"But quite correct of me to let a little lassie shiver because her parents are Dissenters."
"I didn't want Kitty to shiver," says Gildas, earnestly. "I would have been oftener to see her, but for my father's illness. The Demseys should have sent for a blanket to the Manse. But it is not only this case. You are getting quite well known to our chapel families. You visit everywhere, and you say things against Rehoboth"
"Never, Miss Haven. Will you not make your charges more definite?"
"Yes, you do. You say the Church has blessings and privileges more than irregular ministries such as Rehoboth can offer, and that those children have the best spiritual training who are brought up beneath the wings, as you call them, of Mother Church."
"In expressing those opinions," he says, "I am only true to my pastoral duty, and to the convictions of my heart. Can we not mutually respect convictions that differ? If my work in Meadthorpe clashes with yours, Miss Haven, it is not in any spirit of unchristian rancour and jealousy, I hope. But as a true son of the Church, I faithfully endeavour, by Heaven's help, to widen her influences and help my fellow creatures physically as well as spiritually. I trust the day may come when many as yet outside Church privileges---- Do not be frightened, the storm is nearer us now, but it will soon roll over southward. What a faithful guardian you have in your dog!"
Gildas has turned pale as a sudden lurid flash glared into the barn, and almost seemed for an instant to blind her. Jones, resentful of the thunder, barks at the top of his voice. To Pendrill, who feels that argument with so obstinate a renegade as Gildas is almost hopeless, the impossibility of conversing amid such a clamour of sound comes as a relief.
"Suppose a thunderbolt should come down," says Gildas, faintly.
"Suppose the worst is over, and the sky already beginning to clear in the distance," says Pendrill. "Look, the storm is rolling away. We will not have to wait here long. I wish you would make yourself more comfortable. Take my place. Those drippings are likely to give you a cold."
His voice is persuasive in its kindly tones, and Gildas has begun to feel chilly beneath the leaking roof. She moves to the spot he points out, and with considerable shame begins to apologize for her cowardice, for she can scarcely keep from trembling.
"The atmospheric influences of a storm keenly affect some constitutions," says Bernard Pendrill. "I was out in a thunderstorm with your friend, Mr. Jasper Ruthven, a week or two ago, and I noticed he was peculiarly sensitive to the electric conditions. What charming little children those are at Forest Cottage, Miss Haven; and how splendidly their elder brother has accepted the loss of their parents, and the family loss of fortune -- and a struggling life, instead of a bright University career."
"Oh, not many people know how truly good Jasper is. Father often says so," says Gildas, fervently. "A year or two ago his grandmother was on his hands as well, for her money also went in the general loss. She was quite infirm, and he was the gentlest, tenderest nurse you can imagine. Father said God would bless him for that old lady's sake, and for the sake of those sweet little children. I am sure Jasper will prosper some day, and make a way with his writings, though as yet I am afraid his duties are long and very tiring.''
On the subject of the Ruthvens, they find they can talk without disagreement. Pendrill has a secret notion of a probable attachment between Gildas Haven and the young tutor, and praises him with heartfelt cordiality, bringing for once a smile and a flush of pleasure to the face beside him.
When the heavens are clearer, and the faint twittering of the birds begins to greet the returning sunshine, he holds out his hand. Gildas, very much to her own surprise, vouchsafes him hers.
As she watches him cross the moor in the direction of Bilsboro' she begins to reproach herself for not taking the stand towards him she intended, and she resolves when next they meet to be on her guard against those gentle, musical tones, which have doubtless been cultivated to attract and beguile, while he uses every means to win the unwary over to his own mistaken opinions.
Bernard Pendrill, treading the hills, and mentally choosing new books for Miss Rowena's Guild library, impatiently wonders why he cannot concentrate his thoughts on church histories. To his own heart he refuses to acknowledge it, but dark eyes and windblown hair, and a tremulous, sensitive mouth, seem strangely pictured on hill, vale, and sky today, and half in fright he recognizes that his ideas have deserted the Guild, to recall the voice and the changeful face of Gildas Haven.
* * *
Not from Kitty's Sunday school teacher does her father hear aught concerning the presents received from a church visitor, but the matter is revealed to him by accident. One of the Abbots works with him at the farm, and Mrs. Abbot, Pendrill's landlady, who chose the quilt at the curate's request, bids her boy ask Demsey as time goes on how his little girl improves, and how she likes Mr. Pendrill's present.
Demsey is amazed and ashamed to discover that he, who has complained in the Rehoboth Chapel meeting of clerical bribery, is himself indebted to the curate for a valuable gift that he supposed as a matter of course was received, like many other bounties, from the Rehoboth minister's daughter.
When he goes home that night he takes no notice of his waiting tea, nor does he stop to change his wet garments, but he goes straight up to Kitty and lays his hand on her coverlet.
"My lamb," says the rough man, gently, "ye shall have my Sunday coat over ye. This must go back whence it came. Oh, mother, mother, ye told me he came here now and again, and even that were against my conscience, for he'd be more than likely to be teaching the little 'uns the Church Catechism if he got a footing in our place. But I never knew nothing about your taking presents from them Church folk -- and me a member at the chapel from a boy. Maybe there's worse behind. What else have he given ye? Maybe he's been a-christening of our babby unknown to me? I tell you as I'll know the truth of the matter. What have he given you for the sake of getting our little 'uns away from Rehoboth school?"
Mrs. Demsey, troubled at heart that he eats no tea, and that his bronzed, rugged face, in its setting of shaggy hair, looks more distressed than angry, tremblingly confesses to the grocery ticket and order for coal.
"I'll have to get a loan from the master," says Demsey, "and he'll dock my wages Saturdays until it's paid. Me and mine shan't be beholden to Church folk. And as for this here quilt, it ain't raining now, and the thing won't get spoilt with the wet. This shall go back immediate; and I'm sore-hearted to think you could take it, Martha. I never thought it of you that you set so little store by our Nonconformist principles."
Mrs. Demsey says nothing of the needs and privations that have many a time reduced her to dry bread that he might have bacon and dumpling, and the hungry little children might be satisfied. She makes no sort of excuse for herself for receiving the coal and groceries, but goes on busily with her mangle, dry-eyed and silent, though Kitty's tears fall fast at the loss of her coverlet.
Into Pendrill's presence, as he sits in his little parlour, patiently setting sums and copies for a little crossing sweeper who will presently come in for an evening lesson, as is his wont three times a week, Reuben Demsey stalks in by-and-by, injured and insulted, casting down the coverlet before the astonished giver.
"My name is Demsey," says he, "and I never know'd until this day, parson, as how my child were covered by charity of yourn. What my missus have took from the Church fund in grocery and coal I'll pay back in cash to you come next Saturday. Here's the counterpane, and as I'm a plain man, and speaks my mind straight, I'll tell you to your face, parson, you don't get hold of our little 'uns -- for that's what you Church folks is after. Because I'm poor it don't follow I can sacrifice my conscience for your presents. Every boy and girl of mine is going to grow up Free Church, please God -- and that's all I have got to say to you, parson. Don't bring no bribes across my threshold. There's many as will take them, but I couldn't respect myself if I stooped so low."
"My dear fellow," says Pendrill, "I respect your independence,
but you really are labouring under a mistake. The little help I gave your good, hard-working, over-burdened wife is simply such as you yourself would give to anyone needing a helping hand were it in your power. Be fair to me, Demsey, and believe me when I tell you I had no notion of bribery or corruption."
His truthful eyes look smilingly into those of his visitor, and Demsey begins to feel a little ashamed of his resentment. "Ye wanted our little 'uns for Church Sunday school," he says, stolidly, "and ye'll not get them if ye keeps on calling until Doomsday."
"So Mrs. Demsey told me, though perhaps in more gentle guise. I certainly did impress on her the privileges of Church training in childhood -- as a clergyman I could do no less. She was candid in explaining you both preferred to retain the children in the Chapel school, and there that matter ended. I continued to visit your child because she was weak and ill, and seemed cheered when I called in, and I gave her the coverlet for the sake of our Lord who bids us care for His little ones, and supply the needs of His lambs."
Demsey is silent. The mention of Kitty is stirring him to the heart, and the curate's calm, gentle tones carry to his own honest spirit the conviction of simple truth. He is turning to go, and trying to frame a few awkward words of apology if he has seemed rude and abrupt.
But Pendrill's hand is on his arm, and the young man says pleadingly, "If a Dissenter can accept no expression of sympathy from a parson, Demsey, keep the quilt as from brother to brother. Jesus, our one Elder Brother, is my witness: I had no thought of making proselytes when I brought it to rejoice your little maid. Show me you believe me, Demsey, by taking it from me now in the Name that we both confess."
"God bless you, parson," says poor Demsey. "I do believe ye. It won't choke me to take what you gives me in His name. Maybe I have got too hot and hasty a temper."
But just then, the young crossing sweeper runs in with a spray of snowdrops he has somehow procured for his teacher. Demsey glances at the two faces lighted with love, and pulls his front hair almost involuntarily to "parson" in leaving; but Pendrill gives him a brotherly handshake, and fills his pocket in the kitchen below with biscuits for Kitty.
The child is lying white and sorrowful, with a patient face turned to the wall, trying not to think how ungrateful Mr. Pendrill will consider her to let his beautiful quilt go back. She does not move as she hears her father's returning step, but the little arms go tightly round his neck as he wraps her up tenderly in the coverlet she believed she has lost for ever.
"Here's your quilt, my lamb. Daddy's learned a lesson tonight," he says. "Daddy were a deal too ready to condemn them as can't see eye to eye with him. Parson's a man and a Christian if he do wear all manner of colours, and dress up his Communion table! I have had a sight of him, mother, and a bit of a talk, and I have taken his help to us freely as 'twere given. The little maid shall keep her counterpane, and not a bit of harm 'twill do her I reckon, though 'twere brought along here by Church of England hands!"
"I've kept the kettle ready to boil up for your tea, Demsey, and I've made you a plate of hot toast," says his wife quietly.
But when he is seated at his tea, and listening with approval to Tommy's delivery on a chair of "Bruce and the Spider" for his Band of Hope meeting, she creeps aside to Kitty, and the child feels a burning tear drop down on her own eager hand that caresses the pattern of her quilt.
Chapter 9
A Good Samaritan
THERE is trouble at Rehoboth -- not much talked about, for to depose their dear old minister seems unfaithful to the loyal-hearted congregation, even in thought. There are members yet gathering there who remember him when he came strong and eloquent from college, fiery-hearted for truth and freedom, victorious in argument and debate, triumphing to be challenged by doctrinal opponents to a theological joust.
There are fathers of families who have been Sunday scholars in his pastorate; lives bearing the burden and the heat of the day that at some still, quiet, long-past Communion Service, received in early youth from Gilead Haven the right hand of fellowship as members of Rehoboth Chapel. "He married us," say some in gentle tones of remembrance; and here and there a mother whispers, "No other minister can seem like him. Did he not bury our little child?"
But to the anxious deacons and office bearers it becomes more and more evident that something must be done as concerns Rehoboth pulpit. Loyally as they love their pastor, they dare not put personal feeling before the help of the congregation.
The sudden death of his son through diphtheria has plainly been the breaking up of old Mr. Haven's powers. His grandly gifted boy was to the minister as the apple of his eye. Scarcely had the young man been ordained to his first charge after a brilliant college career, before the arrow of destruction smote him, and he fell a victim to his ministrations in an infected house.
"His memory is going," Mr. Hornby says sorrowfully of their pastor. "Did he not call on Brother Whiteman to pray at the last prayer meeting -- and our brother has gone to glory this seven years?"
Mr. Mundey is the last to assent to any need for considering the question of a change, but he, too, looks grave and anxious when three Sundays in succession Mr. Haven gives out from the pulpit the annual meeting of the Friends of the Jews Society, and that meeting long since took place at the Town Hall. It is then, too, that Gildas feels, proud as she has been of her father's pulpit power and reputation, it is unjust to Rehoboth that his age and feebleness should stand so tremblingly where a younger man might minister to the people with strength and vigour.
Many an anxious day, many a wakeful night do such thoughts cost Gildas; but she can do no other than roll the burden of trouble and care on her Master, and the matter is taken out of her hands in the way she would least expect.
Mr. Haven himself writes the deacons a letter to be laid before the chapel, telling them he has grown conscious of failing health and ability, resigning his pastorate with many a tender expression of love and solicitude. Gildas feels a throb of pride as she reads that farewell letter of the aging shepherd who resigns his treasured flock to another.
"Rehoboth cannot give him up altogether," is the verdict of the whole congregation. The chapel keeper and his wife volunteer for lower pay; some of the members (and of these Mr. Hornby, struggling hard in business against pressing competition, is first) come forward to guarantee increased contributions, and young Mundey conquers his natural shyness far enough to offer his services freely for the organ, the paid organist having lately left Meadthorpe. Mr. Chatten, the treasurer, goes hither and thither on a quiet crusade that results in substantial additions of money.
The issue of these efforts and deliberations is that the old minister is earnestly begged to still give Rehoboth the help of his supervision and experience, while it is proposed to invite a younger man as co-pastor to undertake the active labours.
One morning Gildas is busy with pen and ink, ruling subscription books for her mothers' meeting, when Emery comes hurriedly in, tripping in her agitation over the prostrate form of Jones. The collie is always overwhelmingly demonstrative when hurt, in his protestations of forgiveness, and he insists on kissing Emery so profusely that at first Gildas can scarcely make out her words.
"It's the master," says Emery. "But don't you be frightened, Miss Gildas, dear. He's had a fall and come home in a cab. Some gentleman have brought him. Won't you come, miss? I'm all of a fluster, and master's that muddy, and his new light overcoat, too, miss."
Gildas has flown from her own little sanctum to the sitting room, where she finds her father lying on the sofa. Kneeling beside him, supporting his head with gentle touch is Bernard Pendrill. But Gildas scarcely sees him, or is conscious of his personality.
Her father has had several attacks of faintness of late, and she quickly administers the restorative prescribed by the doctor, while Emery at her bidding fills a hot-water bottle in the kitchen, and places it to the minister's feet, from which Mr. Pendrill has already removed the mud-encrusted boots.
"Mr. Haven is bette
r now," he says to Gildas. Then, "Do you feel more yourself now, sir? Ah, here comes some beef tea for you. Let me support you while you take some. If you will allow me, Miss Haven, I will call at your doctors as I go home. Do you have Dr. Spencer?"
"Yes," said Gildas, "I'd like him to come as soon as possible. Thank you very much. We've given you a great deal of trouble."
"Not at all," Pendrill answers. "I am only thankful I happened to pass Stony Lane when I did. I saw your father in the distance. He was walking along quite briskly for an old gentleman, when he suddenly swayed and fell. It's quite a quagmire there, you know; but I feel sure he didn't stumble over anything. It was an attack of giddiness or faintness."
"He felt so well today," says Emery, "and insisted on going out alone to see John Markman at the Quarry. He's ill with rheumatiz. It's a mercy he didn't lie there for hours alone, Miss Gildas."
"Everything is mercy," says the curate, gently. "I was fortunately able to summon a lad working in the fields and despatch him for a cab. I'm very thankful to see Mr. Haven coming round so satisfactorily now. I'll call at Dr. Spencer's at once."
By the time the doctor arrives, the mud is the part of the accident most in evidence. Mr. Haven has recovered from his faintness, and remembers little about it. He placidly submits to the doctor's injunctions as to quiet, diet and medicine, and spends the rest of the day lying down beneath the sofa blanket, listening with closed eyes and attentive face to Gildas as she reads aloud at his desire, Elisha Coles' Divine Sovereignty.
Very little does she personally assimilate of the expositions and arguments therein contained. Her conscience is uncomfortably reproaching her for having failed to thank Bernard Pendrill with sufficient warmth for his aid to her father; and then, did he not settle the cost of the cab?
"I think Father had better write to him when he is able," she reflects, "and enclose the fare. But whether the man charged eighteen pence or two shillings it is impossible to say. If we send half-a-crown I think it would place us out of his debt."
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