DIFFERENCES OF VIEW.
THE SAME.
Written some days later.
THURSDAY, the 22nd of July,—next after my visit to the cave with Sir
Keith,—proved an eventful day.
The first thing in the morning I heard that Sir Keith had an engagement
at Beckbergh. What the engagement might be, I was not told; only
it appeared to interest Thyrza. Some suppressed fun gleamed in her
face; fun of a happy kind. It did not seem to me to be happiness in
connection with herself. She did not seem to be thinking of herself.
She told me then that she had set her heart on a long ramble with
me, through a certain mountain-pass, leading from Beckdale into a
neighbouring dale. Thyrza and Denham went that particular walk last
year, while I was laid aside, and she has often since wished me to see
the same. Would I, she asked, give up a good part of the day to going
alone with her, taking some slight provisions with us?
I made no objections. Beckdale has greatly restored my walking-powers;
and lessons did not stand in the way. Mrs. Romilly has insisted on a
full month of holidays, despite all the broken time before. Moreover,
it is always a pleasure to have Thyrza to myself for a little while.
Mrs. Romilly protested against the distance, and settled that we should
at least drive the first two or three miles in the waggonette. Thyrza
consented to so much, adding with a laugh, "And if we do collapse,
and don't get home, you can but send Sir Keith in the dog-cart to our
rescue." She looked so merry and handsome that I could not help being
struck. Nellie answered, "Very well; I wont forget."
Just at the moment of our starting, a letter was brought to me. Somehow
I had been out of the way when the post came in, and it was afterwards
forgotten. I noted the black edge, and, not recognising the handwriting
in a rather careless glance, supposed the writer to be a former Bath
acquaintance, with whom I corresponded occasionally. I knew her to be
in mourning. "From Ellen Smyth," I said, and I dropped the unopened
letter into my pocket. "That will keep."
The other girls were going for an hour's drive, after setting us down
nearly three miles from home. We waved good-byes, and Thyrza and I set
off briskly.
A stony steep path, or narrow road, led upwards, after a while through
a little scattered village on the hillside, then into a wild high pass,
skirting one side of the mountainous mass which we know as The Fell. I
fancy that side possesses a distinct name; certainly it is loftier, and
has a different aspect.
We must have ascended some twelve or thirteen hundred feet. The higher
summits of the mountains to right and left of the pass are, I am told,
close upon two thousand feet in height, if not more.
The road went gradually upward to a central ridge, on this side of
which all streams run towards Beckdale, gathering quickly into a small
river. Beyond the ridge, the watershed is all the other way.
After the first rapid rise from Beckdale we had some three or four
miles of comparatively slight ascent and descent. This was the actual
pass; a desolate and wildly beautiful region. To our left, as we
went, were broken hills, with mountain heights beyond: to our right
was one grand continuous sweep of steep slopes, like a broad flowing
mountain-skirt, extending for miles unbroken, the summit throughout
those miles seeming to keep always one even height.
Short grass covered these grand slopes, varied by patches of heather
and abundant bracken; and long walls ran down at intervals from top
to bottom. The excessive steepness of the higher parts was—or ought
to have been—apparent to us, from the fact that no actual walls could
there be built, flat layers of stones taking their place.
About half-way through we sat down by the roadside, to enjoy our
well-earned lunch.
Till then, when we were ourselves quiet, I had not fully realised the
absolute stillness of the scene. As we sat together, gazing and not
talking, the absence of sound and of life seemed oppressive. No trees
grew near. No birds were visible. I did not notice any insects. One old
horse browsed in lonely content, by the roadside. One cart, containing
a man and woman, had gone by ten minutes earlier. Some sheep dotted the
lofty slopes. The trickle of a stream was faintly audible: and now and
then a distant low bleat could be heard. That was all.
"Would you care to live here, Miss Con?" Thyrza asked.
"Hardly," I said. "One would at least wish for a few human beings
within reach, to be kind to."
"That is like you," she made answer quickly. And presently she
asked, "Miss Con, do you remember speaking of The Fell as a picture
of Truth,—different people seeing different sides from different
standpoints?"
"It is a favourite idea of mine," I said.
"I thought of that, last Sunday evening, when father and Sir Keith
were talking. They do look upon some things so differently, you know.
Only Sir Keith is such a thorough gentleman, he never gets angry in
argument, or tries to thrust his opinions down other people's throats,
and he always lets other people have their say too. But still, of
course one could see that they didn't think just alike. If father were
not so fond of Sir Keith, he would mind it more. He doesn't like people
not to think exactly the same as he does, generally."
"Perhaps none of us do—by nature," I said. "A strong belief in one's
own wisdom is particularly human."
"But I think you have taught me to believe that I may be mistaken
sometimes," she said wistfully, even humbly. "I used to be so horridly
dogged and determined about everything."
"You were—rather," I replied, smiling. "And the more unimportant the
question, the more dogged you were in asserting your own convictions."
"Yes,—I know. Am I quite so bad now, Miss Con?"
"No; I see a marked difference," I said.
"I'm so glad. I will try harder."
"Don't go to the opposite extreme, my dear, of thinking that you are to
have no opinions at all, but must always agree with everybody."
She laughed, and asked, "Am I in danger of that?"
"Not at present, I think. But it is a weakness of human nature to
be disposed to rebound from one extreme to another. Truth lies more
generally in the fair road between,—though it does sometimes include a
measure of one or both extremes."
Thyrza looked up, and said, "I suppose any one living here would
describe the mountain as stern and frowning. And we at Beckdale would
describe it as all soft beauty,—except just at The Scaur. And both
would be true."
"Yes," I said; "but no man would have a fair conception of the mountain
as a whole, unless he had gained at least a glimpse of both sides,—not
to speak of other sides also which we have not seen yet."
Then we rose and continued our walk. Thyrza seemed thoughtful still.
She observed, after a while, as if carrying on our talk—
"Don't you think that sometimes people seem to see only one side of—"
she hesitated, lowering her voice reverently,—"of Christ? I mean, even
those who do really love and obey Him?"
"My dear, ninety-nine hundredths of the errors into which most of us
fall, spring from one-sided views of Him," I said. "For He is THE
TRUTH. One-sided views of Him are one-sided views of Truth: and a
one-sided view is always a defective view."
"And isn't there any help—any cure?" she asked.
"Only in Him. He gives us clearer eyesight, and then He shows Himself
more clearly,—if we are willing," I said. "But a great many people are
so well content with what they already see, as really to care little
for seeing farther."
"Sir Keith often says that very much depends on our willingness,"
Thyrza observed gravely.
I could not but remember the first time I had seen Sir Keith. He had
put the thought into my head.
We went on to the end of the Pass, the last part of our way being a
sharp descent, till we reached the pretty river which begins as a
streamlet on the central ridge or highest point of the Pass. There for
a while we rested, and there, to Thyrza's joy, she discovered a fine
plant of Parsley fern, growing half under a sheltering rock. My "find"
of last summer died long ago, as Thyrza then predicted. "But I shall
keep this for my own," she said.
Plenty of time remained yet, when we had passed the central ridge
on our return. Thyrza seemed in no hurry to reach home. She was in
high spirits, no longer disposed to sit still and meditate. She had
repeatedly expressed a wish to climb the steep hillside lying now to
our left: and as we advanced, the desire came over her more strongly.
"I really do think I must," she said at length. "It is quite too
tempting. And I am as fresh as a lark still. You shall just sit here,
and wait for me."
"Why should I not go too?" I asked.
"Oh, because you are not so robust as I am: and there is always the
chance of your hurting your knee again. No: you must sit perfectly
still, and be lazy. I know you enjoy being alone in such a place as
this. I dare say I shall not be long. When I come down, we'll finish
off the cake, before going on."