CHAPTER XI.
HURST STAPLE.
The next three or four days passed by heavily enough, and then ArthurWilkinson returned. He returned on a Saturday evening; as clergymenalways do, so as to be ready for their great day of work. Thereare no Sabbath-breakers to be compared, in the vehemence of theirSabbath-breaking, to hard-worked parochial clergymen--unless, indeed,it be Sunday-school children, who are forced on that day to learnlong dark collects, and stand in dread catechismal row before theirspiritual pastors and masters.
In the first evening there was that flow of friendship which alwaysexists for the few first hours of meeting between men who are reallyfond of each other. And these men were fond of each other; the fonderperhaps because each of them had now cause for sorrow. Very littlewas said between Arthur and Adela. There was not apparently much toalarm the widow in their mutual manner, or to make her think thatMiss Gauntlet was to be put in her place. Adela sat among the othergirls, taking even less share in the conversation than they did; andArthur, though he talked as became the master of the house, talkedbut little to her.
On the following morning they all went to church, of course. Who hascourage to remain away from church when staying at the clergyman'shouse? No one ever; unless it be the clergyman's wife, or perhaps anindependent self-willed daughter. At Hurst Staple, however, on thisSunday they all attended. Adela was in deepest mourning. Her thickblack veil was down, so as to hide her tears. The last Sunday she hadbeen at church her father had preached his last sermon.
Bertram, as he entered the door, could not but remember how long itwas since he had joined in public worship. Months and months hadpassed over him since he had allowed himself to be told that theScriptures moved him in sundry places to acknowledge and confess hissins. And yet there had been a time when he had earnestly pouredforth his frequent prayers to heaven; a time not long removed. Itwas as yet hardly more than three years since he had sworn withinhimself on the brow of Olivet to devote himself to the service of hisSaviour. Why had that oath been broken? A girl had ridiculed it; ayoung girl had dissipated all that by the sheen of her beauty, by thesparkle of her eye, by the laughter of her ruddy lip. He had promisedhimself to his God, but the rustling of silks had betrayed his heart.At her instance, at her first word, that promise had been whistleddown the wind.
And to what had this brought him now? As for the bright eyes, andthe flashing beauty, and the ruddy lips, they were made over infee-simple to another, who was ready to go further than he had gonein seeking this world's vanities. Even the price of his apostasy hadvanished from him.
But was this all? was this nearly all? was this as anything to thatfurther misery which had come upon him? Where was his faith now,his true, youthful, ardent faith; the belief of his inner heart;the conviction of a God and a Saviour, which had once been to himthe source of joy? Had it all vanished when, under the walls ofJerusalem, over against that very garden of Gethsemane, he hadexchanged the aspirations of his soul for the pressure of a softwhite hand?
No one becomes an infidel at once. A man who has really believed doesnot lose by a sudden blow the firm convictions of his soul. But whenthe work has been once commenced, when the first step has been taken,the pace becomes frightfully fast. Three years since his belief hadbeen like the ardour of young love, and now what were his feelings?Men said that he was an infidel; but he would himself deny it with afrigid precision, with the stiffest accuracy of language; and thenargue that his acknowledgment of a superhuman creative power was notinfidelity. He had a God of his own, a cold, passionless, prudentGod; the same God, he said, to whom others looked; with this onlydifference, that when others looked with fanatic enthusiasm, helooked with well-balanced reason. But it was the same God, he said.And as to the Saviour, he had a good deal also to say on thatsubject; a good deal which might show that he was not so far fromothers as others thought. And so he would prove that he was noinfidel.
But could he thus satisfy himself now that he again heard the psalmsof his youth? and remembered as he listened, that he had lost forever that beauty which had cost him so dear? Did he not now begin tothink--to feel perhaps rather than to think--that, after all, thesound of the church bells was cheering, that it was sweet to kneelthere where others knelt, sweet to hear the voices of those youngchildren as they uttered together the responses of the service?Was he so much wiser than others that he could venture on his ownjudgment to set himself apart, and to throw over as useless all thatwas to others so precious?
Such were his feelings as he sat, and knelt, and stoodthere--mechanically as it were, remembering the old habits. And thenhe tried to pray. But praying is by no means the easiest work towhich a man can set himself. Kneeling is easy; the repetition of thewell-known word is easy; the putting on of some solemnity of mind isperhaps not difficult. But to remember what you are asking, why youare asking, of whom you are asking; to feel sure that you want whatyou do ask, and that this asking is the best way to get it;--that onthe whole is not easy. On this occasion Bertram probably found itutterly beyond his capacity.
He declined to go to afternoon church. This is not held to be _derigueur_ even in a parson's house, unless it be among certain of thestrictly low-church clergymen. A very high churchman may ask youto attend at four o'clock of a winter morning, but he will not begrievously offended if, on a Sunday afternoon, you prefer yourarm-chair, and book--probably of sermons; but that is between you andyour conscience.
They dined early, and in the evening, Bertram and his host walkedout. Hitherto they had had but little opportunity of conversation,and Bertram longed to talk to some one of what was within his breast.On this occasion, however, he failed. Conversation will not always goexactly as one would have it.
"I was glad to see you at church to-day," said the parson. "To tellyou the truth, I did not expect it. I hope it was not intended as acompliment to me."
"I rather fear it was, Arthur."
"You mean that you went because you did not like to displease us bystaying away?"
"Something like it," said Bertram, affecting to laugh. "I do not wantyour mother and sisters, or you either, to regard me as an ogre. InEngland, at any rate in the country in England, one is an ogre if onedoesn't go to church. It does not much matter, I believe, what onedoes when one is there; so long as one is quiet, and lets the parsonhave his say."
"There is nothing so easy as ridicule, especially in matters ofreligion."
"Quite true. But then it is again true that it is very hard to laughat anything that is not in some point ridiculous."
"And God's worship is ridiculous?"
"No; but any pretence of worshipping God is so. And as it is but astep from the ridiculous to the sublime, and as the true worship ofGod is probably the highest sublimity to which man can reach; so,perhaps, is he never so absolutely absurd, in such a bathos of theridiculous, as when he pretends to do so."
"Every effort must sometimes fall short of success."
"I'll explain what I mean," said Bertram, attending more to himselfthan his companion. "What idea of man can be so magnificent as thatwhich represents him with his hands closed, and his eyes turned tothat heaven with which he holds communion? But imagine the man soplaced, and holding no such communion! You will at once have run downthe whole gamut of humanity from St. Paul to Pecksniff."
"But that has nothing to do with belief. It is for the man to takecare that he be, if possible, nearer to St. Paul than to Pecksniff."
"No, it has nothing to do with belief; but it is a gauge, the onlygauge we have, of what belief a man has. How many of those who weresitting by silently while you preached really believed?"
"All, I hope; all, I trust. I firmly trust that they are allbelievers; all, including yourself."
"I wonder whether there was one; one believer in all that which youcalled on us to say that we believed? one, for instance, who believesin the communion of saints? one who believes in the resurrection ofthe body?"
"And why should they not believe in the communion of saint
s? What'sthe difficulty?"
"Very little, certainly; as their belief goes--what they and you callbelief. Rumtunshid gara shushabad gerostophat. That is the shibbolethof some of the Caucasian tribes. Do you believe in Rumtunshid?"
"If you will talk gibberish when talking on such a matter, I hadrather change the subject."
"Now you are unreasonable, and want to have all the gibberish toyourself. That you should have it all to yourself in your own pulpitwe accede to you; but out here, on the heath, surely I may havemy turn. You do not believe in Rumtunshid? Then why should farmerButtercup be called on to believe in the communion of the saints?What does he believe about it? Or why should you make little FloraButtercup tell such a huge fib as to say, that she believes in theresurrection of the body?"
"It is taught her as a necessary lesson, and will be explained to herat the proper age."
"No; there is no proper age for it. It will never be explained toher. Neither Flora nor her father will ever understand anything aboutit. But they will always believe it. Am I old enough to understandit? Explain it to me. No one yet has ever attempted to do so; and yetmy education was not neglected."
Wilkinson had too great a fear of his friend's powers of ridicule toventure on an explanation; so he again suggested that they shouldchange the subject.
"That is always the way," said Bertram. "I never knew a clergyman whodid not want to change the subject when that subject is the one onwhich he should be ever willing to speak."
"If there be anything that you deem holy, you would not be willing tohear it ridiculed."
"There is much that I deem holy, and for that I fear no laughter. Iam ready to defy ridicule. But if I talk to you of the asceticism ofStylites, and tell you that I admire it, and will imitate it, willyou not then laugh at me? Of course we ridicule what we think isfalse. But ridicule will run off truth like water from a duck's back.Come, explain to me this about the resurrection of the body."
"Yet, in my flesh, shall I see God," said Arthur, in a solemn tone.
"But I say, no. It is impossible."
"Nothing is impossible with God."
"Yes; it is impossible that his own great laws should change. Itis impossible that they should remain, and yet not remain. Yourbody--that which we all call our body--that which Flora Buttercupbelieves to be her body (for in this matter she does believe) willturn itself, through the prolific chemistry of nature, into variousproductive gases by which other bodies will be formed. With whichbody will you see Christ? with that which you now carry, or that youwill carry when you die? For, of course, every atom of your bodychanges."
"It little matters which. It is sufficient for me to believe as theScriptures teach me."
"Yes; if one could believe. A Jew, when he drags his dying limbs tothe valley of Jehoshaphat, he can believe. He, in his darkness, knowsnothing of these laws of nature. But we will go to people who are notin darkness. If I ask your mother what she means when she says--'Notby confusion of substance; but by unity of person,' what will sheanswer me?"
"It is a subject which it will take her some time to explain."
"Yes, I think so; and me some time longer to understand."
Wilkinson was determined not to be led into argument, and so heremained silent. Bertram was also silent for awhile, and theywalked on, each content with his own thoughts. But yet not content.Wilkinson would have been contented to be let alone; to have hismind, and faith, and hopes left in the repose which nature andeducation had prepared for them. But it was not so with Bertram. Hewas angry with himself for not believing, and angry with others thatthey did believe. They went on in this way for some ten minutes, andthen Bertram began again.
"Ah, that I could believe! If it were a thing to come at, as a manwishes, who would doubt? But you, you, the priest, the teacher ofthe people, you, who should make it all so easy, you will make it sodifficult, so impossible. Belief, at any rate, should be easy, thoughpractice may be hard."
"You should look to the Bible, not to us."
"Yes; it is there that is our stumbling-block. A book is givento us, not over well translated from various languages, part ofwhich is history hyperbolically told--for all Eastern language ishyperbolical; part of which is prophecy, the very meaning of whichis lost to us by the loss of those things which are intended to beimaged out; and part of which is thanksgiving uttered in the languageof men who knew nothing, and could understand nothing of those rulesby which we are to be governed."
"You are talking of the Old Testament?"
"It is given to us as one whole. Then we have the story of a mysterywhich is above, or, at least, beyond the utmost stretch of man'scomprehension; and the very purport of which is opposed to all ourideas of justice. In the jurisprudence of heaven can that be justwhich here, on earth, is manifestly unjust?"
"Is your faith in God so weak then, and your reliance on yourself sofirm, that you can believe nothing beyond your own comprehension?"
"I believe much that I do not understand. I believe the distance ofthe earth from the sun. I believe that the seed of a man is carriedin a woman, and then brought forth to light, a living being. I do notunderstand the principle of this wondrous growth. But yet I believeit, and know that it is from God. But I cannot believe that evil isgood. I cannot believe that man placed here by God shall receive ornot receive future happiness as he may chance to agree or not toagree with certain doctors who, somewhere about the fourth century,or perhaps later, had themselves so much difficulty in coming to anyagreement on the disputed subject."
"I think, Bertram, that you are going into matters which you know arenot vital to faith in the Christian religion."
"What is vital, and what is not? If I could only learn that! But youalways argue in a circle. I am to have faith because of the Bible;but I am to take the Bible through faith. Whence is the first springof my faith to come? where shall I find the fountain-head?"
"In prayer to God."
"But can I pray without faith? Did any man ever kneel before a log,and ask the log that he might believe in the log? Had he no faith inthe log, could it be possible that he should be seen there kneelingbefore it?"
"Has the Bible then for you no intrinsic evidence of its truth?"
"Yes, most irrefragable evidence; evidence that no thinking man canpossibly reject. Christ's teaching, the words that I have there ascoming from his mouth are irresistible evidence of his fitness toteach. But you will permit me to use no such evidence. I must takeit all, from the beginning of my career, before I can look into itsintrinsic truth. And it must be all true to me: the sun standingstill upon Gibeon no less than the divine wisdom which showed thatCaesar's tribute should be paid to Caesar."
"If every man and every child is to select, how shall we ever have acreed? and if no creed, how shall we have a church?"
"And if no church, how then parsons? Follow it on, and it comes tothat. But, in truth, you require too much; and so you get--nothing.Your flocks do not believe, do not pray, do not listen to you. Theyare not in earnest. In earnest! Heavens! if a man could believe allthis, could be in earnest about it, how possibly could he care forother things? But no; you pride yourselves on faith; but you have nofaith. There is no such thing left. In these days men do not knowwhat faith is."
In the evening, when the ladies had gone to their rooms, they wereagain together; and Bertram thought that he would speak of Caroline.But he was again foiled. There had been some little bickering on thepart of Mrs. Wilkinson. She had been querulous, and had not cared tohide it, though George and Adela were sitting there as guests. Thishad made her son unhappy, and he now spoke of it.
"I am sorry you should hear my mother speak in that way, George. Ihope I am not harsh to her. I try to refrain from answering her. Butunless I go back to my round jackets, and take my food from her handlike a child, I cannot please her."
"Perhaps you are too careful to please her. I think you should lether know that, to a certain extent, you must be master in your ownhouse."
"Ah! I have g
iven that up long since. She has an idea that the houseis hers. I do not care to thwart her in that. Perhaps I should havedone it at first; but it is too late now. To-night she was angry withme because I would not read a sermon."
"And why then didn't you?"
"I have preached two to-day." And the young clergyman yawned somewhatwearily. "She used to read them herself. I did put a stop to that."
"Why so? why not let her read them?"
"The girls used to go to sleep, always--and then the servants sleptalso, I don't think she has a good voice for sermons. But I am sureof this, George--she has never forgiven me."
"And never will."
"Sometimes, I almost think she would wish to take my place in thepulpit."
"The wish is not at all unnatural, my dear fellow."
"The truth is, that Lord Stapledean's message to her, and hisconduct about the living, has quite upset her. I cannot blame LordStapledean. What he did was certainly kind. But I do blame myself. Inever should have accepted the living on those terms--never, never.I knew it when I did it, and I have never since ceased to repent it."And so saying he got up and walked quickly about the room. "Would youbelieve it now; my mother takes upon herself to tell me in what wayI should read the absolution; and feels herself injured because I donot comply?"
"I can tell you but of one remedy, Arthur; but I can tell you ofone."
"What remedy?"
"Take a wife to yourself; one who will not mind in what way you readthe absolution to her."
"A wife!" said Wilkinson, and he uttered a long sigh as he continuedhis walk.
"Yes, a wife; why not? People say that a country clergyman shouldnever be without a wife; and as for myself, I firmly think that theyare right."
"Every curate is to marry, then?"
"But you are not a curate."
"I should only have the income of a curate. And where should I put awife? The house is full of women already. Who would come to such ahouse as this?"
"There is Adela; would not she come if you asked her?"
"Adela!" said the young vicar. And now his walk had brought him tothe further end of the table; and there he remained for a minute ortwo. "Adela!"
"Yes, Adela," said Bertram.
"What a life my mother would lead her! She is fond of her now; very.But in that case I know that she would hate her."
"If I were you, I would make my wife the mistress of my house, not mymother."
"Ah! you do not understand, George."
"But perhaps you do not like Adela--perhaps you could not teachyourself to love her?"
"Perhaps not," said Wilkinson. "And perhaps she could not teachherself to like me. But, ah! that is out of the question."
"There is nothing between you and Adela then?" asked Bertram.
"Oh, no; nothing."
"On your honour, nothing?"
"Nothing at all. It is quite out of the question. My marrying,indeed!"
And then they took their bedroom candlesticks and went to their ownrooms.
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