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YOUNG WEIR.
By slow degrees the summer bloomed. Green came instead of white;
rainbows instead of icicles. The grounds about the Hall seemed the
incarnation of a summer which had taken years to ripen to its
perfection. The very grass seemed to have aged into perfect youth in
that "haunt of ancient peace;" for surely nowhere else was such
thick, delicate-bladed, delicate-coloured grass to be seen. Gnarled
old trees of may stood like altars of smoking perfume, or each like
one million-petalled flower of upheaved whiteness--or of tender
rosiness, as if the snow which had covered it in winter had sunk in
and gathered warmth from the life of the tree, and now crept out
again to adorn the summer. The long loops of the laburnum hung heavy
with gold towards the sod below; and the air was full of the
fragrance of the young leaves of the limes. Down in the valley
below, the daisies shone in all the meadows, varied with the
buttercup and the celandine; while in damp places grew large
pimpernels, and along the sides of the river, the meadow-sweet stood
amongst the reeds at the very edge of the water, breathing out the
odours of dreamful sleep. The clumsy pollards were each one mass of
undivided green. The mill wheel had regained its knotty look, with
its moss and its dip and drip, as it yielded to the slow water,
which would have let it alone, but that there was no other way out
of the land to the sea.
I used now to wander about in the fields and woods, with a book in
my hand, at which I often did not look the whole day, and which yet
I liked to have with me. And I seemed somehow to come back with most
upon those days in which I did not read. In this manner I prepared
almost all my sermons that summer. But, although I prepared them
thus in the open country, I had another custom, which perhaps may
appear strange to some, before I preached them. This was, to spend
the Saturday evening, not in my study, but in the church. This
custom of mine was known to the sexton and his wife, and the church
was always clean and ready for me after about mid-day, so that I
could be alone there as soon as I pleased. It would take more space
than my limits will afford to explain thoroughly why I liked to do
this. But I will venture to attempt a partial explanation in a few
words.
This fine old church in which I was honoured to lead the prayers of
my people, was not the expression of the religious feeling of my
time. There was a gloom about it--a sacred gloom, I know, and I
loved it; but such gloom as was not in my feeling when I talked to
my flock. I honoured the place; I rejoiced in its history; I
delighted to think that even by the temples made with hands
outlasting these bodies of ours, we were in a sense united to those
who in them had before us lifted up holy hands without wrath or
doubting; and with many more who, like us, had lifted up at least
prayerful hands without hatred or despair. The place soothed me,
tuned me to a solemn mood--one of self-denial, and gentle gladness
in all sober things. But, had I been an architect, and had I had to
build a church--I do not in the least know how I should have built
it--I am certain it would have been very different from this. Else I
should be a mere imitator, like all the church-architects I know
anything about in the present day. For I always found the open air
the most genial influence upon me for the production of religious
feeling and thought. I had been led to try whether it might not be
so with me by the fact that our Lord seemed so much to delight in
the open air, and late in the day as well as early in the morning
would climb the mountain to be alone with His Father. I found that
it helped to give a reality to everything that I thought about, if I
only contemplated it under the high untroubled blue, with the lowly
green beneath my feet, and the wind blowing on me to remind me of
the Spirit that once moved on the face of the waters, bringing order
out of disorder and light out of darkness, and was now seeking every
day a fuller entrance into my heart, that there He might work the
one will of the Father in heaven.
My reader will see then that there was, as it were, not so much a
discord, as a lack of harmony between the surroundings wherein my
thoughts took form, or, to use a homelier phrase, my sermon was
studied, and the surroundings wherein I had to put these forms into
the garments of words, or preach that sermon. I therefore sought to
bridge over this difference (if I understood music, I am sure I
could find an expression exactly fitted to my meaning),--to find an
easy passage between the open-air mood and the church mood, so as to
be able to bring into the church as much of the fresh air, and the
tree-music, and the colour-harmony, and the gladness over all, as
might be possible; and, in order to this, I thought all my sermon
over again in the afternoon sun as it shone slantingly through the
stained window over Lord Eagleye's tomb, and in the failing light
thereafter and the gathering dusk of the twilight, pacing up and
down the solemn old place, hanging my thoughts here on a crocket,
there on a corbel; now on the gable-point over which Weir's face
would gaze next morning, and now on the aspiring peaks of the organ.
I thus made the place a cell of thought and prayer. And when the
next day came, I found the forms around me so interwoven with the
forms of my thought, that I felt almost like one of the old monks
who had built the place, so little did I find any check to my
thought or utterance from its unfitness for the expression of my
individual modernism. But not one atom the more did I incline to the
evil fancy that God was more in the past than in the present; that
He is more within the walls of the church, than in the unwalled sky
and earth; or seek to turn backwards one step from a living Now to
an entombed and consecrated Past.
One lovely Saturday, I had been out all the morning. I had not
walked far, for I had sat in the various places longer than I had
walked, my path lying through fields and copses, crossing a country
road only now and then. I had my Greek Testament with me, and I read
when I sat, and thought when I walked. I remember well enough that I
was going to preach about the cloud of witnesses, and explain to my
people that this did not mean persons looking at, witnessing our
behaviour--not so could any addition be made to the awfulness of the
fact that the eye of God was upon us--but witnesses to the truth,
people who did what God wanted them to do, come of it what might,
whether a crown or a rack, scoffs or applause; to behold whose
witnessing might well rouse all that was human and divine in us to
chose our part with them and their Lord.--When I came home, I had an
early dinner, and then betook myself to my Saturday's resort.--I had
never had a room large enough to satisfy me before. Now my study was
to my mind.
All through the slowly-fading afternoon, the autumn of the day, when
the colours are richest and the shadows long and lengthening, I
paced my solemn old-thoughted church. Sometimes I went up into the
pulpit and sat there, looking on the ancient walls which had grown
up under men's hands that men might be helped to pray by the visible
symbol of unity which the walls gave, and that the voice of the
Spirit of God might be heard exhorting men to forsake the evil and
choose the good. And I thought how many witnesses to the truth had
knelt in those ancient pews. For as the great church is made up of
numberless communities, so is the great shining orb of
witness-bearers made up of millions of lesser orbs. All men and
women of true heart bear individual testimony to the truth of God,
saying, "I have trusted and found Him faithful." And the feeble
light of the glowworm is yet light, pure, and good, and with a
loveliness of its own. "So, O Lord," I said, "let my light shine
before men." And I felt no fear of vanity in such a prayer, for I
knew that the glory to come of it is to God only--"that men may
glorify their Father in heaven." And I knew that when we seek glory
for ourselves, the light goes out, and the Horror that dwells in
darkness breathes cold upon our spirits. And I remember that just as
I thought thus, my eye was caught first by a yellow light that
gilded the apex of the font-cover, which had been wrought like a
flame or a bursting blossom: it was so old and worn, I never could
tell which; and then by a red light all over a white marble tablet
in the wall--the red of life on the cold hue of the grave. And this
red light did not come from any work of man's device, but from the
great window of the west, which little Gerard Weir wanted to help
God to paint. I must have been in a happy mood that Saturday
afternoon, for everything pleased me and made me happier; and all
the church-forms about me blended and harmonised graciously with the
throne and footstool of God which I saw through the windows. And I
lingered on till the night had come; till the church only gloomed
about me, and had no shine; and then I found my spirit burning up
the clearer, as a lamp which has been flaming all the day with light
unseen becomes a glory in the room when the sun is gone down.
At length I felt tired, and would go home. Yet I lingered for a few
moments in the vestry, thinking what hymns would harmonize best with
the things I wanted to make my people think about. It was now almost
quite dark out of doors--at least as dark as it would be.
Suddenly through the gloom I thought I heard a moan and a sob. I sat
upright in my chair and listened. But I heard nothing more, and
concluded I had deceived myself. After a few moments, I rose to go
home and have some tea, and turn my mind rather away from than
towards the subject of witness-bearing any more for that night, lest
I should burn the fuel of it out before I came to warm the people
with it, and should have to blow its embers instead of flashing its
light and heat upon them in gladness. So I left the church by my
vestry-door, which I closed behind me, and took my way along the
path through the clustering group of graves.
Again I heard a sob. This time I was sure of it. And there lay
something dark upon one of the grassy mounds. I approached it, but
it did not move. I spoke.
"Can I be of any use to you?" I said.
"No," returned an almost inaudible voice.
Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew that no one had
been buried there very lately, and if the grief were for the loss of
the dead, it was more than probably aroused to fresh vigour by
recent misfortune.
I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, "Come with me,
and let us see what can be done for you."
I then saw that it was a youth--perhaps scarcely more than a boy.
And as soon as I saw that, I knew that his grief could hardly be
incurable. He returned no answer, but rose at once to his feet, and
submitted to be led away. I took him the shortest road to my house
through the shrubbery, brought him into the study, made him sit down
in my easy-chair, and rang for lights and wine; for the dew had been
falling heavily, and his clothes were quite dank. But when the wine
came, he refused to take any.
"But you want it," I said.
"No, sir, I don't, indeed."
"Take some for my sake, then."
"I would rather not, sir."
"Why?"
"I promised my father a year ago, when I left home that I would not
drink anything stronger than water.[sic] And I can't break my promise now."
"Where is your home?"
"In the village, sir."
"That wasn't your father's grave I found you upon, was it?"
"No, sir. It was my mother's."
"Then your father is still alive?"
"Yes, sir. You know him very well--Thomas Weir."
"Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you that son?"
"Yes, sir," answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob.
"Then what is the matter? Your father is a good friend of mine, and
would tell you you might trust me."
"I don't doubt it, sir. But you won't believe me any more than my
father."
By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and his
countenance. He was of middle size, but evidently not full grown.
His dress was very decent. His face was pale and thin, and revealed
a likeness to his father. He had blue eyes that looked full at me,
and, as far as I could judge, betokened, along with the whole of his
expression, an honest and sensitive nature. I found him very
attractive, and was therefore the more emboldened to press for the
knowledge of his story.
"I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could.
And if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be in
great danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force of
its own."
"I thought so till to-night," he answered. "But if my father would
not believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?"
"Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to be
able to do it justice. It is not a bit like your father to be
unfair."
"No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me."
Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favour. There was
a certain refinement in it, a quality of dialogue which indicated
thought, as I judged; and I became more and more certain that,
whatever I might have to think of it when told, he would yet tell me
the truth.
"Come, try me," I said.
"I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning."
"Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-night, and you
may take what time you please. But I will ring for tea first; for I
dare say you have not made any promise about that."
A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning to
feel a little more comfortable.
"When did you arrive from London?" I asked.
"About two hours ago, I suppose."
"Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plenty
of toast. We are both hungry."
Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to do
her duty.
When she returned with the tray, I saw by the unconsciously eager
way in which he looked at the eatables, that he had had nothing for
some time; and so, even after we were left alone, I would not let
him say a word till he had made a good meal. It was delightful to
see how he ate. Few troubles will destroy a growing lad's hunger;
and indeed it has always been to me a marvel how the feelings and
the appetites affect each other. I have known grief actually make
people, and not sensual people at all, quite hungry. At last I
thought I had better not offer him any more.
After the tea-things had been taken away, I put the candles out; and
the moon, which had risen, nearly full, while we were at tea, shone
into the room. I had thought that he might possibly find it easier
to tell his story in the moonlight, which, if there were any shame
in the recital, would not, by too much revelation, reduce him to the
despair of Macbeth, when, feeling that he could contemplate his
deed, but not his deed and himself together, he exclaimed,
"To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself."
So, sitting by the window in the moonlight, he told his tale. The
moon lighted up his pale face as he told it, and gave rather a wild
expression to his eyes, eager to find faith in me.--I have not much
of the dramatic in me, I know; and I am rather a flat teller of
stories on that account. I shall not, therefore, seeing there is no
necessity for it, attempt to give the tale in his own words. But,
indeed, when I think of it, they did not differ so much from the
form of my own, for he had, I presume, lost his provincialisms, and
being, as I found afterwards, a reader of the best books that came
in his way, had not caught up many cockneyisms instead.
He had filled a place in the employment of Messrs----& Co., large
silk-mercers, linen-drapers, etc., etc., in London; for all the
trades are mingled now. His work at first was to accompany one of
the carts which delivered the purchases of the day; but, I presume
because he showed himself to be a smart lad, they took him at length
into the shop to wait behind the counter. This he did not like so
much, but, as it was considered a rise in life, made no objection to
the change.
He seemed to himself to get on pretty well. He soon learned all the
marks on the goods intended to be understood by the shopmen, and
within a few months believed that he was found generally useful. He
had as yet had no distinct department allotted to him, but was moved
from place to place, according as the local pressure of business
might demand.
"I confess," he said, "that I was not always satisfied with what was
going on about me. I mean I could not help doubting if everything
was done on the square, as they say. But nothing came plainly in my
way, and so I could honestly say it did not concern me. I took care
to be straightforward for my part, and, knowing only the prices
marked for the sale of the goods, I had nothing to do with anything
else. But one day, while I was showing a lady some handkerchiefs
which were marked as mouchoirs de Paris--I don't know if I pronounce
it right, sir--she said she did not believe they were French
cambric; and I, knowing nothing about it, said nothing. But,
happening to look up while we both stood silent, the lady examining
the handkerchiefs, and I doing nothing till she should have made up
her mind, I caught sight of the eyes of the shop-walker, as they
call the man who shows customers where to go for what they want, and
sees that they are attended to. He is a fat man, dressed in black,
with a great gold chain, which they say in the shop is only copper
gilt. But that doesn't matter, only it would be the liker himself.
He was standing staring at me. I could not tell what to make of it;
but from that day I often caught him watching me, as if I had been a
customer suspected of shop-lifting. Still I only thought he was very
disagreeable, and tried to forget him.
"One day--the day before yesterday--two ladies, an old lady and a
young one, came into the shop, and wanted to look at some shawls. It
was dinner-time, and most of the men were in the house at their
dinner. The shop-walker sent me to them, and then, I do believe,
though I did not see him, stood behind a pillar to watch me, as he
had been in the way of doing more openly. I thought I had seen the
ladies before, and though I could not then tell where, I am now
almost sure they were Mrs and Miss Oldcastle, of the Hall. They
wanted to buy a cashmere for the young lady. I showed them some.
They wanted better. I brought the best we had, inquiring, that I
might make no mistake. They asked the price. I told them. They said
they were not good enough, and wanted to see some more. I told them
they were the best we had. They looked at them again; said they were
sorry, but the shawls were not good enough, and left the shop
without buying anything. I proceeded to take the shawls up-stairs
again, and, as I went, passed the shop walker, whom I had not
observed while I was attending to the ladies. 'YOU're for no good,
young man!' he said with a nasty sneer. 'What do you mean by that,
Mr B.?' I asked, for his sneer made me angry. 'You 'll know before
to-morrow,' he answered, and walked away. That same evening, as we
were shutting up shop, I was sent for to the principal's room. The
moment I entered, he said, 'You won't suit us, young man, I find.
You had better pack up your box to-night, and be off to-morrow.
There's your quarter's salary.' 'What have I done?' I asked in
astonishment, and yet with a vague suspicion of the matter. 'It's
not what you've done, but what you don't do,' he answered. 'Do you
think we can afford to keep you here and pay you wages to send
people away from the shop without buying? If you do, you're
mistaken, that's all. You may go.' 'But what could I do?' I said. 'I
suppose that spy, B---,'--I believe I said so, sir. 'Now, now, young
man, none of your sauce!' said Mr---. 'Honest people don't think
about spies.' 'I thought it was for honesty you were getting rid of
me,' I said. Mr---rose to his feet, his lips white, and pointed to
the door. 'Take your money and be off. And mind you don't refer to
me for a character. After such impudence I couldn't in conscience
give you one.' Then, calming down a little when he saw I turned to
go, 'You had better take to your hands again, for your head will
never keep you. There, be off!' he said, pushing the money towards
me, and turning his back to me. I could not touch it. 'Keep the
money, Mr---,' I said. 'It'll make up for what you've lost by me.'
And I left the room at once without waiting for an answer.
"While I was packing my box, one of my chums came in, and I told him
all about it. He is rather a good fellow that, sir; but he laughed,
and said, 'What a fool you are, Weir! YOU'll never make your daily
bread, and you needn't think it. If you knew what I know, you'd have
known better. And it's very odd it was about shawls, too. I'll tell
you. As you're going away, you won't let it out. Mr---' (that was
the same who had just turned me away) 'was serving some ladies
himself, for he wasn't above being in the shop, like his partner.
They wanted the best Indian shawl they could get. None of those he
showed them were good enough, for the ladies really didn't know one
from another. They always go by the price you ask, and Mr---knew
that well enough. He had sent me up-stairs for the shawls, and as I
brought them he said, "These are the best imported, madam." There
were three ladies; and one shook her head, and another shook her
head, and they all shook their heads. And then Mr---was sorry, I
believe you, that he had said they were the best. But you won't
catch him in a trap! He's too old a fox for that.' I'm telling you,
sir, what Johnson told me. 'He looked close down at the shawls, as
if he were short-sighted, though he could see as far as any man. "I
beg your pardon, ladies," said he, "you're right. I am quite wrong.
What a stupid blunder to make! And yet they did deceive me. Here,
Johnson, take these shawls away. How could you be so stupid? I will
fetch the thing you want myself, ladies." So I went with him. He
chose out three or four shawls, of the nicest patterns, from the
very same lot, marked in the very same way, folded them differently,
and gave them to me to carry down. "Now, ladies, here they are!" he
said. "These are quite a different thing, as you will see; and,
indeed, they cost half as much again." In five minutes they had
bought two of them, and paid just half as much more than he had
asked for them the first time. That's Mr---! and that's what you
should have done if you had wanted to keep your place.'--But I
assure you, sir, I could not help being glad to be out of it."
"But there is nothing in all this to be miserable about," I said.
"You did your duty."
"It would be all right, sir, if father believed me. I don't want to
be idle, I'm sure."
"Does your father think you do?"
"I don't know what he thinks. He won't speak to me. I told my
story--as much of it as he would let me, at least--but he wouldn't
listen to me. He only said he knew better than that. I couldn't bear
it. He always was rather hard upon us. I'm sure if you hadn't been
so kind to me, sir, I don't know what I should have done by this
time. I haven't another friend in the world."
"Yes, you have. Your Father in heaven is your friend."
"I don't know that, sir. I'm not good enough."
"That's quite true. But you would never have done your duty if He
had not been with you."
"DO you think so, sir?" he returned, eagerly.
"Indeed, I do. Everything good comes from the Father of lights.
Every one that walks in any glimmering of light walks so far in HIS
light. For there is no light--only darkness--comes from below. And
man apart from God can generate no light. He's not meant to be
separated from God, you see. And only think then what light He can
give you if you will turn to Him and ask for it. What He has given
you should make you long for more; for what you have is not
enough--ah! far from it."
"I think I understand. But I didn't feel good at all in the matter.
I didn't see any other way of doing."
"So much the better. We ought never to feel good. We are but
unprofitable servants at best. There is no merit in doing your duty;
only you would have been a poor wretched creature not to do as you
did. And now, instead of making yourself miserable over the
consequences of it, you ought to bear them like a man, with courage
and hope, thanking God that He has made you suffer for
righteousness' sake, and denied you the success and the praise of
cheating. I will go to your father at once, and find out what he is
thinking about it. For no doubt Mr---has written to him with his
version of the story. Perhaps he will be more inclined to believe
you when he finds that I believe you."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" cried the lad, and jumped up from his seat to
go with me.
"No," I said; "you had better stay where you are. I shall be able to
speak more freely if you are not present. Here is a book to amuse
yourself with. I do not think I shall be long gone."
But I was longer gone than I thought I should be.
When I reached the carpenter's house, I found, to my surprise, that
he was still at work. By the light of a single tallow candle placed
beside him on the bench, he was ploughing away at a groove. His pale
face, of which the lines were unusually sharp, as I might have
expected after what had occurred, was the sole object that reflected
the light of the candle to my eyes as I entered the gloomy place. He
looked up, but without even greeting me, dropped his face again and
went on with his work.
"What!" I said, cheerily,--for I believed that, like Gideon's
pitcher, I held dark within me the light that would discomfit his
Midianites, which consciousness may well make the pitcher cheery
inside, even while the light as yet is all its own--worthless, till
it break out upon the world, and cease to illuminate only glazed
pitcher-sides--"What!" I said, "working so late?"
"Yes, sir."
"It is not usual with you, I know."
"It's all a humbug!" he said fiercely, but coldly notwithstanding,
as he stood erect from his work, and turned his white face full on
me--of which, however, the eyes drooped--"It's all a humbug; and I
don't mean to be humbugged any more."
"Am I a humbug?" I returned, not quite taken by surprise.
"I don't say that. Don't make a personal thing of it, sir. You're
taken in, I believe, like the rest of us. Tell me that a God governs
the world! What have I done, to be used like this?"
I thought with myself how I could retort for his young son: "What
has he done to be used like this?" But that was not my way, though
it might work well enough in some hands. Some men are called to be
prophets. I could only "stand and wait."
"It would be wrong in me to pretend ignorance," I said, "of what you
mean. I know all about it."
"Do you? He has been to you, has he? But you don't know all about
it, sir. The impudence of the young rascal!"
He paused for a moment.
"A man like me!" he resumed, becoming eloquent in his indignation,
and, as I thought afterwards, entirely justifying what Wordsworth
says about the language of the so-called uneducated,--"A man like
me, who was as proud of his honour as any aristocrat in the country
--prouder than any of them would grant me the right to be!"
"Too proud of it, I think--not too careful of it," I said. But I was
thankful he did not heed me, for the speech would only have
irritated him. He went on.
"Me to be treated like this! One child a ..."
Here came a terrible break in his speech. But he tried again.
"And the other a ..."
Instead of finishing the sentence, however, he drove his plough
fiercely through the groove, splitting off some inches of the wall
of it at the end.
"If any one has treated you so," I said, "it must be the devil, not
God."
"But if there was a God, he could have prevented it all."
"Mind what I said to you once before: He hasn't done yet. And there
is another enemy in His way as bad as the devil--I mean our SELVES.
When people want to walk their own way without God, God lets them
try it. And then the devil gets a hold of them. But God won't let
him keep them. As soon as they are 'wearied in the greatness of
their way,' they begin to look about for a Saviour. And then they
find God ready to pardon, ready to help, not breaking the bruised
reed--leading them to his own self manifest--with whom no man can
fear any longer, Jesus Christ, the righteous lover of men--their
elder brother--what we call BIG BROTHER, you know--one to help them
and take their part against the devil, the world, and the flesh, and
all the rest of the wicked powers. So you see God is tender--just
like the prodigal son's father--only with this difference, that God
has millions of prodigals, and never gets tired of going out to meet
them and welcome them back, every one as if he were the only
prodigal son He had ever had. There's a father indeed! Have you been
such a father to your son?"
"The prodigal didn't come with a pack of lies. He told his father
the truth, bad as it was."
"How do you know that your son didn't tell you the truth? All the
young men that go from home don't do as the prodigal did. Why should
you not believe what he tells you?"
"I'm not one to reckon without my host. Here's my bill."
And so saying, he handed me a letter. I took it and read:--
"SIR,--It has become our painful duty to inform you that your son
has this day been discharged from the employment of Messrs---and
Co., his conduct not being such as to justify the confidence
hitherto reposed in him. It would have been contrary to the
interests of the establishment to continue him longer behind the
counter, although we are not prepared to urge anything against him
beyond the fact that he has shown himself absolutely indifferent to
the interests of his employers. We trust that the chief blame will
be found to lie with certain connexions of a kind easy to be formed
in large cities, and that the loss of his situation may be
punishment sufficient, if not for justice, yet to make him consider
his ways and be wise. We enclose his quarter's salary, which the
young man rejected with insult, and,
"We remain, &c.,
"---and Co."
"And," I exclaimed, "this is what you found your judgment of your
own son upon! You reject him unheard, and take the word of a
stranger! I don't wonder you cannot believe in your Father when you
behave so to your son. I don't say your conclusion is false, though
I don't believe it. But I do say the grounds you go upon are
anything but sufficient."
"You don't mean to tell me that a man of Mr---'s standing, who has
one of the largest shops in London, and whose brother is Mayor of
Addicehead, would slander a poor lad like that!"
"Oh you mammon-worshipper!" I cried. "Because a man has one of the
largest shops in London, and his brother is Mayor of Addicehead, you
take his testimony and refuse your son's! I did not know the boy
till this evening; but I call upon you to bring back to your memory
all that you have known of him from his childhood, and then ask
yourself whether there is not, at least, as much probability of his
having remained honest as of the master of a great London shop being
infallible in his conclusions--at which conclusions, whatever they
be, I confess no man can wonder, after seeing how readily his father
listens to his defamation."
I spoke with warmth. Before I had done, the pale face of the
carpenter was red as fire; for he had been acting contrary to all
his own theories of human equality, and that in a shameful manner.
Still, whether convinced or not, he would not give in. He only drove
away at his work, which he was utterly destroying. His mouth was
closed so tight, he looked as if he had his jaw locked; and his eyes
gleamed over the ruined board with a light which seemed to me to
have more of obstinacy in it than contrition.
"Ah, Thomas!" I said, taking up the speech once more, "if God had
behaved to us as you have behaved to your boy--be he innocent, be he
guilty--there's not a man or woman of all our lost race would have
returned to Him from the time of Adam till now. I don't wonder that
you find it difficult to believe in Him."
And with those words I left the shop, determined to overwhelm the
unbeliever with proof, and put him to shame before his own soul,
whence, I thought, would come even more good to him than to his son.
For there was a great deal of self-satisfaction mixed up with the
man's honesty, and the sooner that had a blow the better--it might
prove a death-blow in the long run. It was pride that lay at the
root of his hardness. He visited the daughter's fault upon the son.
His daughter had disgraced him; and he was ready to flash into wrath
with his son upon any imputation which recalled to him the torture
he had undergone when his daughter's dishonour came first to the
light. Her he had never forgiven, and now his pride flung his son
out after her upon the first suspicion. His imagination had filled
up all the blanks in the wicked insinuations of Mr---. He concluded
that he had taken money to spend in the worst company, and had so
disgraced him beyond forgiveness. His pride paralysed his love. He
thought more about himself than about his children. His own shame
outweighed in his estimation the sadness of their guilt. It was a
less matter that they should be guilty, than that he, their father,
should be disgraced.
Thinking over all this, and forgetting how late it was, I found
myself half-way up the avenue of the Hall. I wanted to find out
whether young Weir's fancy that the ladies he had failed in serving,
or rather whom he had really served with honesty, were Mrs and Miss
Oldcastle, was correct. What a point it would be if it was! I should
not then be satisfied except I could prevail on Miss Oldcastle to
accompany me to Thomas Weir, and shame the faithlessness out of him.
So eager was I after certainty, that it was not till I stood before
the house that I saw clearly the impropriety of attempting anything
further that night. One light only was burning in the whole front,
and that was on the first floor.
Glancing up at it, I knew not why, as I turned to go down the hill
again, I saw a corner of the blind drawn aside and a face peeping
out--whose, I could not tell. This was uncomfortable--for what could
be taking me there at such a time? But I walked steadily away,
certain I could not escape recognition, and determining to refer to
this ill-considered visit when I called the next day. I would not
put it off till Monday, I was resolved.
I lingered on the bridge as I went home. Not a light was to be seen
in the village, except one over Catherine Weir's shop. There were
not many restless souls in my parish--not so many as there ought to
be. Yet gladly would I see the troubled in peace--not a moment,
though, before their troubles should have brought them where the
weary and heavy-laden can alone find rest to their souls--finding
the Father's peace in the Son--the Father himself reconciling them
to Himself.
How still the night was! My soul hung, as it were, suspended in
stillness; for the whole sphere of heaven seemed to be about me, the
stars above shining as clear below in the mirror of the all but
motionless water. It was a pure type of the "rest that
remaineth"--rest, the one immovable centre wherein lie all the
stores of might, whence issue all forces, all influences of making
and moulding. "And, indeed," I said to myself, "after all the noise,
uproar, and strife that there is on the earth, after all the
tempests, earthquakes, and volcanic outbursts, there is yet more of
peace than of tumult in the world. How many nights like this glide
away in loveliness, when deep sleep hath fallen upon men, and they
know neither how still their own repose, nor how beautiful the sleep
of nature! Ah, what must the stillness of the kingdom be? When the
heavenly day's work is done, with what a gentle wing will the night
come down! But I bethink me, the rest there, as here, will be the
presence of God; and if we have Him with us, the battle-field itself
will be--if not quiet, yet as full of peace as this night of stars."
So I spoke to myself, and went home.
I had little immediate comfort to give my young guest, but I had
plenty of hope. I told him he must stay in the house to-morrow; for
it would be better to have the reconciliation with his father over
before he appeared in public. So the next day neither Weir was at
church.
As soon as the afternoon service was over, I went once more to the
Hall, and was shown into the drawing-room--a great faded room, in
which the prevailing colour was a dingy gold, hence called the
yellow drawing-room when the house had more than one. It looked down
upon the lawn, which, although little expense was now laid out on
any of the ornamental adjuncts of the Hall, was still kept very
nice. There sat Mrs Oldcastle reading, with her face to the house. A
little way farther on, Miss Oldcastle sat, with a book on her knee,
but her gaze fixed on the wide-spread landscape before her, of
which, however, she seemed to be as inobservant as of her book. I
caught glimpses of Judy flitting hither and thither among the trees,
never a moment in one place.
Fearful of having an interview with the old lady alone, which was
not likely to lead to what I wanted, I stepped from a window which
was open, out upon the terrace, and thence down the steps to the
lawn below. The servant had just informed Mrs Oldcastle of my visit
when I came near. She drew herself up in her chair, and evidently
chose to regard my approach as an intrusion.
"I did not expect a visit from you to-day, Mr Walton, you will allow
me to say."
"I am doing Sunday work," I answered. "Will you kindly tell me
whether you were in London on Thursday last? But stay, allow me to
ask Miss Oldcastle to join us."
Without waiting for answer, I went to Miss Oldcastle, and begged her
to come and listen to something in which I wanted her help. She rose
courteously though without cordiality, and accompanied me to her
mother, who sat with perfect rigidity, watching us.
"Again let me ask," I said, "if you were in London on Thursday."
Though I addressed the old lady, the answer came from her daughter.
"Yes, we were."
"Were you in---& Co.'s, in---Street?"
But now before Miss Oldcastle could reply, her mother interposed.
"Are we charged with shoplifting, Mr Walton? Really, one is not
accustomed to such cross-questioning--except from a lawyer."
"Have patience with me for a moment," I returned. "I am not going to
be mysterious for more than two or three questions. Please tell me
whether you were in that shop or not."
"I believe we were," said the mother.
"Yes, certainly," said the daughter.
"Did you buy anything?"
"No. We--" Miss Oldcastle began.
"Not a word more," I exclaimed eagerly. "Come with me at once."
"What DO you mean, Mr Walton?" said the mother, with a sort of cold
indignation, while the daughter looked surprised, but said nothing.
"I beg your pardon for my impetuosity; but much is in your power at
this moment. The son of one of my parishioners has come home in
trouble. His father, Thomas Weir--"
"Ah!" said Mrs Oldcastle, in a tone considerably at strife with
refinement. But I took no notice.
"His father will not believe his story. The lad thinks you were the
ladies in serving whom he got into trouble. I am so confident he
tells the truth, that I want Miss Oldcastle to be so kind as to
accompany me to Weir's house--"
"Really, Mr Walton, I am astonished at your making such a request!"
exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle, with suitable emphasis on every salient
syllable, while her white face flushed with anger. "To ask Miss
Oldcastle to accompany you to the dwelling of the ringleader of all
the canaille of the neighbourhood!"
"It is for the sake of justice," I interposed.
"That is no concern of ours. Let them fight it out between them, I
am sure any trouble that comes of it is no more than they all
deserve. A low family--men and women of them."
"I assure you, I think very differently."
"I daresay you do."
"But neither your opinion nor mine has anything to do with the
matter."
Here I turned to Miss Oldcastle and went on--
"It is a chance which seldom occurs in one's life, Miss Oldcastle--a
chance of setting wrong right by a word; and as a minister of the
gospel of truth and love, I beg you to assist me with your presence
to that end."
I would have spoken more strongly, but I knew that her word given to
me would be enough without her presence. At the same time, I felt
not only that there would be a propriety in her taking a personal
interest in the matter, but that it would do her good, and tend to
create a favour towards each other in some of my flock between whom
at present there seemed to be nothing in common.
But at my last words, Mrs Oldcastle rose to her feet no longer
red--now whiter than her usual whiteness with passion.
"You dare to persist! You take advantage of your profession to
persist in dragging my daughter into a vile dispute between
mechanics of the lowest class--against the positive command of her
only parent! Have you no respect for her position in society?--for
her sex? MISTER WALTON, you act in a manner unworthy of your cloth."
I had stood looking in her eyes with as much self-possession as I
could muster. And I believe I should have borne it all quietly, but
for that last word.
If there is one epithet I hate more than another, it is that
execrable word CLOTH--used for the office of a clergyman. I have no
time to set forth its offence now. If my reader cannot feel it, I do
not care to make him feel it. Only I am sorry to say it overcame my
temper.
"Madam," I said, "I owe nothing to my tailor. But I owe God my whole
being, and my neighbour all I can do for him. 'He that loveth not
his brother is a murderer,' or murderess, as the case may be."
At that word MURDERESS, her face became livid, and she turned away
without reply. By this time her daughter was half way to the house.
She followed her. And here was I left to go home, with the full
knowledge that, partly from trying to gain too much, and partly from
losing my temper, I had at best but a mangled and unsatisfactory
testimony to carry back to Thomas Weir. Of course I walked
away--round the end of the house and down the avenue; and the
farther I went the more mortified I grew. It was not merely the
shame of losing my temper, though that was a shame--and with a woman
too, merely because she used a common epithet!--but I saw that it
must appear very strange to the carpenter that I was not able to
give a more explicit account of some sort, what I had learned not
being in the least decisive in the matter. It only amounted to this,
that Mrs and Miss Oldcastle were in the shop on the very day on
which Weir was dismissed. It proved that so much of what he had told
me was correct--nothing more. And if I tried to better the matter by
explaining how I had offended them, would it not deepen the very
hatred I had hoped to overcome? In fact, I stood convicted before
the tribunal of my own conscience of having lost all the certain
good of my attempt, in part at least from the foolish desire to
produce a conviction OF Weir rather than IN Weir, which should be
triumphant after a melodramatic fashion, and--must I confess
it?--should PUNISH him for not believing in his son when I did;
forgetting in my miserable selfishness that not to believe in his
son was an unspeakably worse punishment in itself than any
conviction or consequent shame brought about by the most
overwhelming of stage-effects. I assure my reader, I felt
humiliated.
Now I think humiliation is a very different condition of mind from
humility. Humiliation no man can desire: it is shame and torture.
Humility is the true, right condition of humanity--peaceful, divine.
And yet a man may gladly welcome humiliation when it comes, if he
finds that with fierce shock and rude revulsion it has turned him
right round, with his face away from pride, whither he was
travelling, and towards humility, however far away upon the
horizon's verge she may sit waiting for him. To me, however, there
came a gentle and not therefore less effective dissolution of the
bonds both of pride and humiliation; and before Weir and I met, I
was nearly as anxious to heal his wounded spirit, as I was to work
justice for his son.
I was walking slowly, with burning cheek and downcast eyes, the one
of conflict, the other of shame and defeat, away from the great
house, which seemed to be staring after me down the avenue with all
its window-eyes, when suddenly my deliverance came. At a somewhat
sharp turn, where the avenue changed into a winding road, Miss
Oldcastle stood waiting for me, the glow of haste upon her cheek,
and the firmness of resolution upon her lips. Once more I was
startled by her sudden presence, but she did not smile.
"Mr Walton, what do you want me to do? I would not willing refuse,
if it is, as you say, really my duty to go with you."
"I cannot be positive about that," I answered. "I think I put it too
strongly. But it would be a considerable advantage, I think, if you
WOULD go with me and let me ask you a few questions in the presence
of Thomas Weir. It will have more effect if I am able to tell him
that I have only learned as yet that you were in the shop on that
day, and refer him to you for the rest."
"I will go."
"A thousand thanks. But how did you manage to--?"
Here I stopped, not knowing how to finish the question.
"You are surprised that I came, notwithstanding mamma's objection to
my going?"
"I confess I am. I should not have been surprised at Judy's doing
so, now."
She was silent for a moment.
"Do you think obedience to parents is to last for ever? The honour
is, of course. But I am surely old enough to be right in following
my conscience at least."
"You mistake me. That is not the difficulty at all. Of course you
ought to do what is right against the highest authority on earth,
which I take to be just the parental. What I am surprised at is your
courage."
"Not because of its degree, only that it is mine!"
And she sighed.--She was quite right, and I did not know what to
answer. But she resumed.
"I know I am cowardly. But if I cannot dare, I can bear. Is it not
strange?--With my mother looking at me, I dare not say a word, dare
hardly move against her will. And it is not always a good will. I
cannot honour my mother as I would. But the moment her eyes are off
me, I can do anything, knowing the consequences perfectly, and just
as regardless of them; for, as I tell you, Mr Walton, I can endure;
and you do not know what that might COME to mean with my mother.
Once she kept me shut up in my room, and sent me only bread and
water, for a whole week to the very hour. Not that I minded that
much, but it will let you know a little of my position in my own
home. That is why I walked away before her. I saw what was coming."
And Miss Oldcastle drew herself up with more expression of pride
than I had yet seen in her, revealing to me that perhaps I had
hitherto quite misunderstood the source of her apparent haughtiness.
I could not reply for indignation. My silence must have been the
cause of what she said next.
"Ah! you think I have no right to speak so about my own mother!
Well! well! But indeed I would not have done so a month ago."
"If I am silent, Miss Oldcastle, it is that my sympathy is too
strong for me. There are mothers and mothers. And for a mother not
to be a mother is too dreadful."
She made no reply. I resumed.
"It will seem cruel, perhaps;--certainly in saying it, I lay myself
open to the rejoinder that talk is SO easy;--still I shall feel
more honest when I have said it: the only thing I feel should be
altered in your conduct--forgive me--is that you should DARE your
mother. Do not think, for it is an unfortunate phrase, that my
meaning is a vulgar one. If it were, I should at least know better
than to utter it to you. What I mean is, that you ought to be able
to be and do the same before your mother's eyes, that you are and do
when she is out of sight. I mean that you should look in your
mother's eyes, and do what is RIGHT."
"I KNOW that--know it WELL." (She emphasized the words as I do.)
"But you do not know what a spell she casts upon me; how impossible
it is to do as you say."
"Difficult, I allow. Impossible, not. You will never be free till
you do so."
"You are too hard upon me. Besides, though you will scarcely be able
to believe it now, I DO honour her, and cannot help feeling that by
doing as I do, I avoid irreverence, impertinence,
rudeness--whichever is the right word for what I mean."
"I understand you perfectly. But the truth is more than propriety of
behaviour, even to a parent; and indeed has in it a deeper
reverence, or the germ of it at least, than any adherence to the
mere code of respect. If you once did as I want you to do, you would
find that in reality you both revered and loved your mother more
than you do now."
"You may be right. But I am certain you speak without any real idea
of the difficulty."
"That may be. And yet what I say remains just as true."
"How could I meet VIOLENCE, for instance?"
"Impossible!"
She returned no reply. We walked in silence for some minutes. At
length she said,
"My mother's self-will amounts to madness, I do believe. I have yet
to learn where she would stop of herself."
"All self-will is madness," I returned--stupidly enough For what is
the use of making general remarks when you have a terrible concrete
before you? "To want one's own way just and only because it is one's
own way is the height of madness."
"Perhaps. But when madness has to be encountered as if it were
sense, it makes it no easier to know that it is madness."
"Does your uncle give you no help?"
"He! Poor man! He is as frightened at her as I am. He dares not even
go away. He did not know what he was coming to when he came to
Oldcastle Hall. Dear uncle! I owe him a great deal. But for any help
of that sort, he is of no more use than a child. I believe mamma
looks upon him as half an idiot. He can do anything or everything
but help one to live, to BE anything. Oh me! I AM so tired!"
And the PROUD lady, as I had thought her, perhaps not incorrectly,
burst out crying.
What was I to do? I did not know in the least. What I said, I do not
even now know. But by this time we were at the gate, and as soon as
we had passed the guardian monstrosities, we found the open road an
effectual antidote to tears. When we came within sight of the old
house where Weir lived, Miss Oldcastle became again a little curious
as to what I required of her.
"Trust me," I said. "There is nothing mysterious about it. Only I
prefer the truth to come out fresh in the ears of the man most
concerned."
"I do trust you," she answered. And we knocked at the house-door.
Thomas Weir himself opened the door, with a candle in his hand. He
looked very much astonished to see his lady-visitor. He asked us,
politely enough, to walk up-stairs, and ushered us into the large
room I have already described. There sat the old man, as I had first
seen him, by the side of the fire. He received us with more than
politeness--with courtesy; and I could not help glancing at Miss
Oldcastle to see what impression this family of "low, free-thinking
republicans" made upon her. It was easy to discover that the
impression was of favourable surprise. But I was as much surprised
at her behaviour as she was at theirs. Not a haughty tone was to be
heard in her voice; not a haughty movement to be seen in her form.
She accepted the chair offered her, and sat down, perfectly at home,
by the fireside, only that she turned towards me, waiting for what
explanation I might think proper to give.
Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr Weir broke the silence.
"I've been telling Tom, sir, as I've told him many a time afore, as
how he's a deal too hard with his children."
"Father!" interrupted Thomas, angrily.
"Have patience a bit, my boy," persisted the old man, turning again
towards me.--"Now, sir, he won't even hear young Tom's side of the
story; and I say that boy won't tell him no lie if he's the same boy
he went away."
"I tell you, father," again began Thomas; but this time I
interposed, to prevent useless talk beforehand.
"Thomas," I said, "listen to me. I have heard your son's side of the
story. Because of something he said I went to Miss Oldcastle, and
asked her whether she was in his late master's shop last Thursday.
That is all I have asked her, and all she has told me is that she
was. I know no more than you what she is going to reply to my
questions now, but I have no doubt her answers will correspond to
your son's story."
I then put my questions to Miss Oldcastle, whose answers amounted to
this:--That they had wanted to buy a shawl; that they had seen none
good enough; that they had left the shop without buying anything;
and that they had been waited upon by a young man, who, while
perfectly polite and attentive to their wants, did not seem to have
the ways or manners of a London shop-lad.
I then told them the story as young Tom had related it to me, and
asked if his sister was not in the house and might not go to fetch
him. But she was with her sister Catherine.
"I think, Mr Walton, if you have done with me, I ought to go home
now," said Miss Oldcastle.
"Certainly," I answered. "I will take you home at once. I am greatly
obliged to you for coming."
"Indeed, sir," said the old man, rising with difficulty, "we're
obliged both to you and the lady more than we can tell. To take such
a deal of trouble for us! But you see, sir, you're one of them as
thinks a man's got his duty to do one way or another, whether he be
clergyman or carpenter. God bless you, Miss. You're of the right
sort, which you'll excuse an old man, Miss, as'll never see ye again
till ye've got the wings as ye ought to have."
Miss Oldcastle smiled very sweetly, and answered nothing, but shook
hands with them both, and bade them good-night. Weir could not speak
a word; he could hardly even lift his eyes. But a red spot glowed on
each of his pale cheeks, making him look very like his daughter
Catherine, and I could see Miss Oldcastle wince and grow red too
with the gripe he gave her hand. But she smiled again none the less
sweetly.
"I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back to my house and
bring the boy with me," I said, as we left.
It was some time before either of us spoke. The sun was setting, the
sky the earth and the air lovely with rosy light, and the world full
of that peculiar calm which belongs to the evening of the day of
rest. Surely the world ought to wake better on the morrow.
"Not very dangerous people, those, Miss Oldcastle?" I said, at last.
"I thank you very much for taking me to see them," she returned,
cordially.
"You won't believe all you may happen to hear against the working
people now?"
"I never did."
"There are ill-conditioned, cross-grained, low-minded, selfish,
unbelieving people amongst them. God knows it. But there are ladies
and gentlemen amongst them too."
"That old man is a gentleman."
"He is. And the only way to teach them all to be such, is to be such
to them. The man who does not show himself a gentleman to the
working people--why should I call them the poor? some of them are
better off than many of the rich, for they can pay their debts, and
do it--"
I had forgot the beginning of my sentence.
"You were saying that the man who does not show himself a gentleman
to the poor--"
"Is no gentleman at all--only a gentle without the man; and if you
consult my namesake old Izaak, you will find what that is."
"I will look. I know your way now. You won't tell me anything I can
find out for myself."
"Is it not the best way?"
"Yes. Because, for one thing, you find out so much more than you
look for."
"Certainly that has been my own experience."
"Are you a descendant of Izaak Walton?"
"No. I believe there are none. But I hope I have so much of his
spirit that I can do two things like him."
"Tell me."
"Live in the country, though I was not brought up in it; and know a
good man when I see him."
"I am very glad you asked me to go to-night."
"If people only knew their own brothers and sisters, the kingdom of
heaven would not be far off."
I do not think Miss Oldcastle quite liked this, for she was silent
thereafter; though I allow that her silence was not conclusive. And
we had now come close to the house.
"I wish I could help you," I said.
"In what?"
"To bear what I fear is waiting you."
"I told you I was equal to that. It is where we are unequal that we
want help. You may have to give it me some day--who knows?"
I left her most unwillingly in the porch, just as Sarah (the white
wolf) had her hand on the door, rejoicing in my heart, however, over
her last words.
My reader will not be surprised, after all this, if, before I get
very much further with my story, I have to confess that I loved Miss
Oldcastle.
When young Tom and I entered the room, his grandfather rose and
tottered to meet him. His father made one step towards him and then
hesitated. Of all conditions of the human mind, that of being
ashamed of himself must have been the strangest to Thomas Weir. The
man had never in his life, I believe, done anything mean or
dishonest, and therefore he had had less frequent opportunities than
most people of being ashamed of himself. Hence his fall had been
from another pinnacle--that of pride. When a man thinks it such a
fine thing to have done right, he might almost as well have done
wrong, for it shows he considers right something EXTRA, not
absolutely essential to human existence, not the life of a man. I
call it Thomas Weir's fall; for surely to behave in an unfatherly
manner to both daughter and son--the one sinful, and therefore
needing the more tenderness--the other innocent, and therefore
claiming justification--and to do so from pride, and hurt pride, was
fall enough in one history, worse a great deal than many sins that
go by harder names; for the world's judgment of wrong does not
exactly correspond with the reality. And now if he was humbled in
the one instance, there would be room to hope he might become humble
in the other. But I had soon to see that, for a time, his pride,
driven from its entrenchment against his son, only retreated, with
all its forces, into the other against his daughter.
Before a moment had passed, justice overcame so far that he held out
his hand and said:--
"Come, Tom, let by-gones be by-gones."
But I stepped between.
"Thomas Weir," I said, "I have too great a regard for you--and you
know I dare not flatter you--to let you off this way, or rather
leave you to think you have done your duty when you have not done
the half of it. You have done your son a wrong, a great wrong. How
can you claim to be a gentleman--I say nothing of being a Christian,
for therein you make no claim--how, I say, can you claim to act like
a gentleman, if, having done a man wrong--his being your own son has
nothing to do with the matter one way or other, except that it ought
to make you see your duty more easily--having done him wrong, why
don't you beg his pardon, I say, like a man?"
He did not move a step. But young Tom stepped hurriedly forward, and
catching his father's hand in both of his, cried out:
"My father shan't beg my pardon. I beg yours, father, for everything
I ever did to displease you, but I WASN'T to blame in this. I
wasn't, indeed."
"Tom, I beg your pardon," said the hard man, overcome at last. "And
now, sir," he added, turning to me, "will you let by-gones be
by-gones between my boy and me?"
There was just a touch of bitterness in his tone.
"With all my heart," I replied. "But I want just a word with you in
the shop before I go."
"Certainly," he answered, stiffly; and I bade the old and the young
man good night, and followed him down stairs.
"Thomas, my friend," I said, when we got into the shop, laying my
hand on his shoulder, "will you after this say that God has dealt
hardly with you? There's a son for any man God ever made to give
thanks for on his knees! Thomas, you have a strong sense of fair
play in your heart, and you GIVE fair play neither to your own son
nor yet to God himself. You close your doors and brood over your own
miseries, and the wrongs people have done you; whereas, if you would
but open those doors, you might come out into the light of God's
truth, and see that His heart is as clear as sunlight towards you.
You won't believe this, and therefore naturally you can't quite
believe that there is a God at all; for, indeed, a being that was
not all light would be no God at all. If you would but let Him teach
you, you would find your perplexities melt away like the snow in
spring, till you could hardly believe you had ever felt them. No
arguing will convince you of a God; but let Him once come in, and
all argument will be tenfold useless to convince you that there is
no God. Give God justice. Try Him as I have said.--Good night."
He did not return my farewell with a single word. But the grasp of
his strong rough hand was more earnest and loving even than usual. I
could not see his face, for it was almost dark; but, indeed, I felt
that it was better I could not see it.
I went home as peaceful in my heart as the night whose curtains God
had drawn about the earth that it might sleep till the morrow.
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