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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.
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