 CHAPTER 53 A SUNDAY'S DINNER Some books are lies frawn to end, and some great lies were never penned. Even ministers, they have been penned in holy rapture, great lies and nonsense, both to vend, and nail it with scripture, burns. To the great discomposure of Hugh, Sunday was inevitable, and he had this set out for Salem Chapel. He founded a neat little Noah's Ark of a Place, built in the shape of a cathedral, and consequently sharing in the general disadvantages to which dwarves of all kinds are subjected, absurdity included. He was shown to Mr. Appelditch's pew. That worthy man received him in sleek black clothes, with white neckcloth, and Sunday face composed of an absurd mixture of stupidity and sanctity. He stood up, and Mrs. Appelditch stood up, and Master Appelditch stood up, and Hugh saw that the ceremony of the Place required that he should force his way between the front of the pew and the person of each of the human beings occupying it, till he reached the top where there was room for him to sit down. No other recognition was taken till after service. Meantime the minister ascended the pulpits there with all the solemnity of one of the self-elect and a priest besides. He was just old enough for the intermittent attacks of self-importance, to which all youth is exposed, to have in his case become chronic. He stood up and worshiped his Creator aloud after a manner which seemed to say in every tone, Behold, I am he that worshipeth thee. How mighty art thou! Then he read the Bible in a quarrelsome sort of way, as if he were a bantam, and every verse were a crow of defiance to the sinner. Then they sang of him in a fashion which brought dear old Scotland to Hugh's mind, which has the sweetest songs in its cottages, and the worst singing in its churches of any country in the world. But it was almost equaled here, the chief cause of its badness being the absence of a modest self-restraint, and consequent tempering of the tones on the part of the singers, so that the result was what Hugh could describe only as screaching. I was once present at the worship of some being who is supposed by negroes to love drums and cymbals, and all clangorous noises. The resemblance, according to Hugh's description, could not have been a very distant one. And yet I doubt not that some thoughts of worshiping love mingled with the noise, and perhaps the harmony of these with the spheric melodies sounded the sweeter to the angels from the earthly discord in which they were lapped. Then came the sermon. The text was the story of the Good Samaritan. Some idea, if not of the sermon, yet of the value of it may be formed from the fact that the first thing to be considered, or in other words the first head was, the culpable imprudence of the man in going from Jerusalem to Jericho without an escort. It was in truth a strange grotesque and somewhat awful medley, not unlike a dance of death in which the painter has given here a lovely face, and there a beautiful arm or an exquisite foot to the wild prancing and exultant skeleton. But the parts of the sermon corresponding to the beautiful face, or arm, or foot were but the fragments of scripture shining like gold amidst the worthless ore of the man's own production. Worthless save is gravel, or chaff, or house have worth, in a world where dilution and not always concentration is necessary for healthfulness. But there are Indians who eat clay and thrive on it more or less, I suppose. The power of assimilation, which a growing nature must possess, is astonishing. It will find its food, its real Sunday dinner, in the midst of a whole cartload of refuse, and it will do the whole week's work on it. On no other supposition would it be possible to account for the earnest face of Miss Talbot, which you as spy turned up to the preacher, as if his face were the very star in the east shining to guide the chosen kings. It was well for Hugh's power of endurance that he had heard much the same thing in Scotland, and the same thing better dressed and less grotesque, but more lifeless, and at heart as ill-mannered, in the Church of Arnstead. Just before concluding the service, the pastor made an announcement in the following terms, After the close of the present service, I shall be found, in the adjoining vestry, by all persons desirous of communicating with me on the state of their souls, or of being admitted to the privileges of Church fellowship. Brethren, we have this treasure in earthen vessels, and so long as this vessel lasts, here he struck his chest so that it resounded, it shall be faithfully and liberally dispensed. Let us pray. After the prayer he spread abroad his arms and hands as if he would class the world in his embrace, and pronounce the benediction in a style of arrogance that the pope himself would have been ashamed of. The service being thus concluded, the organ absolutely blasted the congregation out of the chapel, so did its storm and rave with the fervor anything but divine. My readers must not suppose that I give this chapel as the type of orthodox dissenting chapels. I give it only as an approximate specimen of a large class of them. The religious life, which these communities once possessed, still lingers in those of many country districts and small towns, but is, I fear, all but gone from those of the cities and larger towns. What of it remains in these has its chief manifestation in the fungus growth of such chapels as the one I have described. The congregations themselves taking this for a sure indication of the prosperity of the body. How much even of the kind of prosperity which they ought to indicate is in reality at the foundation of these appearances, I would recommend those to judge who are versed in the mysteries of chapel-building societies. As to you, whether it was the whole affair was suggestive of Egyptian bondage or that his own mood was, at the time, of the least comfortable sort, I will not pretend to determine, but he assured me that he felt all the time as if, instead of being in a chapel built of bricks harmoniously arranged as by the liar of Amphion, he were wandering in the waste, wretched fields, once these bricks had been dug of all places, on the earth's surface, the most miserable, assailed by the nauseous odors, which have not character enough to be described and only remind one of the colors on the snake's back. When they reached the open air, Mr. Appelditch introduced you to Mrs. Appelditch on the steps in front of the chapel. This is Mr. Sutherland, Mrs. Appelditch, who lifted his hat and Mrs. Appelditch made a curtsy. She was a very tall woman, a head beyond her husband, extremely thin with sharp nose, hollow cheeks, and good eyes. In fact, she was partly pretty, and might have been pleasant-looking but for a large, thin-lipped vampire-like mouth, and a general expression of greed and contempt. She was meant for a lady and had made herself a money-maggot. She was richly and plainly dressed, and until she began to be at her ease, might have passed for an unpleasant lady. Master Appelditch, the future pastor, was a fat boy, dressed like a dwarf in a frock coat and man's hat, with a face in which the meanness and keenness strove for mastery, and between them kept down the appearance of stupidity consequent on fatness. They walked home in silence. Mr. and Mrs. Appelditch apparently pondering either upon the spiritual food they had just received or the corporeal food for which they were about to be thankful. Their house was one of many inaccresent. Not content with his sign in town, the grocer had a large brass plate on his door with Appelditch engraved upon it in capitals. It saved them always looking at the numbers. The boy ran on before and assailed this door with the succession of explosive knocks. As soon as it was opened, in he rushed, bawling, Peter, Peter, here's the new apprentice. Pappas brought him home to dinner because he was at chapel this morning. Then, in a lower tone, I mean to have a ride on his back this afternoon. The father and mother laughed. A solemn, priggish little voice answered. Oh no, Johnny, don't you know what day this is? This is the Sabbath day. The dear boy, sighed his mother. That boy is too good to live, responded the father. He was shown into the dining room where the table was already laid for dinner. It was evident that the Appelditches were well to do people. The room was full of what is called handsome furniture in a high state of polish. Over the chimney piece hung the portrait of a preacher in gown and bands. The most prominent of whose features were his cheeks. In a few minutes the host and hostess entered, followed by a pale-faced little boy, the owner of the voice of reproof. Come here, Petey, said his mother, and tell Mr. Sutherland what you have got. She referred to some toy. No, not toy, for it was the Sabbath. To some book, probably. Petey answered in a solemn voice, mouthing every vowel. I've got five bags of gold in the Bank of England. Poor child, said his mother with a scornful giggle. You wouldn't have much to reckon on if that were all. Two or three gaily-dressed riflemen passed the window. The poor fellows, unable to bear the look of their Sunday clothes, if they had any, after being used to their uniform, had come out in all its magnificence. Ah, said Mr. Appelditch. That's all very well in a state of nature. But when a man is once born into a state of grace, Mr. Sutherland, ah, really, responded Mrs. Appelditch. The worldliness of the lower classes is quite awful. But they are spared for a day of wrath, poor things. I'm sure that accident on the railway, last Sabbath, might have been a warning to them all. After that they can't say there is not a God that ruleeth in the earth, and take advantage of his broken Sabbath. Mr., I don't know your name, said Peter, whose age you had just been trying in vain to conjecture. Mr. Sutherland, said the mother. Mr. Slubberman, are you a converted character, resumed Peter? Why do you ask me that, Master Peter? said Hugh, trying to smile. I think you look good, but Mama says she don't think you are, because you say Sunday instead of Sabbath, and she always finds people who do are worldly. Mrs. Appelditch turned red, not blushed, and said, quickly. Peter shouldn't repeat everything he hears. No more I do, Ma. I haven't told what you said about, here his mother caught him up and carried him out of the room, saying, You naughty boy, you shall go to bed. Oh, no I shan't, yes you shall. Here Jane, take this naughty boy to bed. I'll scream, will you, yes I will. And such a yell was there of sudden and portentous birth as if ten cats were being cooked alive. Well, well, well, my Petey, he shan't go to bed if you'll be a good boy. Will he be good? May I stay up to supper then? May I? Yes, yes, anything to stop such dreadful screaming. You are very naughty, very naughty indeed. No I'm not naughty, I'll scream again. No, no, go and get your pinafore on, and come down to dinner, anything rather than a scream. I am sick of all this, and doubt if it is worth printing, but it amused me very much one night as you related it over a bottle of chablis and a pipe. He certainly did not represent Mrs. Appleditch in a very favorable light on the whole, but he took care to say that there was a certain liberality about the table, and a kind of heartiness in her way of pressing him to have more than he could possibly eat, which contrasted strangely with her behavior afterwards in money matters. There are many people who can be liberal in almost anything but money, they seem to say, take anything but my purse. Miss Talbot told him afterwards that this same lady was quite active amongst the poor of her district. She made it a rule never to give money, or at least never more than six pence, but she turned scraps of victuals and cast off clothes to the best account, and if she did not make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, she yet kept an eye on the eternal habitations of the distribution of the crumbs that fell from her table. Poor Mr. Appleditch, on the other hand, often embezzled a shilling or a half-crown from the till for the use of a poor member of the same church, meaning by church the individual community to which he belonged, but of this Mrs. Appleditch was carefully kept ignorant. After dinner was over and the children had been sent away, which was affected without a greater amount of difficulty than from the anticipative precautions adopted, appeared to be lawful and ordinary, Mr. Appleditch proceeded to business. Now, Mr. Sutherland, what do you think of Johnny, sir? It is impossible for me to say yet, but I am quite willing to teach him if you like. He is a forward boy, said his mother. Not a doubt of it, responded Hugh, for he remembered the boy asking him across the table, isn't our Mr. Lixom the pastor I want her? I am very eager and retentive, said his father. Hugh had seen the little glutton paint both cheeks to the eyes with dams and tart, and rendered more than a quantity proportionate to the coloring invisible. Yes, he is eager and retentive too, I dare say, he said, but much will depend on whether he has a term for study. Well, you will find that out tomorrow. I think you will be surprised, sir. At what hour would you like me to come? Stop, Mr. Appleditch, interposed his wife. You have said nothing yet about terms, and that is of some importance considering the rent and taxes we pay. Well, my love, what do you feel inclined to give? How much do you charge a lesson, Mr. Sutherland? Only let me remind you, sir, he is a very little boy, although stout, and that you cannot expect to put much Greek and Latin into him for some time yet. Besides, we want you to come every day which ought to be considered in the rate of charge. Of course it ought, said Hugh. How much do you say then, sir? I dare say you would, replied the lady with indignation. Half a crown, that's six half crowns is fifteen shillings. Fifteen shillings a week for that might of a boy. Mr. Sutherland, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir. You forget, Mrs. Appleditch, that it is as much trouble to me to teach one little boy, yes, a great deal more than to teach twenty grown men. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir. You a Christian man, and talk of trouble in teaching such a little cherub as that, but do pray remember the distance I have to come, and that it will take nearly four hours of my time every day. Then you can get lodgings nearer, but I could not get any so cheap. Then you can the better afford to do it. And she threw herself back in her chair as if she had struck the decisive blow. Mr. Appleditch remarked gently, it is good for your health to walk the distance, sir. Mrs. Appleditch resumed, I won't give a farthing more than one shilling a lesson. There now. Very well, said Hugh Rising, then I must wish you good day. We need not waste more time in talking about it. Surely you are not going to make any use of your time on a Sunday, said the grocer, Mollvey. Don't be in a hurry, Mr. Sutherland. We trade people like to make the best bargain we can. Mr. Appleditch, I am ashamed of you. You always will be vulgar, you always smell of the shop. Well, my dear, how can I help it? The sugar and soft soap will smell, you know. Mr. Appleditch, you disgust me. Dear, dear, I am sorry for that. Suppose we say to Mr. Sutherland, now you leave that to me. I'll tell you what, Mr. Sutherland, I'll give you 18 pence a lesson and your dinner on the Sabbath. That is, if you sit under Mr. Lixham in our pew and walk home with us. Then I must decline, said Hugh. I must have my Sundays for myself. Mrs. Appleditch was disappointed. She had coveted the additional importance which the visible possession of a live tutor would secure her at Salem. Ah, Mr. Sutherland, she said, and I must trust my child with an immortal soul in his inside to one who wants the Lord's day only for himself. For himself, Mr. Sutherland, he made no answer because he had none to make. Again, Mrs. Appleditch resumed, shall it be a bargain, Mr. Sutherland, 18 pence a lesson that's nine shillings a week and begin tomorrow? Hugh's heart sunk within him, not so much with disappointment as with disgust. But to a man who is making nothing, the prospect of earning ever so little is irresistibly attractive. Even on a shilling a day, he could keep hunger at arm's length. And a beginning is half the battle, he resolved. Let it be a bargain, then, Mrs. Appleditch. The lady immediately brightened up and at once put on her company manners again, behaving to him with great politeness and a sneer that would not be hit away under it. From this, Hugh suspected that she had made a better bargain than she had hoped. But the discovery was now too late, even if he could have brought himself to take advantage of it. He hated bargain-making as hardly as the grocer's wife loved it. He very soon rose to take his leave. Oh, said Mrs. Appleditch to her husband, but Mr. Sutherland has not seen the drawing room. Hugh wondered what there could be remarkable about the drawing room, but he soon found that it was the pride of Mrs. Appleditch's heart. She abstained from all use of it except upon great occasions when parties of her friends came to drink tea with her. She made a point, however, of showing it to everybody who entered the house for the first time. So Hugh was led upstairs to undergo the operation of being shown the drawing room and being expected to be astonished at it. I asked him what it was like, he answered. It was just what it ought to be, rich and ugly. Mr. Appleditch in his deacons uniform hung over the fire and Mrs. Appleditch in her wedding dress over the piano. Where there was a piano and she could play somtunes on it with one finger, the round table in the middle of the room had books in gilded red and blue covers symmetrically arranged all around it. This is all I can recollect. Having feasted his eyes on the magnificence thus discovered to him, he walked home more depressed at the prospect of his new employment than he could have believed possible. On his way he turned aside into the Regent's Park, where the sight of the people enjoying themselves, for it was a fine day for the season, partially dispelled the sense of living corruption and premature burial which he had experienced all day long. He kept as far off from the rank of open-air preachers as possible and really was able to thank God that all the world did not keep Scotch Sabbath, a day neither mosaic nor Jewish nor Christian, not mosaic in as much as it kills the very essence of the Fourth Commandment, which is rest, transmuting it into what the chemist would call a mechanical mixture of service and inertia. Not Jewish in as much as it is ten times more severe and formal and full of negations than that of the sabbiterian Jews reproved by the Savior for their idolatry of the day, and un-Christian in as much as it insists beyond appeal on the observance of times and seasons abolished as far as law is concerned by the word of the chief of the apostles and elevates into in a special test of piety, a custom not even mentioned by the founders of Christianity at all, that namely of accounting this day more holy than all the rest. These last are but outside reasons for calling it un-Christian. There are far deeper and more important ones which cannot well be produced here. It is not Hugh, however, who is to be considered accountable for all this, but this is the story of his fortunes, between whom and the vision of the Lord's day indeed there arises too often the nightmare memory of a scott sabbath, between which and its cousin the English Sunday there is too much of a family likeness. The grand men and women whom I have known in Scotland seem to me, so I look back to move about in the midst of a scott sabbath like a company of way-worn angels in the limbo of vanity in which there is no air whereupon to smite their sounding wings that they may rise into the sunlight of God's presence. Chapter 54 Sunday evening Now rest it in my memory but this point, which indeed is the chief to you of all others, which is the choice of what men you are to direct yourself to. For it is certain no vessel can leave a worse taste in the liquor it contains than a wrong teacher infects an unskillful hearer with that which hardly will ever out. But you may say, how shall I get excellent men to take pains to speak with me? Truly in few words, either by much expense or much humbleness. Letter of Sir Philip Sidney to his brother Robert. How many things which, at the first moment, strike us as curious coincidences, afterward, become so operative on our lives and so interwoven with the whole web of their histories, that instead of appearing any more as strange accidents, they assume the shape of unavoidable necessities of homely, ordinary, lawful occurrences as much in their own place as any shaft or pinion of a great machine. It was dusk before Hugh turned his steps homeward. He wandered along, thinking of Euphra and the Count and the stolen rings. He greatly desired to clear himself to Mr. Arnold. He saw that the nature of the ring tended to justify Mr. Arnold suspicious. For a man who would not steal for money's worth might yet steal for value of another sort, addressing itself to some peculiar weakness, and Mr. Arnold might have met with instances of this nature in his position as magistrate. He greatly desired, likewise, for Euphra's sake, to have Funkelstein in his power. His own ring was beyond recovery, but if, by its means, he could hold such a lash over him as would terrify him from again exercising his villainous influences on her, he would be satisfied. While Funkelstein in this contemplation, he came upon two policemen talking together. He recognized one of them as a scotchman from his speech. It occurred to him at once to ask his advice in a modified manner, and a moment's reflection convinced him that it would at least do no harm. He would do it. It was one of those resolutions at which one arrives by an arrow flight of the intellect. You are a countryman of mine, I think, said he as soon as the two had parted. If you're a scotchman, sir, maybe I, maybe no. Where came you from, man? Ow, Aberdeen, I wa. It's my own calf country, and what do they call you? They call me John McPherson. My name's Sutherland. Eh, man, it's my own mother's name. Who's the group of your hand, Master Sutherland? Eh, man, he repeated, shaking his hand with vehement. I have no doubt, said he, relapsing into English, that we are some cousins or other. It's very lucky for me to find a relative, for I wanted some advice. He took care to say advice, which a scotchman is generally prepared to bestow of his best. Had it been sixpence, the cousinship would have required elaborate proof, before the treaty could have made further progress. I'm fully at your service, sir. When will you be off duty? At nine o'clock, precisely. Come to number thirteen, square, and ask for me. It's not far. With pleaser, sir, given toward twice as far. You would not have ventured to ask him to his house on Sunday night, when no refreshments could be procured, had he not remembered a small pig, and glee-che, stone bottle, of real mountain dew, which he had carried with him when he went to Arnstead, and which had lain unopened in one of his boxes. Miss Talbot received her lodger with more show of pleasure than usual, for he came lapped in the odor of the deconcentity. But she was considerably alarmed, and beyond measure shocked, when the policeman called and requested to see him. Sally had rushed into her mistress in dismay. Pleasome, there's a policeman once, Mr. Sutherland. Oh, Loram. Well, go and let Mr. Sutherland know, you stupid girl, answered her mistress trembling. Oh, Loram, was all Sally's reply as she vanished to bear the awful tidings to you. He can't have been house-breaking already, said Miss Talbot to herself, as she confessed afterwards. But it may be forgery or embezzlement. I told the poor deluded young man that the way of transgressors was hard. Please, sir, you wanted, sir, said Sally out of breath, and pale as her Sunday apron. Who wants me, asked you. Please, sir, the policeman, sir, answered Sally and burst into tears. He was perfectly bewildered by the girl's behavior, and said in a tone of surprise. Well, show him up, then. Oh, sir, said Sally with the plutonic sigh, and began to undo the hoax of redress. If you wouldn't mind, sir, just put on my frock and apron and take a jug in your hand, and the policeman will never look at you. I'll take care of everything till you come back, sir. And again, she burst into tears. Sally was a great reader of the family herald, and knew that this was an orthodox plan of rescuing a prisoner. The kindness of her anxiety moderated the expression of Hugh's amusement, and having convinced her that he was in no danger, he easily prevailed upon her to bring the policeman upstairs. Over a tumbler of toddy, the weaker ingredients of which were procured by Sally's glad connivance, with the lingering idea of propitiation, and a gentle hint that Mrs. mustn't know. The two scotchmen seated at opposite corners of the fire had a long chat. They began about the old country and the places and people they both knew, and both didn't know. If they had met on the shores of the central lake of Africa, they could scarcely have been more cow-feet together. At length, Hugh referred to the object of his application to Ms. Fiercen. What plan would you have me pursue, John, to get hold of a man in London? I could manage that for you, sir. I can mouse the high old mangy of the detectives. But you see, unfortunately, I don't wish, for particular reasons, that the police should have anything to do with it. I, I, hmm, hmm, I see Brawley. He'll be after a stray sheep, Neddude. Hugh did not reply, so leaving him to form any conclusions, he pleased. You see, Mac Fiercen continued, it's new that easy to a body that's new up to the trade. Have you only clue-like to set your aspirin upon? Not the least. The man pondered a while. I have it, he exclaimed at last. What a fool I was not to think of that afore. Given it be a poor bit, yeah, lambie, like I'd hear after, I'll tell you what, there's a man, a countryman of our own, and gentlemen, for by, that'll do more for you in that way, nor all the detectives together. And that's Robert Falconer Esquire. I can him wheel. But I don't, said Hugh. But I'll introduce you to him. He bides close in hand here, round two corners just, and I'm thinking he'll be at home, the new, for I saw him go in that ghetto for you came up to me. And the sooner we gone, the better, for he's no eye to be gotten hold of, fags, he may be in the shortage for this. But will he not consider it an intrusion? Nay, nay, there's no fear of that. He's only man's a Ilko woman's friend. So be he can do them a good turn, but he's no for drinking and daffin in that. Come away, Master Sutherland, he's your very man. Thus urged, Hugh rose, and accompanied the policeman. He took him round rather more than two corners, but within five minutes they stood at Mr. Falconer's door. John rang. The door opened without visible service, and they ascended to the first floor, which was enclosed something after the Scotch fashion. Here a respectable looking woman awaited their assent. Is Mr. Falconer at home, ma'am? said Hugh's guide. He is, but I think he's just going out again. We tell him, ma'am, at who John McPherson the policeman would like soar to see him. I will, she answered, and went in, leaving them at the door. She returned in a moment and, inviting them to enter, ushered them into a large spare room in which there was just light enough for you to recognize, to his astonishment, the unmistakable figure of the man whom he had met in Whitechapel, and whom he had afterwards seen apparently watching him from the gallery of the Olympic Theater. How are you, McPherson? said a deep, powerful voice out of the gloom. Very well. I thank you, Mr. Falconer. Who are you yourself, sir? Very well, too. Thank you. Who is with you? It's a gentleman, sir, by the name of Mr. Sutherland. What wants your help, sir, about somebody or other that he's interested in, what's disappeared? Falconer advanced, and bowing to Hugh said very graciously, I shall be most happy to serve Mr. Sutherland, if in my power. Our friend McPherson has rather too exalted an idea of my capabilities, however. We'll master Falconer, I only despair at yourself, whether or not you was ever doing with anything you took in hand. Falconer made no reply to this. There was the story of a whole life in his silence, past and to come. He merely said, you can leave the gentleman with me then, John. I'll take care of him. No fear that, sir, deal a bit, though and the policemen in London were after him. I much obliged to you for bringing him. The obligation's mine, sir, and the gentleman's. Good night, sir. Good night, Mr. Sutherland. You can war to find me, given you want me. John's might be for another fortnight. And you know my quarters said Hugh, shaking him by the hand. I am greatly obliged to you. Not a bit, sir, or, given you were, you should be hardly welcome. Ring candles, Mrs. Aston, Falconer, called from the door, then turning to Hugh. Sit down, Mr. Sutherland, he said. If you can find a chair that is not illegally occupied already, perhaps we had better wait for the candles. What a pleasant day we have had. Then you have been more pleasantly occupied than I have, thought Hugh, to whose mind return the images of the Apple Ditch family and its drawing room, followed by the anticipation of the distasteful duties of the morrow. But he only said, it has been a most pleasant day. I spent it strangely, said Falconer. Here the candles were brought in. The two men looked at each other, full in the face. Hugh saw that he had not been in error. The same remarkable countenance was before him. Falconer smiled. We have met before, said he. We have, said Hugh. I had a conviction we should be better acquainted, but I did not expect it so soon. Are you a clairvoyant then? Not in the least. Or perhaps being a Scotchman you have the second sight. I am hardly kelt enough for that, but I am a sort of a seer after all, from an instinct of the spiritual relations of things, I hope, not in the least from the nervo material side. I think I understand you. Are you at leisure? Entirely. Had we not better walk then? I have to go as far as Summers Town, no great way, and we can talk as well as walking as sitting. With pleasure, answered Hugh Rising. Will you take anything before you go on glass of port? It is the only wine I happen to have. Not a drop, thank you. I seldom taste anything stronger than water. I like that, but I like a glass of port too. Come then, and Falconer rose, and a great rising it was, for as I have said, he was two or three inches taller than Hugh, and much broader across the shoulders, and Hugh was no stripling now. He could not help thinking again of his old friend David Elginbrod, to whom he had to look up to find the living eyes of him, just as now he looked up to find Falconers. But there was a great difference between those organs in the two men. David's had been of an ordinary size, pure, keen, blue, sparkling out of cerulean depths of peace and hope, full of lambing gleams when he was loving anyone, and ever ready to be dimmed with the mists of rising emotion. All that Hugh could yet discover of Falconer's eyes was that they were large and black as night, and set so far back in his head that each gleamed out of its caverned arts like the reversed torch of the Greek genius of death, just before going out at night. Either the frontal sinus was very large, or his observant faculties were peculiarly developed. It went out and walked for some distance in silence. Hugh ventured to say at length, you said you had spent the day strangely. May I ask how? In a condemned cell in Newgate answered Falconer, I'm not in the habit of going to such places, but the man wanted to see me, and I went. As Falconer said no more, and as Hugh was afraid of showing anything like vulgar curiosity, this thread of conversation broke. Nothing worth recording passed until they entered a narrow court in Summers Town. Are you afraid of infection? Falconer said. Not in the least, if there be any reason for exposing myself to it. That is right, and I need not ask if you are in good health. I am in perfect health. Then I need not mind asking you to wait for me till I come out of this house. There is typhus in it. I will wait with pleasure. I will go with you if I can be of any use. There is no occasion, it is not your business this time. So saying, Falconer opened the door and walked in. Said Hugh to himself, I must tell this man the whole story, and with it all my own. In a few minutes Falconer rejoined him, looking solemn, but with a kind of relieved expression on his face. The poor fellow is gone, said he. Ah, what a thing it must be, Mr. Sutherland, for a man to break out of the choke-damp of a typhus fever into the clear air of the life beyond. Yes, said Hugh, adding after a slight hesitation, if he be it all prepared for the change. Where a change belongs to the natural order of things, said Falconer, and arrives inevitably at some hour, there must always be more or less preparedness for it. Besides, I think a man is generally prepared for a breath of fresh air. He did not reply, for he felt that he did not fully comprehend his new acquaintance, but he had a strong suspicion that it was because he moved in a higher region than himself. If you will still accompany me, resume Falconer, who had not yet adverted to use the object in seeking his acquaintance, you will, I think, be soon compelled to believe that, at whatever time death may arrive, or in whatever condition, the man may be at the time it comes as the best and only good that can at that moment reach him. We are perhaps too much in the habit of thinking of death as the culmination of disease, which, regarded only in itself, is an evil and a terrible evil. But I think rather of death as the first pulse of the new strength, shaking itself free from the old, moldy remnants of earth garments, that it may begin in freedom the new life that grows out of the old. The caterpillar dies into the butterfly. Who knows but disease may be the coming? The keener life, breaking into this, and beginning to destroy, like fire, the inferior modes or garments of the present, and then disease would be but the sign of the salvation of fire, of the agony of the greater life to lift us to itself, out of that wherein we are failing and sinning, and so we praise the consuming fire of life. But surely all cannot fare alike in the new life, far from it, according to the condition, but what would be held to one will be quietness and hope and progress to another, because he has left worse behind him, and in this the life asserts itself and is, but perhaps you are not interested in such subjects, Mr. Sutherland, and I weary you. If I have not been interested in them hitherto, I am ready to become so now. Let me go with you, with pleasure. As I have attempted to tell a great deal about Robert Falconer and his pursuits elsewhere, I will not here relate the particulars of their walk through some of the most wretched parts of London. Suffice it to say that, if you, as he walked home, was not yet prepared to receive and understand the half of what Falconer had said about death, and had not yet that faith in God that gives as perfect a peace for the future of our brothers and sisters, who alas have as yet been fed with hus, as for that of ourselves who have eaten bread of the finest of the wheat, and have been but a little thankful, he yet felt at least that it was a blessed thing that these men and women would all die, must all die. That specter from which men shrink, as if it would take from them the last shivering remnant of existence, he turned to for some consolation even for them. He was prepared to believe that they could not be going to worse in the end, though some of the rich and respectable and educated might have to receive their evil things first in the other world, and he was ready to understand that great saint of Schiller, full of a faith evident enough to him who can look far enough into the same, death cannot be an evil for it is universal. Chapter 54. Chapter 55 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 55. Euphra. Samson. Oh, that torment should not be confined to the body's wounds and sores, but must secret passage find to the inmost mind. Dire information which no cooling herb or medicinal liquor can assuage, nor breath of vernal air from snowy out. Sleep hath forsook and given me ore, to death's benaminopium as my only cure. Thence, fainting, swoonings of despair and sense of heaven's desertion. Milton, Samson agonisties. Hitherto I've chiefly followed the history of my hero, if hero in any sense he can yet be called. Now I must leave him for a while and take up the story of the rest of the few persons concerned in my tale. Lady Emily had gone to McGeara and Mr. Arnold had followed. Mrs. Elton and Harry and Margaret of course had gone to London. Euphra was left alone at Arnstead. A great alteration had taken place in this strange girl. The servants were positively afraid of her now, from the butler down to the kitchen maid. She used to go into violent fits of passion in which the mere flash of her eyes was overpowering. These outbreaks would be followed almost instantaneously by seasons of the deepest ejection, in which she would confine herself to her room for hours, or lame as she was, wander about the house and the ghost's walk, her self-pale as a ghost, and looking meager and wretched. Also she became subject to frequent fainting fits, the first of which took place the night before Hughes' departure, after she had returned to the house from her interview with him in the ghost's walk. She was evidently miserable. For this misery we know that there were very sufficient reasons without taking into account the fact that she had no one to fascinate now. Her continued lameness, which her restlessness aggravated, likewise gave her great cause for anxiety. But I presume that, even during the early part of her confinement, her mind had been thrown back upon itself in that consciousness which often arises in loneliness and suffering, and that even then she had begun to feel that her own self was a worse tyrant than the count, and made her a more wretched slave than any exercise of his unlawful power could make her. Some natures will endure an immense amount of misery before they feel compelled to look there for help whence all help and healing comes. They cannot believe that there is rarely an unseen mysterious power, till the world and all that is in it has vanished in the smoke of despair, till cause and effect is nothing to the intellect, and possible glories have faded from the imagination. Then, deprived of all that made life pleasant or hopeful, the immortal essence, lonely and wretched and unable to cease, looks up with its now unfettered and wakened instinct to the source of its own life. To the possible God who, notwithstanding all the improbabilities of his existence, may yet perhaps be, and may yet perhaps hear his wretched creature that calls. In this loneliness of despair life must fund the life, for joy is gone and life is all that is left. It is compelled to seek its source, its root, its eternal life. This alone remains as a possible thing, strange condition of despair into which the spirit of God drives a man, a condition in which the best alone is the possible. Other simpler natures look up at once. Even before the first pang has passed away, as by a holy instinct of celestial childhood, they lift their eyes to the heavens once come at their aid. Of this class, Euphra was not. She belonged to the former, and yet even she had begun to look upward for the waters had closed above her head. She betook herself to the one man of whom she had heard as knowing about God. She wrote, but no answer came. Days and days passed away, and there was no reply. Ah, just so, she said in bitterness, and if I cried to God forever I should hear no word of reply. If he be, he sits apart and leaves the weak to be the prey of the bad. What cares he? Yet as she spoke, she rose and by a sudden impulse threw herself on the floor and cried for the first time. Oh God, help me. Was their voice or hearing? She rose at least with a little hope and with the feeling that if she could cry to him it might be that he could listen to her. It seemed natural to pray. It seemed to come of itself. That could not be except it was first natural for God to hear. The foundation of her own action must be in him who made her. For her call could be only a response after all. The time passed weirdly by. Dim, slow November days came on, with the fall of the last brown, shred of those clouds of living green that had floated between the earth and heaven. Through the bare boughs of the overarching avenue of the ghost walk, themselves living skeletons, she could now look straight up to the blue sky, which had been there all the time. And she had begun to look up to a higher heaven. Through the bare skeleton shapes of life, for the foliage of joy, had wholly vanished. Shall we say in order that the children of the spring might come? Certainly in order first that the blue sky of a deeper peace might reflect itself in the hitherto darkened waters of her soul. Perhaps some of my readers may think that she had enough to repent of to keep her from weariness. She had plenty to repent of no doubt, but repentance, between the paroxysms of its bitterness, is a very dreary and November-like state of the spiritual weather. For its foggy mornings and cheerless noons cannot believe in the sun of spring, soon to ripen into the sun of summer, and its best time is the night that shuts out the world and weeps its fellow slow tears. But she was not all together so blameworthy as she may have appeared. Her affectations had not been altogether false. She valued and in a measure possessed the feelings for which she sought credit. She had a genuine enjoyment of nature, though after a sensuous, keats-like fashion, not a words-worthy one. It was the body rather than the soul of nature that she loved, its beauty rather than its truth. Had her love of nature been of the deepest, she would have turned aside to conceal her emotions rather than have held them up as allurements in the eyes of her companion. But as no body and no beauty can exist without soul and truth, she who loves the former must at least be capable of loving the deeper essence to which they owe their very existence. This view of her character is borne out by her love of music and her liking for you. Both were genuine. Had the latter been either more or less genuine than it was, the task of fascination would have been more difficult, and its success less complete. Whether her own feelings became further involved than she had calculated upon, I cannot tell. But surely it says something for her in any case that she desired to retain Hugh as her friend, instead of hating him because he had been her lover. How glad she would have been of Harry now. The days crawled one after the other like weary snakes. She tried to read the New Testament. It was to her like a moldy chamber of warm eating parchment, whose windows had not been open to the sun or the wind for centuries, and in which the dust of the decaying leaves choked a few beams that found their way through the age-blinded pains. This state of things could not have lasted long, for Euphor would have died. It lasted however until she felt that she had been leading a false, worthless life, that she had been casting from her every day the few remaining fragments of truth and reality that yet kept her nature from falling in a heap of helpless ruin. That she had never been a true friend to anyone, that she was of no value, fit for no one's admiration, no one's love. She must leave her former self like a dead body behind her and rise into a pure air of life and reality, else she would perish with that everlasting death which is the disease and corruption of the soul itself. To those who know anything of such experiences, it will not be surprising that such feelings as these should be alternated with fierce bursts of passion. The old self then started up with feverish energy and writhes for life. Never anyone tried to be better without for a time seeming to himself, perhaps to others, to be worse. For the suffering of the spirit weakens the brain itself, and the whole physical nature groans under it, while the energy spent in the effort to awake and arise from the dust leaves the regions previously guarded by prudence naked to the wild inroads of the sudden-destroying impulses born of suffering, self-sickness and hatred. As in the delirious patient, they would dash to the earth whatever comes first within reach, as if the thing first perceived and so by perception alone brought into contact with the suffering were the cause of all the distress. One day a letter arrived for her. She had had no letter from anyone for weeks, yet when she saw the direction she flung it from her. It was for Mrs. Elton whom she disliked, because she found her utterly uninteresting and very stupid. Poor Mrs. Elton laid no claim to the contraries of these epitaphs, but in the proportion as she abjured thought she claimed speech both by word of mouth and by letter. Why not? There was nothing in it. She considered reason as an awful enemy to the soul and obnoxious to God, especially when applied to find out what he means when he addresses us as a reasonable creatures. But speech? There was no harm in that. Perhaps it was some latent conviction that this power of speech was the chief distinction between herself and the lower animals that made her use it so freely and at the same time open her purse so liberally to the hospital for orphaned dogs and cats. Had it not been for her own dire necessity, the fact that Mrs. Elton was religious would have been enough to convince Euphra that there could not possibly be anything in religion. The letter lay unopened till next day, a fact easy to account for, improbable as it may seem, for besides writing as largely as she talked, and less amusingly, because more correctly, Mrs. Elton wrote such an indistinct, though punctiliously neat, hand that the reading of a letter of hers involved no small amount of labor. But the sun shining out next morning, Euphra took courage to read it while drinking her coffee, although she could not expect to make this ceremony more pleasant thereby. It contained an invitation to visit Mrs. Elton at her house in the street, Hyde Park, with the assurance that, now that everything was arranged, they had plenty of room for her. Mrs. Elton was sure she must be lonely at all instead, and Mrs. Horton could no doubt be trusted, and so on. Had this letter arrived a few weeks earlier, Euphra would have infused into her answer a skilful concoction of delicate contempt, not for the amusement of knowing that Mrs. Elton would never discover a trace of it, but simply for a relief to her own dislike. Now she would have written a plain letter containing as brief and as true an excuse as she could find. Had it not been that enclosed in Mrs. Elton's note, she found another which ran thus. Dear Euphra, do come and see us. I do not like London at all without you. There are no happy days here like those we had at Arnstead with Mr. Sutherland. Mrs. Elton and Margaret are very kind to me, but I wish you would come. Do, do, do, please do. Your affectionate cousin, Harry Arnold. The dear boy said, Euphra, with the gush of pure and grateful affection, I will go and see him. Harry had begun to work with his masters and was doing his best, which was very good. If his heart was not so much in it as when he was studying with his big brother, he gained a great benefit from the increase of exercise to his will in the doing of what was less pleasant. Ever since you had given his faculties a right direction and aided him by helpful, manly sympathy, he had been making up for the period during which childhood had been protracted into boyhood, and now he was making rapid progress. When Euphra arrived, Harry rushed to the hall to meet her. She took him in her arms and burst into tears. Her tears drew forth his. He stroked her pale face and said, Dear Euphra, how ill you look. I shall soon be better now, Harry. I was afraid you did not love me, Euphra, but now I am sure you do. Indeed I do. I am very sorry for everything that made you think I did not love you. No, no, it was all my fancy. Now we shall be very happy. And so Harry was, and Euphra, through means of Harry, began to gain a little of what is better than most kinds of happiness, because it is the nearest to the best happiness, I mean peace. This foretaste of rest came to her from the devotedness with which she now applied herself to aid the intellect, which she had unconsciously repressed and stunted before. She took Harry's books when he had gone to bed and read over all his lessons that she might be able to assist him in preparing them, venturing us into some regions of labor into which ladies are too seldom conducted by those who instruct them. This produced, in her quite new experiences, one of these was that in proportion as she labored for Harry, hope grew for herself. It was likewise of the greatest immediate benefit that the intervals of thought, instead of lying vacant to melancholy, or the vapors that sprung from the foregoing strife of the spiritual elements, should be occupied by a healthy mental exercise. Still, however, she was subject to great vicissitudes of feeling, a kind of peevishness to which she had formerly been a stranger, was but too ready to appear even when she was most anxious in her converse with Harry to behave well to him. But the pure forgiveness of the boy was wonderful. Instead of plaguing himself to find out the cause of her behavior, or resenting it in the least, he only labored by increased attention and submission to remove it, and seemed perfectly satisfied when it was followed by a kind word, which to him was repentance, apology, amends, and betterment, all in one. When he had thus driven away the evil spirit, there was Euphra her own self. So perfectly did she see, and so thoroughly appreciate, this kindness and love of Harry, that he began to look to her like an angel of forgiveness, come to live a boy's life that he might do an angel's work. Her health continued very poor. She suffered constantly from more or less headache, and at times from faintings. But she had not for some time discovered any signs of sonambulism. Of this peculiarity her friends were entirely ignorant, the occasions, indeed, on which it had manifested itself to an excessive degree had been but few. Chapter 55 Chapter 56 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 Georgia MacDonald Chapter 56 of the New Pupils Think you a little din can daunt my ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? And do you tell me of a woman's tongue that gives not half so great a blow to hear, as will a chestnut in a farmer's fire, tush, tush, fear boys with bugs, taming of the shrew? During the whole of his first interview with Falconer, which lasted so long that he had been glad to make a bed of Falconer's sofa, he never once referred to the object for which he had accepted McPherson's proffered introduction. Nor did Falconer ask him any questions. He was too much interested and saddened by the scenes through which Falconer led him, not to shrink from speaking of anything less important. And with Falconer it was a rule, a principle almost, never to expedite utterance of any sort. In the morning, feeling a little good-natured anxiety as to his landlady's reception of him, he made some allusion to it as he sat at his new friend's breakfast table. Falconer said, what is your landlady's name? Miss Talbot. Oh, a little Miss Talbot. You are in good quarters, too good to lose, I can tell you. Just say to Miss Talbot that you were with me. You know her then? Oh yes, you seem to know everybody. If I have spoken to a person once, I never forget him. That seems to me very strange. It is simple enough. The secret of it is that as far as I can help it, I never have any merely business relations with anyone. I try always not to forget that there is a deeper relation between us. I commonly succeed worst in a drawing room, yet even there for the time we are together, I try to recognize the present humanity, however much distorted or concealed. The consequence is I never forget anybody, and I generally find that others remember me, at least those with whom I have had any real relations, springing from my need or from theirs. The man who mends a broken chair for you, or a rent in your coat renders you a human service, and in virtue of that comes near to your inner self the nine-tenths of the ladies and gentlemen, whom you meet only in what is called society, are likely to do. But do you not find it awkward sometimes? Not in the least. I'm never ashamed of knowing anyone, and as I never assume a familiarity that does not exist, I never find it assumed towards me. You found the advantage of Falconer's sociology when he mentioned to Ms. Talbot that he had been his guest that night. You should have sent us word Mr. Sutherland was all Ms. Talbot's reply. I could not do so before you must have been all in bed. I was sorry, but I could hardly help it. Ms. Talbot turned away into the kitchen. The only other indication of her feeling in the matter was that she sent him up a cup of delicious chocolate for his lunch, before he set out for Mr. Appleditch's, where she had heard at the shop that he was going. My reader must not be left to fear that I am about to give a detailed account of Hugh's plans with these unpleasant little immortals whose earthly nature sprang from a pair whose religion consisted chiefly in negation and whose main duty seemed to be to make money in small sums and spend it in smaller. When he arrived at Euclust Crescent, he was shown into the dining room into which the boys were separately dragged to receive the first installment of the mental legacy left them by their ancestors. But the legacy duty was so heavy that they would gladly have declined paying it, even with the loss of the legacy itself, and Hugh was dismayed at the impossibility of interesting them in anything. He tried telling them stories, even, without success. They stared at him, it is true, but whether there was more speculation in the open mouths or in the fishy overfed eyes, he found it impossible to determine. He could not help feeling the riddle of Providence in regard to the birth of these much harder to read than that involved in the case of some of the little thieves whose acquaintance he had made when with Falconer the evening before. But he did his best, and before the time it expired, two hours namely, he had found out to his satisfaction that the elder had a turn for sums and the younger for drawing. So he made use of these predilections to bribe them to the exercise of their intellect upon less favored branches of human accomplishment. He found the plan operate as well as it could have been expected to operate upon such material. But one or two little incidents relating to his intercourse with Mrs. Appleditch I must not omit. Noah mother's love is more ready to purify itself than most other loves, yet there is a class of mothers whose love is only an extended, scarcely expanded selfishness. Mrs. Appleditch did not in the least love her children because they were children, and children committed to her care by the father of all children. But she loved them dearly because they were her children. One day Hugh gave Master Appleditch a smart slap across the fingers as the ultimate resourced. The child screamed as he well knew how. His mother burst into the room. Johnny, hold your tongue. Teachers bend and hurt me. Hold your tongue, I say. My heads like to split. Get out of the room, you little ruffian. She seized him by the shoulders and turned him out, administering a box on his ear that made the room ring, then turning to Hugh. Mr. Sutherland, how dare you strike my child, she demanded. He required it, Mrs. Appleditch. I did him no harm. He will mind what I say another time. I will not have him touched. It's disgraceful to strike a child. She belonged to that class of humane parents who consider it cruel to inflict any corporal suffering upon children, except they do it themselves and in a passion. Johnny behaved better after this, however, and the only revenge Mrs. Appleditch took for this interference with the dignity of her eldest born, and consequently with her own as his mother was that, with the view probably of impressing upon Hugh a due sense of the menial position he occupied in her family, she always paid him his fee of one shilling and sixpence every day before he left the house. Once or twice she contrived accidentally that the sixpence should be in coppers. He was too much of a philosopher, however, to mind this from such a woman. I'm afraid he rather enjoyed her spite, for he felt it did not touch him, seeing it could not be less honorable to be paid by the day than by the quarter or by the year. Certainly the coppers were an annoyance, but if the coppers could be carried the annoyance could be borne. The real disgust in the affair was that he had to meet and speak with a woman every day for whom he could feel nothing but contempt and aversion. Hugh was not yet able to mingle with these feelings any of the leaven of that charity which they need most of all who are contemptible in the eyes of their fellows. Contempt is murder committed by the intellect, as hatred is murder committed by the heart. Charity, having life in itself, is the opposite and destroyer of contempt as well as of hatred. After this nothing went amiss for some time, but it was very dreary work to teach such boys. For the younger came in for the odd sixpence. Slow, stupid resistance appeared to be the only principle of their behavior towards him. They scorned the man whom their mother despised and valued for the self same reason, namely that he was cheap. They would have defied him had they dared, but he managed to establish an authority over them and to increase it. Still he could not rouse them to any real interest in their studies. Indeed they were as near being little beasts as it was possible for children to be. Their eyes grew dull at a storybook, but greedily bright at the sight of bull's eyes or toffee. It was the same day after day till he was sick of it. No doubt they made some progress, but it was scarcely perceptible to him. Through fog and fare, through frost and snow, through wind and rain, he trudged to that wretched house. No one minds the weather, no young scotchmen at least, where any pleasure waits, the clothes of the struggle, to fight his way to misery was more than he could well endure. But his deliverance was nearer than he expected. It was not to come just yet however. All went on with frightful sameness till sundry doubtful symptoms of an alteration in the personal appearance of Hugh, having accumulated at last into a mass of evidence, forced a conviction upon the mind of the grocer's wife that her tutor was actually growing a beard. Could she believe her eyes? She said she could not, but she acted on their testimony not withstanding, and one day suddenly addressing Hugh said in her usual cold, thin, cutting fashion of speech, Mr. Sutherland, I am astonished and grieved that you, a teacher of babes, who should set an example to them, should disguise yourself in such an outlandish figure. What do you mean, Mrs. Appleditch? asked Hugh, who though he had made up his mind to follow the example of Falconer, yet felt uncomfortable enough during the transition period to know quite well what she meant. What do I mean, sir? It is a shame for a man to let his beard grow like a monkey. But a monkey has in a beard, retorted Hugh, laughing. Man is the only animal who has one. This assertion, if not quite correct, was approximately so, and went much near the truth than Mrs. Appleditch's argument. It's no joking matter, Mr. Sutherland, with my two darlings growing up to be ministers of the Gospel. What both of them thought Hugh good heavens, but he said, well, but you know, Mrs. Appleditch, the Apostles themselves wore beards. Yes, when they were Jews. But who would have believed them if they had preached the Gospel like old clothesmen? No, no, Mr. Sutherland. I see through all that. My own uncle was a preacher of the word. As soon as the Apostles became Christians, they shaved. It was the sign of Christianity. The Apostle Paul himself says that cleanliness is next to godliness. Hugh restrained his laughter and shifted his ground. But there is nothing dirty about them, he said. Not dirty. And how really, Mr. Sutherland, you provoke me. Nothing dirty and long hair, all round your mouth, and going into it every spoonful you take. But it can be kept properly trimmed, you know. But who's to trust you to do that? No, no, Mr. Sutherland. You must not make a guy of yourself. Hugh laughed and said nothing. Of course, his beard would go on growing, for he could not help it. So did Mrs. Appleditch's wrath. End Chapter 56. Chapter 57 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 57. Consultations. Wilkine Gluttersen. Walton Gispenster. Novalis. Die Crickenhead. Where gods are not, specters rule. Ein Charakter ist ein Willkommen. Gebälder Will. Novalis. Morilst. And Schichtglenn. A character is a perfectly formed will. It was not long before Hugh repeated his visit to Falconer. He was not at home. He went again and again, but still failed in finding him. The day after the third failure, however, he received a note from Falconer, mentioning an hour at which he would be at home on the following evening. He went. Falconer was waiting for him. I am very sorry. I am out so much, said Falconer. I ought to have taken the opportunity when I had it, replied Hugh. I want to ask your help. May I begin at the beginning and tell you all the story, or must I epitomize and curtail it? Be as diffuse as you please. I shall understand the thing the better. So Hugh began and told the whole of his history in as far as it bore upon the story of the crystal. He ended with the words, I trust Mr. Falconer, you will not think that it is from a love of talking that I have said so much about this affair. Certainly not. It is a remarkable story. I will think what can be done. Meantime I will keep my eyes and ears open. I may find the fellow. Tell me what he is like. Hugh gave his minute description of the count as he could. I think I see the man, said Falconer. I am pretty sure I shall recognize him. Have you any idea what he could want with the ring? It is one of the curious coincidences, which are always happening, answered Falconer, that a newspaper of this very day would have enabled me without any previous knowledge of similar facts to give a probably correct suggestion as to his object, but you can judge for yourself. So saying Falconer went to a side table, heaped up with books and papers, maps, and instruments of various kinds, apparently in triumphant confusion. Without a moment's hesitation, notwithstanding, he selected the paper he wanted and handed it to Hugh, who read it in a letter to the editor of which the following is a portion. I have for over 30 years been in the habit of investigating the question by means of crystals, and since 18, I have possessed the celebrated crystal, once belonging to Lady Blessington, in which very many persons, both children and adults, have seen visions of the spirits of the deceased, or of beings claiming to be such, and of numerous angels and other beings of the spiritual world. These have in all cases supported the purest and most liberal Christianity. The faculty has seen in the crystal I have found to exist in about one person in ten among adults, and in nearly nine in every ten among children, many of whom appear to lose the faculty as they grow to adult age, unless they practice it continually. Is it possible, said Hugh, pausing, that this can be a veritable paper of today? Are there people to believe such things? There are more fools in the world, Mr. Sutherland, than there are crystals in its mountains. Hugh resumed his reading. He came at length to this passage. The spirits, which I feel certain they are, which appear, do not hesitate to inform us on all possible subjects, which may tend to improve our morals and confirm our faith in the Christian doctrines. The character they give of the class of spirits who are in the habit of communicating with mortals by rapping and such proceedings, is such that it behooves all Christian people to be on their guard against error and delusion through their means. Hugh had read this passage aloud. Is not that a comfort now, Mr. Sutherland, said Falconer? For in all the reports which I have seen of the religious instruction communicated in that highly articulate manner, Calvinism, high and low, has predominated. I strongly suspect the crystal phantoms of Arminianism, though, fancy the old disputes of infant Christendom perpetuated amongst the paltry ghosts of another realm. But, said Hugh, I do not quite see how this is to help me as to the Count's object in securing the ring. For certainly, however deficient he may be in such knowledge, he is not likely to have committed the theft for the sake of instruction in the doctrines of the sects. No, but such a crystal might be put to other, not to say better uses. Besides, Lady Blessedin's crystal might be a pious crystal, and the other which belong to Lady. Lady Euphrasia. To Lady Euphrasia might be a worldly crystal altogether. This might reveal demons and their councils, while that was haunted by theological angels and evangelical ghosts. Ah, I see. I should have thought, however, that the Count had been too much of a man of the world to believe such things. He might find his account in it notwithstanding, but no amount of world wisdom can set a man above the inroads of superstition. In fact, there is but one thing that can free a man from superstition, and that is belief. All history proves it. The most skeptical have ever been the most credulous. This is one of the best arguments for the existence of something to believe. He remind me of a passage in my story which I omitted as irrelevant to the matter in hand. Do let me have it. It cannot fail to interest me. He gave a complete account of the experiments they had made with the Carerian Plate. Now, the writing of the name of David Elginbrod was the most remarkable phenomenon of the whole, and he was compelled in responding to the natural interest of Falconer to give a description of David. This led to a sketch of his own sojourn at Turry Puffett, in which the character of David came out far more plainly than it could have come out in any description. When he had finished, Falconer broke out as if he had been hitherto restraining his wrath with difficulty. And that was the man that creatures dared to personate. I hate the whole thing, Sutherland. It is full of impudence and irreverence. Perhaps the wretched beings may want another thousand years damnation because of the injury done to their character by the homage of men who ought to know better. I do not quite understand you. I mean that you ought to believe as easily that such a man as you describe is laughing with the devil and his angels as that he wrote a copy at the order of a Charlie. Or worse, but it could hardly be deception. Not deception. A man like him could not get through them without being recognized. I don't understand you by whom? By swarms of low miserable creatures that solement the loss of their beggarly bodies that they would brood upon them in the shape of flesh flies rather than forsake the putrifying remnants. After that chair or table or anything that they can come into contact with possesses quite sufficient organization for such. Don't you remember that once, rather than have nobody to go into, they crept into the very swine? There was a fine passion for self embodiment and sympathy, but the swine themselves could not stand it in preferred drowning. Then you do think there was something supernatural in it? Nothing in the least. It required no supernatural power to be aware that a great man was dead and that you had known him well. It annoys me, Sutherland, that able man I and good man too should consult with ghosts whose only possible superiority consists in their being out of the body. Why should they be the wiser for that? I should as soon expect to gain wisdom by taking off my clothes and to lose it by getting into bed, or to rise into the seventh heaven of spirituality by having my hair cut. An impudent forgery of that good man's name. If I were you, Sutherland, I would have nothing to do with such a low set. They are the canal of the other world. It's of no use to lay hold on their skirts, for they can't fly. They're just like the vultures. Easy to catch because they're full of garbage. I doubt if they have more intellect left than just enough to lie with. I have been compelled to think a good deal about these things of late. Falconer put a good many questions to Hugh about Euphra and her relation to the Count, and such was the confidence with which he had inspired him that Hugh felt at perfect liberty to answer them all fully, not avoiding even the exposure of his own feelings where that was involved by the story. Now, said Falconer, I have material out of which to construct a theory. The Count is at present like a law of nature concerning which a prudent question is the first half of the answer, as Lord Bacon says. And you can put no question without having first formed a theory, however slight or temporary. For otherwise no question will suggest itself. But in the meantime, as I said before, I will make inquiry upon the theory that he is somewhere in London, although I doubt it. Then I will not occupy your time any longer at present, said Hugh. Could you say without fettering yourself in the least when I might be able to see you again? Let me see. I will make an appointment with you next Sunday, here at 10 o'clock in the morning. Make a note of it. There is no fear of my forgetting it. My consolations are not so numerous that I can afford to forget my sole pleasure. You, I should think, have more need to make a note of it than I, though I am quite willing to be forgotten if necessary. I never forget my engagements, said Falconer. They parted, and Hugh went home to his novel. And Chapter 57 Chapter 58 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 58 Questions and Dreams On a certain time, the Lady St. Mary had commanded the Lord Jesus to fetch her some water out of the well. And when he had gone to fetch the water, the pitcher, when it was brought up full, break. But Jesus, spreading his mantle, gathered up the water again, and brought it in that to his mother. The first apocryphal gospel of the infancy of Jesus Christ. Mrs. Elton read prayers morning and evening, very elaborate compositions which would have instructed the apostles themselves in many things they had never anticipated. But, unfortunately, Mrs. Elton must likewise read certain remarks in the form of a homily, intended to impress the scripture which preceded it upon the minds of the listeners. Between the mortar of the homiless faith, and the dull blows of the pestle of his arrogance, the fair form of truth was ground into the powder of pious small talk. This result was not pleasant either to Harry or to Euphra. Euphra, with her life threatening to go to ruin about her, was crying out for him who made the soul of man, who loved us into being. Goldsmith twice, and the citizen of the world. And who can alone review the life of his children. And in such words as those scoffing demons seemed to mock at her needs. Harry had the natural dislike of all childlike natures to everything formal, exclusive, and unjust. But having received nothing of what is commonly called a religious training, this advantage resulted from his new experiences in Mrs. Elton's family. That a good direction was given to his thoughts, by the dislike which he felt to such utterances. More than this, a horror fell upon him lest these things should be true. Lest the mighty all of nature should be only a mechanism without expression and without beauty. Lest the God who made us should be like us only in this, that he too was selfish and mean and proud. Lest his ideas should resemble those that inhabit the brain of a retired moneymaker, or of an arbitrary monarch claiming a divine right, instead of towering as the heavens over the earth, above the loftiest moods of highest poet, most generous child, or most devoted mother. I do not mean that these thoughts took these shapes in Harry's mind, but that his feelings were such as might have been condensed into such thoughts, had his intellect been more mature. One morning the passage of scripture, which Mrs. Elton read, was the story of the young man who came to Jesus, and went away sorrowful, because the Lord thought so well of him, and loved him so heartily, that he wanted to set him free from his riches. A great portion of the homily was occupied with proving that the evangelist could not possibly mean that Jesus loved the young man in any pregnant sense of the word, but merely meant that Jesus felt kindly disposed towards him, felt a poor little human interest in him, in fact, and did not love him divinely at all. Harry's face was in a flame all the time she was reading. When the service was over, and a bond service it was for Euphra and him, they left the room together. As soon as the door was shut, he burst out. I say, Euphra, wasn't that a shame? They would have Jesus as bad as themselves. We shall have somebody writing a book next to prove that after all Jesus was a Pharisee. Never mind, said the heart source, skeptical Euphra. Never mind, Harry. It's all nonsense. No, it's not all nonsense. Jesus did love the young man. I believe the story itself, before all the doctors of divinity in the world. He loves all of us, he does, with all his heart too. I hope so, was all she could reply. But she was comforted by Harry's vehement confession of faith. Euphra was so far softened, or perhaps weakened by suffering, that she yielded many things which would have seemed impossible before. One of these was that she went to church with Mrs. Elton, where that lady hoped she would get good to her soul. Harry, of course, was not left behind. The church she frequented was a fashionable one, with the vicar more fashionable still. For had he left that church, more than half his congregation, which consisted mostly of ladies, would have left it also, and followed him to the ends of London. He was a middle-aged man, with a rubicon countenance, and a gentle familiarity of manner, that was exceedingly pleasing to the fashionable sheep, who, conscious that they had wandered from the fold, were waiting with exemplary patience for the barroques, and male phatons of disguise to carry them back without the trouble of walking. Alas for them, they have to learn that the chariots of heaven are chariots of fire. The Sunday morning following the conversation I have just recorded, the clergyman's sermon was devoted to the illustration of the greatness and condescension of the Savior. After a certain amount of tame excitement expended upon the consideration of his power and kingdom, one passage was wound up in this fashion. Yes, my friends, even her most gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria, the ruler over millions, diverse in speech and in hue, to whom we all look up with humble submission, and whom we acknowledge as our sovereign Lady, even she, great as she is, adds by her homage a jewel to his crown, and hailing him as her Lord bows and renders him worship. Yet this is he who comes down to visit, yea, dwells with his own elect, his chosen ones whom he has led back to the fold of his grace. For some reason known to himself, Falconer had taken Hugh, who had gone to him according to appointment that morning, to this same church. As they came out, he said, Mr. is quite proud of the honor done his master by the Queen. I do not think, answered Falconer, that his master will think so much of it, for he once had his feet washed by a woman that was a sinner. The homily, which Mrs. Elton read at prayers that evening, bore upon the same subject nominally as the chapter that preceded it, that of election, a doctor in which in the Bible asserts the fact of God's choosing certain persons for the specific purpose of receiving first, and so communicating the gifts of his grace to the whole world, but which, in the homily referred to, was taken to mean the choice of certain persons for ultimate salvation to the exclusion of the rest. They were sitting in silence after the close when Harry started up suddenly, saying, I don't want God to love me if he does not love everybody, and bursting into tears hurried out of the room. Mrs. Elton was often shocked at his wickedness. Euphra hastened after him, but he would not return and went supperless to bed. Euphra, however, carried him some supper. He sat up in bed and ate it with the tears in his eyes. She kissed him and made him good night, when, just as she was leaving the room, he broke out with. But only think, Euphra, if it should be true, I would rather not have been made. It is not true, said Euphra, in whom a faint glimmer of faith and God awoke for the sake of the boy whom she loved. I awoke to comfort him when it would not open its eyes for herself. No, Harry, dear, if there is a God at all, he is not like that. No, he can't be, said Harry vehemently, and with the brightness of his sudden thought. For if he were like that, he wouldn't be a God worth being, and that couldn't be, you know. Euphra knelt by her bedside and prayed more hopefully than for many days before. She prayed that God would let her know that he was not an idol of man's invention. Till friendly sleep came, and untied the knot of care, both Euphra and Harry lay troubled with things too great for them. Even in their sleep, the care would gather again and body itself into dreams. The first thought that visited Harry when he awoke was the memory of his dream, that he died and went to heaven. That heaven was a great church, just like the one Mrs. Elton went to, only larger. That the pews were filled with angels, so crowded together that they had to tuck up their wings very close indeed. And Harry could not help wondering what they wanted them for. That they were all singing songs. That the pulpit by little change had been converted into a throne, on which sat God the Father looking very solemn and severe. That Jesus was seated in the reading desk, looking very sad. And that the Holy Ghost sat on the clerk's desk in the shape of a white dove. That a cherub, whose face reminded him very much of a policeman he knew, took him by the shoulder for trying to pluck a splendid green feather out of an archangel's wing, and led him up to the throne where God shook his head at him in such a dreadful way. That he was terrified, and then stretched out his hand to lay hold on him. That he shrieked with fear, and that Jesus put out his hand, and lifted him into the reading desk and hit him down below. And there Harry lay, feeling so safe, stroking and kissing the feet that had been weary and wounded for him. Tell in the growing delight of the thought that he actually held those feet, he came awake and remembered it all. Truly it was a childish dream, but not without its own significance. For surely the only refuge from heatheness representations of God under Christian forms, the only refuge from man's blinding and paralyzing theories, from the dead wooden shape substituted for the living forms of human love and hope and aspiration, from the interpretations which render scripture as dry as a speech and chancery. Surely the one refuge from all these awful evils is the Son of Man, for no misrepresentation and no misconception can destroy the beauty of that face, which the marring of sorrow has elevated into the region of reality, beyond the marring of irreverent speculation and scholastic definition. From the God of Man's painting, we turn to the man of God's being, and he leads us to the true God, the radiation of whose glory we first see in him. Happy is that man who has a glimpse of this, even in a dream such as Harry's, a dream in other respects childish and incongruous, but not more absurd than the instruction whence it sprung. But the troubles returned with the day, prayers revived them, he sought you for in a room. They say I must repent and be sorry for my sins, said he. I have been trying very hard, but I can't think of any except once that I gave Gog, his well spony, such a beating because he would go where I didn't want him. But he's forgotten it long ago, and I gave him two feeds of corn after it, and so somehow I can't feel very sorry now. What shall I do? But that's not what I mind most. It always seems to me it would be so much grander of God to say, come along, never mind, I'll make you good, I can't wait till you are good, I love you so much. His own words were too much for Harry, and he burst into tears at the thought of God being so kind. Euphra, instead of trying to comfort him, cried too. Thus they continued for some time, Harry with his head on her knees, and she kindly fondling it with her distressed hands. Harry was the first to recover, for his was the April time of life, when rain clears the heavens. All at once he sprung to his feet and exclaimed, Only think, Euphra, what if after all I should find out that God is as kind as you are? How Euphra's heart smote her. Dear Harry, answered she, God must be a great deal kinder than I am. I have not been kind to you at all. Don't say that, Euphra, I shall be quite content if God is as kind as you. Oh Harry, I hope God is like what I dreamed about my mother last night. Tell me what you dreamed about her, dear Euphra. I dreamed I was a little child. Were you a little girl when your mother died? Oh yes, such a tiny, but I can just remember her. Tell me your dream then. I dreamed that I was a little girl, out all alone on a wild mountain moor, tripping and stumbling on my nightgown, and the wind was so cold, and somehow or other the wind was an enemy to me, and it followed and caught me, and whirled and tossed me about, and then ran away again. And I hastened on, and the thorns went into my feet, and the stones cut them, and I heard the blood from them trickling down the hillside as I walked. Then they would be like the feet I saw in my dream last night. Whose feet were they? Jesus' feet. Tell me about it. You must finish yours first, please Euphra. So Euphra went on. I got dreadfully lame, and the wind ran after me, and caught me again, and took me in his great blue ghostly arms, and shook me about, and then dropped me again to go on. But it was very hard to go on, and I couldn't stop. And there was no use in stopping, for the wind was everywhere in a moment. Then suddenly I saw before me a great cataract, all in white, falling flash from a precipice, and I thought with myself, I will go into the cataract, and it will beat my life out, and the wind will not get me anymore. So I hastened toward it, but the wind caught me many times before I got near it. At last I reached it and threw myself down into the basin, and it hauled out of the rocks. But as I was falling, something caught me gently and held me fast, and it was not the wind. I opened my eyes, and behold, I was in my mother's arms, and she was clasping me to her breast. For what I had taken for a cataract falling into a gulf was only my mother, with her white grave clothes floating all about her, standing up in her grave to look after me. It was time you came home, my darling, she said, and stooped down into her grave with me in her arms. And oh, I was so happy, and her bosom was not cold, or her arms hard, and she carried me just like a baby, and when she stooped down, then a door opened somewhere in the grave. I could not find out where exactly, and in a moment after her. We were sitting together in a summer grove, with the treetops steeped in sunshine, and waving about in a quiet, loving wind. Oh, how different from the one that chased me home. And we, underneath, in the shadow of the trees, and then I said, Mother, I've hurt my feet. Did you call her mother when you were a little girl, in her post, Harry? No, answered Euphra. I called her Mama, like other children, but in my dreams I always call her Mother. And what did she say? She said, Poor Child, and held my feet to her bosom, and after that when I looked at them, the bleeding was all gone, and I was not lame any more. Euphra paused with a sigh. Oh, Harry, I do not like to be lame. What more, said Harry, intent only on the dream. Oh, then I was so happy that I woke up directly. What a pity, but if it should come true. How could it come true, dear Harry? While this world is sometimes cold and the road is hard, you know what I mean, Euphra. Yes, I do. I wish I could dream like that. How clever you must be. But you dream dreams, too, Harry. Tell me yours. Oh, no, I never dream dreams. The dreams dream me, answered Harry with a smile. Then he told his dream, to which Euphra listened with an interest uninjured by the grotesqueness of its fancy. Each interpreted the others with reverence. They ceased talking, and sat silent for a while. Then Harry, putting his arm round Euphra's neck, and his lips close to her ear, whispered, Perhaps God will say my darling to you someday, Euphra, just as your mother did in your dream. She was silent. Harry looked round into her face, and saw that the tears were flowing fast. At that instant a gentle knock came to the door. Euphra could not reply to it. It was repeated. After another moment's delay, the door opened, and Margaret walked in. End Chapter Fifty-