said he. “It is a lovely day, and I want the solace of a quiet hour’s talk with you.”
So they went, and sat in silence some time, looking at the calm and still blue air about the summits of the hills, where never tumult of the world came to disturb the peace, and the quiet of whose heights was never broken by the loud passionate cries of men.
“I am glad you like my thorn-tree,” said Maggie.
“I like the view from it. The thought of the solitude which must be among the hollows of those hills pleases me particularly today. Oh, Maggie! it is one of the times when I get depressed about men and the world. We have had such sorrow, and such revelations, and remorse, and passion at home today. Crayston (my father’s old tenant) has come over. It seems — I am afraid there is no doubt of it — he has been peculating to a large amount. My father has been too careless, and has placed his dependents in great temptation; and Crayston — he is an old man, with a large extravagant family — has yielded. He has been served with notice of my father’s intention to prosecute him; and came over to confess all, and ask for forgiveness, and time to pay back what he could. A month ago, my father would have listened to him, I think; but now, he is stung by Mr. Henry’s sayings, and gave way to a furious passion. It has been a most distressing morning. The worst side of everybody seems to have come out. Even Crayston, with all his penitence and appearance of candor, had to be questioned closely by Mr. Henry before he would tell the whole truth. Good God! that money should have such power to corrupt men. It was all for money, and money’s worth, that this degradation has taken place. As for Mr. Henry, to save his client money, and to protect money, he does not care — he does not even perceive — how he induces deterioration of character. He has been encouraging my father in measures which I cannot call anything but vindictive. Crayston is to be made an example of, they say. As if my father had not half the sin on his own head! As if he had rightly discharged his duties as a rich man! Money was as dross to him; but he ought to have remembered how it might be as life itself to many, and be craved after, and coveted, till the black longing got the better of principle, as it has done with this poor Crayston. They say the man was once so truthful, and now his self-respect is gone; and he has evidently lost the very nature of truth. I dread riches. I dread the responsibility of them. At any rate, I wish I had begun life as a poor boy, and worked my way up to competence. Then I could understand and remember the temptations of poverty. I am afraid of my own heart becoming hardened as my father’s is. You have no notion of his passionate severity today, Maggie! It was quite a new thing even to me!”
“It will only be for a short time,” said she. “He must be much grieved about this man.”
“If I thought I could ever grow as hard and different to the abject entreaties of a criminal as my father has been this morning — one whom he has helped to make, too — I would go off to Australia at once. Indeed, Maggie, I think it would be the best thing we could do. My heart aches about the mysterious corruptions and evils of an old state of society such as we have in England. — What do you say Maggie? Would you go?”
She was silent — thinking.
“I would go with you directly, if it were right,” said she, at last. “But would it be? I think it would be rather cowardly. I feel what you say; but don’t you think it would be braver to stay, and endure much depression and anxiety of mind, for the sake of the good those always can do who see evils clearly. I am speaking all this time as if neither you nor I had any home duties, but were free to do as me liked.”
“What can you or I do? We are less than drops in the ocean, as far as our influence can go to model a nation?”
“As for that,” said Maggie, laughing, “I can’t remodel Nancy’s old-fashioned ways; so I’ve never yet planned how to remodel a nation.”
“Then what did you mean by the good those always can do who see evils clearly? The evils I see are those of a nation whose god is money.”
“That is just because you have come away from a distressing scene. To-morrow you will hear or read of some heroic action meeting with a nation’s sympathy, and you will rejoice and be proud of your country.”
“Still I shall see the evils of her complex state of society keenly; and where is the good I can do?”
“Oh! I can’t tell in a minute. But cannot you bravely face these evils, and learn their nature and causes; and then has God given you no powers to apply to the discovery of their remedy? Dear Frank, think! It may be very little you can do — and you may never see the effect of it, any more than the widow saw the world-wide effect of her mite. Then if all the good and thoughtful men run away from us to some new country, what are we to do with our poor dear Old England?”
“Oh, you must run away with the good, thoughtful men —(I mean to consider that as a compliment to myself, Maggie!) Will you let me wish I had been born poor, if I am to stay in England? I should not then be liable to this fault into which I see the rich men fall, of forgetting the trials of the poor.”
“I am not sure whether, if you had been poor, you might not have fallen into an exactly parallel fault, and forgotten the trials of the rich. It is so difficult to understand the errors into which their position makes all men liable to fall. Do you remember a story in ‘Evenings at Home,’ called the Transmigrations of Indra? Well! when I was a child, I used to wish I might be transmigrated (is that the right word?) into an American slave-owner for a little while, just that I might understand how he must suffer, and be sorely puzzled, and pray and long to be freed from his odious wealth, till at last he grew hardened to its nature; — and since then, I have wished to be the Emperor of Russia, for the same reason. Ah! you may laugh; but that is only because I have not explained myself properly.”
“I was only smiling to think how ambitious any one might suppose you were who did not know you.”
“I don’t see any ambition in it — I don’t think of the station — I only want sorely to see the ‘What’s resisted’ of Burns, in order that I may have more charity for those who seem to me to have been the cause of such infinite woe and misery.”
“‘What’s done we partly may compute;
But know not what’s resisted,’”
repeated Frank musingly. After some time he began again:
“But, Maggie, I don’t give up this wish of mine to go to Australia — Canada, if you like it better — anywhere where there is a newer and purer state of society.”
“The great objection seems to be your duty, as an only child, to your father. It is different to the case of one out of a large family.”
“I wish I were one in twenty, then I might marry where I liked tomorrow.”
“It would take two people’s consent to such a rapid measure,” said Maggie, laughing. “But now I am going to wish a wish, which it won’t require a fairy godmother to gratify. Look, Frank, do you see in the middle of that dark brown purple streak of moor a yellow gleam of light? It is a pond, I think, that at this time of the year catches a slanting beam of the sun. It cannot be very far off. I have wished to go to it every autumn. Will you go with me now? We shall have time before tea.”
Frank’s dissatisfaction with the stern measures that, urged on by Mr. Henry, his father took against all who had imposed upon his carelessness as a landlord, increased rather than diminished. He spoke warmly to him on the subject, but without avail. He remonstrated with Mr. Henry, and told him how he felt that, had his father controlled his careless nature, and been an exact, vigilant landlord, these tenantry would never have had the great temptation to do him wrong; and
