A CRISIS IN A LIFE.
A year had passed since poor Allison's sun set so stormily. It was
curious that his death marked the beginning of a new life for Sally;
but so it was. It had changed her attitude of mind towards things
eternal, from one of placid indifference to active inquiry. Paul's
assertion that "nobody knew" satisfied no longer, and she turned from
him to Mr. Curzon.
"Death can't be the end of it all," she said abruptly to the rector,
when she met him a few days after Allison had passed away.
"Oh no," he answered, following her lead with quick sympathy. "Our
Lord's death and resurrection teach us that it is but the beginning."
"I wish I could believe it. Can you help me? can any one help me?"
Sally said.
"I may be the signpost to show you the road, and I will tell you of the
things which have helped me on the road; but God is even now drawing
you to Himself by His Holy Spirit," said Mr. Curzon, earnestly.
Thus, under Mr. Curzon's guidance, Sally began the course of study
which ended, before many months had passed away, in the passionate
conviction that in Christ alone could be found the Way, the Truth, and
the Life.
Paul guessed at the fact that his sister was passing through some new
phase of thought, by the books he found left about the room, and by a
newly developed earnestness which underlay her natural gaiety of manner.
"Poor child! Allison's death frightened her. And it is as well that
she should study both sides of the question," he thought. He did not
doubt that eventually she would accept his decision as final.
It was November, and Paul came into lunch one day with an unusual air
of depression. His farming venture was proving a grievous failure, as
far as money was concerned. On every side he found himself hampered by
poverty. The summer had been a wet one, and, in common humanity, he
had had to make a considerable reduction in his farm rents;
improvements in his cottage property had led to an outlay for which he
well knew he could receive no adequate interest, and, as he had tramped
over the sodden land this morning, he had been occupied with the
anxious consideration how best to make both ends meet.
The longer he lived at Rudham the less he liked it. He was deprived of
the society of men of his own way of thinking; and with the rector, who
in theory he cordially respected and liked, he found himself nearly
always in tacit opposition. Paul's friendship with Kitty was the only
connecting link between him and the rector; otherwise they would have
drifted hopelessly apart before now. Then, on this particular morning,
as he returned home he heard a rumour that May Webster was going to be
married to a baronet who had haunted the Court pretty frequently during
the last few months; and the hint had filled Paul with unreasoning
irritation. Not that it mattered to him whom she married, he assured
himself; but the Court had become the one bright spot to him in all the
place.
Paul, having promised his friendship, had given it unstintingly, and
had been proud to discover that in many of the subjects which
interested him the most deeply, he had found May Webster a ready pupil;
and when she differed from him she held her own with such merry
defiance, that it gave her an added charm in his eyes. And now this
mindless, fox-hunting squire was to carry her off, and life at Rudham
would sink into one dead level of dulness. Thus it happened that he
came home in a captious mood.
"What's the excitement, Sally? A wedding, I suppose, for the bells are
making row enough to wake the dead."
"No, it's the Bishop," said Sally, flushing a little. "There is a
Confirmation here to-day."
Paul's eyes travelled from Sally's crimsoning face to the white dress
she wore.
"I can't see why the Bishop is to be welcomed like a bride, and you are
to dress like one of his bridesmaids," he said. "What a singularly
inappropriate garment for this dreary November day."
"I am going to be confirmed, Paul."
A long pause followed. It was the crowning vexation of a tiresome
morning; but Paul did not wish to say anything that he would afterwards
regret.
"It's a decided step, Sally; I wonder if you have thought it over
enough? You will probably wake up from this religious craze to find
yourself bound down to a creed which your reason rejects."
"It is conviction, not a craze," said Sally. "I have thought about
little else for a whole year, and my mind is quite made up."
"Very well, then; I have nothing more to say. You are of age, and must
decide such things for yourself; but you've sprung it upon me somewhat
suddenly, Sally. I suppose it was by Mr. Curzon's advice that you kept
your change of opinion dark?"
"Oh dear no! he wished me to tell you weeks ago. But I've been so
happy, I cared so much, I felt as if I could not discuss things with
any one who differed from me."
"Then we won't discuss it," Paul said, drawing a long breath. "What
time does the thing come off? I'll go down and order the fly; I can't
let you walk up to church like that."
"May is going to call for me; she is coming to the service."
"Miss Webster!" said Paul, with a rather incredulous laugh. "I should
not have thought it was at all in her line."
"She's glad; she thinks I'm right," said Sally, gently.
It was on the tip of Paul's tongue to ask Sally if she had heard
anything of May's rumoured engagement to Sir Cecil Bland; but some fear
lest the answer should be in the affirmative held him back. When the
carriage from the Court drew up at the gate, he went down to put Sally
in, and was rewarded by a friendly nod and smile from May.
"Aren't you coming, too?" she asked boldly. "It would make Sally so
happy if you did."
Paul shook his head. "I don't understand these things; I leave them to
those that do."
"I promise to bring her back safely, and I am coming to tea," went on
May, gliding over his refusal. "I've never seen that new wing of yours
since it was finished. Cottage, indeed! I call it quite a mansion!"
with a glance at the addition which had been lately built on to the
Macdonald's house, making it about double its original size.
"A mansion you would not care to inhabit, I expect; but it will do
capitally for Sally and me," said Paul.
"I'll decide that when I've seen it. Good-bye, then, till we meet
later. Tell Dixon to drive to the church, please."
Paul gave the order, and went back to his new sitting-room, seating
himself before his office table, as he called the one which was placed
in the bow window. He opened his business ledgers, and congratulated
himself on the fact of having a long, quiet afternoon of undisturbed
work before him; but one more trivial interruption occurred before he
was entirely left to himself. Mrs. Macdonald knocked at the door and
stood before him arrayed in her Sunday best.
"Shall you be wanting anything, sir?"
"Nothing whatever, Mrs. Macdonald."
"If not, I would like to go to the church to see Miss Sally and the
Bishop. I'd slip out quiet before the end, so as not to keep the
ladies waiting for their tea."
"Go by all means," said Paul, smiling a little over the commotion
created by a Bishop and his lawn sleeves, and a flock of girls in white
dresses and caps.
Then his thoughts reverted to Sally's face, with its sweet seriousness
of expression, as she had started for the church, and from Sally he
passed on to May; and there his mind lingered. She was
beautiful--beautiful beyond compare; and to-day there had been an added
grace of tenderness in her manner to Sally: a protecting, motherly
care, as if she would shield her from his want of sympathy. She seemed
so much older than Sally, and yet there were but four years between
them.
He pictured the room as it would appear when she entered it, and he
settled which of the two easy-chairs he would draw nearer to the fire,
and where he would sit himself, so that he could watch the firelight
playing on her face; and then---- He covered his face with his hands
and shut out the light, the better to understand the cause of the
fierce pain that was gnawing at his heart.
It did not take him long to discover what had happened. He, Paul
Lessing, a man who had knocked about the world and had mixed with all
sorts and conditions of men and women, whose pulses had hitherto never
quickened their beating at the touch of a woman's hand or the sound of
a voice, found himself, at thirty-one, as helplessly and ridiculously
in love as any lad of twenty.
With a smothered exclamation, he pushed back his chair, and began a
restless walk up and down the room. Was ever a grown man guilty of
such egregious folly before? A great gulf separated him and the woman
of his dreams: a gulf that could never be bridged over. In tastes and
in circumstances they were separated far as the poles. His love was
perfectly hopeless; and yet the notion of her marrying another, and
removing herself entirely out of his reach, was intolerable to him.
But, as an effectual cure of his madness, he knew that it was the best
thing that could happen to him. The remedy was a sharp one, but it
would be complete.
"A few days must settle it, and, until then, I need not meet her," said
Paul, aloud. "I won't stay in this afternoon; business can take me to
the farm."
In another minute he had gone into the village street, almost deserted
this afternoon, for most of the villagers had wandered up to the
church. Paul's road lay in the same direction; and he walked along
with rapid strides, his head bent upon his breast, his heart busied
with his new discovery, and the thought how best to live it down. He
was mingling with the crowd now, that had gathered round the
church-gate waiting for the procession of clergy that was just filing
out of the church. From inside came the throb of the organ and the
sound of singing; but Paul went upon his way, neither lifting his head
nor staying his steps, when a familiar voice close at hand arrested his
attention.
"Mr. Paul! I'm so glad you've come! I _can't_ see anything; lift me
up, please!"
Paul started as he saw that he had nearly tumbled over his friend
Kitty, whose invalid carriage was drawn up as near to the gate as
possible.
"Poor Kitty! And you want to look at the Bishop and his lawn sleeves,
and the girls in their caps, like all the rest of the village," he
said, bending over and lifting her high in his strong arms.
"Yes. I suppose you've come to see the Bishop too?" said Kitty, with a
sigh of contentment. "He's very nice, indoors; but oh! he's lovely
when he's got his scarlet coat on. But daddy says I must not think
about the clothes, but about all the boys and girls whom he will bless
to-day. They'll promise to be good, you know."
"Hush! hush!" said Paul, for the procession was upon them. And Kitty,
carried away by the thrill of the voices, steadied herself in Paul's
arms by clasping hers about his neck, and sang lustily with the rest--
"'Till with the vision glorious
Her longing eyes are blest,
And the great Church victorious
Shall be the Church at rest.'"
The last clergyman in the procession before the Bishop was the rector,
and Paul could not but be struck by the singular beauty of his look,
the joyous ring of his voice. The "vision glorious" was his at that
moment; fresh soldiers had just been sworn in to that great army, whose
Captain was Christ, and, though some might fall away, there were many
whom he prayed would die fighting. That, and more than that, was
written clearly on the rector's face.
"Did you see him? Did you see him?" whispered Kitty, eagerly. "Isn't
he beautiful?"
"Yes," said Paul, absently, as he put Kitty back into her carriage.
But whilst Kitty referred to the Bishop, Paul spoke of the rector.
Then he hurried on his way, anxious not to encounter Sally or May. The
brief interval of sunshine was over, and wreaths of mist gathered along
the banks of the river, creeping gradually to the slopes above it,
dissolving into fine thick rain as the afternoon darkened into night.
And still Paul lingered about his business at the farm, until he felt
assured that all danger of coming across May was over: a conviction
justified by the fact that he met the carriage from the Court, driving
home as he returned to the village, catching a glimpse of a lady's
figure inside it.
"How long has May been gone?" he asked, with studied carelessness, as
he let himself into he cottage and saw a girl's figure seated on the
rug before the fire.
"She's not gone! she's here, wondering why her host was so rude as to
absent himself this afternoon. Since when, by the way, have you done
her the honour to call her by her Christian name?" And May Webster
rose from her lowly position and faced Paul with laughter in her eyes.
Paul felt himself caught at a thorough disadvantage; he was dripping
with rain and covered with mud, and, confronted thus suddenly with the
girl of whom his heart was full, his usual readiness of speech deserted
him.
"You! you!" he stammered. "But I saw you drive by me not a quarter of
an hour ago."
"And thought you had timed your homecoming so as judiciously to miss
me," said May, mercilessly. "It must have been my mother; she has been
spending the day at Fairfield. I told Dixon not to come back for me as
I would walk home: a premature decision, for it has rained ever since,
and I've been waiting for it to clear up. However, I can wait no
longer; and Sally has just gone to forage out a waterproof and
umbrella."
"I'll go up to the Court and tell them to send back the carriage," said
Paul, preparing to depart.
"No, thank you; I will walk."
"The village fly, then?"
"It, or rather its horse, has had more than its proper work to-day. It
is probably now conveying the Bishop to the station."
"I shall come with you, then; it will be quite dark before you get
home."
"I'm not afraid of it. I believe you are; there's a queer, scared look
about you, as if you had seen a ghost; you still think I was in that
carriage. Sally," turning to the girl who had just re-entered the
room, "will you tell your brother that I don't wish him to see me home?
He's very damp and miserable now."
"And at the risk of being a little damper, I will come; it's ridiculous
to argue the point."
With all her boasted independence May was not sorry for Paul's escort
when she stepped out into the night. The rain was descending in a
steady down pour, the wind came sighing up the valley, and the river
swept on its way, lapping against the bark with a dreary, sobbing
sound. They walked on in silence side by side until May broke it with
an impatient laugh.
"The dreariness of the night has infected us both. You are not often
dull. You are always either amusing or interesting. Talk, please."
"I can't talk. I've not an idea in my head except that, if the river
gets much higher, there will be a flood, and no more Rudham! And
personally, I should not care much if it swept it away and me with it."
"You do yourself injustice; you are very interesting. Why this fit of
the blues? You are going to be ill, I expect; you looked rather ill
when you came in just now."
"Not a bit of it," said Paul, with a little laugh; "draggled and wet,
but not ill. Do you remember that you told me once, a year ago, that I
was isolating myself from my fellows? Then I felt as if I could defy
that isolation. To-day I have been conscious of it; Robinson Crusoe on
his desert island could not feel more utterly lonely. I have been
kicking against the pricks, wondering why I am condemned to a life and
a place which I hate."
"You have no business to complain of a solitude which you have created
yourself."
"Oh no; I blame no one."
"And you have Sally----"
"I _had_ Sally. She was my disciple and satellite; but now I shall
always be having to take care that I don't hurt her feelings. The
slippered ease of the old relationship is dead; I can't talk out to
her."
"But you can talk out to me as much as you like. I shan't agree with
you; but my faith, such as it is, is not new-born like Sally's. I wish
it were half as strong."
Only under cover of the dark would May have dared to say as much.
"No, I can't even talk to you; the friendship is dead too. That was
the ghost I saw this afternoon; it would have been a short-lived joy,
any way, for I hear you are going to leave Rudham."
"You are talking in riddles now!" cried May. "What should kill our
friendship? and where am I going to?"
"To Fairfield; so rumour says."
May stopped short in her walk, and Paul heard her breath coming
unevenly. When she spoke again her voice was low, but angry.
"You outstrip the limits of friendship in daring to tell me what the
gossips here say of me."
"I had no intention of telling you. I suppose it slipped out because I
hate to believe it true."
"You need not believe it; I am not going to marry Sir Cecil Bland,"
said May, coldly. "What has it to do with you, may I ask?"
"Thank Heaven!" muttered Paul, under his breath.
"What have you against him?"
"Nothing. Except that I suppose he loves you, and I love you too, and,
although I know better than you can tell me, that my love is perfectly
hopeless, I can bear it if I may let you live in my heart a little
while, as the one woman in all the world to me, the only woman I have
ever loved or ever wished to marry. That must not have been if you
were pledged to marry some one else."
"Oh, stop!" said May, laying an entreating hand upon his arm; "I feel
as if I had been so cruel, I would not rest until I had you for a
friend, but I never dreamed of this."
"Nor I, until to-day," said Paul. "But when I heard that some one else
was likely to marry you I knew."
"Put me back into the old niche. Can't we forget about to-night?"
Paul laughed a little harshly.
"Forget!" he echoed drearily. "How little women know the way a man can
love? With you I shall only rank as one of the many moths that have
singed their wings by flying too closely about you."
"No, no! I shall think of you always as my one man-friend, to whom I
could say anything that was in my head. I shall miss him dreadfully."
"And under no circumstances can you think of me in a different light?"
"I don't know, but I think not," May said simply. "You may think it
odd, or call me heartless, but I have not yet met the man I wish to
marry. There! you see I trust you to the last. Good-bye, my friend."
Paul bent over the hand that was put into his own and kissed it, and
went home feeling that the chill of the night had closed about his
heart.