Part 23 (1/2)
”I think I should, Dorothy,” answered Mr. Drake.
”Would it not be damp--so much in the hollow? Is it not the lowest spot in the park?”
”In the park--yes; for the park drains into it. But the park lies high; and you must note that the lake, deep as it is--very deep, yet drains into the Lythe. For all they say of no bottom to it, I am nearly sure the deepest part of the lake is higher than the surface of the river. If I am right, then we could, if we pleased, empty the lake altogether--not that I should like the place nearly so well without it. The situation is charming--and so sheltered!--looking full south--just the place to keep open house in!”
”That is just like you, father!” cried Dorothy, clapping her hands once and holding them together as she looked up at him. ”The very day you are out of prison, you want to begin to keep an open house!--Dear father!”
”Don't mistake me, my darling. There was a time, long ago, after your mother was good enough to marry me, when--I am ashamed to confess it even to you, my child--I did enjoy making a show. I wanted people to see, that, although I was a minister of a sect looked down upon by the wealthy priests of a worldly establishment, I knew how to live after the world's fas.h.i.+on as well as they. That time you will scarcely recall, Dorothy?”
”I remember the coachman's b.u.t.tons,” answered Dorothy.
”Well! I suppose it will be the same with not a few times and circ.u.mstances we may try to recall in the other world. Some insignificant thing will be all, and fittingly too, by which we shall be able to identify them.--I liked to give nice dinner parties, and we returned every invitation we accepted. I took much pains to have good wines, and the right wines with the right dishes, and all that kind of thing--though I dare say I made more blunders than I knew. Your mother had been used to that way of living, and it was no show in her as it was in me. Then I was proud of my library and the rare books in it. I delighted in showing them, and talking over the rarity of this edition, the tallness of that copy, the binding, and such-like follies. And where was the wonder, seeing I served religion so much in the same way--descanting upon the needlework that clothed the king's daughter, instead of her inward glory! I do not say always, for I had my better times. But how often have I not insisted on the mint and anise and c.u.mmin, and forgotten the judgment, mercy and faith! How many sermons have I not preached about the latchets of Christ's shoes, when I might have been talking about Christ himself! But now I do not want a good house to make a show with any more: I want to be hospitable. I don't call giving dinners being hospitable. I would have my house a hiding-place from the wind, a covert from the tempest. That would be to be hospitable. Ah! if your mother were with us, my child! But you will be my little wife, as you have been for so many years now.--G.o.d keeps open house; I should like to keep open house.--I wonder does any body ever preach hospitality as a Christian duty?”
”I hope you won't keep a butler, and set up for grand, father,” said Dorothy.
”Indeed I will not, my child. I would not run the risk of postponing the pleasure of the Lord to that of inhospitable servants. I will look to you to keep a warm, comfortable, welcoming house, and such servants only as shall be hospitable in heart and behavior, and make no difference between the poor and the rich.”
”I can't feel that any body is poor,” said Dorothy, after a pause, ”except those that can't be sure of G.o.d.--They are so poor!” she added.
”You are right, my child!” returned her father. ”It was not my poverty--it was not being sure of G.o.d that crushed me.--How long is it since I was poor, Dorothy?”
”Two days, father--not two till to-morrow morning.”
”It looks to me two centuries. My mind is at ease, and I have not paid a debt yet! How vile of me to want the money in my own hand, and not be content it should be in G.o.d's pocket, to come out just as it was wanted!
Alas! I have more faith in my uncle's leavings than in my Father's generosity! But I must not forget grat.i.tude in shame. Come, my child--no one can see us--let us kneel down here on the gra.s.s and pray to G.o.d who is in yon star just twinkling through the gray, and in my heart and in yours, my child.”
I will not give the words of the minister's prayer. The words are not the prayer. Mr. Drake's words were commonplace, with much of the conventionality and plat.i.tude of prayer-meetings. He had always objected to the formality of the Prayer-book, but the words of his own prayers without book were far more formal; the prayer itself was in the heart, not on the lips, and was far better than the words. But poor Dorothy heard only the words, and they did not help her. They seemed rather to freeze than revive her faith, making her feel as if she never could believe in the G.o.d of her father. She was too unhappy to reason well, or she might have seen that she was not bound to measure G.o.d by the way her father talked to him--that the form of the prayer had to do with her father, not immediately with G.o.d--that G.o.d might be altogether adorable, notwithstanding the prayers of all heathens and of all saints.
Their talk turned again upon the Old House of Glaston.
”If it be true, as I have heard ever since I came,” said Mr. Drake, ”that Lord de Barre means to pull down the house and plow up the garden, and if he be so short of money as they say, he might perhaps take a few thousands for it. The Lythe bounds the estate, and there makes a great loop, so that a portion might be cut off by a straight line from one arm of the curve to the other, which would be quite outside the park. I will set some inquiry on foot. I have wished for a long time to leave the river, only we had a lease. The Old House is nothing like so low as the one we are in now. Besides, as I propose, we should have s.p.a.ce to build, if we found it desirable, on the level of the park.”
When they reached the gate on their return, a second dwarfish figure, a man, pigeon-chested, short-necked, and asthmatic--a strange, gnome-like figure, came from the lodge to open it. Every body in Glaston knew Polwarth the gatekeeper.
”How is the asthma to-night, Mr. Polwarth?” said the pastor. He had not yet got rid of the tone in which in his young days he had been accustomed to address the poor of his flock--a tone half familiar, half condescending. To big s.h.i.+ps barnacles will stick--and may add weeks to the length of a voyage too.
”Not very bad, thank you, Mr. Drake. But, bad or not, it is always a friendly devil,” answered the little man.
”I am ast---- a little surprised to hear you use such----express yourself so, Mr. Polwarth,” said the minister.
The little man laughed a quiet, huskily melodious, gently merry laugh.
”I am not original in the idea, and scarcely so in my way of expressing it. I am sorry you don't like it, Mr. Drake,” he said. ”I found it in the second epistle to the Corinthians last night, and my heart has been full of it ever since. It is surely no very bad sign if the truth should make us merry at a time! It ought to do so, I think, seeing merriment is one of the lower forms of bliss.”
”I am at a loss to understand you, Mr. Polwarth,” said the minister.
”I beg your pardon, Mr. Drake. I will come to the point. In the pa.s.sage I refer to St. Paul says: 'There was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure:'--am I not right in speaking of such a demon as a friendly one?
He was a gift from G.o.d.”
”I had not observed--that is, I had not taken particular notice of the unusual combination of phrases in the pa.s.sage,” answered Mr. Drake. ”It is a very remarkable one, certainly. I remember no other in which a messenger of Satan is spoken of as being _given_ by G.o.d.”