THOMAS WINGFOLD, CURATE, page 27
“Oh! Helen,” he said, “that IS a good fellow, SUCH a good fellow!”
A pang of jealousy, the first she had ever felt, shot to her heart: she had hitherto, since his trouble, been all in all to her Leopold! Had the curate been a man she liked, she would not perhaps have minded it so much.
“You will be able to do without me now,” she said sadly. “I never could understand taking to people at first sight!”
“Some people are made so, I suppose, Helen. I know I took to you at first sight! I shall never forget the first time I saw you — when I came to this country a lonely little foreigner, — and you, a great beautiful lady, for such you seemed to me, though you have told me since you were only a great gawky girl — I know that could never have been — you ran to meet me, and took me in your arms, and kissed me. I was as if I had crossed the sea of death and found paradise in your bosom! I am not likely to forget you for Mr. Wingfold, good and kind and strong as he is! Even SHE could not make me forget you, Helen. But neither you nor I can do without Mr. Wingfold any more, I fancy. I wish you liked him better! — but you will in time. You see he’s not one to pay young ladies compliments, as I have heard some parsons do; and he may be a little — no, not unpolished, not that — that’s not what I mean — but unornamental in his manners! Only, you see,—”
“Only, you see, Poldie,” interrupted Helen, with a smile, a rare thing between them, “you know all about him, though you never saw him before.”
“That is true,” returned Leopold; “but then he came to me with his door open, and let me walk in. It doesn’t take long to know a man then. He hasn’t got a secret like us, Helen,” he added, sadly.
“What did he say to you?”
“Much what he said to you from the pulpit the other day, I should think.”
Then she was right! For all his hardness and want of sympathy, the curate had yet had regard to her entreaties, and was not going to put any horrid notions about duty and self-sacrifice into the poor boy’s head!
“He’s coming again to-morrow,” added Leopold, almost gleefully, “and then perhaps he will tell me more, and help me on a bit!”
“Did he tell you he wants to bring a friend with him?”
“No.”
“I can’t see the good of taking more people into our confidence.”
“Why should he not do what he thinks best, Helen? You don’t interfere with the doctor — why should you with him? When a man is going to the bottom as fast as he can, and another comes diving after him — it isn’t for me to say how he is to take hold of me. No, Helen; when I trust, I trust out and out.”
Helen sighed, thinking how ill that had worked with Emmeline.
Ever since George Bascombe had talked about the Polwarths that day they met him in the park, she had felt a sort of physical horror of them, as if they were some kind of unclean creature that ought not to be in existence at all. But when Leopold uttered himself thus, she felt that the current of events had seized her, and that she could only submit to be carried along.
CHAPTER XXVII. DIVINE SERVICE.
The next day the curate called again on Leopold. But Helen happened to be otherwise engaged for a few minutes, and Mrs. Ramshorn to be in the sick-room when the servant brought his name. With her jealousy of Wingfold’s teaching, she would not have admitted him, but Lingard made such loud protest when he heard her say “Not at home,” insisting on seeing him, that she had to give way, and tell the maid to show him up. She HAD NO NOTION however of leaving him alone in the room with the invalid: who could tell what absurd and extravagant ideas he might not put into the boy’s head! He might make him turn monk, or Socinian, or latter-day-saint, for what she knew! So she sat, blocking up the sole small window in the youth’s dark dwelling that looked eastward, and damming back the tide of the dawn from his diseased and tormented soul. Little conversation was therefore possible. Still the face of his new friend was a comfort to Leopold, and ere he left him they had managed to fix an hour for next day, when they would not be thus foiled of their talk.
That same afternoon, Wingfold took the draper to see Polwarth.
Rachel was lying on the sofa in the parlour — a poor little heap, looking more like a grave disturbed by efforts at a resurrection, than a form informed with humanity. But she was cheerful and cordial, receiving Mr. Drew and accepted his sympathy most kindly.
“We’ll see what God will do for me,” she said in answer to a word from the curate. Her whole bearing, now as always, was that of one who perfectly trusted a supreme spirit under whose influences lay even the rugged material of her deformed dwelling.
Polwarth allowed Wingfold to help him in getting tea, and the conversation, as will be the case where all are in earnest, quickly found the right channel.
It is not often in real life that such conversations occur. Generally, in any talk worth calling conversation, every man has some point to maintain, and his object is to justify his own thesis and disprove his neighbour’s. I will allow that he may primarily have adopted his thesis because of some sign of truth in it, but his mode of supporting it is generally such as to block up every cranny in his soul at which more truth might enter. In the present case, unusual as it is for so many as three truth-loving men to come thus together on the face of this planet, here were three simply set on uttering truth they had seen, and gaining sight of truth as yet veiled from them.
I shall attempt only a general impression of the result of their evening’s intercourse, partly recording the utterances of Polwarth.
“I have been trying hard to follow you, Mr. Polwarth,” said the draper, after his host had for a while had the talk to himself, “but I cannot get a hold of your remarks. One moment I think I have got the end of the clew, and the next find myself all abroad again. Would you tell me what you mean by divine service, for I think you must use the phrase in some different sense from what I have been accustomed to?”
“Ah! I ought to remember,” said Polwarth, “that what has grown familiar to my mind from much solitary thinking, may not at once show itself to another, when presented in the forms of a foreign individuality. I ought to have premised that, when I use the phrase, DIVINE SERVICE, I mean nothing whatever belonging to the church, or its observances. I mean by it what it ought to mean — the serving of God — the doing of something for God. Shall I make of the church in my foolish imaginations a temple of idolatrous worship by supposing that it is for the sake of supplying some need that God has, or of gratifying some taste in him, that I there listen to his word, say prayers to him, and sing his praises? Shall I be such a dull mule in the presence of the living Truth? Or, to use a homely simile, shall I be as the good boy of the nursery rhyme, who, seated in his corner of selfish complacency, regards the eating of his pie as a virtuous action, enjoys the contemplation of it, and thinks what a pleasant object he thus makes of himself to his parents? Shall I, to take a step farther, degrade the sanctity of the closet, hallowed in the words of Jesus, by shutting its door in the vain fancy of there doing something that God requires of me as a sacred OBSERVANCE? Shall I foolishly imagine that to put in exercise the highest and loveliest, the most entrancing privilege of existence, that of pouring forth my whole heart into the heart of him who is ACCOUNTABLE FOR me, who hath glorified me with his own image — in my soul, gentlemen, sadly disfigured as it is in my body! — shall I say that THAT is to do anything for God? Was I serving my father when I ate the dinner he provided for me? Am I serving my God when I eat his bread and drink his wine?”
“But,” said Drew, “is not God pleased that a man should pour out his soul to him?”
“Yes, doubtless; but what would you think of a child who said, ‘I am very useful to my father, for when I ask him for anything, or tell him I love him, it gives him — oh, such pleasure!’?”
“I should say he was an unendurable prig. Better he had to be whipped for stealing!” said the curate.
“There would be more hope of his future,” returned Polwarth. “ — Is the child,” he continued, “who sits by his father’s knee and looks up into his father’s face, SERVING that father, because the heart of the father delights to look down upon his child? And shall the moment of my deepest repose and bliss, the moment when I serve myself with the very life of the universe, be called a serving of my God? It is communion with God; he holds it with me, else never could I hold it with him. I am as the foam-froth upon his infinite ocean, but of the water of the ocean is the bubble on its waves.”
Not the eyes only, but the whole face of the man, which had grown of a pure, semi-transparent whiteness, appeared to Wingfold to emit light.
“When my child would serve me,” he went on, “he spies out some need I have, springs from his seat at my knee, finds that which will meet my necessity, and is my eager, happy servant, of consequence in his own eyes inasmuch as he has done something for his father. His seat by my knee is love, delight, well-being, peace — not service, however pleasing in my eyes.— ‘Why do you seat yourself at my knee, my son?’ ‘To please you, father.’ ‘Nay then, my son! go from me, and come again when it shall be to please thyself.’— ‘Why do you cling to my chair, my daughter? ‘Because I want to be near you, father. It makes me so happy!’ ‘Come nearer still — come to my bosom, my child, and be yet happier.’ — Talk not of public worship as divine service; it is a mockery. Search the prophets and you will find the observances, fasts and sacrifices and solemn feasts, of the temple by them regarded with loathing and scorn, just because by the people they were regarded as DIVINE SERVICE.”
“But,” said Mr. Drew, while Wingfold turned towards him with some anxiety lest he should break the mood of the little prophet, “I can’t help thinking I have you! for how are poor creatures like us — weak, blundering creatures, sometimes most awkward when best-intentioned — how are we to minister to a perfect God — perfect in wisdom, strength, and everything — of whom Paul says that he is not worshipped with men’s hands as though he needed anything? I cannot help thinking that you are fighting merely with a word. Certainly, if the phrase ever was used in that sense, there is no meaning of the kind attached to it now: it stands merely for the forms of public worship.”
“Were there no such thing as Divine Service in the true sense of the word, then, indeed it would scarcely be worth while to quarrel with its misapplication. But I assert that true and genuine service may be rendered to the living God; and, for the development of the divine nature in man, it is necessary that he should do something for God. Nor is it hard to discover how; for God is in every creature that he has made, and in their needs he is needy, and in all their afflictions he is afflicted. Therefore Jesus says that whatever is done to one of his little ones is done to him. And if the soul of a man be the temple of the Spirit, then is the place of that man’s labour, his shop, his counting-house, his laboratory, the temple of Jesus Christ, where the spirit of the man is incarnate in work. — Mr. Drew!” — Here the gate-keeper stood up, and held out both his hands, palms upward, towards the draper on the other side of the table.— “Mr. Drew! your shop is the temple of your service where the Lord Christ, the only image of the Father is, or ought to be throned; your counter is, or ought to be his altar; and everything thereon laid, with intent of doing as well as you can for your neighbour, in the name of THE man Christ Jesus, is a true sacrifice offered to Him, a service done to the eternal creating Love of the universe.”
The little prophet’s head as he stood, did not reach the level of the draper’s as he sat, but at this Drew dropped his head on his hands upon the table, as if bowed down by a weight of thought and feeling and worship.
“I say not,” Polwarth went on, “that so doing you will grow a rich man, but I say that so doing you will be saved from growing too rich, and that you will be a fellow-worker with God for the salvation of his world.”
“I must live; I cannot give my goods away!” murmured Mr. Drew, thinkingly, as one that sought enlightenment.
“That would be to go direct against the order of his world,” said Polwarth. “No; a harder task is yours, Mr. Drew — to make your business a gain to you, and at the same time to be not only what is commonly counted just, but interested in, and careful of, and caring for your neighbour, as a servant of the God of bounty who giveth to all men liberally. Your calling is to do the best for your neighbour that you reasonably can.”
“But who is to fix what is reasonable?” asked Drew.
“The man himself, thinking in the presence of Jesus Christ. There is a holy moderation which is of God.”
“There won’t be many fortunes — great fortunes — made after that rule, Mr. Polwarth.”
“Very few.”
“Then do you say that no great fortunes have been righteously made?”
“If RIGHTEOUSLY means AFTER THE FASHION OF JESUS CHRIST. — But I will not judge: that is for the God-enlightened conscience of the man himself to do — not for his neighbour’s. Why should I be judged by another man’s conscience? — But you see, Mr. Drew, — and this is what I was driving at — that you have it in your power to SERVE God, through the needs of his children, all the working day, from morning to night, so long as there is a customer in your shop.”
“I do think you are right, sir,” said the linen-draper. “I had a glimpse of the same thing the other night myself. And yet it seems as if you spoke of a purely ideal state — one that could not be realised in this world.”
“Purely ideal or not, one thing is certain: it will never be reached by one who is so indifferent to it as to believe it impossible. Whether it may be reached in this world or not, that is a question of NO consequence; whether a man has begun to REACH AFTER it, is of the utmost awfulness of import. And should it be ideal, which I doubt, what else than the ideal have the followers of the ideal man to do with?”
“Can a man reach anything ideal before he has God dwelling in him — filling every cranny of his soul?” asked the curate with shining eyes.
“Nothing, I do most solemnly believe,” answered Polwarth. “It weighs on me heavily sometimes,” he resumed, after a pause, “to think how far all but a few are from being able even to entertain the idea of the indwelling in them of the original power of their life. True, God is in every man, else how could he live the life he does live? but that life God keeps alive for the hour when he shall inform the will, the aspiration, the imagination of the man. When the man throws wide his door to the Father of his spirit, when his individual being is thus supplemented — to use a poor miserable word — with the individuality that originated it, then is the man a whole, healthy, complete existence. Then indeed, and then only, will he do no wrong, think no wrong, love perfectly, and be right merry. Then will he scarce think of praying, because God is in every thought and enters anew with every sensation. Then will he forgive, and endure, and pour out his soul for the beloved who yet grope their way in doubt and passion. Then every man will be dear and precious to him, even the worst, for in him also lies an unknown yearning after the same peace wherein he rests and loves.”
He sat down suddenly, and a deep silence filled the room.
CHAPTER XXVIII. A SHOP IN HEAVEN.
“Uncle,” said Rachel, “may I read your visions of the shops in heaven?”
“Oh no, Rachel. You are not able to read to-night,” said her uncle deprecatingly.
“I think I am, uncle. I should like to try. It will let the gentlemen see what you WOULD think an ideal state of things. — It is something, Mr. Wingfold, my uncle once dictated to me, and I wrote down just as he said it. He can always do better dictating than writing, but this time he was so ill with asthma that he could not talk much faster than I could write; and yet to be so ill I never saw him show so little suffering; his thinking seemed to make him forget it. — Mayn’t I read it, uncle? I know the gentlemen would like to hear it.”
“That we should,” said both men at once.
“I will fetch it you then,” said Polwarth, “if you will tell me where to find it.”
Rachel gave him the needful directions, and presently he brought a few sheets of paper, and handed them to her.
“This is no dream, Mr. Wingfold,” he said. “It is something I thought fairly out before I began to dictate it. But the only fit form I could find for it was that of a vision — like the Vision of Mirza, you know. — Now read, Rachel, and I will hold my tongue.”
After a little arranging of the sheets, Rachel began. She read not without difficulty, but her pleasure in what she read helped her through.
“‘And now, said my guide to me, I will bring thee to a city of the righteous, and show thee how they buy and sell in this the kingdom of heaven. So we journeyed a day and another day and half a day, and I was weary ere we arrived thither. But when I saw the loveliness of the place, and drew in the healing air thereof, my weariness vanished as a dream of the night, and I said, IT IS WELL. — I may not now speak of the houses and the dress and the customs of the dwellers therein, save what may belong to the buying and selling of which I have spoken. Gladly would I tell of the streams that went, some noiselessly gliding, others gurgling, some sweeping, some rushing and roaring, through every street, all issuing from one right plenteous fountain in the middle of the city, so that the ear was for ever filled with the sound of many waters all the day, ceasing when the night came, that silence might have its perfect work upon the soul. Gladly too would I tell of the trees and flowers and grass that grew in every street along the banks of the rivers. But I must withhold.
“‘After I had, I know not for how long, refreshed my soul with what it was thus given, me to enjoy, — for in all that country there is no such thing as haste, no darting from one thing to another, but a calm eternal progress in which unto the day the good thereof is sufficient — one great noon-day, my conductor led me into a large place, such as we would call a shop here, although the arrangements were different, and an air of stateliness dwelt in and around the house. It was filled with the loveliest silken and woollen stuffs, of all kinds and colours, a thousand delights to the eye — and to the thought also, for here was endless harmony, and no discord.
