To attend to her district, and care for one neglected girl after another, often meeting with more disappointment than her calm, quiet, aspect betrays -- such claims have hitherto absorbed Miss Bertram Rowena's ideas. But now she is beginning to realize the joy and comfort of more vital religion, and what she owes to this young curate, twelve years her junior -- who has set her to work in so many opening channels of help, and whose eloquent teachings she drinks in with thirsting heart -- only her woman's spirit knows and understands.
There are secrets no mortal sight may guess. To many, the adoration of a young curate by a spinster of uncertain age would savour of the comic. But God knows there is suffering somewhere in this hidden devotion that has never envisioned return, but lives upon self sacrifice and its ministration to the idol it has enshrined.
Bernard Pendrill's heart is cheered by the improved attendances; the brighter, more attractive, and orderly aspect of the church; the greater care in the musical portion of the service. But there is still a great trouble at his heart. He does not seem to have obtained a hold over the Meadthorpe children.
"We get hold of the men," he remarks to Miss Rowena. "Our Workingmen's Guild shows a long roll of names, and I am thankful to see so many at church. And still more are our congregations representative of women, even at the daily services, which doubtless some find it difficult to attend."
The feminine mind can quite understand that a handsome and eloquent young curate is a magnet to certain of the very regular young ladies, as Miss Rowena has noted of late at Saint Simeon's, but she reproaches herself quickly for want of charity, and resolves each noon to offer a special petition for that holy grace.
"But notwithstanding that we have to put seats in the aisle, you are not satisfied?" she says, gently.
"I am not. Grownup people are all very well, but those who come after them are, as regards spiritual instruction, of as much or even greater importance. Our day school is well supported by voluntary contributions, but it seems to me to be doing little or nothing. We ought to have every child in Meadthorpe under our care, and build a first-class modern school. As for the Sunday school, did you see the thin little line that straggled in to catechising last Sunday? Unless the children receive definite Church teaching, Saint Simeon's will be empty a few years hence. What then becomes of the Meadthorpe children, I cannot imagine."
"Gildas Haven has got hold of them," answers Miss Rowena, who is carefully embroidering an altar cloth appropriate for Easter. "Every child in Meadthorpe knows her, and they are infatuated with her. She has many juvenile societies of one kind and another, and she's secretary of the Rehoboth Sunday school, and on the committee of the voluntary day school the Dissenters carry on here. I passed the place only yesterday, and quite a troop of children came pouring out."
"What can the parents be thinking about?" asks Pendrill, greatly shocked. "It is evident that wherever we visit, we must earnestly represent the importance of sending these little ones to the Church school. The workers at present spend their time and trouble for a mere handful of children. Surely better results can be obtained if we resolutely set to work?"
"The Rector is convinced a School Board is about to open in the place," says Miss Rowena. "He has been discouraged for a long time about our day school."
"A School Board? Heaven forbid! The religious teaching imparted to the children must be definite and pronounced if it is to impress their after-lives. As has been simply and ably said concerning this matter, 'It is no trifling obligation to maintain the connection between national education and the national Church.' At the risk of offending some, we dare not shrink from our responsibility. At the next meeting of district visitors, I shall urge upon every worker the duty of bringing the children of Meadthorpe, as far as possible, within the range of influences that will arm their future lives against sectarianism and secularism."
"I am visiting in the Tannery Lanes today," says Miss Bertram. "I will speak to the mothers there. Some of them are Church people, but the children are fond of Miss Haven. She takes a great interest in the Chapel day school, and they have feebly allowed their little ones to drift there."
Bernard Pendrill makes no reply, but the observant eyes of his companion note a sudden shadow on his earnest face. Gildas Haven! Is the blind, wilful opposition of this schismatic girl to crop up everywhere, resulting in the seeds of heresy where he would fain implant the pure wheat of devout Anglo-Catholicism alone? If it were not for Gildas Haven, it daily becomes more evident to him that his work in Meadthorpe would be far more fruitful, and bring far more glory to the Church he loves. This might be the thorn to tempt and buffet him -- the trial that is to prove his endurance, or vex him to impatience. Not one word of irritation or resentment will pass his lips; but Miss Rowena sees the shadow, and believing him weary, presses him to stay to lunch.
"Many thanks to you," he answers, "but I want to catch Crane in his dinner hour. You know I have induced him to sign the pledge, but I know he is tempted by that tavern near the factory. For a few days at least I shall get him to share my soup at Mrs. Abbot's. I do not believe in reforming a drunkard on prison fare, and Crane will spend nothing much on dinners, I know, until he has paid up his long tavern score."
"Well, put a biscuit in your pocket. You really look faint. I fear you sit up too late studying, and you give yourself no rest by day," says Miss Rowena with a calm, elder sisterly air as she produces the biscuit box and a paper bag.
When Bernard Pendrill has closed the garden gate behind him, and she sits at her needlework, musing on his saint-like life, and the face that seems to her sometimes in its glow of devotion like the face of an angel, the warning whisper seems to fill her heart: "Little children, keep yourselves from idols," and the altar cloth drops for a while from her trembling hands.
Gilbert Haines, creeping in furtively by-and-by to hunt for the white mouse that is truant from its cage, and scared by his accidental overthrow of her work bag, is still more startled by the fact that his aunt seems unaware of his presence, but sits in meditation, looking out into the garden with a face that puzzles him by its expression.
Gilbert faithfully keeps a diary, and that night he writes it up as follows before retiring to rest: "Went to church twice today -- a saint's day -- and had two sermons, 'Moses in the Bush,' and 'Weighed in the Balances and Found Wanting.' Fine, but blusterous. I try my hand at fishing in Burrows' pond. I catch nothing. I make some jellies with Artie Burrows. Upset nearly all of it. I lend Burrows a penny at compound interest until three weeks next Wednesday. I lose Midge, my white mouse, which grieves me very much, until I find Midge inside Aunt Rowena's sideboard, which Aunt Rowena never diskuvers. I wonder why Aunt Rowena looks more like mother today, for all over her face she looks so nice and loving at something in the garden, while I hunt for Midge. I think there's tears in Aunt Rowena's eyes, but I suspect this is imagination. Perhaps Aunt Rowena has a karbunkle. Cook cried when she had a karbunkle. I hope Aunt Rowena isn't going to die. Who would carve at dinner, and who would sew up my holes in my trousers?"
The crusade against the Chapel day school soon commences in earnest. Some of the district visitors would undertake any sort of doctrinal tournament if such were pronounced by Bernard Pendrill to be his express desire; but others go to work with a holy zeal, convinced they are serving the cause of religion by urging every father and mother with whom they converse to support the Church school.
It is not long before Miss Palin, the mistress of the girls' department of the Chapel day school, calls on Gildas with numerous complaints concerning little deserters, and remarks that one mother with whom she personally remonstrated, replied, "What am I to do? If I don't take Miss Rowena's advice I might lose my coal ticket, and only last week the Rector sent me a rabbit, and Mr. Pendrill has put me down for a loaf on Saturdays at the church. Times are very hard, and I can't afford to go against the parson, though our Maria's got on wonderful at her week-a-day school, and she's sorry enough to leave."
By the ti
me Miss Palin has gone home, Gildas is in a white heat of indignation against Saint Simeon's, against the woman who accepts church rabbits, and, above all, against Bernard Pendrill, the bigoted troubler of peaceful Meadthorpe.
* * *
This is the regular evening for the deacons' prayer meeting at the Manse, and the engagements usually close with a hymn. This is led by Mr. Channing-Surtees, who always sets the tune, by reason of being the oldest Rehoboth member. How Gildas wishes the deacons would depart! The hum of their voices, rising and falling in supplication, seems to irritate her tonight, and she is conscious of relief when, finally, the sounds ascend of:
"Backward with humble shame we look
On our original;
How is our nature dashed and broke
In our first father's fall!"
She hears the quavering voice of the snowy haired deacon as he pitches the tune, and Mr. Mundey's tenor blending with the deep bass of Mr. Hornby; and the alto of Jones who always during the progress of anything in the musical line, moans aloud in a sort of protesting second.
At last all eight verses are sung through, and Jones winds up with a long crescendo note by way of hallelujah, followed by a short bark. Gildas hears the retreating feet, and Emery's reminder to Mr. Channing-Surtees in the hall that he "forgot to give out last Lord's Day that the Dorcas was altered to 3:45 Tuesdays, instead of 3:30 as before."
The conversation thus arising ceases at last, and Gildas runs downstairs, startling her father who is just replacing his velvet cap after worship, with the cry, "Father, that man will be the death of me! There are no limits to his impertinence, his wicked, deceitful, malicious hostility!"
Mr. Haven is about to engage in the peaceful occupation of making porridge for supper. Every night Emery brings in the saucepan and the oatmeal, which the old minister patiently stirs, often murmuring to himself over the fire some of the many treasured lines stored in his memory.
"What is troubling you tonight, Gildas, my heart?" he asks tenderly, as he carefully inserts a stick of wood to assist the fire.
Gildas glances at him doubtfully. She is not at all sure if her father will follow her grievances with the concern they demand, but her heart is so full of wrath it must overflow in some direction, and she pours out her indignation, trusting that for once he will not be absentminded.
"What is troubling me, Father? Why, everything," she exclaims, clasping her hands behind her, and shaking her head reproachfully at Jones, who for an honest dog sits somewhat too near the toasted bread dipped in gravy that Emery has placed in the fender to keep warm. "Never a day passes but I hear something dreadful of that conceited looking man -- Pendrill, I believe his name is -- who has come to Saint Simeon's. All I have done in Meadthorpe seems now just wasted time. Everybody has taken to going to church. This new curate has become quite the fashion, and with his ignorant superstitions, his haughty self-assertion, his----"
"Love suffers long with patient eye,
Nor is provoked in haste;
She lets the present injury die,
And long forgets the past."
The minister says this in an absent way, pausing to rest in the stirring of the meal. "I forgot, my daughter. My mind has been running on an old hymn I taught your brother when a child. Did you say the new clergyman is superstitious? We see not all yet eye to eye, my child. Be mindful of that. Let us strive for toleration"
"Toleration, Father! Hasn't someone said toleration may go as far as treachery? Conscience calls on those who obey Scripture alone to be bold in opposing such a man as this new curate. Why, Father, he actually puts on special vestments for the Communion service, and he calls himself an Anglo-Catholic priest. He ought to have the honesty to say 'Roman Catholic.' And I hear he eats very little on Fridays, and thinks people should not entertain on Fridays! And he makes the choir turn to the east at some particular part of the services, and says the early Church used to pray towards the east, expecting the dawning of the promised dayspring! Oh, there's no end to the ideas and notions with which he is infecting Meadthorpe. To think how Rehoboth has been prospering, and now to have all one's work spoilt like this!"
"'Affliction is a stormy deep,'" begins Mr. Haven, regarding with anxiety the grief and despair on the young face that gazes so miserably into the fire. "My heart, 'hitherto hath the Lord helped us.' Do you think our Lord means to forget or forsake Rehoboth Chapel, or let the old cause go to shipwreck now?"
"I know that Pendrill will do all he can to destroy our influence, Father. Why, only today I heard he has got hold of Tom Crane, who had a seat in the gallery for years until he took to drink. He has persuaded Tom to join the Temperance Guild at Saint Simeon's -- they only started one, I know, because of our society. And Crane has actually turned Church of England, and he used to have a sitting in the gallery here!"
"Church of England is he, Gildas? I would rather hear of him as a Roman Catholic trusting in Jesus than a drunkard, wretched in body, and mind, and soul," says the minister, with a touch of his bygone energy. "My Gildas, let us take heed lest we set the honour of Rehoboth before the glory of Him who must increase, though we and ours decrease. 'The wind bloweth where it listeth;' so is the work of the Spirit. If the preaching of this young man restores such a one as Thomas Crane, will you and I, dear heart, sit down on the judgment seat and proclaim his labours as false and evil? To be first, to be greatest, we will not strive, my daughter. If only our Lord be glorified, can we not bear to fill but the little space?"
"Oh, Father, you're just like Jasper. You two have the patience of Job, but such goings-on as Mr. Pendrill's are more than I can stand! The latest thing is that he is setting the district visitors to work against the Chapel day school, and persuading the parents there are better advantages at the Church school, where of course all the poor little things will be taught will be to order themselves reverently to the clergy, and to know the Creed and the Catechism. We're losing scholars every day, and all through that insufferable man!"
And Gildas goes to get out from the sideboard the sugar for her porridge, wondering in the anger of her heart how her father can hum to himself so placidly over his domestic task:
"From East to West, from North to South,
Emmanuel's kingdom shall extend;
And every man in every face
Shall meet a brother and a friend!"
Chapter 6
Mr. Hornby's Reproof
AS time goes on, Jasper Ruthven and the curate of Saint Simeon's become better acquainted with one another. Both have little time for leisure, but they often chance to meet in passing from one duty to another, and on the common ground of their love for books a mutual interest arises that deepens into regard.
Concerning his family circumstances, Jasper is always reserved, though frank and free enough on other subjects. It is the general impression in Meadthorpe that between his teaching and his writing the young man makes "rather a good thing of it," and even Gildas reproaches him laughingly at times for preferring to hoard rather than to spend money on a new suit or hat; but Pendrill is secretly of the opinion that the young tutor has a harder struggle than is supposed.
Of the financial benefits of literature and its ascents, Bernard Pendrill knows something, and he is aware it is not the easiest or most lucrative pathway for an unknown and overworked hopeful. Sometimes he delicately tries to turn the conversation on the subject of authorship, having editorial friends, and desiring to hold out to Japer Ruthven, if possible, a helping hand. But the young man shrinks from the notion of patronage with proud independence, and nobody save himself is aware that the cares of rent, of food and clothing for his little family, of medical expenses, and the countless domestic needs of a household, are hanging like tempest clouds over his young life, and at times almost tempting him to despair.
Something -- perhaps his own intuition -- tells Bernard Pendrill that Jasper Ruthven is not happy just now at Rehoboth. To him it appears that Ruthven's spiritual nature may be awakening, and hungering and
thirsting for the precious dole of grace to be reached through channels duly ordained. Surely Jasper is too loyal to the old chapel, where he has worshipped all his life, to betray the little pricking thorns that discomfort him just now.
The fact is, old Gilead Haven has had a slight relapse, and Mr. Hornby is supplying the pulpit for a few Sundays, very acceptably to Rehoboth indeed, for he is a tireless Bible student, and spares no pains or research in throwing light on obscure passages. But like a crimson rag to a bull is the subject of all fiction to Mr. Hornby, and given the chance of a public address, you may be certain of hearing from his lips severe condemnation of works of imagination, and solemn warnings to the young to read only that which is strictly improving.
This for Jasper Ruthven is particularly uncomfortable. Everybody at Rehoboth knows he writes, and that he is not wholly innocent of composing stories likewise, and many an eye on such occasions is turned on him, until he feels he could rise in his seat and inquire of Mr. Hornby if the gifts of imagination emanate direct from his Satanic majesty, as the speaker's words appear to imply.
Then he feels he will worship in Nature's temple next Sunday rather than come to chapel and be publicly denounced, but he knows it will never come to that. The elder brother dare not teach the children of Forest Cottage to spend their Sundays in the fields. So he leans back in his seat, trying to look as though Mr. Hornby's remarks are unheard, but feeling utterly miserable within himself. He is convinced for a time that Mr. Hornby is right, and that he never ought to pen another line of any work of fancy, and then savagely asks himself if those children at home are to starve to satisfy the deacon.
Just now, Jasper Ruthven's pupils are dropping off from various causes, and the only sure payments to which he can look are the town Grammar School and the Rector. Then the literary work, to which his whole heart has gone out -- the best, most artistic thing he has written, his poem, "The Rose of Life" -- is drifting from publisher to publisher, in many cases he is aware unread, scarcely opened, the poetry of a novice writer being presumed hopeless.