"My lad," he began kindly, "you saved my life to-day."
Johnny attempted to speak, but could not.
"I know what you would say. We owe one another something, eh?
But this is a debt which I choose to acknowledge at once. None the less I wish you to understand that although your conduct to-day hastens my proposal, it has been in my head for some time.
Whitelamb, would you like to go to Oxford?"
Johnny gasped. "Sir--sir!" he stammered.
Mr. Wesley smiled. "I will speak to Jack. I think it can be managed if he will take you for his pupil, as no doubt he will. You cannot well be poorer than I was on the day when I entered my name at Exeter College. There, go away and think it over! There"s no hurry, you understand: if you are to go, I must first of all hammer some Greek into you--eh? What is it?"
For Johnny had cast himself on his knees, and was sobbing aloud.
At supper Molly, to whom her mother had whispered the news, announced it to her sisters, who knew only of the accident and Johnny"s hand in the rescue.
"Yes," said she, "we are all proud of him, and shall be prouder before long, when he goes to Oxford!"
"Why to Oxford?" asked Patty, not comprehending, and sought her mother"s eyes for the interpretation. Mrs. Wesley smiled.
"Why, to be a great man," Molly went on; "perhaps in time as great as Jack or Charles." Johnny, in his usual seat by the chimney-corner, detected the challenge in her tone, but did not look up.
"Is it true?" persisted Patty. He stared into the fire, blushing furiously.
"It is true." Mrs. Wesley rose, and stepping to him laid a hand on his straggling dark hair. "What is more, he has deserved it, not to-day only but by his goodness over many years. The Lord shall be his illumination," she said gravely, quoting the motto of the University which (amazing thought!) was to be _his_ University.
"May the light of His countenance rest upon you, dear son."
She had never called him by that t.i.tle before. He caught her hand and for the moment, in the boldness of a great love, clasped it between his own. Now he could look across at Molly: and she nodded back at him, her eyes brimful--but behind her tears they gave him absolution and released him from the doubt.
CHAPTER IV.
This was at the close of August, 1728, and the Rector"s letter entreating his good offices for Johnny Whitelamb reached John Wesley on the eve of his taking Priest"s Orders, for which he was then preparing at Oxford. He was ordained priest on September 22nd, and a week later had news from William Wright in London that Hetty"s third child was born--and was dead.
This is how the father announced his loss:
"To the Revd. Mr. John Wesley, Fellow in Christ Church College, Oxon"
John smiled at the superscription, inaccurate in more ways than one.
"Dear Bro: This comes to Let you know that my wife is brought to bed and is in a hopefull way of Doing well but the Dear child Died--the Third day after it was born--which has been of great concerne to me and my wife She Joyns With me In Love to your selfe and Bro: Charles. From Your Loveing Bro: to Comnd-- Wm. Wright.
"P.S. I"ve sen you Sum Verses that my wife maid of Dear Lamb Let me hear from one or both of you as Soon as you think Convenient."
And these are Hetty"s verses inclosed.
A Mother"s Address to Her Dying Infant
"Tender softness, infant mild, Perfect, purest, brightest Child!
Transient l.u.s.tre, beauteous clay, Smiling wonder of a day!
Ere the last convulsive start Rend thy unresisting heart, Ere the long-enduring swoon Weigh thy precious eyelids down, Ah, regard a mother"s moan!
--Anguish deeper than thy own.
"Fairest eyes, whose dawning light Late with rapture blest my sight, Ere your orbs extinguish"d be, Bend their trembling beams on me!
"Drooping sweetness, verdant flower Blooming, withering in an hour, Ere thy gentle breast sustain Latest, fiercest, mortal pain, Hear a suppliant! Let me be Partner in thy destiny: That whene"er the fatal cloud Must thy radiant temples shroud; When deadly damps, impending now, Shall hover round thy destin"d brow, Diffusive may their influence be, And with the blossom blast the tree!"
Mr. Wright inclosed these verses complacently enough. Poetry in his eyes was an elegant accomplishment vaguely connected with scholarship and gentility: and he took pride in possessing a wife who, as he more than once a.s.sured his cronies in the parlour of the "Turk"s Head" at the end of the street, could sit down and write it by the yard.
To please Hetty he read them through, p.r.o.nounced them very pretty, and folded up the paper, remarking, "I"ll send it off to your brother John. He likes this sort of thing, and when he learns "twas written in your weak state he"ll think it wonderful."
Of the anguish in the closing lines his eye detected, his ear heard, nothing.
Yet it was an anguish which daily touched despair in Hetty"s heart.
G.o.d had laid a curse on her, and would not be placated by the good behaviour on which she had built her hopes. She had borne three children, and not one had He suffered to live for a week. No matter how many she might bear, the same fate stood ready for them. Nor was this all. She saw Him smiting, through these innocent babes, at her husband"s love. Little by little she felt it relaxing and sinking through carelessness into neglect: and the whole scheme of her atonement rested on his continuing fondness. She had never loved him, but his love was, if not infinitely precious, of infinite moment to her. She needed it to sustain her and keep her in the right way.
She omitted no small attentions which might make home pleasant to him. She kept the house bright (they had moved into Frith Street and lived over the shop), and unweariedly coaxed his appet.i.te with her cookery, in which--and especially in pastry-making--she had a born gift. The fumes of the lead-works at the back often took her own appet.i.te away and depressed her spirits, but she never failed to rouse herself and welcome him with a smile. Also (but this was to please herself) sometimes by a word of advice in the matter of toilet or of clothes, oftener by small secret attentions with the needle, she had gradually reformed his habits of dress until now he might pa.s.s for a London tradesman of the superior cla.s.s, decently attired, well shaven and clean in his person. He resigned himself to these improvements with much good-nature and so pa.s.sed through his metamorphosis almost without knowing it. She practised small economies too; and he owned (though he set it down to his own industry) that his worldly affairs were more prosperous than ever they had been before his marriage. But the fumes of the lead-works affected _his_ appet.i.te, too, and his spirits: and when these flag a man has an easy and specious remedy in brandy-and-water. By and by it became a habit with him, when his men ceased work, to stroll down to the "Turk"s Head" for a "stiffener" before his meal. The men he met there respected him for a flourishing tradesman and flattered him. He adored his wife still. In his eyes no woman would compare with her. But there was no denying he felt more at home in company which allowed him to tell or listen to a coa.r.s.e story and stretch his legs and boast at his ease.
He was not aware of any slackening in affection. But Hetty noted it and fought against it, though with a sinking heart. She had counted on this babe to draw him back--if not to her, then at least to home.
When told that it was dead, on an impulse she had turned her face at once to him and with a heart-rending look appealed for his forgiveness. He did not understand. Yet he behaved well, stroking her head and saying what he could to comfort her.
She was convinced now that she lay under G.o.d"s curse, and by and by her weak thoughts connected this curse with her father"s displeasure.
If she could move her father to relent, it might be lifted from her.
And so after many weeks of brooding she found courage to write this letter:
From Hetty to her Father
Honoured Sir,--Although you have cast me off and I know that a determination once taken by you is not easily moved, I must tell you that some word of your forgiving is not only necessary to me, but would make happier the marriage in which, as you compelled it, you must still (I think) feel no small concern.
My child, on whose frail help I had counted to make our life more supportable to my husband and myself, is dead. Should G.o.d give and take away another, I can never escape the thought that my father"s intercession might have prevailed against His wrath, which I shall then, alas! take to be manifest.
Forgive me, sir, that I make you a party in such happiness (or unhappiness) as the world generally allows to be, under G.o.d, a portion for two. But as you planted my matrimonial bliss, so you cannot run away from my prayer when I beseech you to water it with a little kindness. My brothers will report to you what they have seen of my way of life and my daily struggle to redeem the past. But I have come to a point where I feel your forgiveness to be necessary to me. I beseech you, then, not to withhold it, and to believe me your obedient daughter, Mehet. Wright.
The Answer
Daughter,--If you would persuade me that your penitence is more than feigned, you are going the wrong way to work. I decline to be made a party to your matrimonial fortunes, as you claim in what appears to be intended for the flower of your letter; and in your next, if you would please me, I advise you to display less wit and more evidence of honest self-examination.
To that--which is the beginning of repentance--you do not appear to have attained. Yet it would teach you that your troubles, if you have any, flow from your own sin, and that for any inconveniences you may find in marriage you are probably as much to blame (at the very least) as your honest husband.
Your brothers speak well of him, and I shall always think myself obliged to him for his civilities to you.
But what are your troubles? You do not name them. What hurt has matrimony done you? I know only that it has given you a good name. I do not remember that you were used to have so frightful an idea of it as you have now. Pray be more explicit.
Restrain your wit if you wish to write again, and I will answer your next if I like it. Your father, S. Wesley.
On receiving this Hetty could not at once bethink her of having given any cause of offence. But she had kept a rough copy of her letter, and on studying it was fairly shocked by its tone, which now seemed to her almost flippant.
She marvelled at her maladroitness, which was the more singular because she had really written under strong emotion. She did not even now guess the secret of her failure; which was, that she had written entreating forgiveness of one whom she had not wholly forgiven. Nevertheless she tried again.
Hetty to her Father
Honoured Sir,--Though I was glad, on any terms, of the favour of a line from you, yet I was concerned at your displeasure on account of the unfortunate paragraph which you are pleased to say was meant for the flower of my letter. I wish it had not gone, since I perceive it gave you some uneasiness.