They were the funniest little creatures imaginable, and two of the prettiest. Felice was still just ahead of Gioconda in bulk, but so much like her that (as I found afterwards) if for fun they exchanged hats I got into a complete mental muddle as to which was which, confused by the discrepant hats and frocks. There was no paid Roman Catholic school in H—, but the good nuns of St. L—taught the little boys and girl of their congregation; and morning after morning I used to see the twins start for school hand in hand, with dinner as well as books in their bags; for St. L—was too far from their home to admit of going and returning twice in one day. All the neighbours were fond of them; and often before their destination was reached a hunch of cake from some good-natured rough hand had found its way into one or other bag, to be shared in due course.
At their books they were ‘proprio maravigliosi,’ as Vanna phrased it; whilst Cola, swelling with paternal pride under a veil of humility, would observe, ‘Non c’è male, nè lui nè lei.’ I believe they really were clever children and fond of their books: at any rate, one Holy Innocents’ Day they brought home a prize, a little story in two volumes, one volume apiece; for, as the kind nuns had remarked, they were like one work in two volumes themselves, and should have one book between them. That night they went to bed and feel asleep hand in hand as usual, but each holding in the other hand a scarlet-bound volume, so proud were they. They were but seven years old, and had never yet slept apart: never yet, and, as it turned out, never at all.
The Christmas when this happened was one of the brightest and pleasantest I recollect; night after night slight frost visited us, but day after day it melted away, whilst sea and sky spread clear and blue in the sunshine. In other countries much snow had fallen and was still falling, but snow had not yet reached our shores.
Christmas, as usual, brought a few bills to me, and likewise to my friends. Of theirs the heaviest was the doctor’s bill, for the twins had caught scarlatina in the summer, and had got well on a variety of pills and draughts. Then Cola bethought himself of certain money due to him at a coast-guard station not many miles from H—, and which would just suffice to pay the doctor; and one Saturday, a day or two after Twelfth Day, he took the first afternoon train to E—, this being the nearest point on the line to his destination, and went to look after his debtor, telling Vanna that he might not be back before the latest train came into H—.
So Vanna took her seat behind the counter, and looked up the road towards St. L—, watching for her little ones to come racing home from school, for school broke up early on Saturdays. At she sat, she knitted something warm and useful, for she was never idle, and hummed in her low, sweet voice the first words of a Christmas carol. I only know those first words, so pathetic in their devout simplicity:—
‘Tu scendi dalle stelle, O Re del Cielo,
E vieni in una grotta al freddo al gelo:
O Bambino mio divino
Io Ti voglio sempre amar!
O Dio beato
E quanto Ti costò l’avermi amato.’
She was thus occupied as I crossed the shop on my way upstairs, and whilst I paused to say a word in passing, a young woman, her face swollen with crying, came up, who, almost without stopping, called out: ‘O Fanny, Fanny, my three are down with the fever, and I’m running for the doctor!’ and in speaking she was gone.
Sympathetic tears had gathered in Vanna’s kind eyes when I looked at her. ‘Non hanno padre,’ she said, half apologetically; and I then recollected who the young woman was, and that her children were worse than fatherless. Poor Maggie Crowe! deserted by a good-for-nothing husband she worked hard to keep her little ones out of the workhouse; did charing, took in needlework, went out nursing when she could get a job, and now her three children were ‘down with the fever,’ and she had had to leave them alone in her wretched hovel on the east cliff to run a mile and more into H—to fetch the parish doctor. We soon saw her tearing back as she had come, not stopping now to speak.
I went to my room, and looking into my charity-purse found that I could afford five shillings out of it for this poor family, and settled mentally that I would take them round next day after church. At the moment I was feeling tired and disinclined to stir, and I concluded the parish doctor, who bore a character for kindness, would certainly for that night supply his patients with necessaries.
Just after the clock struck three I heard a bustle below; the twins had come home and were talking eagerly to their mother in their loud, childish voices. I heard Vanna answer them once or twice; then she spoke continuously, seeming to tell them something, and I heard both reply, ‘Mamma sì.’ A few minutes later I was surprised to see them from my window trotting along the street, but not in the direction from which they had just come, and bearing between them a market-basket, each of them holding it by one handle.
A suspicion of their errand crossed my mind, and I hurried downstairs to warn Vanna that a few snowflakes had already fallen and more hung floating about in the still air. She had noticed this of herself, but replied that they knew their way quite well, and it was not far to go; indeed, she could not feel easy without sending up a few oranges left from Twelfth Day for the sick children. Her own had had the fever, they had promised her to go straight and return straight without loitering, and though she looked somewhat anxious, she concluded bravely: ‘Nossignore avrà cura di loro.’
I went back to my room thoroughly mortified at the rebuke which her alacrity administered to my laziness. How much less would it not have cost me to set off at once with my five shillings than it cost poor Vanna to send her little ones, tired as perhaps they were, to what, for such short legs, was a considerable distance. From my window, moreover, I soon could not help perceiving that not only the snow, rare at first, had begun to fall rapidly and in large flakes, but that the sky lowered dense and ominous over the east cliff. I felt sure that there, and thither it was that the twins were bound, it must already be snowing heavily.
Four o’clock struck, but Felice and Gioconda had not come back. I heard Vanna closing the shop. In another five minutes she came up to me dressed in bonnet and shawl, with a pale face that told its own story of alarm. Still she would not acknowledge herself frightened, but tried to laugh, as she apologized for leaving me alone in the house, assured me that no one could possibly calling at that hour, and protested that she would not be out long. If the twins arrived in her absence she was sure I would kindly let them sit by my fire till her return; then, fairly breaking down and crying, she left me, repeating, ‘Non son che piccini, poveri piccini, poveri piccini miei.’
A couple of men with lighted lanterns stood waiting for her in the street; one of them made her take his arm, and I knew by the voice that it was Ned Gough. Hour after hour struck, and they did not return.
About seven o’clock I heard a loud knocking; and running down to open the door, for being left alone in the house I had locked up and made all safe, I found Piccirillo, who on account of the snow had hastened home by an earlier train than he had mentioned, and was now much amazed at finding the house closed and no light burning below. When he understood what had happened he seemed beside himself with agitation and terror. Flinging up his arms he rushed from the house, calling out, ‘Vanna, Vanna mia! dove sei? rispondimi: figli miei, rispondetemi.’ Neighbours came about him, offering what comfort they could think of: but what comfort could there be? He, too, must set off in the snow to seek his poor lost babies and their mother; and soon he started, lantern and stick in hand, ejaculating, and making vows as he went. ‘Dio mio Dio mio, abbi pietà di noi.’
All through the long night it snowed and snowed: at daybreak it was snowing still. Soon after daybreak the seekers returned, cold, silent, haggard; Piccirillo carrying his wife, who lay insensible in his arms. After hours of wandering they had met somewhere out towards the east cliff, and Vanna, at the sight of her husband, had dropped down utterly spent. She had gone straight to Maggie Crowe’s cottage, and found that the twins had safely left the oranges there and started homewards; Felice tired but manful, poor little Gioconda trudging wearily along, and clinging to her brother. Maggie had tried to keep them at the cottage as it was already snowing heavily, and the little girl had cried and wanted to stay to warm herself; but her brother said ‘No;’ they had promised not to loiter, his sister would be good and not cry, he would take care of her; so whilst Maggie was busy with her own sick children, the twins had started. Beyond this, not one of the searching party could trace them; the small footmarks must have been effaced almost as soon as imprinted on the snow; and any one of the surface inequalities of that snow-waste, which now stretched right and left for miles, might be the mound to cover two such feeble wayfarers.
For three days the frost held and our suspense lasted; then the wind veered from north round to west, a rapid thaw set in, and a few hours ended hope and fear alike. The twins were found huddled together in a chalky hollow close to the edge of the cliff, and almost within sight of Maggie’s hovel: Gioconda with her head thrust into the market-basket, Felice with one arm holding the basket over his sister, and with the other clasping her close to him. Her fat hands met round his waist, and clasped between them was a small silver cross I had given her at Christmas, and which she had worn around her neck.
Lovely and pleasant in their lives, in their death they were not divided; but as they had always shared one bed, they now shared one coffin and one grave.
After a while Piccirillo and his wife recovered from their passionate grief; but Vanna drooped more and more as spring came on, and clothed the small grave with greenness. They had no other child, and the house was silent indeed and desolate. Once I heard them talking to each other of ‘Vascitammò:’ Vanna said something I did not catch, and then Cola answered her, ‘Sì, Vanna mia, ritorneremo; tolga Iddio che io perda te ancora.’
So I knew that we should soon have to part. They came upstairs together to me one evening, and with real kindliness explained that all their plans were altered on account of Vanna’s failing health, and that they must go home to their own country lest she should die. Vanna cried and I cried, and poor Cola fairly cried too. I promised them that the little grave shall never fall into neglect whilst I live, and in thanking me they manage to say through their tears,—‘Nossignore è buono, e certo li avrà benedetti.’
The business was easily disposed of, for though small, it was a thriving concern, and capable of extension. Other affairs did not take long to settle; and one morning I saw my kind friends off by an early train, on their road through London to ‘Vascitammò,’ which now neither the twins nor I shall ever see.
A SAFE INVESTMENT.
It was a pitchy dark night. Not the oldest inhabitant remembered so black a night, so moonless, so utterly starless; and whispering one to another, men said with a shiver that longer still, not for a hundred years back—at, or for a thousand years—ay, or even since the world was—had such gross darkness covered the land. Yet those who counted the time protested that morning must now be at hand, ready to break, even while East and West were massed in one common indistinguishable blot of blackness; and those who discerned the signs of the times, those who waited for the morning, looked often towards one house which could not be hid, for it was set upon a hill, nor overturned, for it was founded upon a rock, and from which a light streamed pure and steady, shaming the flickering gas-lamps of the town, the dim glare of shops and private dwellings, and the flaring, smoking torches of such wayfarers as thought, by compassing themselves about with sparks, to find safety in their transit to and fro.
On this cheerless night a solitary traveller entered the town by the eastern gate. He rode a white horse: about both the beast and his rider there was something foreign, or if not foreign, at any rate unusual. The man was keen and military of aspect, and had the air of one bound on some mission of importance. The horse seemed to know his road without guidance, to turn hither or thither by instinct, not to loiter, yet not to make haste. They passed through the eastern gate, which was opened wide before them: without let or hindrance they entered in, and the horse’s hoofs struck once on the paved road.
In an instant, at the western outskirts of the city a flare of red light shot up. Out came houses into view from the night darkness; to right and left they flashed out for a moment: for a moment you could spy through the windows people sitting at table, reading, working, dancing, as the case might be: you could not a bird’s cage hanging here or there, a cat or two creeping along the gutter, a few foot-passengers arrested by the unexpected glare looking round them in all direction for its source, a single carriage threading its way cautiously along the dangerous street: for a moment—then a cry went up, then there came the crash and crush of a tremendous explosion, and then darkness settled once more over its own dominion; whilst through the darkness those who could not see each other’s faces heard each other’s groans, cries for help, shrieks of terror or of agonizing pain. All the gas-maps of the city had gone out as though at a single whiff, for it was an explosion of the great central gasworks which had taken place. And the darkness deepened.
To the south of the city lay the sea. Day and night its surges were never still nor silent; day and night ships heaven on its bosom, passing in or out of harbour, laden with passengers, with gold, silks, provisions, merchandise of all sorts. On this night, if any one had had owl’s eyes to peer with, he might have discerned that the deep boiled like a pot of ointment; he would have seen in a score, yea, in a hundred vessels, the sailors at their wits’ end reeling to and fro, and staggering like drunken men; whilst the strong masts snapped like straws, and the tough, hollow ship-sides stove in as though they had been of paper—till captains, crews, and passengers, were fain to cast overboard freights and treasures, rarities from the ends of the earth, corn, and wine, and oil—to cast these overboard, and at length, abandoning the ship, to flee for their lives in boats, on planks, on pieces of the vessel, too happy if with bare life they escaped to land, beggared but alive. Meanwhile those on the quays could guess, though they could not see, the ruin, as wretch after poor wretch struggled to shore; but for one who came, a score at least were seen no more for ever.
In a central quarter of the town stood the old-established county bank, concerning which the townspeople had long boasted that not the national bank itself was safer. In panic years it had remained unaffected by the surrounding pressure; it had stood firm, and stand it would whilst the town was a town: so said its directors, its shareholders, the public voice in unison. But on this certain night of all nights in the year, when ship after ship went down with entire costly cargoes, and scores and hundreds of hands on board; when the gasworks exploded, to the obvious utter ruin of the shareholders; when a report spread that the treasurer of the chief railway company had absconded with all the funds in his hands, a report confirmed as night wore, and soon established as a fact; on this night of all nights, the dismayed citizens turned in thought to their bank. Every man beheld an enemy in his neighbour, an enemy who would forestall others and save himself at all costs; and in the panic of accumulated losses man after man bent his steps towards the bank. The doors were besieged; with loud cries the men—and the women too, for many of these had flocked thither impelled by the instinct of self-preservation—men and women beset the doors, demanding instant admittance, and clamouring for their money deposits to be restored to them then and there. The pressure waxed irresistible; the doors yielded; a terrified clerk or two strove vainly with plausible words to appease the foremost applicants; then desperately discharged claim after claim in notes, sovereigns, silver, till the last sixpence—down to the last penny—was disbursed. When it became known that the old-established secure bank had stopped payment before it had met a tithe of its liabilities, it was as much as the clerks could do to escape with whole skins from the infuriated, disappointed populace.
But more trouble were to come. At the railway station a telegram had been received early in the evening intimating that a branch bank in an adjacent town had been constrained by sudden pressure to stop payment, though, as it was hoped, only momentarily. This disastrous news had been studiously confined to one or two parties, who hoped to profit by being in advance of their neighbours; but soon a second telegram of like import came in from another quarter; then a third; and it became impossible any longer to suppress the facts. A terrible commotion ensued on ’Change; there was scarcely a house in all the town where ruin, or at the least reverse, had not entered.
But what, after all, were these partial local failures? Before the night was over another telegram arrived, and it transpired that the main national bank itself had broken.
Then a cry went up through the length and breadth of the land.
When our wayfarer reached the Exchange it was crowded by persons of all ranks and ages, brought together by the bond of a common disaster. He dismounted, tethered his white horse to the railings outside, and entering joined the concourse within, apparently with no further object than to observe and listen, passing from group to group, pausing sometimes a longer, sometimes a shorter period, here or there as the case might demand. Most of the persons present—of those at least who were not simply paralysed and struck dumb by their misfortunes—stood disputing in loud, excited tones, as to the causes and details of the present public calamities;—whose carelessness it was which had occasioned the gas explosion; how many vessels and lives, and what value of cargo, had perished in the storm, some rating the probable loss at millions and some at tens of millions; what hope there might still be of a dividend from the local bank; whether any of the reported failures had been without fraud; what head the country could make against the vast smash of the national bank. But here and there some one man or woman seemed, in the hubbub of rage and dismay, to be wrapped in private, personal grief, alien from the general cares.
One such, a half-frantic elderly woman, huddled in a corner, was tearing her hair and crying out in broken, half-articulate speech. The strange traveller approached her, and in a voice of great sympathy inquired into the source of her passionate sorrow. Then, weeping and gnashing her teeth, she shrieked her answer: ‘My son, my son, he has been cashiered to-day from his regiment! His commission was all we had in the world, and he was all I loved in the world.’ An old sullen man, accosted by the traveller, replied shortly that his strong-box had been broken open and rifled by thieves, and that as he was removing a small remnant of money left to him from his own house to a place of security, the few precious coins had slipped through a hole in the bag and been lost. Another man, being questioned, seemed to find some relief in complaint, and answered readily that he had embarked enormous capital in constructing a reservoir for water, on a scale amply sufficient for the supply of the whole town, but that, at the very moment when he hoped to realise cent per cent upon his original outlay, a flaw had been discovered in the main aqueduct, and it was then perceived, too late, that all the cisterns were broken and could hold no water. Every tale was diverse, yet, in fact, every one was the same. Each speaker had sunk all that he had in some plausible investment, the investment had burst like a bubble, and now one and all in desperate sorrow could but bewail their ruin as without remedy. They had no eyes, no thought, no sympathy, save each man for himself; none stretched a helping hand to his neighbour, or spoke a word of comfort, or cared who sank or who swam in this desolation which had come like a flood.
From such as these it was vain to demand hospitality. The traveller went out from amongst them, remounted his horse, and pursued his way along the darkened, deserted streets, between rows of tall houses, in which the voice of mirth and music seemed silenced for ever. Now at one door, now at another, he knocked to ask for refreshment, but always without success. Sometimes no answer was vouchsafed to his summons; sometimes he was turned away with churlish indifference, or even with abuse for having ventured to disturb the household in its night of distress.
At last he observed one cottage, which, detached from other residences, stood alone it its trim garden-plot. In this only, amongst all the dwellings he had passed, there shone a light. He dismounted once more, tethered his horse to the wicket-gate, followed the gravel-path, and knocked gently at the house-door. A calm, cheerful-looking woman opened to him, and seeing a stranger at that late hour, conceived at once that he was a wayfarer n quest of repose and refreshment, and bade him enter and be welcome. Then, while he sat down by the fire, she hastened to set before him milk and bread, meat, win, and butter. This done, she ran out and led the horse under an open shed (she had no stable), and there provided it with clean straw and fodder.
Now when the traveller had eaten and drunk and sat awhile, he began to question her concerning her prosperity and cheerfulness in that night of ruin; and she, as the others had done, answered him all that he would know.
‘My money,’ said she, ‘is not invested as so many in this town have invested theirs. When I was yet young, One told me that riches do certainly make to themselves wings and fly away; and that gold perisheth, though it be purified seven times in the fire. Nevertheless He added that, if I chose, there could with my gold and silver be made ready for me an everlasting habitation, to receive me when the present fashion shall have passed away; and that I might lay up for myself treasure where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through and steal. So, when I was willing, He further informed me by what mean I should send my deposits to that secure house whereof the Owner will be no man’s debtor. One the first day of the week I was to go up to the branch-house upon the hill—you see it, sir, out to the East yonder; there, where a light shines to lighten every one that goeth into the house; and according as I had been prospered, I was to drop somewhat into the money-chest kept there. All such sums would be placed to my account, and would bear interest. But besides this, I was apprised that the Owner of the house employs many collectors, who may call at any moment, often at the most unlikely moments, for deposits. From these I was to take heed never to turn away my face, but I was to give to them freely, being well assured that they would carry all entrusted to them safely to my account. Thus, sometimes a fatherless child calls on me, sometimes a distressed widow; sometimes a sick case comes before me; sometimes a stranger, sir, as you have done this very night, demands my hospitality. And as I know whom I have trusted, and am persuaded that He will keep that which I commit to Him, I gladly spend and am spent, being a succourer of many, and looking for the recompense of the reward.’
So when the strange traveller had rested awhile, his horse also having been refreshed, he rose before daybreak, mounted, and rode away. Whence he came and whither he went I know not, but he rode as one that carries back tidings to Him that sent him. Also this I know, that some, being mindful to entertain strangers, have entertained angels unawares.
PROS AND CONS.
‘But, my dear doctor,’ cried Mrs. Plume, ‘you never can seriously mean it.’
The scene was the Rectory drawing-room—tea-time; some dozen parishioners drinking tea with their Rector and his wife. Mrs. Goodman looked down; her husband, the Rector, looked up.
‘I really did mean it,’ said he, courteously; ‘and, with your permission, I mean it still. Let us consider the matter calmly, my dear Mrs. Plume, calmly and fairly; and to start us fairly I will restate my proposal, which is that we should all combine to do our best towards bringing about the abolition of pews from our parish church.’
‘Then I,’ returned Mrs. Plume, shaking her head airily, ‘must really restate my protest. You never seriously can mean it.’
‘Nay,’ resumed the Rector, ‘don’t think that I am unmindful of your feelings on this point;’ and he glanced round the circle. ‘If I spoke hastily I ask your pardon and patience; but this matter of pews and pew-rents is on my conscience, and that I must lighten at all costs; even, Mr. Sale,’—for Mr. Sale frowned—‘at the cost of my income. However, why should we conclude ourselves to be at variance before we have ventilated the matter in hand? I for one will never take for granted that any good Christian is against the acknowledgment of our absolute equality before God.’
‘Sir,’ interposed Mr. Blackman, ‘we are equals, whatever may be our colour or our country. But whilst the Zenana counts its victims by thousands, whilst the Japanese make boast of their happy despatch, whilst the Bushman, dwindling before our face, lives and dies as the beasts that perish, shall we divert our attention from such matters of life and death to fix it on a petty question of appearance? Pardon me if tears for our benighted brethren blind me to such a matter as this.’
‘Our benighted brethren,’ said the Rector, gravely, ‘have my pity, have my prayers, have my money in some measure. Of your larger gifts in these several kinds I will not ask you to divert one throb, or one word, or one penny in favour of our poor fellow-parishioners. No, dear friend, help us by your good example to enlarge our field of charitable labour; to stretch full handed towards remote spots; but not meanwhile to fail in breaking up our own fallow ground at home. We all know that if at this moment either our foreign or our native ragged brother were to present himself in church, however open our hearts may be to him, our pew-doors would infallibly be shut against him, and he would find himself looked down upon both literally and figuratively. This, I own to you, were I he, would discomfit me, and put a stumbling-block in my way as a worshipper.’
‘Pooh! pooh!’ broke in Mr. Wood, testily: ‘My dear fellow, I really thought you a wiser man. What hardship is it for a flunky or a clodhopper to sit in a seat without a door?’
‘Ah!’ rejoined the Rector quietly, ‘for a servant, as you say, or for a mere sower of our fields, or (why not?) for a carpenter’s son either? But allow me to name two points which strike me forcibly,—two very solemn points;’ and Dr. Goodman spoke with solemnity, and bowed his head. ‘First, that if our adorable Lord were now walking this world as once He walked it, and if He had gone into our parish church last Sunday, as long ago He used to frequent the synagogue of Nazareth, He would certainly not have waited long to be ushered into a pew, but would, at least as willingly, have sat down amongst His own “blessed” poor; and, secondly, that we should all have left Him to do so unmolested; for I cannot suppose that His were the gold ring and goodly apparel which would have challenged attention.’
There was a pause, broken by Mrs. Plume, who, turning to her hostess, observed: ‘Ah, dear Mrs. Goodman, we know and revere the zeal of our dear good apostle. But you and I are old housekeepers, old birds not to be caught with chaff;’ and she shook a fascinating finger at her pastor; ‘and we know that the poor are not nice neighbours; quite infectious, in fact. They do very well together all in a clump, but one really couldn’t risk sitting amongst them, on various grounds, you know.’
‘Well,’ resumed the Rector, ‘I plead guilty to being but a tough man, thick-skinned, and lacking certain subtler members, entitled nerves. But what will you? You must make allowances for me, and even put up with me as I am. With docility, and all the imagination of which I am master, I throw myself into your position, and shudder with you at these repulsively infectious poor. I even seek to deepen my first impression of horror by questioning myself in detail, and I dwell on the word “infectious.” This brings before me small-pox, typhus fever, and other dreadful ailments; and I hasten (in spirit) to slam to, if only I could to bolt and bar, my pew-door. Safely ensconced within, I peer over my necessary barrier, and relieved from the pressure of instant peril, gaze with pity on the crowd without, all alike typhus-stricken, all alike redolent of small-pox. A new terror thrills me. Are ‘all alike’ infectious? or have we grouped together sound and unsound, sick and healthy? Ah, you hint, that amount of risk cannot be helped if they are to come to church at all. I am corrected, and carrying out the lesson of my Teacher I echo: That amount of risk cannot be helped if we are to come to church at all.’
‘These men! these men!’ cried Mrs. Plume, gaily. And Miss Crabb observed, from behind her blue spectacles, ‘Well, I suppose a woman of my age may allude to anything she pleases; so I make bold to tell you, Dr. Goodman, that small-pox may be all nonsense; but that nobody would like to sit amongst smells, and cheek-by-jowl with more heads than one in a bonnet.’
‘Smells,’ rejoined the Rector, ‘I do strongly object to; including scents, my dear Mrs. Plume; but that is a matter of taste. The other detail, which I know not how to express more pointedly than in the striking words of Miss Crabb, is yet more to be deprecated: but let us consider whether pews fairly meet the difficulty. Fairly? I ask; and then the unhesitatingly answer, No. For all the poor, both clean and dirty, occupy our free seats together; and surely to sit next a dirty neighbour is, at the least, as great a hardship on the cleanly poor as it would be on the rich, who are so far better able to have their clothes cleansed, or even, in case of need, to discard them. If, indeed, all dirty individuals would have the good feeling to compact themselves into one body it might be reassuring to their fellows, but this it were invidious to propose; and besides, we are at present mooting pews or no pews, not any third possible—or shall we say impossible?—alternative. I confess to you,’ he resumed, very seriously, ‘when I remember the little stress laid by Christ on clean hands, and the paramount importance in His eyes of a clean heart; when I reflect on the dirt of all kinds which much have touched Him in the crowds He taught and healed; when I realise that every one of my parishioners, poor as well as rich, will confront me at His judgment-bar, I tremble lest any should be deterred from coming to Him because I am too fine a gentlemen to go out into the highways and hedges. And compel to come in those actual poor—foul of body, it may be, as well as of soul—whom yet He has numbered to me as my flock.’
Silence ensued—an uncomfortable silence; broken by Mrs. Goodman’s nervous proffer of tea to Mr. Sale, who declined it.
Mr. Home resumed the attack. ‘Doctor,’ observed he, ‘all other objections to open seats might perhaps be overruled; but consider the sacredness of family affection, and do not ask us to scatter ourselves forlornly through the church, here a husband, there a wife;’ and he interchanged a smile with Mrs. Home; ‘there, again, a practical orphan. I for one could not possibly say my prayers without my little woman at my elbow.’
‘Here,’ cried the Rector, ‘I joyfully meet you halfway. The division of the sexes in distinct aisles is a question by itself, and one which I am not now discussing. Only go betimes to church’—at this a glance of intelligence passed round the circle, whilst Mrs. Home coloured,—‘and I stake my credit that you will hardly ever fail to find six contiguous seats for your party.’
Then Mr. Stone spoke up—Mr. Stone, the warmest man in the parish. He spoke with his fat hands in his fat pockets.
‘Dr. Goodman, sir,’—the courteous Rector bowed,—‘my attachment to the Church and my respect for your cloth must not prevent my doing my duty by my fellow-parishioners, who mouthpiece on the present occasion I claim to be.’ A general movement of relief accepted him as the lay champion. ‘We acknowledge, sir, and appreciate your zeal amongst us, but we protest against your innovations. We have borne with chants, with a surpliced choir, with daily services, but we will not bear to see all our right trampled under foot, and all our time-hallowed usages set at nought. The tendency of the day is to level social distinctions and to elevate unduly the lower orders. In this parish at least let us combine to keep up wise barriers between class and class, and to maintain that fundamental principle practically bowed to all over our happy England, that what you can pay for you can purchase. This, sir, has been our first dissension’—a statement not quite correct,—‘let it be our last; and in token that we are at one against, here is my hand.’
Dr. Goodman grasped the proffered hand, looking rather pale as he did so.
‘Let this betoken,’ rejoined he, ‘that whatever is discarded amongst us, it shall not be Christian charity. And now it grows late. I must not selfishly prolong our discussion’ yet, as your pastor, with a sacred duty to discharge towards all my flock, suffer me to add one word. What Mr. Stone has alleged may e the system of worldly England; though many a man professing far less than we do would repudiate so monstrous a principle; but as Churchmen we can have nothing to do with it. God’s gifts are bought without money and without price: “Ho, every one,” cries His invitation. I, therefore, as His most unworthy ambassador, protest that in His house I will no longer buy and sell as in a market. I confess myself in fault that I have so long tolerated this monstrous abuse; and I avow that you, my brethren, have this evening furnished me with the only plausible argument in favour of pews which has ever been suggested to me, for it is hard upon our open-hearted poor that they should be compelled to sit by persons who, instead of viewing them as brethren beloved, despise the poor.’
THE WAVES OF THIS TROUBLESOME WORLD.
A TALE OF HASTINGS FIFTEEN YEARS AGO.
PART I.
Perhaps there is no pleasanter watering-place in England where to spend the fine summer months than Hastings, on the Sussex coast. The old town, nestling in a long, narrow valley, flanked by the East and West Hills, looks down upon the sea. At the valley mouth, on the shingly beach, stands the fish-market, where boatmen disembark the fruit of daily toil; where traffic is briskly plied, and maybe haggling rages; where bare-legged children dodge in and out between the stalls; where now and then a travelling show—dwarf, giant, or what not—arrests for brief days its wanderings.
Hard by the market, on the beach, stands the fishermen’s chapel— plain, but comely, with, near the door, its small chest for offerings. I know not whether chanted psalms and hymns rise within its walls; but if they do, the windy sea must sound an accompaniment exceeding in solemn harmony any played upon earthly organs, to such words as, ‘One deep calleth another, because of the noise of the water-pipes: all Thy waves and storms are gone over me;’ or, ‘They are carried up to the heaven, and down again to the deep: their soul melteth away because of the trouble;’ or, ‘Let not the waterflood drown me, neither let the deep swallow me up.’
It is a pretty sight in brilliant holiday weather to watch the many parties of health or pleasure-seekers which throng the beach. Boys and girls picking up shells, pebbles, and star-fishes, or raising with hands and wooden spades a sand fortress, encircled by a moat full of sea-water, and crowned by a twig of seaweed as a flag; mothers and elder sisters reading or working beneath shady hats, whilst after bathing their long hair dries in the sun and wind. Hard by rock at their moorings bannered pleasure-boats, with blue-jerseyed oarsmen or white sails; and if the weather is oppressively got and sunny, a gaily-coloured canopy is reared on light poles, for the protection of voyagers. When tide is high, a plank or a long step suffices; but at low water, as the shore is flat, boatmen have frequently to carry children, and even women, across the broad stretch of wet sands to and from the vessels.
Very different from such seafarers in sport are their near neighbours, the seafarers in earnest; who neither hoist canopies for fair weather, nor tarry at home for foul; who might say with the patriarch Jacob, ‘In the day the drought consumed me, and the frost by night;’ whose vigils often see the moon rise and set; who sometimes buffet with the winds and tug against the tide for very life.
It is with one of these that my tale has to do: let us peep into his cottage.
An accident to his boat, only just now, after hours of diligent labour, repaired, has kept Frank Hardiman on shore all day. Within another hour the tide will be favourable, and he must put to sea; till then he stays with his wife and two children, Jane and Henry. They are seated at tea, discussing the contents of a letter received that afternoon. Let us look at the faces and listen to the conversation.
Frank Hardiman is thirty-one years old, tall, stout, tanned by the sun, with a deep, jolly voice, bright eyes, and the merriest of laughs. His wife, Emma, is slim and rather pretty, dressed with considerable taste and uncommon neatness; for before her marriage she was upper nurse in a gentleman’s family, and, indeed, made acquaintance with her good man when loitering along the beach after her little charges. Jane is nine years old, quiet and shy, with a mild expression, redeemed from insipidity by lines of unusual firmness about the mouth: when she speaks it is mostly in a slow, apathetic manner; but now and then a flash of feeling reveals that there are strength and depth in her character. Harry has scarcely entered his seventh year, and is a miniature likeness of his father, only less sunburned.
The letter under discussion ran as follows:—
Dear Brother and Sister,
My husband died ten days ago in the hope of a blessed resurrection. Moreover God, Who does all things well, has been pleased to call my sin to remembrance, and to slay my son. I am alone indeed now; not in debt, having just enough in hand to pay my way till Thursday, and then come down to you. Will you receive me? We parted in anger, but perhaps you will forgive me when you know how much I have lost, and guess with how sore a longing I desire to lay my bones amongst my own people. If I do not hear from you by Thursday, I shall understand that you cannot forgive: nevertheless remember, in the next world if not in this, we must meet again.
Your sorrowful, affectionate sister,
SARAH LANE.
‘How can she fancy we’d bear malice after all her troubles?’ said Frank; ‘and when it was for her own good, too. Write at once, my dear, and make her welcome to all we’ve got, such as it is, and the best of it.’
‘Yes,’ replied Emma, dryly. She was jealously alive to her husband’s fondness for his sister, and by no means relished the prospect of her returning to live with them.
‘How old is aunt Sarah?’ inquired Jane.
‘Twenty-five last March; and five years ago she was the prettiest girl in Hastings. You must furbish up your room a bit, Jenny, and make your aunt as comfortable as you can. She’s got rather high notions, naturally; but I guess they must have come down by this time, poor thing! only don’t let us make her feel strange coming back to what used to be her home—and shall be her home again, please God, if she’ll come and share it. Well, I’m off, Emma,’ continued Frank, rising and shaking himself: ‘you’ll write a kind welcome, I know, for you’re the scholar; and you needn’t say a word about me, except that I’m just the same as five years ago. Good night.’—‘Good night.’ So he left the cottage.
Then Jane busied herself with washing the tea-things and ‘tidying up;’ Harry, at the imminent risk of his fingers, began hacking a small bit of wood, to produce what he dubbed a boat, and Emma sat down to write the letter of invitation—I cannot say welcome:—
My dear Sister,
Your letter came to hand this afternoon, and Frank and I are very sorry for your troubles; but if you come here I dare say you will mind less. Frank says, ‘Come and welcome, and be as all was five years ago:’ only ours is but a poor place for such as you, and you must not mind having Jenny in bed with you; and you cannot expect me to do nothing but wait on you, as I have a good handful with Frank and the children, I tell you plainly.
So next Thursday we shall expect you, and no more at present from
Your affectionate sister,
EMMA HARDIMAN.
While Emma wrote her letter, Jane, I say, washed the tea-things. There was brisk thoroughness in her manner of washing; no great handiness, but concentrated energy: she was evidently conscientious. Next she coaxed Harry to forego his hacking and be put to bed, showing tact and good nature with firmness in the transaction. Then, returning with her bonnet on her head and a basket on her arm, she asked her mother whether she should not take her letter to the post.
‘Yes,’ answered Emma; ‘and you must make haste, too, or it won’t be in time. Here’s a penny for a stamp; and,’ putting a crown-piece into the little girl’s hand, ‘you must bring me in some butter, and sugar, and treacle, and a load, and some tea; and call at Mrs. Smith’s for my bonnet, and get a reel of black cotton and a paper of needles. And you must run, too; you’ll have running enough, I reckon, when madam comes.’
Away ran Jane with all her might, reaching the post-office in much more than time to catch the evening mail. ‘Well, my little woman, is it a love-letter you’re carrying?’ said the post-master; to which she answered demurely, ‘No, sir, please; it’s to my aunt in London.’ Seeing he was busy she added no more, but set off on her next errand. This took her to a various-smelling shop in one of the back streets, where she ran glibly through the accustomed list of articles: ‘Half a pound of butter, a pound of sugar, two pennyworth of treacle (for Harry), a quartern loaf, a quarter of a pound of three-and-fourpenny tea, and rashers of bacon,’ supplying the last item from her knowledge of what must be wanted, though her mother had forgotten to name it. She packed all carefully in her little basket, counted the change from her crown-piece, chirped to a poor imprisoned lark, which could catch not one glimpse of sky from his nail in the shop, stroked her old friend the black cat, and started for Mrs. Smith’s smart establishment in the High Street.
Mrs. Smith, in a false front and staring flowers, presiding behind her millinery counter, looked somewhat formidable. Jane preferred asking the young woman on the other side for the black cotton and needles. These were supplied and paid for; then Mrs. Smith called out to know if she wanted anything else. ‘Please, ma’am,” began Jane, is mother’s bonnet—’
‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Smith, shortly, ‘tell your mother that her bonnet isn’t done yet, and she needn’t keep bothering after it; for when it’s done I’ll send it home, and not before. Good evening!’ This bonnet was a bone of contention between the two women; it was to be trimmed in return for certain errands already executed by Jane; and the milliner’s hands being filled just now with more lucrative orders, great delay ensued in its completion.
When Jane reached home, she found her mother seated hard at work making a black-and-white muslin dress with flounces—Emma loved to be smart on Sunday—for her own wear. Jane put away the purchases, handed what change remained to Mrs. Hardiman, and sat down to write a copy and work an addition sum for Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife, who gave her an hour’s instruction two or three times a-week. The little girl laboured to do her very best, and had just produced a particularly correct capital B when her mother shook the table. Not a word said poor Jane, though a great blot was jerked out of the pen on to the B. She tried again and again for six lines more, but without equalling the defaced B; then, that page finished, turned her mind to the sum. ‘4 and 4 are 8, and 1 are 9, and 7—’ ‘Jane,’ cried her mother, ‘there’s nothing for supper; run out and fetch two rashers.’ ‘I got them, mother, when I was out, because I knew they were wanted,’ was the cheerful answer, and reckoning recommenced. ‘4 and 4 are 8, and 1 are 9, and 7 are sixt—’ ‘Jane.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ ‘Was the letter in time?’ ‘Oh, much more than time. 4 and 4—’ ‘I shall never get through these flounces to-night: put away your books, child, and help me. I’m sure your schooling isn’t worth much if it doesn’t teach you to mind me.’
Jane jumped up, though she could have cried, laid by her book and slate, and sat down close to her mother. In another minute two pairs of hands were hemming as fast as they could hem at the flounces. Why was Emma in such a hurry to finish making her dress? It could not be out of regard to her sister-in-law’s feelings, as she and her daughter were already in black for the death of an old relation who had left them a few pounds; neither could it be with an exclusive eye to Sunday, for this was only Tuesday evening: no, she was bent on receiving poor, sad Sarah in this fine gown, because she felt jealous of her good looks, and wanted to outshine her in Frank’s eyes.
Jane, who had no idea of this state of things, asked, ‘What was Uncle Lane?’
‘Don’t call him uncle,’ returned Emma, sharply; ‘he was no kith or kin to us, but a Methodist fografer [photographer], and but a poor body at best. I dare say his widow hasn’t a pound that she can call her own, though she is so ready to invite herself to live with them who work hard for their bread. However, your father must please himself. [Thread snaps.] Mrs. Smith’s cotton is mere rubbish; you go to Widow Wright’s next time, and see if you can’t get honest penn’orth; do you hear?’
‘Yes, mother. I shall like to have Aunt Sarah in my bed: is she like father?’
‘No—yes—I don’t know; don’t bother me. You’ll have enough and to spare of Aunt Sarah, I can tell you.’
Silence once more, except for the click, click, of thimble and needle; Jane wondering what she had said amiss, for her mother was not usually cross.
At last the flounces were finished. ‘There, that will do,’ observed Emma, more complacently, for they looked puffy and well. ‘I declare it’s supper-time; make haste, child, and toast the bacon whilst I clear away.’
On Wednesday, Jane having, under her mother’s direction, scrubbed her own bed-room floor, added a blue bason and jug to its furniture, and an extra chair. The window looked into Frank’s garden, very bright just now with nasturtiums; and though it did not command a sea view, the murmur, or tumult, or roar of the great deep, could always, except in very still weather, be distinctly heard from it.
The room made ready, let us glance at its occupant.
Sarah Lane, now so mournful, had years ago been not only the prettiest, but almost the merriest girl in Hastings. True, she was a child of sorrow to her mother, who died without even kissing her new-born baby; but, bequeathed to the guardianship of father and brother, she never missed a mother’s care. Often might Henry Hardiman be seen loitering up and down the parade, or lounging by the sun-dial, holding in his arms his little girl; or, as she grew older, putting his finger into her chubby first to help her in toddling. Sometimes, in pleasant weather, he took her in the boat with him for a row; sometimes left her on shore under the care of Frank, who lugged her unweariedly about the beach, where she served as plaything to her father’s rugged mates.
When the time arrived for Frank to go out with his father and share his labours, a change ensued for little Sarah. She was sent to a superior school—for Henry Hardiman drove a flourishing trade—and only went home on a Saturday to stay till the Monday; the Hardimans, from father to son, observing Sunday, and frequenting St. Clement’s Church. Henry and Frank were not a little proud of their girl as she walked beside them, rosy and good-humoured, or, with a pretty childish voice, joined in the hymns of the congregation; and before long she, too, learned to be proud of her sturdy, weather-beaten father in his Sunday blue boat, and of her handsome, merry brother, and to give them back warm love for the life-long love which they gave her.
At fifteen, grown tall and womanly, Sarah came home to keep her father’s house. Her school-education included several useful items: she was quick and clever with her needle, read with fluency and expression, wrote a clear hand, was a capital accountant, hair a fair knowledge of geography, history, and spelling, could express herself well in a letter; moreover, she knew a little music and a little dancing, and, thanks to natural voice and ear, sang sweetly and tuneably. Very soon the cottage bore witness to her good taste. The old-fashioned furniture was rubbed up; a few geraniums and fuschias screened the parlous window; a Virginia creeper, scarlet-coloured in autumn, clambered up the outer wall; and carefully tended plants rendered her garden the prettiest in the Tackle way. She liked and wore bright colours; and when she watered her window-flowers, or gathered a nosegay in the garden, or sat among the Pier Rocks watching for her father’s boat to come across the intense blue, sunny sea, often and often passers-by lingered to admire her noble beauty and untaught grace.
When her skill as a needlewoman became known, first neighbours, then ladies, engaged her to work for them. By this means she amassed a little sum of money, carefully stored amongst her treasures, but never spent. Sometimes Henry, coming home, found her sewing and singing, whilst puss purred at her feet, and the kettle sang on the fire. Then he would say, ‘Bless you, Sally; there’s no need for you to wear out your plump bits of fingers. Ain’t Frank and I big enough to work for you?’ and she would answer, ‘Ah, but some day when you’re a dear old father, and stay at home in the chimney-corner, Frank musn’t have all the pleasure of working for you, and my earnings will come in handy, you’ll see.’
Several young men courted her for her fair face, or clever ways, or kind heart; but to all of them she answered a civil ‘No,’ till it came to be said among the fisher-folk that Sarah Hardiman must be waiting for a lord. Even John Archer, a well-to-do, God-fearing young boatman, who followed her for many an anxious month, only at last elicited her gentle, firm ‘No,’ though her father pitied the poor lad, and Frank spoke warmly in his favour. Soon after Sarah left school, Frank married and brought home his Emma; but Sarah continued mistress of the house, her father’s darling, and very dear to her brother, which, with her good looks and many suitors, made Emma sore and jealous. The two young women were not over cordial together, though they never spoke of their coolness, and Frank was long before he even suspected it.
So four years passed.
One Saturday night, as the little family sat round the fire, over which spluttered eggs and bacon for supper,—as Henry dozed, Frank netted, Emma worked for her baby, and Sarah turned the rashers, a noise of quarrelling outside roused the two men. They started up, but before they could reach the door a loud crash was heard of something falling and breaking on the pavement; then three or four voices cried ‘Shame!’ They ran out, and the women were left alone in some anxiety.
After a few minutes old Hardiman returned. ‘Sally,’ explained he, ‘here’s a poor travelling showman whose box of things has just been smashed by big Ben, because he said the sun would take his likeness. Ben, I reckon, has had a glass too much. So I think it will be but Christian-like to take him in for to-night, as he’s quite a stranger here, and seems a decent body, if you’ll shake him down a bed, my darling.’
‘Yes, father,’ answered the girl; and just then Frank and a young man entered, bearing between them the wrecks of a portable photographic apparatus.
‘Sit down and be kindly welcome,’ Sarah said, blushing like a rose; she set a chair for the stranger, and, with practical hospitality, broke three more eggs, and put three more rashers into the frying-pan. Then she placed those already cooked on the table, with cheese, butter, home-made bread, and strong beer.
At supper the guest warmly thanked his entertainers, and proceeded to gratify their curiosity about himself. His name was John Lane; both his parents were dead, and, indeed, he had no near relation in the world. His business was to take photographs, at sixpence and upwards; for this purpose he travelled from town to town, seldom remaining in one place for more than a few weeks: ‘Till to-night,’ he continued, somewhat bitterly, ‘I never met with an ignorant brute.’ He then drew from his pocket a small case containing specimens of his art, both portraits and landscapes.
Frank looked at them in silent admiration; but Sarah observed, pointing to a coloured head, ‘I like that best; I always want to know what eyes and hair people have.’ John Lane glanced up at her: ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘the sun can’t paint eyes and hair.’ ‘Well, Mr. Lane,’ interposed Emma, ‘I must get you to do Jenny’s portrait. When will you be able?’ ‘I will come as soon as I possibly can,’ he answered, eagerly. So that evening concluded.
Next morning, while they sat at breakfast, Sarah said to the guest, ‘Our old church is worth seeing: I think when you’ve been there with us, you’ll want to take its likeness too.’ But John Lane, flushing crimson, replied, without looking up, ‘I can’t go there, thank you: I’m what you call a Methodist.’
Certainly John Lane by no means exaggerated in his own favour when he told his story. He might have said that during some years he had been the sole support of a bedridden mother, for her sake often denying himself all save bare necessaries; that by perseverance and ingenuity he had attained proficiency in his art; that he had laid up a sum of money, and was in the way to add to it. Any one who knew him well could have related these facts and more. Two years before this period, about the time of his mother’s death, he stopped one Sunday afternoon to hear in itinerant preacher, who, bare-headed, Bible in hand, went out—to use his own phrase—into the highways and hedges, to compel men to come in. John stopped to kill time; but the rough, zealous words pricked his conscience to the quick: before he went his way he had resolved to redeem the time. From that day he was an altered man: he read his Bible with fervent, persistent prayer, and at the first opportunity introduced himself to the preacher whose words had convinced him of sin. These two men, both honest, both zealous, both uninstructed, provoked each other to good works; but, utterly alien from church unity, ignored many vital doctrines. The elder man, constrained by the love of Christ, sailed as a missionary to India: John Lane then believed that he was called to fill the gap; to lift up his voice like a trumpet, and proclaim the gospel to souls perishing for lack of knowledge. Therefore he gave up his fixed quarters in London, and wandering from town to town, endeavoured to speak a word in season to persons who came to him in the way of business; and on Sundays, after attending one service in the Methodist chapel, devoted his afternoon to out-of-door preaching.
This was the man whom what we call accident, but what is in fact the appointment or permission of God, brought to the fisherman’s cottage; to Hardiman and Frank, staunch churchgoers; to Emma, not over partial to her sister-in-law; to beautiful Sarah, with her winning ways and disengaged heart.
Of course John Lane deemed himself in duty bound to bear witness for the truth here as elsewhere. Hardiman listened to him, but shook his head when he spoke of the love of the Establishment having waxed cold, of experience, and professors. ‘I like practisers,’ said Henry Hardiman; and trudged to St. Clement’s as heretofore. Emma went once to the Methodist chapel, but was mightily offended when the preacher, looking, as she declared, full at her light blue bonnet, observed, ‘It might have been better for Dives in hell if he had not dressed so finely.’ Sarah, who would not grieve her father, continued a regular attendant at the old parish church once every Sunday; but if, as frequently happened, in her afternoon stroll she caught sight of John Lane surrounded by a group of listening, too often idlers, she was sure to join his audience and add her sweet voice to their hymns. Then followed the walk together home; the earnest communings by the way, of the everlasting prize to be run for.
So these two came to love each other: Henry only saw that the young man loved his beautiful daughter.
‘John Lane,’ said he one day, ‘you love Sarah, and mean well by her; but I tell you plainly she’s not for such as you. She’s said “No” to many a man already, and she’ll say “No” to you when you ask her: for she shall never have my blessing on her marrying a Methodist, and gadding from place to place making mischief. Take my advice, my lad, and keep away from Sarah, and she won’t run after you.’
So John kept away from the cottage; and if Sarah fretted, she said not a word of her troubles to any one.
About a week had elapsed since they last saw each other, when she, having finished some work for a lady at Halton, set off to carry it home. A long round led her to the field-path, beset by fence and gates: on the right, where the West Hill slopes towards the town, haymaking was going on with a pleasant smell. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred: and when for a few minutes she sat on a wayside bench to cool herself, she noticed how a subtle exhalation rising from the heated ground became perceptible where it slightly altered the appearance of objects seen through it.
Her business at Halton was quickly transacted; and with lightened hands, if not a lightened heart, she was turning homewards, when straight before, pack on back, stood John Lane.
Sarah looked very tall and stately: ‘Good-bye, Mr. Lane,’ said she, ‘since I see you’re on your travels again; and I hope you’ll find a kinder welcome where you’re going than you got at Hastings.’
‘Good-bye, indeed,’ he answered, gravely, ‘if you call me Mr. Lane; and I hope I shall never find such another kind welcome, if it’s only to break my heart afterwards.’
It was not in human nature to part so: no wonder Sarah’s look softened; no wonder John forgot his pack and his migration, and turned back towards Hastings with her. He told her all: how her father had called him a mischief-making Methodist; had said he had no chance, and had better keep away; how he had prayed and wrestled against temptation; ‘because,’ added he, simply, ‘I wasn’t sure, Sarah, that you would say “No.” But God gave me grace to esteem the reproach of Christ better than all the—ah, better than much more than all the treasures of Egypt.’ Again he said, ‘Good-bye;’ but Sarah said, ‘Stuff! you know, John, I can’t answer “Yes” or “No” till you ask me something.’
So in the field-path John asked, and she answered. Then from gate to gate along the steaming fields, whilst haymakers rested and birds sat silent in the noon heat, they two walked, talking earnestly. At the last gate they parted, Sarah saying, ‘Very well, now that’s settled. John, I do believe my soul is at stake in this matter, for it’s only you in all the world who have taught me to love God; and though father won’t bless my marrying a Methodist, he’ll bless me when I am married.’
They were married secretly one Sunday morning at the Methodist chapel—not without keen stings of conscience, which neither owned to the other. When that same day Henry Hardiman heard from them what was done, he uttered no angry words, but took the blow stoutly. To his daughter’s eager expressions of affection he merely answered, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally;’ and when a week later she and her husband set off for Eastbourne, he blessed her gravely before she went.
But that one trouble had made an old man of him. Soon Frank went alone to fish, while Henry sat at home in the chimney-corner, holding Emma’s youngest born on his knee, or crept along the Tackle Way, with a finger in Jane’s chubby fist to help her in toddling. Next, days came when he could only sit moping in the chimney-corner: the doctor, looking at him, shook his head; and Frank wrote Sarah word that if she cared for her father’s pardon she must come now and ask it. She came: was received coldly by her brother and sister-in-law, kindly by her father; only when she hung about him with tears and fond words, he answered patiently, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ So he died.
A few more months, and Sarah became mother of a small, weak baby—a little Henry. A few more years, and still wearing black for her dead only son, she sat beside her husband’s death-bed: her kind husband, who never once had spoken a harsh word to her. Long ago they had repented of the cruel wrong done to the old man; had confessed their fault one to the other, exchanged forgiveness, and prayed together for pardon. Their store of money wasted during John’s tedious illness; and Sarah, watching him as he lay dying, felt a sort of satisfaction in the thought that she had just enough left to bury her dead out of sight before asking help of her relations.
His last look was at her; his last words were, ‘Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.’
PART II.
Thursday afternoon arrived. Frank, Jane, and little Harry, went down to the station to meet Sarah Lane; whilst Emma stayed at home in the puffy new muslin, preparing tea and making ready for her sister-in-law’s reception. She was in high good humour; for Frank before setting off had praised her pretty face, and observed, ‘Poor Sally won’t look like that, I fancy, when she comes home again.’
She came. Just the old stately grace and fine features, but none of the old bloom; her eyes were dim and sunken, her cheeks hollow; instead of bright colours she wore widow’s weeds. She came back to the familiar home, the fond warm-hearted brother, the sister-in-law who had never loved her; only the dear old man was wanting, whose grey hairs she had brought down with sorrow to the grave.
Frank kissed his sister when she crossed the threshold, but could not utter one word of welcome, struck dumb by her changed face: it was Emma, who, really touched, came forward and welcomed her cordially. Not much was said that evening. Sarah held little Henry—so like his grandfather—on her lap till he fell fast asleep there, and Frank carried him upstairs for Jane to put to bed. Then Sarah, left alone with her sister-in-law, rose, and holding out her hand, ‘Emma, I promised John to ask your pardon for the ill-will there had been between us, and I do ask it. Please God, I shall not stand in your way any more to vex you, nor eat the bread of idleness for long. Good-night.’ To judge by her wasted form and frequent hacking cough, she would not for long eat the bread of men at all.
The next day, and the next, Sarah went amongst her neighbours seeking for needlework, but without success. Many old friends greeted her coldly, for Henry Hardiman’s death was generally laid at her door. Some promised to employ her, but had no work just then. She called at several houses from which she used to receive orders, but her richer customers had not yet left London for the sea-side: she trudged to Halton, and found that the young lady who employed her there had married long ago, and gone away to the Lake country.
Poor Sarah! she was a widow indeed, and desolate, trusting in God.
On Sunday morning, before setting out for chapel, she said, ‘Don’t wait dinner for me, as I dare say I shan’t be back much before tea-time.’ Emma tossed her head in its flowered crape bonnet, and wondered to Frank ‘which of her Methodist friends will give her a dinner?’
Sarah Lane sat down to no dinner that day; but when she felt pretty certain that the congregation must have dispersed from St. Clement’s, she went into the churchyard and sat down on her father’s grave. There, motionless, silent, past crying, she remained for hours. Will, mental powers, life itself, seemed at a standstill; whilst, as if of their own accord, old days came back before her eyes. She remembered toddling along, helped by the unwearied finger; being rowed out to sea in pleasant weather, till, grown tired, she nestled to sleep under the rough great-coat; changing once a-week from lessons and school discipline to snug home; walking hand in hand to church. She remembered being installed mistress of the cottage; altering, renewing, embellishing, just as she pleased; being fondled, cared for, scarcely allowed to work for him to toiled night and day for her; continuing first and dearest even after Frank brought a wife to live with them. She remembered the new love that hardened her against the old; the tacit deceit; the short parting, with its blessing, grave and sorrowful; the long, long parting, with its patient, unvaried, ‘Maybe, maybe, sally.’ Over and over again her eyes mechanically read,—
‘HENRY HARDIMAN,
AGED 55.
Affliction sore long time he bore,
Physicians were in vain,
Till God did please his soul release,
And ease him of his pain.’
She did not perceive that these lines are doggrel; she only felt that they were true. Her baby, her dear John,—their loss seemed light while she sat by her dead father whom she had killed, and heard his feeble voice saying in her ears, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’
‘My!’ cried Emma, when, as the kettle sang on the fire, and Jane knelt on the hearth toasting huge slices for tea, Sarah crept into the cottage with a few daisies and blades of grass in her hand: ‘you startled me just like a ghost, and I declare you’re as white as one.’
It cost Sarah’s pride a severe struggle before she could bring herself to apply for work to Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife: she feared some harsh word might be dropped concerning her own conduct years ago; and John blamed for what, as she persisted in saying, she led him into. But not employment offered elsewhere; and the words of Holy Scripture, ‘If any would not work, neither should he eat,’ kept goading her; till one afternoon, by a great effort, she set off towards the curate’s old-fashioned house in the Croft. A strange servant opened the door, and perceiving a decent-looking widow, led her straight into the sitting-room. Mrs. Grey heard some one enter, but not catching the name, looked up from her writing, and seeing as she supposed a stranger, rose and inquired civilly to whom she had the pleasure of speaking.
‘You don’t recollect me, ma’am,’ began Sarah; but at the sound of that familiar voice Mrs. Grey started forward, and cordially pressing her hand, exclaimed, ‘Oh, Sarah Hardiman—Mrs. Lane—how glad I am to see you! I heard you were come home, and thought it would not be long before you paid me a visit. Sit down, and let me help you off with your bonnet and shawl; for now that you are here I shall not let you go so easily.’
This kindness quite overcame the poor widow. A great flow of tears relieved her; and when Mrs. Grey spoke soothing words, she answered, ‘Let be, ma’am, let be: it’s the first time since I buried John, and it does me good.’
So the curate’s wife, who had known her from a baby, seated herself by her; and drawing the bowed-down head to her bosom, let her sob there; not attempting to check her grief, but only whispering that she understood the lightest part of it, having lost her own youngest boy five months ago. When the sobs grew less choking, she poured out a glass of wine and made her eat some cake—little guessing how sorely her guest stood in need of food; since Sarah grudged herself every morsel she ate whilst she earned nothing and was a burden to Frank and Emma.
At length the purpose of her visit was told: ‘I came to ask,’ said Sarah, ‘whether you would give me some needlework. I have been trying ever since I came back to find employment, and no one wants my services. Will you let me work for you?’
Mrs. Grey replied directly, ‘I have plenty of things to make just now, and you shall have them all if you like to begin to-morrow.’ Then, remembering that in days of yore there was not much cordiality between the sisters-in-law, she added, ‘If you don’t mind, I should prefer your not taking them home, at least not at first, but working here with me. Perhaps some day it may comfort you to tell me about your troubles: you don’t know how often I thought of you and felt for you whilst you were away.’
Just then little Jane Hardiman, whose course of study had undergone temporary suspension on account of the extra bustle at home, came in for her hour’s lesson. Sarah rose to go; but Mrs. Grey begged her to sit down if she was not in a hurry, and wait till her niece was ready to walk home with her. Then business commenced.
The addition sum was produced, worked at last without one blunder; the blotted B elicited a mild rebuke; a flower-pot added to the sampler was inspected and approved. Next Jane, who had, in preparation, read it over by herself, was questions on the parable of the lost sheep (Luke, xv. 4).
‘Where was the shepherd pasturing his flock?’
‘In the wilderness.’
‘What is a wilderness?’
‘A barren place, without houses, or trees, or grass, or water.’
‘But what then were the sheep to eat?’
Some moments spent in thought. ‘Did they have manna, ma’am?’
‘No, I do not suppose they had manna. In a wilderness there are certain spots where water springs out of the ground; and round about this water or fountain the ground is fertile, fruit-bearing and other shady trees grow, and grass springs up. I recollect once reading of a traveller who found a single most beautiful lily blooming by such a fountain. Doubtless the good shepherd fed his flock on a fruitful spot of the wilderness, as the Psalm says,—“He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of comfort” How many sheep were there?’
‘A hundred.’
‘Who took care of them?’
‘Their shepherd.’
‘Did the shepherd fall asleep at night and let the wolf come and catch them?’
‘No.’
‘No, certainly. He kept watch over his flock by night: if he saw a roaring lion or a great heavy bear coming to tear them, he rose and killed it or drove it away. Well, ninety-nine sheep followed him wherever he went: but what did one do?’
‘It got away.’
‘Where did it go?’
‘Did it go into the other part of the wilderness?’
‘Yes; quite away from the grass and water, where there was nothing but sand. It couldn’t eat sand or drink sand, could it?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘So it must have died very soon of hunger and thirst, even if no wild beast had devoured it. Did it die?’
‘No; because the shepherd went and fetched it.’
‘And when he found it, did he drive it before him, striking it and using angry words?’
‘No; he laid it on his shoulders rejoicing, and all his neighbours rejoiced with him when it came safely back.’
‘Very well. But this is not merely a beautiful tale about a shepherd and his flock; it is one of the sacred parables spoken by our blessed Saviour. What do I mean by a parable?’ asked Mrs. Grey.
A long pause: at last,—‘Stories that tell about other things.’
‘Really that will not do for an explanation,’ said the teacher; ‘because, though I understand what you mean, a person who knew nothing what a parable is would be none the wiser. Perhaps your aunt will kindly help us.’ Then, turning to her, ‘Mrs. Lane, will you inform your niece what a parable is?’