The Seaboard Parish, Complete

“I know what you mean,” I answered; “but I have no gift whatever in that direction. I have no idea of drawing, or of producing the effects of light and shade; though I think I have a little notion of colour—perhaps about as much as the little London boy, who stopped a friend of mine once to ask the way to the field where the buttercups grew, had of nature.”

“I wish I could ask your opinion of some of my pictures.”

“That I should never presume to give. I could only tell you what they made me feel, or perhaps only think. Some day I may have the pleasure of looking at them.”

“May I offer you my address?” he said, and took a card from his pocket-book. “It is a poor place, but if you should happen to think of me when you are next in London, I shall be honoured by your paying me a visit.”

“I shall be most happy,” I returned, taking his card.—“Did it ever occur to you, in reference to the subject we were upon a few minutes ago, how little you can do without shadow in making a picture?”

“Little indeed,” answered Percivale. “In fact, it would be no picture at all.”

“I doubt if the world would fare better without its shadows.”

“But it would be a poor satisfaction, with regard to the nature of God, to be told that he allowed evil for artistic purposes.”

“It would indeed, if you regard the world as a picture. But if you think of his art as expended, not upon the making of a history or a drama, but upon the making of an individual, a being, a character, then I think a great part of the difficulty concerning the existence of evil which oppresses you will vanish. So long as a creature has not sinned, sin is possible to him. Does it seem inconsistent with the character of God that in order that sin should become impossible he should allow sin to come? that, in order that his creatures should choose the good and refuse the evil, in order that they might become such, with their whole nature infinitely enlarged, as to turn from sin with a perfect repugnance of the will, he should allow them to fall? that, in order that, from being sweet childish children, they should become noble, child-like men and women, he should let them try to walk alone? Why should he not allow the possible in order that it should become impossible? for possible it would ever have been, even in the midst of all the blessedness, until it had been, and had been thus destroyed. Thus sin is slain, uprooted. And the war must ever exist, it seems to me, where there is creation still going on. How could I be content to guard my children so that they should never have temptation, knowing that in all probability they would fail if at any moment it should cross their path? Would the deepest communion of father and child ever be possible between us? Evil would ever seem to be in the child, so long as it was possible it should be there developed. And if this can be said for the existence of moral evil, the existence of all other evil becomes a comparative trifle; nay, a positive good, for by this the other is combated.”

“I think I understand you,” returned Percivale. “I will think over what you have said. These are very difficult questions.”

“Very. I don’t think argument is of much use about them, except as it may help to quiet a man’s uneasiness a little, and so give his mind peace to think about duty. For about the doing of duty there can be no question, once it is seen. And the doing of duty is the shortest—in very fact, the only way into the light.”

As we spoke, we had turned from the cliffs, and wandered back across the salt streams to the sands beyond. From the direction of the house came a little procession of servants, with Walter at their head, bearing the preparations for our dinner—over the gates of the lock, down the sides of the embankment of the canal, and across the sands, in the direction of the children, who were still playing merrily.

“Will you join our early dinner, which is to be out of doors, as you see, somewhere hereabout on the sands?” I said.

“I shall be delighted,” he answered, “if you will let me be of some use first. I presume you mean to bring your invalid out.”

“Yes; and you shall help me to carry her, if you will.”

“That is what I hoped,” said Percivale; and we went together towards the parsonage.

As we approached, I saw Wynnie sitting at the drawing-room window; but when we entered the room, she was gone. My wife was there, however.

“Where is Wynnie?” I asked.

“She saw you coming,” she answered, “and went to get Connie ready; for I guessed Mr. Percivale had come to help you to carry her out.”

But I could not help doubting there might be more than that in Wynnie’s disappearance. “What if she should have fallen in love with him,” I thought, “and he should never say a word on the subject? That would be dreadful for us all.”

They had been repeatedly but not very much together of late, and I was compelled to allow to myself that if they did fall in love with each other it would be very natural on both sides, for there was evidently a great mental resemblance between them, so that they could not help sympathising with each other’s peculiarities. And anyone could see what a fine couple they would make.

Wynnie was much taller than Connie—almost the height of her mother. She had a very fair skin, and brown hair, a broad forehead, a wise, thoughtful, often troubled face, a mouth that seldom smiled, but on which a smile seemed always asleep, and round soft cheeks that dimpled like water when she did smile. I have described Percivale before. Why should not two such walk together along the path to the gates of the light? And yet I could not help some anxiety. I did not know anything of his history. I had no testimony concerning him from anyone that knew him. His past life was a blank to me; his means of livelihood probably insufficient—certainly, I judged, precarious; and his position in society—but there I checked myself: I had had enough of that kind of thing already. I would not willingly offend in that worldliness again. The God of the whole earth could not choose that I should look at such works of his hands after that fashion. And I was his servant—not Mammon’s or Belial’s.

All this passed through my mind in about three turns of the winnowing-fan of thought. Mr. Percivale had begun talking to my wife, who took no pains to conceal that his presence was pleasant to her, and I went upstairs, almost unconsciously, to Connie’s room.

When I opened the door, forgetting to announce my approach as I ought to have done, I saw Wynnie leaning over Connie, and Connie’s arm round her waist. Wynnie started back, and Connie gave a little cry, for the jerk thus occasioned had hurt her. Wynnie had turned her head away, but turned it again at Connie’s cry, and I saw a tear on her face.

“My darlings, I beg your pardon,” I said. “It was very stupid of me not to knock at the door.”

Connie looked up at me with large resting eyes, and said—

“It’s nothing, papa, Wynnie is in one of her gloomy moods, and didn’t want you to see her crying. She gave me a little pull, that was all. It didn’t hurt me much, only I’m such a goose! I’m in terror before the pain comes. Look at me,” she added, seeing, doubtless, some perturbation on my countenance, “I’m all right now.” And she smiled in my face perfectly.

I turned to Wynnie, put my arm about her, kissed her cheek, and left the room. I looked round at the door, and saw that Connie was following me with her eyes, but Wynnie’s were hidden in her handkerchief.

I went back to the drawing-room, and in a few minutes Walter came to announce that dinner was about to be served. The same moment Wynnie came to say that Connie was ready. She did not lift her eyes, or approach to give Percivale any greeting, but went again as soon as she had given her message. I saw that he looked first concerned and then thoughtful.

“Come, Mr. Percivale,” I said; and he followed me up to Connie’s room.

Wynnie was not there; but Connie lay, looking lovely, all ready for going. We lifted her, and carried her by the window out on the down, for the easiest way, though the longest, was by the path to the breakwater, along its broad back and down from the end of it upon the sands. Before we reached the breakwater, I found that Wynnie was following behind us. We stopped in the middle of it, and set Connie down, as if I wanted to take breath. But I had thought of something to say to her, which I wanted Wynnie to hear without its being addressed to her.

“Do you see, Connie,” I said, “how far off the water is?”

“Yes, papa; it is a long way off. I wish I could get up and run down to it.”

“You can hardly believe that all between, all those rocks, and all that sand, will be covered before sunset.”

“I know it will be. But it doesn’t look likely, does it, papa!”

“Not the least likely, my dear. Do you remember that stormy night when I came through your room to go out for a walk in the dark?”

“Remember it, papa? I cannot forget it. Every time I hear the wind blowing when I wake in the night I fancy you are out in it, and have to wake myself up’ quite to get rid of the thought.”

“Well, Connie, look down into the great hollow there, with rocks and sand at the bottom of it, stretching far away.”

“Yes, papa.”

“Now look over the side of your litter. You see those holes all about between the stones?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Well, one of those little holes saved my life that night, when the great gulf there was full of huge mounds of roaring water, which rushed across this breakwater with force enough to sweep a whole cavalry regiment off its back.”

“Papa!” exclaimed Connie, turning pale.

Then first I told her all the story. And Wynnie listened behind.

“Then I was right in being frightened, papa!” cried Connie, bursting into tears; for since her accident she could not well command her feelings.

“You were right in trusting in God, Connie.”

“But you might have been drowned, papa!” she sobbed.

“Nobody has a right to say that anything might have been other than what has been. Before a thing has happened we can say might or might not; but that has to do only with our ignorance. Of course I am not speaking of things wherein we ought to exercise will and choice. That is our department. But this does not look like that now, does it? Think what a change—from the dark night and the roaring water to this fulness of sunlight and the bare sands, with the water lisping on their edge away there in the distance. Now, I want you to think that in life troubles will come which look as if they would never pass away; the night and the storm look as if they would last for ever; but the calm and the morning cannot be stayed; the storm in its very nature is transient. The effort of Nature, as that of the human heart, ever is to return to its repose, for God is Peace.”

“But if you will excuse me, Mr. Walton,” said Percivale, “you can hardly expect experience to be of use to any but those who have had it. It seems to me that its influences cannot be imparted.”

“That depends on the amount of faith in those to whom its results are offered. Of course, as experience, it can have no weight with another; for it is no longer experience. One remove, and it ceases. But faith in the person who has experienced can draw over or derive—to use an old Italian word—some of its benefits to him who has the faith. Experience may thus, in a sense, be accumulated, and we may go on to fresh experience of our own. At least I can hope that the experience of a father may take the form of hope in the minds of his daughters. Hope never hurt anyone, never yet interfered with duty; nay, always strengthens to the performance of duty, gives courage, and clears the judgment. St. Paul says we are saved by hope. Hope is the most rational thing in the universe. Even the ancient poets, who believed it was delusive, yet regarded it as an antidote given by the mercy of the gods against some, at least, of the ills of life.”