YOUNG WEIR.
By slow degrees the summer bloomed. Green came instead of white;
rainbows instead of icicles. The grounds about the Hall seemed the
incarnation of a summer which had taken years to ripen to its
perfection. The very grass seemed to have aged into perfect youth in
that “haunt of ancient peace;” for surely nowhere else was such thick,
delicate-bladed, delicate-coloured grass to be seen. Gnarled old trees
of may stood like altars of smoking perfume, or each like one
million-petalled flower of upheaved whiteness—or of tender rosiness, as
if the snow which had covered it in winter had sunk in and gathered
warmth from the life of the tree, and now crept out again to adorn the
summer. The long loops of the laburnum hung heavy with gold towards the
sod below; and the air was full of the fragrance of the young leaves of
the limes. Down in the valley below, the daisies shone in all the
meadows, varied with the buttercup and the celandine; while in damp
places grew large pimpernels, and along the sides of the river, the
meadow-sweet stood amongst the reeds at the very edge of the water,
breathing out the odours of dreamful sleep. The clumsy pollards were
each one mass of undivided green. The mill wheel had regained its
knotty look, with its moss and its dip and drip, as it yielded to the
slow water, which would have let it alone, but that there was no other
way out of the land to the sea.
I used now to wander about in the fields and woods, with a book in my
hand, at which I often did not look the whole day, and which yet I
liked to have with me. And I seemed somehow to come back with most upon
those days in which I did not read. In this manner I prepared almost
all my sermons that summer. But, although I prepared them thus in the
open country, I had another custom, which perhaps may appear strange to
some, before I preached them. This was, to spend the Saturday evening,
not in my study, but in the church. This custom of mine was known to
the sexton and his wife, and the church was always clean and ready for
me after about mid-day, so that I could be alone there as soon as I
pleased. It would take more space than my limits will afford to explain
thoroughly why I liked to do this. But I will venture to attempt a
partial explanation in a few words.
This fine old church in which I was honoured to lead the prayers of my
people, was not the expression of the religious feeling of my time.
There was a gloom about it—a sacred gloom, I know, and I loved it; but
such gloom as was not in my feeling when I talked to my flock. I
honoured the place; I rejoiced in its history; I delighted to think
that even by the temples made with hands outlasting these bodies of
ours, we were in a sense united to those who in them had before us
lifted up holy hands without wrath or doubting; and with many more who,
like us, had lifted up at least prayerful hands without hatred or
despair. The place soothed me, tuned me to a solemn mood—one of
self-denial, and gentle gladness in all sober things. But, had I been
an architect, and had I had to build a church—I do not in the least
know how I should have built it—I am certain it would have been very
different from this. Else I should be a mere imitator, like all the
church-architects I know anything about in the present day. For I
always found the open air the most genial influence upon me for the
production of religious feeling and thought. I had been led to try
whether it might not be so with me by the fact that our Lord seemed so
much to delight in the open air, and late in the day as well as early
in the morning would climb the mountain to be alone with His Father. I
found that it helped to give a reality to everything that I thought
about, if I only contemplated it under the high untroubled blue, with
the lowly green beneath my feet, and the wind blowing on me to remind
me of the Spirit that once moved on the face of the waters, bringing
order out of disorder and light out of darkness, and was now seeking
every day a fuller entrance into my heart, that there He might work the
one will of the Father in heaven.
My reader will see then that there was, as it were, not so much a
discord, as a lack of harmony between the surroundings wherein my
thoughts took form, or, to use a homelier phrase, my sermon was
studied, and the surroundings wherein I had to put these forms into the
garments of words, or preach that sermon. I therefore sought to bridge
over this difference (if I understood music, I am sure I could find an
expression exactly fitted to my meaning),—to find an easy passage
between the open-air mood and the church mood, so as to be able to
bring into the church as much of the fresh air, and the tree-music, and
the colour-harmony, and the gladness over all, as might be possible;
and, in order to this, I thought all my sermon over again in the
afternoon sun as it shone slantingly through the stained window over
Lord Eagleye’s tomb, and in the failing light thereafter and the
gathering dusk of the twilight, pacing up and down the solemn old
place, hanging my thoughts here on a crocket, there on a corbel; now on
the gable-point over which Weir’s face would gaze next morning, and now
on the aspiring peaks of the organ. I thus made the place a cell of
thought and prayer. And when the next day came, I found the forms
around me so interwoven with the forms of my thought, that I felt
almost like one of the old monks who had built the place, so little did
I find any check to my thought or utterance from its unfitness for the
expression of my individual modernism. But not one atom the more did I
incline to the evil fancy that God was more in the past than in the
present; that He is more within the walls of the church, than in the
unwalled sky and earth; or seek to turn backwards one step from a
living Now to an entombed and consecrated Past.
One lovely Saturday, I had been out all the morning. I had not walked
far, for I had sat in the various places longer than I had walked, my
path lying through fields and copses, crossing a country road only now
and then. I had my Greek Testament with me, and I read when I sat, and
thought when I walked. I remember well enough that I was going to
preach about the cloud of witnesses, and explain to my people that this
did not mean persons looking at, witnessing our behaviour—not so could
any addition be made to the awfulness of the fact that the eye of God
was upon us—but witnesses to the truth, people who did what God wanted
them to do, come of it what might, whether a crown or a rack, scoffs or
applause; to behold whose witnessing might well rouse all that was
human and divine in us to chose our part with them and their Lord.—When
I came home, I had an early dinner, and then betook myself to my
Saturday’s resort.—I had never had a room large enough to satisfy me
before. Now my study was to my mind.
All through the slowly-fading afternoon, the autumn of the day, when
the colours are richest and the shadows long and lengthening, I paced
my solemn old-thoughted church. Sometimes I went up into the pulpit and
sat there, looking on the ancient walls which had grown up under men’s
hands that men might be helped to pray by the visible symbol of unity
which the walls gave, and that the voice of the Spirit of God might be
heard exhorting men to forsake the evil and choose the good. And I
thought how many witnesses to the truth had knelt in those ancient
pews. For as the great church is made up of numberless communities, so
is the great shining orb of witness-bearers made up of millions of
lesser orbs. All men and women of true heart bear individual testimony
to the truth of God, saying, “I have trusted and found Him faithful.”
And the feeble light of the glowworm is yet light, pure, and good, and
with a loveliness of its own. “So, O Lord,” I said, “let my light shine
before men.” And I felt no fear of vanity in such a prayer, for I knew
that the glory to come of it is to God only—“that men may glorify their
Father in heaven.” And I knew that when we seek glory for ourselves,
the light goes out, and the Horror that dwells in darkness breathes
cold upon our spirits. And I remember that just as I thought thus, my
eye was caught first by a yellow light that gilded the apex of the
font-cover, which had been wrought like a flame or a bursting blossom:
it was so old and worn, I never could tell which; and then by a red
light all over a white marble tablet in the wall—the red of life on the
cold hue of the grave. And this red light did not come from any work of
man’s device, but from the great window of the west, which little
Gerard Weir wanted to help God to paint. I must have been in a happy
mood that Saturday afternoon, for everything pleased me and made me
happier; and all the church-forms about me blended and harmonised
graciously with the throne and footstool of God which I saw through the
windows. And I lingered on till the night had come; till the church
only gloomed about me, and had no shine; and then I found my spirit
burning up the clearer, as a lamp which has been flaming all the day
with light unseen becomes a glory in the room when the sun is gone
down.
At length I felt tired, and would go home. Yet I lingered for a few
moments in the vestry, thinking what hymns would harmonize best with
the things I wanted to make my people think about. It was now almost
quite dark out of doors—at least as dark as it would be.
Suddenly through the gloom I thought I heard a moan and a sob. I sat
upright in my chair and listened. But I heard nothing more, and
concluded I had deceived myself. After a few moments, I rose to go home
and have some tea, and turn my mind rather away from than towards the
subject of witness-bearing any more for that night, lest I should burn
the fuel of it out before I came to warm the people with it, and should
have to blow its embers instead of flashing its light and heat upon
them in gladness. So I left the church by my vestry-door, which I
closed behind me, and took my way along the path through the clustering
group of graves.
Again I heard a sob. This time I was sure of it. And there lay
something dark upon one of the grassy mounds. I approached it, but it
did not move. I spoke.
“Can I be of any use to you?” I said.
“No,” returned an almost inaudible voice.
Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew that no one had been
buried there very lately, and if the grief were for the loss of the
dead, it was more than probably aroused to fresh vigour by recent
misfortune.
I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, “Come with me, and
let us see what can be done for you.”
I then saw that it was a youth—perhaps scarcely more than a boy. And as
soon as I saw that, I knew that his grief could hardly be incurable. He
returned no answer, but rose at once to his feet, and submitted to be
led away. I took him the shortest road to my house through the
shrubbery, brought him into the study, made him sit down in my
easy-chair, and rang for lights and wine; for the dew had been falling
heavily, and his clothes were quite dank. But when the wine came, he
refused to take any.
“But you want it,” I said.
“No, sir, I don’t, indeed.”
“Take some for my sake, then.”
“I would rather not, sir.”
“Why?”
“I promised my father a year ago, when I left home that I would not
drink anything stronger than water.[sic] And I can’t break my promise
now.”
“Where is your home?”
“In the village, sir.”
“That wasn’t your father’s grave I found you upon, was it?”
“No, sir. It was my mother’s.”
“Then your father is still alive?”
“Yes, sir. You know him very well—Thomas Weir.”
“Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you that son?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob.
“Then what is the matter? Your father is a good friend of mine, and
would tell you you might trust me.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir. But you won’t believe me any more than my
father.”
By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and his countenance.
He was of middle size, but evidently not full grown. His dress was very
decent. His face was pale and thin, and revealed a likeness to his
father. He had blue eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as I could
judge, betokened, along with the whole of his expression, an honest and
sensitive nature. I found him very attractive, and was therefore the
more emboldened to press for the knowledge of his story.
“I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could. And
if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be in great
danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force of its own.”
“I thought so till to-night,” he answered. “But if my father would not
believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?”
“Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to be able
to do it justice. It is not a bit like your father to be unfair.”
“No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me.”
Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favour. There was a
certain refinement in it, a quality of dialogue which indicated
thought, as I judged; and I became more and more certain that, whatever
I might have to think of it when told, he would yet tell me the truth.
“Come, try me,” I said.
“I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning.”
“Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-night, and you may
take what time you please. But I will ring for tea first; for I dare
say you have not made any promise about that.”
A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning to feel
a little more comfortable.
“When did you arrive from London?” I asked.
“About two hours ago, I suppose.”
“Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plenty of
toast. We are both hungry.”
Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to do her
duty.
When she returned with the tray, I saw by the unconsciously eager way
in which he looked at the eatables, that he had had nothing for some
time; and so, even after we were left alone, I would not let him say a
word till he had made a good meal. It was delightful to see how he ate.
Few troubles will destroy a growing lad’s hunger; and indeed it has
always been to me a marvel how the feelings and the appetites affect
each other. I have known grief actually make people, and not sensual
people at all, quite hungry. At last I thought I had better not offer
him any more.
After the tea-things had been taken away, I put the candles out; and
the moon, which had risen, nearly full, while we were at tea, shone
into the room. I had thought that he might possibly find it easier to
tell his story in the moonlight, which, if there were any shame in the
recital, would not, by too much revelation, reduce him to the despair
of Macbeth, when, feeling that he could contemplate his deed, but not
his deed and himself together, he exclaimed,
“To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself.”
So, sitting by the window in the moonlight, he told his tale. The moon
lighted up his pale face as he told it, and gave rather a wild
expression to his eyes, eager to find faith in me.—I have not much of
the dramatic in me, I know; and I am rather a flat teller of stories on
that account. I shall not, therefore, seeing there is no necessity for
it, attempt to give the tale in his own words. But, indeed, when I
think of it, they did not differ so much from the form of my own, for
he had, I presume, lost his provincialisms, and being, as I found
afterwards, a reader of the best books that came in his way, had not
caught up many cockneyisms instead.
He had filled a place in the employment of Messrs——& Co., large
silk-mercers, linen-drapers, etc., etc., in London; for all the trades
are mingled now. His work at first was to accompany one of the carts
which delivered the purchases of the day; but, I presume because he
showed himself to be a smart lad, they took him at length into the shop
to wait behind the counter. This he did not like so much, but, as it
was considered a rise in life, made no objection to the change.
He seemed to himself to get on pretty well. He soon learned all the
marks on the goods intended to be understood by the shopmen, and within
a few months believed that he was found generally useful. He had as yet
had no distinct department allotted to him, but was moved from place to
place, according as the local pressure of business might demand.
“I confess,” he said, “that I was not always satisfied with what was
going on about me. I mean I could not help doubting if everything was
done on the square, as they say. But nothing came plainly in my way,
and so I could honestly say it did not concern me. I took care to be
straightforward for my part, and, knowing only the prices marked for
the sale of the goods, I had nothing to do with anything else. But one
day, while I was showing a lady some handkerchiefs which were marked as
mouchoirs de Paris—I don’t know if I pronounce it right, sir—she said
she did not believe they were French cambric; and I, knowing nothing
about it, said nothing. But, happening to look up while we both stood
silent, the lady examining the handkerchiefs, and I doing nothing till
she should have made up her mind, I caught sight of the eyes of the
shop-walker, as they call the man who shows customers where to go for
what they want, and sees that they are attended to. He is a fat man,
dressed in black, with a great gold chain, which they say in the shop
is only copper gilt. But that doesn’t matter, only it would be the
liker himself. He was standing staring at me. I could not tell what to
make of it; but from that day I often caught him watching me, as if I
had been a customer suspected of shop-lifting. Still I only thought he
was very disagreeable, and tried to forget him.
“One day—the day before yesterday—two ladies, an old lady and a young
one, came into the shop, and wanted to look at some shawls. It was
dinner-time, and most of the men were in the house at their dinner. The
shop-walker sent me to them, and then, I do believe, though I did not
see him, stood behind a pillar to watch me, as he had been in the way
of doing more openly. I thought I had seen the ladies before, and
though I could not then tell where, I am now almost sure they were Mrs
and Miss Oldcastle, of the Hall. They wanted to buy a cashmere for the
young lady. I showed them some. They wanted better. I brought the best
we had, inquiring, that I might make no mistake. They asked the price.
I told them. They said they were not good enough, and wanted to see
some more. I told them they were the best we had. They looked at them
again; said they were sorry, but the shawls were not good enough, and
left the shop without buying anything. I proceeded to take the shawls
up-stairs again, and, as I went, passed the shop walker, whom I had not
observed while I was attending to the ladies. ‘YOU’re for no good,
young man!’ he said with a nasty sneer. ‘What do you mean by that, Mr
B.?’ I asked, for his sneer made me angry. ‘You’ll know before
to-morrow,’ he answered, and walked away. That same evening, as we were
shutting up shop, I was sent for to the principal’s room. The moment I
entered, he said, ‘You won’t suit us, young man, I find. You had better
pack up your box to-night, and be off to-morrow. There’s your quarter’s
salary.’ ‘What have I done?’ I asked in astonishment, and yet with a
vague suspicion of the matter. ‘It’s not what you’ve done, but what you
don’t do,’ he answered. ‘Do you think we can afford to keep you here
and pay you wages to send people away from the shop without buying? If
you do, you’re mistaken, that’s all. You may go.’ ‘But what could I
do?’ I said. ‘I suppose that spy, B—-,’—I believe I said so, sir. ‘Now,
now, young man, none of your sauce!’ said Mr—-. ‘Honest people don’t
think about spies.’ ‘I thought it was for honesty you were getting rid
of me,’ I said. Mr—-rose to his feet, his lips white, and pointed to
the door. ‘Take your money and be off. And mind you don’t refer to me
for a character. After such impudence I couldn’t in conscience give you
one.’ Then, calming down a little when he saw I turned to go, ‘You had
better take to your hands again, for your head will never keep you.
There, be off!’ he said, pushing the money towards me, and turning his
back to me. I could not touch it. ‘Keep the money, Mr—-,’ I said.
‘It’ll make up for what you’ve lost by me.’ And I left the room at once
without waiting for an answer.
“While I was packing my box, one of my chums came in, and I told him
all about it. He is rather a good fellow that, sir; but he laughed, and
said, ‘What a fool you are, Weir! YOU’ll never make your daily bread,
and you needn’t think it. If you knew what I know, you’d have known
better. And it’s very odd it was about shawls, too. I’ll tell you. As
you’re going away, you won’t let it out. Mr—-’ (that was the same who
had just turned me away) ‘was serving some ladies himself, for he
wasn’t above being in the shop, like his partner. They wanted the best
Indian shawl they could get. None of those he showed them were good
enough, for the ladies really didn’t know one from another. They always
go by the price you ask, and Mr—-knew that well enough. He had sent me
up-stairs for the shawls, and as I brought them he said, “These are the
best imported, madam.” There were three ladies; and one shook her head,
and another shook her head, and they all shook their heads. And then
Mr—-was sorry, I believe you, that he had said they were the best. But
you won’t catch him in a trap! He’s too old a fox for that.’ I’m
telling you, sir, what Johnson told me. ‘He looked close down at the
shawls, as if he were short-sighted, though he could see as far as any
man. “I beg your pardon, ladies,” said he, “you’re right. I am quite
wrong. What a stupid blunder to make! And yet they did deceive me.
Here, Johnson, take these shawls away. How could you be so stupid? I
will fetch the thing you want myself, ladies.” So I went with him. He
chose out three or four shawls, of the nicest patterns, from the very
same lot, marked in the very same way, folded them differently, and
gave them to me to carry down. “Now, ladies, here they are!” he said.
“These are quite a different thing, as you will see; and, indeed, they
cost half as much again.” In five minutes they had bought two of them,
and paid just half as much more than he had asked for them the first
time. That’s Mr—-! and that’s what you should have done if you had
wanted to keep your place.’—But I assure you, sir, I could not help
being glad to be out of it.”
“But there is nothing in all this to be miserable about,” I said. “You
did your duty.”
“It would be all right, sir, if father believed me. I don’t want to be
idle, I’m sure.”
“Does your father think you do?”
“I don’t know what he thinks. He won’t speak to me. I told my story—as
much of it as he would let me, at least—but he wouldn’t listen to me.
He only said he knew better than that. I couldn’t bear it. He always
was rather hard upon us. I’m sure if you hadn’t been so kind to me,
sir, I don’t know what I should have done by this time. I haven’t
another friend in the world.”
“Yes, you have. Your Father in heaven is your friend.”
“I don’t know that, sir. I’m not good enough.”
“That’s quite true. But you would never have done your duty if He had
not been with you.”
“DO you think so, sir?” he returned, eagerly.
“Indeed, I do. Everything good comes from the Father of lights. Every
one that walks in any glimmering of light walks so far in HIS light.
For there is no light—only darkness—comes from below. And man apart
from God can generate no light. He’s not meant to be separated from
God, you see. And only think then what light He can give you if you
will turn to Him and ask for it. What He has given you should make you
long for more; for what you have is not enough—ah! far from it.”
“I think I understand. But I didn’t feel good at all in the matter. I
didn’t see any other way of doing.”
“So much the better. We ought never to feel good. We are but
unprofitable servants at best. There is no merit in doing your duty;
only you would have been a poor wretched creature not to do as you did.
And now, instead of making yourself miserable over the consequences of
it, you ought to bear them like a man, with courage and hope, thanking
God that He has made you suffer for righteousness’ sake, and denied you
the success and the praise of cheating. I will go to your father at
once, and find out what he is thinking about it. For no doubt Mr—-has
written to him with his version of the story. Perhaps he will be more
inclined to believe you when he finds that I believe you.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” cried the lad, and jumped up from his seat to go
with me.
“No,” I said; “you had better stay where you are. I shall be able to
speak more freely if you are not present. Here is a book to amuse
yourself with. I do not think I shall be long gone.”
But I was longer gone than I thought I should be.
When I reached the carpenter’s house, I found, to my surprise, that he
was still at work. By the light of a single tallow candle placed beside
him on the bench, he was ploughing away at a groove. His pale face, of
which the lines were unusually sharp, as I might have expected after
what had occurred, was the sole object that reflected the light of the
candle to my eyes as I entered the gloomy place. He looked up, but
without even greeting me, dropped his face again and went on with his
work.
“What!” I said, cheerily,—for I believed that, like Gideon’s pitcher, I
held dark within me the light that would discomfit his Midianites,
which consciousness may well make the pitcher cheery inside, even while
the light as yet is all its own—worthless, till it break out upon the
world, and cease to illuminate only glazed pitcher-sides—“What!” I
said, “working so late?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is not usual with you, I know.”
“It’s all a humbug!” he said fiercely, but coldly notwithstanding, as
he stood erect from his work, and turned his white face full on me—of
which, however, the eyes drooped—“It’s all a humbug; and I don’t mean
to be humbugged any more.”
“Am I a humbug?” I returned, not quite taken by surprise.
“I don’t say that. Don’t make a personal thing of it, sir. You’re taken
in, I believe, like the rest of us. Tell me that a God governs the
world! What have I done, to be used like this?”
I thought with myself how I could retort for his young son: “What has
he done to be used like this?” But that was not my way, though it might
work well enough in some hands. Some men are called to be prophets. I
could only “stand and wait.”
“It would be wrong in me to pretend ignorance,” I said, “of what you
mean. I know all about it.”
“Do you? He has been to you, has he? But you don’t know all about it,
sir. The impudence of the young rascal!”
He paused for a moment.
“A man like me!” he resumed, becoming eloquent in his indignation, and,
as I thought afterwards, entirely justifying what Wordsworth says about
the language of the so-called uneducated,—“A man like me, who was as
proud of his honour as any aristocrat in the country—prouder than any
of them would grant me the right to be!”
“Too proud of it, I think—not too careful of it,” I said. But I was
thankful he did not heed me, for the speech would only have irritated
him. He went on.
“Me to be treated like this! One child a ...”
Here came a terrible break in his speech. But he tried again.
“And the other a ...”
Instead of finishing the sentence, however, he drove his plough
fiercely through the groove, splitting off some inches of the wall of
it at the end.
“If any one has treated you so,” I said, “it must be the devil, not
God.”
“But if there was a God, he could have prevented it all.”
“Mind what I said to you once before: He hasn’t done yet. And there is
another enemy in His way as bad as the devil—I mean our SELVES. When
people want to walk their own way without God, God lets them try it.
And then the devil gets a hold of them. But God won’t let him keep
them. As soon as they are ‘wearied in the greatness of their way,’ they
begin to look about for a Saviour. And then they find God ready to
pardon, ready to help, not breaking the bruised reed—leading them to
his own self manifest—with whom no man can fear any longer, Jesus
Christ, the righteous lover of men—their elder brother—what we call BIG
BROTHER, you know—one to help them and take their part against the
devil, the world, and the flesh, and all the rest of the wicked powers.
So you see God is tender—just like the prodigal son’s father—only with
this difference, that God has millions of prodigals, and never gets
tired of going out to meet them and welcome them back, every one as if
he were the only prodigal son He had ever had. There’s a father indeed!
Have you been such a father to your son?”
“The prodigal didn’t come with a pack of lies. He told his father the
truth, bad as it was.”
“How do you know that your son didn’t tell you the truth? All the young
men that go from home don’t do as the prodigal did. Why should you not
believe what he tells you?”
“I’m not one to reckon without my host. Here’s my bill.”
And so saying, he handed me a letter. I took it and read:—
“SIR,—It has become our painful duty to inform you that your son has
this day been discharged from the employment of Messrs—-and Co., his
conduct not being such as to justify the confidence hitherto reposed in
him. It would have been contrary to the interests of the establishment
to continue him longer behind the counter, although we are not prepared
to urge anything against him beyond the fact that he has shown himself
absolutely indifferent to the interests of his employers. We trust that
the chief blame will be found to lie with certain connexions of a kind
easy to be formed in large cities, and that the loss of his situation
may be punishment sufficient, if not for justice, yet to make him
consider his ways and be wise. We enclose his quarter’s salary, which
the young man rejected with insult, and,
“We remain, &c.,
“—— and Co.”
“And,” I exclaimed, “this is what you found your judgment of your own
son upon! You reject him unheard, and take the word of a stranger! I
don’t wonder you cannot believe in your Father when you behave so to
your son. I don’t say your conclusion is false, though I don’t believe
it. But I do say the grounds you go upon are anything but sufficient.”
“You don’t mean to tell me that a man of Mr—-’s standing, who has one
of the largest shops in London, and whose brother is Mayor of
Addicehead, would slander a poor lad like that!”
“Oh you mammon-worshipper!” I cried. “Because a man has one of the
largest shops in London, and his brother is Mayor of Addicehead, you
take his testimony and refuse your son’s! I did not know the boy till
this evening; but I call upon you to bring back to your memory all that
you have known of him from his childhood, and then ask yourself whether
there is not, at least, as much probability of his having remained
honest as of the master of a great London shop being infallible in his
conclusions—at which conclusions, whatever they be, I confess no man
can wonder, after seeing how readily his father listens to his
defamation.”
I spoke with warmth. Before I had done, the pale face of the carpenter
was red as fire; for he had been acting contrary to all his own
theories of human equality, and that in a shameful manner. Still,
whether convinced or not, he would not give in. He only drove away at
his work, which he was utterly destroying. His mouth was closed so
tight, he looked as if he had his jaw locked; and his eyes gleamed over
the ruined board with a light which seemed to me to have more of
obstinacy in it than contrition.
“Ah, Thomas!” I said, taking up the speech once more, “if God had
behaved to us as you have behaved to your boy—be he innocent, be he
guilty—there’s not a man or woman of all our lost race would have
returned to Him from the time of Adam till now. I don’t wonder that you
find it difficult to believe in Him.”
And with those words I left the shop, determined to overwhelm the
unbeliever with proof, and put him to shame before his own soul,
whence, I thought, would come even more good to him than to his son.
For there was a great deal of self-satisfaction mixed up with the man’s
honesty, and the sooner that had a blow the better—it might prove a
death-blow in the long run. It was pride that lay at the root of his
hardness. He visited the daughter’s fault upon the son. His daughter
had disgraced him; and he was ready to flash into wrath with his son
upon any imputation which recalled to him the torture he had undergone
when his daughter’s dishonour came first to the light. Her he had never
forgiven, and now his pride flung his son out after her upon the first
suspicion. His imagination had filled up all the blanks in the wicked
insinuations of Mr—-. He concluded that he had taken money to spend in
the worst company, and had so disgraced him beyond forgiveness. His
pride paralysed his love. He thought more about himself than about his
children. His own shame outweighed in his estimation the sadness of
their guilt. It was a less matter that they should be guilty, than that
he, their father, should be disgraced.
Thinking over all this, and forgetting how late it was, I found myself
half-way up the avenue of the Hall. I wanted to find out whether young
Weir’s fancy that the ladies he had failed in serving, or rather whom
he had really served with honesty, were Mrs and Miss Oldcastle, was
correct. What a point it would be if it was! I should not then be
satisfied except I could prevail on Miss Oldcastle to accompany me to
Thomas Weir, and shame the faithlessness out of him. So eager was I
after certainty, that it was not till I stood before the house that I
saw clearly the impropriety of attempting anything further that night.
One light only was burning in the whole front, and that was on the
first floor.
Glancing up at it, I knew not why, as I turned to go down the hill
again, I saw a corner of the blind drawn aside and a face peeping
out—whose, I could not tell. This was uncomfortable—for what could be
taking me there at such a time? But I walked steadily away, certain I
could not escape recognition, and determining to refer to this
ill-considered visit when I called the next day. I would not put it off
till Monday, I was resolved.
I lingered on the bridge as I went home. Not a light was to be seen in
the village, except one over Catherine Weir’s shop. There were not many
restless souls in my parish—not so many as there ought to be. Yet
gladly would I see the troubled in peace—not a moment, though, before
their troubles should have brought them where the weary and heavy-laden
can alone find rest to their souls—finding the Father’s peace in the
Son—the Father himself reconciling them to Himself.
How still the night was! My soul hung, as it were, suspended in
stillness; for the whole sphere of heaven seemed to be about me, the
stars above shining as clear below in the mirror of the all but
motionless water. It was a pure type of the “rest that remaineth”—rest,
the one immovable centre wherein lie all the stores of might, whence
issue all forces, all influences of making and moulding. “And, indeed,”
I said to myself, “after all the noise, uproar, and strife that there
is on the earth, after all the tempests, earthquakes, and volcanic
outbursts, there is yet more of peace than of tumult in the world. How
many nights like this glide away in loveliness, when deep sleep hath
fallen upon men, and they know neither how still their own repose, nor
how beautiful the sleep of nature! Ah, what must the stillness of the
kingdom be? When the heavenly day’s work is done, with what a gentle
wing will the night come down! But I bethink me, the rest there, as
here, will be the presence of God; and if we have Him with us, the
battle-field itself will be—if not quiet, yet as full of peace as this
night of stars.” So I spoke to myself, and went home.
I had little immediate comfort to give my young guest, but I had plenty
of hope. I told him he must stay in the house to-morrow; for it would
be better to have the reconciliation with his father over before he
appeared in public. So the next day neither Weir was at church.
As soon as the afternoon service was over, I went once more to the
Hall, and was shown into the drawing-room—a great faded room, in which
the prevailing colour was a dingy gold, hence called the yellow
drawing-room when the house had more than one. It looked down upon the
lawn, which, although little expense was now laid out on any of the
ornamental adjuncts of the Hall, was still kept very nice. There sat
Mrs Oldcastle reading, with her face to the house. A little way farther
on, Miss Oldcastle sat, with a book on her knee, but her gaze fixed on
the wide-spread landscape before her, of which, however, she seemed to
be as inobservant as of her book. I caught glimpses of Judy flitting
hither and thither among the trees, never a moment in one place.
Fearful of having an interview with the old lady alone, which was not
likely to lead to what I wanted, I stepped from a window which was
open, out upon the terrace, and thence down the steps to the lawn
below. The servant had just informed Mrs Oldcastle of my visit when I
came near. She drew herself up in her chair, and evidently chose to
regard my approach as an intrusion.
“I did not expect a visit from you to-day, Mr Walton, you will allow me
to say.”
“I am doing Sunday work,” I answered. “Will you kindly tell me whether
you were in London on Thursday last? But stay, allow me to ask Miss
Oldcastle to join us.”
Without waiting for answer, I went to Miss Oldcastle, and begged her to
come and listen to something in which I wanted her help. She rose
courteously though without cordiality, and accompanied me to her
mother, who sat with perfect rigidity, watching us.
“Again let me ask,” I said, “if you were in London on Thursday.”
Though I addressed the old lady, the answer came from her daughter.
“Yes, we were.”
“Were you in—-& Co.’s, in—-Street?”
But now before Miss Oldcastle could reply, her mother interposed.
“Are we charged with shoplifting, Mr Walton? Really, one is not
accustomed to such cross-questioning—except from a lawyer.”
“Have patience with me for a moment,” I returned. “I am not going to be
mysterious for more than two or three questions. Please tell me whether
you were in that shop or not.”
“I believe we were,” said the mother.
“Yes, certainly,” said the daughter.
“Did you buy anything?”
“No. We—” Miss Oldcastle began.
“Not a word more,” I exclaimed eagerly. “Come with me at once.”
“What DO you mean, Mr Walton?” said the mother, with a sort of cold
indignation, while the daughter looked surprised, but said nothing.
“I beg your pardon for my impetuosity; but much is in your power at
this moment. The son of one of my parishioners has come home in
trouble. His father, Thomas Weir—”
“Ah!” said Mrs Oldcastle, in a tone considerably at strife with
refinement. But I took no notice.
“His father will not believe his story. The lad thinks you were the
ladies in serving whom he got into trouble. I am so confident he tells
the truth, that I want Miss Oldcastle to be so kind as to accompany me
to Weir’s house—”
“Really, Mr Walton, I am astonished at your making such a request!”
exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle, with suitable emphasis on every salient
syllable, while her white face flushed with anger. “To ask Miss
Oldcastle to accompany you to the dwelling of the ringleader of all the
canaille of the neighbourhood!”
“It is for the sake of justice,” I interposed.
“That is no concern of ours. Let them fight it out between them, I am
sure any trouble that comes of it is no more than they all deserve. A
low family—men and women of them.”
“I assure you, I think very differently.”
“I daresay you do.”
“But neither your opinion nor mine has anything to do with the matter.”
Here I turned to Miss Oldcastle and went on—
“It is a chance which seldom occurs in one’s life, Miss Oldcastle—a
chance of setting wrong right by a word; and as a minister of the
gospel of truth and love, I beg you to assist me with your presence to
that end.”
I would have spoken more strongly, but I knew that her word given to me
would be enough without her presence. At the same time, I felt not only
that there would be a propriety in her taking a personal interest in
the matter, but that it would do her good, and tend to create a favour
towards each other in some of my flock between whom at present there
seemed to be nothing in common.
But at my last words, Mrs Oldcastle rose to her feet no longer red—now
whiter than her usual whiteness with passion.
“You dare to persist! You take advantage of your profession to persist
in dragging my daughter into a vile dispute between mechanics of the
lowest class—against the positive command of her only parent! Have you
no respect for her position in society?—for her sex? MISTER WALTON, you
act in a manner unworthy of your cloth.”
I had stood looking in her eyes with as much self-possession as I could
muster. And I believe I should have borne it all quietly, but for that
last word.
If there is one epithet I hate more than another, it is that execrable
word CLOTH—used for the office of a clergyman. I have no time to set
forth its offence now. If my reader cannot feel it, I do not care to
make him feel it. Only I am sorry to say it overcame my temper.
“Madam,” I said, “I owe nothing to my tailor. But I owe God my whole
being, and my neighbour all I can do for him. ‘He that loveth not his
brother is a murderer,’ or murderess, as the case may be.”
At that word MURDERESS, her face became livid, and she turned away
without reply. By this time her daughter was half way to the house. She
followed her. And here was I left to go home, with the full knowledge
that, partly from trying to gain too much, and partly from losing my
temper, I had at best but a mangled and unsatisfactory testimony to
carry back to Thomas Weir. Of course I walked away—round the end of the
house and down the avenue; and the farther I went the more mortified I
grew. It was not merely the shame of losing my temper, though that was
a shame—and with a woman too, merely because she used a common
epithet!—but I saw that it must appear very strange to the carpenter
that I was not able to give a more explicit account of some sort, what
I had learned not being in the least decisive in the matter. It only
amounted to this, that Mrs and Miss Oldcastle were in the shop on the
very day on which Weir was dismissed. It proved that so much of what he
had told me was correct—nothing more. And if I tried to better the
matter by explaining how I had offended them, would it not deepen the
very hatred I had hoped to overcome? In fact, I stood convicted before
the tribunal of my own conscience of having lost all the certain good
of my attempt, in part at least from the foolish desire to produce a
conviction OF Weir rather than IN Weir, which should be triumphant
after a melodramatic fashion, and—must I confess it?—should PUNISH him
for not believing in his son when _I_ did; forgetting in my miserable
selfishness that not to believe in his son was an unspeakably worse
punishment in itself than any conviction or consequent shame brought
about by the most overwhelming of stage-effects. I assure my reader, I
felt humiliated.
Now I think humiliation is a very different condition of mind from
humility. Humiliation no man can desire: it is shame and torture.
Humility is the true, right condition of humanity—peaceful, divine. And
yet a man may gladly welcome humiliation when it comes, if he finds
that with fierce shock and rude revulsion it has turned him right
round, with his face away from pride, whither he was travelling, and
towards humility, however far away upon the horizon’s verge she may sit
waiting for him. To me, however, there came a gentle and not therefore
less effective dissolution of the bonds both of pride and humiliation;
and before Weir and I met, I was nearly as anxious to heal his wounded
spirit, as I was to work justice for his son.
I was walking slowly, with burning cheek and downcast eyes, the one of
conflict, the other of shame and defeat, away from the great house,
which seemed to be staring after me down the avenue with all its
window-eyes, when suddenly my deliverance came. At a somewhat sharp
turn, where the avenue changed into a winding road, Miss Oldcastle
stood waiting for me, the glow of haste upon her cheek, and the
firmness of resolution upon her lips. Once more I was startled by her
sudden presence, but she did not smile.
“Mr Walton, what do you want me to do? I would not willing refuse, if
it is, as you say, really my duty to go with you.”
“I cannot be positive about that,” I answered. “I think I put it too
strongly. But it would be a considerable advantage, I think, if you
WOULD go with me and let me ask you a few questions in the presence of
Thomas Weir. It will have more effect if I am able to tell him that I
have only learned as yet that you were in the shop on that day, and
refer him to you for the rest.”
“I will go.”
“A thousand thanks. But how did you manage to—?”
Here I stopped, not knowing how to finish the question.
“You are surprised that I came, notwithstanding mamma’s objection to my
going?”
“I confess I am. I should not have been surprised at Judy’s doing so,
now.”
She was silent for a moment.
“Do you think obedience to parents is to last for ever? The honour is,
of course. But I am surely old enough to be right in following my
conscience at least.”
“You mistake me. That is not the difficulty at all. Of course you ought
to do what is right against the highest authority on earth, which I
take to be just the parental. What I am surprised at is your courage.”
“Not because of its degree, only that it is mine!”
And she sighed.—She was quite right, and I did not know what to answer.
But she resumed.
“I know I am cowardly. But if I cannot dare, I can bear. Is it not
strange?—With my mother looking at me, I dare not say a word, dare
hardly move against her will. And it is not always a good will. I
cannot honour my mother as I would. But the moment her eyes are off me,
I can do anything, knowing the consequences perfectly, and just as
regardless of them; for, as I tell you, Mr Walton, I can endure; and
you do not know what that might COME to mean with my mother. Once she
kept me shut up in my room, and sent me only bread and water, for a
whole week to the very hour. Not that I minded that much, but it will
let you know a little of my position in my own home. That is why I
walked away before her. I saw what was coming.”
And Miss Oldcastle drew herself up with more expression of pride than I
had yet seen in her, revealing to me that perhaps I had hitherto quite
misunderstood the source of her apparent haughtiness. I could not reply
for indignation. My silence must have been the cause of what she said
next.
“Ah! you think I have no right to speak so about my own mother! Well!
well! But indeed I would not have done so a month ago.”
“If I am silent, Miss Oldcastle, it is that my sympathy is too strong
for me. There are mothers and mothers. And for a mother not to be a
mother is too dreadful.”
She made no reply. I resumed.
“It will seem cruel, perhaps;—certainly in saying it, I lay myself open
to the rejoinder that talk is SO easy;—still I shall feel more honest
when I have said it: the only thing I feel should be altered in your
conduct—forgive me—is that you should DARE your mother. Do not think,
for it is an unfortunate phrase, that my meaning is a vulgar one. If it
were, I should at least know better than to utter it to you. What I
mean is, that you ought to be able to be and do the same before your
mother’s eyes, that you are and do when she is out of sight. I mean
that you should look in your mother’s eyes, and do what is RIGHT.”
“I KNOW that—know it WELL.” (She emphasized the words as I do.) “But
you do not know what a spell she casts upon me; how impossible it is to
do as you say.”
“Difficult, I allow. Impossible, not. You will never be free till you
do so.”
“You are too hard upon me. Besides, though you will scarcely be able to
believe it now, I DO honour her, and cannot help feeling that by doing
as I do, I avoid irreverence, impertinence, rudeness—whichever is the
right word for what I mean.”
“I understand you perfectly. But the truth is more than propriety of
behaviour, even to a parent; and indeed has in it a deeper reverence,
or the germ of it at least, than any adherence to the mere code of
respect. If you once did as I want you to do, you would find that in
reality you both revered and loved your mother more than you do now.”
“You may be right. But I am certain you speak without any real idea of
the difficulty.”
“That may be. And yet what I say remains just as true.”
“How could I meet VIOLENCE, for instance?”
“Impossible!”
She returned no reply. We walked in silence for some minutes. At length
she said,
“My mother’s self-will amounts to madness, I do believe. I have yet to
learn where she would stop of herself.”
“All self-will is madness,” I returned—stupidly enough For what is the
use of making general remarks when you have a terrible concrete before
you? “To want one’s own way just and only because it is one’s own way
is the height of madness.”
“Perhaps. But when madness has to be encountered as if it were sense,
it makes it no easier to know that it is madness.”
“Does your uncle give you no help?”
“He! Poor man! He is as frightened at her as I am. He dares not even go
away. He did not know what he was coming to when he came to Oldcastle
Hall. Dear uncle! I owe him a great deal. But for any help of that
sort, he is of no more use than a child. I believe mamma looks upon him
as half an idiot. He can do anything or everything but help one to
live, to BE anything. Oh me! I AM so tired!”
And the PROUD lady, as I had thought her, perhaps not incorrectly,
burst out crying.
What was I to do? I did not know in the least. What I said, I do not
even now know. But by this time we were at the gate, and as soon as we
had passed the guardian monstrosities, we found the open road an
effectual antidote to tears. When we came within sight of the old house
where Weir lived, Miss Oldcastle became again a little curious as to
what I required of her.
“Trust me,” I said. “There is nothing mysterious about it. Only I
prefer the truth to come out fresh in the ears of the man most
concerned.”
“I do trust you,” she answered. And we knocked at the house-door.
Thomas Weir himself opened the door, with a candle in his hand. He
looked very much astonished to see his lady-visitor. He asked us,
politely enough, to walk up-stairs, and ushered us into the large room
I have already described. There sat the old man, as I had first seen
him, by the side of the fire. He received us with more than
politeness—with courtesy; and I could not help glancing at Miss
Oldcastle to see what impression this family of “low, free-thinking
republicans” made upon her. It was easy to discover that the impression
was of favourable surprise. But I was as much surprised at her
behaviour as she was at theirs. Not a haughty tone was to be heard in
her voice; not a haughty movement to be seen in her form. She accepted
the chair offered her, and sat down, perfectly at home, by the
fireside, only that she turned towards me, waiting for what explanation
I might think proper to give.
Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr Weir broke the silence.
“I’ve been telling Tom, sir, as I’ve told him many a time afore, as how
he’s a deal too hard with his children.”
“Father!” interrupted Thomas, angrily.
“Have patience a bit, my boy,” persisted the old man, turning again
towards me.—“Now, sir, he won’t even hear young Tom’s side of the
story; and I say that boy won’t tell him no lie if he’s the same boy he
went away.”
“I tell you, father,” again began Thomas; but this time I interposed,
to prevent useless talk beforehand.
“Thomas,” I said, “listen to me. I have heard your son’s side of the
story. Because of something he said I went to Miss Oldcastle, and asked
her whether she was in his late master’s shop last Thursday. That is
all I have asked her, and all she has told me is that she was. I know
no more than you what she is going to reply to my questions now, but I
have no doubt her answers will correspond to your son’s story.”
I then put my questions to Miss Oldcastle, whose answers amounted to
this:—That they had wanted to buy a shawl; that they had seen none good
enough; that they had left the shop without buying anything; and that
they had been waited upon by a young man, who, while perfectly polite
and attentive to their wants, did not seem to have the ways or manners
of a London shop-lad.
I then told them the story as young Tom had related it to me, and asked
if his sister was not in the house and might not go to fetch him. But
she was with her sister Catherine.
“I think, Mr Walton, if you have done with me, I ought to go home now,”
said Miss Oldcastle.
“Certainly,” I answered. “I will take you home at once. I am greatly
obliged to you for coming.”
“Indeed, sir,” said the old man, rising with difficulty, “we’re obliged
both to you and the lady more than we can tell. To take such a deal of
trouble for us! But you see, sir, you’re one of them as thinks a man’s
got his duty to do one way or another, whether he be clergyman or
carpenter. God bless you, Miss. You’re of the right sort, which you’ll
excuse an old man, Miss, as’ll never see ye again till ye’ve got the
wings as ye ought to have.”
Miss Oldcastle smiled very sweetly, and answered nothing, but shook
hands with them both, and bade them good-night. Weir could not speak a
word; he could hardly even lift his eyes. But a red spot glowed on each
of his pale cheeks, making him look very like his daughter Catherine,
and I could see Miss Oldcastle wince and grow red too with the grip he
gave her hand. But she smiled again none the less sweetly.
“I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back to my house and bring
the boy with me,” I said, as we left.
It was some time before either of us spoke. The sun was setting, the
sky the earth and the air lovely with rosy light, and the world full of
that peculiar calm which belongs to the evening of the day of rest.
Surely the world ought to wake better on the morrow.
“Not very dangerous people, those, Miss Oldcastle?” I said, at last.
“I thank you very much for taking me to see them,” she returned,
cordially.
“You won’t believe all you may happen to hear against the working
people now?”
“I never did.”
“There are ill-conditioned, cross-grained, low-minded, selfish,
unbelieving people amongst them. God knows it. But there are ladies and
gentlemen amongst them too.”
“That old man is a gentleman.”
“He is. And the only way to teach them all to be such, is to be such to
them. The man who does not show himself a gentleman to the working
people—why should I call them the poor? some of them are better off
than many of the rich, for they can pay their debts, and do it—”
I had forgot the beginning of my sentence.
“You were saying that the man who does not show himself a gentleman to
the poor—”
“Is no gentleman at all—only a gentle without the man; and if you
consult my namesake old Izaak, you will find what that is.”
“I will look. I know your way now. You won’t tell me anything I can
find out for myself.”
“Is it not the best way?”
“Yes. Because, for one thing, you find out so much more than you look
for.”
“Certainly that has been my own experience.”
“Are you a descendant of Izaak Walton?”
“No. I believe there are none. But I hope I have so much of his spirit
that I can do two things like him.”
“Tell me.”
“Live in the country, though I was not brought up in it; and know a
good man when I see him.”
“I am very glad you asked me to go to-night.”
“If people only knew their own brothers and sisters, the kingdom of
heaven would not be far off.”
I do not think Miss Oldcastle quite liked this, for she was silent
thereafter; though I allow that her silence was not conclusive. And we
had now come close to the house.
“I wish I could help you,” I said.
“In what?”
“To bear what I fear is waiting you.”
“I told you I was equal to that. It is where we are unequal that we
want help. You may have to give it me some day—who knows?”
I left her most unwillingly in the porch, just as Sarah (the white
wolf) had her hand on the door, rejoicing in my heart, however, over
her last words.
My reader will not be surprised, after all this, if, before I get very
much further with my story, I have to confess that I loved Miss
Oldcastle.
When young Tom and I entered the room, his grandfather rose and
tottered to meet him. His father made one step towards him and then
hesitated. Of all conditions of the human mind, that of being ashamed
of himself must have been the strangest to Thomas Weir. The man had
never in his life, I believe, done anything mean or dishonest, and
therefore he had had less frequent opportunities than most people of
being ashamed of himself. Hence his fall had been from another
pinnacle—that of pride. When a man thinks it such a fine thing to have
done right, he might almost as well have done wrong, for it shows he
considers right something EXTRA, not absolutely essential to human
existence, not the life of a man. I call it Thomas Weir’s fall; for
surely to behave in an unfatherly manner to both daughter and son—the
one sinful, and therefore needing the more tenderness—the other
innocent, and therefore claiming justification—and to do so from pride,
and hurt pride, was fall enough in one history, worse a great deal than
many sins that go by harder names; for the world’s judgment of wrong
does not exactly correspond with the reality. And now if he was humbled
in the one instance, there would be room to hope he might become humble
in the other. But I had soon to see that, for a time, his pride, driven
from its entrenchment against his son, only retreated, with all its
forces, into the other against his daughter.
Before a moment had passed, justice overcame so far that he held out
his hand and said:—
“Come, Tom, let by-gones be by-gones.”
But I stepped between.
“Thomas Weir,” I said, “I have too great a regard for you—and you know
I dare not flatter you—to let you off this way, or rather leave you to
think you have done your duty when you have not done the half of it.
You have done your son a wrong, a great wrong. How can you claim to be
a gentleman—I say nothing of being a Christian, for therein you make no
claim—how, I say, can you claim to act like a gentleman, if, having
done a man wrong—his being your own son has nothing to do with the
matter one way or other, except that it ought to make you see your duty
more easily—having done him wrong, why don’t you beg his pardon, I say,
like a man?”
He did not move a step. But young Tom stepped hurriedly forward, and
catching his father’s hand in both of his, cried out:
“My father shan’t beg my pardon. I beg yours, father, for everything I
ever did to displease you, but I WASN’T to blame in this. I wasn’t,
indeed.”
“Tom, I beg your pardon,” said the hard man, overcome at last. “And
now, sir,” he added, turning to me, “will you let by-gones be by-gones
between my boy and me?”
There was just a touch of bitterness in his tone.
“With all my heart,” I replied. “But I want just a word with you in the
shop before I go.”
“Certainly,” he answered, stiffly; and I bade the old and the young man
good night, and followed him down stairs.
“Thomas, my friend,” I said, when we got into the shop, laying my hand
on his shoulder, “will you after this say that God has dealt hardly
with you? There’s a son for any man God ever made to give thanks for on
his knees! Thomas, you have a strong sense of fair play in your heart,
and you GIVE fair play neither to your own son nor yet to God himself.
You close your doors and brood over your own miseries, and the wrongs
people have done you; whereas, if you would but open those doors, you
might come out into the light of God’s truth, and see that His heart is
as clear as sunlight towards you. You won’t believe this, and therefore
naturally you can’t quite believe that there is a God at all; for,
indeed, a being that was not all light would be no God at all. If you
would but let Him teach you, you would find your perplexities melt away
like the snow in spring, till you could hardly believe you had ever
felt them. No arguing will convince you of a God; but let Him once come
in, and all argument will be tenfold useless to convince you that there
is no God. Give God justice. Try Him as I have said.—Good night.”
He did not return my farewell with a single word. But the grasp of his
strong rough hand was more earnest and loving even than usual. I could
not see his face, for it was almost dark; but, indeed, I felt that it
was better I could not see it.
I went home as peaceful in my heart as the night whose curtains God had
drawn about the earth that it might sleep till the morrow.