Greatly to Jasper's relief, he seems too much surprised to return to the vexed question of fiction, and only says, as he holds the young man's hand, "My lad, your father and your grandfather dealt with mine. Do not make a trouble of this, my young brother. Surely you have known us too long to doubt that your own time for payment will be the right time for us."
Motherly Mrs. Hornby says very little, but she asks where Jasper is teaching next, and she brings him a cup of tea and a biscuit, and insists on his partaking, in a neighbourly, womanly way, that sends him lighter hearted on his road.
When he gets home late that evening, Jasper finds a sound of merriment among the children, who ought to be asleep. A wonderful hamper has arrived at Forest Cottage, disclosing all kinds of delightful surprises -- from a couple of fowls to a gigantic cake, and from a huge packet of flour to a tin of nursery rusks.
"It's like Aladdin's lamp," says Jemmie. "It's just magical, brother Jasper, and there's a card to say, 'For the dear little children at Forest Cottage, with love and kisses from Mrs. Hornby.'"
"Isn't she kind?" says Jacky, sleepily. "I know her. She's the lady in the pew that's got a red curtain, with a long nose, but I loves her. I won't never, never say her nose is long. Besides, Chidgey says better have a long nose than----"
"Go to sleep, Jack. Baby Noel is rousing," says his elder brother gently, and the youthful moraliser subsides, while Jasper takes Noel in his arms and walks about with him to the special lullaby tune.
But a harder experience is in store for the young author next day. He chances to meet Gildas when he is going home from lessons, and he somehow feels that her manner has lost its usual warmth and frankness towards him.
It is not easy for Gildas to hide her feelings, and she suddenly bursts out with the enquiry as to whether a certain report she has refused to credit can be true: whether he writes for The Boys' Glow Worm -- a penny dreadful shown in the lower class paper shops, and bearing most sensational woodcuts.
"I wrote one story for it," says Jasper, whose face is crimson. "It was anonymous, but I suppose some recognized my style. It is the only thing I have sold for three months, and they paid three times what I expected, and paid then and there."
"Oh, Jasper, what has that to do with it? I believed in you so. Father and I and everyone expect so much from you. Surely it is wrong and sinful for one with your gifts not to aim higher, whatever other writers may do. You always seemed to me to feel the responsibility of your talents. To think you have prostituted them like that! The idea of a Christian author writing for such a paper!"
"Has the place of my work anything to do with its merits?" he asks, looking white and miserable. The pain and disappointment in the girl's accusing face are a torture to him. "Have you read my story there?"
"No, and I would never have a journal like that in my hands. Oh, Jasper, how could you sink so low as to write for it?"
"Gildas, there is not a sentence in my tale that could offend if read aloud in our Sunday school. It is only an adventurous tale of sea life, such as boys like. They had better read a tale like that than one glorifying pirates and burglars. But I will not be a hypocrite. I had no thought of good influences in composing it. I wrote it for the sake of the cheque they gave me."
"I should think you must have become a miser," says Gildas sadly. "Fancy writing for the sake of pounds, shillings, and pence! I believed you were so different, Jasper. I thought in every sense you aspired to the highest. And now to think of your degrading your gifts to mere mercenary authorship!"
Her look of sorrowful reproach and disappointment sends Jasper home with a miserable heartache, such as the condemnation of none other could occasion. He will not enlighten her or anyone else as to the legacy of liabilities which was his only family inheritance; the pressing claims of the helpless children that set him writing for anything and everything that means money. These things are his secret. but when he gets home, the baby at his voice opens eyes dim and glazed that turn to him with a long, brightening look. Jasper, meeting that faint, sweet smile, says in his heart, "My Saviour understands."
* * *
Two days later, in the evening, Gildas with Emery at her side is hurriedly crossing the common in the direction of Forest Cottage. The starlight shines down on her tender, troubled face as Emery tells her again the tale that Chidgey's overflowing heart has poured into her ears: how Jasper has hidden his cares and his poverty from every eye, even from his old nurse herself as long as possible, and what a terribly hard battle it has been of late to keep that little home from shipwreck.
"And I thought him miserly. I believed he was making so much money," cries Gildas penitently within herself. She seems to see again Jasper's shabby suits, his pale, tired, patient face, the quivering of his lips beneath her reproaches. She has begged Emery to come over to the cottage at the close of the weeknight service. Jasper's teaching will be finished now, and he will be at home. She will tell him she knows now something of his struggle. She will beg his forgiveness for her hasty, indignant words.
Milly opens the door and bids them be quiet because baby is now sound asleep, and all day long he has been so restless. But Gildas sees Chidgey has been crying, and when Milly has run away again, Chidgey says, brokenly, "Them little children cannot understand. It were only an hour ago, and we've dressed him in your birthday frock, Miss Gildas dearie. He never had it on before. His little, sweet face is like the face of an angel."
Bernard Pendrill is in the parlour with Jasper. He had heard baby was worse, and his heart's concern as to the matter of baptism brought him up to the cottage tonight, only to find it is too late, and the little one will lie in earth unconsecrated, save for His steps who went down into the grave.
The need of nursing is over, and the baby is in the Gentle Shepherd's arms. Jasper Ruthven seems broken down. His face is hidden in his hands, and he scarcely hears the words of Christian comfort and sympathy breathed by the curate who stands beside him. But Gildas comes in quickly, not heeding the visitor, her whole soul full of tender sorrow, her eyes wet with womanly tears.
"Oh, Jasper, forgive me. Oh, dear Jasper, you mustn't grieve for our baby, our little white angel so!"
Then Pendrill sees her wistful face, softened by compassion into beauty that is enshrined for ever in his remembrance. He sees, too, Jasper's sorrowing looks light up into rest and comfort at her entrance, and he goes out softly and leaves them there, the night wind striking sharp and cold to his senses as Milly's sweet voice floats after him down the garden, singing the lullaby in low, soothing notes, lest Noel should stir and wake.
"Baby-boy is sleeping,
Tiny limbs at rest,
Weary little birdie
Quiet in the nest."
Chapter 12
"I Ought to Ask Your Pardon."
AMID golden sunlight and the tender, sad beauty of autumn, the baby from Forest Cottage is borne to God's acre at the chapel on the hill. To the curate it is a trouble and regret that the child is shut out from the consecrated portion. He cannot understand his friend's indifference on this subject. Personally, he would feel it a sore grief that one he loves should not lie in holy ground, among those blessed by baptismal dew, over whose place of rest the Church has breathed solemn words of peace and consolation.
Jasper in matters like this is far from orthodox. He tells Bernard Pendrill, "There was an old lady taken to the unconsecrated part a few months ago from our home, and where she lies, who was our household saint, it is consecrated evermore."
The curate is shocked, but at such a time he refrains from pressing his more reverent views on Ruthven. By-and-by he will earnestly strive to make this friend, to whom he has grown attached, like-minded with himself. He has the more hope of him because he knows Jasper Ruthven enters into the beauty and helpfulness of the Church prayers he loves, and is familiar with the history and confession of many fathers of the Church -- those whose teachings are the fountain whence Pendrill drinks inspiration oftentimes.
Mr.
Haven himself conducts the simple funeral service, at which many children are present, for Jasper has long been a teacher in the Sunday school, and posies of late wild flowers and shining white asters arc brought to the baby's resting place.
The little Ruthvens are not clad in mourning, of which Jasper has a shrinking horror. They have all found flowers for the baby, and they look quite content and bright this morning, to the surprise of many good women who deem it only correct to weep at a funeral. Jasper and Gildas have told the children that little Noel is now in the arms of Jesus, the Good Shepherd.
Gordon and Milly, who remember their mother, say, "Isn't it nice for mamma to have the baby again? And isn't somebody in Heaven always glad when there's a funeral, because somebody's gone up there away to Happy Land?"
Whereat Jemmie adds, "Yes, and they can tell them all the news, you know, because of course they don't see the papers and things up there, do they, Jasper?"
But irrepressible Jemmie is quiet now, standing beside the little grave, tightly clinging to Jasper's hand, and fixing his eye on a little pink cloudlet floating above, which in some vague fashion the childish mind is associating with his baby brother.
Gildas takes the children afterwards to the Manse for the rest of the day; and Jasper goes forth to his usual duties, a restful look on his face as the funeral hymn sung in the little graveside chapel echoes all day in his heart:
"'I take these little lambs,' said He,
And lay them in My breast;
Protection they shall find in Me,
In Me be ever blest.
"'Death may the bands of life unloose,
But can't dissolve My love;
Millions of infant souls compose
The family above.
"'Their feeble frames My power shall raise,
And mould with heavenly skill;
I'll give them tongues to sing My praise,
And hands to do My will.'"
Nothing cements the goodwill of some people like the need of their sympathy and help. Hitherto to the Hornbys, Jasper Ruthven has seemed, as the deacon would express it, rather "high and mighty" -- not that in Jasper himself there is a trace of pride. But the Ruthvens have for generations been people of means and culture in the neighbourhood, and the Hornbys, even since the change of fortune, have regarded themselves socially as unlikely to be intimate.
Now, however, that Mrs. Hornby's motherly heart comprehends the burdens Jasper Ruthven has to bear, and his many anxieties, she takes him under her helpful wing. She sees that Chidgey is getting old and feeble, and that Forest Cottage needs the oversight of some active and sympathetic friend. Many a visit does she pay to the little Ruthvens, lending Chidgey patterns of garments, suggesting as to making, mending, and the like; and many a delicately offered hamper for the little ones finds its way to their home. Between Mrs. Hornby and Gildas, the children blossom out this winter into pretty, cosy garments, that cause them pride and delight of heart,
Young Gilbert Haines develops a cough, and Dr. Spencer advises that his departure for boarding school will be delayed until the warm weather. Mr. Hornby finds an opportunity of mentioning to one of his well-to-do customers who has five boys, that Jasper did wonders at the public school he attended, and "is reputed to be a most intelligent young man." The result of the worthy man's solemn and impressive recommendation is that Jasper is engaged as tutor to these lads, a far more lucrative and restful employment than his Grammar School work.
Altogether, things begin to improve for him, and Jemmie's private opinion, confided to Chidgey, is that "when baby went to Heaven he whispered right into God's ear that we didn't have our knickerbockers, and there wasn't much pudding, and then God told him, 'It's all right, little baby,' and we wouldn't be poor any longer. So then God sent Mrs. Hornby with the serge suits, and gave Jasper the little boys at the manor to teach."
* * *
The Rector, Mr. Bertram, has imparted to his friend and neighbour, Mr. Buisson, the vicar from the nearby parish of Bilsboro', his growing anxiety as to Bernard Pendrill's health, and his impression that his young relative is working and studying too much, and practising austere self-denial in his manner of living.
One day, when the curate is at Bilsboro' Rectory, a homelike place to which people have a way of drifting as often as they can, Mr. Buisson comments on Bernard's look of weariness, and tells him jestingly he wants some spirit in affinity with his own to look after him, and make him take more care of himself, reminding him "it is not good for man to be alone."
He has spoken the words lightly, and is astonished at their effect. Pendrill pales and then crimsons, and says in unsteady tones that loneliness is his lifelong choice -- a priest, beyond all others, should beware of idols. Human enchantments surely dull the spiritual ear and hinder the religious vocation. His friend begins to suspect some secret pain and resolves to change the subject, simply remarking that when a heart really loves, its one thought is how much blessing and help it can bestow, not how great is the measure of its own sacrifice or benediction.
"Yes," says Pendrill, "if self were only involved; but when one is responsible for a flock -- but what are we talking about? I didn't come here to infect you with my depression. This is one of the days when I am somehow out of sorts; but if anything can cure me of the blues, it will be that display of splendid bloom you have yonder in the window."
Mr. Buisson touches the bloom of a pot of chrysanthemums, drooping radiant fringes, and gleaming like snow. "Will you not learn a lesson from this wealth of brightness, Pendrill? The weather is certainly dark around, but out of the darkness has come this glory. Do not in stern austerity forbid yourself the innocent delights of God's fair world, and cloud your mind by absorbing every faculty in unbroken work. Your Vicar tells me you treat yourself mercilessly and unsparingly, forgetting you owe a duty to your own body as well as to your neighbour's. It will only shorten your time of usefulness. I have known too many worn out before their time by suicidal overdoing. This makes me very careful how I press my congregation into the harness of work. Some parsons do it, I know, in nearly every sermon; but my experience has taught me that slothful folks seldom absorb such appeals. They usually result in overloading with work some sensitive, nervous nature like yours that ought to learn more about rest. As a rule, it is a woman who takes home that sermon and kills herself as a matter of conscience! If we all of us would only study more to be quiet, and to sit at the Master's feet."
Bernard Pendrill has sought Mr. Buisson today with a purpose. There is a question he considers it his duty to put to him, for the responsibility of the matter has been laid urgently on his mind. The perplexity concerns Mr. Buisson's frequent association in religious work with the Dissenters. As a younger man, and one seeking guidance, Pendrill asks him earnestly how a priest can connect himself with any movement not absolutely on Church lines.
For answer the clergyman takes down a volume from his shelf, and reads emphatically the following passage: "If we really love God, and long to do good and to work for God, if we really love our neighbours and wish to help them, then we shall have no heart to quarrel -- we shall have no time to quarrel -- about how the good is to be done, provided it is done. We shall remember our Lord's words to Saint John, when Saint John said, 'Master, we saw one casting out devils in Thy Name, and he followeth not us; wilt Thou therefore that we forbid him?' And Jesus said, ' Forbid him not.'"
"Oh, Kingsley," says Pendrill. "Kingsley had very strange notions indeed about some things. For my part, I think that to countenance irregular agencies is to cause perplexity to the devout and faithful, to be disloyal to the Church, and to unsettle the minds of the young and easily beguiled, for whose safeguards we, as priests, are responsible."
"And I," says Buisson, "conscious of the devils that torment the world, cannot count these my Master's foes or mine who are casting them out evidently, gloriously. His Spirit is not working solely on Church of England lines, my dear fellow. Above those authoritative voices that of course
I am bound up to a certain point to respect and obey, I hear His prayer: 'That they all may be one, as Thou, Father, art in Me, and I in Thee, that they also may be one in us -- that the world may believe that Thou hast sent me!' How can I, His servant, by unbrotherly intolerance and Pharisaical stand-offishness, hinder the fulfilment of His prayer?"
* * *
A week or two later Pendrill finds himself pledged to help the Meadthorpe people of various persuasions in the annual entertainment given in the Town Hall on behalf of the hospital.
Mr. Bertram, the Rector, and Mr. Weston, the deacon, are on the hospital committee, and both are tireless in securing volunteers for this gathering, which usually brings a substantial subscription to the funds, the Assembly Room being freely lent for the occasion.
Pendrill yields to his Rector's persuasions to assist with a violin solo, and trains the choirboys to give "Hearts of Oak" and "Good King Wenceslas." No needy cause is so popular with the majority of Meadthorpe folk as that of the sick and suffering.
The large hall is crowded on the night of the entertainment, with people of all shades of opinion, and of every social grade, flocking together to benefit the institution that cares for the unfortunate.
Gildas has a number of little ones present, whom she has prepared to render some action songs. These take immensely with the audience, her face flushing with pleasure on behalf of the children. After they have responded to the encores, she retires to sit with Mrs. Mountford at the back of the hall. The programme is a very long one. The Rector himself gives a reading, and his daughter, Miss Rowena, plays a sonata; Mr. Weston recites Macaulay's "Spanish Armada," and Miss Mimdey surpasses herself in "Oh, had I Jubal's lyre!"
By-and-by it is Jasper Ruthven's turn to recite, and there are some present who would rather listen to his delivery than to the sweetest music. What charm can be greater than that of the human voice when clear and perfectly modulated, and in tenderest sympathy with its message? He has chosen "Laus Deo," Whittier's song of triumph concerning the abolition of slavery, and his audience could fancy they hear the clanging chimes and the pealing guns that the poet describes as flinging the joy from town to town. Jasper loses all other consciousness in the splendour of his subject, and many spring to their feet thrilled with excitement, while "Hallelujahs" and "Praise the Lord" resound here and there from enthusiastic Nonconformist lips.
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