Out in the Forty-Five Part 59

"I answer most emphatically, No. I believe that men are elect, but that they are elected 'unto sanctification': and a man who has not the sanctification shows plainly--unless he repent and amend--that he is not one of the elect."

"Now I know a man who says, rolling the whites of his eyes and clasping his palms together as if he were always saying his prayers, like the figures on that old fellow's tomb in the chancel--he says he was elected to salvation from all eternity, and cannot possibly be lost: and he is the biggest swearer and drinker in the parish. What say you to that?

Am I to believe him?"

"Can you manage it?"

"I can't: that is exactly the thing."

"Don't, then. I could not."

"But now, do you believe, Mr Liversedge,--I have picked up the words from this fellow--that G.o.d elected men because He foreknew them, or that He foreknew because He had elected them?"

Ambrose gave a little wink at f.a.n.n.y and me, sitting partly behind him, as if he thought that he had driven the Vicar completely into a corner.

"When the Angel Gabriel is sent to tell me, Mr Catterall, I shall be most happy to let you know. Until then, you must excuse my deciding a question on which I am entirely ignorant."

Ambrose looked rather blank.

"Well, then, Mr Liversedge, as to free-will. Do you think that every man can be saved, if he likes, or not?"

"Let Christ answer you--not me. 'No man can come to Me, except the Father which hath sent Me draw him.'"

"Ah! then man has no responsibility?" And Ambrose gave another wink at us.

"Let Christ answer you again. 'Ye will not come unto Me, that ye might have life.' If they had come, you see, they might have had it."

"But how do you reconcile the two?" said Ambrose, knitting his brows.

"When the Lord commands me to reconcile them, He will show me how. But I do not expect Him to do either, in this world. To what extent our knowledge on such subjects may be enlarged in Heaven, I cannot venture to say."

"But surely you must reconcile them?"

"Pardon me. I must act on them."

"Can you act on principles you cannot reconcile?"

"Certainly--if you can put full trust in their proposer. Every child does it, every day. You will be a long while in the dark, Mr Catterall, if you must know why a candle burns before you light it.

Better be content to have the light, and work by it."

"There are more sorts of light than one," said my Aunt Kezia.

"That is the best light by which you see clearest," was the Vicar's answer.

"What have you got to see?" asked Ambrose.

"Your sins and your Saviour," was the reply. "And till you have looked well at both those, Mr Catterall, and are sure that you have laid the sins upon the Sacrifice, it is as well not to look much at anything else."

I think Ambrose found that he was in the corner this time, and just the kind of corner that he did not care to get in. At any rate, he said no more.

Sophy's wedding, which took place this evening, was the quietest I ever saw. She let Mr Liversedge say how everything should be, and he seemed to like it as plain and simple as possible. No bridesmaids, no favours, no dancing, no throwing the stocking, no fuss of any sort! I asked him if he had any objection to a cake.

"None at all," said he, "so long as you don't want me to eat it. And pray don't let us have any sugary Cupids on the top, nor any rubbish of that sort."

So the cake was quite plain, but I took care it should be particularly good, and Hatty made a wreath of spring flowers to put round it.

The house feels so quiet and empty now, when all is over, and Sophy gone. Of course she is not really gone, because the Vicarage is only across a couple of fields, and ten minutes will take us there at any time. But she is not one of us any longer, and that always feels sad.

I do feel, somehow, very sorrowful to-night--more, I think, than I have any reason. I cannot tell why sometimes a sort of tired, sad feeling comes over one, when there seems to be no cause for it. I feel as if I had not something I wanted: and yet, if anybody asked me what I wanted, I am not sure that I could tell. Or rather, I am afraid I could tell, but I don't want to say so. There is something gone out of my life which I wanted more of, and since we came home I have had none of it, or next to none. No, little book, I am not going to tell you what it is.

Only there is a reason for my feeling sad, and I must keep it to myself, and never let anybody know it. I suppose other women have had to do the same thing many a time. And some of them, perhaps, grow hard and cold, and say bitter things, and people dislike and avoid them, not knowing that if they lifted up the curtain of their hearts they would see a grave there, in which all their hopes were buried long ago. Well, G.o.d knows best, and will do His best for us all. How can I wish for anything more?

22nd.

When we went up to bed last night, to my surprise Hatty came to me, and put her arms round me.

"There are only us two left now, Cary," she said. "And I know I have been very bitter and unloving of late. But I mean to try and do better, dear. Will you love me as much as you can, and help me? I have been very unhappy."

"I was afraid so, and I was very sorry for you," I answered, kissing her. "Must I not ask anything, Hatty?"

"You can ask what you like," she replied. "I think, Cary, that Christ was knocking at my door, and I did not want to open it; and I could not be happy while I knew that I was keeping Him outside. And at last--it was last night, in the sermon--He spoke to me, as it were, through that closed door; and I could not bear it any longer--I had to rise and open it, and let Him in. And before that, with Him, I kept everybody out; and now I feel as if, with Him, I wanted to take everybody in."

Dear Hatty! She seems so changed, and so happy, and I am so thankful.

But my prospect looks very dark. It ought not to do so, for I let Him in before Hatty did; and I suppose some day it will be clearer, and I shall have n.o.body but Him, and shall be satisfied with it.

25th.

You thought you knew a great deal of what was going to happen, did you not, Cary Courtenay? Such a wise girl you were! And how little you did know!

This evening, Esther Langridge came in, and stayed to supper. She said Ephraim had gone to the Parsonage on business, and had promised to call for her on his way home. He came rather later than Esther expected.

(We have only seen him twice since we returned from London, except just meeting at church and so forth: he seemed to be always busy.) He said he had had to see Mr Liversedge, and had been detained later than he thought. He sat and talked to all of us for a while, but I thought his mind seemed somewhere else. I guessed where, and thought I found myself right whet after a time, when Father had come in, and Ambrose with him, and they were all talking over the fire, Ephraim left them, and coming across to my corner, asked me first thing if I had heard anything from Annas.

I have not had a line from her, nor heard anything of her, and he looked disappointed when I said so. He was silent for a minute, and then he said,--

"Cary, what do you think I have been making up my mind to do?"

"I do not know, Ephraim," said I. I did not see how that could have to do with Annas, for I believed he had made up his mind on that subject long ago.

"Would you be very much surprised if I told you that I mean to take holy orders?"

"Ephraim!" I was very, very much surprised. How would Annas like it?

"Yes, I thought you would be," said he. "It is no new idea to me. But I had to get my father's consent, and smooth away two or three difficulties, before I thought it well to mention it to any one but the Vicar. He will give me a t.i.tle. I am to be ordained, Cary, next Trinity Sunday."

"Why, that is almost here!" cried I.

"Yes, it is almost here," he replied, with that far-away look in his eyes which I had seen now and then.

Then Annas had been satisfied, for of course she was one of the difficulties which had to be smoothed away.