The Seaboard Parish, Complete

“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,