David Powell sat in his garret chamber. The fast waning light of a
February afternoon fell on him as he sat close to the lattice in the
sloping roof. He had placed himself there to be able to read the small
print of his pocket-bible. But the light was already too dim for that.
It was dusk in the garret. The strip of grey cloud, visible from the
window, was beginning to turn red at its lower edge as the sun sank. It
was the angry flaring red, which is often seen at the close of a cold
and cloudy day, and had no suggestion of genial warmth in its deep
flush. Such a snow-laden, crimson-bordered wrack of fleecy cloud, as
Powell's eyes rested on, might have hung over a Lapland waste. There was
no fire in the room, nor any means of making one. It was bitterly cold.
The preacher's face looked white and bloodless, as if it were frozen.
But he sat still, staring out at the red sunset light on the strip of
sky within his view. From his seat on an old chest, which he had drawn
close under the window, he could see nothing but the sky. Not one of the
roofs or chimneys of Whitford was visible to him. A black wavering line
moved slowly across his field of vision. It was a flight of rooks on
their way home to the tall leafless elm-trees in Pudcombe Park. Nothing
else moved, except the red flare creeping upward by slow and
imperceptible degrees.
Suddenly the little Bible fell from Powell's numbed right hand on to the
carpetless floor, and, with a start, he turned his head and looked
around him. By contrast with the wintry light without, the garret
appeared quite dark to him, and it was not until after a few seconds
that his eye became sufficiently accustomed to its gloom, to perceive
the book lying almost at his feet. He picked it up, and began to chafe
his numbed fingers, rising at the same time, and walking up and down the
room.
His thoughts had been straying idly as he sat at the window, with his
eyes fixed on the sky. They had gone back to the days of his boyhood,
and in memory he had seen the wild Welsh valley where he was born, and
heard the bleat of sheep from the hills, as he had listened to it many a
summer morning, sitting ragged and barefoot on the turf. And with these
recollections the image of Rhoda Maxfield was strangely mingled,
appearing and disappearing, like a face in a dream. Indeed, he had been
dreaming open-eyed in his solitude, unconscious of the cold and the
gathering dusk.
Now, such aimless, vagrant wanderings of the fancy were considered
reprehensible by earnest Methodists; and by none were they more strongly
disapproved of than by David Powell himself. His life was guided, as
nearly as might be, in conformity with the rules laid down by John
Wesley himself for the helpers, as his first lay-preachers were called.
And among these rules, diligence--unflagging, unfaltering--diligence and
the strenuous employment of every minute, so that no fragment of time
should be wasted, were emphatically insisted upon. Powell had ceased to
read when the daylight waned, and remained in his place by the window,
intending to devote a few minutes of the twilight to the rigid
self-examination which was his daily habit. And instead, behold! his
mind had strayed and wandered in idle recollections and unsanctified
imaginings.
Presently he began to mutter to himself, as he paced up and down the
chill bare room.
"What have I to do with these things," he said aloud, "when I should be
about my Master's business? Where is the comfortable assurance of old
days--the bright light which used to shine within my soul, turning its
darkness to noon-day? I have lost my first love;[1] I have fallen from
grace; and the enemy finds a ready entrance for any idle thoughts he
wills to put into my mind. And yet--have I not striven? Have I not
searched my own heart with sincerity?"
[Footnote 1: A common expression among the early Methodists, to indicate
the first fervour of religious zeal.]
All at once, stopping short in his walk across the garret floor, he
threw himself on his knees beside the bed, and, burying his face in his
hands, began to pray aloud. The sound of his own voice rising ever
higher, as his supplications grew more fervent, hid from his ears the
noise of a tap at the door, which was repeated twice or thrice. At
length, the person who had knocked pushed the door gently open a little
way, and called him by his name, "Mr. Powell! Mr. Powell!"
"Who calls me?" asked the preacher, lifting his head, but not rising at
once from his knees.
"It's me, sir; Mrs. Thimbleby. I have made you a cup of herb tea
accordin' to the directions in the Primitive Physic,[2] and there is a
handful of fire in the kitchen grate, whilst here it is downright
freezing. Dear, dear Mr. Powell, I can't think it right for you to set
for hours up here by yourself in the cold!"
[Footnote 2: A collection of receipts, published by John Wesley, under
the title of "Primitive Physic; or, An Easy and Natural Method of Curing
most Diseases."]
The good widow--a gentle, loquacious woman, with mild eyes and a humble
manner--had advanced into the room by this time, and stood holding up a
lighted candle in one hand, whilst with the other she drew her scanty
black shawl closer round her shoulders.
"I will come, Mrs. Thimbleby," answered Powell. "Do you go downstairs,
and I will follow you forthwith."
"Well, it is a miracle of the Lord if he don't catch his death of cold,"
muttered the widow as she redescended the steep, narrow staircase. "But
there! he is a select vessel, if ever there was one; and a burning and a
shining light. And I suppose the Lord will take care of His own, in His
own way."
Mrs. Thimbleby sat down by her own clean-swept hearth, in which a small
fire was burning brightly. The little kitchen was wonderfully clean. Not
a speck of rust marked the bright pewter and tin vessels that hung over
the dresser. Not an atom of dust lay on any visible object in the place.
There was no sound to be heard save the ticking of the old eight-day
clock, and, now and then, the dropping of a coal on to the hearth. As
soon as she heard her lodger's step on the stairs, Mrs. Thimbleby
bestirred herself to pour out the herb tea of which she had spoken.
"I wish it was China tea, Mr. Powell," she said, when he entered the
kitchen. "But you won't take that, so I know it's no good to offer it to
you. Else I have a cup here as is really good, and came out of my new
lodger's pot."
"You do not surely take of what is not your own!" cried Powell, looking
quickly round at her.
"Lord forbid, sir! No, but the gentleman drinks a sight of tea. And last
evening he would have some fresh made, and I say to him"--Mrs.
Thimbleby's narrative style was chiefly remarkable for its
simplification of the English syntax, by means of omitting all past
tenses, and thus getting rid of any difficulty attendant on the
conjugation of irregular verbs--"I say, 'Won't you have none of that
last as was made for breakfast, as is beautiful tea, and only wants
warming up again?' But he refuse; and then I ask him if I may use it
myself, seeing I look on it as a sin to waste anything; and he only just
look up from his book and nod his head, and say, 'Do what you like with
it, ma'am,' and wave his hand as much as to say I may go. He is not much
of a one to talk, but he paid the first week punctual, and is as quiet
as quiet, and--there he is! I hear his key in the door."
A quick, firm step came along the passage, and Matthew Diamond appeared
at the door of the kitchen. "Will you be good enough to give me a
light?" he said, addressing the landlady. Then he saw David Powell
standing near the fire, and looked at him curiously. Powell did not
turn, nor seem to observe the new comer. His head was bent down, and the
firelight partially illumined his profile, which was presented to anyone
standing at the door. Mr. Diamond silently formed the word "Preacher?"
with his lips, at the same time nodding towards Powell, and raising his
eyebrows interrogatively. Mrs. Thimbleby answered aloud with alacrity,
well pleased to begin a conversation with her taciturn lodger.
"Yes, sir; it is our preacher, Mr. Powell, as is one of our shiningest
lights, and an awakening caller of sinners to repentance. You've maybe
heard him preach, sir? A many of the unconverted--ahem!--a many as does
not belong to the connexion has come to hear him in Whitford Wesleyan
Chapel, and on Whit Meadow. And we have had seasons of abundant blessing
and refreshment."
Powell had turned round at the beginning of Mrs. Thimbleby's speech, and
was looking earnestly at Mr. Diamond. The latter, who had seen the
preacher only in the full tide of his eloquence and the excitement of
addressing a crowded audience, was struck by the change in the face now
before him. It was much thinner, haggard, and deadly pale. There were
lines round the mouth, which expressed anxiety and suffering; and the
eyes were sunk in their orbits, and startlingly bright. Diamond was, in
fact, startled out of his usual silent reserve by the glance which met
his own, and exclaimed, impulsively, "I'm afraid you are ill, Mr.
Powell!"
"No," returned the other at once, and without hesitation. "I have no
bodily ailment. I have seen you at the house of Jonathan Maxfield, have
I not?"
"Yes; I have been in the habit of going there to read with a young
gentleman. My name is Diamond--Matthew Diamond."
"I know it," answered Powell. "I should like, if you are willing, to say
a few words to you privately."
Diamond was a good deal surprised, and a little displeased, at this
proposition. He had been interested in the Methodist preacher, and the
thought had more than once crossed his mind that he should like to see
more of the man, whose whole personality was so striking and uncommon.
But Mr. Diamond had felt his wish just as he might have wished to have
Paganini with his violin all to himself for an evening; or to learn
_viva voce_ from Edmund Kean how he produced his great effects. To be
the object and subject of a private sermon from this Methodist
enthusiast (for Diamond could conceive no other reason for the
preacher's desiring an interview with him than zeal for converting) was,
however, a different matter; and Diamond had half a mind to decline the
private communication. He was a man peculiarly averse to outspokenness
about his own feelings. Nor was he given to be frank and diffusive on
topics of mere intellectual speculation; although, occasionally, he
could exchange thoughts on such matters with a congenial mind. But he
knew well enough that, with the Methodists in general, an excited state
of feeling, which might do duty for conviction, was the aim and end of
their teaching and preaching.
"This man is ignorant and enthusiastic, and will make himself absurd and
me uncomfortable, and I shall have to offend him, which I don't wish to
do," thought Mr. Diamond, standing stiff and grave with the candle in
his hand. But once more the sight of Powell's haggard, suffering face
and bright wistful eyes touched him; and once more the resolute Matthew
Diamond suffered himself to be swayed by an impulse of sympathy with
this man.
"Oh," said he, "well, you can come into my sitting-room."
The invitation was not very graciously given, but Powell did not seem to
heed that at all. Mrs. Thimbleby stood in admiring astonishment as her
two lodgers left the kitchen together.
The two young men, so strangely contrasted in all outward circumstances,
entered the small parlour, which served as dining-room, sitting-room,
and study to Matthew Diamond, and seated themselves at a table almost
covered with books, one corner of which had been cleared to admit of a
little tea-tray being placed upon it.
"Will you share my tea, Mr. Powell?" asked Diamond, as he filled a cup
with the strong brown liquid.
"No; I thank you for proffering it to me, but I do not drink tea."
"I am sorry for that, for I am afraid I have no other refreshment to
offer you. I don't indulge in wine or spirits."
Diamond threw into his manner a certain determined commonplaceness, as
though to quench any tendency to excitement or exaltation which might
show itself in the preacher. Although he would have expressed it in
different terms, Matthew Diamond had at the bottom of his mind a feeling
akin to that in Miss Chubb's, when she declared her dread of the
Maxfield family "going into convulsions" in the parish church of St.
Chad.
"I will take a cup of tea myself, if you have no objection," said
Diamond, suiting the action to the word, and stretching out his legs, so
as to bring them within reach of the warmth from the fire. "Won't you
draw nearer to the hearth, Mr. Powell?"
Powell sat looking fixedly into the fire with an abstracted air. His
hands were joined loosely, and rested on his knees. The firelight shone
on his wan, clearly-cut face, but seemed to be absorbed and quenched in
the blackness of his hair, which hung down in two straight, thick locks
behind his ears. He did not accept Mr. Diamond's invitation to draw
nearer to the warm hearth, but, after a pause, turned his face to his
companion, and said, "It is on behalf of the young maiden, Rhoda
Maxfield, that I would speak with you, sir."
He could scarcely have said anything more thoroughly unexpected and
disconcerting to Matthew Diamond. The latter did not start or stare, or
make any strong demonstration of surprise, but he could not help a
sudden flush mounting to his face, much to his annoyance.
"About Miss Rhoda Maxfield?" he returned coldly; "I do not understand
what concern either you or I can have with any private conversation
about that young lady."
"My concern with Rhoda is that of one who has had it laid upon him to
lead a tender soul out of the darkness into the light, and who suddenly
finds himself divided from that precious charge, even at the moment
when he hoped the goal was reached. Her father has left our Society, and
has thus carried Rhoda away from the reach of my exhortations."
"By Jove!" thought Diamond to himself, as he turned his keen grey eyes
on the preacher, "this is a specimen of spiritual conceit on a colossal
scale!" Then he said aloud, "You must console yourself with the hope
that the exhortations she will hear in the parish church will differ
from your own rather in manner than matter, Mr. Powell. There really are
some very decent people among the congregation of St. Chad's."
"Nay," answered Powell, with simple gentleness, "do you think I doubt
it? It has been the boast of Methodism that it receives into its bosom
all denominations of Christians, without distinction. The Churchman and
the Dissenter, the Presbyterian and the Independent, are alike welcome
to us, and are free alike to follow their own method of worship. In the
words of John Wesley himself, 'one condition, and one only, is
required--a real desire to save their souls. Where this is, it is
enough; they desire no more. They lay stress upon nothing else. They ask
only, Is thy heart herein as my heart? If it be, give me thy hand.'"
"Methodism has changed somewhat since the days of John Wesley," said
Diamond, drily.
"Not Methodism, but perhaps--Methodists. But it was not of Methodism
that I had it on my mind to speak to you now."
Diamond controlled his face and his attitude to express civil
indifference; but--his pulse was quickened, and he hid his mouth with
his hand. Powell went on: "I have turned the matter in my mind, many
ways. And I have sought for guidance on it with much wrestling of the
spirit. But I had not received a clear leading until this evening. When
I saw you standing in the doorway, it was borne in upon me that you
could be an instrument of help in this matter. And the leading was the
more assured to me, because that to-day, having opened my Bible after
due supplication, mine eyes fell at once on the words, 'I have heard of
thee by the hearing of the ear; but now mine eyes seeth thee.' Now these
words were dark to me until just now, when you seemed to appear as the
explanation and interpretation thereof."
Diamond could not but acknowledge to himself that all the scriptural
phraseology, and the technicalities of sectarianism, which he found
merely grotesque or disgusting in men of common, vulgar natures, came
from this man's lips with as much ease and propriety as if he had been a
Hebrew of old time uttering his native idiom. Indeed, the impression of
there being something oriental about David Powell, which Diamond had
received on first seeing him, was deepened on further acquaintance. This
black-haired Welshman was picturesque and poetic, despite his threadbare
cloth suit, made in the ungraceful mode of the day; and impressive,
despite his equally threadbare phrases. It is possible to make a
wonderful difference in the effect both of clothes and words, by putting
something earnest and unaffected inside them.
"What is the help you seek? And how can I help you?" asked Diamond, with
grave directness.
"You are acquainted with the daughter of the principal of the grammar
school here----"
"Miss Bodkin?"
"Yes. Do you think that, if you carried to her a request that I might be
permitted to see and speak with her, she would admit me?"
"I--I don't know," answered Diamond, greatly taken aback.
There was a pause. Each man was busy with his own thoughts. "Rhoda is
beyond my reach now," said Powell at length. "I can neither see nor
speak with her. Nor do I know of any of those who see her familiarly who
would be likely to influence her for good, except Miss Bodkin. I am told
that she is a lady of much ability and power of mind; and I hear,
moreover, of her doing many acts of charity and kindness. You know her
well, do you not?"
"I know her. Yes."
"Would you consent to carry such a request from me?"
Diamond hesitated. "Why not prefer the request yourself?" he said. "If
you have any good reason for desiring an interview with Miss Bodkin, I
believe she would grant it."
"I had thought of doing so. I had thought, even, of writing all that I
have to say. But, for many reasons, I believe it would be more
profitable for me to see her face to face. I am no penman. I am indeed,
as you perceive, a man very ignorant in the world's learning and the
world's ways."
Diamond suspected a covert boast under this humble speech, and answered
in his coolest tones, "The first is a disadvantage--or an advantage, as
you choose to consider it--which you share with a good many of your
brethren, Mr. Powell. As to the latter kind of ignorance--Methodists are
generally thought to have worldly wisdom enough for their needs."
Powell bent his head. "I would fain have more learning," he said in a
low voice, "but only as a means, not as an end--not as an end."
"But," said Diamond, in a constrained voice, "it seems to me hardly
worth while to trouble Miss Bodkin, by asking for an interview on any
such grounds. Since you are charitable enough to believe that Miss
Maxfield's spiritual welfare is not imperilled by going to St. Chad's, I
don't see what need there is for you to be uneasy about her!"
"I am uneasy; but not for the reasons you suppose. Rhoda is very
guileless, and I would shield her from peril."
Diamond looked at the preacher sternly. "I don't understand you," he
said. "And to say the truth, Mr. Powell, I disapprove of meddling in
other people's affairs. Miss Maxfield is a young lady for whom I have
the very highest respect."
For the first time a flame of quick anger flashed from Powell's dark
eyes, as he answered, "Your high respect would teach you to stand aside
and let the innocent maiden pine under a delusion which might spoil her
life and peril her soul; mine prompts me to step forward and awaken her
to the truth, never heeding what figure I make in the matter."
The sudden passion in the man's face and figure was like a material
illumination. Diamond had grown pale, and looked at him attentively, and
in silence.
"Do you think," proceeded Powell, his thin hands working nervously, and
his eyes blazing, "that I do not understand how pure a creature she
is--how innocent, confiding, and devoid of all suspicion of guile? Yea,
and even, therefore, the more in need of warning! But because I am a man
still young in years, and neither the maiden's brother, nor any kin to
her, I must stand silent and withhold my help, lest the world should say
I am transgressing its rules, and bid me mind my own affairs, or deride
me for a fanatical fool! Do you think I do not foresee all this? or do
you think that, foreseeing it, I heed it? I have broken harder bonds
than that; I have fought with strong impulses, to which such motives are
as cobwebs----" Then, with a sudden check and change of tone which a
grain of affectation would have sufficed to render ludicrous, but which,
in its simplicity, was almost touching, he added, in a low voice, "I ask
pardon for my vehemence; I speak too much of myself. I have had some
suffering in this matter, and am not always able to control my words. I
have had strange visitings of the old Adam of late. It is only by much
striving after grace, and by strong wrestling in prayer, that I have not
wandered utterly from the right way."
He had risen from his chair at the beginning of his speech, and now sank
down again on it wearily, with drooping head.
Matthew Diamond sat and looked at him still with the same earnest
attention; but blended, now, with a look of compassion. He was thinking
to himself what must be the force of enthusiastic faith, which could so
subdue the fiery nature of this man, and how he must suffer in the
conflict. Presently, he said aloud, "I am ready to admit, Mr. Powell,
that you are actuated by conscientious motives; I am sure that you are.
But your conscience cannot be a rule for all the rest of the world. Mine
may counsel me differently, you know."
"Oh, sir, we are neither of us left to our own guidance, thanks be to
God! There is a sure counsellor that can never fail us. I have searched
diligently, and I have received a clear leading which I cannot mistrust.
I do not feel free to tell you more particularly the grounds of my
anxiety respecting Rhoda Maxfield. But I do assure you, with all
sincerity and solemnity, that I have her welfare wholly at heart, and
that I would not injure her by the least shadow of blame in the opinion
of any human being."
There was silence for some minutes. Diamond leant his head on his hand,
and reflected. Then at length he said, "Look here, Mr. Powell; I
believe, if you had pitched on anyone else in all Whitford to speak to
about Miss Rhoda Maxfield, I should have declined to assist you. But
Miss Bodkin is so superior in sense and goodness to most other folks
here, that I am sure whatever you may say to her confidentially will be
sacred. And then, she may be able to set you right, if you are wrong.
She has the woman's tact and insight which we lack. And, besides, she
is fond of Rhoda." He coloured a little as he said the name, and dropped
his voice.
"You confirm all that I have heard of this lady. She is abundantly
blessed with good gifts."
"Well, then, Mr. Powell, I will write to Miss Bodkin to-morrow, telling
her merely that you desire to speak with her, and entreat her good
offices on behalf of one who needs them."
Powell sprang up from his seat eagerly. "I thank you, sir, from a full
heart," he said. "You are doing a good action. Farewell."
Diamond held out his hand, which the preacher grasped in his own. The
two hands were as strongly contrasted as the owners of them. Diamond's
was broad, muscular, and yet smooth--a strong young hand, full of latent
power. Powell's was slender, nervous, showing the corded veins, and with
long emaciated fingers. It, too, indicated force; but force of a
different kind. The one hand might have driven a plough, or written out
a mathematical problem; the other might have wielded a scimitar in the
service of the Prophet, or held up a crucifix in the midst of
persecuting savages. As they stood for a second thus hand in hand,
Powell's mouth broke into a wonderfully sweet and radiant smile, and he
said, "You see, sir, I was right to have faith in my counsellor. You
have helped me."
Diamond sat musing late that night, and was roused by the cold to find
his fire gone out and his watch marking half-past twelve o'clock. "I
wonder," he thought to himself, "if Powell has any foundation for his
hints, and if any scoundrel is playing false with her. If there be, I
should like to shoot him like a dog!"