if you put a single straw into an eddying stream, other straws and bits of rubbish of all sorts will come and join it, until by and bye it looks like a little island in the midst of the water. and we often see something like this going on in men’s minds. a man drops one idea, which another man takes up and considers, till ideas of his own come to join it, many things seen and heard contribute their help, and at last the single sentence grows into a mountain of action.
avice would have been astonished if any one had told her that she had made an island. but her simple suggestion fell like an odd straw into the stream of father thomas’s thoughts, and grew and grew there, until a few days later it led to decided action.
father thomas was by nature a quiet man. his temper was gentle and even; he hated everything like noise and bustle, far more tumult and quarrelling. he was not fond even of conversation, except now and then as a pleasant variety to a quiet life, full of thinking and reading. a man of this sort is generally an innocent man—by which i mean, a man who does no harm to his neighbours: and considering how many men and women spend their lives in doing their neighbours harm of one sort or another, that is a good deal to say of any man. but there is another point to be taken into account, namely, what good does such a man do? why, no more than a chrysalis. and he is a poor specimen of manhood who is content to be of no more use in the world than a chrysalis, and to be as little missed when he goes out of it. this was the point which troubled father thomas’s meditations. it was as if an angel had come down to him, and pointed to the old smithy on the green, and said, “what are you doing for those people? god will demand an account of their souls, some day, and from somebody. are you not your brothers’ keeper?” hitherto father thomas had gone on very comfortably, with a reflection which serves a great many of us to excuse our pride or our laziness—i wish it might never be heard again from human lips—“it is not my place.” it was true, in one sense. the smithy was in newport parish, and father thomas belonged to the cathedral. he tried to quiet the angel—which was really his own conscience—with the thought that he had no business to intrude into somebody else’s parish. but the angel would not be quiet.
“will god take that answer at the judgment day?” he said. “you know very well that the vicar of newport is an idle, careless man, who never troubles himself about the souls of his people: that so long as you observe the proper forms of civility, and ask his leave to visit these people, he will give it you in a minute, and be glad enough to think he is saved the trouble. that is the truth, and you know it.”
now, it is very unpleasant when one’s conscience says in that blunt, downright, cutting way, “you know it:” and father thomas found it so. he made a few more excuses, which his conscience blew to the winds before they were well finished: and at last it laid hold of him, as it were, by the shoulders, and said, “look there!”
father thomas looked there—at the cross which then hung in every clergyman’s room. there were two lines carved on the wood at the bottom of this—lines which it was then not unusual to put at the bottom of these crosses.
“this did i for thee; what dost thou for me?”
“look there!” cried the angel conscience. “christ bore that heavy cross for you—bore the reviling and the agony, the spitting, the scourging, and the shame; and you won’t face the vicar of newport for him! you can’t walk half a mile, and ask a civil question of a man from whom you expect a civil answer, for love of the man who came down all the way from heaven to earth, and endured all the contradiction of sinners for three-and-thirty years, and faced all the malice of the devil, for the love of you! are you ashamed of yourself, thomas de vaux, or are you not?”
when it reached that point, father thomas was painting in a book. books in those days were often ornamented with very beautiful paintings: and the one on which the priest was working, represented peter denying christ in the high priest’s palace. he had just painted one side of peter’s hair, but the other side was still blank. but when the angel asked that question, down went the brush.
“lord, pardon thy servant!” said father thomas humbly. “i am not worthy to carry so much as the corner of thy cross after thee. but i will take it up, and go forth. indeed, i did not know i was such a selfish, lazy, ease-loving man as i am!”
saint peter had to put up with only half his hair for the rest of that day, for father thomas determinately washed and wiped his brush, threw a cloth over his book and painting tools to keep them from the dust, put on his fur cap, and went off to see the vicar of newport.
when a man braces himself up to do something which he does not like for the love of god, sometimes god makes it a great deal easier and less disagreeable than he expected to find it. the vicar was just coming out of his door as father thomas reached it.
“a fine day—peace be with thee!” said he. “whither go you, brother?”
“may i have your leave, father, to visit one of your parishioners—the smith that dwells about a mile hence, on the newport road?”
“the saints love you! you may visit every man jack of my parishioners, and take my blessing with you!” said the vicar with a hearty laugh. “i am not over fond of that same visiting of smiths and tailors and fellows of that sort. i never know what to say to them, save hear confession, and they never have nought to say to me. you are cut from another quality of stuff, i reckon. go your way, brother thomas, and make decent christians of them if you can. there’s a she-bear lives there: i wish you luck with her.”
and with a farewell nod, the careless vicar strode away.
“and into such hands as these, men’s souls are given!” thought father thomas. “lord, purify thy church! ah, dear old bishop! you might well weep in dying.”
he walked on rapidly till he came within sight of the forge. daniel greensmith’s ringing blows on the anvil grew more and more distinct and at last the words he was singing as he worked came to the priest’s ears:
“all things turn unto decay,
fall, and die, and pass away.
sinketh tower and droppeth wall,
cloth shall fray and horse shall fall,
flesh shall die and iron rust,
pass and perish all things must.
well i understand and say,
all shall die, both priest and lay;
and small time, for praise or blame,
when man dieth, lives his fame.”
note. this is translated from an old french poem, written before the time of the story.
father thomas stopped beside the anvil, but the smith’s back was turned, so that he did not see him.
“a sad song, my friend—if that were all.”
“eh?” said dan, looking behind him, and then immediately throwing down the hammer, and giving a pull to his forelock. great respect was paid to priests at that day. “axe your pardon, father! didn’t see who it were.”
“i came to see thy wife, my son. shall i go forward?”
“not if you’re o’ my mind. happen you aren’t.”
“is she not at home?”
“oh, ay, she’s at home!”
the smith’s tone might have meant that he could have wished she was somewhere else. father thomas waited, till dan flung down the hammer, and looked up at him.
“had ye e’er a mother?” asked he.
“ay,” replied the priest.
“was she one ’at took th’ andirons to you when you didn’t suit her?”
“truly, no. she was a full good and gentle woman.”
“and had ye e’er a sister?”
“ay; three.”
“was they given to rugging your hair when they wasn’t pleased?”
“not at all, my son.”
“ah! you’d best go home, i reckon.”
“what meanest thou?” asked father thomas, feeling much amused at the very unusual style of dan’s reception.
“well!” said dan, passing his fingers through his hair, “i mean, if that’s the way you was fetched up, you don’t know the animal you’ve got to deal with here. there’s five dragons i’ that house o’ mine: and each on ’em’s got teeth and claws, and they knows how to use ’em, they does. if one on ’em wern’t a bit better nor t’others, and did not come and stand by me now and then, i should ne’er ha’ lived to talk to you this even. nay, i shouldn’t! best go home, father, while you’ve getten a coat on your back, and some hair on your head.”
“is it so bad as that?”
“ah, it is!” was dan’s short but emphatic reply.
“but surely, my son, thy wife would never use a man ill that meant her good?”
“think she’ll stop to ask your meanin’?” said dan, with a contemptuous grunt. “if she’s not changed sin’ i come fro’ dinner, she’ll be a-top of you before you can say ‘mercy.’ and she’s none a comfortable thing to have a-top of you, i give you fair warning.”
“how was she at supper, then?—no better?”
“supper! i durstn’t go in for no supper. i likes hunger better nor a fray. happen el’nor ’ll steal out to me with a crust after dark. she does, sometimes.”
“and how long does it take thy wife to cool down?”
dan rubbed his forehead with his blackened hand.
“i was wed to her,” said he, “th’ year afore the great frost, if you know when that were—and i’d better have been fruz, a deal. i’ve had it mortal hot ever since. she’s had that time to cool down in, and she’s no cooler nor she were then. rather, if either, t’other way on, i reckon.”
before father thomas could reply, the shrillest scream that had ever met his ears came out of the window of the smithy.
“ankaret!” it said. “ankaret! an-ka-ret!”
“ha! that’s her!” whispered dan, as if he were awed by the sound.
an answering scream, as shrill, but scarcely so loud, came from the neighbouring cottage.
“whatever do you want now?” said the second shriek.
“what dost thou yonder, thou slatternly minx?” returned the first. “i’ll mash every bone of thee, if thou doesn’t come in this minute!”
“then i sha’n’t!” shrieked the second voice. “two can play at that.”
“who is ankaret?” asked father thomas of the smith.
“she’s th’ eldest o’ th’ dragons—that’s our ank’ret,” said dan in the same half-frightened whisper. “if you mun face her, you’d best do it while ank’ret’s next door: both on ’em’s too much for any man. th’ angel gabriel couldn’t match the pair on ’em: leastwise, if he comes down to axe me, i sha’n’t send him forward. and don’t you go and say i sent you, now. for pity’s sake, don’t!”
father thomas walked off, and knocked at the house door. he was beginning to think that if the former part of his task had been easier than he expected, the latter was going to prove more difficult. the door was opened by a young woman.
“good day, my daughter. is thy mother within?”
“she’s here, father. pray you, come in.”
the priest stepped inside, and sat down on a bench. for those times, the house was comfortable, and it was very clean. the young woman disappeared, and presently a pair of heavy boots came clattering down the stairs, and father thomas felt pretty sure that the sweet filomena herself stood before him.
“now then, what do you want?” quoth she, in a tone which did not sound as if she were delighted to see her visitor.
“my daughter, i am a priest,” said father thomas gently; “and i am come to see thee for thy good.”
“i’ve got eyes!” snapped filomena. “can’t i see you’re a priest? what’s the good of such as you? fat, lazy fellows that lives on the best o’ the land, wrung out of the hard earnings o’ the poor, and never does a stroke o’ work theirselves, but sits a-twirling o’ their thumbs all day long. that’s what you are—the whole boiling of you! get you out o’ my house, or i’ll help you!”
and filomena took up a formidable-looking mop which stood in the corner, as if to let the priest clearly understand the sort of help which she proposed to give him. she had tried this style of reception when the vicar took the liberty of calling on her some months before, with the result that the appalled gentleman in question never ventured to renew his visit, and told the anecdote with many shakes of the head over “that she-bear up at the smithy.” she understood how to deal with a man of the vicar’s stamp, and she mistakenly fancied that all priests were of his sort. sadly too many of them were such lazy, careless, self-indulgent men, who, having just done as much work as served to prevent the bishop or their consciences (when they kept any) from becoming troublesome, let all the rest go, and thought their duty done. but father thomas, as the vicar had said, was cut from another kind of stuff. very sensitive to rudeness or unkindness, his feelings were not permitted to override his duty of perseverance: and while he dearly loved peace, he was not ready to buy it at the cost of something more valuable than itself. while he might be slow to see his duty, yet once seen, it would not escape him again.
the personal taunts which filomena had launched at him he simply put aside as not worth an answer. they did not apply to him. he was neither fat nor lazy: and if filomena were so ignorant as to fancy that the clergy were paid out of the earnings of the poor, what did it matter, when he knew they were not? he went straight to the root of the thing. his words were gentle enough, but his tone was one of authority.
“daughter, what an unhappy woman thou art!”
filomena’s fingers slowly unclosed from the mop, which fell back into the corner. father thomas said no more: he merely kept his eyes upon her. his calm dignity took effect at last. her angry eyes fell before his unchanged look. she was not accustomed to hear her abuse answered in this manner.
“i just am!” she muttered with intense bitterness.
“dost thou wish to be happy?”
“that’s none for the like of us. it’s only for rich folks, isn’t that,—folks as has all they wants, and a bit over.”
“no man has that,” said father thomas, “except the little children who sit at the feet of jesus christ. become thou as a little child, and happiness shall come to seek thee.”
“me a little child!” there was no merriment in the laugh which accompanied the words.
“ay, even thou. for ‘if there be a new creature in christ, old things pass away; behold, all things are made new.’ (note. 3 corinthians five 17, vulgate version.) that is the very childhood, my daughter—to be made new. will thou have it? it may be had for the asking, if it be asked of god by a true heart—that childhood of grace, which is meek, patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble. for it is not thou that canst conquer satan, but christ in thee, that shall first conquer thee. thou in christ—this is safety: christ in thee—here is strength. seek, and thou shalt find. farewell.”
and without giving filomena time to answer, father thomas turned away, and was lost in a moment behind the bushes which separated the cottage from the smithy. she stood for a minute where he left her, as if she had been struck to stone. the whole style of his address was to her something completely new, and so unlike anything she had expected that for once in her life she was at a loss.
filomena took up the corner of her apron and wiped her forehead, as if she were settling her brains into their places.
“well, that’s a queer set-out!” said she at last, to nobody, for she was left alone. “me a baby! whatever would the fellow be at? i reckon i was one once. eh, but it would be some queer to get back again! what did he say? ‘meek, patient, gentle, loving, obedient, humble.’ that’s not me! old dan wouldn’t think he’d picked up his own wife, if i were made new o’ that fashion. it didn’t sound so bad, though. wonder how it ’d be if i tried it! that chap said it would make me happy. i’m none that, neither, nor haven’t been these many years. eh deary me! to think of me a baby!”
while these extremely new ideas were seething in filomena’s mind, father thomas reached the smithy.
“glad to see you!” said dan, laying down his hammer. “you did not ’bide so long!” with a grim smile.
“long enough,” said the priest shortly.
“i believe you! if you wasn’t glad to get your back turned, you liked a tussle wi’ a dragon better nor most folks. was she white-hot, or no-but (only) red? el’nor, she came down to me while you was in there, wi’ a hunch o’ bread and cheese, and she said it were gettin’ smoother a bit nor it had been most part o’ th’ day. what said she to you?”
“less than i said to her.”
“you dunnot mean she hearkened you?”
“not at first. but in the end, she hearkened me, and made me no answer.”
dan looked his visitor all over from head to foot.
“well!” said he, and shook his head slowly. “well!” and wiped his face with his apron, “well!” he exclaimed a third time. “if i’d ha’ knowed! i’d ha’ given forty marks (note 1.) to see th’ like o’ that. eh, do ’bide a minute, and let me take th’ measure on you! t’ chap that could strike our filomena dumb mun ha’ come straight fro’ heaven, for there isn’t his like o’ earth! now, father, do just tell a body, what did you say to her?”
“i told her how to be happy.”
dan stared. “she wants no tellin’ that, i’ll go bail! she’s got every mortal thing her own way.”
“that is not the way to be happy,” answered the priest. “nay, my son, she is a most unhappy woman, and her face shows it. thou art happier far than she.”
dan dropped the big hammer in sheer astonishment, and if father thomas had not made a rapid retreat, more than his eyes and ears would have told him so.
“me happier nor our filomena! me! father, dunnot be angered wi’ me, but either you’re downright silly, or you’re somewhat more nor other folks.”
“i have told thee the truth, my son. now, wilt thou do somewhat to help thy wife to be happy? if she is happy, she will be humble and meek—happy, that is, in the way i mean.”
“i’ll do aught as ’ll make our filomena meek,” replied dan, with a shake of his grizzled head: “but how that’s going to be shaped beats me, i can tell you. mun i climb up to th’ sky and stick nails into th’ moon?”
“nay,” said the priest with a smile. “thou shalt pray god to make her as a little child.”
“that’s a corker, that is!” dan picked up the hammer, and began meditatively to fashion a nail. “our ank’ret were a babby once,” said he, as if to himself. “she were a bonnie un, too. she were, so! i used to sit o’ th’ bench at th’ door of an even, wi’ her on my knee, a-smilin’ up like—eh, father, but i’ll tell you what, if them times could come back, it ’d be enough to make a chap think he’d getten into heaven by mistake.”
“i trust, my son, thou wilt some day find thee in heaven, not by mistake,” said the priest. “but if so, daniel, thou must have a care to go the right road thither.”
“which road’s that, father?”
“it is a straight road, my son, and it is a narrow road. and the door to it goes right through the cross whereon jesus christ died for thee and me. daniel, dost thou love the lord jesus?”
“well, you see, father, i’m not much acquaint wi’ him. he’s a great way up, and i’m down here i’ t’ smithy.”
“he will come down here and abide with thee, my son, if thou wilt but ask him. so dear he loveth man, that he will come any whither on earth save into sin, if so be he may have man’s company. ‘greater than this love hath no man, that he give his life for his friends.’”
“well, that stands to reason,” said dan. “when man gives his life, he gives all there is of him.”
“thou sayest well. and is it hard to love man that giveth his life to save thine?”
“i reckon it ’d be harder to help it, father.”
father thomas turned as if to go. “my son,” said he, “wilt thou let the lord jesus say to the angels round his throne,—‘i gave all there was of me for daniel greensmith, and he doth not love me for it?’”
the big smith had never had such an idea presented to him before. his simple, transparent, child-like nature came up into his eyes, and ran over. men did not think it in those earlier ages any discredit to their manliness to let their hearts be seen. perhaps they were wiser than we are.
“eh, father, but you never mean it’d be like that?” cried poor dan. “somehow, it never come real to me, like as you’ve put it. do you mean ’at he cares—that it makes any matter to him up yonder, whether old dan at t’ smithy loves him or not? i’m no-but a common smith. there’s hundreds just like me. does he really care, think you?”
“thou art a man,” said the priest, “and it was for men christ died. and there is none other of thee, though there were millions like thee. is a true mother content with any babe in exchange for her own, because there are hundreds of babes in the world? nay, daniel greensmith, it was for thee the lord christ shed his blood on the cruel cross, and it is thyself whose love and thanksgivings he will miss, though all the harps of all the angels make music around his ear. shall he miss them any longer, my son?”
once more dan threw aside the big hammer—this time on the inner side of the smithy.
“father,” said he, “you’ve knocked me clean o’er. i never knowed till now as it were real.”
“as a little child!” said father thomas to himself, as he went back to lincoln. “the road into the kingdom will be far smoother for him than her. yet the good lord can lead them both there.”
the very next visit that dan paid to avice and bertha showed them plainly that a change of some sort had come over him, and as time went on they saw it still more plainly. his heart had opened to the love of christ like a flower to the sunlight. the moment that he really saw him, he accepted him. with how many is it not the case that they do not love christ because they do not know him, and they do not know him because no one of those who do puts him plainly before them?
it was much longer before father thomas and avice saw any fruit of their prayers for filomena. there was so much more to undo in her case than in her husband’s, that the growth was a great deal slower and less apparent. avice discovered that dan’s complaints were fewer, but she set it down entirely to the change in himself, long before she noticed that filomena’s voice was less sharp, and her fats of fury less frequent. but at length the day came when filomena, having been betrayed into a very mild copy of one of her old storms of temper, would suddenly catch herself up and walk determinately out of the back door till she grew cool: and when she came back would lay her hand upon her husband’s shoulder, and say—
“dan, old man, i’m sorry i was bad to thee. forgive me!”
and dan, at first astounded beyond measure, grew to accept this conclusion as a matter of course, and to say—
“let her alone, and she’ll come round.”
and then avice’s eyes were opened.
one day, when she was unusually softened by the death of susanna’s baby, filomena opened her heart to her niece.
“eh, avice, it’s hard work! nobody knows how hard, that hasn’t had a temper as mastered ’em. i’ve pretty nigh to bite my tongue through, many a time a day. i wish i’d begun sooner—i do! it’d ha’ come easier a deal then. but i’m trying hard, and i hope our lord’ll help me. thou does think he’ll help me, doesn’t thou, avice? i’m not too bad, am i?”
“father thomas says, aunt,” replied avice, “that god helps all those who want his help: and the worse we are, the more we want of his mercy.”
“that’s true!” said filomena.
“and father thomas says,” continued avice, “that we must all go to our lord just like little children, ready to take what he sees good for us, and telling him all our needs of body and soul, as a child would tell its mother.”
they were walking slowly up steephill when avice said this.
“father thomas has one apt scholar,” said the priest’s unexpected voice behind her. “but it was a greater than i, my daughter, who told his disciples that ‘whosoever did not receive the kingdom of god as a little child, should in no wise enter therein.’”
note 1. a mark was 13 shillings 4 pence, and was the largest piece of money then known.
