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"That cannot be, after what I have said to her more than once in her own house."

"Then at least she must think that either you have no authority to drive from the little temple one of the cows of Bashan, or are afraid of her horns."

"Quite right, Nelly!" cried the rector; "you are quite right. Only you don"t give me a hint what to do!"

"Am I not saying as plain as I can that you must preach at her?"

"H"m! I didn"t expect that of you!"

"No; for if you could have expected it of me, you would have thought of it yourself! But just think! A public scandal requires public treatment.

You will not be dragging her before the people; she has put herself there! She is brazen, and must be treated as brazen--set in the full glare of opinion. And I think, if I were a clergyman, I should know how to do it!"

Wingfold was silent. She must be right! Something glimmered before him--something possible--he could not see plainly what.

"It is all very well to make such a clamour about her boy,"

continued his wife, "but every one knows that she quarrelled with him dreadfully--that for days at a time they would be cat and dog with each other. Her animal instinct lasted it out, and she did not come to hate him; but I can"t help thinking it must have been in a great measure because her husband favoured the other that she took up this one with such pa.s.sion. I have been told she would abuse him in language not fit to repeat, the little wretch answering her back, and choking with rage that he could not tear her."

"Who told you?" asked the parson.

"I would rather not say."

"Are you sure it is not mere gossip?"

"Quite sure. To be gossip, a thing must go through two mouths at least, and I had it first-mouth. I tell it you because I think it worth your knowing."

The next Sunday morning, there lay the lady as usual, only her novel was a red one. When the parson went into the pulpit, he cast one glance on the gallery to his right, then spoke thus:--

"My friends, I will follow the example of our Lord, and speak to you to-day in a parable. The Lord said there are things better spoken in parables, because of the eyes that will not see, and the ears that will not hear.

"There was once a mother left alone with her little boy--the only creature in the world or out of it that she cared for. She was a good mother to him, as good a mother as you can think, never overbearing or unkind. She never thought of herself, but always of the desire of her heart, the apple of her eye, her son born of her own body. It was not because of any return he could make her that she loved him. It was not to make him feel how good she was, that she did everything for him.

It was not to give him reasons for loving _her_, but because she loved _him_, and because he needed her. He was a delicate child, requiring every care she could lavish upon him, and she did lavish it. Oh, how she loved him! She would sit with the child on her lap from morning till night, gazing on him; she always went to sleep with him in her bosom--as close to her as ever he could lie. When she woke in the dark night, her first movement was to strain him closer, her next to listen if he was breathing--for he might have died and been lost! When he looked up at her with eyes of satisfaction, she felt all her care repaid.

"The years went on, and the child grew, and the mother loved him more and more. But he did not love her as she loved him. He soon began to care for the things she gave him, but he did not learn to love the mother who gave them. Now the whole good of things is to be the messengers of love--to carry love from the one heart to the other heart; and when these messengers are fetched instead of sent, grasped at, that is, by a greedy, ungiving hand, they never reach the heart, but block up the path of love, and divide heart from heart; so that the greedy heart forgets the love of the giving heart more and more, and all by the things it gives. That is the way generosity fares with the ungenerous.

The boy would be very pleasant to his mother so long as he thought to get something from her; but when he had got what he wanted, he would forget her until he wanted something more.

"There came at last a day when she said to him, "Dear boy, I want you to go and fetch me some medicine, for I feel very poorly, and am afraid I am going to be ill!" He mounted his pony, and rode away to get the medicine. Now his mother had told him to be very careful, because the medicine was dangerous, and he must not open the bottle that held it.

But when he had it, he said to himself, "I dare say it is something very nice, and mother does not want me to have any of it!" So he opened the bottle and tasted what was in it, and it burned him terribly. Then he was furious with his mother, and said she had told him not to open the bottle just to make him do it, and vowed he would not go back to her!

He threw the bottle from him, and turned, and rode another way, until he found himself alone in a wild forest, where was nothing to eat, and nothing to shelter him from the cold night, and the wind that blew through the trees, and made strange noises. He dismounted, afraid to ride in the dark, and before he knew, his pony was gone. Then he began to be miserably frightened, and to wish he had not run away. But still he blamed his mother, who might have known, he said, that he would open the bottle.

"The mother got very uneasy about her boy, and went out to look for him. The neighbours too, though he was not a nice boy, and none but his mother liked him, went out also, for they would gladly find him and take him home to her; and they came at last to the wood, with their torches and lanterns.

"The boy was lying under a tree, and saw the lights, and heard the voices, and knew it was his mother come. Then the old wickedness rose up fresh in his heart, and he said to himself: "She shall have trouble yet before she finds me! Am I to come and go as she pleases!" He lay very still; and when he saw them coming near, crept farther, and again lay still. Thus he went on doing, and so avoided his saviours. He heard one say there were wolves in the wood, for that was the sound of them; but he was just the kind of boy that will not believe, but thinks every one has a purpose of his own in saying this or that. So he slipped and slipped away until at length all despaired of finding him, and left the wood.

"Suddenly he knew that he was again alone. He gave a great shriek, but no one heard it. He stood quaking and listening. Presently his pony came rushing past him, with two or three wolves behind him. He started to his feet and began to run, wild to get out of the wood. But he could not find the way, and ran about this way and that until utter despair came down upon him, and all he could do was to lie still as a mouse lest the wolves should hear him.

"And as he lay he began at last to think that he was a wicked child; that his mother had done everything to make him good, and he would not be good; and now he was lost, and the wolves alone would find him!

He sank at last into a stupor, and lay motionless, with death and the wolves after him.

"He came to himself in the arms of a strange woman, who had taken him up, and was carrying him home.

"The name of the woman was Sorrow--a wandering woman, a kind of gypsy, always going about the world, and picking up lost things. n.o.body likes her, hardly anybody is civil to her; but when she has set anybody down and is gone, there is often a look of affection and wonder and grat.i.tude sent after her. For all that, however, very few are glad to be found by her again.

"Sorrow carried him weeping home to his mother. His mother came out, and took him in her arms. Sorrow made her courtesy, and went away. The boy clung to his mother"s neck, and said he was sorry. In the midst of her joy his mother wept bitterly, for he had nearly broken her heart. She could not get the wolves out of her mind.

"But, alas! the boy forgot all, and was worse than ever. He grew more and more cruel to his mother, and mocked at every word she said to him; so that--"

There came a cry from the gallery. The congregation started in sudden terror to their feet. The rector stopped, and turning to the right, stood gazing. In the front of the squire"s pew stood Mrs. Wylder, white, and speechless with rage. For a moment she stood shaking her fist at the preacher. Then, in a hoa.r.s.e broken voice, came the words--

"It"s a lie. My boy was never cruel to me. It"s a wicked lie."

She could say no more, but stood and glared, hate in her fierce eyes, and torture in her colourless face.

"Madam, you have betrayed yourself," said the rector solemnly. "If your son behaved well to you, it makes it the worse in you to behave ill to your Father. From Sunday to Sunday you insult him with rude behaviour. I tell you so in the face of this congregation, which knows it as well as I. Hitherto I have held my tongue--from no fear of the rich, from no desire to spare them deserved disgrace in the eyes of the poor, but because I shrank from making the house of G.o.d a place of contention.

Madam, you have behaved shamefully, and I do my duty in rebuking you."

The whole congregation were on their feet, staring at her. A moment she stood, and would have brazened out the stare. But she felt the eyes of the motionless hundreds blazing upon her, and the culprit soul grew naked in the presence of judging souls. Her nerve gave way; she turned her back, left the pew, and fled from the church by the squire"s door, into the grounds of Wylder Hall.

Happily Barbara was not in the church that morning.

The next Sunday the squire"s pew was empty. The red volume lay open on its face upon the floor of it.

Wingfold"s dear plot had palled. He had rough-hewed his end, but the divinity had shaped it. When the squire came to know what had taken place, he made his first call on the rector. He said nothing about his wife, but plainly wished it understood that he bore him no ill will for what he had done.

CHAPTER XXII. _THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER._

The rector had often wished his wife could in some natural way get hold of Miss Wylder; he suspected something exceptionally fine in her: how else could she, with such a father and such a mother, have such a countenance? There must be a third factor in the affair, and one worth knowing--namely herself! That she seemed to avoid being reckoned among church-goers might be a point in her favour! What reports reached him of her wild ways, mingled with exaggerated stories of her lawlessness, did not shock him: what was true in them might spring from mere exuberance of life, whose joy was her only law--and yet a real law to her!

He had had no opportunity of learning either how peculiar the girl was, or how capable. She was not yet up to his teaching; she had to have other water to drink first, and was now approaching a source that might have caused him anxiety for her, had he ever so little believed in chance. But a shepherd is none the less a true shepherd that he leaves plenty of liberty to the lamb to pick its own food. That its best instincts may not be to the taste either of its natural guardians or the public, is nothing against those instincts. Without appearing to their guardians both strange and headstrong, some sheep would never get near the food necessary to keep them alive. Confined to the provender even their shepherds would have them contented withal, many would die.

Sometimes, to escape from the arid wastes of "society," haunted with the cries of its spiritual greengrocers, and find the pasture on which their souls can live, they have to die, and climb the gra.s.sy slopes of the heavenly hills.

Barbara had as yet had no experience of pain--or of more at least than came from sympathy with suffering--a sympathy which, though ready, could hardly be deep in one who had never had a headache herself. To all dumb suffering things, she was very gentle and pitiful; but her pity was like that of a child over her doll.

She was always glad to get away from home. While her father was paying his long-delayed visit to the rector, she was flying over hedge and ditch and rail, in a line for that gate of Mortgrange which Simon Armour and his grandson found open when first the former took the latter to see the place: Barbara had a key to it.

She went with swift gliding step, like that of a red Indian, into the library. Richard was piecing the broken cords of a great old folio--the more easily that they were double--in order to re-attach the loosened sheets and the hanging board, and so get the book ready for a new cover.

She carried in her hand something yet more sorely in need of mending--a pigeon with a broken wing, which she had seen lying in the park, and had dismounted to take. It kept opening and shutting its eyes, and she knew that nothing could be done for it; but the mute appeal of the dying thing had gone to her heart, and she wanted sympathy, whether for it or for herself she could hardly have distinguished. How she came to wake a little more just then, I cannot tell, but the fact is a joint in her history. The jar to the pigeon"s life affected her as a catastrophe.

She felt that there a crisis had come: a living conscious thing could do nothing for its own life, and lay helpless. Say rather--seemed so to lie. Oh, surely it is in reason that not a sparrow should fall to the ground without the Father! To whom but the father of the children that bemoan its fate, should the children carry his sparrow? But Barbara was carrying her pigeon where was no help for the heart of either.

"Ah, poor thing," said Richard, "I fear we can do nothing for it! But it will be at rest soon! It is fast going."

"Ah! but where?" said Barbara, to whom that moment came the question for the first time.

"Nowhere," answered Richard.

"How can that be? If I were going, I should be going somewhere! I couldn"t go nowhere if I tried ever so. I don"t like you to say it is going nowhere! Poor little thing! I won"t let you go nowhere!"