Parliament was to meet early in February. It seemed strange that that
fact should have any interest for Rhoda Maxfield; nevertheless, so it
was. Algernon was to go to London, but it was no use to be there unless
Lord Seely, "our cousin," were there also; and my lord our cousin would
not be in town before the meeting of parliament. Thus the assembling of
the peers and commons of this realm at Westminster was an event on which
poor Rhoda's thoughts were bent pretty often in the course of the
twenty-four hours.
Mrs. Errington announced to the whole Maxfield family that Algernon was
going away from Whitford, and accompanied the announcement with florid
descriptions of the glory that awaited her son, in the highest Ancram
style of embellishment.
"Well," said old Max, after listening awhile, "and will this lord get
Mr. Algernon a place?"
Mrs. Errington could not answer this question very definitely. The
future was vague, though splendid. But of course Algy would distinguish
himself. That was a matter of course. Perhaps he might begin as Lord
Seely's private secretary.
"A sekketary! Humph! I don't think much o' that!" grunted Mr. Maxfield.
"My dear man, you don't understand these things. How should you? Many
noblemen's sons would only be too delighted to get the position of
private secretary to Lord Seely. A man of such distinction! Hand and
glove with the sovereign!"
Maxfield did not altogether dislike to hear his lodger hold forth in
this fashion. He had a certain pleasure in contemplating the future
grandeur of Mr. Algernon, whose ears he had boxed years ago, on the
occasion of finding him enacting the battle of Waterloo, with a couple
of schoolfellows, in the warehouse behind the shop, and attacking a
Hougoumont of tea-chests and flour-barrels, so briskly, as to threaten
their entire demolition.
Maxfield was weaving speculations in connection with the young man, of
so wild and fanciful a nature as would have astonished his most familiar
friends, could they have peeped into the brain inside his grizzled old
head.
But this rose-coloured condition of things did not last.
One afternoon, Mrs. Errington looked into his little sitting-room, on
her way upstairs, and finding him with an account-book, in which he was,
not making, but reading entries, she stepped in, and began to chat; if
any speech so laboriously condescending as hers to Mr. Maxfield may be
thus designated. Her theme, of course, was her son, and her son's
prospects.
"That'll be all very fine for Mr. Algernon, to be sure," said old Max,
slowly, after some time, "but--it'll cost money."
"Not so much as you think for. Low persons who feel themselves in a
false position, no doubt find it necessary to make a show. But a real
gentleman can afford to be simple."
"But I take it he'll have to afford other things besides being simple!
He'll have to afford clothes, and lodging, and maybe food. You aren't
rich."
Mrs. Errington admitted the fact.
"Algernon ought to find a wife with a bit o' money," said the old man,
looking straight and hard into the lady's eyes. Those round orbs
sustained the gaze as unflinchingly as if they had been made of blue
china.
"It is not at all a bad idea," Mrs. Errington said, graciously.
"But then he wouldn't just take the first ugly woman as had a fort'n."
"Oh dear no!"
"No; nor yet an old 'un."
"Good gracious, man! of course not!"
"Young, pretty, good, and a bit o' money. That's about his mark, eh?"
Mrs. Errington shook her head pathetically. "She ought to have birth,
too," she said. "But the woman takes her husband's rank; unless," she
added, correcting herself, and with much emphasis, "unless she happens
to be the better born of the two."
"Oh, she does, eh? The woman takes her husband's rank? Ah! well, that's
script'ral. I have never troubled my head about these vain worldly
distinctions; but that is script'ral."
Mrs. Errington was not there to discuss her landlord's opinions or to
listen to them; but he served as well as another to be the recipient of
her talk about Algernon, which accordingly she resumed, and indulged in
ever-higher flights of boasting. Her mendacity, like George Wither's
muse,
As it made wing, so it made power.
"The fact is, there is more than one young lady on whom my connections
in London have cast their eye for Algy. Miss Pickleham, only daughter of
the great drysalter, who is such an eminent member of Parliament;
Blanche Fitzsnowdon, Judge Whitelamb's lovely niece; one of
Major-General Indigo's charming girls, all of them perfect specimens of
the Eastern style of beauty--their mother was an Indian princess, and
enormously wealthy. But I am in no hurry for my boy to bind himself in
an engagement: it hampers a young man's career."
"Career!" broke out old Max, who had listened to all this, and much
more, with an increasingly dismayed and lowering expression of
countenance. "Why, what's his career to be? He's been brought up to do
nothing! It 'ud be his only chance to get hold of a wife with a bit o'
money. Then he might act the gentleman at his ease; and maybe his fine
friends 'ud help him when they found he didn't want it. But as for
career--it's my opinion as he'll never earn his salt!"
And with that the old man marched across the passage into the shop,
taking no further notice of his lodger; and she heard him slam the
little half-door, giving access to the storehouse, with such force as to
set the jingling bell on it tinkling for full five minutes.
Mrs. Errington was so surprised by this sally, that she stood staring
after him for some time before she was able to collect herself
sufficiently to walk majestically upstairs.
"Maxfield's temper becomes more and more extraordinary," she said to her
son, with an air of great solemnity. "The man really forgets himself
altogether. Do you suppose that he drinks, Algy? or is he, do you think,
a little touched?" She put her finger to her forehead. "Really I should
not wonder. There has been a great deal of preaching and screeching
lately, since this Powell came; and, you know, they do say that these
Ranters and Methodists sometimes go raving mad at their field-meetings
and love-feasts. You need not laugh, my dear boy; I have often heard
your father say that nothing was more contagious than that sort of
hysterical excitement. And your father was a physician; and certainly
knew his profession if he didn't know the world, poor man!"
"Was old Max hysterical, ma'am?" asked Algernon, his whole face lighted
up with mischievous amusement. And the notion so tickled him, that he
burst out laughing at intervals, as it recurred to him, all the rest of
the day.
Betty Grimshaw, and Sarah, the servant-maid, and James, helping his
father to serve in the shop, and the customers who came to buy, all
suffered from the unusual exacerbation of Maxfield's temper for some
time after that conversation of his with Mrs. Errington.
It increased, also, the resentful feeling which had been growing in his
mind towards David Powell. The young man's tone of rebuke, in speaking
of Rhoda's associating with the Erringtons, had taken Maxfield by
surprise at the time; and he had not, he afterwards thought, been
sufficiently trenchant in his manner of putting down the presumptuous
reprover. He blew up his wrath until it burned hot within him; and, the
more so, inasmuch as he could give no vent to it in direct terms. To
question and admonish was the acknowledged duty of a Methodist preacher.
Conference made no exceptions in favour even of so select a vessel as
Jonathan Maxfield. But Maxfield thought, nevertheless, that Powell ought
to have had modesty and discernment to make the exception himself.
No inquisitor--no priest, sitting like a mysterious Eastern idol in the
inviolate shrine of the confessional--ever exercised a more tremendous
power over the human conscience than was laid in the hands of the
Methodist preacher or leader according to Wesley's original conception
of his functions. But besides the essential difference between the
Romish and Methodist systems that the latter could bring no physical
force to bear on the refractory, there was this important point to be
noted: namely, that the inquisitor might be subjected to inquisition by
his flock. The priest might be made to come forth from the
confessional-box, and answer to a pressing catechism before all the
congregation. In the band-meetings and select societies each individual
bound himself to answer the most searching questions "concerning his
state, sins, and temptations." It was a mutual inquisition, to which,
of course, those who took part in it voluntarily submitted themselves.
But the spiritual power wielded by the chiefs was very great, as their
own subordination to the conference was very complete. Its pernicious
effects were, however, greatly kept in check by the system of
itinerancy, which required the preachers to move frequently from place
to place.
There are few human virtues or weaknesses to which, on one side or the
other, Methodism in its primitive manifestations did not appeal.
Benevolence, self-sacrifice, fervent piety, temperance, charity, were
all called into play by its teachings. But so also were spiritual
pride, narrow-mindedness, fanaticism, gloom, and pharisaical
self-righteousness. Only to the slothful, and such as loved their ease
above all things, early Methodism had no seductions to offer.
Jonathan Maxfield's father and grandfather had been disciples of John
Wesley. The grandfather was born in 1710, seven years before Wesley, and
had been among the great preacher's earliest adherents in Bristol.
Traditions of John Wesley's sayings and doings were cherished and handed
down in the family. They claimed kindred with Thomas Maxfield, Wesley's
first preacher, and conveniently forgot or ignored--as greater families
have done--those parts of their kinsman's career which ran counter to
the present course of their creed and conduct. For Thomas Maxfield
seceded from Wesley, but the grandfather and father of Jonathan
continued true to Methodism all their lives. They married within the
"society" (as was strictly enjoined at the first conference), and
assisted the spread of its tenets throughout their part of the West of
England.
In the third generation, however, the original fire of Methodism had
nearly burnt itself out, and a few charred sticks remained to attest the
brightness that had been. Never, perhaps, in the case of the
Maxfields--a cramp-natured, harsh breed--had the fire become a
hearth-glow to warm their homes with. It had rather been like the
crackling of thorns under a pot. The dryest and sharpest will flare for
a while.
Old Max, nevertheless, looked upon himself as an exemplary Methodist. He
made no mental analyses of himself or of his neighbours. He merely took
cognisance of facts as they appeared to him through the distorting
medium of his prejudices, temper, ignorance, and the habits of a
lifetime. When he did or said disagreeable things, he prided himself on
doing his duty. And his self-approval was never troubled by the
reflection that he did not altogether dislike a little bitter flavour in
his daily life, as some persons prefer their wine rough.
But to do and say disagreeable things because it is your duty is a very
different matter from accepting, or listening to, disagreeable things,
because it is somebody else's duty to do and say them! It was not to be
expected that Jonathan Maxfield should meekly endure rebuke from a young
man like David Powell.
And now crept in the exasperating suspicion that the young man might
have been right in his warning! Maxfield watched his daughter with more
anxiety than he had ever felt about her in his life, looking to see
symptoms of dejection at Algernon's approaching departure. He did not
know that she had been aware of it before it was announced to himself.
One day her father said to her abruptly, "Rhoda, you're looking very
pale and out o' sorts. Your eyes are heavy" (they were swollen with
crying), "and your face is the colour of a turnip. I think I shall send
you off to Duckwell for a bit of a change."
Duckwell Farm was owned by Seth, Maxfield's eldest son.
"I don't want a change, indeed, father," said the girl, looking up
quickly and eagerly. "I had a headache this morning, but it is quite
gone now. That's what made me look so pale."
From that time forward she exerted herself to appear cheerful, and to
shake off the dull pain at the heart which weighed her down, until her
father began to persuade himself that he had been mistaken, and
over-anxious. She always declared herself to be quite well and free from
care. "And I know she would not tell me a lie," thought the old man.
Alas, she had learned to lie in her words and her manner. She had, for
the first time in her life, a motive for concealment, and she used the
natural armour of the weak--duplicity.
Rhoda had been "good" hitherto, because her nature was gentle, and her
impulses affectionate. She had no strong religious fervour, but she
lived blamelessly, and prayed reverently, and was docile and
humble-minded. She had never professed to have attained that sudden and
complete regeneration of spirit which is the prime glory of Methodism.
But then many good persons lived and died without attaining "assurance."
Whenever Rhoda thought on the subject--which, to say the truth, was not
often, for her nature, though sweet and pure, was not capable of much
spiritual aspiration, and was altogether incapable of fervent
self-searching and fiery enthusiasm--she hoped with simple faith that
she should be saved if she did nothing wicked.
Her father and David Powell would have pointed out to her, that her
"doing," or leaving undone, could have no influence on the matter. But
their words bore small fruit in her mind. Her father's religious
teaching had the dryness of an accustomed formality to her ears. It had
been poured into them before she had sense to comprehend it, and had
grown to be nearly meaningless, like the everyday salutation we exchange
a hundred times, without expecting or thinking of the answer.
David Powell was certainly neither dry nor formal, but he frightened
her. She shut her understanding against the disturbing influence of his
words, as she would have pressed her fingers into her pretty ears to
keep out the thunder. And then her dream of love had come and filled her
life.
In most of us it wonderfully alters the focus of the mind's eye with its
glamour, that dream. To Rhoda it seemed the one thing beautiful and
desirable. And--to say all the truth--the pain of mind which she felt,
other than that connected with her lover's going away, and which she
attributed to remorse for the little deceptions and concealments she
practised, was occasioned almost entirely by the latent dread, lest the
time should come when she should sit lonely, looking at the cold ashes
of Algy's burnt-out love. For she did mistrust his constancy, although
no power would have forced the confession from her. This blind,
obstinate clinging to the beloved was, perhaps, the only form in which
self-esteem ever strongly manifested itself in that soft, timid nature.
There was one person who watched Rhoda more understandingly than her
father did, and who had more serious apprehensions on her account. David
Powell knew, as did nearly all Whitford by this time, that young
Errington was going away; and he clearly saw that the change in Rhoda
was connected with that departure. He marked her pallor, her absence of
mind, her fits of silence, broken by forced bursts of assumed
cheerfulness. Her feigning did not deceive him.
Albeit of almost equally narrow education with Jonathan Maxfield, Powell
had gained, in his frequent changes of place and contact with many
strange people, a wider knowledge of the world than the Whitford
tradesman possessed. He perceived how unlikely it was, that people like
the Erringtons should seriously contemplate allying themselves by
marriage with "old Max;" but that was not the worst. To the preacher's
mind, the girl's position was, in the highest degree, perilous; for he
conceived that what would be accounted by the world the happiest
possible solution to such a love as Rhoda's, would involve nothing less
than the putting in jeopardy her eternal welfare. He could not look
forward with any hope to a union between Rhoda and such a one as
Algernon Errington.
"The son is a shallow-hearted, fickle youth, with the vanity of a boy
and the selfishness of a man; the mother, a mere worldling, living in
decent godlessness."
Such was David Powell's judgment. He reflected long and earnestly. What
was his calling--his business in life? To save souls. He had no concern
with anything else. He must seek out and help, not only those who needed
him, but those who most needed him.
All conventional rules of conduct, all restraining considerations of a
merely social or worldly kind, were as threads of gossamer to this man
whensoever they opposed the higher commands which he believed to have
been laid upon him.
Jonathan Maxfield was falling away from godliness. He, too evidently,
was willing to give up his daughter into the tents of the heathen. The
pomps and vanities of this wicked world had taken hold of the old man.
Satan had ensnared and bribed him with the bait of worldly ambition.
From Jonathan there was no real help to be expected.
In the little garret-chamber, where he lodged in the house of a
widow--one of the most devout of the Methodist congregation--the
preacher rose from his knees one midnight, and took from his breast the
little, worn pocket-Bible, which he always carried. A bright cold moon
shone in at the uncurtained window, but its beams did not suffice to
enable him to read the small print of his Bible. He had no candle; but
he struck a light with a match, and, by its brief flare, read these
words, on which his finger had fallen as he opened the book:
"How hast thou counselled him that hath no wisdom? And how hast thou
plentifully declared the thing as it is?
"To whom hast thou uttered words? and whose spirit came from thee?"
He had drawn a lot, and this was the answer. The leading was clear. He
would speak openly with Rhoda himself. He would pray and wrestle; he
would argue and exhort. He would awaken her spirit, lulled to sleep by
the sweet voice of the tempter.
It would truly be little less than a miracle, should he succeed by the
mere force of his earnest eloquence, in persuading a young girl like
Rhoda to renounce her first love.
But, then, David Powell believed in miracles.