Chapter XIII: Confidences

"Souls that carry on a blest exchange
Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range,
And, with a fearless confidence, make known
The sorrows Sympathy esteems its own—
Daily derive increasing light and force
From such communion in their pleasant course."
COWPER.

"AND now, dear Mrs. Daventry, tell me all the news."

Audrey was sitting with her old friend in the drawing-room after dinner. It was a cosy, comfortable room, with an ingle nook by the fire, and it was a delicious experience to Audrey to be in such luxurious surroundings.

She laughingly said as much to her hostess.

"I'm not accustomed to laze. I never could do it when dear father was alive, and since then, I have been tossed up and down, and buffeted by thorough westerly gales. Do you remember our gates? I never have forgotten them. I'm sure I shall have squalls all my life."

"But, my dear, you are happy and comfortable at Horsborough College, are you not?"

"Yes, but I do not think I am going to stay there, and it is a very busy life, Mrs. Daventry. I have no chance to be lazy."

"Then you will appreciate this resting time all the more."

"I do."

And then Audrey asked for the news of the neighbourhood.

"There is not much to tell you. Amabel is away visiting her 'fiancé's' people. She is to be married in January, and go to India with her husband."

"The poor Osbornes! How will they bear the parting?"

"As cheerfully as they do everything else. Then Mr. Broughton has imported an organist who is a gentleman. He is somewhat of a character. He has private means of his own, and has furnished two rooms over the village post office in rather a sumptuous way. He lectures on a variety of topics, and is a very good speaker. He goes about the country a good deal, delivering parish lectures on astronomy, hygiene, health, temperance, and Church history. He is quite a nice man, about forty, and very wiry and keen over his lectures. He reads the lessons in the church sometimes, besides playing the organ, and we all enjoy his music immensely."

"He will be an amateur curate, perhaps," said Audrey. "I shall like to know him. His advent must have fluttered the whole district. How is Pauline?"

"Dear Pauline. I won't pity her—somehow one cannot. She is so sweetly cheerful and contented with her lot, and yet what a monotonous, trying life it is! I know you will be off to her the first thing to-morrow morning, won't you?"

"I have missed Pauline more than anyone else," said Audrey earnestly. "And has Honor been heard of? Is she never coming home?"

"Yes; she is coming back for ten days. She will spend Christmas here. It will be pleasant for you girls to meet again and compare experiences."

"I have learnt that I am a failure in life," said Audrey quickly.

Mrs. Daventry looked at her keenly.

"I was thinking that a little bit of the old Audrey is lacking."

"Which bit?"

"The bright, audacious bit."

"The self-satisfied, bragging, self-opinionated bit, I hope. But it's underneath, ready to pop up again, Mrs. Daventry, only it has been terribly battered about and crushed."

Audrey smiled, but it was a rather a sad smile, and then she sat back in her chair and was silent.

Mrs. Daventry did not press for her confidence. She knew she would have it before long. And when she began to question her about her daily life at the college, Audrey grew quite animated again over her small charges.

The next morning, after breakfast was over, Mrs. Daventry said:

"Now I have a good many letters to write this morning, so will leave you to your own devices. If you would like to walk over to Pauline, will you take her some grapes for her mother?"

"You know I shall be delighted," was the quick response.

And soon Audrey was swinging along the road at a good pace. It was a frosty morning, the hedges and trees were still covered with hoar-frost, and the road hard and dry as iron underfoot.

Audrey felt exhilarated. And when Pauline met her at the cottage porch, she thought she had never seen her look happier.

"Oh, Pauline, how delicious to see you! May I pour out? I'm aching to tell you all about myself. But first, how is your mother? And you're looking fagged and white, except your eyes. Do you know, they always seem to me as if they must set light to whatever they rest upon!"

Pauline laughed, and linked her arm in hers affectionately. "Come along in. Mother is sleeping. The morning is my free time at present. We have all missed you, Audrey dear. Our backwater is very smooth and still when you are away."

"But, do you know, I am actually glad to get back to it again? There is nothing like the place in which one has grown-up and lived, after all. I feel no one cares about me or takes any interest in me elsewhere. I have made no real heart-to-heart friends since I have been away, Pauline. And now may I tell you all from the very beginning since I left here? I couldn't write it, but I can tell you everything, because I know you are safe to keep it to yourself. Now, first I will tell you about my father's letter."

Audrey sat down by the small fire in Pauline's sitting-room and plunged headlong into her recital. Not a detail did she miss. Pauline had all the terrible time in London, and as she listened, work in hand, her work dropped from her fingers in the interest which she felt. Audrey hid nothing from her, and concluded by repeating her recent conversation with the doctor when she was asked to do what she felt was impossible. And then, with a little unhappy sigh, Audrey continued:

"So, you see, Pauline, as I said to Mrs. Daventry last night, I am a failure. I have been crushed and humiliated in every way, and I begin to feel that I needed it. I started away from home with too big ideas of myself and my capacities for work. I was full of enthusiasm and energy. And then my time in London showed me my deficiencies as nothing else could have done. Yet when I got a fresh start at the college, and seemed to be doing so well, I patted myself on the head again, and said:

"'They are finding out your worth. They have never had anyone so thoroughly capable as yourself, or so popular with the small boys.'

"And I felt that Dr. Vernon must be thankful for my services. Then, you see, I had to be suppressed again, and this time the deep things of life were touched upon. It seems to me now as if God's hand has been on it all. The westerly gales have beaten me flat, and I cannot rise up again. I am a humbug at religion, Pauline; and, somehow or other, I can't put myself right, or, as Dr. Vernon said, let God do it for me. You see, I have been reading a great deal, and I'm a little unsettled in my own mind about these things. The last book I read seemed to open up fields of thought and conjecture which I have never touched before. I am miserable—it all seems doubt and confusion, and no light comes. And the worst of it all is that unless I can get right spiritually, I won't go back to the college—and that's a noble incentive to get right with God! I despise myself when I think that I must become truly religious in order to keep my situation, which means my daily bread! And yet this is the fact, and the knowledge of it stings me and prevents me from making such a mockery of it."

"But, Audrey dear, apart from your school life, don't you feel a craving after the real truth? God may be causing your circumstances to make you draw near to Him. If He has shown you that you are not as infallible as you once thought yourself, does not that pave the way to come to Him for His strength?"

"It ought to. But I have so many doubts. I am beginning to disbelieve in everything, even—even God Himself."

Pauline did not look shocked. She had a wisdom beyond her years, and she knew the intoxication of new knowledge to a girl of Audrey's calibre.

"You have been reading a great deal, have you not? And in your reading you have imbibed the doubts and scepticism of other minds. You have been drinking subtle poison without an antidote."

"That sounds narrow, Pauline, and it is not only other minds—it is my own mind. I am working things out—mentally, I mean. I am seeing how many sides of truth there are, and what diversities of opinions, and how everyone thinks that they must be right and others wrong. Yet when I hear Dr. Vernon preach, everything seems swept away, and I come home with a fresh, firm grip upon the things I was brought up to believe, until I remind myself that this is only the result of eloquence and a strong personality. I am in a very gulf of raging doubt and unbelief. Help me! I want to be helped."

"Tell me some of the books you have been reading."

"There are so many—Emerson, Carlyle, Richter, Strauss, Swedenborg, Huxley, Herbert Spencer, and a multitude of others."

"And you have not been able to sift the good from the bad?"

"I don't think I have."

"You see, you have been reading and believing men rather than reading and believing God."

"Oh, I have been reading my Bible, too, but I'm in a muddle."

"If you're fond of reading—and I know you are—you must read thinkers who are quite as clever as those you mention, but who take their stand on the Word of God and never move from it. Paley is an old-fashioned writer, but he is a very good one, and I could give you half a dozen more—or Mr. Broughton would, if you asked him. Long ago, I did have a bad time myself with some books that were lent me. But, Audrey, dear, if you read attacks against our faith, you must read the defence."

"But these don't attack; they are most of them very good men. I haven't been reading infidel works, Pauline—I have only been dipping into philosophy."

"You have been reading men's explanation of God. It is best to read God's explanation of Himself."

"You mean the Bible? I do read it, but I feel rather astray in it."

"What part have you been reading?"

"The Psalms, chiefly."

"I think," said Pauline slowly, "that if you want to realise God's omnipotence and power you should read the prophets; if you want to realise His love, you should read the gospels; and if you want to know His doctrines, and the practical outcome of them in our daily life, read the epistles. I am quite certain that no book convinces like the Bible, and the more you study it, the stronger your faith will become."

Audrey was silent for a moment.

"Honestly, I don't know which I want most, Pauline—to go on with my work at the college or to be a sincere Christian. I wish one did not depend upon the other. Don't you think it is very difficult for me?"

"Yes, I think it is."

"And I cannot get that illustration Dr. Vernon gave me out of my head. I told you about it—the house and the three owners. If it is all true, what a failure I must be in the sight of God! And I think, in the bottom of my heart, I am not a doubter; it is like going across stepping-stones in the dark. I believe they are there, but I can't place my foot on them. Well, I've had a delicious time with you, and now I must be going back, or I shall be late for lunch."

She got up to go, then kissed Pauline warmly.

"You're a proof of the genuineness of Christianity. Tell me, are you 'always' happy?"

"No," said Pauline promptly. "I shan't be happy now till you are."

"But is your happiness made up entirely of other people's concerns?"

"Chiefly, I think. My own are so very commonplace. Good-bye, dear. Let me see you again soon. Put the college out of your head. 'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you.'"

Pauline stood in the porch watching her friend go.

And as Audrey turned at the gate, a gleam of winter sunshine slanted down and caught the golden coils of Pauline's hair, crowning her with a halo of light.

"Ah!" said Audrey, with a long-drawn breath. "If she were in my place, what a trainer she would make for the doctor's small boys! That is the kind of woman he wants—not somebody like me!"

That afternoon, she drove out with Mrs. Daventry. They paid some calls, and met the new organist—a Mr. Danby.

Mrs. Daventry asked him to dinner that same evening, and he accepted the invitation.

He was a thin, keen, grey-haired man, with a boyish way of speaking that attracted Audrey at once.

"He must be quite an acquisition," she said. "How can he be content to be down here if he is clever? There must be some mystery about him, because he strikes one as being a gentleman."

"I don't think there is a mystery," said Mrs. Daventry. "He told me he had no belongings. He was an only son, and was brought up in India, where his parents died. His father was a judge in the Civil Service. I think he tries to use his talents; he says country people want more knowledge than town ones, as their opportunities of hearing are so much fewer."

"I should like to hear him speak. I do enjoy lectures don't you? We have some at the college—for outsiders as well as the boys. There is a Mr. Oates there—he is a very clever lecturer. He has been giving some English literature lectures, and I have been enjoying them quite as much as the elder boys. I knew I was very ignorant, but never realised I was quite so bad until I saw how much the boys were taught. I wish you knew Dr. Vernon, Mrs. Daventry; you would like him."

"Schoolmasters frighten me," said Mrs. Daventry, smiling. "They look at life in such a scholastic way that I always fight shy of them. But I have heard that Dr. Vernon is an exceptionally nice man, as well as an able one."

When Mr. Danby arrived that evening, he was in very good spirits.

"I've had a ripping practice this afternoon. We're going to astonish you with an anthem on Christmas Day, Mrs. Daventry. Hope you don't object. Believe some people in the country do."

"You have very raw material to work upon, have you not?" said Audrey. "When Miss Broughton went away, I was organist 'pro tem.' But I found it very hard work."

"Perhaps you were lacking in enthusiasm," Mr. Danby said. "That carries you a long way. I hope I shan't lose mine. Most people do before they come to my age."

"I think I'm just beginning to lose mine," said Audrey meditatively.

"Ah! Don't you do it. Hope is the forerunner of enthusiasm, and you're too young to lose that."

"She is not going to, I am sure," said Mrs. Daventry quickly. "Are you going to give us another lecture soon, Mr. Danby?"

"I have promised to give one on Boxing night. The Rector wants me to keep some of the men out of the public-house that night. Now, if you revelled in strong drink, Miss Hume, what subject would be strong enough to keep you from it for a couple of hours?"

"It requires thinking out," said Audrey. "I don't think a temperance lecture would."

"Quite right! Just what I said to the Rector. My bait must be gilded. I had thoughts of 'Wives and How to Manage Them.' What do you think of that? Being a bachelor is a disadvantage, to be sure. But I don't think it would tell against me in their eyes. 'My Pocket' is another title. Do you know Miss Erskine?"

He turned to Audrey with a sudden change of tone.

"She is my greatest friend," said Audrey warmly.

"Of course she is, if you know her. She's an awfully good sort, and what a regal grace she has! She and I are getting chummy; she told me of one or two points I missed in my last lecture. A clever woman—very—and a real good one—not the sort you would expect to find hidden away in a rural village."

Mrs. Daventry laughed.

"We're not all aborigines, Mr. Danby. The country holds a good many such, I hope."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Daventry," said Audrey eagerly. "There can be only one Pauline."

She enjoyed Mr. Danby's lighthearted conversation. He played to them after dinner, and, once at the piano, his vivacity left him—his music was exquisite—and his mood changed from gay to grave immediately. From rather a solemn prelude, he grew more and more pensive and sad, and at last, Audrey felt the tears creep into her eyes against her will.

When his last note died away, he jumped up and said good-night.

"I can't talk," he said. "I'm possessed with my tyrannical muse."

He was off and out of the house before Audrey could exclaim:

"Is he a genius or a crank, Mrs. Daventry?" she said, laughing.

"A little of both, perhaps. I told you he was a character."

"He is a real musician. How fortunate Mr. Broughton is to have got hold of him! Does Pauline like him as much as he likes her?"

"I think she likes him," said Mrs. Daventry, smiling. "We all do. He is almost a Mark Tapley."

"I don't like people who are always cheerful," said Audrey. "It is so monotonous. Of course, Pauline is; but she gets grave and sympathetic in a moment. Now, this Mr. Danby has a set smile. I don't care for men who smile."

"You are graver than you used to be," said Mrs. Daventry.

"I feel grave. Life has different turns in it from what I thought it would have. At least, my life has. And at present, Mrs. Daventry, I can't detach myself from my own life as Pauline does. I'm quite absorbed in it."

"You haven't got to Pauline's stage yet:

"'A heart at leisure from itself
To soothe and sympathise.'"

"No, indeed, I haven't. I'm a seething sea of unrest and riot. Mrs. Daventry, have you been good all your life?"

"Good? I can't claim to be that, but I know what you mean. I have had a great many ups and downs, Audrey, dear—more than I hope you will ever have."

"Have you ever had a time when you doubted everything, when everything seemed going from you?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Daventry slowly and gravely. "I have had that."

"And how did you come through? Get past it?" Audrey's tone was eager.

Mrs. Daventry was silent for a moment, then she said slowly: "I think we get like that when we follow afar off. You must remember the spiritual part of us must be kept supplied with its rightful food, or it withers and dies."

"Yes—but I've—I've never got the real thing yet, and it seems impossible to believe about it all."

"Tell me a little more."

Audrey told her old friend pretty much what she had told Pauline, adding when she had done:

"I'm sure I ought not to be an unbeliever, as all the people I admire and like best in the world are real saints, and live like them. I suppose it is the books I have been reading, but knowledge can't be wrong. I have a dreadful feeling that religion may be only for fools and weak people who have little intellect or understanding. And yet I know that this is utterly wrong."

"My dear child, everyone has their turn at that. Don't think your thoughts peculiar, for they are not, and many before you have trodden the path you are treading. But believe an old woman when I say to you that Christianity satisfies the cleverest and clearest brains in creation, as well as the most ignorant. And don't be afraid that God's laws and truths won't bear testing or examining, as far as our poor finite intellects can test them. We cannot understand everything, I own, and faith is not faith unless it is stretched to breaking-point and doesn't break. But men's objections in the present day to God's revelation are so paltry and small, and so inefficient—if I may use such a word—that there is no fear at all to any cultured and earnest student that he will not be able to refute such attacks."

"Please go on—I love to hear you."

"I don't think it always answers to treat the difficulties that may occur, and do occur to many of us, as being too presumptuous to be discussed. It is much better to recognise the doubts that assail one, and by prayer and by study overcome them. What works have you been reading lately?"

"A Mr. Oates has been lending me a good many; and the last one, by a modern writer and thinker, has, I confess, unsettled me. It is called 'Life from My Outlook,' and is very cleverly written."

"The Bible gives us God's outlook," said Mrs. Daventry. "It is rather different from man's."

"Yes; that is what Pauline says."

And then Audrey determinedly changed the subject.

She knew she would have to wrestle out these questions with herself.

And as she sat, Bible in hand, over her fire that night, the verse again rang in her ears:

"Without Me ye can do nothing."

Looking up, she cried in the fullness of her heart:

"Come to me, Lord, into my heart, and do it all. Make a clearance of my
doubts, fill me with faith in Thee."