A BACHELOR'S LUNCH.
THE bells were ringing for Sunday Morning Prayer at Wilbourne Church,
and the congregation was pouring in at the large west door, and the
choir boys taking the little path towards the vestry, when Mr. Yorke,
the tall curate, opened the small side gate, which was his nearest
entrance to the churchyard.
He was passing quickly along, when he caught sight of a boy leaning over
the paling a little beyond the gate, in rather a disconsolate attitude;
and first he paused for a minute, and then struck across the grass and
laid his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder.
'Come in with me, Cecil,' he said in his most cheery tone--knowing that
the lad usually formed one of the choir when at home, and thinking that
his ill success at school had made him shy of facing the other
choristers, who probably knew all about it by this time.
'No, I mustn't,' said Cecil, turning round abruptly and colouring very
much.
Mr. Yorke was surprised, and showed it. Knowing that Cecil's general
conduct at school had been very good, he had not thought that exclusion
from the choir would have formed part of his punishment.
'It's not because of _that_,' said the boy, reading his thoughts in his
open, kindly face, 'at least not of that alone; it's because I don't say
I'm sorry, and behave as I'm expected to behave. But oh, if father
knew----'
He broke off and turned his face away; but Mr. Yorke, who liked the boy
well, and had one of those sympathetic natures that can feel for
everybody's troubles, was touched by the bitter, hopeless tone.
'Suppose you come home with me after service, and spend the rest of the
day with me,' said he, feeling it might really do the boy good to have
his Sunday free from the sort of atmosphere of disgrace which he felt or
fancied surrounded him at home.
He could see that Cecil caught at the notion, by the eager way in which
he looked up; though the answer was,
'Thank you; but perhaps father wouldn't like it.'
'I don't think he will mind; I'll ask him myself. Don't suppose I'm
inviting you to any great treat: cold mutton and bread and marmalade are
about all that I have to offer. I don't like to keep my landlady from
church.'
'Oh, thanks,' said Cecil, laughing, not at all as if the prospect
alarmed him; and Mr. Yorke laughed too, and saying, 'Well, then, look
out for me after service,' strode away across the grass, looking back,
however, at the vestry door, to see if Cecil were turning his steps
towards the church.
Cecil had not at all liked the idea of taking his place among the
congregation: he thought that those who noticed him would wonder why he
was not in the choir, and in his present mood the least humiliation was
intolerable to him. The two days which had intervened since his coming
home had not been well or happily spent: he had gone about in a sulky
injured way, keeping aloof from his father and mother, answering shortly
when spoken to, and being anything but sociable even with his brothers
and sisters. Some of them had almost ceased to be sorry for him, because
he made himself, as they said, 'so disagreeable;' but his faithful
friend Jessie had borne with him uncomplainingly, and continued to feel
for him with all her heart. He was a little cheered now by the thought
that Mr. Yorke felt for him too, and did not seem to condemn him
altogether; and so--rather slowly--he walked towards the church and went
in, and took a place near the door, where he thought scarcely anybody
would see him.
His thoughts wandered far and wide during the prayers, though now and
then he recalled them by an effort, and tried to attend for at least a
few minutes; but he could not help listening to the sermon, which was
preached by his father--his father, whom at the bottom of his heart he
did warmly love and respect, spite of all the rebellious feelings of the
last day or two. The text was, 'While I live will I praise the Lord: I
will sing praises unto my God while I have any being;' and there
followed a beautiful, fervent exhortation to the spirit of constant
praise, and then a consideration of the hindrances which check this flow
of thankfulness in Christian souls. Cecil listened most attentively, and
with a kind of awe, when among these was named the pride of heart which
would not acknowledge as deserved such punishment as God might send,
either directly from Himself or through others--the temper which called
it 'very hard' that this or that suffering should be laid upon us. He
did not suppose that his father was thinking of him--nor was he; but in
the vivid description of feelings which followed he recognised his own,
and a strange thrill of heart seized him when Mr. Cunningham went on:
'There is no peace like the peace of those who have conquered all such
rebellious impulses, such self-justifying thoughts, who have given
themselves up lovingly to God to be chastened as much and as long as He
wills. There is no praise like the praise of a soul that can say with
holy Job, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him;" or with
Habakkuk, "Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit
be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields
shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and
there shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I
will joy in the God of my salvation."'
'If I had sung in the choir to-day, it wouldn't have been real praise; I
shouldn't have thought of it or meant it,' Cecil owned to himself; and
it did not seem to him so hard as before that he had been excluded,
though he was far from entering fully into the spirit of submission
which Mr. Cunningham had set before his people as the thing to be longed
and striven for. Entering fully! Ah, with most of us it takes a lifetime
to do that; but none of us are too young to _begin_ to learn it.
Cecil went back to his old position by the churchyard palings after
service to wait for Mr. Yorke, but could not quite escape some greetings
from his village friends, who were 'glad to see him back, and hoped he
had his health.' He looked up anxiously when he saw his father and the
curate come forth from the vestry together; but they soon parted, and
Mr. Yorke came across the grass to him, saying, 'All right, Cecil; you
can come home with me.'
'Home' was some bachelor lodgings in a very rustic cottage with a porch
all overgrown with Tangier peas, and a queerly-shaped dining-room, the
ceiling of which was so low that Mr. Yorke's head seemed but a little
way off it as he walked about. On the other side of the passage was a
drawing-room, wonderfully smart and uncomfortable, with groups of wax
fruit under glass shades on rickety tables, crochet couvrettes over the
back of almost every chair as well as on the sofa, and a wonderful
festoon of green and yellow tissue paper round the glass above the
mantelpiece. Mr. Yorke took Cecil in there while the cloth was being
laid, but told him he never sat there, as there was not a single chair
which would bear his weight, nor a table which did not creak when it was
leant upon.
'I should turn all this trumpery out, and make Mrs. Keeling give me
something sensible,' said Cecil, with a boy's rough-and-ready way of
disposing of difficulties.
'No, you wouldn't, if you saw what a delight she takes in it all, and
what a solace it is to her to come and dust and admire. Between the
dining-room and a little den I have up-stairs, I do very well. I only
hope you'll have as snug a little hole and as worthy a little landlady
when _you_ are a curate in lodgings.'
'I don't know whether I shall ever be a clergyman now,' said Cecil
gloomily.
Mr. Yorke, who was standing at the window looking out, while his guest
had ventured on one of the dangerous chairs, turned round in surprise.
'You don't mean to say you are giving up that? I thought you had wished
it ever since you were four years old.'
'So I have; and if I had stayed at Eastwood, I might some day have got
one of the Hulston scholarships, and that would have helped me at
college; but now there's no chance for me. I'm going to old Bardsley's
day school in Fairview, and there's nothing to be got _there_.'
'Still I wouldn't give up if I were you, my boy; I would keep the hope
before me. There's nothing like a high aim to help one through the
drudgery of school-work, and keep one out of stupid, little, mean
temptations.'
'I know, and it was for that I worked,' said Cecil, 'at least for that
chiefly; but it was all no use, and it doesn't seem worth while to try
any more.'
Mr. Yorke, who had supposed that Cecil _hadn't_ worked, did not quite
know what answer to make to this.
'I think it seems more worth while than ever,' he said after a minute.
'If one has lost ground, one must make it up again somehow. You know you
might be ordained even without going to Oxford, though I don't mean to
say that a college education is not a good thing, if one can have it.'
'Father went to Oxford, and so did you, didn't you?' said Cecil.
'Yes, there was no difficulty about that, as it happened; but my way was
not all smooth, any more than yours. I had not been meant for a
clergyman, and there were objections to be got over, and a good deal
that was discouraging; but it all came right at last.'
He broke off his sentence rather abruptly, but in his heart it was ended
thus: 'Thanks be to God for it.'
If Cecil had ever seen the luxurious home from which the curate came, or
had known what good worldly prospects he had given up to enter holy
orders, he would have made quite a hero of him in his own mind; but,
even as it was, he looked up admiringly at the tall manly figure and
bright resolute face. He liked to feel that Mr. Yorke was his friend,
and for the moment longed to tell him all his trouble, and see if he
could give him more help in bearing it than little Jessie could. But he
was shy of beginning; and before he had opened his lips, a plump little
old woman in a black silk dress and spotless apron appeared at the door,
and announced, 'Your lunch is ready, sir.'
_Lunch!_--so they were to dine late; and though the cold mutton was not
likely to prove a much greater dainty at six than at one, Cecil felt a
little pride and pleasure in keeping such grown-up hours.
In honour of the young guest, Mrs. Keeling had set out every small
luxury that either her lodger or she possessed; and there were poached
eggs, and gooseberries, and sardines, and honey, and pickles, and
gingerbread, and potted meat, arranged with great display upon the
table, while the bread and butter and cheese, as being altogether
ordinary, were exiled to a little sideboard behind Mr. Yorke's chair.
'Is there anything more you require, sir?' said the old dame before
withdrawing, in a complacent tone that seemed to say, What _could_ they
require when such a variety was before them?
'Thank you, let me see: would you like some mutton, Cecil?'
Mrs. Keeling almost frowned at this proposal. How could the good young
gentleman be so inconsiderate, she thought, as to propose to his visitor
for _lunch_ what was by and by to come up for _dinner_? She was quite
relieved, however, by Cecil's eager negative, and went off to her
kitchen well satisfied; while Mr. Yorke, after saying grace, proceeded
to do the honours of the repast.
'May I give you some pickles, Cecil?' he said mischievously. 'I don't
see anything to eat with them, so I suppose they are meant to form a
course by themselves.'
'They wouldn't be bad with bread and cheese,' rejoined Cecil, laughing;
'some of our seniors eat them with all sorts of things.'
'Well, you can try the combination if you like, but I don't see any
cheese; and oh, hulloa! there's no bread either. Will you ring the bell
while I help the eggs?'
'I see them--they're behind you--I'll get them,' and Cecil jumped up and
set down the bread, but, among the array of dishes which covered the
small table, could find no room for the butter or cheese.
'We can turn out the pickles, and the gooseberries too, for the
present,' said Mr. Yorke with a look of amusement. 'Thank you, Cecil; I
seem to have brought you here to wait upon me.'
'Oh, it's such fun!' said Cecil delightedly. A thoroughly well-arranged
meal would not have given him half the pleasure that this queer little
bachelor lunch did.
Before it was over, his spirits were such as entirely to satisfy his
host; and Mrs. Keeling, when she came to clear away, was gratified to
find that her home-made gingerbread had by no means been despised,
though she had been a little offended in the interval by water being
rung for. What could Mr. Yorke be thinking of, to let the little
gentleman drink water, when there was cowslip wine and raspberry vinegar
of her own making in the house, supposing that ordinary wine or beer
were thought too strong for him?
But Cecil had affirmed that he always drank water at home, and wished
for nothing else, and Mr. Yorke knew better than to try to lead him to
other tastes. He liked Cecil's bringing-up altogether--the hardiness and
the good sense of it, and the kindness that was never spoiling; and
could sympathize the more with the boy, under the cloud which had come
between him and his father, because he knew how happy the relations
between them had been till now. He was ready to talk about school and
cricket, and his own younger brothers, and anything that seemed to
interest him; and was rather startled when, as they sat together after
lunch in a queer little arbour at the end of the garden, Cecil suddenly
said, 'Do you think a person can help being miserable when they are
punished for a fault they haven't done?'
'I think it is a great trial,' he answered after a moment's reflection.
'But surely they would have more reason to be miserable if they _had_
committed the fault.'
Cecil pondered over this a minute; then he said, 'But how is it _just_
that they should be punished for what they haven't done?'
'Why, I suppose the person punishing thinks they have done it.'
'Yes, the person,' said Cecil,--and there he hesitated,--'I mean,' he
said at last, not irreverently, but in a low, earnest tone, 'why are
things like _this let_ happen?'
Mr. Yorke could only guess what 'this' was, and did not seek to have it
explained, not wishing to make himself a judge of anything that lay
between Cecil and his father.
'You mean, why is disgrace allowed to come upon a person which they
cannot feel they have deserved? I don't think we can always tell why--I
think we must be content to trust and submit; but it may often be to
teach them some lesson which they could not have learned without it. For
instance, suppose a very proud person were punished for telling an
untruth, which he had not really told: the humiliation might be a check
to his pride, and in that way might be for his real good.'
'And he deserved it, you mean, for being proud, though he didn't for
untruth?'
'Yes; and when he came to see this, he would no longer say it was very
hard.'
This reminded Cecil of his father's sermon, which indeed Mr. Yorke had
in his mind when he spoke. He was silent a good while, then he began on
what seemed at first another subject. 'If something that wasn't your own
fault had come to hinder you when you were being educated for a
clergyman, shouldn't you have thought you weren't meant to be one?'
'I think it would have depended on what the hindrance was, and a good
many other circumstances. It isn't only book-learning that makes people
fit to be clergymen; perhaps I might have been hindered in that, only to
make me more fit in some other way.'
'What kind of way?'
'Well, I might have needed to learn submission or humility, or a hundred
things.'
Cecil clasped both hands round his knees, and went swaying himself
backwards and forwards in a queer kind of way that was more reflective
than polite.
'I suppose it wouldn't do for a clergyman to be cock-a-hoop,' he said
presently.
'Well, not exactly, if he meant to be in any sense an example to his
flock,' returned Mr. Yorke with a smile.
'I know I was very cock-a-hoop just before this disappointment came,'
thought Cecil, 'and that last week I was careless and all. I wonder
whether that is why all this has happened!'
He did not say any of this aloud, but it was not pride that kept him
from the avowal, only a very natural and reasonable shyness of talking
about himself. He stopped rocking, and sat with his gaze fixed on the
trees in the distance, without really seeing them a bit. A new feeling
of half-dismayed contrition was springing up in his heart, but the
bitterness of resentment and the sense of injury were passing away.
He started when the church bells began to ring. There was evening
prayer, with catechizing, at three o'clock at Wilbourne Church, and
evening prayer again, with a sermon, at seven. 'Are you going, sir?' he
said as Mr. Yorke rose up.
'Not to church now, but I must be off to Bar-end, where I have my class
of hobbledehoys from the farms.'
'Do you think father will expect me at the catechizing?'
'I should think he would be glad to see you there.'
'I mustn't stand with the choir, I suppose,' said Cecil, hesitating.
'No; but I think, if I were you, I should be all the more anxious to go.
You're not sulking, I can see, Cecil; so why should you let any one
think you are?'
'I have been, though,' said Cecil rather awkwardly, breaking through his
shyness now that truth seemed to require it.
'Well, Sunday is a good day for turning over a new leaf,' said Mr.
Yorke, with a smile in his eyes that seemed to make no doubt at all of
Cecil's willingness to do it.
'It seemed so hard at first,' he answered, feeling as if he must excuse
himself a little.
'Yes, it _is_ a struggle sometimes to accept one's position; but when
once one has, all the bitterness goes, and one finds oneself not half so
miserable as one expected.'
How true this was, Cecil soon began to find out from his own experience.
It was a struggle to take his place beside the schoolboys, instead of
with the choir, at the catechizing; it cost him something to open his
lips when first his father seemed to address a question to him, but
after the first effort it was not half so hard as he had thought it
would be. He answered thoughtfully and well, and, without putting
himself unduly forward, showed that he was paying attention, and was
really anxious to understand and to learn.
Jessie ran up to him in the churchyard after service.
'Oh, Cecil, I am so glad you came! I thought you would have gone to
Bar-end with Mr. Yorke. Are you coming home now?'
'No, I am going back to his place; he said I might amuse myself with his
books till he came in. I haven't had dinner yet,' and Cecil felt a
momentary importance in saying it.
'How hungry you must be!' rejoined Jessie innocently. 'Are you going,
Cecil? I shall wait for father.'
'Here he is!' said Frances, who was waiting also.
Cecil felt an impulse to rush away instantly, but was glad he had not,
when his father said in a kind voice, 'Are you coming with us, Cecil?'
Though he answered, of course, in the negative, his heart felt lighter
for that kind tone and those few casual words. It was his own sulkiness
which had made great part of his misery before, and he could see that
plainly now that he was beginning to get the better of it.
The rest of the day passed very pleasantly, and Cecil enjoyed his talk
with his good-natured friend very much, though nothing more was said on
the one subject which absorbed him the most. It was quite bed-time when
he went home, so he had no opportunity of putting in practice that night
the good resolutions which were springing up within him; but the next
day all the brothers and sisters remarked how much more amiable he was,
and little Jessie's intense belief in his goodness revived in full
force. He was not so merry as usual: it was impossible he should be
after his deep disappointment, and with the sense of his father's
displeasure resting on him, and the prospect of the day school before
him. Both father and mother were touched sometimes when they caught the
sad expression of his face; but he was no longer sullen; and if a
pettish word escaped him, he seemed to catch himself up quickly before
it could be followed by another.
'I can't see the rights of it yet,' he said to Jessie privately, 'nor
why I should be so served out for not working, when I _did_ work; but I
think there were things--feeling set up, you know, and crowing over
other fellows, and all that--which may have brought me in for this in a
kind of way.'
Jessie could hardly bring herself to believe that he could have deserved
it in _any_ way, but his submission was much less grievous and
perplexing to her than his rebellion had been; and she received these
few words--spoken rather gruffly, with his back turned to her--as a
great proof of confidence, which indeed they were.
'If being very good makes people ready to be clergymen, I'm sure Cecil's
getting ready as fast as he can,' she remarked to Frances.
And though Frances was not so firmly convinced as her sister that
Cecil's troubles had not been brought on him by his own fault, she
answered readily, 'Yes, he has been so nice and pleasant since Sunday,
and hasn't grumbled once about having to go to Mr. Bardsley's.'
[Illustration]