THE CALL OF GOD.
With the dawn of the New Year there was an outbreak of fever in Rudham,
the after-effect of the flood, which, although it subsided almost as
quickly as it rose, left the houses which it had invaded damp and many
of the drains blocked. Paul, as he went his rounds, condemned some of
the cottages as insanitary, and determined that another spring should
see new ones begun in higher, healthier situations--if, at least, he
could by any means raise the requisite funds. He was constantly
brought into contact with the rector, who busied himself amongst his
sick people morning, noon, and night.
"Bless you!" said Mrs. Weldon, when Paul had been looking round her
premises, and heard with some astonishment the sound of a strong, clear
voice singing in the bedroom above, "that's only Mr. Curzon singing
hymns to my little Jenny, who's proper bad with the fever. She must
have been sickening with it that night as you fetched her to the tree.
Mr. Curzon seems like a parson, and doctor, and nurse, all in one. He
come'd here late last night, and he took her temperature ready to tell
the doctor this morning, and he's round here again now; and it's not as
though he favours mine more than another's. He's just the same to
every one who's bad."
And what one said all said, and Paul pondered on their words. May
Webster had spoken truly when she said that this man lived in the
hearts of his people. Sally delayed her departure for London for a few
weeks when she found that she could be of great service in the village
by going and lending a helping hand when the mothers got overdone with
nursing, for it was chiefly among the children of the place that the
fever found its victims. Twenty succumbed, and then there was a day or
two when no fresh case was reported.
Paul met the rector one morning and stayed to congratulate him on the
fact that the fever seemed to have run its course, that there had been
no death from it during the last few days, and apparently no fresh
cases.
"Poor little Jenny Weldon passed away this morning; I was with her when
she died," said the rector. Then came a long pause, and he cleared his
throat. "My Kitty was the last case; she was pronounced to have the
fever last night."
"Kitty!" echoed Paul, with a face almost as white as Mr. Curzon's own.
"Good Heavens! and I was the double-dyed idiot who brought that child
Jenny Weldon to the treat. Kitty probably caught it from her."
"That is quite impossible to decide," said Mr. Curzon, with a sad
little smile; "the outbreak has been almost simultaneous. But Kitty's
life is in God's Hands."
Paul turned away with an impatient exclamation; he had no word of
comfort to offer, for he had but little hope that a child so delicate
as Kitty would recover.
"If Sally could help in the nursing of her, or I in fetching any
delicacy the child could fancy, you know we are ready to help," he said.
"Thank you; you have always been good to her."
It was a feeble fight that little Kitty made for life, and did not last
many days. She had brief intervals of consciousness when she
recognized the father, who was never absent from her bedside except
when he visited the other sick children of his flock. All day long the
rectory was besieged by anxious inquiries for Kitty, who was better
known and more loved than any other child in the place; and Paul came
each day with some offering of fruit or flowers. But before the week
was over the passing-bell rang out, and a thrill of sympathy ran
through the village, and the neighbours looked into each other's faces,
and their kind eyes filled with tears as they said--
"That's little Miss Kitty gone home."
It was the phrase Mrs. Macdonald used as she brought in the breakfast
for Paul and Sally that morning, and the tears ran down her cheeks as
she said it.
"There may be some mistake, Mrs. Macdonald," said Paul, gently. "There
are other children ill in the place besides Kitty."
"No, sir; it's true enough. My John got up in the dark and went to ask
for her; and he saw the nurse, who told him she was dying then. She
could not last the hour."
"And the rector?" inquired Sally, who was crying quietly. "Did she
mention him?"
"Miss Kitty lay in his arms, poor lamb! He's never had his clothes off
since she was taken ill, and he would not let her be frightened; he'd
hold her fast until He came to fetch her," said Mrs. Macdonald, with
simple conviction that the Good Shepherd Himself would lift little
Kitty straight from her father's arms into His own.
Late that afternoon Paul called at the rectory to leave a wreath of
white flowers from Sally and a bunch of arums from himself; and the
rector, who saw him pass the study window, opened the door to him.
"I've only brought a few flowers from Sally and me," said Paul,
omitting the usual greeting.
Mr. Curzon looked down at them for a moment, fingering the card
attached to Paul's spray with hands that trembled. On it was written
"For Kitty, from one who loved her."
"Thank you," he answered with a smile that was more pathetic than
tears. "She loved you, too, very dearly. Will you give her them
yourself?"
But Paul drew back with a shiver.
"Oh no; her bright, living face is the memory that I would have of her."
So it was the rector who carried up the flowers to the room where Kitty
lay, and placed the wreath at her feet; and the arums framed the sweet,
smiling face, and the card with its message of love was laid upon her
breast, with the murmured prayer that the one who loved Kitty might
learn to love Kitty's God.
All the villagers that were able attended Kitty's funeral two days
later, drawn there by love and sympathy. Paul was there with Sally,
sitting down in the belfry, close to the spot where Kitty's carriage
had been placed upon the only other occasion when Paul had attended a
service in Rudham church.
"If there is any meaning at all in the service, it is appropriate for
Kitty," was the reason he had assigned to Sally for accompanying her.
It seemed like a beautiful dream to him: the church nearly filled with
people, the fragrance of the flowers as the little white coffin was
carried into church headed by the rector and the choir, who sang, as
they led the way to the chancel, the words of a hymn quite unfamiliar
to Paul, and a few lines of which sounded clearly in his ears as they
passed him.
"Death will be to slumber
In that sweet embrace,
And we shall awaken
To behold His Face."
Only one person followed the little coffin, and that was the nurse, who
had loved Kitty as devotedly as any mother. The door behind Paul was
gently pushed open after the service had begun, and he was vividly
conscious of the presence of the woman he loved the best in the
world--May Webster. She was dressed in black, and sank upon her knees
by Sally's side. The intense sympathy of her expression made her look
more beautiful than ever, giving the touch of softness that her
features sometimes lacked. Throughout the service the rector's brave,
strong voice never faltered, and it rose and fell with the others in
Psalm and hymn. He seemed, for the time being, borne aloft upon the
wings of faith and love; but when, the service ended, Paul made his way
back to the church to fetch his hat, which he had accidently left
behind him, he caught a glimpse of a white-robed figure prostrate
before the altar, and the frame was convulsed with sobs. Nature must
have her way; and not even the rector could at once bring his will into
perfect submission with the will of God. His darling was taken from
his sight, and his heart was aching over the dreary years that might
intervene before he could see her again. There was a lump in Paul's
throat as he noiselessly left the church. May and Sally waited for him.
"It's heart-breaking," said May, putting her hand into his. "I was
bound to come."
"You return to London to-night, I suppose? You will come and have tea
with us on your way, won't you?" said Sally, eagerly.
"I will come to tea. But I am not going back at present; I told mother
I should stay down here for a little while, until all this trouble had
passed away; it cannot be right that we should be doing nothing to
help. I only wish I had come in time to see that little girl alive
again."
Sally had moved away to help to arrange the flowers on the
newly-filled-in grave, and Paul stood a little apart by May's side.
"I'm sorry for every one," said May. "It is almost enough to kill Mr.
Curzon. And I have thought of you too; I was sorry for the loss of
your one friend."
"Yes," said Paul. "I've been sorry for myself; I did not believe any
child's death could affect me so deeply. Life is an unanswerable
riddle from beginning to end."
"Unless the rector is right," said May, softly. "In which case we may
find the answer on the other side."
Never had May appeared so beautiful or gracious as that evening when
she sat listening to the story of all that had occurred in Rudham since
she and her mother had gone to London.
"I'm so glad to be back," she said. "Mother thinks me half-crazed for
coming, and threw a dozen obstacles in my way. But I've brought Rose
Lancaster with me, and the servants who are left in charge can manage
for us; and, as for carriages it will do me good to walk for a little
bit."
Paul left the talk almost entirely to the two girls; it was enough for
him to sit and watch the play of May's beautiful features, and hear the
sound of her voice. What could this sudden return of hers mean, he
wondered? Was it a passing whim, or was it?---- He left even the
thought unfinished, and called himself a presumptuous fool!
The next morning he received a note from the rector asking him to call.
"There is a matter of extreme importance that I cannot decide until I
have seen you, so will you kindly look in this evening?" he wrote.
Paul found him in his study, and noticed that the handsome face was
thinner, and the dark lines under the eyes betrayed the suffering
through which he had passed.
"I wanted you to come for many reasons," he said, pushing an easy-chair
near to the fire. "To thank you, first of all, for the kindness you
have poured on my Kitty from the day of your coming until now. There
are not many men who would have taken so much trouble about a delicate
little girl."
"You need not thank me," Paul answered with tears in his eyes. "She
was a friend I shall sorely miss."
"And there is this letter I wish to show you," continued the rector,
not daring to talk further of Kitty.
It was a letter from the Bishop of the diocese, suggesting that Mr.
Curzon should accept the living of Norrington, a populous town some
thirty miles away. In money value it was less than Rudham, but "the
needs of the place are great," wrote the Bishop. "You are in the
heyday of your strength, and I believe you to be the man for the place.
Unless there be any very urgent reason for your refusing to move, I
greatly wish you to undertake it."
"Why can't the Bishop let well alone?" said Paul, as he returned the
letter. "Of course, you will not go. I don't pretend to constitute
myself a judge of a clergyman's work, but I should say that you have
this place as well in hand as any man could. To move you, will be
equal loss to yourself and Rudham."
"I cannot decide it so quickly. I do not believe in things happening
by chance," said Mr. Curzon. "This letter came the day that Kitty
passed away, and I telegraphed to the Bishop that I could decide
nothing for a day or two; the one urgent reason that would have kept me
here is gone, you see."
"Kitty?" questioned Paul.
"Yes; I could not have taken her to live in the heart of a town."
"Then you really had decided to leave us before you wrote to me."
"Several things point to it: a less strong man than I could undertake
the work here. If it is God's voice that calls, I would not disobey
it. One thought holds me back. What will happen here? Is it
impertinent to ask? The presentation to the living is yours."
Paul smiled involuntarily. "And you scarcely think me the man to
appoint to a cure of souls. I confess I don't myself feel I know
enough about it. I should do as my godfather did before me, hand over
the nomination of a successor to the Bishop. I believe this offer
jumps with your own inclination."
"Only for one thing," said the rector, quietly, "that my house is 'left
unto me desolate.'"
"And yet you call the God, who took your Kitty from you, a God of love."
"Yes. Who, looking at her pitiful little frame, can doubt it? My
selfish heart cries out for her yet; but what could her life have been
but one of constant suffering."
"But, I suppose, she was born like that?" said Paul, more to himself
than to the rector.
Mr. Curzon's face twitched a little. "Oh no; she was the brightest,
healthiest little child you have ever seen; and then she was dropped.
And the girl who dropped her did not tell any one about it for months
after--not until the child's back began to grow out."
"How did you find it out at last?" asked Paul, deeply interested.
"The girl came of her own accord to confess it. She was pretty well
heart-broken when she discovered that Kitty was injured for life."
"I would never have forgiven her!" said Paul, bitterly.
"Yes, you would. You would have done much as I did, I expect; I let
her work out her repentance. She is the nurse who has devoted herself
to Kitty like a mother, and who mourns for her like one, too. We can
never be separated; where I go she will go. And now she has not Kitty
she will help me to look after some of the sick children in my parish."
"So you have decided to go?"
"Yes; I think I have scarcely a choice in the matter."
The Vicar was not one to keep his people long in ignorance of a
decision which affected both him and them so largely, and, on the
following Sunday morning, he told them in a few words that he must
leave them.
"Dear people," he said, "the decision has been sharp and sudden, and
the pain of it still lingers in my heart as I talk to you to-day; but I
dare not have it otherwise lest, in hesitating, my will should cross
the will of God, for, as soldiers must obey the command of their
captain, nor ask the reason why, so I, Christ's soldier and servant,
must be ready at His Word to pass on to where the battle is most
fierce, and where, maybe, the army needs reinforcement. Shall I be
less brave than Abraham, who, at the call of God, left home and kindred
to settle in a strange land amongst an alien people? Dear friends, as
clearly as God's message came to Abraham in those far-off days, it has
seemed to come to me, telling me to leave the home and people that I
love, and to go, work for Him in another part of His vineyard.
Therefore I obey."
There were tears on the upturned faces that listened, and, when the
people left the church, there was an almost universal wail of
lamentation. But reticent natures like the Macdonalds could find no
relief in words; they walked silently side by side with tears in their
eyes and an untold aching in their hearts.
"Life won't be the same again, John; we shan't get another like the
good man," said Mrs. Macdonald, as they neared home.
"No," said John, slowly. "But if he don't make a fuss about it, no
more won't we; he's sure about the call, and he dursn't disobey. But
now we'll save for the collectin'!"
"What collectin'?"
"They'll make him a present. They are sure to make him a present; and
we'll be ready when they call," said John.
But, with all his brave words, John's dinner was pushed away untouched,
and his broad back was turned resolutely to his wife so that she might
not guess that he was crying!