“But,” I said—and such confidence I had from what she had already uttered, that I was sure the experiment was not a cruel one—“some of your sons were drowned for all that you say about their safety.”
“Well, sir,” she answered, with a sigh, “I trust they’re none the less safe for that. It would be a strange thing for an old woman like me, well-nigh threescore and ten, to suppose that safety lay in not being drownded. Why, they might ha’ been cast on a desert island, and wasted to skin an’ bone, and got home again wi’ the loss of half the wits they set out with. Wouldn’t that ha’ been worse than being drownded right off? And that wouldn’t ha’ been the worst, either. The church she seem to tell me all the time, that for all the roaring outside, there be really no danger after all. What matter if they go to the bottom? What is the bottom of the sea, sir? You bein’ a clergyman can tell that, sir. I shouldn’t ha’ known it if I hadn’t had bys o’ my own at sea, sir. But you can tell, sir, though you ain’t got none there.”
And though she was putting her parson to his catechism, the smile that returned on her face was as modest as if she had only been listening to his instruction. I had not long to look for my answer.
“The hollow of his hand,” I said, and said no more.
“I thought you would know it, sir,” she returned, with a little glow of triumph in her tone. “Well, then, that’s just what the church tells me when I come in here in the stormy nights. I bring my knitting then too, sir, for I can knit in the dark as well as in the light almost; and when they come home, if they do come home, they’re none the worse that I went to the old church to pray for them. There it goes roaring about them poor dears, all out there; and their old mother sitting still as a stone almost in the quiet old church, a caring for them. And then it do come across me, sir, that God be a sitting in his own house at home, hearing all the noise and all the roaring in which his children are tossed about in the world, watching it all, letting it drown some o’ them and take them back to him, and keeping it from going too far with others of them that are not quite ready for that same. I have my thoughts, you see, sir, though I be an old woman; and not nice to look at.”
I had come upon a genius. How nature laughs at our schools sometimes! Education, so-called, is a fine thing, and might be a better thing; but there is an education, that of life, which, when seconded by a pure will to learn, leaves the schools behind, even as the horse of the desert would leave behind the slow pomposity of the common-fed goose. For life is God’s school, and they that will listen to the Master there will learn at God’s speed. For one moment, I am ashamed to say, I was envious of Shepherd, and repined that, now old Rogers was gone, I had no such glorious old stained-glass window in my church to let in the eternal upon my light-thirsty soul. I must say for myself that the feeling lasted but for a moment, and that no sooner had the shadow of it passed and the true light shined after it, than I was heartily ashamed of it. Why should not Shepherd have the old woman as well as I? True, Shepherd was more of what would now be called a ritualist than I; true, I thought my doctrine simpler and therefore better than his; but was this any reason why I should have all the grand people to minister to in my parish! Recovering myself, I found her last words still in my ears.
“You are very nice to look at,” I said. “You must not find fault with the work of God, because you would like better to be young and pretty than to be as you now are. Time and time’s rents and furrows are all his making and his doing. God makes nothing ugly.”
“Are you quite sure of that, sir?”
I paused. Such a question from such a woman “must give us pause.” And, as I paused, the thought of certain animals flashed into my mind and I could not insist that God had never made anything ugly.
“No. I am not sure of it,” I answered. For of all things my soul recoiled from, any professional pretence of knowing more than I did know seemed to me the most repugnant to the spirit and mind of the Master, whose servants we are, or but the servants of mere priestly delusion and self-seeking. “But if he does,” I went on to say, “it must be that we may see what it is like, and therefore not like it.”