Gildas is in that state of mind which leaps beyond its own intensity to claim sympathy from another exultant soul. Involuntarily she looks at Pendrill, who is standing not far off, and she meets his gaze seeking her own eyes with the same longing to share that indescribable sense of rejoicing and uplifting.
She looks away directly, slightly flushing, but both are aware, in that moment, that the impulse to seek sympathy caused that sudden mutual glance. A movement in the crowd caused by pressure at the entrance brings Pendrill close behind her. At this juncture a young man belonging to Saint Simeon's is giving Tennyson's "Lady Clare" with much expressive grace, and a working man near them, a hearty Wesleyan, becomes quite absorbed in the recital as it finishes up satisfactorily:
"He laughed a laugh of merry scorn,
He turned and kissed her where she stood."
And the man says aloud, almost unconsciously, "Praise the Lord!"
This time Pendrill shares the smile with which Gildas and Mrs. Mountford listen to the man. "After all," says the curate in a low voice, "our friend is not without reason, Miss Haven. The delights of poetry are something to praise God for. It would be a cheerless sort of world sometimes save for the weavings of golden imaginings."
Gildas does not speak for a moment, but she has something within her heart to tell him, and by-and-by she says rather brokenly, "Mr. Pendrill."
"Miss Haven?"
"I ought to ask your pardon. You know what I thought about that barrel organ man who disturbed the lecture at our chapel. I met him afterwards, and he told me he came there because he had seen me go in that evening. I have given him a few pence sometimes, I suppose. I fear I was very unjust and uncharitable in what I said to you. I feel ashamed of myself. Please forget it if you can."
"Please say no more about that unfortunate barrel organ," he says gently. "I see an organ solo is our next item on this occasion. I hope it is not going to be the 'Lost Chord!'"
But both grow silent as a quiet youth takes his place at the sweet-toned organ of the hall, and sends a wave of throbbing melody, now hushing to a prayer-like murmur, now swelling into passionate pleading, and again deepening to strains of untold glory through every listening heart within that hall.
Pendrill looks at his programme, and sees the performer is Timotheus Mundey. He looks again in wonder. Never could he have associated that pale, shy, retiring lad, who has always seemed to him destitute of individuality, with such tones of "linked sweetness long drawn out," that seem the very breathings of the spirit crying heavenward.
"Do you mean to say," he asks Gildas, "that a musician is content to sell calicoes and ribbons in a country shop? I cannot understand it."
"I do not know that he is content," she says, "but I know Theo Mundey is good and great enough to set duty before all else. The business needs him sorely, if it is to be worth anything by the time his young brother can take up the work. His father earnestly desired his help, and so he does his best in the shop, and waits. But when Harry is old enough to set him free, I believe the hope of his heart is to devote himself to music."
"But do you know what he has been playing, Miss Haven?" asks Pendrill in surprise. "I wonder Mr. Weston, your deacon, can sit still."
"Well," says Gildas, "I am not sure that he would if the name of the piece happened to be on the programme. Theo Mundey has several books of voluntaries, and I suppose this 'Ave Maria ' is among them. It is by Liszt, is it not? But music means surely whatever our own hearts find there. It is more than creeds and doctrines -- it is the universal voice, and speaks to one's inmost soul. There is no face in this hall but looks inspired by the message of those tones."
And what does her own soul hear when the notes of Bernard Pendrill's violin echo through the hall? He believes that no heart guesses the secret that is poured out in that sweet, dreamy plaint. He is encored and applauded on every side, but only to one has his music borne its spirit-whisper.
Chapter 13
In the Starlight
"YOU will break down one of these days, Bernard, my dear fellow, unless you take more care of yourself. My daughter Rowena was saying last evening how worn and ill you look; and now I come to look at you, I see she is right. The fact is you're too intense, and have the work too much on your mind. I believe you consider yourself responsible to the Almighty for every individual soul in the parish. That way leads -- well, not to madness, I hope, in this instance, but certainly to spiritual depression and bodily breakdown. Now my throat is better, you really must spare yourself, Pendrill. Asceticism is all very well, but you're getting quite thin and white of face. Somehow or other you're overdoing it."
So says the kind-hearted Rector anxiously to his curate, whom he suspects of self-imposed fasting carried too far, in addition to the consuming zeal and unremitting labours to which Miss Rowena attributes the look of illness she has been the first to observe.
But Bernard Pendrill, conscience stricken and unhappy, says within himself there is no medicine for a mind diseased. The passion of love is strong upon him, and every hour of the day he fights it, trying to forget its object, yet seeing her continually in the mirror of remembrance.
At Oxford his mind was seriously and solemnly made up for celibacy -- the celibate priesthood reaching more to his ideal of spiritual devotion than that necessarily occupied also with domestic thoughts. Hitherto his heart and life have been unruffled by any emotions save those stirred by his holy vocation.
When first his mind found itself lingering around one sweet, girlish face, his conscience awoke in an agony of reproach, telling him this fancy for a woman who openly opposed the holy Church was a temptation of the devil, a snare to weaken his spiritual force, and make him a traitor to the religious life.
Over and over again has he entreated for deliverance from this snare, pouring out the bitterness of the spirit conflict within him in the quiet church as he kneels before the altar.
Is not the commandment clear that the very eye if offending must be cast away? Though Gildas Haven be the light to which his heart turns in infinite longing, no thought of her must triumph over Conscience, or make him unfaithful to that Church he holds more precious than all.
Such thoughts as these chime sadly, earnestly within his mind, as he reproaches himself for a heartache he condemns as evil. The thought of changing his sphere of work begins to possess him more and more. He feels it would be better to live where he is never likely to hear the voice of Gildas Haven, or look upon her face.
Then comes the feeling that it is cowardly to turn one's back on temptation -- can he not confront it and overcome, like those spiritual princes, those sainted ones who never by looks of women have been beguiled from religious vows and their heavenly vocation? The Church has many faithful daughters, yet not one of these has made his heart beat quicker or stirred his pulses like this girl who is without the fold -- such a dream is a snare of the arch enemy, and as such he will resist it, pray it down, forsake it!
* * *
As time goes on, it comes to pass that Meadthorpe is greatly agitated over another little ferment of feeling between church and chapel. There is a vacancy in the Queen Adelaide Almshouses, an institution for the aged and feeble poor. This is managed by a committee, on which the Church party predominates, and Rehoboth people are deeply concerned to secure the benefits and privileges of the place for old Mrs. Meadows, who is one of their members. She is the pet old lady of Gildas Haven -- a sweet faced old body whose weary eyes have looked on many a storm of life, and who has hard shift now in age and infirmity to keep out of the Union workhouse.
"I hear they means to get in Mrs. Nubble, that washes for the Rectory, and she able to earn her living, and with sons to help her," says Emery to Gildas. "You wouldn't get that committee favouring a poor body from Rehoboth. Not likely! Mr. Mundey and Mr. Weston will do their best on the Board, I know, and Mr. and Mrs. Mountford is trying to persuade folks to take an interest in Granny Meadows. But, mark my words, Miss Gildas, 'twill be settled in the end
that the most deserving body is her as attends the parish church."
Gildas makes an appeal to Jasper to enlist Mr. Pendrill's sympathy on behalf of their old friend. But he confides to her that the curate has "thrown him over," as he expresses it -- at any rate, they see very little of each other now.
"The fact is," says Jasper, "he will at any sacrifice be true to his convictions, and I respect him for it. He heard I was writing a paper for The Socratian, holding a brief for Disestablishment, and he came up to see me about it, perfectly shocked to find me advocating 'sacrilege and robbery,' and denouncing me as ready to rob England of 'that national Church which represents her religious feeling.' We went in for a long argument for and against State interference and legislature in spiritual things, and I told him my reasons for believing the Church, unbound from State control, would not be ruined, but saved.
"But he considers me a dangerous Radical, panting to pull down the religious bulwarks of my native land, so my advocacy of any cause would only injure it just now, I fear. Why not speak to him yourself, or go up to the Rectory and see Mr. Bertram and Miss Rowena? I'm sure they will see the claims of our old lady to be the strongest that have been laid before the committee."
Gildas cannot bear to picture the disappointment of Mrs. Meadows when she finds the shelter for which she longs so expectantly is lost to her. The matter is so laid upon her heart that at last she resolves to adopt Jasper's advice, and put the case personally before the Rector. She has never been to his house, and Miss Rowena Bertram's dignified demeanour always strikes her as formidable. But, as she thinks of the cosy refuge of the Queen Adelaide Almshouses, with its weekly pension and gifts of coal and bread, and the struggling life that surely merits a quiet haven at its eventide, she feels fearless enough to make the call.
Mr. Bertram is out when she calls at the Rectory, but she hears he will shortly return, and she asks to see his daughter, who, she is aware, has a good deal to do with the management of the institution. Miss Rowena greets her civilly, but is rather astonished at her calling, and suspects she has come to protest against the fact that a Rehoboth child was lately persuaded to become a member of the Guild of Innocents at Saint Simeon's. The curate manages this guild, and Miss Rowena heartily wishes he were present just now. He would know far better than herself how to argue with this misguided young person.
"I must apologize for calling, Miss Bertram," says Gildas, "but I thought if I saw you personally I might be able to interest you in a poor old lady who is a candidate for the vacancy in the almshouse."
"Oh, I believe the vacancy is filled, or nearly so," says Miss Rowena. "Application has been made by a respectable woman in whom we are much interested. I know the family well, having trained three of the daughters for domestic service."
"Then," says Gildas, eagerly, "surely they can help their mother now. You're referring to Mrs. Nubble, I think, Miss Bertram? Isn't the election decided by the need of the candidate? If you would only see Mrs. Meadows, who lodges at River Yard, and enquire into her case, I'm sure you would see she is very poor, and most deserving. Her husband was lost at sea, and she brought up an only son who would doubtless have looked after her old age, but he was a fireman, and died in the endeavour to save life. Mrs. Meadows has been a nurse, and she has been a help to so many. It would be a mercy to give her peace and shelter now for the few years that remain."
"I believe the election comes off very soon. I'm not certain of the day. I see Mr. Pendrill has just come in. I'll ask him to join us. He visits in River Yard, and may know something of this case in which you're interested, Miss Haven."
She goes out into the hall, and shakes hands with the curate, who is removing his coat. "Father is out just now, Mr. Pendrill," she says. "I hope you can wait. I want you in the drawing room. Miss Haven is here, pleading for somebody else she wants to get into the almshouse. You will know what to say better than I can. Perhaps you will have time to make a few enquiries into the case. Of course, it is one of their Rehoboth people. You have been hurrying, I fear, Mr. Pendrill. You look quite pale."
"I am a little out of breath," he says, trying to speak casually, but his voice is not natural, and there is something in his face as he advances to Gildas that shocks Miss Rowena with a sudden consciousness of trouble and amazement. She is bewildered by the thought that has taken possession of her, and womanlike she scans closely the girlish face that quietly greets his entrance.
Gildas is evidently the earnest advocate of the Rehoboth member; but he -- for a moment Pendrill's words are only stammered and abrupt. Miss Rowena has never seen him confused before, and she realizes, with a cold aching at her heart, that she stands outside his dreams, his life, his secret thoughts, while this mere child, this stranger, this heretical Nonconformist has the power to shake his self-possession and bring the light to his eyes by her very presence. Another moment, and Pendrill is his calm, courteous self again.
"Your earnest recommendation is sure to have weight with the committee," he tells Gildas, politely. "Indeed, so strongly has the case been advocated by Mr. Mundey already that I feel certain it will meet with careful consideration. I believe Mrs. Meadows is at present helped by the parish?"
Gildas tells them Rehoboth Chapel allows the old lady a small weekly pension, but the rent of her room is her principal expense, and to live rent free would be untold help to her. Miss Rowena is trying to listen, feeling that her interest in this aged widow should be warmer, but far more concerned as to these two who have so suddenly become associated in her thoughts.
Presently the Rector comes in, kindly and genial, enquiring as to Mr. Haven's health, and making Gildas more at home than she has felt with his more reserved daughter. To him the case has to be stated again, and Gildas pleads hard on behalf of the old woman, feeling in her heart that in spite of all the surrounding civility, the Church protégée is far more likely to obtain the room than the Rehoboth member.
She has just risen to go, and they are standing discussing the prospect of a fine or snowy evening, when a loud, frightened cry rings shrilly through the house.
Miss Rowena, pressing her hand to her side, for she is subject to attacks of palpitation, says faintly, "Something's happened to Gilbert -- oh, go and see what it is!"
Gildas is already halfway up the stairs, that piercing cry causing her to forget she is in a strange house; and the servants hurry likewise to the little attic which is Gilbert's playroom, and where he is spending the day owing to a cold.
The child is screaming in fright. Wrapped in his warm dressing gown he has enlivened his solitude by making toffee over the fire. Growing careless in his excitement, he ventured so near the stove that the bottom of his dressing gown caught, and one of his legs is hurt and scorched.
Gildas has the thick hearthrug over him at once, and Pendrill presses it on the gown until all fear of further harm is past. Cook tries to remove Gilbert's sock, but Gildas stops her, as the boy is calling out and she sees the attempt is hurting him. She asks for oil, and soaks the part well before she attempts to remove the sock.
Miss Rowena is by this time in the room, and marvels at Gildas' self-possession, for the very sight of the injured limb turns her sick and faint.
Pendrill goes off for the doctor, leaving Rowena to study Gildas' quiet, tender face and gentle hands that shrink from no service that can remove pain, and help the young sufferer.
"Aunt Rowena," Gilbert says faintly, "you told me never to take away the guard from the fire, and I did today. I wanted some fun, and I made some toffee up here unknown to you, and now I'm going to die -- I'm in awful pain."
"Oh, my poor boy," says Miss Rowena, speaking to him for the first time demonstratively, "the pain will be better very soon. Look how beautifully Miss Haven is bandaging you now. Where did you learn to do things like this?" she asks Gildas. "You must be very strong minded."
"I went to ambulance classes," says Gildas, "and I get practice among the children around. Gilbert is very exhausted, Miss Bertram. He ough
t to have something at once. Have you any beef tea?"
"Oh, yes; we always keep it on hand for the poor people," Rowena answers. "Will you feed him? Anything like this makes my hand shake so; but I will be better presently."
Gildas tells her she should take some beef tea herself, and presently persuades her to do so, for she sees Miss Bertram is thoroughly unnerved today.
By the time the doctor arrives the injured limb has been placed in warm water, and then dressed with lint soaked in oil, covered with cotton wool and a bandage made from old sheeting. Dr. Spencer will not disturb the limb just now. He secures the bandage, and questions Gildas as to the treatment.
"These ambulance young ladies will ruin my practice before long," he tells Miss Bertram, jestingly. He has known Gildas all her life, and he calls her his assistant surgeon.
Gilbert has been in truth more frightened than injured. By the time he has taken a restorative brought by the doctor, and watched the turning of his hat box into a cradle to rest his leg, the pain is subdued, and he goes off to sleep holding the hand of his "nurse," who is startled to find how long she has lingered at the Rectory.
Gildas is beginning to feel the reaction from the strain on her nervous system as she comes downstairs rather slowly with Miss Rowena. She looks pale and somewhat tremulous, and the Rector's daughter offers her refreshment, but she declines, saying she has an engagement at a seven o'clock meeting.
The Rector holds both her hands, as he says feelingly, "How can we thank you, my dear young lady, for your helpfulness in my little grandson's danger and suffering? It seems sadly inhospitable to let you go off like this, just as dinner is about to be served. But if you're really obliged to leave us...."