A NEW PUPIL.
The sermon Lady Clementina heard with such delight had followed one
levelled at the common and right worldly idea of success harboured
by each, and unquestioned by one of the chief men of the community:
together they caused a strange uncertain sense of discomfort in the
mind diaconal. Slow to perceive that that idea, nauseous in his
presentment of it, was the very same cherished and justified by
themselves; unwilling also to believe that in his denunciation of
respecters of persons they themselves had a full share, they yet felt
a little uneasy from the vague whispers of their consciences on the
side of the neglected principles enounced, clashing with the less vague
conviction that if those whispers were encouraged and listened to, the
ruin of their hopes for their chapel, and their influence in connection
with it, must follow. They eyed each other doubtfully, and there
appeared a general tendency amongst them to close-pressed lips and
single shakes of the head. But there were other forces at work--tending
in the same direction.
Whatever may have been the influence of the schoolmaster upon the
congregation gathered in Hope Chapel, there was one on whom his
converse, supplemented by his preaching, had taken genuine hold.
Frederick Marshal had begun to open his eyes to the fact that, regarded
as a profession, the ministry, as they called it in their communion,
was the meanest way of making a living in the whole creation, one
deserving the contempt of every man honest enough to give honourable
work, that is, work worth the money, for the money paid him. Also he
had a glimmering insight, on the other hand, into the truth of what the
dominie said--that it was the noblest of martyrdoms to the man who,
sent by God, loved the truth with his whole soul, and was never happier
than when bearing witness of it, except, indeed, in those blessed
moments when receiving it of the Father. In consequence of this opening
of his eyes the youth recoiled with dismay from the sacrilegious
mockery of which he had been guilty in meditating the presumption of
teaching holy things of which the sole sign that he knew anything was
now afforded by this same recoil. At last he was not far from the
kingdom of heaven, though whether he was to be sent to persuade men
that that kingdom was amongst them, and must be in them, remained a
question.
On the morning after the latter of those two sermons, Frederick, as
they sat at breakfast, succeeded, with no small effort, for he feared
his mother, in blurting out to his father the request that he might be
taken into the counting house; and when indignantly requested, over
the top of the teapot, to explain himself, declared that he found it
impossible to give his mind to a course of education which could only
end in the disappointment of his parents, seeing he was at length
satisfied that he had no call to the ministry. His father was not
displeased at the thought of having him at the shop; but his mother
was for some moments speechless with angry tribulation. Recovering
herself, with scornful bitterness she requested to know to what tempter
he had been giving ear--for tempted he must have been ere son of hers
would have been guilty of backsliding from _the cause_, of taking his
hand from the plough and looking behind him. The youth returned such
answers as, while they satisfied his father he was right, served only
to convince his mother, where yet conviction was hardly needed, that
she had to thank the dominie for his defection, his apostasy from the
church to the world.
Incapable of perceiving that now first there was hope of a genuine
disciple in the child of her affection, she was filled with the gall
of disappointment, and with spite against the man who had taught her
son how worse than foolish it is to aspire to teach before one has
learned; nor did she fail to cast scathing reflections on her husband,
in that he had brought home a viper in his bosom, a wolf into his
fold, the wretched minion of a worldly church to lead her son away
captive at his will; and partly no doubt from his last uncomfortable
sermons, but mainly from the play of Mrs Marshal’s tongue on her
husband’s tympanum, the deacons in full conclave agreed that no further
renewal of the invitation to preach “for them” should be made to the
schoolmaster--just the end of the business Mr Graham had expected, and
for which he had provided. On Tuesday morning he smiled to himself, and
wondered whether, if he were to preach in his own schoolroom the next
Sunday evening, anyone would come to hear him. On Saturday he received
a cool letter of thanks for his services, written by the ironmonger in
the name of the deacons, enclosing a cheque, tolerably liberal as ideas
went, in acknowledgment of them. The cheque Mr Graham returned, saying
that, as he was not a preacher by profession, he had no right to take
fees. It was a half-holiday: he walked up to Hampstead Heath, and was
paid for everything, in sky and cloud, fresh air, and a glorious sunset.
When the end of her troubled week came, and the Sunday of her
expectation brought lovely weather, with a certain vague suspicion of
peace, into the regions of Mayfair and Spitalfields, Clementina walked
across the Regent’s Park to Hope Chapel, and its morning observances;
but thought herself poorly repaid for her exertions by having to listen
to a dreadful sermon and worse prayers from Mr Masquar--one of the
chief priests of Commonplace--a comfortable idol to serve, seeing he
accepts as homage to himself all that any man offers to his own person,
opinions, or history. But Clementina contrived to endure it, comforting
herself that she had made a mistake in supposing Mr Graham preached in
the morning.
In the evening her carriage once again drew up with clang and clatter
at the door of the chapel. But her coachman was out of temper at having
to leave the bosom of his family circle--as he styled the table that
upheld his pot of beer and jar of tobacco--of a Sunday, and sought
relief to his feelings in giving his horses a lesson in crawling; the
result of which was fortunate for his mistress: when she entered, the
obnoxious Mr Masquar was already reading the hymn. She turned at once
and made for the door.
But her carriage was already gone. A strange sense of loneliness and
desolation seized her. The place had grown hateful to her, and she
would have fled from it. Yet she lingered in the porch. The eyes
of the man in the pulpit, with his face of false solemnity and low
importance--she seemed to feel the look of them on her back, yet she
lingered. Now that Malcolm was gone, how was she to learn when Mr
Graham would be preaching?
“If you please, ma’am,” said a humble and dejected voice.
She turned and saw the seamed and smoky face of the pew-opener, who
had been watching her from the lobby, and had crept out after her. She
dropped a courtesy, and went on hurriedly, with an anxious look now and
then over her shoulder--
“Oh, ma’am! we shan’t see _him_ no more. Our people here--they’re very
good people, but they don’t like to be told the truth. It seems to me
as if they knowed it so well they thought as how there was no need for
them to mind it.”
“You don’t mean that Mr Graham has given up preaching here?”
“They’ve given up astin’ of ’im to preach, lady. But if ever there was
a good man in that pulpit, Mr Graham he do be that man!”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Yes, ma’am; but it would be hard to direct you.” Here she looked in
at the door of the chapel with a curious half-frightened glance, as if
to satisfy herself that the inner door was closed. “But,” she went on,
“they won’t miss me now the service is begun, and I can be back before
it’s over. I’ll show you where, ma’am.”
“I should be greatly obliged to you,” said Clementina, “only I am sorry
to give you the trouble.”
“To tell the truth, I’m only too glad to get away,” she returned, “for
the place it do look like a cementery, now _he’s_ out of it.”
“Was he so kind to you?”
“He never spoke word to me, as to myself like, no, nor never gave me
sixpence, like Mr Masquar do; but he give me strength in my heart to
bear up, and that’s better than meat or money.”
It was a good half-hour’s walk, and during it Clementina held what
conversation she might with her companion. It was not much the woman
had to say of a general sort. She knew little beyond her own troubles
and the help that met them, but what else are the two main forces whose
composition results in upward motion? Her world was very limited--the
houses in which she went charing, the chapel she swept and dusted, the
neighbours with whom she gossipped, the little shops where she bought
the barest needs of her bare life; but it was at least large enough to
leave behind her; and if she was not one to take the kingdom of heaven
by force, she was yet one to creep quietly into it. The earthly life of
such as she-- immeasurably less sordid than that of the poet who will
not work for his daily bread, or that of the speculator who, having
settled money on his wife, risks that of his neighbour--passing away
like a cloud, will hang in their west, stained indeed, but with gold,
blotted, but with roses. Dull as it all was now, Clementina yet gained
from her unfoldings a new out-look upon life, its needs, its sorrows,
its consolations, and its hopes; nor was there any vulgar pity in the
smile of the one, or of degrading acknowledgment in the tears of the
other, when a piece of gold passed from hand to hand, as they parted.
The Sunday-sealed door of the stationer’s shop--for there was no
private entrance to the house--was opened by another sad-faced woman.
What a place to seek the secret of life in! Lovelily enfolds the husk
its kernel; but what the human eye turns from as squalid and unclean
may enfold the seed that clasps, couched in infinite withdrawment, the
vital germ of all that is lovely and graceful, harmonious and strong,
all without which no poet would sing, no martyr burn, no king rule in
righteousness, no geometrician pore over the marvellous _must_.
The woman led her through the counter into a little dingy room behind
the shop, looking out on a yard a few feet square, with a water-butt,
half-a-dozen flower-pots, and a maimed plaster Cupid perched on the
window-sill. There sat the schoolmaster, in conversation with a lady,
whom the woman of the house, awed by her sternness and grandeur, had,
out of regard to her lodger’s feelings, shown into her parlour and not
into his bedroom.
Cherishing the hope that the patent consequences of his line of action
might have already taught him moderation, Mrs Marshal, instead of
going to chapel to hear Mr Masquar, had paid Mr Graham a visit, with
the object of enlisting his sympathies if she could, at all events his
services, in the combating of the scruples he had himself aroused in
the bosom of her son. What had passed between them I do not care to
record, but when Lady Clementina--unannounced of the landlady--entered,
there was light enough, notwithstanding the non-reflective properties
of the water-butt, to reveal Mrs Marshal flushed and flashing, Mr
Graham grave and luminous, and to enable the chapel-business-eye of
Mrs Marshal, which saw every stranger that entered “Hope,” at once to
recognise her as having made one of the congregation the last Sunday
evening.
Evidently one of Mr Graham’s party, she was not prejudiced in her
favour. But there was that in her manner which impressed her-- that
something ethereal and indescribable which she herself was constantly
aping, and, almost involuntarily, she took upon herself such honours
as the place, despicable in her eyes, would admit of. She rose, made a
sweeping courtesy, and addressed Lady Clementina with such a manner as
people of Mrs Marshal’s ambitions put off and on like their clothes.
“Pray, take a seat, ma’am, such as it is,” she said, with a wave of her
hand. “I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing you at our place.”
Lady Clementina sat down: the room was too small to stand in, and Mrs
Marshal seemed to take the half of it.
“I am not aware of the honour,” she returned, doubtful what the woman
meant--perhaps some shop or dress-maker’s. Clementina was not one who
delighted in freezing her humbler fellow-creatures, as we know; but
there was something altogether repulsive in the would-be-grand but
really arrogant behaviour of her fellow-visitor.
“I mean,” said Mrs Marshal, a little abashed, for ambition is not
strength, “at our little Bethel in Kentish Town! Not that _we_ live
there!” she explained with a superior smile.
“Oh! I think I understand. You must mean the chapel where this
gentleman was preaching.”
“That _is_ my meaning,” assented Mrs Marshal.
“I went there to-night,” said Clementina, turning with some timidity
to Mr Graham. “That I did not find you there, sir, will, I hope,
explain----” Here she paused, and turned again to Mrs Marshal. “I see
you think with me, ma’am, that a true teacher is worth following.”
As she said this she turned once more to Mr Graham, who sat listening
with a queer, amused, but right courteous smile.
“I hope you will pardon me,” she continued, “for venturing to call upon
you, and, as I have the misfortune to find you occupied, allow me to
call another day. If you would set me a time, I should be more obliged
than I can tell you,” she concluded, her voice trembling a little.
“Stay now, if you will, madam,” returned the schoolmaster, with a bow
of oldest-fashioned courtesy. “This lady has done laying her commands
upon me, I believe.”
“As you think proper to call them commands, Mr Graham, I conclude you
intend to obey them,” said Mrs Marshal, with a forced smile and an
attempt at pleasantry.
“Not for the world, madam,” he answered. “Your son is acting the part
of a gentleman--yes, I make bold to say, of one who is very nigh the
kingdom of heaven, if not indeed within its gate, and before I would
check him I would be burnt at the stake--even were your displeasure the
fire, madam,” he added, with a kindly bow. “Your son is a line fellow.”
“He would be, if he were left to himself. Good evening, Mr Graham.
Good-bye, rather, for I _think_ we are not likely to meet again.”
“In heaven, I hope, madam; for by that time we shall be able to
understand each other,” said the schoolmaster, still kindly.
Mrs Marshal made no answer beyond a facial flash as she turned to
Clementina.
“Good evening, ma’am,” she said. “To pay court to the earthen vessel
because of the treasure it may happen to hold, is to be a respecter of
persons as bad as any.”
An answering flash broke from Clementina’s blue orbs, but her speech
was more than calm as she returned,
“I learned something of that lesson last Sunday evening, I hope,
ma’am. But you have left me far behind, for you seem to have learned
disrespect even to the worthiest of persons. Good evening, ma’am.”
She looked the angry matron full in the face, with an icy regard, from
which, as from the Gorgon eye, she fled.
The victor turned to the schoolmaster.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, “for presuming to take your part,
but a gentleman is helpless with a vulgar woman.”
“I thank you, madam. I hope the sharpness of your rebuke----but indeed
the poor woman can hardly help her rudeness, for she is very worldly,
and believes herself very pious. It is the old story-- hard for the
rich.”
Clementina was struck.
“I too am rich and worldly,” she said. “But I know that I am not pious,
and if you would but satisfy me that religion is common sense, I would
try to be religious with all my heart and soul.”
“I willingly undertake the task. But let us know each other a little
first. And lest I should afterwards seem to have taken an advantage
of you, I hope you have no wish to be nameless to me, for my friend
Malcolm MacPhail had so described you that I recognized your ladyship
at once.”
Clementina said that, on the contrary, she had given her name to the
woman who opened the door.
“It is because of what Malcolm said of you that I ventured to come to
you,” she added.
“Have you seen Malcolm lately?” he asked, his brow clouding a little.
“It is more than a week since he has been to me.”
Thereupon, with embarrassment, such as she would never have felt except
in the presence of pure simplicity, she told of his disappearance with
his mistress.
“And you think they have run away together?” said the schoolmaster, his
face beaming with what, to Clementina’s surprise, looked almost like
merriment.
“Yes, I think so,” she answered. “Why not, if they choose?”
“I will say this for my friend Malcolm,” returned Mr Graham composedly,
“that whatever he did I should expect to find not only all right in
intention, but prudent and well-devised also. The present may well seem
a rash, ill-considered affair for both of them, but----”
“I see no necessity either for explanation or excuse,” said Clementina,
too eager to mark that she interrupted Mr Graham. “In making up her
mind to marry him, Lady Lossie has shown greater wisdom and courage
than, I confess, I had given her credit for.”
“And Malcolm?” rejoined the schoolmaster softly. “Should you say of him
that he showed equal wisdom?”
“I decline to give an opinion upon the gentleman’s part in the
business,” answered Clementina, laughing, but glad there was so little
light in the room, for she was painfully conscious of the burning of
her cheeks. “Besides, I have no measure to apply to Malcolm,” she went
on, a little hurriedly. “He is like no one else I have ever talked
with, and I confess there is something about him I cannot understand.
Indeed, he is beyond me altogether.”
“Perhaps, having known him from infancy, I might be able to explain
him,” returned Mr Graham, in a tone that invited questioning.
“Perhaps, then,” said Clementina, “I may be permitted, in jealousy
for the teaching I have received of him, to confess my bewilderment
that one so young should be capable of dealing with such things as he
delights in. The youth of the prophet makes me doubt his prophecy.”
“At least,” rejoined Mr Graham, “the phenomenon coincides with what the
master of these things said of them--that they were revealed to babes
and not to the wise and prudent. As to Malcolm’s wonderful facility
in giving them form and utterance, that depends so immediately on
the clear sight of them, that, granted a little of the gift poetic,
developed through reading and talk, we need not wonder much at it.”
“You consider your friend a genius?” suggested Clementina.
“I consider him possessed of a kind of heavenly common sense, equally
at home in the truths of divine relation, and the facts of the human
struggle with nature and her forces. I should never have discovered
my own ignorance in certain points of the mathematics but for the
questions that boy put to me before he was twelve years of age. A thing
not understood lay in his mind like a fretting foreign body. But there
is a far more important factor concerned than this exceptional degree
of insight. Understanding is the reward of obedience. Peter says, ‘the
Holy Ghost, whom God hath given them that _obey_ him.’ Obedience is
the key to every door. I am perplexed at the stupidity of the ordinary
religious being. In the most practical of all matters, he will talk,
and speculate, and try to feel, but he will not set himself to _do_.
It is different with Malcolm. From the first he has been trying to
obey. Nor do I see why it should be strange that even a child should
understand these things, if they are the very elements of the region
for which we were created and to which our being holds essential
relations, as a bird to the air, or a fish to the sea. If a man may not
understand the things of God whence he came, what shall he understand?”
“How, then, is it that so few do understand?”
“Because where they know, so few obey. This boy, I say, did. If you
had seen, as I have, the almost superhuman struggles of his will to
master the fierce temper his ancestors gave him, you would marvel less
at what he has so early become. I have seen him, white with passion,
cast himself on his face on the shore, and cling with his hands to
the earth as if in a paroxysm of bodily suffering; then after a few
moments rise and do a service to the man who had wronged him. Were it
any wonder if the light should have soon gone up in a soul like that?
When I was a younger man I used to go out with the fishing-boats now
and then, drawn chiefly by my love for the boy, who earned his own
bread that way before he was in his teens. One night we were caught in
a terrible storm, and had to stand out to sea in the pitch dark. He was
then not fourteen. ‘Can you let a boy like that steer?’ I said to the
captain of the boat. ‘Yes; just a boy like that,’ he answered. ‘Ma’colm
’ill steer as straucht ’s a porpus.’ When he was relieved, he crept
over the thwarts to where I sat. ‘_Is_ there any true definition of a
straight line, sir?’ he said. ‘I can’t take the one in my Euclid.’--‘So
you’re not afraid, Malcolm?’ I returned, heedless of his question, for
I wanted to see what he would answer. ‘Afraid, sir!’ he rejoined with
some surprise, ‘I wad ill like to hear the Lord say, _O thou o’ little
faith!_’--‘But,’ I persisted, ‘God may mean to drown you!’--‘An’ what
for no?’ he returned. ‘Gien ye war to tell me ’at I micht be droon’t
ohn him meant it, I wad be fleyt eneuch.’ I see your ladyship does not
understand: I will interpret the dark saying: ‘And why should he not
drown me? If you were to tell me I might be drowned without his meaning
it, I should be frightened enough.’ Believe me, my lady, the right way
is simple to find, though only they that seek it _first_ can find it.
But I have allowed myself,” concluded the schoolmaster, “to be carried
adrift in my laudation of Malcolm. You did not come to hear praises of
him, my lady.”
“I owe him much,” said Clementina. “--But tell me then, Mr Graham, how
is it that you know there is a God, and one--one--fit to be trusted as
you trust him?”
“In no way that I can bring to bear on the reason of another so as to
produce conviction.”
“Then what is to become of me?”
“I can do for you what is far better. I can persuade you to look and
see whether before your own door stands not a gate--lies not a path
to walk in. Entering by that gate, walking in that path, you shall
yourself arrive at the conviction, which no man can give you, that
there is a living Love and Truth at the heart of your being, and
pervading all that surrounds you. The man who seeks the truth in any
other manner will never find it. Listen to me a moment, my lady. I
loved that boy’s mother. Naturally she did not love me--how could she?
I was very unhappy. I sought comfort from the unknown source of my
life. He gave me to understand his Son, and so I understood himself,
knew that I came of God, and was comforted.”
“But how do you know that it was not all a delusion--the product of
your own fervid imagination? Do not mistake me; I want to find it true.”
“It is a right and honest question, my lady. I will tell you. Not to
mention the conviction which a truth beheld must carry with itself and
concerning which there can be no argument either with him who does or
him who does not see it, this experience goes far with me, and would
with you if you had it, as you may--namely, that all my difficulties
and confusions have gone on clearing themselves up ever since I set
out to walk in that way. My consciousness of life is threefold what it
was; my perception of what is lovely around me, and my delight in it,
threefold; my power of understanding things and of ordering my way,
threefold also; the same with my hope and my courage, my love to my
kind, my power of forgiveness. In short, I cannot but believe that my
whole being and its whole world are in process of rectification for
me. Is not that something to set against the doubt born of the eye
and ear, and the questions of an intellect that can neither grasp nor
disprove? I say nothing of better things still. To the man who receives
such as I mean, they are the heart of life; to the man who does not,
they exist not. But I say--if I thus find my whole being enlightened
and redeemed, and know that therein I fare according to the word of
the man of whom the old story tells: if I find that his word, and the
result of action founded upon that word, correspond and agree, opening
a heaven within and beyond me, in which I see myself delivered from
all that now in myself is to myself despicable and unlovely; if I can
reasonably--reasonably to myself, not to another --cherish hopes of a
glory of conscious being, divinely better than all my imagination when
most daring could invent--a glory springing from absolute unity with my
creator, and therefore with my neighbour; if the Lord of the ancient
tale, I say, has thus held word with me, am I likely to doubt much or
long whether there be such a lord or no?”
“What, then, is the way that lies before my own door? Help me to see
it.”
“It is just the old way--as old as the conscience--that of obedience
to any and every law of personal duty. But if you have ever seen the
Lord, if only from afar--if you have any vaguest suspicion that the
Jew Jesus, who professed to have come from God, was a better man than
other men, one of your first duties must be to open your ears to his
words, and see whether they commend themselves to you as true; then, if
they do, to obey them with your whole strength and might, upheld by the
hope of the vision promised in them to the obedient. This is the way
of life, which will lead a man out of the miseries of the nineteenth
century, as it led Paul out of the miseries of the first.”
There followed a little pause, and then a long talk about what the
schoolmaster had called the old story; in which he spoke with such
fervid delight of this and that point in the tale; removing this
and that stumbling-block by giving the true reading--or the right
interpretation; showing the what and why and how--the very intent of
our Lord in the thing he said or did, that, for the first time in
her life, Clementina began to feel as if such a man must really have
lived, that his blessed feet must really have walked over the acres
of Palestine, that his human heart must indeed have thought and felt,
worshipped and borne, right humanly. Even in the presence of her new
teacher, and with his words in her ears, she began to desire her own
chamber that she might sit down with the neglected story and read for
herself.
The schoolmaster walked with her to the chapel door. There her carriage
was already waiting. He put her in, and, while the Reverend Jacob
Masquar was still holding forth upon the difference between adoption
and justification, Clementina drove away, never more to delight the
hearts of the deacons with the noise of the hoofs of her horses,
staying the wheels of her yellow chariot.