"Ruined my future, Gildas?"
"A Nonconformist wife will always be a drawback to you. You will never be a Dean or a Bishop, they say"
"Who are they?" he asks, still closely holding her hand.
"Oh ... people. And of course my own reasoning tells me the same thing. I stand in the way of your promotion, and our ideas will keep clashing, and you'll tell yourself every day that you have made a great mistake!"
"I never expect to be either a Dean or a Bishop, Gildas. If promotion is intended for me by our Lord, He will send it, my heretical wife notwithstanding. I think I can guess the opinions that cause you so much self-reproach just now. But remember, my dearest, our marriage was my doing far more than yours. I longed to have you with me while I lingered alive, and I felt objections would be raised unless the right to nurse me were openly your own. You have no cause for self-accusation, so do not look so troubled, my darling. We don't yet see everything eye to eye, but our blessed Lord has set us together now heart to heart, and we will, both as regards creeds and doctrines, be patient, forbearing, and prayerful. Two things, at any rate, we will agree to avoid. We will never question the wisdom of our marriage, which is an accomplished fact, you see, Gildas -- and we will never quarrel."
"Oh, but I am rather quarrelsome," she says. "I mean, I am outspoken in what I feel, and I must stand by what I hold to be truth. I will really do my best, Bernard, but I am not a bit like the people who visit at the Vicarage. I know the kind of people so well -- 'prunes and prism' -- suspecting anyone who is not exactly in their dull, respectable mould of being 'peculiar,' which, in their sight, is a social sin. I always was different from other people, and it's no use trying to frame myself on the correct clerical principle. Perhaps you ought to have married some of the cathedral people from Dilchester."
"Ought I? But we do not all see the path of duty so clearly as Gildas Haven -- that was."
"Then you are quite sure I never can set you free, even if you want to be, Bernard? I thought -- people thought -- there might be some way of undoing the marriage, if you wanted."
"Gildas," he says, with a sterner look than she has seen on his face before, "you must never ask me such a question again. Such words must not arise between us. Our marriage is sacred in the sight of God, and has been blessed by the Church. Some at Rosebrake will doubtless disapprove, and some at Rehoboth too; but we can never be put asunder. Kiss me now, and try to put up with me, dear wife," he says, with the smile that for the time being makes her forget she is "the bane and temptress of his spiritual life."
They begin to make arrangements for Gildas' temporary return to Meadthorpe, that she may break the news of her marriage by degrees to Mr. Haven, and induce him to consent to the proposal that henceforth he will reside beneath her roof at Rosebrake Vicarage. Pendrill will meanwhile be driven home to Rosebrake Vicarage; and in a few weeks, he tells her, they will journey together into Devon for the honeymoon, which, though tardy, will be "better late than never."
"I'll go home on Thursday," says Gildas. "Miss Rowena Bertram is coming over by train, Bernard, and I can return with her from Dilchester in the evening. There's one convenient train that goes by the direct route."
So it is settled; but, like many another plan of human making, it is suddenly altered. On Tuesday afternoon there comes a letter from Emery which decides Gildas to go home at once. Trembling and affrighted, yet comforting herself with the thought that she knows how to nurse her father better than anyone else can, and once she is at her father's side he is certain to improve. This is the letter that sends her back disquieted to Meadthorpe:
Honerd Miss, I hope you are quite well, which we have a sick house here, and only time to send a line. The master were took ill after the ordinance last night, and the doctor say it be a kind of a stroke and you was to come immediate. But I did not wish to fright you with a telegraff, miss, but the symptims I do not like the looks of, and Jones is a good dog but has moaned a good bit of a night, which is a sure sign of trubble. Do come, Miss Gildas, you have been away so long, and you are badly wanted, I tell you. So no more from yours respectfully,
Maria Emery.
John Mountford has added a postscript:
Dr. Spencer says it is impossible to say as yet if your dear father will recover consciousness. He may be spared to us yet for many years, or this seizure may be to him the Master's call to the Father's House. It would be wrong to hide from you that the illness is very serious. We know you will come to him as soon as you can leave your Rosebrake friends."
That evening Gildas is back in her old home, those Rosebrake days seeming to her like a dream; but the gold band on her finger tells her they are real -- the keep ring that is Miss Rowena's, for she is to wear it until her husband has chosen a wedding ring for her at Dilchester of the usual kind.
The Mountfords and Emery know by this time the secret that, in fact, by some subtle sense all Meadthorpe has begun to suspect. The young minister and his wife are kindly and sympathetic, and gentle Mrs. Mountford, Annie, is considerably excited over the romance of the affair. But Emery is distinctly shocked, and does not hesitate amid the sick room ministrations to murmur reproaches concerning being "unequally yoked," and putting one's hand to the plough and looking back, and taking up with "false shepherds that destroy the flock by not preaching the Gospel."
But her father can never be told of her marriage -- at any rate, by human lips. Gildas knows he could understand nothing of the matter now, and it rends her heart to be unable to tell him and receive his blessing ere he goes. All day he lies in the same still, stricken state, with open eyes that see not, with ears that hear not, though his oldest deacon, Mr. Channing-Surtees, prays long beside his bed, and John Mountford and Gildas breathe many a text he loves and treasures, trying to recall to consciousness the spirit so nearly fled.
"He presided at the annual united Communion Service," Annie Mountford tells Gildas. "Rehoboth was full even to the galleries, and none will ever forget his voice and his look as he pleaded with the Lord's people to be faithful to their Redeemer, let life bring what it may, and to remember our Heavenly Father to whose sympathy and mindfulness they never can be lost. And what a prayer he offered, Gildas! It seemed to us we were in the very Holy of Holies as he pleaded with God to perfect that which He began, and not to leave any one of us alone until His tender will is our own will, and we are one with Him. We sang our last hymn, 'According to Thy gracious Word,' and everyone was standing when he lifted his hand and spoke the Benediction. It was in the vestry afterwards that this stroke came on, and that Benediction was his last message on earth, I fear."
But later on, Mr. Haven's condition changes somewhat. Once he revives sufficiently to speak to Gildas as "Mary" mistaking her for her mother, and asking, "Is the boy home yet?" for his thoughts are full of David. Once he says to the young co-pastor, "If you minister to my death, preach the sermon, dear lad, from this text, 'Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of Truth.'"
On the Sunday evening, while the service is in progress at Rehoboth Chapel, and John Mountford is leading the people in prayer for him whose voice the congregation will hear on earth no more, Gilead Haven knows Gildas, and smiles on her with such tender brightness that she cries out to Annie Mountford,
"Oh, did you see that look? He knows who I am. I'm certain he will begin to get well. Father, my darling, darling, you know I have come back to you. We never will be parted again."
A tender arm encircles her from behind, and she realizes with a glad heartthrob that her husband is at her side, weak still from his illness, but too anxious about her to refuse the Bertrams' invitation to the Rectory, so that he can be of cheer and comfort to Gildas.
Annie Mountford glides away and leaves them together, Gildas leaning her trembling form against Bernard Pendrill as her longing gaze is fixed on her father's face. Mr. Haven has begun to doze again. When his eyes open, Bernard Pendrill sees within them something which makes him thankful he has reached his wife, so soon to be bereav
ed.
"Mr. Haven -- Father," he says, earnestly, "give us some sign you know us. Give us your blessing, for we are both your children. Gildas is mine. God helping me, I will take care of her with my love and life until we follow you to Heaven."
Gildas creeps close to the bed, for the thin, trembling hand is groping for hers, and presently there is a light in the dim eyes as they turn on Bernard Pendrill. Whether he clearly comprehends the fact of their marriage they know not, but he seems striving feebly to lift his child's hand to Pendrill's, and that is his last conscious gesture. Even as the young man stoops and kisses his brow, he relapses into the deep drowsiness that is for him the gentle pathway to the Meeting-land.
Meanwhile, they are singing at Rehoboth their closing hymn: "Bread of Heaven, Feed me till I want no more," when Gilead Haven passes hence with the Sabbath sunlight, leaning on his daughter's breast, and sinking to sleep like a weary child.
Gildas feels that the Rehoboth people would value his dying testimony, and seeing his lips move feebly at the last, she bends her head to treasure his parting whisper, but this is all she hears as the old man enters Heaven: "Comfort ... comfort ... comfort ... the Friends of the Jews Society."
Then Bernard Pendrill takes to his heart his fatherless wife, repeating the words of the Psalm in the solemn hush, as the last streaks of day make glory in the room, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints."
Chapter 20
Miss Stretton Scents Heresy
THE shock occasioned to many of the Rehoboth Chapel members by the sudden marriage of their young helper and adherent, to a Church clergyman, is merged in the grief with which they follow to the grave all that is mortal of their dearly-loved pastor. Censure and disapprobation are out of place towards Gildas at this time of her bereavement, though several in their hearts prophesy such marrying in haste will mean repenting at leisure, and feel anxious and distressed on her account. But knowing the vigour of her doctrinal opinions, she hears no words save those of kindness and sympathy, and only by observation of Emery's face can she realize her position as culprit.
It is doubtful if Bernard Pendrill would have been found at any service in the chapel, but the journey to Meadthorpe has exhausted him, and he decides to rest at the Rectory. All the neighbouring ministers, and three or four of the clergy around, gather at Rehoboth for the memorial service, and at the grave Gildas is touched to see Mr. Bertram and Miss Rowena, who have come as representatives of her husband to pay a tribute of respect to the old pastor's memory.
Here by the grave of that tender-hearted shepherd, whose simple goodness outlived his intellectual greatness, differences of creeds and name are put aside. Mr. Bertram and his brethren of the cloth are in the midst of Primitives, Bible Christians, Baptists, Independents, and believers of varying persuasions. The children from the Sunday school put down their posies on the coffin ere it is gently lowered, the solemn hymn meanwhile ascending to the calm blue sky,
"Lord, I commit my soul to Thee!
Accept the sacred trust;
Receive this nobler part of me,
And watch my sleeping dust."
Despite mutual disapproval, latent but foreboding, Rosebrake and Rehoboth vie with one another in honouring the unexpected nuptials of Bernard Pendrill and Gildas Haven. From the parishioners of Rosebrake Church comes a silver cruet stand; from Rehoboth Chapel comes a handsome family Bible with elaborate clasps, and large clear text. "And it is to be hoped the parson will read and profit by it," say some of the donors in their hearts.
But Gildas prizes far more the old, worn Bible that her father used, marked and thumbed, and inscribed, "A gift to my beloved husband on our wedding day. With my love and prayers, -- Mary Haven. 'Thou, hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth!'"
Bernard Pendrill calls on both Mr. Weston and young Mundey to thank them for their selfless help in his time of need, and the devoted nursing wherein Mr. Weston assisted his sisters until Gildas came. Tears of joy are in Weston's eyes to see the young man stand before him, for it is truly as one raised from the dead; but there is a struggle in the good man's breast -- he is not clear internally whether this restoration is for the advantage of truth, seeing that the Vicar of Rosebrake is, in his own opinion, so blind a leader of the blind.
"Young man," he says very earnestly, albeit affectionately, for those days of helplessness gave Pendrill a strong claim on his heart, "young man, you have been again brought from the jaws of the tomb. Take heed lest in superstition and stiff-neckedness a worse thing come unto thee," and he presses into Pendrill's hand a pamphlet warning of error.
Theo Mundey's shyness makes him ill at ease when Pendrill tries to thank him for his attempt to stop the cart -- an attempt which might have cost him his own life, but the risk did not occur to the youth on seeing the driver's danger. Pendrill remembers how, amid the pain of his own bruises, young Mundey helped to bear him to the farm, and he comprehends then that even in those humble lives, there may burn fires of heroism which are little suspected by the dimness of human vision.
The little Ruthvens are inconsolable at the notion of losing Gildas. They are promised a visit by-and-by to Rosebrake Vicarage, but Gordon says, "Sunday school won't be like Sunday school now you're going -- the place is spoilt."
And Milly asks, "Aren't there any husbands for you to marry here in Meadthorpe, Gildas? Couldn't you have had the man that gives out the hymns, or the one that showed the conjuring at the treat? Or Jasper?"
"Why, bless me, Gildas," says Jemmie, who often borrows his phrases from Mrs. Chidgey, "what made you get married to Mr. Pendrill when you said he steals away all your little girls and boys?"
"She is going to watch over me, Jemmie," says Bernard Pendrill, with a smile, "and prevent me from following such evil courses in the future."
"This is for Mr. and Mrs. Pendrill from us children and Chidgey," says Jacky, making the presentation of a brown paper parcel.
The parcel proves to contain photographs of Saint Simeon's parish church and of Rehoboth Chapel, also of the customary sitting room at the Manse as in the old minister's time, before the furniture was moved from its usual place. Gildas touches these memorials tremblingly. She knows it is to Jasper's thoughtfulness she owes the precious photographs.
From Jasper himself she receives, as her wedding gift, a beautifully painted text, wreathed with heartsease, in an oak frame: "He hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee." It is the text with which, many a long year since, Gilead Haven received his daughter as a member into the fellowship at Rehoboth.
There are so many things to arrange that the time for her final departure has almost arrived before Gildas is able to steal away to the cleaner's little shop, and bid farewell to her dear old friend, Miss Bell. Many and many a time has Miss Bell's message to her in her time of dreariness and heart-sickness -- the message of "Our Hospital-God," all-knowing, all-caring, all-healing -- comforted and helped her when she has needed strength along the way. Now there is a secret anxiety shadowing the fullness of her bridal peace, an anxiety as to the future -- a fear lest in the home to which she goes, the differing theological elements may cause disunion, and bring pain and disappointment to Bernard.
Perhaps her old friend reads something of her thoughts, for as they sit quietly talking together, and Gildas murmurs something about supposing Miss Bell would never come to hear her husband preach, and they will never worship beneath one roof again, she caresses Gildas' ringed hand very tenderly, and says, "Indeed, Gildas, I am ready to worship my Master wherever He is. Where two or three meet together in His name, whether under His sky, or in that grand church folks go to see in Rome -- Saint Peter's, I think they call it -- He is in the midst. Neither church nor chapel can keep Him outside, dear child, where one humble heart loves Him, and lifts a prayer to Him."
"But, Miss Bell," says Gildas, anxiously, "that is not the way we have been taught. We are to worship not only in sincerity, but in truth, you know. Oh, if only everyone could see and
believe the simple truth!"
"And Jesus said, 'I am the Truth,'" says Miss Bell, softly. "Worship, looking by faith on Him, my child, and that which seems to your notions only husks will become to you as angels' food. Dear Gildas, you have taken a step whereon I know you have asked the blessing of the Lord. Commit your way unto Him, and do not be afraid. You have married a good man who loves you deeply. You will be his cheer, his rest, and his helpmeet. Put aside the differences in your beliefs. May you two grow one in the Lord, your characters moulded in His likeness. I often think of what I heard Mr. Mountford say when he first came to Rehoboth. Do you remember that sermon, Gildas? He said the great test of religion is life, not creed. Christ-likeness, not the name and title of our sect. He told us there are, after all, only two real divisions of humankind -- those who live to self, those who live to the Lord, and so to their brethren also. May our God save us all from selfishness, dear child, and bless us with His Spirit."
"Oh, Miss Bell, who's this coming in? Oh, Betty, Betty, can it really be you?"
Gildas springs up joyfully, as from the little back kitchen a delicate-looking but smiling woman, clean-aproned and warmly clad, brings in the tea.
"Well, dearie," says Miss Bell, "I looked after Betty at the hospital in your place, and when they discharged her as cured, I just took her in here, for she's company for me, and she more than pays for her keep by her goodwill and helpfulness."
At this, in her gladness, Gildas hugs them both. The old cat sets up a sympathetic purr, and Betty sheds tears of joy and praise.
"You will come with us to Rosebrake, Emery?" says Gildas, to the servant who has been her friend and helper so long. "There's only a young maid at the Vicarage as yet, and you would be just the one to take charge of her. And, oh, you would be such a comfort to me. Mr. Pendrill says he'll be very glad for you to come, as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Mountford move in here. And we will send for Father's desk and the few things we want to keep. You could come over with them, Emery dear, in the carrier's cart."