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WHAT WE DID WHEN WE ARRIVED.
We carried Connie in first of all, of course, and into the room which nurse
had fixed upon for her--the best in the house, of course, again. She did
seem tired now, and no wonder. She had a cup of tea at once, and in half an
hour dinner was ready, of which we were all very glad. After dinner I went
up to Connie's room. There I found her fast asleep on the sofa, and Wynnie
as fast asleep on the floor beside her. The drive and the sea air had
had the same effect on both of them. But pleased as I was to see Connie
sleeping so sweetly, I was even more pleased to see Wynnie asleep on the
floor. What a wonderful satisfaction it may give to a father and mother to
see this or that child asleep! It is when her kittens are asleep that the
cat creeps away to look after her own comforts. Our cat chose to have her
kittens in my study once, and as I would not have her further disturbed
than to give them another cushion to lie on in place of that which belonged
to my sofa, I had many opportunities of watching them as I wrote, or
prepared my sermons. But I must not talk about the cat and her kittens
now. When parents see their children asleep, especially if they have been
suffering in any way, they breathe more freely; a load is lifted off their
minds; their responsibility seems over; the children have gone back to
their Father, and he alone is looking after them for a while. Now, I had
not been comfortable about Wynnie for some time, and especially during our
journey, and still more especially during the last part of our journey.
There was something amiss with her. She seemed constantly more or less
dejected, as if she had something to think about that was too much for her,
although, to tell the truth, I really believe now that she had not quite
enough to think about. Some people can thrive tolerably without much
thought: at least, they both live comfortably without it, and do not seem
to be capable of effecting it if it were required of them; while for others
a large amount of mental and spiritual operation is necessary for the
health of both body and mind, and when the matter or occasion for so much
is not afforded them, the consequence is analogous to what follows when a
healthy physical system is not supplied with sufficient food: the oxygen,
the source of life, begins to consume the life itself; it tears up the
timbers of the house to burn against the cold. Or, to use a different
simile, when the Moses-rod of circumstance does not strike the rock and
make the waters flow, such a mind--one that must think to live--will go
digging into itself, and is in danger of injuring the very fountain of
thought, by drawing away its living water into ditches and stagnant pools.
This was, I say, the case in part with my Wynnie, although I did not
understand it at that moment. She did not look quite happy, did not always
meet a smile with a smile, looked almost reprovingly upon the frolics of
the little brother-imps, and though kindness itself when any real hurt or
grief befell them, had reverted to her old, somewhat dictatorial manner,
of which I have already spoken as interrupted by Connie's accident. To her
mother and me she was service itself, only service without the smile which
is as the flame of the sacrifice and makes it holy. So we were both a
little uneasy about her, for we did not understand her. On the journey she
had seemed almost annoyed at Connie's ecstasies, and said to Dora many
times: "Do be quiet, Dora;" although there was not a single creature but
ourselves within hearing, and poor Connie seemed only delighted with the
child's explosions. So I was--but although I say so, I hardly know why
I was pleased to see her thus, except it was from a vague belief in the
anodyne of slumber. But this pleasure did not last long; for as I stood
regarding my two treasures, even as if my eyes had made her uncomfortable,
she suddenly opened hers, and started to her feet, with the words, "I beg
your pardon, papa," looking almost guiltily round her, and putting up her
hair hurriedly, as if she had committed an impropriety in being caught
untidy. This was fresh sign of a condition of mind that was not healthy.
"My dear," I said, "what do you beg my pardon for? I was so pleased to see
you asleep! and you look as if you thought I were going to scold you."
"O papa," she said, laying her head on my shoulder, "I am afraid I must be
very naughty. I so often feel now as if I were doing something wrong, or
rather as if you would think I was doing something wrong. I am sure there
must be something wicked in me somewhere, though I do not clearly know what
it is. When I woke up now, I felt as if I had neglected something, and you
had come to find fault with me. Is there anything, papa?"
"Nothing whatever, my child. But you cannot be well when you feel like
that."
"I am perfectly well, so far as I know. I was so cross to Dora to-day! Why
shouldn't I feel happy when everybody else is? I must be wicked, papa."
Here Connie woke up.
"There now! I've waked Connie," Wynnie resumed. "I'm always doing something
I ought not to do. Please go to sleep again, Connie, and take that sin off
my poor conscience."
"What nonsense is Wynnie talking about being wicked?" asked Connie.
"It isn't nonsense, Connie. You know I am."
"I know nothing of the sort, Wynnie. If it were me now! And yet I don't
feel wicked."
"My dear children," I said, "we must all pray to God for his Spirit, and
then we shall feel just as we ought to feel. It is not for anyone to say to
himself how he ought to feel at any given moment; still less for one man to
say to another how he ought to feel; that is in the former case to do as
St. Paul says he had learned to give up doing--to judge our own selves,
which ought to be left to God; in the latter case it is to do what our Lord
has told us expressly we are not to do--to judge other people. You get
your bonnet, Wynnie, and come out with me. I am going to explore a little
of this desert island upon which we have been cast away. And you, Connie,
just to please Wynnie, must try and go to sleep again."
Wynnie ran for her bonnet, a little afraid perhaps that I was going to talk
seriously to her, but showing no reluctance anyhow to accompany me.
Now I wonder whether it will be better to tell what we saw, or only what we
talked about, and give what we saw in the shape in which we reported it to
Connie, when we came back into her room, bearing, like the spies who went
to search the land, our bunch of grapes, that is, of sweet news of nature,
to her who could not go to gather them for herself. It think it will be the
best plan to take part of both plans.
When we left the door of the house, we went up the few steps of a stair
leading on to the downs, against and amidst, and indeed in, the rocks,
buttressing the sea-edge of which our new abode was built. A life for a
big-winged angel seemed waiting us upon those downs. The wind still blew
from the west, both warm and strong--I mean strength-giving--and the wind
was the first thing we were aware of. The ground underfoot was green and
soft and springy, and sprinkled all over with the bright flowers, chiefly
yellow, that live amidst the short grasses of the downs, the shadows of
whose unequal surface were now beginning to be thrown east, for the sun was
going seawards. I stood up, stretched out my arms, threw back my shoulders
and my head, and filled my chest with a draught of the delicious wind,
feeling thereafter like a giant refreshed with wine. Wynnie stood
apparently unmoved amidst the life-nectar, thoughtful, and turning her eyes
hither and thither.
"That makes me feel young again," I said.
"I wish it would make me feel old then," said Wynnie.
"What do you mean, my child?"
"Because then I should have a chance of knowing what it is like to feel
young," she answered rather enigmatically. I did not reply. We were walking
up the brow which hid the sea from us. The smell of the down-turf was
indescribable in its homely delicacy; and by the time we had reached the
top, almost every sense was filled with its own delight. The top of the
hill was the edge of the great shore-cliff; and the sun was hanging on the
face of the mightier sky-cliff opposite, and the sea stretched for visible
miles and miles along the shore on either hand, its wide blue mantle
fringed with lovely white wherever it met the land, and scalloped into
all fantastic curves, according to the whim of the nether fires which had
formed its bed; and the rush of the waves, as they bore the rising tide up
on the shore, was the one music fit for the whole. Ear and eye, touch and
smell, were alike invaded with blessedness. I ought to have kept this to
give my reader in Connie's room; but he shall share with her presently. The
sense of space--of mighty room for life and growth--filled my soul, and I
thanked God in my heart. The wind seemed to bear that growth into my soul,
even as the wind of God first breathed into man's nostrils the breath of
life, and the sun was the pledge of the fulfilment of every aspiration. I
turned and looked at Wynnie. She stood pleased but listless amidst that
which lifted me into the heaven of the Presence.
"Don't you enjoy all this grandeur, Wynnie?"
"I told you I was very wicked, papa."
"And I told you not to say so, Wynnie."
"You see I cannot enjoy it, papa. I wonder why it is."
"I suspect it is because you haven't room, Wynnie."
"I know you mean something more than I know, papa."
"I mean, my dear, that it is not because you are wicked, but because you do
not know God well enough, and therefore your being, which can only live in
him, is 'cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in.' It is only in him that the
soul has room. In knowing him is life and its gladness. The secret of your
own heart you can never know; but you can know Him who knows its secret.
Look up, my darling; see the heavens and the earth. You do not feel them,
and I do not call upon you to feel them. It would be both useless and
absurd to do so. But just let them look at you for a moment, and then tell
me whether it must not be a blessed life that creates such a glory as this
All."
She stood silent for a moment, looked up at the sky, looked round on the
earth, looked far across the sea to the setting sun, and then turned her
eyes upon me. They were filled with tears, but whether from feeling, or
sorrow that she could not feel, I would not inquire. I made haste to speak
again.
"As this world of delight surrounds and enters your bodily frame, so does
God surround your soul and live in it. To be at home with the awful source
of your being, through the child-like faith which he not only permits, but
requires, and is ever teaching you, or rather seeking to rouse up in you,
is the only cure for such feelings as those that trouble you. Do not say it
is too high for you. God made you in his own image, therefore capable of
understanding him. For this final end he sent his Son, that the Father
might with him come into you, and dwell with you. Till he does so, the
temple of your soul is vacant; there is no light behind the veil, no cloudy
pillar over it; and the priests, your thoughts, feelings, loves, and
desires, moan, and are troubled--for where is the work of the priest when
the God is not there? When He comes to you, no mystery, no unknown feeling,
will any longer distress you. You will say, 'He knows, though I do not.'
And you will be at the secret of the things he has made. You will feel what
they are, and that which his will created in gladness you will receive
in joy. One glimmer of the present God in this glory would send you home
singing. But do not think I blame you, Wynnie, for feeling sad. I take it
rather as the sign of a large life in you, that will not be satisfied with
little things. I do not know when or how it may please God to give you the
quiet of mind that you need; but I tell you that I believe it is to be had;
and in the mean time, you must go on doing your work, trusting in God even
for this. Tell him to look at your sorrow, ask him to come and set it
right, making the joy go up in your heart by his presence. I do not know
when this may be, I say, but you must have patience, and till he lays his
hand on your head, you must be content to wash his feet with your tears.
Only he will be better pleased if your faith keep you from weeping and from
going about your duties mournful. Try to be brave and cheerful for the sake
of Christ, and for the sake of your confidence in the beautiful teaching of
God, whose course and scope you cannot yet understand. Trust, my daughter,
and let that give you courage and strength."
Now the sky and the sea and the earth must have made me able to say these
things to her; but I knew that, whatever the immediate occasion of her
sadness, such was its only real cure. Other things might, in virtue of the
will of God that was in them, give her occupation and interest enough for a
time, but nothing would do finally, but God himself. Here I was sure I was
safe; here I knew lay the hunger of humanity. Humanity may, like other
vital forms, diseased systems, fix on this or that as the object not merely
of its desire but of its need: it can never be stilled by less than the
bread of life--the very presence in the innermost nature of the Father and
the Son.
We walked on together. Wynnie made me no reply, but, weeping silently,
clung to my arm. We walked a long way by the edge of the cliffs, beheld
the sun go down, and then turned and went home. When we reached the house,
Wynnie left me, saying only, "Thank you, papa. I think it is all true. I
will try to be a better girl."
I went straight to Connie's room: she was lying as I saw her last, looking
out of her window.
"Connie," I said, "Wynnie and I have had such a treat--such a sunset!"
"I've seen a little of the light of it on the waves in the bay there, but
the high ground kept me from seeing the sunset itself. Did it set in the
sea?"
"You do want the General Gazetteer, after all, Connie. Is that water the
Atlantic, or is it not? And if it be, where on earth could the sun set but
in it?"
"Of course, papa. What a goose I am! But don't make game of me--please. I
am too deliciously happy to be made game of to-night."
"I won't make game of you, my darling. I will tell you about the
sunset--the colours of it, at least. This must be one of the best places in
the whole world to see sunsets."
"But you have had no tea, papa. I thought you would come and have your
tea with me. But you were so long, that mamma would not let me wait any
longer."
"O, never mind the tea, my dear. But Wynnie has had none. You've got a
tea-caddy of your own, haven't you?"
"Yes, and a teapot; and there's the kettle on the hob--for I can't do
without a little fire in the evenings."
"Then I'll make some tea for Wynnie and myself, and tell you at the same
time about the sunset. I never saw such colours. I cannot tell you what it
was like while the sun was yet going down, for the glory of it has burned
the memory of it out of me. But after the sun was down, the sky remained
thinking about him; and the thought of the sky was in delicate translucent
green on the horizon, just the colour of the earth etherealised and
glorified--a broad band; then came another broad band of pale rose-colour;
and above that came the sky's own eternal blue, pale likewise, but so sure
and changeless. I never saw the green and the blue divided and harmonised
by the rose-colour before. It was a wonderful sight. If it is warm enough
to-morrow, we will carry you out on the height, that you may see what the
evening will bring."
"There is one thing about sunsets," returned Connie--"two things, that make
me rather sad--about themselves, not about anything else. Shall I tell you
them?"
"Do, my love. There are few things more precious to learn than the effects
of Nature upon individual minds. And there is not a feeling of yours, my
child, that is not of value to me."
"You are so kind, papa! I am so glad of my accident. I think I should never
have known how good you are but for that. But my thoughts seem so little
worth after you say so much about them."
"Let me be judge of that, my dear."
"Well, one thing is, that we shall never, never, never, see the same sunset
again."
"That is true. But why should we? God does not care to do the same thing
over again. When it is once done, it is done, and he goes on doing
something new. For, to all eternity, he never will have done showing
himself by new, fresh things. It would be a loss to do the same thing
again."
"But that just brings me to my second trouble. The thing is lost. I forget
it. Do what I can, I cannot remember sunsets. I try to fix them fast in my
memory, that I may recall them when I want them; but just as they fade out
of the sky, all into blue or gray, so they fade out of my mind and leave it
as if they had never been there--except perhaps two or three. Now, though
I did not see this one, yet, after you have talked about it, I shall never
forget it."
"It is not, and never will be, as if they had never been. They have their
influence, and leave that far deeper than your memory--in your very being,
Connie. But I have more to say about it, although it is only an idea,
hardly an assurance. Our brain is necessarily an imperfect instrument. For
its right work, perhaps it is needful that it should forget in part. But
there are grounds for believing that nothing is ever really forgotten. I
think that, when we have a higher existence than we have now, when we are
clothed with that spiritual body of which St. Paul speaks, you will be able
to recall any sunset you have ever seen with an intensity proportioned to
the degree of regard and attention you gave it when it was present to you.
But here comes Wynnie to see how you are.--I've been making some tea for
you, Wynnie, my love."
"O, thank you, papa--I shall be so glad of some tea!" said Wynnie, the
paleness of whose face showed the red rims of her eyes the more plainly.
She had had what girls call a good cry, and was clearly the better for it.
The same moment my wife came in. "Why didn't you send for me, Harry, to get
your tea?" she said.
"I did not deserve any, seeing I had disregarded proper times and seasons.
But I knew you must be busy."
"I have been superintending the arrangement of bedrooms, and the unpacking,
and twenty different things," said Ethelwyn. "We shall be so comfortable!
It is such a curious house! Have you had a nice walk?"
"Mamma, I never had such a walk in my life," returned Wynnie. "You would
think the shore had been built for the sake of the show--just for a
platform to see sunsets from. And the sea! Only the cliffs will be rather
dangerous for the children."
"I have just been telling Connie about the sunset. She could see something
of the colours on the water, but not much more."
"O, Connie, it will be so delightful to get you out here! Everything is
so big! There is such room everywhere! But it must be awfully windy in
winter," said Wynnie, whose nature was always a little prospective, if not
apprehensive.
But I must not keep my reader longer upon mere family chat.
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