The Seaboard Parish, Complete

“I don’t know that I can quite agree with you there,” said Turner. “If the form is better, no one should hesitate to advocate the change. If it is worse, then slowness is not sufficient—utter obstinacy is the right condition.”

“You are right, Turner. For the right must be the rule, and where the right is beyond our understanding or our reach, then the better, as indeed not only right compared with the other, but the sole ascent towards the right.”

In the evening I took Henry Vaughan’s poems into the common sitting-room, and to Connie’s great delight read the whole of the lovely, though unequal little poem, called “The Retreat,” in recalling which I had failed in the morning. She was especially delighted with the “white celestial thought,” and the “bright shoots of everlastingness.” Then I gave a few lines from another yet more unequal poem, worthy in themselves of the best of the other. I quote the first strophe entire:

  CHILDHOOD  “I cannot reach it; and my striving eye  Dazzles at it, as at eternity.  Were now that chronicle alive,  Those white designs which children drive,  And the thoughts of each harmless hour,  With their content too in my power,  Quickly would I make my path even,  And by mere playing go to heaven.  And yet the practice worldlings call  Business and weighty action all,  Checking the poor child for his play,  But gravely cast themselves away.  An age of mysteries! which he  Must live twice that would God’s face see;  Which angels guard, and with it play,  Angels! which foul men drive away.  How do I study now, and scan  Thee more than ere I studied man,  And only see through a long night  Thy edges and thy bordering light I  O for thy centre and midday!  For sure that is the narrow way!”

“For of such is the kingdom of heaven.” said my wife softly, as I closed the book.

“May I have the book, papa?” said Connie, holding out her thin white cloud of a hand to take it.

“Certainly, my child. And if Wynnie would read it with you, she will feel more of the truth of what Mr. Percivale was saying to her about finish. Here are the finest, grandest thoughts, set forth sometimes with such carelessness, at least such lack of neatness, that, instead of their falling on the mind with all their power of loveliness, they are like a beautiful face disfigured with patches, and, what is worse, they put the mind out of the right, quiet, unquestioning, open mood, which is the only fit one for the reception of such true things as are embodied in the poems. But they are too beautiful after all to be more than a little spoiled by such a lack of the finish with which Art ends off all her labours. A gentleman, however, thinks it of no little importance to have his nails nice as well as his face and his shirt.”

CHAPTER X. THE OLD CASTLE

The place Turner had chosen suited us all so well, that after attending to my duties on the two following Sundays at Kilkhaven, I returned on the Monday or Tuesday to the farmhouse. But Turner left us in the middle of the second week, for he could not be longer absent from his charge at home, and we missed him much. It was some days before Connie was quite as cheerful again as usual. I do not mean that she was in the least gloomy—that she never was; she was only a little less merry. But whether it was that Turner had opened our eyes, or that she had visibly improved since he allowed her to make a little change in her posture—certainly she appeared to us to have made considerable progress, and every now and then we were discovering some little proof of the fact. One evening, while we were still at the farm, she startled us by calling out suddenly,—

“Papa, papa! I moved my big toe! I did indeed.”

We were all about her in a moment. But I saw that she was excited, and fearing a reaction I sought to calm her.

“But, my dear,” I said, as quietly as I could, “you are probably still aware that you are possessed of two big toes: which of them are we to congratulate on this first stride in the march of improvement?”

She broke out in the merriest laugh. A pause followed in which her face wore a puzzled expression. Then she said all at once, “Papa, it is very odd, but I can’t tell which of them,” and burst into tears. I was afraid that I had done more harm than good.

“It is not of the slightest consequence, my child,” I said. “You have had so little communication with the twins of late, that it is no wonder you should not be able to tell the one from the other.”

She smiled again through her sobs, but was silent, with shining face, for the rest of the evening. Our hopes took a fresh start, but we heard no more from her of her power over her big toe. As often as I inquired she said she was afraid she had made a mistake, for she had not had another hint of its existence. Still I thought it could not have been a fancy, and I would cleave to my belief in the good sign.

Percivale called to see us several times, but always appeared anxious not to intrude more of his society upon us than might be agreeable. He grew in my regard, however; and at length I asked him if he would assist me in another surprise which I meditated for my companions, and this time for Connie as well, and which I hoped would prevent the painful influences of the sight of the sea from returning upon them when they went back to Kilkhaven: they must see the sea from a quite different shore first. In a word I would take them to Tintagel, of the near position of which they were not aware, although in some of our walks we had seen the ocean in the distance. An early day was fixed for carrying out our project, and I proceeded to get everything ready. The only difficulty was to find a carriage in the neighbourhood suitable for receiving Connie’s litter. In this, however, I at length succeeded, and on the morning of a glorious day of blue and gold, we set out for the little village of Trevenna, now far better known than at the time of which I write. Connie had been out every day since she came, now in one part of the fields, now in another, enjoying the expanse of earth and sky, but she had had no drive, and consequently had seen no variety of scenery. Therefore, believing she was now thoroughly able to bear it, I quite reckoned of the good she would get from the inevitable excitement. We resolved, however, after finding how much she enjoyed the few miles’ drive, that we would not demand more, of her strength that day, and therefore put up at the little inn, where, after ordering dinner, Percivale and I left the ladies, and sallied forth to reconnoitre.

We walked through the village and down the valley beyond, sloping steeply between hills towards the sea, the opening closed at the end by the blue of the ocean below and the more ethereal blue of the sky above. But when we reached the mouth of the valley we found that we were not yet on the shore, for a precipice lay between us and the little beach below. On the left a great peninsula of rock stood out into the sea, upon which rose the ruins of the keep of Tintagel, while behind on the mainland stood the ruins of the castle itself, connected with the other only by a narrow isthmus. We had read that this peninsula had once been an island, and that the two parts of the castle were formerly connected by a drawbridge. Looking up at the great gap which now divided the two portions, it seemed at first impossible to believe that they had ever been thus united; but a little reflection cleared up the mystery.

The fact was that the isthmus, of half the height of the two parts connected by it, had been formed entirely by the fall of portions of the rock and soil on each side into the narrow dividing space, through which the waters of the Atlantic had been wont to sweep. And now the fragments of walls stood on the very verge of the precipice, and showed that large portions of the castle itself had fallen into the gulf between. We turned to the left along the edge of the rock, and so by a narrow path reached and crossed to the other side of the isthmus. We then found that the path led to the foot of the rock, formerly island, of the keep, and thence in a zigzag up the face of it to the top. We followed it, and after a great climb reached a door in a modern battlement. Entering, we found ourselves amidst grass, and ruins haggard with age. We turned and surveyed the path by which we had come. It was steep and somewhat difficult. But the outlook was glorious. It was indeed one of God’s mounts of vision upon which we stood. The thought, “O that Connie could see this!” was swelling in my heart, when Percivale broke the silence—not with any remark on the glory around us, but with the commonplace question—

“You haven’t got your man with you, I think, Mr. Walton?”

“No,” I answered; “we thought it better to leave him to look after the boys.”

He was silent for a few minutes, while I gazed in delight.

“Don’t you think,” he said, “it would be possible to bring Miss Constance up here?”

I almost started at the idea, and had not replied before he resumed:

“It would be something for her to recur to with delight all the rest of her life.”

“It would indeed. But it is impossible.”

“I do not think so—if you would allow me the honour to assist you. I think we could do it perfectly between us.”

I was again silent for a while. Looking down on the way we had come, it seemed an almost dreadful undertaking. Percivale spoke again.

“As we shall come here to-morrow, we need not explore the place now. Shall we go down at once and observe the whole path, with a view to the practicability of carrying her up?”

“There can be no objection to that,” I answered, as a little hope, and courage with it, began to dawn in my heart. “But you must allow it does not look very practicable.”

“Perhaps it would seem more so to you, if you had come up with the idea in your head all the way, as I did. Any path seems more difficult in looking back than at the time when the difficulties themselves have to be met and overcome.”

“Yes, but then you must remember that we have to take the way back whether we will or no, if we once take the way forward.”

“True; and now I will go down with the descent in my head as well as under my feet.”

“Well, there can be no harm in reconnoitring it at least. Let us go.”

“You know we can rest almost as often as we please,” said Percivale, and turned to lead the way.

It certainly was steep, and required care even in our own descent; but for a man who had climbed mountains, as I had done in my youth, it could hardly be called difficult even in middle age. By the time we had got again into the valley road I was all but convinced of the practicability of the proposal. I was a little vexed, however, I must confess, that a stranger should have thought of giving such a pleasure to Connie, when the bare wish that she might have enjoyed it had alone arisen in my mind. I comforted myself with the reflection that this was one of the ways in which we were to be weaned from the world and knit the faster to our fellows. For even the middle-aged, in the decay of their daring, must look for the fresh thought and the fresh impulse to the youth which follows at their heels in the march of life. Their part is to will the relation and the obligation, and so, by love to and faith in the young, keep themselves in the line along which the electric current flows, till at length they too shall once more be young and daring in the strength of the Lord. A man must always seek to rise above his moods and feelings, to let them move within him, but not allow them to storm or gloom around him. By the time we reached home we had agreed to make the attempt, and to judge by the path to the foot of the rock, which was difficult in parts, whether we should be likely to succeed, without danger, in attempting the rest of the way and the following descent. As soon as we had arrived at this conclusion, I felt so happy in the prospect that I grew quite merry, especially after we had further agreed that, both for the sake of her nerves and for the sake of the lordly surprise, we should bind Connie’s eyes so that she should see nothing till we had placed her in a certain position, concerning the preferableness of which we were not of two minds.

“What mischief have you two been about?” said my wife, as we entered our room in the inn, where the cloth was already laid for dinner. “You look just like two schoolboys that have been laying some plot, and can hardly hold their tongues about it.”

“We have been enjoying our little walk amazingly,” I answered. “So much so, that we mean to set out for another the moment dinner is over.”

“I hope you will take Wynnie with you then.”

“Or you, my love,” I returned.

“No; I will stay with Connie.”

“Very well. You, and Connie too, shall go out to-morrow, for we have found a place we want to take you to. And, indeed, I believe it was our anticipation of the pleasure you and she would have in the view that made us so merry when you accused us of plotting mischief.”

My wife replied only with a loving look, and dinner appearing at this moment, we sat down a happy party.

When that was over—and a very good dinner it was, just what I like, homely in material but admirable in cooking—Wynnie and Percivale and I set out again. For as Percivale and I came back in the morning we had seen the church standing far aloft and aloof on the other side of the little valley, and we wanted to go to it. It was rather a steep climb, and Wynnie accepted Percivale’s offered arm. I led the way, therefore, and left them to follow—not so far in the rear, however, but that I could take a share in the conversation. It was some little time before any arose, and it was Wynnie who led the way into it.

“What kind of things do you like best to paint, Mr. Percivale?” she asked.

He hesitated for several seconds, which between a question and an answer look so long, that most people would call them minutes.

“I would rather you should see some of my pictures—I should prefer that to answering your question,” he said, at length.

“But I have seen some of your pictures,” she returned.

“Pardon me. Indeed you have not, Miss Walton.”

“At least I have seen some of your sketches and studies.”

“Some of my sketches—none of my studies.”

“But you make use of your sketches for your pictures, do you not?”

“Never of such as you have seen. They are only a slight antidote to my pictures.”

“I cannot understand you.”

“I do not wonder at that. But I would rather, I repeat, say nothing about my pictures till you see some of them.”

“But how am I to have that pleasure, then?”

“You go to London sometimes, do you not?”

“Very rarely. More rarely still when the Royal Academy is open.”

“That does not matter much. My pictures are seldom to be found there.”

“Do you not care to send them there?”

“I send one, at least, every year. But they are rarely accepted.”

“Why?”

This was a very improper question, I thought; but if Wynnie had thought so she would not have put it. He hesitated a little before he replied—

“It is hardly for me to say why,” he answered; “but I cannot wonder much at it, considering the subjects I choose.—But I daresay,” he added, in a lighter tone, “after all, that has little to do with it, and there is something about the things themselves that precludes a favourable judgment. I avoid thinking about it. A man ought to try to look at his own work as if it were none of his, but not as with the eyes of other people. That is an impossibility, and the attempt a bewilderment. It is with his own eyes he must look, with his own judgment he must judge. The only effort is to get it set far away enough from him to be able to use his own eyes and his own judgment upon it.”

“I think I see what you mean. A man has but his own eyes and his own judgment. To look with those of other people is but a fancy.”

“Quite so. You understand me quite.”

He said no more in explanation of his rejection by the Academy. Till we reached the church, nothing more of significance passed between them.

What a waste, bare churchyard that was! It had two or three lych-gates, but they had no roofs. They were just small enclosures, with the low stone tables, to rest the living from the weight of the dead, while the clergyman, as the keeper of heaven’s wardrobe, came forth to receive the garment they restored—to be laid aside as having ended its work, as having been worn done in the winds, and rains, and labours of the world. Not a tree stood in that churchyard. Hank grass was the sole covering of the soil heaved up with the dead beneath. What blasts from the awful space of the sea must rush athwart the undefended garden! The ancient church stood in the midst, with its low, strong, square tower, and its long, narrow nave, the ridge bowed with age, like the back of a horse worn out in the service of man, and its little homely chancel, like a small cottage that had leaned up against its end for shelter from the western blasts. It was locked, and we could not enter. But of all world-worn, sad-looking churches, that one—sad, even in the sunset—was the dreariest I had ever beheld. Surely, it needed the gospel of the resurrection fervently preached therein, to keep it from sinking to the dust with dismay and weariness. Such a soul alone could keep it from vanishing utterly of dismal old age. Near it was one huge mound of grass-grown rubbish, looking like the grave where some former church of the dead had been buried, when it could stand erect no longer before the onsets of Atlantic winds. I walked round and round it, gathering its architecture, and peeping in at every window I could reach. Suddenly I was aware that I was alone. Returning to the other side, I found that Percivale was seated on the churchyard wall, next the sea—it would have been less dismal had it stood immediately on the cliffs, but they were at some little distance beyond bare downs and rough stone walls; he was sketching the place, and Wynnie stood beside him, looking over his shoulder. I did not interrupt him, but walked among the graves, reading the poor memorials of the dead, and wondering how many of the words of laudation that were inscribed on their tombs were spoken of them while they were yet alive. Yet, surely, in the lives of those to whom they applied the least, there had been moments when the true nature, the nature God had given them, broke forth in faith and tenderness, and would have justified the words inscribed on their gravestones! I was yet wandering and reading, and stumbling over the mounds, when my companions joined me, and, without a word, we walked out of the churchyard. We were nearly home before one of us spoke.

“That church is oppressive,” said Percivale. “It looks like a great sepulchre, a place built only for the dead—the church of the dead.”

“It is only that it partakes with the living,” I returned; “suffers with them the buffetings of life, outlasts them, but shows, like the shield of the Red-Cross Knight, the ‘old dints of deep wounds.’”

“Still, is it not a dreary place to choose for a church to stand in?”

“The church must stand everywhere. There is no region into which it must not, ought not to enter. If it refuses any earthly spot, it is shrinking from its calling. Here this one stands for the sea as for the land, high-uplifted, looking out over the waters as a sign of the haven from all storms, the rest in God. And down beneath in its storehouse lie the bodies of men—you saw the grave of some of them on the other side—flung ashore from the gulfing sea. It may be a weakness, but one would rather have the bones of his friend laid in the still Sabbath of the churchyard earth, than sweeping and swaying about as Milton imagines the bones of his friend Edward King, in that wonderful ‘Lycidas.’” Then I told them the conversation I had had with the sexton at Kilkhaven. “But,” I went on, “these fancies are only the ghostly mists that hang about the eastern hills before the sun rises. We shall look down on all that with a smile by and by; for the Lord tells us that if we believe in him we shall never die.”

By this time we were back once more at the inn. We gave Connie a description of what we had seen.

“What a brave old church!” said Connie.

The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got up at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of all to have a look at Connie’s litter, and see that it was quite sound. Satisfied of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and strength.

After breakfast I went to Connie’s room, and told her that Mr. Percivale and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once.

“But we want to do it our own way.”

“Of course, papa,” she answered.

“Will you let us tie your eyes up?”

“Yes; and my ears and my hands too. It would be no good tying my feet, when I don’t know one big toe from the other.”

And she laughed merrily.

“We’ll try to keep up the talk all the way, so that you sha’n’t weary of the journey.”

“You’re going to carry me somewhere with my eyes tied up. O! how jolly! And then I shall see something all at once! Jolly! jolly!—Getting tired!” she repeated. “Even the wind on my face would be pleasure enough for half a day. I sha’n’t get tired so soon as you will—you dear, kind papa! I am afraid I shall be dreadfully heavy. But I sha’n’t jerk your arms much. I will lie so still!”

“And you won’t mind letting Mr. Percivale help me to carry you?”

“No. Why should I, if he doesn’t mind it? He looks strong enough; and I am sure he is nice, and won’t think me heavier than I am.”

“Very well, then. I will send mamma and Wynnie to dress you at once; and we shall set out as soon as you are ready.”

She clapped her hands with delight, then caught me round the neck and gave me one of my own kisses as she called the best she had, and began to call as loud as she could on her mamma and Wynnie to come and dress her.

It was indeed a glorious morning. The wind came in little wafts, like veins of cool white silver amid the great, warm, yellow gold of the sunshine. The sea lay before us a mound of blue closing up the end of the valley, as if overpowered into quietness by the lordliness of the sun overhead; and the hills between which we went lay like great sheep, with green wool, basking in the blissful heat. The gleam from the waters came up the pass; the grand castle crowned the left-hand steep, seeming to warm its old bones, like the ruins of some awful megatherium in the lighted air; one white sail sped like a glad thought across the spandrel of the sea; the shadows of the rocks lay over our path, like transient, cool, benignant deaths, through which we had to pass again and again to yet higher glory beyond; and one lark was somewhere in whose little breast the whole world was reflected as in the convex mirror of a dewdrop, where it swelled so that he could not hold it, but let it out again through his throat, metamorphosed into music, which he poured forth over all as the libation on the outspread altar of worship.

And of all this we talked to Connie as we went; and every now and then she would clap her hands gently in the fulness of her delight, although she beheld the splendour only as with her ears, or from the kisses of the wind on her cheeks. But she seemed, since her accident, to have approached that condition which Milton represents Samson as longing for in his blindness, wherein the sight should be

  “through all parts diffused,  That she might look at will through every pore.”

I had, however, arranged with the rest of the company, that the moment we reached the cliff over the shore, and turned to the left to cross the isthmus, the conversation should no longer be about the things around us; and especially I warned my wife and Wynnie that no exclamation of surprise or delight should break from them before Connie’s eyes were uncovered. I had said nothing to either of them about the difficulties of the way, that, seeing us take them as ordinary things, they might take them so too, and not be uneasy.

We never stopped till we reached the foot of the peninsula, née island, upon which the keep of Tintagel stands. There we set Connie down, to take breath and ease our arms before we began the arduous way.

“Now, now!” said Connie eagerly, lifting her hands in the belief that we were on the point of undoing the bandage from her eyes.

“No, no, my love, not yet,” I said, and she lay still again, only she looked more eager than before.