The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2
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George MacDonald >> The Seaboard Parish Vol. 2
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Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the shore, where we had not yet
been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us out
of breath with the news:
"Papa! Mr. Percivale! there's such a grand cave down there! It goes right
through under the island."
Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and
without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way
that we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch more
difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a contrast
to the vision overhead!--nothing to be seen but the cool, dark vault of the
cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on its pebbly floor,
and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide rolled through in
rising and falling--the waters on the opposite sides of the islet greeting
through this cave; the blue shimmer of the rising sea, and the forms of
huge outlying rocks, looking in at the further end, where the roof rose
like a grand cathedral arch; and the green gleam of veins rich with copper,
dashing and streaking the darkness in gloomy little chapels, where the
floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and rose within till it met the descending
roof. It was like a going-down from Paradise into the grave--but a cool,
friendly, brown-lighted grave, which even in its darkest recesses bore some
witness to the wind of God outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed
light, from the play of the sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected,
wandered across its jagged roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the
damp coolness; and I have given my reader quite enough of description for
one hour's reading. He can scarcely be equal to more.
My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I no
longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days after,
and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner's place in the carriage.
CHAPTER XI.
JOE AND HIS TROUBLE.
How bright the yellow shores of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands of
Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty rampart
of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce guardians! It was
pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to look like home, and was
indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of Dora and the boys. Connie's
baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her chubby arms at sight of her. The
wind blew gently around us, full both of the freshness of the clean waters
and the scents of the down-grasses, to welcome us back. And the dread
vision of the shore had now receded so far into the past, that it was no
longer able to hurt.
We had called at the blacksmith's house on our way home, and found that he
was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother said he
was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, feared that
they indicated an approaching break-down.
"Indeed, sir," she said, "Joe might be well enough if he liked. It's all
his own fault."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "I cannot believe that your son is in any way
guilty of his own illness."
"He's a well-behaved lad, my Joe," she answered; "but he hasn't learned
what I had to learn long ago."
"What is that?" I asked.
"To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other."
She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she
spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in
mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all her
face under the nose.
"And what is it he won't do?"
"I don't mind whether he does it or not, if he would only
make--up--his--mind--and--stick--to--it."
"What is it you want him to do, then?"
"I don't want him to do it, I'm sure. It's no good to me--and wouldn't be
much to him, that I'll be bound. Howsomever, he must please himself."
I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was no more
sunshine for him at home than his mother's face indicated. Few things can
make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, whose rays are
smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the door,--the face of
wife or mother or sister. Now his mother's face certainly was not sunny.
No doubt it must have shone upon him when he was a baby. God has made that
provision for babies, who need sunshine so much that a mother's face cannot
help being sunny to them: why should the sunshine depart as the child grows
older?
"Well, I suppose I must not ask. But I fear your son is very far from well.
Such attacks do not often occur without serious mischief somewhere. And if
there is anything troubling him, he is less likely to get over it."
"If he would let somebody make up his mind for him, and then stick to it--"
"O, but that is impossible, you know. A man must make up his own mind."
"That's just what he won't do."
All the time she looked naughty, only after a self-righteous fashion. It
was evident that whatever was the cause of it, she was not in sympathy with
her son, and therefore could not help him out of any difficulty he might
be in. I made no further attempt to learn from her the cause of her son's
discomfort, clearly a deeper cause than his illness. In passing his
workshop, we stopped for a moment, and I made an arrangement to meet him at
the church the next day.
I was there before him, and found that he had done a good deal since we
left. Little remained except to get the keys put to rights, and the rods
attached to the cranks in the box. To-day he was to bring a carpenter, a
cousin of his own, with him.
They soon arrived, and a small consultation followed. The cousin was a
bright-eyed, cheruby-cheeked little man, with a ready smile and white
teeth: I thought he might help me to understand what was amiss in Joseph's
affairs. But I would not make the attempt except openly. I therefore said
half in a jocular fashion, as with gloomy, self-withdrawn countenance the
smith was fitting one loop into another in two of his iron rods,--
"I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more cheerful.
You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine."
The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips.
"Well, sir, if you'll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the rest
of us. He's a religious man, is Joe."
"But I don't see how that should make him miserable. It hasn't made me
miserable. I hope I'm a religious man myself. It makes me happy every day
of my life."
"Ah, well," returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked away
gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, "I don't
say it's the religion, for I don't know; but perhaps it's the way he takes
it up. He don't look after hisself enough; he's always thinking about other
people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, that if you don't look after
yourself, why, who is to look after you? That's common sense, _I_ think."
It was a curious contrast--the merry friendly face, which shone
good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe,
even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much about
other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might be correct
in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, healthy
inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was a smile very
unlike his cousin's with which Joe heard his remarks on himself.
"But," I said, "you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take
Joe's way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of
yourself."
"I don't see why, sir."
"Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else."
"Not so well, I doubt, sir."
"Yes, and a great deal better."
"At any rate, that's a long way off; and mean time, _who's_ to take care of
the odd man like Joe there, that don't look after hisself?"
"Why, God, of course."
"Well, there's just where I'm out. I don't know nothing about that branch,
sir."
I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe's gloomy eyes as I spoke thus
upon his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin
volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I might
have gained.
At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have their
dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and I dropped
behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in meditation.
Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the
rectory, when I saw the sexton's daughter meeting us. She had almost come
up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the ground, and he
started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, constrained, yet
familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted to talk, but without
speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of recognition to the young
woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners to look behind. I glanced at
Harry, and he answered me with a queer look. When we reached the turning
that would hide them from our view, I looked back almost involuntarily,
and there they were still standing. But before we reached the door of the
rectory, Joe got up with us.
There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the
sexton's daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, the
youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, somewhat
sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall and slender,
and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good hair's-breadth further
into the smith's affairs. Beyond the hair's-breadth, however, all was dark.
But I saw likewise that the well of truth, whence I might draw the whole
business, must be the girl's mother.
After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back to
the church, and I went to the sexton's cottage. I found the old man seated
at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty plate beside
it.
"Come in, sir," he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. "The
mis'ess ben't in, but she'll be here in a few minutes."
"O, it's of no consequence," I said. "Are they all well?"
"All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It be in
winter it be worst for them."
"But it's a snug enough shelter you've got here. It seems such, anyhow;
though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak
places both in house and body."
"It ben't the wind touch _them_" he said; "they be safe enough from the
wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben't much snow in these parts; but when it
du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!"
Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again?
"But at least this cottage keeps out the wet," I said. "If not, we must
have it seen to."
"This cottage du well enough, sir. It'll last my time, anyhow."
"Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?"
"Bless your heart, sir! It's not them. They du well enough. It's my people
out yonder. You've got the souls to look after, and I've got the bodies.
That's what it be, sir. To be sure!"
The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my
stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and none
to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed that
night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination in which
the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, and he would
magnify that office. He could not bear that there should be no further
outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out of sight should be
"the be-all and the end-all." He was God's vicar, the gardener in God's
Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When all others had forsaken the
dead, he remained their friend, caring for what little comfort yet remained
possible to them. Hence in all changes of air and sky above, he attributed
to them some knowledge of the same, and some share in their consequences
even down in the darkness of the tomb. It was his way of keeping up the
relation between the living and the dead. Finding I made him no reply, he
took up the word again.
"You've got your part, sir, and I've got mine. You up into the pulpit, and
I down into the grave. But it'll be all the same by and by."
"I hope it will," I answered. "But when you do go down into your own grave,
you'll know a good deal less about it than you do now. You'll find you've
got other things to think about. But here comes your wife. She'll talk
about the living rather than the dead."
"That's natural, sir. She brought 'em to life, and I buried 'em--at least,
best part of 'em. If only I had the other two safe down with the rest!"
I remembered what the old woman had told me--that she had two boys _in_ the
sea; and I knew therefore what he meant. He regarded his drowned boys as
still tossed about in the weary wet cold ocean, and would have gladly laid
them to rest in the warm dry churchyard.
He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, and
saying, "Well, I must be off to my gardening," left me with his wife. I saw
then that, humorist as the old man might be, his humour, like that of all
true humorists, lay close about the wells of weeping.
"The old man seems a little out of sorts," I said to his wife.
"Well, sir," she answered, with her usual gentleness, a gentleness which
obedient suffering had perfected, "this be the day he buried our Nancy,
this day two years; and to-day Agnes be come home from her work poorly; and
the two things together they've upset him a bit."
"I met Agnes coming this way. Where is she?"
"I believe she be in the churchyard, sir. I've been to the doctor about
her."
"I hope it's nothing serious."
"I hope not, sir; but you see--four on 'em, sir!"
"Well, she's in God's hands, you know."
"That she be, sir."
"I want to ask you about something, Mrs. Coombes."
"What be that, sir? If I can tell, I will, you may be sure, sir."
"I want to know what's the matter with Joe Harper, the blacksmith."
"They du say it be a consumption, sir."
"But what has he got on his mind?"
"He's got nothing on his mind, sir. He be as good a by as ever stepped, I
assure you, sir."
"But I am sure there is something or other on his mind. He's not so happy
as he should be. He's not the man, it seems to me, to be unhappy because
he's ill. A man like him would not be miserable because he was going to
die. It might make him look sad sometimes, but not gloomy as he looks."
"Well, sir, I believe you be right, and perhaps I know summat. But it's
part guessing.--I believe my Agnes and Joe Harper are as fond upon one
another as any two in the county."
"Are they not going to be married then?"
"There be the pint, sir. I don't believe Joe ever said a word o' the sort
to Aggy. She never could ha' kep it from me, sir."
"Why doesn't he then?"
"That's the pint again, sir. All as knows him says it's because he be in
such bad health, and he thinks he oughtn't to go marrying with one foot in
the grave. He never said so to me; but I think very likely that be it."
"For that matter, Mrs. Coombes, we've all got one foot in the grave, I
think."
"That be very true, sir."
"And what does your daughter think?"
"I believe she thinks the same. And so they go on talking to each other,
quiet-like, like old married folks, not like lovers at all, sir. But I
can't help fancying it have something to do with my Aggy's pale face."
"And something to do with Joe's pale face too, Mrs. Coombes," I said.
"Thank you. You've told me more than I expected. It explains everything. I
must have it out with Joe now."
"O deary me! sir, don't go and tell him I said anything, as if I wanted him
to marry my daughter."
"Don't you be afraid. I'll take good care of that. And don't fancy I'm fond
of meddling with other people's affairs. But this is a case in which I
ought to do something. Joe's a fine fellow."
"That he be, sir. I couldn't wish a better for a son-in-law."
I put on my hat.
"You won't get me into no trouble with Joe, will ye, sir!"
"Indeed I will not, Mrs. Coombes. I should be doing a great deal more harm
than good if I said a word to make him doubt you."
I went straight to the church. There were the two men working away in the
shadowy tower, and there was Agnes standing beside, knitting like her
mother, so quiet, so solemn even, that it did indeed look as if she were a
long-married wife, hovering about her husband at his work. Harry was saying
something to her as I went in, but when they saw me they were silent, and
Agnes gently withdrew.
"Do you think you will get through to-night?" I asked.
"Sure of it, sir," answered Harry.
"You shouldn't be sure of anything, Harry. We are told in the New Testament
that we ought to say _If the Lord will_," said Joe.
"Now, Joe, you're too hard upon Harry," I said. "You don't think that the
Bible means to pull a man up every step like that, till he's afraid to
speak a word. It was about a long journey and a year's residence that the
Apostle James was speaking."
"No doubt, sir. But the principle's the same. Harry can no more be sure of
finishing his work before it be dark, than those people could be of going
their long journey."
"That is perfectly true. But you are taking the letter for the spirit, and
that, I suspect, in more ways than one. The religion does not lie in not
being sure about anything, but in a loving desire that the will of God in
the matter, whatever it be, may be done. And if Harry has not learned yet
to care about the will of God, what is the good of coming down upon him
that way, as if that would teach him in the least. When he loves God, then,
and not till then, will he care about his will. Nor does the religion lie
in saying, _if the Lord will_, every time anything is to be done. It is a
most dangerous thing to use sacred words often. It makes them so common to
our ear that at length, when used most solemnly, they have not half the
effect they ought to have, and that is a serious loss. What the Apostle
means is, that we should always be in the mood of looking up to God and
having regard to his will, not always writing D.V. for instance, as so many
do--most irreverently, I think--using a Latin contraction for the beautiful
words, just as if they were a charm, or as if God would take offence
if they did not make the salvo of acknowledgment. It seems to me quite
heathenish. Our hearts ought ever to be in the spirit of those words; our
lips ought to utter them rarely. Besides, there are some things a man might
be pretty sure the Lord wills."
"It sounds fine, sir; but I'm not sure that I understand what you mean to
say. It sounds to me like a darkening of wisdom."
I saw that I had irritated him, and so had in some measure lost ground. But
Harry struck in--
"How _can_ you say that now, Joe? _I_ know what the parson means well
enough, and everybody knows I ain't got half the brains you've got."
"The reason is, Harry, that he's got something in his head that stands in
the way."
"And there's nothing in my head _to_ stand in the way!" returned Harry,
laughing.
This made me laugh too, and even Joe could not help a sympathetic grin. By
this time it was getting dark.
"I'm afraid, Harry, after all, you won't get through to-night."
"I begin to think so too, sir. And there's Joe saying, 'I told you so,'
over and over to himself, though he won't say it out like a man."
Joe answered only with another grin.
"I tell you what it is, Harry," I said--"you must come again on Monday. And
on your way home, just look in and tell Joe's mother that I have kept him
over to-morrow. The change will do him good."
"No, sir, that can't he. I haven't got a clean shirt."
"You can have a shirt of mine," I said. "But I'm afraid you'll want your
Sunday clothes."
"I'll bring them for you, Joe--before you're up," interposed Harry. "And
then you can go to church with Aggy Coombes, you know."
Here was just what I wanted.
"Hold your tongue, Harry," said Joe angrily. "You're talking of what you
don't know anything about."
"Well, Joe, I ben't a fool, if I ben't so religious as you be. You ben't
a bad fellow, though you be a Methodist, and I ben't a fool, though I be
Harry Cobb."
"What do you mean, Harry? Do hold your tongue."
"Well, I'll tell you what I mean first, and then I'll hold my tongue. I
mean this--that nobody with two eyes, or one eye, for that matter, in his
head, could help seeing the eyes you and Aggy make at each other, and why
you don't port your helm and board her--I won't say it's more than I know,
but I du say it to be more than I think be fair to the young woman."
"Hold your tongue, Harry."
"I said I would when I'd answered you as to what I meaned. So no more
at present; but I'll be over with your clothes afore you're up in the
morning."
As Harry spoke he was busy gathering his tools.
"They won't be in the way, will they, sir?" he said, as he heaped them
together in the furthest corner of the tower.
"Not in the least," I returned. "If I had my way, all the tools used in
building the church should be carved on the posts and pillars of it, to
indicate the sacredness of labour, and the worship of God that lies, not in
building the church merely, but in every honest trade honestly pursued for
the good of mankind and the need of the workman. For a necessity of God is
laid upon every workman as well as on St. Paul. Only St. Paul saw it, and
every workman doesn't, Harry."
"Thank you, sir. I like that way of it. I almost think I could be a little
bit religious after your way of it, sir."
"Almost, Harry!" growled Joe--not unkindly.
"Now, you hold your tongue, Joe," I said. "Leave Harry to me. You may take
him, if you like, after I've done with him."
Laughing merrily, but making no other reply than a hearty good-night, Harry
strode away out of the church, and Joe and I went home together.
When he had had his tea, I asked him to go out with me for a walk.
The sun was shining aslant upon the downs from over the sea. We rose out of
the shadowy hollow to the sunlit brow. I was a little in advance of Joe.
Happening to turn, I saw the light full on his head and face, while the
rest of his body had not yet emerged from the shadow.
"Stop, Joe," I said. "I want to see you so for a moment."
He stood--a little surprised.
"You look just like a man rising from the dead, Joe," I said.
"I don't know what you mean, sir," he returned.
"I will describe yourself to you. Your head and face are full of sunlight,
the rest of your body is still buried in the shadow. Look; I will stand
where you are now; and you come here. You will soon see what I mean."
We changed places. Joe stared for a moment. Then his face brightened.
"I see what you mean, sir," he said. "I fancy you don't mean the
resurrection of the body, but the resurrection of righteousness."
"I do, Joe. Did it ever strike you that the whole history of the Christian
life is a series of such resurrections? Every time a man bethinks himself
that he is not walking in the light, that he has been forgetting himself,
and must repent, that he has been asleep and must awake, that he has been
letting his garments trail, and must gird up the loins of his mind--every
time this takes place, there is a resurrection in the world. Yes, Joe; and
every time that a man finds that his heart is troubled, that he is not
rejoicing in God, a resurrection must follow--a resurrection out of the
night of troubled thoughts into the gladness of the truth. For the truth
is, and ever was, and ever must be, gladness, however much the souls on
which it shines may be obscured by the clouds of sorrow, troubled by the
thunders of fear, or shot through with the lightnings of pain. Now, Joe,
will you let me tell you what you are like--I do not know your thoughts; I
am only judging from your words and looks?"
"You may if you like, sir," answered Joe, a little sulkily. But I was not
to be repelled.
I stood up in the sunlight, so that my eyes caught only about half the
sun's disc. Then I bent my face towards the earth.
"What part of me is the light shining on now, Joe?"
"Just the top of your head," answered he.
"There, then," I returned, "that is just what you are like--a man with the
light on his head, but not on his face. And why not on your face? Because
you hold your head down."
"Isn't it possible, sir, that a man might lose the light on his face, as
you put it, by doing his duty?"
"That is a difficult question," I replied. "I must think before I answer
it."
"I mean," added Joe--"mightn't his duty be a painful one?"
"Yes. But I think that would rather etherealise than destroy the light.
Behind the sorrow would spring a yet greater light from the very duty
itself. I have expressed myself badly, but you will see what I mean.--To
be frank with you, Joe, I do not see that light in your face. Therefore
I think something must be wrong with you. Remember a good man is not
necessarily in the right. St. Peter was a good man, yet our Lord called him
Satan--and meant it of course, for he never said what he did not mean."
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