Gildas Haven

by Margaret S. Haycraft

  "Yes," says Gildas, "I'm due at a meeting. Thank you very much, Mr. Bertram, but I really must go now. Please, Miss Bertram, think of my old lady in River Yard, if you can. She has had such a hard, stormy life," she adds, pleadingly, the object of her visit absorbing her anxious thoughts again.

  "My dear," says Miss Rowena, gently, "we won't forget Mrs. Meadows. Father, I think one of the maids should take Miss Haven home. She is really not fit to go alone after such a shock."

  "Pendrill, your road lies past the Manse. You're off to our little mission chapel on the moor, I know. You can take care of Miss Haven. We should be unwilling for her to take the walk alone just now."

  The curate has stood apart, silent and serious almost to sternness. The Rector is inclined to think he objects to friendliness with a Rehoboth member, and thinks the little act of courtesy will do his young relative no harm.

  "It is absurd to be so bigoted," says Mr. Bertram to himself. "I am sure this is a sensible, helpful sort of girl, and the least we can do is treat her politely. Besides, we can scarcely spare the maid just at our dinner time, and Pendrill has to go that way.''

  Miss Rowena is the only one who detects any sort of tremble in the quiet tones wherewith the curate civilly undertakes the duty of escort. But for him it is a heart-crucifixion to find himself by the side of Gildas, between the hedges silvered by the moonlight -- knowing they are, for a few brief minutes, apart from all the world together. Yet no word or look must betray what is burning in his heart.

  He tries to speak of the weather, of poor little Gilbert, of the value of ambulance information, of the improvement in the Rector's throat, and on various subjects of general conversation, but finds himself breaking off in the midst of sentences and forgetting what he meant to say next.

  As for Gildas, she is extremely conversational -- too much so, could his disturbed mind realize it, to be altogether natural. She discourses easily and eloquently concerning the constellations apparent on high, and has a good deal to say on the topic of the Royal Family, and the prospects of frost or snow. Apparently her chief object is to avoid breaks and silences.

  Pendrill thinks if she only guessed the spirit-conflict within him she would surely be far less at her ease. Thank Heaven, no suspicion of the truth has dawned on her cloudless mind. He feels he will have to abandon his curacy, to seek work afar from Meadthorpe. He must never again run the risk of temptation such as this, with only the moon and the stars to hear the words that are spoken between them.

  In the midst of this very resolution, while Gildas is on the subject of the price of gas in Meadthorpe, asking him if he does not think it dear, he observes she has by no means yet recovered from the fright at the Rectory. He distinctly sees that the hand holding her little notebook is trembling, though she endeavours to hide it. The remembrance of her self-forgetful heroism drives all other reflections to the winds.

  "Do you prefer the electric light, Mr. Pendrill?" asks Gildas, finding him silent concerning gas.

  He bends over her, the words breaking from him almost irresistibly, "Why are you trembling like this? I have walked too quickly for you, Gildas -- darling!"

  There is a silence so deep that the calm evening winds and their own heart beats are all they hear. Gildas says not another word, her breath is fast and hurried, but she utters no comment.

  Pendrill would give all he has to recall that which he has spoken. His conscience cries out that he has been a traitor to duty, to all his high resolves. But his eyes in the starlight draw the girl's look once on him. Face to face their secret is told, until the bewildering triumph of his supremacy drowns remorse in a sweet, wild flood of love and delight.

  As they approach the meeting, the Ruthven children run up in excitement to meet her. "Oh, Gildas, we're all coming -- all the jolly lot of us. Brother's taking us, and he's going to fetch us when the lantern show's over. And, Gildas, will there be people with heads that wobble, and whirligig things that go round and round and round, and make one feel giddy? I love whirligig things, Gildas!"

  "Yes, there will be some comic slides after the lecture," says Gildas. "Make haste, children, and get good seats. Mr. Pendrill, I have company now. And, Jasper, I can take care of the children."

  Jemmie has rushed up to her and possessed himself of her hand. Jasper is just escorting his little flock to her dissolving view entertainment for the Sunday school children. He detects something amiss with Gildas' voice, and glances quickly, with a sudden flash of dread and pain, from one face to the other.

  Pendrill forgets to acknowledge him, or to speak to the children, who stare in amazement as the curate goes off quickly towards the church mission chapel without a word.

  "What a beautiful evening, Jasper!" says Gildas. "I suppose I must hurry on now, and see to the fixing of the curtain."

  "Yes, beautiful," Jasper says, absently, "but the wind is very cold. I will go back now. Thank you for taking care of the children."

  He turns away, not caring or heeding just then where he goes, unable to bear the light that is shining in her eyes; while Gildas, in the midst of the children, and followed presently towards the school by an ever-increasing throng of juveniles, goes on to deliver her popular Sunday school lecture on "The Life and Work of Robert Raikes."

  Chapter 14

  The Curate's Resolve

  A MOTHER'S eye would detect the signs of sleeplessness and suffering in the face of Gildas as she enters the breakfast room next morning and bends over her father for his morning kiss, but old Mr. Haven is reading in his denominational quarterly the account of a special mission which has resulted in the conversion of eleven Jews. His looks are glowing with joy and praise while he eagerly reads the paragraph aloud.

  Gildas has shopping to do on behalf of the Junior Dorcas, and she ought to pay a visit to the home of a truant member of her Sunday school class; but she feels afraid to go out. Often and often in street and lane has she come across him, and with that passionate cry of love still echoing in her heart she can scarcely bear the idea of coming face to face with him again.

  Bernard Pendrill, too, has had a sleepless night, but the morning finds him calm and resolute, fronting his conviction of duty with stern and decided purpose. He has been blameworthy, even though for a moment he allowed the veil to drop from the secret of his heart -- he must suffer for it.

  Dear as his Meadthorpe work has become to him, he must leave it as soon as his Rector can set him free -- leave it for both their sakes, and chiefly for the sake of the Church of Christ which claims the fidelity of his soul. Has he not vowed to banish and drive away with diligence all erroneous and strange doctrines, and minister that which the Lord hath commanded and the Church and realm hath received? No alliance can be possible between a life devoted to the sacred work of the priesthood, and another life that is so deplorably lacking in reverence for much that pertains to the Church as established by law.

  All through the early morning service the weary heart-struggle goes on. The very thought of the preceding evening makes him condemn himself as unworthy of his exalted vocation. In darkness and depression of soul he lingers alone in the church at the close of the service, kneeling in penitential prayer near the flower-crowned altar where the cross is gleaming in the morning light.

  Steadfastly, as a dark temptation, Pendrill refuses the love-dream of his life. Sacrifice to him means duty, and duty means prompt, unshrinking action. There is an explanation due to her, and this must be made, and then farewell evermore to the thought that is disloyalty to the doctrines and faith he confesses.

  * * *

  "Begging your pardon, Miss Gildas, for disturbing of you when you're so busy preparing your lesson for tonight's Bible class, here's that there curate from Saint Simeon's at the front door," says Emery, looking into the sanctum of her young mistress during the morning. "Shall I tell him you're busy, miss, and ask him for to give me the message? It is only something about the little boy as was burnt, I reckon. 'Tis too bad for folks to call of a morning, t
o be sure! I told him master were out a-driving in Mr. Mundey's trap, but he asked particular for you, miss. Maybe, though, I could get rid of him."

  "Show Mr. Pendrill in, Emery. I will come," says Gildas, making a last entry in her notebook and a reference to the Commentary she is consulting. Emery glances at her with sympathy, well aware she prizes peace and quiet while engaged in preparation.

  "Maybe he's only come to borrow some bandages or something, miss," she says. "It's to be hoped he won't stop long."

  Last night seems to Pendrill like a wild fancy, as Gildas comes in quietly and asks how young Gilbert is progressing. It must have been his own imagination surely that in the starlight read more than calm courtesy in those dark eyes, shadowed by the deep, long lashes. How fair she looks, standing by the window in the glow of the wintry sunshine, in her neat dress of dark blue serge, a few ivy leaves fastened into her brooch. It is a minute or two before he can speak, for her composure makes it a hard task for him to introduce the subject that yet must be opened and closed between them.

  "Miss Haven," he says, "I am unable to forgive myself for my impertinence to you last night. I have come to ask you in your generosity to forget my ungentlemanly conduct. My deepest apologies are due to you. This morning I thought of writing an apology, but I wanted to see you. I have just come from an interview with my Rector. As soon as possible I shall leave Meadthorpe. Mr. Bertram will seek at once for my successor."

  Whatever sort of speech Gildas in her heart of hearts may have expected, there is no change in the quiet dignity of her demeanour. "So you have come to say goodbye?" she remarks. "I am sure Mr. Bertram will miss you very much; but I have heard it remarked that the air here does not seem to suit you. For some people, Meadthorpe is considered too bracing, perhaps"

  "It is not the air," he says hurriedly. "We are not likely to speak thus together again, and I will not hide from you that Meadthorpe has meant for me untold suffering -- and all I shall ever know of love. I thank heaven the suffering is for me alone. Now I go forth, Gildas. Will you say, 'God bless you'?"

  But Gildas says nothing at all. Jones is curled up in the window seat, scenting war in his dreams, for as he lies asleep he gives vent occasionally to barks of reproach and indignation. She lays her hand soothingly on him, and tries to answer her visitor, but is dumb.

  "Gildas ... you will see I must go. I cannot, dare not, be happy as my whole heart craves. The one I love thinks lightly of much that is precious and sacred to my soul. With the ideas she cherishes I never could have sympathy. Marriage would be a misery for her, as well as a wrong to my Church. She is not one to be gently led and persuaded into the paths consecrated for me by every memory and every hope. Her convictions are firm and strong as my own, and her conscience tells her, as mine does, we never must stand nearer than we do now. It is God's own hand that sets us apart. That has been revealed to me. Now you know why I leave Meadthorpe. All night long these farewell words to you have been burning in my heart."

  "Mr. Pendrill," says Gildas gently, but with a proud dignity that warns him he has said enough, "I think you are forgetting yourself. Such words as these are best unsaid. Have you not rather been taking it for granted that a contrary decision on your part would have brought the ... the road you speak of nearer to your own? Have you any right to assume she would have been willing to ... to...."

  Then Gildas comes to a dead stop, for she meets his eyes again, and he comes near to her, and takes both her trembling hands.

  "I have no rights at all," he says, "and from you I only ask forgetfulness, save in your prayers for such as earnestly desire to do the right, yet see dimly, and find the way thorny and sharp while struggling to help the flock of God. I hope the day will come, Gildas, that sets you as queen in the home of some thrice-happy man. You are young, and the end is not yet. As for me, only tell me you forgive me, and wish me Godspeed, and I shall be stronger to bear my part."

  "I do wish you Godspeed," says Gildas; "and you are right to do what conscience says is your duty. I hope you will be very happy where you go"

  "And it is my -- our duty," he says, brokenly. "You feel that, too? Your conscience is witness with mine? With such differing doctrinal views we could not dwell together, Gildas?"

  Heaven knows what he hopes she will say, but she is very quiet. Only the silver ivy stirs and heaves a little as she gently withdraws her hands. "You came to say goodbye," she reminds him. "I think I must ask you to excuse me now. I have something to do. You will not remain to see Father?"

  "No, I can see nobody." He is about to add he intends walking all the rest of the day among the woods and fields, but he thinks this will sound to her childish, and he struggles for composure like her own. "There is only one thing more I ask you to let me say. I have heard you once looked on me almost as an enemy, Gildas, but you never can again. You know what none other knows on earth. And if trouble should ever fall on you, and if your life should ever know the need of a friend and helper, give me the joy to be that one. I dare not say more, but I will pray for you every day I live. And now, goodbye. May the Lord guard and keep you every step, and lead you into all truth, beloved!"

  "If you please, Miss Gildas, is there any orders for the parcels delivery today? It's one o'clock, miss, and time to lay the cloth."

  Emery has devised these manoeuvres to rid her young mistress of the intruder who has so long interrupted her preparation. She is successful, for Bernard Pendrill departs, looking so unlike himself that Emery says, having let him out, "That there accident do seem to have given the curate a turn, Miss Gildas. He looks for all the world like my poor sister, Phoebe Ann, that had the jaundice. You remember her as used to sit third pew from the bottom left hand side, before she married the fishmonger and went away to distant parts. I knew you was wishing him away, Miss Gildas, so when the parcels delivery knocked I just made it an excuse. I'll shake my head at the parcels delivery though, as there are no orders today. I forgot all about him. And how is the poor little boy at the Rectory, miss?"

  "I'll get you to call and enquire while you're out today,'' Gildas answers. "Mr. Pendrill only came to say goodbye. He is leaving Meadthorpe. He's going to some other curacy, I suppose. Well, I must get on with my lesson."

  "A-going away, is he, miss? Well, that's the best news I've heard for many a day. All the Rehoboth Chapel folks will rejoice, I'm sure. It's to be hoped somebody will come in his place as is not quite so bigoted and so Papistical, what with prancing processions and bobbings here and there, and a great gilt crucifix, I'm told, inside the church. The Rector have given way to him a deal too much. Oh, he's good riddance, Miss Gildas, and I'm sure you sings 'Hallelujah' this day that he's taking his departure."

  If Gildas sings thanksgiving, it is through tears. She locks herself into her little study and only God sees how there, from the smitten rock, the welling fountain of trouble outflows at His feet who knows the heart, and can touch its tears in infinite pity.

  Presently Gildas' father comes in, calling her excitedly to receive and entertain an old scholar, grown to manhood, whom he has met revisiting Meadthorpe. The visitor stays to dinner, and Gildas is full of interest and enquiries as to his relatives and his personal doings. That her own life has this day been wounded sore is the last thing that occurs to anybody.

  Only Jasper Ruthven, hearing by-and-by that a new curate is coming to Saint Simeon's and Mr. Pendrill is leaving -- it is believed to seek milder air -- secretly connects this news with the fact that Gildas has gone to London on a visit, and that before she left, he read in her face that in some mysterious way the careless light-heartedness of her girlhood was gone. And Miss Rowena, patiently nursing her little nephew back to health, understands why Pendrill is going, and crowns him her hero yet the more, because for conscience' sake he has turned from the vision of love.

  * * *

  Bernard Pendrill has been asked to take temporary duty for an Oxford friend. As he is restlessly anxious now to get away, Mr. Bertram sets him free before he has se
cured other help. The last Sunday of his stay in Meadthorpe arrives, and there is scarcely room at Saint Simeon's for the congregation that flocks to his farewell service. His earnestness and eloquence and his own self-forgetful example have widely influenced the whole neighbourhood.

  Rich people are there who have been constrained to give up their wonted entertainments on Sundays and Fridays, and to turn their thoughts into higher channels than mere self-gratification. And the poor are there in large numbers, all calling to mind some kindly ministry the young curate with the gentle but grave face has done for them and theirs.

  Greatly to his own astonishment, Reuben Demsey is among the worshippers at the parish church, having brought his little Kitty at her earnest entreaty to see the last of her friend and helper, for Kitty is stronger and stouter now, and can get to Meadthorpe by walking slowly, and occasionally enjoying a lift in her father's arms. Demsey's wages have undergone an increase, too -- a fact he somehow associates with the friendship of his master with Mr. Pendrill. He cannot help thinking the clergyman put in a good word for him with Farmer Burrows, for the sake of those depending on him.

  The carter is sorely baffled as to how to find the places in the prayer book that has been lent him, and he gives it up at last as a bad job, inwardly congratulating himself that the Rehoboth order of service is free from all these "ins and outs." Everybody knows how that goes: prayer, hymn, reading, long prayer, chant, exposition, long prayer, hymn, notices, sermon, collection, hymn, benediction. That is simple enough, and he heartily wishes himself in his usual seat this evening, taking down Mr. Mountford's "heads," and nodding assent to his arguments. But little Kitty, with flushed cheeks and quick-coming breath, keeps her eyes fixed with eager intensity on Bernard Pendrill, and feels a charm she can scarcely describe in the delicate flowers on the altar, the gleaming candles, and the thrilling voices of the white robed choir.