Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood

My reader will see then that there was, as it were, not so much a discord, as a lack of harmony between the surroundings wherein my thoughts took form, or, to use a homelier phrase, my sermon was studied, and the surroundings wherein I had to put these forms into the garments of words, or preach that sermon. I therefore sought to bridge over this difference (if I understood music, I am sure I could find an expression exactly fitted to my meaning),—to find an easy passage between the open-air mood and the church mood, so as to be able to bring into the church as much of the fresh air, and the tree-music, and the colour-harmony, and the gladness over all, as might be possible; and, in order to this, I thought all my sermon over again in the afternoon sun as it shone slantingly through the stained window over Lord Eagleye’s tomb, and in the failing light thereafter and the gathering dusk of the twilight, pacing up and down the solemn old place, hanging my thoughts here on a crocket, there on a corbel; now on the gable-point over which Weir’s face would gaze next morning, and now on the aspiring peaks of the organ. I thus made the place a cell of thought and prayer. And when the next day came, I found the forms around me so interwoven with the forms of my thought, that I felt almost like one of the old monks who had built the place, so little did I find any check to my thought or utterance from its unfitness for the expression of my individual modernism. But not one atom the more did I incline to the evil fancy that God was more in the past than in the present; that He is more within the walls of the church, than in the unwalled sky and earth; or seek to turn backwards one step from a living Now to an entombed and consecrated Past.

One lovely Saturday, I had been out all the morning. I had not walked far, for I had sat in the various places longer than I had walked, my path lying through fields and copses, crossing a country road only now and then. I had my Greek Testament with me, and I read when I sat, and thought when I walked. I remember well enough that I was going to preach about the cloud of witnesses, and explain to my people that this did not mean persons looking at, witnessing our behaviour—not so could any addition be made to the awfulness of the fact that the eye of God was upon us—but witnesses to the truth, people who did what God wanted them to do, come of it what might, whether a crown or a rack, scoffs or applause; to behold whose witnessing might well rouse all that was human and divine in us to chose our part with them and their Lord.—When I came home, I had an early dinner, and then betook myself to my Saturday’s resort.—I had never had a room large enough to satisfy me before. Now my study was to my mind.

All through the slowly-fading afternoon, the autumn of the day, when the colours are richest and the shadows long and lengthening, I paced my solemn old-thoughted church. Sometimes I went up into the pulpit and sat there, looking on the ancient walls which had grown up under men’s hands that men might be helped to pray by the visible symbol of unity which the walls gave, and that the voice of the Spirit of God might be heard exhorting men to forsake the evil and choose the good. And I thought how many witnesses to the truth had knelt in those ancient pews. For as the great church is made up of numberless communities, so is the great shining orb of witness-bearers made up of millions of lesser orbs. All men and women of true heart bear individual testimony to the truth of God, saying, “I have trusted and found Him faithful.” And the feeble light of the glowworm is yet light, pure, and good, and with a loveliness of its own. “So, O Lord,” I said, “let my light shine before men.” And I felt no fear of vanity in such a prayer, for I knew that the glory to come of it is to God only—“that men may glorify their Father in heaven.” And I knew that when we seek glory for ourselves, the light goes out, and the Horror that dwells in darkness breathes cold upon our spirits. And I remember that just as I thought thus, my eye was caught first by a yellow light that gilded the apex of the font-cover, which had been wrought like a flame or a bursting blossom: it was so old and worn, I never could tell which; and then by a red light all over a white marble tablet in the wall—the red of life on the cold hue of the grave. And this red light did not come from any work of man’s device, but from the great window of the west, which little Gerard Weir wanted to help God to paint. I must have been in a happy mood that Saturday afternoon, for everything pleased me and made me happier; and all the church-forms about me blended and harmonised graciously with the throne and footstool of God which I saw through the windows. And I lingered on till the night had come; till the church only gloomed about me, and had no shine; and then I found my spirit burning up the clearer, as a lamp which has been flaming all the day with light unseen becomes a glory in the room when the sun is gone down.

At length I felt tired, and would go home. Yet I lingered for a few moments in the vestry, thinking what hymns would harmonize best with the things I wanted to make my people think about. It was now almost quite dark out of doors—at least as dark as it would be.

Suddenly through the gloom I thought I heard a moan and a sob. I sat upright in my chair and listened. But I heard nothing more, and concluded I had deceived myself. After a few moments, I rose to go home and have some tea, and turn my mind rather away from than towards the subject of witness-bearing any more for that night, lest I should burn the fuel of it out before I came to warm the people with it, and should have to blow its embers instead of flashing its light and heat upon them in gladness. So I left the church by my vestry-door, which I closed behind me, and took my way along the path through the clustering group of graves.

Again I heard a sob. This time I was sure of it. And there lay something dark upon one of the grassy mounds. I approached it, but it did not move. I spoke.

“Can I be of any use to you?” I said.

“No,” returned an almost inaudible voice.

Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew that no one had been buried there very lately, and if the grief were for the loss of the dead, it was more than probably aroused to fresh vigour by recent misfortune.

I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, “Come with me, and let us see what can be done for you.”

I then saw that it was a youth—perhaps scarcely more than a boy. And as soon as I saw that, I knew that his grief could hardly be incurable. He returned no answer, but rose at once to his feet, and submitted to be led away. I took him the shortest road to my house through the shrubbery, brought him into the study, made him sit down in my easy-chair, and rang for lights and wine; for the dew had been falling heavily, and his clothes were quite dank. But when the wine came, he refused to take any.

“But you want it,” I said.

“No, sir, I don’t, indeed.”

“Take some for my sake, then.”

“I would rather not, sir.”

“Why?”

“I promised my father a year ago, when I left home that I would not drink anything stronger than water.[sic] And I can’t break my promise now.”

“Where is your home?”

“In the village, sir.”

“That wasn’t your father’s grave I found you upon, was it?”

“No, sir. It was my mother’s.”

“Then your father is still alive?”

“Yes, sir. You know him very well—Thomas Weir.”

“Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you that son?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob.

“Then what is the matter? Your father is a good friend of mine, and would tell you you might trust me.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir. But you won’t believe me any more than my father.”

By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and his countenance. He was of middle size, but evidently not full grown. His dress was very decent. His face was pale and thin, and revealed a likeness to his father. He had blue eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as I could judge, betokened, along with the whole of his expression, an honest and sensitive nature. I found him very attractive, and was therefore the more emboldened to press for the knowledge of his story.

“I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could. And if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be in great danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force of its own.”

“I thought so till to-night,” he answered. “But if my father would not believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?”

“Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to be able to do it justice. It is not a bit like your father to be unfair.”

“No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me.”

Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favour. There was a certain refinement in it, a quality of dialogue which indicated thought, as I judged; and I became more and more certain that, whatever I might have to think of it when told, he would yet tell me the truth.

“Come, try me,” I said.

“I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning.”

“Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-night, and you may take what time you please. But I will ring for tea first; for I dare say you have not made any promise about that.”

A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning to feel a little more comfortable.

“When did you arrive from London?” I asked.

“About two hours ago, I suppose.”

“Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plenty of toast. We are both hungry.”

Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to do her duty.

When she returned with the tray, I saw by the unconsciously eager way in which he looked at the eatables, that he had had nothing for some time; and so, even after we were left alone, I would not let him say a word till he had made a good meal. It was delightful to see how he ate. Few troubles will destroy a growing lad’s hunger; and indeed it has always been to me a marvel how the feelings and the appetites affect each other. I have known grief actually make people, and not sensual people at all, quite hungry. At last I thought I had better not offer him any more.

After the tea-things had been taken away, I put the candles out; and the moon, which had risen, nearly full, while we were at tea, shone into the room. I had thought that he might possibly find it easier to tell his story in the moonlight, which, if there were any shame in the recital, would not, by too much revelation, reduce him to the despair of Macbeth, when, feeling that he could contemplate his deed, but not his deed and himself together, he exclaimed,

“To know my deed, ‘twere best not know myself.”

So, sitting by the window in the moonlight, he told his tale. The moon lighted up his pale face as he told it, and gave rather a wild expression to his eyes, eager to find faith in me.—I have not much of the dramatic in me, I know; and I am rather a flat teller of stories on that account. I shall not, therefore, seeing there is no necessity for it, attempt to give the tale in his own words. But, indeed, when I think of it, they did not differ so much from the form of my own, for he had, I presume, lost his provincialisms, and being, as I found afterwards, a reader of the best books that came in his way, had not caught up many cockneyisms instead.

He had filled a place in the employment of Messrs–& Co., large silk-mercers, linen-drapers, etc., etc., in London; for all the trades are mingled now. His work at first was to accompany one of the carts which delivered the purchases of the day; but, I presume because he showed himself to be a smart lad, they took him at length into the shop to wait behind the counter. This he did not like so much, but, as it was considered a rise in life, made no objection to the change.

He seemed to himself to get on pretty well. He soon learned all the marks on the goods intended to be understood by the shopmen, and within a few months believed that he was found generally useful. He had as yet had no distinct department allotted to him, but was moved from place to place, according as the local pressure of business might demand.

“I confess,” he said, “that I was not always satisfied with what was going on about me. I mean I could not help doubting if everything was done on the square, as they say. But nothing came plainly in my way, and so I could honestly say it did not concern me. I took care to be straightforward for my part, and, knowing only the prices marked for the sale of the goods, I had nothing to do with anything else. But one day, while I was showing a lady some handkerchiefs which were marked as mouchoirs de Paris—I don’t know if I pronounce it right, sir—she said she did not believe they were French cambric; and I, knowing nothing about it, said nothing. But, happening to look up while we both stood silent, the lady examining the handkerchiefs, and I doing nothing till she should have made up her mind, I caught sight of the eyes of the shop-walker, as they call the man who shows customers where to go for what they want, and sees that they are attended to. He is a fat man, dressed in black, with a great gold chain, which they say in the shop is only copper gilt. But that doesn’t matter, only it would be the liker himself. He was standing staring at me. I could not tell what to make of it; but from that day I often caught him watching me, as if I had been a customer suspected of shop-lifting. Still I only thought he was very disagreeable, and tried to forget him.

“One day—the day before yesterday—two ladies, an old lady and a young one, came into the shop, and wanted to look at some shawls. It was dinner-time, and most of the men were in the house at their dinner. The shop-walker sent me to them, and then, I do believe, though I did not see him, stood behind a pillar to watch me, as he had been in the way of doing more openly. I thought I had seen the ladies before, and though I could not then tell where, I am now almost sure they were Mrs and Miss Oldcastle, of the Hall. They wanted to buy a cashmere for the young lady. I showed them some. They wanted better. I brought the best we had, inquiring, that I might make no mistake. They asked the price. I told them. They said they were not good enough, and wanted to see some more. I told them they were the best we had. They looked at them again; said they were sorry, but the shawls were not good enough, and left the shop without buying anything. I proceeded to take the shawls up-stairs again, and, as I went, passed the shop walker, whom I had not observed while I was attending to the ladies. ‘YOU’re for no good, young man!’ he said with a nasty sneer. ‘What do you mean by that, Mr B.?’ I asked, for his sneer made me angry. ‘You ‘ll know before to-morrow,’ he answered, and walked away. That same evening, as we were shutting up shop, I was sent for to the principal’s room. The moment I entered, he said, ‘You won’t suit us, young man, I find. You had better pack up your box to-night, and be off to-morrow. There’s your quarter’s salary.’ ‘What have I done?’ I asked in astonishment, and yet with a vague suspicion of the matter. ‘It’s not what you’ve done, but what you don’t do,’ he answered. ‘Do you think we can afford to keep you here and pay you wages to send people away from the shop without buying? If you do, you’re mistaken, that’s all. You may go.’ ‘But what could I do?’ I said. ‘I suppose that spy, B–,’—I believe I said so, sir. ‘Now, now, young man, none of your sauce!’ said Mr–. ‘Honest people don’t think about spies.’ ‘I thought it was for honesty you were getting rid of me,’ I said. Mr–rose to his feet, his lips white, and pointed to the door. ‘Take your money and be off. And mind you don’t refer to me for a character. After such impudence I couldn’t in conscience give you one.’ Then, calming down a little when he saw I turned to go, ‘You had better take to your hands again, for your head will never keep you. There, be off!’ he said, pushing the money towards me, and turning his back to me. I could not touch it. ‘Keep the money, Mr–,’ I said. ‘It’ll make up for what you’ve lost by me.’ And I left the room at once without waiting for an answer.

“While I was packing my box, one of my chums came in, and I told him all about it. He is rather a good fellow that, sir; but he laughed, and said, ‘What a fool you are, Weir! YOU’ll never make your daily bread, and you needn’t think it. If you knew what I know, you’d have known better. And it’s very odd it was about shawls, too. I’ll tell you. As you’re going away, you won’t let it out. Mr–’ (that was the same who had just turned me away) ‘was serving some ladies himself, for he wasn’t above being in the shop, like his partner. They wanted the best Indian shawl they could get. None of those he showed them were good enough, for the ladies really didn’t know one from another. They always go by the price you ask, and Mr–knew that well enough. He had sent me up-stairs for the shawls, and as I brought them he said, “These are the best imported, madam.” There were three ladies; and one shook her head, and another shook her head, and they all shook their heads. And then Mr–was sorry, I believe you, that he had said they were the best. But you won’t catch him in a trap! He’s too old a fox for that.’ I’m telling you, sir, what Johnson told me. ‘He looked close down at the shawls, as if he were short-sighted, though he could see as far as any man. “I beg your pardon, ladies,” said he, “you’re right. I am quite wrong. What a stupid blunder to make! And yet they did deceive me. Here, Johnson, take these shawls away. How could you be so stupid? I will fetch the thing you want myself, ladies.” So I went with him. He chose out three or four shawls, of the nicest patterns, from the very same lot, marked in the very same way, folded them differently, and gave them to me to carry down. “Now, ladies, here they are!” he said. “These are quite a different thing, as you will see; and, indeed, they cost half as much again.” In five minutes they had bought two of them, and paid just half as much more than he had asked for them the first time. That’s Mr–! and that’s what you should have done if you had wanted to keep your place.’—But I assure you, sir, I could not help being glad to be out of it.”

“But there is nothing in all this to be miserable about,” I said. “You did your duty.”

“It would be all right, sir, if father believed me. I don’t want to be idle, I’m sure.”

“Does your father think you do?”

“I don’t know what he thinks. He won’t speak to me. I told my story—as much of it as he would let me, at least—but he wouldn’t listen to me. He only said he knew better than that. I couldn’t bear it. He always was rather hard upon us. I’m sure if you hadn’t been so kind to me, sir, I don’t know what I should have done by this time. I haven’t another friend in the world.”

“Yes, you have. Your Father in heaven is your friend.”

“I don’t know that, sir. I’m not good enough.”

“That’s quite true. But you would never have done your duty if He had not been with you.”

“DO you think so, sir?” he returned, eagerly.

“Indeed, I do. Everything good comes from the Father of lights. Every one that walks in any glimmering of light walks so far in HIS light. For there is no light—only darkness—comes from below. And man apart from God can generate no light. He’s not meant to be separated from God, you see. And only think then what light He can give you if you will turn to Him and ask for it. What He has given you should make you long for more; for what you have is not enough—ah! far from it.”

“I think I understand. But I didn’t feel good at all in the matter. I didn’t see any other way of doing.”

“So much the better. We ought never to feel good. We are but unprofitable servants at best. There is no merit in doing your duty; only you would have been a poor wretched creature not to do as you did. And now, instead of making yourself miserable over the consequences of it, you ought to bear them like a man, with courage and hope, thanking God that He has made you suffer for righteousness’ sake, and denied you the success and the praise of cheating. I will go to your father at once, and find out what he is thinking about it. For no doubt Mr–has written to him with his version of the story. Perhaps he will be more inclined to believe you when he finds that I believe you.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” cried the lad, and jumped up from his seat to go with me.

“No,” I said; “you had better stay where you are. I shall be able to speak more freely if you are not present. Here is a book to amuse yourself with. I do not think I shall be long gone.”

But I was longer gone than I thought I should be.

When I reached the carpenter’s house, I found, to my surprise, that he was still at work. By the light of a single tallow candle placed beside him on the bench, he was ploughing away at a groove. His pale face, of which the lines were unusually sharp, as I might have expected after what had occurred, was the sole object that reflected the light of the candle to my eyes as I entered the gloomy place. He looked up, but without even greeting me, dropped his face again and went on with his work.

“What!” I said, cheerily,—for I believed that, like Gideon’s pitcher, I held dark within me the light that would discomfit his Midianites, which consciousness may well make the pitcher cheery inside, even while the light as yet is all its own—worthless, till it break out upon the world, and cease to illuminate only glazed pitcher-sides—“What!” I said, “working so late?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It is not usual with you, I know.”

“It’s all a humbug!” he said fiercely, but coldly notwithstanding, as he stood erect from his work, and turned his white face full on me—of which, however, the eyes drooped—“It’s all a humbug; and I don’t mean to be humbugged any more.”

“Am I a humbug?” I returned, not quite taken by surprise.

“I don’t say that. Don’t make a personal thing of it, sir. You’re taken in, I believe, like the rest of us. Tell me that a God governs the world! What have I done, to be used like this?”

I thought with myself how I could retort for his young son: “What has he done to be used like this?” But that was not my way, though it might work well enough in some hands. Some men are called to be prophets. I could only “stand and wait.”

“It would be wrong in me to pretend ignorance,” I said, “of what you mean. I know all about it.”

“Do you? He has been to you, has he? But you don’t know all about it, sir. The impudence of the young rascal!”

He paused for a moment.

“A man like me!” he resumed, becoming eloquent in his indignation, and, as I thought afterwards, entirely justifying what Wordsworth says about the language of the so-called uneducated,—“A man like me, who was as proud of his honour as any aristocrat in the country—prouder than any of them would grant me the right to be!”

“Too proud of it, I think—not too careful of it,” I said. But I was thankful he did not heed me, for the speech would only have irritated him. He went on.

“Me to be treated like this! One child a …”

Here came a terrible break in his speech. But he tried again.

“And the other a …”

Instead of finishing the sentence, however, he drove his plough fiercely through the groove, splitting off some inches of the wall of it at the end.

“If any one has treated you so,” I said, “it must be the devil, not God.”

“But if there was a God, he could have prevented it all.”

“Mind what I said to you once before: He hasn’t done yet. And there is another enemy in His way as bad as the devil—I mean our SELVES. When people want to walk their own way without God, God lets them try it. And then the devil gets a hold of them. But God won’t let him keep them. As soon as they are ‘wearied in the greatness of their way,’ they begin to look about for a Saviour. And then they find God ready to pardon, ready to help, not breaking the bruised reed—leading them to his own self manifest—with whom no man can fear any longer, Jesus Christ, the righteous lover of men—their elder brother—what we call BIG BROTHER, you know—one to help them and take their part against the devil, the world, and the flesh, and all the rest of the wicked powers. So you see God is tender—just like the prodigal son’s father—only with this difference, that God has millions of prodigals, and never gets tired of going out to meet them and welcome them back, every one as if he were the only prodigal son He had ever had. There’s a father indeed! Have you been such a father to your son?”