Though far too well-balanced in mind and too dignified in manner ever to fall into a hurry, there could be no doubt that Mr. Dalrymple was a genuinely busy man. Absolute leisure had been with him a thing almost unknown through forty years or more. As is often the case, he worked harder and more incessantly than do, as a rule, those who possess stated employments, and who have to earn their own living. For Mr. Dalrymple was known to be a man of means, and was counted to "have plenty of time on his hands;" therefore everybody, without compunction, appealed to him. If the response was not always what the appellant wished, at least no one was left without a response.
He was a good old man, this gentle yet prompt and resolute owner of Westford. He had served a Divine Master steadfastly through forty years. What he saw to be right he would do, no matter at what personal cost.
Busy as were his week-days, his Sundays were far from idle. Alike in summer and winter he might be seen at the early eight o'clock Holy Communion; and his silvery head was rarely missing from the Squire's pew during the morning and evening services. In the afternoon he would wend his way down to the classroom of the village-school, by Hermione's side, to teach a dozen village boys great truths in simple words.
Certainly Gilbert Dalrymple, Squire of Westford, did not spare himself; and the religion which he acted out on Sunday was by no means laid to slumber through the week.
He had gone much into questions of the day; he had read books by men of every shade of opinion; he had friends, wide asunder as the poles from him and from each other in their views; yet his own faith had lived unscathed through all oppositions, growing indeed and deepening, but keeping ever its early purity. Even those of his friends who differed most strongly from him, could not but feel the weight of that child-like trust, shown forth, not by much speech, but by a holy life.
For the trust was not in a theory, not in a doctrine, not in an idea, but in a MAN—the one Perfect God-Man, our Crucified and Risen Lord. It rested mainly not on arguments, not on skilled deductions, not on cleverly-handled theories, but on the historic testimony of the early Church, on the Divinely-written Word, and on his own personal knowledge of that Risen Lord, who had "loved and given Himself" for him—a knowledge which had sprung, as such knowledge alone can spring, from the Master's revelation of Himself to His child.
Then, it may be asked, which comes first in order of time?— the Master's revealing, or the child's seeking?—the knowledge or the trust?
How can we tell? The hidden workings which lead to either consummation lie beyond our ken. There cannot be knowledge without trust, or trust without knowledge. There will not be either without the use of God's provided Means; yet the Means of Grace are nought without the Divine outpouring into and through them. There will not be revealing without seeking, and there cannot be seeking without revealing. As each increases, the other is increased thereby. Attempting to define further, we find ourselves in a fog of terms.
As Mr. Dalrymple wrote, he lifted his eyes from time to time for a glance towards the bow-window. A small davenport stood there, and beside it a work-basket, also a lady's basket-chair. A little half-made print frock had been dropped across the arm of the chair, and a silver thimble lay on the davenport. It might have been a child's thimble, but it was not.
This was Hermione's favourite retreat. She spent many an hour of each day there, and was never so happy as in her grandfather's presence. While he, busy as he might be, was never at rest in Hermione's absence.