There are very few, however, of G.o.d's creatures to whom the supernatural does not in some way present itself, and no man lives by bread alone. To Tom, Catharine was miracle, soul, inspiration, religion, enthusiasm, patriotism, immortality, the fact, essentially identical, whatever we like to call it, which is not bread and yet is life. He never dared to say anything to her. He felt that she lived in a world beyond him, and he did not know what kind of a world it was. He knew that she thought about things which were strange to him, and that she was anxious upon subjects which never troubled him. She was often greatly depressed when there was no cause for depression so far as he could see, and he could not comprehend why a person should be ill when there was nothing the matter. If he felt unwell--a rare event with him--he always took two antibilous pills before going to bed, and was all right the next morning.

He wished he himself could be ill without a reason, and then perhaps he would be able to understand Catharine better. Her elation and excitement were equally unintelligible. He once saw her sitting in her father's counting-house with a book. She was not a great reader--n.o.body in Eastthorpe read books, and there were not many to read--but she was so absorbed in this particular book that she did not lift her eyes from it when he came in, and it was not until her father had spoken twice to her, and had told her that he was expecting somebody, that she moved. She then ran upstairs into a storeroom, and was there for half an hour in the cold. The book was left open when she went away, and Tom looked at it.

It was a collection of poems by all kinds of people, and the one over which she had been poring was about a man who had shot an albatross. Tom studied it, but could make nothing of it, and yet this was what had so much interested her! "O G.o.d!" he said to himself pa.s.sionately, "if I could, if I did but know! She cares not a pin for me; this is what she cares for." Poor Tom! he did not pride himself on the absence of a sense in him, but knew and acknowledged to himself that he was defective. It is quite possible to be aware of a spiritual insensibility which there is no power to overcome--of the existence of a universe in which other favoured souls are able to live, one which they can report, and yet its doors are closed to us, or, if sitting outside we catch a glimpse of what is within, we have no power to utter a single sufficient word to acquaint anybody with what we have seen: Catharine respected Tom greatly, for she understood well enough what her father owed to him, but she could not love him. One penetrating word from Mr. Cardew thrilled every fibre in her, no matter what the subject might be. Tom, in every mood and on every topic, was uninteresting and ordinary. To tell the truth, plain, common probity taken by itself was not attractive to her. Horses, dogs, cows, the fields were more stimulant than perfect integrity, for she was young and did not know how precious it was; but, after all, the reason of reasons why she did not love Tom was that she did not love him.

It was announced one day by small handbills in the shop windows that a sermon was to be preached by Mr. Cardew, of Abchurch, in Eastthorpe, on behalf of the County Infirmary, and Catharine went to hear him. It was in the evening, and she was purposely late. She did no go to her mother's pew, but sat down close to the door. To her surprise she saw Tom not far off. He was on his way to his chapel when he noticed Catharine alone, walking towards the church, and he had followed her. Mr.

Cardew took for his text the parable of the prodigal son. He began by saying that this parable had been taken to be an exhibition of G.o.d's love for man. It seemed rather intended to set forth, not the magnificence of the Divine nature, but of human nature--of that nature which G.o.d a.s.sumed.

The determination on the part of the younger son to arise, to go to his father, and above everything to say to him simply, "Father, I have sinned," was as great as G.o.d is great: it was G.o.d--G.o.d moving in us; in a sense it was far more truly G.o.d--far greater than the force which binds the planets into a system. But the splendour of human nature--do not suppose any heresy here; it is Bible truth, the very gospel--is shown in the father as well as in the son.

"When he was yet a great way off." We are as good as told then, that day after day the father had been watching. How small were the probabilities that at any particular hour the son would return, and yet every hour the father's eyes were on that long, dusty road! When at last he saw what he was dying to see, what did he say? Was there a word of rebuke? He stopped his boy's mouth with kisses and cried for the best robe and the ring and the shoes, and proclaimed a feast--the ring, mark you, a sign of honour!

"Say nothing of pardon; the darkness hath gone: Shall pardon be asked for the night by the sun?

No word of the past; of the future no fear: 'Tis enough, my beloved, to know thou art here."

"Oh, my friends," said the preacher, "just consider that it is this upon which Jesus, the Son of G.o.d, has put His stamp, not the lecture, not chastis.e.m.e.nt, not expiation, but an instant unquestioning embrace, no matter what the wrong may have been. If you say this is dangerous doctrine, I say it is _here_. What other meaning can you give to it? At the same time I am astonished to find it here, astonished that priestcraft and the enemy of souls should not have erased it. Sacred truth! Is it not moving to think of all the millions of men who for eighteen hundred years have read this parable, philosophers and peasants, in every climate, and now are we reading it to-day! Is it not moving--nay, awful--to think of all the good it has done, of the sweet stream of tenderness, broad and deep, which has flowed down from it through all history? History would all have been different if this parable had never been told."

Mr. Cardew paused, and after his emotion had a little subsided he concluded by an appeal on behalf of the infirmary. He inserted a saving clause on Christ's mediatorial work, but it had no particular connection with the former part of his discourse. It was spoken in a different tone, and it satisfied the congregation that they had really heard nothing heterodox.

Tom watched Catharine closely. He noted her eager, rapt attention, and that she did not recover herself till the voluntary was at an end. He went out after her; she met Mr. and Mrs. Cardew at the churchyard gates; he saw the excitement of all three, and he saw Catharine leave her friends at the Rectory, for they were evidently going to stay the night there. Mrs. Cardew went into the house first, but Catharine turned down Fosbrooke Street, a street which did not lead, save by a very roundabout way, to the Terrace. Presently Mr. Cardew came out and walked slowly down Rectory Lane. In those days it was hardly a thoroughfare. It ended at the river bank, and during daylight a boat was generally there, belonging to an old, superannuated boatman, who carried chance pa.s.sengers over to the mill meadows and saved them a walk if they wanted to go that side of the town. A rough seat had been placed near the boat moorings for the convenience of the ferryman's customers. At this time in the evening the place was deserted. Tom followed Mr. Cardew, and presently overtook him. Mr. Cardew and he knew one another slightly, for there were few persons for miles round who did not know and then visit Mr.

Furze's shop.

"Good evening, Mr. Cardew."

"Ah! Mr. Catchpole, is that you? What are you doing here?"

"I have been to hear you preach, sir, and I thought I would have a stroll before I went home."

"I thought I should like a stroll too."

The two went on together, and sat down on the seat. The moon had just risen, nearly full, sending its rays obliquely across the water, and lighting up the footpath which went right and left along the river's edge. Mr. Cardew seemed disinclined to talk, was rather restless, and walked backwards and forwards by the bank. Tom reflected that he might be intruding, but there was something on his mind, and he did not leave.

Mr. Cardew sat down again by his side. They both happened to be looking in the same direction eastwards at the same moment.

"If that lady thinks to cross to-night," said Tom, "she's mistaken. I'd take her over myself, though it is Sunday, if the boat were not locked."

"What lady?" asked Mr. Cardew--as if he were frightened, Tom thought.

"The lady coming down there just against the willow."

Mr. Cardew was short-sighted, and could not see her. He made as if he would go to meet her, but he stopped, returned, and remained standing.

The figure approached, but before Tom could discern anything more than that it was a woman, it disappeared behind the hedge up the little bypath that cut off the corner into Rectory Lane.

"She's gone," said Tom. "I suppose she was not coming here after all."

"Which way has she gone?" asked Mr. Cardew, looking straight on the ground and scratching it with his stick.

"Into the town."

"I must be going, I think, Mr. Catchpole; good-night."

"I'll walk with you as far as your door, sir. There's something I want to say to you."

Mr. Cardew did not reply, and meditated for a moment.

"It is a lovely evening. We will sit here a little longer. What is it?"

"Mr. Cardew, as I said, I have been to hear you preach, and I thank you with all my heart for your sermon, but I want to ask you something about it. What you said about the Mediator was true enough, but somehow, sir, I feel as if I ought to have liked the first part most, but I couldn't, and perhaps the reason is that it was poetry. Oh, Mr. Cardew, if you could but tell me how to like poetry!"

"I am afraid neither I nor anybody else can teach you that; but why are you anxious to like it? Why are you dissatisfied with yourself?"

"I do not think I am stupid. When I am in the shop I know that I am more of a match for most persons, and yet, Mr. Cardew, there are some people who seem to me to have something I have not got, and they value it more than anything besides, and they have nothing to say really, _really_, I mean, to those who have not got it, although they are kind to them."

"It is not very easy to understand what you mean."

"Well now to-night, sir, when you talked about G.o.d moving in us, and the force which binds the planets together, and all that, I am sure you felt it, and I am sure it is true, and yet I was out of doors, so to speak."

"Perhaps I may be peculiar, and it is you who are sane and sound."

"Ah, Mr. Cardew, if you were alone in it, and everybody were like me, that might be true, but it is not so; it is I who am alone."

"Who cares for it whom you know? You are under a delusion."

"Oh, no, I am not. Why there--there." Tom stopped.

"There was what?"

"There was Miss Furze--she took it in."

"Indeed!" Mr Cardew again looked straight on the ground, and again scratched it with his stick. It was a night of nights, dying twilight long lingering in the north-west, the low golden moon, the slow, placid, shining stream, perfect stillness. Tom was not very susceptible, but even he was overcome and tempted into confidence.

"Mr. Cardew, you are a minister, and I may tell you: I know you will not betray me. I love Miss Furze; I cannot help it. I have never loved any girl before. It is very foolish, for I am only her father's journeyman; but that might be got over. She would not let that stand in her way, I am sure. But, Mr. Cardew, I am not up to her; she is strange to me. If I try to mention her subjects, what I say is not right, and when I drove her home from Chapel Farm, and admired the view I know she admired, she directly began to speak about business, as if she did not wish to talk about better things; perhaps it is because I never was taught. I had no schooling; cannot you help me, sir? I shall never set eyes on anybody like her. I would die this instant to save her a moment's pain."

Mr. Cardew was silent. It was characteristic of him that often when he himself was most personally affected, the situation became an object of reflection. What a strange pathos there was in this recognition of superiority and in the inability to rise to it and appropriate it! Then his thoughts turned to himself again, and the flame shot up clear and strong, as if oil had been poured on the fire. She understood him; she alone.

"I am very sorry for you, Mr. Catchpole, more sorry than I can tell you.

I will think over what you have said, and we will have another talk about it. I must be going now."

Mr. Cardew, however, did not go towards Rectory Lane, but along the side path. Tom mechanically accompanied him, but without speaking. At last Mr. Cardew, finding that Tom did not leave him, retraced his steps and went up the lane. In about two minutes they met Mrs. Cardew.

"I wondered where you were. I was coming down to the ferry to look for you, thinking that most likely you were there. Ah, Mr. Catchpole! is that you? I am glad my husband has had company. Let me go back and look at the water."

"Certainly."

Tom stopped and took his leave.

The two went back to the river and sat on the seat.

Mrs. Cardew took her husband's hand in her own sweet way, kissed it, and held it fast. At last, with a little struggle, she said--

"My dear, you have never preached--to me, at least--as you have preached to-night."

"You really mean it?"