Adela Cathcart Volume Ii Part 17

"With all my heart," answered the curate.

"It seemed to me that there was nothing Christian in the story. And I cannot help feeling that a clergyman might, therefore, have done better."

"I allow that in words there is nothing Christian," answered Mr.

Armstrong; "and I am quite ready to allow also that it might have been better if something of the kind you mean had been expressed in it. The whole thing, however, is only a sketch. But I cannot allow that, in spirit and scope, it is anything other than Christian, or indeed anything but Christian. It seems to me that the whole might be used as a Christian parable."

While the curate spoke, I had seen Adela's face flush; but the cause was not _visible_ to me. As he uttered the last words, a hand was laid on his shoulder, and Harry's voice said:

"At your parables again, Ralph?"

He had come in so gently that the only sign of his entrance had been the rose-light on Adela's cheeks.--Was he the sun? And was she a cloud of the east?

"Glad to see you safe amongst us again," said the colonel, backed by almost every one of the company.

"What's your quarrel with my parables, Harry?" said the curate.

"Quarrel? None at all. They are the delight of my heart. I only wish you would give our friends one of your best--_The Castle_, for instance."

"Not yet a while, Harry. It is not my turn for some time, I hope.

Perhaps Miss Cathcart will be tired of the whole affair, before it comes round to me again."

"Then I shall deserve to be starved of stories all the rest of my life,"

answered Adela, laughing.

"If you will allow me, then," said Harry, "I will give you a parable, called _The Lost Church_, from the German poet, Uhland."

"Softly, Harry," said his brother; "you are ready enough with what is not yours to give; but where is your own story that you promised, and which indeed we should have a right to demand, whether you had promised it or not?"

"I am working at it, Ralph, in my spare moments, which are not very many; and I want to choose the right sort of night to tell it in, too.

This one wouldn't do at all. There's no moon."

"If it is a horrid story, it is a pity you did not read it last time, before you set out to cross the moor."

"Oh, that night would not have done at all. A night like that drives all fear out of one's head. But indeed it is not finished yet.--May I repeat the parable now, Miss Cathcart?"

"What do you mean by a _parable_, Mr. Henry?" interrupted Mrs.

Cathcart. "It sounds rather profane to me."

"I mean a picture in words, where more is meant than meets the ear."

"But why call it a parable?"

"Because it is one."

"Why not speak in plain words then?"

"Because a good parable is plainer than the plainest words. You remember what Tennyson says--that

'truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors'?"

"Goethe," said the curate, "has a little parable about poems, which is equally true about parables--

'Poems are painted window-panes.

If one looks from the square into the church, Dusk and dimness are his gains-- Sir Philistine is left in the lurch.

The sight, so seen, may well enrage him, Nor any words henceforth a.s.suage him.

But come just inside what conceals; Cross the holy threshold quite-- All at once,'tis rainbow-bright; Device and story flash to light; A gracious splendour truth reveals.

This, to G.o.d's children, is full measure; It edifies and gives them pleasure.'"

"I can't follow that," said Adela.

"I will write it out for you," said Harry; "and then you will be able to follow it perfectly."

"Thank you very much. Now for your parable."

"It is called _The Lost Church_; and I a.s.sure you it is full of meaning."

"I hope I shall be able to find it out."

"You will find the more the longer you think about it.

'Oft in the far wood, overhead, Tones of a bell are heard obscurely; How old the sounds no sage has said, Or yet explained the story surely.

From the lost church, the legend saith, Out on the winds, the ringing goeth; Once full of pilgrims was the path-- Now where to find it, no one knoweth.

Deep in the wood I lately went, Where no foot-trodden path is lying; From the time's woe and discontent, My heart went forth to G.o.d in sighing.

When in the forest's wild repose, I heard the ringing somewhat clearer; The higher that my longing rose, Downward it rang the fuller, nearer.

So on its thoughts my heart did brood, My sense was with the sound so busy, That I have never understood How I clomb up the height so dizzy.

To me it seemed a hundred years Had pa.s.sed away in dreaming, sighing-- When lo! high o'er the clouds, appears An open s.p.a.ce in sunlight lying.

The heaven, dark-blue, above it bowed; The sun shone o'er it, large and glowing; Beneath, a ministers structure proud Stood in the gold light, golden showing.

It seemed on those great clouds, sun-clear, Aloft to hover, as on pinions; Its spire-point seemed to disappear, Melting away in high dominions.

The bell's clear tones, entrancing, full-- The quivering tower, they, booming, swung it; No human hand the rope did pull-- The holy storm-winds sweeping rung it.

The storm, the stream, came down, came near, And seized my heart with longing holy; Into the church I went, with fear, With trembling step, and gladness lowly.

The threshold crossed--I cannot show What in me moved; words cannot paint it.

Both dark and clear, the windows glow With n.o.ble forms of martyrs sainted.

I gazed and saw--transfigured glory!

The pictures swell and break their barriers; I saw the world and all its story Of holy women, holy warriors.

Down at the altar I sank slowly; My heart was like the face of Stephen.

Aloft, upon the arches holy, Shone out in gold the glow of heaven.

I prayed; I looked again; and lo!

The dome's high sweep had flown asunder; The heavenly gates wide open go; And every veil unveils a wonder.

What gloriousness I then beheld, Kneeling in prayer, silent and wondrous, What sounds triumphant on me swelled, Like organs and like trumpets thunderous-- My mortal words can never tell; But who for such is sighing sorest, Let him give heed unto the bell That dimly soundeth in the forest.'"