 Chapter 59 of David Elgin Brod This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elgin Brod by George MacDonald Chapter 59 A Sunday with Falconer How happy is he born and taught that serveth not an other's will, whose armor is his honest thought, and simple truth is of most skill. This man is freed from servile bands of hope to rise or fear to fall, lord of himself though not of lands, and having nothing yet hath all. Sir Henry Walton It was not often that Falconer went to church, but he seemed to have some designing going oftener than usual at present. The Sunday after the one last mentioned he went as well, though not to the same church and calling for Hugh took him with him. What they found there and the conversation following there upon I will try to relate, because although they do not immediately affect my outward story, they greatly influenced Hugh's real history. They heard the morning service and the litany read in an ordinary manner, though somewhat more devoutly than usual. Then from the communion table rose a voice vibrating with solemn emotion, like the voice of Abraham pleading for Sodom. It thrilled through Hugh's heart. The sermon which followed affected him no less, although when he came out he confessed to Falconer that he had only caught flying glimpses of its meaning, scope, and drift. I seldom go to church, said Falconer, but when I do I come here and always feel that I am in the presence of one of the holy servants of God's great temple, not made with hands. I hardly trust that man, he is what he seems to be. They say he is awfully heterodox, they do. How then can he remain in the church, if he is as honest as you say? In this way, as I humbly ventured to think, Falconer answered, he looks upon the formulae of the church as utterances of living truth, vital embodiments to be regarded as one ought to regard human faces. In these human faces others may see this or that inferior expression, may find out the mean and the small and the incomplete. He looks for and finds the ideal, the grand, sacred, God meant meaning, and by that he holds as the meaning of the human countenances, for it is the meaning of him who made them. So with the confession of the church of England, he believes that not man only, but God also, and God first and chief, had to do with the making of it, and therefore he looks in it for the eternal and the divine, and he finds what he seeks. And as no words can avoid burying in them the possibility of a variety of interpretations, he would exclude whatever the words might mean, or regarded merely as words do mean, in a narrow exposition. He thinks it would be dishonest to take the low meaning as the meaning, to return to the faces, he passes by moods and tempers, and beholds the main character, that on whose surface the temporal and transient floats. Both in faces and in formulae, he loves the divine substance, with his true manly, brave heart. And as for the faults in both, for man too has his share in both, I believe he is ready to die by them, if only in doing so he might die for them. I had a vision of him this morning as I sat and listened to his voice, which always seems to me to come immediately from his heart, as if his heart spoke with lips of its own. Shall I tell you my vision? I saw a crowd, priests and laymen, speeding, hurrying, darting away up a steep crumbling height. Miders, hoods and hats rolled behind them to the bottom. Everyone for himself, with hands and feet, they scramble and flee to save their souls from the fires of hell, which come rolling in along the hollow below with the forward pointing spires of billowy flame. But beneath, right in the course of the fire, stands one man, upon a little rock, which goes down the center of the great world, and faces the approaching flames. He stands bareheaded, his eyes bright with faith in God, and the mighty mouth that utters his truth fixed in holy defiance. His denial comes from no fear, or weak dislike to that which is painful. On neither side will he tell lies for peace. He is ready to be lost for his fellow men. In the name of God, he rebukes the flames of hell. The fugitives pause on the top, look back, call him lying prophet, and shout evil, a brorious name at the man who counts not his own life dear to him, who has forgotten his own soul and his sacred devotion to men, who fills up what is left behind of the suffering of Christ for his body's sake, for the human race of which he is the head. Be sure that, come what may of the rest, let the flames of hell ever flow, that man is safe. For he is delivered already from the only devil that can make hell itself a torture, the devil of selfishness, the only one that can possess a man and make himself his own living hell. He is out of all that region of things, and already dwelling in the secret place of the Almighty. Go on, go on. He trusts in God so absolutely that he leaves his salvation to him, utterly, fearlessly, and forgetting it, as being no concern of his, sets himself to do the work that God has given him to do, even as his Lord did before him, counting that alone worthy of his care. Let God's will be done in all as well. If God's will be done, he cannot fare ill. To him, God is all in all. If it be possible to separate such things, it is the glory of God, even more than the salvation of men that he seeks. He will not have it that his Father in Heaven is not perfect. He believes entirely that God loves, yea, is love, and therefore that hell itself must be subservient to that love, and but an embodiment of it. That the grand work of justice is to make way for a love which will give to every man that which is right, and ten times more, even if it should be by means of awful suffering, a suffering which the love of the Father will not shine, either for himself or his children, but will eagerly meet for their sake. That he may give them all that is in his heart. Surely you speak your own opinions in describing thus warmly the faith of the preacher. I do. He is accountable for nothing, I say. All I assert is that this is how I seem to myself to succeed in understanding him. How is it that so many good people call him heterodox? I do not mind that. I am annoyed only when good-hearted people with small natures and cultivated intellect patronize him and talk forgivingly of his warm heart and unsound judgment. To these theology must be like a map, with plenty of lines in it. They cannot trust their house on the high table-land of his theology because they cannot see the outlines bounding the said table-land. It is not small enough for them. They cannot take it in. Such can hardly be satisfied with the creation one would think, seeing there is no line of division anywhere in it. They would take care there should be no mistake. Does God draw no lines then? When He does, they are pure lines without breath and consequently invisible to mortal eyes. Not Chinese walls of separation such as these definers would construct. Such minds are a priori incapable of theorizing upon his theories or to alter the figure. They will discover a thousand faults in his drawing, but they can never behold the figure constructed by his lines and containing the faults which they believe they discover. But can those theories and religion be correct which are so hard to see? They are only hard to certain natures, but those natures are above the average. Yes, an intellect and its cultivation, nothing more. You have granted them heart. Not much, but what there is good. That is allowing a great deal though. Is it not hard then to say that such cannot understand him? Why? They will get to heaven which is all they want and they will understand him one day which is more than they pray for. Till they have done being anxious about their own salvation we must forgive them that they can contemplate with calmness the damnation of a universe and believe that God is yet more indifferent than they. But do they not bring the charge likewise against you of being unable to understand them? Yes, and so it must remain till the Spirit of God decide the matter, which I presume must take place by slow degrees. For this decision can only consist in the enlightenment of souls to see the truth, and therefore has to do with individuals only. There is no triumph for the truth but that. She knows no glorying over the vanquished, for in her victory the vanquished is already of the vanquisher. Till then the right must be content to be called the wrong and which is far harder to seem the wrong. There is no spiritual victory gained by verbal conquest or by any kind of torture even should the wrack employed be that of the purest logic. Name more, so long as the wicked themselves remain impenitent there is mourning in heaven, and when there is no longer any hope over one last remaining sinner heaven itself must confess its defeat. Keep upon that sinner what plagues you will. You pondered and continued pondering till they reached Falconer's chambers at the door you paused. Will you not come in? I fear I shall become troublesome. No fear of that. I promise to get rid of you as soon as I find you so. Thank you. Just let me know when you have had enough of me. They entered. Mrs. Ashton, who unlike her class, was never missing when wanted, got them some bread and cheese, and Falconer's fortunatus purse of a cellar. The bottom of his cupboard supplied its usual bottle of pork to which fair the friend sat down. The conversation, like a bird descended in spirals, settled at last upon the subject, which had more or less occupied Hugh's thoughts ever since his unsatisfactory conversation with Funkelstein at their first meeting, and still more since he had learned that this man himself exercised an unlawful influence over Euphra. He begged Falconer, if he had any theory comprehending such things, to let him know what kind of a relation it was in which Miss Cameron stood to Funkelstein, or Count Lon Hallcar. I have had occasion to think a good deal about those things, said Falconer. The first thing evident is that Miss Cameron is peculiarly constituted, belonging to a class, which is however larger than is commonly supposed, circumstances rarely combining to bring out its peculiarities. In those who constitute this class, the nervous element, either from preponderating or from not being in healthy and harmonious combination with the more material element, manifests itself beyond its ordinary sphere of operation, and so occasions results unlike the usual phenomena of life, though of course in accordance with natural laws. To use a simile, it is in such cases as if all the nerves of the human body came crowding to the surface, and there exposed themselves to a thousand influences from which they would otherwise be preserved. Of course I am not attempting to explain, only to suggest a conceivable hypothesis. Upon such constitutions, it would not be surprising that certain other constitutions, similar yet differing, should exercise a peculiar influence. You are, I dare say, more or less familiar with the main features of mesmerism and its allies, among which is what is called biology. I presume it is on such constitutions as I have supposed, that those powers are chiefly operative. Miss Cameron has, at some time or other in her history, submitted herself to the influences of this Count Hawkar, and he has thus gained the most dangerous authority over her, which he has exercised for his own ends. She more than implied as much in the last conversation I had with her. So, his will became her law. There is, in the world of mind, is something corresponding to physical force in the material world. I cannot avoid just touching upon a higher analogy. The kingdom of heaven is not come, even when God's will is our law. It is come when God's will is our will. While God's will is our law, we are but a kind of noble slaves. When his will is our will, we are free children. Nothing in nature is free enough to be a symbol for the state of those who act immediately from the essence of their hidden life. And the recognition of God's will is that essence. But, as I said, this belongs to a far higher region. I only wanted to touch on the relation of the freedoms, physical, mental and spiritual. To return to the point in hand, I recognize in the story a clear evidence of strife and partial victory in the affair of the ring. The Count, we will call him by the name he gives himself, had evidently been anxious for years to possess himself of this ring. The probable reasons we have already talked of. He had laid his injunctions on his slave to find it for him, and she perhaps at first nothing lost. Perhaps loving the man as well as submitting to him had for a long time attempted to find it, but had failed. The Count, probably doubting her sincerity and hoping at all events to urge her search, followed her to Arnstead where it is very likely he had been before, although he had avoided Mr. Arnold. Judging at advantageous to get into the house in order to make observations, he employed his chance meeting with you to that result. But before this, he had watched Miss Cameron's familiarity with you was jealous and tyrannical. Hence the variations of her conduct to you. For when his power was upon her, she could not do as she pleased. But she must have had a real regard for you, for she evidently refused to get you into trouble by taking the ring from your custody. But my surprise is that the fellow limited himself to that one jewel. You may soon be relieved from that surprise, answered you. He took a valuable diamond of mine as well. The rascal. We may catch him, but you are not likely to find your diamond again. Still, there is some possibility. How do you know she was not willing to take it from me? Because by her own account he had to destroy her power of volition entirely before he could make her do it. He threw her into a mesmeric sleep. I should like to understand his power over her a little better. In such cases of biology, how they came to abuse the word, I should like to know, just as they call table wrapping etc. a spiritualism. I suppose his relation to her must be classed amongst phenomena of that sort. Certainly. Well, tell me, does the influence outlast the mesmeric condition? If by mesmeric condition you mean any state evidently approaching to that of sleep, undoubtedly, it is in many cases quite independent of such a condition. Perhaps the degree of willing submission at first may have something to do with it, but mesmeric influence, whatever it may mean, is entirely independent of sleep. That is an accident accompanying it, perhaps sometimes indicating its culmination. Does the person so influenced act with or against his will? That is a most difficult question involving others equally difficult. My own impression is that the patient, for patient is in a very serious sense he is, acts with his inclination and often with his will, but in many cases with his inclination against his will. This is a very important distinction in morals, but often overlooked. When a man is acting with his inclination, his will is in abeyance. In our present imperfect condition it seems to me that the absolute will has no opportunity of pure action, of operating entirely as itself, except when working in opposition to inclination. But to return, the power of the biologist appears to me to lie in this. He is able by some mysterious sympathy to produce in the mind of the patient such forcefully impulses to do whatever he wills that they are in fact irresistible to almost all who are obnoxious to his influence. The will requires in a special training and a distinct development before it is capable of acting with any degree of freedom. The men who have undergone this are very few indeed, and no one whose will is not educated as will can, if subjected to the influences of biology, resist the impulses aroused in his passive brain by the active brain of the operator. This at least is my impression. Other things no doubt combine to increase the influence in the present case. She liked him, perhaps more than liked him once. She was partially committed to his schemes, and she was easily mesmerized. It would seem, besides, that she was naturally disposed to some nambulism. This is a remarkable coexistence of distinct developments of the same peculiarity. In this latter condition, even if in others she were able to resist him, she would be quite helpless, for all the thoughts that passed through her brain would owe their origin to his. Imagine being forced to think in other man's thoughts. That would be possession indeed. And this is not far removed from the old stories about the demons entering into a man. He would be ruler over the whole intellectual life that passed in her during the time, and which to her, as far as the ideas suggested belonged to the outward world, would appear an outer life passing all around her, not in her. She would, in fact, be a creature of his imagination for the time, as much as any character invented and sent through varied circumstances, feelings and actions by the mind of the poet or novelist. Look at the facts. She warned you to beware of the Count that night before you went into the haunted bedchamber, even when she entered it by your own account. Entered it? Then you do think it was you fro who personated the Ghost. I am sure of it. She was sleepwalking, but so different, such a death-like look. All that was easy enough to manage. She refused to obey him at first. He mesmerized her. It very likely went farther than he expected, and he succeeded too well. Experienced no doubt in disguises, he dressed her as like the dead Lady Euphrasia as he could following her picture. Perhaps she possessed such a disguise than had used it before. He thus protected her from suspicion and himself from implication. What was the color of the hair in the picture? Golden. Hence the sparkle of gold dust in her hair. The Count managed it all. He willed that she should go, and she went. Her disguise was certain safety should she be seen. You would suspect the Ghost and no one else if she appeared to you, but she lost the ring after. But even in this state she yielded against her better inclination for she was weeping when you saw her. But she could not help it. While you lay on the couch in the haunted chamber where he carried you, the awful death-ghost who was busy in your room was opening your desk, fingering your papers, and stealing your ring. It is a rather frightful idea. She did not take my ring, I am sure. He followed her and took it. But she could not have come in at either door. Could not. Did she not go out at one of them? Besides, I do not doubt that such a room is that had private communication with the open air as well. I should much like to examine the place. But how could she have gone through the bolted door then? That door may have been set in another, larger by half, the frame or so, and opening with the spring and concealed hinges. There is no difficulty about that. There are such places to be found now and then in old houses. But indeed, if you will excuse me, I do not consider your testimony on every minute particular quite satisfactory. Why? asked you, rather offended. First, because of the state of excitement you must have been in, and next, because I doubt the wine that was left in your room. The count, no doubt, knew enough of drugs to put a few ghostly whores into the decanter. But poor Miss Cameron, the whores he has put into her mind in life, it is a sad fate, all but a sentence of insanity. Hugh sprang to his feet. By heaven, he cried, I will strangle the nave. Stop, stop, said Falconer, no revenge. Leave him to the sleeping divinity within him, which will awake one day and complete the hell that he is now building for himself. For the very fire of hell is the divine in it. Your work is to set you for free. If you did strangle him, how do you know that would free her from him? Horrible! Have you no news of him? None whatever. What then can I do for her? You must teach her to foil him. How am I to do that? Even if I knew how, I cannot see her. I cannot speak to her. I have a great faith and opportunity. But how should she foil him? She must pray to God to redeem her fettered will, to strengthen her will to redeem herself. She must resist account, should he again claim her submission. As for her sake, I hope he will. As she would the devil himself. She must overcome. Then she will be free, not before. This will be very hard to do. His power has been excessive and peculiar, and her submission long and complete. Even if he left her alone, she would not therefore be free. She must defy him, break his bonds, oppose his will, assert her freedom, and defeat him utterly. Oh, who will help her? I have no power. Even if I were with her, I could not help her in such a struggle. I wish David were not dead. He was the man. You could now, Mr. Falconer. No. Except I knew her, had known her for some time, and had a strong hold of all her nature. I could not, would not try to help her. If Providence brought this about, I would do my best. But otherwise, I would not interfere. But if she pray to God, he will give her whatever help she needs. And in the best way, too. I think it will be some comfort to her if we could find the ring. The crystal, I mean. It would be more, I think, if we could find the diamond. How can we find either? We must find the count first. I have not given that up, of course. I will tell you what I should like to do, if I knew the lady. What? Get her to come to London and make herself as public as possible. Go to operas and balls and theaters. Be presented at court. Take a stall at every bazaar and sell charity puff balls. Get as much into the papers as possible. The lovely, accomplished, fascinating Miss Cameron, etc., etc. What do you mean? I will tell you what I mean. The count has forsaken her now. But as soon as she has heard that she was somebody, that she was followed and admired, his vanity would be roused, his old sense of property in her would revive, and he would begin once more to draw her into his toils. What the result would be, it is impossible to foretell. But it would at least give us a chance of catching him and her a chance of resisting him. I don't think, however, that she would venture on that course herself. I should not dare to propose it to her. No, no. It was only an invention to deceive myself with the fancy that I was doing something. There would be many objections to such a plan, even if it were practicable. I must still try to find him, and if fresh endeavor should fail, devise fresher still. Thank you a thousand times, said Hugh. It is too good of you to take so much trouble. It is my business, answered Falconer. Is there not a soul in trouble? He went home full of his new friend. With the clue he had given him, he was able to follow all the windings of Euphra's behavior and to account for almost everything that had taken place. It was quite painful for him to feel that he could be of no immediate service to her, but he could hardly doubt that, before long, Falconer would, in his wisdom and experience, ex-cogitate some mode of procedure in which he might be able to take part. He sat down to his novel, which had been making but little progress for some time, for it is hard to write a novel when one is living in the midst of a romance. But the romance at this time was not very close to him. It had a past and a possible future, but no present. That same future, however, might, at any moment, dawn into the present. In the meantime, teaching the Latin grammar and the English alphabet to young aspirants after the honors of the ministry was not work inimicable to invention from either the exhaustion of its excitement or the absorption of its interest. End Chapter 59 Chapter 60 of David Elgin Broad This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elgin Broad by George MacDonald Chapter 60 The Ladies Made Her yellow hair beyond compare comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, and her two eyes like stars in skies would keep a sinking ship from wreck. Oh, Molly's meek, Molly's sweet, Molly's modest and discreet, Molly's rare, Molly's fair, Molly's every way complete. Burns What arms for innocence but innocence? Giles Fletcher Margaret had sought Euphra's room with the intention of restoring to her the letter which she had written to David Elgin Broad. Janet had led it live for some time before she sent it to Margaret, and Euphra had given up all expectation of an answer. Hope's administration filled Margaret's heart, but she expected from what she knew of her that anger would be Miss Cameron's first feeling. Therefore, when she heard no answer to her application for admission, and had concluded in consequence that Euphra was not in the room, she resolved to leave the letter where it would meet her eye, and thus prepare the way for a future conversation. When she saw Euphra and Harry, she would have retired immediately, but Euphra, annoyed by her entrance, was now quite able to speak. What do you want? She said angrily. This is your letter, Miss Cameron, is it not? Said Margaret, advancing with it in her hand. Euphra took it, glanced at the direction, pushed Harry away from her, started up in a passion and let loose the whole gathered irritability of contempt, weariness, disappointment, and suffering upon Margaret. Her dark eyes flashed with rage, and her shallow cheek glowed like a peach. What right have you, pray, to handle my letters? When did you get this? It has never been posted, and open too, I declare. I suppose you have read it. Margaret was afraid of exciting morath before she had an opportunity of explaining it, but Euphra gave her no time to think of her reply. You have read it, you shameless woman. Why don't you lie like the rest of your tribe and keep me from dying with indignation? Impudent prying, my maid never posted it, and you have found it and read it. Pray, did you hope to find a secret worth a bribe? She advanced on Margaret till within a foot of her. Why don't you answer, you hussy? I will go this instant to your mistress. You or I leave the house. Margaret had stood all this time quietly, waiting for an opportunity to speak. Her face was very pale, but perfectly still, and her eyes did not quail. She had not in the least lost her self-possession. You would not say at once that she had read the letter, because that would instantly rouse the tornado again. You do not know my name, Miss Cameron, of course you could not. Your name? What is that to me? That, said Margaret, pointing to the letter, is my father's name. Euphra looked at her own direction again, and then looked at Margaret. She was so bewildered that if she had any thoughts, she did not know them. Margaret went on. My father is dead. My mother sent the letter to me. Then you have had the impertinence to read it. It was my duty to read it. Duty? What business had you with it? Euphra felt ashamed of the letter as soon as she found that she had applied to a man whose daughter was a servant. Margaret answered. I had at least replied to it so far that the writer should not think my father had neglected it. I did not know who it was from till I came to the end. Euphra turned her back on her with the words, You may go. Margaret walked out of the room with an unconscious, stately gentleness. Come back, cried Euphra. Margaret obeyed. Of course you will tell all your fellow servants the contents of this foolish letter. Margaret's face flushed and her eyes flashed at the first words of this speech. But the last words made her forget the first, and to them only she replied. Clasping her hand, she said, Dear Miss Cameron, do not call it foolish. For God's sake, do not call it foolish. What is it to you? Do you think I am going to make a confidant of you? Margaret again left the room, and withstanding that she had made no answer to her insult, Euphra felt satisfied that her letter was safe from profanation. No sooner was Margaret out of sight then, with the reaction common to violent tempers, which in this case resulted the sooner from the exhaustion produced in a warm frame by the violence of the outbursts. Euphra sat down in a hopeless, unresting way upon the chair from which she had just risen, and began weeping more bitterly than before. She was not only exhausted, but ashamed, and to these feelings was added a far greater sense of disappointment than she could have believed possible at the frustration of the hope of help from David Elginbrod. True, this hope had been small, but where there is only one hope, its death is equally bitter, whether it be great or a little hope. And there is often no power of reaction in a mind which has been gradually reduced to one little faint hope when that hope goes out in darkness. There is a recoil, which is very helpful from the blow that kills a great hope. All this time, Harry had been looking on in a kind of paralyzed condition, pale with perplexity and distress. He now came up to Euphra and, trying to pull her hand gently from her face, said, What is it all about, Euphra dear? Oh, I have been very naughty, Harry. But what is it all about? May I read the letter? If you like, answered Euphra listlessly. Harry read the letter with quivering features, then laying it down on the table with a reverential slowness went to Euphra, put his arms round her and kissed her. Dear, dear Euphra, I did not know you were so unhappy. I will find God for you. But first I will, what shall I do to the bad man? Who is it? I will. Harry finished the sentence by setting his teeth hard. Oh, you can't do anything for me, Harry, dear. Only mind you don't say anything about it to anyone. Put the letter in the fire there for me. No, that I won't, said Harry, taking up the letter and holding it tight. It is a beautiful letter and it does me good. Don't you think, though, it is not sent to God himself? He may read it and take it for a prayer. I wish he would, Harry. But it was very wrong of you, you Euphra dear, to speak as you did to the daughter of such a good man. Yes, it was. But then you see, you got angry before you knew who she was. But I shouldn't have got angry before I knew all about it. Well, you have only to say you are sorry and Margaret won't think anything more about it. Oh, she is so good. Euphra recoiled from making confession of wrong to a lady's maid, and perhaps she was a little jealous of Harry's admiration of Margaret. For Euphra had not yet cast off all her old habits of mind, and one of them was the desire to be first with everyone whom she cared for. She had got rid of a worse, which was a necessity of being first in every company, whether she cared for the persons composing it or not. Mental suffering had driven the latter far enough from her, though it would return worse than ever if her mind were not filled with truth in the place of ambition. So she did not respond to what Harry said. Indeed, she did not speak again except to beg him to leave her alone. She did not make her appearance again that day. But at night, when the household was retiring, she rose from the bed on which she had been lying half unconscious, and going to the door opened it a little way that she might hear when Margaret should pass from Mrs. Elton's room towards her own. She waited for some time, but judging at length, that she must have passed without her knowledge, she went and knocked at her door. Margaret opened it a little after a moment's delay half undressed. May I come in, Margaret? Pray do, Miss Cameron, answered Margaret. And she opened the door quite. Her cap was off and her rich dark hair fell on her shoulders and screamed thence to her waist. Her underclothing was white as snow. What a lovely skin she has, thought Euphra, comparing it with her own tawny complexion. She felt for the first time that Margaret was beautiful, yes more, that whatever her gown might be, her form and her skin, giving me a prettier word kind reader for a beautiful fact, and I will gladly use it, were those of one of nature's ladies. She was soon to find that her intellect and spirit were those of one of God's ladies. I am very sorry, Margaret, that I spoke to you as I did today. Never mind it, Miss Cameron. We cannot help being angry sometimes, and you had great provocation under the mistake you made. I was only sorry because I knew it would trouble you afterwards. Please don't think of it again. You are very kind, Margaret. I regretted my father's death for the first time after reading your letter, for I knew he could have helped you, but it was very foolish of me, for God is not dead. Margaret smiled as she said this, looking full in Euphra's eyes. It was a smile of meaning unfathomable, and it quite overcame Euphra. She had never liked Margaret before, for from not very obscure psychological causes, she had never felt comfortable in her presence, especially after she had encountered the nun in the ghost walk, though she had had no suspicion that the nun was Margaret. A great many of our dislikes, both to persons and things, arise from a feeling of discomfort associated with them, perhaps only accidentally present in our minds the first time we meet them, but this vanished entirely now. Do you, then, know God too, Margaret? Yes, answered Margaret simply and solemnly. Will you tell me about him? I can at least tell you about my father and what he taught me. Oh, thank you, thank you. Do tell me about him, now. Not now, dear Miss Cameron. It is late, and you are too unwell to stay up longer. Let me help you to bed tonight. I will be your maid. As she spoke, Margaret proceeded to put on her dress again, that she might go with you for a who had no attendant. She had parted with Jane and did not care in her present mood to have a woman about her, especially a new one. No, Margaret, you have enough to do without adding me to your troubles. Please, do let me, Miss Cameron. It will be a great pleasure to me. I have hardly anything to call work. You should see how I used to work when I was at home. Euphra still objected, but Margaret's entreaty prevailed. She followed Euphra to her room. There she served her like a ministering angel, brushed her hair, oh, so gently, smoothing it out as if she loved it. There was health in the touch of her hands, because there was love. She undressed her, covered her in bed as if she had been a child, made up the fire to last as long as possible, bade her good night, and was leaving the room when Euphra called her. Margaret returned to the bedside. Kiss me, Margaret, she said. Margaret stooped, kissed her forehead and her lips, and left her. Euphra cried herself to sleep. They were the first tears she had ever shed that were not painful tears. She slept as she had not slept for months. In order to understand this change in Euphra's behavior to Margaret, in order, in fact, to represent it to our minds as at all credible, we must remember that she had been trying to do right for some time, that Margaret, as the daughter of David, seemed the only attainable source of the knowledge she sought, that long illness had greatly weakened her obstinacy, that her soul hungered without knowing it for love, and that she was naturally gifted with the strong will, the position in which she stood in relation to the count, proving only that it was not strong enough and not that it was weak. Such a character must, for any good, be ruled by itself and not by circumstances. To have been overcome in the process of time by the persistent goodness of Margaret might have been the blessed fate of a weaker and worse woman. But if Euphra did not overcome herself, there was no hope of further victory. If Margaret could even wither the power of her oppressor, it would be but to transfer the lordship from a bad man to a good woman, and that would not be enough. It would not be freedom, and indeed the aid that Margaret had to give her could only be bestowed on one who already had freedom enough to act in some degree from duty. She knew she ought to go and apologize to Margaret. She went. In Margaret's presence, and in such a mood, she was subjected at once to the holy enchantment of her loving kindness. She had never received any tenderness from a woman before. Perhaps she had never been in the right mood to profit by it, if she had. Nor had she ever before seen what Margaret was. It was only when service, divine service, flowed from her in full outgoing that she reached the height of her loveliness. Then her whole form was beautiful. So was it interpenetrated by and respondent to the uprising soul within that it radiated thought and feeling as if it had been all spirit. This beauty rose to its best in her eyes. When she was ministering to anyone in need, her eyes seemed to worship the object of her faithfulness as if all the time she felt that she was doing it unto him. Her deeds were devotion. She was the receiver and not the giver. Before this, Euphra had seen only the still waiting face. As I have said, she had been repelled by it. Once within the sphere of the radiation of her attraction, she was drawn towards her as towards the haven of her peace. She loved her. To this at length had her struggle with herself in the silence of her own room and her meditations on her couch conducted her. Shall we say that these alone had been and were leading her or that to all these there was a hidden root and an informing spirit? Who would not rather believe that his thoughts come from an infinite, self-spirited, self-constituting thought than that they rise somehow out of a blank abyss of darkness and are only thought when he thinks them, which thinking he cannot predetermine or even foresee. When Euphra woke, her first breath was like a deep drought of spiritual water. She felt as if some sorrow had passed from her and some gladness come in its stead. She thought and thought and found that the gladness was Margaret. She had scarcely made the discovery when the door gently opened and Margaret peeped in to see if she were awake. May I come in, she said. Yes, please, Margaret. How do you feel today? Oh, so much better, dear Margaret. Your kindness will make me well. I am so glad. Do lie still awhile and I will bring you some breakfast. Mrs. Elton will be so pleased to find you let me wait on you. She asked me, Margaret, if you should, but I was too miserable and too naughty for I did not like you. I knew that, but I felt sure you would not dislike me always. Why? Because I could not help loving you. Why did you love me? I will tell you half the reason, because you looked unhappy. What was the other half? That I cannot, I mean I will not tell you. Never? Perhaps never, but I don't know. Not now. Then I must not ask you. No, please. Very well, I won't. Thank you. I will go and get your breakfast. What can she mean, said you for to herself, but she would never have found out. End Chapter 60 Chapter 61 of David Elginbrod This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org David Elginbrod by George McDonald Chapter 61 David Elginbrod He being dead, yet speaketh. Hebrews 11.4 In all he did, some figure of the golden times was hid. Dr. Dunn From this time Margaret waited upon Euphra as if she had been her own maid. Nor had Mrs. Elton any cause of complaint, for Margaret was always at hand when she was wanted. Indeed, her mistress was full of her praises. Euphra said little. Many and long were the conversations between the two girls when all but themselves were asleep. Sometimes Harry made one of the company, but they could always send him away when they wished to be alone. And now the teaching for which Euphra had longed sprang in a fountain at her own door. It had been nigh her long, and she had not known it, for its hour had not come. Now she drank as only the thirsty drank, as they drank whose very souls are fainting within them for a drought. But how did Margaret embody her lessons? The second night she came to Euphra's room and said, Shall I tell you about my father tonight? Are you able? Euphra was delighted. It was what she had been hoping for all day. Do tell me, I longed to hear about him. So they sat down and Margaret began to talk about her childhood. The cottage she lived in, the firwood all around it, the work she used to do. Her side in short of the story which, in the commencement of this book, I have partly related from Hugh's side. Summer and winter, springtime and harvest, storm and sunshine, all came into the tale. Her mother came into it often, and often too, though not so often, the grand form of her father appeared. Remained for a little while and then passed away. Every time Euphra saw him thus in the mirror of Margaret's memory, she saw him more clearly than before. She felt as if, soon, she should know him quite well. Sometimes she asked a question or two, but generally she allowed Margaret's words to flow unchecked, for she painted her pictures better when the colors did not dry between. They talked on, or rather Margaret talked, and Euphra listened, far into the night. At length Margaret stopped suddenly, for she became aware that a long time had passed. Looking at the clock on the chimney piece, she said, I have done wrong to keep you up so late. Come, I must get you to bed. You are an invalid, you know, and I am your nurse as well as your maid. You will come tomorrow night then? Yes, I will. Then I will go to bed, like a good child. Margaret undressed her and left her to the healing of sleep. The next night she spoke again of her father and what he taught her. Euphra had thought much about him, and at every fresh touch which the story gave to the portrait, she knew him better, till at last, even when circumstances not mentioned before came up, she seemed to have known them from the beginning. What was your father like, Margaret? Margaret described him very nearly as I have done, from his account, in the former part of the story. Euphra said, Ah yes, that is almost exactly as I had fancied him. Is it not strange? It is very natural, I think, answered Margaret. I seem now to have known him for years. But what is most worthy of record is that ever as the picture of David grew on the vision of Euphra, the idea of God was growing unaware as upon her inward sight. She was learning more and more about God all the time. The sight of human excellence awoke a faint ideal of the divine perfection. Faith came of itself and abode and grew, for it needs but a vision of the divine, and faith in God is straight away born in the soul that beholds it. Thus faith and sight are one. The being of her father in heaven was no more strange and far off from her, when she had seen such a father on earth as Margaret's was. It was not alone David's faith that begot hers, but the man himself was a faith-begetting presence. He was the evidence of God with them. Thus he, being dead, yet spoke, and the departed man was a present power. Euphra began to read the story of the Gospel. So did Harry. They found much on which to desire enlightenment, and they always applied to Margaret for the light they needed. It was long before she ventured to say, I think. She always said, my father used to say, or I think my father would have said, it was not until Euphra was in great trouble some time after this and required the immediate consolation of personal testimony that Margaret spoke as from herself, and then she spoke with positive assurance of faith. She did not then even say, I think, but I am sure, I know, I have seen. Many interviews of this sort did not take place between them before Euphra and her turn began to confide her history to Margaret. It was a strangely different one, full of outward event and physical trouble, but till it approached the last stages wonderfully bearing as to inward production or development, it was a history of Euphra's circumstances and peculiarities, not of Euphra herself. Till of late, she had scarcely had any history. Margaret's, on the contrary, was a true history, for with much of the monotonous in circumstance, it described the individual growth and the change of progress. Where there is no change, there can be no history, and as all change is either growth or decay, all history must describe progress or retrogression. The former had now begun for Euphra, as well, and it was one proof of it that she told Margaret all I have already recorded for my readers, at least as far as it bore against herself. How much more she told her I am unable to say, but after she had told it, Euphra was still more humble towards Margaret, and Margaret more tender, more full of service if possible, and more devoted to Euphra. Chapter 61 Chapter 62 of David Elginbrod This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elginbrod by George McDonald Chapter 62 Margaret's Secret Love is not love which alters when an alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. Shakespeare Sonnet 116 Margaret could not proceed very far in the story of her life without making some reference to Hugh Sutherland, but she carefully avoided mentioning his name. Perhaps no one less calm and free from the operation of excitement could have been so successful in suppressing it. Ah, said Euphra one day. Your history is a little like mine there. A tutor comes into them both. Did you not fall dreadfully in love with him? I loved him very much. Where is he now? In London, I believe. Do you never see him? No. Have you never seen him since he left your home? With the curious name? Yes, but not spoken to him. Where? Margaret was silent. Euphra knew well enough now not to repeat the question. I should have been in love with him, I know. Margaret only smiled. Another day, Euphra said, What a good boy that Harry is, and so clever too. Ah, Margaret, I have behaved like a fool. I have behaved like the devil to that boy. I wanted to have him all to myself, and so kept him a child. Need I confess all my ugliest sins? Not to me, certainly, dear Miss Cameron. Tell God to look into your heart and take them all out of it. I will, I do. I even enticed Mr. Sutherland away from him to me when he was the only real friend he had that I might have them both. But you have done your best to make up for it since. I have tried a little, I cannot say I have done my best. I have been so peevish and irritable. You could not quite help that. How kind you are to excuse me so. It makes me so much stronger to try again. My father used to say that God was always finding every excuse for us that could be found. Every true one, you know, not one false one. That does comfort one. After a pause you forezoomed. Mr. Sutherland did me some good, Margaret. I do not wonder at that. He made me think less about Count Haukar, and that was something for he haunted me. I did not know then how very wicked he was. I did love him once. Oh, how I hate him now. And she started up and paced the room like a Tigris in its cage. Margaret did not judge this the occasion to read her a lecture on the duty of forgiveness. She had enough to do to keep from hating the man herself, I suspect. But she tried to turn her thoughts into another channel. Mr. Sutherland loved you very much, Miss Cameron. He loved being once, said poor you fro with a sigh. I saw he did. That was why I began to love you too. Margaret had at last unwittingly opened the door of her secret. She had told the other reason for loving you fro. But naturally enough, you fro could not understand what she meant. Perhaps some of my readers understanding Margaret's words perfectly, and their reference too, may be so far from understanding Margaret herself as to turn upon me and say, impossible, you cannot have understood her or any other woman. Well, what do you mean, Margaret? Margaret both blushed and laughed outright. I must confess it, said she at once. It cannot hurt him now. My tutor and yours are the same. Impossible, true. And you never spoke all the time you were both at Arnstead. Not once. He never knew I was in the house. How strange. And you saw he loved me. Yes. And you were not jealous. I did not say that. But I soon found that the only way to escape from my jealousy, if the feeling I had was jealousy, was to love you too. I did. You beautiful creature. But you could not have loved him much. I loved him enough to love you for his sake. But why did he stop loving you? I fear I shall not be able to love him so much now. He could not help it, Margaret. I deserved it. Euphra hid her face in her hands. He could not have really loved you then. Which is better to believe, Margaret, said Euphra, uncovering her face, which two tears were lingering down and looking up at her. That he never loved me, or that he stopped loving me. For his sake, the first. And for my sake, the second. That depends. So it does. He must have found plenty of faults in me. But I was not so bad as he thought me when he stopped loving me. Margaret's answer was one of her loving smiles in which her eyes had more share than her lips. It would have been unendurable to Euphra a little while before to find that she had a rival and a servant. Now she scarcely regarded that aspect of her position. But she looked doubtfully at Margaret and then said, How is it that you take it so quietly? For your love must have been very different from mine. Indeed, I am not sure that I loved him at all. And after I had made up my mind to it quite, it did not hurt me so very much. But you must have loved him dreadfully. Perhaps I did, but I had no anxiety about it. But that you could not leave to a father such as yours even to settle. No, but I could to God. I could trust God with what I could not speak to my father about. He is my father's father, you know. And so more to him and me than we could be to each other. The more we love God, the more we love each other. For we find he makes the very love which sometimes we foolishly fear to do injustice to by loving him most. I love my father ten times more because he loves God and because God has secrets with him. I wish God were a father to me as he is to you, Margaret. But he is your father, whether you wish it or not. He cannot be more your father than he is. You may be more his child than you are, but not more than he meant you to be, nor more than he made you for. You are infinitely more his child than you have grown to yet. He made you all together his child, but you have not given into it yet. Oh yes, I know what you mean. I feel it is true. The prodigal son was his father's child. He knew it and gave into it. He did not say, I wish my father loved me enough to treat me like a child again. He did not say that, but I will arise and go to my father. Euphra made no answer but wept. Margaret said no more. Euphra was the first to resume. Mr. Sutherland was very kind, Margaret. He promised, and I know he will keep his promise, to do all he could to help me. I hope he is finding out where that wicked count is. Write to him and ask him to come and see you. He does not know where you are. But I don't know where he is. I do. Do you, rejoined Euphra, with some surprise. But he does not know where I am. I will give you his address if you like. Euphra pondered a little. She would have liked very much to see him, for she was anxious to know of his success. The love she had felt for him was a very small obstacle to their meeting now. For her thoughts had been occupied with affairs before the interest of which the poor love she had then been capable of had melted away and vanished. Vanished, that is, in all that was restrictive and engrossing in its character. But now that she knew the relation that had existed between Margaret and him, she shrunk from doing anything that might seem to Margaret to Euphra an opportunity of regaining his preference. Not that she had herself the smallest hope. Even had she had the smallest desire of doing so, but she would not even suggest the idea of being Margaret's rival. At length, she answered, No, thank you, Margaret. As soon as he has anything to report, he will write to her instead, and Mrs. Horton will forward me the letter. No, it is quite unnecessary. Euphra's health was improving, though still she was far from strong. End. Chapter 62 Chapter 63 of David Elginbrod This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elginbrod by George McDonald Chapter 63 Forboding Faust If heaven was made for man, it was made for me. Good angel Faustus repent, yet heaven will pity thee. Bad angel, thou art a spirit, God cannot pity thee. Faust, be I a devil, yet God may pity me. Bad angel, too late. Good angel, never too late if Faustus will repent. Bad angel, if thou repent, devils will tear thee in pieces. Old man, I see an angel hover over thy head, and with the vile full of precious grace, offers to pour the same into thy soul. Marlowe, Dr. Faustus Mr. Appleditch had had some business misfortunes, not of a heavy nature, sufficient to cast a gloom over the house in Dervish town, and especially over the face of his spouse, who had set her heart on a new carpet for her drawing room, and feared she ought not to procure it now. It is wonderful how conscientious some people are towards their balance at the bankers. How the drawing room, however, could come to want a new carpet is something mysterious except there is a peculiar power of decay inherent in things deprived of use. These influences operating, however, she began to think that the two scions of grocery were not drawing nine shillings worth a week of the sap of divinity. This she hinted to Mr. Appleditch. It was resolved to give Hugh warning, and it would involve some awkwardness to state reasons. Mrs. Appleditch resolved to quarrel with him as the easiest way of prefacing his discharge. It was the way she took with her maids of all work, for it was grand in itself, and always left her with a comfortable feeling of injured dignity. As a preliminary course, she began to treat him with still less politeness than before. Hugh was so careless of her behavior that this made no impression upon him. But he came to understand it all afterwards from putting together the remarks of the children and the partial communications of Mr. Appleditch to Miss Talbot, which that good lady innocently imparted to her lodger. At length one day she came into the room where Hugh was more busy in teaching than his pupils were in learning, and seated herself by the fire to watch for an opportunity. This was soon found. For the boys rendered still more inattentive by the presence of their mother, could not be induced to fix the least thought upon the matter in hand, so that Hugh was compelled to go over the same thing again and again without success. At last he said, I am afraid Mrs. Appleditch, I must ask you to interfere, for I cannot get any attention from the boys today. And how could it be otherwise, Mr. Sutherland, when you keep wearing them out with going over and over the same thing till they are sick of it? Why don't you go on? How can I go on when they have not learned the thing they are at? That would be to build the chimneys before the walls. It is very easy to be witty, sir, but I beg you will behave more respectfully to me in the presence of my children, innocent lambs. Looking round at the moment, Hugh caught in his face what the eldest lamb had intended for his back, a grimace hideous enough to have procured him instant promotion in the kingdom of apes. The mother saw it too, and added, you see, you cannot make them respect you, really, Mr. Sutherland. Hugh was about to applaud the effect that it was useless in such circumstances to attempt teaching them at all, some utterance of which sort was watched for as the occasion for his instant dismission. But at that very moment, a carriage and pair pulled sharply up at the door with more than the usual amount of quadrupedation, and mother and son started simultaneously to the window. My, cried Johnny, what a rumgo! Isn't that a jolly carriage, Peaty? Papa's bought a carriage, shouted Peaty. Be quiet, children, said their mother, as she saw a footman get down and approach the door. Look at that, buffer, said Johnny. Do come and see this grand footman, Mr. Sutherland. He's such a gentleman. A box on the ear from his mother silenced him. The servant, entering with some perturbation a moment after, addressed her mistress, for she dared not address anyone else while she was in the room. Please, um, the carriage is asked then after Mr. Sutherland. Mr. Sutherland? Yes, um. The lady turned to Mr. Sutherland, who, although surprised as well, was not inclined to show his surprise to Mrs. Appleditch. I did not know you had carriage, friends, Mr. Sutherland, said she with the toss of her head. Neither did I, answered Hugh, but I will go and see who it is. When he reached the street he found Harry on the pavement, who, having got out of the carriage and not having been asked into the house, was unable to stand still from impatience. As soon as he saw his tutor he bounded to him and threw his arm around his neck, standing as they were in the open street. Tears of delight filled his eyes. Come, come, come, said Harry. We all want you. Who wants me? Mrs. Elton and you friend me. Come, get in. And he pulled you towards the carriage. I cannot go with you now. I have pupils here. Harry's face fell. When will you come? In half an hour. Her eye shall be back exactly in half an hour then. Do be ready, please, Mr. Sutherland. I will. Harry jumped into the carriage, telling the coachman to drive where he pleased and be back at the same place in half an hour. Hugh returned into the house. As maybe supposed, Margaret was the means of this happy meeting. Although she saw plainly enough that Euphra would like to see Hugh, she did not for the same time make up her mind to send for him. The circumstances which made her resolved to do so were these. For some days Euphra seemed to be gradually regaining her health and composure of mind. One evening after a longer talk than usual, Margaret had left her in bed and had gone to her own room. She was just preparing to get into bed herself when a knock at her door startled her and going to it. She saw Euphra standing there, pale as death, nothing on but her nightgown, notwithstanding the bitter cold of an early and severe frost. She thought at first she must be walking in her sleep, but the scared intelligence of her open eyes soon satisfied her that it was not so. What is the matter, dear Miss Cameron? She said as calmly as she could. He is coming. He wants me. If he calls me, I must go. No, you shall not go. Rejoined Margaret firmly. I must, I must, answered Euphra, wringing her hands. Do come in, said Margaret. You must not stand there in the cold. Let me get into your bed. Better let me go with you to yours. That will be more comfortable for you. Oh yes, please do. Margaret threw a shawl around Euphra and went back with her to her room. He wants me, he wants me. He will call me soon, said Euphra in an agonized whisper as soon as the door was shut. What shall I do? Come to bed first, and we will talk about it there. As soon as they were in bed, Margaret put her arm around Euphra who was trembling with cold and fear and said, Has this man any right to call you? No, no, answered Euphra vehemently. Then don't go. But I am afraid of him. Defy him in God's name. But besides the fear, there is something that I can't describe that always keeps telling me. No, not telling me, pushing me. No, drawing me, as if I could not rest a moment till I go. I cannot describe it. I hate to go, and yet I feel that if I were cold in my grave I must rise and go if he called me. I wish I could tell you what it is like. It is as if some demon was shaking my soul till I yielded and went. Oh, don't despise me, I can't help it. My darling, I don't, I can't despise you. You shall not go to him. But I must, answered she with a despairing faintness, more convincing than any vehement and then began to weep with a slow, hopeless weeping like the rain of a November eve. Margaret got out of bed. Euphra thought she was offended. Starting up, she clasped her hands and said, Oh Margaret, I won't cry. Don't leave me, don't leave me. She entreated like a chidden child. No, no, I don't mean to leave you for a moment. Lie down again, dear, and cry as much as you like. I'm going to read a little bit out of the New Testament to you. I am afraid I can't listen to it. Never mind, don't try. I want to read it. Margaret got a New Testament and read part of that chapter of St. John's Gospel which speaks about human labor and the bread of life. She stopped at these words. For I came down from heaven not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me. Euphra's tears had ceased. The sound of Margaret's voice, which, if it lost in sweetness by becoming more scotch when she read the Gospel, yet gained thereby in pathos and the power of the blessed words themselves, had soothed the troubled spirit a little, and she lay quiet. The count is not a good man, Miss Cameron. You know he is not, Margaret. He is the worst man alive. Then it cannot be God's will that you should go to him. But one does many things that are not God's will, but it is God's will that you should not go to him. Euphra lay silent for a moment. Suddenly she exclaimed, Then I must not go to him. God out of bed threw herself on her knees by the bedside and holding up her clasped hands said in low tones that sounded as if forced from her by agony. I won't, I won't. Oh God, I will not. Help me, help me. Margaret knelt beside her and put her arm round her. Euphra spoke no more but remained kneeling with her extended arms and clasped hands lying on the bed and her head laid between them. At length Margaret grew alarmed and looked at her, but she found that she was in a sweet sleep. She gently disengaged herself and covering her up soft and warm left her to sleep out her God-sense sleep undisturbed while she sat beside and watched for her waking. She slept thus for an hour, then lifting her head and seeing Margaret she rose quietly as if from her prayers and said with a smile, Margaret, I was dreaming that I had a mother. So you have somewhere? Yes, so I have somewhere, she repeated, and crept into bed like a child laid down and was asleep again in a moment. Margaret watched her for another hour and then seen no signs of restlessness but that on the contrary her sleep was profound, laid down beside her and soon shared in that repose which to weary women and men is God's best gift. She rose at her usual hour the next day and was dressed before Euphra woke. It was a cold gray December morning with the orfrost lying thick on the roofs of the houses. Euphra opened her eyes while Margaret was busy lighting the fire. Seeing that she was there she closed them again and fell once more fast asleep. Before she woke again Margaret had some tea ready for her. After taking which she felt able to get up. She rose looking more bright and hopeful than Margaret had seen her before. But Margaret who watched her intently through the day saw a change come over her cheer. Her face grew pale and troubled. Now and then her eyes were fixed on vacancy and again she would look at Margaret with the woe-begone expression of countenance but presently as if recollecting herself would smile and look cheerful for a moment. Margaret saw that the conflict was coming on if not already begun, that at least its shadow was upon her and thinking that if she could have a talk with you about what he had been doing it would comfort her a little and divert her thoughts from herself even if no farther or more pleasantly than to the count. She let Harry know with Hughes address as given in the letter to her father. She was certain that if Harry succeeded in finding him nothing more was necessary to ensure his being brought to Mrs. Elton's. As we have seen Harry had traced him to Buchlick Terrace. He re-entered the house in the same mind in which he had gone out. Namely, that after Mrs. Appelditch's behavior to him before his pupils he could not remain their tutor any longer. However great his need might be of the pittance he received for his services. But although Mrs. Appelditch's first feeling had been jealousy of Hughes acquaintance with carriage people the todyism which is so essential an element of such jealousy had by this time revived and when Hughes was proceeding to finish the lesson he had begun intending it to be his last she said Why don't you ask your friend into the drawing room Mr. Sutherland? Good gracious the drawing room thought Hughes but answered he will fetch me when the lesson is over. I am sure sir any friends of yours that like to call upon you here will be very welcome. It will be more agreeable to you to receive them here of course for your accommodation at poor Miss Talbotts is hardly suitable for such visitors. I am sorry to say however I answered Hughes that after the way you have spoken to me today in the presence of my pupils I cannot continue my relation to them any longer. Ho ho! retorted the lady indignation and scorn mingling with mortification. Our grand visitors have set our backs up. Very well Mr. Sutherland ask me by leaving the house at once. Don't trouble yourself pray to finish the lesson. I will pay you for it all the same anything to get rid of a man who insults me before the very faces of my innocent lambs and pleased to remember she added as she pulled out her purse while Hughes was collecting some books he had lent the boys that when you were starving my husband and I took you in and gave you employment out of charity. Pure charity Mr. Sutherland here is your money. Good morning Mrs. Appeldage said Hughes and walked out with his books under his arm leaving her with the money in her hand. He had to knock his feet on the pavement in front of the house to keep them from freezing for half an hour before the carriage arrived to take him away. As soon as it came up he jumped into it and was carried off in triumph by Harry. Mrs. Elton received him kindly. Euphra held out her hand with a slight blush and the quaint familiarity of an old friend. Hughes could almost have fallen in love with her again from compassion for her pale worn face and subdued expression. Mrs. Elton went out in the carriage almost directly and Euphra begged Harry to leave them alone as she had something to talk to Mr. Sutherland about. Have you found any trace of Count Halcar Hughes? She said the moment they were by themselves. I am very sorry to say I have not. I have done my best. I am quite sure of that. I just wanted to tell you that from certain indications which no one could understand so well as myself I think you will have more chance of finding him now. I am delighted to hear it, responded Hughes. If I only had him Euphra sighed, paused and then said but I am not sure of it. I think he is in London but he may be in Bohemia for anything I know. I shall however in all probability know more about him within a few days. Hughes resolved to go at once to Falconer and communicate to him what Euphra had told him but he said nothing to her as to the means by which he had tried to discover the Count. For although he felt sure that he had done right in telling Falconer all about it he was afraid lest Euphra and what sort of a man he was might not like it. Euphra in her part did not mention Margaret's name for she had begged her not to do so. You will tell me when you know yourself. Perhaps I will if I can. I do wish you could get the ring. I have a painful feeling that it gives him power over me. That can only be a nervous fancy surely you ventured to say. Perhaps it is, I don't know but still without that there are plenty of reasons for wishing to recover it. He will put it to a bad use if he can but for your sake especially I wish we could get it. Thank you. You were always kind. No, she replied without lifting her eyes. I brought it all upon you but you could not help it. Not at the moment but all that led to it was my fault. She paused and suddenly resumed. I will confess. Do you know what gave rise to the reports of the house being haunted? No. It was me wandering about it at night looking for that very ring to give to the count. It was shameful but I did. Those reports prevented me from being found out but I hope not many ghosts are so miserable as I was. You remember my speaking to you of Mr. Arnold's jewels. Yes, perfectly. I wanted to find out through you where the ring was but I had no intention of involving you. I am sure you had not. Don't be too sure of anything about me. I don't know what I might have been led to do but I am very sorry. Do forgive me. I cannot allow that I have anything to forgive but tell me, Euphra, were you the creature in white that I saw in the ghost walk one night? I don't mean the last time. Very likely she answered bending her head yet lower with a sigh. Then who was the creature in black that met you and what became of you then? Did you see her rejoined Euphra turning pale or still? I fainted at sight of her. I took her for the nun that hangs in that horrid room. So did I, said Hugh, but you could not have lain long for I went up to the spot where you vanished and found nothing. I suppose I got into the shrubbery before I fell or the count dragged me in. But was that really a ghost? I feel now as if it was a good messenger whether ghost or not come to warn me if I had the courage to listen. I wish I had taken the warning. They talked about these and other things tell Mrs. Elton, made Hugh promise to stay to lunch, returned. When they were seated at table the kind-hearted woman said, Now, Mr. Sutherland, when will you begin again with Harry? I do not quite understand you, answered Hugh. Of course you will come and give him lessons, poor boy. He will be broken-hearted if you don't. I wish I could, but I cannot, at least yet, for I know his father was dissatisfied with me. That was one of the reasons that made him send Harry to London. Harry looked wretchedly disappointed, but said nothing. I never heard him say anything of the sort. I am sure of it, though. I am very sorry he has mistaken me, but he will know me better someday. I will take all the responsibility, persisted Mrs. Elton. But unfortunately the responsibility sticks too fast for you to take it. I cannot get rid of my share if I would. You are too particular. I am sure Mr. Arnold never could have meant that. This is my house, too. But Harry is his boy. If you will let me come and see him sometimes, I shall be very thankful, though. I may be useful to him without giving him lessons. Thank you, said Harry with delight. Well, well, I suppose you are so much in request in London that you won't miss him for a pupil. On the contrary, I have not a single engagement. If you could find me one, I should be exceedingly obliged to you. Dear, dear, dear, said Mrs. Elton, then you shall have Harry. Oh, yes, please take me, said Harry beseechingly. No, I cannot. I must not. Mrs. Elton rang the bell. James, tell the coachman I want the carriage in an hour. Mrs. Elton was as submissive to her coachman as ladies who have carriages generally are and would not have dreamed of ordering the horses out so soon again for herself, but she forgot everything else when a friend was in need of help and became perfectly... ...pacodermatous to the offending looks or indignant hints of that important functionary. Within a few minutes after Hugh took his leave, Mrs. Elton was on her way to repeat a visit which she had already paid the same morning and to make several other calls with the express object of finding pupils for Hugh. But in this, she was not so successful as she had expected. In fact, no one whom she could think of wanted such services at present. She returned home quite downhearted and all but convinced that nothing could be done before the approach of the London season. End Chapter 63 Chapter 64 of David Elgin Broad This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. David Elgin Broad by George McDonald Chapter 64 They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, an adder and a snake, but hold me fast and let me not pass given you would be my make. They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, an adder and an ask. They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, a bale that burns fast. They'll shape me in your arms, Janet, a dove but and a swan. And last they'll shape me in your arms a mother-naked man. Cast your green mantle over me and so shall I be wine. Scott Spallad, Tamlain As soon as you had left the house, Margaret hastened to Euphra. She found her in her own room a little more cheerful but still strangely depressed. This appearance increased towards the evening till her looks became quite haggard, revealing an inward conflict of growing agony. Margaret remained with her. Just before dinner, the upstairs bell, whose summons Margaret was accustomed to obey, rang and she went down. Mrs. Elton detained her for a few minutes. The moment she was at liberty, she flew to Euphra's room by the back staircase. But as she ascended, she was horrified to meet Euphra in a cloak, in thick veil, creeping down the stairs like a thief. Without saying a word, the strong girl lifted her in her arms as if she had been a child and had gone back to her room. Euphra neither struggled nor spoke. Margaret later on her couch and sat down beside her. She lay without moving and although wide awake, gave no other sign of existence than an occasional low moan that seemed to come from a heart pressed almost to death. Having lained us for an hour, she broke the silence. Margaret, do you despise me dreadfully? No, not in the least. Yet you found me going to do what I knew was wrong. You had not made yourself strong by thinking about the will of God, have you, dear? No, I will tell you how it was. I had been tormented with the inclination to go to him and had been resisting it till I was worn out. And I could hardly bear it more. Suddenly I grew calm within me and I seemed to hate Count Halkar no longer. I thought with myself how easy it would be to put a stop to this dreadful torment just by yielding to it. Only this once. I thought I should then be stronger to resist the next time. For this was wearing me out so that I must yield the next time if I persisted now. But what seemed to justify me was the thought that so I should find out where he was and be able to tell you and then he would get the ring for me and I was very wrong of me. I forgot all about the will of God. I will not go again, Margaret. Do you think I may try again to fight him? That is just what you must do. All that God requires of you is to try again. God's child must be free. Do try, dear Miss Cameron. I think I could if you would call me Euphra. You are so strong and pure and good, Margaret. I had never had any thoughts but such as you have, you beautiful creature. Oh, how glad I am that you found me. Do watch me always. I will call you Euphra. I will be your sister servant. Anything you like if you will only try again. Thank you. With all my troubled heart, dear Margaret, I will indeed try again. She sprang from the couch in a sudden agony and grasping Margaret by the arm looked at her stricken face. But she began to fear she was losing her reason. Margaret, she said, as if with the voice of one just raised from the dead, speaking with all the charnelled stamps in her throat. Could it be that I am in love with him still? Margaret shuddered but did not lose her self-possession. No. No, Euphra, darling. You were haunted with him and so tired that you were not able to endure. Then you began to give way to him. That was all. There was no love in that. Euphra's grasp relaxed. Do you think so? Yes. A pause followed. Do you think God cares to have me do his will? Is it anything to him? I am sure of it. Why did he make you else? But it is not for the sake of being obeyed that he cares for it. But for the sake of serving you and making you blessed with his blessedness, he does not think about himself but about you. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I must not go. Let me read to you again, Euphra. Yes, please do, Margaret. She read the 40th chapter of Isaiah, one of her father's favorite chapters where all the strength and knowledge of God are urged by the height that they may fall in overwhelming profusion upon the wants and fears and unbelief of his children. How should he that calleth the stars by their names forget his people? While she read the cloud melted away from Euphra's face, a sweet sleep followed and the paroxysm was over for the time. Was Euphra insane and were these the first accesses of daily fits of madness growing and approaching for who could tell how long? Even if she were mad or going mad, was not this the right way to treat her? I wonder how often the spiritual cure of faith in the Son of Man, the great healer, has been tried on those possessed with our modern demons. Is it proved that insanity has its origin in the physical disorder which, it is now said, can be shown to accompany it invariably? Although, it yet appears to me that if the physician would, like the Son of Man himself, descend as it were into the disorganized world in which the consciousness of his patient exists and receiving his fact all that he reveals to him of its condition, for fact it is of a very real sort, introduced by all the means that sympathy can suggest the one central cure for evil, spiritual and material, namely the truth of the Son of Man, the vision of the perfect friend and helper with the revelation of the promised liberty of obedience. If he did this, it seems to me that cures might still be wrought as marvelous as those of the ancient time. It seems to me too that that can be but an imperfect religion as it would be a poor salvation from which one corner of darkness may hide us, from whose blessed health and freedom may snatch us, making us hopeless outcasts, till first the physician, the student of physical laws, shall interfere and restore us to his sound mind, or the great God's angel death crumble the soul-oppressing brain with its thousand phantoms of pain and fear and horror into a film of dust in the hollow of the deserted skull. He would repair it immediately to Falconer's chambers where he was more likely to find him during the day than in the evening. He was at home. He told him of his interview with Euphra and her feeling that the count was not far off. Do you think there can be anything in it? asked he when he had finished his relation. I think very likely, answered his friend, I will be more on the outlook than ever. It may, after all, be through the lady herself that we shall find the villain. If she were to fall into one of her trances now, I think it almost certain she would go to him. She ought to be carefully watched and followed if that should take place. Let me know all that you learn about her. Go and see her again tomorrow, that we may be kept informed of her experiences so far as she thinks proper to tell them. I will, said Hugh, and took his leave. But Margaret, who knew Euphra's condition both spiritual and physical better than any other, had far different rejects for her, through means of the unholy attraction which the count exercised over her than the discovery of the stolen ring. She was determined that neither sleeping nor waking should she follow his call or dance to his piping. She should resist to the last in the name of God and so redeem her lost will from the power of this devil to whom she had foolishly sold it. The next day the struggle evidently continued, and it had such an effect on Euphra that Margaret could not help feeling very anxious about the result as regarded her health, even if she should be victorious in the contest. But not for one moment did Margaret quail, for she felt convinced, come of it what might, that the only hope for Euphra lay in resistance. Death to her mind was simply nothing in the balance with slavery of such a sort. Once, but evidently in a fit of absence, Euphra rose went to the door and opened it. But she instantly dashed it too again, and walking slowly back resumed her seat on the couch. Margaret came to her from the other side of the bed, where she had been working by the window for the last quarter of an hour, for the sake of the waning light. What is it, dear? she said. Oh, Margaret, are you there? I did not know you were in the room. I found myself at the door before I knew what I was doing. But you came back of yourself this time? Yes, I did. But I still feel inclined to go. There is no sin in that, so long as you do not encourage the feeling or yield to it. I hate it. You will soon be free from it. Keep on courageously, dear sister. You will be in liberty and joy soon. God granted. He will, Euphra. I am sure he will. I am sure you know, or you would not say it. A knock came to the street door. Euphra started and sat in the attitude of a fearful listener. A message was presently brought her that Mr. Sutherland was in the drawing room and wished to see her. Euphra rose immediately and went to him. Margaret, who did not quite feel that she could be trusted yet, removed to a room behind the drawing room, when she could see Euphra if she passed to go downstairs. He asked her if she could tell him anything more about Count Halcar. Only she answered that I am still sure of his being near me. How do you know it? I need not mind telling you, for I have told you before that he has a kind of supernatural power over me. I know it by his drawing me towards him. It is true I might feel it just the same whether he was in America or in London, but I do not think he would care to do it if he was so far off. I know him well enough to know that he would not wish for me except for some immediate advantage to himself. But what is the use of his doing so when you don't know where he is to be found? I should go straight to him without knowing where I was going. He rose in haste. Put on your bonnet and cloak and come with me. I will take care of you. Lead me to him and the ring shall soon be in your hands again. Euphra hesitated, half rose, but sat down immediately. No. No. Not for worlds, she said. Do not tempt me. I must not. I dare not. I will not go. But I shall be with you. I will take care of you. Don't you think I am able, Euphra? Oh yes, quite able. But I must not go anywhere at that man's bidding. But it won't be at his bidding. It will be at mine. Ah, that alters the case rather. Does it not? I wonder what Margaret would say. Margaret? What Margaret, said you? Oh, my new maid answered Euphra recollecting herself. Not being well at present, she is my nurse. We shall take a cab as soon as we get to the corner. I don't think the Count would be able to guide the horse, said Euphra, with a smile. I must walk. But I should like to go. I will. It would be such a victory to catch him in his own toils. She rose and ran upstairs. In a few minutes she came down again, cloaked and veiled, but Margaret met her as she descended and leading her into the back drawing room, said. Are you going, Euphra? Yes, but I am going with Mr. Sutherland, answered Euphra in a defensive tone. It is to please him and not to obey the Count. Are you sure it is all to please Mr. Sutherland? If it were, I don't think you would be able to guide him right. Is it not to get rid of your suffering by yielding to temptation, Euphra? At all events, if you go, even should Mr. Sutherland be successful with him, you will never feel that you have overcome him or that he has lost you. He will still hold you fast. Don't go. I am sure you are deceiving yourself. Euphra stood for a moment and pouted like a naughty child. Then suddenly, throwing her arms about Margaret's neck, she kissed her and said, I won't go, Margaret. Here, take my things upstairs for me. She threw off her bonnet and cloak and rejoined Hugh in the drawing room. I can't go, she said. I must not go. I should be yielding to him and it would make a slave of me all my life. It is our only chance for the ring, said Hugh. Again, Euphra hesitated and wavered, but again she conquered. I cannot help it, she said. I would rather not have the ring than go if you will forgive me. Oh, Euphra, replied Hugh, you know it is not for myself. I do know it. You won't mind, then, if I don't go. Certainly not if you have made up your mind. You must have a good reason for it. Indeed, I have. And even already she felt that resistance brought its own reward. He went almost immediately in order to make his report to Falconer, with whom he had an appointment for the purpose. She is quite right, said Falconer. I do not think in the relation in which she stands to him that she could safely do otherwise. But it seems to me very likely that this will turn out well for our plans, too. Let her persist and in all probability he will not only have to resign her per force, but will so far make himself subject to her in turn as to seek her who will not go to him. He will pull upon his own rope till he is drawn to the spot where he has fixed it. What remains for you and me to do is to keep a close watch on the house and neighborhood. Most likely we shall find the villain before long. Do you really think so? The whole affair is mysterious and has to do with laws with which we are most imperfectly acquainted. But this seems to me a presumption worth acting upon. Is there no one in the house on whom you could depend for assistance? For information, at least. Yes. There is the same old servant that Mrs. Elton had with her at Arnstead. He is a steady old fellow and has been very friendly with me. Well, what I would advise is that you should find yourself quarters as near the spot as possible and besides keeping as much of a personal guard upon the house as you can, engage the servant you mentioned to let you know the moment the count makes his appearance. It will probably be towards night when he calls, for such a man may have reasons as well as instincts to make him love the darkness rather than the light. You had better go at once and when you have found a place leave or send the address here to me and towards nightfall I will join you. But we may have to watch for several days. We must not be too sanguine. Almost without a word he went to do as Falconer said. The only place he could find suitable was a public house at the corner of a back street where the men's servants of the neighborhood used to resort. He succeeded in securing a private room in it for a week and immediately sent Falconer word of his locality. He then called a second time at Mrs. Elton's and asked to see the butler. When he came Erwin said he has Hervon Funkelstein called here today. No, sir, he has not. You would know him, would you not? Yes, sir, perfectly. Well, if he should call tonight or tomorrow or any time within the next few days let me know the moment he is in the house. You will find me at the golden staff around the corner. It is of the utmost importance that I should see him at once. But do not let him know that anyone wants to see him. You shall not repent helping me in this affair. I know I can trust you. He had fixed him with his eyes before he began to explain his wishes. He had found out that this was the best way of securing attention from inferior natures and that it was especially necessary with London servants. For their superciliousness is cowed by it and the superior will brought to bear upon theirs. It is the only way a man without a carriage has to command attention from such. Erwin was not one of this sort. He was a country servant for one difference. But he made his address as impressive as possible. I will with pleasure, sir, answered Erwin, and he felt tolerably sure of him. Falconer came. They ordered some supper and sat till 11 o'clock. There being then no chance of a summons, they went out together. Passing the house, they saw light in one upper window only. That light would burn there all night for it was in Euphra's room. It was in the room where he was sitting. It was in the room between Falconer and one of his midnight walks through London as he had done repeatedly before. From such companionship and the scenes to which Falconer introduced him, he had gathered this fruit that he began to believe in God for the sake of the wretched men and women he saw in the world. At first it was his own pain that he saw more of them and grew to love them more. He felt that the only hope for them lay in the love of God, and he hoped in God for them. He saw to you that a God not both humanly and absolutely divine, a God less than that God shadowed forth in the redeemer of man, would not do. But thinking about God thus and hoping in him for his brothers and sisters, he began to love God. Then, last of all, that he might come to whom he could abandon everything that he might seem perfect and all in all and as he must be for the sake of God himself, he believed in him as the saviour of his sinful and suffering kin. As early as was at all excusable the following morning he called on Euphra. The butler said that she had not come down yet but he would send up his name. A message was brought back that he was sorry not to see him but she had had a bad night and was quite unable to get up. Erwin replied to his inquiry that the count had not called. He withdrew to the golden staff. A bad night it had been indeed. As Euphra slept well the first part of it and had no attack such as she had had upon both the preceding nights Margaret had hoped the worst was over. Still she laid herself only within the threshold of sleep, awake at the least motion. In the middle of the night she felt Euphra move. She lay still to see what she would do. Euphra slipped out of bed and partly dressed herself. Then went to her wardrobe and put on a cloak with a large hood which she drew over her head. Margaret lay with a dreadful aching at her heart. Euphra went towards the door. Margaret called her but she made no answer. Margaret flew to the door then to her intense delight she saw that Euphra's eyes were closed. Just as she laid her hand on the door, Margaret took her gently in her arms. Let me go, let me go! Euphra almost screamed. Then suddenly, opening her eyes she stared at Margaret in a bewildered fashion like one waking from the dead. Euphra Dear Euphra said Margaret Oh Margaret, is it really you? exclaimed Euphra flinging her arms about her. Oh I am glad you see what I must have been about. I suppose I knew when I was doing it but I don't know now I have forgotten all about it. Oh dear, oh dear I thought it would come to this. Come to bed dear you couldn't help it it was not yourself there's not more than half of you awake when you walk in your sleep. They went to bed Euphra crept close to Margaret and cried herself to sleep again. The next day she had a bad headache. This was with her always followed some nambulation. She did not get up all that day. When Hugh called again in the evening he heard she was better but still in bed. Falconer joined Hugh at the Golden Staff at night but they had no better success than before. Falconer went out alone for Hugh wanted to keep himself fresh. Though very strong he was younger and less hardened than Falconer who could stand an incredible amount of labor and lack of sleep Hugh would have given way under the half. End Chapter 64