Part 90 (2/2)

'I thought you had a high opinion of Mr. Watts,' I returned.

'So I have. I hope it is not necessary to agree with a man in everything before we can have a high opinion of him.'

'Of course not. But what is it you hope I am not of his opinion in?'

'He seems ambitious of killing himself with work--of wearing himself out in the service of his master--and as quickly as possible. A good deal of that kind of thing is a mere holding of the axe to the grindstone, not a lifting of it up against thick trees. Only he won't be convinced till it comes to the helve. I met him the other day; he was looking as white as his surplice. I took upon me to read him a lecture on the holiness of holidays. ”I can't leave my poor,” he said. ”Do you think G.o.d can't do without you?” I asked. ”Is he so weak that he cannot spare the help of a weary man? But I think he must prefer quality to quant.i.ty, and for healthy work you must be healthy yourself. How can you be the visible sign of the Christ-present amongst men, if you inhabit an exhausted, irritable brain? Go to G.o.d's infirmary and rest a while. Bring back health from the country to those that cannot go to it. If on the way it be trans.m.u.ted into spiritual forms, so much the better. A little more of G.o.d will make up for a good deal less of you.”'

'What did he say to that?'

'He said our Lord died doing the will of his Father. I told him--”Yes, when his time was come, not sooner. Besides, he often avoided both speech and action.” ”Yes,” he answered, ”but he could tell when, and we cannot.” ”Therefore,” I rejoined, ”you ought to accept your exhaustion as a token that your absence will be the best thing for your people.

If there were no G.o.d, then perhaps you ought to work till you drop down dead--I don't know.”'

'Is he gone yet?'

'No. He won't go. I couldn't persuade him.'

'When do you go?'

'To-morrow.'

'I shall be ready, if you really mean it.'

'That's an if worthy only of a courtier. There may be much virtue in an if, as Touchstone says, for the taking up of a quarrel; but that if is bad enough to breed one,' said Falconer, laughing. 'Be at the Paddington Station at noon to-morrow. To tell the whole truth, I want you to help me with my father.'

This last was said at the door as he showed me out.

In the afternoon we were nearing Bristol. It was a lovely day in October. Andrew had been enjoying himself; but it was evidently rather the pleasure of travelling in a first-cla.s.s carriage like a gentleman than any delight in the beauty of heaven and earth. The country was in the rich sombre dress of decay.

'Is it not remarkable,' said my friend to me, 'that the older I grow, I find autumn affecting me the more like spring?'

'I am thankful to say,' interposed Andrew, with a smile in which was mingled a shade of superiority, 'that no change of the seasons ever affects me.'

'Are you sure you are right in being thankful for that, father?' asked his son.

His father gazed at him for a moment, seemed to bethink himself after some feeble fas.h.i.+on or other, and rejoined,

'Well, I must confess I did feel a touch of the rheumatism this morning.'

How I pitied Falconer! Would he ever see of the travail of his soul in this man? But he only smiled a deep sweet smile, and seemed to be thinking divine things in that great head of his.

At Bristol we went on board a small steamer, and at night were landed at a little village on the coast of North Devon. The hotel to which we went was on the steep bank of a tumultuous little river, which tumbled past its foundation of rock, like a troop of watery horses galloping by with ever-dissolving limbs. The elder Falconer retired almost as soon as we had had supper. My friend and I lighted our pipes, and sat by the open window, for although the autumn was so far advanced, the air here was very mild. For some time we only listened to the sound of the waters.

'There are three things,' said Falconer at last, taking his pipe out of his mouth with a smile, 'that give a peculiarly perfect feeling of abandonment: the laughter of a child; a snake lying across a fallen branch; and the rush of a stream like this beneath us, whose only thought is to get to the sea.'

We did not talk much that night, however, but went soon to bed. None of us slept well. We agreed in the morning that the noise of the stream had been too much for us all, and that the place felt close and torpid.

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