The Vicar's Daughter, George MacDonald [important books to read .txt] 📗

father. Well, you must remember this was a long while ago, so what I’m going to speak about could be possible. Well, their house was on the top of a high and steep hill; and at the bottom, a little from the hill, was a knight’s house. There were three knights living in it. Next to it was stables with three horses in it. Sometimes they went up to this house, and wondered what was in it. ‘They never knew, but saw the angels come. The knights were out all day, and only came home for meals. And they wondered what on earth the angels were doin’, goin’ in the house. They found out what—what, and the question was—I’ll explain what it was. Ernest, come here.” (_Ernest remarks to the audience_, “I’m curate,” and to Charles, “Well, but, Charles, you’re going to explain, you know;” and Charles resumes.) “The fact was, that this was—if you’d like to explain it more to yourselves, you’d better look in your books, No. 1828. Before, the angels didn’t speak loud, so the knights couldn’t hear; now they spoke louder, so that the knights could visit them, ‘cause they knew their names. They hadn’t many visitors, but they had the knights in there, and that’s all.”

I am still very much afraid that all this nonsense will hardly be interesting, even to parents. But I may as well suffer for a sheep as a lamb; and, as I had an opportunity of hearing two such sermons myself not long after, I shall give them, trusting they will occupy far less space in print than they do in my foolish heart.

It was Ernest who was in the pulpit and just commencing his discourse when I entered the nursery, and sat down with the congregation. Sheltered by a clothes-horse, apparently set up for a screen, I took out my pencil, and reported on a fly-leaf of the book I had been reading:—

“My brother was goin’ to preach about the wicked: I will preach about the good. Twenty-sixth day. In the time of Elizabeth there was a very old house. It was so old that it was pulled down, and a quite new one was built instead. Some people who lived in it did not like it so much now as they did when it was old. I take their part, you know, and think they were quite right in preferring the old one to the ugly, bare, new one. They left it—sold it—and got into another old house instead.”

Here, I am sorry to say, his curate interjected the scornful remark,—

“He’s not lookin’ in the book a bit!”

But the preacher went on, without heeding the attack on his orthodoxy.

“This other old house was still more uncomfortable: it was very draughty; the gutters were always leaking; and they wished themselves back in the new house. So, you see, if you wish for a better thing, you don’t get it so good after all.”

“Ernest, that is about the bad, after all!” cried Charles.

“Well, it’s silly,” remarked Freddy severely.

“But I wrote it myself,” pleaded the preacher from the pulpit; and, in consideration of the fact, he was allowed to go on.

“I was reading about them being always uncomfortable. At last they decided to go back to their own house, which they had sold. They had to pay so much to get it back, that they had hardly any money left; and then they got so unhappy, and the husband whipped his wife, and took to drinking. That’s a lesson.” (_Here the preacher’s voice became very plaintive_), “that’s a lesson to show you shouldn’t try to get the better thing, for it turns out worse, and then you get sadder, and every thing.”

He paused, evidently too mournful to proceed. Freddy again remarked that it was silly; but Charles interposed a word for the preacher.

“It’s a good lesson, I think. A good lesson, I say,” he repeated, as if he would not be supposed to consider it much of a sermon.

But here the preacher recovered himself and summed up.

“See how it comes: wanting to get every thing, you come to the bad and drinking. And I think I’ll leave off here. Let us sing.”

The song was “Little Robin Redbreast;” during which Charles remarked to Freddy, apparently by way of pressing home the lesson upon his younger brother,—

“Fancy! floggin’ his wife!”

Then he got into the pulpit himself, and commenced an oration.

“Chapter eighty-eight. The wicked.—Well, the time when the story was, was about Herod. There were some wicked people wanderin’ about there, and they—not killed them, you know, but—went to the judge. We shall see what they did to them. I tell you this to make you understand. Now the story begins—but I must think a little. Ernest, let’s sing ‘Since first I saw your face.’

“When the wicked man was taken then to the good judge—there were some good people: when I said I was going to preach about the wicked, I did not mean that there were no good, only a good lot of wicked. There were pleacemans about here, and they put him in prison for a few days, and then the judge could see about what he is to do with him. At the end of the few days, the judge asked him if he would stay in prison for life or be hanged.”

Here arose some inquiries among the congregation as to what the wicked, of whom the prisoner was one, had done that was wrong; to which Charles replied,—

“Oh! they murdered and killed; they stealed, and they were very wicked altogether. Well,” he went on, resuming his discourse, “the morning came, and the judge said, ‘Get the ropes and my throne, and order the people not to come to see the hangin’.’ For the man was decided to be hanged. Now, the people would come. They were the wicked, and they would persist in comin’. They were the wicked; and, if that was the fact, the judge must do something to them.

“Chapter eighty-nine. The hangin’.—We’ll have some singin’ while I think.”

“Yankee Doodle” was accordingly sung with much enthusiasm and solemnity. Then Charles resumed.

“Well, they had to put the other people, who persisted in coming, in prison, till the man who murdered people was hanged. I think my brother will go on.”

He descended, and gave place to Ernest, who began with vigor.

“We were reading about Herod, weren’t we? Then the wicked people would come, and had to be put to death. They were on the man’s side; and they all called out that he hadn’t had his wish before he died, as they did in those days. So of course he wished for his life, and of course the judge wouldn’t let him have that wish; and so he wished to speak to his friends, and they let him. And the nasty wicked people took him away, and he was never seen in that country any more. And that’s enough to-day, I think. Let us sing ‘Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate, a combing his milk-white steed.’”

At the conclusion of this mournful ballad, the congregation was allowed to disperse. But, before they had gone far, they were recalled by the offer of a more secular entertainment from Charles, who re-ascended the pulpit, and delivered himself as follows:—

“Well, the play is called—not a proverb or a charade it isn’t—it’s a play called ‘The Birds and the Babies.’ Well!

“Once there was a little cottage, and lots of little babies in it. Nobody knew who the babies were. They were so happy! Now, I can’t explain it to you how they came together: they had no father and mother, but they were brothers and sisters. They never grew, and they didn’t like it. Now, you wouldn’t like not to grow, would you? They had a little garden, and saw a great many birds in the trees. They were happy, but didn’t feel happy—that’s a funny thing now! The wicked fairies made them unhappy, and the good fairies made them happy; they gave them lots of toys. But then, how they got their living!

“Chapter second, called ‘The Babies at Play.’—The fairies told them what to get—_that was it!_—and so they got their living Very nicely. And now I must explain what they played with. First was a house. A house. Another, dolls. They were very happy, and felt as if they had a mother and father; but they hadn’t, and couldn’t make it out. Couldn’t—make—it—out!

“They had little pumps and trees. Then they had babies’ rattles. Babies’ rattles.—Oh! I’ve said hardly any thing about the birds, have I? an’ it’s called ‘The Birds and the Babies!‘ They had lots of little pretty robins and canaries hanging round the ceiling, and—shall I say?”—

Every one listened expectant during the pause that followed.

“—And—lived—happy—ever—after.”

The puzzle in it all is chiefly what my husband hinted at,—why and how both the desire and the means of utterance should so long precede the possession of any thing ripe for utterance. I suspect the answer must lie pretty deep in some metaphysical gulf or other.

At the same time, the struggle to speak where there is so little to utter can hardly fail to suggest the thought of some efforts of a more pretentious and imposing character.

But more than enough!

 

CHAPTER XLI.

“DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE.”

 

I had for a day or two fancied that Marion was looking less bright than usual, as if some little shadow had fallen upon the morning of her life. I say morning, because, although Marion must now have been seven or eight and twenty, her life had always seemed to me lighted by a cool, clear, dewy morning sun, over whose face it now seemed as if some film of noonday cloud had begun to gather. Unwilling at once to assert the ultimate privilege of friendship, I asked her if any thing was amiss with her friends. She answered that all was going on well, at least so far that she had no special anxiety about any of them. Encouraged by a half-conscious and more than half-sad smile, I ventured a little farther.

“I am afraid there is something troubling you,” I said.

“There is,” she replied, “something troubling me a good deal; but I hope it will pass away soon.”

The sigh which followed, however, was deep though gentle, and seemed to indicate a fear that the trouble might not pass away so very soon.

“I am not to ask you any questions, I suppose,” I returned.

“Better not at present,” she answered. “I am not quite sure that”—

She paused several moments before finishing her sentence, then added,—

“—that I am at liberty to tell you about it.”

“Then don’t say another word,” I rejoined. “Only when I can be of service to you, you will let me, won’t you?”

The tears rose to her eyes.

“I’m afraid it may be some fault of mine,” she said. “I don’t know. I can’t tell. I don’t understand such things.”

She sighed again, and held her peace.

It was enigmatical enough. One thing only was clear, that at present I was not wanted. So I, too, held my peace, and in a few minutes Marion went, with a more affectionate leave-taking than usual, for her friendship was far less demonstrative than that of most women.

I pondered, but it was not of much use. Of course the first thing that suggested itself was, Could my angel be in love? and with some mortal mere? The very idea was a shock, simply from its strangeness.