THE TELLING OF THE NEWS
"LET her to have a good cry, poor thing, if you can. Much better for
her," the Vicar said to Mildred in a low tone, as he was going away.
Mildred did not find the advice easy to carry out. Mrs. Groates sat
down, indeed, by the fire, when desired to do so, and dropped into a
waking dream, with the same fixed look in her eyes, and hands clasped
forlornly on one knee; but she showed no signs of breaking down.
It so happened that nobody else was in the house. Jack was away on
business: the second boy, Will, had been at sea during many months
past; the two next boys were at school; while Mimy had taken the
youngest boy and girl for a ramble. So there was nothing to rouse Mrs.
Groates; and she remained seated, half-stupefied, gazing into the fire.
"Try to take a little tea," urged Mildred.
Mrs. Groates looked at her with blank eyes.
"Just a few sips!"
"Tea,—O yes; thank you, my dear."
But when the cup was raised to her lips, she turned from it. "I don't
think I can just now. Seems as if I couldn't swallow. I'd rather wait."
Again she sat, lost in thought. Mildred's hand stole into hers, and was
gently pressed.
"You're kind to stay with me. It's very good of you. I do feel
strange,—it's come so sudden."
"It is terrible for you, poor thing!"
"It don't seem long since that day—when he asked me to marry him. All
those years ago. I used to think he'd outlive me—such a strong man."
"No one can ever tell. The strongest are often taken first." Tears were
running down Mildred's cheeks, and Mrs. Groates looked at her in a kind
of wonder.
"I can't cry," she said. "And you can. I wish I could. It seems to have
dried away all tears. Poor Jim!"
"He was a good husband to you."
"Yes,—he's been a good husband. Not as he ever was one to say a great
deal. But he's been a good husband, and he always meant more than he'd
say." Then a thrill of recollection passed over her, and her face
changed.
"Yes,—what is it?"
"Something he said only last Sunday,—and I'd forgotten till this
minute. I wonder what made him say it?"
"Tell me what he said."
Mrs. Groates' lips were trembling now, and her fingers plucked
nervously at her apron. She shook her head as if words failed.
"Tell me. I want to know. What did he say last Sunday? Don't mind
crying, but just tell me," begged Mildred. "Last Sunday he said,—"
"He said—he didn't know—how ever in the world he'd have managed—if he'd
had a different sort of wife. He said—said—'I'm a crusty sort, Jane,'
says he,—'but you've been the best thing in my life.' And he says too,
'A good wife is something to thank God for.'"
Mrs. Groates broke down, and sobbed.
"Cry away, poor dear. That will do you good," Mildred said, putting
kind arms round her.
And when Mrs. Groates could again look up, her face, though blistered
with tears, had lost its strained and unnatural expression.
"Now I am going to make you lie down for a time on the sofa, and you
must not talk," said Mildred. "Never mind about the children. I will
see to them. And Jack shall come to you,—yes, I promise that he shall.
I want you to keep quiet. Try not even to think a great deal. Try to
feel that you are in the hands of One Who loves you."
"I'll try. My head don't seem as if it could think," Mrs. Groates
murmured.
And Mildred hoped that it might be so for a while.
The Vicar had in some respects a harder task than that of Mildred. He
went a good distance along the sea-road before descrying Jack. And then
he had plenty of time to note Jack's vigorous walk before the two drew
near together. Jack was perhaps absorbed in his own thoughts, for he
did not see the Vicar until they were only about twenty yards apart.
Jack's honest cheerful face lighted up with a hearty smile, and he
quickened his pace, but was surprised to have no smile in reply.
"Had he done anything to vex the Vicar?" This idea came to Jack first.
"And if so, what could it have been?"
"I have come to meet you, Jack. On purpose to meet you. We will walk
back together." Mr. Gilbert hoped that Jack would inquire why he had
done so; but Jack made no such inquiry.
"That is kind of you, sir. My mother said she'd been telling you about
what I wanted to do. I've been wishing to see you. If there was any
chance that you could help me, sir,—"
"Yes, we must think about that—another day. Not to-day. I have, just at
this moment, something else to say."
"Nothing I have done wrong, I hope, sir. There's nothing I know
of,—there really isn't."
"There is nothing wrong whatever, Jack, of that kind." The Vicar laid a
little stress upon the word "that."
He hoped Jack might ask a leading question, by saying, "What kind?" but
again Jack failed to carry out his expectations.
"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so, sir, for I did feel afraid, when I
saw you so grave. Nor nothing to do with Jessie, I hope?"
"No, not Jessie."
"That's righter still. If one of us was to vex you, I'd sooner it
should be me than Jessie. She's a good girl, though, isn't she, sir?
And she'll make a good wife. To see her working away now at those
dresses,—and doing it all as clever as can be. Why, she's making quite
a pretty penny; and that's enough to make me all the more impatient to
get away and be doing for myself. You see, father doesn't really need
me at home. Mother and Mimy can give him all the help he wants. It
isn't as if he was an old man. He's in hale middle age still, and he
may live another twenty years, for all we know. I hope he will, too.
But it wouldn't do for me to stay on in Old Maxham all that time. I've
got to make a home for Jessie and me."
The Vicar almost groaned aloud. "Jack, don't go on so."
"Did I say anything wrong, sir?" Jack's tone showed surprise. "I
thought you'd be one to approve. You have said many a time that you
wished men would look forward, and prepare a little, and not marry all
in a hurry."
"Jack—I've something to say to you."
"Yes, sir. I'd be glad to have any sort of advice. Mother said she
hoped you would advise me."
"It's not advice. It's something else."
"Well, sir,—anything you like to say,—I'm sure I'll listen attentive,
and I'll try to do it." Jack seemed proof against alarm.
"It's not what you have to do. It is—that something very sad has
happened. And I have to tell it to you."
Jack seemed at last a little concerned. "Dear me, I'm sorry for that.
Nothing very bad, I hope, sir."
"Yes,—very bad, as we men count things to be bad. Not bad, really, for
it is God's will; and what He sends is good—even when we cannot see it
to be so. It is a great and unlooked-for sorrow."
"Yes, sir;" and Jack waited expectantly.
"There has been an accident."
"Not my mother? Not Jessie?"
"No, neither. But—your father—"
"Something happened to my father!" Jack drew a quick breath. "An
accident, you say, sir. He has been hurt then?"
"Yes. Very much."
"Any broken bones, sir?" Jack was trying not to show how much he was
moved.
"Worse. He was run down by a butcher's cart, dashing round a corner.
Your father had no time to get out of the way. He was thrown down, and
the cart passed over him."
"Has the doctor seen him?"
"Mr. Bateson was going by at the moment,—and I was there too. It was a
sad sight."
"And he's been taken home, of course. Poor mother! That's soon for
another accident." Jack's words bore evident reference to his own
broken leg in the previous spring. "And what does the doctor say, sir?
Does he think father will soon be up and about again?"
"No, Jack!" The words, and still more the manner, startled Jack.
"So bad as that!"
"I have not told you the worst. Not only did the cart go over him, but
also—his head struck the curb-stone, as he fell. And—"
A long pause followed, which the Vicar would not break. They walked
steadily, side by side; Jack's face turned away. The Vicar wondered how
far he yet understood.
"If anything could have been done, it would have been done,—with Mr.
Bateson there, on the spot. But,—nothing could."
"Yes, sir; I see!"
Another long pause.
"Your mother is a brave woman. You will have to be her stay and comfort
now."
"Yes, sir," Jack replied mechanically. The thought arose unbidden,—How
about Jessie? And how about his plans for getting away, and for laying
by? This would make a great change in his life. How much of a change he
could not yet measure or realize; but he would now be the one to whom
his mother would look, upon whom she would lean, who would have to take
his father's place. How about Jessie?
"Poor fellow!" the Vicar said voicelessly, more than once, noting the
young man's absorbed face.