_AUTUMN DAYS_
During the latter half of the year 1830, England was passing through
some searching experiences, and through a crisis of her political
history. The events of these momentous years of the Reform struggle
have become by this time a matter of history, but a very brief outline
of passing events may not be out of place for younger readers.
When George IV. mounted the throne, the hopes of the Whig party rose
high. He was held to be the champion of liberty and reform, and it was
a bitter disappointment to those who had regarded him as the friend
and pupil of Fox, to find him cast himself into the arms of the Tory
party and turn his back on former associates. The leaven of reformed
representation had taken such hold of the nation, however, that already
a strong party existed, not in the country alone, but in Parliament;
yet the prospects of that party were at a very low ebb, till the
sudden turn brought about in the first place by the death of the king,
and secondly by the “Three days of July” in Paris, when an arbitrary
ministry, striving to override the Chamber of Deputies and subvert the
constitution, brought about the momentous rising in Paris which cost
Charles X. his throne, and raised Louis Philippe to be “King of the
Barricades.”
With the accession of William IV., the hopes of the Reform party rose
high. The Sailor Prince, as the people liked to call him, although he
had been something of a Tory in early life, did not stand pledged to
any side in politics, and might have the shrewdness to take warning
by the fate of his brother of France, and deem it wise and politic to
support all that was right and reasonable in the projected scheme of
reform. The champions of the movement were Lord Grey, Lord Durham,
his son-in-law, Lord John Russell, and Lord Brougham; but the Duke of
Wellington and his cabinet were strenuously opposed to any alteration
in the existing method of Parliamentary representation; and when
Parliament met for the first time in the new king’s reign, in October,
the premier plainly stated this opinion in his opening speech, and with
his customary boldness asserted that not only would he introduce no
measure of reform, but he would strenuously oppose any that should be
brought before the House.
It is well for a minister to have the courage of his opinions; but
from the moment of the delivery of that speech the existing ministry
became highly unpopular throughout the country. All far-seeing men,
of whatever shade of opinion, recognised that, whether for good or
ill, the time had come when something must be done to give the large
cities and the opulent middle classes a voice in the representation of
their country. The rotten boroughs, however desirable from a partisan
point of view, were obviously an abuse, and were doomed; the country
was in a state of ferment which threatened to become dangerous, and
the spirit shown by the Wellington Ministry was one which was at
that juncture impossible to carry out in practical legislation. They
recognised this themselves, and resigned in November, upon a very small
and insignificant defeat, knowing that if they did not do so then, they
would only be forced later on upon a more crucial question.
Lord Grey was intrusted by the king with the formation of the next
ministry, and the winter months were spent in private discussions
amongst the leaders of the Reform party as to the nature of the bill
to be introduced. Its terms were kept a profound secret till the
following March, when Lord John Russell announced them in a densely
packed and intensely excited House of Commons. After a spirited debate
the House agreed to accept the introduction of the bill for amending
the representation without a division; but the second reading was
carried only by a majority of one, and the Government, foreseeing that
so strong a measure could never be carried through committee with
such an uncertain majority, determined to appeal to the country, and
on sustaining a small defeat on a resolution of General Gascoigne’s,
resolved on a dissolution. The king was greatly opposed to this, but
was persuaded at last to consent to it; and to the great joy of the
reforming party all over the country, Parliament was dissolved, and
writs for a fresh election issued.
This is anticipating matters in the course of the narrative, but it is
better to give the brief abstract of the work of Lord Grey’s ministry
consecutively. As for the terms of the new Reform Bill, they will be
found in any history of the day, and are hardly in place in the pages
of a story.
These autumn days, spent by Saul Tresithny eating out his heart in
prison, but by the country at large in a state of seething excitement
and unrest, and by such men as Eustace Marchmont in an eager canvassing
amongst men of all shades of opinion and all sorts of positions for
adherents to the new gospel of reform and emancipation, were passed
by Bride very quietly in her sea-girt home, and by the Duke in much
serious thought, and study of the vexed questions of the day.
He and his daughter, since that day when she made her appeal to him
on behalf of Saul, had drawn slowly yet surely nearer together. The
change was hardly noticeable at first, though Bride was sensible of
an increased gentleness in her father’s manner. But by degrees he
came to talk more to her of the things working in his mind, and she
began to ask questions of him, which hitherto she had kept locked up
in her own heart. Both were the better for the outlet, and began to
look forward to the evening hour after dinner, when they sat together
in the big drawing-room and spoke of whatever was uppermost in their
minds. It was in this way that they came to speak often about the
questions of the day, which subject led naturally to that of Eustace
and his doings and sayings. Eustace was often a great deal in the minds
both of father and daughter just then. He wrote to the Duke regularly,
though not frequently, and his letters were always full of interesting
information, though this information was not always palatable to the
recipient, who was too old to change his attitude of mind, and whilst
striving after tolerance and a spirit of justice and impartiality,
regarded with something very much like dread the coming strife.
“Shall we invite Eustace to spend his Christmas with us this winter?”
asked the Duke of his daughter one day towards the latter end of
October.
Bride glanced at her father, and her cheek crimsoned suddenly.
“If--if--you wish it, papa,” she said, with visible hesitancy.
The old man glanced at her with a quick searching look.
“Does that mean you would not wish it yourself?”
“I--I--hardly know. I had not thought of it. Eustace was very kind to
me when he was here; but----”
Again she faltered in a way that was not much like her, and her father,
watching her with a newly awakened interest, said gently--
“I do not wish to distress you, my dear. Perhaps there is something in
this that I do not understand. I have no wish to force your confidence.
We will say no more about it.”
But Bride rose quickly, and came and knelt down beside her father,
turning her sweet trustful face up to his.
“Papa, do not speak so, please--as though I would not tell you
everything in my heart. I think I should like you to know. I did not
say anything at first--I did not know whether Eustace might have done
so or not, for he went the very same day, and I think just when it
happened I could not have talked about it. But before he went he told
me that he loved me, and he asked me to be his wife; but I could not,
and so he went away; and I do not know whether he will ever come back
any more. That is why I do not know what to say about asking him for
Christmas.”
The Duke was silent for many minutes, stroking Bride’s soft hair with
gentle fingers, and looking very thoughtfully into her face. She knelt
beside him, only thankful for the caressing touch, which was still
sufficiently infrequent to stir her pulses and awaken a sense of
indescribable happiness.
“So he asked you to be his wife, and you refused him. What does that
mean, Bride? Does it mean that you do not like him?”
“No, papa; it means that I do not love him.”
The Duke paused and looked into the fire. The expression on his face
made the girl ask quickly--
“You are not vexed with me for answering as I did?”
“No, my child, I am not vexed. You were right to answer according to
the dictates of your own heart. And yet, had things been a little
different with Eustace, I would gladly have seen you his wife.”
A faint glow of colour stole into Bride’s face.
“If things were different with Eustace,” she said very softly, “I think
perhaps I could have answered differently. I think about him a great
deal. I am grateful for his love, and it hurts me to have none to give
in return; but as things now are, I cannot give it to him. He grieves
me so often. I know that he would make me miserable if I had let his
earnestness carry me away. He might be so great, so noble, so good, but
he just fails in everything; and I think he would break my heart if I
were his wife.”
The Duke looked earnestly into her earnest eyes.
“It is his views that stagger you? Yes, my child, that is what I feel
about him--and them. I will not deny that when first he came to us I
had hopes that you and he might learn to love one another. You will
never be anything but a rich woman, Bride, even though Penarvon and
its revenues must go to Eustace. You will have your mother’s ample
fortune, and everything I have to leave independently of the estate.
You will have wealth and position; but you are very lonely. You have no
near relations, and your mother’s health made it impossible for you to
be taken to London and presented and introduced to society. Your life
has been a very solitary one, and I have regretted it. I confess I had
hopes with regard to Eustace; but when I learnt what manner of man he
was, and how he stands pledged to a policy which I can never approve in
the abstract, though I will not deny that some of its concrete measures
are just and fair, I began to feel differently on the subject. And you
have the same feelings, it seems, as I.”
Bride slipped to a footstool at her father’s feet, and leaned upon his
knee with his hand still held in hers, and her face turned towards the
fire.
“Papa,” she said, “I do not think it is Eustace’s Radical views which
repel me, except in so far as they are bound up in those which to me
are both sinful and sad. I know that he has the welfare of this land
and its people as much at heart as you; that he loves his country and
the poor in it as we love them; that he wishes to raise and teach and
make them better and happier. I know he would spend his life and his
fortune in the cause and grudge it nothing if good could be done. There
is a great deal that I admire and love in Eustace; but, ah! I cannot
divide into two distinct parts his political views and those other
views of his which are so integral a part of his character. To me they
seem interlocked at every point, and therefore at every point I see
something which repels me--something which I shrink from--something
which seems to me untrue and evil in essence, even though on the
surface so much may be said for it. I do not know if you understand
me. Sometimes I scarcely understand myself--hardly know how to put my
thoughts into words; but they are there, always with me; and the more I
think, the less I can feel that the two things can ever be altogether
divided.”
“What two things?” asked the Duke. “I do not think I follow you.”
“I mean, papa, the spiritual and the intellectual side of our nature.
You know we have a threefold nature--body, soul, and spirit; but yet it
is all one, and I think people make a great mistake when they seek to
try and divide the physical and the intellectual from the spiritual.
Eustace does--in practice, if not in theory. He wishes to gain for the
poor an improved condition of bodily comfort, and I am sure this is
a kindly and a right wish. He has told me things that make my blood
curdle about the awful misery and want reigning in many places. He
wants to raise men intellectually, to think for themselves, to learn
many things which will help in their advancement, to strive after a
better standard, and to be disgusted at their present ignorance and
degradation. But having done that, he stops short. He has no wish to
quicken in their spirits the love of God, which would purify these
other desires and hold in check the baser passions they so often
arouse without that curb. Of their spirits he takes no heed--how should
he, when he does not even admit that there is an inner and spiritual
life--when he is content to remain in ignorance of everything beyond
the limits of his own understanding, and to assert that nothing can
be positively taught as truth which cannot be proved by the finite
intellect of man? I may not put his case quite justly, because he does
not speak of these things openly to me. He tries to pass them over in
vague words, and keep the talk to ‘practical matters.’ But I have heard
enough to know what he does think--to know that he has no faith in the
Crucified Saviour--in an Incarnate God--in a Sanctifying Spirit; and
without that faith, how can he hope to lead men aright? Ah! he will
never do it!”
The Duke looked down at the girl’s face seen in profile as she half
raised it towards him, and he marvelled at her, yet traced in her words
the outcome of her mother’s teaching, and felt as though his wife
were speaking to him through the lips of her daughter. He had always
regarded his wife as something of a saint or angel--recognising in
her deep spirituality a calibre of mind altogether different from his
own, and in her faith, intense and vivid, a something vastly different
from his own dry orthodoxy. He had often listened to her in wonder and
amaze, half lifted up by her earnestness, half shrinking from following
her into regions so strangely unfamiliar; but there was in Bride’s line
of argument a thread of practical common-sense which aroused in him a
curiosity to know more of her mind, and he said tentatively--
“You mean that you do not believe even in political reform unless it is
based on the highest spiritual motives?”
“I think I mean,” answered Bride thoughtfully, “that I do not believe
there _can_ be any true reform at all that does not come from a
spiritual impulse. How can I say it best? Eustace is fond of quoting
the Bible to me. He bids me remember that we are called upon by Christ
to love our neighbours as ourself, and goes on to point out that he is
trying to work upon that principle. But he forgets that we are _first_
bidden to love God with all our soul and mind and strength, and that
the brotherly love is the outcome, the corollary of the love to God
which should be the leading thought of our whole life.”
“Yes!--and what do you deduce from that?”
“Oh, papa, can you not see? Look what those men are doing who think
that they can love their brothers and do them good without loving
God first and best! Look what Eustace has done!--stirred up strife
and discontent all round the country, landed poor Saul in a prison,
provoked deeds of violence, lawlessness, and reckless wickedness--deeds
that he himself would be the first to deplore and condemn, yet which
are the direct outcome of his teaching. These men love their brothers,
yet they stir up class hatred wherever they go--and why? It is because
they forget that love of God _must_ come first if any good is to come;
it is because, though they themselves love their fellows, they cannot
teach love of mankind to these more ignorant men whom they would lead.
When men do not understand the sweetness of obedience to the perfect
law of God, how can they ever be taught the duty of obedience to the
imperfect law of man?--and yet we know that obedience to law--even when
that law is sadly imperfect--is God’s will and ordinance, and that
it brings its blessing with it. Oh, if men would go about teaching
the people to love God with all their heart and soul and strength,
to love each other in the bond of unity and peace, and to _pray_ for
their rulers and governors, that God would turn their hearts from
all thought of oppression and tyranny, and make them to be just and
merciful rulers of the people, then indeed might our land become a
country blessed by God and relieved from the burden of her woes! If
great and small would look to God for His guidance in all things,
and cease warring with each other in anger and jealous hate, then
would true reform begin. But when the cleverest, and often the most
earnest men of the day leave God out of their thoughts and plans, and
smile at the thought of working through the power of His name, then
what can we expect but confusion and anarchy, and a slowly growing
discontent amongst the people, which will lead at last to some terrible
end? Eustace says that this movement is but the beginning of a huge
wave that will sweep right over the country, and end by making the
people--the masses--the rulers of the world. He looks upon that as
an era of universal good to all--a Utopia, as he calls it--which is
to supersede everything that has gone before--including Christianity
itself--in its perfection of all human systems and the development of
his gospel, ‘the greatest good to the greatest number.’ But though I
think it will come--I think we can see that in the prophetic words of
Scripture about the latter days--I fear it will come with more fearful
misery and terror and tyranny than anything that has gone before. It is
the men who practically refuse Christ--the Incarnate Son of God--though
they may use the name of Christ still for an abstraction of their own,
who will welcome the Antichrist coming in his own name. I think men
_do_ welcome any leader now who comes in his own name, and almost makes
himself a god. Was it not so with Napoleon Buonaparte, whom some almost
believed to be the Antichrist himself? It is those who come to them in
the name of God whom they will not hear; for if they look to God as the
Head, they must keep His laws; and men who are striving after bringing
about this new era of happiness on the earth, do not want to do that.
They like their own ways best.”
There was a long silence after this. Bride had paused many times for
her father to speak, and had then gone on with her train of musing,
almost forgetting she had an auditor. After a prolonged pause, the Duke
said slowly--
“So this is why you could not bring yourself to marry Eustace?”
“Yes,” she answered softly; “I do not think there could be happiness
for us, thinking so differently. He thinks now that he could give up
everything for my sake--but I know him better than he knows himself.
Besides, I would not wish him to give up anything for _my_ sake; if he
gives it up, it must be because he knows and feels it to be contrary
to the law of God--and I do not think such an idea as that has ever
entered into his head.”
“Yet if you could get him to give up some of his wild notions for love
of you, it would be a step in the right direction,” said the Duke
thoughtfully; but Bride shook her head.
“No, not in the right direction--it would be doing evil that good
might come--teaching Eustace to act against his conscience and better
judgment, just to please me. It would be like what he is doing himself
when he stirs up the evil passions of men to try and overthrow a great
abuse. He admits the present evil, but says the end will justify the
means, and that the evil is an incidental detail, whilst the good
will remain permanent. That is where we cannot agree. And we are not
likely to agree when Eustace really admits no outward standard of right
and wrong, but abides by his own judgment and the prompting of his
individual conscience. And even what he cannot defend he excuses--his
conscience condemns, but his judgment palliates the wrong--and there
is nothing stronger and more perfect and holy to which to appeal. That
is the most terrible thing of all to me, and, oh! how terrible it must
be in the sight of God.”
Bride had Eustace very much on her mind and heart just now. She had
promised to pray for him, and she did this with increasing earnestness
as the days went by. She prayed too for the unhappy Saul, wearing
out his weary term of imprisonment, visited from time to time by
Abner, who looked years older ever since the trouble of that August
night. He brought back disquieting accounts of the prisoner to his
young mistress, who never failed to ask after him. Saul was utterly
impenitent and hardened. He had thrown off all semblance of outward
faith, and was an open advocate of the very darkest and baldest forms
of atheism. He had learnt this fearful creed from the cobbler, by
this time lying under sentence of death; but Bride recognised with a
shudder now and again, as she talked with Abner and heard his sorrowful
accounts of Saul’s words, the influence upon him of Eustace’s more
subtle scepticism. Here and there a word or phrase came in where she
recognised her cousin’s mind. Doubtless Saul had opened his heart on
this point too with his master, and Eustace had probably only confirmed
him in his unbelief by his assertions of the impossibility of knowing
the truth where all thinking men were at variance.
The thought of these two men haunted her with a persistence that was
wearying. She was haunted too by thoughts of that condemned criminal
in his lonely cell, dying perhaps in utter blackness and infidelity,
and passing out into the presence of his Maker without one thought
of repentance or submission. Suppose Saul had been called upon to
die, would he too have gone forth in that frame of mind? If illness
or accident were to smite down Eustace, what would be his method of
meeting death? Would they all reject the love of the Saviour? Would
they all remain impenitent to the last? And what, ah! what was the
fate of those who passed away without one cry for mercy, without one
glance towards that Cross whereon the sins of the whole world had been
expiated?
This thought became such a terror to her, that she took it at last to
her one friend and confidante, Mrs. St. Aubyn, and she had hardly got
out her trouble before the Rector himself, unknowing of her visit,
entered his wife’s room; and Bride hardly knew whether she were glad or
sorry that the question should be referred to him.
It was Mrs. St. Aubyn who told her husband the nature of their talk,
and added, as she did so--
“I was going to say that I myself almost doubted whether any human soul
could die absolutely and entirely impenitent. We know that the outward
aspect of some remains unchanged to the last; but how can any man dare
to deny that some strange and mysterious intercourse may not go on
in spirit between man and his Maker, unknown and unseen by any human
eye? Thought cannot be measured by our time. A few brief seconds may
be enough to establish some sort of spiritual communication. Where we
are told so little, perhaps it is not wise to speculate too curiously;
but I cannot help thinking that where blind ignorance and the doctrine
of false teachers has kept a soul away from God, He may yet in His
infinite mercy deal with that erring soul at the last in such a way as
to break in upon the darkness, and kindle one ray of the Divine love,
even with the dying breath. For we know that it is not the will of the
Father that one should perish, and that He gave His Son to die for
all--only they must approach Him through the living Saviour.”
She looked at her husband as she spoke, and he smiled in response as he
said--
“There are mysteries in God’s dealings with man into which we may not
too closely look, and especially is this the case in reference to those
departed or departing this life; but there is so much that we _do_ know
to cheer and encourage us to hope all things and believe all things,
that we may well let our minds dwell upon these things, and argue from
them that God’s ways are wider and more merciful than the heart of man
can fathom.”
“Bride is unhappy about several persons who seem to be wandering so far
away from the fold,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, in her gentle tones. “She is
suffering, as we all suffer at some time or another, when those we love
seem rather against than with us. Can you say something to comfort her?
I think she has come here for a little bit of comfort. Have you not, my
child?”
Bride’s soft eyes swam in tears. She was rather unhinged by her own
intensity of thought. The motherly words almost broke her down. Mrs.
St. Aubyn took her hand and caressed it gently. The clergyman, after a
moment of silence, spoke, in his thoughtful tender fashion--
“Yes, we have so much cause for hope, even for those who have gone far,
far astray. We must not think of them as sundered from the love of the
Father, for we know that He does not so regard them, even though His
heart may be full of pain at the thought of their transgressions and
neglect. We have such beautiful lessons set before us by our Lord, who
knew the heart of the Father as none of us can know it. Let us think,
just for one minute, of that wonderful story of the prodigal son.”
Bride raised her face quickly.
“He repented,” she said softly.
“Yes,” said Mr. St. Aubyn, “he had been full of self-will and folly.
He had gone very far from the father’s house, and the place which
was his there by the father’s wish. He was in a far country. He had
squandered the gifts of a loving father--the talents, the faculties,
the opportunities--upon unworthy and sinful objects. He had followed
the dictates of his own heart, and had not heeded his father’s loving
counsel and admonitions; and at the last he was reduced to husks, those
unsubstantial and empty husks which are in the end all that is left to
us of a life of worldly pleasure, take what form it will at the outset.
Only the husks remained, and the hunger of the soul set in, which is
the worst hunger of all to bear. When that stage has been reached, the
backward glance to the father’s house becomes inevitable. The young man
in the far country felt it; and I think there was much more than the
mere craving for physical comforts in the resolve which was embodied in
the words, ‘I will arise and go to my father.’ There is much more than
that in those words of penitence, followed up by the resolve to ask,
‘Make me as one of thy hired servants.’ That was what the son set out
to say--‘make me as one of thy hired servants;’ but when he reached his
father he could not say it. Why not?”
Bride was silent. The tears were still in her eyes. Mr. St. Aubyn
looked at her, looked at his wife, and then went on softly--
“He could not say it because he was ashamed to say it--because the love
of his father, the love which was watching for him after all these
years of absence, which went out to meet him whilst he was yet a great
way off, which wrapped him round in its embrace in that mysterious
fulness of fatherhood, shamed him into silence. He could confess his
sins and his unworthiness; perhaps at no moment had he ever felt so
utterly humiliated, yet he could not say ‘make me as one of thy hired
servants’--the father’s love had taught him his place as a son; the
father’s love had broken down the last barrier of reserve. Unworthy,
humbled to the dust, broken down by his emotion, he yet knew that it
was as a son he was received back; and the deep unchanging love of the
father _shamed_ him, I say, from trying to seek the lower place. When
God gives us the right to call ourselves sons, is it for us to say,
‘Nay, Lord, but let me be as a hired servant?’ Is that the humility
that the Lord asks of us? Is that the truest faith?”
Still Bride was silent, and as if in answer to her unspoken thought,
Mr. St. Aubyn continued--
“Thank God it is given to some of us to remain ever in the Father’s
house. We have not been tempted to stray from it. We live in His love,
and seek every day to do Him service. But there is always the peril to
us of looking abroad at our brothers who have wandered away, and of
asking ourselves, sometimes in tender anxiety, sometimes with a sense
of compassionate disfavour, sometimes perhaps in something too nearly
approaching scorn, whether for them there can ever be a return to the
Father’s house, whether they will ever be worthy to be received there
once more, even if they do return; and there are not lacking those
amongst us, I fear, who would sometimes, consciously or unconsciously,
deny them their place in the home, judging them to have lost it for
ever through disobedience and rebellion.”
Bride clasped her hands together, her soft eyes shining.
“Oh, go on,” she said softly; “tell me the rest.”
“It has been told already, my child, told in the reception of the
erring son, not as a stranger or a servant, but as a son. The love of
the Father transcends our love for our brethren, as much as did the
father’s love transcend that of the jealous elder son. It is not for us
to despair for the wanderers, for the Father does not despair of them.
He watches for them, and when their faint and lagging footsteps are
homeward turned, irresolutely perhaps, fearfully perhaps, despondently
perhaps, while they are a great way off he goes Himself to meet them.
He sends no servant; He sends no brother even; He goes Himself. And
then, when the lost son feels the Father’s arms about his neck, hears
the Father’s voice speaking in his ear, the faint and fearful love of
his heart is turned to a deep stream of true filial devotion, and he
knows himself in all his abasement and humility for a son, and the
first word he speaks, amidst his tears, is the word ‘Father.’ And after
that word is spoken there can be no talk of being a hired servant.
Father!--our Father--that is the essence of Christ’s redeeming work on
earth.”
“Thank you,” said Bride, drawing a long breath; “I think you have given
me comfort. I was too much like the elder brother, too much inclined to
despair of those who had strayed away. I will think of them differently
now. Surely they will one day turn back to the home again.”
“I trust so; we can at least pray that it may be so. Prayer is the
strongest power there is for leading men back to God; and I often think
and note that, when He would draw to Himself an erring son who will not
pray for himself, He puts it into the heart of a brother or a sister to
pray for him, and so the erring one is drawn back towards the Father’s
house.”
Bride’s face quivered as she held out her hand in farewell, but she
went home greatly comforted.
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