The question had often been discussed by him to the furthest point
possible (as he thought) for its consideration to be extended; and how
was it that he found himself debating it at this time in its crudest
form? He had long ago settled it to his own satisfaction, that his life
was to be a lonely one through the world. Not for him were to be the
pleasant cares of home or wife or child. Not for him was the tenderness
of woman--not for him the babble of the little lips, every quiver of
which is a caress. His work was sufficient for him, he had often said,
and the contemplation of the possibility of anything on earth coming
between him and his labours, filled him with alarm. He felt that if he
were to cease to be absorbed in his work, he should be unfaithful to his
trust. The only one that was truly faithful was the one who was ready to
give up all to follow in the footsteps of the Master.
But being human and full of human sympathy, he had often felt a moment's
envy entering the house of one of his friends who was married and become
the father of children. The hundred little occurrences incidental to a
household, where there was a nursery and a schoolroom, were marked by
him--the clambering of little chubby legs up to the father's knee--the
interpretation of the latest phrase that fell from baby lips--the charm
of golden silk curls around an innocent child's face--all these and a
score of other delights associated with the household had appealed to
him, giving him an hour's longing at the time, and a tender recollection
at intervals in after years.
“Not for me--not for me,” he had said. So jealous was he of his work
that, as has been noted, the possibility of his becoming absorbed--even
partially--by anything that was not directly pertaining to his work,
was a dread to him. He set himself the task of crushing down within him
every aspiration that might tend to interfere with the carrying out
of the labour of his life, and he believed that, by stern and strict
endeavour, he had succeeded in doing so.
Then why should he now find himself considering the question which he
believed he had settled forever? Why should he now begin to see that the
assurance that it was not good for a man to be alone was based upon a
knowledge of men and was wise?
He found an apt illustration of the wisdom of the precept in the conduct
of the girl who had shown such thoughtfulness in regard to him. “Mentem
mortalia tangunt,” was the _sors Virgiliana_ which came to his mind at
the moment. He recognised the truth of it. A man was affected by the
material conditions of his life. If the girl had not shown such thought
for his comfort, he would well-nigh have been broken down by his
exhausting labours of the day, followed up by an exhausting walk along
the cliffs. He might not have returned to the house at which he was
staying in time to dine, before setting out for a long drive to another
place for an afternoon's meeting. So absorbed was he apt to be in his
preaching that he became oblivious to every consideration of daily life.
What were to him such trivial matters as eating and drinking at regular
intervals? He neglected the needs of his body, and only when he had
suffered for so doing did he feel that his carelessness was culpable. On
recovering from its' immediate effects, however, he fell back into his
old habits.
But now the thought that came to him was that he had need for someone to
be by his side as (for example) Nelly Polwhele had been. He knew quite
well, without having had the experience of married life, that if he had
had a wife, he would not have been allowed to do anything so unwise as
to walk straight away from the preaching to the cliffs, having eaten
nothing since the early morning, and then only a single cake of bread.
A good wife would have drawn him away from the people to whom he was
talking, to the house where he was a guest, and when there have set
about providing for him the food which he lacked and the rest which he
needed to restore him after his arduous morning's work, so that he might
set out for the afternoon's preaching feeling as fresh as he had felt in
the morning.
He was grateful to the girl, not only for her attention to him, but
also for affording him an illustration favourable to his altered way of
looking at a question which he fancied had long ago been settled forever
in his mind. (He had long ago forgiven the woman, who, in America, had
taught him to believe that a life of loneliness is more conducive to
one's peace of mind than a life linked to an unsympathetic companion.)
And having been led to such a conclusion, it was only reasonable that he
should make a resolution that, if he should ever be so fortunate as to
meet with a virtuous lady whom he should find to possess those qualities
which promised most readily to advance the work which he had at heart,
he would not be slow to ask her to be his companion to such an end.
This point settled to his satisfaction (as he thought), he mounted his
horse, after a week's stay in the valley of the Lana, and made his way
to the tinners of Camlin, twenty miles further along the coast Here
he was received with open arms, and preached from his rock pulpit to
thousands of eager men and women an hour after sunrise on a summer
morning.
On still for another fortnight, in wilder districts, among people who
rarely entered a church, and whom the church made no attempt to reach.
These were the people for him. He was told that he was going forth to
sow the seed in stony ground, but when he came and began to sow, he
found that it fell upon fruitful soil. Here it was impossible for him
to find a huge congregation, so scattered were the inhabitants. But this
was no obstacle to him: he asked for no more than a group of hearers
in every place, and by the time that night came he found that he had
preached to thousands since sunrise. Beginning sometimes at five o'clock
in the morning, he would preach on the outskirts of a village and hold
a second service before breakfasting six miles away. It was nothing for
him to preach half a dozen times and ride thirty miles in one of these
days.
But as he went further and further on this wonderful itinerary of his,
that sense of loneliness of which he had become aware at Porthawn seemed
to grow upon him. During those intervals of silence which he spent on
horseback, his feeling of loneliness appeared to increase, until at last
there came upon him a dread lest he should affect his labours. He had a
fear that a despondent note might find its way into his preaching, and
when under such an influence he made a strong effort in the opposite
direction, he was conscious of an artificial note; and, moreover, by the
true instinct of the man who talks to men, he was conscious that it was
detected by his hearers.
He was disappointed in himself--humiliated. How was it that for years
he had been able to throw off this feeling of walking alone, through
the world, or making no effort to throw it off, to glory in it, as it
were--to feel all the stronger because of it, inasmuch as it could not
come without bringing with it the reflection that he--he alone--had been
chosen to deliver the message to the multitudes--the message of Light to
the people that walked in darkness?
He could not understand how the change had come about in him, and not
being able to understand it, he felt the more humiliated.
And then, one day, riding slowly along the coach road, he saw a young
woman standing waiting for a change of horses for her post chaise at the
door of a small inn.
He started, for she had fair hair and a fresh face whose features bore
some resemblance to those of Nelly Polwhele--he started, for there came
upon him, with the force of a revelation, the knowledge that this was
the companionship for which he was longing--that unconsciously, she had
been in his thoughts--some way at the back of his thoughts, to be sure,
but still there--that, only since he had been her companion had his need
for some sweet and helpful companionship become impressed upon him..
He rode on to his destination overwhelmed by the surprise at the result
of this glimpse which had been given to him into the depths of his
own heart. The effect seemed to him as if with the sight of that
stranger--that young woman on the roadside--a flash of lightning had
come, showing him in an instant what was in the depths of his heart.
He tried to bring himself to believe that he was mistaken.
“Impossible--impossible!” he cried. “It is impossible that I should be
so affected--a village girl!... And I did not talk with her half a dozen
times in all!... Kind, thoughtful, with tact--a gracious presence, a
receptive mind.... Ah, it was she undoubtedly who set me thinking--who
made me feel dissatisfied with my isolation, but still.. . oh,
impossible--impossible!”
And, although a just man, the thoughts that he now believed himself to
have in regard to Nelly Polwhele were bitter rather than sweet. He
began to think that it was too bold of her--almost immodest--to make the
attempt to change the whole course of the life of such a man as he was.
He had once courted the lonely life, believing it to be the only
life for such as he--the only life that enabled him to give all his
thoughts--all his strength--oh, all his life--all his life--to the work
which had been appointed for him to do in the world of sinners; but lo!
that child had come to him, and had made him feel that he was not so
different from other men.
Under the influence of his bitterness, he resented her intrusion, as
it were. Pshaw! the girl wras nothing. It was only companionship as
a sentiment that he had been longing for; he had a clear idea of the
companionship that he needed; but he had never thought of the companion.
It was a mere trick of the fancy to suggest that, because the young
woman had sent his thoughts into a certain groove, they must of
necessity be turned in the direction of the young woman herself.
He soon found, however, that it is one thing for a man to prove to the
satisfaction of his own intelligence that it would be impossible that he
should set his heart on a particular young woman, but quite another to
shut her out from his heart. He had his heart to reckon with, though he
did not know it.
Before the day had passed he had shut the doors of his heart, and he
believed that he had done right. He did not know that he had shut those
doors, not against her, but upon her.
Like all men who have accomplished great things in the world, he was
intensely human. His sympathy flowed forth for his fellow-men in all
circumstances of life. But he did not know himself sufficiently well to
understand that what he thought of with regret as his weaknesses, were
actually those elements wherein lay the secret of his influence with
men.
He had just succeeded, he fancied, in convincing himself that it was
impossible he could ever have entertained a thought of Nelly Polwhele as
the one who could afford him the companionship which he craved, when a
letter came to him from Mr. Hartwell, whom he had appointed the leader
of the class which he had established at Porthawn, entreating him to
return to them, as they were in great distress and in peril of falling
to pieces, owing to the conduct of one of their members, Richard
Pritchard by name.
Could he affirm that the sorrow which he felt on receiving this news was
the sum of all the emotions that filled his heart at that moment?
He laid down the letter, saying,
“It is the Lord's doing.”
And when he said that, he was thinking, not of the distress in which his
children at Porthawn found themselves by reason of Richard Pritchard,
but of the meaning of the summons to himself.
“It is the trial to which my steadfastness is to be put,” he said. “I am
not to be allowed to escape without scathe. Why should I expect to do so
when others are tried daily? There can be no victory without a battle.
The strength of a man is developed by his trial. I am ready. Grant me
grace, O Lord, to sustain me, and to keep my feet from straying!”
He prepared himself for this journey back to Porthawn, and he was
presently amazed (having been made aware of his own weakness) to find
himself thinking very much less about himself and scarcely at all about
Nelly Polwhele, nor that the chance of seeing her again had, without the
least expectation on his part, came to him. He found himself giving
all his thoughts to the question of his duty. Had he been over-hasty in
accepting the assurances of all these people at Porthawn to whose souls
peace had come through his preaching? Was he actuated solely by a hope
to spread abroad the Truth as he had found it, or had a grain of the
tares of Self been sown among the good seed? Had there been something of
vanity in his desire to increase the visible results of his preaching?
These were his daily questionings and soulsearching, and they had been
ever present with him since he had put his hand to the plough. He was
ever apt to accuse himself of vainglory--of a lack of that spirit of
humility which he felt should enter into every act--every thought of his
life. He thought of himself as the instrument through which his Master
spake to His children. Should the harp vaunt itself when a hand sweeps
over its strings, making such music as forces those who hear to be
joyful or sad? Should the trumpet take credit to itself because through
its tubes is blown the blast that sends an army headlong to the charge?
After his first preaching in the valley of the Lana, hundreds of those
who heard him had come to him making a profession of the Faith that he
preached. He asked himself now if it was not possible that he had been
too eager to accept their assurance. He had had his experiences of the
resultat the emotions of his listeners being so stirred by his preaching
that they had come to him with the same glad story; but only to become
lukewarm after a space, and after another space to lapse into their
former carelessness. The parable of the Sower was ever in his mind. The
quick upspring-ing of the seed was a sign that it had fallen where there
was no depth of earth. And this sowing was more hopeless than that on
stony ground--than that among thorns.
He feared that he had been too hasty. He was a careless husbandman
who had been too ready to assume that a plentiful harvest was at hand,
because he had sown where there was no depth of earth. He should have
waited and watched and noted every sign of spiritual growth before
leaving the field of his labours.
These were some of his self-reproaches which occupied all his thoughts
while making his return journey to Porthawn, thus causing all thought of
Nelly Polwhele to be excluded from his mind. He had caught a glimpse of
the Lana winding its way through the valley before he had a thought of
her, and then it was with some bitterness that he reflected that, all
unknown to himself, he had shortened his stay in this region because
he had had an instinct that a danger would threaten him if he were
to remain. Instinct? Now he was dealing with a force that was wholly
animal--wholly of the flesh, and the flesh, he knew, was waging
perpetual war with the things that appertained to the spirit.
He urged his horse onward. Whatever danger might threaten himself by his
returning to this region, he would not shrink from it; what was such a
danger compared with that threatening the edifice of Faith which he had
hoped had been built up in the midst of the simple people of the land?
He urged his horse forward, and on the afternoon of the second day of
his journey he was within a few hours' journey of Ruthallion Mill.
He meant to call at the Mill, feeling sure that he would get from the
miller a faithful and intelligent account of all that had happened
during the three weeks of his absence from this neighbourhood. Miller
Pendelly, once the champion of the old system of lifeless churchgoing,
had become the zealous exponent of the new. He was the leader of
the little band that formed the nucleus of the great organisation of
churchmen who, under the teaching of Wesley, sought to make the Church
the power for good among the people that it was meant to be. Jake
Pullsford, who had spread the story of Wesley's aims among his friends
before the preacher had appeared in Cornwall, had given evidence of the
new Light that had dawned upon him when he had heard Wesley at Bristol.
Both these were steadfast men, not likely to cause offence, and if
Wesley had heard any report of their falling short of what was expected
of them he would have been more than disappointed.
It was through Richard Pritchard, the professional water-finder, that
offence had come or was likely to come, Mr. Hartwell's letter had told
him. He remembered the man very clearly. He had had some conversation
with him, and Jake had satisfied him as to the sincerity of his belief.
He had never been otherwise than a clean-living man, and he had studied
many theological works. But he had not impressed Mr. Wesley as being a
person of unusual intelligence. His remarkable calling and the success
with which he practised it all through the West had caused Him to appear
in the eyes of the people of the country as one possessing certain
powers which, though quite legitimate, being exercised for good, were
bordering on the supernatural. Wesley now remembered that he had had
some doubt as to the legitimacy of the man's calling. Believing, as he
did, so fully in the powers of witchcraft, he had a certain amount of
uneasiness in accepting as a member of the little community which he
was founding, a man who used the divining rod; but the simplicity of
Pritchard and his exemplary character, were in his favour, so much as to
outweigh the force of. Wesley's objection to his mode of life.
Now, as he guided his horse down the valley road, he regretted bitterly
that he had allowed his misgivings to be overcome so easily. Like all
men who have accomplished great things in the world, the difficulties
which occasionally beset him were due to his accepting the judgment
of others, putting aside his own feelings or tendencies, in certain
matters. The practice of the virtue of humility, in regard to his
estimation of the value of his own judgment, had cost him dearly upon
occasions.
It was all the more vexatious to reflect that the man through whom the
trouble (whatever it might be) was impending, was the last one in the
world from whom any trouble might reasonably be looked for. This was
probably the first time in his life that he had reached any prominence
in the little circle in which he lived. To be allowed to remain in the
background, seemed to be his sole aspiration. His fear of giving offence
to anyone seemed to be ever present with him, and his chief anxiety was
to anticipate an imaginary offence by an apology. How a man who was so
ludicrously invertebrate should become a menace to the stability of a
community that included such robust men as the miller, the carrier, and
the smith, to say nothing of Farmer Tregenna and Mr. Hartwell, the mine
owner, was more than Wesley could understand. It was this element of
mystery that caused him to fear that Pritchard had all along been an
agent of the Enemy--that his noted successes with the divining rod were
due to his connection with the Powers of Darkness, and that his getting
within the fold of the faithful was, after all, only what might have
been expected from one whose tactics were devised for him by the Old
Serpent--the origin of every evil since the expulsion from Paradise.