A MISSED VOCATION
It was pleasant to wake to bright sunshine the next morning, and to hear
the sparrows twittering in the ivy.
It had been my intention to set apart Sunday as much as possible as a day
of rest and refreshment. Of course I could not expect always to control
the various appeals for my help or to be free from my patients, but by
management I hoped to secure the greater part of the day for myself.
I had told Peggy not to expect me at the cottage until the afternoon;
everything was in such order that there was no necessity for me to forgo
the morning service. My promise to Phoebe Locke would keep me a prisoner
for the evening, but I determined that her sister and Kitty should be set
free to go to church, so my loss would be their gain.
I thought of Jill as I dressed myself. She had often owned to me that the
Sundays at Hyde Park Gate were not to her taste. Visitors thronged the
house in the afternoon; Sara discussed her week's amusements with her
friends or yawned over a novel; the morning's sermon was followed as a
matter of course by a gay luncheon party. 'What does it mean, Ursula?'
Jill would say, opening her big black eyes as widely as possible: 'I do
not understand. Mr. Erskine has been telling us that we ought to renounce
the world and our own wills, and not to follow the multitude to do
foolishness, and all the afternoon mother and Sara having been talking
about dresses for the fancy-ball. Is there one religion for church and
another for home? Do we fold it up and put it away with our prayer-books
in the little book-cupboard that father locks so carefully?' finished
Jill, with girlish scorn.
Poor Jill! she had a wide, generous nature, with great capabilities, but
she was growing up in a chilling atmosphere. Young girls are terribly
honest; they dig down to the very root of things; they drag off the
swathing cloths from the mummy face of conventionality. What does it
mean? they ask. Is there truth anywhere? Endless shams surround them;
people listen to sermons, then they shake off the dust of the holy place
carefully from the very hem of their garments; their religion, as Jill
expressed it, is left beside their prayer-books. Ah! if one could but see
clearly, with eyes purged from every remnant of earthliness,--see as the
angels do,--the thick fog of unrisen and unprayed prayers clinging to the
rafters of every empty church, we might well shudder in the clogging
heavy atmosphere.
Jill had not more religion than many other girls, but she wanted to be
true; the inconsistency of human nature baffled and perplexed her; she
was not more ready to renounce the world than Sara was, but she wished
to know the inner meaning of things, and in this I longed to help her.
I could not help thinking of her tenderly and pitifully as I walked
down the road leading to the little Norman church. I was early, and the
building was nearly empty when I entered the porch; but it was quiet and
restful to sit there and review the past week, and watch the sunshine
lighting up the red brick walls and touching the rood-screen, while a
faint purple gleam fell on the chancel pavement.
Two ladies entered the seat before me, and I looked at them a little
curiously.
They were both very handsomely dressed, but it was not their fashionable
appearance that attracted me. I had caught sight of a most beautiful and
striking face belonging to one of them that somehow riveted my attention.
The lady was apparently very young, and had a tall graceful figure, and
strange colourless hair that looked as though it ought to have been
golden, only the gloss had faded out of it; but it was lovely hair, fine
and soft as a baby's.
As she rose she slightly turned round, and our eyes met for a moment;
they were large, melancholy eyes, and the face, beautiful as it was, was
very worn and thin, and absolutely without colour. I could see her
profile plainly all through the service, but the dull impassive
expression of the countenance that she had turned upon me gave me a
sensation of pain; she looked like a person who had experienced some
great trouble or undergone some terrible illness. I could not make up
my mind which it could be.
The other lady was much older, and had no claims to beauty. I could see
her face plainly, for she looked round once or twice as though she were
expecting some one.
She must have been over thirty, and had rather a singular face; it was
thin, dark-complexioned, and very sallow; she was a stylish-looking
woman, but her appearance did not interest me. To my surprise, just as
the service commenced, Mr. Hamilton came in and joined them. So these
must be the ladies from Gladwyn, I thought. That beautiful pale girl must
be his sister Gladys, and the other one Miss Darrell.
I tried to keep my attention to my own devotions, but every now and
then my eyes would stray to the lovely face before me. Mr. Hamilton's
behaviour was irreproachable. I could hear his voice following all the
responses, and he sang the hymns very heartily.
I think he knew I was behind him, for he handed me a hymn-book, with a
slight smile, when I was offering to share mine with a young woman. Miss
Darrell gave me a curiously penetrating look when she came out that did
not quite please me, but the girl who followed her did not seem to notice
my presence. I sat still in my place for a minute, as I did not wish to
encounter them in the porch. I had lingered so long that the congregation
had quite dispersed when I got out, but, to my surprise, I could see the
three walking very slowly down the road. Could they have been waiting for
me? I wondered; but I dismissed this idea as absurd.
But I could not forget the face that had so interested me; and when I
encountered Uncle Max on his way to the children's service I questioned
him at once about the two ladies.
'Yes, you are right, Ursula,' he said, a little absently. 'The one with
fair hair was Miss Gladys: her cousin, Miss Darrell, sat by Hamilton.'
'But you never told me how beautiful she was,' I replied, in rather
an injured voice. 'She has a perfect face, only it is so worn and
unhappy-looking.'
'You must not keep me,' observed Max hurriedly; 'Miss Darrell wants to
speak to me before service.' And he rushed off, leaving me standing in
the middle of the path rather wondering at his abruptness, for the bell
had not commenced.
A little farther on, I came face to face with Miss Darrell; she was
walking with Mr. Tudor, and seemed talking to him with much animation.
She bowed slightly, as he took off his hat to me, in a graceful well-bred
manner, but her face prepossessed me even less than it had done in the
morning. She had keen, dark eyes like Mr. Hamilton's, only they somehow
repelled me. I was somewhat quick with my likes and dislikes, as I had
proved by the dislike I had taken to Mr. Hamilton. This feeling was
wearing off, and I was no longer so strongly prejudiced against him. I
might even find Miss Darrell less repelling when I spoke to her. She was
evidently a gentlewoman; her movements were quiet and graceful, and she
had a good carriage.
I was somewhat surprised on reaching the cottage to find Mr. Hamilton
sitting by my patient. He had Janie on his knee, and seemed as though he
had been there for some time, but he rose at once when he saw me.
'I was waiting for you, Miss Garston,' he said quietly. 'I wanted to give
you some directions about Mrs. Marshall'; and when he had finished, he
said, a little abruptly--
'What made you so long coming out of church this morning? I was waiting
to introduce my sister and cousin to you, but you were determined to
disappoint me.'
I was a little confused by this.
'Did you recognise me?' I asked, rather tamely.
'No,--not in that smart bonnet,' was the unexpected reply. 'I did not
identify the wearer with the village nurse until I heard your voice in
the Te Deum: you can hardly disguise your voice, Miss Garston: my cousin
Etta pricked up her ears when she heard it.' And then, as I made no
answer, he picked up his hat with rather an amused air and wished me
good-bye.
I was rather offended at the mention of my bonnet; the little gray wing
that relieved its sombre black trimmings could hardly be called smart,--a
word I abhorred,--but he probably said it to tease me.
'Ay, the doctor has been telling us you have a voice like a skylark,'
observed Elspeth, 'but I have been thinking it must be more like an
angel's voice, my bairn, since you mostly use it to sing the Lord's
praises, and to cheer the sick folk round you: that is more than a
skylark does.'
So he had been praising my voice. What an odd man!
I stayed at the cottage about two hours, and read a little to the
children and Elspeth, and then I started for the Lockes'.
Kitty clapped her hands when she heard she was to go to church with her
aunt Susan. I found out afterwards the child had always gone alone.
Phoebe was evidently expecting me, for her eyes were fixed on the door
as I entered, and the same shadowy smile I had seen once before swept
over her wan features when she saw me. She seemed ready and eager to
talk, but I adhered to my usual programme. I was rather afraid that our
conversation would excite her, so I wanted to quiet her first. I sang a
few of my favourite hymns, and then read the evening psalms. She heard
me somewhat reluctantly, but when I had finished her face cleared, and
without any preamble she commenced her story.
I never remember that recital without pain. It positively wrung my heart
to listen to her. I had heard the outline of her sad story from her
sister's lips, but it had lacked colour; it had been a simple statement
of facts, and no more.
But now Phoebe's passionate words seemed to clothe it with power; the
very sight of the ghastly and almost distracted face on the pillow gave
a miserable pathos to the story. It was in vain to check excitement while
the unhappy creature poured out the history of her wrongs: the old old
story, of a credulous woman's heart being trampled upon and tortured by
an unworthy lover, was enacted again before me.
'I just worshipped the ground he walked on, and he threw me aside like a
broken toy,' she said over and over again. 'And the worst of it is that,
villain as he is, I cannot unlove him, though I am that mad with him
sometimes that I could almost murder him.'
'Love is strong as death, and jealousy is cruel as the grave,' I
muttered, half to myself, but she overheard me.
'Ay, that is just true,' she returned eagerly: 'there are times when I
hate Robert and Nancy and would like to haunt them. Did I not tell you,
Miss Garston, that hell had begun with me already? I was never a good
woman,--never, not even when I was happy and Robert loved me. I was
just full of him, and wanted nothing else in heaven and earth; and when
the trouble came, and father and mother died, and I lay here like a
log,--only a log has not got a living heart in it,--I seemed to go mad
with the anger and unhappiness, and I felt "the worm that dieth not, and
the fire that is not quenched."'
I stooped over and wiped her poor lips and poor head, for she was
fearfully exhausted, and then in a perfect passion of pity closed her
face between my hands and bade God bless her.
'What do you mean?' she said, staring at me; but her voice trembled.
'Haven't I been telling you how wicked I am? Do you think that is a
reason for His blessing me?'
'I think His blessing has always been with you, my poor Phoebe, like the
sunlight that you try to shut out from your windows. You hide yourself
in your own darkness, and pretend that the all-embracing love is not for
you. Well may you call your present existence a tomb; but you must not
wrong your Almighty Father. Not He, but you yourself have walled yourself
up with your own sinful hands, and then you wonder at the weight that
lies upon your heart.'
'Can I forget my trouble when I am not able to move?' she said bitterly.
And it was sad to see how her hands beat upon the bedclothes. But I held
them in mine. They were icy cold. The action seemed to calm her frenzy.
'You cannot forget,' I returned quietly; 'but all this time, all these
weary years, you might have learned to forgive Robert.'
'Nay, I will have nothing to do with forgiving,' was the hard answer.
'And yet you say you love him, Phoebe. Why, the very devils would laugh
at such a notion of love.'
'Didn't I say I both loved and hated him?' very fiercely.
'Speak the truth, and say you hate him, and God forgive you your sin. But
it is a greater one than Robert has committed against you.'
'How dare you say such things to me, Miss Garston?' trying to free her
hands; but still I held them fast. 'You will make me hate you next. I am
not a pleasant-tempered woman.'
'If you do, I will promise you forgiveness beforehand. Why, you poor
creature, do you think I could ever be hard on you?'
The fierce light in her eyes softened. 'Nay, I did not mean what I said;
but you excite me with your talk. How can you know what I feel about
these things? You cannot put yourself in my place.'
'The heart knoweth its own bitterness, Phoebe; and it may be that in your
place I should fail utterly in patience; but if we will not lie still
under His hand, and learn the lesson He would fain teach us, it may be
that fresh trials may be sent to humble us.'
'Do you think things could be much worse with me?' becoming excited
again; but I stroked her hand, and begged her gently to let me finish
my speech.
'Phoebe, as you lie there on your cross, the whole Church throughout the
world is praying for you Sunday after Sunday when the prayer goes up for
those who are desolate and oppressed. And who so desolate and oppressed
as you?'
'True, most true,' she murmured.
'You are cradled in the supplications of the faithful. A thousand hearts
are hearing your sorrows, and yet you say impiously that you are on the
border-land of hell; but no, you will never go there. There are too many
marks of His love upon you. All this suffering has more meaning than
that.'
It is impossible to describe the look she gave me; astonishment,
incredulity, and something like dawning hope were blended in it; but
she remained silent.
'You have missed your vocation, that is true. You were set apart here
to do most divine work; but you have failed over it. Still, you may
be forgiven. How many prayers you might have prayed for Robert! You
might have been an invisible shield between him and temptation. There
is so much power in the prayers of unselfish love. This room, which
you describe as a tomb, or an antechamber of hell, might have been an
inner sanctuary, from which blessings might flow out over the whole
neighbourhood. Silent lessons of patience might have been preached here.
Your sister's weary hands might have been strengthened. You could have
mutually consoled each other; and now--' I paused, for here conscience
completed the sentence. I saw a tear steal under her eyelid, and then
course slowly down her face.
'I have made Susan miserable, I know that; and she is never impatient
with me if I am ever so cross with her. Ah, I deserve my punishment, for
I have been a selfish, hateful creature all my life. I do think sometimes
that an evil spirit lives in me.'
'There is One who can cast it out; but you must ask Him, Phoebe. Such a
few words will do: "Lord help me!" Now we have talked enough, and Susan
will be coming back from church. I mean to sing you the evening hymn, and
then I must go.' And, almost before I had finished the last line, Phoebe,
exhausted with emotion, had sunk into a refreshing sleep, and I crept
softly out of the room to watch for Susan's return.
I felt strangely weary as I walked home. It was almost as though I had
witnessed a human soul struggling in the grasp of some evil spirit. It
was the first time I had ever ministered to mental disease. Never before
had I realised what self-will, unchastened by sorrow and untaught by
religion, can bring a woman to. Once or twice that evening I had doubted
whether the brain were really unhinged; but I had come to the conclusion
that it was only excess of morbid excitement.
My way home led me past the vicarage. Just as I was in sight of it, two
figures came out of the gate and waited to let me pass. One of them was
the churchwarden, Mr. Townsend, and the other was Mr. Hamilton. It was
impossible to avoid recognition in the bright moonlight; but I was rather
amazed when I heard Mr. Hamilton bid Mr. Townsend good-night, and a
moment after he overtook me.
'You are out late to-night, Miss Garston. Do you always mean to play
truant from evening service?'
I told him how I had spent my time, but I suppose my voice betrayed
inward fatigue, for he said, rather kindly,--
'This sort of work does not suit you; you are looking quite pale this
evening. You must not let your feelings exhaust you. I am sorry for
Phoebe myself, but she is a very tiresome patient. Do you think you have
made any impression on her?'
He seemed rather astonished when I briefly mentioned the subject of our
talk.
'Did she tell you about herself? Come, you have made great progress. Let
her get rid of some of the poison that seems to choke her, and then there
will be some chance of doing her good. She has taken a great fancy to
you, that is evident; and, if you will allow me to say so, I think you
are just the person to influence her.'
'It is a very difficult piece of work,' I returned; but he changed the
subject so abruptly that I felt convinced that he knew how utterly jaded
I was. He told me a humorous anecdote about a child that made me laugh,
and when we reached the gate of the cottage he bade me, rather
peremptorily, put away all worrying thoughts and to go to bed, which
piece of advice I followed as meekly as possible, after first reading
a passage out of my favourite _Thomas à Kempis_; but I thought of Phoebe
all the time I was reading it:
'The cross, therefore, is always ready, and everywhere waits for thee.
Thou canst not escape it wheresoever thou runnest; for wheresoever thou
goest, thou carriest thyself with thee and shalt ever find thyself.... If
thou bear the cross cheerfully, it will bear thee, and lead thee to the
desired end, namely, where there shall be an end of suffering, though
here there shall not be. If thou bear it unwillingly, thou makest for
thyself a (new) burden, and increasest thy load, and yet,
notwithstanding, thou must bear it.'