WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED.
We carried Connie in first of all, of course, and into the room which
nurse had fixed upon for her--the best in the house, of course, again.
She did seem tired now, and no wonder. She had a cup of tea at once, and
in half an hour dinner was ready, of which we were all very glad. After
dinner I went up to Connie’s room. There I found her fast asleep on the
sofa, and Wynnie as fast asleep on the floor beside her. The drive and
the sea air had had the same effect on both of them. But pleased as I
was to see Connie sleeping so sweetly, I was even more pleased to see
Wynnie asleep on the floor. What a wonderful satisfaction it may give
to a father and mother to see this or that child asleep! It is when
her kittens are asleep that the cat creeps away to look after her own
comforts. Our cat chose to have her kittens in my study once, and as I
would not have her further disturbed than to give them another cushion
to lie on in place of that which belonged to my sofa, I had many
opportunities of watching them as I wrote, or prepared my sermons. But I
must not talk about the cat and her kittens now. When parents see their
children asleep, especially if they have been suffering in any way,
they breathe more freely; a load is lifted off their minds; their
responsibility seems over; the children have gone back to their Father,
and he alone is looking after them for a while. Now, I had not been
comfortable about Wynnie for some time, and especially during our
journey, and still more especially during the last part of our journey.
There was something amiss with her. She seemed constantly more or less
dejected, as if she had something to think about that was too much for
her, although, to tell the truth, I really believe now that she had not
quite enough to think about. Some people can thrive tolerably without
much thought: at least, they both live comfortably without it, and do
not seem to be capable of effecting it if it were required of them;
while for others a large amount of mental and spiritual operation is
necessary for the health of both body and mind, and when the matter or
occasion for so much is not afforded them, the consequence is analogous
to what follows when a healthy physical system is not supplied with
sufficient food: the oxygen, the source of life, begins to consume the
life itself; it tears up the timbers of the house to burn against the
cold. Or, to use a different simile, when the Moses-rod of circumstance
does not strike the rock and make the waters flow, such a mind--one that
must think to live--will go digging into itself, and is in danger of
injuring the very fountain of thought, by drawing away its living water
into ditches and stagnant pools. This was, I say, the case in part with
my Wynnie, although I did not understand it at that moment. She did
not look quite happy, did not always meet a smile with a smile, looked
almost reprovingly upon the frolics of the little brother-imps, and
though kindness itself when any real hurt or grief befell them, had
reverted to her old, somewhat dictatorial manner, of which I have
already spoken as interrupted by Connie’s accident. To her mother and me
she was service itself, only service without the smile which is as
the flame of the sacrifice and makes it holy. So we were both a little
uneasy about her, for we did not understand her. On the journey she
had seemed almost annoyed at Connie’s ecstasies, and said to Dora many
times: “Do be quiet, Dora;” although there was not a single creature but
ourselves within hearing, and poor Connie seemed only delighted with the
child’s explosions. So I was--but although I say _so_, I hardly know why
I was pleased to see her thus, except it was from a vague belief in the
anodyne of slumber. But this pleasure did not last long; for as I
stood regarding my two treasures, even as if my eyes had made her
uncomfortable, she suddenly opened hers, and started to her feet, with
the words, “I beg your pardon, papa,” looking almost guiltily round
her, and putting up her hair hurriedly, as if she had committed an
impropriety in being caught untidy. This was fresh sign of a condition
of mind that was not healthy.
“My dear,” I said, “what do you beg my pardon for? I was so pleased to
see you asleep! and you look as if you thought I were going to scold
you.”
“O papa,” she said, laying her head on my shoulder, “I am afraid I must
be very naughty. I so often feel now as if I were doing something wrong,
or rather as if you would think I was doing something wrong. I am sure
there must be something wicked in me somewhere, though I do not clearly
know what it is. When I woke up now, I felt as if I had neglected
something, and you had come to find fault with me. _Is_ there anything,
papa?”
“Nothing whatever, my child. But you cannot be well when you feel like
that.”
“I am perfectly well, so far as I know. I was so cross to Dora to-day!
Why shouldn’t I feel happy when everybody else is? I must be wicked,
papa.”
Here Connie woke up.
“There now! I’ve waked Connie,” Wynnie resumed. “I’m always doing
something I ought not to do. Please go to sleep again, Connie, and take
that sin off my poor conscience.”
“What nonsense is Wynnie talking about being wicked?” asked Connie.
“It isn’t nonsense, Connie. You know I am.”
“I know nothing of the sort, Wynnie. If it were me now! And yet I don’t
_feel_ wicked.”
“My dear children,” I said, “we must all pray to God for his Spirit, and
then we shall feel just as we ought to feel. It is not for anyone to say
to himself how he ought to feel at any given moment; still less for one
man to say to another how he ought to feel; that is in the former case
to do as St. Paul says he had learned to give up doing--to judge our own
selves, which ought to be left to God; in the latter case it is to do
what our Lord has told us expressly we are not to do--to judge other
people. You get your bonnet, Wynnie, and come out with me. I am going
to explore a little of this desert island upon which we have been cast
away. And you, Connie, just to please Wynnie, must try and go to sleep
again.”
Wynnie ran for her bonnet, a little afraid perhaps that I was going to
talk seriously to her, but showing no reluctance anyhow to accompany me.
Now I wonder whether it will be better to tell what we saw, or only what
we talked about, and give what we saw in the shape in which we reported
it to Connie, when we came back into her room, bearing, like the spies
who went to search the land, our bunch of grapes, that is, of sweet news
of nature, to her who could not go to gather them for herself. I think
it will be the best plan to take part of both plans.
When we left the door of the house, we went up the few steps of a stair
leading on to the downs, against and amidst, and indeed _in_, the rocks,
buttressing the sea-edge of which our new abode was built. A life for a
big-winged angel seemed waiting us upon those downs. The wind still blew
from the west, both warm and strong--I mean strength-giving--and the
wind was the first thing we were aware of. The ground underfoot was
green and soft and springy, and sprinkled all over with the bright
flowers, chiefly yellow, that live amidst the short grasses of the
downs, the shadows of whose unequal surface were now beginning to be
thrown east, for the sun was going seawards. I stood up, stretched out
my arms, threw back my shoulders and my head, and filled my chest with a
draught of the delicious wind, feeling thereafter like a giant refreshed
with wine. Wynnie stood apparently unmoved amidst the life-nectar,
thoughtful, and turning her eyes hither and thither.
“That makes me feel young again,” I said.
“I wish it would make me feel old then,” said Wynnie.
“What do you mean, my child?”
“Because then I should have a chance of knowing what it is like to feel
young,” she answered rather enigmatically. I did not reply. We were
walking up the brow which hid the sea from us. The smell of the
down-turf was indescribable in its homely delicacy; and by the time we
had reached the top, almost every sense was filled with its own delight.
The top of the hill was the edge of the great shore-cliff; and the sun
was hanging on the face of the mightier sky-cliff opposite, and the sea
stretched for visible miles and miles along the shore on either hand,
its wide blue mantle fringed with lovely white wherever it met the land,
and scalloped into all fantastic curves, according to the whim of the
nether fires which had formed its bed; and the rush of the waves, as
they bore the rising tide up on the shore, was the one music fit for
the whole. Ear and eye, touch and smell, were alike invaded with
blessedness. I ought to have kept this to give my reader in Connie’s
room; but he shall share with her presently. The sense of space--of
mighty room for life and growth--filled my soul, and I thanked God in
my heart. The wind seemed to bear that growth into my soul, even as the
wind of God first breathed into man’s nostrils the breath of life, and
the sun was the pledge of the fulfilment of every aspiration. I turned
and looked at Wynnie. She stood pleased but listless amidst that which
lifted me into the heaven of the Presence.
“Don’t you enjoy all this grandeur, Wynnie?”
“I told you I was very wicked, papa.”
“And I told you not to say so, Wynnie.”
“You see I cannot enjoy it, papa. I wonder why it is.”
“I suspect it is because you haven’t room, Wynnie.”
“I know you mean something more than I know, papa.”
“I mean, my dear, that it is not because you are wicked, but because you
do not know God well enough, and therefore your being, which can only
live in him, is ‘cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in.’ It is only in
him that the soul has room. In knowing him is life and its gladness. The
secret of your own heart you can never know; but you can know Him who
knows its secret. Look up, my darling; see the heavens and the earth.
You do not feel them, and I do not call upon you to feel them. It would
be both useless and absurd to do so. But just let them look at you for
a moment, and then tell me whether it must not be a blessed life that
creates such a glory as this All.”
She stood silent for a moment, looked up at the sky, looked round on the
earth, looked far across the sea to the setting sun, and then turned her
eyes upon me. They were filled with tears, but whether from feeling,
or sorrow that she could not feel, I would not inquire. I made haste to
speak again.
“As this world of delight surrounds and enters your bodily frame, so
does God surround your soul and live in it. To be at home with the awful
source of your being, through the child-like faith which he not only
permits, but requires, and is ever teaching you, or rather seeking
to rouse up in you, is the only cure for such feelings as those that
trouble you. Do not say it is too high for you. God made you in his own
image, therefore capable of understanding him. For this final end he
sent his Son, that the Father might with him come into you, and dwell
with you. Till he does so, the temple of your soul is vacant; there is
no light behind the veil, no cloudy pillar over it; and the priests,
your thoughts, feelings, loves, and desires, moan, and are troubled--for
where is the work of the priest when the God is not there? When He comes
to you, no mystery, no unknown feeling, will any longer distress you.
You will say, ‘He knows, though I do not.’ And you will be at the secret
of the things he has made. You will feel what they are, and that which
his will created in gladness you will receive in joy. One glimmer of the
present God in this glory would send you home singing. But do not think
I blame you, Wynnie, for feeling sad. I take it rather as the sign of a
large life in you, that will not be satisfied with little things. I do
not know when or how it may please God to give you the quiet of mind
that you need; but I tell you that I believe it is to be had; and in
the mean time, you must go on doing your work, trusting in God even for
this. Tell him to look at your sorrow, ask him to come and set it right,
making the joy go up in your heart by his presence. I do not know when
this may be, I say, but you must have patience, and till he lays his
hand on your head, you must be content to wash his feet with your tears.
Only he will be better pleased if your faith keep you from weeping and
from going about your duties mournful. Try to be brave and cheerful for
the sake of Christ, and for the sake of your confidence in the beautiful
teaching of God, whose course and scope you cannot yet understand.
Trust, my daughter, and let that give you courage and strength.”
Now the sky and the sea and the earth must have made me able to say
these things to her; but I knew that, whatever the immediate occasion of
her sadness, such was its only real cure. Other things might, in virtue
of the will of God that was in them, give her occupation and interest
enough for a time, but nothing would do finally, but God himself. Here
I was sure I was safe; here I knew lay the hunger of humanity. Humanity
may, like other vital forms, diseased systems, fix on this or that as
the object not merely of its desire but of its need: it can never
be stilled by less than the bread of life--the very presence in the
innermost nature of the Father and the Son.
We walked on together. Wynnie made me no reply, but, weeping silently,
clung to my arm. We walked a long way by the edge of the cliffs, beheld
the sun go down, and then turned and went home. When we reached the
house, Wynnie left me, saying only, “Thank you, papa. I think it is all
true. I will try to be a better girl.”
I went straight to Connie’s room: she was lying as I saw her last,
looking out of her window.
“Connie,” I said, “Wynnie and I have had such a treat--such a sunset!”
“I’ve seen a little of the light of it on the waves in the bay there,
but the high ground kept me from seeing the sunset itself. Did it set in
the sea?”
“You do want the General Gazetteer, after all, Connie. Is that water the
Atlantic, or is it not? And if it be, where on earth could the sun set
but in it?”
“Of course, papa. What a goose I am! But don’t make game of
me--_please_. I am too deliciously happy to be made game of to-night.”
“I won’t make game of you, my darling. I will tell you about the
sunset--the colours of it, at least. This must be one of the best places
in the whole world to see sunsets.”
“But you have had no tea, papa. I thought you would come and have your
tea with me. But you were so long, that mamma would not let me wait any
longer.”
“O, never mind the tea, my dear. But Wynnie has had none. You’ve got a
tea-caddy of your own, haven’t you?”
“Yes, and a teapot; and there’s the kettle on the hob--for I can’t do
without a little fire in the evenings.”
“Then I’ll make some tea for Wynnie and myself, and tell you at the same
time about the sunset. I never saw such colours. I cannot tell you what
it was like while the sun was yet going down, for the glory of it has
burned the memory of it out of me. But after the sun was down, the sky
remained thinking about him; and the thought of the sky was in
delicate translucent green on the horizon, just the colour of the earth
etherealised and glorified--a broad band; then came another broad band
of pale rose-colour; and above that came the sky’s own eternal blue,
pale likewise, but so sure and changeless. I never saw the green and
the blue divided and harmonised by the rose-colour before. It was a
wonderful sight. If it is warm enough to-morrow, we will carry you out
on the height, that you may see what the evening will bring.”
“There is one thing about sunsets,” returned Connie--“two things, that
make me rather sad--about themselves, not about anything else. Shall I
tell you them?”
“Do, my love. There are few things more precious to learn than the
effects of Nature upon individual minds. And there is not a feeling of
yours, my child, that is not of value to me.”
“You are so kind, papa! I am so glad of my accident. I think I should
never have known how good you are but for that. But my thoughts seem so
little worth after you say so much about them.”
“Let me be judge of that, my dear.”
“Well, one thing is, that we shall never, never, never, see the same
sunset again.”
“That is true. But why should we? God does not care to do the same
thing over again. When it is once done, it is done, and he goes on doing
something new. For, to all eternity, he never will have done showing
himself by new, fresh things. It would be a loss to do the same thing
again.”
“But that just brings me to my second trouble. The thing is lost. I
forget it. Do what I can, I cannot remember sunsets. I try to fix them
fast in my memory, that I may recall them when I want them; but just as
they fade out of the sky, all into blue or gray, so they fade out of my
mind and leave it as if they had never been there--except perhaps two
or three. Now, though I did not see this one, yet, after you have talked
about it, I shall never forget _it_.”
“It is not, and never will be, as if they had never been. They have
their influence, and leave that far deeper than your memory--in your
very being, Connie. But I have more to say about it, although it is
only an idea, hardly an assurance. Our brain is necessarily an imperfect
instrument. For its right work, perhaps it is needful that it should
forget in part. But there are grounds for believing that nothing is ever
really forgotten. I think that, when we have a higher existence than we
have now, when we are clothed with that spiritual body of which St. Paul
speaks, you will be able to recall any sunset you have ever seen with an
intensity proportioned to the degree of regard and attention you gave
it when it was present to you. But here comes Wynnie to see how you
are.--I’ve been making some tea for you, Wynnie, my love.”
“O, thank you, papa--I shall be so glad of some tea!” said Wynnie, the
paleness of whose face showed the red rims of her eyes the more plainly.
She had had what girls call a good cry, and was clearly the better for
it.
The same moment my wife came in. “Why didn’t you send for me, Harry, to
get your tea?” she said.
“I did not deserve any, seeing I had disregarded proper times and
seasons. But I knew you must be busy.”
“I have been superintending the arrangement of bedrooms, and the
unpacking, and twenty different things,” said Ethelwyn. “We shall be so
comfortable! It is such a curious house! Have you had a nice walk?”
“Mamma, I never had such a walk in my life,” returned Wynnie. “You would
think the shore had been built for the sake of the show--just for a
platform to see sunsets from. And the sea! Only the cliffs will be
rather dangerous for the children.”
“I have just been telling Connie about the sunset. She could see
something of the colours on the water, but not much more.”
“O, Connie, it will be so delightful to get you out here! Everything is
so big! There is such room everywhere! But it must be awfully windy in
winter,” said Wynnie, whose nature was always a little prospective, if
not apprehensive.
But I must not keep my reader longer upon mere family chat.