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And now began a very strenuous life for Rachel.
Mrs. Greville had been as good as a curate to Luke; and she was now laid aside unable to do any work at all. She lay thinking and worrying over the fact that she was no longer any good to her son. The worry did not help her to recover from her illness. In fact the doctor told Rachel that so long as her husband's mother allowed herself to be consumed with anxiety she could not hope to get strong. Was there no-one, he asked, who could help in the matter? Surely there were some ladies in the parish who could divide the work between them?
Rachel knew that no more workers were to be had. In fact several had given up their districts. They so entirely disagreed with the Vicar in his determination not to allow the parish hall to be used for whist drives and dancing, that they felt out of sympathy with him, and had left the Church.
Those who remained were already too full of work to undertake anything further.
Luke came home from seeing his mother one day, in the depths of despair.
"She is worrying herself to death," he said, "over the Mother's Meeting and the Sunday School." Then he looked across at his wife, who was playing "Dickory, dickory dock!" with the baby. Her face had been full of love and happiness, but at his words the smile faded. She knew what was coming.
"I suppose," he said, then he hesitated.
"Well?" asked Rachel.
"I suppose you couldn't manage to take my mother's place?"
"To superintend the Sunday School and the Mother's Meeting?"
"Yes. It would lift such a burden off her heart. You see she is one of those people who worry unnecessarily, and I can't tell you what a relief it would be to me to be able to tell her that her place has been supplied."
"I don't quite see how I can, with baby," said Rachel.
"But there is Polly. She likes looking after him."
"Dickory, dickory, dock," sang Rachel again, "the mouse ran up the clock." But while playing she was not only thinking of the anxiety which would be hers if she had to leave baby constantly under Polly's care; but she was wondering if her own health would stand it. She must keep well for Luke's sake as well as for baby's, and lately she had felt sometimes at the end of her tether. She had already undertaken a district of her own and various other duties, and what with the cooking and the house, not to mention all the work that little Pat entailed, she had felt that if she did not soon have a rest she would break down altogether. Yet here was Luke, looking at her with his anxious pleading eyes; and she had never failed him yet, how could she fail him now?
"Dickory, dickory, dock," sang Rachel as she ran her fingers up Pat's little arm:
"The mouse ran up the clock,The clock struck one,Down the mouse ran,Dickory, dickory, dock."
Baby crowed with merriment, and Rachel looked up gravely at her husband.
"I'll see what I can do," she said quietly.
Luke's face beamed.
"Thank you dearest," he said. "I'll go round at once and relieve mother's mind."
Rachel sighed as she heard the front door close after him.
She looked down gravely at the child in her arms.
"I wonder if I have done right," she thought. "Anyhow my little baby I won't neglect you for any number of Mothers' Meetings or Sunday Schools. You and Daddie must come first."
Then she sang again—
"The mouse ran up the clock,The clock struck one,Down the mouse ran,Dickory, dickory, dock."
"Ah! Me! The life of a clergyman's wife is difficult," she sighed.
And besides all the work and care, poverty stared her in the face. She could not help fancying that Luke's great coat was turning green; and that he was growing thin, notwithstanding all her efforts to provide him with nourishing food. That he was unconscious of it himself she felt sure.
He was quite unconscious also of the necessity of not giving away money unnecessarily. Generous by nature, people had soon found it out, and he could not resist giving when asked. Now that his mother was no longer able to give him advice in the matter, and to restrain the impulse which was so strong in him, and which was a beautiful trait in his character so long as he did not allow it to interfere with his duties as a husband and father, he had been freer than usual with his money. He had no idea that such was their poverty that Rachel who now had taken upon herself to keep the accounts, and to pay the bills, went without nourishing food, in order that there might be enough for him and his little son.
He never noticed that when he had meat for his dinner Rachel ate bread and cheese, and that the various dishes that she invented to help to give him a good appetite she did not share with him. Now and then she laughed to herself to see how extraordinarily oblivious he was as to what was going on around him. She was thankful that he never noticed that she looked tired, and was growing thin. It would only have added to his anxiety. But she hoped she would not break down, for his sake and the baby's.
And now this fresh work had come upon her. It was not even as if she had been trained up to it. If only they had let her begin when she was stronger, it would have been easier.
A few days after she had given the promise to Luke, Mrs. Stone called. Rachel had rather begun to dread her calls, for though she was always loyal to Luke, and had more than once proved herself to be a good friend, if there was any complaint to be made by the parishioners, Mrs. Stone was always the one to be asked to make it known to the Vicar and his wife. People knew that she was on intimate terms with them, and felt that she was the best person to plead their cause. By now Rachel had become conscious of this, and as Mrs. Stone sat down and began to enquire about Mrs. Greville and to ask after the baby, Luke's wife felt confident from the rather uneasy expression of her face, that the real cause of her call was yet to be made known.
It was not long before she learnt what it was. "I want to know," said Mrs. Stone as she rose to go, "if it would be possible for you to come more regularly to the working party?"
"I am almost afraid I really can't manage that," said Rachel. "I have about as much as I can do."
"Well you won't mind me having asked you, I know," said Mrs. Stone. "I thought it was only kind to let you know that people are complaining a little."
"Complaining of what?" said Rachel rather sharply.
"I don't like to hurt you. But they say that now Mrs. Greville is laid aside there seems no lady head of the parish. I think that it would do a lot of good if you could just manage that monthly engagement. Even if you only came for an hour."
"I wonder how many of those people realise what it is to have an incompetent servant and a baby to look after," said Rachel. She felt indignant. "I was not engaged to act the part of a curate. When I married I promised to love, cherish, and obey my husband. I didn't promise to do all the parish work that other women ought to be doing."
Mrs. Stone had never seen Rachel anything but calm and bright: and was much distressed at the result of her advice.
"My dear, I am so sorry to have pained you," she said. "Of course we ought not to expect the impossible from you."
Rachel, overwrought and very remorseful, burst into tears.
"I ought not to have said that. I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "Only just now I feel as if I couldn't do a thing more. Please forget it. The fact is," she added, "I have to say a dozen times a day, 'Lord I am oppressed. Undertake for me.' But it was very very wrong of me. I will certainly come if I possibly can. Of course for Luke's sake I ought not let it be said that there is no head of the parish, and I really love that kind of work."
Mrs. Stone went home flushed and distressed. She saw that Rachel was just on the verge of a breakdown, and blamed herself for not doing more to take the heavy burden of the parish off her shoulders.
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Mrs. Greville's illness not only gave Rachel more work to do in the parish, but took up a certain amount of her time in visiting her and seeing that she was well looked after. And her mother-in-law, being such an active woman was not an easy patient to do with. Her incapacity to help her son was trying in the extreme to her, and she was one of those people who look on illness as a humiliation. The atmosphere of the sick room was not a happy one.
Moreover, Rachel found that visiting her meant various little extra duties to perform, as there was someone or other always on Mrs. Greville's mind. Would Rachel give Mrs. Jones a look as her heart was constantly giving her trouble; and Mrs. Jacob was probably in great need of a grocery ticket. She would like to know also if Mrs. Grayston's baby had arrived, and how she was. And by-the-bye, she had promised to lend a book the day before she was taken ill to that poor crippled man in Rainer Street. Then two or three women ought to be looked up who had not lately been to the mothers' meeting. And though Miss Sweet had not told her, she felt sure that her young man was going to spend the week end with them soon, and that in all probability she would not be likely to take her class at the school that Sunday. Someone ought to be found to take her place.
What all these commissions meant to Rachel can be imagined; but she knew that if her mother-in-law had the faintest idea of how tired she felt and how terribly full her days were she not have asked her to do this extra work.
Curiously enough, Mrs. Greville, after that time of anxiety about Rachel leaving the baby alone, had scarcely mentioned Pat; indeed Rachel wondered at times if she had forgotten him. Anyhow, she had quite forgotten how difficult it was to leave him so often with Polly, who indeed had other work to do.
What tried Rachel more than anything was that when her mother-in-law was getting better, she suddenly relapsed into her old habit of thinking her incapable. She would say "No, you had better not go and see Mrs. Guy. She is a woman that needs careful handling. You'd probably offend her, ask Mrs. Stone." Or when Rachel had taken pains to make some appetising little dish for her, denying herself perhaps an egg for breakfast so as to be able to spare one for her mother-in-law, Mrs. Greville would worry at her extravagance, reminding her that she was the wife of a poor parson, and that if she were not more careful she would land him in debt. Rachel put all these uncomfortable moods down to illness, but it did not make her life easier.
One day after a specially trying time, she hurried home to find to her surprise the Bishop sitting in the drawing-room.
The sight of his dear familiar face was almost too much for her. She clung to his hand without speaking.
In a moment he saw that Rachel was overdone.
"Come and sit down my dear child," he said. His tone of voice was so full of kindness and sympathy that Rachel nearly gave way to tears.
"You have come just at the wrong time," she said, with a faint laugh in which the Bishop detected the tears that were not shed. "I am so tired that I can't feel as glad as I know that I am to see you."
The Bishop looking at the girl, was shocked at the change in her. That she was not only tired, but seriously ill, he saw at a glance.
"You have been working too hard," he said quietly. "What have you been doing?"
"Oh don't let's talk of it. I want to forget it all now you have come. You will stay to lunch of course, but I can only offer you pot luck."
"No, I can't stay to lunch," he said rising, "but I am going to tell that nice little maid of yours to bring you some beef tea or milk. You need it."
"Beef tea!" exclaimed Rachel laughing. "Why, only invalids can go in for such luxuries and I certainly am not one."
"I am not quite so sure of that. Anyhow you need something at this moment and you must let me go and see what there is to have, while you sit still."
"Oh you mustn't pity me," cried Rachel. "I can go on quite well if no-one notices me; but sympathy just weakens me. You really mustn't be too kind." Rachel had risen looking distressed. Then she dropped into her chair again and covered her face with her hands. "I wish you hadn't come," she sobbed.
"No, you don't. You are very pleased to see your father's greatest friend. You mustn't talk nonsense," said the Bishop with a smile. "Don't you suppose I understand? You needn't mind me finding this out. You must let me try and help you, and get you something. Polly will help me."
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Rachel sat still while the Bishop made his way into the kitchen. She was so played out that she had not even the energy to wonder what he would find there. She just lay still with a restful sense of being looked after.
The Bishop stood in the tiny kitchen facing the diminutive Polly.
"Your mistress isn't feeling well," he said, "and I want to know what there is in the house that she would fancy. She must have something. Have you any soup or bovril?"
Polly overwhelmed with the importance of the occasion turned red. That she had never seen bovril or knew what it was the Bishop discovered before she had answered, "That there ain't no such stuff anywheres in the house, Sir. We don't eat bovril and there ain't no soup," she added.
The Bishop smiled.
"Well, what are you going to have for dinner?" he asked.
"Master, he is to have a chop," said Polly, "and Mistress she say she'll have some bread and cheese to-day."
"And what are you going to have?"
Polly flushed crimson and hung her head.
"Mistress, she say that I'm to have the leg of the chicken that Mrs. Stone brought us two days ago. There's just one leg left and the Mistress won't take it herself. It ain't right that I should be eating chicken while she eats cheese."
The Bishop loved little Polly on the spot. He was thankful that there was anyhow one person in the house who thought of Rachel. What had Greville been about to let his wife get into such a weak state.
"You may enjoy the leg of the chicken with a clear conscience, my girl," said the Bishop, "for I feel sure your Mistress would not be able to eat it to-day. There's milk I suppose?"
"Yes Sir, there's baby's milk," said Polly doubtfully, "but I don't think Mistress would like me to touch that. She's very particular about his milk."
"Well I want you to run round to the grocer's and buy for me a bottle of bovril. Run as fast as you can and I'll tell you how to make it. Where is the Baby?"
Polly put her finger up and listened.
"I do believe he's just awake," she said. "I'll bring him down if you'd be so kind as to look after him while I go to the Grocer's."
The Bishop carried the baby into the drawing-room and laid him on Rachel's lap.
"That will do you good," he said smiling at her.
The sight of her baby in the Bishop's arms brought the happy colour into Rachel's face.
"He doesn't know what a privilege he has just had," she said laughing. Then she looked down at the child, "I do hope he will be a good man like his father," she murmured.
"So thank God, she still loves her absentminded husband as much as ever!" thought the Bishop, but he felt he could have shaken him. To possess such a treasure and not take more care of her was in his opinion reprehensible in the extreme. They were a blind pair! He to her lovely self-forgetfulness, and she to his absentmindedness. Well, he was thankful that she was still devoted to him.
Rachel laughed when she discovered that the Bishop had made her bovril himself! It was luxury to be looked after and taken care of.
Before he left, he made her promise to have medical advice.
"It would never do for me to see a doctor," she expostulated, "and I have no time in which to be ill. What do you suppose Luke would do with an invalid wife, and little Pat with a useless mother! No, it won't do to give in and it was only the sudden sight of you that made me so stupid."
"It is only right to both your husband and child that you should consult a doctor," returned the Bishop. "Possibly all you need is a tonic; anyhow, as I consider I stand in the position of a father to you, you must do what I say. And you must certainly curtail your work."
And so Rachel gave way and promised, and the Bishop left the house with a heavy heart. Besides the state of Rachel's health he had learnt for the first time of their extreme poverty of which he had had no idea. He did not suppose that Rachel's family knew the state of their finances, as Gwen would certainly have enlarged upon it in her letter to him had she known. No doubt Rachel had hidden the fact from her mother partly to save her pain, and also to prevent her from blaming Luke for marrying her when he could not provide for her. Something must be done. He was unwilling to give Luke too sudden a shock by telling him what he thought of his wife's health, but as Mrs. Greville was now getting stronger, he decided to enlighten her quickly about the matter. He would write directly he got home; and meanwhile, the thought that this was only one case of extreme poverty that existed among the clergy in his diocese, lay on his heart like lead.
But the doctor told Mrs. Greville of the serious state of Rachel's health before the Bishop's letter reached her.
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Rachel did not hurry to see a doctor, but having promised to do so she knew she must keep her word, so the second day after the Bishop's visit, knowing that Luke would be away at a clerical meeting in the country, she wrote a note to the doctor who had been attending her mother-in-law asking him to come and see her. She did not suppose that there was anything seriously the matter with her notwithstanding the fact that she felt so ill; and after all, she thought to herself, she need not follow out his injunctions if they were inconvenient.
She was quite unprepared for his verdict. He told her that both her heart and her lungs were affected, and that it was absolutely necessary that she should give up all parish work and if possible take a thorough rest. To Mrs. Greville, he gave a still more serious account.
"She should leave this place at once," he said, "and live as far as possible an open air life. A sanatorium would give her the best chance. But if this is impossible she should go into the country or to the sea. Of course she has been doing the work of two or three women. She must drop all that and what is more she should be fed up. She is not properly nourished."
"Do you mean to say you think that she has not had enough food?" asked Mrs. Greville very much distressed.
"I am afraid not. She has not looked after herself at all. I made her tell me what she had had in the way of food yesterday, and when I heard I was not surprised at her state of health.
"I am afraid it will be an awful blow to my son," said Mrs. Greville.
"I'm afraid it will, but if he wants to keep her he must make some other arrangement for her. I won't be responsible for her life unless she is removed as soon as possible, and is given the opportunity of changing entirely her way of living."
Mrs. Greville so dreaded telling Luke the news she had received from the doctor that she did not ask him to come round to see her that evening. So she sat and brooded over the news, and in her heart she blamed Rachel for neglecting herself as she had evidently done. Of course people would lay the blame on Luke; but how could you expect a man whose every moment was filled in with his parish duties to notice when his wife looked pale, or lost her appetite. And what a terrible hindrance to his work to have an invalid wife! Moreover, it was easy for the doctor to prescribe a different climate and complete rest; but how his plans were to be carried out she did not know.
Meanwhile Rachel quite unconscious of the doctor's visit to Mrs. Greville, after the first shock of the news, determined to behave as if he had never been. She was resolved not to become an invalid and a hindrance to her husband, an hour before it was positively necessary. And after all doctors often made mistakes. She would drink more milk, a matter on which he had laid great stress, and there she would leave it.
When Luke returned home from the clerical meeting he was in good spirits. The paper he had read had been well received and the discussion that had followed had been intensely interesting. Rachel was as interested in all that had happened as she always was in his concerns, and he did not notice that she was looking unusually tired and worn.
The next day two letters lay on the hall table for Luke. But he had to hurry off directly after lunch to an appointment, and so he put them in his pocket to read in the tram on the way.
It was only after taking his seat that he remembered them. One he saw at once was from the Bishop, the other had the London postmark. He opened the second first as being more interesting to him; and he could scarcely believe what he read. It was the offer of a living in a crowded part of London, where he would have the charge of 16,000 souls. He could have shouted for joy. It was exactly what he had been longing for. It was true that financially it was not much better than his present living, but money had very little attraction or indeed meaning for Luke, and he dismissed from his mind that part of the news in the letter almost without a thought. It was the work that he craved, and work in the very centre of the universe, as he liked to think of London. At last the dream of his life was coming true. He felt he could hardly get through his work, so anxious was he to tell the news to Rachel and to his mother.
He felt that his mother would rejoice with him almost more than Rachel. Now that he came to think of it his wife had never taken much to the thought of London; though he knew that she would do nothing to prevent him going. Had she not said when they had been talking about the possibility of him one day being offered a church there, "Where thou goest I will go?" But the remembrance of her words about London and her dislike of it, for a moment or two rather damped his spirits; but he knew she would not fail him now that the dream of his life was coming true.
So full was he of the news the letter contained, that he forgot there was another one in his pocket till he was in the tram again on his way home.
To his amusement, he found that this one was also an offer of a living; but one in the country. It was a good one, much better than the one offered to him in London; but this did not weigh with him in the least, and the fact of it being in the country at once made him dismiss it from his mind. In fact, he scarcely took in the Bishop's letter in which he said, that he felt sure a country life would be beneficial both for his wife and his son, adding that when he called at his house he had thought Rachel looking very tired and worn.
Rachel was always so bright in her husband's presence that he supposed the Bishop must have called at an inconvenient time and that unfortunately Rachel had not been able to conceal the fact. He had not noticed anything wrong in her looks himself, and he did not recollect her once complaining of even a headache ever since her marriage. The Bishop evidently had got a wrong impression of her from his call. He would write and thank him for his kind thought of them but decline the country living and tell him why. Then he thrust the Bishop's letter into his pocket and made his way joyfully toward his mother's rooms.
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Luke, full of his great news, ran upstairs to his mother's room, with the letter from London in his hands.
He found her crouching over the fire in the big horsehair chair, the only armchair in the room. He was surprised that she did not look round at the sound of his footsteps and give him her usual smile of welcome. Instead, she stretched out her hand to him with averted eyes.
"Mother what is it?" he asked. He knew she must have bad news of some kind and wanted to express her sympathy before she broke it to him.
"My poor boy," was all she said.
Luke took a chair by her and looked anxiously at her. She had been so much better lately, was able to walk a little and was getting altogether stronger, that her action perplexed him. Had the doctor given her a depressing account of herself, he wondered? Mrs. Greville's first words confirmed this fear.
"Dr. Fleming has been here."
"And surely he thinks you much better? Don't let him make you nervous about yourself, mother."
"It isn't about myself," said Mrs. Greville in a strained tone of voice, "it's about Rachel."
Luke's face cleared at once.
"Oh well," he said laughing, "you may make your mind easy about her. I left her this morning in good spirits."
He was much relieved.
"My poor boy!" said his mother again, "You must prepare for a great blow."
He began to wonder if the slight stroke his mother had had, affected her brain. He put his hand caressingly on hers. "Let's have it out," he said with a smile. "I don't think what ever it is that it can affect me as much as you imagine."
"Rachel is not well," said his mother watching his face anxiously. "She saw the doctor yesterday."
"Not well!" said Luke astonished. "Why, what is the matter with her? She was quite well anyhow this morning. Has she had an accident?"
"No. It is worse than an accident. The doctor thinks very seriously of her."
Luke rose and stood before his mother. All the colour had left his face.
"Tell me outright what you mean," he said sharply. "What is wrong with her?"
"Both her heart and her lungs."
Luke stood quite still and silent. He was always silent and unnaturally quiet when agitated in his mind.
"When did she see the doctor?" he asked at last.
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday!"
"Yes. The Bishop, you remember, called on her. He made her promise to consult him."
"And why didn't she tell me?" said Luke. And the agonised expression in his eyes showed his mother how intensely he was moved.
"I don't know, except that she wanted to save you anxiety. She has not told me either and I don't suppose that she has any idea that Dr. Fleming came round to see me about her."
Luke dropped into a chair. Then he looked up again at his mother.
"Did he give any directions or say what should be done?" he asked.
"I'm afraid he did my dear boy. He mentioned something about a Sanatorium, but anyhow, he said it was absolutely necessary for her to have perfect rest and a change of air and environment. In fact Luke," she added, and her voice trembled, "he seemed to think it a matter of life and death."
Luke groaned and covered his face with his hands.
"He says," continued his mother, "that she has evidently been doing too much and has not taken care of herself. He particularly dwelt on her thinness. Apparently she has not had nourishing food."
Luke groaned again.
"I feel Rachel is greatly to be blamed for having been so careless about her health," added Mrs. Greville.
Luke looked up, and his mother was startled by the stern expression of his face.
"Rachel to be blamed!" he repeated. "I am to be blamed, not Rachel."
There was anguish in his tone of voice. He picked up the letter from London which had fallen to the ground, ramming it into his coat pocket. Then he sprang up and looked at his watch.
"I shall go and see the doctor at once," he said. And without another word, he hurried away.
His visit confirmed his worst fears, and the doctor seemed surprised that he had never noticed the gradual change in his wife's appearance. Even he had seen it, casually meeting her in the street.
Luke walked home as if in a dream. The letters in his pocket were absolutely forgotten; his one thought was Rachel.
He opened the door of the house softly and went up into his study. He felt he could not meet his wife till he had looked the terrible truth in the face. The thought that he might possibly lose her was too painful to him to be able to bear calmly, and yet he knew that he must not give her any hint as to his fears.
He shut the door of his study after him and sank into the large armchair by the fire burying his face in his hands.
The fire! Even that seemed to cry out in condemnation of his selfishness. Of course Rachel had lit his fire so that his room might be warm and comfortable for him, while she probably had had no fire to sit by except that in the kitchen. He had been so preoccupied with his own interests and concerns that he had scarcely given a thought to hers. His mother had said, that the doctor gave it out as his opinion that she had not eaten enough. How was it that this fact had never been noticed by him! She always supplied him with plenty, and it had not struck him to notice what food she had provided for herself. Husband and child had never wanted for anything.
The doctor had said that she was thoroughly overworked. And yet he had never noticed how she was getting thin and pale! How often had he asked her to do things for him so that he might go off to some meeting or other, and it had never crossed his mind that the anxiety of leaving Pat with inexperienced Polly must have added to the strain.
Then he had never shared in the care of the child; in fact he had at times asked Rachel to do what she could to keep him quiet as his crying somewhat disturbed him working. Not many weeks after his birth he had moved his bed into his dressing room, as the child's restlessness prevented him sleeping, and he felt his sleep to be all important to his work. He had never realised that Rachel also wanted an occasional night's rest.
And what had she not given up for him! Her luxurious home, where she had every comfort; her mother and sisters who had petted and loved her; her out of door pursuits; her flowers which she loved so passionately; her ease and her friends. And what had he given up for her in return? Nothing! Nothing!
In exchange for all her home comforts, he had given her a pokey little house, poverty, overwork, and strain!
He was indeed in the Valley of Humiliation!
Then he suddenly rebelled at his thoughts and he started up and began to pace the room. Given her nothing! He had given her his heart's love. All the love that he knew how to give. Next to his God was his love for his wife; and he knew that in this sudden reaction of thought Rachel would be one with him. Though poor compared to her love for him he had given her his best. She knew she was all the world to him. Life without her was unthinkable. He paused as he reached his writing table, looking down absently at his Sunday sermon which he had already begun. The text of it faced him.
"'These ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.'"
The words gave him a shock. They so exactly described him, and yet he had been so unconscious of his delinquencies that he had actually intended to preach to his people about theirs.
"'These ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.'" The Word of God condemned him. He had forgotten that preaching and visiting were not the only duties to be done for God, or the only work. Did not St. Paul lay a special stress on the home life?
He realised now that though he loved his wife so devotedly, he had been so engrossed in his own affairs that he had neglected her. He suddenly paused in his walk. That was Rachel's voice. Evidently little Pat was restless and his mother was singing him to sleep. Luke could hardly bear the sound of her dear voice. It pierced his heart like an arrow. He pictured just how she was looking, walking up and down in her bedroom with the child in her arms. He had often heard her sing the words that he now heard, but he remembered how even the sound of her singing at times had disturbed him, and he had asked her to stop. But this evening, he listened and wept.
"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head,The stars in the bright sky looked down where He lay,The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay.""The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,But little Lord Jesus no crying He makes.I love Thee Lord Jesus! look down from the sky,And stay by my side until morning is nigh.""Be near me Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stayClose by me for ever, and love me I pray.Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,And fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there."
The voice grew softer and softer; then it ceased altogether and Luke knew Pat was asleep.
He so dreaded to meet Rachel that he stayed up in his study till he heard her footstep outside. When she opened the door she found him sitting over the fire in an attitude of deep depression, and knew at once that somehow he had learnt the news about her. Kneeling by his side she laid her head on his breast.
"You mustn't worry about me dearest," she said, "I think myself that Dr. Fleming is a pessimist and has made a mistake. Anyhow I don't mean to act as if what he said was true. I shall just go on as I have done before; that is to say after a little rest. I suppose I must have that."
Luke was silent. He hardly thought that she could be aware of her serious condition.
"Why did you not tell me?" he asked after a pause. There was a tone of reproach in his voice.
"I didn't want to worry you, you have so much to trouble you. Besides, I don't suppose there is anything really the matter with me. Doctors make such mistakes."
He took up one of her hands and looked at it. He was shocked to notice how thin it was.
He held it to his lips and kissed it. The unusual action almost broke Rachel's self-control.
She rose saying, "I must go now and see after the supper. Polly will wonder where I am." But once out of the room her tears began to flow.
"Oh, I mustn't be ill," she gasped, as instead of going into the kitchen, she sank into a chair in the drawing-room. "I shall be no good to Luke, only an anxiety. Oh God show me what to do. Don't let me be a burden to him."
Luke, after Rachel had left, sat sunk again in deep depression.
Then suddenly he remembered the letters in his pocket. He had completely forgotten them, and now when he opened for the second time the Bishop's letter, it suddenly dawned upon him that here was the way out of his difficulty. To accept the country living meant that Rachel could live in the garden, and her strenuous life at Trowsby would be over. She would go to the place as a known invalid and would not be expected to take up parish work. The cloud on his face lifted, and the weight on his heart grew lighter. Moreover, the struggle with poverty of which Rachel had been more conscious evidently than he had, would be over, for the stipend was unusually good.
With a feeling of great thankfulness, he closed the letter and opened the one from London intending to answer them both that night. Of course the London living must be refused. There was no question about it. But as he read over again the description of the work a feeling of intense disappointment took possession of him. He had been longing for this offer! It was, as he had once said to Rachel, the dream of his life.
And here it was within his grasp and yet he was unable to accept it. Instead of preaching to a large congregation and ministering to their souls needs, he would have to vegetate in the country! It would be a living death to him.
During the first year or two of his present charge he had tasted what it was to be able to move people by his oratory; it was only the extra-ordinary craze for amusements that had spoilt it all. It was then he began to long for a wider sphere, and though the parish in which was the church that had been offered to him was in a poor part of London, the congregation consisted of many who had been drawn there by the preaching of the former Vicar. The Trustees were most anxious to secure a good preacher to succeed him. One of them had visited St. Marks on purpose to judge of Luke's preaching, and was much struck by it. This was why the living had been offered to him notwithstanding the fact that he was somewhat young for such an important post. All this was mentioned in the letter that Luke held in his hand, and the fact that he had to decline it filled him with the keenest disappointment. So keen was it that he decided not to tell Rachel that night about either letter. He would wait to answer them till the next day. It was never a good thing to do anything in a hurry.
Luke's silence at supper did not surprise her. She knew that it was a sign that he had some problem to solve. The problem of course, this evening, she knew must be what to do about her. Once or twice she tried to make him smile as she recounted some event of the day; but she was so unsuccessful that she felt it was better to leave him to his thoughts. She was trying herself to unravel the difficulty that had arisen, but so impossible did she find it that she came to the conclusion that the only thing was to leave it in Higher Hands. God had always provided for them and would do so still. Was He not a very present help in time of trouble?
Luke sat up late that night. He was standing before the Bar of his own conscience. He had to face the fact that he was feeling rebellious; struggling against the Will of God. To bury his talents in a village was a repugnant thought to him. How could he endure the quiet and dullness of it? Would it not tend to make him indolent in work? What would be the good of reading all the new thought of the day in order to help those who were troubled by it, if there was no-one who had even heard of the false teaching. How could he spend his time in preparing sermons suitable to men and women whose brains had never been taught to work. He pictured himself preaching to a congregation, the half of which were asleep and the other half on the verge of going to sleep. Then he suddenly remembered how his Lord had spent time over the soul of one poor woman, the Lord of whom it was said, "Never man spake like this man." Had He not taught again and again, both by his words and actions, the value of one individual soul?
Luke's disinclination for a village congregation made him look into his own motives. Had all his work been at Trowsby been done for the glory of God? Had not the first year or two of his great popularity somewhat intoxicated him? Was the wish to preach to large audiences to win them to the service of the Lord? Or was it the delightful sense of power to sway their minds, that attracted him? Was the disappointment and the longing for a larger sphere caused at all by the fact that he was conscious that he had lost hold of his people? That they no longer hung on his words as of yore; that instead of looking up to him, as formerly, with admiration, they looked down on him as out of date?
Sitting by his fire that night, looking at the dying coals, he saw himself for the first time in the light of one who had been weighed in the balances and found wanting. He was right down in the Valley of Humiliation, and in agony of soul.
It was late when he went to his room. Then he dreamt that he was a Bishop preaching in St. Paul's Cathedral. He looked down at the sea of faces, and was conscious of a thrill of emotion as he saw the vast congregation before him. He felt triumphant and elated as among the number he noticed some of his parishioners at Trowsby, who had left his Church because they did not consider him up to date.
He heard his fine voice echoing down the aisles as he gave out his text, and was congratulating himself on its texture, when the whole congregation rose to its feet, saying solemnly and slowly, "Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting." Then they filed out of the Cathedral till he was left standing alone in the pulpit, with the condemning words still echoing among the pillars.
He awoke trembling with horror, and knew, in the anguish of his soul, that it was true of him. He had been weighed in the balances and found wanting.
The cry of his little son in the adjoining room reached him; and he heard Rachel's soft voice singing:
"Be near me Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stayClose by me for ever, and love me I pray.Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,And fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there."
He rose and opened the door softly, and took the child from her arms. Rachel, almost too tired to smile or feel any surprise, lay down and slept.
"Perhaps," said Luke to himself, "To take care of my little son, may be more to God's glory than to preach in St. Paul's Cathedral."
He wrote the next morning before breakfast to refuse the London living and to accept the one in the country; and he never told his wife nor his mother that he had had a chance of experiencing the dream of his life and had put it away.