THE PREACHER
It is a wise and (to some extent) a true saying, that hard work is an
antidote to sorrow, a panacea for all trouble; but when the labor is
over and done, when the tools are set by, and the weary worker goes
forth into the quiet evening—how then? For we cannot always work,
and, sooner or later, comes the still hour when Memory rushes in upon
us again, and Sorrow and Remorse sit, dark and gloomy, on either hand.
A week dragged by, a season of alternate hope and black despair, a
restless fever of nights and days, for with each dawn came hope, that
lived awhile beside me, only to fly away with the sun, and leave me to
despair.
I hungered for the sound of Charmian's voice, for the quick, light fall
of her foot, for the least touch of her hand. I became more and more
possessed of a morbid fancy that she might be existing near by—could I
but find her; that she had passed along the road only a little while
before me, or, at this very moment, might be approaching, might be
within sight, were I but quick enough.
Often at such times I would fling down my hammer or tongs, to George's
surprise, and, hurrying to the door, stare up and down the road; or
pause in my hammerstrokes, fiercely bidding George do the same,
fancying I heard her voice calling to me from a distance. And George
would watch me with a troubled brow but, with a rare delicacy, say no
word.
Indeed, the thought of Charmian was with me everywhere, the ringing
hammers mocked me with her praises, the bellows sang of her beauty, the
trees whispered "Charmian! Charmian!" and Charmian was in the very air.
But when I had reluctantly bidden George "good night," and set out
along lanes full of the fragrant dusk of evening; when, reaching the
Hollow, I followed that leafy path beside the brook, which she and I
had so often trodden together; when I sat in my gloomy, disordered
cottage, with the deep silence unbroken save for the plaintive murmur
of the brook—then, indeed, my loneliness was well-nigh more than I
could bear.
There were dark hours when the cottage rang with strange sounds, when I
would lie face down upon the floor, clutching my throbbing temples
between my palms—fearful of myself, and dreading the oncoming horror
of madness.
It was at this time, too, that I began to be haunted by the thing above
the door—the rusty staple upon which a man had choked out his wretched
life sixty and six years ago; a wanderer, a lonely man, perhaps
acquainted with misery or haunted by remorse, one who had suffered
much and long—even as I—but who had eventually escaped it all—even
as I might do. Thus I would sit, chin in hand, staring up at this
staple until the light failed, and sometimes, in the dead of night, I
would steal softly there to touch it with my finger.
Looking back on all this, it seems that I came very near losing my
reason, for I had then by no means recovered from Black George's fist,
and indeed even now I am at times not wholly free from its effect.
My sleep, too, was often broken and troubled with wild dreams, so that
bed became a place of horror, and, rising, I would sit before the empty
hearth, a candle guttering at my elbow, and think of Charmian until I
would fancy I heard the rustle of her garments behind me, and start up,
trembling and breathless; at such times the tap of a blown leaf against
the lattice would fill me with a fever of hope and expectation. Often
and often her soft laugh stole to me in the gurgle of the brook, and
she would call to me in the deep night silences in a voice very sweet,
and faint, and far away. Then I would plunge out into the dark, and
lift my hands to the stars that winked upon my agony, and journey on
through a desolate world, to return with the dawn, weary and despondent.
It was after one of these wild night expeditions that I sat beneath a
tree, watching the sunrise. And yet I think I must have dozed, for I
was startled by a voice close above me, and, glancing up, I recognized
the little Preacher. As our eyes met he immediately took the pipe from
his lips, and made as though to cram it into his pocket.
"Though, indeed, it is empty!" he explained, as though I had spoken.
"Old habits cling to one, young sir, and my pipe, here, has been the
friend of my solitude these many years, and I cannot bear to turn my
back upon it yet, so I carry it with me still, and sometimes, when at
all thoughtful, I find it between my lips. But though the flesh, as you
see, is very weak, I hope, in time, to forego even this," and he
sighed, shaking his head in gentle deprecation of himself. "But you
look pale—haggard," he went on; "you are ill, young sir!"
"No, no," said I, springing to my feet; "look at this arm, is it the
arm of a sick man? No, no—I am well enough, but what of him we found
in the ditch, you and I—the miserable creature who lay bubbling in the
grass?"
"He has been very near death, sir—indeed his days are numbered, I
think, yet he is better, for the time being, and last night declared
his intention of leaving the shelter of my humble roof and setting
forth upon his mission."
"His mission, sir?"
"He speaks of himself as one chosen by God to work His will, and asks
but to live until this mission, whatever it is, be accomplished. A
strange being!" said the little Preacher, puffing at his empty pipe
again as we walked on side by side, "a dark, incomprehensible man, and
a very, very wretched one—poor soul!"
"Wretched?" said I, "is not that our human lot? 'Man is born to sorrow
as the sparks fly upward,' and Job was accounted wise in his
generation."
"That was a cry from the depths of despond; but Job stood, at last,
upon the heights, and felt once more God's blessed sun, and
rejoiced—even as we should. But, as regards this stranger, he is one
who would seem to have suffered some great wrong, the continued thought
of which has unhinged his mind; his heart seems broken—dead. I have,
sitting beside his delirious couch, heard him babble a terrible
indictment against some man; I have also heard him pray, and his
prayers have been all for vengeance."
"Poor fellow!" said I, "it were better we had left him to die in his
ditch, for if death does not bring oblivion, it may bring a change of
scene."
"Sir," said the Preacher, laying his hand upon my arm, "such bitterness
in one so young is unnatural; you are in some trouble, I would that I
might aid you, be your friend—know you better—"
"Oh, sir! that is easily done. I am a blacksmith, hardworking, sober,
and useful to my fellows; they call me Peter Smith. A certain time
since I was a useless dreamer; spending more money in a week than I now
earn in a year, and getting very little for it. I was studious,
egotistical, and pedantic, wasting my time upon impossible translations
that nobody wanted—and they knew me as—Peter Vibart."
"Vibart!" exclaimed the Preacher, starting and looking up at me.
"Vibart!" I nodded.
"Related in any way to—Sir Maurice Vibart?"
"His cousin, sir." My companion appeared lost in thought, for he was
puffing at his empty pipe again.
"Do you happen to know Sir Maurice?" I inquired.
"No," returned the Preacher; "no, sir, but I have heard mention of him,
and lately, though just when, or where, I cannot for the life of me
recall."
"Why, the name is familiar to a great many people," said I; "you see,
he is rather a famous character, in his way."
Talking thus, we presently reached a stile beyond which the footpath
led away through swaying corn and by shady hopgarden, to Sissinghurst
village. Here the Preacher stopped and gave me his hand, but I noticed
he still puffed at his pipe.
"And you are now a blacksmith?"
"And mightily content so to be."
"You are a most strange young man!" said the Preacher, shaking his head.
"Many people have told me the same, sir," said I, and vaulted over the
stile. Yet, turning back when I had gone some way, I saw him leaning
where I had left him, and with his pipe still in his mouth.