“I am with thee, and no man shall set on thee to hurt thee.”
Acts xviii, 10.
“There I will meet with thee, and I will commune with thee from
above the mercy-seat.” Exod. xxv, 22.
No man liveth unto himself. In that green, flowery Eden, with the soft winds blowing in at the open doors and windows, and the white sunshine glorifying every thing, there was the whisper of sorrow as well as the whisper of love. The homely life of the village, with its absorbing tragedy, touched all hearts; for men and women belie their nature when they do not weep with those that weep.
At the close of the London season the Elthams returned to their country home, and there was much visiting and good-will. One evening they were sitting in Eltham drawing-room after dinner. The squire had been discussing the Clough tragedy with great warmth; for Lord Eltham had not unnaturally judged Ben Craven upon the apparent evidence, and was inclined to think his position, whether he was innocent or guilty, one of great danger. Hallam would not see things in any such light. He had lived only in the morally healthy atmosphere of the woods and fields, and the sinful tragedies of life had not been actual to him. True, he had read of them in his weekly paper, but it was a different thing when they came to his own door, and called for his active sympathy.
“Right is right, Eltham,” he said, with the emphasis of one closed hand striking the other; “and it ‘ud be a varry queer thing if right should turn out to be wrong. It’ll do nowt o’ t’ sort, not it.”
“But, Hallam, it seems to me that you hev made up your mind that Craven is right—right or wrong—and lawyer Swale told me t’ evidence was all against him.”
“Swale!” replied the squire, snapping his fingers disdainfully. “Why-a! Swale nivver told t’ truth i’ all his life, if he nobbut hed t’ time to make up a lie. As for Bingley, I wish I hed sent him over t’ seas when I hed t’ chance to do it—he’s none fit to breathe t’ air in a decent country.”
“But Swale says that Bill Laycock has acknowledged that he also saw Craven in his working clothes running over t’ moor just about t’ time Clough was shot, and Bill and Craven were at one time all but brothers.”
“Ay, ay; but there’s a lass between ‘em now—what do you make o’ that?”
“As far as I can think it out, it’s against Craven.”
“Then think twice about it, Eltham, and be sure to change thy mind t’ second time; for I tell thee, Craven is as innocent as thee or me; and though t’ devil and t’ lawyers hev all t’ evidence on their side, I’ll lay thee twenty sovereigns that right’ll win. What dost ta say, Phyllis, dearie?”
And Phyllis, who had been watching his large, kindly face with the greatest admiration, smiled confidently back to him, and answered, “I think as you do Uncle Hallam,
“‘For right is right, since God is God;
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin.’”
Hallam looked proudly at her, and then at his opponent, who, with glistening eyes, bowed, and answered: “My dear young lady, that settles the question, here. I wish with a’ my heart it did so in ivery court in t’ kingdom; but, squire, thou knows little o’ this world, I’m feared.”
“What by that? I don’t want to know. As far as I can judge, t’ knowledge of t’ world is only an acquaintance wi’ all sorts o’ evil and unjust things. But come thy ways, Eltham, and let’s hev a bit of a walk through t’ park. I hear t’ cuckoos telling their names to ivery tree, and ivery bird in them, and there’s few sounds I like better, if it bean’t a nightingale singing.”
It was getting late, and the squire’s proposition was generally indorsed. The whole party resolved to walk to the park gates, and the carriage and Antony’s saddle-horse were ordered to meet them there. It was a delightful evening, full of an indescribable tranquillity—a tranquillity not at all disturbed by the craik of the rail in the clover, or the plaintive minor of the cuckoo in the thick groves. Eltham and the squire talked earnestly of the coming election. Phyllis, leaning on Antony’s arm, was full of thought, and Richard and Elizabeth fell gradually a little behind them. In that soft light her white garments and her fair loveliness had a peculiar charm. She reminded Richard of some Greek goddess full of grace and large serenity. He had resolved not to tell her how dear she was to him until he had better prepared the way for such a declaration; but when the time comes the full heart must speak, though it be only to call the beloved one’s name. And this was at first all Richard could say:
“Elizabeth! Dear Elizabeth!”
She recognized the voice. It was as if her soul had been waiting for it. From the sweetest depths of her consciousness she whispered “Richard,” and with the word made over her full heart to him. They stood one wonderful moment looking at each other, then he drew her to his breast and kissed her. The sweetest strongest words of love were never written. They are not translatable in earthly language. Richard was dumb with happiness, and Elizabeth understood the silence. As they rode home and sauntered up the terraces, Antony said, “What a dull evening we have had;” but Phyllis was of the initiated, and knew better. She looked at Elizabeth and smiled brightly, while Richard clasped tighter the dear hand he was holding.
About an hour later Phyllis went to Elizabeth’s room. It was a large chamber open to the east and south, with polished oaken floors, and hung with white dimity. She sat at one of the open southern windows, and the wind, which gently moved the snowy curtains, brought in with it the scent of bleaching clover. There was no light but that shadow of twilight which, in English summers, lingers until it is lost in the dawning. But it was quite sufficient. She turned her face to meet Phyllis, and Phyllis kissed her, and said,
“I know, Elizabeth; and I am so glad.”
“Richard told you?”
“No, indeed! Richard is too much astonished at his own happiness to speak of it to-night. But when one loves, one understands naturally. It has made me very happy. Why, Elizabeth, you are weeping!”
“I am strangely sorrowful, Phyllis. A shadow which I cannot account for chills me. You know that I am neither imaginative nor sentimental; but I am weeping to-night for grief which I apprehend, but which does not exist.”
“Why do that? The ills that never come are just the ills that give us the sorest and most useless sorrow. They are not provided for—no grace is promised for them.”
“That may be, Phyllis, but these intangible griefs are very real ones while they haunt us.”
“I once knew a Methodist preacher who, whenever he felt himself haunted by prospective cares and griefs, took a piece of paper and reduced them, to writing, and so ‘faced the squadron of his doubts.’ He told me that they usually vanished as he mustered them. Elizabeth, there are more than sixty admonitions against fear or unnecessary anxiety in the Bible, and these are so various, and so positive, that a Christian has not actually a legitimate subject for worry left. Come, let us face your trouble. Is it because in marrying Richard you will have to give up this beautiful home?”
“That possibility faces me every day, Phyllis. When Antony marries, he will, of course, bring his wife here, and she will be mistress. I might, for father’s sake, take a lower place, but it would be hard. Father did not marry until his three sisters were settled, but Antony lives in another generation. I can hardly hope he will be so thoughtful.”
“Do you fear that uncle will object to your marriage with Richard?”
“No; he is very fond of Richard, and very proud of him. Yesterday he made me notice now strongly Richard resembled Colonel Alfred Hallam, who was the cavalier hero of our family. And the likeness is wonderful.”
“Has money any thing to do with it?”
“Nothing.”
“Parting with Richard?”
“I think so—the feeling is one of a fear of long or final separation—a shadow like an abyss which neither my love nor my hope can cross. I find that I cannot follow out any dream or plan which includes Richard; my soul stumbles in all such efforts as if it was blind. Now is there any promise for an uncertain condition like this?”
“Yes, dear, there is a promise with a blessing added to it. ‘I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.’” Isa. xlii, 16.
“Dear Phyllis, what a little comforter you are! I will be happy. Indeed, I have reason, for I never dreamed of a lover like Richard—and he says it was the merest accident that brought you to Europe this summer.”
“Did Richard say ‘accident?’ Do you know, Elizabeth, I think what men call ‘accident’ is really God’s own part—his special arrangement or interposition. We were going to Saratoga, and then one night Bishop Elliott called, and said he was going to Europe, and as he spoke we received a letter saying the rooms which we had always occupied were not to be had, and the Bishop said, ‘Go with me to Europe,’ and so, in five minutes we had decided to do so. Richard will dislike to return to America without you; have you thought of the many changes you must face? and some deprivations also, Elizabeth. We are not rich. Our home, beautiful in its way, is very different from Hallam Hall; our life altogether is unlike yours.”
“I fear nothing of all that, Phyllis. But my marriage until Antony marries is out of the question. I could not leave father until he has another daughter. That is a thing not to be contemplated.”
“Ah, Elizabeth, in my selfishness I had forgotten that! I was only thinking that when Richard had you, he could better spare me, and that John and I might have a hope also. But, of course, Uncle Hallam comes first.”
“Yes; as long as my father needs me, my first duty is to him.”
“Even if it be to the end of his life?”
“That is an event I never dare to call to mind. My soul shrinks back from the thought. A good parent is immortal to a good child, I think.”
She said it very calmly, but no one would have thought of disputing her position. The still assured face partially uplifted, and the large white hands firmly clasped upon her knee, were a kind of silent amen to it.
Then Phyllis said “Good-night” and went away; but dim as the light was, she took with her a certain sense of warmth and color. The long pink dressing-gown she had worn and the pink rose in her hair had made a kind of glow in the corner of the wide window where she had sat. “How beautiful she is!” The words sprang spontaneously to Elizabeth’s lips; and she added to them in her thoughts, “Few girls are so lovely, so graceful, and so clever, and yet she is as pure and unspoiled by the world as if God had just made her.”
The formal ratification of the engagement was very quietly done. The squire had a conversation with Richard, and after it went for a long walk in the park. When he next met his daughter he looked at her steadily with eyes full of tears, and she went to him, and put her arms around his neck, and whispered some assurance to him, which he repaid with a hearty “God bless thee, Elizabeth!”
Antony was the least pleased. He had long had a friendship with George Eltham, Lord Eltham’s younger son; and among many projects which the young men had discussed, one related to the marriage of Elizabeth. She had, indeed, no knowledge of their intentions, which were on a mercenary basis, but this did not prevent Antony from feeling that Richard had in some degree frustrated his plans. But he allowed Himself no evidences of this feeling; he gave Richard his congratulations, and in a merry way “supposed that the kindest thing he could now do for all parties was to choose a wife also.”
But very soon he ordered his horse and rode thoughtfully over to Eltham. The Hon. George was in his apartments reading “Blackwood,” though there was a riding party gathering on the lawn.
“Are you not going with them?” asked Antony, indicating the laughing group outside with a motion of his hand.
“Not I. I hope to do something more with my life than be my elder brother’s lieutenant. Last night I spoke to Lord Eltham concerning our intentions. He thinks well of them, Antony, and promises all the help he can give us.”
“I am sorry to tell you, George, that Elizabeth is to marry cousin Fontaine. The engagement is formally made and sanctioned.”
“I am very sorry. It is a great disappointment to me.”
“You were too dilatory. I advised you to speak to Elizabeth some months ago.”
“I tried to do so, but it was impossible to say pretty things to her. I felt abashed if I tried to compliment her, and she always appeared so unconscious of a fellow, that it was depressing.”
“Well, it is too late now.”
“How do you know that? When Mr. Fontaine has gone—”
“It will not make a particle of difference, George; let me tell you that. Elizabeth will be true to him, if she never sees him again. I know her, you do not.”
“What is to be done, then?”
“I was thinking of Selina Digby.”
“O you know she is not pretty at all!”
“We agreed not to let such things as that influence us.”
“And she is older than I am.”
“She has L50,000, that is more than double Elizabeth’s fortune. A man can’t have every thing. It is entirely at her own disposal also. Your brother-in-law is far too much absorbed in politics to interfere—the ground there is clear for you.”
“If I succeed?”
“I will promise to find capital equal to yours. What did my lord say concerning our plan?”
“He said we must have some instruction, and that he would speak to Sir Thomas Harrington. My father secured his seat in Parliament, and he is sure to allow us to enter his house. We shall have every facility there for acquiring a rapid practical knowledge of banking and finance. I told father it was that or the colonies. I have no idea of being only Lord Francis’s brother.’”
“Money is the axle on which the world turns, George. When you and I have it we can buy titles—if we want them.”
The fever of fortune-making had seized both young men. They were ambitious in the most personal sense of the word. George’s position as younger son constantly mortified him. He had had dreams of obtaining honor both as a scholar and a soldier, but he had satisfied himself that for one career he had not the mental ability, and for the other neither the physical courage nor endurance necessary. Of mere rank he was not envious. He had lived among noble men, and familiarity had bred its usual consequence. But he did want money. He fully recognized that gold entered every earthly gate, and he felt within himself the capacity for its acquirement. He had also precedents for this determination which seemed to justify it. The Duke of Norham’s younger son had a share in an immense brewery and wielded a power far beyond that of his elder brother, who was simply waiting for a dukedom. Lord Egremont, a younger son of the Earl of Soho, controlled large amounts of railway stock, and it was said held a mortgage on the family castle. To prove to his father and mother that no law of primogeniture could disinherit him, appeared to George Eltham an object worth striving for.
With these thoughts simmering in his heart he met Antony Hallam at Oxford. They speedily became friends. Antony wanted money also. But in him the craving arose from a more domineering ambition. He wished to rule men, to be first every-where. He despised the simple provincial title to which he was born, and the hall, with all its sweet gray antiquity, was only a dull prison. He compared its mediaeval strength, its long narrow lattices, its low rambling rooms, its Saxon simplicity, with the grand mansions of modern date in which he visited. It must be remembered that it is only recently old houses and old furniture and early English have become fashionable. Antony’s dream of a home was not of Hallam, but of a grander Eltham castle, whose rooms should be twice as large and lofty and splendid.
He would control men through their idol, gold; he would buy some old earldom, and have orders and honors thrust upon him. His long, honorable descent would be a good foundation to build upon. He told himself that the Hallams ought to have built upon it generations ago. He almost despised his ancestors for the simple lives they had led. He could not endure to think of himself sitting down as squire Hallam and ruling a few cottagers and tilling a few hundred acres. In George Eltham he found a kindred spirit. They might work for different motives, but gold was the aim of both.
Many plans had been entertained and discussed, but they had finally settled upon a co-partnership in finance. They would discount bills, make advances, and secure government contracts. The latter was the special aim of Antony’s desires. But they were not foolish enough to think they could succeed without some preliminary initiation, and this they proposed to acquire in the great banking house of Sir Thomas Harrington. M.P. Lord Eltham had approved the plan. It now remained to secure the squire’s agreement and co-operation. As for the money necessary, George Eltham proposed to acquire it by marriage. Antony had his own plan; he was only waiting until the Fontaines’ visit was over, and “that contemptible Craven affair settled.”
For he saw plainly that for the time the squire’s mind was full of outside interests, and when Antony discussed a subject so vital to himself, he was resolved his father should be in a position to feel its importance, and give it his undivided attention. Personally he had no ill-feeling toward Ben Craven, but he was annoyed at the intrusion of so vulgar an object of sympathy into his home. The squire’s advocacy at Eltham had irritated him. He was quietly angry at Elizabeth and Phyllis daily visiting the dame. And when the Methodist preacher had been twice to Hallam to see the squire on the subject, he could not treat the affair with his usual tolerant indifference.
“I have changed my mind,” he said, one evening, with that smiling positiveness which is so aggravating: “I am very much inclined to believe that Ben Craven did kill Clough.”
The squire looked at him, first with amazement, then with anger, and asked, “When did ta lose thy good sense, and thy good-will, son Antony?”
“I had a talk with Swale to-day, and in his judgment—”
“Thou knows what I think o’ Swale. Was there ever a bigger old cheat than he is? I’ll put my heart afore Swale’s judgment, Ben Craven’s all right.”
“He will have strong evidence and a clever lawyer against him. He is sure to be convicted.”
“Don’t thee reckon to know so much. Ben’s got a clever lawyer, too; but if he’d nobbut God and his mother to plead for him, his cause ‘ud be in varry good hands, thou may be sure o’ that.”
“I am only saying, father, what Swale says every-where.”
“I’ll warrant he’ll talk. There’s no tax on lying. My word, if there was, Swale’d hev to keep his mouth shut.”
“I cannot imagine, father, what makes you trouble yourself so much about the Cravens.”
“Thou can’t, can’t ta? Then thou canst imagine gratitude for faithful service given cheerfully for three hundred years. Why-a lad, ‘twas a Craven saved Alfred Hallam’s life at Worcester fight.”
“I suppose he paid him for the service. Any how the debt is not ours.”
“Ay, is it. It’s my debt, and it’s thine, too. Ben may live to do thee a service for aught thou knows.”
Antony smiled contemptuously, and the squire continued, almost angrily, “There’s things more unlikely; look here, my lad, nivver spit in any well: thou may hev to drink of t’ water.”
When the words were said the squire was sorry for them. They had come from his lips in that forceful prophetic way some speeches take, and they made an unpleasant impression on both father and son; just such an impression as a bad dream leaves, which yet seems to be wholly irrelevant and unaccountable.
Craven was in Leeds jail, and the trial was fixed for the summer term. All things may be better borne than suspense, and all were glad when Ben could have a fair hearing. But every thing was against him, and at the end of the second day’s trial, the squire came home in sincere trouble; Ben had been found guilty, but a conviction of his innocence, in spite of the evidence, seemed also to have possessed the jury, for they had strongly recommended him to her majesty’s mercy.
Elizabeth and Phyllis went with sick, sorrowful heart to see the dame. The strain had told upon her before the trial, and she had lost her cheerfulness somewhat. But she had come to a place now where anger and sense of wrong and impatience were past.
“Lost confidence, sister Phyllis,” she said; “not I; I hev only stopped reckoning on any man or woman now, be ‘t queen’s sen; and I hev put my whole trust i’ God. Such like goings on as we’ve hed! Paper and ink and varry little justice; but God’ll sort ivery thing afore long.”
“The case is to come before the queen.”
“That’s well enough. Miss Hallam, but I’ll tak’ it mysen into God’s council-chamber—there’s no key on that door, and there’s no fee to pay either. He’ll put ivery thing right, see if he doesn’t!”
“And besides, Sister Martha, things may not be as far wrong as we think they are—may not be wrong at all. God moves in a mysterious way.”
“And he needs to, Sister Phyllis. There’s many a soul ‘ud run away from him, even when he was coming to help ‘em, if they knew it was him.” “I understand what you mean, Martha—‘as a thief in the night.’ He breaks all bars and bursts all doors closed against him when he visits either a soul or a cause. I heard you were at Leeds. Do you mind telling us how things went? The squire will not talk to any one.”
“I nivver was one to shut my grief up i’ my heart, and let it poison my life; not I, indeed. It seemed to me, though, as varry little fight were made for Ben Clough afore he died; he’d signed a paper, declaring positive as it were Ben who shot him; and t’ case were half done when that were said. Then Bingley were sworn, and he said, as he were coming ovver t’ moor, about half past six, he heard a shot, and saw Ben Craven come from behind a whin bush, and run toward t’ village; and a minute after Bill Laycock came in sight; and Ben, he said, ran past him, also; and Laycock looked after Ben, and said to Bingley—‘that’s Ben Craven; he’s in a bit of a hurry, I think.’”
“Was Laycock coming from the moor also?”
“Nay, he was coming from t’ village, and was going across t’ moor to a knur match on Eltham Common.”
“Did Laycock swear to that?”
“Ay, he did. He were varry loth to do it; for Ben and him hed laked together when they were lads, and been thick as thack iver since, till Mary Clough came between ‘em. But I noticed one thing, and I think the jury saw it, too—when Laycock were asked, ‘if he were sure it was Ben that passed him,’ he turned white to the varry lips, and could scarce make out to whisper, ‘Ay, he were sure.‘ Then Ben looked at him, and I’ll nivver forget that look, no, nor any body else that saw it, and least of a’ t’ man hes got it.”
“You think Laycock swore to a lie?”
“I know he swore to a lie.”
“It is a pity that Ben’s working-suit has never been found.”
“It’ll come to light; see if it doesn’t.”
“Who spoke for Ben?”
“I did. I told t’ truth, and there’s none that knows me hes a doubt o’ that. I said that Ben came home a bit early. He hed his cup o’ tea wi’ me, and I told him how bad off Sarah Fisher was; and I said, ‘I’ll wash up t’ tea things, lad, and go bide wi’ her till it’s chapel time; and so thou be ready to go wi’ me.’ Before I went out I looked into Ben’s room, and he’d dressed himsen up i’ his Sunday clothes, and were sitting studying i’ a book called ‘Mechanics;’ and I said, ‘Why, Ben! Whatever hes ta put thy best clothes on for?’ I knew right well it was for Mary Clough, but I wasn’t too well pleased wi’ Mary, and so I couldn’t help letting him see as he weren’t deceiving me; and Ben said, ‘Nivver thee mind, mother, what clothes I’ve on, and don’t be too late for t’ chapel.’”
“And yet Bingley and Laycock swore that Ben had his working-clothes on?”
“Ay, they sware that.”
“You are come into deep waters, Martha.”
“Ay, I am; but there’s One on t’ water wi’ me. I hev his hand, and he’s none going to let me sink. And good-night to you, dearies, now; for I want to be alone wi’ him. He isn’t far off; you can tak’ t’ word of a sorrowful woman that he lets himsen be found, if nobbut you’re i’ earnest seeking him.”
She turned from them, and seated herself before her lonely hearthstone, and Phyllis saw her glance upward at the four words, that even in the darkest night was clear to her—“In God we trust.”
“Martha used to be so curious, so gossippy, so well acquainted with all her neighbors, so anxious for their good opinion, that it strikes me as singular,” said Elizabeth, “that she seems to have forgotten the whole village, and to be careless as to its verdict. Does sorrow make us indifferent, I wonder?”
“No, I think not; but the happy look at things upon their own level—the earth-level; the sorrowful look up.”
Not far from Martha’s garden gate they met the Methodist preacher. He was going to see Martha, but hearing of her wish to be alone, he turned and walked with Phyllis and Elizabeth toward the park. He was a little man, with an unworldly air, and very clear truthful eyes. People came to their cottage doors and looked curiously at the trio, as they went slowly toward the hall, the preacher between the girls, and talking earnestly to them.
“Well I nivver!” said old Peggy Howarth, nodding her head wisely, “what does ta think o’ that, Jane Sykes?”
“It beats ivery thing! There’s Ezra Dixon. He’s on his way to a class-meeting, I’ll lay thee owt ta likes; Ezra!”
“Well, woman! What does ta want?”
“Does ta see Miss Hallam and that American lass wi’ t’ preacher?”
“For sure I do. They’re in varry good company.”
“They’ll hev been at Martha Cravens, depend on’t. They say Martha taks it varry quiet like.”
“Ay, she’s none o’ them as whimpers and whines. Now if it wer’ thee, Peggy, thou’d worrit, and better worrit; as if worritting wer’ thy trade, and thou hed to work at it for thy victuals. Martha’s none like that. Is ta going to thy class to-night?”
“Nay, then, I’m not going.”
“I’d go if I was thee, Peggy. Thou’lt hev thysen to talk about there, and thou’lt not be tempted to say things about t’ Cravens thou wont be able to stand up to.”
“I’d hev some human nature in me, Ezra Dixon, if I was thee. To think o’ this being t’ first murder as iver was i’ Hallam! and thou talking as if I ought to buckle up my tongue about it.”
“Thou ought; but ‘oughts’ stand for nothing. To be sure thou’ll talk about it; but go and talk i’ thy class-meeting wi’ Josiah Banks looking i’ thy face, and then thou’ll talk wi’ a kind heart. Do as I tell thee.”
“Nay, I’ll not do it.”
“Thou nivver will disappoint t’ devil, Peggy.”
Peggy did not answer; she was too much interested in the rector’s proceedings. He was actually crossing the road and joining the ladies and the preacher.
“Now, then! Dost ta see that, Ezra? Whativer’s coming to folk? Why-a! They’re a’ going on together!”
“Why not? T’ rector’s a varry good man. It ‘ud be strange if he didn’t feel for poor Martha as well as ivery other kind heart. Her trouble hes made a’ maks o’ Christians feel together.”
“If Martha was nobbut a Church o’ England woman.”
“Dost ta really think that t’ rector is cut on that sort o’ a pattern? Not he. A man may be a Christian, Peggy, even if he isn’t a Wesleyan Methody. Them’s my principles, and I’m not a bit ‘shamed o’ them.”
It was quite true; the rector had joined the girls and the preacher, and they walked on together as far as the park gates, talking of Martha and her great sorrow and great faith. Then the preacher turned back, carrying with him to his little chapel the strength that comes from real Christian sympathy and communion.
“What clear prophetic eyes that Mr. North has,” said the rector, as they walked thoughtfully under the green arches of the elms.
“He lives very near to the other world,” said Phyllis; “I think his eyes have got that clear far-off look with habitually gazing into eternity. It is a great privilege to talk to him, for one always feels that he is just from the presence of God.”
“I have heard that you are a Dissenter, Miss Fontaine.”
“O no, I am not. I am a Methodist.”
“That is what I meant.”
“But the two are not the same. I am quite sure that the line between Dissent and Methodism has been well defined from the beginning.”
The rector smiled tolerantly down at Phyllis’s bright thoughtful face, and said: “Do young ladies in America study theological history?”
“I think most of them like to understand the foundation upon which their spiritual faith is built. I have found every side study of Methodism very interesting. Methodism is a more charitable and a more spiritual thing than Dissent.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes. Dissenters began every-where with showing how fallen was the Church, how unworthy were her ministers; but Methodism began every-where with showing her hearers how fallen they themselves were, and how utterly unworthy. Dissent was convinced that Episcopacy was wrong; Methodism sprang from a sense of personal guilt. Dissent discussed schemes of church government, as if the salvation of the world depended upon certain forms; Methodism had one object, to save souls and inculcate personal holiness. Dissent boldly separated herself from the Church; Methodism clung with loving affection to her mother. Her separation was gradual, and accompanied with fond regrets.”
“I like that reasoning, Miss Fontaine.”
“Do not give me credit for it; it comes from those who have authority to speak upon such matters. But ought not a young lady to know as much about the origin and constitution of her Church as of her country?”
“I suppose she ought. What do you say, Miss Hallam?”
“That I will begin and study the history of my Church. I am ashamed to say I know nothing about it.”
“And I say that I will look into Methodism a little. John Wesley, as a man, has always possessed a great attraction to me. It was a pity he left the Church.”
“But he never did leave it. Just as St. Peter and St. Paul and St. John went up to the temple at Jerusalem to pray, so Wesley, until the very last, frequented the Church ordinances. I think he was really a very High-Churchman. He was even prejudiced against Presbyterians; and a very careless reader of his works must see that he was deeply impressed with the importance of Episcopacy, and that he regarded it as an apostolic institution. If he were to return to this world again, he would undoubtedly give in his membership to the American Methodist Episcopal Church.”
“But remember how he countenanced field-preaching and religious services without forms.”
“Do you think it a sin to save souls out of church? Don’t you think the Sermon on the Mount a very fair precedent in favor of field-preaching?”
“Miss Fontaine, you argue like a woman. That question is not in logical sequence. Here come Mr. Fontaine and the squire. I hope some other time you will allow me to resume this conversation.”
The squire’s face brightened when he saw the rector. “A ‘good-evening,’ parson. Thou thought I’d be in a bit o’ trouble to-night, didn’t ta?”
“I knew your kind heart, squire, and that it would be sad for Martha and Ben Craven to-night.”
“Ay, to be sure.” He had clasped Phyllis’s hand in one of his own, and turned round with the party; as he did so, drawing the rector’s attention by a significant glance to Elizabeth, who had fallen behind with Richard.
“I am very glad if that is the case, squire.”
“Ay, it pleases me, too. But about poor Martha, hev you seen her?”
“She wishes to be alone.”
“And no wonder. I’m sure I don’t know whativer must be done.”
“Perhaps the queen will have mercy.”
“Mercy! He’ll get a life sentence, if that is mercy. Hanging isn’t any better than its called, I’ll be bound; but if I was Ben, I’d a-deal rather be hung, and done wi’ it. That I would!”
“I think Ben Craven will yet be proved innocent. His mother is sure of it, uncle.”
“That’s t’ way wi’ a mother. You can’t make ‘em understand—they will hang on.”
“Yes,” said the rector. “Mother-love almost sees miracles.”
“Mother-love does see miracles,” answered Phyllis. “The mother of Moses would ‘hang on,’ as uncle defines it, and she saw a miracle of salvation. So did the Shunammite mother, and the Syro-phoenician mother, and millions of mothers before and since. Just as long as Martha hopes, I shall hope; and just as long as Martha prays, she will hope.”
“Does ta think Martha can pray against t’ English Constitution?”
“I heard the rector praying against the atmospheric laws last Sunday, and you said every word after him, uncle. When you prayed for fine weather to get the hay in, did you expect it in spite of all the conditions against it—falling barometer, gathering clouds? If you did, you were expecting a miracle.”
“Ay, I told t’ beadle, mysen, that there wasn’t a bit o’ good praying for fine weather as long as t’ wind kept i’ such a contrary quarter; and it’s like enough to rain to-night again, and heigh, for sure! its begun mizzling. We’ll hev to step clever, or we’ll be wet before we reach t’ hall.”
The rector smiled at the squire’s unconscious statement of his own position; but the rain was not to be disregarded, and, indeed, before they reached shelter the ladies’ dresses were wet through, and there was so many evidences of a storm that the rector determined to stay all night with his friends. When Elizabeth and Phyllis came down in dry clothing, they found a wood fire crackling upon the hearth, and a servant laying the table for supper.
“Elizabeth, let’s hev that round o’ spiced beef, and some cold chicken, and a bit o’ raspberry tart, and some clouted cream, if there’s owt o’ t’ sort in t’ buttery. There’s nothing like a bit o’ good eating, if there’s owt wrong wi’ you.”
The rector and the squire were in their slippers, on each side of the ample hearth, and they had each, also, a long, clean, clay pipe in their mouth. The serenity of their faces, and their air of thorough comfort was a delightful picture to Phyllis. She placed herself close to her uncle, with her head resting on his shoulder. The two men were talking in easy, far-apart sentences of “tithes,” and, as the subject did not interest her, she let her eyes wander about the old room, noting its oaken walls, richly carved and almost black with age, and its heavy oaken furniture, the whole brightened up with many-colored rugs, and the gleaming silver and crystal on the high sideboard, and the gay geraniums and roses in the deep bay windows. The table, covered with snowy damask, seemed a kind of domestic altar, and Phyllis thought she had never seen Elizabeth look so grandly fair and home-like as she did that hour, moving about in the light of the fire and candles. She did not wonder that Richard heard nothing of the conversation, and that his whole attention was given to his promised wife.
The squire got the delicacies he wanted, and really it appeared as if his advice was very good medicine. Happiness, hope, and a sense of gratitude was in each heart. The old room grew wonderfully cozy and bright; the faces that gathered round the table and the fire were full of love, and sweet, reasonable contentment. When supper was over Richard and Elizabeth went quietly into the great entrance hall, where there was always a little fire burning. They had their own hopes and joys, in which no heart, however near and dear, could intermeddle, and this was fully recognized. Phyllis only gave them a bright smile as they withdrew. The squire ignored their absence; Antony was at Eltham; for an hour the two little groups were as happy as mortals may be.
The rector had another pipe after supper, and still talked fitfully about “tithes.” It seemed to be a subject which fitted in comfortably to the pauses in a long pipe. But when he had finished his “thimbleful” of tobacco, and shaken out its ashes carefully, he looked at Phyllis with a face full of renewed interest, and said,
“Squire, do you know that your niece thinks John Wesley was a High-Churchman?”
“What I meant, sir, was this: Wesley had very decided views in favor of the Episcopacy. He would suffer none to lay unconsecrated hands upon the sacraments; and in personal temperament, I think he was as ascetic as any monk.”
“Do you think, then, that if he had lived before the Reformation he might have founded an order of extreme rigor, say, like La Trappe?”
“No, indeed, sir! He might have founded an order, and it would, doubtless, have been a rigorous one; but it would not have been one shut up behind walls. It would have been a preaching order, severely disciplined, perhaps, but burning with all the zeal of the Redemptionist Fathers on a mission.”
The squire patted the little hand, which was upon his knee, and proudly asked,
“Now, then, parson, what does ta say to that?”
“I say it would be a very good description of ‘the people called Methodists’ when they began their crusade in England.”
“It is always a good description of them when they have missionary work to do. We have had brave soldiers among the Fontaines, and wise statesmen, also; but braver than all, wiser than all, was my grandfather Fontaine, who went into the wilderness of Tennessee an apostle of Methodism, with the Bible in his heart and his life in his hand. If I was a man, I would do as Richard always does, lift my hat whenever his name is mentioned.”
“Such ministers are, indeed, spiritual heroes, Miss Fontaine; men, of whom the world is not worthy.”
“Ah, do not say that! It was worthy of Christ. It is worthy of them. They are not extinct. They are still preaching—on the savannas of the southwest—on all the border-lands of civilization—among the savages of the Pacific isles, and the barbarians of Asia and Africa; voices crying in the wilderness, ‘God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son’ for its salvation. A Methodist preacher is necessarily an evangelist. Did you ever happen to read, or to hear Wesley’s ‘charge’ to his preachers?”
“No, I never heard it, Miss Fontaine.”
“If ta knows it, Phyllis, dearie, let him hev it. I’se warrant it’ll fit his office very well.”
“Yes, I know it; I have heard it many a time from my grandfather’s lips. In his old age, when he was addressing young preachers, he never said any thing else to them. ‘Observe,’ charged Wesley, ‘it is not your business to preach so many times, or to take care of this or that society, but to save as many souls as you can.’”
“Now, then, that’s enough. Phyllis, dearie, lift t’ candle and both o’ you come wi’ me; I’ve got summat to say mysen happen.”
He had that happy look on his face which people wear who are conscious of having the power to give a pleasant surprise. He led them to a large room above those in the east wing which were specially his own. It was a handsome bedroom, but evidently one that was rarely used.
“Look ‘ee here, now;” and he lifted the candle toward a picture over the fire place. “Who do you mak’ that out to be?”
“John Wesley,” said Phyllis.
“For sure; it’s John Wesley, and in this room he slept at intervals for thirty years. My great grandfather, Squire Gregory Hallam, was a Methodist—one o’ t’ first o’ them—and so you see, Phyllis, my lass, you hev come varry naturally by your way o’ thinking.”
The rector was examining the face with great interest. “It is a wonderful countenance,” he said; “take a look at it, Miss Fontaine, and see if it does not bear out what I accidentally said about La Trappe.”
“No, indeed, it does not! I allow that it is the face of a refined, thorough-bred ecclesiastic. He was the son of the Church.”
“Yes; he came, indeed, from the tribe of Levi.”
“It is a fine, classical, clearly-chiseled face—the face of a scholar and a gentleman.”
“A little of the fanatic in it—admit that. I have seen pictures of grand inquisitors, by Velasquez, which resemble it.”
“You must not say such things, my dear rector. Look again. I admit that it is a clever face, and I have seen it compared to that of Richelieu and Loyola, as uniting the calm iron will and acute eye of the one with the inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other; but I see more than this, there is the permeation of that serenity which comes from an assurance of the love of God.”
“God love thee, Phyllis! Thou’lt be makkin’ a Methodist o’ me, whether I will or no. I hed no idea afore there was a’ that in t’ picture. I wont stay here any longer. Thanks be! It’s sleeping-time, missee.”
“I should like to sleep in this room, squire.”
“Why, then, rector, thou shall. A bit o’ fire and some aired bed-clothes is a’ it wants. Thou’s sure to sleep well in it, and thou’lt hev t’ sunrise to wake thee up.”
And Phyllis thought, when she saw him in the morning, that he had kept some of the sunshine in his face. He was walking up and down the terrace softly humming a tune to himself, and watching the pigeons promenade with little, timid, rapid steps, making their necks change like opals with every movement. The roofs and lintels and the soft earth was still wet, but the sun shone gloriously, and the clear air was full of a thousand scents.
“How beautiful all is, and how happy you look,” and Phyllis put her hand in the rector’s, and let him lead her to the end of the terrace, where she could see the green country flooded with sunshine.
“Did you sleep well in Wesley’s chamber?”
“I slept very well; and this morning the pleasantest thing happened. Upon a little table I saw a Bible lying, and I read the morning lesson, which was a very happy one; then I lifted another book upon the stand. It was ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress;’ and this was the passage I lighted upon: ‘The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber facing the sunrising. The name of the chamber was Peace.’ There was a pencil-mark against the passage, and I fancy John Wesley put it there. It was a little thing, but it has made me very happy.”
“I can understand.”
“God bless you, child! I am sure you can.”
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