THE BREAKING UP.
The day after Mr. St. John made this abrupt decision--almost the only
decision he had made for himself, without stimulation from others, all
his life--he went out into the parish as usual, but came home very
tired, and went to bed early, which the girls thought natural enough.
During the day Cicely had told Mab of her letter from Mildmay, and had
written an answer to it, thanking him for his consideration, and
informing him of the step her father had taken. "We shall never forget
how kind you have been," she wrote, gratefully; "both Mab and I feel it
to the bottom of our hearts. Is that too much?" she said, reading it
over. "I don't want to say too much."
"But we must not say too little; and if a man who is willing to
sacrifice the half of his income is not to be thanked for it, I don't
know who is," cried Mab, always practical.
"It is not so much the income," Cicely said, slightly wounded by this
matter-of-fact suggestion; "it is the feeling."
"But the offer proves the feeling," said her sister; and indeed she was
right.
Mr. St. John came home, as has been said, before his usual hour, and
went very early to bed. Next morning he rang his bell--the most unusual
sound--and sent word by Betsy that he thought he would not get up. When
Cicely went to him--as she did at once in a fright, for the bell and the
message together produced a great panic in a house quite unaccustomed
(at least, so far as the girls' experience went) to illness--she found
him in a partial doze, his large pale hand, looking very nerveless and
feeble, lying outside the coverlet.
"No, no!" he said, when she roused him; "not very bad; not bad at all;
only tired--and lazy. I have often thought of late that I should like to
lie still some morning; and to-day I have done it. That's all, that's
all, my dear." He would not hear of the doctor being sent for; and
wanted nothing, he declared--nothing but a day's rest. Cicely had to go
downstairs, feigning content with this; but she was far from satisfied.
They talked it over all the morning, but there was little enough to be
made of it. There was no harm in a day's laziness, and nothing but good
in a day's rest; but yet--the girls did not know what to think. Had he
been looking ill lately? they asked each other. But, no! he had not been
looking ill--a little fatigued, perhaps; tired by the hot weather, as he
often was; but just as usual, doing as much as he always did; spending
the whole long day "in the parish;" ready to go out morning or night
when he was called to any one who was sick. "And what so natural as that
he should be tired?" Mab said; "a day's rest will do him good." Cicely,
though she was generally the leader, accepted this decision humbly,
saying nothing for her own part, but feeling a sense of dismay steal
into her mind, she could not tell why; for though it was quite natural
that he should do this, he had never done it before; and an innovation
on habits so long established and firmly fixed was very alarming and
bewildering. But Mab had the coolest judgment of the two, she said to
herself--and no doubt Mab was right.
And next day it appeared indeed that Mab had been right. Mr. St. John
came down to breakfast as usual; saying cheerfully that he was quite
well, and went out "into the parish" as usual. The day's rest had done
him "all the good in the world;" it had "set him up;" nor did he say
anything more again about feeling tired. How quickly the days past
during that last fortnight! They seemed to tumble on each other, one
following on another's heels, holding so little of all the work they
ought to see completed. It was settled that the curate was to leave on
the 25th of September, in order that the sale should be over and
everything cleared away before the quarter-day. Mildmay wrote again a
pleading note to Cicely, a guarded but anxious one to her father,
pointing out with abject civility that it would be the greatest possible
advantage to himself if Mr. St. John would consent to stay. Mr. St. John
only smiled and shook his head, and handed the letter over to Cicely,
who was not so confidential in return. "Write to him for me, my dear,
for I have not time. Say how obliged I am, but that it is impossible."
"Is that all, papa?" said Cicely, faltering. "All? What could be said
more? And that everything will be ready by quarter-day--everything
ready." As he said this he gave a strange bewildered look round him at
the solid mahogany furniture which stood steadfast against the walls,
looking as if it never could be changed or taken away. This look was
still in his eyes when he went out to the parish, and when he came
back--a sort of dreamy wonder and confusion. Cicely thought he had the
same look next morning, and the next and next, as if he had somehow got
astray from his moorings in life, and could not make out what was going
to happen to him, or why it was going to happen. Mab said, "Nonsense,
you are getting fanciful. Papa looks exactly as he has always looked;"
and indeed everything went on just the same as usual, showing no other
difference except this look, if there was a difference at all. He went
about just as usual, preached his two little sermons on the Sunday, went
to the schools, kept up all the occupations he had been used to for
twenty years; but nevertheless continued to have that dazed look in his
eyes, sometimes only bewildered, sometimes startled, like the look of an
animal who dumbly foresees something approaching which it knows to be
malign, but can neither avert nor understand. This, at least, was what
Cicely saw in her father's eyes; no one else dreamt of looking at his
eyes particularly, or cared what they meant. Perhaps his usually
tranquil manners were disturbed a little, but how natural that was! In
the evening when they were sitting together he would grow quite
talkative, telling the girls little stories of his first coming here,
and of their mother's trials in the new parish, and would even laugh
softly over them, saying, "Poor Hester! You grow more and more like her,
Cicely, my dear!" and then he would drop into long silence, never taking
a book or the newspaper which came in the evening, but sitting quite
still looking round him. The girls did not know, however, that his
parish rounds got shorter; that in several of the cottages he had been
compelled to wait and rest, and that here and there he had seemed to
forget everything around him, falling into a half faint or harmless
trance, from which he would rouse up, and smile upon them, and go on.
This, however, they were not told till long after, when it seemed to
them, that, if they had but known;--but if they had, I don't know what
they could have done.
On the 22nd Mab went to London to Aunt Jane. It was not to be a parting,
for it was arranged that Mr. St. John and the rest of the family were to
go there also on the 25th, and rest for the night, and afterwards start
on their journey to Liverpool; but still the girls were sad enough as
they walked to the station together, Mab's boxes having been sent on
before by Farmer Dent's cart. Their eyes were dim with tears as they
went through the faded heather on the common. "You will have plenty to
fret about," said Mab, "with all you have got to do; and, oh, Cicely, I
beg of you, don't be silly and fret about papa! He feels it, of
course--but he is quite well, as well as you or me." "I hope so, dear,"
said Cicely, meekly, with a tremor in her voice; and when they got to
the station they looked through all the carriages till they saw in one a
middle-aged homely woman, whose box, labelled for "London," was being
put in, under the seat. Then Cicely established Mab in the opposite
corner. It was the best that could be done for her, for no one could be
spared to go with her, even could they have afforded the expense. Cicely
walked home alone, feeling as if the world had suddenly grown dark and
lonely round her. Mab had set out upon life, and she for her part was
returning to hers--to the tradespeople, who were all to be paid so much,
out of the fifty pounds which the curate had to receive, and to the
babies, who had no one to look after them but herself, and to her father
with that bewildered look in his eyes. Next morning the auctioneer was
coming to begin his inventory, and arrange the business of the sale,
though the actual auction did not commence until twelve o'clock on
Thursday, the day they were to leave.
On Tuesday morning, however, before he went out to the parish, Mr. St.
John suddenly stumbled upon the auctioneer, who had gone quietly into
the study as soon as its temporary master left, and was kneeling before
the large old-fashioned writing-table, which Mr. St. John had used for
so long, examining it, and tapping it with his knuckles to see where the
drawers were. He had his back to the door, and did not see the surprised
spectator, who stood and looked at him for a whole minute in silence.
The curate went back to the hall where Cicely stood waiting for him with
his hat in her hand. "Who is that?--who is that man?" he said, with his
eyes more cloudy and wild than they had ever been, and a sort of palsied
trembling all over him.
"No harm, papa," said Cicely, trying to be cheerful; "only the
auctioneer."
"Yes, yes, I remember," he said, taking his hat from her. "It was stupid
of me not to remember."
"But, papa, you are trembling. You are not well. Come back and rest a
little," she cried.
"No, no; it is nothing. Go back where? I suppose he is going through all
the rooms?" said Mr. St. John. "No, no; it gave me a little shock,
foolishly, but the air will blow it all away," he said, with a smile,
recovering himself.
What terrors were in Cicely's mind all that day! but fortunately for her
she had not much time to indulge them. She had to do all her packing, to
take care of the children, to separate the few things her father
possessed from Mr. Chester's furniture, to see after everything and
everybody, providing something even (though she had so little) for the
auctioneer and his men. And it was a relief to her when her father came
back a little earlier than usual, and looking no worse. She said to
herself that Mab was right; that he felt it, of course--which was to be
expected--but otherwise was as well as usual. He had a little colour in
his cheeks, and ate very well, and afterwards fell asleep in his chair.
How natural it was that he should fall asleep! It was the very best
thing for him. Notwithstanding, in her anxiety, Cicely went out into the
garden to look at him through the open window, and make sure that all
was right. How white his venerable head looked lying against the dark
corner of the chair, his face like ivory but for the little pink in his
cheeks, but he looked well, although he was wearied out, evidently; and
no wonder! It was the most natural thing in the world.
Next day he was stronger and more cheerful in the morning. He went out,
and made a round of all the poor people, saying good-bye to them; and
half the people in Brentburn came crying to the doors of the cottages,
and said "Good-bye, sir!" and "God bless you, sir!" curtsying and
wiping their eyes with their aprons. All the last sixpences he had went
that day to the old women and the children, to buy a little tea or some
sweets in the little shop. He was very heavy about the eyes when he came
home, and took his tea eagerly. Then he went out for an evening stroll,
as he had been used to do before all these troubles came. He did not ask
Cicely to go with him, but no doubt he knew how busy she was. When,
however, she had put the children to bed, and packed everything but the
last box, which was left till to-morrow morning, Cicely perceived that
daylight was over, and that it was getting late. Her father was not in
any of the rooms. Frightened, she ran out, and gazed about her looking
for him; then, seeing no one up or down, in a sudden passion of terror,
hurried up the bank to the white churchyard stile. There she found him
at once, standing close by the cross on her mother's grave. He had one
arm round it, and with his other hand was picking away the yellow mosses
that had crept over the stone; but he stopped when she called him, and
picked up his hat which lay at his feet, and came with her quite
submissively.
"It is late, papa," said Cicely, with quivering lips.
"Yes, yes, my dear; yes, you are quite right," he said, and walked
towards the rectory--but like a blind man, as if he did not see where he
was going. Two or three times she had to guide him to keep him from
stumbling over the humble graves, for which usually he had so much
reverence. He went into the house in the same way, going straight before
him, as if he did not know where the door were; and, instead of going
into the dining-room, where supper was laid as usual, he took up a
candle which stood on the hall-table, and went to his study. Cicely
followed him, alarmed; but he did nothing more than seat himself at his
writing-table.
"Are you not coming to supper, papa?" she said.
"Did any one speak?" he asked, looking up eagerly as if he did not see.
"O papa, dear, come to supper!" she cried. Then his vacant face seemed
to brighten.
"Yes, my love, yes. I am coming; I am coming----"
Cicely did not know what to say or to think. Was it to her he was
speaking? She went away, her heart beating loud, to see that all was
ready, hoping he would follow. But as he did not come in about ten
minutes after, she went back. The room was dark, one corner of it only
lighted by the candle, which threw all its light on his pale face and
white hair. He was turning over some papers, apparently absorbed. He did
not seem to observe her entrance. She went up to him softly, and put her
hand upon his shoulder. "Come, please, papa, I am waiting," she said.
He turned to her, a great light shining over his face. "Ah! yes, my
darling, you are waiting. How long you have been waiting! But I'm
ready--ready.--I knew you would come, Hester, I knew you would come when
I wanted you most----"
"Papa!" cried Cicely, in a voice shrill with terror.
He started, the light went out of his face, his eyes grew cloudy and
bewildered. "What were you saying, Cicely? I am getting--a little hard
of hearing. I don't think I heard what you said."
"Come in to supper, papa."
"Yes, yes; but you need not trouble; there is nothing the matter," he
said, recovering himself. And he went with her and ate something
dutifully, not without appetite. Then he returned to his study. When
Cicely went to him there to say good-night he was smiling to himself. "I
am coming; I am coming," he said. "No need to tell me twice; I know when
I am in good hands."
"Good night, papa--you are going to bed?--we must be early to-morrow,"
said Cicely.
"Yes, early--early," he said, still smiling. "Directly, Hester--before
you have reached the gate----"
"Papa! don't you know me?" cried Cicely, trembling from head to foot.
Again he turned to her with his old face all lighted up and shining.
"Know you! my darling!" he said.