The first time Bernard Pendrill sits up in the armchair is quite a festival at One Tree Farm. Gildas has shrunk from sending home for another dress, and her grey woollen one is worse for the work she has gone through. The farmer's daughter has proffered a pretty rose-sprigged linen gown, and Gildas has drawn it in at the waist with her black belt, and donned a bunch of shining primroses.
She looks charming in her husband's eyes as she pours out tea at the little table. The Misses Pendrill are out, but the good people of the house visit him one by one, and cream and cakes and custards have been brought up to honour the occasion.
He seems almost his old self again by this time: very weak, but still cheery and ready to chat with the children from below. Gildas is quiet, fearing he will feel tired, but he is rather concerned as to her silence, and lays his hand on hers when they are alone.
"Gildas ... wife ... do you understand how I am cheating you?"
"Cheating me, Bernard?"
"Yes; do you realize I am going to recover?"
"You are, indeed you are! And I thank God for it every day."
"But you married me, Gildas, as a dying man. Do you mean to say your poor heart is not already beginning to be troubled concerning the future? You never would have married me as one certain to survive, would you?"
The answer comes in a low voice. "Perhaps I would not have had the opportunity. And if I had? ... I don't know," she informs him, with womanly ambiguity.
"Well, it doesn't matter," he says, triumphantly. "I pleaded for that marriage as one facing death, and you took me as such. God gave us to each other, despite our resolutions, Gildas, and you will have to put up with me, and make the best of me."
"Are you sure we are married then?" asks Gildas earnestly, nestling down on the rug by the side of his armchair. "It was all done so quickly. We never had any engagement. You never even proposed. It didn't seem a real sort of marriage."
Bernard laughs so heartily that she rejoices to hear him, even though her inward heart is in truth disquieted as to the coming days, "I am afraid it is too late for the proposal now, Mrs. Pendrill. I will never ask you to marry me, be certain."
Gildas laughs gently. "I consider you a fraud, Bernard. Your hand is stronger than mine already, and a few days ago everybody shook their heads about you. I want to go home soon, Bernard, dear. It seems so long since I saw Father, and you are in no danger now, you know."
"Home? Your home is with me henceforth, little wife. Have you written to Mr. Haven yet? He ought to know, my Gildas."
"I want to tell him myself. A letter might make him ill, but I can tell him gently," she says. "Oh, Bernard, I can't realize it myself yet. I thought we never would meet again."
"Never mind what either of us thought," he says, earnestly. "This is what God meant for us, my wife."
There is silence for a while; then he says rather brokenly, "My only dread is that I was too precipitate, Gildas. I thought -- that evening at Meadthorpe, and when we said goodbye -- I thought I could read my darling's heart in her sweet eyes; but it might have been my presumptuous mistake. Did you come here -- did you fall in with my plea for marriage, out of compassion, Gildas? I know how kind your heart is."
Her hand steals up and touches the face bent over her very gently, and he is satisfied.
"My gift of God!" he says, tenderly. "If you only knew how different life seems to me now. I thought His will was our separation, and in a way I never dreamed of, He has given me my heart's desire. What can I render unto the Lord for giving me my wife, my helpmeet, my Gildas, who is more precious than words can tell?"
The next day, Jasper Ruthven manages to come over to the farm, and Gildas goes down to him in the parlour, half shy, half eager to greet her good, helpful, restful "brother" again.
His first, quick glance is at the ring on the wedding finger. Some intuition has warned him to expect this. He has noticed a degree of reticence about Miss Rowena Bertram's tidings from the farm, for Miss Bertram knows Gildas would wish to tell her friends herself of her marriage.
Jasper has, therefore, prepared himself to face such a possibility, and his tones are quite calm as he says, "If you had notified Rehoboth, you would have received something electroplated with a suitable inscription."
"I want nothing," she says, holding out both her hands to him, "except their loving thoughts and wishes -- and yours, Cousin Jasper."
"God bless you both," he says, simply. "And so your presence and your nursing are curing your husband, Gildas? This is the best that could have happened for both of you. Your life together will be better and fuller than apart."
"Oh, Jasper, I'm afraid. What sort of a wife will I, a Nonconformist, make for a clergyman?"
"Ask Pendrill that," he answers. "Evidently you are the sort of wife one particular clergyman preferred."
"But if he has making a mistake, Jasper? If he should find by-and-by the difference of our views and ideas."
"My dear little cousin, my sister, Gildas," he says, earnestly, "you two are husband and wife. Love is higher, broader, grander than doctrine. These things will settle themselves. They must never be allowed to cloud your hearts. In things essential, your thoughts are one. And, oh, Gildas, when on all sides people are hungry, needy, miserable, debased, needing better food, better homes, and a more abundant life in the true sense of the word -- in face of the work that has yet to be done, you two, hand in hand, will forget the difference of creed, and one day hear Jesus welcome you both, and say, 'I was hungry, and ye fed Me -- sick, and ye visited Me.'"
"What a comfort you are, dear Jasper," she says, the first sign of tears since she came to the farm beginning to dew her wistful eyes. "I could not help feeling anxious, in case when he gets well, Bernard is sorry and find me a hindrance and a drawback. For myself, I am more than happy, Jasper, and I always will be."
In the quiet of the little parlour her tears overflow, witnessing of pent up feelings hidden under the needful aspect of composure.
"I am more than happy," she tells him, but in his heart of hearts Jasper has more anxiety on her account than on Pendrill's. He knows the strength and depth of her Dissenting principles, and that in his Episcopal doctrines Bernard Pendrill is firm as a rock. Women brood more than men, he knows, and Gildas is intensely sensitive. Yet they love one Saviour and Master, and they love each other. They have surely a blessed foundation whereon to build future peace and joy.
Meanwhile Gildas is thinking to herself how good Jasper is to not remind her of her disbelief in what she once referred to as "that most objectionable curate," and her prolonged opposition and enmity in that direction. She wonders if Jasper has forgotten those days. Pendrill has not. Only this morning he called her his "precious little persecutor," and told her he had never quite had her out of his thoughts since first she confronted him with shining, indignant eyes at Mrs. Demsey's.
Presently Gildas is calmer, and asks anxiously concerning her father. "Did you know he wrote me a long, beautiful letter last week?" she says. "The writing is as clear and plain as ever; and, oh, Jasper, I will prize it all my life. It seemed just like Father's own tender blessing on my marriage, though of course he didn't know. I wrote back that I would soon be home. I am going directly Bernard can spare me, and I must tell Father myself. Jasper, do you think he will be very, very sorry?"
"I think the resentment of losing you is past now, Gildas," says Jasper, gently. "In some things Mr. Haven is still quick-sighted as of old, and the fact that Pendrill wanted you in his illness, and you hastened to him, must have shown your father how you cared for each other. The Mountfords are with him, and he seems well and peaceful. He is to preside in a few days at the united Communion Service of all the free churches around. It was the great desire of all to have him presiding, if well enough. You need not be at all anxious about him, Gildas, but the sooner you are able to come and tell him how you are situated, the better."
"And, Jasper, I have such a beautiful plan for Father in my mind. I couldn't possibly have an
yone take care of him but myself, and Bernard is willing and glad to take him in. Father must live with us, and Bernard will be to him a son in poor David's place. As soon as it can be arranged, Father and Emery and my Jones must come to Rosebrake. Oh, we'll be so happy all together, and the Misses Pendrill are shortly going back to their apartments at Cheltenham."
Jasper smiles, but makes no further comment on this portion of her information. He was certainly not smitten with the manner of the maiden ladies who received him on his last visit to the farm, and he is glad Pendrill is sensible enough to give his young wife the household reins. He has his own opinion as to the advisability of transplanting old Mr. Haven from Rehoboth Manse to a vicarage, even though Gildas is the Vicar's wife. But he will say nothing to dampen her bright anticipations, and presently Pendrill sends down to ask Jasper to come up to his room.
The invalid is dressed and sitting in the armchair. He looks almost himself as he receives Jasper with his pleasant smile. "Well, Ruthven, did your disestablishment article come out, after all? I have not forgotten our last talk, you see; but I hope you have not yet succeeded in pulling down the pillars of our Church, young man!"
"No, but you have removed a pillar of ours," says Jasper. "What Rehoboth is going to do without Gildas Haven it's impossible for imagination to depict."
"There is no Gildas Haven now," says Pendrill, proudly; "but Mrs. Pendrill will get you some tea, if you stay. How are my young friends at Forest Cottage? I often think of their dear little faces, and Jemmie's funny sayings."
The Misses Pendrill come in just as Jasper is leaving, and in reply to his cordial congratulations as to their brother's increase of strength they answer with melancholy resignation that the ways of Providence are inscrutable, and that little did they think, on leaving their very convenient rooms at Cheltenham, with the General's family on the first floor, and the Honourable Mrs. Mostyn-Mudge in the drawing room, that domestic dispensations of so painful a nature were in the immediate future.
Fortunately Gildas does not hear these mournfully submissive observations. She is absorbed in writing to her father, for Jasper will take the letter bidding him to expect to see her within the next few days.
* * *
Sunday dawns bright and peaceful, the first Sunday that the Vicar of Rosebrake feels anything like his former strength and energy. "Mrs. Griggs will look after me, dearest," he tells his wife, "and I have plenty of reading. I will follow the service here, looking out at the flowers in the garden. I would like you to go to church with my sisters this lovely morning. The drive in the pony chaise will do you good. Fletcher, who is taking my place for now, is a first-rate preacher."
So Gildas, to please him, goes to Rosebrake Church, which is decidedly "high," and where she is the object of much curiosity, the confidantes of the Misses Pendrill sharing their dismay at the notion of a Nonconformist at the Vicarage. Not a single genuflexion does Gildas perform, and she gets quite out of patience with the choirboys who sing the Psalms hurriedly and without regard to the clearness of the words, the congregation chiefly leaving the singing to them.
And today at Rehoboth they will be missing her from her seat near Jasper, and her voice will be wanting evermore in the dear old chapel as they sing with one accord such hymns as "Sweet is the work, my God, my King," and other hymns well known to Gildas.
A sudden yearning seems to show Gildas at that moment the old-fashioned chapel and its varied congregation, some belonging entirely to the old school, and some young, restless spirits responding more to such present day preaching as that of John Mountford. She pictures her father leaning on the pew rail as he stands up to sing with closed eyes and beaming face the rest of that hymn of praise:
When from the dead He raised His Son,
And called Him to the sky,
He gave our souls a lively hope
That they should never die.
What though our inbred sins require
Our flesh to see the dust,
Yet as the Lord our Saviour rose,
So all His followers must."
The joy and reverence on old Mr. Haven's face as he sings from memory these familiar hymns are a sight worth seeing. "That is worship," Gildas thinks, wearied with the long morning service. After the strain of nursing, she is beginning to feel somewhat low, though she does not admit it.
Mr. Fletcher is also unwell, and a young curate from a neighbouring hamlet preaches, informing the congregation that the Church of Christ is composed of those who are baptized and confirmed and duly attend the sacrament; also that Saint Paul and his fellow-helpers always worked on distinctly Church lines.
The Misses Pendrill remain in Rosebrake for the rest of the Sunday, and Gildas walks back to the farm, knowing they will need the chaise later in the day. The breezy walk and the songs of the birds do her good, but she cannot tell Bernard conscientiously that the morning service has been enjoyed by her, and he looks disappointed, being personally enthusiastic about his church.
"If I go anywhere this evening," she says, resolutely, "it shall be to that dear little Wesleyan place in the village street. I saw the local preacher coming out, and his face is a little like Father's."
Pendrill says nothing, but Gildas sees it is a keen pain to him to think of his wife worshipping with the Dissenters. His earnest face is still thin and pale, and Gildas, conscience-stricken for having grieved him, nestles beside him with a loving smile.
"Don't look so woebegone, Bernard. I said 'if I go anywhere;' but I'm too tired to go out again. Besides, the Griggs are all going to church in the wagon. I mean to stay with you, and get you for half an hour into the garden. There is a lovely place for you to rest. We will have such a happy Sunday together, Bernard."
And again his face lights up as she lifts her smiling, winsome lips to his own, and he calls her anew his "Gift of God."
Chapter 19
Light at Eventide
THE Misses Pendrill feel they certainly have grounds for mortification as concerns the sudden and most unlooked-for marriage of their brother. It has always been understood that when he had a house of his own, they would take up their abode therein as his housekeepers and parish helpers, his assistants and counsellors.
They were past that era of life poetically described as "not as yet unfolded quite," or, putting it prosaically, they were no longer girls when Bernard was in long clothes, and consequently they are aghast to realize that such an important step in his career has been taken without due reference to themselves -- and in opposition to all their sense of the fitness of things.
"Was it for this," says Miss Sophia, "that we gave notice to our very respectful and attentive landlady at Cheltenham -- such an excellent cook too, and so exclusive as to whom she took in? Was it for this that we had all the trouble of packing, and paying farewell visits to our many friends? Scarcely have we accustomed ourselves to our changed surroundings, and formed a circle in which we can visit, and scarcely has our dear little Tabitha reconciled herself to her new home, before this very designing girl, evidently the temptress and bane of our poor brother's spiritual life, appears on the scene, and installs herself with unblushing effrontery as the mistress of Rosebrake Vicarage!"
"It is too painful a subject to discuss," says Miss Letitia, settling herself down to enlarge on it as she works at the elaborate alms bags in course of preparation for the church. "Our unfortunate brother has laid himself open to grievous scandal, and brought upon himself years of unavailing remorse."
There is a movement in the storeroom that opens from the farm parlour. Gildas has gone there to find arrowroot and other needed supplies, and she purposely makes a slight noise so that the knowledge of her vicinity may stop this conversation. But both speakers are somewhat deaf, and they are too much absorbed in their grievances to notice the rustling.
"He always advocated celibate priesthood," continues Miss Letitia, "as so much more helpful to the meditative and devotional life. Do you know, Sophia, it occurs to me this young person fr
om Meadthorpe may have hypnotized our brother? How can her most extraordinary and baneful influence over him be otherwise accounted for? They say hypnotism can produce singular results in the present day. I am sure in his senses Bernard would never have made such an unfortunate marriage."
"Well, he scarcely was responsible. His fancy was undoubtedly part of his delirium," says her sister. "I believe he could yet set aside so strange an alliance. If he wished to marry, why did he not think of the dear Dean's niece and heiress, or the Honourable Evelyn Desarte, of Dilchester Towers? Both are of a settled age, and would have helped in his career. Is it likely that ecclesiastical preferment will ever be his when the mistress of his establishment is 'a red-hot Dissenter?' I assure you, my dear Letitia, I heard that phrase used in Rosebrake yesterday concerning this Gildas Haven."
"Gildas Pendrill," says Miss Letitia, with a sigh. "Ah, Sophia, how fleeting are the vain ambitions of poor humanity! It has been the cherished dream of my life to see my unfortunate brother, ere I quit this mortal scene, a Dean or a Bishop. I have even in golden visions seen him as the Archbishop of Canterbury. But what is the sad reality? He has taken unto himself one who is outside the fold of the Church -- the very last person in the whole world fit to be helpmeet to a priest. Dinner is ready, Sophia. Come, let us cease so sad a conversation, and strive to resign ourselves to these afflictive Providences."
It is little wonder that by-and-by Gildas, sitting sewing by Pendrill's side in the summer house, puts down her work hurriedly with the impetuous cry, "Bernard, are you quite certain our marriage cannot be undone?''
"I am glad you spoke your mind out, little wife," he answers, tenderly. "I have seen for some time today that you are in distress. Are you beginning to repent the result of my rashness already?" And he takes her hand gently into his loving clasp.
"You know I am not," she says, with flushed, troubled face. "I never would have married anyone but you; and I thought -- I know there must be heart-sympathy between us, or I never would have heard that cry of yours so clearly when you were so dangerously ill. I cannot understand now how it reached me, nor can you. I only know I heard it, and then God seemed to tell me you wanted me, and I must come. But I might have been deceiving myself. It may not be His will, after all. Oh, Bernard, I cannot bear to think I may have ruined your future."