_ 'Cast me upon some naked shore,
Where I may tracke
Only the print of some sad wracke,
If thou be there, though the seas roare,
I shall no gentler calm implore.'
HABINGTON.
He was gone. The house was shut up for the evening. No more deep
blue skies or crimson and amber tints. Margaret went up to dress
for the early tea, finding Dixon in a pretty temper from the
interruption which a visitor had naturally occasioned on a busy
day. She showed it by brushing away viciously at Margaret's hair,
under pretence of being in a great hurry to go to Mrs. Hale. Yet,
after all, Margaret had to wait a long time in the drawing-room
before her mother came down. She sat by herself at the fire, with
unlighted candles on the table behind her, thinking over the day,
the happy walk, happy sketching, cheerful pleasant dinner, and
the uncomfortable, miserable walk in the garden.
How different men were to women! Here was she disturbed and
unhappy, because her instinct had made anything but a refusal
impossible; while he, not many minutes after he had met with a
rejection of what ought to have been the deepest, holiest
proposal of his life, could speak as if briefs, success, and all
its superficial consequences of a good house, clever and
agreeable society, were the sole avowed objects of his desires.
Oh dear! how she could have loved him if he had but been
different, with a difference which she felt, on reflection, to be
one that went low--deep down. Then she took it into her head
that, after all, his lightness might be but assumed, to cover a
bitterness of disappointment which would have been stamped on her
own heart if she had loved and been rejected.
Her mother came into the room before this whirl of thoughts was
adjusted into anything like order. Margaret had to shake off the
recollections of what had been done and said through the day, and
turn a sympathising listener to the account of how Dixon had
complained that the ironing-blanket had been burnt again; and how
Susan Lightfoot had been seen with artificial flowers in her
bonnet, thereby giving evidence of a vain and giddy character.
Mr. Hale sipped his tea in abstracted silence; Margaret had the
responses all to herself. She wondered how her father and mother
could be so forgetful, so regardless of their companion through
the day, as never to mention his name. She forgot that he had not
made them an offer.
After tea Mr. Hale got up, and stood with his elbow on the
chimney-piece, leaning his head on his hand, musing over
something, and from time to time sighing deeply. Mrs. Hale went
out to consult with Dixon about some winter clothing for the
poor. Margaret was preparing her mother's worsted work, and
rather shrinking from the thought of the long evening, and
wishing bed-time were come that she might go over the events of
the day again.
'Margaret!' said Mr. Hale, at last, in a sort of sudden desperate
way, that made her start. 'Is that tapestry thing of immediate
consequence? I mean, can you leave it and come into my study? I
want to speak to you about something very serious to us all.'
'Very serious to us all.' Mr. Lennox had never had the
opportunity of having any private conversation with her father
after her refusal, or else that would indeed be a very serious
affair. In the first place, Margaret felt guilty and ashamed of
having grown so much into a woman as to be thought of in
marriage; and secondly, she did not know if her father might not
be displeased that she had taken upon herself to decline Mr.
Lennox's proposal. But she soon felt it was not about anything,
which having only lately and suddenly occurred, could have given
rise to any complicated thoughts, that her father wished to speak
to her. He made her take a chair by him; he stirred the fire,
snuffed the candles, and sighed once or twice before he could
make up his mind to say--and it came out with a jerk after
all--'Margaret! I am going to leave Helstone.'
'Leave Helstone, papa! But why?'
Mr. Hale did not answer for a minute or two. He played with some
papers on the table in a nervous and confused manner, opening his
lips to speak several times, but closing them again without
having the courage to utter a word. Margaret could not bear the
sight of the suspense, which was even more distressing to her
father than to herself.
'But why, dear papa? Do tell me!'
He looked up at her suddenly, and then said with a slow and
enforced calmness:
'Because I must no longer be a minister in the Church of
England.'
Margaret had imagined nothing less than that some of the
preferments which her mother so much desired had befallen her
father at last--something that would force him to leave
beautiful, beloved Helstone, and perhaps compel him to go and
live in some of the stately and silent Closes which Margaret had
seen from time to time in cathedral towns. They were grand and
imposing places, but if, to go there, it was necessary to leave
Helstone as a home for ever, that would have been a sad, long,
lingering pain. But nothing to the shock she received from Mr.
Hale's last speech. What could he mean? It was all the worse for
being so mysterious. The aspect of piteous distress on his face,
almost as imploring a merciful and kind judgment from his child,
gave her a sudden sickening. Could he have become implicated in
anything Frederick had done? Frederick was an outlaw. Had her
father, out of a natural love for his son, connived at any--
'Oh! what is it? do speak, papa! tell me all! Why can you no
longer be a clergyman? Surely, if the bishop were told all we
know about Frederick, and the hard, unjust--'
'It is nothing about Frederick; the bishop would have nothing to
do with that. It is all myself. Margaret, I will tell you about
it. I will answer any questions this once, but after to-night let
us never speak of it again. I can meet the consequences of my
painful, miserable doubts; but it is an effort beyond me to speak
of what has caused me so much suffering.'
'Doubts, papa! Doubts as to religion?' asked Margaret, more
shocked than ever.
'No! not doubts as to religion; not the slightest injury to
that.' He paused. Margaret sighed, as if standing on the verge of
some new horror. He began again, speaking rapidly, as if to get
over a set task:
'You could not understand it all, if I told you--my anxiety, for
years past, to know whether I had any right to hold my living--my
efforts to quench my smouldering doubts by the authority of the
Church. Oh! Margaret, how I love the holy Church from which I am
to be shut out!' He could not go on for a moment or two. Margaret
could not tell what to say; it seemed to her as terribly
mysterious as if her father were about to turn Mahometan.
'I have been reading to-day of the two thousand who were ejected
from their churches,'--continued Mr. Hale, smiling
faintly,--'trying to steal some of their bravery; but it is of no
use--no use--I cannot help feeling it acutely.'
'But, papa, have you well considered? Oh! it seems so terrible,
so shocking,' said Margaret, suddenly bursting into tears. The
one staid foundation of her home, of her idea of her beloved
father, seemed reeling and rocking. What could she say? What was
to be done? The sight of her distress made Mr. Hale nerve
himself, in order to try and comfort her. He swallowed down the
dry choking sobs which had been heaving up from his heart
hitherto, and going to his bookcase he took down a volume, which
he had often been reading lately, and from which he thought he
had derived strength to enter upon the course in which he was now
embarked.
'Listen, dear Margaret,' said he, putting one arm round her
waist. She took his hand in hers and grasped it tight, but she
could not lift up her head; nor indeed could she attend to what
he read, so great was her internal agitation.
'This is the soliloquy of one who was once a clergyman in a
country parish, like me; it was written by a Mr. Oldfield,
minister of Carsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty years
ago, or more. His trials are over. He fought the good fight.'
These last two sentences he spoke low, as if to himself. Then he
read aloud,--
'When thou canst no longer continue in thy work without dishonour
to God, discredit to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding
conscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding the loss of thy
salvation; in a word, when the conditions upon which thou must
continue (if thou wilt continue) in thy employments are sinful,
and unwarranted by the word of God, thou mayest, yea, thou must
believe that God will turn thy very silence, suspension,
deprivation, and laying aside, to His glory, and the advancement
of the Gospel's interest. When God will not use thee in one kind,
yet He will in another. A soul that desires to serve and honour
Him shall never want opportunity to do it; nor must thou so limit
the Holy One of Israel as to think He hath but one way in which
He can glorify Himself by thee. He can do it by thy silence as
well as by thy preaching; thy laying aside as well as thy
continuance in thy work. It is not pretence of doing God the
greatest service, or performing the weightiest duty, that will
excuse the least sin, though that sin capacitated or gave us the
opportunity for doing that duty. Thou wilt have little thanks, 0
my soul! if, when thou art charged with corrupting God's worship,
falsifying thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for it in order
to a continuance in the ministry. As he read this, and glanced at
much more which he did not read, he gained resolution for
himself, and felt as if he too could be brave and firm in doing
what he believed to be right; but as he ceased he heard
Margaret's low convulsive sob; and his courage sank down under
the keen sense of suffering.
'Margaret, dear!' said he, drawing her closer, 'think of the
early martyrs; think of the thousands who have suffered.'
'But, father,' said she, suddenly lifting up her flushed,
tear-wet face, 'the early martyrs suffered for the truth, while
you--oh! dear, dear papa!'
'I suffer for conscience' sake, my child,' said he, with a
dignity that was only tremulous from the acute sensitiveness of
his character; 'I must do what my conscience bids. I have borne
long with self-reproach that would have roused any mind less
torpid and cowardly than mine.' He shook his head as he went on.
'Your poor mother's fond wish, gratified at last in the mocking
way in which over-fond wishes are too often fulfilled--Sodom
apples as they are--has brought on this crisis, for which I ought
to be, and I hope I am thankful. It is not a month since the
bishop offered me another living; if I had accepted it, I should
have had to make a fresh declaration of conformity to the Liturgy
at my institution. Margaret, I tried to do it; I tried to content
myself with simply refusing the additional preferment, and
stopping quietly here,--strangling my conscience now, as I had
strained it before. God forgive me!'
He rose and walked up and down the room, speaking low words of
self-reproach and humiliation, of which Margaret was thankful to
hear but few. At last he said,
'Margaret, I return to the old sad burden we must leave
Helstone.'
'Yes! I see. But when?'
'I have written to the bishop--I dare say I have told you so, but
I forget things just now,' said Mr. Hale, collapsing into his
depressed manner as soon as he came to talk of hard
matter-of-fact details, 'informing him of my intention to resign
this vicarage. He has been most kind; he has used arguments and
expostulations, all in vain--in vain. They are but what I have
tried upon myself, without avail. I shall have to take my deed of
resignation, and wait upon the bishop myself, to bid him
farewell. That will be a trial, but worse, far worse, will be the
parting from my dear people. There is a curate appointed to read
prayers--a Mr. Brown. He will come to stay with us to-morrow.
Next Sunday I preach my farewell sermon.'
Was it to be so sudden then? thought Margaret; and yet perhaps it
was as well. Lingering would only add stings to the pain; it was
better to be stunned into numbness by hearing of all these
arrangements, which seemed to be nearly completed before she had
been told. 'What does mamma say?' asked she, with a deep sigh.
To her surprise, her father began to walk about again before he
answered. At length he stopped and replied:
'Margaret, I am a poor coward after all. I cannot bear to give
pain. I know so well your mother's married life has not been all
she hoped--all she had a right to expect--and this will be such a
blow to her, that I have never had the heart, the power to tell
her. She must be told though, now,' said he, looking wistfully at
his daughter. Margaret was almost overpowered with the idea that
her mother knew nothing of it all, and yet the affair was so far
advanced!
'Yes, indeed she must,' said Margaret. 'Perhaps, after all, she
may not--Oh yes! she will, she must be shocked'--as the force of
the blow returned upon herself in trying to realise how another
would take it. 'Where are we to go to?' said she at last, struck
with a fresh wonder as to their future plans, if plans indeed her
father had.
'To Milton-Northern,' he answered, with a dull indifference, for
he had perceived that, although his daughter's love had made her
cling to him, and for a moment strive to soothe him with her
love, yet the keenness of the pain was as fresh as ever in her
mind.
'Milton-Northern! The manufacturing town in Darkshire?'
'Yes,' said he, in the same despondent, indifferent way.
'Why there, papa?' asked she.
'Because there I can earn bread for my family. Because I know no
one there, and no one knows Helstone, or can ever talk to me
about it.'
'Bread for your family! I thought you and mamma had'--and then
she stopped, checking her natural interest regarding their future
life, as she saw the gathering gloom on her father's brow. But
he, with his quick intuitive sympathy, read in her face, as in a
mirror, the reflections of his own moody depression, and turned
it off with an effort.
'You shall be told all, Margaret. Only help me to tell your
mother. I think I could do anything but that: the idea of her
distress turns me sick with dread. If I tell you all, perhaps you
could break it to her to-morrow. I am going out for the day, to
bid Farmer Dobson and the poor people on Bracy Common good-bye.
Would you dislike breaking it to her very much, Margaret?'
Margaret did dislike it, did shrink from it more than from
anything she had ever had to do in her life before. She could not
speak, all at once. Her father said, 'You dislike it very much,
don't you, *Margaret?' Then she conquered herself, and said, with
a bright strong look on her face:
'It is a painful thing, but it must be done, and I will do it as
well as ever I can. You must have many painful things to do.'
Mr. Hale shook his head despondingly: he pressed her hand in
token of gratitude. Margaret was nearly upset again into a burst
of crying. To turn her thoughts, she said: 'Now tell me, papa,
what our plans are. You and mamma have some money, independent of
the income from the living, have not you? Aunt Shaw has, I know.'
'Yes. I suppose we have about a hundred and seventy pounds a year
of our own. Seventy of that has always gone to Frederick, since
he has been abroad. I don't know if he wants it all,' he
continued in a hesitating manner. 'He must have some pay for
serving with the Spanish army.'
'Frederick must not suffer,' said Margaret, decidedly; 'in a
foreign country; so unjustly treated by his own. A hundred is
left Could not you, and I, and mamma live on a hundred a year in
some very cheap--very quiet part of England? Oh! I think we
could.'
'No!' said Mr. Hale. 'That would not answer. I must do something.
I must make myself busy, to keep off morbid thoughts. Besides, in
a country parish I should be so painfully reminded of Helstone,
and my duties here. I could not bear it, Margaret. And a hundred
a year would go a very little way, after the necessary wants of
housekeeping are met, towards providing your mother with all the
comforts she has been accustomed to, and ought to have. No: we
must go to Milton. That is settled. I can always decide better by
myself, and not influenced by those whom I love,' said he, as a
half apology for having arranged so much before he had told any
one of his family of his intentions. 'I cannot stand objections.
They make me so undecided.'
Margaret resolved to keep silence. After all, what did it signify
where they went, compared to the one terrible change?
Mr. Hale continued: 'A few months ago, when my misery of doubt
became more than I could bear without speaking, I wrote to Mr.
Bell--you remember Mr. Bell, Margaret?'
'No; I never saw him, I think. But I know who he is. Frederick's
godfather--your old tutor at Oxford, don't you mean?'
'Yes. He is a Fellow of Plymouth College there. He is a native of
Milton-Northern, I believe. At any rate, he has property there,
which has very much increased in value since Milton has become
such a large manufacturing town. Well, I had reason to
suspect--to imagine--I had better say nothing about it, however.
But I felt sure of sympathy from Mr. Bell. I don't know that he
gave me much strength. He has lived an easy life in his college
all his days. But he has been as kind as can be. And it is owing
to him we are going to Milton.'
'How?' said Margaret.
'Why he has tenants, and houses, and mills there; so, though he
dislikes the place--too bustling for one of his habits--he is
obliged to keep up some sort of connection; and he tells me that
he hears there is a good opening for a private tutor there.'
'A private tutor!' said Margaret, looking scornful: 'What in the
world do manufacturers want with the classics, or literature, or
the accomplishments of a gentleman?'
'Oh,' said her father, 'some of them really seem to be fine
fellows, conscious of their own deficiencies, which is more than
many a man at Oxford is. Some want resolutely to learn, though
they have come to man's estate. Some want their children to be
better instructed than they themselves have been. At any rate,
there is an opening, as I have said, for a private tutor. Mr.
Bell has recommended me to a Mr. Thornton, a tenant of his, and a
very intelligent man, as far as I can judge from his letters. And
in Milton, Margaret, I shall find a busy life, if not a happy
one, and people and scenes so different that I shall never be
reminded of Helstone.'
There was the secret motive, as Margaret knew from her own
feelings. It would be different. Discordant as it was--with
almost a detestation for all she had ever heard of the North of
England, the manufacturers, the people, the wild and bleak
country--there was this one recommendation--it would be different
from Helstone, and could never remind them of that beloved place.
'When do we go?' asked Margaret, after a short silence.
'I do not know exactly. I wanted to talk it over with you. You
see, your mother knows nothing about it yet: but I think, in a
fortnight;--after my deed of resignation is sent in, I shall have
no right to remain.
Margaret was almost stunned.
'In a fortnight!'
'No--no, not exactly to a day. Nothing is fixed,' said her
father, with anxious hesitation, as he noticed the filmy sorrow
that came over her eyes, and the sudden change in her complexion.
But she recovered herself immediately.
'Yes, papa, it had better be fixed soon and decidedly, as you
say. Only mamma to know nothing about it! It is that that is the
great perplexity.'
'Poor Maria!' replied Mr. Hale, tenderly. 'Poor, poor Maria! Oh,
if I were not married--if I were but myself in the world, how
easy it would be! As it is--Margaret, I dare not tell her!'
'No,' said Margaret, sadly, 'I will do it. Give me till to-morrow
evening to choose my time Oh, papa,' cried she, with sudden
passionate entreaty, 'say--tell me it is a night-mare--a horrid
dream--not the real waking truth! You cannot mean that you are
really going to leave the Church--to give up Helstone--to be for
ever separate from me, from mamma--led away by some
delusion--some temptation! You do not really mean it!'
Mr. Hale sat in rigid stillness while she spoke.
Then he looked her in the face, and said in a slow, hoarse,
measured way--'I do mean it, Margaret. You must not deceive
yourself into doubting the reality of my words--my fixed
intention and resolve.' He looked at her in the same steady,
stony manner, for some moments after he had done speaking. She,
too, gazed back with pleading eyes before she would believe that
it was irrevocable. Then she arose and went, without another word
or look, towards the door. As her fingers were on the handle he
called her back. He was standing by the fireplace, shrunk and
stooping; but as she came near he drew himself up to his full
height, and, placing his hands on her head, he said, solemnly:
'The blessing of God be upon thee, my child!'
'And may He restore you to His Church,' responded she, out of the
fulness of her heart. The next moment she feared lest this answer
to his blessing might be irreverent, wrong--might hurt him as
coming from his daughter, and she threw her arms round his neck.
He held her to him for a minute or two. She heard him murmur to
himself, 'The martyrs and confessors had even more pain to
bear--I will not shrink.'
They were startled by hearing Mrs. Hale inquiring for her
daughter. They started asunder in the full consciousness of all
that was before them. Mr. Hale hurriedly said--'Go, Margaret, go.
I shall be out all to-morrow. Before night you will have told
your mother.'
'Yes,' she replied, and she returned to the drawing-room in a
stunned and dizzy state. _