THE DEVIL IN CATHERINE WEIR.
About this time my father was taken ill, and several journeys to London
followed. It is only as vicar that I am writing these memorials—for
such they should be called, rather than ANNALS, though certainly the
use of the latter word has of late become vague enough for all
convenience—therefore I have said nothing about my home-relations; but
I must just mention here that I had a half-sister, about half my own
age, whose anxiety during my father’s illness rendered my visits more
frequent than perhaps they would have been from my own. But my sister
was right in her anxiety. My father grew worse, and in December he
died. I will not eulogize one so dear to me. That he was no common man
will appear from the fact of his unconventionality and justice in
leaving his property to my sister, saying in his will that he had done
all I could require of him, in giving me a good education; and that,
men having means in their power which women had not, it was unjust to
the latter to make them, without a choice, dependent upon the former.
After the funeral, my sister, feeling it impossible to remain in the
house any longer, begged me to take her with me. So, after arranging
affairs, we set out, and reached Marshmallows on New Year’s Day.
My sister being so much younger than myself, her presence in my house
made very little change in my habits. She came into my ways without any
difficulty, so that I did not experience the least restraint from
having to consider her. And I soon began to find her of considerable
service among the poor and sick of my flock, the latter class being
more numerous this winter on account of the greater severity of the
weather.
I now began to note a change in the habits of Catherine Weir. As far as
I remember, I had never up to this time seen her out of her own house,
except in church, at which she had been a regular attendant for many
weeks. Now, however, I began to meet her when and where I least
expected—I do not say often, but so often as to make me believe she
went wandering about frequently. It was always at night, however, and
always in stormy weather. The marvel was, not that a sick woman could
be there—for a sick woman may be able to do anything; but that she
could do so more than once—that was the marvel. At the same time, I
began to miss her from church.
Possibly my reader may wonder how I came to have the chance of meeting
any one again and again at night and in stormy weather. I can relieve
him from the difficulty. Odd as it will appear to some readers, I had
naturally a predilection for rough weather. I think I enjoyed fighting
with a storm in winter nearly as much as lying on the grass under a
beech-tree in summer. Possibly this assertion may seem strange to one
likewise who has remarked the ordinary peaceableness of my disposition.
But he may have done me the justice to remark at the same time, that I
have some considerable pleasure in fighting the devil, though none in
fighting my fellow-man, even in the ordinary form of disputation in
which it is not heart’s blood, but soul’s blood, that is so often shed.
Indeed there are many controversies far more immoral, as to the manner
in which they are conducted, than a brutal prize-fight. There is,
however, a pleasure of its own in conflict; and I have always
experienced a certain indescribable, though I believe not at all
unusual exaltation, even in struggling with a well-set, thoroughly
roused storm of wind and snow or rain. The sources of this by no means
unusual delight, I will not stay to examine, indicating only that I
believe the sources are deep.—I was now quite well, and had no reason
to fear bad consequences from the indulgence of this surely innocent
form of the love of strife.
But I find I must give another reason as well, if I would be thoroughly
honest with my reader. The fact was, that as I had recovered strength,
I had become more troubled and restless about Miss Oldcastle. I could
not see how I was to make any progress towards her favour. There seemed
a barrier as insurmountable as intangible between her and me. The will
of one woman came between and parted us, and that will was as the magic
line over which no effort of will or strength could enable the
enchanted knight to make a single stride. And this consciousness of
being fettered by insensible and infrangible bonds, this need of doing
something with nothing tangible in the reach of the outstretched hand,
so worked upon my mind, that it naturally sought relief, as often as
the elemental strife arose, by mingling unconstrained with the tumult
of the night.—Will my readers find it hard to believe that this
disquietude of mind should gradually sink away as the hours of Saturday
glided down into night, and the day of my best labour drew nigh? Or
will they answer, “We believe it easily; for then you could at least
see the lady, and that comforted you?” Whatever it was that quieted me,
not the less have I to thank God for it.
All might have been so different. What a fearful thing would it have
been for me to have found my mind so full of my own cares, that I was
unable to do God’s work and bear my neighbour’s burden! But even then I
would have cried to Him, and said, “I know Thee that Thou art NOT a
hard master.”
Now, however, that I have quite accounted, as I believe, by the
peculiarity both of my disposition and circumstances, for unusual
wanderings under conditions when most people consider themselves
fortunate within doors, I must return to Catherine Weir, the
eccentricity of whose late behaviour, being in the particulars
discussed identical with that of mine, led to the necessity for the
explanation of my habits given above.
One January afternoon, just as twilight was folding her gray cloak
about her, and vanishing in the night, the wind blowing hard from the
south-west, melting the snow under foot, and sorely disturbing the
dignity of the one grand old cedar which stood before my study window,
and now filled my room with the great sweeps of its moaning, I felt as
if the elements were calling me, and rose to obey the summons. My
sister was, by this time, so accustomed to my going out in all
weathers, that she troubled me with no expostulation. My spirits began
to rise the moment I was in the wind. Keen, and cold, and unsparing, it
swept through the leafless branches around me, with a different hiss
for every tree that bent, and swayed, and tossed in its torrent. I made
my way to the gate and out upon the road, and then, turning to the
right, away from the village, I sought a kind of common, open and
treeless, the nearest approach to a moor that there was in the county,
I believe, over which a wind like this would sweep unstayed by house,
or shrub, or fence, the only shelter it afforded lying in the
inequalities of its surface.
I had walked with my head bent low against the blast, for the better
part of a mile, fighting for every step of the way, when, coming to a
deep cut in the common, opening at right angles from the road, whence
at some time or other a large quantity of sand had been carted, I
turned into its defence to recover my breath, and listen to the noise
of the wind in the fierce rush of its sea over the open channel of the
common. And I remember I was thinking with myself: “If the air would
only become faintly visible for a moment, what a sight it would be of
waste grandeur with its thousands of billowing eddies, and
self-involved, conflicting, and swallowing whirlpools from the
sea-bottom of this common!” when, with my imagination resting on the
fancied vision, I was startled by such a moan as seemed about to break
into a storm of passionate cries, but was followed by the words:
“O God! I cannot bear it longer. Hast thou NO help for me?”
Instinctively almost I knew that Catherine Weir was beside me, though I
could not see where she was. In a moment more, however, I thought I
could distinguish through the darkness—imagination no doubt filling up
the truth of its form—a figure crouching in such an attitude of
abandoned despair as recalled one of Flaxman’s outlines, the body bent
forward over the drawn-up knees, and the face thus hidden even from the
darkness. I could not help saying to myself, as I took a step or two
towards her, “What is thy trouble to hers!”
I may here remark that I had come to the conclusion, from pondering
over her case, that until a yet deeper and bitterer resentment than
that which she bore to her father was removed, it would be of no use
attacking the latter. For the former kept her in a state of hostility
towards her whole race: with herself at war she had no gentle thoughts,
no love for her kind; but ever
“She fed her wound with fresh-renewed bale”
from every hurt that she received from or imagined to be offered her by
anything human. So I had resolved that the next time I had an
opportunity of speaking to her, I would make an attempt to probe the
evil to its root, though I had but little hope, I confess, of doing any
good. And now when I heard her say, “Hast thou NO help for me?” I went
near her with the words:
“God has, indeed, help for His own offspring. Has He not suffered that
He might help? But you have not yet forgiven.”
When I began to speak, she gave a slight start: she was far too
miserable to be terrified at anything. Before I had finished, she stood
erect on her feet, facing me with the whiteness of her face glimmering
through the blackness of the night.
“I ask Him for peace,” she said, “and He sends me more torment.”
And I thought of Ahab when he said, “Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?”
“If we had what we asked for always, we should too often find it was
not what we wanted, after all.”
“You will not leave me alone,” she said. “It is too bad.”
Poor woman! It was well for her she could pray to God in her trouble;
for she could scarcely endure a word from her fellow-man. She,
despairing before God, was fierce as a tigress to her fellow-sinner who
would stretch a hand to help her out of the mire, and set her beside
him on the rock which he felt firm under his own feet.
“I will not leave you alone, Catherine,” I said, feeling that I must at
length assume another tone of speech with her who resisted gentleness.
“Scorn my interference as you will,” I said, “I have yet to give an
account of you. And I have to fear lest my Master should require your
blood at my hands. I did not follow you here, you may well believe me;
but I have found you here, and I must speak.”
All this time the wind was roaring overhead. But in the hollow was
stillness, and I was so near her, that I could hear every word she
said, although she spoke in a low compressed tone.
“Have you a right to persecute me,” she said, “because I am unhappy?”
“I have a right, and, more than a right, I have a duty to aid your
better self against your worse. You, I fear, are siding with your worse
self.”
“You judge me hard. I have had wrongs that—”
And here she stopped in a way that let me know she WOULD say no more.
“That you have had wrongs, and bitter wrongs, I do not for a moment
doubt. And him who has done you most wrong, you will not forgive.”
“No.”
“No. Not even for the sake of Him who, hanging on the tree, after all
the bitterness of blows and whipping, and derision, and rudest gestures
and taunts, even when the faintness of death was upon Him, cried to His
Father to forgive their cruelty. He asks you to forgive the man who
wronged you, and you will not—not even for Him! Oh, Catherine,
Catherine!”
“It is very easy to talk, Mr Walton,” she returned with forced but cool
scorn.
“Tell me, then,” I said, “have YOU nothing to repent of? Have YOU done
no wrong in this same miserable matter?”
“I do not understand you, sir,” she said, freezingly, petulantly, not
sure, perhaps, or unwilling to believe, that I meant what I did mean.
I was fully resolved to be plain with her now.
“Catherine Weir,” I said, “did not God give you a house to keep fair
and pure for Him? Did you keep it such?”
“He told me lies,” she cried fiercely, with a cry that seemed to pierce
through the storm over our heads, up towards the everlasting justice.
“He lied, and I trusted. For his sake I sinned, and he threw me from
him.”
“You gave him what was not yours to give. What right had you to cast
your pearl before a swine? But dare you say it was ALL FOR HIS SAKE you
did it? Was it ALL self-denial? Was there no self-indulgence?”
She made a broken gesture of lifting her hands to her head, let them
drop by her side, and said nothing.
“You knew you were doing wrong. You felt it even more than he did. For
God made you with a more delicate sense of purity, with a shrinking
from the temptation, with a womanly foreboding of disgrace, to help you
to hold the cup of your honour steady, which yet you dropped on the
ground. Do not seek refuge in the cant about a woman’s weakness. The
strength of the woman is as needful to her womanhood as the strength of
the man is to his manhood; and a woman is just as strong as she will
be. And now, instead of humbling yourself before your Father in heaven,
whom you have wronged more even than your father on earth, you rage
over your injuries and cherish hatred against him who wronged you. But
I will go yet further, and show you, in God’s name, that you wronged
your seducer. For you were his keeper, as he was yours. What if he had
found a noble-hearted girl who also trusted him entirely—just until she
knew she ought not to listen to him a moment longer? who, when his love
showed itself less than human, caring but for itself, rose in the
royalty of her maidenhood, and looked him in the face? Would he not
have been ashamed before her, and so before himself, seeing in the
glass of her dignity his own contemptibleness? But instead of such a
woman he found you, who let him do as he would. No redemption for him
in you. And now he walks the earth the worse for you, defiled by your
spoil, glorying in his poor victory over you, despising all women for
your sake, unrepentant and proud, ruining others the easier that he has
already ruined you.”
“He does! he does!” she shrieked; “but I will have my revenge. I can
and I will.”
And, darting past me, she rushed out into the storm. I followed, and
could just see that she took the way to the village. Her dim shape went
down the wind before me into the darkness. I followed in the same
direction, fast and faster, for the wind was behind me, and a vague
fear which ever grew in my heart urged me to overtake her. What had I
done? To what might I not have driven her? And although all I had said
was true, and I had spoken from motives which, as far as I knew my own
heart, I could not condemn, yet, as I sped after her, there came a
reaction of feeling from the severity with which I had displayed her
own case against her. “Ah! poor sister,” I thought, “was it for me thus
to reproach thee who had suffered already so fiercely? If the Spirit
speaking in thy heart could not win thee, how should my words of hard
accusation, true though they were, every one of them, rouse in thee
anything but the wrath that springs from shame? Should I not have tried
again, and yet again, to waken thy love; and then a sweet and healing
shame, like that of her who bathed the Master’s feet with her tears,
would have bred fresh love, and no wrath.”
But again I answered for myself, that my heart had not been the less
tender towards her that I had tried to humble her, for it was that she
might slip from under the net of her pride. Even when my tongue spoke
the hardest things I could find, my heart was yearning over her. If I
could but make her feel that she too had been wrong, would not the
sense of common wrong between them help her to forgive? And with the
first motion of willing pardon, would not a spring of tenderness,
grief, and hope, burst from her poor old dried-up heart, and make it
young and fresh once more! Thus I reasoned with myself as I followed
her back through the darkness.
The wind fell a little as we came near the village, and the rain began
to come down in torrents. There must have been a moon somewhere behind
the clouds, for the darkness became less dense, and I began to fancy I
could again see the dim shape which had rushed from me. I increased my
speed, and became certain of it. Suddenly, her strength giving way, or
her foot stumbling over something in the road, she fell to the earth
with a cry.
I was beside her in a moment. She was insensible. I did what I could
for her, and in a few minutes she began to come to herself.
“Where am I? Who is it?” she asked, listlessly.
When she found who I was, she made a great effort to rise, and
succeeded.
“You must take my arm,” I said, “and I will help you to the vicarage.”
“I will go home,” she answered.
“Lean on me now, at least; for you must get somewhere.”
“What does it matter?” she said, in such a tone of despair, that it
went to my very heart.
A wild half-cry, half-sob followed, and then she took my arm, and said
nothing more. Nor did I trouble her with any words, except, when we
readied the gate, to beg her to come into the vicarage instead of going
home. But she would not listen to me, and so I took her home.
She pulled the key of the shop from her pocket. Her hand trembled so
that I took it from her, and opened the door. A candle with a long
snuff was flickering on the counter; and stretched out on the counter,
with his head about a foot from the candle, lay little Gerard, fast
asleep.
“Ah, little darling!” I said in my heart, “this is not much like
painting the sky yet. But who knows?” And as I uttered the commonplace
question in my mind, in my mind it was suddenly changed into the half
of a great dim prophecy by the answer which arose to it there, for the
answer was “God.”
I lifted the little fellow in my arms. He had fallen asleep weeping,
and his face was dirty, and streaked with the channels of his tears.
Catherine had snuffed the candle, and now stood with it in her hand,
waiting for me to go. But, without heeding her, I bore my child to the
door that led to their dwelling. I had never been up those stairs
before, and therefore knew nothing of the way. But without offering any
opposition, his mother followed, and lighted me. What a sad face of
suffering and strife it was upon which that dim light fell! She set the
candle down upon the table of a small room at the top of the stairs,
which might have been comfortable enough but that it was neglected and
disordered; and now I saw that she did not even have her child to sleep
with her, for his crib stood in a corner of this their sitting-room.
I sat down on a haircloth couch, and proceeded to undress little
Gerard, trying as much as I could not to wake him. In this I was almost
successful. Catherine stood staring at me without saying a word. She
looked dazed, perhaps from the effects of her fall. But she brought me
his nightgown notwithstanding. Just as I had finished putting it on,
and was rising to lay him in his crib, he opened his eyes, and looked
at me; then gave a hurried look round, as if for his mother; then threw
his arms about my neck and kissed me. I laid him down and the same
moment he was fast asleep. In the morning it would not be even a dream
to him.
“Now,” I thought, “you are safe for the night, poor fatherless child.
Even your mother’s hardness will not make you sad now. Perhaps the
heavenly Father will send you loving dreams.”
I turned to Catherine, and bade her good-night. She just put her hand
in mine; but, instead of returning my leave-taking, said:
“Do not fancy you will get the better of me, Mr Walton, by being kind
to that boy. I will have my revenge, and I know how. I am only waiting
my time. When he is just going to drink, I will dash it from his hand.
I will. At the altar I will.”
Her eyes were flashing almost with madness, and she made fierce
gestures with her arm. I saw that argument was useless.
“You loved him once, Catherine,” I said. “Love him again. Love him
better. Forgive him. Revenge is far worse than anything you have done
yet.”
“What do I care? Why should I care?”
And she laughed terribly.
I made haste to leave the room and the house; but I lingered for nearly
an hour about the place before I could make up my mind to go home, so
much was I afraid lest she should do something altogether insane.
But at length I saw the candle appear in the shop, which was some
relief to my anxiety; and reflecting that her one consuming thought of
revenge was some security for her conduct otherwise, I went home.
That night my own troubles seemed small to me, and I did not brood over
them at all. My mind was filled with the idea of the sad misery which,
rather than in which, that poor woman was; and I prayed for her as for
a desolate human world whose sun had deserted the heavens, whose fair
fields, rivers, and groves were hardening into the frost of death, and
all their germs of hope becoming but portions of the lifeless mass. “If
I am sorrowful,” I said, “God lives none the less. And His will is
better than mine, yea, is my hidden and perfected will. In Him is my
life. His will be done. What, then, is my trouble compared to hers? I
will not sink into it and be selfish.”
In the morning my first business was to inquire after her. I found her
in the shop, looking very ill, and obstinately reserved. Gerard sat in
a corner, looking as far from happy as a child of his years could look.
As I left the shop he crept out with me.
“Gerard, come back,” cried his mother.
“I will not take him away,” I said.
The boy looked up in my face, as if he wanted to whisper to me, and I
stooped to listen.
“I dreamed last night,” said the boy, “that a big angel with white
wings came and took me out of my bed, and carried me high, high up—so
high that I could not dream any more.”
“We shall be carried up so high one day, Gerard, my boy, that we shall
not want to dream any more. For we shall be carried up to God himself.
Now go back to your mother.”
He obeyed at once, and I went on through the village.