One day he was wanted; and I had to summon him. Brother Robinson and another minister, hearing of his ‘trial,’ had come to see him. I told him this upon the stair-landing in a whisper. He was strangely troubled.
‘They will want me to lay bare my heart. I cannot do it. Paul, stay with me. They mean well; but as for spiritual help at such a time – it is God only, God only, who can give it.’
So I went in with him. They were two ministers from the neighbourhood; both older than Ebenezer Holman; but evidently inferior to him in education and worldly position. I thought they looked at me as if I were an intruder, but remembering the minister’s words I held my ground, and took up one of poor Phillis’s books (of which I could not read a word) to have an ostensible occupation. Presently I was asked to ‘engage in prayer’, and we all knelt down; Brother Robinson ‘leading’, and quoting largely as I remember from the Book of Job. He seemed to take for his text, if texts are ever taken for prayers, ‘Behold thou hast instructed many; but now it is come upon thee, and thou faintest, it toucheth thee and thou art troubled.’ When we others rose up, the minister continued for some minutes on his knees. Then he too got up, and stood facing us, for a moment, before we all sate down in conclave. After a pause Robinson began –
‘We grieve for you, Brother Holman, for your trouble is great. But we would fain have you remember you are as a light set on a hill; and the congregations are looking at you with watchful eyes. We have been talking as we came along on the two duties required of you in this strait; Brother Hodgson and me. And we have resolved to exhort you on these two points. First, God has given you the opportunity of showing forth an example of resignation.’ Poor Mr Holman visibly winced at this word. I could fancy how he had tossed aside such brotherly preachings in his happier moments; but now his whole system was unstrung, and ‘resignation’ seemed a term which presupposed that the dreaded misery of losing Phillis was inevitable. But good stupid Mr Robinson went on. ‘We hear on all sides that there are scarce any hopes of your child’s recovery; and it may be well to bring you to mind of Abraham; and how he was willing to kill his only child when the Lord commanded. Take example by him, Brother Holman. Let us hear you say, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”’
There was a pause of expectancy. I verily believe the minister tried to feel it; but he could not. Heart of flesh was too strong. Heart of stone he had not.
‘I will say it to my God, when He gives me strength, – when the day comes,’ he spoke at last.
The other two looked at each other, and shook their heads. I think the reluctance to answer as they wished was not quite unexpected. The minister went on: ‘There are hopes yet,’ he said, as if to himself. ‘God has given me a great heart for hoping, and I will not look forward beyond the hour.’ Then turning more to them, and speaking louder, he added: ‘Brethren, God will strengthen me when the times comes, when such resignation as you speak of is needed. Till then I cannot feel it; and what I do not feel I will not express; using words as if they were a charm.’ He was getting chafed, I could see.
He had rather put them out by these speeches of his; but after a short time and some more shakes of the head, Robinson began again, –
‘Secondly, we would have you listen to the voice of the rod, and ask yourself for what sins this trial has been laid upon you; whether you may not have been too much given up to your farm and your cattle; whether this world’s learning has not puffed you up to vain conceit and neglect of the things of God; whether you have not made an idol of your daughter?’
‘I cannot answer – I will not answer!’ exclaimed the minister. ‘My sins I confess to God. But if they were scarlet (and they are so in His sight,’ he added, humbly), ‘I hold with Christ that afflictions are not sent by God in wrath as penalties for sin.’
‘Is that orthodox, Brother Robinson?’ asked the third minister, in a deferential tone of inquiry.
Despite the minister’s injunction not to leave him, I thought matters were getting so serious that a little homely interruption would be more to the purpose than my continued presence, and I went round to the kitchen to ask for Betty’s help.
‘’Od rot ’em!’ said she; ‘they’re always a-coming at illconvenient times; and they have such hearty appetites, they’ll make nothing of what would have served master and you since our poor lass has been ill. I’ve but a bit of cold beef in th’ house; but I’ll do some ham and eggs, and that’ll rout ’em from worrying the minister. They’re a deal quieter after they’ve had their victual. Last time as old Robinson came, he was very reprehensible upon master’s learning, which he couldn’t compass to save his life, so he needn’t have been afeard of that temptation, and used words long enough to have knocked a body down; but after me and missus had given him his fill of victual, and he’d had some good ale and a pipe, he spoke just like any other man, and could crack a joke with me.’
Their visit was the only break in the long weary days and nights. I do not mean that no other inquiries were made. I believe that all the neighbours hung about the place daily till they could learn from some out-comer how Phillis Holman was. But they knew better than to come up to the house, for the August weather was so hot that every door and window was kept constantly open, and the least sound outside penetrated all through. I am sure the cocks and hens had a sad time of it; for Betty drove them all into an empty barn, and kept them fastened up in the dark for several days, with very little effect as regarded their crowing and clacking. At length came a sleep which was the crisis, and from which she wakened up with a new faint life. Her slumber had lasted many, many hours. We scarcely dared to breathe or move during the time; we had striven to hope so long, that we were sick at heart, and durst not trust in the favourable signs: the even breathing, the moistened skin, the slight return of delicate colour into the pale, wan lips. I recollect stealing out that evening in the dusk, and wandering down the grassy lane, under the shadow of the over-arching elms to the little bridge at the foot of the hill, where the lane to the Hope Farm joined another road to Hornby. On the low parapet of that bridge I found Timothy Cooper, the stupid, half-witted labourer, sitting, idly throwing bits of mortar into the brook below. He just looked up at me as I came near, but gave me no greeting, either by word or gesture. He had generally made some sign of recognition to me, but this time I thought he was sullen at being dismissed. Nevertheless I felt as if it would be a relief to talk a little to some one, and I sate down by him. While I was thinking how to begin, he yawned weariedly.
‘You are tired, Tim?’ said I.
‘Ay,’ said he. ‘But I reckon I may go home now.’
‘Have you been sitting here long?’
‘Welly all day long. Leastways sin’ seven i’ th’ morning.’
‘Why, what in the world have you been doing?’
‘Nought.’
‘Why have you been sitting here, then?’
‘T’ keep carts off.’ He was up now, stretching himself, and shaking his lubberly limbs.
‘Carts! what carts?’
‘Carts as might ha’ wakened yon wench! It’s Hornby market-day. I reckon yo’re no better nor a half-wit yoursel’.’ He cocked his eye at me as if he were gauging my intellect.
‘And have you been sitting here all day to keep the lane quiet?’
‘Aye. I’ve nought else to do. Th’ minister has turned me adrift. Have yo’ heard how th’ lass is faring tonight?’
‘They hope she’ll waken better for this long sleep. Good-night to you, and God bless you, Timothy,’ said I.
He scarcely took any notice of my words, as he lumbered across a stile that led to his cottage. Presently I went home to the farm. Phillis had stirred, had spoken two or three faint words. Her mother was with her, dropping nourishment into her scarce conscious mouth. The rest of the household were summoned to evening prayer for the first time for many days. It was a return to the daily habits of happiness and health. But in these silent days our very lives
had been an unspoken prayer. Now we met in the house-place, and looked at each other with strange recognition of the thankfulness on all our faces. We knelt down; we waited for the minister’s voice. He did not begin as usual. He could not; he was choking. Presently we heard the strong man’s sob. Then old John turned round on his knees, and said –
‘Minister, I reckon we have blessed the Lord wi’ all our souls, though we’ve ne’er talked about it; and maybe He’ll not need spoken words this night. God bless us all, and keep our Phillis safe from harm! Amen.’
Old John’s impromptu prayer was all we had that night.
‘Our Phillis,’ as he called her, grew better day by day from that time. Not quickly; I sometimes grew desponding, and feared that she would never be what she had been before; no more she has, in some ways.
I seized an early opportunity to tell the minister about Timothy Cooper’s unsolicited watch on the bridge during the long summer’s day.
‘God forgive me!’ said the minister. ‘I have been too proud in my own conceit. The first steps I take out of this house shall be to Cooper’s cottage.’
I need hardly say Timothy was reinstated in his place on the farm; and I have often since admired the patience with which his master tried to teach him how to do the easy work which was henceforward carefully adjusted to his capacity.
Phillis was carried downstairs, and lay for hour after hour quite silent on the great sofa, drawn up under the windows of the house-place. She seemed always the same, gentle, quiet, and sad. Her energy did not return with her bodily strength. It was sometimes pitiful to see her parents’ vain endeavours to rouse her to interest. One day the minister brought her a set of blue ribbons, reminding her with a tender smile of a former conversation in which she had owned to a love of such feminine vanities. She spoke gratefully to him, but when he was gone she laid them on one side, and languidly shut her eyes. Another time I saw her mother bring her the Latin and Italian books that she had been so fond of before her illness – or, rather, before Holdsworth had gone away. That was worst of all. She turned her face to the wall, and cried as soon as her mother’s back was turned. Betty was laying the cloth for the early dinner. Her sharp eyes saw the state of the case.
‘Now, Phillis!’ said she, coming up to the sofa; ‘we ha’ done a’ we can for you, and th’ doctors has done a’ they can for you, and I think the Lord has done a’ He can for you, and more than you deserve, too, if you don’t do something for yourself. If I were you, I’d rise up and snuff the moon, sooner than break your father’s and your mother’s hearts wi’ watching and waiting till it pleases you to fight your own way back to cheerfulness. There, I never favoured long preachings, and I’ve said my say.’
A day or two after Phillis asked me, when we were alone, if I thought my father and mother would allow her to go and stay with them for a couple of months. She blushed a little as she faltered out her wish for change of thought and scene.
‘Only for a short time, Paul. Then – we will go back to the peace of the old days. I know we shall; I can, and I will!’
Elizabeth Gaskell, Cranford
(Series: # )
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