CHAPTER VIII._The Seaboard Parish Volume 2

THE KEEVE.

"Now, my dear! now, Wynnie!" I said, after prayers the next morning,

"you must come out for a walk as soon as ever you can get your bonnets

on."

"But we can't leave Connie, papa," objected Wynnie.

"O, yes, you can, quite well. There's nursie to look after her. What do

you say, Connie?"

For, for some time now, Connie had been able to get up so early, that

it was no unusual thing to have prayers in her room.

"I am entirely independent of help from my family," returned Connie

grandiloquently. "I am a woman of independent means," she added. "If

you say another word, I will rise and leave the room."

And she made a movement as if she would actually do as she had said.

Seized with an involuntary terror, I rushed towards her, and the

impertinent girl burst out laughing in my face--threw herself back on

her pillows, and laughed delightedly.

"Take care, papa," she said. "I carry a terrible club for rebellious

people." Then, her mood changing, she added, as if to suppress the

tears gathering in her eyes, "I am the queen--of luxury and

self-will--and I won't have anybody come near me till dinner-time. I

mean to enjoy myself."

So the matter was settled, and we went out for our walk. Ethelwyn was

not such a good walker as she had been; but even if she had retained

the strength of her youth, we should not have got on much the better

for it--so often did she and Wynnie stop to grub ferns out of the

chinks and roots of the stone-walls. Now, I admire ferns as much as

anybody--that is, not, I fear, so much as my wife and daughter, but

quite enough notwithstanding--but I do not quite enjoy being pulled up

like a fern at every turn.

"Now, my dear, what is the use of stopping to torture that harmless

vegetable?" I say, but say in vain. "It is much more beautiful where it

is than it will be anywhere where you can put it. Besides, you know

they never come to anything with you. They _always_ die."

Thereupon my wife reminds me of this fern and that fern, gathered in

such and such places, and now in such and such corners of the garden or

the greenhouse, or under glass-shades in this or that room, of the very

existence of which I am ignorant, whether from original inattention, or

merely from forgetfulness, I do not know. Certainly, out of their own

place I do not care much for them.

At length, partly by the inducement I held out to them of a much

greater variety of ferns where we were bound, I succeeded in getting

them over the two miles in little more than two hours. After passing

from the lanes into the fields, our way led downwards till we reached a

very steep large slope, with a delightful southern exposure, and

covered with the sweetest down-grasses. It was just the place to lie

in, as on the edge of the earth, and look abroad upon the universe of

air and floating worlds.

"Let us have a rest here, Ethel," I said. "I am sure this is much more

delightful than uprooting ferns. What an awful thing to think that here

we are on this great round tumbling ball of a world, held by the feet,

and lifting up the head into infinite space--without choice or wish of

our own--compelled to think and to be, whether we will or not! Just God

must know it to be very good, or he would not have taken it in his

hands to make individual lives without a possible will of theirs. He

must be our Father, or we are wretched creatures--the slaves of a fatal

necessity! Did it ever strike you, Turner, that each one of us stands

on the apex of the world? With a sphere, you know, it must be so. And

thus is typified, as it seems to me, that each one of us must look up

for himself to find God, and then look abroad to find his fellows."

"I think I know what you mean," was all Turner's reply.

"No doubt," I resumed, "the apprehension of this truth has, in

otherwise ill-ordered minds, given rise to all sorts of fierce and

grotesque fanaticism. But the minds which have thus conceived the

truth, would have been immeasurably worse without it; nay, this truth

affords at last the only possible door out of the miseries of their own

chaos, whether inherited or the result of their own misconduct."

"What's that in the grass?" cried Wynnie, in a tone of alarm.

I looked where she indicated, and saw a slow-worm, or blind-worm, lying

basking in the sun. I rose and went towards it.

"Here's your stick," said Turner.

"What for?" I asked. "Why should I kill it? It is perfectly harmless,

and, to my mind, beautiful."

I took it in my hands, and brought it to my wife. She gave an

involuntary shudder as it came near her.

"I assure you it is harmless," I said, "though it has a forked tongue."

And I opened its mouth as I spoke. "I do not think the serpent form is

essentially ugly."

"It makes me feel ugly," said Wynnie.

"I allow I do not quite understand the mystery of it," I said. "But you

never saw lovelier ornamentation than these silvery scales, with all

the neatness of what you ladies call a set pattern, and none of the

stiffness, for there are not two of them the same in form. And you

never saw lovelier curves than this little patient creature, which does

not even try to get away from me, makes with the queer long thin body

of him."

"I wonder how it can look after its tail, it is so far off," said

Wynnie.

"It does though--better than you ladies look after your long dresses. I

wonder whether it is descended from creatures that once had feet, and

did not make a good use of them. Perhaps they had wings even, and would

not use them at all, and so lost them. Its ancestors may have had

poison-fangs; it is innocent enough. But it is a terrible thing to be

all feet, is it not? There is an awful significance in the condemnation

of the serpent--'On thy belly shalt thou go, and eat dust.' But it is

better to talk of beautiful things. _My_ soul at least has dropped from

its world apex. Let us go on. Come, wife. Come, Turner."

They did not seem willing to rise. But the glen drew me. I rose, and my

wife followed my example with the help of my hand. She returned to the

subject, however, as we descended the slope.

"Is it possible that in the course of ever so many ages wings and feet

should be both lost?" she said.

"The most presumptuous thing in the world is to pronounce on the

possible and the impossible. I do not know what is possible and what is

impossible. I can only tell a little of what is true and what is

untrue. But I do say this, that between the condition of many decent

members of society and that for the sake of which God made them, there

is a gulf quite as vast as that between a serpent and a bird. I get

peeps now and then into the condition of my own heart, which, for the

moment, make it seem impossible that I should ever rise into a true

state of nature--that is, into the simplicity of God's will concerning

me. The only hope for ourselves and for others lies in him--in the

power the creating spirit has over the spirits he has made."

By this time the descent on the grass was getting too steep and

slippery to admit of our continuing to advance in that direction. We

turned, therefore, down the valley in the direction of the sea. It was

but a narrow cleft, and narrowed much towards a deeper cleft, in which

we now saw the tops of trees, and from which we heard the rush of

water. Nor had we gone far in this direction before we came upon a gate

in a stone wall, which led into what seemed a neglected garden. We

entered, and found a path turning and winding, among small trees, and

luxuriant ferns, and great stones, and fragments of ruins down towards

the bottom of the chasm. The noise of falling water increased as we

went on, and at length, after some scrambling and several sharp turns,

we found ourselves with a nearly precipitous wall on each side, clothed

with shrubs and ivy, and creeping things of the vegetable world. Up

this cleft there was no advance. The head of it was a precipice down

which shot the stream from the vale above, pouring out of a deep slit

it had itself cut in the rock as with a knife. Halfway down, it tumbled

into a great basin of hollowed stone, and flowing from a chasm in its

side, which left part of the lip of the basin standing like the arch of

a vanished bridge, it fell into a black pool below, whence it crept as

if half-stunned or weary down the gentle decline of the ravine. It was

a perfect little picture. I, for my part, had never seen such a

picturesque fall. It was a little gem of nature, complete in effect.

The ladies were full of pleasure. Wynnie, forgetting her usual reserve,

broke out in frantic exclamations of delight.

We stood for a while regarding the ceaseless pour of the water down the

precipice, here shot slanting in a little trough of the rock, full of

force and purpose, here falling in great curls of green and gray, with

an expression of absolute helplessness and conscious perdition, as if

sheer to the centre, but rejoicing the next moment to find itself

brought up boiling and bubbling in the basin, to issue in the gathered

hope of experience. Then we turned down the stream a little way,

crossed it by a plank, and stood again to regard it from the opposite

side. Small as the whole affair was--not more than about a hundred and

fifty feet in height--it was so full of variety that I saw it was all

my memory could do, if it carried away anything like a correct picture

of its aspect. I was contemplating it fixedly, when a little stifled

cry from Wynnie made me start and look round. Her face was flushed, yet

she was trying to look unconcerned.

"I thought we were quite alone, papa," she said; "but I see a gentleman

sketching."

I looked whither she indicated. A little way down, the bed of the

ravine widened considerably, and was no doubt filled with water in

rainy weather. Now it was swampy--full of reeds and willow bushes. But

on the opposite side of the stream, with a little canal from it going

all around it, lay a great flat rectangular stone, not more than a foot

above the level of the water, and upon a camp-stool in the centre of

this stone sat a gentleman sketching. I had no doubt that Wynnie had

recognised him at once. And I was annoyed, and indeed angry, to think

that Mr. Percivale had followed us here. But while I regarded him, he

looked up, rose very quietly, and, with his pencil in his hand, came

towards us. With no nearer approach to familiarity than a bow, and no

expression of either much pleasure or any surprise, he said--

"I have seen your party for some time, Mr. Walton--since you crossed

the stream; but I would not break in upon your enjoyment with the

surprise which my presence here must cause you."

I suppose I answered with a bow of some sort; for I could not say with

truth that I was glad to see him. He resumed, doubtless penetrating my

suspicion--

"I have been here almost a week. I certainly had no expectation of the

pleasure of seeing you."

This he said lightly, though no doubt with the object of clearing

himself. And I was, if not reassured, yet disarmed, by his statement;

for I could not believe, from what I knew of him, that he would be

guilty of such a white lie as many a gentleman would have thought

justifiable on the occasion. Still, I suppose he found me a little

stiff, for presently he said--

"If you will excuse me, I will return to my work."

Then I felt as if I must say something, for I had shown him no courtesy

during the interview.

"It must be a great pleasure to carry away such talismans with

you--capable of bringing the place back to your mental vision at any

moment."

"To tell the truth," he answered, "I am a little ashamed of being found

sketching here. Such bits of scenery are not of my favourite studies.

But it is a change."

"It is very beautiful here," I said, in a tone of contravention.

"It is very pretty," he answered--"very lovely, if you will--not very

beautiful, I think. I would keep that word for things of larger regard.

Beauty requires width, and here is none. I had almost said this place

was fanciful--the work of imagination in her play-hours, not in her

large serious moods. It affects me like the face of a woman only

pretty, about which boys and guardsmen will rave--to me not very

interesting, save for its single lines."

"Why, then, do you sketch the place?"

"A very fair question," he returned, with a smile. "Just because it is

soothing from the very absence of beauty. I would far rather, however,

if I were only following my taste, take the barest bit of the moor

above, with a streak of the cold sky over it. That gives room."

"You would like to put a skylark in it, wouldn't you?"

"That I would if I knew how. I see you know what I mean. But the mere

romantic I never had much taste for; though if you saw the kind of

pictures I try to paint, you would not wonder that I take sketches of

places like this, while in my heart of hearts I do not care much for

them. They are so different, and just _therefore_ they are good for me.

I am not working now; I am only playing."

"With a view to working better afterwards, I have no doubt," I answered.

"You are right there, I hope," was his quiet reply, as he turned and

walked back to the island.

He had not made a step towards joining us. He had only taken his hat

off to the ladies. He was gaining ground upon me rapidly.

"Have you quarrelled with our new friend, Harry?" said my wife, as I

came up to her.

She was sitting on a stone. Turner and Wynnie were farther off towards

the foot of the fall.

"Not in the least," I answered, slightly outraged--I did not at first

know why--by the question. "He is only gone to his work, which is a

duty belonging both to the first and second tables of the law."

"I hope you have asked him to come home to our early dinner, then," she

rejoined.

"I have not. That remains for you to do. Come, I will take you to him."

Ethelwyn rose at once, put her hand in mine, and with a little help

soon reached the table-rock. When Percivale saw that she was really on

a visit to him on his island-perch, he rose, and when she came near

enough, held out his hand. It was but a step, and she was beside him in

a moment. After the usual greetings, which on her part, although very

quiet, like every motion and word of hers, were yet indubitably cordial

and kind, she said, "When you get back to London, Mr. Percivale, might

I ask you to allow some friends of mine to call at your studio, and see

your paintings?"

"With all my heart," answered Percivale. "I must warn you, however,

that I have not much they will care to see. They will perhaps go away

less happy than they entered. Not many people care to see my pictures

twice."

"I would not send you anyone I thought unworthy of the honour,"

answered my wife.

Percivale bowed--one of his stately, old-world bows, which I greatly

liked.

"Any friend of yours--that is guarantee sufficient," he answered.

There was this peculiarity about any compliment that Percivale paid,

that you had not a doubt of its being genuine.

"Will you come and take an early dinner with us?" said my wife. "My

invalid daughter will be very pleased to see you."

"I will with pleasure," he answered, but in a tone of some hesitation,

as he glanced from Ethelwyn to me.

"My wife speaks for us all," I said. "It will give us all pleasure."

"I am only afraid it will break in upon your morning's work," remarked

Ethelwyn.

"O, that is not of the least consequence," he rejoined. "In fact, as I

have just been saying to Mr. Walton, I am not working at all at

present. This is pure recreation."

As he spoke he turned towards his easel, and began hastily to bundle up

his things.

"We're not quite ready to go yet," said my wife, loath to leave the

lovely spot. "What a curious flat stone this is!" she added.

"It is," said Percivale. "The man to whom the place belongs, a worthy

yeoman of the old school, says that this wider part of the channel must

have been the fish-pond, and that the portly monks stood on this stone

and fished in the pond."

"Then was there a monastery here?" I asked.

"Certainly. The ruins of the chapel, one of the smallest, are on the

top, just above the fall--rather a fearful place to look down from. I

wonder you did not observe them as you came. They say it had a silver

bell in the days of its glory, which now lies in a deep hole under the

basin, half-way between the top and bottom of the fall. But the old man

says that nothing will make him look, or let anyone else lift the huge

stone; for he is much better pleased to believe that it may be there,

than he would be to know it was not there; for certainly, if it were

found, it would not be left there long."

As he spoke Percivale had continued packing his gear. He now led our

party up to the chapel, and thence down a few yards to the edge of the

chasm, where the water fell headlong. I turned away with that fear of

high places which is one of my many weaknesses; and when I turned again

towards the spot, there was Wynnie on the very edge, looking over into

the flash and tumult of the water below, but with a nervous grasp of

the hand of Percivale, who stood a little farther back.

In going home, the painter led us by an easier way out of the valley,

left his little easel and other things at a cottage, and then walked on

in front between my wife and daughter, while Turner and I followed. He

seemed quite at his ease with them, and plenty of talk and laughter

rose on the way. I, however, was chiefly occupied with finding out

Turner's impression of Connie's condition.

"She is certainly better," he said. "I wonder you do not see it as

plainly as I do. The pain is nearly gone from her spine, and she can

move herself a good deal more, I am certain, than she could when she

left. She asked me yesterday if she might not turn upon one side. 'Do

you think you could?' I asked.--'I think so,' she answered. 'At any

rate, I have often a great inclination to try; only papa said I had

better wait till you came.' I do think she might be allowed a little