TO KNOW WHAT IS TO BE DONE ABOUT SUNCHILDISM
It was about six when George’s _fiancée_ left the house, and as soon as
she had done so, Yram began to see about the rug and the best substitutes
she could find for the billy and pannikin. She had a basket packed with
all that my father and George would want to eat and drink while on the
preserves, and enough of everything, except meat, to keep my father going
till he could reach the shepherd’s hut of which I have already spoken.
Meat would not keep, and my father could get plenty of flappers--i.e.
ducks that cannot yet fly--when he was on the river-bed down below.
The above preparations had not been made very long, before Mrs. Humdrum
arrived, followed presently by Dr. Downie and in due course by the
Professors, who were still staying in the house. My father remembered
Mrs. Humdrum’s good honest face, but could not bring Dr. Downie to his
recollection till the Doctor told him when and where they had met, and
then he could only very uncertainly recall him, though he vowed that he
could now do so perfectly well.
“At any rate,” said Hanky, advancing towards him with his best Bridgeford
manner, “you will not have forgotten meeting my brother Professor and
myself.”
“It has been rather a forgetting sort of a morning,” said my father
demurely, “but I can remember that much, and am delighted to renew my
acquaintance with both of you.”
As he spoke he shook hands with both Professors.
George was a little late, but when he came, dinner was announced. My
father sat on Yram’s right-hand, Dr. Downie on her left. George was next
my father, with Mrs. Humdrum opposite to him. The Professors sat one on
either side of the Mayor. During dinner the conversation turned almost
entirely on my father’s flight, his narrow escape from drowning, and his
adventures on his return to England; about these last my father was very
reticent, for he said nothing about his book, and antedated his accession
of wealth by some fifteen years, but as he walked up towards the statues
with George he told him everything.
My father repeatedly tried to turn the conversation from himself, but
Mrs. Humdrum and Yram wanted to know about Nna Haras, as they persisted
in calling my mother--how she endured her terrible experiences in the
balloon, when she and my father were married, all about my unworthy self,
and England generally. No matter how often he began to ask questions
about the Nosnibors and other old acquaintances, both the ladies soon
went back to his own adventures. He succeeded, however, in learning that
Mr. Nosnibor was dead, and Zulora, an old maid of the most unattractive
kind, who had persistently refused to accept Sunchildism, while Mrs.
Nosnibor was the recipient of honours hardly inferior to those conferred
by the people at large on my father and mother, with whom, indeed, she
believed herself to have frequent interviews by way of visionary
revelations. So intolerable were these revelations to Zulora, that a
separate establishment had been provided for her. George said to my
father quietly--“Do you know I begin to think that Zulora must be rather
a nice person.”
“Perhaps,” said my father grimly, “but my wife and I did not find it
out.”
When the ladies left the room, Dr. Downie took Yram’s seat, and Hanky Dr.
Downie’s; the Mayor took Mrs. Humdrum’s, leaving my father, George, and
Panky, in their old places. Almost immediately, Dr. Downie said, “And
now, Mr, Higgs, tell us, as a man of the world, what we are to do about
Sunchildism?”
My father smiled at this. “You know, my dear sir, as well as I do, that
the proper thing would be to put me back in prison, and keep me there
till you can send me down to the capital. You should eat your oaths of
this morning, as I would eat mine; tell every one here who I am; let them
see that my hair has been dyed; get all who knew me when I was here
before to come and see me; appoint an unimpeachable committee to examine
the record of my marks and measurements, and compare it with those of my
own body. You should let me be seen in every town at which I lodged on
my way down, and tell people that you had made a mistake. When you get
to the capital, hand me over to the King’s tender mercies and say that
our oaths were only taken this morning to prevent a ferment in the town.
I will play my part very willingly. The King can only kill me, and I
should die like a gentleman.”
“They will not do it,” said George quietly to my father, “and I am glad
of it.”
He was right. “This,” said Dr. Downie, “is a counsel of perfection.
Things have gone too far, and we are flesh and blood. What would those
who in your country come nearest to us Musical Bank Managers do, if they
found they had made such a mistake as we have, and dared not own it?”
“Do not ask me,” said my father; “the story is too long, and too
terrible.”
“At any rate, then, tell us what you would have us do that is within our
reach.”
“I have done you harm enough, and if I preach, as likely as not I shall
do more.”
Seeing, however, that Dr. Downie was anxious to hear what he thought, my
father said--
“Then I must tell you. Our religion sets before us an ideal which we all
cordially accept, but it also tells us of marvels like your chariot and
horses, which we most of us reject. Our best teachers insist on the
ideal, and keep the marvels in the background. If they could say
outright that our age has outgrown them, they would say so, but this they
may not do; nevertheless they contrive to let their opinions be
sufficiently well known, and their hearers are content with this.
“We have others who take a very different course, but of these I will not
speak. Roughly, then, if you cannot abolish me altogether, make me a peg
on which to hang all your own best ethical and spiritual conceptions. If
you will do this, and wriggle out of that wretched relic, with that not
less wretched picture--if you will make me out to be much better and
abler than I was, or ever shall be, Sunchildism may serve your turn for
many a long year to come. Otherwise it will tumble about your heads
before you think it will.
“Am I to go on or stop?”
“Go on,” said George softly. That was enough for my father, so on he
went.
“You are already doing part of what I wish. I was delighted with the two
passages I heard on Sunday, from what you call the Sunchild’s Sayings. I
never said a word of either passage; I wish I had; I wish I could say
anything half so good. And I have read a pamphlet by President Gurgoyle,
which I liked extremely; but I never said what he says I did. Again, I
wish I had. Keep to this sort of thing, and I will be as good a
Sunchildist as any of you. But you must bribe some thief to steal that
relic, and break it up to mend the roads with; and--for I believe that
here as elsewhere fires sometimes get lighted through the carelessness of
a workman--set the most careless workman you can find to do a plumbing
job near that picture.”
Hanky looked black at this, and George trod lightly on my father’s toe,
but he told me that my father’s face was innocence itself.
“These are hard sayings,” said Dr. Downie.
“I know they are,” replied my father, “and I do not like saying them, but
there is no royal road to unlearning, and you have much to unlearn.
Still, you Musical Bank people bear witness to the fact that beyond the
kingdoms of this world there is another, within which the writs of this
world’s kingdoms do not run. This is the great service which our church
does for us in England, and hence many of us uphold it, though we have no
sympathy with the party now dominant within it. ‘Better,’ we think, ‘a
corrupt church than none at all.’ Moreover, those who in my country
would step into the church’s shoes are as corrupt as the church, and more
exacting. They are also more dangerous, for the masses distrust the
church, and are on their guard against aggression, whereas they do not
suspect the doctrinaires and faddists, who, if they could, would
interfere in every concern of our lives.
“Let me return to yourselves. You Musical Bank Managers are very much
such a body of men as your country needs--but when I was here before you
had no figurehead; I have unwittingly supplied you with one, and it is
perhaps because you saw this, that you good people of Bridgeford took up
with me. Sunchildism is still young and plastic; if you will let the
cock-and-bull stories about me tacitly drop, and invent no new ones,
beyond saying what a delightful person I was, I really cannot see why I
should not do for you as well as any one else.
“There. What I have said is nine-tenths of it rotten and wrong, but it
is the most practicable rotten and wrong that I can suggest, seeing into
what a rotten and wrong state of things you have drifted. And now, Mr.
Mayor, do you not think we may join the Mayoress and Mrs. Humdrum?”
“As you please, Mr. Higgs,” answered the Mayor.
“Then let us go, for I have said too much already, and your son George
tells me that we must be starting shortly.”
As they were leaving the room Panky sidled up to my father and said,
“There is a point, Mr. Higgs, which you can settle for me, though I feel
pretty certain how you will settle it. I think that a corruption has
crept into the text of the very beautiful--”
At this moment, as my father, who saw what was coming, was wondering what
in the world he could say, George came up to him and said, “Mr. Higgs, my
mother wishes me to take you down into the store-room, to make sure that
she has put everything for you as you would like it.” On this my father
said he would return directly and answer what he knew would be Panky’s
question.
When Yram had shewn what she had prepared--all of it, of course,
faultless--she said, “And now, Mr. Higgs, about our leave-taking. Of
course we shall both of us feel much. I shall; I know you will; George
will have a few more hours with you than the rest of us, but his time to
say good-bye will come, and it will be painful to both of you. I am glad
you came--I am glad you have seen George, and George you, and that you
took to one another. I am glad my husband has seen you; he has spoken to
me about you very warmly, for he has taken to you much as George did. I
am very, very glad to have seen you myself, and to have learned what
became of you--and of your wife. I know you wish well to all of us; be
sure that we all of us wish most heartily well to you and yours. I sent
for you and George, because I could not say all this unless we were
alone; it is all I can do,” she said, with a smile, “to say it now.”
Indeed it was, for the tears were in her eyes all the time, as they were
also in my father’s.
“Let this,” continued Yram, “be our leave-taking--for we must have
nothing like a scene upstairs. Just shake hands with us all, say the
usual conventional things, and make it as short as you can; but I could
not bear to send you away without a few warmer words than I could have
said when others were in the room.”
“May heaven bless you and yours,” said my father, “for ever and ever.”
“That will do,” said George gently. “Now, both of you shake hands, and
come upstairs with me.”
* * * * *
When all three of them had got calm, for George had been moved almost as
much as his father and mother, they went upstairs, and Panky came for his
answer. “You are very possibly right,” said my father--“the version you
hold to be corrupt is the one in common use amongst ourselves, but it is
only a translation, and very possibly only a translation of a
translation, so that it may perhaps have been corrupted before it reached
us.”
“That,” said Panky, “will explain everything,” and he went contentedly
away.
My father talked a little aside with Mrs. Humdrum about her
grand-daughter and George, for Yram had told him that she knew all about
the attachment, and then George, who saw that my father found the
greatest difficulty in maintaining an outward calm, said, “Mr. Higgs, the
streets are empty; we had better go.”
My father did as Yram had told him; shook hands with every one, said all
that was usual and proper as briefly as he could, and followed George out
of the room. The Mayor saw them to the door, and saved my father from
embarrassment by saying, “Mr. Higgs, you and I understand one another too
well to make it necessary for us to say so. Good-bye to you, and may no
ill befall you ere you get home.”
My father grasped his hand in both his own. “Again,” he said, “I can say
no more than that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
As he spoke he bowed his head, and went out with George into the night.
CHAPTER XXV: GEORGE ESCORTS MY FATHER TO THE STATUES; THE TWO THEN PART
The streets were quite deserted as George had said they would be, and
very dark, save for an occasional oil lamp.
“As soon as we can get within the preserves,” said George, “we had better
wait till morning. I have a rug for myself as well as for you.”
“I saw you had two,” answered my father; “you must let me carry them
both; the provisions are much the heavier load.”
George fought as hard as a dog would do, till my father said that they
must not quarrel during the very short time they had to be together. On
this George gave up one rug meekly enough, and my father yielded about
the basket, and the other rug.
It was about half-past eleven when they started, and it was after one
before they reached the preserves. For the first mile from the town they
were not much hindered by the darkness, and my father told George about
his book and many another matter; he also promised George to say nothing
about this second visit. Then the road became more rough, and when it
dwindled away to be a mere lane--becoming presently only a foot
track--they had to mind their footsteps, and got on but slowly. The
night was starlit, and warm, considering that they were more than three
thousand feet above the sea, but it was very dark, so that my father was
well enough pleased when George showed him the white stones that marked
the boundary, and said they had better soon make themselves as
comfortable as they could till morning.
“We can stay here,” he said, “till half-past three, there will be a
little daylight then; we will rest half an hour for breakfast at about
five, and by noon we shall be at the statues, where we will dine.”
This being settled, George rolled himself up in his rug, and in a few
minutes went comfortably off to sleep. Not so my poor father. He wound
up his watch, wrapped his rug round him, and lay down; but he could get
no sleep. After such a day, and such an evening, how could any one have
slept?
About three the first signs of dawn began to show, and half an hour later
my father could see the sleeping face of his son--whom it went to his
heart to wake. Nevertheless he woke him, and in a few minutes the two
were on their way--George as fresh as a lark--my poor father intent on
nothing so much as on hiding from George how ill and unsound in body and
mind he was feeling.
They walked on, saying but little, till at five by my father’s watch
George proposed a halt for breakfast. The spot he chose was a grassy
oasis among the trees, carpeted with subalpine flowers, now in their
fullest beauty, and close to a small stream that here came down from a
side valley. The freshness of the morning air, the extreme beauty of the
place, the lovely birds that flitted from tree to tree, the exquisite
shapes and colours of the flowers, still dew-bespangled, and above all,
the tenderness with which George treated him, soothed my father, and when
he and George had lit a fire and made some hot corn-coffee--with a view
to which Yram had put up a bottle of milk--he felt so much restored as to
look forward to the rest of his journey without alarm. Moreover he had
nothing to carry, for George had left his own rug at the place where they
had slept, knowing that he should find it on his return; he had therefore
insisted on carrying my father’s. My father fought as long as he could,
but he had to give in.
“Now tell me,” said George, glad to change the subject, “what will those
three men do about what you said to them last night? Will they pay any
attention to it?”
My father laughed. “My dear George, what a question--I do not know them
well enough.”
“Oh yes, you do. At any rate say what you think most likely.”
“Very well. I think Dr. Downie will do much as I said. He will not
throw the whole thing over, through fear of schism, loyalty to a party
from which he cannot well detach himself, and because he does not think
that the public is quite tired enough of its toy. He will neither preach
nor write against it, but he will live lukewarmly against it, and this is
what the Hankys hate. They can stand either hot or cold, but they are
afraid of lukewarm. In England Dr. Downie would be a Broad Churchman.”
“Do you think we shall ever get rid of Sunchildism altogether?”
“If they stick to the cock-and-bull stories they are telling now, and rub
them in, as Hanky did on Sunday, it may go, and go soon. It has taken
root too quickly and easily; and its top is too heavy for its roots;
still there are so many chances in its favour that it may last a long
time.”
“And how about Hanky?”
“He will brazen it out, relic, chariot, and all: and he will welcome more
relics and more cock-and-bull stories; his single eye will be upon his
own aggrandisement and that of his order. Plausible, unscrupulous,
heartless scoundrel that he is, he will play for the queen and the women
of the court, as Dr. Downie will play for the king and the men. He and
his party will sleep neither night nor day, but they will have one
redeeming feature--whoever they may deceive, they will not deceive
themselves. They believe every one else to be as bad as they are, and
see no reason why they should not push their own wares in the way of
business. Hanky is everything that we in England rightly or wrongly
believe a typical Jesuit to be.”
“And Panky--what about him?”
“Panky must persuade himself of his own lies, before he is quite
comfortable about telling them to other people. Hanky keeps Hanky well
out of it; Panky must have a base of operations in Panky. Hanky will
lead him by the nose, bit by bit, for his is the master spirit. In
England Panky would be what we call an extreme ritualist.”
“Then the real battle will be between Hanky and Dr. Downie. Which will
carry the day?”
“For the present, probably Hanky. He is the more vigilant, and
energetic; in this case Sunchildism will have to go, and I am afraid your
whole Musical Bank system will be swept away along with it.”
“And why not?”
“Because, my dear boy, though false in the letter, if good counsels
prevail, it may be made true enough in spirit. If it were to go, its
place would be soon filled by men who would be as false in letter as the
others were, and much more false in spirit. You want a heart to check
your head, and a head to check your heart. As in our English body
politic there are two parties opposed to one another, neither of which
can thrive if the other is unduly weakened, so in our spiritual and
intellectual world two parties more or less antagonistic are equally
necessary. Those who are at the head of science provide us with the one
party; those whom we call our churchmen are the other. Both are corrupt,
but we can spare neither, for each checks as far as it can the
corruptions of the other.”
“Then you would have us uphold Sunchildism, knowing it to be untrue?”
“Do what you will, you will not get perfect truth. And if you can follow
the lead which I believe Dr. Downie will give you, that is to say, get
rid of cock-and-bull stories, idealise my unworthy self, and, as I said
last night, make me a peg on which to hang your own best
thoughts--Sunchildism will be as near truth as anything you are likely to
get. But if Hankyism triumphs, come what may you must get rid of it, for
he and his school will tamper with the one sure and everlasting word of
God revealed to us by human experience. He who plays fast and loose with
this is as one who would forge God’s signature to a cheque drawn on God’s
own bank.”
“Are we to foster the belief that it was indeed the Sunchild who
interrupted Hanky’s sermon?”
“Yes, where you safely can, but not otherwise; and commit the facts to
writing as soon as you can find time. Do nothing to jeopardise your own
safety; you can do more by perfunctory acquiescence than by open dissent.
And tell those friends whom you can trust, what these my parting words to
you have been. But above all I charge you solemnly, do nothing to
jeopardise your own safety; you cannot play into Hanky’s hands more
certainly than by risking this. Think how he and Panky would rejoice,
and how Dr. Downie would grieve. Be wise and wary; bide your time; do
what you prudently can, and you will find you can do much; try to do
more, and you will do nothing. Be guided by the Mayor, by your
mother--and by that dear old lady whose grandson you will--”
“Then they have told you,” interrupted the youth blushing scarlet.
“My dearest boy, of course they have, and I have seen her, and am head
over ears in love with her myself.”
He was all smiles and blushes, and vowed for a few minutes that it was a
shame of them to tell me, but presently he said--
“Then you like her.”
“Rather!” said my father vehemently, and shaking George by the hand. But
he said nothing about the nuggets and the sovereigns, knowing that Yram
did not wish him to do so. Neither did George say anything about his
determination to start for the capital in the morning, and make a clean
breast of everything to the King. So soon does it become necessary even
for those who are most cordially attached to hide things from one
another. My father, however, was made comfortable by receiving a promise
from the youth that he would take no step of which the persons he had
named would disapprove.
When once Mrs. Humdrum’s grand-daughter had been introduced there was no
more talking about Hanky and Panky; for George began to bubble over with
the subject that was nearest his heart, and how much he feared that it
would be some time yet before he could be married. Many a story did he
tell of his early attachment and of its course for the last ten years,
but my space will not allow me to inflict one of them on the reader. My
father saw that the more he listened and sympathised and encouraged, the
fonder George became of him, and this was all he cared about.
Thus did they converse hour after hour. They passed the Blue Pool,
without seeing it or even talking about it for more than a minute. George
kept an eye on the quails and declared them fairly plentiful and strong
on the wing, but nothing now could keep him from pouring out his whole
heart about Mrs. Humdrum’s grand-daughter, until towards noon they caught
sight of the statues, and a halt was made which gave my father the first
pang he had felt that morning, for he knew that the statues would be the
beginning of the end.
There was no need to light a fire, for Yram had packed for them two
bottles of a delicious white wine, something like White Capri, which went
admirably with the many more solid good things that she had provided for
them. As soon as they had finished a hearty meal my father said to
George, “You must have my watch for a keepsake; I see you are not wearing
my boots. I fear you did not find them comfortable, but I am glad you
have not got them on, for I have set my heart on keeping yours.”
“Let us settle about the boots first. I rather fancied that that was why
you put me off when I wanted to get my own back again; and then I thought
I should like yours for a keepsake, so I put on another pair last night,
and they are nothing like so comfortable as yours were.”
“Now I wonder,” said my father to me, “whether this was true, or whether
it was only that dear fellow’s pretty invention; but true or false I was
as delighted as he meant me to be.”
I asked George about this when I saw him, and he confessed with an
ingenuous blush that my father’s boots had hurt him, and that he had
never thought of making a keepsake of them, till my father’s words
stimulated his invention.
As for the watch, which was only a silver one, but of the best make,
George protested for a time, but when he had yielded, my father could see
that he was overjoyed at getting it; for watches, though now permitted,
were expensive and not in common use.
Having thus bribed him, my father broached the possibility of his meeting
him at the statues on that day twelvemonth, but of course saying nothing
about why he was so anxious that he should come.
“I will come,” said my father, “not a yard farther than the statues, and
if I cannot come I will send your brother. And I will come at noon; but
it is possible that the river down below may be in fresh, and I may not
be able to hit off the day, though I will move heaven and earth to do so.
Therefore if I do not meet you on the day appointed, do your best to come
also at noon on the following day. I know how inconvenient this will be
for you, and will come true to the day if it is possible.”
To my father’s surprise, George did not raise so many difficulties as he
had expected. He said it might be done, if neither he nor my father were
to go beyond the statues. “And difficult as it will be for you,” said
George, “you had better come a second day if necessary, as I will, for
who can tell what might happen to make the first day impossible?”
“Then,” said my father, “we shall be spared that horrible feeling that we
are parting without hope of seeing each other again. I find it hard
enough to say good-bye even now, but I do not know how I could have faced
it if you had not agreed to our meeting again.”
“The day fixed upon will be our XXI. i. 3, and the hour noon as near as
may be?”
“So. Let me write it down: ‘XXI. i. 3, _i.e_. our December 9, 1891, I am
to meet George at the statues, at twelve o’clock, and if he does not
come, I am to be there again on the following day.’”
In like manner, George wrote down what he was to do: “XXI. i. 3, or
failing this XXI. i. 4. Statues. Noon.”
“This,” he said, “is a solemn covenant, is it not?”
“Yes,” said my father, “and may all good omens attend it!”
The words were not out of his mouth before a mountain bird, something
like our jackdaw, but smaller and of a bluer black, flew out of the
hollow mouth of one of the statues, and with a hearty chuckle perched on
the ground at his feet, attracted doubtless by the scraps of food that
were lying about. With the fearlessness of birds in that country, it
looked up at him and George, gave another hearty chuckle, and flew back
to its statue with the largest fragment it could find.
They settled that this was an omen so propitious that they could part in
good hope. “Let us finish the wine,” said my father, “and then, do what
must be done!”
They finished the wine to each other’s good health; George drank also to
mine, and said he hoped my father would bring me with him, while my
father drank to Yram, the Mayor, their children, Mrs. Humdrum, and above
all to Mrs. Humdrum’s grand-daughter. They then re-packed all that could
be taken away; my father rolled his rug to his liking, slung it over his
shoulder, gripped George’s hand, and said, “My dearest boy, when we have
each turned our backs upon one another, let us walk our several ways as
fast as we can, and try not to look behind us.”
So saying he loosed his grip of George’s hand, bared his head, lowered
it, and turned away.
George burst into tears, and followed him after he had gone two paces; he
threw his arms round him, hugged him, kissed him on his lips, cheeks, and
forehead, and then turning round, strode full speed towards Sunch’ston.
My father never took his eyes off him till he was out of sight, but the
boy did not look round. When he could see him no more, my father with
faltering gait, and feeling as though a prop had suddenly been taken from
under him, began to follow the stream down towards his old camp.