The Vicar's Daughter - George MacDonald (read dune txt) 📗

without raising his head or lowering his knees, jabbered out such instructions as, from the rapidity with which he delivered them, were, if not unintelligible, at all events incomprehensible; and Roger had to set out again on the quest, only not quite so bewildered as before. He found a certain long passage mentioned, however, and happily, before he arrived at the end of it, met a maid, who with the utmost civility gave him full instructions to find the place. The scullery-maid was equally civil; and Roger returned with basin and sponge to the drawing-room, where he speedily removed the too troublesome stains from the face of the marble.

When the company re-entered, Mr. F. saw at once, from the expression and bearing of Roger, that something had happened to discompose him, and asked him what was amiss. Roger having briefly informed him, Mr. F. at once recounted the facts to Lady Bernard, who immediately requested a full statement from Roger himself, and heard the whole story.

She walked straight to the bell, and ordered up every one of her domestics, from the butler to the scullery-maid.

Without one hasty word, or one bodily sign of the anger she was in, except the flashing of her eyes, she told them she could not have had a suspicion that such insolence was possible in her house; that they had disgraced her in her own eyes, as having gathered such people about her; that she would not add to Mr. Percivale’s annoyance by asking him to point out the guilty persons, but that they might assure themselves she would henceforth keep both eyes and ears open, and if the slightest thing of the sort happened again, she would most assuredly dismiss every one of them at a moment’s warning. She then turned to Roger and said,—

“Mr. Percivale, I beg your pardon for the insults you have received from my servants.”

“I did think,” she said, as she finished telling me the story, “to dismiss them all on the spot, but was deterred by the fear of injustice. The next morning, however, four or five of them gave my housekeeper warning: I gave orders that they should leave the house at once, and from that day I set about reducing my establishment. My principal objects were two: first, that my servants might have more work; and second, that I might be able to know something of every one of them; for one thing I saw, that, until I ruled my own house well, I had no right to go trying to do good out of doors. I think I do know a little of the nature and character of every soul under my roof now; and I am more and more confident that nothing of real and lasting benefit can be done for a class except through personal influence upon the individual persons who compose it—such influence, I mean, as at the very least sets for Christianity.”

 

CHAPTER XXXI.

ABOUT PERCIVALE.

 

I should like much, before in my narrative approaching a certain hard season we had to encounter, to say a few words concerning my husband, if I only knew how. I find women differ much, both in the degree and manner in which their feelings will permit them to talk about their husbands. I have known women set a whole community against their husbands by the way in which they trumpeted their praises; and I have known one woman set everybody against herself by the way in which she published her husband’s faults. I find it difficult to believe either sort. To praise one’s husband is so like praising one’s self, that to me it seems immodest, and subject to the same suspicion as self-laudation; while to blame one’s husband, even justly and openly, seems to me to border upon treachery itself. How, then, am I to discharge a sort of half duty my father has laid upon me by what he has said in “The Seaboard Parish,” concerning my husband’s opinions? My father is one of the few really large-minded men I have yet known; but I am not certain that he has done Percivale justice. At the same time, if he has not, Percivale himself is partly to blame, inasmuch as he never took pains to show my father what he was; for, had he done so, my father of all men would have understood him. On the other hand, this fault, if such it was, could have sprung only from my husband’s modesty, and his horror of possibly producing an impression on my father’s mind more favorable than correct. It is all right now, however.

Still, my difficulty remains as to how I am to write about him. I must encourage myself with the consideration that none but our own friends, with whom, whether they understood us or not, we are safe, will know to whom the veiled narrative points.

But some acute reader may say,—

“You describe your husband’s picture: he will be known by that.”

In this matter I have been cunning—I hope not deceitful, inasmuch as I now reveal my cunning. Instead of describing any real picture of his, I have always substituted one he has only talked about. The picture actually associated with the facts related is not the picture I have described.

Although my husband left the impression on my father’s mind, lasting for a long time, that he had some definite repugnance to Christianity itself, I had been soon satisfied, perhaps from his being more open with me, that certain unworthy representations of Christianity, coming to him with authority, had cast discredit upon the whole idea of it. In the first year or two of our married life, we had many talks on the subject; and I was astonished to find what things he imagined to be acknowledged essentials of Christianity, which have no place whatever in the New Testament; and I think it was in proportion as he came to see his own misconceptions, that, although there was little or no outward difference to be perceived in him, I could more and more clearly distinguish an under-current of thought and feeling setting towards the faith which Christianity preaches. He said little or nothing, even when I attempted to draw him out on the matter; for he was almost morbidly careful not to seem to know any thing he did not know, or to appear what he was not. The most I could get out of him was—but I had better give a little talk I had with him on one occasion. It was some time before we began to go to Marion’s on a Sunday evening, and I had asked him to go with me to a certain, little chapel in the neighborhood.

“What!” he said merrily, “the daughter of a clergyman be seen going to a conventicle?”

“If I did it, I would be seen doing it,” I answered.

“Don’t you know that the man is no conciliatory, or even mild dissenter, but a decided enemy to Church and State and all that?” pursued Percivale.

“I don’t care,” I returned. “I know nothing about it. What I know is, that he’s a poet and a prophet both in one. He stirs up my heart within me, and makes me long to be good. He is no orator, and yet breaks into bursts of eloquence such as none of the studied orators, to whom you profess so great an aversion, could ever reach.”

“You may well be right there. It is against nature for a speaker to be eloquent throughout his discourse, and the false will of course quench the true. I don’t mind going if you wish it. I suppose he believes what he says, at least.”

“Not a doubt of it. He could not speak as he does from less than a thorough belief.”

“Do you mean to say, Wynnie, that he is sure of every thing,—I don’t want to urge an unreasonable question,—but is he sure that the story of the New Testament is, in the main, actual fact? I should be very sorry to trouble your faith, but”—

“My father says,” I interrupted, “that a true faith is like the Pool of Bethesda: it is when troubled that it shows its healing power.”

“That depends on where the trouble comes from, perhaps,” said Percivale.

“Anyhow,” I answered, “it is only that which cannot be shaken that shall remain.”

“Well, I will tell you what seems to me a very common-sense difficulty. How is any one to be sure of the things recorded? I cannot imagine a man of our time absolutely certain of them. If you tell me I have testimony, I answer, that the testimony itself requires testimony. I never even saw the people who bear it; have just as good reason to doubt their existence, as that of him concerning whom they bear it; have positively no means of verifying it, and indeed, have so little confidence in all that is called evidence, knowing how it can be twisted, that I should distrust any conclusion I might seem about to come to on the one side or the other. It does appear to me, that, if the thing were of God, he would have taken care that it should be possible for an honest man to place a hearty confidence in its record.”

He had never talked to me so openly, and I took it as a sign that he had been thinking more of these things than hitherto. I felt it a serious matter to have to answer such words, for how could I have any better assurance of that external kind than Percivale himself? That I was in the same intellectual position, however, enabled me the better to understand him. For a short time I was silent, while he regarded me with a look of concern,—fearful, I fancied, lest he should have involved me in his own perplexity.

“Isn’t it possible, Percivale,” I said, “that God may not care so much for beginning at that end?”

“I don’t quite understand you, Wynnie,” he returned.

“A man might believe every fact recorded concerning our Lord, and yet not have the faith in him that God wishes him to have.”

“Yes, certainly. But will you say the converse of that is true?”

“Explain, please.”

“Will you say a man may have the faith God cares for without the faith you say he does not care for?”

“I didn’t say that God does not care about our having assurance of the facts; for surely, if every thing depends on those facts, much will depend on the degree of our assurance concerning them. I only expressed a doubt whether, in the present age, he cares that we should have that assurance first. Perhaps he means it to be the result of the higher kind of faith which rests in the will.”

“I don’t, at the moment, see how the higher faith, as you call it, can precede the lower.”

“It seems to me possible enough. For what is the test of discipleship the Lord lays down? Is it not obedience? ‘If ye love me, keep my commandments.’ ‘If a man love me, he will keep my commandments.’ ‘I never knew you: depart from me, ye workers of iniquity.’ Suppose a man feels in himself that he must have some saviour or perish; suppose he feels drawn, by conscience, by admiration, by early memories, to the form of Jesus, dimly seen through the mists of ages; suppose he cannot be sure there ever was such a man, but reads about him, and ponders over the words attributed to him, until he feels they are the right thing, whether he said them or not, and that if he could but be sure there were such a being, he would believe in him with heart and soul; suppose also that he comes upon the