"Begging your pardon, miss -- ma'am, I mean," says Emery with dignity, "I am obliged to Mr. Pendrill for his willingness all the same, but for me to enter into employ against my conscientious principles isn't to be thought of for a moment. I'm chapel to the bone, Miss Gildas, and I'm no turncoat, which the end of such is remorse and confusion of face. And now the minister's gone to glory, I don't know as I shall continue in service, Miss Gildas. That will be as Providence directs, for to change one's estate isn't to be contemplated without circumspection and weighing of one's responsibilities. When I leaves here the finger of Providence points to residing with my cousin, Mrs. Joy that married the miller, for there's twins twice over, and she'll be glad of my company for a bit, being handy at the needle. So God bless you, my dearie dear, and I wishes you happiness from the depths of my heart. And I'll pray for you, my precious, every day I live -- but don't ask me to come to no vicarages. I'd just be a fish out of water."
Then Jones comes up and puts his nose into the young wife's hand, and she throws her arms around him and hides her face against his coat.
So Bernard Pendrill finds her, as he comes to tell her the conveyance waits that is to bear them to the station on their way to Rosebrake. His kisses dry her falling tears, and amid Emery's sobs and blessings she passes away from her home, Jones shuffling after her and following her into the new life she is to lead henceforth.
The honeymoon in Devon never comes to pass, for an epidemic of measles breaks out in Rosebrake, and the Vicar feels he is needed there to be of help and comfort to troubled parents.
The Misses Pendrill have departed -- figuratively shaking off the dust of their feet against the pretty house where Gildas is mistress -- and there is little at first to cloud the serenity of the Pendrills' married life.
In this time of illness in the parish Gildas is a ready helper, and the need for her knowledge and skill in the village is balm to the heart that aches sometimes in memory of her father, and in secret longing for the associations that hitherto have ministered to her spiritual life. She is not expected to be at many church services while the poor and sick are requiring her.
Pendrill's heart is tenderly proud of her ability and usefulness, and he tells her again and again she was intended by nature and grace for a parson's wife. It is many a day before both are conscious of "the little rift within the lute," but it nonetheless exists, and there are neighbours and acquaintances who take a good deal of trouble to widen it.
The Vicar's wife is about the only one in the church who keeps her seat when the choir boys enter before the service, who makes no reverence in passing the altar, who stands out of the guilds that promise to do all kinds of things for the advancement of the Church, and who keeps the same firm position of protest when all the other women present are crossing themselves or humbly bowing.
All this, Pendrill knows well enough, but he takes no outward notice, though Gildas sometimes sees a look of trouble in his eyes as they follow her lovingly about their sunny breakfast room at the Vicarage, where Jones spends his honourable old age in meditation on the rug, and looks up expectantly at times when anyone opens the door, as though thinking the white hair and bowed form of Gilead Haven will be seen again.
"Far be it from me to make mischief, Mr. Pendrill, or to be the means of shadowing domestic felicity," says Miss Stretton, the Squire's sister and housekeeper, and superintendent of the girls' department in the Sunday school; "but at the sacrifice of personal feeling I feel it my duty to suggest that you should remonstrate with Mrs. Pendrill as regards her mode of instruction in the Sunday school. Being so very short of teachers, I entrusted her with a class, though rather anxious concerning the matter, for I have heard that the most extraordinary notions prevail at Meadthorpe Chapel, where her father was minister. It is my painful duty to tell you Mrs. Pendrill is not teaching from the additional catechism and the selection of hymns for Anglo-Catholic schools that were introduced when you came here. I do not like suggesting that she should be asked to resign her post, but I fear the lessons she imparts have very little in common with our treasured principles."
"I think there must be some mistake, Miss Stretton," said Pendrill, politely; "but I will converse with my dear wife as to her Sunday school class. It is certainly important that the lines I laid down for the moral and spiritual instruction of the little ones should be definitely followed week by week, and I thought this was understood by every teacher."
"How do you get on with your class in the Sunday school, love?" he asks Gildas, when that evening she sits making a warm dress for a child in the village, and he lingers beside her for a while, his hand laid tenderly on her shoulder. He has no intention of betraying that any complaint has reached him from the Sunday school superintendent. Similar remarks have filled the parochial atmosphere, he knows, but concerning all this he has been silent to Gildas, determined as far as possible to spare her pain.
"Oh, they are dear little things, Bernard," replies his wife, "and I am getting quite fond of them, though, of course, as yet, they don't seem quite so nice as my Rehoboth children. I must show you this beautiful letter I had from Kitty Demsey today. She's in Miss Mundey's class now, and she tells me all about last Sunday's lessons"
"I suppose, dear, you take the lessons from our manual, like the other teachers?"
"Yes, Bernard, though I must own I cannot always teach them exactly as they advise in that little book, and ... and ... Bernard, I cannot use that catechism Miss Stretton wishes me to teach. I do not consider it suitable for Protestant children. And some of the hymns in that collection they use seem to me to encourage praying to the saints. Of course, I only teach my class what I believe to be scriptural. You don't mind my managing the children in my own way, do you, Bernard? We're very happy together, and the mothers say their children enjoy their Sunday school lessons."
"Invocation of saints is not praying to them, Gildas," he answers. "Those in authority and competent to judge have approved our hymnal and ecclesiastical primer, and it is most important that the instruction of the children should be definitely on Church lines."
Almost unconsciously he has removed his hand from her shoulder, and he looks troubled and perplexed. The disapproving gesture sends a quiver through her frame; but she looks into his eyes and speaks out frankly that which is within her heart.
"I will never teach," she tells him, "that which I do not believe. There can be no objection surely to my giving a simple Bible lesson to these little ones, even if I do ignore doctrines I cannot honestly pretend to believe? But I am glad you asked me about my class, Bernard. More than once I have wished to speak to you about the Sunday school, but I shrank from annoying you. I know Miss Stretton doesn't like me, and she's keenly on the lookout for heresy in my instructions! If such stress be laid on my teaching emphatically 'on Church lines,' as you seem to imply, had I not better resign my class at once? I'll be very sorry to give up the children, but I cannot conscientiously impart the doctrines Miss Stretton seems to advocate."
There is a pause, then he says gravely, "Your resignation, Gildas, can be as the teachers decide. You can lay it before their meeting if you choose, and they would in due course accept it, or request you to continue your class. Personally speaking, I do lay stress on the religious instruction of our scholars being wholly systematic and orderly, such as will conduce to their fidelity to the faith of their fathers. Your views, I fear, are deeply prejudiced against doctrines we hold sacred and precious, and I feel a great responsibility in using you at present as a spiritual teacher of the young."
"Well, Bernard," says Gildas, after a silence, "I will be very, very sorry to give up my class, for already I love the children, but I often see them in their homes, and I must try to help them still. It need not be a matter of voting at the teachers' meeting. You wish me to resign. I see you do. I will write to Miss Stretton tomorrow, proposing to give up my class."
"I am afraid there is no alternative, dear," he says, sadly but decisively. "I would ask any oth
er teacher holding such views to resign, and I must not act against my conscience, must I, Gildas? I pray every day that one day my precious wife will be a true and devout daughter of the Church, loyally reverencing the Church's teachings, and using every power for her honour and her glory. There is nothing too hard for the mighty power of our blessed Lord."
This is the evening for his sermon writing, and he goes slowly to his study and shuts the door.
The faces of the Rehoboth Chapel boys and girls, whose smiles ever welcomed Gildas' appearing -- the children she was not counted unworthy to guide and teach -- rise before her eyes as in a mist of tears. She presses her lips firmly amid those tears to her wedding ring. Dearer than memory even is her husband, and for his sake she will do the little she can in church work that touches no question of belief. Her troubled heart in the evening stillness steals to its Father for help and strength, and she falters patiently within her:
"When obstacles and trials seem
Like prison walls to be,
I'll do the little I can do --
And leave the rest to Thee."
Chapter 21
Life at Rosebrake
MR. FLETCHER, Pendrill's nearest neighbour, presides over a church much "higher" than Rosebrake, at any rate in practice. To please her husband, Gildas accompanies him to a festival service at that church, uneasy in her seat in consequence of the incense, banners, nun-like sisters from the Protestant Retreat in the vicinity, and the sermon itself. The Holy Communion is administered during this service, and many take part, but Gildas is shut out from the sacrament, never having been confirmed. To her this seems only a little deprivation, for it appears more like the celebration of the Mass than a Protestant ordinance.
When she takes the Lord's Supper again, it will be at the little whitewashed village chapel that struggles along somehow under the ministry of itinerant preachers -- men who through the week have to earn their living by the sweat of their brow.
Gildas is of opinion that Mr. Fletcher, to whom her husband looks up with admiring reverence, has her state of mind on his heart, and advises Bernard what books to place in her way. She finds herself in the midst of literature concerning the True Historical Church, the Fathers of the Church, Saints, Confessors, Bishops, and Archbishops in profusion, also surrounded by treatises on the Rites of Baptism and Confirmation and the Holy Eucharist.
Mr. Fletcher begs her acceptance of a book he has written himself, called Do I observe Fridays? and Gildas gives him a treatise by Jasper Ruthven on The Liberation of Religious Matters from State Control. It is her private copy, for, as Bernard's wife, she cannot circulate the small book according to her desire.
Emery comes over to see her one day, driven in a light cart by a stolid-looking man who wears a flower in his overcoat, and pulls his front hair to Gildas at intervals, looking with silent admiration at the more conversational Emery.
"Why, Emery, dear!" says Gildas, delightedly, "how well you look, and how good it is to see you again!"
"Wishing I could say the same of you, Miss Gildas -- begging your pardon, Mrs. Pendrill, ma'am, I mean," says her visitor, looking closely at the girl's face, and shrewdly suspecting the signs of tears. "Every living creature at Rehoboth sent you all sorts of messages, and Mr. Mundey says surely you'll try to come over for our Sunday school anniversary? Them boys and girls in the school would go fairly wild to see your face again, my dearie dear."
"I never forget them," says Gildas, almost at the point of breaking down; "but Meadthorpe is such a long way off. I won't be able to come, Emery, I know."
"'Taint Emery," says the man standing by the door. "Her's Maria Joy, and she's my wedded wife."
Gildas discerns that Emery's mourning is lightened today by a profusion of grey ribbons and a new bonnet. "Are ... are ... are you married, dear old Emery?" she cries, excitedly, holding out her hands to the happy pair.
"Yes, my dearie, at Rehoboth this morning, for though Simon Joy is Shiloh -- he's brother to my cousin's husband at the Mill, you know, Miss Gildas -- he gives the lady the choice on this occasion, and we were made one at the old place by Mr. Mountford. And we've made an amicable arrangement to avoid unpleasantness, Miss Gildas -- Shiloh in the morning, seeing the husband's the head of the wife -- which is according to Scripture -- and Rehoboth of an evening. But I'll get him over to Rehoboth after a bit twice a day, and he'll join as a member, I don't doubt in the end," she adds, confidentially, taking the saucepan from the hands of the young country maid who is making melted butter, and has rather vague ideas on the subject.
Miss Emery -- or rather Mrs. Joy -- sends upstairs Mrs. Pendrill's favourite pudding, and prepares a festive dish or two for the kitchen, where she and her new husband dine in company with Lizzie, who is devoted to Gildas, and by her ready tongue makes the visitor pretty well informed that the red eyes she has noticed are not a rare occurrence.
"There's an old cat up at the Hall," says Lizzie, "as makes mischief about things in the church. Miss Stretton, the Squire's sister. She'd have liked to be mistress here herself, they say in the village, and she can't abide missus, so she and some others talks about her 'dangerous notions' and so on, and says she teaches in Rosebrake things which is contrary to the Prayer Book."
"Didn't I foretell as much, Simon?" Mrs. Joy asks her husband later. "I foresaw trouble ahead for the poor dear. What good can come of marrying them as is steeped and dyed in Papacy and superstitions? Them as makes their bed must lie on it, says the proverb; and I don't see as how any living creature can set things right betwixt man and wife when they're of opposite persuasions."
"There's One with whom nought is impossible, though, my woman," says Mr. Joy, reverently, and his wife exclaims, "There! If I hadn't almost forgot what I have got for the dear in my basket from that there deaf and dumb woman at Miss Bell's. There's only one way for Miss Gildas, or for any one of us, out of trouble and into the light, and that's to pray; for the best of us is but helpless little children, and if the Lord don't help and pity us, which way can we look?"
"He's very pitiful and of tender mercy," says Simon Joy, and then he goes out to see a Rosebrake friend. His wife has a quiet hour with Gildas, and strokes her hair with gentler touch than many might expect those busy, capable hands could bestow, while Gildas and Jones, both faithful-hearted and unable to forget old friends, cry a little over "Emery," and then rejoice anew in her company.
Betty's present is only a bookmarker, worked laboriously by feeble, willing fingers; but it bears from that sister-soul just the message Gildas needs in her many perplexities: "Tell Jesus."
Pendrill is with his wife in the breakfast room when Mr. and Mrs. Joy come up to take their leave, having made the drive to and fro their honeymoon, and having now to return to Meadthorpe. The Vicar greets his old acquaintance cordially, and heartily congratulates Simon Joy. But the worthy miller seldom or never pays a visit without falling on his knees, and to Pendrill's astonishment he says with simplicity, "Shall we have a bit of prayer afore we says good day?"
Quiet and of few words in general conversation, Simon Joy finds his tongue in addressing his Lord. It seems that prayer is his native language, and though the Vicar initially felt inclined to smile at these unexpected proceedings, a sense of awe is in every heart, as in the eloquence taught by earnestness, Joy pleads for the blessing of God on this house, and beseeches the great burden-bearer, whose love is father's and mother's and Saviour's in one, to show to each needy life His sympathizing heart, and be Himself the light and comfort and dear desire of the never-dying souls He has made and understands.
A few days later Mrs. Joy writes to Gildas that some of the Meadthorpe people whom she knows are coming over to the anniversary of the little chapel at Rosebrake. It is to be held that evening, and as her husband has had to go to London for a few days, and Gildas feels rather lonely, her heart beats high at the thought of seeing those familiar faces and of spending a happy, homelike evening in the company of her father's friends.
It does not occur to her, in the glad anticipation of this reunion, that for her to take part in the chapel service may give offence to some in the parish, and so distress her husband. It seems to her quite natural that she should welcome Mr. and Mrs. Mountford to Rosebrake, and the Shiloh minister whom she knows so well.
The chapel people give her kindly welcome, and tell her they would be "right glad to see the Vicar too." It is a veritable homecoming for the girl's hungry heart. She rejoices in the familiar sight of the country chapel tea meeting; in the old tunes started by the precentor's pitch-pipe; in the helpful, inspiring words spoken by John Mountford, and those who have charge of the meeting.
Annie Mountford, sitting beside Gildas at the service, feels her tremble in the vivid recollection of her father when two of his favourite hymns are sung: "Not all the blood of beasts" and "Begone unbelief." Though read out verse by verse, and delayed in progress by certain members whose vocalization is lingering and long drawn out, these hymns have more power to reach the heart of the Vicar's wife than the carefully rendered chanting and intoning in her husband's church.
To Gildas that bare little place -- bare not because the worshippers are averse to beauty, but because they are poor and struggling -- is as the gate of Heaven, bright with the light that shines from the Master's presence.
She sends to Meadthorpe by the Mountfords a wreath of Rosebrake flowers she has twined for her father's grave, and on her knees that night she thanks God for the help and comfort He has sent her in the renewal of old associations, and words of Godspeed for the future.
All her joy is soon clouded, however, in the consciousness that in some way her husband has been influenced to look on her participation in the meeting as an offence offered to himself and his congregation, and a matter calling for earnest and serious rebuke.