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Rachel found it a little difficult to keep up her spirits as the days passed. Luke was so engrossed with Parish matters that she saw little of him; and when he was at home, his thoughts were apparently full of his work. He did not realise how little he talked of anything else, nor how long his silences were. His great desire to keep all sorrowful things from his wife prevented him sharing his worries with her, and instead of coming home after a meeting he would often turn in to 10, High Street, and discuss the difficulties with his mother, while Rachel tried to occupy herself in things over which she had to concentrate her attention so as not to worry over his long absences.
At times he would suddenly awake to the consciousness that Rachel was not looking quite as bright as usual and felt remorse at having taken her away from her home.
On these occasions he would try and manage to get a free day off and take her for a jaunt. But he felt it an effort and it put him back in his work. These free days, however, were days of bliss to his wife, till she recognised the fact that it was only when he was not engaged in his life work that they had communion with one another. She was of no help to him in the most important times of his life. This knowledge made her grow restless and unhappy.
At last she spoke to him of her longing to help him more. They had gone by train to some woods not far off and had lunch in a lovely spot they had discovered. The morning was bright and sunny, and as weather had a great effect on Rachel she was in a merry mood which communicated itself to her husband. Then, as after lunch they still sat on enjoying the rest and the smell of the damp earth, Rachel sighed.
"Isn't this heavenly?" she said. "I wish we lived in the country, don't you?"
"No, I don't," said Luke. "I should die of ennui! and I cannot imagine life without plenty of work. My work is my life."
"And I am kept outside," said Rachel. The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them.
Luke looked down at her in surprise.
"How do you mean?" he asked.
Rachel, her hands clasped round her knees, looked up into the branches of the tree above her, saying slowly, "I mean that there does not seem any possible way in which I can help you or share your life; for you say your work is your life. I am outside your work."
Luke did not answer. He was conscious that what she said was true. Had he not taken pains that her bright spirit might not be quenched by knowing all the sin that abounded in his parish? He could not bear the thought of his wife hearing the sad stories that she would inevitably come across if she worked in the parish. He felt convinced that the shock she would receive would be too much for her sensitive spirit. No, she was meant for happiness; why cloud it before the time? After a moment of troubled silence, he said:
"As for helping me, you can best do that dearest, by being happy. You cannot tell what it is to me when I come home to find you there; and to know that you have not been troubled by the sin that has weighed upon my own heart all day. The very fact of being with someone who is unconnected with it is a tremendous help."
Rachel was silent. It did not seem to cross Luke's mind that it was difficult to keep happy and bright so long as she had only the house and its cares to think about. She needed outside interests to fill her unoccupied time and thoughts.
"I suppose your mother shares your difficulties with you?" she said.
"Yes. My mother always has done so. She has a happy knack of letting troubles of that sort drop away from her like water off a duck's back. That is one of the great differences between you and her. She is not sensitive as you are, and she has worked so long at this kind of thing that she does not feel it as you would. My mother is just the one that I need in my work. I can discuss anything with her and I lean considerably on her judgment." He did not see the change of expression on his wife's face, nor that the sun had gone out of it, but he noticed her silence.
"You understand, don't you?" he said.
Rachel did not answer, but kept her eyes on the top branches of the tree above her. He did not know her eyes were full of tears. He thought he had explained the situation to her satisfaction, and supposed she knew him well enough to understand that it was his great love for her that was the cause of his decision not to worry her with his troubles.
And Rachel, sitting by his side on the soft moss, kept her eyes away, and wondered if all men were as ignorant of a woman's heart as Luke, or whether it was just because he lived so much up in the clouds that he had never studied human nature.
Luke flung himself back on the moss with his hands behind his head and looked in the same direction as his wife. The silence between them struck him as beautiful and restful, and he felt certain that Rachel was enjoying it to the full, as he was. Silence is the greatest proof of friendship, and it was a luxury to him.
Rachel on the other hand, felt she had rather too much of that luxury. As yet she had made no real friends. Mrs. Stone was the one that she liked best, but they were not on sufficiently intimate terms for her to feel she could run into her house should she be dull. So that with the exception of Polly and her mother-in-law she had no conversation except when callers came. And the callers were not always of the stamp of people with whom she could exchange thoughts. Besides, they often talked about people and things of which she knew nothing, as Luke was not communicative. She sometimes felt in an awkward position in consequence.
"What!" they would exclaim. "Did not the Vicar tell you?"
So now as Luke lay back enjoying the quiet and fully convinced that his wife, whom he loved as his own soul, was equally enjoying it, Rachel sat looking away from him feeling miserable and lonely, conscious that Luke had not found her the helpmeet he had expected her to be. She was feeling it all so much that she knew if the subject was again touched upon she would burst into tears, and cause her husband surprise and worry; so when she had successfully controlled her feelings she turned the conversation to the beauty of the trees. She felt it almost difficult to think of anything to talk about that would interest him, as he had just told her that his work was his life, and she was debarred from taking any part in it.
But Luke, quite unconscious of the sad thoughts of his wife, enthusiastically agreed in her admiration of the trees and began reciting a poem on the subject, thus giving Rachel time to try to get over her sore feelings; before the poem was finished she was able to turn and smile upon him.
"I never indulged in these holidays before I married," he said laughing, "consequently I revel in them with you beside me. You can't think Rachel what it is to come home and find you always there. It is a little heaven on earth. Don't say again that you are outside my life or don't help me. It just makes all the difference to me and to my work. Do you know that sometimes in the very midst of it I suddenly think of you and thank God for giving you to me."
Rachel flushed with happiness. If this really was so, and Luke was not one to flatter, perhaps her longing to be near him in the battle with evil and sin in the belief that she could help him, was a mistake. She was more of a help to him, apparently, in seeing to his house and welcoming him back from his work than if she was actually fighting, as it were, by his side.
Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by Luke saying, as he had said on that moonlight night at Southwold, which seemed now so long ago:
"Sing Rachel."
Rachel hesitated. "I don't know what to sing," she said.
"Sing what you sang at Southwold, on the sea. What a perfect night that was, do you remember?"
Remember! Rachel could never forget it. How often had the thought of it saddened her. Somehow things had not been just as she had hoped and expected on that moonlight evening when she and Luke had been alone on the great wide sea. She had never had him quite so absolutely to herself since that day; ever since then she had had to share him with others. No, she could not sing those words just now. They seemed sacred to that wonderful time which they had spent in the pathway of the moon.
"Not that Luke," she remonstrated.
"Well sing something else," he said, not having noticed the slight tremor in her voice. "I want to hear your voice among the trees."
"I'll sing the two last verses of your favourite hymn," she said.
"Drop Thy still dews of quietness,Till all our strivings cease;Take from our souls the strain and stressAnd let our ordered lives confessThe beauty of Thy peace.Breathe through the heats of our desireThy coolness and Thy balm,Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire,Speak through the earthquake, wind and fire.O still small voice of calm."
Luke did not move. He lay looking up at the green leaves above him. Then he said:
"How is it you always know exactly the right words to sing? My soul has been full of strain and stress lately. A great deal of sadness is going on among my people. I need to let the peace of God rule my heart, and to listen to 'the still small voice of calm,' and to remember that there is my wife at home praying for me."
Rachel forgot her own trials to think of his.
"I did not know you had been so worried," she said, her voice full of sympathy. "Have people been horrid?"
"No, not horrid to me; but the devil is playing havoc in the place, and it is a strain."
Rachel felt ashamed. Luke had been enduring the strain and stress of battle with the enemy, thinking altogether of his people, while she had been engrossed in her own little trials, caused by an insane jealousy of the one who was the only person who could advise and help him. How small she was! How poor and mean! How unlike the good Christian that Luke supposed her to be. She was filled with shame and scorn of herself.
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Luke was beginning to feel acutely the great necessity of a study. When his mother had lived with him she had left the dining-room entirely for his use in the mornings, and had been careful not to interrupt him by going in and out. In fact, in those days they had kept no servant, and Mrs. Greville had been so busy in the house that she had not needed to use the room at all.
But since Luke had married and Polly had come as maid, things had been different. Rachel was constantly in the room, and though she took pains to be as quiet as possible, and sometimes sat so still working, that, had it not been that Luke had heard her enter, he would not have known she was there, he was more or less conscious of her presence, and this very consciousness was an interruption.
Luke at this time was not only busy with his parish and his sermons; he was grappling with the great enemy in his own soul.
The literature of the day was flooded with scepticism, and the truths he held most dear were questioned, not only by avowed unbelievers, but by those who held important positions in the Church; and for the sake, not only of his own soul but for those of his people, he had to face these questions and to answer them to his own perfect satisfaction.
He felt that the only way to fight the great enemy was by hard study and constant prayer. And both these duties were almost impossible under the present circumstances. He needed to be alone with God, and not to be subject to continual interruptions even from his wife. Moreover he felt that a study was necessary, so that people who needed spiritual advice or comfort might not be afraid of coming to see him.
Then he had suffered considerably from Rachel's efforts to keep the dining-room tidy. The papers that he left lying about his writing table had been often neatly arranged in heaps, and he had spent several minutes in sorting them. Yet he felt he could not blame the dear hands that had done it, for he happened to know that Polly was not allowed to touch his writing table; Rachel undertook its dusting and arrangement herself. Had he a study he could safely leave his papers about and make a rule that they should not be touched except by himself.
Yes, a study was absolutely necessary.
One morning its necessity was borne in upon him more than ever. He had some very important letters to write and in the midst of them, Polly came in to lay the cloth for dinner. Some of his papers he had put on the table and the laying of the cloth involved their removal. He was just in the midst of answering a very difficult question and felt he could not possibly be interrupted.
"Ask Mrs. Greville to put off dinner for half an hour," he said. Rachel ran in.
"Do you really want dinner put off Luke?" she asked. "It will, I fear, all be spoilt."
"I'm sorry, but it can't be helped. This letter has to go by the 3 o'clock post. Don't let Polly come in again till I tell you."
To Rachel, Luke's dinner was of more importance than any number of letters, but she saw he was a little worried and so left the room at once. Half an hour afterwards she heard the front door slam.
"Quick Polly," she said, "Mr. Greville has evidently gone to the post, lay the table as fast as you can."
But Luke must have gone further than the post. Ten minutes passed away and he had not returned.
"I do believe he has forgotten dinner," said Rachel, looking at Polly with a woe-begone face.
"It is a shame," said Polly, "and you've got such a nice one for him. It's just like the master; he don't think of himself a bit. He's thinking of them people."
And Luke, perfectly unconscious of the surprised distress he had left behind him, knowing that he was late for an engagement, hurried into a pastry cooks, bought a penny bun, and went off to his meeting, thinking to himself, "I must have a study somehow or other. It is impossible to do my work without it."
Should he suggest to Rachel to turn the little spare room into a study? No, that would prevent her having her sister to stay with her upon which, he knew, she had set her heart. He felt almost inclined to go to the extravagance of renting a room in the house where his mother lived. That was not a bad idea at all. He would talk it over with his mother.
When he returned home, to his surprise he found Rachel looking worried.
"Oh Luke," she said, as she glanced up from her work when he opened the door. "What have you been doing? Do you know that you have had no dinner and that Polly and I waited for ours till three o'clock, hoping that you would come. It is really too bad of you." Rachel was evidently ruffled.
"I've had lunch, so don't worry dear," he said, "I'm a bad boy I fear."
Rachel laughed.
"You are a very bad boy indeed," she said, "and don't a bit deserve to have a wife who has prepared a particularly nice dinner for you. But what have you had, and where did you have it?"
"I got a bun, and that supported me well all through the meeting for which I was nearly late."
"A bun! only a bun! Oh Luke, you really are impossible. Of course," she added as she rose, "you must have a proper meal now."
"No, have tea early and give me an egg. That's all I feel inclined for."
He made his way towards his writing table, then stopped short.
"Who has been moving my papers?" he asked.
Rachel started. She had never heard Luke speak so irritably before.
"I have been tidying up," she said, "I hope I have done no mischief. All the letters I have put in the top drawer. See, here they are," opening the drawer quickly, "and your larger papers and books I have laid together. They are quite all right. I was most careful of them."
Luke checked the expression of impatience that he was about to use, and only said:
"I'd rather that they had been left just as I put them. It delays me to have to hunt for letters."
"But the room had to look tidy," said Rachel distressed, "and I thought that if anyone came in to see me and happened to be shown into the dining-room you would not care for your letters to be strewn about. You remember you left in a hurry."
"So I did," he said. "I had forgotten. And you are quite right; the letters ought not to be left about where any one can see them. However," he added, sitting down at his writing table and beginning to look through the top drawer, "it all makes my way plainer. It is positively necessary to have a study where need not be disturbed."
"Why not have dinner in the drawing-room on the days you are at home in the mornings," said Rachel, anxious to help him.
"Oh no, I could not think of that. What I feel I must do is to get a room somewhere; in the house, for instance, where my mother lodges. I must manage it somehow."
Rachel standing by his side while he sorted his papers was quite silent. It was all that she could do not to cry out, "Oh Luke, why are you so blind; why do you hurt me so?" As it was, she stood perfectly still and silent.
The days on which Luke wrote his sermons were red letter days. She loved to sit near him and work; and she had had the impression that the sense of her presence helped him. She had told him once that she sat praying for him as he wrote, and he had kissed her as his thanks. Evidently she had been mistaken; he would prefer to be alone. And why, oh why should he choose to find a room in his mother's house? It would be the beginning of seeing far less of him than ever. Of course his mother would persuade him to stay to dinner with her if his next duty was near her rooms; and it would be only human nature for her to discuss his wife with him and to hint that she was incapable. But she put this thought away from her at once. She was so certain that Luke would not discuss her with anyone, even with his mother.
Her perfect silence made Luke look round, and the expression on her face perplexed him. He covered the hand that lay on the back of his chair with his own, saying remorsefully:
"I'm afraid, dearest, I was a little sharp just now. You must forgive me. You were perfectly right to tidy away my papers; but you will understand that it would be easier for me if I had a room where I could leave them about and find them easily. Besides," he said, "I want more time for private prayer and a place where I cannot be interrupted. My work is suffering for want of this."
"I see," said Rachel. She tried to smile, but failed. "I so love being with you when you write your sermons," she added.
"And I have loved to have you. But the work must come first; and I am convinced that for every reason it will be better to have a room quite to myself." He turned round again to finish sorting his papers.
Rachel came to a sudden determination.
"You won't engage that room till you have thought a little longer about it," she pleaded.
"I shall engage it to-morrow if possible," he answered with decision.
And Rachel said in her heart, "You shall not engage it to-morrow."
Then she went out to find Polly.
"Polly," she said in a soft voice, "do you think your father could come round this evening and bring a man with him. I want to give Mr. Greville a surprise and make the spare room into his study. He will be out at a meeting till nine o'clock. Could you just run round do you think? I will get the tea."
The little spare room had been arranged with the hope that her sister Sybil would soon be able to come and pay them a visit. It was dreadfully disappointing that now she would not be able to take her in. She would have to get a room out for her which would not be nearly so nice. But anything would be better than for Luke to rent a room in his mother's house. She could not endure that. If he did that she would see less and less of him, and she did not think it could be good for a husband to get used to being a long time away from his wife. In fact she simply could not bear it. Sybil's little room at the top of the stairs must be turned into a study; and all the time Rachel was preparing the tea she was planning where to place the furniture and his books. The very idea of giving him such a surprise had the effect of sending away all melancholy thoughts, and Luke, who had been as startled to see such a look of melancholy on his wife's face as she had been to hear his somewhat irritable tone of voice, was relieved to see her as bright as usual, and determined never to allow any irritability to find its way into his heart towards her again.
At ten o'clock that evening Rachel sat by the open window in the drawing-room listening for her husband's footstep. She was very tired, as though Polly's father had, with the help of another man, taken up Luke's writing table and book shelves, etc., and moved other furniture into the spare room. Rachel and Polly had between them moved the books and had arranged them as near as possible in the same order in the shelves, as Luke had arranged them himself in the dining-room. She had taken out of the dining-room two of his favourite pictures and had hung them over his table; and she had placed a large armchair by the window so that he could read in comfort.
And now she sat wondering if Luke would be pleased, or if the very careful moving of his papers would again vex him. Her heart beat as she heard him open the door and she ran to meet him. She drew him into the drawing-room, saying:
"I have such a surprise for you."
But Luke hardly seemed to hear her. His face was radiant, and Rachel saw at once that something had happened to make him very happy and to engage all his thoughts.
"I have such good news to tell you," he said, as he sank rather wearily into a chair.
"What is it?" asked Rachel. After the excitement of the evening his preoccupation rather damped her spirits. That it was not the time to spring her surprise upon him she felt at once, so she took up her needle work and sat down. She could not but notice the expression on his face. She could not think of any other word by which to describe it to herself, but radiant, and a longing that he did not live quite so up in the clouds, as she would have expressed it, took possession of her; he had evidently not heard her remark as she had met him at the door; or if he had heard it, it was to him of such infinitely minor importance than the news he was about to communicate to her, that he had ignored it.
As he was silent before answering her question Rachel said again, and he didn't notice the faint tone of impatience in the voice.
"What is your wonderful news? Do tell me."
"That's just it," he said looking joyfully at her. "It is wonderful. A man who has been the ringleader of a lot of harm in the parish, has to-night made the great decision; in other words, he has been converted."
"Oh Luke, how beautiful," said Rachel.
Rachel knew what this news meant to her husband. For a moment the study was forgotten.
"He has only twice been to the class;" continued Luke, "and the first time he made himself troublesome by arguing with me. But he came again to my surprise, and to-night, well, it was wonderful. It only shows what God can do. It was just a word of Scripture that struck him and would not let him rest. He was quite broken down."
Rachel's work had dropped on to her knee and she sat looking at her husband. His face reminded her of the parable of the lost sheep and of the joy in the Presence of God over one sinner that repented. Even in the days of their perfect courtship, even on that wonderful moonlight night on the sea at Southwold, she had never seen such joy on his face. His love for his Lord, and His work, exceeded, evidently, every other love and interest. Rachel looking into her own heart and remembering how comparatively little communion she experienced with her Lord, compared to Luke, felt inclined to weep. She had been wholly taken up with her husband and his home and with the determination of keeping him all to herself. She had not given much time to prayer; and even in those moments in which she had knelt down night and morning she found her thoughts wandering away to Luke, and revolving round him. Her conscience accused her loudly.
"I will bring in your cocoa," she said rising, "Polly has gone to bed."
It was after drinking his cocoa, that she told him again that she had a surprise waiting for him.
They ran upstairs together, his arm round her. He was in such buoyant spirits. Then Rachel opened the study door.
For the first moment he was silent from astonishment. Then he took her face between his hands and kissed her.
"But I don't approve of the surprise at all," he said, laughing. "What about Sybil?"
"Sybil will have a room out. I would a hundred times rather that you should write your sermons in your own home and near me than that you should get a room elsewhere. Do you like it?"
"Like it? I should think so." Then his face became grave. "But where are my letters and papers?" he asked anxiously.
"Perfectly safe. I have put an elastic band round the letters and they are in exactly the same order as you left them, and so are your other papers which you will find in the long top drawer. Then I have told Polly that she is never to come into the study, but that I will see to it. So you can leave everything about, dear; or lock the room up when you are out."
Luke busy among his papers looked up with a smile.
"Are you sure you would not mind me doing that? I can't tell you what a relief it would be to me to know that nothing has been moved."
"I will dust it early in the morning before your letters come," said Rachel, "and then you will be sure that you can leave everything about and it won't be interfered with."
His smile of pleasure was enough reward for Rachel.
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The Bishop was in his garden, surrounded by the Clergy of his diocese and their wives. He was a grey-haired man, upright and spare of build. His face was full of kindness and love as he went among his guests, entering into their difficulties and encouraging them in their work.
It was his annual garden party, and he looked forward to it almost as much as did his clergy. Being a widower, had it not been for his work he would have felt the Palace lonely. It was an old and hoary building, and lay in the shadow of the cathedral; but the greater part of the garden was full of sunshine, and wherever the Bishop was, there was brightness and the atmosphere of love and fellowship.
He now stood glancing around as if looking for someone; then he caught sight of Rachel who was making her way swiftly towards him, her face alight with love and eagerness.
The child is happy, he thought gladly, and stretched out both his hands in welcome.
"I was looking for you," he said, "and was hoping that you and your good husband were not going to play me false. Where is he?"
"He's coming by the next train, in half an hour's time, but I was so impatient to see you that I told him I could not wait. Some parishioner has been taken ill and he had to go and see him. But I simply had to come."
"Now," said the Bishop, "I want to know all about your dear mother, and about your new life. We will go towards the nut walk where we shall not be interrupted. I also want to show you the Palace. I promised to do that in the old days I remember."
"It's perfectly delightful to talk to anyone who remembers those old days," said Rachel, with a slight catch in her voice, "and specially with you of all people. How father loved you."
"He was my best friend," said the Bishop, "and the world for me is the poorer for his absence. But tell me about your new life. Are you getting used to it?"
A slight cloud crossed Rachel's face which was not unnoticed by the Bishop.
"It's just a little difficult," she answered. "Luke's parishioners are quite different from any people I have met; some of them are nice, and they adore Luke. But oh they are so funny! They take offence at such small things. I don't think they like me much. You see I was labelled as young and incompetent before they saw me. But after all it does not much matter, as I have Luke. Perhaps if it were not for a few worries I should be almost too happy."
"You have a good husband in Greville."
Rachel looked up into the Bishop's face. Her look was enough to convince him of her happiness.
"He's much too good for me," she said, "I'm not half worthy of him, and of course his people can't help seeing that, specially his mother."
"She does not live with you, does she?"
"No. She turned out for me, but she lives very near."
The Bishop detected a shade of bitterness in the little laugh that escaped her lips.
"Is it difficult?" he asked kindly.
"I think you had better not ask me," said Rachel. Then unable to restrain her feelings, she added, "She just spoils everything, and I am so afraid of Luke finding it out; he is so devoted to her."
The Bishop was silent.
"The worst of it is," said Rachel, after a slight pause, "I can't talk it over with Luke, so there is a secret always between us. Don't you think it was horrid of her to tell people how incapable she thinks me? The result is that I can't help Luke in his work; people don't believe in me."
"How do you know this?"
"Someone let it out by mistake when she called," said Rachel. "There are always, I suppose, people like that in a place who talk more than they mean to. This person is a regular gossip, and I learnt more about the people in half an hour from her than I should have learnt in a year from Luke. Luke never tells me anything. I wish he would."
"No, I don't think you should wish that. A man who does not talk over his people is a man to be trusted with the secrets of their souls. That is just the one disadvantage in my eyes of a man being married. It is difficult for some wives to tolerate their husbands not telling them what should be kept sacred. For every other reason I am a great advocate of married clergy. A wife may be of the very greatest help to a man. But in order to be so she must be a woman of high ideals, and one who understands what is due to his position. But my dear child, why did not you try to turn the conversation of this parishioner? Take my advice and don't listen to criticisms of yourself."
"I am not sure that I have high ideals," said Rachel with a little laugh, "but I'm afraid I do like being appreciated. I am sure the people as a whole don't like me, and I can't think why."
The Bishop laughed.
"I expect you are mistaken about that," he said, "It's very easy to get fancies of that sort into one's head."
"Oh no it is not fancy. Anyhow the older people do not like or appreciate me. They think I am no help to Luke; but he won't give me any work to do. I expect it's his mother's fault as she thinks I am incapable. It worries me very much, as I want them to like me for Luke's sake. Then I sometimes wonder if it is anything to do with my dress. I see Mrs. Greville's face change sometimes when I put on one of my specially pretty dresses."
The Bishop held her at arm's length and looked at her. Certainly she was one of the best dressed women in the palace garden that day, but it was all very pretty and becoming.
"Perhaps you are a little smart for the wife of the Vicar of Trowsby," he said reluctantly. "It is very pretty, but in a parish where there are so many poor, it might be wise to dress in a somewhat less luxurious fashion."
"It's part of my wedding trousseau," said Rachel regretfully, "and I do love pretty clothes; perhaps they are my temptation."
"Perhaps they are," said the Bishop, smiling kindly.
"Anyhow when these are worn out the temptation will be over as I shall have no money to spend on clothes. I am not sure that we shall not be eligible for Gifts from the 'Poor Pious Clergy Society'," she added laughing. "Mrs. Greville does not seem to think we have a penny to spare. I hate having to think of every penny; it makes one inclined to be miserly and mean."
"No; it's the poor who are most generous. Don't wish to be rich; by far the nicest people are those who are not endowed with this world's goods. It is far harder to persuade the rich man to give of his wealth than the really poor widow of her mite. I am glad that you have not too much of this world's goods."
"I should love to be rich, or quite comfortably off as we were at home. I never thought of taking care of the pence in those days, nor indeed of the pounds either. Now I am always thinking 'can we afford it,' and find myself choosing the thing that costs threepence rather than threepence halfpenny. It seems to me horrid and cramping."
"Not nearly so bad as if you spent five pounds carelessly, when your poor neighbour had only five shillings to spend. You will find that if you do not allow yourself to grow miserly, you will be the richer for being poorer."
They had reached the door of the Palace by this time and the Bishop led the way up the winding stone steps which led to the drawing-room. It was a long low panelled room with large windows looking over the garden.
"How charming," said Rachel. "I hope you are going to ask us to stay with you one day. I can imagine sitting here and dreaming all kinds of pleasant dreams. Don't you love it?"
"If my dear wife was living and we had a houseful of children I should appreciate it. But except when I have visitors, or when the house is full of clergy, I have no use for this room. Come and I will show you my study."
That the study was a room in constant use Rachel saw at a glance, and wondered if the Bishop was as anxious over the many papers and letters that were arranged neatly on his writing table, as Luke was.
The sight of the papers brought to Rachel's mind the sudden panic that had arisen in her heart at the idea of her husband renting a room in his mother's house, and she told the Bishop of her fears as she moved about looking at the pictures on the walls. Then suddenly turning round and facing him, she asked:
"Do you think all this is very small of me? I can't tell you how trying Luke's mother is. She simply has no tact whatever and I can't help thinking that she is a little jealous of me."
"Come and sit down," said the Bishop. Then he looked at her gravely. "I am going to say something that I fear will hurt you. But I do it as your father's friend and as your Bishop. Will you let me tell you the truth?"
Rachel's eyes filled with tears.
"I only want the truth," she said. "And I could never mind anything you said. Indeed I want help."
"I will try to help you. And first let me tell you that you have the most splendid opportunity of growing into a noble strong woman. This mother-in-law of yours, instead of being a hindrance to your soul's life, may be a stepping stone to a higher life. It depends a great deal upon yourself which she becomes, a hindrance, or a stepping stone."
"I don't see how," said Rachel.
"She will be a tremendous hindrance if you give way to your present feelings about her. You must forgive me, my dear child, but I am perfectly certain from all you have told me that you are suffering from a terrible enemy. Let me call him by his right name: his name is jealousy."
"Oh no," said Rachel shrinking. "I despise jealous people, I don't think it is that."
"In the depths of your heart you are afraid lest your influence over your husband should be undermined by his mother; lest he should grow more dependent on her than on you. You do not like him to spend time with her which you think ought to be given to you. In fact you generally suspect him of being with her when he is late home, and all this makes it impossible for you to like her. Is it not so?"
Rachel was silent. She knew he was telling her the truth.
"But you must remember that his love for his mother is the most natural thing in the world. You would not really have it otherwise. If he did not remain faithful to her now he has married you, you would have cause to doubt if he would always remain faithful to you. You should encourage this filial love in him."
"But you don't know her," said Rachel.
"Yes, I have met her; and though I can understand that she may not have much tact, and may be lacking in sensitiveness, in fact is rather a rough jewel, nevertheless she is a jewel, and I think you should be grateful rather than otherwise to her for the beautiful influence she has had over her son, which provides you with such a husband. And do not you think that possibly she has more cause for jealousy than you? Remember, she has had to turn out of her home, to give up her son, to see him wrapped up in his love for you. I own I feel a little for Mrs. Greville."
Rachel looked up at him with her eyes still full of tears. "I know you are right," she said, "and I think I have been horrid. Somehow I have selfishly been thinking of my own trials and have forgotten hers. But I don't know how I can be different."
"Unless you get the victory over this sin, it will get the victory over you and embitter your life. Jealousy becomes a kind of obsession, if given way to. It has wrecked many a life."
"It is just that, an obsession. I can't sleep sometimes for thinking of her, and my first waking thoughts are of how I can circumvent her."
"Then let me give you a receipt for jealousy. Whenever you find yourself thinking of Mrs. Greville, pray, and then resolutely turn your thoughts away from her."
"It will be very difficult," said Rachel, looking down. "She has got quite on my mind."
"With God all things are possible."
"I sometimes wonder if I am really a Child of God," said Rachel. "I am so very far from being like the Lord Jesus Christ."
"You must not let the great enemy of souls tempt you to despond," said the Bishop. "That is the kind of atmosphere in which he delights to do his work. You gave yourself to God at the time of your confirmation, I remember. Don't listen to the doubts that the Devil suggests. You are a Child of God, but just at present not a very happy or good one."
"I ought to be happy," said Rachel looking up with a smile, "with such a husband as Luke. I only hope I do not love him too much."
"I don't think so. I doubt if it is possible to love a husband too much; but it is very possible to love God, Who gave him to you, too little."
Rachel looked up again into the Bishop's face.
"I do want to be good," she said, "and really I have everything to make me happy; if I am not happy it is my own fault, I quite see that." Then she looked at her watch.
"Luke's train must be in by now and he will be hunting for you. I ought not to keep you any longer; but I am so glad that you are my Bishop and my father's best friend. I feel just as if I had had a talk with him. He, I know, would agree with every word you have said."
Then finding it was so late they hurried into the garden where they discovered Luke among a crowd of clergy, and Rachel, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, left them together.
Luke's eyes rested lovingly on the retreating figure of his wife, and as he turned to the Bishop the question in his eyes was so evident that the latter answered it.
"Yes," he said laughing, "I know what you want me to say—that there never was a sweeter girl in the world; I congratulate you Greville on your marriage."
"It is an ideal marriage," said Luke. "She is all I could possibly wish for."
"Knowing her father I'm not surprised to hear you say so. What does she do in the parish?"
For a moment Luke was taken aback. He suddenly realized the fact that she did nothing but keep his home for him.
"I don't encourage her to work in the parish," he said. "She is much too young, I feel, as yet; I consulted my mother about it and we both came to the conclusion that it was best at present for her to do nothing in that line."
"But is not that rather a pity? For the Vicar's wife to be a nonentity is not good for a parish, surely there is something she can do."
"I can't tell you the state of the place," said Luke. "It would not really be fit for her to go among the people. I could not endure for her to learn of all the awful sin that abounds. It would be such a terrible shock to her."
"But, my dear fellow; you married her to be a helpmeet for you. I don't think a man has any right to marry a girl and then to keep her entirely to himself just to make his home comfortable, when there is God's work to be done. I think you should trust her with God. It is no good keeping people blissfully ignorant of the sin that abounds. Besides, ignorance is not innocence. It is almost as if you were leading her about blindfold."
"My mother felt very strongly about it," said Luke. And yet for the first time a suspicion crossed his mind that possibly he was denying to Rachel from selfish motives, the wonderful privilege of working for God in the Parish. He could not bear that his sweet wife should touch pitch even though it was in God's service. He remembered saying to her what a rest it was for him to come home and be with someone who knew nothing of the awful matters with which he had come in contact during the day. Might not this be a subtle form of selfishness on his part?
"Do you suppose that the women who go as Missionaries," added the Bishop "have the faintest idea of the horrors they will see and learn about? Yet you would not urge them to stay at home. Help her to work for her God regardless of the consequences. Leave these with God. Besides you may not always have your mother who I suppose is as good as a curate to you."
Luke determined to think the matter out when alone, and was soon pacing the nut walk with a fellow clergyman discussing the attitude of the modernists in the Church of England.