The Complete Prose Works of Martin Farquhar Tupper

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CHAPTER XIV.

PROBABLE RECONCILIATION.

It was no use--none at all. Nature was too strong for him; and a higher
force than even potent Nature. In vain Sir Thomas pish'd, and tush'd,
and bah'd; in vain he buried himself chin-deep amongst the century of
ledgers that testified of gainful years gone by, and were now mustily
rotting away in the stagnant air of St. Benet's Sherehog: interest had
lost its interest for him, profits profited not, speculation's self had
dull, lack-lustre eyes, and all the hard realities of utilitarian life
were become weary, flat, and stale. Sir Thomas was a miserable man--a
bereaved old man--who nevertheless clung to what was left, and struggled
not to grieve for what was lost: there was a terrible strife going on
secretly within him, dragging him this way and that: a little, lightning
flash of good had been darted by Omnipotence right through the
stone-built caverns of his heart, and was smouldering a concentred flame
within its innermost hollow; a small soft-skinned seed had been dropped
by the Father of Spirits into that iron-bound soil, and it was swelling
day by day under the case-hardened surface, gradually with gentle
violence, despite of all the locks and gates, and bolts and bars, a
silent enemy had somehow crept within the fortress of his feelings,
ready at any unguarded moment to fling the portals open. The rock had a
sealed fountain leaping within it, as an infant in the womb. The poor
old man, the worldly cold old man, was giving way.

Happy misery! for his breaking heart revealed a glorious jewel at the
core. Oh, sorrow beyond price! for natural affections, bursting up amid
these unsunned snows, were a hot-spring to that Iceland soul. Oh,
bitter, bitter penitence most blest! which broke down the money-proud
man, which bruised and kneaded him, humbled, smote, and softened him,
and made him come again a little child--a loving, yearning, little
child--a child with pity in its eyes, with prayer upon its tongue, with
generous affection in its heart. "Oh, Maria! precious, cast-off child,
where art thou, where art thou, where art thou--starving? And canst
thou, blessed God, forgive? And will not thy great mercy bring her to me
yet again? Oh, what a treasury of love have I mis-spent; what riches of
the Heart, what only truest wealth, have I, poor prodigal, been
squandering! Unhappy son--unhappy father of the perjured, heartless,
miserable John! Wo is me! Where art thou, dear child, my pure and best
Maria?"

We may well guess, far too well, how it was that dear Maria came not
near him. She had been, prior to confinement, very, very ill: nigh to
death: the pangs of travail threatened to have seized upon her all too
soon, when wasted with sorrow, and weakened by want. She lay, long
weeks, battling for life, in her little back parlour, at Islington,
tended night and day by her kind, good husband.

But did she not often (you will say) urge him, earnestly as the dying
ask, to seek out her father or brother (she had not been told of his
conviction), and to let them know this need? Why, then, did he so often
put her off with faint excuses, and calm her with coming hopes, and do
any thing, say any thing, suffer any thing, rather than execute the
fervent wish of the affectionate Maria? It is easily understood. With,
and notwithstanding, all the high sentiments, strong sense, and warm
feelings of Henry Clements, he was too proud to seek any succour of the
Dillaways. Sooner than give that hard old man, or, beforetime, that keen
malicious young one, any occasion to triumph over his necessitous
condition, he himself would starve: ay, and trust to Heaven his darling
wife and child; but not trust these to them. Never, never--if the
heart-divorcing work-house were their doom--should that father or that
brother hear from him a word of supplication, or one murmur of
complaint. Nay; he took pains to hinder their knowledge of this trouble:
all the world, rather than those two men. Let penury, disease, the very
parish-beadle triumph over him, but not those two. It was a natural
feeling for a sensitive mind like his--but in many respects a wrong one.
It was to put away, deliberately, the helping hand of Providence,
because it bade him kiss the rod. It was a direct preference of honour
to humility. It was an unconsciously unkind consideration of himself
before those whom he nevertheless believed and called more dear to him
than life--but not than honour. Therefore it was that the hand-bills he
had so often seen pasted upon walls were disregarded, that the numerous
newspaper advertisements remained unanswered, and that all the efforts
of an almost frantic father to find his long-lost daughter were in vain.

Meanwhile, to be just upon poor Clements, who really fancied he was
doing right in this, he left no stone unturned to obtain a provision for
his beloved wife and child. Frequently, by letters (as little urgent as
affection and necessity would suffer him), he had pressed upon some
powerful friends for that vague phantom of a gentlemanly
livelihood--"something under government;" a hope improbable of
accomplishment, indefinite as to view, but still a hope: especially,
since very civil answers came to his request, couched in terms of
official guardedness. He had called anxiously upon "old friends," in
pretty much of his usual elegant dress (for he was wise enough, or proud
enough, never to let his poverty be seen in his attire), and they made
many polite inquiries after "Mrs. Clements," and "Where are you living?"
and "How is it you never come our way?" and "Clements has cut us all
dead," and so forth. It was really entirely his own fault, but he never
could contrive to tell the truth: and when one day, in a careless tone
of voice, he threw out something about "Do you happen to have ten pounds
about you?" to a dashing young blood of his acquaintance--the dashing
young blood affected to treat it as a joke--"You married men, lucky
dogs, with your regular establishments, are too hard upon us poor
bachelors, who have nothing but clubs to go to. I give you my honour,
Clements, ten pounds would dine me for a fortnight:--spare me this time,
there's a fine fellow: take the trouble to write a cheque on your
bankers--here's paper--and my tiger shall get it cashed for you while
you wait: we poor bachelors are never flush." But Clements had already
owned it was a mere "_obiter dictum_,"--nothing but a joke of prudent
marriage against extravagant bachelorship.

Ah, what a bitter joke was that! On the verge of that yes or no, to be
uttered by his frank young friend, trembled reluctant honour;
home-affections were imploring in that careless tone of voice; hunger
put that off-hand question. It was vain; a cruel killing effort for his
pride: so Henry Clements never asked again; withdrew himself from
friends; grew hopeless, all but reckless; and his only means of living
were picked up scantily from the by-ways of literature. An occasional
guinea from a magazine, a copy of that luckily anonymous tragedy now and
then sold by him from house to house (he always disguised himself at
such times), a little indexing to be done for publishers, and a little
correcting of the press for printers--these formed the trifling and
uncertain pittance upon which the pale family existed. Poor Henry
Clements, proud Henry Clements, you had, indeed, a dose of physic for
your pride: bitter draughts, bitter draughts, day after day; but, for
all that weak and wasted wife, dearly, devotedly beloved; for all the
pining infant, with its angel face and beautiful smiles: for all the
strong pleadings of affection, yea, and gnawing hunger too, the strong
man's pride was stronger. And had not God's good providence proved
mercifully strongest of them all, that family of love would have starved
outright for pride.

But Heaven's favour willed it otherwise. By something little short of
miracle, where food was scant and medicine scarce, the poor emaciated
mother gradually gained strength--that long, low fever left her, health
came again upon her cheek, her travail passed over prosperously, the
baby too thrived, (oh, more than health to mothers!) and Maria Clements
found herself one morning strong enough to execute a purpose she had
long most anxiously designed. "Henry was wrong to think so harshly of
her father. She knew he would not spurn her away: he must be kind, for
she loved him dearly still. Wicked as it doubtless was of her [dear
innocent girl] to have done any thing contrary to his wishes, she was
sure he would relieve her in her utmost need. He could not, could not be
so hard as poor dear Henry made him." So, taking advantage of her
husband's absence during one of his literary pilgrimages, she took her
long-forgotten bonnet and shawl, and, with the baby in her arms, flew on
the wings of love, duty, penitence, and affection to her dear old home
in Finsbury square.

CHAPTER XV.

THE FATHER FINDS HIS HEART FOR EVER.

He had been at death's door, sinking out of life, because he had nothing
now to live for. He still was very weak in bed, faint, and worn, and
white, propped up with pillows--that poor, bereaved old man. Ever since
Lady Dillaway's most quiet death he had felt alone in the world. True,
while she lived she had seemed to him a mere tranquil trouble, a useless
complacent piece of furniture, often in his way; but now that she was
dead, what a void was left where she had been--mere empty space, cold
and death-like. She had left him quite alone.

Then again--of John, poor John, he would think, and think
continually--not about the little vulgar pock-marked man of 'change, the
broker, the rogue, the coward--but of a happy curly child, with
sparkling eyes--a merry-hearted, ruddy little fellow, romping with his
sister--ay, in this very room; here is the identical China vase he
broke, all riveted up; there is the corner where he would persist to
nestle his dormice. Ah, dear child! precious child! where is he
now?--Where and what indeed! Alas, poor father! had you known what I do,
and shall soon inform the world, of that bad man's awful end, one more,
one fiercest pang would have tormented you: but Heaven spared that pang.
Nevertheless, the bitter contrast of the child and of the man had made
him very wretched--and to the widower's solitude added the father's
sadness.

And worst of all--Maria's utter loss--that dear, warm-hearted, innocent,
ill-used, and yet beloved daughter. Why did he spurn her away? and keep
her away so long?--oh, hard heart, hard heart! Was she not innocent,
after all? and John, bad John, too probably the forger of that letter,
as the forger of this will? And now that he should give his life to see
her, and kiss her, and--no, no, not forgive her, but pray to be forgiven
by her--"Where is she? why doesn't she come to hold up my poor weak
head--to see how fervently my dead old heart has at last learnt to
love--to help a bad, and hard, a pardoned and penitent old man to die in
perfect peace--to pray with me, for me, to God, our God, my daughter!
Where is she--how can I find her out--why will she not come to me all
this sorrowful year? Oh come, come, dear child--our Father send thee to
me--come and bless me ere I die--come, my Maria!"

Magical, or contrived, as it may seem to us, the poor old man was
actually bemoaning himself thus, when our dear heroine of the Heart
faintly knocked at her old home door. It opened; a faded-looking woman,
with a baby in her arms, rushed past the astonished butler: and, just as
her father was praying out aloud for Heaven to speed her to him, that
daughter's step was at the bed-room door.

Before she turned the handle (some house-maid had recognised her on the
stairs, and told her, with an impudent air, that "Sir Thomas was ill
a-bed"), she stopped one calming instant to gain strength of God for
that dreaded interview, and to check herself from bursting in upon the
chamber of sickness, so as to disquiet that dear weak patient. So, she
prayed, gently turned the handle, and heard those thrilling
words--"Come, my Maria!"

It was enough; their hearts burst out together like twin fountains,
rolling their joyful sorrows together towards the sea of endless love,
as a swollen river that has broken through some envious and constraining
dam! It was enough; they wept together, rejoiced together, kissed and
clasped each other in the fervour of full love: the babe lay smiling and
playing on the bed: Maria, in a torrent of happiest tears, fondled that
poor old man, who was crying and laughing by turns, as little children
do--was praising God out loud like a saint, and calling down blessings
on his daughter's head in all the transports of a new-found Heart. What
a world of things they had to tell of--how much to explain, excuse,
forgive, and be forgiven, especially about that wicked letter--how
fervently to make up now for love that long lay dormant--how heartily to
bless each other, and to bless again! Who can record it all? Who can
even sketch aright the heavenly hues that shone about that scene of the
affections? Alas, my pen is powerless--yea, no mortal hand can trace
those heavenly hues. Angels that are round the penitent's, the good
man's bed--ye alone who witness it, can utter what ye see: ye alone,
rejoicingly with those rejoicing, gladly speed aloft frequent
ambassadors to Him, the Lord of Love, with some new beauteous trait,
some rare ecstatic thought, some pure delighted look, some more burning
prayer, some gem of Heaven's jewellery more brilliant than the rest,
which raises happy envy of your bright compeers. I see your shining
bands crowding enamoured round that scene of human tenderness; while now
and then some peri-like seraph of your thronging spiritual forms will
gladly wing away to find favour of his God for a tear, or a prayer, or a
holy thought dropped by his ministering hands into the treasury of
Heaven.

But the cup of joy is large and deep: it is an ocean in capacity: and
mantling though it seemeth to the brim, God's bounty poureth on.

Another step is on the stairs! You have guessed it, Henry Clements.
Returning home wearily, after a disheartening expedition, and finding
his wife, to his great surprise, gone out, sick and weak, as still he
thought her, he had calculated justly on the direction whereunto her
heart had carried her; he had followed her speedily, and, with many
self-compunctions, he had determined to be proud no more, and to help,
with all his heart, in that holy reconciliation. See! at the bed-side,
folding Maria with one arm, and with his other hand tightly clasped in
both of that kind and changed old man's, stands Henry Clements.

Ay, changed indeed! Who could have discovered in that joy-illumined
brow, in those blessing-dropping lips, in those eyes full of penitence,
and pity, and peace, and praise, and prayer, the harsh old usurer--the
crafty money-cankered knave of dim St. Benet's Sherehog--the cold
husband--the cruel father--the man without a heart? Ay, changed--changed
for ever now, an ever of increasing happiness and love. Who or what had
caused this deep and mighty change? Natural affection was the sword, and
God's the arm that wielded it. None but he could smite so deeply; and
when he smote, pour balm into the wound: none but He could kill death,
that dead dried heart, and quicken life within its mummied caverns: none
but the Voice, which said "Let there be light," could work this common
miracle of "Let there be love."

He grew feebler--feebler, that dying kind old man: it had been too much
for him, doubtlessly; he had long been ill, and should long ago have
died; but that he had lived for this; and now the end seemed near. They
never left his bed-side then for days and nights, that new-found son and
daughter: physicians came, and recommended that the knight be quite
alone, quite undisturbed: but Sir Thomas would not, could not--it were
cruelty to force it; so he lay feebly on his back, holding on either
side the hands of Henry and Maria.

It was not so very long: they had come almost in the nick of time: a few
days and hours at the most, and all will then be over. So did they watch
and pray.

And the old man faintly whispered:

"Henry--son Henry: poor John, forgive him, as you and our God have now
forgiven me; poor John--when he comes back again from those long years
of slavery, give him a home, son--give him a home, and enough to keep
him honest; tell him I love him, and forgive him; and remind him that I
died, praying Heaven for my poor boy's soul.

"Henry and Maria--I had, since my great distresses, well nigh forgotten
this world's wealth; but now, thank God, I have thought of it all for
your sakes: in my worst estate of mind I made a wicked will. It is in
that drawer--quick, give it me.

"Thanks--thanks--there is time to tear it; and these good friends, Dr.
Jones and Mr. Blair, take witness--I destroy this wicked will; and my
only child, Maria, has my wealth in course of law. Wealth, yes--if well
used, let us call it wealth; for riches may indeed be made a mine of
good, and joy, and righteousness. I am unworthy to use any of it well,
unworthy of the work, unworthy of the reward: use it well, my holier
children, wisely, liberally, kindly: God give you to do great good with
it; God give you to feel great happiness in all your doing good. My
hands that saved and scraped it all, also often-times by evil hardness,
now penitently washed in the Fountain of Salvation, heartily renounce
that evil. Be ye my stewards; give liberally to many needy. Oh me, my
sin! children, to my misery you know what need is: I can say no more;
poor sinful man, how dare I preach to others? Children, dearest ones, I
am a father still; and I would bless you--bless you!

"I grow weak, but my heart seems within me to grow stronger--I go--I go,
to the Home of Heart, where He that sits upon the throne is Love, and
where all the pulses of all the beings there thrill in unison with him,
the Great Heart of Heaven! I, even I, am one of the redeemed--my heart
is fixed, I will sing and give praise; I, even I, the hardest and the
worst, forgiven, accepted! Who are ye, bright messengers about my bed,
heralds of glory? I go--I go--one--one more, Maria--one last kiss; we
meet--again--in Heaven!"

Had he fainted? yes--his countenance looked lustrous, yet diminishing in
glory, even as a setting sun; the living smile faded gradually away, and
a tranquil cold calm crept over his cheeks: the angelic light which made
his eyes so beautiful to look at, was going out--going out: all was
peace--peace--deep peace.

O death, where is thy victory? O grave, where is thy sting?

CHAPTER XVI.

A WORD ABOUT ORIGINALITY AND MOURNING.

When a purely inventive genius concocts a fabulous tale, it is clearly
competent to him so to order matters, that characters shall not die off
till his book is shortly coming to an end: and had your obedient servant
now been engaged in the architecture of a duly conventional story,
arranged in pattern style, with climax in the middle and a brace of ups
and downs to play supporters, doubtless he might easy have kept alive
both father and mother to witness the triumph of innocence, and have
produced their deaths at the last as a kind of "sweet sorrow," or honied
sting, wherewithal to point his moral. Such, however, was not my
authorship's intention; and, seeing that a wilful pen must have its way,
I have chosen to construct my own veracious tale, respecting the
incidents of life and death, much as such events not unfrequently occur,
that is, at an inconvenient season: for though such accessories to the
fact of dying, as triumphant conversion, or a tranquil going out, may
appear to be a little out of the common way, still the circumstance of
death itself often in real life seems to come as out of time, as your
wisdom thinks in the present book of Heart. People will die untowardly,
and people will live provokingly, notwithstanding all that novelists
have said and poets sung to the contrary: and if two characters out of
our principal five have already left the mimic scene, it will now be my
duty only to show, as nature and society do, how, of those three
surviving chief _dramatis personae_, two of them--to wit, our hero and
heroine of Heart--gathered many friends about their happy homestead, did
a world of good, and, in fine, furnish our volume with a suitable
counterpoise to the mass of selfish sin, which (at its height in the
only remaining character) it has been my fortune to record and to
condemn as the opposite topic of heartlessness.

If writers will be bound by classic rules, and walk on certain roads
because other folks have gone that way before them, needs must that
ill-starred originality perish from this world's surface, and find
refuge (if it can) in the gentle moon or Sirius. Therefore, let us
boldly trespass from the trodden paths, let us rather shake off the
shackles of custom than hug them as an ornament approved: and,
notwithstanding both parental deaths, seemingly ill-timed for the
happiness of innocence, let us acquiesce in the facts, as plain matters
of history, not dubious thoughts of fiction; and let us gather to the
end any good we can, either from the miserable solitude of a selfish
Dillaway, or from the hearty social circle of our happy married pair.

Need I, sons and daughters, need I record at any length how Maria
mourned for her father? If you now have parents worthy of your love, if
you now have hearts to love them, I may safely leave that theme to your
affections: "now" is for all things "the accepted time," now is the day
for reconciliations: our life is a perpetual now. However unfilial you
may have been, however stern or negligent they, if there is now the will
to bless, and now the heart to love, all is well--well at the last, well
now for evermore--thank Heaven for so glad a consummation. Oh, that my
pen had power to make many fathers kind, many children trustful! Oh,
that by some burning word I could thaw the cold, shame sarcasms, and
arouse the apathetic! Oh that, invoking upon every hearth, whereto this
book may come, the full free blaze of home affections, my labour of love
be any thing but vain, when God shall have blessed what I am writing!

Yes, children, dear Maria did mourn for her father, but she mourned as
those who hope; his life had been forgiven, and his death was as a
saints's: as for her, rich rewarded daughter at the last, one word of
warm acknowledgement, one look of true affection, one tear of deep
contrition, would have been superabundant to clear away all the many
clouds, the many storms of her past home-life: and as for our Maker,
with his pure and spotless justice, faith in the sacrifice had passed
all sin to him, and love of the Redeemer had proved that faith the true
one. How should a daughter mourn for such a soul? With tears of joy;
with sighs--of kindred hopefulness; with happiest resolve to live as he
had died; with instant prayer that her last end be like his.

There is a plain tablet in St. Benet's church, just within the
altar-rail, bearing--no inscription about Lord Mayoralty, Knighthood, or
the Worshipful Company of Stationers--but full of facts more glorious
than every honour under heaven; for the words run thus:

SORROWFUL, YET REJOICING,
A DAUGHTER'S LOVE HAS PLACED THIS TABLET
TO THE MEMORY OF
T H O M A S D I L L A W A Y;
A MAN WHO DIED IN THE FAITH OF CHRIST,
IN THE LOVE OF GOD, AND IN THE HOPE OF HEAVEN.

Noble epitaph! Let us so live, that the like of this may be truth on our
tomb-stones. Seek it, rather than wealth, before honour, instead of
pleasure; for, indeed, those words involve within their vast
significancy riches unsearchable, glory indestructible, and pleasure for
evermore! Hide them, as a string of precious pearls, within the casket
of your hearts.

I had almost forgotten, though Maria never could, another neighbouring
tablet to record the peaceful exit of her mother; however, as this had
been erected by Sir Thomas in his life-time, and was plastered thick
with civic glories and heathen virtues, possibly the transcript may be
spared: there was only one sentence that looked true about the epitaph,
though I wished it had been so in every sense; but, to common eyes, it
had seemed quite suitable to the physical quietude of living Lady
Dillaway, to say, "Her end was peace;" although, perhaps, the husband
little thought how sore that mother's heart was for dear Maria's loss,
how full of anxious doubts her mind about Maria's sin. Poor soul,
however peaceful now that spirit has read the truth, in the hour of her
departure it had been with her far otherwise: her dying bed was as a
troubled sea, for she died of a broken heart.

Yearly, on the anniversaries of their respective deaths, the growing
clan of Clements make a solemn pilgrimage to their grand paternal
shrine, attending service on those days (or the holiday nearest to
them), at St. Benet's Sherehog; and Maria's eyes are very moist on such
occasions; though hope sings gladly too within her wise and cheerful
heart. She does not seem to have lost those friends; they are only gone
before.