“What a brave old church!” said Connie.
The next day I awoke very early, full of the anticipated attempt. I got up at once, found the weather most promising, and proceeded first of all to have a look at Connie’s litter, and see that it was quite sound. Satisfied of this, I rejoiced in the contemplation of its lightness and strength.
After breakfast I went to Connie’s room, and told her that Mr. Percivale and I had devised a treat for her. Her face shone at once.
“But we want to do it our own way.”
“Of course, papa,” she answered.
“Will you let us tie your eyes up?”
“Yes; and my ears and my hands too. It would be no good tying my feet, when I don’t know one big toe from the other.”
And she laughed merrily.
“We’ll try to keep up the talk all the way, so that you sha’n’t weary of the journey.”
“You’re going to carry me somewhere with my eyes tied up. O! how jolly! And then I shall see something all at once! Jolly! jolly!—Getting tired!” she repeated. “Even the wind on my face would be pleasure enough for half a day. I sha’n’t get tired so soon as you will—you dear, kind papa! I am afraid I shall be dreadfully heavy. But I sha’n’t jerk your arms much. I will lie so still!”
“And you won’t mind letting Mr. Percivale help me to carry you?”
“No. Why should I, if he doesn’t mind it? He looks strong enough; and I am sure he is nice, and won’t think me heavier than I am.”
“Very well, then. I will send mamma and Wynnie to dress you at once; and we shall set out as soon as you are ready.”
She clapped her hands with delight, then caught me round the neck and gave me one of my own kisses as she called the best she had, and began to call as loud as she could on her mamma and Wynnie to come and dress her.
It was indeed a glorious morning. The wind came in little wafts, like veins of cool white silver amid the great, warm, yellow gold of the sunshine. The sea lay before us a mound of blue closing up the end of the valley, as if overpowered into quietness by the lordliness of the sun overhead; and the hills between which we went lay like great sheep, with green wool, basking in the blissful heat. The gleam from the waters came up the pass; the grand castle crowned the left-hand steep, seeming to warm its old bones, like the ruins of some awful megatherium in the lighted air; one white sail sped like a glad thought across the spandrel of the sea; the shadows of the rocks lay over our path, like transient, cool, benignant deaths, through which we had to pass again and again to yet higher glory beyond; and one lark was somewhere in whose little breast the whole world was reflected as in the convex mirror of a dewdrop, where it swelled so that he could not hold it, but let it out again through his throat, metamorphosed into music, which he poured forth over all as the libation on the outspread altar of worship.
And of all this we talked to Connie as we went; and every now and then she would clap her hands gently in the fulness of her delight, although she beheld the splendour only as with her ears, or from the kisses of the wind on her cheeks. But she seemed, since her accident, to have approached that condition which Milton represents Samson as longing for in his blindness, wherein the sight should be
“through all parts diffused,
That she might look at will through every pore.”
I had, however, arranged with the rest of the company, that the moment we reached the cliff over the shore, and turned to the left to cross the isthmus, the conversation should no longer be about the things around us; and especially I warned my wife and Wynnie that no exclamation of surprise or delight should break from them before Connie’s eyes were uncovered. I had said nothing to either of them about the difficulties of the way, that, seeing us take them as ordinary things, they might take them so too, and not be uneasy.
We never stopped till we reached the foot of the peninsula, née island, upon which the keep of Tintagel stands. There we set Connie down, to take breath and ease our arms before we began the arduous way.
“Now, now!” said Connie eagerly, lifting her hands in the belief that we were on the point of undoing the bandage from her eyes.
“No, no, my love, not yet,” I said, and she lay still again, only she looked more eager than before.
“I am afraid I have tired out you and Mr. Percivale, papa,” she said.
Percivale laughed so amusedly, that she rejoined roguishly—
“O yes! I know every gentleman is a Hercules—at least, he chooses to be considered one! But, notwithstanding my firm faith in the fact, I have a little womanly conscience left that is hard to hoodwink.”
There was a speech for my wee Connie to make! The best answer and the best revenge was to lift her and go on. This we did, trying as well as we might to prevent the difference of level between us from tilting the litter too much for her comfort.
“Where are you going, papa?” she said once, but without a sign of fear in her voice, as a little slip I made lowered my end of the litter suddenly. “You must be going up a steep place. Don’t hurt yourself, dear papa.”
We had changed our positions, and were now carrying her, head foremost, up the hill. Percivale led, and I followed. Now I could see every change on her lovely face, and it made me strong to endure; for I did find it hard work, I confess, to get to the top. It lay like a little sunny pool, on which all the cloudy thoughts that moved in some unseen heaven cast exquisitely delicate changes of light and shade as they floated over it. Percivale strode on as if he bore a feather behind him. I did wish we were at the top, for my arms began to feel like iron-cables, stiff and stark—only I was afraid of my fingers giving way. My heart was beating uncomfortably too. But Percivale, I felt almost inclined to quarrel with him before it was over, he strode on so unconcernedly, turning every corner of the zigzag where I expected him to propose a halt, and striding on again, as if there could be no pretence for any change of procedure. But I held out, strengthened by the play on my daughter’s face, delicate as the play on an opal—one that inclines more to the milk than the fire.
When at length we turned in through the gothic door in the battlemented wall, and set our lovely burden down upon the grass—
“Percivale,” I said, forgetting the proprieties in the affected humour of being angry with him, so glad was I that we had her at length on the mount of glory, “why did you go on walking like a castle, and pay no heed to me?”
“You didn’t speak, did you, Mr. Walton,” he returned, with just a shadow of solicitude in the question.
“No. Of course not,” I rejoined.
“O, then,” he returned, in a tone of relief, “how could I? You were my captain: how could I give in so long as you were holding on?”
I am afraid the Percivale, without the Mister, came again and again after this, though I pulled myself up for it as often as I caught myself.
“Now, papa!” said Connie from the grass.
“Not yet, my dear. Wait till your mamma and Wynnie come. Let us go and meet them, Mr. Percivale.”
“O yes, do, papa. Leave me alone here without knowing where I am or what kind of a place I am in. I should like to know how it feels. I have never been alone in all my life.”
“Very well, my dear,” I said; and Percivale and I left her alone in the ruins.
We found Ethelwyn toiling up with Wynnie helping her all she could.
“Dear Harry,” she said, “how could you think of bringing Connie up such an awful place? I wonder you dared to do it.”
“It’s done you see, wife,” I answered, “thanks to Mr. Percivale, who has nearly torn the breath out of me. But now we must get you up, and you will say that to see Connie’s delight, not to mention your own, is quite wages for the labour.”
“Isn’t she afraid to find herself so high up?”
“She knows nothing about it yet.”
“You do not mean you have left the child there with her eyes tied up.”
“To be sure. We could not uncover them before you came. It would spoil half the pleasure.”
“Do let us make haste then. It is surely dangerous to leave her so.”
“Not in the least; but she must be getting tired of the darkness. Take my arm now.”
“Don’t you think Mrs. Walton had better take my arm,” said Percivale, “and then you can put your hand on her back, and help her a little that way.”
We tried the plan, found it a good one, and soon reached the top. The moment our eyes fell upon Connie, we could see that she had found the place neither fearful nor lonely. The sweetest ghost of a smile hovered on her pale face, which shone in the shadow of the old gateway of the keep, with light from within her own sunny soul. She lay in such still expectation, that you would have thought she had just fallen asleep after receiving an answer to a prayer, reminding me of a little-known sonnet of Wordsworth’s, in which he describes as the type of Death—
“the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely beauty in a summer grave.”
[Footnote: Miscellaneous Sonnets, part i.28.]
But she heard our steps, and her face awoke.
“Is mamma come?”
“Yes, my darling. I am here,” said her mother. “How do you feel?”
“Perfectly well, mamma, thank you. Now, papa!”
“One moment more, my love. Now, Percivale.”
We carried her to the spot we had agreed upon, and while we held her a little inclined that she might see the better, her mother undid the bandage from her head.
“Hold your hands over her eyes, a little way from them,” I said to her as she untied the handkerchief, “that the light may reach them by degrees, and not blind her.”
Ethelwyn did so for a few moments, then removed them. Still for a moment or two more, it was plain from her look of utter bewilderment, that all was a confused mass of light and colour. Then she gave a little cry, and to my astonishment, almost fear, half rose to a sitting posture. One moment more and she laid herself gently back, and wept and sobbed.
And now I may admit my reader to a share, though at best but a dim reflex in my poor words, of the glory that made her weep.
Through the gothic-arched door in the battlemented wall, which stood on the very edge of the precipitous descent, so that nothing of the descent was seen, and the door was as a framework to the picture, Connie saw a great gulf at her feet, full to the brim of a splendour of light and colour. Before her rose the great ruins of rock and castle, the ruin of rock with castle; rough stone below, clear green happy grass above, even to the verge of the abrupt and awful precipice; over it the summer sky so clear that it must have been clarified by sorrow and thought; at the foot of the rocks, hundreds of feet below, the blue waters breaking in white upon the dark gray sands; all full of the gladness of the sun overflowing in speechless delight, and reflected in fresh gladness from stone and water and flower, like new springs of light rippling forth from the earth itself to swell the universal tide of glory—all this seen through the narrow gothic archway of a door in a wall—up—down—on either hand. But the main marvel was the look sheer below into the abyss full of light and air and colour, its sides lined with rock and grass, and its bottom lined with blue ripples and sand. Was it any wonder that my Connie should cry aloud when the vision dawned upon her, and then weep to ease a heart ready to burst with delight? “O Lord God,” I said, almost involuntarily, “thou art very rich. Thou art the one poet, the one maker. We worship thee. Make but our souls as full of glory in thy sight as this chasm is to our eyes glorious with the forms which thou hast cloven and carved out of nothingness, and we shall be worthy to worship thee, O Lord, our God.” For I was carried beyond myself with delight, and with sympathy with Connie’s delight and with the calm worship of gladness in my wife’s countenance. But when my eye fell on Wynnie, I saw a trouble mingled with her admiration, a self-accusation, I think, that she did not and could not enjoy it more; and when I turned from her, there were the eyes of Percivale fixed on me in wonderment; and for the moment I felt as David must have felt when, in his dance of undignified delight that he had got the ark home again, he saw the contemptuous eyes of Michal fixed on him from the window. But I could not leave it so. I said to him—coldly I daresay:
“Excuse me, Mr. Percivale; I forgot for the moment that I was not amongst my own family.”
Percivale took his hat off.
“Forgive my seeming rudeness, Mr. Walton. I was half-envying and half-wondering. You would not be surprised at my unconscious behaviour if you had seen as much of the wrong side of the stuff as I have seen in London.”
I had some idea of what he meant; but this was no time to enter upon a discussion. I could only say—
“My heart was full, Mr. Percivale, and I let it overflow.”
“Let me at least share in its overflow,” he rejoined, and nothing more passed on the subject.
For the next ten minutes we stood in absolute silence. We had set Connie down on the grass again, but propped up so that she could see through the doorway. And she lay in still ecstasy. But there was more to be seen ere we descended. There was the rest of the little islet with its crop of down-grass, on which the horses of all the knights of King Arthur’s round table might have fed for a week—yes, for a fortnight, without, by any means, encountering the short commons of war. There were the ruins of the castle so built of plates of the laminated stone of the rocks on which they stood, and so woven in or more properly incorporated with the outstanding rocks themselves, that in some parts I found it impossible to tell which was building and which was rock—the walls themselves seeming like a growth out of the island itself, so perfectly were they in harmony with, and in kind the same as, the natural ground upon which and of which they had been constructed. And this would seem to me to be the perfection of architecture. The work of man’s hands should be so in harmony with the place where it stands that it must look as if it had grown out of the soil. But the walls were in some parts so thin that one wondered how they could have stood so long. They must have been built before the time of any formidable artillery—enough only for defence from arrows. But then the island was nowhere commanded, and its own steep cliffs would be more easily defended than any erections upon it. Clearly the intention was that no enemy should thereon find rest for the sole of his foot; for if he was able to land, farewell to the notion of any further defence. Then there was outside the walls the little chapel—such a tiny chapel! of which little more than the foundation remained, with the ruins of the altar still standing, and outside the chancel, nestling by its wall, a coffin hollowed in the rock; then the churchyard a little way off full of graves, which, I presume, would have vanished long ago were it not that the very graves were founded on the rock. There still stood old worn-out headstones of thin slate, but no memorials were left. Then there was the fragment of arched passage underground laid open to the air in the centre of the islet; and last, and grandest of all, the awful edges of the rock, broken by time, and carved by the winds and the waters into grotesque shapes and threatening forms. Over all the surface of the islet we carried Connie, and from three sides of this sea-fortress she looked abroad over “the Atlantic’s level powers.” It blew a gentle ethereal breeze on the top; but had there been such a wind as I have since stood against on that fearful citadel of nature, I should have been in terror lest we should all be blown, into the deep. Over the edge she peeped at the strange fantastic needle-rock, and round the corner she peeped to see Wynnie and her mother seated in what they call Arthur’s chair—a canopied hollow wrought in the plated rock by the mightiest of all solvents—air and water; till at length it was time that we should take our leave of the few sheep that fed over the place, and issuing by the gothic door, wind away down the dangerous path to the safe ground below.
“I think we had better tie up your eyes again, Connie?” I said.
“Why?” she asked, in wonderment. “There’s nothing higher yet, is there?”
“No, my love. If there were, you would hardly be able for it to-day, I should think. It is only to keep you from being frightened at the precipice as you go down.”
“But I sha’n’t be frightened, papa.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you are going to carry me.”
“But what if I should slip? I might, you know.”
“I don’t mind. I sha’n’t mind being tumbled over the precipice, if you do it. I sha’n’t be to blame, and I’m sure you won’t, papa.” Then she drew my head down and whispered in my ear, “If I get as much more by being killed, as I have got by having my poor back hurt, I’m sure it will be well worth it.”
I tried to smile a reply, for I could not speak one. We took her just as she was, and with some tremor on my part, but not a single slip, we bore her down the winding path, her face showing all the time that, instead of being afraid, she was in a state of ecstatic delight. My wife, I could see, was nervous, however; and she breathed a sigh of relief when we were once more at the foot.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” she said.
“So am I,” I returned, as we set down the litter.
“Poor papa! I’ve pulled his arms to pieces! and Mr. Percivale’s too!”
Percivale answered first by taking up a huge piece of stone. Then turning towards her, he said, “Look here, Miss Connie;” and flung it far out from the isthmus on which we were resting. We heard it strike on a rock below, and then fall in a shower of fragments. “My arms are all right, you see,” he said.
Meantime, Wynnie had scrambled down to the shore, where we had not yet been. In a few minutes, we still lingering, she came running back to us out of breath with the news:
“Papa! Mr. Percivale! there’s such a grand cave down there! It goes right through under the island.”
Connie looked so eager, that Percivale and I glanced at each other, and without a word, lifted her, and followed Wynnie. It was a little way that we had to carry her down, but it was very broken, and insomuch more difficult than the other. At length we stood in the cavern. What a contrast to the vision overhead!—nothing to be seen but the cool, dark vault of the cave, long and winding, with the fresh seaweed lying on its pebbly floor, and its walls wet with the last tide, for every tide rolled through in rising and falling—the waters on the opposite sides of the islet greeting through this cave; the blue shimmer of the rising sea, and the forms of huge outlying rocks, looking in at the further end, where the roof rose like a grand cathedral arch; and the green gleam of veins rich with copper, dashing and streaking the darkness in gloomy little chapels, where the floor of heaped-up pebbles rose and rose within till it met the descending roof. It was like a going-down from Paradise into the grave—but a cool, friendly, brown-lighted grave, which even in its darkest recesses bore some witness to the wind of God outside, in the occasional ripple of shadowed light, from the play of the sun on the waves, that, fleeted and reflected, wandered across its jagged roof. But we dared not keep Connie long in the damp coolness; and I have given my reader quite enough of description for one hour’s reading. He can scarcely be equal to more.
My invalids had now beheld the sea in such a different aspect, that I no longer feared to go back to Kilkhaven. Thither we went three days after, and at my invitation, Percivale took Turner’s place in the carriage.
CHAPTER XI. JOE AND HIS TROUBLE
How bright the yellow shores of Kilkhaven looked after the dark sands of Tintagel! But how low and tame its highest cliffs after the mighty rampart of rocks which there face the sea like a cordon of fierce guardians! It was pleasant to settle down again in what had begun to look like home, and was indeed made such by the boisterous welcome of Dora and the boys. Connie’s baby crowed aloud, and stretched forth her chubby arms at sight of her. The wind blew gently around us, full both of the freshness of the clean waters and the scents of the down-grasses, to welcome us back. And the dread vision of the shore had now receded so far into the past, that it was no longer able to hurt.
We had called at the blacksmith’s house on our way home, and found that he was so far better as to be working at his forge again. His mother said he was used to such attacks, and soon got over them. I, however, feared that they indicated an approaching break-down.
“Indeed, sir,” she said, “Joe might be well enough if he liked. It’s all his own fault.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I cannot believe that your son is in any way guilty of his own illness.”
“He’s a well-behaved lad, my Joe,” she answered; “but he hasn’t learned what I had to learn long ago.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“To make up his mind, and stick to it. To do one thing or the other.”
She was a woman with a long upper lip and a judicial face, and as she spoke, her lip grew longer and longer; and when she closed her mouth in mark of her own resolution, that lip seemed to occupy two-thirds of all her face under the nose.
“And what is it he won’t do?”
“I don’t mind whether he does it or not, if he would only make—up—his—mind—and—stick—to—it.”
“What is it you want him to do, then?”
“I don’t want him to do it, I’m sure. It’s no good to me—and wouldn’t be much to him, that I’ll be bound. Howsomever, he must please himself.”
I thought it not very wonderful that he looked gloomy, if there was no more sunshine for him at home than his mother’s face indicated. Few things can make a man so strong and able for his work as a sun indoors, whose rays are smiles, ever ready to shine upon him when he opens the door,—the face of wife or mother or sister. Now his mother’s face certainly was not sunny. No doubt it must have shone upon him when he was a baby. God has made that provision for babies, who need sunshine so much that a mother’s face cannot help being sunny to them: why should the sunshine depart as the child grows older?
“Well, I suppose I must not ask. But I fear your son is very far from well. Such attacks do not often occur without serious mischief somewhere. And if there is anything troubling him, he is less likely to get over it.”
“If he would let somebody make up his mind for him, and then stick to it—”
“O, but that is impossible, you know. A man must make up his own mind.”
“That’s just what he won’t do.”
All the time she looked naughty, only after a self-righteous fashion. It was evident that whatever was the cause of it, she was not in sympathy with her son, and therefore could not help him out of any difficulty he might be in. I made no further attempt to learn from her the cause of her son’s discomfort, clearly a deeper cause than his illness. In passing his workshop, we stopped for a moment, and I made an arrangement to meet him at the church the next day.
I was there before him, and found that he had done a good deal since we left. Little remained except to get the keys put to rights, and the rods attached to the cranks in the box. To-day he was to bring a carpenter, a cousin of his own, with him.
They soon arrived, and a small consultation followed. The cousin was a bright-eyed, cheruby-cheeked little man, with a ready smile and white teeth: I thought he might help me to understand what was amiss in Joseph’s affairs. But I would not make the attempt except openly. I therefore said half in a jocular fashion, as with gloomy, self-withdrawn countenance the smith was fitting one loop into another in two of his iron rods,—
“I wish we could get this cousin of yours to look a little more cheerful. You would think he had quarrelled with the sunshine.”
The carpenter showed his white teeth between his rosy lips.
“Well, sir, if you’ll excuse me, you see my cousin Joe is not like the rest of us. He’s a religious man, is Joe.”
“But I don’t see how that should make him miserable. It hasn’t made me miserable. I hope I’m a religious man myself. It makes me happy every day of my life.”
“Ah, well,” returned the carpenter, in a thoughtful tone, as he worked away gently to get the inside out of the oak-chest without hurting it, “I don’t say it’s the religion, for I don’t know; but perhaps it’s the way he takes it up. He don’t look after hisself enough; he’s always thinking about other people, you see, sir; and it seems to me, sir, that if you don’t look after yourself, why, who is to look after you? That’s common sense, I think.”
It was a curious contrast—the merry friendly face, which shone good-fellowship to all mankind, accusing the sombre, pale, sad, severe, even somewhat bitter countenance beside him, of thinking too much about other people, and too little about himself. Of course it might be correct in a way. There is all the difference between a comfortable, healthy inclination, and a pained, conscientious principle. It was a smile very unlike his cousin’s with which Joe heard his remarks on himself.
“But,” I said, “you will allow, at least, that if everybody would take Joe’s way of it, there would then be no occasion for taking care of yourself.”
“I don’t see why, sir.”
“Why, because everybody would take care of everybody else.”
“Not so well, I doubt, sir.”
“Yes, and a great deal better.”
“At any rate, that’s a long way off; and mean time, who’s to take care of the odd man like Joe there, that don’t look after hisself?”
“Why, God, of course.”
“Well, there’s just where I’m out. I don’t know nothing about that branch, sir.”
I saw a grateful light mount up in Joe’s gloomy eyes as I spoke thus upon his side of the question. He said nothing, however; and his cousin volunteering no further information, I did not push any advantage I might have gained.
At noon I made them leave their work, and come home with me to have their dinner; they hoped to finish the job before dusk. Harry Cobb and I dropped behind, and Joe Harper walked on in front, apparently sunk in meditation.
Scarcely were we out of the churchyard, and on the road leading to the rectory, when I saw the sexton’s daughter meeting us. She had almost come up to Joe before he saw her, for his gaze was bent on the ground, and he started. They shook hands in what seemed to me an odd, constrained, yet familiar fashion, and then stood as if they wanted to talk, but without speaking. Harry and I passed, both with a nod of recognition to the young woman, but neither of us had the ill-manners to look behind. I glanced at Harry, and he answered me with a queer look. When we reached the turning that would hide them from our view, I looked back almost involuntarily, and there they were still standing. But before we reached the door of the rectory, Joe got up with us.
There was something remarkable in the appearance of Agnes Coombes, the sexton’s daughter. She was about six-and-twenty, I should imagine, the youngest of the family, with a sallow, rather sickly complexion, somewhat sorrowful eyes, a smile rare and sweet, a fine figure, tall and slender, and a graceful gait. I now saw, I thought, a good hair’s-breadth further into the smith’s affairs. Beyond the hair’s-breadth, however, all was dark. But I saw likewise that the well of truth, whence I might draw the whole business, must be the girl’s mother.
After the men had had their dinner and rested a while, they went back to the church, and I went to the sexton’s cottage. I found the old man seated at the window, with his pot of beer on the sill, and an empty plate beside it.
“Come in, sir,” he said, rising, as I put my head in at the door. “The mis’ess ben’t in, but she’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“O, it’s of no consequence,” I said. “Are they all well?”
“All comfortable, sir. It be fine dry weather for them, this, sir. It be in winter it be worst for them.”
“But it’s a snug enough shelter you’ve got here. It seems such, anyhow; though, to be sure, it is the blasts of winter that find out the weak places both in house and body.”
“It ben’t the wind touch them” he said; “they be safe enough from the wind. It be the wet, sir. There ben’t much snow in these parts; but when it du come, that be very bad for them, poor things!”
Could it be that he was harping on the old theme again?
“But at least this cottage keeps out the wet,” I said. “If not, we must have it seen to.”
“This cottage du well enough, sir. It’ll last my time, anyhow.”
“Then why are you pitying your family for having to live in it?”
“Bless your heart, sir! It’s not them. They du well enough. It’s my people out yonder. You’ve got the souls to look after, and I’ve got the bodies. That’s what it be, sir. To be sure!”
The last exclamation was uttered in a tone of impatient surprise at my stupidity in giving all my thoughts and sympathies to the living, and none to the dead. I pursued the subject no further, but as I lay in bed that night, it began to dawn upon me as a lovable kind of hallucination in which the man indulged. He too had an office in the Church of God, and he would magnify that office. He could not bear that there should be no further outcome of his labour; that the burying of the dead out of sight should be “the be-all and the end-all.” He was God’s vicar, the gardener in God’s Acre, as the Germans call the churchyard. When all others had forsaken the dead, he remained their friend, caring for what little comfort yet remained possible to them. Hence in all changes of air and sky above, he attributed to them some knowledge of the same, and some share in their consequences even down in the darkness of the tomb. It was his way of keeping up the relation between the living and the dead. Finding I made him no reply, he took up the word again.
“You’ve got your part, sir, and I’ve got mine. You up into the pulpit, and I down into the grave. But it’ll be all the same by and by.”