The question had often been discussed by him to the furthest point possible (as he thought) for its consideration to be extended; and how was it that he found himself debating it at this time in its crudest form? He had long ago settled it to his own satisfaction, that his life was to be a lonely one through the world. Not for him were to be the pleasant cares of home or wife or child. Not for him was the tenderness of woman—not for him the babble of the little lips, every quiver of which is a caress. His work was sufficient for him, he had often said, and the contemplation of the possibility of anything on earth coming between him and his labours, filled him with alarm. He felt that if he were to cease to be absorbed in his work, he should be unfaithful to his trust. The only one that was truly faithful was the one who was ready to give up all to follow in the footsteps of the Master.
But being human and full of human sympathy, he had often felt a moment's envy entering the house of one of his friends who was married and become the father of children. The hundred little occurrences incidental to a household, where there was a nursery and a schoolroom, were marked by him—the clambering of little chubby legs up to the father's knee—the interpretation of the latest phrase that fell from baby lips—the charm of golden silk curls around an innocent child's face—all these and a score of other delights associated with the household had appealed to him, giving him an hour's longing at the time, and a tender recollection at intervals in after years.
“Not for me—not for me,” he had said. So jealous was he of his work that, as has been noted, the possibility of his becoming absorbed—even partially—by anything that was not directly pertaining to his work, was a dread to him. He set himself the task of crushing down within him every aspiration that might tend to interfere with the carrying out of the labour of his life, and he believed that, by stern and strict endeavour, he had succeeded in doing so.
Then why should he now find himself considering the question which he believed he had settled forever? Why should he now begin to see that the assurance that it was not good for a man to be alone was based upon a knowledge of men and was wise?
He found an apt illustration of the wisdom of the precept in the conduct of the girl who had shown such thoughtfulness in regard to him. “Mentem mortalia tangunt,” was thesors Virgilianawhich came to his mind at the moment. He recognised the truth of it. A man was affected by the material conditions of his life. If the girl had not shown such thought for his comfort, he would well-nigh have been broken down by his exhausting labours of the day, followed up by an exhausting walk along the cliffs. He might not have returned to the house at which he was staying in time to dine, before setting out for a long drive to another place for an afternoon's meeting. So absorbed was he apt to be in his preaching that he became oblivious to every consideration of daily life. What were to him such trivial matters as eating and drinking at regular intervals? He neglected the needs of his body, and only when he had suffered for so doing did he feel that his carelessness was culpable. On recovering from its' immediate effects, however, he fell back into his old habits.
But now the thought that came to him was that he had need for someone to be by his side as (for example) Nelly Polwhele had been. He knew quite well, without having had the experience of married life, that if he had had a wife, he would not have been allowed to do anything so unwise as to walk straight away from the preaching to the cliffs, having eaten nothing since the early morning, and then only a single cake of bread. A good wife would have drawn him away from the people to whom he was talking, to the house where he was a guest, and when there have set about providing for him the food which he lacked and the rest which he needed to restore him after his arduous morning's work, so that he might set out for the afternoon's preaching feeling as fresh as he had felt in the morning.
He was grateful to the girl, not only for her attention to him, but also for affording him an illustration favourable to his altered way of looking at a question which he fancied had long ago been settled forever in his mind. (He had long ago forgiven the woman, who, in America, had taught him to believe that a life of loneliness is more conducive to one's peace of mind than a life linked to an unsympathetic companion.)
And having been led to such a conclusion, it was only reasonable that he should make a resolution that, if he should ever be so fortunate as to meet with a virtuous lady whom he should find to possess those qualities which promised most readily to advance the work which he had at heart, he would not be slow to ask her to be his companion to such an end.
This point settled to his satisfaction (as he thought), he mounted his horse, after a week's stay in the valley of the Lana, and made his way to the tinners of Camlin, twenty miles further along the coast Here he was received with open arms, and preached from his rock pulpit to thousands of eager men and women an hour after sunrise on a summer morning.
On still for another fortnight, in wilder districts, among people who rarely entered a church, and whom the church made no attempt to reach. These were the people for him. He was told that he was going forth to sow the seed in stony ground, but when he came and began to sow, he found that it fell upon fruitful soil. Here it was impossible for him to find a huge congregation, so scattered were the inhabitants. But this was no obstacle to him: he asked for no more than a group of hearers in every place, and by the time that night came he found that he had preached to thousands since sunrise. Beginning sometimes at five o'clock in the morning, he would preach on the outskirts of a village and hold a second service before breakfasting six miles away. It was nothing for him to preach half a dozen times and ride thirty miles in one of these days.
But as he went further and further on this wonderful itinerary of his, that sense of loneliness of which he had become aware at Porthawn seemed to grow upon him. During those intervals of silence which he spent on horseback, his feeling of loneliness appeared to increase, until at last there came upon him a dread lest he should affect his labours. He had a fear that a despondent note might find its way into his preaching, and when under such an influence he made a strong effort in the opposite direction, he was conscious of an artificial note; and, moreover, by the true instinct of the man who talks to men, he was conscious that it was detected by his hearers.
He was disappointed in himself—humiliated. How was it that for years he had been able to throw off this feeling of walking alone, through the world, or making no effort to throw it off, to glory in it, as it were—to feel all the stronger because of it, inasmuch as it could not come without bringing with it the reflection that he—he alone—had been chosen to deliver the message to the multitudes—the message of Light to the people that walked in darkness?
He could not understand how the change had come about in him, and not being able to understand it, he felt the more humiliated.
And then, one day, riding slowly along the coach road, he saw a young woman standing waiting for a change of horses for her post chaise at the door of a small inn.
He started, for she had fair hair and a fresh face whose features bore some resemblance to those of Nelly Polwhele—he started, for there came upon him, with the force of a revelation, the knowledge that this was the companionship for which he was longing—that unconsciously, she had been in his thoughts—some way at the back of his thoughts, to be sure, but still there—that, only since he had been her companion had his need for some sweet and helpful companionship become impressed upon him..
He rode on to his destination overwhelmed by the surprise at the result of this glimpse which had been given to him into the depths of his own heart. The effect seemed to him as if with the sight of that stranger—that young woman on the roadside—a flash of lightning had come, showing him in an instant what was in the depths of his heart.
He tried to bring himself to believe that he was mistaken.
“Impossible—impossible!” he cried. “It is impossible that I should be so affected—a village girl!... And I did not talk with her half a dozen times in all!... Kind, thoughtful, with tact—a gracious presence, a receptive mind.... Ah, it was she undoubtedly who set me thinking—who made me feel dissatisfied with my isolation, but still.. . oh, impossible—impossible!”
And, although a just man, the thoughts that he now believed himself to have in regard to Nelly Polwhele were bitter rather than sweet. He began to think that it was too bold of her—almost immodest—to make the attempt to change the whole course of the life of such a man as he was. He had once courted the lonely life, believing it to be the only life for such as he—the only life that enabled him to give all his thoughts—all his strength—oh, all his life—all his life—to the work which had been appointed for him to do in the world of sinners; but lo! that child had come to him, and had made him feel that he was not so different from other men.
Under the influence of his bitterness, he resented her intrusion, as it were. Pshaw! the girl wras nothing. It was only companionship as a sentiment that he had been longing for; he had a clear idea of the companionship that he needed; but he had never thought of the companion. It was a mere trick of the fancy to suggest that, because the young woman had sent his thoughts into a certain groove, they must of necessity be turned in the direction of the young woman herself.
He soon found, however, that it is one thing for a man to prove to the satisfaction of his own intelligence that it would be impossible that he should set his heart on a particular young woman, but quite another to shut her out from his heart. He had his heart to reckon with, though he did not know it.
Before the day had passed he had shut the doors of his heart, and he believed that he had done right. He did not know that he had shut those doors, not against her, but upon her.
Like all men who have accomplished great things in the world, he was intensely human. His sympathy flowed forth for his fellow-men in all circumstances of life. But he did not know himself sufficiently well to understand that what he thought of with regret as his weaknesses, were actually those elements wherein lay the secret of his influence with men.
He had just succeeded, he fancied, in convincing himself that it was impossible he could ever have entertained a thought of Nelly Polwhele as the one who could afford him the companionship which he craved, when a letter came to him from Mr. Hartwell, whom he had appointed the leader of the class which he had established at Porthawn, entreating him to return to them, as they were in great distress and in peril of falling to pieces, owing to the conduct of one of their members, Richard Pritchard by name.
Could he affirm that the sorrow which he felt on receiving this news was the sum of all the emotions that filled his heart at that moment?
He laid down the letter, saying,
“It is the Lord's doing.”
And when he said that, he was thinking, not of the distress in which his children at Porthawn found themselves by reason of Richard Pritchard, but of the meaning of the summons to himself.
“It is the trial to which my steadfastness is to be put,” he said. “I am not to be allowed to escape without scathe. Why should I expect to do so when others are tried daily? There can be no victory without a battle. The strength of a man is developed by his trial. I am ready. Grant me grace, O Lord, to sustain me, and to keep my feet from straying!”
He prepared himself for this journey back to Porthawn, and he was presently amazed (having been made aware of his own weakness) to find himself thinking very much less about himself and scarcely at all about Nelly Polwhele, nor that the chance of seeing her again had, without the least expectation on his part, came to him. He found himself giving all his thoughts to the question of his duty. Had he been over-hasty in accepting the assurances of all these people at Porthawn to whose souls peace had come through his preaching? Was he actuated solely by a hope to spread abroad the Truth as he had found it, or had a grain of the tares of Self been sown among the good seed? Had there been something of vanity in his desire to increase the visible results of his preaching?
These were his daily questionings and soulsearching, and they had been ever present with him since he had put his hand to the plough. He was ever apt to accuse himself of vainglory—of a lack of that spirit of humility which he felt should enter into every act—every thought of his life. He thought of himself as the instrument through which his Master spake to His children. Should the harp vaunt itself when a hand sweeps over its strings, making such music as forces those who hear to be joyful or sad? Should the trumpet take credit to itself because through its tubes is blown the blast that sends an army headlong to the charge?
After his first preaching in the valley of the Lana, hundreds of those who heard him had come to him making a profession of the Faith that he preached. He asked himself now if it was not possible that he had been too eager to accept their assurance. He had had his experiences of the resultat the emotions of his listeners being so stirred by his preaching that they had come to him with the same glad story; but only to become lukewarm after a space, and after another space to lapse into their former carelessness. The parable of the Sower was ever in his mind. The quick upspring-ing of the seed was a sign that it had fallen where there was no depth of earth. And this sowing was more hopeless than that on stony ground—than that among thorns.
He feared that he had been too hasty. He was a careless husbandman who had been too ready to assume that a plentiful harvest was at hand, because he had sown where there was no depth of earth. He should have waited and watched and noted every sign of spiritual growth before leaving the field of his labours.
These were some of his self-reproaches which occupied all his thoughts while making his return journey to Porthawn, thus causing all thought of Nelly Polwhele to be excluded from his mind. He had caught a glimpse of the Lana winding its way through the valley before he had a thought of her, and then it was with some bitterness that he reflected that, all unknown to himself, he had shortened his stay in this region because he had had an instinct that a danger would threaten him if he were to remain. Instinct? Now he was dealing with a force that was wholly animal—wholly of the flesh, and the flesh, he knew, was waging perpetual war with the things that appertained to the spirit.
He urged his horse onward. Whatever danger might threaten himself by his returning to this region, he would not shrink from it; what was such a danger compared with that threatening the edifice of Faith which he had hoped had been built up in the midst of the simple people of the land?
He urged his horse forward, and on the afternoon of the second day of his journey he was within a few hours' journey of Ruthallion Mill. He meant to call at the Mill, feeling sure that he would get from the miller a faithful and intelligent account of all that had happened during the three weeks of his absence from this neighbourhood. Miller Pendelly, once the champion of the old system of lifeless churchgoing, had become the zealous exponent of the new. He was the leader of the little band that formed the nucleus of the great organisation of churchmen who, under the teaching of Wesley, sought to make the Church the power for good among the people that it was meant to be. Jake Pullsford, who had spread the story of Wesley's aims among his friends before the preacher had appeared in Cornwall, had given evidence of the new Light that had dawned upon him when he had heard Wesley at Bristol. Both these were steadfast men, not likely to cause offence, and if Wesley had heard any report of their falling short of what was expected of them he would have been more than disappointed.
It was through Richard Pritchard, the professional water-finder, that offence had come or was likely to come, Mr. Hartwell's letter had told him. He remembered the man very clearly. He had had some conversation with him, and Jake had satisfied him as to the sincerity of his belief. He had never been otherwise than a clean-living man, and he had studied many theological works. But he had not impressed Mr. Wesley as being a person of unusual intelligence. His remarkable calling and the success with which he practised it all through the West had caused Him to appear in the eyes of the people of the country as one possessing certain powers which, though quite legitimate, being exercised for good, were bordering on the supernatural. Wesley now remembered that he had had some doubt as to the legitimacy of the man's calling. Believing, as he did, so fully in the powers of witchcraft, he had a certain amount of uneasiness in accepting as a member of the little community which he was founding, a man who used the divining rod; but the simplicity of Pritchard and his exemplary character, were in his favour, so much as to outweigh the force of. Wesley's objection to his mode of life.
Now, as he guided his horse down the valley road, he regretted bitterly that he had allowed his misgivings to be overcome so easily. Like all men who have accomplished great things in the world, the difficulties which occasionally beset him were due to his accepting the judgment of others, putting aside his own feelings or tendencies, in certain matters. The practice of the virtue of humility, in regard to his estimation of the value of his own judgment, had cost him dearly upon occasions.
It was all the more vexatious to reflect that the man through whom the trouble (whatever it might be) was impending, was the last one in the world from whom any trouble might reasonably be looked for. This was probably the first time in his life that he had reached any prominence in the little circle in which he lived. To be allowed to remain in the background, seemed to be his sole aspiration. His fear of giving offence to anyone seemed to be ever present with him, and his chief anxiety was to anticipate an imaginary offence by an apology. How a man who was so ludicrously invertebrate should become a menace to the stability of a community that included such robust men as the miller, the carrier, and the smith, to say nothing of Farmer Tregenna and Mr. Hartwell, the mine owner, was more than Wesley could understand. It was this element of mystery that caused him to fear that Pritchard had all along been an agent of the Enemy—that his noted successes with the divining rod were due to his connection with the Powers of Darkness, and that his getting within the fold of the faithful was, after all, only what might have been expected from one whose tactics were devised for him by the Old Serpent—the origin of every evil since the expulsion from Paradise.
He spent an hour at the Old Waggoner Inn at the corner of the River Road, and while his horse was getting a feed in the stable he had some bread and cheese in the inn parlour—a large room built to accommodate the hungry coach passengers, who, accustomed to break their journey to or from Plymouth, were at this house.
The room was not crowded when he arrived, but in the course of the next half-hour two additional parties entered, and while tankards were filled and emptied, and pewter platters of underdone beef laden with pickles were passed round, there was a good deal of loud talk, with laughter and an interchange of friendly, if rude, humour. Wesley had had a sufficient experience of inn parlours to prevent his being greatly interested by the people here or their loud chat.
This was only at first, however, for it soon became clear to him that the conversation and the jests were flowing in one channel. Then he became interested.
“Come hither, friend Thomas, and pay all scores,” cried one jovial young fellow to an elderly stout farmer who had been standing in the bar.
“Not me, lad,” cried the farmer. “By the Lord Harry, you've the 'impidence'!”.
“What, man, pay and look joyous. What will all your hoard of guineas be to you after Monday?” cried the younger man.
“'Twill be worth twenty-one shillings for every guinea, if you must know,” replied the farmer.
“Nay, sir, you know well that there will be no use for your guineas at the Day of Judgment, which, as surely as Dick Pritchard is a prophet, will happen on Monday,” said the other.
“I'm ready to run the chance, i' the face o' the Prophet Pritchard,” said the farmer. “Ay, and to show what's in me, I am ready 'twixt now and Sunday to buy any property at a reasonable discount rate that any believer in Dick Pritchard may wish to sell.”
“Good for you, farmer—good for you!” shouted a dozen voices, with the applause of rattling pewters on the table.
“Let Dick stick to his trade—water and not fire is his quality; he'd best leave the Day of Judgment in subtler hands,” growled a small, red-faced man, who was cooling himself this Summer day with Jamaica rum.
There was some more laughter, but it was not of a hearty sort; there was a forced gaiety in it that Wesley easily detected.
“By my troth, the fellow's prophecy hath done a good turn to the maltster; there hath been more swilling, hot and cold, since he spoke a week ago yesterday, than in any month of ordinary calm weather, without a sniff of brimstone in it,” said Mr. Hone, the surgeon of the revenue men, who was in the act of facing a huge beef-steak with onions and a potato baked with a sauce of tansy.
“Small blame to the drouthy ones; they know full well that by this day week they will be ready to pay Plymouth prices for a mugful o' something cooling,” remarked a traveller.
“Gentlemen and friends, all, I make bold enough to affirm that this matter is too grave an one to be jested on or to be scoffed at,” said a tall, pale-faced young man. “I tell you, sirs, that there may be more in this thing than some of us suspect.”
“What, Mr. Tilley, are you feeble enough to believe that an event of such considerable importance to the Government as the Day of Judgment would be announced through such an agent? This Dick Pritchard is a common man, as full of ignorance as a young widow is of tricks,” said the surgeon, looking up from his plate.
“Ignorant? ay, doubtless, Mr. Hone; but how many ignorant men have yet won an honourable place in the book of the prophets, sir?” asked the young man. “Seems to any natural man, sir, that ignorance, as we call ignorance, was the main quality needful for an ancient old prophet that spake as he was moved.”
“That was in the Antique Dispensation, Mr. Tilley; you must not forget that, sir,” cried the surgeon.
“Ay, that's sure; 'tis a different age this that we live in,” said an acquiescent voice behind the shelter of a settle.
“I'd as lief credit a Christian as a Jew in such a matter: the Jews seem to have had this business of prophecy as exclusive in their hands as they have the trade of money now,” said the traveller. “The Jewish seers busied themselves a good deal about the Day of Judgment, why should not a humble Christian be permitted a trifle of traffic on the same question, since it is one that should be of vital interest to all—especially innkeepers in hot weather?”
There was only a shred of laughter when he had spoken. It was clear that in spite of some of the jeers against the water-finder that had taken place in the room, there was a feeling that whatever he had taken it upon him to say—it seemed to Wesley that it had reference to the Day of Judgment on the next Monday—should not be treated with levity. The jocular tone of a few men who were present was distinctly forced. Upon several faces Wesley perceived an expression that reminded him of that upon the faces of some of the prisoners under sentence of death whom he had visited in his young days at Oxford.
“Say what you will, gentlemen,” resumed the young man called Tilley, “this Dick Pritchard is no ordinary man. I have seen him at work with his wizard's wand', and inside five minutes o' the clock he had shown us where to bore for water in a meadow slope that was as deeply pitted before with borings as if it had an attack of smallpox. Ay, sirs, a hole had been dug here and another there—and there—and there—” he indicated with his finger on the floor the locality of the diggings to which he referred—“but not a spoonful of water appeared. Then in comes our gentleman with a sliver of willow between his palms, and walks over the ground. I was nigh to him, and I affirm that I saw the twig twist itself like a snake between his fingers, jerking its tip, for all the world like the stumpy head of an adder, first in one direction, anon in another—I'll swear that it turned, wicked as any snake, upon Dick himself at one time, so that he jerked his hands back and the thing fell on the grass, and if it did not give a kind of writhe there, my eyes played me false. But he picked it up again and walked slowly across the ground, not shunning in the least as an ordinary man would have done, if he had his wits about him, the parts that showed the former borings that had come to naught. 'Twas in full boldness, just between two of the old holes, that he stopped short, and says he, 'There's your spring, and 'tis not six foot from the surface. I'll wait to have a mugful, if I don't make too bold,' says he, 'for'tis strangely drying work, this waterfinding.' And by my faith, sirs, the fellow had a pitcher of the softest spring water from that spot before an hour had gone and the rude scum of the field had been rinsed away.”
The silence that followed the man's story was impressive. It seemed as if the cloud which had been overhanging the company had become visible. No man so much as glanced at his neighbour, but every one of them stopped eating or drinking at that moment, and stared gloomily straight in front of him. Only one man, however, uttered a groan.
“Lord have mercy on us!—the rocks and the mountains—the great and terrible day of the Lord!” he murmured.
Then it was that a couple of men passed their hands over their foreheads.
“I would sooner see my cattle die of drouth than call in a water-finder,” said the farmer. “I've oft-times said that he has a partner in his trade. In my young days, a water-finder was burnt at the stake, for 'twas clearly proven that he was in league with the Fiend: after drinking o' the water that he drew from the bowels o' th' earth the husbandman's son was seized wi' a fit and down he fell like a log and was only saved by the chance of the curate passing near the farm. Though but a young man, he saw at once that the boy had been tampered with.'Twas by good luck that he had with him a snuffbox made of the cedar wood of Lebanon at Jerusalem, where King Solomon built his temple, and 'tis well known that neither witch nor warlock can stand against such. Before you could say 'Worm,' the young parson had made a circle o' snuff around the poor victim, and with a deadly screech the fiend forsook the boy and 'twas said that it entered into a young heifer of promise, for she went tearing out of her byre that same night and was found all over a lather wandering on Dip-stone Sands in the morning. Ay, they burnt the water-finder at the next 'Sizes, the testimony being so clear as I say.”
“'Tis time they burnt Dick Pritchard,” said someone else in a low voice. “Though I'm not sure that 'tis in the Book that mere water-finding is heinous.”
“Maybe not, but sure a proof o' the gift o' prophecy is burnable in the New Dispensation,” suggested another.
A big man sprang to his feet. His face was pale and his hands were nervous. He clapped his palms together.
“Every man in the room has a tankard with me,” he cried. “I'll pay the score for all. What use is the blunt to me after Monday? But now is our time, lads. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!”
The sentiment was greeted with a loud and harsh laugh by some men, but by a serious shake of the head by others. A young man started a ribald song.
“Shame, sir, shame, a parson's present in the room,” cried an elderly man, who was seated near Wesley.
The lilt was interrupted, and two or three fingers were pointed toward Wesley, who was half hidden from most of the people in the room. Now he stood up and faced them all.
“Hey, 'tis Wesley the preacher himself!” cried the surgeon, and expressions of surprise were uttered in various directions.
“You have come in good time to superintend the winding up of the world, Mr. Wesley. Nay, don't be over modest; 'tis one of your own children hath said it,” said another. “What, sir; would you disown your own offspring?”
Wesley had held up his hand twice while the man was speaking.
“Friends, I am John Wesley,” he said. “I have come sixty miles and better, having heard from Mr. Hartwell that I was needed in regard to this same Pritchard, but having been made acquainted with no points of detail. Sirs, since I entered this room I have, I believe, learned all that Mr. Hartwell forbore to tell me, and now I hasten to give you my assurance that I cannot countenance aught that this man Pritchard said. I deplore most heartily that he should be so far misled as to take upon him to utter a statement of prophecy touching the most awful event that our faith as believers takes a count of. Brethren, we are told that we know not the day nor the hour when that dread shall fall upon the world. That is the written Word of the Most High, and any man who, whether under the impulse of vanity or in the sincere belief that he possesses the gift of prophecy, is presumptuous, is likely to become a stumbling block and a rock of offence. That is all that I have to say at this time. I have said so much in the hope that all who hear me will refrain from attributing to the influence of my preaching or teaching, an act or a statement which I and my associates repudiate and condemn.”
He inclined his head slowly, and then, picking up his hat, left the room. But before he reached the door every man in the room had risen respectfully, though no word was spoken by anyone present. Even after his departure there was a silence that lasted for several minutes. Everyone seemed to have drawn a long breath as of relief.
“Gentlemen, I think you may breathe freely once more: the world will last over Monday after all,” said the surgeon.
“Ay, the master has spoken and disowned his pupil,” said another.
“Maybe that's because he feels chagrined that he lost the chance that Dick Pritchard grappled with,” suggested the pale youth.
“Boy,” said the traveller, with a contemptuous wave of the hand. “Boy, Mr. Wesley is a man of learning and a man of parts, not a charlatan in a booth at a fair.”
“Or one with the duck's instinct of seeking for water with a quack—ay, a quack with a quack,” said the surgeon.
“Well, if the world is not to expire on Monday, we would do well to drink her health, so hey for a gallon of old ale so far as it goes,” cried the man with the shaking head.
The opinion seemed to be all but general, that some sign of hilarity would not now be so much out of place as it seemed to be a quarter of an hour earlier, and the landlord was zealous in support of this view. He promised them a tipple worthy of the name, even if the world were to break up in a day or two!
But long before the company were satisfied Wesley was on his horse riding slowly down to Ruthallion Mill.
He felt deeply pained by his experience in the inn parlour. So this was what Mr. Hartwell had hinted at in his letter—this assumption of the divine gift of the prophet by Pritchard. And the subject of his prophecy was one that every charlatan who had existed had made his own! He himself could remember more than one such prediction being made by men who were both ignorant and vain. One of them had afterwards stood in the pillory and another—the more sincere—had gone to a mad-house. It seemed to him strange that they should have had a following, but beyond a doubt their prediction had been widely credited, and the men themselves had achieved a notoriety which was to them the equivalent to fame. They had had their followers even after the date which they named in their prophecies had gone by without any disaster to the world. It seemed that the people were so glad at escaping that they had no room in their thoughts for any reproach for the false prophet.
He knew, however, that in the case of Richard Pritchard, the same leniency would not be shown. He knew that his own detractors—and they were many who regarded his innovations as a direct menace to the Church—would only be too glad of the chance which was now offered to them of ridiculing him and his out-of-doors preaching, pointing out, as they most certainly would, that Richard Pritchard represented the first fruit of his preaching, and that his assumption of the authority of a prophet was the first fruit of his Methodism.
But it was not only by reason of the possible injury that would be done to the movement which he had inaugurated in Cornwall that he was vexed.
He had been greatly pained to observe the spirit in which the most awful incident on which the mind of man could dwell was referred to by the men in the inn parlour—men fairly representative of the people of the neighbourhood. The Day of Wrath had been alluded to with levity by some, in a spirit of ridicule by others; while one man had made it the subject of a wager, and another had made it an excuse for drunkenness!
He was grieved and shocked to reflect that it was Pritchard's connection with his mission that had produced this state of things. He felt certain that if the man had remained outside the newly founded organisation, he would not have taken it upon himself to speak as a prophet.
But he felt that he could not lay the blame for what had occurred at the door of anyone whom he had appointed to help him in his work, and who had advanced the claims of Pritchard, for who could have foreseen that a man who seemed abnormally modest and retiring by nature should develop such a spirit? Beyond a doubt the man's weak head had been turned. He had become possessed of a craving after notoriety, and now that he had achieved it, he would be a very difficult person to deal with. This Wesley perceived when he began to consider how to deal with the source of the affair.
The most difficult point in this connection was his feeling that the man was quite sincere in his belief, that upon him the spirit of prophecy had descended. He felt sure that the man was unaware of the existence of any motive in his own heart apart from the desire to utter a warning and a call to repentance to the people of the world, as Jonah the prophet, had done to the people of Nineveh.
That fact, Wesley perceived, made it a matter of great difficulty both to silence Pritchard, and to hold him up as a charlatan.
He was indeed greatly perplexed in mind as he rode down the valley path leading to the Mill.
Wesley could not, of course, know that Pritchard was at that time in the Mill awaiting his arrival. But it was the case that the water-finder, learning that the coming of Mr. Wesley was looked for during the afternoon, had gone to the Mill early and had rejected the suggestion made by the blacksmith and Jake Pullsford, that he should not appear in the presence of Mr. Wesley until he was sent for. He was almost indignant at the hint conveyed to him in an ambiguous way by Hal Holmes, that it would show better taste if he were to remain away for the time being.
“Take my word for 't, Dick, you'll be brought face to face with him soon enow,” said Hal. “You'll be wishful that you had ne'er been born or thought of. Mr. Wesley is meek, but he isn't weak, and 'tis the meek ones that's the hardest to answer when the time comes, and it always comes too soon. Before your Monday comes you'll be wishful to hide away and calling on the mountains to cover ye.”
“List to me, Hal; there's naught that will say nay to me when my mind is made up, and go to face Mr. Wesley I shall,” Dick had replied.
The blacksmith folded his big bare arms and looked at him with curiosity from head to foot.
“A change has come o'er a good many of us since Mr. Wesley began to preach, but what's all our changes alongside yours, Dick Pritchard?” he said, shaking his head as though he relinquished this task of solving the problem which had been suggested to him. “Why, you was used to fear and tremble at the thin noise of your own voice, Dick Pritchard. With these ears I have heard you make an apology for saying 'Thank ye,' on the score that you were too bold. But now you are for rushing headlong to meet the man that you scarce dare lift your hat to a month or two agone.”
“I hadn't learned then all that there's in me now, Hal,” replied the water-finder. “I always did despise myself, being unmindful that to despise myself was to do despite to Heaven. Doesn't it stand to reason, Hal, that the greater a man thinks himself, the greater is the honour he does to his Maker? I think twice as much of God since I came to see what a man He made in me.”
“That's a square apology for conceit, Dick, and I don't think aught the better of you for putting it forward at this time and in such a case as this. What, good fellow, would you be at the pains to magnify a man's righteousness pace for pace with his conceit? At that rate, the greater the coxcomb the more righteous the man.”
Dick was apparently lost in thought for some time. At last he shook his head gravely, saying:
“Not for all cases, Hal, not for all cases. You be a narrow-souled caviller, I doubt; you cannot comprehend an argyment that's like a crystal diamond, with as many sides to it as a middling ignorant man would fail to compute.”
“That may be, but I've handled many a lump of sea-coal that has shown as many sides as any diamond that was ever dug out of the earth, and it seems to me that your talk is more like the sea-coal than the crystal, Dick, my friend,” said the blacksmith. “Ay, your many-sided argyments are only fit to be thrust into the furnace, for all, their sides.”
“Mr. Wesley will comprehend,” said Pritchard doggedly; “though even Mr. Wesley might learn something from me. Ay, and in after years you will all be glad to remember that you once dwelt nigh a simple man by name Richard Pritchard.”
“In after years?” cried Hal Holmes. “Why, where are your after years to come from, if the end of all things is to be on us on Monday?”
“Don't you doubt but that 'twill come to an end on Monday,” said the water-finder, “however you may twist and turn. Be sure that you be prepared, Hal Holmes. You have been a vain-living blacksmith, I am feared, and now you side with them that would persecute the prophets. Prepare yourself, Hal, prepare yourself.”
This was the style in which the man had been talking for some time, astonishing everyone who had known his extreme modesty in the past; and this was the strain in which he talked when he had entered the Mill, and found the miller, Jake Pulls-ford and Mr. Hartwell seated together awaiting the arrival of Wesley.
The man's entrance at this time surprised them. They knew he was aware that Mr. Wesley was returning in haste, owing solely to his, Pritchard's, having put himself forward in a way that his brethren could not sanction, and it never occurred to them that he would wish to meet Mr. Wesley at this time. They were, as was Hal Holmes, under the impression that when Wesley arrived Pritchard's former character might show itself once more, causing him to avoid even the possibility of meeting the preacher face to face.
They were soon undeceived. The water-finder was in no way nervous when he came among them.
When he had in some measure recovered from his surprise, the miller said: “We looked not for thy coming so soon, Dick, but maybe 'tis as well that thou 'rt here.”
“How could I be away from here unless I had hastened to meet Mr. Wesley on his way hither?” said Pritchard. “I have been trembling with desire to have his ear for the past week. It is laid on me to exhort him on some matters that he neglected. These matters can be neglected no longer.”
The miller looked at Jake Pullsford, and the latter sat aghast. He was so astounded that he could only stare at Pritchard, with his hands on his knees and his head in its usual poise, craning forward. Some moments had passed before he succeeded in gasping out, after one or two false starts:
“You—you—you—Dick Pritchard—you talk of exhorting Mr. Wesley? Oh, poor fellow! poor fellow! Now, indeed, we know that you are mad!”
“Mr. Wesley should ha' found out the gift that is mine,” said Pritchard, quite ignoring the somewhat frank utterance of the carrier. “I suspected myself during several months of having that great gift of prophecy.'Twas no more than a suspicion for some time, and I dare not speak before I was sure.”
“And what made thee sure, Dick?” asked the miller.
“'Twas reading how the great prophet, Moses, made water flow from the rock,” replied Pritchard. “'What,' said I to my own self. 'What, Richard Pritchard, hath not all thy life been spent in performing that great miracle of Moses, and hast not known the greatness of thy gift?' And then I made search and found that water-finding has been the employment of most of the great prophets, Elijah being the foremost. Like to a flash from a far-off cannon gun, that reaches the eyes before ever the sound of the boom comes upon the ear, the truth was revealed to me. I knew then that the gift of the Tishbite was mine.”
It was Jake Pullsford who now looked at the miller. The miller shook his head.
“'Twould not matter much what you thought of yourself, Dick,” said the miller, “if only you had not been admitted to our fellowship; but things being as they be—-”
He shook his head again.
“What overcomes me is the thought of thy former habit of life, Dick,” said the carrier. “Why, up to a month agone, a man more modest, shy and tame speaking, wasn't to be found in all the West Country. Why, man, I've seen thee sweat at the sound of thine own voice, like as if thou hadst been a thief a-hearing o' the step of an officer! Meek! Meek is no name for it! I give thee my word that it oft made me think shame of all manhood in the world to hear thee make apology for a plain truth that, after all, thou wast too bashful to utter!”
“You could not see my heart, Miller,” said Pritchard. “'Twas only that I was humble in voice; I know now that in spirit I was puffed up with pride, so that I could hardly contain myself. But even after the truth came upon me in that flash, I was ready to treat the likes of you, Miller—ay, even the likes of thee, Jake Pullsford, as mine equal, so affable a heart had I by birth.”
“You promoted yourself a bit, Dick,” remarked the miller. “But I've always observed that when a man tells another in that affable way that he regards the other as his equal, he fancies in the inwardness of his heart, that he is far above the one he gives such an assurance to.”
“I feel a sort of light of knowledge within me ready to break forth and tell me a wonderful reply to that remark of yours, Miller,” said Pritchard. “Tarry a while, and give me time for the light to-break forth with fulness, and you'll be rewarded; friends, you will hear a reply that will make you all stand back in amaze, and marvel, as I have done, how noble a thing is the gift of speech—saying a phrase or two that makes the flesh of man tingle. All I ask is time. It may not come to me within the hour, but——”
“Here's one that hath come to thee, my man, and he will listen to all you have to say: I hear the sound of his horse on the lane,” cried the miller.
Jake Pullsford sprang from the settle, and strained himself to look out of the window.
“Right; 'tis Mr. Wesley, in very deed,” he said.
“That's as should be,” cried Pritchard, with an air of satisfaction that made the others feel the more astonished.
And when Wesley had entered and greeted his-friends, including the water-finder, they were a good deal more astonished at the attitude taken by Pritchard. Without wasting time over preliminaries, he assumed that Wesley had come to the Mill in order not to admonish him, but to be admonished by him. Before Mr. Wesley had time to say more than a word, Pritchard had become fluent on the subject of the preacher's responsibilities. It was not for Mr. Wesley to go wandering in the uttermost parts of Cornwall, he said; he should have remained at Porthawn to consolidate the work that he had begun; had he done so until he had gathered in every soul, the Lord might have been as merciful to the world as He had been to Nineveh in the days of Jonah. But Mr. Wesley had, like Jonah, fled from his duty, and the next Monday was to be the Day of Judgment.
Wesley listened gravely until the man got upon his feet and with an outstretched finger toward him, cried:
“I have been mocked by some, and held in silent despite by others—all of them professing to be of the Household of Faith, because the Spirit of prophecy came upon me, and I announced the truth. Nor, Mr. Wesley, will you dare to join with the disbelievers and say straight out that the first Monday will not be the Last Day that will dawn on this world?”
“No,” said Wesley, “I would not be so presumptuous as to lay claim to any knowledge that would entitle me to speak on a subject of such awful import. 'Ye know not the day nor the hour'—those were the words of our Lord, and anyone who makes profession of knowing either, commits a grievous sin.”
“Ay, anyone but me,” said Pritchard. “But the revelation was made to me—I take no glory to myself. The great and terrible Day of the Lord cometh next Monday, and they shall cry unto the rocks to fall on them and the mountains to cover them. What other place could that refer to if not Ruthallion and Porthawn; is't not that Buthallion is in the heart of the hills and Porthawn the place of rocks?”
With all gentleness Wesley spoke to the man of the great need there was for caution on the part of anyone venturing to assign times and seasons to such prophecies as had been uttered respecting the mystery of the Last Judgment. He tried to show him that however strong his own conviction was on the subject of the Revelation, he should hold his peace, for fear of a mistake being made and enemies being afforded a reason for railing against the cause which they all had at heart. The interpretation of prophecy, he said, was at all times difficult and should certainly not be lightly attempted even by those men who had spent all their lives dealing with the subject, with the light of history to guide them. Nothing could exceed the tact, patience and gentleness with which the pastor pleaded with this erring one of his flock—the miller and Jake Pullsford were amazed at his forbearance; they learned a lesson from him which they never forgot. He was patient and said no word of offence all the time that they were waxing irritable at the foolishness of the man who sat shaking his head now and again, and pursing out his lips after the manner of pig-headed ignorance when objecting to the wisdom of experience.
It was all to no purpose that Wesley spoke. The man listened, but criticised with the smile of incredulous superiority on his face almost all the time that Wesley was speaking—it varied only when he was shaking his head, and then throwing it back defiantly. It was all to no purpose.
“You are right, Mr. Wesley, in some ways,” he cried. “But you talk of the interpretation of prophecy. Well, that is within your sphere, and I durstn't stop you so far. Ay, but I am not an interpreter of prophecy—I am the very prophet himself. Friends, said not I the truth to you this hour past—how I felt as it were a burst of flame within me, whereby I knew that I had been possessed of the spirit of prophecy? The gift of water-finding, which has been mine since my youth, was only bestowed upon the major prophets, Moses being the chief; and when I read of Elijah, who in the days of the grievous water famine was enabled by the exercise of his gift, and guided by the hand of the Lord, to find water—even the running brook Chereth—in the midst of a land that was dusty dry, all unworthy doubt was set at rest. Is it not written that Elijah, the prophet, was to come back to earth to warn the people of the Great Day being at hand?”
“Dear friend, stay thy tongue for a moment—say not words that might not be forgiven thee even by the Most Merciful,” cried Wesley.
“You are a great preacher and a faithful servant—up to a certain point, Mr. Wesley; but you are not as I am,” replied Pritchard firmly, but not without a tone of tenderness. “You are a preacher; I am the prophet. I have spoken as Jonah spoke to the men of Nineveh: 'Yet forty days and Nineveh shall be overthrown.' 'In eleven days the world shall be overthrown,' said I, feeling the flame within me.”
“The people of Nineveh repented and the destruction was averted,” said Wesley. “Have there been signs of a great repentance among the people who got tidings of your prediction?”
“My prophecy has everywhere been received with ridicule,” replied the man proudly.
“I can testify to that,” said Jake Pullsford. “I travel about, as you know, and I hear much of what is talked over from here to Devon, and only for a few light-headed women—ready to believe that the moon was the sun if they were told so from the pulpit—only for these, it might be said that Dick's foolishness would ha' fallen on ears as deaf as an adders.”
“I, myself, can bear witness to the evil effect that has been produced among a people who were, I hoped, ready for the sowing of the good seed,” said Wesley. “It was a great sorrow to me to hear the lightness of talk—the offer of wagers—the excuse of drunkenness—all the result of Richard Pritchard's indiscretion.”
“And everywhither it has been received as coming from us—from us whom you have instructed in the Truth, sir,” said Jake. “'Tis not Dick Pritchard that has been ridiculed, but we whom they call Methodists. That is the worst of it.”
“And now that I have paved the way for you, the preacher, Mr. Wesley, you will be able for three days to exhort the people to repentance,” said Pritchard, with the air of a man accustomed to give advice on grave matters, with confidence that his advice would be followed.
“My duty is clear,” said Wesley. “I shall have to disclaim all sympathy with the statements made by Richard Pritchard. Souls are not to be terrorised to seek salvation. I am not one of those ministers who think that the painting of lurid pictures of the destruction of the earth and all that is therein the best way of helping poor sinners. Nay, there have come under mine own eyes many instances of the very temporary nature of conversions brought about by that paradox of the gospel of terror. But need we look for guidance any further away than the history of Jonah and the Ninevites? The prophet preached destruction, and the people repented. But how long did the change last? The fire and brimstone had to be rained down upon them before the sackcloth that they assumed was worn out.”
“On Monday the fire and brimstone will overwhelm the whole world, and woe be to him that preacheth not from that text till then!” cried Pritchard. He was standing at one end of the table facing the window that had a western aspect, and as he spoke, the flaming beams of the sinking sun streamed through the glass and along the table until they seemed to envelop him. In spite of the smallness of his stature he seemed, with the sunbeams striking him, to possess some heroic elements. The hand that he uplifted was thin and white, and it trembled in the light. His face was illuminated, not from without only; his eyes were large and deep, and they seemed staring at some object just outside the window.
Watching him thus, everyone in the room turned toward the window—Wesley was the only exception; he kept his eyes fixed upon the man at the foot of the table. He saw his eyes move as if they were following the movements of someone outside, and their expression varied strangely. But they were the eyes of a man who is the slave of his nerves—of a visionary who is carried away by his own ill-balanced imagination—of the mystic who can see what he wishes to see.
Wesley was perplexed watching this man whose nature seemed to have completely changed within the month. He had had a good deal of strange experience of nervous phases, both in men and women who had been overcome by his preaching, but he had never before met with a case that was so strange as this. The man was no impostor; an impostor would have been easy to deal with. He was a firm believer in his own mission and in his own powers, and therein lay the difficulty of suppressing him.
And while Wesley watched him, and everyone else seemed striving to catch a glimpse of the object on which the man's eyes were fixed, the light suddenly passed out of his eyes and they became like those of a newly dead man, staring blankly at that vision which comes before the sight of a soul that is in the act of passing from the earth into the great unknown Space. There he stood with his hand still upraised, and that look of nothingness in his staring eyes..
Wesley sprang up from the table to support him when he fell, and he appeared to be tottering after the manner of a man who has been shot through the heart while on his feet; and Wesley's movement caused the others to turn toward the man.
In a second the miller was behind him with outstretched arms ready to support him. Pritchard did not fall just then, however. Breathlessly and in a strained silence, the others watched him while he swayed to the extent of a hand's breadth from side to side, still with his hand upraised and rigid. For some minutes—it might have been five—he stood thus, and in the end he did not collapse. He went slowly and rigidly backward into Wesley's arms, and then down into his own chair, his eyes still open—still blankly staring, devoid of all expression.
“Dead—can he be dead?” whispered Jake, slipping a hand under his waistcoat.
Wesley shook his head.
“He is not dead, but in a trance,” he replied.