"Perhaps I am being unjust to Gildas Haven," says Rowena Bertram, whose little daily book of spiritual landmarks she peruses on rising, has this morning counselled her to refrain from judging. "Her father's breakdown of health may have forced her unavoidably into prominence; and if one feels the consciousness of certain gifts, it must want great self denial to repress their exhibition."
"And I don't know, Rowena," says the Rector, entering just then with a page of his Ninevitish manuscript in hand, "that to bury one's talents in a napkin is specially meritorious or acceptable to the Lord. Bernard, I thought I heard your voice. Just come here and give me your opinion of this commentary I have just concluded on Professor Kimble's views as to the maternal dynasty of Nimrod."
* * *
Mr. Timotheus Mundey, as local secretary of the Friends of the Jews Society so dear to old Mr. Haven's heart, receives a polite letter from the curate of Saint Simeon's, regretting that he cannot see his way to taking part in any meeting not wholly "on Church lines."
Nevertheless, there are two or three clergymen at the Town Hall that evening -- men who count sect and name as nothing compared to the great cause of proclaiming the Messiah to those who are His brethren according to the flesh. Mr. Buisson, from Bilsboro', declares it is worth more than the eight miles' drive to listen to the speech by Gilead Haven, the chairman.
Gilead Haven, pleading for Israel's race, forgets his years and his many infirmities. He seems, in the tenderness of his yearning, in the passion of his advocacy, as though his heart is throbbing to the music of that echoing cry of Jesus recorded in the Gospel of Matthew: "How often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!"
The Rehoboth people tell each other delightedly that their minister is getting to be "quite himself again," and that "Mr. Haven's was the speech of the evening." The deputation from headquarters speaks gratefully of the sympathy and help the society has always had in Meadthorpe through Mr. Haven's tireless labours on its behalf. There is an excellent collection, and a branch of the society is arranged at Bilsboro' under Mr. Buisson's care. It is a capital meeting from beginning to end, as everybody feels when they disperse for another year.
But Gildas cannot rid herself of a vague anxiety concerning her father, whose power has flashed out so grandly tonight, like the upward leap of a well-nigh burnt out candle, and who walks home now so feebly with the support of herself and Jasper Ruthven, murmuring to himself in the starlight:
"The Jews He freed from Pharaoh's hand,
And brought them to the Promised Land;
Wonders of grace to God belong,
Repeat His mercies in your song."
****
Owing to her father's weakness, and claims unnumbered from all sides on her attention, several weeks have elapsed since Gildas last saw her delicate little Sunday scholar, Kitty Demsey, on the moor. Kitty is now on the road to recovery, but still needing the greatest care -- and watchfully to be guarded, says the parish doctor -- against a return of her complaint, by warmth and nourishing food.
Gildas has several times sent puddings and beef tea for the little one, knowing the Demseys are a large family and the father's wages are but low. A day or two after the meeting on behalf of the Jews, she resolves to take Kitty a present from the Dorcas Society in the shape of a warm plaid frock. Coaxing out of Emery one of the cakes she has made for an approaching tea meeting, Gildas sallies forth, accompanied by Jones.
The collie usually walks sedately and with dignity, as becomes a dog long since attained to years of discretion; but today he is frolicsome and restless, and Emery presses waterproof and umbrella on Gildas, predicting rain.
"Depend upon it, Miss Gildas," she says, solemnly, "the poor dumb beast would never act so ridiculous without he had reason, which well I know. I only made the remark to Mrs. Chidgey last Wednesday evening after service, that Jones is equal to a weather glass for the signs he gives when there's hurricanes in the air."
Gildas glances up at the sunny sky, and laughs away the notions of hurricanes and umbrellas. She enjoys the bright, breezy walk across the moor, and Kitty fairly cries with delight to see the face of her teacher again.
"I have brought a cake for the children, Mrs. Demsey," says Gildas, untying her parcel, "and something to keep little Kitty warm. But what a charming quilt you have there, Kitty! Who gave you that nice, warm, little eiderdown?"
The child lies on a chair-bedstead now in the kitchen. She is dressed in the neatest frock she possesses, one of thin, black material; but she is covered with a snug and pretty down quilt, and looks cosy and comfortable.
"Oh, Miss Haven," says Mrs. Demsey, hesitatingly, and looking much confused, "someone as comes to read to Kitty give her that when the cold winds awhile back made it so draughty for her to lie here."
"But who was it?" asks Gildas. "Was it Miss Mundey, or did Mrs. Burrows from the farm give Kitty such a beautiful coverlet?"
"Oh, no, miss; it were just a friend as comes sometimes. Do see, Kitty, what a warm frock teacher's brought you!" exclaims the poor, worn-looking woman. "Won't you look smart now! And it is a plaid one, such as you have wanted many a time when you see the stuff in Mr. Mundey's shop."
But the poor mother's confusion has betrayed her secret, and Gildas turns round on her suddenly and indignantly. "Mrs. Demsey, surely you, a Rehoboth member, have not been accepting presents from the Church district visitors?"
Mrs. Demsey, more tired by reason of Kitty's cough, and with more needs than Gildas has ever had in her life, begins to cry. Kitty's colour comes and goes, between devotion to her teacher, and a sense of insecurity regarding her precious quilt.
"I am astonished," says Gildas, severely. "Mr. Demsey spoke only the other day at our Chapel meeting about the system of bribing children to the Church school by giving coal and clothes and things from house to house -- and to think such gifts are accepted in his own family!"
"Oh, Miss Gildas," says the woman, brokenly, "don't ye tell Reuben. He never would forgive me if he knew."
"Do you mean to say, Mrs. Demsey," says Gildas, looking the picture of indignant virtue, "that you accept bribes from the Church people, unknown to your husband? You should have no secrets whatever from your husband. Between man and wife there should be perfect candour, and no reserve whatever."
"Oh, Miss Gildas, but you don't know how hard it's been this winter," falters the culprit. "I'm as fond of Rehoboth Chapel as anyone, though it's little time I get to go there or anywhere, with baby teething, and Sylvanus fractious with the rickets, and poor Kitty not fit to be left so long. One and another of the children have been ailing for months, and Reuben's wages only just keeps us going. When sickness comes, it's terrible hard to get along, though I'm at the mangle whenever I can get a chance."
The Rehoboth people, seeing Mrs. Demsey so seldom at chapel with her husband, and beholding the little Demseys thinly clad and often in garments tight and short for their growth, are of opinion that she is "not quite such an earnest Christian" as Demsey, who is a regular attendant and stalwart supporter of Rehoboth; also that in domestic matters she is but "a poor sort of manager."
"And a kinder gentleman than Mr. Pendrill couldn't be, Miss Gildas, a-coming to see Kitty and read to her, and show her picture books and things. He came just the same, even after I told him plain nothing would induce Demsey to send our children anywhere but to the Rehoboth Sunday school; nor I shouldn't wish them brought up Church myself, being born Primitive, and always more at home in the chapel. I'm sure he's quite the gentleman, miss, and been a good friend to us all the same. Once he give me a grocery ticket, and once an order for coal; and that's all, Miss Gildas, except the warm quilt for Kitty -- and the comfort it's been to that child words cannot tell."
"We voted a blanket for Kitty only yesterday from the Loan Blanket Society," says Gildas, "and it's coming to you in a day or two. You had only to send me word, and I would have procured a quilt or blanket befor
e. These Church gifts are only bribes to get hold of the children. If Mr. Demsey knew, he would justly be very much displeased that you didn't at once refuse them."
"Yes, I know he would be angry, and it worries me, Miss Gildas, that I took the tickets and the quilt, seeing you think it so wrong. But farming's been so dreadful bad in these parts of late, and I tell you, miss, I haven't known which way to turn to get along while we've had so much illness in the house. That there grocery ticket were like a godsend to me. Demsey don't know half what a struggle we've had. What's the use of worrying him? He brings all his money home, and don't waste a penny, and he couldn't do more than he do now in the way of work. I'd rather worry over things myself than upset him when he's reading his Bible chapter quiet of an evening, or some of Mr. Spurgeon's sermons. I'll tell Mr. Pendrill as how I'll manage without his helping us, miss; but please don't ye tell Reuben. It would be such a sore trouble to him, and you see he didn't know how little Kitty lay and shivered, with only the thin white and blue counterpane over her, and my jacket."
"But if the blanket comes, Mrs. Demsey, surely you won't keep this quilt? You require no presents from the clergy. Let it go back to Mr. Pendrill, with a note regretting that in a thoughtless moment you accepted it. If you like, I'll write the letter, and you can sign it."
Kitty says nothing, but with a face crimson with anxiety she lays both her thin arms over the beautiful quilt. It's Kitty's one bit of luxury in a grey little life of poverty and weakness, and her child-heart loves pretty things and bright colourings as much as the children whose artistic tastes are developed by lovely surroundings.
"How could I take it away from her, Miss Gildas?" says the poor mother, brokenly. "Demsey has never asked who gave it. I suppose he thinks it were some of the ladies from Rehoboth, but he's as pleased as I am to see Kitty so delighted with her nice, warm counterpane. 'Twould trouble her sore, poor lamb, to give it up. Miss Gildas, you've never known what it is to run short of food and firewood, and hear the children crying for cold and hunger. Don't be too hard on me for taking what parson offered out of his free kindness, and don't be for telling Demsey, miss. I'll tell him myself one of these days, when things looks a bit brighter ahead."
"I won't tell him, Mrs. Demsey," says Gildas. "It's not my place to. And don't cry, I am not angry with you, but I am with him. He had no right to come and tempt you with his bribes. And when I see him I'll tell him so. I have no fear of the clergy to hinder me from plain speaking! Kitty, don't look like that. Give teacher a kiss. I'm not going to take your quilt away. I only wish I'd thought about getting one for you myself, though."
And Gildas, swiftly calculating that she can make her everyday gloves do for best instead of procuring the new pair she planned, takes Mrs. Demsey's toil-worn hand soothingly into her own, and the mother finds half-a-crown quietly left in her possession.
Chapter 8
Fellow Refugees
WHEN Gildas emerges from the cottage she finds that the weather is changed. Dark clouds have hidden the sun from sight, and it is evident that a heavy downpour is imminent. Gildas is a quick walker, and she means to try to reach Meadthorpe before the rain comes down.
Once across the moor she will be able to shelter in a shop or house porch until the worst of the shower is over. So she hurries onward, much disturbed within by the fact that Pendrill's gifts have been accepted by Mrs. Demsey. Jones trots along behind, faithfully carrying a large paper advertisement that someone has thrown away on the common. Jones shows great reverence for printed matter, and carries bags and stray papers long distances in his mouth rather than leave them where careless hands have deposited them as refuse.
A few large drops of rain splash heavily down on her unprotected jacket, warning Gildas to hurry for shelter. Fortunately, a long shed is in sight -- a portion of the outlying farm buildings of Mr. Burrows -- and she turns in that direction, running at the top of her speed as the rain begins in earnest. She arrives in the cart shed flushed and out of breath, her wavy hair astray and inclined to escape from restraint. Jones pants after her, triumphantly dragging in from the hurricane his treasured manifesto: DO YOU SUFFER FROM VERTIGO? TRY POUNCEBY'S PILLS. TESTIMONIALS FROM ROYALTY, THE LEGISLATURE, ART, LITERATURE, AND THE DRAMA. CLEARANCE SALE NOW ON. NO REASONABLE OFFER REFUSED.
Depositing his treasure-trove beneath a wagon, Jones looks around for deserved applause, and trots round the cart to place two damp paws on the coat of a fellow-wanderer, whom Gildas only at this moment perceives, and whom she involuntarily recognizes with a startled "Oh!"
The very one who had filled her indignant meditations so lately is, like herself, a refugee from the weather. Her first impulse is to brave the rain despite her lack of umbrella; but there is a low threatening rumble overhead, and she shrinks from encountering a thunderstorm alone on the exposed common. Why should she face the lightning because he has chosen to seek refuge in the cart shed? No, she will ignore his presence and show him there is one at least in Meadthorpe who is perfectly indifferent to the movements of the absurdly popular curate.
On her sudden appearance he has raised his hat, a movement of which she took no notice. She seats herself on the shaft of a wagon and calls Jones to her side, but in the recesses of his canine heart the collie suspects Mr. Pendrill's overcoat pocket of biscuits, and he lingers beside the curate, amiable and watchful. Pendrill has started out to walk to Bilsboro', having promised to preach this evening in the parish church on behalf of Mr. Buisson. He has meant to lunch among the hills in company with a book, and now at a touch of Jones's hopeful nose he yields one of the biscuits meant to furnish forth the projected repast.
At first Gildas does not perceive that Jones is following Mrs. Demsey's bad example; but as soon as she is aware of the fact, she says coldly, "Will you have the kindness not to feed my dog, Mr. Pendrill? I do not like him to eat indiscriminately, or to accept food from strangers."
The curate replaces the bag in his pocket, saying pleasantly, "These biscuits are quite simple. I assure you they contain no poison. No more now, old boy. Did the lightning frighten you, poor old fellow?"
A sudden flash has caused Jones to run in front of Gildas, with a vague notion of affording her protection. She is always nervous of lightning herself, but she reflects that she may not have another opportunity of delivering her mind to the curate, and she resolves to speak out now while they are both storm-bound in the lonely shed.
"It is only a passing storm, Miss Haven," says Pendrill, desiring to be courteous to his fellow refugee, "and only sheet lightning as yet. Did you see how grandly Pine-tree Hill shone out just now against the black background of clouds? This storm will do a great deal of good, though I am sorry it has interfered with your walk."
"Yes," says Gildas, frigidly, "I believe the rain has been needed for some time."
"Whenever I see those lightning flashes," says Pendrill, "I am reminded of some lines I once came across, telling how terrible to many seems 'the red hand of God's wrath' as revealed in the gleam; but the poet, remembering the blessings in the track of the storm, recognized mercy rejoicing over judgment. To his eyes the print of Mount Calvary was shining in the 'bleeding palm' of the hand that ruffled Heaven's serenity."
He is talking more to himself than to her. She refuses to listen, telling herself he will not find her an admirer of his eloquence. "Storms are dreadful," she says, curtly. "They are too terrible to be beautiful in my opinion, unless theirs is the beauty of the tiger ready for prey. All Nature seems to tremble and hush, expecting the storm to break. To my mind it only forebodes destruction. But I am not given to rhapsody, Mr. Pendrill"
"Are you not?" he asks, innocently. "I have heard of Miss Haven as a very eloquent and poetic platform speaker."
"Oh, only to the children, when I can get nobody else to speak," she says, crimsoning. "We have a very large and important Sunday school at Rehoboth, though not quite so large as before, thanks to a system of beguilement and bribery to which Meadthorpe was unused until very late
ly."
"I'm afraid the roof leaks a little just where you're standing, Miss Haven," says Pendrill politely, refusing to be drawn into recrimination. "Will you not come more into the centre of the shed?"
"Thank you," says Gildas, "I would rather not." Her reply plainly shows she would prefer to endure the drippings like a martyr than to ensure immunity by proximity to Pendrill. "And as I may not have another opportunity, Mr. Pendrill, will you excuse my telling you that I think you might confine your parochial visitations to your own people, instead of attending to the sick indiscriminately, and distributing gifts among families long known as Nonconformists?"
"I only visit my parishioners, I believe," says the curate. "All such have a right to my ministrations. You, Miss Haven, as a parishioner, have a perfect right to send for the Rector or myself if overtaken by calamity"
"Excuse me," says Gildas, "I am no parishioner of yours. Pray disabuse yourself of any such notion."
"Pardon me, but Saint Simeon's parish includes the Manse, and you are fully entitled to the ministrations of your parish clergy. The fact that you are yet without the fold does not alter the truth that we regard you as belonging to the flock, though just now astray."
"You may regard me as you choose" says Gildas, indignantly, too much in earnest herself to detect that he is inclined to tease her, "but nothing that could possibly happen to me would cause me to seek the aid of any 'learned and discreet priest,' as the Meadthorpe people are admonished from the pulpit. And I candidly tell you, Mr. Pendrill, that I consider it most objectionable for you to intrude Church gifts on Dissenting families. I discovered only this morning that you have given a down quilt to little Kitty Demsey, and the Demseys have always belonged to Rehoboth!"
"That is a heinous sin, I confess, Miss Haven. Almost as bad as a Nonconformist young lady presenting crutches to the boy at the post office, and the post office people always attend Saint Simeon's!"
"I had the crutches by me," said Gildas, colouring. "A boy in our Sunday school had discarded them, and they were returned to me. Of course, I let poor little Charley Winthrop have them. The cases are quite different. Besides, his mother came and asked me, and it would have been inhuman of me to refuse the crutches just because the Winthrops go to Saint Simeon's."
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