TWO LEAVE-TAKINGS
It seemed quite natural to Jack that Jessie's strength improved
marvellously from the day of her confirmation, for although Tom had
tried to teach him something of the outward sign which denotes the
spiritual grace, his childish mind recurred to his first idea, and he
did not for a moment question that Jessie's quickened recovery was
chiefly due to the Bishop's laying on of hands.
"You said the Bishop's hands would make her strong, didn't you?" he
remarked one day to Tom, and Tom smiled down on him.
"I was talking of her soul rather than her body, Jack, but it seems
as if God in His goodness were sending her both together."
So it was that from sitting up in a chair for a considerable portion
of the day, Jessie soon began to walk a little, first to the garden
gate, then a few steps along the road, and one summer evening in the
autumn, to Jack's great excitement and delight, he saw her seated in
a chair at the bottom of the church when he went down as usual to
ring the bell. What did not please him so well was that his
wandering thoughts in the service were brought back to everyday life
by the mention of her name in church, in what connection he was too
greatly astonished to discover. He was only certain that he had
heard her name, and what could be the good of saying prayers for her
when she was sitting behind all the time and looking nearly well?
His puzzledom, it almost might be called annoyance, at the
unreasonableness of the thing kept his mind straying for the
remainder of the service, and he was glad that under cover of waiting
behind to carry something back for Uncle Tom after church, he had a
chance of putting the matter before him.
"Uncle Tom, we didn't want to pray for Jessie Butler, to-night. What
did you do it for? Did not you see, she was in church and quite
better?" he said.
"Which shows you weren't listening very much, Jack, or you would have
found out we weren't praying for her in the way of asking God to give
her anything. We were thanking Him for making her better, and, of
course, it was much better to wait until she could be there to give
thanks for herself. It would have very little meaning else. Now, I
will tell you a story," and very picturesquely Tom related the story
of the ten lepers.
"Only one out of the whole lot, Jack, who remembered to give thanks
to God. A lot of us are like that! We say 'Give us this day our
daily bread,' and at the end of the day we forget to thank God for
the food we never lack."
Jack said little, but the lesson went home.
Jessie's lessons with her clergyman still continued for many weeks
after her confirmation, for Tom was preparing her for her first
Communion, and the next time he was able to hold a celebration at the
little church, Jessie was one of the communicants. Jack's interest
over that was far less keen than about her confirmation. It was
"something grown-up people stayed for, and children could not," was
all that he grasped at present, and Tom left it at that, willing that
the teaching about the greatest Sacrament should be given a little
later. Very quickly after Jessie's first Communion there came the
letter suggesting that it was time for her to go home. She was quite
independent now of the doctor's attendance. She showed the letter to
Tom when he came to see her, making no comment.
"You'll be glad to go back and see them all again, I expect," but
Jessie lifted her great eyes to him quite full of tears.
"Yes--no--" she said. "Of course, I want to see them, but although
I've been ill down here, and had a lot of pain, I've had the happiest
time of my life. You've taught me a lot, and I've been confirmed and
been to Communion, and when I go back I'll see no one p'raps for
weeks and weeks. It seems so easy to be good when you are here, but
when no one talks to you, and Sunday after Sunday you never get nigh
a church, and you work and work and always feel tired it doesn't come
so easy."
"But you won't work for a bit yet, Jessie; you're not fit for it."
"It's easier to work than to sit still all day and do nothing, and
see mother bustling round with never a minute to herself. Here there
is no work I ought to be doing, you see."
Tom sat pondering. "Well, for the present you must try and make
yourself content. I quite see that your father and mother,
hard-working people, can't afford to keep you here any longer than is
necessary----"
"Yes, I was selfish. I'd forgotten that," said Jessie.
"And I want you to think of this, Jessie; that God who has given you
so much help lately will still be near you, and able to keep you in
the straight path when He takes some of those helps away. I know
it's much more difficult for you, but it may help to strengthen your
spiritual life, to teach you to stand alone. You'll say your prayers
and keep your Bible reading regular."
"Yes," Jessie said, "but it's not easy when there's no one who can
tell you what it means when you get puzzled."
"I can't quite tell where I shall go when my time here comes to an
end, but I will try and see you sometimes."
"Oh, thank you, ever so much! That will make everything different;
for when I sit sewing in the verandah--I'll do all the sewing--I
shall feel that one time I shall look up and see you come riding
through the bush, and p'raps--p'raps, if you've nowhere else to go,
you'll stop the night. Mother would be pleased."
"There are many more improbable things than that," Tom said.
The children were loud in their lamentations over Jessie's leaving.
"Why can't you stop forever and ever?" Eva demanded.
"Because I've got a mother and father who want me back again."
"It's miles and miles away; we can't come and see you, can we?" said
Jack.
"Oh, I don't know. We're three miles back from Wylmington Falls,
where people come picnicing in summer time. If you came out there
one day you might get on to us."
It did not sound very probable.
"When are you going?" he asked rather drearily.
"The day after to-morrow; they're sending the buggy to fetch me."
"We'll come to the corner at the bottom of the lane to see you and
wave to you, won't we, Eva?"
"Yes, wave to you," echoed Eva, beginning to smile again, the
prospect of active service consoling her for Jessie's departure.
So on the following Saturday two eager children, with flowers in one
hand and handkerchiefs in the other, stood waiting at their corner.
This time the waiting was a short one, for a buggy came slowly up the
hill, and in front, supported by cushions, sat Jessie by her father's
side, whilst her small belongings were packed in behind; and at sight
of the waiting pair, Mr. Butler drew rein and Eva climbed up with
Jack's assistance to give Jessie a parting kiss, and Jack lifted his
cap and presented his flowers, holding himself very straight lest
Jessie should offer to kiss him too; but she knew better, only shook
him heartily by the hand, and thanked him for all his kindness and
then the buggy moved on, followed by the shouts of the children.
"But I wish she hadn't gone," said Jack as the carriage and its
occupants were lost to sight. "We'll miss her every day."
Tom came up to the farm that evening for he had something to discuss,
and wanted Betty's counsel.
"You know what girls can do more than I," he said when he had settled
down to his pipe in the verandah. "I've Jessie Butler on my mind.
My time here now is short----"
"Oh, I didn't know you were leaving at any definite time," said Betty
quickly.
"Nor did I until to-day, but I've a letter from the Bishop to say
that your late vicar has resigned, and that he is going to put in a
younger man who can compass the work better."
"Why not you?"
"Because I refused to take it," said Tom simply. "It's not what I
came out for, although I've had a very happy time here."
"And the new man is coming soon?"
"As soon as the Bishop can find him. He has one or two that he would
like to send here, but I'm wandering from my point. Before I leave,
I should like to find something for Jessie to do. She's utterly
unfitted for life on a back block. It's too rough for her, and the
work too heavy. She can't do anything yet, but before the winter
sets in I'd like to see her settled at work she can do, something
fairly quiet and regular. What do delicate girls do? What are they
fit for," and Tom glanced appealingly at Betty.
"Sewing would be too sedentary, and she would not get it either,
living where she does," said Betty.
"That's just it; I want to move her from where she is, but she's not
strong enough for service."
"She might help in an infant school where such help is needed. She
has read a good deal and passed all her standards, and has picked up
a good deal of desultory knowledge which, from what the children tell
me of the way she talks to them, I should think she had a gift for
imparting."
"The very thing," cried Tom, "and I believe there is an opening at
Wylmington, which has the advantage of not being far from home in
case of a breakdown. I was in the little school there the other day,
and the teacher, Miss Armstrong, was saying that it was imperative
that she must have help with the tinies, and that she had written to
the department about it. Now, if I could only put an oar in and get
the post for Jessie, she could spend her spare time in study, and in
qualifying herself to pass the examinations necessary for her to
become a certificated teacher. In years to come she might get quite
strong enough to undertake the care of some country school."
Tom lost no time in getting into touch with the authorities, with the
result that in a few weeks' time he had the offer of the post which
he sought for Jessie.
Jessie's imaginings about the parson's first visit to her home only
came partly true, for on one soaking wet afternoon as the light was
beginning to wane, a dripping man, clad in waterproof from top to
toe, came riding up to the door, and she could hardly believe her
eyes when the rider turned out to be Tom. Her greeting was
absolutely incoherent in its gladness.
"Mother, father," she cried flying to the door, "come, come quickly.
Here's Mr. Chance, come to see us, and he must be soaking to the
skin."
"Not a bit of it," said Tom, dismounting cheerily from his horse and
shaking the rain from the brim of his hat, "thanks to my overalls. I
have a proposal to make to your father and mother, the answer to
which is urgent, and I could not wait for fine weather."
"Well, everything must wait until you are fed, and warmed, and
dried," said hospitable Mrs. Butler, hastening forward, "Fred," to a
tall boy behind--"Come, take the horse, will you? Come in, come in,
Mr. Chance; it was good of you to ride through the bush on a day like
this, for when it rains it means business in our country."
Ten minutes later Tom sat in the living-room before a log fire
cracking cheerily in the open fireplace, which sent a leaping shower
of flame and sparks up the chimney. The family, of varying sex and
sizes, having accorded the visitor shy greeting, dispersed, leaving
the space clear for Mrs. Butler and Jessie, who bustled round
preparing a meal of the best viands the house could produce at so
short a notice.
After the rough but hospitable meal, Tom resumed his seat near the
fire and laid his proposal before them, that Jessie should become
temporary assistant teacher in the little school at Wylmington, with
the view of following teaching as her profession. Miss Armstrong had
expressed her willingness to give her a helping hand with her
studies, and Jessie could live at the school-house with her. Indeed,
Miss Armstrong would be glad to welcome her there, as the life was
too lonely a one for any girl to face.
Jessie listened to the plan as it unfolded itself with occasional
exclamations of delight, but her father demurred.
"The lass isn't strong. I'd rather have her here under our own eyes
for a bit."
"But it's the future we must look to, Harry. It's putting Jessie in
the way of earning her own living. If anything ails her she's not
far from home," said the more sensible mother. "I believe we must
let her go."
"Thank you," said Tom, as if he were accepting a favour, rather than
conferring one. "I wanted to feel Jessie had found her proper niche
before I said good-bye."
Jessie's heart sank like lead, all the joy at the thought of the life
of useful work which opened out before her dashed by the near
prospect of losing the friend who had so greatly helped her, but she
said nothing. Her regret was too deep for words. She simply turned
imploring eyes upon the speaker as if making dumb appeal to him to
reverse his decision.
"It seems a pity you should leave us," said the farmer with slow
deliberation. "I don't profess to know much about parsons and their
work, but it strikes me you are the right man in the right place."
"Thank you," said Tom, with a little laugh, "but I never came to
stop. I came to fill a gap; I am leaving for the mainland almost
directly."
"Never coming back?" said Jessie, with a choke in her voice.
"Never is a big word, Jessie. I hope certainly to revisit Tasmania
before I go back to England, but it may be a long time first. I did
not come to the colony with a notion of finally settling here."
Then he gave them a short sketch of the work he had been sent out to
do.
"Humph!" said the farmer, "very good as far as it goes, but it seems
to me a bit like lighting a fire and setting it in a blaze and then
leaving it to die down to a heap of ashes."
"But we hope it may lead to an extension of the church's work."
"May be," said Butler, but his tone was incredulous.
Then Tom rose and said he must be getting on his way.
"You'd have some difficulty in finding it on a night like this," said
the farmer with a chuckle. "Listen to it," and across the swirl of
the rain upon the roof and windows came the roar of the wind through
the bush. "Best stay here for the night. We can offer you a shake
down in here, can't we, wife? And a sound roof to cover you."
Tom rose and went to the door before making a final decision, but the
wild rush of wind and rain in his face made him close it again pretty
quickly.
"Thank you; I'll stay, although I'm afraid I'm causing you some
inconvenience, but it would take a more experienced bushman than I to
find my way on a night like this."
"Seems to me," said Mrs. Butler a little shyly, "that having the
parson here, we might have prayers to-night, before we settle in.
It's not Sunday, but it's many a Sunday we have to do without 'em."
"Call the others in, then," said Butler, not altogether pleased by
the innovation, so in trooped the boys and girls wide-eyed and
smiling at the novelty of prayers in the middle of the week.
But they all felt there was something in it when Tom began. His
manly earnestness was infectious and it was quite like church prayers
after all, for he read a Psalm and then a few verses from the Bible,
following on with familiar collects.
"Lighten our darkness, O Lord, and by Thy great mercy defend us from
the perils and dangers of the night," he said, and the thunderous
crash of a tree falling not far from the house reminded his listeners
that the perils of the night were close about them--even at their
doors.
"I should like us to sing a hymn together," said Tom as he rose from
his knees, "something we all know. Shall it be 'Abide with me?'" and
he started it in a strong clear voice and very soon the whole family
joined in, not absolutely correctly perhaps, in time or tune, but
with heartiness that made it effective.
"Thank you," said Butler at the end. "Some folks say that extempore
prayers come more from the heart, but for my part I like those I've
been used to from a boy."
Then the family slipped off to bed, and the sofa was pushed nearer
the fire and a few rugs brought in and soon Tom was settled in for
the night. With the first streak of dawn he was awake and pushed his
way into the outer kitchen in search of soap and water, but there he
found some one had been before him, and everything had been arranged
for his comfort; and later Jessie appeared, carrying him his
breakfast on a neat tray.
"It's kind of you to enable me to make an early start, and the
weather is kind too. What a lovely morning after that wild night,"
but Jessie's heart was too full of other things to think of the
weather.
"Mr. Chance, how will I keep good when you're gone?"
"No one keeps you good," said Tom, "except God's Holy Spirit, which
is yours already and who will abide with you for the asking. And for
the rest, Jessie, do your work lovingly and carefully, as in God's
sight, and on Sunday you can give a helping hand in the school and
teach the little ones about holy things. You can help along the
church's work in the place if you have a mind to."
Then Mrs. Butler came in, and a quarter of an hour later Tom was
wending his way back to Wylmington.
The following Sunday was his last in Wallaroo, and the little church
was packed to hear his last sermon, and quite a number of people
waited outside the church to shake him by the hand and bid him
Godspeed, a send-off he much preferred to the social evening which it
had been proposed to give him in the previous week, but which his
many engagements had forced him to decline.
"Uncle Tom," said Jack, thrusting his hand into Tom's as they walked
home together, "you will come back, won't you, as everyone's so sorry
you're going away?"
"I don't suppose I shall come back as your clergyman, Jack, but I
shall certainly come back before I go to England, in fact whenever a
chance presents itself."
"But Eva and I won't watch for you on Saturday afternoons?"
"No, I'm afraid you won't, but some day, when you least expect me, I
shall come popping in by the coach, or on my feet."
"And you'll come when I'm confirmed same as Jessie?" said Jack.
Tom smiled to himself, well pleased that Jessie's confirmation had
made so deep an impression upon the little boy.
"I don't know even if I shall be in the colony then, but if I'm
anywhere within reach I'll come when you are confirmed," said Tom.
"Aunt Betty," said Jack, as Betty tucked him into bed that night,
"you need not cry any more, Uncle Tom will come back some day."
"But what nonsense you are talking. I'm not crying," was the reply.
"But you _did_ cry in church, and I s'pose it's because Uncle Tom is
going away. If not, what _did_ you cry for?" said Jack, a question
Aunt Betty did not think fit to answer.