THE CURATE.
Although it was a bright autumn morning, the stillness of death hovered
over Glanyravon Farm. There was scarcely a sound to be heard within or
without. The men in the yard moved about like spectres, and work was
suspended in the harvest fields; whispers circulated from bedroom to
kitchen, and from kitchen to outhouse, that the good and kind mistress
whom every body loved, was on her deathbed; and how should they labour?
All the talk of the farm-servants was upon subjects ominous of death.
One said that he had heard Lion, the big watch-dog, howl long and loud
before daylight; another that he had seen a corpse candle as he went
homewards the previous evening; a third that she had seen her mistress
all in white at her bedside, looking beautiful; a fourth that she had
heard a raven croak; in short, if sighs and wonders could kill poor Mrs
Prothero, there was little chance for her life. Where every one was
usually so busy, so full of energy and spirit, there was more than a
Sabbath calm. They were expecting some one, too, for Tom and Bill were
looking down the road about every five minutes, whilst Shanno appeared
now and again at the back door, and whispered 'Is he coming?' to which a
shake of the head was a constant reply.
The doctor had just gone into the house, and knots of men and women
stood about with sorrowful faces; kind neighbours who came one after
another to hear the last report as soon as he should again reappear. Mrs
Prothero was greatly beloved, and no one could afford to lose her.
'She was so bad last night that she was not expected to see the
morning,' whispered one.
'Couldn't take a drop of anything,' said another.
'Is talking of Miss Netta for ever,' said a third.
'There'll be a loss to every one. Mr Jonathan prayed for her in church
last Sunday; if prayers'll save her she 'ont die, no seure.'
'She gave me a jug of milk only Friday week.'
'And was coming to see my John in the measles Wednesday before Miss
Netta ran away.'
'She's the death of her mother I always say.'
'Poor master is nearly mad.'
'And Mr Owen crying like a baby.'
'And they do say that the Irish girl is better than a daughter to 'em
all.'
'Hush! I do hear wheels. Oh! if he do come, perhaps he may rouse her up
a bit.'
The gates were open, and before the last whisper was over Mr Gwynne's
carriage was driving down to the farm. The bystanders drew back as it
rolled through a part of the yard and stopped at the door. Rowland got
out, and was in the house almost before any one could see him. He went
into the hall, and there he saw Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, and Dr Richards.
Miss Gwynne held out her hand, and said at once,--'Your mother is still
alive.'
'Thank God I!' exclaimed Rowland, giving a sort of convulsive gasp, and
wringing the hand that pressed his.
'Is there any hope?' he asked of Dr Richards.
'The crisis is at hand, and she is insensible; it is impossible to
say--if we could rouse her?'
'I may go upstairs?'
'Yes, but you had better let your father know you are come; he is in the
outer room.'
Rowland went at once to what had been his own bedroom in former times;
he opened the door gently, and there alone on his knees by the bedside,
groaning audibly, was his poor stricken father. He went up softly to him
and whispered, 'Father, it is I, Rowland!' and Mr Prothero rose, and in
a few seconds went with him into the room where the beloved wife and
mother lay.
Rowland went up to the bedside, and took the place which Gladys silently
vacated for him. He gazed upon what appeared to him to be death, but was
really the prostration and insensibility that followed the delirium and
fever of the past week. He bent down and kissed the cold forehead of his
mother, then turned away, covered his face with his hands, and wept
silently. Gladys whispered to him that there was still hope, and resumed
her occupation of bathing the temples with vinegar, wetting the lips
with wine, and administering tea spoonfuls of wine, which still
continued to find a passage down the throat. Mrs Jonathan Prothero
crept softly up to Rowland, and put her hand in his--Owen came to
him--his uncle--all were there.
But as soon as he had recovered from his temporary emotion, he went to
his father's side, who had seated himself on a chair behind the curtain
of the bed, and tried to comfort him. The presence of his second son was
in itself a consolation to poor Mr Prothero; but he could not listen to
his words.
'Pray for your mother, Rowland,' was all he could say.
Rowland knelt down with all those present, except Gladys, who joined in
spirit and prayed. Never before had he known what it was to use the
prayers of his church for one so dear to him; never before had he felt
the great difficulty of reading them when his emotion nearly choked his
utterance. But as priest and son he prayed fervently for his mother.
Mr Prothero seemed calmer after he rose from his knees, and ventured to
lean over his wife to assure himself that she still breathed. There was
an occasional slight pulsation scarcely to be called breath.
The doctor came in and felt her pulse. It was not quite gone, and whilst
there was life there was hope.
They stood round her bed watching the calm, pale face with a love and
anxiety so intense that they could neither speak nor breathe. Gladys
looked almost as pale as her mistress, and as the light fell upon her
when she was leaning over her, she might have been the angel of death
herself.
Mrs Jonathan Prothero drew Rowland from the room and insisted upon his
taking some refreshment. He had travelled all night, and Mr Gwynne, at
his daughter's request, had sent his carriage to meet him.
Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall were still waiting downstairs. They asked Mrs
Jonathan if they could be of any use in taking Gladys's place whilst the
poor girl got some rest; Mrs Jonathan said it was useless to urge her to
leave her mistress for a moment.
Rowland thanked Miss Gwynne for her kindness, and she said she would do
anything in the world for Mrs Prothero.
She and Miss Hall went away in the carriage that brought Rowland,
promising to return again in the afternoon.
When Rowland had swallowed some coffee, he went back to his mother's
room. As he walked from the door to the foot of the bed, she opened her
eyes, and seemed for a moment to look at him; a thrill of hope shot
through him. He went round and took her hand, and whispered, 'Mother!'
Did she smile? He thought she did.
Shortly afterwards her lips moved, and Gladys heard the name ever on
them, 'Netta.' This was better, far better, than that death-like trance.
'Mother, dear mother,' again whispered Rowland, and once more her eyes
opened and fixed on him, with something like consciousness.
At last an opiate which the doctor had given took effect, and she slept;
her pulse was so weak, and her breathing so faint, that at first the
watchers thought she was passing away into that sleep from which there
is no awakening; but it was not so. It was a weak troubled sleep; still
it was a sleep.
By degrees all left the room but Rowland and Gladys. Mrs Prothero's hand
seemed to be clasping that of her son, as if it would not let go; and
Gladys never moved from the bedside.
She saw that there must be hope if real sleep came. As she sat down in a
kind of easy chair that Owen had placed for her by the bedside, she
thanked God for this amount of hope,
'Sleep, Gladys, I will watch,' whispered Rowland.
And truly the poor girl had need of rest. Scarce had she closed her eyes
during that anxious week, and she knew well how necessary rest was to
her. But she felt as if she could not sleep whilst this uncertainty
lasted. All the anxious faces of the household flitted before her when
she tried to compose herself. Her poor master, his brother, Mrs
Jonathan, Rowland, but mostly Owen. He who had said the least, had shown
the greatest self-command and done the most. His large kind eyes seemed
to be looking at his mother or at her, and trying to anticipate their
wants. His hands so brown and sinewy, yet so very gentle, seemed to be
touching hers, as they had done when moving his mother or otherwise
helping in the sick-room. His cheery voice seemed to be telling her not
to weary herself so much, or to be thanking her for the care she
bestowed upon his dear parent. In vain she tried to put aside this kind
of haunting vision. Her mistress and Owen were painted on the
over-strained retina, and she could not efface the picture. She prayed
for them, for all. Then, as the afternoon sunlight faded away, and a
twilight hue crept over the room, with just a flickering streak of light
playing on the wall opposite to her, the death-beds of her father,
mother, sister, and brothers rose up before her with a vivid reality
that made her tremble, and forced tears from her weary eyes. The tears
seemed a relief, and as they flowed quietly down her cheeks, and the
coming shadows dispersed the visions of the living, dying, and dead
faded away, a mist fell on her eyes and she slept.
Rowland, meanwhile, watched his mother. During the twelve months that he
had been a curate in a parish in one of the worst parts of London, he
had seen much of the sick and the dying. He had seen poverty,
wretchedness, and sin in their most dreadful aspects, and the peace and
comfort of his mother's present condition were a great contrast to the
riot and squalor of many a death room into which he had sought to carry
the gospel message of mercy. Truly he felt thankful in his inmost soul
that she, over whom he was watching with filial love, was ready at any
moment to appear before the great Tribunal, because she 'believed and
knew in whom she believed.' It was for Netta, his beloved and wayward
sister, the cause of this first great family trouble, that he grieved
the most, because he feared that she had entered upon that downward path
that would lead her far astray from the one in which her mother had so
long and happily trod. But he, too, knew where to apply in all his times
of doubt and misgiving, and thither he went for comfort as the shadows
fell around and night crept on.
Mrs Jonathan Prothero came noiselessly into the room, bringing in a
shaded night light, and anxious to bear some intelligence to the
watchers downstairs. Her step, light as it was, awoke Gladys. She
started up, and looking on her mistress, clasped her hands, and
fervently thanked God.
'She is sleeping as calmly as a child,' she said. 'I am sure the worst
is past.'
Mrs Jonathan went out to tell the good news, and to beg the brothers to
go to bed, which they did, after some demur. Gladys and Rowland watched
on for about an hour longer, when Mrs Prothero opened her eyes and fixed
them upon Rowland. She smiled as if she knew him, and when he bent over
her and kissed her, murmured some faint words which he could not
understand.
Gladys gave her some jelly which she swallowed, and soon afterwards she
slept again.
'The crisis is over, she will recover, I hope, Mr Rowland,' said Gladys.
'You can go to bed, sir--you had better. The mistress will want you
to-morrow, and you can be of no use to-night.'
Rowland felt the force of this, and again kissing his mother's forehead,
and shaking Gladys by the hand, he went downstairs to Owen, who he found
asleep on the sofa in the parlour. Supper was awaiting him, and Owen and
he were soon seated over the fire, discussing their mother's illness and
Netta's conduct.
They had not met for three or four years, and there was much to say. Few
brothers loved one another more tenderly than they did, despite the
dissimilarity of habits, tastes, and occupations, and when they were
together, all the secrets of their hearts were usually unfolded.
Although Owen's wild roving nature had caused Rowland much anxiety,
still he had perfect confidence in his honest, open character. Owing to
early education Owen was not deficient in general acquirements. He knew
a little Latin and Greek, and could read, write, and cypher well. Added
to this, his knowledge of foreign lands was great, and of men and
manners greater. Under a careless exterior, he had a considerable
portion of talent and information, and Rowland was delighted to find in
his sea-faring, roystering brother, a much more cultivated and sensible
mind than he had expected. Rowland was beginning to be conscious of
wishing to see all his family superior to what they were. Placed by his
own profession amongst gentle-folks, and feeling in himself all the
refinement of the class so called, he was often annoyed and pained to be
differently situated from those who were nearest and dearest to him. He
knew that in London he was received as an equal by men and women of rank
and position, as well as by those of talent and learning; whereas, in
the country, even Miss Gwynne, at whose house he visited, considered it
a condescension to speak to him, whilst she looked upon those who
belonged to him as people of another sphere. In spite of all his prayers
for humility, and his striving after pure Christianity, Rowland was, and
knew that he was a proud man, and all the prouder because his original
station was beneath his present one. He felt that he must be humbled
before he could be the pastor and disciple of One whose whole life was a
lesson of humility. But the world knew nothing of this. He walked before
it, and through it as a bright example of a young clergyman devoted to
his work. Neither was he less devoted to his mother, dutiful to his
father, or loving to his brother, because they were good, honest, plain
farmers, and he a clergyman; or which was, perhaps, more to the point,
because Miss Gwynne could not, or would not separate him from his
family.
When he and his brother and sister were children, they were constantly
at the vicarage with their uncle and aunt, and Miss Gwynne was their
playmate there, and had not known their inferiority. Now that he really
was a man of education and a gentleman, in spite of all her kindness to
his mother, she knew it full well. Why did he never consider what any
one else in his own neighbourhood thought of him or his family? It was
only Miss Gwynne--always Miss Gwynne.
Early the following morning that young lady came to inquire for Mrs
Prothero, accompanied by Miss Hall. It was Rowland who gave them the
joyful intelligence that his mother had had a good night, and was much
more quiet. The real pleasure that shone from Miss Gwynne's intelligent
and intelligible eyes, showed Rowland how fond she was of his mother.
'And now,' she said, 'Miss Hall and I are come, resolutely bent on
remaining with your mother, whilst your aunt and Gladys go to bed. We
are quite determined, and you know I always have my way.'
Rowland bowed, smiled, and called his aunt, who, after some hesitation
consented, and went upstairs to request Gladys to do the same, but
Gladys was inexorable until Mr Prothero came in, and in his most decided
manner insisted on her taking some rest. Mrs Prothero also murmured a
'Go, Gladys fach!' and she kissed the dear cheek and went at once.
Mr Prothero took her place. He was alone with his wife, and the rough,
loud man became gentle as one of his own lambs, as he bent over her and
thanked God that she was better. A big tear fell from his eyes on her
face, and he made an inward vow, that if her life were spared, he would
never again say a cross word to her as long as he lived.
She felt the tear, heard the kind words, and seemed to understand the
vow, for she looked at him tenderly, and said in her low, weak voice,
'God bless you, David!'
From that moment he went out to his work with a lightened heart; the
labourers read the good news that their mistress was better in his face,
and heard it in his voice. Even Netta's disobedience was forgotten, if
not forgiven, in the joy of feeling that the partner of more than half
his life was likely to recover. And by degrees she did recover. That is
to say, before Rowland was obliged again to leave her, she was able to
go down into the parlour and sit at her work, 'quite like a lady,' as
she expressed it. And even out of the evil of such an illness good had
sprung. It had aroused all the sympathy and kind feeling of relatives,
friends, and neighbours; but especially had it been beneficial in
bringing out the womanly kindness that lay hid under the stiffness of
pride in Mrs Jonathan Prothero, and in opening the hearts of the
sisters-in-law towards each other. Mrs Jonathan forgot her cousin, Sir
Philip Payne Perry, and helped to nurse, and learned to love her humbler
connection, whilst the ever-ready tenderness of the simple farmer's
wife, sprung up to respond to it like a stream leaping in the sunlight.
Gladys, too, reaped the reward of her devotion, in the increased
kindness of Mr Prothero, who began to forget the Irish beggar in the
gentle girl whose care, under God, had saved his wife's life; and so, as
is usually the case, affliction had not come from the ground, but had
fallen like a softening dew upon the irritated feelings of the
afflicted, and bound heart still nearer to heart.
Perhaps in the younger and more impetuous natures it had done almost too
much. Thoughtless of consequences, they had all worked to save a life,
valuable to so many. Rowland, Owen, Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, Gladys, had
been thrown together at a time when the formalities of the world and the
distinctions of rank are forgotten, and the tear of sympathy, the word
of friendly comfort, or the pressure of the hand of kindly feeling are
given and taken, without a thought of giver or receiver. But they are
remembered, and dwelt upon in after years as passages in life's history
never to be obliterated--never to be forgotten.