"Emery, dear, good Emery, the tea," says Jasper, pleadingly.
"Oh, well, sir, the kettle won't boil no faster if all the priests in the Church of England were on their last legs; and everyone at Rehoboth knows I like to speak my mind once for all, and have done with it. What hath light in common with darkness? That's what I find in Scripture, and I don't like these here goings-on at all. There are Church of England convents as well nowadays, so I have heard tell. And I shouldn't be surprised if that there long tale about illness and dying isn't all a trap to get Miss Gildas shut up in a convent, and tempted by fasting and torture until she becomes a Jesuit. And mind you don't get kidnapped off to a monastery, Mr. Jasper. I wouldn't trust myself in the company of such as is under the yoke of superstition."
She turns to Gildas. "Come, my dearie, here's the tea and a bit of biscuit, and I have put a few into your bag. I suppose you know best, Miss Gildas, but I have a strong presentiment there's evil to come from suchlike doings as this!"
Gildas scarcely hears these words. She drinks the tea, seeing Jasper is resolute, and then hurries out to the carriage. Mr. Weston comes up just as they are starting, and she catches a glimpse of his face, looking at her with the same sorrowful solicitude and anxious pain she has seen in her father's eyes.
"Jasper," she says, suddenly, "you mentioned Mr. Weston. What has he to do with Bernard? You know he disliked him here because of all that went on at Saint Simeon's. Has he seen him since he left?"
"I will tell you all I know," answers Jasper. "Mr. Weston sought me out two hours ago, and asked me to find you and take you to Rosebrake. I think he shrank from telling you of Mr. Pendrill's danger, and he knows we're as brother and sister."
"I wanted you, directly I heard his voice call me," she tells him. "No one could help me like you. How quickly the horses go. How soon will we reach him, Jasper?"
"We'll not be long. I told them to put in the best horses they had. Gildas, you know Mr. Pendrill's sisters are there -- and Miss Rowena. She went over with her father yesterday, and he was so ill they wouldn't leave. You're quite sure you mean to stay? You mean to nurse him now until the end?"
"Until the end," she answers, solemnly. "Jasper, you don't know, but in heart, in soul, I am his wife. None other has the right I have to tend him now. I will tell them he called me to come to him. I'll tell them his voice reached me when they believed him incapable of speech."
"They know that, Gildas," says Jasper. "Weston says in all Pendrill's wanderings his one cry has been on your name. There are not many of that name," he adds, with a tender smile, "and it must have thoroughly startled Weston at first to hear that continual cry. Today the doctor asked for the person he craved so constantly, and begged you might be sent for, so that Pendrill's mind might, if possible, be calmed into sleep. He has intervals of consciousness, but they are very short, and then he relapses into delirium. The doctor's words caused Mr. Weston to hurry back to Meadthorpe today. He has been away since Saturday, you know, but we little thought he was nursing Bernard Pendrill at One Tree Farm."
"One Tree Farm, Jasper?"
"Yes, that's where he was taken. The people are his parishioners, and most kind and attentive, I hear. The farm is by itself, some distance from the village of Rosebrake. The accident took place nearly a week ago. Pendrill was thrown from a cart. I must tell you what I heard earlier today. Theo Mundey was out in their trap on one of his longer country rounds, and he had taken Mr. Weston with him. The Mundeys have a new horse on trial, and they wanted Weston's opinion, as was once the local vet. They were near Rosebrake, it seems, and had taken the trap into the long pond where the horse was drinking, when all in a moment Mundey became aware that a brewer's horse had taken fright on the high road and was dashing in the direction of the disused pits.
"He flung himself out of the trap, half swam and half struggled to the bank, and managed to reach the wagon and cling to the horse's head. There was a man inside the wagon, but he looked half dazed. He was so frightened, in addition to his having had as much drink as he could take. Theo Mundey was badly bruised, poor fellow, and I fear it would have been worse for him but for Weston's help. Weston hurried after him, and the brewer's horse knew his voice and his touch. It seems he'd treated it here in Meadthorpe, and he soothed it and brought it to a standstill. It was one of Solly's horses, and they had to deliver in Dilchester."
"But -- Bernard?" says Gildas, with faltering voice.
"As far as we can make out, he must have met the cart earlier, and offered to drive it into Rosebrake. He probably detected the man was unfit to control the horse. Weston thinks the railway whistle on the bridge nearby frightened the creature. The brewer's man muttered something about 'parson been chucked out -- I can save myself -- see to parson!' Weston tied up the horse securely until passersby could assist him with it. He and Mundey, who must have been in a good deal of pain himself, went in search of the one about whom the man was evidently anxious.
"They found poor Pendrill lying insensible. They heard afterwards he was thrown out as the horse bolted. How Solly's man escaped is a marvel. Between them, Weston and Mundey carried Pendrill more than a mile to One Tree Farm, for by that time two lads passing from Bilsboro' undertook to look after Mundey's trap and Solly's cart. The horse was quiet enough then. Weston says they covered a hurdle with some straw and a piece of sacking they found in the brewer's van, and made a sort of stretcher, for Pendrill was quite helpless.
"Then Weston fetched the Rosebrake doctor, and Bernard Pendrill's sisters, who seem nervous in emergencies, for they begged him to remain, thinking he was a Meadthorpe friend. Weston seems very much cut up about Pendrill. He continued nursing him, it seems, until Miss Rowena Bertram came to help the sisters. Today Weston brought Theo home, none the worse apparently for his bruises. And then he came to me, asking me to tell you how continually Pendrill calls for you."
"But where is Bernard hurt?" she asks impatiently after that long discourse. "Did he strike his head? What happened when he fell?"
"It seems to be a fatal shock to the whole nervous system, Gildas, affecting brain and spine, and entirely exhausting his strength. The doctor says he was probably out of health at the time, and had no underlying power of resistance to the weakness caused by the accident. Solly's man, poor fellow, is in a dreadful state of mind about it. His boy's in Saint Simeon's choir, and Pendrill's been good to his family. The man says he was treated to a drink that day wherever he delivered ale, until he scarcely knew he was driving at all, and was almost overcome by sleep. The poor fellow has now signed the pledge in Miss Rowena's book, and he won't stay at the brewery. The Mundeys are going to try him as porter. They're always ready to help everyone. As for Theo, he's a grand fellow. He all but lost his life trying to save that poor helpless chap in the cart."
The rest of the drive is passed almost in silence. Gildas' heart is with Bernard, and every half hour seems thrice its real length to her agonized suspense, while Jasper's own heartbeats are conscious of her anxiety, and he tries to put away the memory of his own vain longing and aspiration for Gildas.
There has just come to him that glimmering of literary success and recognition which might yet beckon him on to prosperous authorship, and entitle him to indulge the thought of a lovely home of his own, but he knows his Gildas is lost to him evermore. Never will she be more than "Cousin" now. Never will she know the goal to which his tenderest yearnings have turned so long. And he accepts the will of the Lord he trusts. He will take up alone the burden of life cheerily, helpfully, praise-fully, since it is good in the Heavenly Father's sight that his dream be broken.
* * *
"Most peculiar! Really we do not know what to say. It is scarcely proper, is it, Letitia?"
Such is the murmur of Miss Sophia Pendrill, the elder of Bernard's stepsister. Gildas is standing in the little parlour of One Tree Farm, and Jasper is asking if she can be taken to Bernard Pendrill's presence, according to the wish of the doctor. Somehow, to these chilling looking spi
nsters, Gildas cannot tell the story of the voice she heard at the hospital. Her heart sinks within her. She is near to him now, and yet between them these elderly icicles array themselves, even though the hours of his life are numbered.
"We are not aware of any engagement," begins Miss Letitia, surveying Gildas disapprovingly through her eyeglass.
But just then Miss Rowena Bertram comes in, having heard of Gildas' arrival. She looks pale and worn herself, but takes both trembling hands in her own, and kisses Gildas in a gentle, womanly way that sets Jasper's heart at rest about leaving her at the farm.
"I'll take care of her," Miss Rowena tells him. "You had better come to poor Bernard at once, Gildas. The doctor says his animation must be calmed. It weakens him too much."
"Oh, then you know this young lady, Miss Bertram," says Miss Sophia, dubiously.
"Certainly I do," is the reply; "and the doctor's wish must be first in our thoughts just now, Miss Pendrill, as I am sure you will agree."
Miss Pendrill says something about bowing to "the dispensations of Providence," and "respecting the dear departing one's last wishes."
Miss Rowena glances at Gildas, and sees by her face she is unlikely to agitate the invalid by the undue display of emotion. Then she guides Gildas to the sick room, telling her on the way that further advice has been had from Dilchester, and it confirms the fears of the Rosebrake doctor -- that Bernard was so weakened by his austere, self-forgetful life as to possess no strength to battle against the shock.
Bernard is in one of his wandering phases when Gildas first sees him. He lies with closed eyes, looking prostrate and exhausted, murmuring disconnectedly a few lines from Browning over and over again.
Rowena Bertram's father, the Rector of Saint Simeon's, is with him, and makes room for Gildas with a sad, kind smile. This morning Bernard Pendrill joined in the prayers offered by Mr. Bertram and received the Communion. His next conscious moment is when, by-and-by, he feels the touch of a tender, calming hand; one soothing, helpful palm well used to weakness and pain, and he opens eyes that shine and brighten as he tries to draw her nearer.
The Misses Pendrill look shocked and amazed, but Miss Rowena's eyes fill with all-womanly tears as Gildas bends over him and gives him her first kiss. Is it not the kiss of a long, last farewell?
"You will not go -- you will stay until the last?" he falters, afraid she will vanish from his sight. "Gildas -- wife -- stay with me." He waits for a moment, then says, "Mr. Bertram?"
Only this morning he had breathed to the Rector his longing that Gildas might have a wife's right to nurse him, to close his eyes, to remember him as her own for ever. No such possibility has occurred to Gildas, but the Rector gently explains Bernard Pendrill's wishes, seeing his intense anxiety, and that it is pain for him to speak. She makes no protest. It is all one to her now, whatever may happen. All she desires is to be present with him, and comfort and help him until earthly help is over.
Mr. Bertram leaves at once to make hasty arrangements for the marriage the sick man has so earnestly at heart. Miss Rowena says her gold keeper ring shall be their wedding ring on the morrow, and Pendrill, looking in the tender eyes of his nurse, breathes faintly, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
The sufferer is rather weaker on the morrow, and those around him believe he will have passed into the coma, which is the fear shared by the doctor before Mr. Bertram can return. But Gildas knows Bernard is conscious, for at intervals he tries to press her hand, and when she gives him food he no longer takes it mechanically, but opens his dim eyes and accepts her ministrations with a tender smile.
Towards evening the Rector is again in the room, and Miss Rowena stands by the side of Gildas who is gently bathing Bernard's forehead with fragrant vinegar. The two maiden ladies are also present -- "out of respect for the dear one's memory" they tell each other solemnly, but now and then Miss Sophia shakes her head in protest.
Miss Letitia is heard to murmur, "Most peculiar, and we were not even introduced to the young person until yesterday. A very strange way indeed to enter the family, but we shall be glad to remember when he is gone that we gave way to the dear one's every whim."
Mr. Bertram almost breaks down as he speaks the words that unite these two -- the one in the fullness of her strength, the glow of her fresh young beauty, the other at the threshold of the unknown land. Mr. Bertram is the most agitated of any in the room. Bernard Pendrill's responses come in painful gasps, but his eyes are calm and glad, and Gildas turns her gaze only on him, scarcely conscious of anything except that he, her love, her husband, is leaving her.
The doctor comes in just as the short, simple service is over, and looks anxious when he has taken Pendrill's temperature and felt his pulse. Gildas sees and knows he is going to tell her that Bernard, by a strong, intense effort, has sustained his powers until the desire of his heart is fulfilled, but in all human probability they will now ebb quietly away, until exhausted nature sinks gently to rest. He gives Gildas full directions for her husband's care, seeing she is tearless and composed, and evidently used to nursing.
"I wanted him to have a trained nurse," he says, kindly, "but this is better. He looks quite content now I have put him into your care. I will be back the last thing tonight, Mrs. Pendrill."
Even the name does not startle Gildas or remove her thoughts from Bernard to whom she ministers now by sacred right. The sisters go out weeping, and confidentially lamenting they have lately bought brown dresses for best, that are "sure to shrink when dyed black."
Miss Rowena Bertram would leave husband and wife together, but her father, the Rector, thinks her presence may be some support to Gildas, for it is clear to his accustomed eyes that coma is gradually stealing over Bernard's senses. The clasp of his hand relaxes, a look of unconsciousness is seen on his face, and there is a change in his breathing.
Miss Rowena utters a low, troubled cry, and her father kneels quietly down beside the bed. The Rector's voice that so lately spoke the marriage service, breathes solemnly and clearly now the words from the Book of Common Prayer for the dying: "'O Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons, we humbly commend the soul of this, Thy servant, our dear brother, into Thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and a most merciful Saviour, most humbly beseeching Thee that it may be precious in Thy sight. Wash it, we pray Thee, in the blood of that immaculate Lamb that was slain to take away the sins of the world.'"
Chapter 18
His "Gift of God"
"It is not a coma," says Gildas, softly, during a pause in the Rector's prayers. "I have seen that several times. I am sure he is sleeping now. The sleep will do him good."
"He is sinking fast, my poor child," Mr. Bertram tells her, and Miss Rowena whispers, "He looks so unnatural. I think his sisters should come."
"He looks like this because he is exhausted," says Gildas. "He was worn out, and he has fallen asleep. I think I can get him to swallow what he has to take while he is sleeping. I won't wake him. Oh, Miss Bertram, I have prayed for him to sleep. Please ask them all outside to keep very, very quiet. It may be the crisis tonight."
Miss Rowena goes out to try and soothe Miss Sophia and Miss Letitia, who are sobbing audibly, and remarking that the wicked man who was unfit to drive "ought to be tried for manslaughter."
By-and-by the doctor returns, and in surprise and great relief confirms the assurance of Gildas that his patient is in a deep, soothing, thrice-healing sleep. "Better for him than all the medicine and doctoring in the world," says the medical man. "Let him see you when he awakes," he tells Gildas. "Your coming has wrought this miracle. It is one of those mysterious nerve breakdowns that respond to mental rather than physical treatment. You have evidently brought the poor fellow great comfort. If your own strength can bear the strain of prolonged nursing, and if he weather tonight's crisis favourably, we may thank God and be of courage yet."
The village
doctor is proved right. Bernard Pendrill's love for Gildas is such that her very presence sets him clinging to life, even while in truth he believed himself to be passing away.
That sleep, which lasts for many hours, is the turning point in his illness. Slowly and almost imperceptibly he begins to battle for existence, taking his nourishment and tonics from his fair young wife with a grateful, loving smile, and often in a faint whisper begging her to think of herself and get help in the nursing, for Miss Rowena Bertram has to leave after the first week, being needed at the Meadthorpe Rectory.
The Misses Pendrill are coldly civil to Gildas, but make mutual observations that are intended to make clear the superiority and gentility of the family into which she has married "under such very peculiar circumstances," as they put it. Gildas as yet does not notice their scant courtesy and frigid disapproval. She is utterly engrossed with the patient, and she devotes herself to him so tirelessly that the doctor tells her she had no right to get married -- she ought to be a professional nurse!
"Am I really married?" Gildas sometimes thinks in dismay, as the remembrance of that sick room marriage flashes over her. "Oh, what will Meadthorpe -- Rehoboth -- say? What will dear, dear Father feel? No one must tell Father but myself. I begged Miss Rowena to see Annie Mountford, and ask her to shut up house, so that she and Mr. Mountford and baby can go to the Manse for a week or two. I couldn't bear Father to be alone, and he will love having them. I know Miss Rowena and the Rector have told no one. She said she would call on Father, and tell him the doctor wants me to stay and help the Miss Pendrills in the nursing. I wonder when I'll be able to go home? Father ought to know I'm married. I'll tell him when Bernard can spare me. But, oh, it is all like a dream! I never, never meant to get married. What will they think at Rehoboth? Oh, I do hope it won't be a trouble to Father."
And then she meets her husband's quiet, tender eyes, and forgets all else in the blessedness of knowing she is with him, ministering to his needs, and brightening the long, heavy hours of his lingering weakness.