The Seaboard Parish, Volume 3. George MacDonald
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nature was in sympathy with her mood. The girl was always more peaceful in storm than in sunshine. I remembered that now. A movement of life instantly began in her when the obligation of gladness had departed with the light. Her own being arose to provide for its own needs. She could smile now when nature required from her no smile in response to hers. And I could not help saying to myself, "She must marry a poor man some day; she is a creature of the north, and not of the south; the hot sun of prosperity would wither her up. Give her a bleak hill-side, and a glint or two of sunshine between the hailstorms, and she will live and grow; give her poverty and love, and life will be interesting to her as a romance; give her money and position, and she will grow dull and haughty. She will believe in nothing that poet can sing or architect build. She will, like Cassius, scorn her spirit for being moved to smile at anything."
I had stood regarding her for a moment. She turned and saw me, and came forward with her usual morning greeting.
"I beg your pardon, papa: I thought it was Walter."
"I am glad to see a smile on your face, my love."
"Don't think me very disagreeable, papa. I know I am a trouble to you. But I am a trouble to myself first. I fear I have a discontented mind and a complaining temper. But I do try, and I will try hard to overcome it."
"It will not get the better of you, so long as you do the duty of the moment. But I think, as I told you before, that you are not very well, and that your indisposition is going to do you good by making you think about some things you are ready to think about, but which you might have banished if you had been in good health and spirits. You are feeling as you never felt before, that you need a presence in your soul of which at least you haven't enough yet. But I preached quite enough to you yesterday, and I won't go on the same way to-day again. Only I wanted to comfort you. Come and give me my breakfast."
"You do comfort me, papa," she answered, approaching the table. "I know I don't show what I feel as I ought, but you do comfort me much. Don't you like a day like this, papa?"
"I do, my dear. I always did. And I think you take after me in that, as you do in a good many things besides. That is how I understand you so well."
"Do I really take after you, papa? Are you sure that you understand me so well?" she asked, brightening up.
"I know I do," I returned, replying to her last question.
"Better than I do myself?" she asked with an arch smile.
"Considerably, if I mistake not," I answered.
"How delightful! To think that I am understood even when I don't understand myself!"
"But even if I am wrong, you are yet understood. The blessedness of life is that we can hide nothing from God. If we could hide anything from God, that hidden thing would by and by turn into a terrible disease. It is the sight of God that keeps and makes things clean. But as we are both, by mutual confession, fond of this kind of weather, what do you say to going out with me? I have to visit a sick woman."
"You don't mean Mrs. Coombes, papa?"
"No, my dear. I did not hear she was ill."
"O, I daresay it is nothing much. Only old nursey said yesterday she was in bed with a bad cold, or something of that sort."
"We'll call and inquire as we pass,—that is, if you are inclined to go with me."
"How can you put an if to that, papa?"
"I have just had a message from that cottage that stands all alone on the corner of Mr. Barton's farm—over the cliff, you know—that the woman is ill, and would like to see me. So the sooner we start the better."
"I shall have done my breakfast in five minutes, papa. O, here's mamma!—Mamma, I'm going out for a walk in the rain with papa. You won't mind, will you?"
"I don't think it will do you any harm, my dear. That's all I mind, you know. It was only once or twice when you were not well that I objected to it. I quite agree with your papa, that only lazy people are glad to stay in-doors when it rains."
"And it does blow so delightfully!" said Wynnie, as she left the room to put on her long cloak and her bonnet.
We called at the sexton's cottage, and found him sitting gloomily by the low window, looking seaward.
"I hope your wife is not very poorly, Coombes," I said.
"No, sir. She be very comfortable in bed. Bed's not a bad place to be in in such weather," he answered, turning again a dreary look towards the Atlantic. "Poor things!"
"What a passion for comfort you have, Coombes! How does that come about, do you think?"
"I suppose I was made so, sir."
"To be sure you were. God made you so."
"Surely, sir. Who else?"
"Then I suppose he likes making people comfortable if he makes people like to be comfortable."
"It du look likely enough, sir."
"Then when he takes it out of your hands, you mustn't think he doesn't look after the people you would make comfortable if you could."
"I must mind my work, you know, sir."
"Yes, surely. And you mustn't want to take his out of his hands, and go grumbling as if you would do it so much better if he would only let you get your hand to it."
"I daresay you be right, sir," he said. "I must just go and have a look about, though. Here's Agnes. She'll tell you about mother."
He took his spade from the corner, and went out. He often brought his tools into the cottage. He had carved the handle of his spade all over with the names of the people he had buried.
"Tell your mother, Agnes, that I will call in the evening and see her, if she would like to see me. We are going now to see Mrs. Stokes. She is very poorly, I hear."
"Let us go through the churchyard, papa," said Wynnie, "and see what the old man is doing."
"Very well, my dear. It is only a few steps round."
"Why do you humour the sexton's foolish fancy so much, papa? It is such nonsense! You taught us it was, surely, in your sermon about the resurrection?"
"Most certainly, my dear. But it would be of no use to try to get it out of his head by any argument. He has a kind of craze in that direction. To get people's hearts right is of much more importance than convincing their judgments. Right judgment will follow. All such fixed ideas should be encountered from the deepest grounds of truth, and not from the outsides of their relations. Coombes has to be taught that God cares for the dead more than he does, and therefore it is unreasonable for him to be anxious about them."
When we reached the churchyard we found the old man kneeling on a grave before its headstone. It was a very old one, with a death's-head and cross-bones carved upon the top of it in very high relief. With his pocket-knife he was removing the lumps of green moss out of the hollows of the eyes of the carven skull. We did not interrupt him, but walked past with a nod.
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