Wilfrid Cumbermede by George MacDonald

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'It's no use, Clara,' I said. 'It has been too many years glued to the
scabbard.'

'Glued!' she echoed. 'What do you mean?'

I did not reply. An expression almost of horror shadowed her face, and
at the same moment, to my astonishment, she drew it half-way.

'Why! You enchantress!' I exclaimed. 'I never saw so much of it before.
It is wonderfully bright--when one thinks of the years it has been shut
in darkness.'

She handed it to me as it was, saying,

'If that weapon was mine, I should never rest until I had found out
everything concerning it.'

'That is easily said, Clara; but how can I? My uncle knew nothing about
it. My grandmother did, no doubt, but almost all I can remember her
saying was something about my great-grandfather and Sir Marmaduke.'

As I spoke, I tried to draw it entirely, but it would yield no further.
I then sought to replace it, but it would not move. That it yielded to
Clara's touch gave it a fresh interest and value.

'I was sure it had a history,' said Clara. 'Have you no family papers?
Your house you say is nearly as old as this: are there no papers of
_any_ kind in it?'

'Yes, a few,' I answered--'the lease of the farm--and--'

'Oh! rubbish!' she said. 'Isn't the house your own?'

'Yes.'

'And have you ever thoroughly searched it?'

'I haven't had time yet.'

'Not had time!' she repeated, in a tone of something so like the
uttermost contempt that I was bewildered.

'I mean some day or other to have a rummage in the old lumber-room,' I
said.

'Well, I do think that is the least you can do--if only out of respect
to your ancestors. Depend on it, they don't like to be forgotten any
more than other people.'

The intention I had just announced was, however, but just born of her
words. I had never yet searched even my grandmother's bureau, and had
but this very moment fancied there might be papers in some old chest in
the lumber-room. That room had already begun to occupy my thoughts from
another point of view, and hence, in part, no doubt the suggestion. I
was anxious to have a visit from Charley. He might bring with him some
of our London friends. There was absolutely no common room in the house
except the hall-kitchen. The room we had always called the lumber-room
was over it, and nearly as large. It had a tall stone chimney-piece,
elaborately carved, and clearly had once been a room for entertainment.
The idea of restoring it to its original dignity arose in my mind; and
I hoped that, furnished after as antique a fashion as I could compass,
it would prove a fine room. The windows were small, to be sure, and the
pitch rather low, but the whitewashed walls were pannelled, and I had
some hopes of the ceiling.

'Who knows,' I said to myself, as I walked home that evening, 'but I
may come upon papers? I do remember something in the furthest corner
that looks like a great chest.'

Little more had passed between us, but Clara left me with the old
Dissatisfaction beginning to turn itself, as if about to awake once
more. For the present I hung the half-naked blade upon the wall, for I
dared not force it lest the scabbard should go to pieces.

When I reached home, I found a letter from Charley, to the effect that,
if convenient, he would pay me a visit the following week. His mother
and sister, he said, had been invited to Moldwarp Hall. His father was
on the continent for his health. Without having consulted them on the
matter, which might involve them in after-difficulty, he would come to
me, and so have an opportunity of seeing them in the sunshine of his
father's absence. I wrote at once that I should be delighted to receive
him.

The next morning I spent with my man in the lumber-room; and before
mid-day the rest of the house looked like an old curiosity shop--it was
so littered with odds and ends of dust-bloomed antiquity. It was hard
work, and in the afternoon I found myself disinclined for more exercise
of a similar sort. I had Lilith out, and took a leisurely ride instead.
The next day, and the next also, I remained at home. The following
morning I went again to Moldwarp Hall. I had not been busy more than an
hour or so when Clara, who, I presume, had in passing heard me at work,
looked in.

'Who is a truant now?' she said. 'Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Here
has Miss Brotherton been almost curious concerning your absence, and
Sir Giles more than once on the point of sending to inquire after you!'

'Why didn't he, then?'

'Oh! I suppose he was afraid it might look like an assertion of--of--of
baronial rights, or something of the sort. How _could_ you behave in
such an inconsiderate fashion!'

'You must allow me to have _some_ business of my own.'

'Certainly. But with so many anxious friends, you ought to have given a
hint of your intentions.'

'I had none, however.'

'Of which? Friends or intentions?'

'Either.'

'What! No friends? I verily surprised Miss Pease in the act of studying
her "Cookery for Invalids"--in the hope of finding a patient in you, no
doubt. She wanted to come and nurse you, but daren't propose it.'

'It was very kind of her.'

'No doubt. But then you see she's ready to commit suicide any day, poor
old thing, but for lack of courage!'

'It must be dreary for her!'

'Dreary! I should poison the old dragon.'

'Well, perhaps I had better tell you, for Miss Pease's sake, who is
evidently the only one that cares a straw about _me_ in the matter,
that possibly I shall be absent a good many days this week, and perhaps
the next too.'

'Why, then--if I may ask--Mr Absolute?'

'Because a friend of mine is going to pay me a visit. You remember
Charley Osborne, don't you? Of course you do. You remember the
ice-cave, I am sure.'

'Yes, I do--quite well,' she answered.

I fancied I saw a shadow cross her face.

'When do you expect him?' she asked, turning away, and picking a book
from the floor.

'In a week or so, I think. He tells me his mother and sister are coming
here on a visit.'

'Yes--so I believe--to-morrow, I think. I wonder if I ought to be
going. I don't think I will. I came to please them--at all events not
to please myself; but as I find it pleasanter than I expected, I won't
go without a hint and a half at least.'

'Why should you? There is plenty of room.'

'Yes; but don't you see?--so many inferiors in the house at once might
be too much for Madame Dignity. She finds one quite enough, I suspect.'

'You do not mean that she regards the Osbornes as inferiors?'

'Not a doubt of it. Never mind. I can take care of myself. Have you any
work for me to-day?'

'Plenty, if you are in a mood for it.'

'I will fetch Miss Brotherton.'

'I can do without _her_.'

She went, however, and did not return. As I walked home to dinner, she
and Miss Brotherton passed me in the carriage, on their way, as I
learned afterwards, to fetch the Osborne ladies from the rectory, some
ten miles off. I did not return to Moldwarp Hall, but helped Styles in
the lumber-room, which before night we had almost emptied.

The next morning I was favoured with a little desultory assistance from
the two ladies, but saw nothing of the visitors. In the afternoon, and
both the following days, I took my servant with me, who got through
more work than the two together, and we advanced it so far that I was
able to leave the room next the armoury in the hands of the carpenter
and the housemaid, with sufficient directions, and did not return that
week.

CHAPTER XXXV.

A TALK WITH CHARLEY.

The following Monday, in the evening, Charley arrived, in great
spirits, more excited indeed than I liked to see him. There was a
restlessness in his eye which made me especially anxious, for it raised
a doubt whether the appearance of good spirits was not the result
merely of resistance to some anxiety. But I hoped my companionship,
with the air and exercise of the country, would help to quiet him
again. In the late twilight we took a walk together up and down my
field.

'I suppose you let your mother know you were coming, Charley?' I said.

'I did not,' he answered. 'My father must have nothing to lay to their
charge in case he should hear of our meeting.'

'But he has not forbidden you to go home, has he?'

'No, certainly. But he as good as told me I was not to go home while he
was away. He does not wish me to be there without his presence to
counteract my evil influences. He seems to regard my mere proximity as
dangerous. I sometimes wonder whether the severity of his religion may
not have affected his mind. Almost all madness, you know, turns either
upon love or religion.'

'So I have heard. I doubt it--with men. It may be with women.--But you
won't surprise them? It might startle your mother too much. She is not
strong, you say. Hadn't I better tell Clara Coningham? She can let them
know you are here.'

'It would be better.'

'What do you say to going there with me to-morrow? I will send my man
with a note in the morning.'

He looked a little puzzled and undetermined, but said at length,

'I dare say your plan is the best. How long has Miss Coningham been
here?'

'About ten days, I think.'

He looked thoughtful and made no answer.

'I see, you are afraid of my falling in love with her again,' I said.
'I confess I like her much better than I did, but I am not quite sure
about her yet. She is very bewitching anyhow, and a little more might
make me lose my heart to her. The evident dislike she has to Brotherton
would of itself recommend her to any friend of yours or mine.'

He turned his face away.

'Do not be anxious about me,' I went on. 'The first shadowy conviction
of any untruthfulness in her, if not sufficient to change my feelings
at once, would at once initiate a backward movement in them.'

He kept his face turned away, and I was perplexed. After a few moments
of silence, he turned it towards me again, as if relieved by some
resolution suddenly formed, and said with a smile under a still clouded
brow,

'Well, old fellow, we'll see. It'll all come right, I dare say. Write
your note early, and we'll follow it. How glad I _shall_ be to have a
glimpse of that blessed mother of mine without her attendant dragon!'

'For God's sake don't talk of your father so! Surely, after all, he is
a good man!'

'Then I want a new reading of the word.'

'He loves God, at least.'

'I won't stop to inquire--' said Charley, plunging at once into
argument--'what influence for good it might or might not have to love a
non-existence: I will only ask--Is it a good God he loves or a bad one?
If the latter, he can hardly be called good for loving him.'

'But if there be a God at all, he must be a good God.'

'Suppose the true God to be the good God, it does not follow that my
father worships _him_. There is such a thing as worshipping a false
God. At least the Bible recognizes it. For my part, I find myself
compelled to say--either that the true God is not a good God, or that
my father does not worship the true God. If you say he worships the God
of the Bible, I either admit or dispute the assertion, but set it aside
as altering nothing; for if I admit it, the argument lies thus: my
father worships a bad God; my father worships the God of the Bible:
therefore the God of the Bible is a bad God; and if I admit the
authority of the Bible, then the true God is a bad God. If, however, I
dispute the assertion that he worships the God of the Bible, I am left
to show, if I can, that the God of the Bible is a good God, and, if I
admit the authority of the Bible, to worship another than my father's
God. If I do not admit the authority of the Bible, there may, for all
that, be a good God, or, which is next best to a perfectly good God,
there may be no God at all.'

'Put like a lawyer, Charley: and yet I would venture to join issue with
your first assertion--on which the whole argument is founded--that your
father worships a bad God.'

'Assuredly what he asserts concerning his God is bad.'

'Admitted; but does he assert _only_ bad things of his God?'

'I daren't say that. But God is one. You will hardly dare the
proposition that an infinite being may be partly good and partly bad.'

'No. I heartily hold that God must be _one_--a proposition far more
essential than that there is one God--so far, at least, as my
understanding can judge. It is only in the limited human nature that
good and evil can co-exist. But there is just the point: we are not
speaking of the absolute God, but of the idea of a man concerning that
God. You could suppose yourself utterly convinced of a good God long
before your ideas of goodness were so correct as to render you
incapable of attributing anything wrong to that God. Supposing such to
be the case, and that you came afterwards to find that you had been
thinking something wrong about him, do you think you would therefore
grant that you had been believing either in a wicked or in a false
God?'

'Certainly not.'

'Then you must give your father the same scope. He attributes what we
are absolutely certain are bad things to his God--and yet he may
believe in a good God, for the good in his idea of God is that alone in
virtue of which he is able to believe in him. No mortal can believe in
the bad.'

'He puts the evil foremost in his creed and exhortations.'

'That may be. Few people know their own deeper minds. The more potent a
power in us, I suspect it is the more hidden from our scrutiny.'

'If there be a God, then, Wilfrid, he is very indifferent to what his
creatures think of him.'

'Perhaps very patient and hopeful, Charley--who knows? Perhaps he will
not force himself upon them, but help them to grow into the true
knowledge of him. Your father may worship the true God, and yet have
only a little of that knowledge.'

A silence followed. At length--'Thank you for my father,' said Charley.

'Thank my uncle,' I said.

'For not being like my father?--I do,' he returned.

It was the loveliest evening that brooded round us as we walked. The
moon had emerged from a rippled sea of grey cloud, over which she cast
her dull opaline halo. Great masses and banks of cloud lay about the
rest of the heavens, and, in the dark rifts between, a star or two were
visible, gazing from the awful distance.

'I wish I could let it into me, Wilfrid,' said Charley, after we had
been walking in silence for some time along the grass.

'Let what into you, Charley?'

'The night and the blue and the stars.'

'Why don't you, then?'

'I hate being taken in. The more pleasant a self-deception, the less I
choose to submit to it.'

'That is reasonable. But where lies the deception?'

'I don't say it's a deception. I only don't know that it isn't.'

'Please explain.'

'I mean what you call the beauty of the night.'

'Surely there can be little question of that?'

'Ever so little is enough. Suppose I asked you wherein its beauty
consisted: would you be satisfied if I said--In the arrangement of the
blue and the white, with the sparkles of yellow, and the colours about
the scarce visible moon?'

'Certainly not. I should reply that it lay in the gracious peace of the
whole--troubled only with the sense of some lovely secret behind, of
which itself was but the half-modelled representation, and therefore
the reluctant outcome.'

'Suppose I rejected the latter half of what you say, admitting the
former, but judging it only the fortuitous result of the
half-necessary, half-fortuitous concurrences of nature. Suppose I
said:--The air which is necessary to our life, happens to be blue; the
stars can't help shining through it and making it look deep; and the
clouds are just there because they must be somewhere till they fall
again; all which is more agreeable to us than fog because we feel more
comfortable in weather of the sort, whence, through complacency and
habit, we have got to call it beautiful:--suppose I said this, would
you accept it?'

'Such a theory would destroy my delight in nature altogether.'

'Well, isn't it the truth?'

'It would be easy to show that the sense of beauty does not spring from
any amount of comfort; but I do not care to pursue the argument from
that starting-point.--I confess when you have once waked the
questioning spirit, and I look up at the clouds and the stars with what
I may call sharpened eyes--eyes, that is, which assert their seeing,
and so render themselves incapable for the time of submitting to
impressions, I am as blind as any Sadducee could desire. I see blue,
and white, and gold, and, in short, a tent-roof somewhat ornate. I dare
say if I were in a miserable mood, having been deceived and
disappointed like Hamlet, I should with him see there nothing but a
foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. But I know that when I am
passive to its powers, I am aware of a presence altogether
different--of a something at once soothing and elevating, powerful to
move shame--even contrition and the desire of amendment.'

'Yes, yes,' said Charley hastily. 'But let me suppose further--and,
perhaps you will allow, better--that this blueness--I take a part for
the whole--belongs essentially and of necessity to the atmosphere,
itself so essential to our physical life; suppose also that this blue
has essential relation to our spiritual nature--taking for the moment
our spiritual nature for granted--suppose, in a word, all nature so
related, not only to our physical but to our spiritual nature, that it
and we form an organic whole full of action and reaction between the
parts--would that satisfy you? Would it enable you to look on the sky
this night with absolute pleasure? would you want nothing more?'

I thought for a little before I answered.

'No, Charley,' I said at last--'it would not satisfy me. For it would
indicate that beauty might be, after all, but the projection of my own
mind--the name I gave to a harmony between that around me and that
within me. There would then be nothing absolute in beauty. There would
be no such thing in itself. It would exist only as a phase of me when I
was in a certain mood; and when I was earthly-minded, passionate, or
troubled, it would be _no_where. But in my best moods I feel that in
nature lies the form and fashion of a peace and grandeur so much beyond
anything in me, that they rouse the sense of poverty and incompleteness
and blame in the want of them.'

'Do you perceive whither you are leading yourself?'

'I would rather hear you say.'

'To this then--that the peace and grandeur of which you speak must be a
mere accident, therefore an unreality and pure _appearance_, or the
outcome and representation of a peace and grandeur which, not to be
found in us, yet exist, and make use of this frame of things to set
forth and manifest themselves in order that we may recognize and desire
them.'

'Granted--heartily.'

'In other words--you lead yourself inevitably to a God manifest in
nature--not as a powerful being--that is a theme absolutely without
interest to me--but as possessed in himself of the original
pre-existent beauty, the counterpart of which in us we call art, and
who has fashioned us so that we must fall down and worship the image of
himself which he has set up.'

'That's good, Charley. I'm so glad you've worked that out!'

'It doesn't in the least follow that I believe it. I cannot even say I
wish I did:--for what I know, that might be to wish to be deceived. Of
all miseries--to believe in a lovely thing and find it not true--that
must be the worst.'

'You might never find it out, though,' I said. 'You might be able to
comfort yourself with it all your life.'

'I was wrong,' he cried fiercely. 'Never to find it out would be the
hell of all hells. Wilfrid, I am ashamed of you!'

'So should I be, Charley, if I had meant it. I only wanted to make you
speak. I agree with you entirely. But I _do_ wish we could be _quite_
sure of it; for I don't believe any man can ever be sure of a thing
that is not true.'

'My father is sure that the love of nature is not only a delusion, but
a snare. I should have no right to object, were he not equally sure of
the existence of a God who created and rules it. By the way, if I
believed in a God, I should say _create_s not _create_d. I told him
once, not long ago, when he fell out upon nature--he had laid hands on
a copy of _Endymion_ belonging to me--I don't know how the devil he got
it--I asked him whether he thought the devil made the world. You should
have seen the white wrath he went into at the question! I told him it
was generally believed one or the other did make the world. He told me
God made the world, but sin had unmade it. I asked him if it was sin
that made it so beautiful. He said it was sin that made me think it so
beautiful. I remarked how very ugly it must have looked when God had
just finished it! He called me a blasphemer, and walked to the door. I
stopped him for a moment by saying that I thought, after all, he must
be right, for according to geologists the world must have been a
horrible place, and full of the most hideous creatures, before sin came
and made it lovely. When he saw my drift, he strode up to me
like--well, very like his own God, I should think--and was going to
strike me. I looked him in the eyes without moving, as if he had been a
madman. He turned and left the room. I left the house, and went back to
London the same night.'

'Oh! Charley, Charley, that was too bad!'

'I knew it, Wilfrid, and yet I did it! But if your father had made a
downright coward of you, afraid to speak the truth, or show what you
were thinking, you also might find that, when anger gave you a
fictitious courage, you could not help breaking out. It's only another
form of cowardice, I know; and I am as much ashamed of it as you could
wish me to be.'

'Have you made it up with him since?'

'I've never seen him since.'

'Haven't you written, then?'

'No. Where's the use? He never would understand me. He knows no more of
the condition of my mind than he does of the other side of the moon. If
I offered such, he would put aside all apology for my behaviour to
him--repudiating himself, and telling me it was the wrath of an
offended God, not of an earthly parent, I had to deprecate. If I told
him I had only spoken against his false God--how far would that go to
mend the matter, do you think?'

'Not far, I must allow. But I am very sorry.'

'I wouldn't care if I could be sure of anything--or even sure that, if
I were sure, I shouldn't be mistaken.'

'I'm afraid you're very morbid, Charley.'

'Perhaps. But you cannot deny that my father is sure of things that you
believe utterly false.'

'I suspect, however, that, if we were able to get a bird's-eye view of
his mind and all its workings, we should discover that what he called
assurance was not the condition you would call such. You would find it
was not the certainty you covet.'

'I _have_ thought of that, and it is my only comfort. But I am sick of
the whole subject. See that cloud! Isn't it like Death on the pale
horse? What fun it must be for the cherubs, on such a night as this, to
go blowing the clouds into fantastic shapes with their trumpet cheeks!'

Assurance was ever what Charley wanted, and unhappily the sense of
intellectual insecurity weakened his moral action.

Once more I reveal a haunting uneasiness in the expression of a hope
that the ordered character of the conversation I have just set down may
not render it incredible to my reader. I record the result alone. The
talk itself was far more desultory, and in consequence of questions,
objections, and explanations, divaricated much from the comparatively
direct line I have endeavoured to give it here. In the hope of making
my reader understand both Charley and myself, I have sought to make the
winding and rough path straight and smooth.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

TAPESTRY.

Having heard what I was about at the Hall, Charley expressed a desire
to take a share in my labours, especially as thereby he would be able
to see more of his mother and sister. I took him straight to the
book-rooms, and we were hard at work when Clara entered.

'Here is your old friend Charley Osborne,' I said. 'You remember Miss
Coningham, Charley, I know.'

He advanced in what seemed a strangely embarrassed--indeed, rather
sheepish manner, altogether unlike his usual bearing. I attributed it
to a doubt whether Clara would acknowledge their old acquaintance. On
her part, she met him with some frankness, but I thought also a rather
embarrassed look, which was the more surprising as I had let her know
he was coming. But they shook hands, and in a little while we were all
chatting comfortably.

'Shall I go and tell Mrs Osborne you are here?' she asked.

'Yes, if you please,' said Charley, and she went.

In a few minutes Mrs Osborne and Mary entered. The meeting was full of
affection, but to my eye looked like a meeting of the living and the
dead in a dream--there was such an evident sadness in it, as if each
was dimly aware that they met but in appearance, and were in reality
far asunder. I could not doubt that however much they loved him, and
however little they sympathized with his father's treatment of him, his
mother and sister yet regarded him as separated from them by a great
gulf--that of culpable unbelief. But they seemed therefore only the
more anxious to please and serve him--their anxiety revealing itself in
an eagerness painfully like the service offered to one whom the doctors
had given up, and who may now have any indulgence he happens to fancy.

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