Wilfrid Cumbermede

CHAPTER XIX. CHARLEY NURSES ME

I saw no more of Clara. Mr Coningham came to bid me good-bye, and spoke very kindly. Mr Forest would have got a nurse for me, but Charley begged so earnestly to be allowed to return the service I had done for him that he yielded.

I was in great pain for more than a week. Charley’s attentions were unremitting. In fact he nursed me more like a woman than a boy; and made me think with some contrition how poor my ministrations had been. Even after the worst was over, if I but moved, he was at my bedside in a moment. Certainly no nurse could have surpassed him. I could bear no one to touch me but him: from any one else I dreaded torture; and my medicine was administered to the very moment by my own old watch, which had been brought to do its duty at least respectably.

One afternoon, finding me tolerably comfortable, he said, ‘Shall I read something to you, Wilfrid?’

He never called me Willie, as most of my friends did.

‘I should like it,’ I answered.

‘What shall I read?’ he asked.

‘Hadn’t you something in your head,’ I rejoined, ‘when you proposed it?’

‘Well, I had; but I don’t know if you would like it.’

‘What did you think of, then?’

‘I thought of a chapter in the New Testament.’

‘How could you think I should not like that?’

‘Because I never saw you say your prayers.’

‘That is quite true. But you don’t think I never say my prayers, although you never see me do it?’

The fact was, my uncle, amongst his other peculiarities, did not approve of teaching children to say their prayers. But he did not therefore leave me without instruction in the matter of praying—either the idlest or the most availing of human actions. He would say, ‘When you want anything, ask for it, Willie; and if it is worth your having, you will have it. But don’t fancy you are doing God any service by praying to him. He likes you to pray to him because he loves you, and wants you to love him. And whatever you do, don’t go saying a lot of words you don’t mean. If you think you ought to pray, say your Lord’s Prayer, and have done with it.’ I had no theory myself on the matter; but when I was in misery on the wild mountains, I had indeed prayed to God; and had even gone so far as to hope, when I got what I prayed for, that he had heard my prayer.

Charley made no reply.

‘It seems to me better that sort of thing shouldn’t be seen, Charley,’ I persisted.

‘Perhaps, Wilfrid; but I was taught to say my prayers regularly.’ ‘I don’t think much of that either,’ I answered. ‘But I’ve said a good many prayers since I’ve been here, Charley. I can’t say I’m sure it’s of any use, but I can’t help trying after something—I don’t know what—something I want, and don’t know how to get.’

‘But it’s only the prayer of faith that’s heard—do you believe, Wilfrid?’

‘I don’t know. I daren’t say I don’t. I wish I could say I do. But I dare say things will be considered.’

‘Wouldn’t it be grand if it was true, Wilfrid?’

‘What, Charley?’

‘That God actually let his creatures see him—and—all that came of it, you know?’

‘It would be grand indeed! But supposing it true, how could we be expected to believe it like them that saw him with their own eyes? I couldn’t be required to believe just as if I could have no doubt about it. It wouldn’t be fair. Only—perhaps we haven’t got the clew by the right end.’

‘Perhaps not. But sometimes I hate the whole thing. And then again I feel as if I must read all about it; not that I care for it exactly, but because a body must do something—because—I don’t know how to say it—because of the misery, you know.’

‘I don’t know that I do know—quite. But now you have started the subject, I thought that was great nonsense Mr Forest was talking about the authority of the Church the other day.’

‘Well, I thought so, too. I don’t see what right they have to say so and so, if they didn’t hear him speak. As to what he meant, they may be right or they may be wrong. If they have the gift of the Spirit, as they say—how am I to tell they have? All impostors claim it as well as the true men. If I had ever so little of the same gift myself, I suppose I could tell; but they say no one has till he believes—so they may be all humbugs for anything I can possibly tell; or they may be all true men, and yet I may fancy them all humbugs, and can’t help it.’

I was quite as much astonished to hear Charley talk in this style as some readers will be doubtful whether a boy could have talked such good sense. I said nothing, and a silence followed.

‘Would you like me to read to you, then?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I should; for, do you know, after all, I don’t think there’s anything like the New Testament.’

‘Anything like it!’ he repeated. ‘I should think not! Only I wish I did know what it all meant. I wish I could talk to my father as I would to Jesus Christ if I saw him. But if I could talk to my father, he wouldn’t understand me. He would speak to me as if I were the very scum of the universe for daring to have a doubt of what he told me.’

‘But he doesn’t mean himself,’ I said.

‘Well, who told him?’

‘The Bible.’

‘And who told the Bible?’

‘God, of course.’

‘But how am I to know that? I only know that they say so. Do you know, Wilfrid—I don’t believe my father is quite sure himself, and that is what makes him in such a rage with anybody who doesn’t think as he does. He’s afraid it mayn’t be true after all.’

I had never had a father to talk to, but I thought something must be wrong when a boy couldn’t talk to his father. My uncle was a better father than that came to.

Another pause followed, during which Charley searched for a chapter to fit the mood. I will not say what chapter he found, for, after all, I doubt if we had any real notion of what it meant. I know, however, that there were words in it which found their way to my conscience; and, let men of science or philosophy say what they will, the rousing of a man’s conscience is the greatest event in his existence. In such a matter, the consciousness of the man himself is the sole witness. A Chinese can expose many of the absurdities and inconsistencies of the English: it is their own Shakspere who must bear witness to their sins and faults, as well as their truths and characteristics.

After this we had many conversations about such things, one of which I shall attempt to report by-and-by. Of course, in any such attempt all that can be done is to put the effect into fresh conversational form. What I have just written must at least be more orderly than what passed between us; but the spirit is much the same, and mere fact is of consequence only as it affects truth.

CHAPTER XX. A DREAM

The best immediate result of my illness was that I learned to love Charley Osborne dearly. We renewed an affection resembling from afar that of Shakspere for his nameless friend; we anticipated that informing In Memoriam. Lest I be accused of infinite arrogance, let me remind my reader that the sun is reflected in a dewdrop as in the ocean.

One night I had a strange dream, which is perhaps worth telling for the involution of its consciousness.

I thought I was awake in my bed, and Charley asleep in his. I lay looking into the room. It began to waver and change. The night-light enlarged and receded; and the walls trembled and waved. The light had got behind them, and shone through them.

‘Charley! Charley!’ I cried; for I was frightened.

‘I heard him move: but before he reached me, I was lying on a lawn, surrounded by trees, with the moon shining through them from behind. The next moment Charley was by my side.

‘Isn’t it prime?’ he said. ‘It’s all over.’

‘What do you mean, Charley?’ I asked.

‘I mean that we’re both dead now. It’s not so very bad—is it?’

‘Nonsense, Charley!’ I returned; ‘I’m not dead. I’m as wide alive as ever I was. Look here.’

So saying, I sprung to my feet, and drew myself up before him.

‘Where’s your worst pain?’ said Charley, with a curious expression in his tone.

‘Here,’ I answered. ‘No; it’s not; it’s in my back. No, it isn’t. It’s nowhere. I haven’t got any pain.’

Charley laughed a low laugh, which sounded as sweet as strange. It was to the laughter of the world ‘as moonlight is to sunlight,’ but not ‘as water is to wine,’ for what it had lost in sound it had gained in smile.

‘Tell me now you’re not dead!’ he exclaimed triumphantly.

‘But,’ I insisted, ‘don’t you see I’m alive? You may be dead for anything I know—but I am not—I know that.’

‘You’re just as dead as I am,’ he said. ‘Look here.’

A little way off, in an open plot by itself, stood a little white rose tree, half mingled with the moonlight. Charley went up to it, stepped on the topmost twig, and stood: the bush did not even bend under him.

‘Very well,’ I answered. ‘You are dead, I confess. But now, look you here.’

I went to a red rose-bush which stood at some distance, blanched in the moon, set my foot on the top of it, and made as if I would ascend, expecting to crush it, roses and all, to the ground. But behold! I was standing on my red rose opposite Charley on his white.

‘I told you so,’ he cried, across the moonlight, and his voice sounded as if it came from the moon far away.

‘Oh Charley!’ I cried, ‘I’m so frightened!’

‘What are you frightened at?’

‘At you. You’re dead, you know.’

‘It is a good thing, Wilfrid,’ he rejoined, in a tone of some reproach, ‘that I am not frightened at you for the same reason; for what would happen then?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose you would go away and leave me alone in this ghostly light.’

‘If I were frightened at you as you are at me, we should not be able to see each other at all. If you take courage the light will grow.’

‘Don’t leave me, Charley,’ I cried, and flung myself from my tree towards his. I found myself floating, half reclined on the air. We met midway each in the other’s arms.

‘I don’t know where I am, Charley.’

‘That is my father’s rectory.’

He pointed to the house, which I had not yet observed. It lay quite dark in the moonlight, for not a window shone from within.

‘Don’t leave me, Charley.’

‘Leave you! I should think not, Wilfrid. I have been long enough without you already.’

‘Have you been long dead, then, Charley?’

‘Not very long. Yes, a long time. But, indeed, I don’t know. We don’t count time as we used to count it.—I want to go and see my father. It is long since I saw him, anyhow. Will you come?’

‘If you think I might—if you wish it,’ I said, for I had no great desire to see Mr Osborne. ‘Perhaps he won’t care to see me.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Charley, with another low silvery laugh. ‘Come along.’

We glided over the grass. A window stood a little open on the second floor. We floated up, entered, and stood by the bedside of Charley’s father. He lay in a sound sleep.

‘Father! father!’ said Charley, whispering in his ear as he lay—‘it’s all right. You need not be troubled about me any more.’

Mr Osborne turned on his pillow.

‘He’s dreaming about us now,’ said Charley. ‘He sees us both standing by his bed.’

But the next moment Mr Osborne sat up, stretched out his arms towards us with the open palms outwards, as if pushing us away from him, and cried,

‘Depart from me, all evil-doers. O Lord! do I not hate them that hate thee?’

He followed with other yet more awful words which I never could recall. I only remember the feeling of horror and amazement they left behind. I turned to Charley. He had disappeared, and I found myself lying in the bed beside Mr Osborne. I gave a great cry of dismay—when there was Charley again beside me, saying,

‘What’s the matter, Wilfrid? Wake up. My father’s not here.’

I did wake, but until I had felt in the bed I could not satisfy myself that Mr Osborne was indeed not there.

‘You’ve been talking in your sleep. I could hardly get you waked,’ said Charley, who stood there in his shirt.

‘Oh Charley!’ I cried, ‘I’ve had such a dream!’

‘What was it, Wilfrid?’

‘Oh! I can’t talk about it yet,’ I answered.

I never did tell him that dream; for even then I was often uneasy about him—he was so sensitive. The affections of my friend were as hoops of steel; his feelings a breath would ripple. Oh, my Charley! if ever we meet in that land so vaguely shadowed in my dream, will you not know that I loved you heartily well? Shall I not hasten’ to lay bare my heart before you—the priest of its confessional? Oh, Charley! when the truth is known, the false will fly asunder as the Autumn leaves in the wind; but the true, whatever their faults, will only draw together the more tenderly that they have sinned against each other.

CHAPTER XXI. THE FROZEN STREAM

Before the Winter arrived, I was well, and Charley had recovered from the fatigue of watching me. One holiday, he and I set out alone to accomplish a scheme we had cherished from the first appearance of the frost. How it arose I hardly remember; I think it came of some remark Mr Forest had made concerning the difference between the streams of Switzerland and England—those in the former country being emptiest, those in the latter fullest in the Winter. It was—when the frost should have bound up the sources of the beck which ran almost by our door, and it was no longer a stream, but a rope of ice—to take that rope for our guide, and follow it as far as we could towards the secret recesses of its Summer birth.

Along the banks of the stream, we followed it up and up, meeting a varied loveliness which it would take the soul of a Wordsworth or a Ruskin to comprehend or express. To my poor faculty the splendour of the ice-crystals remains the one memorial thing. In those lonely water-courses the sun was gloriously busy, with none to praise him except Charley and me.

Where the banks were difficult we went down into the frozen bed, and there had story above story of piled-up loveliness, with opal and diamond cellars below. Spikes and stars crystalline radiated and refracted and reflected marvellously. But we did not reach the primary source of the stream by miles; we were stopped by a precipitous rock, down the face of which one half of the stream fell, while the other crept out of its foot, from a little cavernous opening about four feet high. Charley was a few yards ahead of me, and ran stooping into the cavern. I followed. But when I had gone as far as I dared for the darkness and the down-sloping roof, and saw nothing of him, I grew dismayed, and called him. There was no answer. With a thrill of horror my dream returned upon me. I got on my hands and knees and crept forward. A short way further the floor sank—only a little, I believe, but from the darkness I took the descent for an abyss into which Charley had fallen. I gave a shriek of despair, and scrambled out of the cave howling. In a moment he was by my side. He had only crept behind a projection for a trick. His remorse was extreme. He begged my pardon in the most agonized manner.

‘Never mind, Charley,’ I said; ‘you didn’t mean it.’

‘Yes, I did mean it,’ he returned. ‘The temptation came, and I yielded; only I did not know how dreadful it would be to you.’

‘Of course not. You wouldn’t have done it if you had.’

‘How am I to know that, Wilfrid? I might have done it. Isn’t it frightful that a body may go on and on till a thing is done, and then wish he hadn’t done it? I am a despicable creature. Do you know, Wilfrid, I once shot a little bird—for no good, but just to shoot at something. It wasn’t that I didn’t think of it—don’t say that. I did think of it. I knew it was wrong. When I had levelled my gun, I thought of it quite plainly, and yet drew the trigger. It dropped, a heap of ruffled feathers. I shall never get that little bird out of my head. And the worst of it is that to all eternity I can never make any atonement.’

‘But God will forgive you, Charley.’

‘What do I care for that,’ he rejoined, almost fiercely, ‘when the little bird cannot forgive me?—I would go on my knees to the little bird, if I could, to beg its pardon and tell it-what a brute I was, and it might shoot me if it would, and I should say “Thank you.”’

He laughed almost hysterically, and the tears ran down his face.

I have said little about my uncle’s teaching, lest I should bore my readers. But there it came in, and therefore here it must come in. My uncle had, by no positive instruction, but by occasional observations, not one of which I can recall, generated in me a strong hope that the life of the lower animals was terminated at their death no more than our own. The man who believes that thought is the result of brain, and not the growth of an unknown seed whose soil is the brain, may well sneer at this, for he is to himself but a peck of dust that has to be eaten by the devouring jaws of Time; but I cannot see how the man who believes in soul at all, can say that the spirit of a man lives, and that the spirit of his horse dies. I do not profess to believe anything for certain sure myself, but I do think that he who, if from merely philosophical considerations, believes the one, ought to believe the other as well. Much more must the theosophist believe it. But I had never felt the need of the doctrine until I beheld the misery of Charley over the memory of the dead sparrow. Surely that sparrow fell not to the ground without the Father’s knowledge.

‘Charley! how do you know,’ I said, ‘that you can never beg the bird’s pardon? If God made the bird, do you fancy with your gun you could destroy the making of his hand? If he said, “Let there be,” do you suppose you could say, “There shall not be”?’ (Mr Forest had read that chapter of first things at morning prayers.) ‘I fancy myself that for God to put a bird all in the power of a silly thoughtless boy—’

‘Not thoughtless! not thoughtless! There is the misery!’ said Charley.

But I went on—

‘—would be worse than for you to shoot it.’

A great glow of something I dare not attempt to define grew upon Charley’s face. It was like what I saw on it when Clara laid her hand on his. But presently it died out again, and he sighed—

‘If there were a God—that is, if I were sure there was a God, Wilfrid!’

I could not answer. How could I? I had never seen God, as the old story says Moses did on the clouded mountain. All I could return was,

‘Suppose there should be a God, Charley!—Mightn’t there be a God!’

‘I don’t know,’ he returned. ‘How should I know whether there might be a God?’

‘But may there not be a might be?’ I rejoined.

‘There may be. How should I say the other thing?’ said Charley.

I do not mean this was exactly what he or I said. Unable to recall the words themselves, I put the sense of the thing in as clear a shape as I can.

We were seated upon a stone in the bed of the stream, off which the sun had melted the ice. The bank rose above us, but not far. I thought I heard a footstep. I jumped up, but saw no one. I ran a good way up the stream to a place where I could climb the bank; but then saw no one. The footstep, real or imagined, broke our conversation at that point, and we did not resume it. All that followed was—

‘If I were the sparrow, Charley, I would not only forgive you, but haunt you for ever out of gratitude that you were sorry you had killed me.’

‘Then you do forgive me for frightening you?’ he said eagerly.

Very likely Charley and I resembled each other too much to be the best possible companions for each other. There was, however, this difference between us—that he had been bored with religion and I had not. In other words, food had been forced upon him, which had only been laid before me.

We rose and went home. A few minutes after our entrance, Mr Forest came in—looking strange, I thought. The conviction crossed my mind that it was his footstep we had heard over our heads as we sat in the channel of the frozen stream. I have reason to think that he followed us for a chance of listening. Something had set him on the watch—most likely the fact that we were so much together, and did not care for the society of the rest of our schoolfellows. From that time, certainly, he regarded Charley and myself with a suspicious gloom. We felt it, but beyond talking to each other about it, and conjecturing its cause, we could do nothing. It made Charley very unhappy at times, deepening the shadow which brooded over his mind; for his moral skin was as sensitive to changes in the moral atmosphere as the most sensitive of plants to those in the physical. But unhealthy conditions in the smallest communities cannot last long without generating vapours which result in some kind of outburst.