Chapter VI That Terrible Eye
The sun rose on Sunday morning in a cloudless sky, and as the day wore on, continued to pour down his golden beams upon the earth.
The bells of the little church rang out their invitation to the villagers to come and worship in the house of prayer, and from far and near quiet groups of country folk wended their way through leafy lanes and ripening cornfields to hold their tryst with God. Robin and his mother were there betimes, and old Mrs. Sheppard took her seat as usual in the foremost pew, her shawl pinned across her stooping shoulders and her old-fashioned bonnet tied with large black ribbon bows under her chin.
Service ended, the little knots of worshippers scattered once more in pleasant anticipation of the Sunday dinner awaiting them at their journey’s end, and the hot afternoon wore on to its close, its silence broken only by the low murmur of the tide upon the beach.
The sun was now nearing the end of his giant’s race across the sky, but old Timothy still sat peaceful and unmolested in his cottage upon the cliff, untroubled by the angry threats hurled at him by his son the night before.
The truth was that Ben was in no state that Sabbath morning either to carry out his designs against his father or to think again of the tempting bait held out by Mr. Field. His time in the “Bull Inn” the preceding evening had been only too zealously employed, and all that long summer day he lay a useless and helpless log in an upstairs chamber of the little hostelry, sleeping off the effects of his night’s excesses.
Another inhabitant there was of that seaside village to whom this day had been a blank. For Julius, the lonely child of Farncourt, Sunday brought no pleasant memories. The Sabbath bells meant nothing to him, for Mr. Field had long since given up church-going, and his little son connected the day only with the dreary fact that even the gardeners and grooms would be away during all the long and cheerless hours.
On this particular afternoon he felt more than usually dull. The glimpse he had got of Robin and his happy home interests made him long to share again in the latter’s pursuits. Neither his rabbits nor his dog seemed altogether satisfying after having once tasted the joy of a congenial friend.
“I’ll go down to the Cottage,” he said to himself, “and see how Peter is getting on in his new hutch. I know father’s gone off in the motor to call at the earl’s, and he can’t be back for an hour at least, so I’m pretty safe not to be caught.”
There was no one in the garden as he walked up the little path, but just as he reached the door of the house Robin rushed out with a paint-box in his hand.
“Hullo, Julius, is that you?” he said, coming suddenly to a stand.
“Hullo, Robin,” was the reply. “How’s Peter?”
Without more ado the two boys made their way to the rabbit’s dwelling, and stood for a few moments wrapt in contemplation of their joint handiwork.
“I mustn’t keep mother waiting any longer,” said Robin at last. “I’m going to paint a text while she reads to me. We’re sitting in the summer-house, as it’s so hot in the sun.”
“What do you mean by painting a text?” asked Julius. “I thought texts were in the Bible.”
“You are funny, Julius,” replied Robin. “Of course they’re in the Bible, but these are printed on cards in nice big letters with borders and flowers. I’m allowed to paint them on Sunday, and they’re really jolly to do.”
It was not long before Julius was introduced to the series of large outline texts which Robin displayed with pride and the eager energy which characterized his every action.
“If you like,” he said, “perhaps mother will let you paint one with her colours. She’s lent me her paint-box as it’s so much better than mine.”
“I’ve got a far finer one than that,” remarked Julius, “with ever so many more paints in it.”
Robin looked up in surprise at the unmannerly comment, but his mother signed to him to pass it by, and spread out the texts for the boys to choose.
“I find there are two exactly alike,” she said, “suppose you each take one, and we’ll see who gets on the better.”
Robin read out the words as she held them up for him to see.
“The eyes of the LORD are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.”
“That’s my favourite verse,” he added. “Let’s paint that.”
“I don’t think that’s at all a nice one,” said Julius. “I don’t want God’s eyes to be always looking down at me, seeing everything I do.”
“It just depends on how you feel about God,” said Mrs. Power, “whether you look upon Him as your enemy or as your friend. You remind me of two little stories I once heard. I’ll tell them to you and then you’ll understand what I mean.
“There was once a prisoner who had been sentenced to solitary confinement in a gaol. He was condemned to live for months in a cell with no window except a tiny grated one so high up in the wall that he could not see out of it. It was bad enough to be obliged to endure this, but there was something else which made it much worse. In the door of the cell a little round hole had been made, and behind it a jailor was always stationed so that he could look in through the hole and watch the prisoner.”
“How horrid!” exclaimed Robin. “I wonder how he could bear it.”
“The thought of that eye always upon him and taking note of everything that he did, nearly drove the poor captive mad,” continued his mother. “Sometimes he would dash up suddenly to the little aperture and thrust his face close to it, if by this means he could perhaps startle the jailor and make him withdraw if only for a moment from the unceasing watch. ‘That terrible eye,’ he would call it, when he was at length released, and could recount his experiences to his friends.”
“I’m sure God’s eye is terrible,” said Julius. “It makes me frightened when I think of it.”
“Listen to the second story then,” answered Mrs. Power, “and you’ll see the other side.
“My mother used to tell me that when she was quite a little girl she was dreadfully afraid of two things—a brindled cow that had been known to run at a child, and the butcher’s large black dog. My grandfather’s cottage was at the side of the road, and there was a straight piece that led from its door to a small shop just at the entrance of the village. You could see the entire length from the corner of the garden, and it would not take you more than five minutes to run the whole way between the two houses. One day my mother was sent to fetch some groceries which had been ordered at the store, and as the sister who usually went with her was ill, she had to go alone. Now this was very alarming to her, as the brindled cow’s field lay beside the road, and she had never been quite so far by herself before. ‘Don’t be silly, Lizzie,’ said her father, who was smoking in the porch. ‘You’re getting too big a girl to be frightened at nothing. I’ll watch as you go along and see that no harm comes to you.’ So off she started with her pennies in her hand, and a very anxious little heart beating beneath her white pinafore. To her dismay, just when she had got about half-way, the head of the brindled cow appeared above the hedge, and a moment later the creature had forced its way through and was standing in the lane. The child turned, and would have fled homewards, but there, trotting leisurely towards her in the middle of the path, whom should she see but none other than her second enemy, the butcher’s dog.”
“What did she do?” asked Robin breathlessly. “Did she climb up a tree and get safe?”
“There was no tree to climb,” replied Mrs. Power. “The only thing she could do was to crouch down, crying and trembling on the ground, and try to hide herself under the brambles by the road-side. Her one thought was, ‘I’m so glad father’s looking, for he’ll be sure to come and help.’ Sure enough before either the brindled cow or the dog had reached the spot where she lay, her father’s hearty voice was calling to her not to fear, and the next moment she was safe in his strong arms, clinging to him with all her tiny might.”
“What a good thing he kept his promise and didn’t forget to watch!” exclaimed Julius. “Supposing he’d been looking the other way when the cow got out!”
“There’s my lesson,” said Mrs. Power, smiling. “To know that her father’s eye was following her all the time was the greatest comfort she had. It is just the same with us in regard to God. If we look on Him as our kind, loving Father and Friend, ready to help and to save, it will only give us joy to think of His watchful eye upon us, noticing everything that happens to us. It will make us more careful than ever not to displease Him, but all the same it will cause us to feel very safe and happy. It is a perfectly different case to that of the poor prisoner living in constant dread of the terrible eye of his jailor.”
“I think I’ll paint the verse after all,” remarked Julius after a pause, in which the boys had been silently considering the matter.
“I’d like to feel God was my Friend,” he said to himself as he walked home. “But all the same there’s a heap of things I wouldn’t like Him to see.”
Mr. Field drove up in the motor as Julius arrived at the door. A glance at his face showed the boy that his father had not returned in the best of tempers. His eyebrows were drawn together in a nervous frown, and his voice, as he gave some orders to the chauffeur, was harsh and imperious.
“Did you see the earl?” asked Julius.
“No, I didn’t,” was the abrupt reply. “Don’t come bothering me with questions, Julius. I haven’t time to listen to your chatter just now.”
The truth was that Mr. Field’s visit to Lanthorne Abbey had not turned out so successful as he had expected it to be. The interview with Judge Simmons had given him the opportunity to call which he had so long and vainly sought, and it was under pretext of seeing him once more that he had set off that day.
“I’ll be certain to find them all in on Sunday afternoon,” he meditated, as he made his plans, “and as I know the judge is leaving to-morrow early, it will only look neighbourly if I run over to give him a few more tips about that mine before he goes.”
It was therefore a great disappointment to him to find that the earl was not at home, it being his invariable custom to walk over to tea with his mother every week, at the Dower House about two miles away, where she had resided ever since his father’s death. The countess too was absent, so he was told, when he enquired for her.
Only Judge Simmons was in, and his manner towards his visitor was chilling, to say the least of it. Mr. Field could not get rid of the impression that the American was trying to read him like some enigmatical book, of which the title-page had given him a distaste. It was with feelings of relief that he once more found himself leaning back in his car, and speeding swiftly down the long avenue.
“Queer fellow, that judge,” he mused. “I was rather an idiot to run my head against him unnecessarily. I’d sooner have his room than his company any day.”
It was not till Julius came to say good-night that his father deigned to take notice of him again.
“Well, what have you been doing with yourself, my boy?” he said. “I’ve hardly set eyes on you since morning. Been up to any mischief, eh?”
“I wish I had,” answered Julius, “but I’ve no such luck. It’s awfully dull, father, playing all alone.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Field. “You’ve got everything and more than any sensible fellow can wish. I hope you’ve not been dangling after that strange lad that I warned you against, Julius?” he added sharply, eyeing the doleful face before him.
“No,” was the answer. “I haven’t seen him again.”
“Good boy,” said his father. “Keep yourself to yourself till you find someone worthy of you. That’s sound advice. Go to bed and sleep upon it.”
As Julius lay that night restlessly tossing to and fro, did the angels gaze in pity upon the poor ignorant child?
“I know God saw, and God heard,” he murmured to himself. “I believe He’s looking down at me now. I want to shut out His eye, but I can’t. I know He can see even in the dark.”
He covered his head with the bedclothes, but to his excited imagination the eye seemed to pierce right down into his very heart.
“I’ll ask Mrs. Power how I can make God my Friend, so that I won’t mind Him watching me,” he said at length. “I liked the story of the little girl.”
Dwelling again in thought upon the simple incident with its happy ending, the weary boy finally dropped off to sleep.
Robin had knelt that evening as usual at his mother’s knee, but when he had finished his prayer, a dreamy look stole into his face, as if he was thinking of some great and solemn thing. Madelaine waited quietly, wondering what new revelation had come to her little son.
“Mother,” he said earnestly, “I’m so glad God can see everything, not only the good things, but the bad too. I’m really glad he sees the bad.”
“Why is that, Robin?” enquired Madelaine.
“Because then I’m sure that He won’t leave one single sin behind when I ask Him to ‘Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow,’” replied the boy. “I can’t recollect them all, but if He has seen everything He will know when the very last one is blotted out.”
“The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin, little Robin,” said his mother. “You can trust Him to complete His gracious work, for He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him.”