dear!" + +"Then that is just what I want to help you in. You must confess, or the +weight of it will stick there." + +"But, if I confess, I shall be expected to pay it back?" + +"Of course. That is only reasonable." + +"But I haven't got it, I tell you. I have lost it." + +"Have you not a sovereign in your possession?" + +"No, not one." + +"Can't you ask your husband to let you have one?" + +"There! I knew it was no use. I knew you would only make matters worse. +I do wish I had never seen that wicked money." + +"You ought not to abuse the money; it was not wicked. You ought to wish +that you had returned it. But that is no use; the thing is to return it +now. Has your husband got a sovereign?" + +"No. He may ha' got one since I be laid up. But I never can tell him +about it; and I should be main sorry to spend one of his hard earning in +that way, poor man." + +"Well, I'll tell him, and we'll manage it somehow." + +I thought for a few moments she would break out in opposition; but she +hid her face with the sheet instead, and burst into a great weeping. + +I took this as a permission to do as I had said, and went to the +room-door and called her husband. He came, looking scared. His wife did +not look up, but lay weeping. I hoped much for her and him too from this +humiliation before him, for I had little doubt she needed it. + +"Your wife, poor woman," I said, "is in great distress because--I do not +know when or how--she picked up a sovereign that did not belong to her, +and, instead of returning, put it away somewhere and lost it. This is +what is making her so miserable." + +"Deary me!" said Stokes, in the tone with which he would have spoken to +a sick child; and going up to his wife, he sought to draw down the sheet +from her face, apparently that he might kiss her; but she kept tight +hold of it, and he could not. "Deary me!" he went on; "we'll soon put +that all to rights. When was it, Jane, that you found it?" + +"When we wanted so to have a pig of our own; and I thought I could soon +return it," she sobbed from under the sheet. + +"Deary me! Ten years ago! Where did you find it, old woman?" + +"I saw Squire Tresham drop it, as he paid me for some ginger-beer he got +for some ladies that was with him. I do believe I should ha' given it +back at the time; but he made faces at the ginger-beer, and said it was +very nasty; and I thought, well, I would punish him for it." + +"You see it was your temper that made a thief of you, then," I said. + +"My old man won't be so hard on me as you, sir. I wish I had told him +first." + +"I would wish that too," I said, "were it not that I am afraid you might +have persuaded him to be silent about it, and so have made him miserable +and wicked too. But now, Stokes, what is to be done? This money must be +paid. Have you got it?" + +The poor man looked blank. + +"She will never be at ease till this money is paid," I insisted. + +"Well, sir, I ain't got it, but I'll borrow it of someone; I'll go to +master, and ask him." + +"No, my good fellow, that won't do. Your master would want to know what +you were going to do with it, perhaps; and we mustn't let more people +know about it than just ourselves and Squire Tresham. There is no +occasion for that. I'll tell you what: I'll give you the money, and you +must take it; or, if you like, I will take it to the squire, and tell +him all about it. Do you authorise me to do this, Mrs. Stokes?" + +"Please, sir. It's very kind of you. I will work hard to pay you again, +if it please God to spare me. I am very sorry I was so cross-tempered to +you, sir; but I couldn't bear the disgrace of it." + +She said all this from under the bed-clothes. + +"Well, I'll go," I said; "and as soon as I've had my dinner I'll get +a horse and ride over to Squire Tresham's. I'll come back to-night and +tell you about it. And now I hope you will be able to thank God for +forgiving you this sin; but you must not hide and cover it up, but +confess it clean out to him, you know." + +She made me no answer, but went on sobbing. + +I hastened home, and as I entered sent Walter to ask the loan of a horse +which a gentleman, a neighbour, had placed at my disposal. + +When I went into the dining-room, I found that they had not sat down to +dinner. I expostulated: it was against the rule of the house, when my +return was uncertain. + +"But, my love," said my wife, "why should you not let us please +ourselves sometimes? Dinner is so much nicer when you are with us." + +"I am very glad you think so," I answered. "But there are the children: +it is not good for growing creatures to be kept waiting for their +meals." + +"You see there are no children; they have had their dinner." + +"Always in the right, wife; but there's Mr. Percivale." + +"I never dine till seven o'clock, to save daylight," he said. + +"Then I am beaten on all points. Let us dine." + +During dinner I could scarcely help observing how Percivale's eyes +followed Wynnie, or, rather, every now and then settled down upon her +face. That she was aware, almost conscious of this, I could not doubt. +One glance at her satisfied me of that. But certain words of the apostle +kept coming again and again into my mind; for they were winged words +those, and even when they did not enter they fluttered their wings at my +window: "Whatsoever is not of faith is sin." And I kept reminding myself +that I must heave the load of sin off me, as I had been urging poor Mrs. +Stokes to do; for God was ever seeking to lift it, only he could not +without my help, for that would be to do me more harm than good by +taking the one thing in which I was like him away from me--my action. +Therefore I must have faith in him, and not be afraid; for surely all +fear is sin, and one of the most oppressive sins from which the Lord +came to save us. + +Before dinner was over the horse was at the door. I mounted, and set out +for Squire Tresham's. + + +I found him a rough but kind-hearted elderly man. When I told him +the story of the poor woman's misery, he was quite concerned at her +suffering. When I produced the sovereign he would not receive it at +first, but requested me to take it back to her and say she must keep it +by way of an apology for his rudeness about her ginger-beer; for I took +care to tell him the whole story, thinking it might be a lesson to him +too. But I begged him to take it; for it would, I thought, not only +relieve her mind more thoroughly, but help to keep her from coming to +think lightly of the affair afterwards. Of course I could not tell him +that I had advanced the money, for that would have quite prevented him +from receiving it. I then got on my horse again, and rode straight to +the cottage. + +"Well, Mrs. Stokes," I said, "it's all over now. That's one good thing +done. How do you feel yourself now?" + +"I feel better now, sir. I hope God will forgive me." + +"God does forgive you. But there are more things you need forgiveness +for. It is not enough to get rid of one sin. We must get rid of all +our sins, you know. They're not nice things, are they, to keep in +our hearts? It is just like shutting up nasty corrupting things, dead +carcasses, under lock and key, in our most secret drawers, as if they +were precious jewels." + +"I wish I could be good, like some people, but I wasn't made so. There's +my husband now. I do believe he never do anything wrong in his life. But +then, you see, he would let a child take him in." + +"And far better too. Infinitely better to be taken in. Indeed there is +no harm in being taken in; but there is awful harm in taking in." + +She did not reply, and I went on: + +"I think you would feel a good deal better yet, if you would send for +your daughter and her husband now, and make it up with them, especially +seeing you are so ill." + +"I will, sir. I will directly. I'm tired of having my own way. But I was +made so." + +"You weren't made to continue so, at all events. God gives us the +necessary strength to resist what is bad in us. He is making at you now; +only you must give in, else he cannot get on with the making of you. +I think very likely he made you ill now, just that you might bethink +yourself, and feel that you had done wrong." + +"I have been feeling that for many a year." + +"That made it the more needful to make you ill; for you had been feeling +your duty, and yet not doing it; and that was worst of all. You know +Jesus came to lift the weight of our sins, our very sins themselves, off +our hearts, by forgiving them and helping us to cast them away from us. +Everything that makes you uncomfortable must have sin in it somewhere, +and he came to save you from it. Send for your daughter and her husband, +and when you have done that you will think of something else to set +right that's wrong." + +"But there would be no end to that way of it, sir." + +"Certainly not, till everything was put right." + +"But a body might have nothing else to do, that way." + +"Well, that's the very first thing that has to be done. It is our +business in this world. We were not sent here to have our own way and +try to enjoy ourselves." + +"That is hard on a poor woman that has to work for her bread." + +"To work for your bread is not to take your own way, for it is God's +way. But you have wanted many things your own way. Now, if you would +just take his way, you would find that he would take care you should +enjoy your life." + +"I'm sure I haven't had much enjoyment in mine." + +"That was just because you would not trust him with his own business, +but must take it into your hands. If you will but do his will, he will +take care that you have a life to be very glad of and very thankful for. +And the longer you live, the more blessed you will find it. But I must +leave you now, for I have talked to you long enough. You must try and +get a sleep. I will come and see you again to-morrow, if you like." + +"Please do, sir; I shall be very grateful." + +As I rode home I thought, if the lifting of one sin off the human heart +was like a resurrection, what would it be when every sin was lifted from +every heart! Every sin, then, discovered in one's own soul must be a +pledge of renewed bliss in its removing. And when the thought came again +of what St. Paul had said somewhere, "whatsoever is not of faith is +sin," I thought what a weight of sin had to be lifted from the earth, +and how blessed it might be. But what could I do for it? I could just +begin with myself, and pray God for that inward light which is his +Spirit, that so I might see him in everything and rejoice in everything +as his gift, and then all things would be holy, for whatsoever is of +faith must be the opposite of sin; and that was my part towards heaving +the weight of sin, which, like myriads of gravestones, was pressing +the life out of us men, off the whole world. Faith in God is life and +righteousness--the faith that trusts so that it will obey--none +other. Lord, lift the people thou hast made into holy obedience and +thanksgiving, that they may be glad in this thy world. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE GATHERING STORM. + + + + + +The weather cleared up again the next day, and for a fortnight it was +lovely. In this region we saw less of the sadness of the dying year than +in our own parish, for there being so few trees in the vicinity of the +ocean, the autumn had nowhere to hang out her mourning flags. But there, +indeed, so mild is the air, and so equable the temperature all the +winter through, compared with the inland counties, that the bitterness +of the season is almost unknown. This, however, is no guarantee against +furious storms of wind and rain. + +Not long after the occurrence last recorded, Turner paid us another +visit. I confess I was a little surprised at his being able to get away +so soon again; for of all men a country surgeon can least easily find +time for a holiday; but he had managed it, and I had no doubt, from what +I knew of him, had made thorough provision for his cure in his absence. + +He brought us good news from home. Everything was going on well. Weir +was working as hard as usual; and everybody agreed that I could not have +got a man to take my place better. + +He said he found Connie much improved; and, from my own observations, I +was sure he was right. She was now able to turn a good way from one +side to the other, and finding her health so steady besides, Turner +encouraged her in making gentle and frequent use of her strength, +impressing it upon her, however, that everything depended on avoiding +everything like a jerk or twist of any sort. I was with them when he +said this. She looked up at him with a happy smile. + +"I will do all I can, Mr. Turner," she said, "to get out of people's way +as soon as possible." + +Perhaps she saw something in our faces that made her add-- + +"I know you don't mind the bother I am; but I do. I want to help, and +not be helped--more than other people--as soon as possible. I will +therefore be as gentle as mamma and as brave as papa, and see if we +don't get well, Mr. Turner. I mean to have a ride on old Spry next +summer.--I do," she added, nodding her pretty head up from the pillow, +when she saw the glance the doctor and I exchanged. "Look here," she +went on, poking the eider-down quilt up with her foot. + +"Magnificent!" said Turner; "but mind, you must do nothing out of +bravado. That won't do at all." + +"I have done," said Connie, putting on a face of mock submission. + +That day we carried her out for a few minutes, but hardly laid her down, +for we were afraid of the damp from the earth. A few feet nearer or +farther from the soil will make a difference. It was the last time for +many weeks. Anyone interested in my Connie need not be alarmed: it was +only because of the weather, not because of her health. + +One day I was walking home from a visit I had been paying to Mrs. +Stokes. She was much better, in a fair way to recover indeed, and her +mental health was improved as well. Her manner to me was certainly very +different, and the tone of her voice, when she spoke to her husband +especially, was changed: a certain roughness in it was much modified, +and I had good hopes that she had begun to climb up instead of sliding +down the hill of difficulty, as she had been doing hitherto. + +It was a cold and gusty afternoon. The sky eastward and overhead was +tolerably clear when I set out from home; but when I left the cottage +to return, I could see that some change was at hand. Shaggy vapours of +light gray were blowing rapidly across the sky from the west. A wind was +blowing fiercely up there, although the gusts down below came from +the east. The clouds it swept along with it were formless, with loose +fringes--disreputable, troubled, hasty clouds they were, looking like +mischief. They reminded me of Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind," in which +he compares the "loose clouds" to hair, and calls them "the locks of the +approaching storm." Away to the west, a great thick curtain of fog, of a +luminous yellow, covered all the sea-horizon, extending north and south +as far as the eye could reach. It looked ominous. A surly secret seemed +to lie in its bosom. Now and then I could discern the dim ghost of a +vessel through it, as tacking for north or south it came near enough to +the edge of the fog to show itself for a few moments, ere it retreated +again into its bosom. There was exhaustion, it seemed to me, in the air, +notwithstanding the coolness of the wind, and I was glad when I found +myself comfortably seated by the drawing-room fire, and saw Wynnie +bestirring herself to make the tea. + +"It looks stormy, I think, Wynnie," I said. + +Her eye lightened, as she looked out to sea from the window. + +"You seem to like the idea of it," I added. + +"You told me I was like you, papa; and you look as if you liked the idea +of it too." + +"_Per se_, certainly, a storm is pleasant to me. I should not like a +world without storms any more than I should like that Frenchman's +idea of the perfection of the earth, when all was to be smooth as a +trim-shaven lawn, rocks and mountains banished, and the sea breaking on +the shore only in wavelets of ginger-beer or lemonade, I forget +which. But the older you grow, the more sides of a thing will present +themselves to your contemplation. The storm may be grand and exciting in +itself, but you cannot help thinking of the people that are in it. Think +for a moment of the multitude of vessels, great and small, which are +gathered within the skirts of that angry vapour out there. I fear the +toils of the storm are around them. Look at the barometer in the hall, +my dear, and tell me what it says." + +She went and returned. + +"It was not very low, papa--only at rain; but the moment I touched it, +the hand dropped an inch." + +"Yes, I thought so. All things look stormy. It may not be very bad here, +however." + +"That doesn't make much difference though, does it, papa?" + +"No further than that being creatures in time and space, we must think +of things from our own standpoint." + +"But I remember very well how, when we were children, you would not let +nurse teach us Dr. Watts's hymns for children, because you said they +tended to encourage selfishness." + +"Yes; I remember it very well. Some of them make the contrast +between the misery of others and our own comforts so immediately the +apparent--mind, I only say apparent--ground of thankfulness, that they +are not fit for teaching. I do think that if you could put Dr. Watts to +the question, he would abjure any such intention, saying that only +he meant to heighten the sense of our obligation. But it does tend +to selfishness and, what is worse, self-righteousness, and is very +dangerous therefore. What right have I to thank God that I am not as +other men are in anything? I have to thank God for the good things he +has given to me; but how dare I suppose that he is not doing the same +for other people in proportion to their capacity? I don't like to appear +to condemn Dr. Watts's hymns. Certainly he has written the very worst +hymns I know; but he has likewise written the best--for public worship, +I mean." + +"Well, but, papa, I have heard you say that any simple feeling that +comes of itself cannot be wrong in itself. If I feel a delight in the +idea of a storm, I cannot help it coming." + +"I never said you could, my dear. I only said that as we get older, +other things we did not feel at first come to show themselves more to +us, and impress us more." + +Thus my child and I went on, like two pendulums crossing each other in +their swing, trying to reach the same dead beat of mutual intelligence. + +"But," said Wynnie, "you say everybody is in God's hands as well as we." + +"Yes, surely, my dear; as much out in yon stormy haze as here beside the +fire." + +"Then we ought not to be miserable about them, even if there comes a +storm, ought we?" + +"No, surely. And, besides, I think if we could help any of them, the +very persons that enjoyed the storm the most would be the busiest to +rescue them from it. At least, I fancy so. But isn't the tea ready?" + +"Yes, papa. I'll just go and tell mamma." + +When she returned with her mother, and the children had joined us, +Wynnie resumed the talk. + +"I know what I am going to say is absurd, papa, and yet I don't see my +way out of it--logically, I suppose you would call it. What is the use +of taking any trouble about them if they are in God's hands? Why should +we try to take them out of God's hands?" + +"Ah, Wynnie! at least you do not seek to hide your bad logic, or +whatever you call it. Take them out of God's hands! If you could do +that, it would be perdition indeed. God's hands is the only safe place +in the universe; and the universe is in his hands. Are we not in God's +hands on the shore because we say they are in his hands who go down to +the sea in ships? If we draw them on shore, surely they are not out of +God's hands." + +"I see--I see. But God could save them without us." + +"Yes; but what would become of us then? God is so good to us, that we +must work our little salvation in the earth with him. Just as a father +lets his little child help him a little, that the child may learn to +be and to do, so God puts it in our hearts to save this life to our +fellows, because we would instinctively save it to ourselves, if we +could. He requires us to do our best." + +"But God may not mean to save them." + +"He may mean them to be drowned--we do not know. But we know that we +must try our little salvation, for it will never interfere with God's +great and good and perfect will. Ours will be foiled if he sees that +best." + +"But people always say, when anyone escapes unhurt from an accident, 'by +the mercy of God.' They don't say it is by the mercy of God when he is +drowned." + +"But _people_ cannot be expected, ought not, to say what they do not +feel. Their own first sensation of deliverance from impending death +would break out in a 'thank God,' and therefore they say it is God's +mercy when another is saved. If they go farther, and refuse to consider +it God's mercy when a man is drowned, that is just the sin of the +world--the want of faith. But the man who creeps out of the drowning, +choking billows into the glory of the new heavens and the new earth--do +you think his thanksgiving for the mercy of God which has delivered him +is less than that of the man who creeps, exhausted and worn, out of the +waves on to the dreary, surf-beaten shore? In nothing do we show less +faith than the way in which we think and speak about death. 'O Death, +where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?' says the apostle. +'Here, here, here,' cry the Christian people, 'everywhere. It is an +awful sting, a fearful victory. But God keeps it away from us many a +time when we ask him--to let it pierce us to the heart, at last, to be +sure; but that can't be helped.' I mean this is how they feel in their +hearts who do not believe that God is as merciful when he sends death +as when he sends life; who, Christian people as they are, yet look upon +death as an evil thing which cannot be avoided, and would, if they might +live always, be content to live always. Death or Life--each is God's; +for he is not the God of the dead, but of the living: there are no dead, +for all live to him." + +"But don't you think we naturally shrink from death, Harry?" said my +wife. + +"There can be no doubt about that, my dear." + +"Then, if it be natural, God must have meant that it should be so." + +"Doubtless, to begin with, but not to continue or end with. A child's +sole desire is for food--the very best possible to begin with. But how +would it be if the child should reach, say, two years of age, and refuse +to share this same food with his little brother? Or what comes of the +man who never so far rises above the desire for food that _nothing_ +could make him forget his dinner-hour? Just so the life of Christians +should be strong enough to overcome the fear of death. We ought to love +and believe him so much, that when he says we shall not die, we should +at least believe that death must be something very different from what +it looks to us to be--so different, that what we mean by the word does +not apply to the reality at all; and so Jesus cannot use the word, +because it would seem to us that he meant what we mean by it, which he, +seeing it all round, cannot mean." + +"That does seem quite reasonable," said Ethelwyn. + +Turner had taken no part in the conversation. He, too, had just come in +from a walk over the hills. He was now standing looking out at the sea. + +"She looks uneasy, does she not?" I said. + +"You mean the Atlantic?" he returned, looking round. "Yes, I think so. +I am glad she is not a patient of mine. I fear she is going to be very +feverish, probably delirious before morning. She won't sleep much, and +will talk rather loud when the tide comes in." + +"Disease has often an ebb and flow like the tide, has it not?" + +"Often. Some diseases are like a plant that has its time to grow and +blossom, then dies; others, as you say, ebb and flow again and again +before they vanish." + +"It seems to me, however, that the ebb and flow does not belong to the +disease, but to Nature, which works through the disease. It seems to +me that my life has its tides, just like the ocean, only a little +more regularly. It is high water with me always in the morning and the +evening; in the afternoon life is at its lowest; and I believe it is +lowest again while we sleep, and hence it comes that to work the brain +at night has such an injurious effect on the system. But this is perhaps +all a fancy." + +"There may be some truth in it. But I was just thinking when you spoke +to me what a happy thing it is that the tide does not vary by an even +six hours, but has the odd minutes; whence we see endless changes in the +relation of the water to the times of the day. And then the spring-tides +and the neap-tides! What a provision there is in the world for change!" + +"Yes. Change is one of the forms that infinitude takes for the use of us +human immortals. But come and have some tea, Turner. You will not care +to go out again. What shall we do this evening? Shall we all go to +Connie's room and have some Shakspere?" + +"I could wish nothing better. What play shall we have?" + +"Let us have the _Midsummer Night's Dream,"_ said Ethelwyn. + +"You like to go by contraries, apparently, Ethel. But you're quite +right. It is in the winter of the year that art must give us its summer. +I suspect that most of the poetry about spring and summer is written +in the winter. It is generally when we do not possess that we lay full +value upon what we lack." + +"There is one reason," said Wynnie with a roguish look, "why I like that +play." + +"I should think there might be more than one, Wynnie." + +"But one reason is enough for a woman at once; isn't it, papa?" + +"I'm not sure of that. But what is your reason?" + +"That the fairies are not allowed to play any tricks with the women. +_They_ are true throughout." + +"I might choose to say that was because they were not tried." + +"And I might venture to answer that Shakspere--being true to nature +always, as you say, papa--knew very well how absurd it would be to +represent a woman's feelings as under the influence of the juice of a +paltry flower." + +"Capital, Wynnie!" said her mother; and Turner and I chimed in with our +approbation. + +"Shall I tell you what I like best in the play?" said Turner. "It is the +common sense of Theseus in accounting for all the bewilderments of the +night." + +"But," said Ethelwyn, "he was wrong after all. What is the use of common +sense if it leads you wrong? The common sense of Theseus simply amounted +to this, that he would only believe his own eyes." + +"I think Mrs. Walton is right, Turner," I said. "For my part, I have +more admired the open-mindedness of Hippolyta, who would yield more +weight to the consistency of the various testimony than could be +altogether counterbalanced by the negation of her own experience. Now +I will tell you what I most admire in the play: it is the reconciling +power of the poet. He brings together such marvellous contrasts, without +a single shock or jar to your feeling of the artistic harmony of the +conjunction. Think for a moment--the ordinary commonplace courtiers; +the lovers, men and women in the condition of all conditions in which +fairy-powers might get a hold of them; the quarrelling king and queen of +Fairyland, with their courtiers, Blossom, Cobweb, and the rest, and the +court-jester, Puck; the ignorant, clownish artisans, rehearsing their +play,--fairies and clowns, lovers and courtiers, are all mingled in one +exquisite harmony, clothed with a night of early summer, rounded in by +the wedding of the king and queen. But I have talked enough about it. +Let us get our books." + +As we sat in Connie's room, delighting ourselves with the reflex of +the poet's fancy, the sound of the rising tide kept mingling with the +fairy-talk and the foolish rehearsal. "Musk roses," said Titania; +and the first of the blast, going round by south to west, rattled the +window. "Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow," said Bottom; and the +roar of the waters was in our ears. "So doth the woodbine the sweet +honeysuckle Gently entwist," said Titania; and the blast poured the rain +in a spout against the window. "Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth +like bells," said Theseus; and the wind whistled shrill through the +chinks of the bark-house opening from the room. We drew the curtains +closer, made up the fire higher, and read on. It was time for supper ere +we had done; and when we left Connie to have hers and go to sleep, it +was with the hope that, through all the rising storm, she would dream of +breeze-haunted summer woods. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE GATHERED STORM. + + + + + +I woke in the middle of the night and the darkness to hear the wind +howling. It was wide awake now, and up with intent. It seized the house, +and shook it furiously; and the rain kept pouring, only I could not hear +it save in the _rallentondo_ passages of the wind; but through all the +wind I could hear the roaring of the big waves on the shore. I did not +wake my wife; but I got up, put on my dressing-gown, and went softly to +Connie's room, to see whether she was awake; for I feared, if she were, +she would be frightened. Wynnie always slept in a little bed in the +same room. I opened the door very gently, and peeped in. The fire was +burning, for Wynnie was an admirable stoker, and could generally keep +the fire in all night. I crept to the bedside: there was just light +enough to see that Connie was fast asleep, and that her dreams were not +of storms. It was a marvel how well the child always slept. But, as +I turned to leave the room, Wynnie's voice called me in a whisper. +Approaching her bed, I saw her wide eyes, like the eyes of the darkness, +for I could scarcely see anything of her face. + +"Awake, darling?" I said. + +"Yes, papa. I have been awake a long time; but isn't Connie sleeping +delightfully? She does sleep so well! Sleep is surely very good for +her." + +"It is the best thing for us all, next to God's spirit, I sometimes +think, my dear. But are you frightened by the storm? Is that what keeps +you awake?" + +"I don't think that is what keeps me awake; but sometimes the house +shakes so that I do feel a little nervous. I don't know how it is. I +never felt afraid of anything natural before." + +"What our Lord said about not being afraid of anything that could only +hurt the body applies here, and in all the terrors of the night. Think +about him, dear." + +"I do try, papa. Don't you stop; you will get cold. It is a dreadful +storm, is it not? Suppose there should be people drowning out there +now!" + +"There may be, my love. People are dying almost every other moment, +I suppose, on the face of the earth. Drowning is only an easy way of +dying. Mind, they are all in God's hands." + +"Yes, papa. I will turn round and shut my eyes, and fancy that his hand +is over them, making them dark with his care." + +"And it will not be fancy, my darling, if you do. You remember those +odd but no less devout lines of George Herbert? Just after he says, so +beautifully, 'And now with darkness closest weary eyes,' he adds: + + Thus in thy ebony box + Thou dost enclose us, till the day + Put our amendment in our way, + And give new wheels to our disordered clocks." + +"He is very fond of boxes, by the way. So go to sleep, dear. You are a +good clock of God's making; but you want new wheels, according to our +beloved brother George Herbert. Therefore sleep. Good-night." + +This was tiresome talk--was it--in the middle of the night, reader? +Well, but my child did not think so, I know. + +Dark, dank, weeping, the morning dawned. All dreary was the earth and +sky. The wind was still hunting the clouds across the heavens. It lulled +a little while we sat at breakfast, but soon the storm was up again, +and the wind raved. I went out. The wind caught me as if with invisible +human hands, and shook me. I fought with it, and made my way into +the village. The streets were deserted. I peeped up the inn-yard as I +passed: not a man or horse was to be seen. The little shops looked as if +nobody had crossed their thresholds for a week. Not a door was open. +One child came out of the baker's with a big loaf in her apron. The wind +threatened to blow the hair off her head, if not herself first into the +canal. I took her by the hand and led her, or rather, let her lead +me home, while I kept her from being carried away by the wind. Having +landed her safely inside her mother's door, I went on, climbed the +heights above the village, and looked abroad over the Atlantic. What a +waste of aimless tossing to and fro! Gray mist above, full of falling +rain; gray, wrathful waters underneath, foaming and bursting as billow +broke upon billow. The tide was ebbing now, but almost every other wave +swept the breakwater. They burst on the rocks at the end of it, and +rushed in shattered spouts and clouds of spray far into the air over +their heads. "Will the time ever come," I thought, "when man shall be +able to store up even this force for his own ends? Who can tell?" The +solitary form of a man stood at some distance gazing, as I was gazing, +out on the ocean. I walked towards him, thinking with myself who it +could be that loved Nature so well that he did not shrink from her even +in her most uncompanionable moods. I suspected, and soon found I was +right; it was Percivale. + +"What a clashing of water-drops!" I said, thinking of a line somewhere +in Coleridge's Remorse. "They are but water-drops, after all, that make +this great noise upon the rocks; only there is a great many of them." + +"Yes," said Percivale. "But look out yonder. You see a single sail, +close-reefed--that is all I can see--away in the mist there? As soon as +you think of the human struggle with the elements, as soon as you know +that hearts are in the midst of it, it is a clashing of water-drops no +more. It is an awful power, with which the will and all that it rules +have to fight for the mastery, or at least for freedom." + +"Surely you are right. It is the presence of thought, feeling, effort +that gives the majesty to everything. It is even a dim attribution of +human feelings to this tormented, passionate sea that gives it much +of its awe; although, as we were saying the other day, it is only _a +picture_ of the troubled mind. But as I have now seen how matters are +with the elements, and have had a good pluvial bath as well, I think I +will go home and change my clothes." + +"I have hardly had enough of it yet," returned Percivale. "I shall have +a stroll along the heights here, and when the tide has fallen a little +way from the foot of the cliffs I shall go down on the sands and watch +awhile there." + +"Well, you're a younger man than I am; but I've seen the day, as Lear +says. What an odd tendency we old men have to boast of the past: we +would be judged by the past, not by the present. We always speak of +the strength that is withered and gone, as if we had some claim upon it +still. But I am not going to talk in this storm. I am always talking." + +"I will go with you as far as the village, and then I will turn and take +my way along the downs for a mile or two; I don't mind being wet." + +"I didn't once." + +"Don't you think," resumed Percivale, "that in some sense the old +man--not that I can allow _you_ that dignity yet, Mr. Walton--has a right +to regard the past as his own?" + +"That would be scanned," I answered, as we walked towards the village. +"Surely the results of the past are the man's own. Any action of the +man's, upon which the life in him reposes, remains his. But suppose a +man had done a good deed once, and instead of making that a foundation +upon which to build more good, grew so vain of it that he became +incapable of doing anything more of the same sort, you could not say +that the action belonged to him still. Therein he has severed his +connection with the past. Again, what has never in any deep sense been a +man's own, cannot surely continue to be his afterwards. Thus the things +that a man has merely possessed once, the very people who most admired +him for their sakes when he had them, give him no credit for after he +has lost them. Riches that have taken to themselves wings leave with +the poor man only a surpassing poverty. Strength, likewise, which can so +little depend on any exercise of the will in man, passes from him with +the years. It was not his all the time; it was but lent him, and had +nothing to do with his inward force. A bodily feeble man may put forth +a mighty life-strength in effort, and show nothing to the eyes of his +neighbour; while the strong man gains endless admiration for what he +could hardly help. But the effort of the one remains, for it was his +own; the strength of the other passes from him, for it was never his +own. So with beauty, which the commonest woman acknowledges never to +have been hers in seeking to restore it by deception. So, likewise, in a +great measure with intellect." + +"But if you take away intellect as well, what do you leave a man that +can in any way be called his own?" + +"Certainly his intellect is not his own. One thing only is his own--to +will the truth. This, too, is as much God's gift as everything else: I +ought to say is more God's gift than anything else, for he gives it to +be the man's own more than anything else can be. And when he wills +the truth, he has God himself. Man _can_ possess God: all other things +follow as necessary results. What poor creatures we should have been if +God had not made us to do something--to look heavenwards--to lift up the +hands that hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees! Something like +this was in the mind of the prophet Jeremiah when he said, 'Thus saith +the Lord, Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom, neither let the +mighty man glory in his might, let not the rich man glory in his riches; +but let him that glorieth glory in this, that he understandeth and +knoweth me, that I am the Lord which exercise loving-kindness, judgment, +and righteousness in the earth: for in these things I delight, saith the +Lord.' My own conviction is, that a vague sense of a far higher life +in ourselves than we yet know anything about is at the root of all our +false efforts to be able to think something of ourselves. We cannot +commend ourselves, and therefore we set about priding ourselves. We have +little or no strength of mind, faculty of operation, or worth of will, +and therefore we talk of our strength of body, worship the riches we +have, or have not, it is all one, and boast of our paltry intellectual +successes. The man most ambitious of being considered a universal genius +must at last confess himself a conceited dabbler, and be ready to part +with all he knows for one glimpse more of that understanding of God +which the wise men of old held to be essential to every man, but which +the growing luminaries of the present day will not allow to be even +possible for any man." + +We had reached the brow of the heights, and here we parted. A fierce +blast of wind rushed at me, and I hastened down the hill. How dreary the +streets did look!--how much more dreary than the stormy down! I saw no +living creature as I returned but a terribly draggled dog, a cat that +seemed to have a bad conscience, and a lovely little girl-face, which, +forgetful of its own rights, would flatten the tip of the nose belonging +to it against a window-pane. Every rain-pool was a mimic sea, and had a +mimic storm within its own narrow bounds. The water went hurrying down +the kennels like a long brown snake anxious to get to its hole and hide +from the tormenting wind, and every now and then the rain came in full +rout before the conquering blast. + +When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw +that she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of +the conch against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was +sitting staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she +could see over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately +looked. Her face was paler and keener than usual. + +"Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?" + +"Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He +says I am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as +I like." + +"But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?" + +"It's only the storm, papa." + +"The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so." + +"It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is +going to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow." + +"You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The +storm was raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its +reach--fast asleep. Now it is too much for you. You must lie down." + +"Very well, papa." + +I lowered the support, and when I returned from changing my wet garments +she was already looking much better. + +After dinner I went to my study, but when evening began to fall I went +out again. I wanted to see how our next neighbours, the sexton and +his wife, were faring. The wind had already increased in violence. +It threatened to blow a hurricane. The tide was again rising, and was +coming in with great rapidity. The old mill shook to the foundation as +I passed through it to reach the lower part where they lived. When I +peeped in from the bottom of the stair, I saw no one; but, hearing the +steps of someone overhead, I called out. + +Agnes's voice made answer, as she descended an inner stair which led to +the bedrooms above-- + +"Mother's gone to church, sir." + +"Gone to church!" I said, a vague pang darting through me as I thought +whether I had forgotten any service; but the next moment I recalled +what the old woman had herself told me of her preference for the church +during a storm. + +"O yes, Agnes, I remember!" I said; "your mother thinks the weather bad +enough to take to the church, does she? How do you come to be here now? +Where is your husband?" + +"He'll be here in an hour or so, sir. He don't mind the wet. You see, +we don't like the old people to be left alone when it blows what the +sailors call 'great guns.'" + +"And what becomes of his mother then?" + +"There don't be any sea out there, sir. Leastways," she added with a +quiet smile, and stopped. + +"You mean, I suppose, Agnes, that there is never any perturbation of the +elements out there?" + +She laughed; for she understood me well enough. The temper of Joe's +mother was proverbial. + +"But really, sir," she said, "she don't mind the weather a bit; and +though we don't live in the same cottage with her, for Joe wouldn't hear +of that, we see her far oftener than we see my mother, you know." + +"I'm sure it's quite fair, Agnes. Is Joe very sorry that he married you, +now?" + +She hung her head, and blushed so deeply through all her sallow +complexion, that I was sorry I had teased her, and said so. This brought +a reply. + +"I don't think he be, sir. I do think he gets better. He's been working +very hard the last week or two, and he says it agrees with him." + +"And how are you?" + +"Quite well, thank you, sir." + +I had never seen her look half so well. Life was evidently a very +different thing to both of them now. I left her, and took my way to the +church. + +When I reached the churchyard, there, in the middle of the rain and the +gathering darkness, was the old man busy with the duties of his calling. +A certain headstone stood right under a drip from the roof of the +southern transept; and this drip had caused the mould at the foot of +the stone, on the side next the wall, to sink, so that there was a +considerable crack between the stone and the soil. The old man had cut +some sod from another part of the churchyard, and was now standing, +with the rain pouring on him from the roof, beating this sod down in the +crack. He was sheltered from the wind by the church, but he was as +wet as he could be. I may mention that he never appeared in the least +disconcerted when I came upon him in the discharge of his functions: he +was so content with his own feeling in the matter, that no difference of +opinion could disturb him. + +"This will never do, Coombes," I said. "You will get your death of cold. +You must be as full of water as a sponge. Old man, there's rheumatism in +the world!" + +"It be only my work, sir. But I believe I ha' done now for a night. I +think he'll be a bit more comfortable now. The very wind could get at +him through that hole." + +"Do go home, then," I said, "and change your clothes. Is your wife in +the church?" + +"She be, sir. This door, sir--this door," he added, as he saw me going +round to the usual entrance. "You'll find her in there." + +I lifted the great latch and entered. I could not see her at first, +for it was much darker inside the church. It felt very quiet in there +somehow, although the place was full of the noise of winds and waters. +Mrs. Coombes was not sitting on the bell-keys, where I looked for +her first, for the wind blew down the tower in many currents and +draughts--how it did roar up there--as if the louvres had been +a windsail to catch the wind and send it down to ventilate the +church!--she was sitting at the foot of the chancel-rail, with her +stocking as usual. + +The sight of her sweet old face, lighted up by a moonlike smile as I +drew near her, in the middle of the ancient dusk filled with sounds, but +only sounds of tempest, gave me a sense of one dwelling in the secret +place of the Most High, such as I shall never forget. It was no time to +say much, however. + +"How long do you mean to stay here, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. "Not all +night?" + +"No, not all night, surely, sir. But I hadn't thought o' going yet for a +bit." + +"Why there's Coombes out there, wet to the skin; and I'm afraid he'll +go on pottering at the churchyard bed-clothes till he gets his bones as +full of rheumatism as they can hold." + +"Deary me! I didn't know as my old man was there. He tould me he had +them all comforble for the winter a week ago. But to be sure there's +always some mendin' to do." + +I heard the voice of Joe outside, and the next moment he came into the +church. After speaking to me, he turned to Mrs. Coombes. + +"You be comin' home with me, mother. This will never do. Father's as wet +as a mop. I ha' brought something for your supper, and Aggy's a-cookin' +of it; and we're going to be comfortable over the fire, and have a +chapter or two of the New Testament to keep down the noise of the sea. +There! Come along." + +The old woman drew her cloak over her head, put her knitting carefully +in her pocket, and stood aside for me to lead the way. + +"No, no," I said; "I'm the shepherd and you're the sheep, so I'll drive +you before me--at least, you and Coombes. Joe here will be offended if I +take on me to say I am _his_ shepherd." + + +"Nay, nay, don't say that, sir. You've been a good shepherd to me when +I was a very sulky sheep. But if you'll please to go, sir, I'll lock the +door behind; for you know in them parts the shepherd goes first and the +sheep follow the shepherd. And I'll follow like a good sheep," he added, +laughing. + +"You're right, Joe," I said, and took the lead without more ado. + +I was struck by his saying _them parts_, which seemed to indicate +a habit of pondering on the places as well as circumstances of the +gospel-story. The sexton joined us at the door, and we all walked to his +cottage, Joe taking care of his mother-in-law and I taking what care I +could of Coombes by carrying his tools for him. But as we went I feared +I had done ill in that, for the wind blew so fiercely that I thought +the thin feeble little man would have got on better if he had been more +heavily weighted against it. But I made him take a hold of my arm, and +so we got in. The old man took his tools from me and set them down +in the mill, for the roof of which I felt some anxiety as we passed +through, so full of wind was the whole space. But when we opened the +inner door the welcome of a glowing fire burst up the stair as if +that had been a well of warmth and light below. I went down with them. +Coombes departed to change his clothes, and the rest of us stood round +the fire, where Agnes was busy cooking something like white puddings for +their supper. + +"Did you hear, sir," said Joe, "that the coastguard is off to the +Goose-pot? There's a vessel ashore there, they say. I met them on the +road with the rocket-cart." + +"How far off is that, Joe?" + +"Some five or six miles, I suppose, along the coast nor'ards." + +"What sort of a vessel is she?" + +"That I don't know. Some say she be a schooner, others a brigantine. The +coast-guard didn't know themselves." + +"Poor things!" said Mrs. Coombes. "If any of them comes ashore, they'll +be sadly knocked to pieces on the rocks in a night like this." + +She had caught a little infection of her husband's mode of thought. + +"It's not likely to clear up before morning, I fear; is it, Joe?" + +"I don't think so, sir. There's no likelihood." + +"Will you condescend to sit down and take a share with us, sir?" said +the old woman. + +"There would be no condescension in that, Mrs. Coombes. I will another +time with all my heart; but in such a night I ought to be at home with +my own people. They will be more uneasy if I am away." + +"Of coorse, of coorse, sir." + +"So I'll bid you good-night. I wish this storm were well over." + +I buttoned my great-coat, pulled my hat down on my head, and set out. +It was getting on for high water. The night was growing very dark. There +would be a moon some time, but the clouds were so dense she could not do +much while they came between. The roaring of the waves on the shore +was terrible; all I could see of them now was the whiteness of their +breaking, but they filled the earth and the air with their furious +noises. The wind roared from the sea; two oceans were breaking on the +land, only to the one had been set a hitherto--to the other none. Ere +the night was far gone, however, I had begun to doubt whether the ocean +itself had not broken its bars. + +I found the whole household full of the storm. The children kept +pressing their faces to the windows, trying to pierce, as by force of +will, through the darkness, and discover what the wild thing out there +was doing. They could see nothing: all was one mass of blackness and +dismay, with a soul in it of ceaseless roaring. I ran up to Connie's +room, and found that she was left alone. She looked restless, pale, and +frightened. The house quivered, and still the wind howled and whistled +through the adjoining bark-hut. + +"Connie, darling, have they left you alone?" I said. + +"Only for a few minutes, papa. I don't mind it." + +"Don't he frightened at the storm, my dear. He who could walk on the +sea of Galilee, and still the storm of that little pool, can rule the +Atlantic just as well. Jeremiah says he 'divideth the sea when the waves +thereof roar.'" + +The same moment Dora came running into the room. + +"Papa," she cried, "the spray--such a lot of it--came dashing on the +windows in the dining-room. Will it break them?" + +"I hope not, my dear. Just stay with Connie while I run down." + +"O, papa! I do want to see." + +"What do you want to see, Dora?" + +"The storm, papa." + +"It is as black as pitch. You can't see anything." + +"O, but I want to--to--be beside it." + +"Well, you sha'n't stay with Connie, if you are not willing. Go along. +Ask Wynnie to come here." + +The child was so possessed by the commotion without that she did not +seem even to see my rebuke, not to say feel it. She ran off, and Wynnie +presently came. I left her with Connie, put on a long waterproof cloak, +and went down to the dining-room. A door led from it immediately on +to the little green in front of the house, between it and the sea. The +dining-room was dark, for they had put out the lights that they might +see better from the windows. The children and some of the servants were +there looking out. I opened the door cautiously. It needed the strength +of two of the women to shut it behind me. The moment I opened it a great +sheet of spray rushed over me. I went down the little grassy slope. The +rain had ceased, and it was not quite so dark as I had expected. I could +see the gleaming whiteness all before me. The next moment a wave rolled +over the low wall in front of me, breaking on it and wrapping me round +in a sheet of water. Something hurt me sharply on the leg; and I found, +on searching, that one of the large flat stones that lay for coping +on the top of the wall was on the grass beside me. If it had struck me +straight, it must have broken my leg. + +There came a little lull in the wind, and just as I turned to go into +the house again, I thought I heard a gun. I stood and listened, but +heard nothing more, and fancied I must have been mistaken. I returned +and tapped at the door; but I had to knock loudly before they heard me +within. When I went up to the drawing-room, I found that Percivale had +joined our party. He and Turner were talking together at one of the +windows. + +"Did you hear a gun?" I asked them. + +"No. Was there one?" + +"I'm not sure. I half-fancied I heard one, but no other followed. There +will be a good many fired to-night, though, along this awful coast." + +"I suppose they keep the life-boat always ready," said Turner. + +"No life-boat even, I fear, would live in such a sea," I said, +remembering what the officer of the coast-guard had told me. + +"They would try, though, I suppose," said Turner. + +"I do not know," said Percivale. "I don't know the people. But I have +seen a life-boat out in as bad a night--whether in as bad a sea, I +cannot tell: that depends on the coast, I suppose." + +We went on chatting for some time, wondering how the coast-guard had +fared with the vessel ashore at the Goose-pot. Wynnie joined us. + +"How is Connie, now, my dear?" + +"Very restless and excited, papa. I came down to say, that if Mr. Turner +didn't mind, I wish he would go up and see her." + +"Of course--instantly," said Turner, and moved to follow Winnie. + +But the same moment, as if it had been beside us in the room, so clear, +so shrill was it, we heard Connie's voice shrieking, "Papa, papa! +There's a great ship ashore down there. Come, come!" + +Turner and I rushed from the room in fear and dismay. "How? What? Where +could the voice come from?" was the unformed movement of our thoughts. +But the moment we left the drawing-room the thing was clear, though +not the less marvellous and alarming. We forgot all about the ship, and +thought only of our Connie. So much does the near hide the greater that +is afar! Connie kept on calling, and her voice guided our eyes. + +A little stair led immediately from this floor up to the bark-hut, so +that it might be reached without passing through the bedroom. The door +at the top of it was open. The door that led from Connie's room into +the bark-hut was likewise open, and light shone through it into the +place--enough to show a figure standing by the furthest window with face +pressed against the glass. And from this figure came the cry, "Papa, +papa! Quick, quick! The waves will knock her to pieces!" + +In very truth it was Connie standing there. + + + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE SHIPWRECK. + + + + + +Things that happen altogether have to be told one after the other. +Turner and I both rushed at the narrow stair. There was not room for +more than one upon it. I was first, but stumbled on the lowest step +and fell. Turner put his foot on my back, jumped over me, sprang up the +stair, and when I reached the top of it after him, he was meeting me +with Connie in his arms, carrying her back to her room. But the girl +kept crying--"Papa, papa, the ship, the ship!" + +My duty woke in me. Turner could attend to Connie far better than I +could. I made one spring to the window. The moon was not to be seen, but +the clouds were thinner, and light enough was soaking through them to +show a wave-tormented mass some little way out in the bay; and in that +one moment in which I stood looking, a shriek pierced the howling of +the wind, cutting through it like a knife. I rushed bare-headed from the +house. When or how the resolve was born in me I do not know, but I flew +straight to the sexton's, snatched the key from the wall, crying only +"ship ashore!" and rushed to the church. + +I remember my hand trembled so that I could hardly get the key into the +lock. I made myself quieter, opened the door, and feeling my way to the +tower, knelt before the keys of the bell-hammers, opened the chest, and +struck them wildly, fiercely. An awful jangling, out of tune and harsh, +burst into monstrous being in the storm-vexed air. Music itself was +untuned, corrupted, and returning to chaos. I struck and struck at the +keys. I knew nothing of their normal use. Noise, outcry, _reveille_ was +all I meant. + +In a few minutes I heard voices and footsteps. From some parts of +the village, out of sight of the shore, men and women gathered to the +summons. Through the door of the church, which I had left open, came +voices in hurried question. "Ship ashore!" was all I could answer, for +what was to be done I was helpless to think. + +I wondered that so few appeared at the cry of the bells. After those +first nobody came for what seemed a long time. I believe, however, I was +beating the alarum for only a few minutes altogether, though when I look +back upon the time in the dark church, it looks like half-an-hour at +least. But indeed I feel so confused about all the doings of that +night that in attempting to describe them in order, I feel as if I were +walking in a dream. Still, from comparing mine with the recollected +impressions of others, I think I am able to give a tolerably correct +result. Most of the incidents seem burnt into my memory so that nothing +could destroy the depth of the impression; but the order in which they +took place is none the less doubtful. + +A hand was laid on my shoulder. + +"Who is there?" I said; for it was far too dark to know anyone. + +"Percivale. What is to be done? The coastguard is away. Nobody seems to +know about anything. It is of no use to go on ringing more. Everybody +is out, even to the maid-servants. Come down to the shore, and you will +see." + +"But is there not the life-boat?" + +"Nobody seems to know anything about it, except 'it's no manner of use +to go trying of that with such a sea on.'" + +"But there must be someone in command of it," I said. + +"Yes," returned Percivale; "but there doesn't seem to be one of the +crew amongst the crowd. All the sailor-like fellows are going about with +their hands in their pockets." + +"Let us make haste, then," I said; "perhaps we can find out. Are you +sure the coastguard have nothing to do with the life-boat?" + +"I believe not. They have enough to do with their rockets." + +"I remember now that Roxton told me he had far more confidence in +his rockets than in anything a life-boat could do, upon this coast at +least." + +While we spoke we came to the bank of the canal. This we had to cross, +in order to reach that part of the shore opposite which the wreck lay. +To my surprise the canal itself was in a storm, heaving and tossing and +dashing over its banks. + +"Percivale," I exclaimed, "the gates are gone; the sea has torn them +away." + +"Yes, I suppose so. Would God I could get half-a-dozen men to help me. I +have been doing what I could; but I have no influence amongst them." + +"What do you mean?" I asked. "What could you do if you had a thousand +men at your command?" + +He made me no answer for a few moments, during which we were hurrying on +for the bridge over the canal. Then he said: + +"They regard me only as a meddling stranger, I suppose; for I have been +able to get no useful answer. They are all excited; but nobody is doing +anything." + +"They must know about it a great deal better than we," I returned; "and +we must take care not to do them the injustice of supposing they are not +ready to do all that can be done." + +Percivale was silent yet again. + +The record of our conversation looks as quiet on the paper as if we had +been talking in a curtained room; but all the time the ocean was raving +in my very ear, and the awful tragedy was going on in the dark behind +us. The wind was almost as loud as ever, but the rain had quite ceased, +and when we reached the bridge the moon shone out white, as if aghast +at what she had at length succeeded in pushing the clouds aside that she +might see. Awe and helplessness oppressed us. Having crossed the canal, +we turned to the shore. There was little of it left; for the waves had +rushed up almost to the village. The sand and the roads, every garden +wall, every window that looked seaward was crowded with gazers. But it +was a wonderfully quiet crowd, or seemed so at least; for the noise of +the wind and the waves filled the whole vault, and what was spoken was +heard only in the ear to which it was spoken. When we came amongst them +we heard only a murmur as of more articulated confusion. One turn, and +we saw the centre of strife and anxiety--the heart of the storm that +filled heaven and earth, upon which all the blasts and the billows broke +and raved. + +Out there in the moonlight lay a mass of something whose place was +discernible by the flashing of the waves as they burst over it. She was +far above low-water mark--lay nearer the village by a furlong than the +spot where we had taken our last dinner on the shore. It was strange to +think that yesterday the spot lay bare to human feet, where now so many +men and women were isolated in a howling waste of angry waters; for +the cry of women came plainly to our ears, and we were helpless to +save them. It was terrible to have to do nothing. Percivale went about +hurriedly, talking to this one and that one, as if he still thought +something might be done. He turned to me. + +"Do try, Mr. Walton, and find out for me where the captain of the +life-boat is." + +I turned to a sailor-like man who stood at my elbow and asked him. + +"It's no use, I assure you, sir," he answered; "no boat could live in +such a sea. It would be throwing away the men's lives." + +"Do you know where the captain lives?" Percivale asked. + +"If I did, I tell you it is of no use." + +"Are you the captain yourself?" returned Percivale. + +"What is that to you?" he answered, surly now. "I know my own business." + +The same moment several of the crowd nearest the edge of the water made +a simultaneous rush into the surf, and laid hold of something, which, as +they returned drawing it to the shore, I saw to be a human form. It was +the body of a woman--alive or dead I could not tell. I could just +see the long hair hanging from the head, which itself hung backward +helplessly as they bore her up the bank. I saw, too, a white face, and I +can recall no more. + +"Run, Percivale," I said, "and fetch Turner. She may not be dead yet." + +"I can't," answered Percivale. "You had better go yourself, Mr. Walton." + +He spoke hurriedly. I saw he must have some reason for answering me so +abruptly. He was talking to a young fellow whom I recognised as one +of the most dissolute in the village; and just as I turned to go they +walked away together. + +I sped home as fast as I could. It was easier to get along now that the +moon shone. I found that Turner had given Connie a composing draught, +and that he had good hopes she would at least be nothing the worse for +the marvellous result of her excitement. She was asleep exhausted, and +her mother was watching by her side. It, seemed strange that she could +sleep; but Turner said it was the safest reaction, partly, however, +occasioned by what he had given her. In her sleep she kept on talking +about the ship. + +We hurried back to see if anything could be done for the woman. As we +went up the side of the canal we perceived a dark body meeting us. The +clouds had again obscured, though not quite hidden the moon, and we +could not at first make out what it was. When we came nearer it showed +itself a body of men hauling something along. Yes, it was the life-boat, +afloat on the troubled waves of the canal, each man seated in his own +place, his hands quiet upon his oar, his cork-jacket braced about him, +his feet out before him, ready to pull the moment they should pass +beyond the broken gates of the lock out on the awful tossing of the +waves. They sat very silent, and the men on the path towed them swiftly +along. The moon uncovered her face for a moment, and shone upon the +faces of two of the rowers. + +"Percivale! Joe!" I cried. + +"All right, sir!" said Joe. + +"Does your wife know of it, Joe?" I almost gasped. + +"To be sure," answered Joe. "It's the first chance I've had of returning +thanks for her. Please God, I shall see her again to-night." + +"That's good, Joe. Trust in God, my men, whether you sink or swim." + +"Ay, ay, sir!" they answered as one man. + +"This is your doing, Percivale," I said, turning and walking alongside +of the boat for a little way. + +"It's more Jim Allen's," said Percivale. "If I hadn't got a hold of him +I couldn't have done anything." + +"God bless you, Jim Allen!" I said. "You'll be a better man after this, +I think." + +"Donnow, sir," returned Jim cheerily. "It's harder work than pulling an +oar." + +The captain himself was on board. Percivale having persuaded Jim Allen, +the two had gone about in the crowd seeking proselytes. In a wonderfully +short space they had found almost all the crew, each fresh one picking +up another or more; till at length the captain, protesting against +the folly of it, gave in, and once having yielded, was, like a true +Englishman, as much in earnest as any of them. The places of two who +were missing were supplied by Percivale and Joe, the latter of whom +would listen to no remonstrance. + +"I've nothing to lose," Percivale had said. "You have a young wife, +Joe." + +"I've everything to win," Joe had returned. "The only thing that makes +me feel a bit faint-hearted over it, is that I'm afraid it's not my duty +that drives me to it, but the praise of men, leastways of a woman. What +would Aggy think of me if I was to let them drown out there and go to my +bed and sleep? I must go." + +"Very well, Joe," returned Percivale, "I daresay you are right. You can +row, of course?" + +"I can row hard, and do as I'm told," said Joe. + +"All right," said Percivale; "come along." + +This I heard afterwards. We were now hurrying against the wind towards +the mouth of the canal, some twenty men hauling on the tow-rope. The +critical moment would be in the clearing of the gates, I thought, some +parts of which might remain swinging; but they encountered no difficulty +there, as I heard afterwards. For I remembered that this was not my +post, and turned again to follow the doctor. + +"God bless you, my men!" I said, and left them. + +They gave a great hurrah, and sped on to meet their fate. I found Turner +in the little public-house, whither they had carried the body. The woman +was quite dead. + +"I fear it is an emigrant vessel," he said. + +"Why do you think so?" I asked, in some consternation. + +"Come and look at the body," he said. + +It was that of a woman about twenty, tall, and finely formed. The face +was very handsome, but it did not need the evidence of the hands to +prove that she was one of our sisters who have to labour for their +bread. + +"What should such a girl be doing on board ship but going out to America +or Australia--to her lover, perhaps," said Turner. "You see she has +a locket on her neck; I hope nobody will dare to take it off. Some +of these people are not far derived from those who thought a wreck a +Godsend." + +A sound of many feet was at the door just as we turned to leave the +house. They were bringing another body--that of an elderly woman--dead, +quite dead. Turner had ceased examining her, and we were going out +together, when, through all the tumult of the wind and waves, a fierce +hiss, vindictive, wrathful, tore the air over our heads. Far up, +seawards, something like a fiery snake shot from the high ground on the +right side of the bay, over the vessel, and into the water beyond it. + +"Thank God! that's the coastguard," I cried. + +We rushed through the village, and up on the heights, where they had +planted their apparatus. A little crowd surrounded them. How dismal the +sea looked in the struggling moonlight! I felt as if I were wandering +in the mazes of an evil dream. But when I approached the cliff, and saw +down below the great mass, of the vessel's hulk, with the waves breaking +every moment upon her side, I felt the reality awful indeed. Now and +then there would come a kind of lull in the wild sequence of rolling +waters, and then I fancied for a moment that I saw how she rocked on +the bottom. Her masts had all gone by the board, and a perfect chaos +of cordage floated and swung in the waves that broke over her. But her +bowsprit remained entire, and shot out into the foamy dark, crowded with +human beings. The first rocket had missed. They were preparing to fire +another. Roxton stood with his telescope in his hand, ready to watch the +result. + +"This is a terrible job, sir," he said when I approached him; "I doubt +if we shall save one of them." + +"There's the life-boat!" I cried, as a dark spot appeared on the waters +approaching the vessel from the other side. + +"The life-boat!" he returned with contempt. "You don't mean to say +they've got _her_ out! She'll only add to the mischief. We'll have to +save her too." + +She was still some way from the vessel, and in comparatively smooth +water. But between her and the hull the sea raved in madness; the +billows rode over each other, in pursuit, as it seemed, of some +invisible prey. Another hiss, as of concentrated hatred, and the second +rocket was shooting its parabola through the dusky air. Roxton raised +his telescope to his eye the same moment. + +"Over her starn!" he cried. "There's a fellow getting down from the +cat-head to run aft.--Stop, stop!" he shouted involuntarily. "There's an +awful wave on your quarter." + +His voice was swallowed in the roaring of the storm. I fancied I could +distinguish a dark something shoot from the bows towards the stern. But +the huge wave fell upon the wreck. The same moment Roxton exclaimed--so +coolly as to amaze me, forgetting how men must come to regard familiar +things without discomposure-- + +"He's gone! I said so. The next'll have better luck, I hope." + +That man came ashore alive, though. + +All were forward of the foremast. The bowsprit, when I looked through +Roxton's telescope, was shapeless as with a swarm of bees. Now and then +a single shriek rose upon the wild air. But now my attention was fixed +on the life-boat. She had got into the wildest of the broken water; at +one moment she was down in a huge cleft, the next balanced like a beam +on the knife-edge of a wave, tossed about hither and thither, as if the +waves delighted in mocking the rudder; but hitherto she had shipped no +water. I am here drawing upon the information I have since received; +but I did see how a huge wave, following close upon the back of that on +which she floated, rushed, towered up over her, toppled, and fell upon +the life-boat with tons of water: the moon was shining brightly enough +to show this with tolerable distinctness. The boat vanished. The next +moment, there she was, floating helplessly about, like a living thing +stunned by the blow of the falling wave. The struggle was over. As far +as I could see, every man was in his place; but the boat drifted away +before the storm shore-wards, and the men let her drift. Were they all +killed as they sat? I thought of my Wynnie, and turned to Roxton. + +"That wave has done for them," he said. "I told you it was no use. There +they go." + +"But what is the matter?" I asked. "The men are sitting every man in his +place." + +"I think so," he answered. "Two were swept overboard, but they caught +the ropes and got in again. But don't you see they have no oars?" + +That wave had broken every one of them off at the rowlocks, and now they +were as helpless as a sponge. + +I turned and ran. Before I reached the brow of the hill another rocket +was fired and fell wide shorewards, partly because the wind blew with +fresh fury at the very moment. I heard Roxton say--"She's breaking up. +It's no use. That last did for her;" but I hurried off for the other +side of the bay, to see what became of the life-boat. I heard a great +cry from the vessel as I reached the brow of the hill, and turned for a +parting glance. The dark mass had vanished, and the waves were rushing +at will over the space. When I got to the shore the crowd was less. Many +were running, like myself, towards the other side, anxious about the +life-boat. I hastened after them; for Percivale and Joe filled my heart. + +They led the way to the little beach in front of the parsonage. It would +be well for the crew if they were driven ashore there, for it was the +only spot where they could escape being dashed on rocks. + +There was a crowd before the garden-wall, a bustle, and great confusion +of speech. The people, men and women, boys and girls, were all gathered +about the crew of the life-boat,--which already lay, as if it knew of +nothing but repose, on the grass within. + +"Percivale!" I cried, making my way through the crowd. + +There was no answer. + +"Joe Harper!" I cried again, searching with eager eyes amongst the crew, +to whom everybody was talking. + +Still there was no answer; and from the disjointed phrases I heard, I +could gather nothing. All at once I saw Wynnie looking over the wall, +despair in her face, her wide eyes searching wildly through the crowd. I +could not look at her till I knew the worst. The captain was talking +to old Coombes. I went up to him. As soon as he saw me, he gave me his +attention. + +"Where is Mr. Percivale?" I asked, with all the calmness I could assume. + +He took me by the arm, and drew me out of the crowd, nearer to the +waves, and a little nearer to the mouth of the canal. The tide had +fallen considerably, else there would not have been standing-room, +narrow as it was, which the people now occupied. He pointed in the +direction of the Castle-rock. + +"If you mean the stranger gentleman--" + +"And Joe Harper, the blacksmith," I interposed. + +"They're there, sir." + +"You don't mean those two--just those two--are drowned?" I said. + +"No, sir; I don't say that; but God knows they have little chance." + +I could not help thinking that God might know they were not in the +smallest danger. But I only begged him to tell me where they were. + +"Do you see that schooner there, just between you and the Castle-rock?" + +"No," I answered; "I can see nothing. Stay. I fancy I can. But I am +always ready to fancy I see a thing when I am told it is there. I can't +say I see it." + +"I can, though. The gentleman you mean, and Joe Harper too, are, I +believe, on board of that schooner." + +"Is she aground?" + +"O dear no, sir. She's a light craft, and can swim there well enough. +If she'd been aground, she'd ha' been ashore in pieces hours ago. But +whether she'll ride it out, God only knows, as I said afore." + +"How ever did they get aboard of her? I never saw her from the heights +opposite." + +"You were all taken up by the ship ashore, you see, sir. And she don't +make much show in this light. But there she is, and they're aboard of +her. And this is how it was." + +He went on to give me his part of the story; but I will now give the +whole of it myself, as I have gathered and pieced it together. + +Two men had been swept overboard, as Roxton said--one of them was +Percivale--but they had both got on board again, to drift, oarless, with +the rest--now in a windless valley--now aloft on a tempest-swept hill of +water--away towards a goal they knew not, neither had chosen, and which +yet they could by no means avoid. + +A little out of the full force of the current, and not far from the +channel of the small stream, which, when the tide was out, flowed across +the sands nearly from the canal gates to the Castle-rock, lay a little +schooner, belonging to a neighbouring port, Boscastle, I think, which, +caught in the storm, had been driven into the bay when it was almost +dark, some considerable time before the great ship. The master, however, +knew the ground well. The current carried him a little out of the wind, +and would have thrown him upon the rocks next, but he managed to drop +anchor just in time, and the cable held; and there the little schooner +hung in the skirts of the storm, with the jagged teeth of the rocks +within an arrow flight. In the excitement of the great wreck, no one had +observed the danger of the little coasting bird. If the cable held till +the tide went down, and the anchor did not drag, she would be safe; if +not, she must be dashed to pieces. + +In the schooner were two men and a boy: two men had been washed +overboard an hour or so before they reached the bay. When they had +dropped their anchor, they lay down exhausted on the deck. Indeed they +were so worn out that they had been unable to drop their sheet anchor, +and were holding on only by their best bower. Had they not been a good +deal out of the wind, this would have been useless. Even if it held she +was in danger of having her bottom stove in by bumping against the sands +as the tide went out. But that they had not to think of yet. The moment +they lay down they fell fast asleep in the middle of the storm. While +they slept it increased in violence. + +Suddenly one of them awoke, and thought he saw a vision of angels. For +over his head faces looked down upon him from the air--that is, from the +top of a great wave. The same moment he heard a voice, two of the angels +dropped on the deck beside him, and the rest vanished. Those angels were +Percivale and Joe. And angels they were, for they came just in time, +as all angels do--never a moment too soon or a moment too late: the +schooner _was_ dragging her anchor. This was soon plain even to the less +experienced eyes of the said angels. + +But it did not take them many minutes now to drop their strongest +anchor, and they were soon riding in perfect safety for some time to +come. + +One of the two men was the son of old Coombes, the sexton, who was +engaged to marry the girl I have spoken of in the end of the fourth +chapter in the second volume. + +Percivale's account of the matter, as far as he was concerned, was, that +as they drifted helplessly along, he suddenly saw from the top of a huge +wave the little vessel below him. They were, in fact, almost upon the +rigging. The wave on which they rode swept the quarter-deck of the +schooner. + +Percivale says the captain of the lifeboat called out "Aboard!" The +captain said he remembered nothing of the sort. If he did, he must +have meant it for the men on the schooner to get on board the lifeboat. +Percivale, however, who had a most chivalrous (ought I not to say +Christian?) notion of obedience, fancying the captain meant them to +board the schooner, sprang at her fore-shrouds. Thereupon the wave +sweeping them along the schooner's side, Joe sprang at the main-shrouds, +and they dropped on the deck together. + +But although my reader is at ease about their fate, we who were in the +affair were anything but easy at the time corresponding to this point of +the narrative. It was a terrible night we passed through. + +When I returned, which was almost instantly, for I could do nothing by +staring out in the direction of the schooner, I found that the crowd was +nearly gone. One little group alone remained behind, the centre of which +was a woman. Wynnie had disappeared. The woman who remained behind was +Agnes Harper. + +The moon shone out clear as I approached the group; indeed, the clouds +were breaking-up and drifting away off the heavens. The storm had raved +out its business, and was departing into the past. + +"Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered, and looked up as if waiting for a command. +There was no colour in her cheeks or in her lips--at least it seemed so +in the moonlight--only in her eyes. But she was perfectly calm. She +was leaning against the low wall, with her hands clasped, but hanging +quietly down before her. + +"The storm is breaking-up, Agnes," I said. + +"Yes, sir," she answered in the same still tone. Then, after just a +moment's pause, she spoke out of her heart. + +"Joe's at his duty, sir?" + +I have given the utterance a point of interrogation; whether she meant +that point I am not quite sure. + +"Indubitably," I returned. "I have such faith in Joe, that I should be +sure of that in any case. At all events, he's not taking care of his own +life. And if one is to go wrong, I would ten thousand times rather err +on that side. But I am sure Joe has been doing right, and nothing else." + +"Then there's nothing to be said, sir, is there?" she returned, with a +sigh that sounded as of relief. + +I presume some of the surrounding condolers had been giving her Job's +comfort by blaming her husband. + +"Do you remember, Agnes, what the Lord said to his mother when she +reproached him with having left her and his father?" + +"I can't remember anything at this moment, sir," was her touching +answer. + +"Then I will tell you. He said, 'Why did you look for me? Didn't you +know that I must be about something my Father had given me to do?' Now, +Joe was and is about his Father's business, and you must not be anxious +about him. There could be no better reason for not being anxious." + +Agnes was a very quiet woman. When without a word she took my hand and +kissed it, I felt what a depth there was in the feeling she could not +utter. I did not withdraw my hand, for I knew that would be to rebuke +her love for Joe. + +"Will you come in and wait?" I said indefinitely. + +"No, thank you, sir. I must go to my mother. God will look after Joe, +won't he, sir?" + +"As sure as there is a God, Agnes," I said; and she went away without +another word. + +I put my hand on the top of the wall and jumped over. I started back +with terror, for I had almost alighted on the body of a woman lying +there. The first insane suggestion was that it had been cast ashore; but +the next moment I knew that it was my own Wynnie. + +She had not even fainted. She was lying with her handkerchief stuffed +into her mouth to keep her from screaming. When I uttered her name +she rose, and, without looking at me, walked away towards the house. I +followed. She went straight to her own room and shut the door. I went to +find her mother. She was with Connie, who was now awake, lying pale and +frightened. I told Ethelwyn that Percivale and Joe were on board the +little schooner, which was holding on by her anchor, that Wynnie was in +terror about Percivale, that I had found her lying on the wet grass, and +that she must get her into a warm bath and to bed. We went together to +her room. + +She was standing in the middle of the floor, with her hands pressed +against her temples. + +"Wynnie," I said, "our friends are not drowned. I think you will see +them quite safe in the morning. Pray to God for them." + +She did not hear a word. + +"Leave her with me," said Ethelwyn, proceeding to undress her; "and tell +nurse to bring up the large bath. There is plenty of hot water in the +boiler. I gave orders to that effect, not knowing what might happen." + +Wynnie shuddered as her mother said this; but I waited no longer, for +when Ethelwyn spoke everyone felt her authority. I obeyed her, and then +went to Connie's room. + +"Do you mind being left alone a little while?" I asked her. + +"No, papa; only--are they all drowned?" she said with a shudder. + +"I hope not, my dear; but be sure of the mercy of God, whatever you +fear. You must rest in him, my love; for he is life, and will conquer +death both in the soul and in the body." + +"I was not thinking of myself, papa." + +"I know that, my dear. But God is thinking of you and every creature +that he has made. And for our sakes you must be quiet in heart, that you +may get better, and be able to help us." + +"I will try, papa," she said; and, turning slowly on her side, she lay +quite still. + +Dora and the boys were all fast asleep, for it was very late. I cannot, +however, say what hour it was. + +Telling nurse to be on the watch because Connie was alone, I went again +to the beach. I called first, however, to inquire after Agnes. I found +her quite composed, sitting with her parents by the fire, none of them +doing anything, scarcely speaking, only listening intently to the sounds +of the storm now beginning to die away. + +I next went to the place where I had left Turner. Five bodies lay there, +and he was busy with a sixth. The surgeon of the place was with him, and +they quite expected to recover this man. + +I then went down to the sands. An officer of the revenue was taking +charge of all that came ashore--chests, and bales, and everything. For +a week the sea went on casting out the fragments of that which she had +destroyed. I have heard that, for years after, the shifting of the sands +would now and then discover things buried that night by the waves. + +All the next day the bodies kept coming ashore, some peaceful as in +sleep, others broken and mutilated. Many were cast upon other parts +of the coast. Some four or five only, all men, were recovered. It was +strange to me how I got used to it. The first horror over, the cry that +yet another body had come awoke only a gentle pity--no more dismay or +shuddering. But, finding I could be of no use, I did not wait longer +than just till the morning began to dawn with a pale ghastly light over +the seething raging sea; for the sea raged on, although the wind had +gone down. There were many strong men about, with two surgeons and all +the coastguard, who were well accustomed to similar though not such +extensive destruction. The houses along the shore were at the disposal +of any who wanted aid; the Parsonage was at some distance; and I confess +that when I thought of the state of my daughters, as well as remembered +former influences upon my wife, I was very glad to think there was no +necessity for carrying thither any of those whom the waves cast on the +shore. + +When I reached home, and found Wynnie quieter and Connie again asleep, I +walked out along our own downs till I came whence I could see the little +schooner still safe at anchor. From her position I concluded--correctly +as I found afterwards--that they had let out her cable far enough to +allow her to reach the bed of the little stream, where the tide would +leave her more gently. She was clearly out of all danger now; and if +Percivale and Joe had got safe on board of her, we might confidently +expect to see them before many hours were passed. I went home with the +good news. + +For a few moments I doubted whether I should tell Wynnie, for I could +not know with any certainty that Percivale was in the schooner. But +presently I recalled former conclusions to the effect that we have no +right to modify God's facts for fear of what may be to come. A little +hope founded on a present appearance, even if that hope should never be +realised, may be the very means of enabling a soul to bear the weight of +a sorrow past the point at which it would otherwise break down. I would +therefore tell Wynnie, and let her share my expectation of deliverance. + +I think she had been half-asleep, for when I entered her room she +started up in a sitting posture, looking wild, and putting her hands to +her head. + +"I have brought you good news, Wynnie," I said. "I have been out on the +downs, and there is light enough now to see that the little schooner is +quite safe." + +"What schooner?" she asked listlessly, and lay down again, her eyes +still staring, awfully unappeased. + +"Why the schooner they say Percivale got on board." + +"He isn't drowned then!" she cried with a choking voice, and put her +hands to her face and burst into tears and sobs. + +"Wynnie," I said, "look what your faithlessness brings upon you. +Everybody but you has known all night that Percivale and Joe Harper are +probably quite safe. They may be ashore in a couple of hours." + +"But you don't know it. He may be drowned yet." + +"Of course there is room for doubt, but none for despair. See what a +poor helpless creature hopelessness makes you." + +"But how can I help it, papa?" she asked piteously. "I am made so." + +But as she spoke the dawn was clear upon the height of her forehead. + +"You are not made yet, as I am always telling you; and God has ordained +that you shall have a hand in your own making. You have to consent, to +desire that what you know for a fault shall be set right by his loving +will and spirit." + +"I don't know God, papa." + +"Ah, my dear, that is where it all lies. You do not know him, or you +would never be without hope." + +"But what am I to do to know him!" she asked, rising on her elbow. + +The saving power of hope was already working in her. She was once more +turning her face towards the Life. + +"Read as you have never read before about Christ Jesus, my love. Read +with the express object of finding out what God is like, that you may +know him and may trust him. And now give yourself to him, and he will +give you sleep." + +"What are we to do," I said to my wife, "if Percivale continue silent? +For even if he be in love with her, I doubt if he will speak." + +"We must leave all that, Harry," she answered. + +She was turning on myself the counsel I had been giving Wynnie. It is +strange how easily we can tell our brother what he ought to do, and yet, +when the case comes to be our own, do precisely as we had rebuked him +for doing. I lay down and fell fast asleep. + + + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE FUNERAL. + + + + + +It was a lovely morning when I woke once more. The sun was flashing back +from the sea, which was still tossing, but no longer furiously, only as +if it wanted to turn itself every way to flash the sunlight about. The +madness of the night was over and gone; the light was abroad, and the +world was rejoicing. When I reached the drawing-room, which afforded +the best outlook over the shore, there was the schooner lying dry on the +sands, her two cables and anchors stretching out yards behind her; +but half way between the two sides of the bay rose a mass of something +shapeless, drifted over with sand. It was all that remained together of +the great ship that had the day before swept over the waters like a live +thing with wings--of all the works of man's hands the nearest to the +shape and sign of life. The wind had ceased altogether, only now and +then a little breeze arose which murmured "I am very sorry," and lay +down again. And I knew that in the houses on the shore dead men and +women were lying. + +I went down to the dining-room. The three children were busy at their +breakfast, but neither wife, daughter, nor visitor had yet appeared. I +made a hurried meal, and was just rising to go and inquire further into +the events of the night, when the door opened, and in walked Percivale, +looking very solemn, but in perfect health and well-being. I grasped his +hand warmly. + +"Thank God," I said, "that you are returned to us, Percivale." + +"I doubt if that is much to give thanks for," he said. + +"We are the judges of that," I rejoined. "Tell me all about it." + +While he was narrating the events I have already communicated, Wynnie +entered. She started, turned pale and then very red, and for a moment +hesitated in the doorway. + +"Here is another to rejoice at your safety, Percivale," I said. + +Thereupon he stepped forward to meet her, and she gave him her hand with +an emotion so evident that I felt a little distressed--why, I could not +easily have told, for she looked most charming in the act,--more lovely +than I had ever seen her. Her beauty was unconsciously praising God, and +her heart would soon praise him too. But Percivale was a modest man, and +I think attributed her emotion to the fact that he had been in danger in +the way of duty,--a fact sufficient to move the heart of any good woman. + +She sat down and began to busy herself with the teapot. Her hand +trembled. I requested Percivale to begin his story once more; and he +evidently enjoyed recounting to her the adventures of the night. + +I asked him to sit down and have a second breakfast while I went into +the village, whereto he seemed nothing loth. + +As I crossed the floor of the old mill to see how Joe was, the head of +the sexton appeared emerging from it. He looked full of weighty solemn +business. Bidding me good-morning, he turned to the corner where his +tools lay, and proceeded to shoulder spade and pickaxe. + +"Ah, Coombes! you'll want them," I said. + +"A good many o' my people be come all at once, you see, sir," he +returned. "I shall have enough ado to make 'em all comfortable like." + +"But you must get help, you know; you can never make them all +comfortable yourself alone." + +"We'll see what I can do," he returned. "I ben't a bit willin' to let no +one do my work for me, I do assure you, sir." + +"How many are there wanting your services?" I asked. + +"There be fifteen of them now, and there be more, I don't doubt, on the +way." + +"But you won't think of making separate graves for them all," I said. +"They died together: let them lie together." + +The old man set down his tools, and looked me in the face with +indignation. The face was so honest and old, that, without feeling I had +deserved it, I yet felt the rebuke. + +"How would you like, sir," he said, at length, "to be put in the same +bed with a lot of people you didn't know nothing about?" + +I knew the old man's way, and that any argument which denied the premiss +of his peculiar fancy was worse than thrown away upon him. I therefore +ventured no farther than to say that I had heard death was a leveller. + +"That be very true; and, mayhap, they mightn't think of it after they'd +been down awhile--six weeks, mayhap, or so. But anyhow, it can't be +comfortable for 'em, poor things. One on 'em be a baby: I daresay he'd +rather lie with his mother. The doctor he say one o' the women be a +mother. I don't know," he went on reflectively, "whether she be the +baby's own mother, but I daresay neither o' them 'll mind it if I take +it for granted, and lay 'em down together. So that's one bed less." + +One thing was clear, that the old man could not dig fourteen graves +within the needful time. But I would not interfere with his office in +the church, having no reason to doubt that he would perform its duties +to perfection. He shouldered his tools again and walked out. I descended +the stair, thinking to see Joe; but there was no one there but the old +woman. + +"Where are Joe and Agnes?" I asked. + +"You see, sir, Joe had promised a little job of work to be ready to-day, +and so he couldn't stop. He did say Agnes needn't go with him; but she +thought she couldn't part with him so soon, you see, sir." + +"She had received him from the dead--raised to life again," I said; "it +was most natural. But what a fine fellow Joe is; nothing will make him +neglect his work!" + +"I tried to get him to stop, sir, saying he had done quite enough last +night for all next day; but he told me it was his business to get the +tire put on Farmer Wheatstone's cart-wheel to-day just as much as it was +his business to go in the life-boat yesterday. So he would go, and Aggy +wouldn't stay behind." + +"Fine fellow, Joe!" I said, and took my leave. + +As I drew near the village, I heard the sound of hammering and sawing, +and apparently everything at once in the way of joinery; they were +making the coffins in the joiners' shops, of which there were two in the +place. + +I do not like coffins. They seem to me relics of barbarism. If I had my +way, I would have the old thing decently wound in a fair linen cloth, +and so laid in the bosom of the earth, whence it was taken. I would have +it vanish, not merely from the world of vision, but from the world +of form, as soon as may be. The embrace of the fine life-hoarding, +life-giving mould, seems to me comforting, in the vague, foolish fancy +that will sometimes emerge from the froth of reverie--I mean, of +subdued consciousness remaining in the outworn frame. But the coffin is +altogether and vilely repellent. Of this, however, enough, I hate even +the shadow of sentiment, though some of my readers, who may not yet have +learned to distinguish between sentiment and feeling, may wonder how I +dare to utter such a barbarism. + +I went to the house of the county magistrate hard by, for I thought +something might have to be done in which I had a share. I found that +he had sent a notice of the loss of the vessel to the Liverpool papers, +requesting those who might wish to identify or claim any of the bodies +to appear within four days at Kilkhaven. + +This threw the last upon Saturday, and before the end of the week it was +clear that they must not remain above ground over Sunday. I therefore +arranged that they should be buried late on the Saturday night. + +On the Friday morning, a young woman and an old man, unknown to each +other, arrived by the coach from Barnstaple. They had come to see the +last of their friends in this world; to look, if they might, at the +shadow left behind by the departing soul. For as the shadow of any +object remains a moment upon the magic curtain of the eye after the +object itself has gone, so the shadow of the soul, namely, the body, +lingers a moment upon the earth after the object itself has gone to +the "high countries." It was well to see with what a sober sorrow the +dignified little old man bore his grief. It was as if he felt that the +loss of his son was only for a moment. But the young woman had taken on +the hue of the corpse she came to seek. Her eyes were sunken as if with +the weight of the light she cared not for, and her cheeks had already +pined away as if to be ready for the grave. A being thus emptied of its +glory seized and possessed my thoughts. She never even told us whom she +came seeking, and after one involuntary question, which simply received +no answer, I was very careful not even to approach another. I do not +think the form she sought was there; and she may have gone home with +the lingering hope to cast the gray aurora of a doubtful dawn over her +coming days, that, after all, that one had escaped. + +On the Friday afternoon, with the approbation of the magistrate, I had +all the bodies removed to the church. Some in their coffins, others +on stretchers, they were laid in front of the communion-rail. In the +evening these two went to see them. I took care to be present. The old +man soon found his son. I was at his elbow as he walked between the rows +of the dead. He turned to me and said quietly-- + +"That's him, sir. He was a good lad. God rest his soul. He's with his +mother; and if I'm sorry, she's glad." + +With that he smiled, or tried to smile. I could only lay my hand on his +arm, to let him know that I understood him, and was with him. He walked +out of the church, sat down, upon a stone, and stared at the mould of a +new-made grave in front of him. What was passing behind those eyes God +only knew--certainly the man himself did not know. Our lightest thoughts +are of more awful significance than the most serious of us can imagine. + +For the young woman, I thought she left the church with a little light +in her eyes; but she had said nothing. Alas! that the body was not there +could no more justify her than Milton in letting her + + "frail thoughts dally with false surmise." + +With him, too, she might well add-- + + "Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away." + +But God had them in his teaching, and all I could do was to ask them +to be my guests till the funeral and the following Sunday were over. +To this they kindly consented, and I took them to my wife, who received +them like herself, and had in a few minutes made them at home with her, +to which no doubt their sorrow tended, for that brings out the relations +of humanity and destroys its distinctions. + +The next morning a Scotchman of a very decided type, originally from +Aberdeen, but resident in Liverpool, appeared, seeking the form of +his daughter. I had arranged that whoever came should be brought to me +first. I went with him to the church. He was a tall, gaunt, bony man, +with long arms and huge hands, a rugged granite-like face, and a slow +ponderous utterance, which I had some difficulty in understanding. He +treated the object of his visit with a certain hardness, and at the same +time lightness, which also I had some difficulty in understanding. + +"You want to see the--" I said, and hesitated. + +"Ow ay--the boadies," he answered. "She winna be there, I daursay, but I +wad jist like to see; for I wadna like her to be beeried gin sae be 'at +she was there, wi'oot biddin' her good-bye like." + +When we reached the church, I opened the door and entered. An awe fell +upon me fresh and new. The beautiful church had become a tomb: solemn, +grand, ancient, it rose as a memorial of the dead who lay in peace +before her altar-rail, as if they had fled thither for sanctuary from a +sea of troubles. And I thought with myself, Will the time ever come when +the churches shall stand as the tombs of holy things that have passed +away, when Christ shall have rendered up the kingdom to his Father, and +no man shall need to teach his neighbour or his brother, saying, "Know +the Lord"? The thought passed through my mind and vanished, as I led my +companion up to the dead. He glanced at one and another, and passed on. +He had looked at ten or twelve ere he stopped, gazing on the face of the +beautiful form which had first come ashore. He stooped and stroked the +white cheeks, taking the head in his great rough hands, and smoothed the +brown hair tenderly, saying, as if he had quite forgotten that she was +dead-- + +"Eh, Maggie! hoo cam _ye_ here, lass?" + +Then, as if for the first time the reality had grown comprehensible, he +put his hands before his face, and burst into tears. His huge frame was +shaken with sobs for one long minute, while I stood looking on with awe +and reverence. He ceased suddenly, pulled a blue cotton handkerchief +with yellow spots on it--I see it now--from his pocket, rubbed his face +with it as if drying it with a towel, put it back, turned, and said, +without looking at me, "I'll awa' hame." + +"Wouldn't you like a piece of her hair?" I asked. + +"Gin ye please," he answered gently, as if his daughter's form had been +mine now, and her hair were mine to give. + +By the vestry door sat Mrs. Coombes, watching the dead, with her sweet +solemn smile, and her constant ministration of knitting. + +"Have you got a pair of scissors there, Mrs. Coombes?" I asked. + +"Yes, to be sure, sir," she answered, rising, and lifting a huge pair by +the string suspending them from her waist. + +"Cut off a nice piece of this beautiful hair," I said. + +She lifted the lovely head, chose, and cut off a long piece, and handed +it respectfully to the father. + +He took it without a word, sat down on the step before the +communion-rail, and began to smooth out the wonderful sleave of dusky +gold. It was, indeed, beautiful hair. As he drew it out, I thought it +must be a yard long. He passed his big fingers through and through it, +but tenderly, as if it had been still growing on the live lovely head, +stopping every moment to pick out the bits of sea-weed and shells, and +shake out the sand that had been wrought into its mass. He sat thus for +nearly half-an-hour, and we stood looking on with something closely akin +to awe. At length he folded it up, drew from his pocket an old black +leather book, laid it carefully in the innermost pocket, and rose. I led +the way from the church, and he followed me. + +Outside the church, he laid his hand on my arm, and said, groping with +his other hand in his trousers-pocket-- + +"She'll hae putten ye to some expense--for the coffin an' sic like." + +"We'll talk about that afterwards," I answered. "Come home with me now, +and have some refreshment." + +"Na, I thank ye. I hae putten ye to eneuch o' tribble already. I'll jist +awa' hame." + +"We are going to lay them down this evening. You won't go before the +funeral. Indeed, I think you can't get away till Monday morning. My wife +and I will be glad of your company till then." + +"I'm no company for gentle-fowk, sir." + +"Come and show me in which of these graves you would like to have her +laid," I said. + +He yielded and followed me. + +Coombes had not dug many spadefuls before he saw what had been plain +enough--that ten such men as he could not dig the graves in time. But +there was plenty of help to be had from the village and the neighbouring +farms. Most of them were now ready, but a good many men were still at +work. The brown hillocks lay all about the church-yard--the mole-heaps +of burrowing Death. + +The stranger looked around him. His face grew critical. He stepped a +little hither and thither. At length he turned to me and said-- + +"I wadna like to be greedy; but gin ye wad lat her lie next the kirk +there--i' that neuk, I wad tak' it kindly. And syne gin ever it cam' +aboot that I cam' here again, I wad ken whaur she was. Could ye get +a sma' bit heidstane putten up? I wad leave the siller wi' ye to pay +for't." + +"To be sure I can. What will you have put on the stone?" + +"Ow jist--let me see--Maggie Jamieson--nae Marget, but jist Maggie. She +was aye Maggie at home. Maggie Jamieson, frae her father. It's the last +thing I can gie her. Maybe ye micht put a verse o' Scripter aneath't, ye +ken." + +"What verse would you like?" + +He thought for a little. + +"Isna there a text that says, 'The deid shall hear his voice'?" + +"Yes: 'The dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God.'" + +"Ay. That's it. Weel, jist put that on.--They canna do better than hear +his voice," he added, with a strange mixture of Scotch ratiocination. + +I led the way home, and he accompanied me without further objection or +apology. After dinner, I proposed that we should go upon the downs, for +the day was warm and bright. We sat on the grass. I felt that I could +not talk to them as from myself. I knew nothing of the possible gulfs +of sorrow in their hearts. To me their forms seemed each like a hill +in whose unseen bosom lay a cavern of dripping waters, perhaps with a +subterranean torrent of anguish raving through its hollows and tumbling +down hidden precipices, whose voice God only heard, and God only could +still. This daughter _might_, though from her face I did not think it, +have gone away against her father's will. That son _might_ have been a +ne'er-do-well at home--how could I tell? The woman _might_ be looking +for the lover that had forsaken her--I could not divine. I would speak +no words of my own. The Son of God had spoken words of comfort to +his mourning friends, when he was the present God and they were the +forefront of humanity; I would read some of the words he spoke. From +them the human nature in each would draw what comfort it could. I took +my New Testament from my pocket, and said, without any preamble, + +"When our Lord was going to die, he knew that his friends loved +him enough to be very wretched about it. He knew that they would be +overwhelmed for a time with trouble. He knew, too, that they could not +believe the glad end of it all, to which end he looked, across the awful +death that awaited him--a death to which that of our friends in the +wreck was ease itself. I will just read to you what he said." + +I read from the fourteenth to the seventeenth chapter of St. John's +Gospel. I knew there were worlds of meaning in the words into which I +could hardly hope any of them would enter. But I knew likewise that the +best things are just those from which the humble will draw the truth +they are capable of seeing. Therefore I read as for myself, and left +it to them to hear for themselves. Nor did I add any word of comment, +fearful of darkening counsel by words without knowledge. For the Bible +is awfully set against what is not wise. + +When I had finished, I closed the book, rose from the grass, and walked +towards the brow of the shore. They rose likewise and followed me. I +talked of slight things; the tone was all that communicated between us. +But little of any sort was said. The sea lay still before us, knowing +nothing of the sorrow it had caused. + +We wandered a little way along the cliff. The burial-service was at +seven o'clock. + +"I have an invalid to visit out in this direction," I said; "would you +mind walking with me? I shall not stay more than five minutes, and we +shall get back just in time for tea." + +They assented kindly. I walked first with one, then with another; heard +a little of the story of each; was able to say a few words of sympathy, +and point, as it were, a few times towards the hills whence cometh our +aid. I may just mention here, that since our return to Marshmallows I +have had two of them, the young woman and the Scotchman, to visit us +there. + +The bell began to toll, and we went to church. My companions placed +themselves near the dead. I went into the vestry till the appointed +hour. I thought as I put on my surplice how, in all religions but the +Christian, the dead body was a pollution to the temple. Here the church +received it, as a holy thing, for a last embrace ere it went to the +earth. + +As the dead were already in the church, the usual form could not be +carried out. I therefore stood by the communion-table, and there began +to read, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that +believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever +liveth and believeth in me shall never die." + +I advanced, as I read, till I came outside the rails and stood before +the dead. There I read the Psalm, "Lord, thou hast been our refuge," and +the glorious lesson, "Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the +first-fruits of them that slept." Then the men of the neighbourhood +came forward, and in long solemn procession bore the bodies out of the +church, each to its grave. At the church-door I stood and read, "Man +that is born of a woman;" then went from one to another of the graves, +and read over each, as the earth fell on the coffin-lid, "Forasmuch as +it hath pleased Almighty God, of his great mercy." Then again, I went +back to the church-door and read, "I heard a voice from heaven;" and so +to the end of the service. + +Leaving the men to fill up the graves, I hastened to lay aside my +canonicals, that I might join my guests; but my wife and daughter had +already prevailed on them to leave the churchyard. + +A word now concerning my own family. Turner insisted on Connie's +remaining in bed for two or three days. She looked worse in face--pale +and worn; but it was clear, from the way she moved in bed, that the +fresh power called forth by the shock had not vanished with the moment. + +Wynnie was quieter almost than ever; but there was a constant _secret_ +light, if I may use the paradox, in her eyes. Percivale was at the +house every day, always ready to make himself useful. My wife bore up +wonderfully. As yet the much greater catastrophe had come far short +of the impression made by the less. When quieter hours should come, +however, I could not help fearing that the place would be dreadfully +painful to all but the younger ones, who, of course, had the usual +child-gift of forgetting. The servants--even Walter--looked thin and +anxious. + +That Saturday night I found myself, as I had once or twice found myself +before, entirely unprepared to preach. I did not feel anxious, because +I did not feel that I was to blame: I had been so much occupied. I had +again and again turned my thoughts thitherward, but nothing recommended +itself to me so that I could say "I must take that;" nothing said +plainly, "This is what you have to speak of." + +As often as I had sought to find fitting matter for my sermon, my mind +had turned to death and the grave; but I shrunk from every suggestion, +or rather nothing had come to me that interested myself enough to +justify me in giving it to my people. And I always took it as my sole +justification, in speaking of anything to the flock of Christ, that I +cared heartily in my own soul for that thing. Without this consciousness +I was dumb. And I do think, highly as I value prophecy, that a clergyman +ought to be at liberty upon occasion to say, "My friends, I cannot +preach to-day." What a riddance it would be for the Church, I do not say +if every priest were to speak sense, but only if every priest were to +abstain from speaking of that in which, at the moment, he feels little +or no interest! + +I went to bed, which is often the very best thing a man can do; for +sleep will bring him from God that which no effort of his own will can +compass. I have read somewhere--I will verify it by present search--that +Luther's translation, of the verse in the psalm, "So he giveth to his +beloved sleep," is, "He giveth his beloved sleeping," or while asleep. +Yes, so it is, literally, in English, "It is in vain that ye rise early, +and then sit long, and eat your bread with care, for to his friends he +gives it sleeping." This was my experience in the present instance; for +the thought of which I was first conscious when I awoke was, "Why should +I talk about death? Every man's heart is now full of death. We have +enough of that--even the sum that God has sent us on the wings of the +tempest. What I have to do, as the minister of the new covenant, is to +speak of life." It flashed in on my mind: "Death is over and gone. The +resurrection comes next. I will speak of the raising of Lazarus." + +The same moment I knew that I was ready to speak. Shall I or shall I not +give my reader the substance of what I said? I wish I knew how many of +them would like it, and how many would not. I do not want to bore them +with sermons, especially seeing I have always said that no sermons ought +to be printed; for in print they are but what the old alchymists would +have called a _caput mortuum_, or death's head, namely, a lifeless lump +of residuum at the bottom of the crucible; for they have no longer the +living human utterance which gives all the power on the minds of the +hearers. But I have not, either in this or in my preceding narrative, +attempted to give a sermon as I preached it. I have only sought to +present the substance of it in a form fitter for being read, somewhat +cleared of the unavoidable, let me say necessary--yes, I will +say _valuable_--repetitions and enforcements by which the various +considerations are pressed upon the minds of the hearers. These are +entirely wearisome in print--useless too, for the reader may ponder over +every phrase till he finds out the purport of it--if indeed there be +such readers nowadays. + +I rose, went down to the bath in the rocks, had a joyous physical +ablution, and a swim up and down the narrow cleft, from which I emerged +as if myself newly born or raised anew, and then wandered about on the +downs full of hope and thankfulness, seeking all I could to plant deep +in my mind the long-rooted truths of resurrection, that they might be +not only ready to blossom in the warmth of the spring-tides to come, but +able to send out some leaves and promissory buds even in the wintry time +of the soul, when the fogs of pain steam up from the frozen clay soil of +the body, and make the monarch-will totter dizzily upon his throne, to +comfort the eyes of the bewildered king, reminding him that the King of +kings hath conquered Death and the Grave. There is no perfect faith +that cannot laugh at winters and graveyards, and all the whole array +of defiant appearances. The fresh breeze of the morning visited me. "O +God," I said in my heart, "would that when the dark day comes, in which +I can feel nothing, I may be able to front it with the memory of this +day's strength, and so help myself to trust in the Father! I would call +to mind the days of old, with David the king." + +When I returned to the house, I found that one of the sailors, who had +been cast ashore with his leg broken, wished to see me. I obeyed, and +found him very pale and worn. + +"I think I am going, sir," he said; "and I wanted to see you before I +die." + +"Trust in Christ, and do not be afraid," I returned. + +"I prayed to him to save me when I was hanging to the rigging, and if I +wasn't afraid then, I'm not going to be afraid now, dying quietly in my +bed. But just look here, sir." + +He took from under his pillow something wrapped up in paper, unfolded +the envelope, and showed a lump of something--I could not at first tell +what. He put it in my hand, and then I saw that it was part of a bible, +with nearly the upper half of it worn or cut away, and the rest partly +in a state of pulp. + +"That's the bible my mother gave me when I left home first," he said. "I +don't know how I came to put it in my pocket, but I think the rope that +cut through that when I was lashed to the shrouds would a'most have cut +through my ribs if it hadn't been for it." + +"Very likely," I returned. "The body of the Bible has saved your bodily +life: may the spirit of it save your spiritual life." + +"I think I know what you mean, sir," he panted out. "My mother was a +good woman, and I know she prayed to God for me." + +"Would you like us to pray for you in church to-day?" + +"If you please, sir; me and Bob Fox. He's nearly as bad as I am." + +"We won't forget you," I said. "I will come in after church and see how +you are." + +I knelt and offered the prayers for the sick, and then took my leave. I +did not think the poor fellow was going to die. + +I may as well mention here, that he has been in my service ever since. +We took him with us to Marshmallows, where he works in the garden and +stables, and is very useful. We have to look after him though, for his +health continues delicate. + + + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE SERMON. + + + + + +When I stood up to preach, I gave them no text; but, with the eleventh +chapter of the Gospel of St. John open before me, to keep me correct, I +proceeded to tell the story in the words God gave me; for who can dare +to say that he makes his own commonest speech? + +"When Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and therefore our elder brother, +was going about on the earth, eating and drinking with his brothers +and sisters, there was one family he loved especially--a family of two +sisters and a brother; for, although he loves everybody as much as they +can be loved, there are some who can be loved more than others. Only +God is always trying to make us such that we can be loved more and more. +There are several stories--O, such lovely stories!--about that family +and Jesus; and we have to do with one of them now. + +"They lived near the capital of the country, Jerusalem, in a village +they called Bethany; and it must have been a great relief to our Lord, +when he was worn out with the obstinacy and pride of the great men of +the city, to go out to the quiet little town and into the refuge of +Lazarus's house, where everyone was more glad at the sound of his feet +than at any news that could come to them. + +"They had at this time behaved so ill to him in Jerusalem--taking up +stones to stone him even, though they dared not quite do it, mad with +anger as they were--and all because he told them the truth--that he had +gone away to the other side of the great river that divided the country, +and taught the people in that quiet place. While he was there his friend +Lazarus was taken ill; and the two sisters, Martha and Mary, sent a +messenger to him, to say to him, 'Lord, your friend is very ill.' Only +they said it more beautifully than that: 'Lord, behold, he whom thou +lovest is sick.' You know, when anyone is ill, we always want the person +whom he loves most to come to him. This is very wonderful. In the worst +things that can come to us the first thought is of love. People, like +the Scribes and Pharisees, might say, 'What good can that do him?' And +we may not in the least suppose that the person we want knows any secret +that can cure his pain; yet love is the first thing we think of. And +here we are more right than we know; for, at the long last, love will +cure everything: which truth, indeed, this story will set forth to us. +No doubt the heart of Lazarus, ill as he was, longed after his friend; +and, very likely, even the sight of Jesus might have given him such +strength that the life in him could have driven out the death which had +already got one foot across the threshold. But the sisters expected +more than this: they believed that Jesus, whom they knew to have driven +disease and death out of so many hearts, had only to come and touch +him--nay, only to speak a word, to look at him, and their brother was +saved. Do you think they presumed in thus expecting? The fact was, they +did not believe enough; they had not yet learned to believe that he +could cure him all the same whether he came to them or not, because he +was always with them. We cannot understand this; but our understanding +is never a measure of what is true. + +"Whether Jesus knew exactly all that was going to take place I cannot +tell. Some people may feel certain upon points that I dare not feel +certain upon. One thing I am sure of: that he did not always know +everything beforehand, for he said so himself. It is infinitely more +valuable to us, because more beautiful and godlike in him, that he +should trust his Father than that he should foresee everything. At all +events he knew that his Father did not want him to go to his friends +yet. So he sent them a message to the effect that there was a particular +reason for this sickness--that the end of it was not the death of +Lazarus, but the glory of God. This, I think, he told them by the same +messenger they sent to him; and then, instead of going to them, he +remained where he was. + +"But O, my friends, what shall I say about this wonderful message? Think +of being sick for the glory of God! of being shipwrecked for the glory +of God! of being drowned for the glory of God! How can the sickness, the +fear, the broken-heartedness of his creatures be for the glory of God? +What kind of a God can that be? Why just a God so perfectly, absolutely +good, that the things that look least like it are only the means of +clearing our eyes to let us see how good he is. For he is so good that +he is not satisfied with _being_ good. He loves his children, so that +except he can make them good like himself, make them blessed by seeing +how good he is, and desiring the same goodness in themselves, he is not +satisfied. He is not like a fine proud benefactor, who is content with +doing that which will satisfy his sense of his own glory, but like a +mother who puts her arm round her child, and whose heart is sore +till she can make her child see the love which is her glory. The +glorification of the Son of God is the glorification of the human +race; for the glory of God is the glory of man, and that glory is love. +Welcome sickness, welcome sorrow, welcome death, revealing that glory! + +"The next two verses sound very strangely together, and yet they almost +seem typical of all the perplexities of God's dealings. The old painters +and poets represented Faith as a beautiful woman, holding in her hand +a cup of wine and water, with a serpent coiled up within. Highhearted +Faith! she scruples not to drink of the life-giving wine and water; she +is not repelled by the upcoiled serpent. The serpent she takes but for +the type of the eternal wisdom that looks repellent because it is not +understood. The wine is good, the water is good; and if the hand of the +supreme Fate put that cup in her hand, the serpent itself must be good +too,--harmless, at least, to hurt the truth of the water and the wine. +But let us read the verses. + +"'Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus. When he had heard +therefore that he was sick, he abode two days still in the same place +where he was.' + +"Strange! his friend was sick: he abode two days where he was! But +remember what we have already heard. The glory of God was infinitely +more for the final cure of a dying Lazarus, who, give him all the life +he could have, would yet, without that glory, be in death, than the mere +presence of the Son of God. I say _mere_ presence, for, compared with +the glory of God, the very presence of his Son, so dissociated, is +nothing. He abode where he was that the glory of God, the final cure of +humanity, the love that triumphs over death, might shine out and redeem +the hearts of men, so that death could not touch them. + +"After the two days, the hour had arrived. He said to his disciples, +'Let us go back to Judaea.' They expostulated, because of the danger, +saying, 'Master, the Jews of late sought to stone thee; and goest thou +thither again?' The answer which he gave them I am not sure whether I +can thoroughly understand; but I think, in fact I know, it must bear +on the same region of life--the will of God. I think what he means by +walking in the day is simply doing the will of God. That was the sole, +the all-embracing light in which Jesus ever walked. I think he means +that now he saw plainly what the Father wanted him to do. If he did not +see that the Father wanted him to go back to Judaea, and yet went, that +would be to go stumblingly, to walk in the darkness. There are twelve +hours in the day--one time to act--a time of light and the clear call of +duty; there is a night when a man, not seeing where or hearing how, must +be content to rest. Something not inharmonious with this, I think, he +must have intended; but I do not see the whole thought clearly enough +to be sure that I am right. I do think, further, that it points at a +clearer condition of human vision and conviction than I am good enough +to understand; though I hope one day to rise into this upper stratum of +light. + +"Whether his scholars had heard anything of Lazarus yet, I do not know. +It looks a little as if Jesus had not told them the message he had had +from the sisters. But he told them now that he was asleep, and that he +was going to wake him. You would think they might have understood +this. The idea of going so many miles to wake a man might have surely +suggested death. But the disciples were sorely perplexed with many +of his words. Sometimes they looked far away for the meaning when the +meaning lay in their very hearts; sometimes they looked into their hands +for it when it was lost in the grandeur of the ages. But he meant them +to see into all that he said by and by, although they could not see into +it now. When they understood him better, then they would understand what +he said better. And to understand him better they must be more like +him; and to make them more like him he must go away and give them his +spirit--awful mystery which no man but himself can understand. + +"Now he had to tell them plainly that Lazarus was dead. They had not +thought of death as a sleep. I suppose this was altogether a new and +Christian idea. Do not suppose that it applied more to Lazarus than to +other dead people. He was none the less dead that Jesus meant to take a +weary two days' journey to his sepulchre and wake him. If death is not a +sleep, Jesus did not speak the truth when he said Lazarus slept. You may +say it was a figure; but a figure that is not like the thing it figures +is simply a lie. + +"They set out to go back to Judaea. Here we have a glimpse of the faith +of Thomas, the doubter. For a doubter is not without faith. The very +fact that he doubts, shows that he has some faith. When I find anyone +hard upon doubters, I always doubt the _quality_ of his faith. It is of +little use to have a great cable, if the hemp is so poor that it breaks +like the painter of a boat. I have known people whose power of believing +chiefly consisted in their incapacity for seeing difficulties. Of what +fine sort a faith must be that is founded in stupidity, or far worse, in +indifference to the truth and the mere desire to get out of hell! That +is not a grand belief in the Son of God, the radiation of the Father. +Thomas's want of faith was shown in the grumbling, self-pitying way in +which he said, 'Let us also go that we may die with him.' His Master had +said that he was going to wake him. Thomas said, 'that we may die with +him.' You may say, 'He did not understand him.' True, it may be, but his +unbelief was the cause of his not understanding him. I suppose Thomas +meant this as a reproach to Jesus for putting them all in danger by +going back to Judaea; if not, it was only a poor piece of sentimentality. +So much for Thomas's unbelief. But he had good and true faith +notwithstanding; for _he went with his Master_. + +"By the time they reached the neighbourhood of Bethany, Lazarus had been +dead four days. Someone ran to the house and told the sisters that Jesus +was coming. Martha, as soon as she heard it, rose and went to meet him. +It might be interesting at another time to compare the difference of the +behaviour of the two sisters upon this occasion with the difference of +their behaviour upon another occasion, likewise recorded; but with the +man dead in his sepulchre, and the hope dead in these two hearts, we +have no inclination to enter upon fine distinctions of character. Death +and grief bring out the great family likenesses in the living as well as +in the dead. + +"When Martha came to Jesus, she showed her true though imperfect faith +by almost attributing her brother's death to Jesus' absence. But even +in the moment, looking in the face of the Master, a fresh hope, a new +budding of faith, began in her soul. She thought--'What if, after all, +he were to bring him to life again!' O, trusting heart, how thou leavest +the dull-plodding intellect behind thee! While the conceited intellect +is reasoning upon the impossibility of the thing, the expectant faith +beholds it accomplished. Jesus, responding instantly to her faith, +granting her half-born prayer, says, 'Thy brother shall rise again;' not +meaning the general truth recognised, or at least assented to by all +but the Sadducees, concerning the final resurrection of the dead, but +meaning, 'Be it unto thee as thou wilt. I will raise him again.' For +there is no steering for a fine effect in the words of Jesus. But these +words are too good for Martha to take them as he meant them. Her faith +is not quite equal to the belief that he actually will do it. The thing +she could hope for afar off she could hardly believe when it came to her +very door. 'O, yes,' she said, her mood falling again to the level of +the commonplace, 'of course, at the last day.' Then the Lord turns away +her thoughts from the dogmas of her faith to himself, the Life, saying, +'I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he +were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me, +shall never die. Believest thou this?' Martha, without understanding +what he said more than in a very poor part, answered in words which +preserved her honesty entire, and yet included all he asked, and a +thousandfold more than she could yet believe: 'Yea, Lord; I believe that +thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.' + +"I dare not pretend to have more than a grand glimmering of the truth +of Jesus' words 'shall never die;' but I am pretty sure that when Martha +came to die, she found that there was indeed no such thing as she had +meant when she used the ghastly word _death_, and said with her first +new breath, 'Verily, Lord, I am not dead.' + +"But look how this declaration of her confidence in the Christ operated +upon herself. She instantly thought of her sister; the hope that the +Lord would do something swelled within her, and, leaving Jesus, she +went to find Mary. Whoever has had a true word with the elder brother, +straightway will look around him to find his brother, his sister. The +family feeling blossoms: he wants his friend to share the glory withal. +Martha wants Mary to go to Jesus too. + +"Mary heard her, forgot her visitors, rose, and went. They thought she +went to the grave: she went to meet its conqueror. But when she came to +him, the woman who had chosen the good part praised of Jesus, had but +the same words to embody her hope and her grief that her careful and +troubled sister had uttered a few minutes before. How often during those +four days had not the self-same words passed between them! 'Ah, if he +had been here, our brother had not died!' She said so to himself now, +and wept, and her friends who had followed her wept likewise. A moment +more, and the Master groaned; yet a moment, and he too wept. 'Sorrow is +catching;' but this was not the mere infection of sorrow. It went deeper +than mere sympathy; for he groaned in his spirit and was troubled. What +made him weep? It was when he saw them weeping that he wept. But why +should he weep, when he knew how soon their weeping would be turned into +rejoicing? It was not for their weeping, so soon to be over, that he +wept, but for the human heart everywhere swollen with tears, yea, with +griefs that can find no such relief as tears; for these, and for all his +brothers and sisters tormented with pain for lack of faith in his Father +in heaven, Jesus wept. He saw the blessed well-being of Lazarus on the +one side, and on the other the streaming eyes from whose sight he had +vanished. The veil between was so thin! yet the sight of those eyes +could not pierce it: their hearts must go on weeping--without cause, for +his Father was so good. I think it was the helplessness he felt in the +impossibility of at once sweeping away the phantasm death from their +imagination that drew the tears from the eyes of Jesus. Certainly it was +not for Lazarus; it could hardly be for these his friends--save as they +represented the humanity which he would help, but could not help even as +he was about to help them. + +"The Jews saw herein proof that he loved Lazarus; but they little +thought it was for them and their people, and for the Gentiles whom they +despised, that his tears were now flowing--that the love which pressed +the fountains of his weeping was love for every human heart, from Adam +on through the ages. + +"Some of them went a little farther, nearly as far as the sisters, +saying, 'Could he not have kept the man from dying?' But it was such +a poor thing, after all, that they thought he might have done. They +regarded merely this unexpected illness, this early death; for I daresay +Lazarus was not much older than Jesus. They did not think that, after +all, Lazarus must die some time; that the beloved could be saved, at +best, only for a little while. Jesus seems to have heard the remark, for +he again groaned in himself. + +"Meantime they were drawing near the place where he was buried. It was +a hollow in the face of a rock, with a stone laid against it. I suppose +the bodies were laid on something like shelves inside the rock, as they +are in many sepulchres. They were not put into coffins, but wound round +and round with linen. + +"When they came before the door of death, Jesus said to them, 'Take away +the stone.' The nature of Martha's reply--the realism of it, as they +would say now-a-days--would seem to indicate that her dawning faith had +sunk again below the horizon, that in the presence of the insignia of +death, her faith yielded, even as the faith of Peter failed him when he +saw around him the grandeur of the high-priest, and his Master bound and +helpless. Jesus answered--O, what an answer!--To meet the corruption +and the stink which filled her poor human fancy, 'the glory of God' came +from his lips: human fear; horror speaking from the lips of a woman in +the very jaws of the devouring death; and the 'said I not unto thee?' +from the mouth of him who was so soon to pass worn and bloodless through +such a door! 'He stinketh,' said Martha. 'The glory of God,' said Jesus. +'Said I not unto thee, that, if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest +see the glory of God?' + +"Before the open throat of the sepulchre Jesus began to speak to his +Father aloud. He had prayed to him in his heart before, most likely +while he groaned in his spirit. Now he thanked him that he had comforted +him, and given him Lazarus as a first-fruit from the dead. But he will +be true to the listening people as well as to his ever-hearing Father; +therefore he tells why he said the word of thanks aloud--a thing not +usual with him, for his Father was always hearing, him. Having spoken it +for the people, he would say that it was for the people. + +"The end of it all was that they might believe that God had sent him--a +far grander gift than having the dearest brought back from the grave; +for he is the life of men. + +"'Lazarus, come forth!" + +"And Lazarus came forth, creeping helplessly with inch-long steps of his +linen-bound limbs. 'Ha, ha! brother, sister!' cries the human heart. The +Lord of Life hath taken the prey from the spoiler; he hath emptied the +grave. Here comes the dead man, welcome as never was child from the +womb--new-born, and in him all the human race new-born from the grave! +'Loose him and let him go,' and the work is done. The sorrow is over, +and the joy is come. Home, home, Martha, Mary, with your Lazarus! He too +will go with you, the Lord of the Living. Home and get the feast ready, +Martha! Prepare the food for him who comes hungry from the grave, +for him who has called him thence. Home, Mary, to help Martha! What a +household will yours be! What wondrous speech will pass between the dead +come to life and the living come to die! + +"But what pang is this that makes Lazarus draw hurried breath, and turns +Martha's cheek so pale? Ah, at the little window of the heart the pale +eyes of the defeated Horror look in. What! is he there still! Ah, yes, +he will come for Martha, come for Mary, come yet again for Lazarus--yea, +come for the Lord of Life himself, and carry all away. But look at the +Lord: he knows all about it, and he smiles. Does Martha think of the +words he spoke, 'He that liveth and believeth in me shall never die'? +Perhaps she does, and, like the moon before the sun, her face returns +the smile of her Lord. + +"This, my friends, is a fancy in form, but it embodies a dear truth. +What is it to you and me that he raised Lazarus? We are not called upon +to believe that he will raise from the tomb that joy of our hearts which +lies buried there beyond our sight. Stop! Are we not? We are called upon +to believe this; else the whole story were for us a poor mockery. What +is it to us that the Lord raised Lazarus?--Is it nothing to know that +our Brother is Lord over the grave? Will the harvest be behind the +first-fruits? If he tells us he cannot, for good reasons, raise up our +vanished love to-day, or to-morrow, or for all the years of our life to +come, shall we not mingle the smile of faithful thanks with the sorrow +of present loss, and walk diligently waiting? That he called forth +Lazarus showed that he was in his keeping, that he is Lord of the +living, and that all live to him, that he has a hold of them, and can +draw them forth when he will. If this is not true, then the raising +of Lazarus is false; I do not mean merely false in fact, but false in +meaning. If we believe in him, then in his name, both for ourselves and +for our friends, we must deny death and believe in life. Lord Christ, +fill our hearts with thy Life!" + + + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +CHANGED PLANS. + + + + + +In a day or two Connie was permitted to rise and take to her couch once +more. It seemed strange that she should look so much worse, and yet be +so much stronger. The growth of her power of motion was wonderful. +As they carried her, she begged to be allowed to put her feet to the +ground. Turner yielded, though without quite ceasing to support her. He +was satisfied, however, that she could have stood upright for a moment +at least. He would not, of course, risk it, and made haste to lay her +down. + +The time of his departure was coming near, and he seemed more anxious +the nearer it came; for Connie continued worn-looking and pale; and her +smile, though ever ready to greet me when I entered, had lost much +of its light. I noticed, too, that she had the curtain of her window +constantly so arranged as to shut out the sea. I said something to her +about it once. Her reply was: + +"Papa, I can't bear it. I know it is very silly; but I think I can make +you understand how it is: I was so fond of the sea when I came down; +it seemed to lie close to my window, with a friendly smile ready for me +every morning when I looked out. I daresay it is all from want of faith, +but I can't help it: it looks so far away now, like a friend that had +failed me, that I would rather not see it." + +I saw that the struggling life within her was grievously oppressed, that +the things which surrounded her were no longer helpful. Her life had +been driven as to its innermost cave; and now, when it had been enticed +to venture forth and look abroad, a sudden pall had descended upon +nature. I could not help thinking that the good of our visit to +Kilkhaven had come, and that evil, from which I hoped we might yet +escape, was following. I left her, and sought Turner. + +"It strikes me, Turner," I said, "that the sooner we get out of this the +better for Connie." + +"I am quite of your opinion. I think the very prospect of leaving the +place would do something to restore her. If she is so uncomfortable now, +think what it will be in the many winter nights at hand." + +"Do you think it would be safe to move her?" + +"Far safer than to let her remain. At the worst, she is now far better +than when she came. Try her. Hint at the possibility of going home, and +see how she will take it." + +"Well, I sha'n't like to be left alone; but if she goes they must all +go, except, perhaps, I might keep Wynnie. But I don't know how her +mother would get on without her." + +"I don't see why you should stay behind. Mr. Weir would be as glad +to come as you would be to go; and it can make no difference to Mr. +Shepherd." + +It seemed a very sensible suggestion. I thought a moment. Certainly it +was a desirable thing for both my sister and her husband. They had no +such reasons as we had for disliking the place; and it would enable her +to avoid the severity of yet another winter. I said as much to Turner, +and went back to Connie's room. + +The light of a lovely sunset was lying outside her window. She was +sitting so that she could not see it. I would find out her feeling in +the matter without any preamble. + +"Would you like to go back to Marshmallows, Connie?" I asked. + +Her countenance flashed into light. + +"O, dear papa, do let us go," she said; "that would be delightful." + +"Well, I think we can manage it, if you will only get a little stronger +for the journey. The weather is not so good to travel in as when we came +down." + +"No; but I am ever so much better, you know, than I was then." + +The poor girl was already stronger from the mere prospect of going home +again. She moved restlessly on her couch, half mechanically put her hand +to the curtain, pulled it aside, looked out, faced the sun and the sea, +and did not draw back. My mind was made up. I left her, and went to find +Ethelwyn. She heartily approved of the proposal for Connie's sake, and +said that it would be scarcely less agreeable to herself. I could see a +certain troubled look above her eyes, however. + +"You are thinking of Wynnie," I said. + +"Yes. It is hard to make one sad for the sake of the rest." + +"True. But it is one of the world's recognised necessities." + +"No doubt." + +"Besides, you don't suppose Percivale can stay here the whole winter. +They must part some time." + +"Of course. Only they did not expect it so soon." + +But here my wife was mistaken. + +I went to my study to write to Weir. I had hardly finished my letter +when Walter came to say that Mr. Percivale wished to see me. I told him +to show him in. + +"I am just writing home to say that I want my curate to change places +with me here, which I know he will be glad enough to do. I see Connie +had better go home." + +"You will all go, then, I presume?" returned Percivale. + +"Yes, yes; of course." + +"Then I need not so much regret that I can stay no longer. I came to +tell you that I must leave to-morrow." + +"Ah! Going to London?" + +"Yes. I don't know how to thank you for all your kindness. You have made +my summer something like a summer; very different, indeed, from what it +would otherwise have been." + +"We have had our share of advantage, and that a large one. We are all +glad to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Percivale." + +He made no answer. + +"We shall be passing through London within a week or ten days in all +probability. Perhaps you will allow us the pleasure of looking at some +of your pictures then?" + +His face flushed. What did the flush mean? It was not one of mere +pleasure. There was confusion and perplexity in it. But he answered at +once: + +"I will show you them with pleasure. I fear, however, you will not care +for them." + +Would this fear account for his embarrassment? I hardly thought it +would; but I could not for a moment imagine, with his fine form and +countenance before me, that he had any serious reason for shrinking from +a visit. + +He began to search for a card. + +"O, I have your address. I shall be sure to pay you a visit. But you +will dine with us to-day, of course?" I said. + +"I shall have much pleasure," he answered; and took his leave. + +I finished my letter to Weir, and went out for a walk. + +I remember particularly the thoughts that moved in me and made that +walk memorable. Indeed, I think I remember all outside events chiefly +by virtue of the inward conditions with which they were associated. Mere +outside things I am very ready to forget. Moods of my own mind do not +so readily pass away; and with the memory of some of them every outward +circumstance returns; for a man's life is where the kingdom of heaven +is--within him. There are people who, if you ask the story of their +lives, have nothing to tell you but the course of the outward events +that have constituted, as it were, the clothes of their history. But I +know, at the same time, that some of the most important crises in my +own history (by which word _history_ I mean my growth towards the right +conditions of existence) have been beyond the grasp and interpretation +of my intellect. They have passed, as it were, without my consciousness +being awake enough to lay hold of their phenomena. The wind had been +blowing; I had heard the sound of it, but knew not whence it came +nor whither it went; only, when it was gone, I found myself more +responsible, more eager than before. + +I remember this walk from the thoughts I had about the great change +hanging over us all. I had now arrived at the prime of middle life; and +that change which so many would escape if they could, but which will let +no man pass, had begun to show itself a real fact upon the horizon +of the future. Death looks so far away to the young, that while they +acknowledge it unavoidable, the path stretches on in such vanishing +perspective before them, that they see no necessity for thinking about +the end of it yet; and far would I be from saying they ought to think +of it. Life is the true object of a man's care: there is no occasion to +make himself think about death. But when the vision of the inevitable +draws nigh, when it appears plainly on the horizon, though but as a +cloud the size of a man's hand, then it is equally foolish to meet it +by refusing to meet it, to answer the questions that will arise by +declining to think about them. Indeed, it is a question of life then, +and not of death. We want to keep fast hold of our life, and, in the +strength of that, to look the threatening death in the face. But to my +walk that morning. + +I wandered on the downs till I came to the place where a solitary rock +stands on the top of a cliff looking seaward, in the suggested shape +of a monk praying. On the base on which he knelt I seated myself, and +looked out over the Atlantic. How faded the ocean appeared! It seemed as +if all the sunny dyes of the summer had been diluted and washed with the +fogs of the coming winter, when I thought of the splendour it wore when +first from these downs I gazed on the outspread infinitude of space and +colour. + +"What," I said to myself at length, "has she done since then? Where is +her work visible? She has riven, and battered, and destroyed, and her +destruction too has passed away. So worketh Time and its powers! The +exultation of my youth is gone; my head is gray; my wife is growing old; +our children are pushing us from our stools; we are yielding to the new +generation; the glory for us hath departed; our life lies weary before +us like that sea; and the night cometh when we can no longer work." + +Something like this was passing vaguely through my mind. I sat in a +mournful stupor, with a half-consciousness that my mood was false, and +that I ought to rouse myself and shake it off. There is such a thing +as a state of moral dreaming, which closely resembles the intellectual +dreaming in sleep. I went on in this false dreamful mood, pitying myself +like a child tender over his hurt and nursing his own cowardice, till, +all at once, "a little pipling wind" blew on my cheek. The morning was +very still: what roused that little wind I cannot tell; but what that +little wind roused I will try to tell. With that breath on my cheek, +something within me began to stir. It grew, and grew, until the memory +of a certain glorious sunset of red and green and gold and blue, which +I had beheld from these same heights, dawned within me. I knew that the +glory of my youth had not departed, that the very power of recalling +with delight that which I had once felt in seeing, was proof enough of +that; I knew that I could believe in God all the night long, even if the +night were long. And the next moment I thought how I had been reviling +in my fancy God's servant, the sea. To how many vessels had she not +opened a bounteous highway through the waters, with labour, and food, +and help, and ministration, glad breezes and swelling sails, healthful +struggle, cleansing fear and sorrow, yea, and friendly death! Because +she had been commissioned to carry this one or that one, this hundred or +that thousand of his own creatures from one world to another, was I to +revile the servant of a grand and gracious Master? It was blameless in +Connie to feel the late trouble so deeply that she could not be glad: +she had not had the experience of life, yea, of God, that I had had; +she must be helped from without. But for me, it was shameful that I, who +knew the heart of my Master, to whom at least he had so often shown +his truth, should ever be doleful and oppressed. Yet even me he had now +helped from within. The glory of existence as the child of the Infinite +had again dawned upon me. The first hour of the evening of my life had +indeed arrived; the shadows had begun to grow long--so long that I had +begun to mark their length; this last little portion of my history had +vanished, leaving its few gray ashes behind in the crucible of my life; +and the final evening must come, when all my life would lie behind me, +and all the memory of it return, with its mornings of gold and red, +with its evenings of purple and green; with its dashes of storm, and its +foggy glooms; with its white-winged aspirations, its dull-red passions, +its creeping envies in brown and black and earthy yellow. But from all +the accusations of my conscience, I would turn me to the Lord, for he +was called Jesus because he should save his people from their sins. Then +I thought what a grand gift it would be to give his people the power +hereafter to fight the consequences of their sins. Anyhow, I would trust +the Father, who loved me with a perfect love, to lead the soul he had +made, had compelled to be, through the gates of the death-birth, into +the light of life beyond. I would cast on him the care, humbly challenge +him with the responsibility he had himself undertaken, praying only for +perfect confidence in him, absolute submission to his will. + +I rose from my seat beside the praying monk, and walked on. The thought +of seeing my own people again filled me with gladness. I would leave +those I had here learned to love with regret; but I trusted I had taught +them something, and they had taught me much; therefore there could be +no end to our relation to each other--it could not be broken, for it was +_in the Lord_, which alone can give security to any tie. I should not, +therefore, sorrow as if I were to see their faces no more. + +I now took my farewell of that sea and those cliffs. I should see them +often ere we went, but I should not feel so near them again. Even +this parting said that I must "sit loose to the world"--an old Puritan +phrase, I suppose; that I could gather up only its uses, treasure its +best things, and must let all the rest go; that those things I +called mine--earth, sky, and sea, home, books, the treasured gifts of +friends--had all to leave me, belong to others, and help to educate +them. I should not need them. I should have my people, my souls, my +beloved faces tenfold more, and could well afford to part with these. +Why should I mind this chain passing to my eldest boy, when it was only +his mother's hair, and I should have his mother still? + +So my thoughts went on thinking themselves, until at length I yielded +passively to their flow. + +I found Wynnie looking very grave when I went into the drawing-room. +Her mother was there, too, and Mr. Percivale. It seemed rather a moody +party. They wakened up a little, however, after I entered, and before +dinner was over we were all chatting together merrily. + +"How is Connie?" I asked Ethelwyn. + +"Wonderfully better already," she answered. + +"I think everybody seems better," I said. "The very idea of home seems +reviving to us all." + +Wynnie darted a quick glance at me, caught my eyes, which was more than +she had intended, and blushed; sought refuge in a bewildered glance at +Percivale, caught his eye in turn, and blushed yet deeper. He plunged +instantly into conversation, not without a certain involuntary sparkle +in his eye. + +"Did you go to see Mrs. Stokes this morning?" he asked. + +"No," I answered. "She does not want much visiting now; she is going +about her work, apparently in good health. Her husband says she is not +like the same woman; and I hope he means that in more senses than one, +though I do not choose to ask him any questions about his wife." + +I did my best to keep up the conversation, but every now and then after +this it fell like a wind that would not blow. I withdrew to my study. +Percivale and Wynnie went out for a walk. The next morning he left by +the coach--early. Turner went with him. + +Wynnie did not seem very much dejected. I thought that perhaps the +prospect of meeting him again in London kept her up. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE STUDIO. + + + + + +I will not linger over our preparations or our leave-takings. The most +ponderous of the former were those of the two boys, who, as they had +wanted to bring down a chest as big as a corn-bin, full of lumber, +now wanted to take home two or three boxes filled with pebbles, great +oystershells, and sea-weed. + +Weir, as I had expected, was quite pleased to make the exchange. An +early day had been fixed for his arrival; for I thought it might be of +service to him to be introduced to the field of his labours. Before he +came, I had gone about among the people, explaining to them some of my +reasons for leaving them sooner than I had intended, and telling them a +little about my successor, that he might not appear among them quite as +a stranger. He was much gratified with their reception of him, and had +no fear of not finding himself quite at home with them. I promised, if +I could comfortably manage it, to pay them a short visit the following +summer, and as the weather was now getting quite cold, hastened our +preparations for departure. + +I could have wished that Turner had been with us on the journey, but +he had been absent from his cure to the full extent that his conscience +would permit, and I had not urged him. He would be there to receive us, +and we had got so used to the management of Connie, that we did not feel +much anxiety about the travelling. We resolved, if she seemed strong +enough as we went along, to go right through to London, making a few +days there the only break in the transit. + +It was a bright, cold morning when we started. But Connie could now +bear the air so well, that we set out with the carriage open, nor had +we occasion to close it. The first part of our railway journey was very +pleasant. But when we drew near London, we entered a thick fog, and +before we arrived, a small dense November rain was falling. Connie +looked a little dispirited, partly from weariness, but no doubt from the +change in the weather. + +"Not very cheerful, this, Connie, my dear," I said. + +"No, papa," she answered; "but we are going home, you know." + +_Going home._ It set me thinking--as I had often been set thinking +before, always with fresh discovery and a new colour on the dawning sky +of hope. I lay back in the carriage and thought how the November fog +this evening in London, was the valley of the shadow of death we had to +go through on the way _home._ A. shadow like this would fall upon me; +the world would grow dark and life grow weary; but I should know it was +the last of the way home. + +Then I began to question myself wherein the idea of this home consisted. +I knew that my soul had ever yet felt the discomfort of strangeness, +more or less, in the midst of its greatest blessedness. I knew that as +the thought of water to the thirsty _soul_, for it is the soul far more +than the body that thirsts even for the material water, such is the +thought of home to the wanderer in a strange country. As the weary soul +pines for sleep, and every heart for the cure of its own bitterness, so +my heart and soul had often pined for their home. Did I know, I asked +myself, where or what that home was? It could consist in no change of +place or of circumstance; no mere absence of care; no accumulation of +repose; no blessed communion even with those whom my soul loved; in the +midst of it all I should be longing for a homelier home--one into which +I might enter with a sense of infinitely more absolute peace, than a +conscious child could know in the arms, upon the bosom of his mother. +In the closest contact of human soul with human soul, when all the +atmosphere of thought was rosy with love, again and yet again on the far +horizon would the dun, lurid flame of unrest shoot for a moment through +the enchanted air, and Psyche would know that not yet had she reached +her home. As I thought this I lifted my eyes, and saw those of my wife +and Connie fixed on mine, as if they were reproaching me for saying in +my soul that I could not be quite at home with them. Then I said in my +heart, "Come home with me, beloved--there is but one home for us all. +When we find--in proportion as each of us finds--that home, shall we be +gardens of delight to each other--little chambers of rest--galleries of +pictures--wells of water." + +Again, what was this home? God himself. His thoughts, his will, his +love, his judgment, are man's home. To think his thoughts, to choose his +will, to love his loves, to judge his judgments, and thus to know that +he is in us, with us, is to be at home. And to pass through the valley +of the shadow of death is the way home, but only thus, that as all +changes have hitherto led us nearer to this home, the knowledge of +God, so this greatest of all outward changes--for it is but an outward +change--will surely usher us into a region where there will be fresh +possibilities of drawing nigh in heart, soul, and mind to the Father +of us. It is the father, the mother, that make for the child his home. +Indeed, I doubt if the home-idea is complete to the parents of a family +themselves, when they remember that their fathers and mothers have +vanished. + +At this point something rose in me seeking utterance. + +"Won't it be delightful, wife," I began, "to see our fathers and mothers +such a long way back in heaven?" + +But Ethelwyn's face gave so little response, that I felt at once how +dreadful a thing it was not to have had a good father or mother. I do +not know what would have become of me but for a good father. I wonder +how anybody ever can be good that has not had a good father. How +dreadful not to be a good father or good mother! Every father who is +not good, every mother who is not good, just makes it as impossible to +believe in God as it can be made. But he is our one good Father, +and does not leave us, even should our fathers and mothers have thus +forsaken us, and left him without a witness. + +Here the evil odour of brick-burning invaded my nostrils, and I knew +that London was about us. A few moments after, we reached the station, +where a carriage was waiting to take us to our hotel. + +Dreary was the change from the stillness and sunshine of Kilkhaven to +the fog and noise of London; but Connie slept better that night than she +had slept for a good many nights before. + +After breakfast the next morning, I said to Wynnie, + +"I am going to see Mr. Percivale's studio, my dear: have you any +objection to going with me?" + +"No, papa," she answered, blushing. "I have never seen an artist's +studio in my life." + +"Come along, then. Get your bonnet at once. It rains, but we shall take +a cab, and it won't matter." + +She ran off, and was ready in a few minutes. We gave the driver +directions, and set off. It was a long drive. At length he stopped +at the door of a very common-looking house, in a very dreary-looking +street, in which no man could possibly identify his own door except by +the number. I knocked. A woman who looked at once dirty and cross, the +former probably the cause of the latter, opened the door, gave a bare +assent to my question whether Mr. Percivale was at home, withdrew to her +den with the words "second-floor," and left us to find our own way up +the two flights of stairs. This, however, involved no great difficulty. +We knocked at the door of the front room. A well-known voice cried, +"Come in," and we entered. + +Percivale, in a short velvet coat, with his palette on his thumb, +advanced to meet us cordially. His face wore a slight flush, which +I attributed solely to pleasure, and nothing to any awkwardness in +receiving us in such a poor place as he occupied. I cast my eyes round +the room. Any romantic notions Wynnie might have indulged concerning the +marvels of a studio, must have paled considerably at the first glance +around Percivale's room--plainly the abode if not of poverty, then of +self-denial, although I suspected both. A common room, with no carpet +save a square in front of the fireplace; no curtains except a piece +of something like drugget nailed flat across all the lower half of +the window to make the light fall from upwards; two or three horsehair +chairs, nearly worn out; a table in a corner, littered with books and +papers; a horrible lay-figure, at the present moment dressed apparently +for a scarecrow; a large easel, on which stood a half-finished +oil-painting--these constituted almost the whole furniture of the room. +With his pocket-handkerchief Percivale dusted one chair for Wynnie and +another for me. Then standing before us, he said: + +"This is a very shabby place to receive you in, Miss Walton, but it is +all I have got." + +"A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things he +possesses," I ventured to say. + +"Thank you," said Percivale. "I hope not. It is well for me it should +not." + +"It is well for the richest man in England that it should not," I +returned. "If it were not so, the man who could eat most would be the +most blessed." + +"There are people, even of my acquaintance, however, who seem to think +it does." + +"No doubt; but happily their thinking so will not make it so even for +themselves." + +"Have you been very busy since you left us, Mr. Percivale?" asked +Wynnie. + +"Tolerably," he answered. "But I have not much to show for it. That on +the easel is all. I hardly like to let you look at it, though." + +"Why?" asked Wynnie. + +"First, because the subject is painful. Next, because it is so +unfinished that none but a painter could do it justice." + +"But why should you paint subjects you would not like people to look +at?" + +"I very much want people to look at them." + +"Why not us, then?" said Wynnie. + +"Because you do not need to be pained." + +"Are you sure it is good for you to pain anybody?" I said. + +"Good is done by pain--is it not?" he asked. + +"Undoubtedly. But whether _we_ are wise enough to know when and where +and how much, is the question." + +"Of course I do not make the pain my object." + +"If it comes only as a necessary accompaniment, that may alter the +matter greatly," I said. "But still I am not sure that anything in which +the pain predominates can be useful in the best way." + +"Perhaps not," he returned.--"Will you look at the daub?" + +"With much pleasure," I replied, and we rose and stood before the easel. +Percivale made no remark, but left us to find out what the picture +meant. Nor had I long to look before I understood it--in a measure at +least. + +It represented a garret-room in a wretchedly ruinous condition. The +plaster had come away in several places, and through between the laths +in one spot hung the tail of a great rat. In a dark corner lay a man +dying. A woman sat by his side, with her eyes fixed, not on his face, +though she held his hand in hers, but on the open door, where in the +gloom you could just see the struggles of two undertaker's men to get +the coffin past the turn of the landing towards the door. Through the +window there was one peep of the blue sky, whence a ray of sunlight +fell on the one scarlet blossom of a geranium in a broken pot on the +window-sill outside. + +"I do not wonder you did not like to show it," I said. "How can you bear +to paint such a dreadful picture?" + +"It is a true one. It only represents a fact." + +"All facts have not a right to be represented." + +"Surely you would not get rid of painful things by huddling them out of +sight?" + +"No; nor yet by gloating upon them." + +"You will believe me that it gives me anything but pleasure to +paint such pictures--as far as the subject goes," he said with some +discomposure. + +"Of course. I know you well enough by this time to know that. But no +one could hang it on his wall who would not either gloat on suffering or +grow callous to it. Whence, then, would come the good I cannot doubt you +propose to yourself as your object in painting the picture? If it had +come into my possession, I would--" + +"Put it in the fire," suggested Percivale with a strange smile. + +"No. Still less would I sell it. I would hang it up with a curtain +before it, and only look at it now and then, when I thought my heart was +in danger of growing hardened to the sufferings of my fellow-men, and +forgetting that they need the Saviour." + +"I could not wish it a better fate. That would answer my end." + +"Would it, now? Is it not rather those who care little or nothing about +such matters that you would like to influence? Would you be content with +one solitary person like me? And, remember, I wouldn't buy it. I would +rather not have it. I could hardly bear to know it was in my house. I +am certain you cannot do people good by showing them _only_ the painful. +Make it as painful as you will, but put some hope into it--something +to show that action is worth taking in the affair. From mere suffering +people will turn away, and you cannot blame them. Every show of it, +without hinting at some door of escape, only urges them to forget it +all. Why should they be pained if it can do no good?" + +"For the sake of sympathy, I should say," answered Percivale. + +"They would rejoin, 'It is only a picture. Come along.' No; give people +hope, if you would have them act at all, in anything." + +"I was almost hoping you would read the picture rather differently. You +see there is a bit of blue sky up there, and a bit of sunshiny scarlet +in the window." + +He looked at me curiously as he spoke. + +"I can read it so for myself, and have metamorphosed its meaning so. But +you only put in the sky and the scarlet to heighten the perplexity, and +make the other look more terrible." + +"Now I know that as an artist I have succeeded, however I may have +failed otherwise. I did so mean it; but knowing you would dislike the +picture, I almost hoped in my cowardice, as I said, that you would read +your own meaning into it." + +Wynnie had not said a word. As I turned away from the picture, I saw +that she was looking quite distressed, but whether by the picture or +the freedom with which I had remarked upon it, I do not know. My eyes +falling on a little sketch in sepia, I began to examine it, in the hope +of finding something more pleasant to say. I perceived in a moment, +however, that it was nearly the same thought, only treated in a gentler +and more poetic mode. A girl lay dying on her bed. A youth held her +hand. A torrent of summer sunshine fell through the window, and made a +lake of glory upon the floor. I turned away. + +"You like that better, don't you, papa?" said Wynnie tremulously. + +"It is beautiful, certainly," I answered. "And if it were only one, I +should enjoy it--as a mood. But coming after the other, it seems but the +same thing more weakly embodied." + +I confess I was a little vexed; for I had got much interested in +Percivale, for his own sake as well as for my daughter's, and I had +expected better things from him. But I saw that I had gone too far. + +"I beg your pardon, Mr. Percivale," I said. + +"I fear I have been too free in my remarks. I know, likewise, that I am +a clergyman, and not a painter, and therefore incapable of giving the +praise which I have little doubt your art at least deserves." + +"I trust that honesty cannot offend me, however much and justly it may +pain me." + +"But now I have said my worst, I should much like to see what else you +have at hand to show me." + +"Unfortunately I have too much at hand. Let me see." + +He strode to the other end of the room, where several pictures were +leaning against the wall, with their faces turned towards it. From these +he chose one, but, before showing it, fitted it into an empty frame that +stood beside. He then brought it forward and set it on the easel. I will +describe it, and then my reader will understand the admiration which +broke from me after I had regarded it for a time. + +A dark hill rose against the evening sky, which shone through a few +thin pines on its top. Along a road on the hill-side four squires bore +a dying knight--a man past the middle age. One behind carried his helm, +and another led his horse, whose fine head only appeared in the picture. +The head and countenance of the knight were very noble, telling of many +a battle, and ever for the right. The last had doubtless been gained, +for one might read victory as well as peace in the dying look. The party +had just reached the edge of a steep descent, from which you saw the +valley beneath, with the last of the harvest just being reaped, while +the shocks stood all about in the fields, under the place of the sunset. +The sun had been down for some little time. There was no gold left in +the sky, only a little dull saffron, but plenty of that lovely liquid +green of the autumn sky, divided with a few streaks of pale rose. The +depth of the sky overhead, which you could not see for the arrangement +of the picture, was mirrored lovelily in a piece of water that lay in +the centre of the valley. + +"My dear fellow," I cried, "why did you not show me this first, and save +me from saying so many unkind things? Here is a picture to my own heart; +it is glorious. Look here, Wynnie," I went on; "you see it is evening; +the sun's work is done, and he has set in glory, leaving his good name +behind him in a lovely harmony of colour. The old knight's work is done +too; his day has set in the storm of battle, and he is lying lapt in the +coming peace. They are bearing him home to his couch and his grave. +Look at their faces in the dusky light. They are all mourning for +and honouring the life that is ebbing away. But he is gathered to his +fathers like a shock of corn fully ripe; and so the harvest stands +golden in the valley beneath. The picture would not be complete, +however, if it did not tell us of the deep heaven overhead, the symbol +of that heaven whither he who has done his work is bound. What a lovely +idea to represent it by means of the water, the heaven embodying itself +in the earth, as it were, that we may see it! And observe how that dusky +hill-side, and those tall slender mournful-looking pines, with that +sorrowful sky between, lead the eye and point the heart upward towards +that heaven. It is indeed a grand picture, full of feeling--a picture +and a parable." + +[Footnote: This is a description, from memory only, of a picture painted +by Arthur Hughes.] + +I looked at the girl. Her eyes were full of tears, either called forth +by the picture itself or by the pleasure of finding Percivale's work +appreciated by me, who had spoken so hardly of the others. + +"I cannot tell you how glad I am that you like it," she said. + +"Like it!" I returned; "I am simply delighted with it, more than I can +express--so much delighted that if I could have this alongside of it, +I should not mind hanging that other--that hopeless garret--on the most +public wall I have." + +"Then," said Wynnie bravely, though in a tremulous voice, "you +confess--don't you, papa?--that you were _too_ hard on Mr. Percivale at +first?" + +"Not too hard on his picture, my dear; and that was all he had yet given +me to judge by. No man should paint a picture like that. You are not +bound to disseminate hopelessness; for where there is no hope there can +be no sense of duty." + +"But surely, papa, Mr. Percivale has _some_ sense of duty," said Wynnie +in an almost angry tone. + +"Assuredly my love. Therefore I argue that he has some hope, and +therefore, again, that he has no right to publish such a picture." + +At the word _publish_ Percivale smiled. But Wynnie went on with her +defence: + +"But you see, papa, that Mr. Percivale does not paint such pictures +only. Look at the other." + +"Yes, my dear. But pictures are not like poems, lying side by side in +the same book, so that the one can counteract the other. The one of +these might go to the stormy Hebrides, and the other to the Vale of +Avalon; but even then I should be strongly inclined to criticise the +poem, whatever position it stood in, that had _nothing_--positively +nothing--of the aurora in it." + +Here let me interrupt the course of our conversation to illustrate it by +a remark on a poem which has appeared within the last twelvemonth from +the pen of the greatest living poet, and one who, if I may dare to +judge, will continue the greatest for many, many years to come. It is +only a little song, "I stood on a tower in the wet." I have found few +men who, whether from the influence of those prints which are always on +the outlook for something to ridicule, or from some other cause, did not +laugh at the poem. I thought and think it a lovely poem, although I am +not quite sure of the transposition of words in the last two lines. But +I do not _approve_ of the poem, just because there is no hope in it. +It lacks that touch or hint of _red_ which is as essential, I think, to +every poem as to every picture--the life-blood--the one pure colour. In +his hopeful moods, let a man put on his singing robes, and chant aloud +the words of gladness--or of grief, I care not which--to his fellows; +in his hours of hopelessness, let him utter his thoughts only to his +inarticulate violin, or in the evanescent sounds of any his other +stringed instrument; let him commune with his own heart on his bed, and +be still; let him speak to God face to face if he may--only he cannot +do that and continue hopeless; but let him not sing aloud in such a mood +into the hearts of his fellows, for he cannot do them much good thereby. +If it were a fact that there is no hope, it would not be a _truth_. No +doubt, if it were a fact, it ought to be known; but who will dare be +confident that there is no hope? Therefore, I say, let the hopeless +moods, at least, if not the hopeless men, be silent. + +"He could refuse to let the one go without the other," said Wynnie. + +"Now you are talking like a child, Wynnie, as indeed all partisans do +at the best. He might sell them together, but the owner would part +them.--If you will allow me, I will come and see both the pictures again +to-morrow." + +Percivale assured me of welcome, and we parted, I declining to look at +any more pictures that day, but not till we had arranged that he should +dine with us in the evening. + + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +HOME AGAIN. + + + + + +I will not detain my readers with the record of the few days we spent in +London. In writing the account of it, as in the experience of the time +itself, I feel that I am near home, and grow the more anxious to reach +it. Ah! I am growing a little anxious after another home, too; for the +house of my tabernacle is falling to ruins about me. What a word _home_ +is! To think that God has made the world so that you have only to be +born in a certain place, and live long enough in it to get at the +secret of it, and henceforth that place is to you a _home_ with all the +wonderful meaning in the word. Thus the whole earth is a home to the +race; for every spot of it shares in the feeling: some one of the family +loves it as _his_ home. How rich the earth seems when we so regard +it--crowded with the loves of home! Yet I am now getting ready to _go +home_--to leave this world of homes and go home. When I reach that home, +shall I even then seek yet to go home? Even then, I believe, I shall +seek a yet warmer, deeper, truer home in the deeper knowledge of God--in +the truer love of my fellow-man. Eternity will be, my heart and my faith +tell me, a travelling homeward, but in jubilation and confidence and the +vision of the beloved. + +When we had laid Connie once more in her own room, at least the room +which since her illness had come to be called hers, I went up to my +study. The familiar faces of my books welcomed me. I threw myself in my +reading-chair, and gazed around me with pleasure. I felt it so homely +here. All my old friends--whom somehow I hoped to see some day--present +there in the spirit ready to talk with me any moment when I was in the +mood, making no claim upon my attention when I was not! I felt as if I +should like, when the hour should come, to die in that chair, and pass +into the society of the witnesses in the presence of the tokens they had +left behind them. + +I heard shouts on the stair, and in rushed the two boys. + +"Papa, papa!" they were crying together. + +"What is the matter?" + +"We've found the big chest just where we left it." + +"Well, did you expect it would have taken itself off?" + +"But there's everything in it just as we left it." + +"Were you afraid, then, that the moment you left it it would turn itself +upside down, and empty itself of all its contents on the floor?" + +They laughed, but apparently with no very keen appreciation of the +attempt at a joke. + +"Well, papa, I did not think anything about it; but--but--but--there +everything is as we left it." + +With this triumphant answer they turned and hurried, a little abashed, +out of the room; but not many moments elapsed before the sounds that +arose from them were sufficiently reassuring as to the state of their +spirits. When they were gone, I forgot my books in the attempt to +penetrate and understand the condition of my boys' thoughts; and I soon +came to see that they were right and I was wrong. It was the movement +of that undeveloped something in us which makes it possible for us in +everything to give thanks. It was the wonder of the discovery of the +existence of law. There was nothing that they could understand, _a +priori_, to necessitate the remaining of the things where they had left +them. No doubt there was a reason in the nature of God, why all things +should hold together, whence springs the law of gravitation, as we call +it; but as far as the boys could understand of this, all things might as +well have been arranged for flying asunder, so that no one could expect +to find anything where he had left it. I began to see yet further into +the truth that in everything we must give thanks, and whatever is not of +faith is sin. Even the laws of nature reveal the character of God, +not merely as regards their ends, but as regards their kind, being of +necessity fashioned after ideal facts of his own being and will. + +I rose and went down to see if everybody was getting settled, and how +the place looked. I found Ethel already going about the house as if +she had never left it, and as if we all had just returned from a long +absence and she had to show us home-hospitality. Wynnie had vanished; +but I found her by and by in the favourite haunt of her mother before +her marriage--beside the little pond called the Bishop's Basin, of which +I do not think I have ever told my readers the legend. But why should I +mention it, for I cannot tell it now? The frost lay thick in the hollow +when I went down there to find her; the branches, lately clothed +with leaves, stood bare and icy around her. Ethelwyn and I had almost +forgotten that there was anything out of the common in connection with +the house. The horror of this mysterious spot had laid hold upon Wynnie. +I resolved that that night I would, in her mother's presence, tell +her all the legend of the place, and the whole story of how I won her +mother. I did so; and I think it made her trust us more. But now I left +her there, and went to Connie. She lay in her bed; for her mother had +got her thither at once, a perfect picture of blessed comfort. There was +no occasion to be uneasy about her. I was so pleased to be at home +again with such good hopes, that I could not rest, but went wandering +everywhere--into places even which I had not entered for ten years at +least, and found fresh interest in everything; for this was home, and +here I was. + +Now I fancy my readers, looking forward to the end, and seeing what +a small amount of print is left, blaming me; some, that I have roused +curiosity without satisfying it; others, that I have kept them so long +over a dull book and a lame conclusion. But out of a life one cannot +always cut complete portions, and serve them up in nice shapes. I am +well aware that I have not told them the _fate_, as some of them would +call it, of either of my daughters. This I cannot develop now, even as +far as it is known to me; but, if it is any satisfaction to them to +know this much--and it will be all that some of them mean by _fate_, I +fear--I may as well tell them now that Wynnie has been Mrs. Percivale +for many years, with a history well worth recounting; and that Connie +has had a quiet, happy life for nearly as long, as Mrs. Turner. She has +never got strong, but has very tolerable health. Her husband watches her +with the utmost care and devotion. My Ethelwyn is still with me. Harry +is gone home. Charlie is a barrister of the Middle Temple. And Dora--I +must not forget Dora--well, I will say nothing about her _fate_, for +good reasons--it is not quite determined yet. Meantime she puts up with +the society of her old father and mother, and is something else than +unhappy, I fully believe. + +"And Connie's baby?" asks some one out of ten thousand readers. I have +no time to tell you about her now; but as you know her so little, it +cannot be such a trial to remain, for a time at least, unenlightened +with regard to her _fate._ + +The only other part of my history which could contain anything like +incident enough to make it interesting in print, is a period I spent in +London some few years after the time of which I have now been writing. +But I am getting too old to regard the commencement of another history +with composure. The labour of thinking into sequences, even the bodily +labour of writing, grows more and more severe. I fancy I can think +correctly still; but the effort necessary to express myself with +corresponding correctness becomes, in prospect, at least, sometimes +almost appalling. I must therefore take leave of my patient reader--for +surely every one who has followed me through all that I have here +written, well deserves the epithet--as if the probability that I shall +write no more were a certainty, bidding him farewell with one word: +_"Friend, hope thou in God,"_ and for a parting gift offering him a +new, and, I think, a true rendering of the first verse of the eleventh +chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews: + +"Now faith is the essence of hopes, the trying of things unseen." + +Good-bye. + +THE END. + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Seaboard Parish, Complete, by George MacDonald + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEABOARD PARISH, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 8562.txt or 8562.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/6/8562/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +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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