THE RECTOR.
Life and death! What are they? A soul in chains, and a soul set free.
Darkness and light, uncertainty and certainty! Warfare and peace! A
railway journey and the great terminus! A span of time and immeasurable
eternity! A bounded horizon and illimitable space! Earth and heaven!
Satan and Christ! Man and God!
Life! On New Year's morning Glanyravon Farm was gay with preparations
for a wedding. All its inmates were hopeful and cheerful! Two human
beings were made as happy as human beings can be in this world. Three
generations witnessed the auspicious event, and blessings and
congratulations mingled with the marriage bells!
One short week, and Glanyravon Farm was mournful with lamentations for
the dead. All its inmates were weeping. Death's angel had glided in
unawares and unexpected, and had borne away one of that loving family,
leaving only her earthly tenement behind!
Another short week, and Glanyravon Farm held no longer even that once
beautiful tenement. Quiet forms moved about in black clothing, and
melancholy faces looked sadly at one another, and spoke low of her from
whom they were parted for an indefinite period.
Such is life!
Death! what know the living of death? Is it not 'swallowed up in
victory?' Death, then, to the believer in Christ is victory.
Such is death!
These were thoughts that presented themselves to Rowland Prothero after
he had followed his sister's body to the grave. It was with such
thoughts, simplified when put into words, that he attempted to comfort
his mother, and to raise his father's mind from a morbid ruminating upon
the past, to the hope that his beloved child had found death victory.
Whilst Gladys comforted Owen and Minette, Rowland seemed to be all in
all to his parents, and devoted himself to them during the period that
he was able to leave his duties in London. The news of the death of his
rector abroad had reached him the day before the intelligence of that of
Netta; and, had it not been for the kind exertions of Mr Jones, he could
not have stayed with his family the Sunday that followed the funeral.
Mr Jones, however, managed everything for him in London, and procured
help in the emergency. Thus Rowland was able to accompany his family to
church, and to be with them a few days of the week succeeding that on
which his dear sister was buried.
It was on the afternoon of one of these few and precious days that he
was sitting alone with his mother. The rest of the family were about
their necessary avocations. Gladys, followed by poor little Minette in
her black frock, was managing the household. Owen and his father were
out of doors, the former doing his best to cheer his poor father, who
had been perhaps more entirely cast down by his loss than any other
member of the family, Mrs Prothero not excepted. As he himself said, he
had not known what an idol he had made of his girl until she was gone
from him.
Rowland and his mother were talking of Netta. It was Mrs Prothero's one
theme when alone with him or Gladys. They could comfort her aching heart
by assuring her that they believed her child's repentance to have been
sincere, and her faith, if at times troubled and confused by the
wandering mind and puzzled brain, placed on the One sole and sure
foundation.
It was in the midst of this conversation that Mrs Griffith Jenkins
entered, unushered, into the parlour where they were sitting.
At the earnest request of his wife and all his children, backed by the
feeling that Netta would have wished it, Mr Prothero had consented to
ask Mrs Jenkins to the funeral, which she had attended, together with
Mrs Prothero, Mrs Jonathan, and Gladys. Mr Prothero had shaken her by
the hand on that sad day, but had not spoken to her. Sorrow had so far
bowed his spirit as to teach him to forgive her, if not Howel.
Mrs Jenkins scarcely gave herself time to say 'How do you do?' when she
poured out the grief which had brought her to Glanyravon.
'Oh, Mrs Prothero, fach! Ach, Rowland! what will I do? They was finding
him in America--the pleece was finding him, my Howels! And he do be in
jail in London, 'dited for forgery. He, my beauty Howels--he forge! Why
'ould he be forging? Annwyl! Fie was innocent, Rowland--on my deet, he
was innocent. Oh, bach gen anwyl!'[Footnote: Oh, darling boy!]
Mrs Jenkins wrung her hands and cried bitterly.
'How do you know this, Aunt 'Lizbeth?' said Rowland. 'Tell me calmly,
and then we will see what can be done,'
'Read you that letter. By to-morrow he'll be in all the papers. He--so
clever, so genteel, so rich! And all my Griffey's savings--hundreds of
thousands of pound--nobody do be knowing where they was. Ach a fi! ach a
fi!'
Rowland read a letter from a celebrated London counsel retained by Mr
Rice Rice for Howel, to the effect that Howel had been taken in America
on the very day that his poor wife was planning to wander away in search
of him, and was a prisoner the day she died. He had arrived in London,
and been lodged in Newgate the previous day, the one on which that
letter was written.
Rowland gently told his mother the contents of it.
'Thank God that my child did not live to see this day!' exclaimed Mrs
Prothero.
'Better dead, cousin, than to be living as Howels is!' sobbed Mrs
Griffey. 'In a prison, too, my beauty Howels! But I was wanting to know,
Mr Rowland, when you was going to London? Seure, I do think of going
to-night, or to-morrow morning.'
'Why must you go, aunt?' asked Rowland.
'Why must I be going? Why ask such a question? 'Ould I be staying at
home, and my Howels in gaol? I do go to tak care of him, to pay for him,
to be seeing justice done him, to be near him. Night or morrow morning I
do mean to go.'
'Mother,' said Rowland, 'I am sure you will not mind sacrificing one day
to poor Aunt Griffey and Howel. I must be in London the day after
to-morrow. I will go to-morrow instead, and take her up with me, and see
what is to be done for Howel. He will not have too many friends near him
at such a time.'
'God bless you, Rowland, bach,' said Mrs Griffey, springing up from her
chair, and running to Rowland and kissing him vigorously--a compliment,
it must be confessed, he could have dispensed with. 'And you will be
standing up for him, and be telling of his character--and of his living
at Abertewey--and how he was so clever, and did never be doing anything
wrong. You will be saving him, Rowland, seure!'
Rowland shook his head.
'I will go with you, Aunt 'Lizbeth, and take you to my lodgings till I
have seen Howel, and told him you are in London. We shall then see what
can be done.'
'But you will be speaking up for him, Rowland, bach?'
'Cousin 'Lizbeth,' said Mrs Prothero, 'if Howel had been a good son, and
a steady young man, you could scarcely ask Rowland to speak up for him,
and his own sister in Llanfach churchyard! "As we have sown, so must we
reap," in this world.'
'It do be fine for you, cousin, to be preaching, who was having
fortunate sons, but--'
'Hush, Aunt 'Lizbeth, if you please,' interrupted Rowland. 'I will take
you to London to-morrow, if you are resolved to go. You must meet me at
the omnibus.'
(There was now a railway within a few miles of Llanfawr.)
'Then I will be going home to get ready. You was seure to come, Mr
Rowlands?'
'Sure, if nothing unforeseen prevents me.'
At this point of the conversation, Mr Prothero entered the parlour,
leading Minette, who had two letters in her hand.
'Here are two letters for you, Uncle Rowland,' said the child.
'Grandfather says one must be from a bishop. What's a bishop, uncle?
Oh, Grandma Jenkins!'
Minette gave the letters to Rowland, and then went to kiss her
grandmother, who began to cry when she saw her. Mr Prothero suppressed a
very equivocal question concerning the reason of her again appearing at
Glanyravon, and said,--
'How d'ye do, Mrs Griffey?'
Rowland opened his letters. One was from Mr Jones, the other, as Minette
said, was from a bishop--the Bishop of London. He read Mr Jones' first,
and turned more than usually red as he did so. He uttered an exclamation
of surprise when he finished reading it, and put it into his father's
hands.
He then read the second letter. It was short. He got up, sat down, got
up again, gave the letter to his father, and said,--
'It is too much! I do not deserve it! I wish it were Jones instead of
me. He is much better--more suited--married. I cannot believe it!'
Neither could Mr Prothero, to judge from the expression of his face. He
read each letter twice over, and seemed struggling with some great
emotion as he ejaculated, 'Rowland, my boy!' and burst into tears.
Mr Prothero had not cried before since Netta's death, and those were,
indeed, precious tears.
Minette, terrified at seeing her grandfather cry, ran off in search of
Gladys, who had been every one's refuge since her marriage.
She and Owen were at the front door, receiving Mr and Mrs Jonathan
Prothero, who had just arrived.
'Aunty, grandfather is crying,' said the child. 'You said you wished he
would cry; but I don't like it. I think he is crying for poor mamma, who
is in heaven, and can't come to him.'
All hurried into the parlour.
They found Mr Prothero holding one of his son's hands, and shaking it
nervously, and Mrs Prothero holding the other, and vain attempts to
speak.
'Brother Jo! sister-in-law! Just in time. If our Netta was but here!'
said Mr Prothero. 'Mrs Jonathan shall read the letters. It was she who
got him the curacy.'
Mrs Jonathan was not a little surprised to be greeted by having two
letters thrust into her hands, and being requested to read them.
'This one first, sister-in-law.'
At any other time Mrs Jonathan would have resented the epithet of
sister-in-law, but she now swallowed it, and began to read as follows:--
'MY DEAR ROWLAND,--I should have written to you earlier, but I
could not do so until a question that has been pending ever since
you left was decided. Deputations and round-robins have been
issuing from this parish by unanimous consent, and tending to St
James'. For once High Church and Low Church have united in paying
you the greatest compliment you can have paid just at present,
viz., in requesting the bishop to give you the living of which you
have been more than ten years curate. I believe it is pretty nearly
settled that you are to be our new rector, and that I shall have to
knock under, and solicit you to continue me in the curacy. I
congratulate you from my heart; so does my wife; so, I am sure, do
rich and poor around us. There never was a more popular
presentation. May God prosper your labours as a rector as He has as
curate.
'Give our love to my niece, Gladys, and kind regards to all the
rest of your family, with a kiss to Minette, and believe me, most
faithfully yours,
WILLIAM JONES.'
Mrs Jonathan Prothero had begun to read this letter with a firm voice.
It faltered before she got half way through it, and nearly failed before
she completed it.
'Read the other before you say anything,' said Mr Prothero.
She began accordingly, clearing her throat and eyes at the same time.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I have great pleasure in offering you the living of
which you are now curate, vacant by the lamented death of Mr
Stephenson. I assure you that the united request of your friends
and parishioners was but the echo of my own will, as I have long
known and appreciated your untiring labours for the good of the
souls committed to your care, particularly during the long illness
of the rector, when you were of necessity brought more prominently
forward.
'Praying that God's blessing may rest on you and your
parishioners,--I remain, my dear sir, faithfully yours,
'LONDON.'
'Rowland! my dear nephew!' exclaimed Mr Jonathan Prothero, 'this is
incredible! Such a living, without interest, personal application, much
acquaintance with his lordship--'
'You forget, my dear,' said Mrs Jonathan interrupting her husband in his
speech, and herself in an embrace she was about to give Rowland; 'you
forget that Rowland frequently met the bishop at Sir Philip Payne
Perry's, and was not without interest, I am proud to say.'
'And I am proud that he has got on by honest merit,' said Mr Jonathan.
'And so am I, uncle, much obliged as we are to the "three green peas,"'
said Owen. 'Let us shake hands upon it, Rowly, and here's Gladys waiting
for a kiss; she'll be running away from me again to be your district
visitor, or Sister of Charity, or whatever you call it. Quite grand to
have a near relation a London rector; I am half a foot taller already.'
'Kiss me, Uncle Rowland; I am very glad the bishop has written you such
a nice letter,' said Minette. Rowland took the child up in his arms.
'Grandma Jenkins is crying so in the corner,' she whispered; 'is it for
papa, or poor mamma?'
Rowland's attention was instantly recalled to Mrs Jenkins, who was,
indeed, crying and sobbing very much. He pointed her out to his mother,
who at once went to her.
'Oh! I am thinking of your Rowlands and my Howels, so different!' said
the wretched mother; 'he to be beginning life so rich, and your son with
nothing; and now! oh, anwyl! oh, anwyl!'
'Come with me, cousin 'Lizbeth,' said Mrs Prothero kindly; 'come
upstairs, and I will make you some tea, and then Owen shall send you
home.'
Mrs Prothero and Mrs Jenkins left the room, followed by Gladys, who was
soon making the required beverage.
Whilst congratulations were still going on in the parlour, Miss Gwynne's
voice was heard in the passage.
'Not a word to Miss Gwynne, or indeed to any one, of my having the
living, to-day at least,' said Rowland, leaving the room hastily, and
repeating his request to Gladys in the hall.
'I can only stay a few minutes,' said Miss Gwynne, when she had shaken
hands with the party in the parlour, 'I wished to ask how Mrs Prothero
is, and to see you, Mrs Jonathan. I have been delayed at the school, and
it is nearly dusk already.'
'Oh, don't go yet, Miss Gwynne,' said Minette, creeping up to her, and
getting on her lap, 'it is so nice with you. Poor mamma is gone to
heaven, Miss Gwynne.'
'Yes, love,' whispered Miss Gwynne, kissing Minette, 'but we will not
talk of it before your grandfather, you see it grieves him.'
'But you won't go; it is moonlight now--a pretty moon--I see it. It will
light you home.'
The 'pretty moon' rather frightened Miss Gwynne, who said that if she
did not go, she would have the servants in search of her.
'Will you allow me to walk with you, Miss Gwynne?' said Rowland; 'it is
too late for you to return alone.'
'Thank you, I shall be really obliged, if I am not taking you from your
friends. I am a much greater coward than I used to be. London lamps
spoil one for country roads. Tell your grandmother that I will come
again to-morrow and see her, Minette.'
Miss Gwynne and Rowland left the house together. Mr Prothero saw them to
the door, and watched them up the road.
'Strange times!' he said to his brother, when he returned to the
parlour. 'Rowland walking with Miss Gwynne quite familiar. I hope he
isn't too forward; to be seure he don't offer his arm, or go near her;
but it seems out of place their going together in that way at all.
Gwynne, Glanyravon is a proud man, perhaps he 'ouldnt like it; but
Rowland is so grand and so good now, that I daren't say a word.'
'Oh!' said Mrs Jonathan, drawing herself up to her fullest height, 'a
Rugby boy, and an Oxford man is a companion for any lady--and a London
rector is a match for any lady in the kingdom, allow me to assure you,
Mr Prothero; and Rowland has been in quite as good, or better society in
town, than you can meet with in this neighbourhood. Sir Philip is quite
in the first circles.'
'And Rowland isn't spoilt by it, brother,' said Mr Jonathan. 'He is a
son and nephew we have reason to be proud of.'
Thus, in the midst of heavy sorrow, a joy came to the inmates of
Glanyravon Farm. A sunbeam through the shadows.
Such, too, is life!