The dwelling which Miss Rothesay entered was one of the keeper's
cottages, built within the forest. The door stood open, for the place
was too lowly, even for robbers; and, besides, its inmates had nothing
to lose. Still, Olive thought it was wrong to leave a poor bedridden old
woman in a state of such unprotected desolation. As her step was heard
crossing the threshold, there was a shrill cry from the inner room.
“John, John--the lad!--hast thee found the lad?”
“It is not your son--'tis I. Why, what has happened, my good Margery?”
But the poor old creature fell back and wrung her hands, sobbing
bitterly.
“The lad!--dun ye know aught o' the lad? Poor Reuben!--he wunnot come
back no more! Alack! alack!”
And with some difficulty Olive learnt that Margery's grandson, the
keeper's only child, had gone into the forest some days before, and had
never returned. It was no rare thing for even practised woodsmen to be
lost in this wild, wide forest; and at night, in the winter time there
was no hope. John Dent had gone out with his fellows, less to find the
living than to bring back the dead.
Filled with deep pity Olive sat down by the miserable grandmother; but
the poor soul refused to be comforted.
“John'll go mad--clean mad! There beant nowheres such a good lad as our
Reuben; and to be clemmed to death, and froze! O Lord, tak' pity on us,
miserable sinners!”
For hours Olive sat by the old woman's bedside. The murky winter day
soon closed in, and the snow began to fall; but still there was nothing
heard save the wind howling in the forest. Often Margery started up,
crying out that there were footsteps at the door, and then sank back in
dumb despair.
At last there was a tramp of many feet on the frozen ground, the latch
was lifted, and John Dent burst in.
He was a sturdy woodsman, of a race that are often seen in this forest
region, almost giant-like in height and bulk. The snow lay thick on his
uncovered head and naked breast, for he had stripped off all his upper
garments to wrap round something that was clasped tightly in his arms.
He spoke to no one, looked at no one, but laid his burden before the
hearth supported on his knees. It was the corpse of a boy blue and
shrivelled, like that of one frozen to death. He tried to chafe and bend
the fingers, but they were as stiff as iron; he wrung the melting snow
out of the hair, and, as the locks became soft and supple under his
hand, seemed to think there was yet a little life remaining.
“Why dunnot ye stir, ye fools! Get t' blanket--pull't off the ould
woman. I tell 'ee the lad's alive.”
No one moved, and then the frantic father began to curse and swear. He
rushed into old Margery's room.
“Get up wi' thee. How darest thee lie hallooing there. Come and help t'
lad!” and then he ran back to where poor Reuben's body lay extended on
the hearth, surrounded by the other woodsmen, most of whom were pale
with awe, some even melting into tears. John Dent dashed them all aside,
and took his son again in his arms. Olive, from her corner, watched the
writhings of his rugged features, but she ventured not to approach.
“Tak' heart, tak' heart, John!” said one of the men.
“He didna suffer much, I reckon,” said another. “My owd mother was nigh
froze to death in t' forest, and her said 'twas just like dropping to
sleep. An' luck ye, the poor lad's face be as quiet as a child.”
“John Dent, mon!” whispered one old keeper; “say thy prayers; thee
doesna often do't, and thee'll want it now.”
And then John Dent broke into such a paroxysm of despair, that one
by one his comforters quitted the cottage. They, strong bold men, who
feared none of the evils of life, became feeble as children before the
awful face of Death.
One only remained--the old huntsman who had given the last counsel to
the wretched father. This man, whom Olive knew, was beckoned by her to
Margery's room to see what could be done.
“I'll fetch Mr. Gwynne to manage John, poor fellow! The devil's got
un, sure enough; and it'll tak' a parson to drive't away. But ourn be a
queer gentleman. When I get to Harbury, what mun I say!”
“Say that I am here--that I entreat him to come at once,” cried Olive,
feeling her strength sinking before this painful scene, from which in
common charity she could not turn aside. She came once more to look at
John Dent, who had crouched down before the hearth, with the stiff form
of the poor dead boy extended on his knees, gazing at it with a sort of
vacant, hopeless misery. Then she went back to the old woman, and tried
to speak of comfort and of prayer.
It was not far to Harbury, but, in less time than Olive had expected,
Harold Gwynne appeared.
“Miss Rothesay, you sent for me!”
“I did--I did. Oh, thank Heaven that you are come,” eagerly cried Olive,
clasping his two hands. He regarded her with a surprised and troubled
look, and took them away.
“What do you wish me to do!”
“What a minister of God is able--nay, bound to do--to speak comfort in
this house of misery.”
The poor old woman echoed the same entreaty--
“Oh, Mr. Gwynne, you that be a parson, a man of God, come and help us.”
Harold looked round, and saw he had to face the woe that no worldly
comfort or counsel can lighten;--that he had entered into the awful
presence of the Power, which, stripping man of all his earthly pomp,
wisdom, and strength, leaves him poor, weak, and naked before his God.
The proud, the moral, the learned Harold Gwynne, stood dumb before the
mystery of Death. It was too mighty for him. He looked on the dead boy,
and on the living father; then cast his eyes down to the ground, and
muttered within himself, “What should I do here?”
“Read to him--pray with him,” whispered Olive. “Speak to him of God--of
heaven--of immortality.”
“God--heaven--immortality,” echoed Harold, vacantly, but he never
stirred.
“They say that this man has been a great sinner, and an unbeliever. Oh,
tell him that he cannot deceive himself now. Death knells into his ear
that there is a God--there is a hereafter. Mr. Gwynne, oh tell him that,
at a time like this, there is no comfort, no hope, save in God and in
His Word.”
Olive had spoken thus in the excitement of the moment; then recovering
herself, she asked pardon for a speech so bold, as if she would fain
teach the clergyman his duty.
“My duty--yes, I must do my duty,” muttered Harold Gwynne. And with his
hard-set face--the face he wore in the pulpit--he went up to the father
of the dead child, and said something about “patience,” “submission to
the decrees of Providence,” and “all trials being sent for good, and by
the will of God.”
“Dun ye talk to me of God? I know nought about him, parson--ye never
learned me.”
Harold's rigid mouth quivered visibly, but he made no direct answer,
only saying, in the same formal tone, “You go to church--at least, you
used to go--you have heard there about 'God in his judgments remembering
mercy.'”
“Mercy! ye mun easy say that; why did He let the poor lad die i' the
snow, then?”
And Harold's lips hesitated over those holy words “The Lord gave and the
Lord taketh away.”
“He should ha' takken th' owd mother, then. She's none wanted; but the
dear lad--the only one left out o' six--oh, Reuben, Reuben, wunna ye
never speak to your poor father again?”
He looked on the corpse fixedly for some minutes, and then a new thought
seemed to strike him.
“That's not my lad--my merry little lad!--I say,” he cried, starting up
and catching Mr. Gwynne's arm; “I say, you parson that ought to know,
where's my lad gone to?”
Harold Gwynne's head sank upon his breast: he made no answer.
Perhaps--ay, and looking at him, the thought smote Olive with a great
fear--perhaps to that awful question there was no answer in his soul.
John Dent passed him by, and came to the side of Olive Rothesay.
“Miss, folk say you're a good woman. Dun ye know aught o' these
things--canna ye tell me if I shall meet my poor lad again?”
And then Olive, casting one glance at Mr. Gwynne, who remained
motionless, sat down beside the childless father, and talked to him
of God--not the Infinite Unknown, into whose mysteries the mightiest
philosophers may pierce and find no end--but the God mercifully
revealed, “Our Father which is in heaven”--He to whom the poor, the
sorrowing, and the ignorant may look, and not be afraid.
Long she spoke; simply, meekly, and earnestly. Her words fell like balm;
her looks lightened the gloomy house of woe. When, at length, she left
it, John Dent's eyes followed her, as though she had been a visible
angel of peace.
It was quite night when she and Harold wont out of the cottage. The snow
had ceased falling, but it lay on every tree of the forest like a white
shroud. And high above, through the opening of the branches, was
seen the blue-black frosty sky, with its innumerable stars. The keen,
piercing cold, the utter stirlessness, the mysterious silence, threw a
sense of death--white death--over all things. It was a night when one
might faintly dream what the world would be, if the infidel's boast were
true, and _there were no God_.
They walked for some time in perfect silence. Troubled thoughts were
careering like storm-clouds over Olive's spirit. Wonder was there, and
pity, and an indefined dread. As she leaned on Mr. Gwynne's arm, she had
a presentiment that in the heart whose strong beating she could almost
feel, was prisoned some great secret of woe or wrong, before which she
herself would stand aghast. Yet such was the nameless attraction which
drew her to this man, that the more she dreaded, the more she longed to
discover his mystery, whatsoever it might be. She determined to break
the silence.
“Mr. Gwynne, I trust you will not think it presumption in me to have
spoken as I did, instead of you; but I saw how shocked and overpowered
you were, nor wondered at your silence.”
He answered in the low tone of one struggling under great excitement.
“You noticed my silence, then?--that I, summoned as a clergyman to give
religious consolation, had none to offer.”
“Nay, you did attempt some.”
“Ay, I tried to preach faith with my lips, and could not, because there
was none in my heart. No, nor ever will be!”
Olive looked at him uncomprehending, but he seemed to shrink from her
observation. “I am indeed truly grieved,” she began to say, but he
stopped her.
“Do not speak to me yet, I pray you.”
She obeyed; though yearning with pity over him. Hitherto, in all their
intercourse, whatever had been his kindness towards her, towards him
she had continually felt a sense of restraint--even of fear. That
controlling influence, which Mr. Gwynne seemed to exercise over all with
whom he deigned to associate, was heavy upon Olive Rothesay. Before
him she felt more subdued than she had ever done before any one; in his
presence she unconsciously measured her words and guarded her looks, as
if meeting the eye of a master. And he was a master--a man born to rule
over the wills of his brethren, swaying them at his lightest breath, as
the wind bends the grass of the field.
But now the sceptre seemed torn from his hand--he was a king no more.
He walked along--his head drooped, his eyes fixed on the ground. And
beholding him thus, there came to Olive, in the place of fear, a strong
compassion, tender as strong, and pure as tender. Angel-like, it arose
in her heart, ready to pierce his darkness with its shining eyes--to
fold around him and all his misery its sheltering wings. He was a great
and learned man, and she a lowly woman; in her knowledge far beneath
him, in her faith--oh! how immeasurably above!
She began very carefully. “You are not well, I fear. This painful scene
has been too much, even for you. Death seems more horrible to men than
to feeble women.”
“Death!--do you think that I fear Death?” and he clenched his hand
as though he would battle with the great Destroyer. “No!--I have met
him--stood and looked at him--until my eyes were blinded, and my brain
reeled. But what am I saying? Don't heed me, Miss Rothesay; don't.” And
he began to walk on hurriedly.
“You are ill, I am sure; and there is something that rests on your
mind,” said Olive, in a quiet, soft tone.
“What!--have I betrayed anything? I mean, have you anything to charge
me with! Have I left any duty unfulfilled; said any words unbecoming a
clergyman?” asked he with a freezing haughtiness.
“Not that I am aware. Forgive me, Mr. Gwynne, if I have trespassed
beyond the bounds of our friendship. For we are friends--have you not
often said so?”
“Yes, and with truth. I respect you, Miss Rothesay. You are no
thoughtless girl, but a woman who has, I am sure, both felt and
suffered! I have suffered too; therefore it is no marvel we are friends.
I am glad of it.”
He seldom spoke so frankly, and never had done what he now did--of
his own accord, to take and clasp her hand with a friendly air of
confidence. Long after the pressure passed from Olive's fingers, its
remembrance lingered in her heart. They walked on a little farther; and
then he said, not without some slight agitation,
“Miss Rothesay, if you are indeed my friend, listen to one request I
make;--that you will not say anything, think anything, of whatever part
of my conduct this day may have seemed strange to you. I know not what
fate it is that has thus placed you, a year ago a perfect stranger, in
a position which forces me to speak to you thus. Still less can I tell
what there is in you which draws from me much that no human being has
ever drawn before. Accept this acknowledgment, and pardon me.”
“Nay, what have I to pardon? Oh, Mr. Gwynne, if I might be indeed your
friend--if I could but do you any good!”
“You do good to _me?_” he muttered bitterly. “Why, we are as far apart
as earth from heaven, nay, as heaven from hell; that is if there be----.
Madman that I am! Miss Rothesay, do not listen to me. Why do you lead me
on to speak thus?”
“Indeed, I do not comprehend you. Believe me, Mr. Gwynne, I know very
well the difference between us. I am an unlearned woman, and you”----
“Ay, tell me what I am--that is, what you think I am.
“A wise and good man; but yet one in whom great intellect may at times
overpower that simple Faith, which is above all knowledge; that Love,
which, as said the great apostle of our Church”----
“Silence!” His deep voice rose and fell, like the sound of a breaking
wave. Then he stopped, turned full upon her, and said, in a fierce,
keen, whisper, “Would you learn the truth? You shall! Know, then, that I
believe in none of these things I teach--I am an infidel!”
Olive's arm fell from him.
“Do you shrink from me, then? Good and pious woman, do you think I am
Satan standing by your side?”
“Oh, no, no!” She made an effort to restrain herself; it failed, and she
burst into tears.
Harold looked at her.
“Meek and gentle soul! It would, perhaps, have been good for me had
Olive Rothesay been born my sister.”
“I would I had--I would I had! But, oh! this is awful to hear. You,
an unbeliever--you, who all these years have been a minister at the
altar--what a fearful thing!”
“You say right--it is fearful. Think now what my life is, and has been.
One long lie--a lie to man and to God. For I do believe so far,”
he added, solemnly; “I believe in the one ruling Spirit of the
universe--unknown, unapproachable. None but a madman would deny the
existence of a God.”
He ceased, and looked upwards with his piercing eyes--piercing, yet full
of restless sorrow. Then he approached his companion.
“Shall we walk on, or do you utterly renounce me?” said he, with a
touching, sad humility.
“Renounce you!”
“Ah! you would not, could you know all I have endured. To me, earth has
been a hell--not the place of flames and torments of which your divines
prate, but the true hell--that of the conscience and the soul. I, too,
a man whose whole nature was athirst for truth. I sought it first among
its professors; there I found that they who, too idle or too weak to
demonstrate their creed, took it upon trust, did what their fathers did,
believed what their fathers believed--were accounted orthodox and pious
men; while those who, in their earnest eager youth, dared--not as yet
to doubt, but meekly to ask a reason for their faith--they were at once
condemned as impious. But I pain you: shall I go on, or cease?”
“Go on.”
“Truth, still truth, I yearned for in another form--in domestic
peace--in the love of woman.--My soul was famishing for any food; I
snatched this--in my mouth it became ashes!” His voice seemed choking,
but with an effort he continued. “After this time I gave up earth, and
turned to interests beyond it. With straining eyes I gazed into the
Infinite--and I was dazzled, blinded, whirled from darkness to light,
and from light to darkness--no rest, no rest! This state lasted long,
but its end came. Now I walk like a man in his sleep, feeling nothing,
fearing nothing,--no, thou mighty Unknown, I do _not_ fear! But then I
hope nothing: I believe nothing. Those pleasant dreams of yours--God,
Heaven, Immortality--are to me meaningless words. At times I utter them,
and they seem to shine down like pitiless stars upon the black boiling
sea in which I am drowning.”
“Oh, God, have mercy!” moaned Olive Rothesay. “Give me strength that my
own faith fail not, and that I may bring Thy light unto this perishing
soul!” And turning to Harold, she said aloud, as calmly as she could,
“Tell me--since you have told me thus far--how you came to take upon
yourself the service of the Church; you who”----
“Ay, well may you pause and shudder! Hear, then, how the devil--if there
be one--can mock men's souls in the form of an angel of light. But it
is a long history--it may drive me to utter things that you will shrink
from.”
“I _will_ hear it.” There was, in that soft, firm voice an influence
which Harold perforce obeyed. She was stronger than he, even as light is
stronger than darkness.
Mr. Gwynne began, speaking quietly, even humbly. “When I was a youth
studying for the Church, doubts came upon my mind, as they will upon
most young minds whose strivings after truth are hedged in by a thorny
rampart of old worn-out forms. Then there came a sudden crisis in my
life; I must either enter on a ministry in whose creed I only half
believed, or let my mother--my noble, self-denying mother--starve. You
know her, Miss Rothesay, though you know not half that she is, and ever
was to me. But you do know what it is to have a beloved mother.”
“Yes.”
Infidel as he was, she could have clung to Harold Gwynne, and called him
brother.
“Well, after a time of great inward conflict, I decided--for her sake.
Though little more than a boy in years, struggling in a chaos of mingled
doubt and faith, I bound myself to believe whatever the Church taught,
and to lead souls to heaven in the Church's own road. These very
bonds, this vow so blindly to be fulfilled, made me, in after years, an
infidel.”
He paused to look at her.
“I am listening, speak on,” said Olive Rothesay.
“As you say truly, I am one whose natural bent of mind is less to faith
than to knowledge. Above all, I am one who hates all falsehood, all
hypocritical show. Perchance in the desert I might have learned to serve
God. Face to face with Him I might have worshiped His revealings. But
when between me and the one great Truth came a thousand petty veils of
cunning forms and blindly taught precedents; when among my brethren I
saw wicked men preaching virtue--men without brains enough to acquire
a mere worldly profession, such as law or physic, set to expound the
mighty mysteries of religion--then I said to myself, 'The whole system
is a lie!' So I cast it from me, and my soul stood forth in its naked
strength before the Creator of all.”
“But why did you still keep up this awful mockery?”
“Because,” and his voice sounded hoarse and hollow, “just then there was
upon me a madness which all men have in youth--love. For that I became a
liar in the face of Heaven, of men, and of my own soul.”
“It was a great sin.”
“I know it; and, being such, it fell down upon my head in a curse.
Since then I have been what you now see me--a very honest, painstaking
clergyman; doing good, preaching, certainly not doctrine, but blameless
moralities, carrying a civil face to the world, and a heart--Oh God!
whosoever and whatsoever Thou art, Thou knowest what blackest darkness
there is _there!_”
She made no answer.
After a few minutes, Mr. Gwynne said, “You must forgive me, Miss
Rothesay.”
“I do. And so will He whom you do not know, but whom you will know
yet! I will pray for you--I will comfort you. I wish I were indeed your
sister, that I might never leave you until I brought you to faith and
peace.”
He smiled very faintly. “Thank you; it is something to feel there is
goodness in the world. I did not believe in any except my mother's.
Perhaps if she had known all this--if I could have told her--I had not
been the wretched man I am.”
“Hush; do not talk any more.” And then she stood beside him for some
minutes quite silent, until he grew calm.
They were on the verge of the forest, close to Olive's home. It was
about seven in the evening, but all things lay as in the stillness
of midnight. They two might have been the only beings in the living
world--all else dead and buried under the white snow. And then, lifting
itself out of the horizon's black nothingness, arose the great red moon,
like an immortal soul.
“Look!” said Olive. He looked once, and no more. Then, with a sigh, he
placed her arm in his, and walked with her to her own door.
Arrived there, he bade her adieu, adding, “I would bid God bless you;
but in such words from me, you would not believe. How could you?”
He said this with a mournful emphasis, to which she could not reply.
“But,” he continued in a tone of eager anxiety, “remember that I have
trusted you. My secret is in your hands. You will be silent, I know;
silent as death, or eternity.--That is, as both are to me!”
Olive promised; and he left her. She stood listening, until the echo of
his footfall ceased along the frosty road; then, clasping her hands,
she lifted once more the petition “for those who have erred and are
deceived,” the prayer which she had once uttered--unconscious how much
and by whom it was needed. Now she said it with a yearning cry--a cry
that would fain pierce heaven, and ringing above the loud choir of
saints and angels, call down mercy on one perishing human soul.