* * *
The following day Mr. Haven is in his usual health, and in the afternoon Mr. Weston, the deacon, calls in to take him for a stroll. While they are out, the curate comes to enquire as to the patient's progress. Gildas happens to open the door, and asks him if she can speak to him for a moment.
"Father would have written to you, Mr. Pendrill," she says, her manner alternating between dignity and gratitude. "I didn't thank you nearly enough yesterday. It was so kind and unselfish of you to trouble about my father, and Dr. Spencer said it would have been serious had he lain there unhelped. Please believe we're more thankful to you than we can say. I wish Father had been in. I know he wants to thank you."
"I am only too glad, Miss Haven," he answers, "to be of help to any of my parishioners."
There is a gleam of fun in his eyes, but Gildas refuses to smile, and looks steadily in front of her. "We cannot lay claim to that distinction," she says, "but we're deeply grateful to you, all the same. And now, please, as Father is out, I would like to settle with you for the cab."
"Don't mention it," he answers. "Well, Miss Haven, I'm delighted to hear such good news of your father today, and now I will not further intrude. I see you're quite a Browning student," and he glances at the bookshelf. "Would you allow me to lend you a commentary on Browning that your cousin Jasper Ruthven has by him just now? I will ask him to pass it on to you. It has but lately come out, and I'm sure you would enjoy looking through it."
"Oh, thank you," said Gildas, "but we had a Browning Society at college, and I am intimately acquainted with his works. I scarcely think it is necessary. I would much prefer to pay for the cab, Mr. Pendrill. You will oblige me, I am sure, by receiving the fare."
She handed him a silver coin.
"Since you evidently consider it impertinent of me to decline, I have no option, Miss Haven. I paid one shilling and nine pence. There is the change out of your florin. I trust Mr. Haven will continue better. Good afternoon."
Gildas is secretly troubled lest she has offended her father's Good Samaritan. She wishes he had been in. Somehow, she would like Bernard Pendrill to see and know what manner of man her father is when his mind is unclouded by illness. At any rate, the cab is paid for -- that is one good thing! It would have been dreadful to combat Bernard Pendrill doctrinally throughout Meadthorpe at every point, while indebted to him in the matter of cab fare.
She decides to put the individual in question entirely out of her mind, and resolutely returns to her Mothers Meeting books, only putting them aside at last to carry down to Forest Cottage a dainty little frock she had just completed for the baby, little Noel Ruthven being two years old on the morrow, though none, to look at him, would believe him more than one. As yet he can scarcely stand, and he says nothing articulate; but Jasper declares his little brother will develop all the faster once he begins. The children are to celebrate his birthday tomorrow by a plum pudding, and a game with Jasper when he has ten minutes to spare from his work.
It seems to Gildas, much to her annoyance, that go where she will nowadays, she hears nothing but the name of Bernard Pendrill. The curate often drops into Forest Cottage, suspecting more shrewdly than does Gildas how helpful in Jasper's housekeeping are simple little offerings to the children. Sometimes they find fruit in his capacious pocket, sometimes a jar of jam or a bag of biscuits; but it is evident to Gildas that he has become to the little Ruthvens an object of delight and reverence.
Even Mrs. Chidgey, prejudiced though she has been against "the parson," says, "The children, bless them, think a sight of him, and children and dogs knows the ins and outs of folk wonderful quick. 'Tain't easy to deceive them. And, after all, there's good and bad everywhere, and maybe, poor young man, it's his misfortune, and no fault of his own, that he have been brought up to them new-fangled ways of cutting capers while he's a-saying of his prayers. Them as have been brought up chapel can't be thankful enough to Providence, especially them as have sat under Mr. Haven thirty year or more, which it were quite as long as that since first Chidgey took a sitting in Rehoboth table pew."
While the widowed Mrs. Chidgey's conversation flows on like the brook, Milly confides to Gildas that Mr. Pendrill has made Noah stand upright, and restored to the elephant his trunk, and altogether reformed the family of the patriarch in the matter of paint and limbs. Gordon's face glows as he displays a copy of Robinson Crusoe, in scarlet binding, that the curate allowed him to choose at the bookseller's one day when they were out for a walk.
Jacky laments, "Me did have a jumping Jinny out of Mr. Pendrill's pocket, only Jemmie executed her for Mary Queen of Scots;" and Jemmie incidentally remarks, "Mr. Pendrill give me a halfpenny, and if I had another halfpenny that would make a whole penny."
Baby, lying quietly in Chidgey's lap because it hurts his back to sit up in his high chair, listens to the mingling voices attentively, and looks long at the fair white ribbons of the dainty dress.
"He do take a deal of notice," says Chidgey, proudly. "Sure enough, wee darling, he knows the beautiful frock's for him."
"Well, Jasper," says Gildas, rather impatiently when Jasper enters and lingers for an instant in the doorway to watch her bending over the children, "your paragon of perfection will never need a trumpeter as long as he knows how to please these children. It is nothing but 'Mr. Pendrill' everywhere. I am quite tired of hearing that man's name."
"Why, Gildas, Chidgey heard from Emery that Pendrill had been quite a friend in need to Mr. Haven yesterday. I expected to find you as enthusiastic as Milly concerning him."
"Oh, he brought Father home when he found him unwell -- he could scarcely do otherwise," says Gildas. "Of course, I'm not ungrateful, but really the fuss made about this new curate is most absurd. A more ordinary looking young man could never be."
"I think his face is splendid," says Jasper. "If I were an artist I would like to paint it. Apart from its kind yet strong expression, it is by no means an ordinary face. One very seldom sees golden hair with such dark eyes as Pendrill's."
"Oh, has he dark eyes?" says Gildas, carelessly. "Of course, in a poet one expects rhapsodising, Jasper. Now do pray let us change this most wearisome subject. I cannot be enthusiastic over anybody whose opinions work as much mischief as Mr. Pendrill's. Jasper, Dr. Spencer was saying the other day it would strengthen baby very likely to let him live at the seaside for a few years, and I believe I know a motherly body at Beachlands who would take him for ten shillings or so a week. Why not think of it? He certainly looks very low just now. If I were you, now the days are brightening, I would despatch Mrs. Chidgey and all these little people to Beachlands for a month, and then let baby stay on in his new home when he gets used to it. They all look to me as if they want sea air. I am going to take Father there soon for a change. We would have such fun on the rocks if we all went to the seaside together, wouldn't we, Jemmie?"
There is a loud shout of delight, causing baby himself to attempt a faint crow in imitation. Jasper holds the little fingers in his own, and says, "We'll see, when summer comes, Gildas. Wait until the cold winds are ended."
And Gildas does not know that there is little money in Japer's pocket. The ways of literature are sharp and thorny, and of these baby's eldest brother has no heart to speak.
Chapter 10
The "Lost Chord"
AN entry made about this time in the diary of Gilbert Haines will throw some light on the state of affairs at the Rectory, where the domestic tide resembles the course of true love in respect of not running smoothly.
"Anna, our maid, gives notice this day," writes Gilbert. "Aunt Rowena, which has intended to train Anna and make her a credit to Aunt Rowena and Mr. and Mrs. Stutts, ask her why, and Anna Stutts says it's to better herself, and it's too dull and dreary here at the Rectory. I'd be dull, too, but for my pony, and Mr. Ruthven, and Mr. Pendrill, and grandfather's fishing tackle, and cook that gives me brandy snaps. But Anna did ought to be contented, as it's very wicked not to be thankful to Aunt Rowena who t
eaches her to knit and to mend her clothes. Anna have heard of a place in London. Anna's wild to go, though cook do say, 'Wait until she sees the stairs -- in them London houses there's flights and flights of them!' I make toffee in the back kitchen this afternoon. I see Aunt Rowena crying again. I say, 'Don't cry about Anna, auntie. Perhaps she'll repent and stay!' She pretends she isn't crying, but I'm not taken in, and I resolve to give Aunt Rowena half my toffee, and I won't give wicked, ungrateful Anna any; but I burn my pan and I get no suksess, and I eat the sugar and the butter raw."
Anna Stutts is to Miss Rowena Bertram's mind but a sample of all the various efforts she has put forth in life -- no duty, no self-sacrifice has found her slothful and reluctant; but somehow no laurel of brilliant success has ever crowned her brow. She often thinks the world could have got on just as well without her. "She hath done what she could," but honour and gratitude have but seldom been her deserved share of praise. She is not at all astonished, though grieved at heart, that Anna is carelessly repaying the many efforts she has put forth for her benefit, by throwing up the quiet, helpful place, and rushing off to be kitchen maid with a flighty Meadthorpe girl she knows, just as Miss Rowena was hoping, too, that the girl had become religiously impressed, and would soon desire Confirmation.
There is a heavier trouble, though, on Miss Rowena Bertram's spirit than the thanklessness of her maid. Day by day the knowledge is growing on her that Bernard Pendrill is disquieted in mind, and with all her longing to help and comfort him there is a barrier of reserve that cannot be passed. His work is devoted as ever. His sermons are, if possible, even more powerful and tender than of yore; but she detects a shadow on his face that was not wont to be, and she is sure he is bearing some secret burden that is veiled from her sympathy.
Her heartache is that their friendship has not gone deep enough for her to share and know his trouble. All she can do is to breathe his name in her prayers, and commend him to the All-knowing and All-loving God, the Searcher of hearts.
* * *
Rehoboth Chapel has not had to look far or endure long suspense in the matter of a co-pastor for Mr. Haven. A schoolfellow and college friend of his son -- John Mountford, a young married man who is well known to the old minister and has often stayed at the Manse -- is just now in a position to undertake the duties. After he has supplied several Sundays "with a view," he is warmly invited to Meadthorpe. Mr. Haven has a small private income, and now he is virtually retiring he will take from Rehoboth but a fourth part of his former stipend.
He has expected to leave the Manse, but the Rehoboth people declare it is his as long as he lives, and Mr. Mountford says he will not come to the place at all, if it means turning his old friend out of his house. So for the present he takes up his abode near the Ruthvens, on the common. John Mountford's son and heir, aged eight months, is a source of shame and confusion to Chidgey, inasmuch as he is fatter and noisier and altogether a finer child than poor little Noel, who is more than a year his senior.
John Mountford is one of the new type of ministers -- highly trained, and an earnest student, wearing University honours, yet counting it of more importance to his work to cultivate knowledge of mankind. Booklore in some cases means very poor preaching, but this is not so with Mr. Haven's helper. Sympathy and energy are strong within him, and his learning is alive with helpfulness and brotherly love.
At first Rehoboth is rather scandalized because he wears a coloured tie, a jacket instead of the ministerial frock-coat, and goes in flannels to cricket and football with his young men's class. Perhaps, indeed, John Mountford is unclerical to a fault, but these are but lesser matters, because his goodness, his courage, and his energy herald growth and prosperity for Rehoboth.
There is a Mrs. Mountford -- Annie, a pretty, grey eyed girl, shy and quiet -- who takes to Gildas as her opposite in character, and often brings the baby to enliven her new friend in her little sanctum at the Manse. Just now Annie Mountford is absorbed in her baby, and Gildas is soon in a position to pass an examination concerning Master Mountford's teeth, the number of bottles he has broken, and the preparation of the diet on which he threatens to become a young Samson.
The two ladies and their usual companion are together one morning, when Mrs. Mountford notices Gildas looking preoccupied, and enquires if anything connected with Mr. Haven's health is disturbing her mind.
"No," says Gildas, "Father is quite well and bright just now, Annie. Your husband coming here has done him so much good, for he had long felt the work at the chapel was getting beyond him. And Father is so proud of your husband. He simply rejoices over him, as once he hoped to rejoice over my brother David."
"I was noticing Mr. Haven's face in chapel on Wednesday evening," says the young minister's wife. "When John was giving the first of his series of lectures on the principles and history of Nonconformity, your father's face was positively shining. And while John was so worked up, and telling so earnestly why he is a Nonconformist, Mr. Haven kept leading the people in cheering. I never thought the Rehoboth people could get so excited." She notices Jones near the baby. "There, my itsey pitsey, did you want to stroke the dear old doggie then? You're quite sure, Gildas, he never bites?"
"Never," says Gildas; "and anyway he has nearly lost all his teeth. Jones, go and lie down 'dead' until dinner time. Yes, Annie, the Rehoboth people are quite capable of enthusiasm, though most of them seem so stolid and self-contained. That splendid lecture was exactly what Meadthorpe needs just now. Father used to preach on such subjects once, but of course his powers have grown much weaker now, and Meadthorpe really required a good denominational protest. The place has gone half out of its mind about that High Church curate at Saint Simeon's -- a most bigoted, dangerous, Pharisaical man! I'm certain it was he who sent the man with the barrel organ to play outside the chapel. The lecture was advertised in town, so Mr. Pendrill would know the time, and he would not be above trying to make the meeting a failure."
"Do you think so really? The barrel organ was certainly very disturbing for a while."
"It was dreadful. I wonder how your husband could go on at all, with that 'Lost Chord' and all its variations distracting one's mind so persistently. I believe Mr. Mundey had a great deal of trouble to get the man away. Depend on it, he had been paid to disturb the lecture. It is not the first time Mr. Pendrill has shown his opposition to Rehoboth Chapel."
"Oh, I think he has such a nice face, Gildas," says Mrs. Mountford, with feminine reasoning. "I often see him out, with children hanging around him, and evidently devoted to him. And the little Ruthvens would follow him all over the common if they were allowed. Anybody with a face like his would be above such petty meanness as drowning a lecture by noise, I'm certain."
"I am not misled by deceiving looks," says Gildas, sagely. "He means to make Saint Simeon's the head and front of all influences around. You can tell that by the Parish Magazine that he is managing just now. To certain minds all is excusable that leads to the end in view. If I were Mr. Mountford, I would see him about his horrible plan to spoil the meeting."
John Mountford, who has been visiting Mr. Haven, now knocks at the door, asking if his wife is ready to come home.
Gildas is so convinced the lecture on Free Church principles was interrupted by the "Lost Chord" purposely, that her grievance overflows to the young minister, and she asks him if he will not complain to Mr. Pendrill in person or by letter.
Mr. Mountford laughs away the suggestion. "That disturbance was purely accidental, I'm sure," he tells her. "Pendrill is a gentleman, and would not condescend to such vulgar tricks. Besides, the 'Lost Chord' didn't worry me nearly as much as some good woman's noisy children up in the gallery. I certainly wished that music lost, for I did grow 'weary and ill at ease,' under their echoes."
On behalf of the fellowship of babies, his wife immediately takes him to task, causing him to atone for his strictures on Nonconformist infancy by an embrace of little Oliver, in which he includes Oliver's mother.
Gildas
gazes at them meanwhile with a sort of gracious pity. Young married people like these are given to sentiment, she supposes, but time will be their cure. And Annie Mountford is of a gentle nature that could scarcely get on without affection. Well, Gildas reflects, she will never be guilty of like sentimentality. Her ideal is one of freedom and independence. Marrying and giving in marriage have never entered into her dreams of the future. If she could choose her career, she desires to become either a missionary or a High School headmistress, or a Shakespearian lecturer; but first and foremost, as long as she can remember, the vision of the mission field has been her dream.
"Well, Mr. Mountford," she says, impulsively, "a woman's intuition is seldom at fault, and I generally find my conclusions are pretty correct. Why would that man bring his barrel organ right into the chapel yard unless he was sent there purposely? He is often in Meadthorpe, but he has never played there before. Of course, I know that Mr. Bertram, the Rector, would never stoop to any system of annoying Rehoboth. But I'm sure such a lecture as you advertised about the place would irritate Mr. Pendrill, and you may be sure he was at the bottom of the disturbance. Besides, I saw Mr. Pendrill passing along the road a few minutes before the man brought his organ there."
"Gildas Haven is very hard on the unfortunate curate," remarks Mr. Mountford to his wife, after leaving the Manse. "Most people have a good word for him, but she appears to object to him very strongly."
"Too strongly," says his quiet wife. "I think she's trying to persuade herself that she dislikes him with all her heart; but when one thinks of anybody, for praise or blame, as often as Gildas does of the 'unfortunate curate,' as you call him...."
"Well, what then? Explain yourself, you mysterious little sphinx."
But Mrs. Mountford only readjusts for the hundredth time the bows of her baby's hat, admiring anew the roses on his chubby face, and tells her husband, "Time will show."
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