Robert Elsmere
Then he saw that not only man's pain, but man's defiance, had been
haunting her, and he guessed what persons and memories had been flitting
through her mind. But he dared not talk lest she should exhaust herself.
Presently, seeing a volume of Augustine's _Confessions_, her favourite
book, lying beside her, he took it up, turning over the pages, and
weaving passages together as they caught his eye.
'_Speak to me, for Thy compassion's sake, O Lord my God, and tell me
what art Thou to me! Say unto my soul, "I am thy salvation!" Speak it
that I may hear. Behold the ears of my heart, O Lord; open them and say
unto my soul, "I am thy salvation!" I will follow after this voice of
Thine, I will lay hold on Thee. The temple of my soul, wherein Thou
shouldest enter, is narrow, do Thou enlarge it. It falleth into
ruins--do Thou rebuild it!... Woe to that bold soul which hopeth, if it
do but let Thee go, to find something better than Thee! It turneth
hither and thither, on this side and on that, and all things are hard
and bitter unto it. For Thou only art rest!... Whithersoever the soul of
man turneth it findeth sorrow, except only in Thee. Fix there, then, thy
resting-place, my soul! Lay up in Him whatever thou hast received from
Him. Commend to the keeping of the Truth whatever the Truth hath given
thee, and thou shalt lost nothing. And thy dead things shall revive and
thy weak things shall be made whole!_'
She listened, appropriating and clinging to every word, till the nervous
clasp of the long delicate fingers relaxed, her head dropped a little,
gently, against the head of the child, and tired with much feeling she
slept.
Robert slipped away and strolled out into the garden in the
fast-gathering darkness. His mind was full of that intense spiritual
life of Catherine's which in its wonderful self-containedness and
strength was always a marvel, sometimes a reproach, to him. Beside her,
he seemed to himself a light creature, drawn hither and thither by this
interest and by that, tangled in the fleeting shows of things--the toy
and plaything of circumstance. He thought ruefully and humbly, as he
wandered on through the dusk, of his own lack of inwardness: 'Everything
divides me from Thee!' he could have cried in St. Augustine's manner.
'Books, and friends, and work--all seem to hide Thee from me. Why am I
so passionate for this and that, for all these sections and fragments of
Thee? Oh, for the One, the All! Fix there thy resting-place, my soul!'
And presently, after this cry of self-reproach, he turned to muse on
that intuition of the world's pain which had been troubling Catherine,
shrinking from it even more than she had shrunk from it, in proportion
as his nature was more imaginative than hers. And Christ the only clue,
the only remedy--no other anywhere in this vast universe, where all men
are under sentence of death, where the whole creation groaneth and
travaileth in pain together until now!
And yet what countless generations of men had borne their pain, knowing
nothing of the one Healer. He thought of Buddhist patience and Buddhist
charity; of the long centuries during which Chaldean or Persian or
Egyptian lived, suffered, and died, trusting the gods they knew. And how
many other generations, nominally children of the Great Hope, had used
it as the mere instrument of passion or of hate, cursing in the name of
love, destroying in the name of pity! For how much of the world's pain
was not Christianity itself responsible? His thoughts recurred with a
kind of anguished perplexity to some of the problems stirred in him of
late by his historical reading. The strifes and feuds and violences of
the early Church returned to weigh upon him--the hair-splitting
superstition, the selfish passion for power. He recalled Gibbon's
lamentation over the age of the Antonines, and Mommsen's grave doubt
whether, taken as a whole, the area once covered by the Roman Empire can
be said to be substantially happier now than in the days of Severus.
_O corruptio optimi!_ That men should have been so little affected by
that shining ideal of the New Jerusalem, 'descended out of Heaven from
God,' into their very midst--that the print of the 'blessed feet' along
the world's highway should have been so often buried in the sands of
cruelty and fraud!
The September wind blew about him as he strolled through the darkening
column, set thick with great bushes of sombre juniper among the
yellowing fern, which stretched away on the left-hand side of the road
leading to the Hall. He stood and watched the masses of restless
discordant cloud which the sunset had left behind it, thinking the while
of Mr. Grey, of his assertions and his denials. Certain phrases of his
which Robert had heard drop from him on one or two rare occasions during
the later stages of his Oxford life ran through his head.
'_The fairy-tale of Christianity'--'The origins of Christian
Mythology._' He could recall, as the words rose in his memory, the
simplicity of the rugged face, and the melancholy mingled with fire
which had always marked the great tutor's sayings about religion.
'_Fairy Tale!_' Could any reasonable man watch a life like Catherine's
and believe that nothing but a delusion lay at the heart of it? And as
he asked the question, he seemed to hear Mr. Grey's answer: 'All
religions are true, and all are false. In them all, more or less
visibly, man grasps at the one thing needful--self forsaken, God laid
hold of. The spirit in them all is the same, answers eternally to
reality; it is but the letter, the fashion, the imagery, that are
relative and changing.'
He turned and walked homeward, struggling, with a host of tempestuous
ideas as swift and varying as the autumn clouds hurrying overhead. And
then, through a break in a line of trees, he caught sight of the tower
and chancel window of the little church. In an instant he had a vision
of early summer mornings--dewy, perfumed, silent, save for the birds,
and all the soft stir of rural birth and growth, of a chancel fragrant
with many flowers, of a distant church with scattered figures, of the
kneeling form of his wife close beside him, himself bending over her,
the sacrament of the Lord's death in his hand. The emotion, the
intensity, the absolute self-surrender of innumerable such moments in
the past--moments of a common faith, a common self-abasement--came
flooding back upon him. With a movement of joy and penitence he threw
himself at the feet of Catherine's Master and his own: _'Fix there thy
resting-place, my soul!_'
CHAPTER XX
Catherine's later convalescence dwelt in her mind in after years as a
time of peculiar softness and peace. Her baby-girl throve; Robert had
driven the squire and Henslowe out of his mind, and was all eagerness as
to certain negotiations with a famous naturalist for a lecture at the
village club. At Mile End, as though to put the rector in the wrong,
serious illness had for the time disappeared; and Mrs. Leyburn's mild
chatter, as she gently poked about the house and garden, went out in
Catherine's pony-carriage, inspected Catherine's stores, and hovered
over Catherine's babe, had a constantly cheering effect on the still
languid mother. Like all theorists, especially those at second-hand,
Mrs. Leyburn's maxims had been very much routed by the event. The babe
had ailments she did not understand, or it developed likes and dislikes
she had forgotten existed in babies, and Mrs. Leyburn was nonplussed.
She would sit with it on her lap, anxiously studying its peculiarities.
She was sure it squinted, that its back was weaker than other babies,
that it cried more than hers had ever done. She loved to be plaintive;
it would have seemed to her unladylike to be too cheerful, even over a
first grandchild.
Agnes meanwhile made herself practically useful, as was her way, and she
did almost more than anybody to beguile Catherine's recovery by her
hours of Long Whindale chat. She had no passionate feeling about the
place and the people as Catherine had, but she was easily content, and
she had a good wholesome feminine curiosity as to the courtings and
weddings and buryings of the human beings about her. So she would sit
and chat, working the while with the quickest, neatest of fingers, till
Catherine knew as much about Jenny Tyson's Whinborough lover, and Farmer
Tredall's troubles with his son, and the way in which that odious woman
Molly Redgold bullied her little consumptive husband, as Agnes knew,
which was saying a good deal.
About themselves Agnes was frankness itself.
'Since you went,' she would say with a shrug, 'I keep the coach steady,
perhaps, but Rose drives, and we shall have to go where she takes us. By
the way, Cathie, what have you been doing to her here? She is not a bit
like herself. I don't generally mind being snubbed. It amuses her and
doesn't hurt me; and, of course, I know I am meant to be her foil. But,
really, sometimes she is too bad even for me.'
Catherine sighed, but held her peace. Like all strong persons, she kept
things very much to herself. It only made vexations more real to talk
about them. But she and Agnes discussed the winter and Berlin.
'You had better let her go,' said Agnes significantly; 'she will go
anyhow.'
A few days afterwards Catherine, opening the drawing-room door
unexpectedly, came upon Rose sitting idly at the piano, her hands
resting on the keys, and her great gray eyes straining out of her white
face with an expression which sent the sister's heart into her shoes.
'How you steal about, Catherine!' cried the player, getting up and
shutting the piano. 'I declare you are just like Millais's Gray Lady in
that ghostly gown.'
Catherine came swiftly across the floor. She had just left her child,
and the sweet dignity of motherhood was in her step, her look. She came
and threw her arms round the girl.
'Rose, dear, I have settled it all with mamma. The money can be managed,
and you shall go to Berlin for the winter when you like.'
She drew herself back a little, still with her arms round Rose's waist,
and looked at her smiling, to see how she took it.
Rose had a strange movement of irritation. She drew herself out of
Catherine's grasp.
'I don't know that I had settled on Berlin,' she said coldly. 'Very
possibly Leipsic would be better.'
Catherine's face fell.
'Whichever you like, dear. I have been thinking about it ever since that
day you spoke of it--you remember--and now I have talked it over with
mamma. If she can't manage all the expense we will help. Oh, Rose,' and
she came nearer again, timidly, her eyes melting, 'I know we haven't
understood each other. I have been ignorant, I think, and narrow. But I
meant it for the best, dear--I did----'
Her voice failed her, but in her look there seemed to be written the
history of all the prayers and yearnings of her youth over the pretty
wayward child who had been her joy and torment. Rose could not but meet
that look--its nobleness, its humble surrender.
Suddenly two large tears rolled down her cheeks. She dashed them away
impatiently.
'I am not a bit well,' she said, as though in irritable excuse both to
herself and Catherine. 'I believe I have had a headache for a
fortnight.'
And then she put her arms down on a table near and hid her face upon
them. She was one bundle of jarring nerves--sore, poor passionate child,
that she was betraying herself; sorer still that, as she told herself,
Catherine was sending her to Berlin as a consolation. When girls have
love-troubles the first thing their elders do is to look for a
diversion. She felt sick and humiliated. Catherine had been talking her
over with the family, she supposed.
Meanwhile Catherine stood by her tenderly, stroking her hair and saying
soothing things.