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Stephen Archer and Other Tales

G >> George MacDonald >> Stephen Archer and Other Tales




An indescribable thrill of conscious delight shot through the frame of
Stephen as the woman spoke the words. But the gentleman in him
triumphed. I would have said _the Christian_, for whatever there was
in Stephen of the _gentle_ was there in virtue of the _Christian_,
only he failed in one point: instead of saying at once, that he had no
intention of prosecuting the boy, he pretended, I believe from the
satanic delight in power that possesses every man of us, that he would
turn it over in his mind. It might have been more dangerous, but it
would have been more divine, if he had lifted the kneeling woman to
his heart, and told her that not for the wealth of an imagination
would he proceed against her brother. The divinity, however, was
taking its course, both rough-hewing and shaping the ends of the two.

She rose from the ground, sat on the one chair, with her face to the
wall, and wept, helplessly, with the added sting, perhaps, of a faint
personal disappointment. Stephen failed to attract her notice, and
left the room. She started up when she heard the door close, and flew
to open it, but was only in time to hear the outer door. She sat down
and cried again.

Stephen had gone to find the boy if he might, and bring him to his
sister. He ought to have said so, for to permit suffering for the sake
of a joyful surprise is not good. Going home first, he was hardly
seated in his room, to turn over not the matter but the means, when a
knock came to the shop-door, the sole entrance, and there were two
policemen bringing the deserter in a cab. He had been run over in the
very act of decamping with the contents of the till, had lain all but
insensible at the hospital while his broken leg was being set, but, as
soon as he came to himself, had gone into such a fury of determination
to return to his master, that the house-surgeon saw that the only
chance for the ungovernable creature was to yield. Perhaps he had some
dim idea of restoring the money ere his master should have discovered
its loss. As he was very little, they made a couch for him in the cab,
and so sent him.

It would appear that the suffering and the faintness had given his
conscience a chance of being heard. The accident was to Charley what
the sight of the mountain-peak was to the boy Wordsworth. He was
delirious when he arrived, and instead of showing any contrition
towards his master, only testified an extravagant joy at finding him
again. Stephen had him taken into the back room, and laid upon his own
bed. One of the policemen fetched the charwoman, and when she arrived,
Stephen went to find Sara.

She was sitting almost as he had left her, with a dull, hopeless look.

"I am sorry to say Charley has had an accident," he said.

She started up and clasped her hands.

"He is not in prison?" she panted in a husky voice.

"No; he is at my house. Come and see him. I don't think he is in any
danger, but his leg is broken."

A gleam of joy crossed Sara's countenance. She did not mind the broken
leg, for he was safe from her terror. She put on her bonnet, tied the
strings with trembling hands, and went with Stephen.

"You see God wants to keep him out of prison too," he said, as they
walked along the street.

But to Sara this hardly conveyed an idea. She walked by his side in
silence.

"Charley! Charley!" she cried, when she saw him white on the bed,
rolling his head from side to side. Charley ordered her away with
words awful to hear, but which from him meant no more than words of
ordinary temper in the mouth of the well-nurtured man or woman. She
had spoiled and indulged him all his life, and now for the first time
she was nothing to him, while the master who had lectured and
restrained him was everything. When the surgeon wanted to change his
dressings, he would not let him touch them till his master came.
Before he was able to leave his bed, he had developed for Stephen a
terrier-like attachment. But, after the first feverishness was over,
his sister waited upon him.

Stephen got a lodging, and abandoned his back room to the brother and
sister. But he had to attend to his shop, and therefore saw much of
both of them. Finding then to his astonishment that Sara could not
read, he gave all his odd moments to her instruction, and her mind
being at rest about Charley so long as she had him in bed, her spirit
had leisure to think of other things.

She learned rapidly. The lesson-book was of course the New Testament;
and Stephen soon discovered that Sara's questions, moving his pity at
first because of the ignorance they displayed, always left him
thinking about some point that had never occurred to him before; so
that at length he regarded Sara as a being of superior intelligence
waylaid and obstructed by unfriendly powers upon her path towards the
threshold of the kingdom, while she looked up to him as to one supreme
in knowledge as in goodness. But she never could understand the
pastor. This would have been a great trouble to Stephen, had not his
vanity been flattered by her understanding of himself. He did not
consider that growing love had enlightened his eyes to see into her
heart, and enabled him thus to use an ordinary human language for the
embodiment of common-sense ideas; whereas the speech of the pastor
contained such an admixture of technicalities as to be unintelligible
to the neophyte.

Stephen was now distressed to find that whereas formerly he had
received everything without question that his minister spoke, he now
in general went home in a doubting, questioning mood, begotten of
asking himself what Sara would say. He feared at first that the old
Adam was beginning to get the upper hand of him, and that Satan was
laying snares for his soul. But when he found at the same time that
his conscience was growing more scrupulous concerning his business
affairs, his hope sprouted afresh.

One day, after Charley had been out for the first time, Sara, with a
little tremor of voice and manner, addressed Stephen thus:--

"I shall take Charley home to-morrow, if you please, Mr. Archer."

"You don't mean to say, Sara, you've been paying for those lodgings
all this time?" half-asked, half-exclaimed Stephen.

"Yes, Mr. Archer. We, must have somewhere to go to. It ain't easy to
get a room at any moment, now them railways is everywheres."

"But I hope as how you're comfortable where you are, Sara?"

"Yes, Mr. Archer. But what am I to do for all your kindness?"

"You can pay me all in a lump, if you like, Sara. Only you don't owe
me nothing."

Her colour came and went. She was not used to men. She could not tell
what he would have her understand, and could not help trembling.

"What do you mean, Mr. Archer?" she faltered out.

"I mean you can give me yourself, Sara, and that'll clear all scores."

"But, Mr. Archer--you've been a-teaching of me good things--You
_don't_ mean to marry me!" exclaimed Sara, bursting into tears.

"Of course I do, Sara. Don't cry about it. I won't if you don't like."

This is how Stephen came to change his mind about his stock in trade.




THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.


CHAPTER I.


"My hearers, we grow old," said the preacher. "Be it summer or be it
spring with us now, autumn will soon settle down into winter, that
winter whose snow melts only in the grave. The wind of the world sets
for the tomb. Some of us rejoice to be swept along on its swift wings,
and hear it bellowing in the hollows of earth and sky; but it will
grow a terror to the man of trembling limb and withered brain, until
at length he will long for the shelter of the tomb to escape its
roaring and buffeting. Happy the man who shall then be able to believe
that old age itself, with its pitiable decays and sad dreams of youth,
is the chastening of the Lord, a sure sign of his love and his
fatherhood."

It was the first Sunday in Advent; but "the chastening of the Lord"
came into almost every sermon that man preached.

"Eloquent! But after all, _can_ this kind of thing be true?" said to
himself a man of about thirty, who sat decorously listening. For many
years he had thought he believed this kind of thing--but of late he
was not so sure.

Beside him sat his wife, in her new winter bonnet, her pretty face
turned up toward the preacher; but her eyes--nothing else--revealed
that she was not listening. She was much younger than her
husband--hardly twenty, indeed.

In the upper corner of the pew sat a pale-faced child about five,
sucking her thumb, and staring at the preacher.

The sermon over, they walked home in proximity. The husband looked
gloomy, and his eyes sought the ground. The wife looked more smiling
than cheerful, and her pretty eyes went hither and thither. Behind
them walked the child--steadily, "with level-fronting eyelids."

It was a late-built region of large, common-place houses, and at one
of them they stopped and entered. The door of the dining-room was
open, showing the table laid for their Sunday dinner. The gentleman
passed on to the library behind it, the lady went up to her bedroom,
and the child a stage higher to the nursery.

It wanted half an hour to dinner. Mr. Greatorex sat down, drummed with
his fingers on the arm of his easy-chair, took up a book of arctic
exploration, threw it again on the table, got up, and went to the
smoking-room. He had built it for his wife's sake, but was often glad
of it for his own. Again he seated himself, took a cigar, and smoked
gloomily.

Having reached her bedroom, Mrs. Greatorex took off her bonnet, and
stood for ten minutes turning it round and round. Earnestly she
regarded it--now gave a twist to the wire-stem of a flower, then
spread wider the loop of a bow. She was meditating what it lacked of
perfection rather than brooding over its merits: she was keen in
bonnets.

Little Sophy--or, as she called herself by a transposition of
consonant sounds common with children, Phosy--found her nurse Alice in
the nursery. But she was lost in the pages of a certain London weekly,
which had found her in a mood open to its influences, and did not even
look up when the child entered. With some effort Phosy drew off her
gloves, and with more difficulty untied her hat. Then she took off her
jacket, smoothed her hair, and retreated to a corner. There a large
shabby doll lay upon her little chair: she took it up, disposed it
gently upon the bed, seated herself in its place, got a little book
from where she had left it under the chair, smoothed down her skirts,
and began simultaneously to read and suck her thumb. The book was an
unhealthy one, a cup filled to the brim with a poverty-stricken and
selfish religion: such are always breaking out like an eruption here
and there over the body of the Church, doing their part, doubtless, in
carrying off the evil humours generated by poverty of blood, or the
congestion of self-preservation. It is wonderful out of what spoiled
fruit some children will suck sweetness.

But she did not read far: her thoughts went back to a phrase which had
haunted her ever since first she went to church: "Whom the Lord
loveth, he chasteneth."

"I wish he would chasten me," she thought for the hundredth time.

The small Christian had no suspicion that her whole life had been a
period of chastening--that few children indeed had to live in such a
sunless atmosphere as hers.

Alice threw down the newspaper, gazed from the window into the
back-yard of the next house, saw nothing but an elderly man-servant
brushing a garment, and turned upon Sophy.

"Why don't you hang up your jacket, miss?" she said, sharply.

The little one rose, opened the wardrobe-door wide, carried a chair to
it, fetched her jacket from the bed, clambered up on the chair, and,
leaning far forward to reach a peg, tumbled right into the bottom of
the wardrobe.

"You clumsy!" exclaimed the nurse angrily, and pulling her out by the
arm, shook her.

Alice was not generally rough to her, but there were reasons to-day.

Phosy crept back to her seat, pale, frightened, and a little hurt.
Alice hung up the jacket, closed the wardrobe, and, turning,
contemplated her own pretty face and neat figure in the glass
opposite. The dinner-bell rang.

"There, I declare!" she cried, and wheeled round on Phosy. "And your
hair not brushed yet, miss! Will you ever learn to do a thing without
being told it? Thank goodness, I shan't be plagued with you long! But
I pity her as comes after me: I do!"

"If the Lord would but chasten me!" said the child to herself, as she
rose and laid down her book with a sigh.

The maid seized her roughly by the arm, and brushed her hair with an
angry haste that made the child's eyes water, and herself feel a
little ashamed at the sight of them.

"How could anybody love such a troublesome chit?" she said, seeking
the comfort of justification from the child herself.

Another sigh was the poor little damsel's only answer. She looked very
white and solemn as she entered the dining-room.

Mr. Greatorex was a merchant in the City. But he was more of a man
than a merchant, which all merchants are not. Also, he was more
scrupulous in his dealings than some merchants in the same line of
business, who yet stood as well with the world as he; but, on the
other hand, he had the meanness to pride himself upon it as if it had
been something he might have done without and yet held up his head.

Some six years before, he had married to please his parents; and a
year before, he had married to please himself. His first wife had
intellect, education, and heart, but little individuality--not enough
to reflect the individuality of her husband. The consequence was, he
found her uninteresting. He was kind and indulgent however, and not
even her best friend blamed him much for manifesting nothing beyond
the average devotion of husbands. But in truth his wife had great
capabilities, only they had never ripened, and when she died, a
fortnight after giving birth to Sophy, her husband had not a suspicion
of the large amount of undeveloped power that had passed away with
her.

Her child was so like her both in countenance and manner that he was
too constantly reminded of her unlamented mother; and he loved neither
enough to discover that, in a sense as true as marvellous, the child
was the very flower-bud of her mother's nature, in which her retarded
blossom had yet a chance of being slowly carried to perfection. Love
alone gives insight, and the father took her merely for a miniature
edition of the volume which he seemed to have laid aside for ever in
the dust of the earth's lumber-room. Instead, therefore, of watering
the roots of his little human slip from the well of his affections, he
had scarcely as yet perceived more in relation to her than that he was
legally accountable for her existence, and bound to give her shelter
and food. If he had questioned himself on the matter, he would have
replied that love was not wanting, only waiting upon her growth, and
the development of something to interest him.

Little right as he had had to expect anything from his first marriage,
he had yet cherished some hopes therein--tolerably vague, it is true,
yet hardly faint enough, it would seem, for he was disappointed in
them. When its bonds fell from him, however, he flattered himself that
he had not worn them in vain, but had through them arrived at a
knowledge of women as rare as profound. But whatever the reach of this
knowledge, it was not sufficient to prevent him from harbouring the
presumptuous hope of so choosing and so fashioning the heart and mind
of a woman that they should be as concave mirrors to his own. I do not
mean that he would have admitted the figure, but such was really the
end he blindly sought. I wonder how many of those who have been
disappointed in such an attempt have been thereby aroused to the
perception of what a frightful failure their success would have been
on both sides. It was bad enough that Augustus Greatorex's theories
had cramped his own development; it would have been ten-fold worse had
they been operative to the stunting of another soul.

Letty Merewether was the daughter of a bishop _in partibus_. She had
been born tolerably innocent, had grown up more than tolerably pretty,
and was, when she came to England at the age of sixteen, as nearly a
genuine example of Locke's sheet of white paper as could well have
fallen to the hand of such an experimenter as Greatorex would fain
become.

In his suit he had prospered--perhaps too easily. He loved the girl,
or at least loved the modified reflection of her in his own mind;
while she, thoroughly admiring the dignity, good looks, and
accomplishments of the man whose attentions flattered her
self-opinion, accorded him deference enough to encourage his vainest
hopes. Although she knew little, fluttering over the merest surfaces
of existence, she had sense enough to know that he talked sense to
her, and foolishness enough to put it down to her own credit, while
for the sense itself she cared little or nothing. And Greatorex,
without even knowing what she was rough-hewn for, would take upon him
to shape her ends!--an ambition the Divinity never permits to succeed:
he who fancies himself the carver finds himself but the chisel, or
indeed perhaps only the mallet, in the hand of the true workman.

During the days of his courtship, then, Letty listened and smiled, or
answered with what he took for a spiritual response, when it was
merely a brain-echo. Looking down into the pond of her being, whose
surface was, not yet ruffled by any bubbling of springs from below, he
saw the reflection of himself and was satisfied. An able man on his
hobby looks a centaur of wisdom and folly; but if he be at all a wise
man, the beast will one day or other show him the jade's favour of
unseating him. Meantime Augustus Greatorex was fooled, not by poor
little Letty, who was not capable of fooling him, but by himself.
Letty had made no pretences; had been interested, and had shown her
interest; had understood, or seemed to understand, what he said to
her, and forgotten it the next moment--had no pocket to put it in, did
not know what to do with it, and let it drop into the Limbo of Vanity.
They had not been married many days before the scouts of advancing
disappointment were upon them. Augustus resisted manfully for a time.
But the truth was each of the two had to become a great deal more than
either was, before any approach to unity was possible. He tried to
interest her in one subject after another--tried her first, I am
ashamed to say, with political economy. In that instance, when he came
home to dinner he found that she had not got beyond the first page of
the book he had left with her. But she had the best of excuses,
namely, that of that page she had not understood a sentence. He saw
his mistake, and tried her with poetry. But Milton, with whom
unfortunately he commenced his approaches, was to her, if not equally
unintelligible, equally uninteresting. He tried her next with the
elements of science, but with no better success. He returned to
poetry, and read some of the Faerie Queene with her: she was, or
seemed to be, interested in all his talk about it, and inclined to go
on with it in his absence, but found the first stanza she tried more
than enough without him to give life to it. She could give it none,
and therefore it gave her none. I believe she read a chapter of the
Bible every day, but the only books she read with any real interest
were novels of a sort that Augustus despised. It never occurred to him
that he ought at once to have made friends of this Momus of
unrighteousness, for by them he might have found entrance to the
sealed chamber. He ought to have read with her the books she did like,
for by them only could he make her think, and from them alone could he
lead her to better. It is but from the very step upon which one stands
that one can move to the next. Besides these books, there was nothing
in her scheme of the universe but fashion, dress, calls, the park,
other-peopledom, concerts, plays, churchgoing--whatever could show
itself on the frosted glass of her _camera obscura_--make an interest
of motion and colour in her darkened chamber. Without these, her
bosom's mistress would have found life unendurable, for not yet had
she ascended her throne, but lay on the floor of her nursery,
surrounded with toys that imitated life.

It was no wonder, therefore, that Augustus was at length compelled to
allow himself disappointed. That it was the fault of his
self-confidence made the thing no whit better. He was too much of a
man not to cherish a certain tenderness for her, but he soon found to
his dismay that it had begun to be mingled with a shadow of contempt.
Against this he struggled, but with fluctuating success. He stopped
later and later at business, and when he came home spent more and more
of his time in the smoking-room, where by and by he had bookshelves
put up. Occasionally he would accept an invitation to dinner and
accompany his wife, but he detested evening parties, and when Letty,
who never refused an invitation if she could help it, went to one, he
remained at home with his books. But his power of reading began to
diminish. He became restless and irritable. Something kept gnawing at
his heart. There was a sore spot in it. The spot grew larger and
larger, and by degrees the centre of his consciousness came to be a
soreness: his cherished idea had been fooled; he had taken a silly
girl for a woman of undeveloped wealth;--a bubble, a surface whereon
fair colours chased each other, for a hearted crystal.

On her part, Letty too had her grief, which, unlike Augustus, she did
not keep to herself, receiving in return from more than one of her
friends the soothing assurance that Augustus was only like all other
men; that women were but their toys, which they cast away when weary
of them. Letty did not see that she was herself making a toy of her
life, or that Augustus was right in refusing to play with such a
costly and delicate thing. Neither did Augustus see that, having, by
his own blunder, married a mere child, he was bound to deal with her
as one, and not let the child suffer for his fault more than what
could not be helped. It is not by pressing our insights upon them, but
by bathing the sealed eyelids of the human kittens, that we can help
them.

And all the time poor little Phosy was left to the care of Alice, a
clever, careless, good-hearted, self-satisfied damsel, who, although
seldom so rough in her behaviour as we have just seen her, abandoned
the child almost entirely to her own resources. It was often she sat
alone in the nursery, wishing the Lord would chasten her--because then
he would love her.

The first course was nearly over ere Augustus had brought himself to
ask--

What did you think of the sermon to-day, Letty?"

"Not much," answered Letty. "I am not fond of finery. I prefer
simplicity."

Augustus held his peace bitterly. For it was just finery in a sermon,
without knowing it, that Letty was fond of: what seemed to him a
flimsy syllabub of sacred things, beaten up with the whisk of
composition, was charming to Letty; while, on the contrary, if a man
such as they had been listening to was carried away by the thoughts
that struggled in him for utterance, the result, to her judgment, was
finery, and the object display. In excuse it must be remembered that
she had been used to her father's style, which no one could have
aspersed with lack of sobriety. Presently she spoke again.

"Gus, dear, couldn't you make up your mind for once to go with me to
Lady Ashdaile's to-morrow? I am getting quite ashamed of appearing so
often without you."

"There is another way of avoiding that unpleasantness," remarked her
husband drily.

"You cruel creature!" returned Letty playfully. "But I must go this
once, for I promised Mrs. Holden."

"You know, Letty," said her husband, after a little pause, "it gets of
more and more consequence that you should not fatigue yourself. By
keeping such late hours in such stifling rooms you are endangering two
lives--remember that, Letty. It you stay at home to-morrow, I will
come home early, and read to you all the evening."

"Gussy, that _would_ be charming. You _know_ there is nothing in the
world I should enjoy so much. But this time I really mustn't."

She launched into a list of all the great nobodies and small
somebodies who were to be there, and whom she positively must see: it
might be her only chance.

Those last words quenched a sarcasm on Augustus' lips. He was kinder
than usual the rest of the evening, and read her to sleep with the
Pilgrim's Progress.

Phosy sat in a corner, listened, and understood. Or where she
misunderstood, it was an honest misunderstanding, which never does
much hurt. Neither father nor mother spoke to her till they bade her
good night. Neither saw the hungry heart under the mask of the still
face. The father never imagined her already fit for the modelling she
was better without, and the stepmother had to become a mother before
she could value her.

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