Mr. Tom Catchpole had never had any schooling. What he had learned he had learned by himself, and the books he had read were but few, and chosen rather by chance. He had never had the advantage of the common introduction to the world of ideas which is given, in a measure, to all boys who are systematically taught by teachers, and consequently, not knowing the relative value of what came before him, his perspective and proportion were incorrect. His mind, too, was essentially plain. He was perfect in his loyalty to duty; he was, as we have seen, very good in business matters, had a clear head, and could give shrewd advice upon any solid, matter-of-fact difficulty, but the spiritual world was non-existent for him. He attended chapel regularly, for he was a Dissenter, but his reasons for going, so far as he had any, were very simple. There was a great God in heaven, against whom he had sinned and was perpetually sinning. To save himself from the consequences of his transgressions certain means were provided and he was bound to use them. On Monday morning chapel and all thoughts connected with it entirely disappeared, but he said his prayers twice a day with great regularity. There are very few, however, of God’s creatures to whom the supernatural does not in some way present itself, and no man lives by bread alone. To Tom, Catharine was miracle, soul, inspiration, religion, enthusiasm, patriotism, immortality, the fact, essentially identical, whatever we like to call it, which is not bread and yet is life. He never dared to say anything to her. He felt that she lived in a world beyond him, and he did not know what kind of a world it was. He knew that she thought about things which were strange to him, and that she was anxious upon subjects which never troubled him. She was often greatly depressed when there was no cause for depression so far as he could see, and he could not comprehend why a person should be ill when there was nothing the matter. If he felt unwell—a rare event with him—he always took two antibilous pills before going to bed, and was all right the next morning. He wished he himself could be ill without a reason, and then perhaps he would be able to understand Catharine better. Her elation and excitement were equally unintelligible. He once saw her sitting in her father’s counting-house with a book. She was not a great reader—nobody in Eastthorpe read books, and there were not many to read—but she was so absorbed in this particular book that she did not lift her eyes from it when he came in, and it was not until her father had spoken twice to her, and had told her that he was expecting somebody, that she moved. She then ran upstairs into a storeroom, and was there for half an hour in the cold. The book was left open when she went away, and Tom looked at it. It was a collection of poems by all kinds of people, and the one over which she had been poring was about a man who had shot an albatross. Tom studied it, but could make nothing of it, and yet this was what had so much interested her! “O God!” he said to himself passionately, “if I could, if I did but know! She cares not a pin for me; this is what she cares for.” Poor Tom! he did not pride himself on the absence of a sense in him, but knew and acknowledged to himself that he was defective. It is quite possible to be aware of a spiritual insensibility which there is no power to overcome—of the existence of a universe in which other favoured souls are able to live, one which they can report, and yet its doors are closed to us, or, if sitting outside we catch a glimpse of what is within, we have no power to utter a single sufficient word to acquaint anybody with what we have seen: Catharine respected Tom greatly, for she understood well enough what her father owed to him, but she could not love him. One penetrating word from Mr. Cardew thrilled every fibre in her, no matter what the subject might be. Tom, in every mood and on every topic, was uninteresting and ordinary. To tell the truth, plain, common probity taken by itself was not attractive to her. Horses, dogs, cows, the fields were more stimulant than perfect integrity, for she was young and did not know how precious it was; but, after all, the reason of reasons why she did not love Tom was that she did not love him.

It was announced one day by small handbills in the shop windows that a sermon was to be preached by Mr. Cardew, of Abchurch, in Eastthorpe, on behalf of the County Infirmary, and Catharine went to hear him. It was in the evening, and she was purposely late. She did no go to her mother’s pew, but sat down close to the door. To her surprise she saw Tom not far off. He was on his way to his chapel when he noticed Catharine alone, walking towards the church, and he had followed her. Mr. Cardew took for his text the parable of the prodigal son. He began by saying that this parable had been taken to be an exhibition of God’s love for man. It seemed rather intended to set forth, not the magnificence of the Divine nature, but of human nature—of that nature which God assumed. The determination on the part of the younger son to arise, to go to his father, and above everything to say to him simply, “Father, I have sinned,” was as great as God is great: it was God—God moving in us; in a sense it was far more truly God—far greater than the force which binds the planets into a system. But the splendour of human nature—do not suppose any heresy here; it is Bible truth, the very gospel—is shown in the father as well as in the son.

“When he was yet a great way off.” We are as good as told then, that day after day the father had been watching. How small were the probabilities that at any particular hour the son would return, and yet every hour the father’s eyes were on that long, dusty road! When at last he saw what he was dying to see, what did he say? Was there a word of rebuke? He stopped his boy’s mouth with kisses and cried for the best robe and the ring and the shoes, and proclaimed a feast—the ring, mark you, a sign of honour!

“Say nothing of pardon; the darkness hath gone:
Shall pardon be asked for the night by the sun?
No word of the past; of the future no fear:
’Tis enough, my beloved, to know thou art here.”

“Oh, my friends,” said the preacher, “just consider that it is this upon which Jesus, the Son of God, has put His stamp, not the lecture, not chastisement, not expiation, but an instant unquestioning embrace, no matter what the wrong may have been. If you say this is dangerous doctrine, I say it is here. What other meaning can you give to it? At the same time I am astonished to find it here, astonished that priestcraft and the enemy of souls should not have erased it. Sacred truth! Is it not moving to think of all the millions of men who for eighteen hundred years have read this parable, philosophers and peasants, in every climate, and now are we reading it to-day! Is it not moving—nay, awful—to think of all the good it has done, of the sweet stream of tenderness, broad and deep, which has flowed down from it through all history? History would all have been different if this parable had never been told.”

Mr. Cardew paused, and after his emotion had a little subsided he concluded by an appeal on behalf of the infirmary. He inserted a saving clause on Christ’s mediatorial work, but it had no particular connection with the former part of his discourse. It was spoken in a different tone, and it satisfied the congregation that they had really heard nothing heterodox.

Tom watched Catharine closely. He noted her eager, rapt attention, and that she did not recover herself till the voluntary was at an end. He went out after her; she met Mr. and Mrs. Cardew at the churchyard gates; he saw the excitement of all three, and he saw Catharine leave her friends at the Rectory, for they were evidently going to stay the night there. Mrs. Cardew went into the house first, but Catharine turned down Fosbrooke Street, a street which did not lead, save by a very roundabout way, to the Terrace. Presently Mr. Cardew came out and walked slowly down Rectory Lane. In those days it was hardly a thoroughfare. It ended at the river bank, and during daylight a boat was generally there, belonging to an old, superannuated boatman, who carried chance passengers over to the mill meadows and saved them a walk if they wanted to go that side of the town. A rough seat had been placed near the boat moorings for the convenience of the ferryman’s customers. At this time in the evening the place was deserted. Tom followed Mr. Cardew, and presently overtook him. Mr. Cardew and he knew one another slightly, for there were few persons for miles round who did not know and then visit Mr. Furze’s shop.

“Good evening, Mr. Cardew.”

“Ah! Mr. Catchpole, is that you? What are you doing here?”

“I have been to hear you preach, sir, and I thought I would have a stroll before I went home.”

“I thought I should like a stroll too.”

The two went on together, and sat down on the seat. The moon had just risen, nearly full, sending its rays obliquely across the water, and lighting up the footpath which went right and left along the river’s edge. Mr. Cardew seemed disinclined to talk, was rather restless, and walked backwards and forwards by the bank. Tom reflected that he might be intruding, but there was something on his mind, and he did not leave. Mr. Cardew sat down again by his side. They both happened to be looking in the same direction eastwards at the same moment.

“If that lady thinks to cross to-night,” said Tom, “she’s mistaken. I’d take her over myself, though it is Sunday, if the boat were not locked.”

“What lady?” asked Mr. Cardew—as if he were frightened, Tom thought.

“The lady coming down there just against the willow.”

Mr. Cardew was short-sighted, and could not see her. He made as if he would go to meet her, but he stopped, returned, and remained standing. The figure approached, but before Tom could discern anything more than that it was a woman, it disappeared behind the hedge up the little bypath that cut off the corner into Rectory Lane.

“She’s gone,” said Tom. “I suppose she was not coming here after all.”

“Which way has she gone?” asked Mr. Cardew, looking straight on the ground and scratching it with his stick.

“Into the town.”

“I must be going, I think, Mr. Catchpole; good-night.”

“I’ll walk with you as far as your door, sir. There’s something I want to say to you.”

Mr. Cardew did not reply, and meditated for a moment.

“It is a lovely evening. We will sit here a little longer. What is it?”

“Mr. Cardew, as I said, I have been to hear you preach, and I thank you with all my heart for your sermon, but I want to ask you something about it. What you said about the Mediator was true enough, but somehow, sir, I feel as if I ought to have liked the first part most, but I couldn’t, and perhaps the reason is that it was poetry. Oh, Mr. Cardew, if you could but tell me how to like poetry!”

“I am afraid neither I nor anybody else can teach you that; but why are you anxious to like it? Why are you dissatisfied with yourself?”

“I do not think I am stupid. When I am in the shop I know that I am more of a match for most persons, and yet, Mr. Cardew, there are some people who seem to me to have something I have not got, and they value it more than anything besides, and they have nothing to say really, really, I mean, to those who have not got it, although they are kind to them.”

“It is not very easy to understand what you mean.”

“Well now to-night, sir, when you talked about God moving in us, and the force which binds the planets together, and all that, I am sure you felt it, and I am sure it is true, and yet I was out of doors, so to speak.”

“Perhaps I may be peculiar, and it is you who are sane and sound.”

“Ah, Mr. Cardew, if you were alone in it, and everybody were like me, that might be true, but it is not so; it is I who am alone.”

“Who cares for it whom you know? You are under a delusion.”

“Oh, no, I am not. Why there—there.” Tom stopped.

“There was what?”

“There was Miss Furze—she took it in.”

“Indeed!” Mr Cardew again looked straight on the ground, and again scratched it with his stick. It was a night of nights, dying twilight long lingering in the north-west, the low golden moon, the slow, placid, shining stream, perfect stillness. Tom was not very susceptible, but even he was overcome and tempted into confidence.

“Mr. Cardew, you are a minister, and I may tell you: I know you will not betray me. I love Miss Furze; I cannot help it. I have never loved any girl before. It is very foolish, for I am only her father’s journeyman; but that might be got over. She would not let that stand in her way, I am sure. But, Mr. Cardew, I am not up to her; she is strange to me. If I try to mention her subjects, what I say is not right, and when I drove her home from Chapel Farm, and admired the view I know she admired, she directly began to speak about business, as if she did not wish to talk about better things; perhaps it is because I never was taught. I had no schooling; cannot you help me, sir? I shall never set eyes on anybody like her. I would die this instant to save her a moment’s pain.”

Mr. Cardew was silent. It was characteristic of him that often when he himself was most personally affected, the situation became an object of reflection. What a strange pathos there was in this recognition of superiority and in the inability to rise to it and appropriate it! Then his thoughts turned to himself again, and the flame shot up clear and strong, as if oil had been poured on the fire. She understood him; she alone.

“I am very sorry for you, Mr. Catchpole, more sorry than I can tell you. I will think over what you have said, and we will have another talk about it. I must be going now.”

Mr. Cardew, however, did not go towards Rectory Lane, but along the side path. Tom mechanically accompanied him, but without speaking. At last Mr. Cardew, finding that Tom did not leave him, retraced his steps and went up the lane. In about two minutes they met Mrs. Cardew.

“I wondered where you were. I was coming down to the ferry to look for you, thinking that most likely you were there. Ah, Mr. Catchpole! is that you? I am glad my husband has had company. Let me go back and look at the water.”

“Certainly.”

Tom stopped and took his leave.

The two went back to the river and sat on the seat.

Mrs. Cardew took her husband’s hand in her own sweet way, kissed it, and held it fast. At last, with a little struggle, she said—

“My dear, you have never preached—to me, at least—as you have preached to-night.”

“You really mean it?”

She kissed his hand again, and leaned her head on his shoulder. That was her reply. He clasped her tenderly, fervently, more than fervently, and yet! while his mouth was on her neck, and his arms were round her body, the face of Catharine presented itself, and it was not altogether his wife whom he caressed.

Meanwhile Tom, pursuing his way homeward, overtook Miss Furze, to his great surprise.

“Tom, where have you been?”

“I have just left Mr. and Mrs. Cardew.”

Catharine, on her way home, hesitating—for it was Catharine whom Tom and Mr. Cardew saw—had met Mrs. Cardew just about to leave the house.

“Why, Catharine! you here?”

“I was tempted by the night.”

“Catharine, did you ever hear my husband preach better than he did to-night?”

“Never!”

“I was so proud of him, and I was so happy, because just what touched him touched me too. Come back with me: I know he has gone to the ferry.”

“No, thank you; it is late.”

“I am sure he will see you home.”

“I am sure he shall not. What! walk up to the Terrace after a day’s hard work!”

So they parted. What had passed between Catharine and Mrs. Cardew when they lingered behind at the Rectory gate, God and they only know, but what we call an accident prevented their meeting. Accident! my friend Reuben told me the other day his marriage was an accident. The more I think about accidents, the less do I believe in them. By chance he had an invitation to go to Shott Woods one afternoon, and there he saw the girl who afterwards became his wife and the mother of children with a certain stamp upon them. They in turn will have other children, all of them moulded after a fashion which would have been different if his wife had been another woman. Nay, these children would not have existed if this particular marriage had not taken place. Thus the whole course of history is altered, because of that little note and a casual encounter. But, putting aside the theory of a God who ordains results absolutely inevitable, although to us it seems as if they might have been different, it may be observed that the attraction which drew Reuben to his dear Camilla was not quite fortuitous. What decided her to go? It was perfect autumn weather; it was just the time of year she most loved; there would be no crowding or confusion, for many people had gone away to the seaside, and so she was delighted at the thought of the picnic. What decided him to go? The very same reasons. They had both been to Shott during the season, and he had talked and laughed there with some delightful creatures before she crossed his path and held him for ever. Why had he waited? Why had she waited? We have discarded Providence as our forefathers believed in it; but nevertheless there is a providence without the big P, if we choose so to spell it, and yet surely deserving it as much as the Providence of theology, a non-theological Providence which watches over us and leads us. It appears as instinct prompting us to do this and not to do that, to decide this way or that way when we have no consciously rational ground for decision, to cleave to this person and shun the other, almost before knowing anything of either: it has been recognised in all ages under various forms as Demon, Fate, or presiding Genius. But still further. Suppose they both went to Shott Woods idly; suppose—which was not the case—they had never heard of one another before, is it not possible that they were brought together by a law as unevadable as gravity? There would be nothing more miraculous in such attraction than there is in that thread which the minutest atom of gas in the Orion nebula extends across billions of miles to the minutest atom of dust on the road under my window. However, be all this as it may, it would be wrong to say that the meeting between Catharine and Mr. Cardew was prevented by accident. She loitered: she went up Fosbrooke Street: if she had gone straight to Mr. Cardew she might have been with him before Tom met him. Tom would not have interrupted them, for he ventured to speak to Mr. Cardew merely because he was alone, and Mrs. Cardew would not have interrupted them, for they would have gone further afield. Tom’s appearance even was not an accident, but a thread carefully woven, one may say, in the web that night.

“I saw you at church to-night, Miss Catharine,” said Tom, as they walked homewards.

“Why did you go? You do not usually go to church.”

“I thought I should like to hear Mr. Cardew, and I am very glad I went.”

“Are you? What did you think of him? Did you like him?”

“Oh, yes; it was all true; but what he said about Christ the Mediator was so clearly put.”

“You did not care for the rest then?”

“I did indeed, Miss Catharine, but it is just the same with our minister; I get along with him so much better when he seems to follow the catechism, but”—he looked up in her face—“I know that is not what you cared for. Oh, Miss Catharine,” he cried suddenly, and quite altering his voice and manner, “I do not know when I shall have another chance; I hardly dare tell you; you won’t spurn me, will you? My father was a poor workman; I was nothing better, and should have been nothing better if it had not been for you; all my schooling almost I have done myself; I know nothing compared with what you know; but, Miss Catharine, I love you to madness: I have loved no woman but you; never looked at one, I may say. Do you remember when you rode home with me from Chapel Farm? I have lived on it ever since. You are far above me: things come and speak to you which I don’t see. If you would teach me I should soon see them too.”

Catharine was silent, and perfectly calm. At last she said—

“My dear Tom.”

Tom shuddered at the tone.

“No, Miss Catharine, don’t say it now; think a little; don’t cast me off in a moment.”

“My dear Tom, I may as well say it now, for what I ought to say is as clear as that moon in the sky. I can never love you as a wife ought to love her husband.”

“Oh, Miss Catharine! you despise me, you despise me! Why in God’s name?” Tom rose above himself, and became such another self that Catharine was amazed and half staggered. “Why in God’s name did He make you and me after such a fashion, that you are the one person in the world able to save me, and you cannot! Why did He do this! Why did He put me where I saw you every day and torment me with the hope of you, knowing that you would have nothing to do with me! He maimed my father and made him a beggar: He prevented me from learning what would have made me fit for you, and then He drove me to worship you. Do not say ‘never’!”

They were close to her father’s door at the Terrace. She stopped, looked at him sadly, but decisively, straight in the face, and said—

“Never! never! Never your lover, but your best friend for ever,” and she opened the gate and disappeared.