sing them if necessary by himself! But it was not necessary, and not
only Gwynneth joined in with all the little voice she possessed, but
presently there were false notes from the other end of the bench, and
the saddler was not silent. But Robert Carlton's voice rang sweet and
clear above the rest:--
"Jesu, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy Bosom fly,
While the gathering waters roll,
While the tempest still is high:
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life is past:
Safe into the haven guide,
O receive my soul at last . . ."
The hymn haunted Gwynneth upon her knees, taking her mind from the
remaining prayers. It was a hymn that she had loved as a little child,
and now it seemed so simple and so whole-hearted to one who longed
always to be both. But it was the passionate humility of it that touched
and filled the heart; and yet there had been neither tremor nor appeal
in the voice that led; and the humility was only in accord with one of
the simplest services ever held.
The second hymn was another of Gwynneth's favourites; she could not
afterwards have said which, for in the middle Mr. Carlton knelt, and
then came forward to the twisted lectern at the head of the aisle.
It was not a sermon; it was only a very few words. Yet in Long Stow
nothing else was talked of that day, nor for many a day to follow.
The few words were these:--
"The first verse of the nineteenth psalm:
"_The heavens declare the glory of God; and the
firmament sheweth his handywork._
"Though I have given you a text, my brethren, I do not
intend this morning to preach any sermon. If you care
to hear me again--if you choose to give me another
trial--if you are willing to help me to start
afresh--then come again next Sunday, only come in
properly, and make the best of the poor benches which
are all I have to offer you as yet. There will only be
one weekly service at present. I believe that you
could nearly all come to that--if you would! But I am
afraid that many would have to stand.
"I cannot tell you how grieved I am that your church
is not ready for you; but I hope and believe, as I
stand before you here, that it will be ready soon,
much sooner than you suppose. Then one great wrong
will be righted, though only one.
"Meanwhile, so long as we are blessed with days like
these--and I pray that many may be in store for
us--meanwhile, could there be a fitter or a lovelier
roof to the House of God than His own sky as we see it
above us to-day? Though at present we can have no
music worthy the name, have you not noticed, during
all this our service, the constant song and twitter of
those friends of man, as I know them to be, of whom
Jesus said, 'Not one of them is forgotten before God'?
And for incense, what fragrance have we not, in our
unfinished church, that is the House of God all the
more because it is also His open air.
"My brethren, _you_ need be no farther from heaven,
here in this place, unfinished as it is, than when the
roof is up, and the windows are in, and proper seats,
and when a new organ peals . . . and one whom you can
respect stands where I am standing now . . .
"My brethren--once my friends--will you never, never
be my friends again?
"_Oh spare me a little that I may recover my strength:
before I go hence, and be no more seen . . ._
"Dear friends, I have said far more than I ever meant
to say. But it is your own fault; you have been so
good to me; so many of you have come in; and you are
listening to me--to me! If you never listen to me
again, if you never come near me any more, I shall
still thank you--thank you--to my dying hour!
"But let no eye be dim for me. I do not deserve it. I
do not want it. If you ever cared for me--any of
you--be strong now and help me . . .
"And remember--never, never forget--that a just God
sits in yonder blue heaven above us--that He is not
hard--that I told you . . . He is merciful . . .
merciful . . . merciful . . .
"O look above once more before we part, and see again
how '_The heavens declare the glory of God; and the
firmament sheweth his handywork_.'
* * * * *
"And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the
Holy Ghost, be ascribed all honour, power, dominion,
might, henceforth and for ever. Amen."
He had controlled himself by a superb effort. The end was as calm as the
beginning; but the rather hard, almost defiant note, that might have
marred the latter in ears less eager than Gwynneth's and more sensitive
than those of the people in the porch, that note had passed out of
Robert Carlton's voice for ever.
And there no longer were any people in the porch; one by one they had
all crept in to listen, some stealing to the rude seats, more standing
behind, none remaining outside. Thus had they melted the heart they
could not daunt, until all at once it was speaking to their hearts out
of its own exceeding fulness, in a way undreamed of when the preacher
delivered his text.
And this was to be seen as he came down the aisle, white head erect,
pale face averted, and so through the midst of his people--his once
more--without catching the eye of one.
XXVII
AN ESCAPE
Mr. Fuller had made a hasty exit; but he waylaid Gwynneth on the road.
"Excuse me, miss," he cried, and the girl felt bound to do so. Next
moment she was trying to sort the mixed emotions in the saddler's face,
for a few steps had brought them to his house, and he had halted at the
workshop window.
"Well, miss, and what do _you_ think of it?"
"Oh, Mr. Fuller, please don't ask me."
"I don't mean the sermon, miss; I mean the flock of sheep that come and
listened to the sermon," said the saddler, with a bitterness that
astonished Gwynneth.
"But, surely, Mr. Fuller, you were glad they did come? I was so
thankful!" declared the girl.
"So was I, miss; so was I," said the saddler, grimly; "but, Gord love
yer, do you suppose they ever would have shown their noses if you an' me
hadn't given 'em the lead?"
"Then we ought to be very proud, Mr. Fuller; at least you ought, since
but for you I never should have known in time."
"But do you think a man of 'em 'll admit it?" continued Fuller fiercely.
"Not they--I know 'em. They'll take the credit, the moment there's any
credit to take--them that hasn't given him a word or a look in all these
years. But the reverend, _he_ know--_he_ know!"
"I'm sure he does," said Gwynneth, kindly; and left the forerunner to
his ignoble jealousy, only hoping there was some foundation for it, and
that a real reaction was already in the air.
Even on her way home there were further signs. Jones the schoolmaster,
an implacable enemy these five years, but an emotional man all his life,
was still dabbing his eyes as he held unguarded converse with the
phlegmatic owner of the mill on the lock, who had been his fellow
churchwarden in the days before the fire.
"I'll be his churchwarden again," declared the schoolmaster, "and Sir
Wilton can say what he likes. We know who ruled the roast before, and we
know----"
Gwynneth caught no more as she hurried on, her first desire a quiet hour
without a whisper from the world. She wished to recall every word of the
sermon, while every syllable remained in her mind, and then to write it
all down and to possess it for ever. Such was her first feverish
resolve; nor, analytical as she was, did she stop to analyse this. The
stable gates were open; it never occurred to Gwynneth to wonder why.
There was a good way through the stable-yard to the garden, whose
uttermost end she might thus reach without being seen from the house.
And Fraulein Hentig had known where she was thinking of going, had
shaken Gwynneth not a little with her remonstrances, but would be none
the less certain to ask questions when next they met.
Near the Italian garden was a certain walk, with stark yew hedges on
either hand, and fine grass stretched like a drugget from end to end.
Across this strip the old English flowers, poppies and peonies,
hollyhocks and larkspur, faced each other in serried lines as in a
country dance; and the vista ended in a thatched summer-house where it
was always cool. The spot was a favourite haunt of Gwynneth, who would
catch herself humming the old English songs there, and thinking of
patches and powder and the minuet. It had not that effect this morning;
she neither saw nor smelt the flowers, nor heard the thrush which was
singing to her with persistent sweetness from the stately trees upon the
lawn beyond. Gwynneth was in that other world which had existed all
these years within half-a-mile of this one. What she heard was the
virile cadence of the voice which had always thrilled her; strong and
masterful in the beginning; softening all at once, as the people pressed
in to hear; then for a little high-pitched and hoarse, spasmodic,
tremulous, too touching even to remember with dry eyes; then that last
pause, and the silver clarion of his proper voice once more and to the
end. And what Gwynneth saw, through her tears, was the sunlight resting
on that stricken head, as though God had stretched out His hand in final
mercy and forgiveness.
But what she was to see, before many minutes were past, or the sermon
over in her mind, was a dapper figure approaching between the old
flowers and the spruce hedges, a figure in riding breeches, swinging a
cutaway coat in his walk.
It was Sidney, ridden over from Cambridge on a hired horse. Gwynneth had
time to come out of the summer-house to meet him, but none to think. So
he had given her a kiss before she realised what that meant--and knew in
her heart that it must be the last. And the next moment she saw that he
was displeased.
"So here you are!" was his verbal greeting: "I've been looking for you
all over the shop."
"I'm so sorry," said poor Gwynneth. "If you had only let us know----"
"Oh, that's all right; I took my risk, of course."
He looked her up and down, as she stood in the sunlight, tall and
comely, her state of mind instinctively and successfully concealed; and
the brown tinge came upon his handsome face as the annoyance vanished.
Endearments fell from his lips, but now she made him keep his distance,
though so tactfully that he obviously did not realise his repulse.
Gwynneth looked at him for an instant with great compassion; then she
led the way into the summer-house, her mind made up.
"You haven't been here all the morning, have you?" he went on. "No, I
see you haven't; there are your gloves."
"Yes."
"Been for a walk?"
"Well, I did go for one."
"What do you mean?" demanded Sidney, struck at last by her manner.
"I've been to church!"
"What! Over to Linkworth and back?"
"No."
Her tone trembled; he was not helping her at all.
"Then what church did you go to, and what on earth's up with you,
darling?"
"I went to our own church."
"But I thought that Lakenhall chap only came in the afternoon?"
"He doesn't go to the church."
Sidney stared an instant, and was on his feet the next. "You don't mean
to say you've been up to the church talking to--to Carlton?" he cried.
"No, not talking to him."
"Then do you mind telling me what you do mean?"
Gwynneth did her best to explain the occasion and to describe the
service, but found herself unable to do the subject justice in a few
words, and drifted into a nervous enthusiasm as she went. Sidney's eyes
seemed smaller than when she began; she had never known he had so sharp
a chin. But he heard her out, standing in the doorway, and not always
looking her way; it was when averted that his face looked so hard. When
she had finished he gave her his whole attention, and was some time
regarding her, his hands in his pockets, without a word.
"So you deliberately went to hear that blackguard!"
"You needn't call him that," said Gwynneth, hotly.
"But I do."
"I should be ashamed to abuse him after all he has done!"
"That doesn't alter what--what you apparently and very properly know
nothing about, Gwynneth."
"And I don't want to know!" cried the girl, indignant at his tone. "I
only say, whatever he has done, he has paid very bitterly for it, and
made such amends as were never made by anybody I ever heard of. He may
have been all you say. He is more than all that I can say now!"
"And what do you say?" inquired Sidney, with polite contempt.
"That we shall honour ourselves in future by honouring him, and
dishonour ourselves by continuing to dishonour him. He has had his
punishment, and look how he has borne it! Why, he has done what was
never done in the world before by one solitary man."
Gwynneth stopped breathless. Sidney eyed her coolly, his nostrils
curling. "So that's your opinion," he sneered.
"It's a good deal more than that," cried Gwynneth. "It's my fixed
conviction and personal resolve."
"To honour that fellow, eh?"
Gwynneth coloured.
"To the extent of attending his services when I happen to be here," she
said. And Sidney gave her a pregnant look--a more honest look--angry and
determined as her own.
"And what about me?" he said. "What if I object?"
Gwynneth was slow to answer, to tell him the sharp truth outright.
"Do you mean to go your own way in spite of me, in spite of the
governor, in spite of all of us?"
Gwynneth saw that she could not remain at the hall and follow such a
course. So this question went unanswered like the last, though for a
different reason. Meanwhile Sidney was accounting for her silence to his
own satisfaction, and he now conceived that the moment had arrived for
him to play the strong man.
"Look here, Gwynneth," said he, "this is all rot and bosh, and worse--if
you'll take my word for it. And you must take my word, and take it on
trust in a thing like this, or you never will in anything. I tell you
this fellow Carlton is the most unspeakable skunk. But it isn't a thing
we can discuss together. Isn't that enough for you? Isn't my wish
enough, in a thing like this, which I know all about and you don't? Have
I got to enforce it while we're still engaged? If so----"
Gwynneth had raised her head slowly, and at last she spoke.
"We are not engaged, Sidney," she said quietly.
"Not--engaged?"
"It has never been a proper engagement."
"A proper engagement!" Sidney gasped. "Not a public one, if you like!
What difference does that make?"
"No difference. It only makes it--easier----"
"What does it make easier?" he demanded fiercely.
Gwynneth was choking with humiliation. It was some moments before she
could command her voice. Her distress was pitiful; but the young man was
already busy pitying himself. A sudden change had come over Sidney. It
was not in all respects a change for the worse. His cynical aplomb had
already disappeared, leaving a tremulous, an angry, but a human being
behind. So Gwynneth felt a leaning to him even at the last; but this
time she knew her mind.
And she spoke it with equal candour and humility: it was all her fault:
she could never forgive herself; but he would forgive her, when he saw
for himself what the woman will always see quicker than the man. She
liked him better than anybody she knew; that week at Cambridge had been
the happiest week in her life; one day they would, they must, be good
friends again. Meanwhile they had both made a miserable mistake. This
was not love.
"Speak for yourself," cried Sidney, all bitterness and mortification.
"And I never believed in a woman before," he groaned; "my God, I never
shall again!"
And he strode out savagely into the sun; but a different Sidney was back
next moment, one that reminded Gwynneth of the very old days, when he
would pass her whistling with his dog. A sneer was on his lips, and his
dry eyes glittered.
"I beg your pardon for making a scene, Gwynneth; it isn't in my line, as
you know, and I apologise. But do you mind telling me when you
discovered that you had--changed?"
"I have not changed, Sidney. That is my shame."
"Do you mean that you never did care about me?"
"Never in that way. I am ashamed to say it--more humiliated and ashamed
than you can ever know. But it's the truth."
"Yet at the First Trinity ball, I remember, if you don't----"
His tone was more than Gwynneth could endure.
"Yes, I remember," she cried; "and I can explain it, though explanations
are no excuse. Sidney, you know what my life was until the last few
months? Happy enough in heaps of ways, but not the least gaiety in it;
and suddenly I felt the want of it. I felt it first abroad, and you met
that want in your May-week in a way beyond my dreams. You may sneer at
me now, but you were awfully nice to me then, and I shall never, never
forget it. You were so nice that I honestly did think for a little that
you met every other want as well! Yet I tell you now, what I tried to
tell you once before, that when once you had spoken nothing was the
same. It was like touching a bubble. The bubble had burst."
"You felt like that from the first?"
Gwynneth turned away, for now they were both upon their feet, restlessly
hovering between the summer-house and the sunlight.
"And yet it has taken you two months to tell me," pursued Sidney without
remorse.
"I know; it was dreadful of me; yet I could not tell you till I was
absolutely certain, and it is not so easy to be certain of oneself in
such things. If you find no difficulty, Sidney, then you might pity
those who do. Nevertheless, I did write, on my birthday, when you sent
me those beautiful pearls. Sidney, you must take them back--for my sake.
I meant to send them back at once, but you know what I heard that very
morning! It may have been cowardly and weak, but how could I tell you I
did not love you the moment I knew I was to have a little money of my
own? It's hard enough as it is; but I had not the pluck for that. Yet it
is hard enough now," repeated Gwynneth, with great feeling; "and you
haven't made it easier, Sidney. No, I don't mean anything you may have
said; you have not said more than I deserve. But you tempted me--you
little know how you have tempted me--to be dishonest with you to the
end. It would have been so easy to make poor Mr. Carlton the whole
cause, and not to have told you the truth at all!"
"Then I wish to God you had done so!" Sidney cried out, revealing the
character of his wound unawares, yet once more human, young, and vain.
Moreover there was passion enough in his eyes and voice, as there had
been in his wooing. "Besides," he continued, "poor Mr. Carlton, as you
call him, _is_ the cause, I don't care what you say. Curse him! Curse
him, body and soul!"
Gwynneth was outside in the sun, doubly adorable now that he had lost
her, and for other reasons too. Her sweet skin was flushed, and even her
tears inflamed the unhappy young man. He looked at her long and
passionately, then muttered venom through his teeth.
"What did you say?"
"I said it was like him, too, the blackguard!"
"I don't know what you mean, and I don't want to."
"It's as well," jeered Sidney, with exceeding malice; but already she
was turning away. She was turning away without one word. In an instant
he had her by both wrists, as the devil possessed himself.
"Let me go," cried Gwynneth. "You're hurting me!"
"I'm not. I'm not. I'm only going to let you know the kind of beast
that's come between us."
Gwynneth stood with unresisting wrists. Her scorn was splendid.
"I am not sorry to have seen you in your true colours, Sidney."
"You are going to see some one else in his."
Her scorn had destroyed his last scruple. His eyes were devilish now.
"Let me go, you brute!"
"There are worse, Gwynneth, there are worse. It isn't a thing we can
discuss, as I told you. But did you never notice the likeness?"
Her blank face put the involuntary question he desired.
"Only between the one big villain in this parish--and the one rather
jolly little boy!"
At last her wrists were released. But Gwynneth remained standing in the
sun. She was not looking at Sidney; on the contrary, her face declared
her oblivious to his continued presence. It was white with several kinds
of horror; it was pinched with many separate pangs. So she stood a few
moments, then went her way slowly, only turning with a shudder. As for
him, his fever subsided as he watched; and, before the diminishing
figure had passed out of the vista of cropped hedges and crude flowers,
even Sidney Gleed knew himself, for once in his life, for what he was
and would be to its end.
XXVIII
THE TURNING TIDE
Next Sunday there was a real congregation. Yet the benches were almost
as empty as before, the people herding near the porch until entreated
either to occupy such seats as there were, or to leave the church.
"Curiosity may have brought some of you here," said Mr. Carlton; "but I
earnestly hope that none will remain in that spirit." The benches were
full in a minute, and many had still to stand. All the next week Robert
Carlton spent in sawing more planks to one length, and more props to one
height for their support. And on the third Sunday his church was packed.
The summer of 1887 was, however, a remarkable one. And the month of
August was an ideal month for the inauguration of open-air services,
where there were trees.
In those hot still days came visitors of every type, and in greater
numbers than Robert Carlton desired. The tide had turned; he was early
aware of his danger now. Again and again it became his own sore duty to
remind this one or the other, distantly perhaps, yet none the less
unmistakably, of that which they might forget, but he never. Their open
admiration tried him acutely. He did like it a little for its own sake,
after five years' ostracism; more for the fresh purchase it gave him
over simple hearts; but he was very hard on himself for liking it at
all. On the other hand, he knew that it must put many a mind, the
subtler minds, more than ever against him. It also renewed his own
shame. So it was not admiration that he wanted at all; it was
confidence, forgiveness, love; and these if possible by degrees. It was
not possible, and Robert Carlton had to suffer in turn from the saddler,
the schoolmaster, and the rest. The first would come to hedge and hedge
with a view to Sir Wilton's imminent return; the next would intercept
him as he came away, learn what he had been saying, and forthwith step
across to the church to let the reverend know how the schoolmaster's
character impressed itself upon a man of his experience. It was an
unattractive trait in Fuller that he questioned everybody's sincerity
but his own, albeit his strictures were not seldom justifiable. He
talked, however, as though for years he had been the one and only
philanthropist to hold any dealings with the rector; at last it became
necessary to set him right on the point, which Mr. Carlton did with a
mild account of his illness and the sexton's aid.
"I do wish I'd ha' known," said Fuller, with perfect truth; "I do wish
I'd ha' known an' had the nursun of yer, reverend, instead o' him. And
he never come near you no more; so I should expect."
"But you tell me he's very ailing, Fuller."
"He haven't been ailun all these years."
"We--we had a little tiff in the end. It was my fault. I wonder if he'd
see me now?"
"I'll make him, reverend, I'll tell him he's got to."
"No, Fuller, I can't allow that. Besides, he has not got to do anything
of the sort; he has turned dissenter, and may prefer me to stop away.
Nevertheless I shall call, if only to ask how he is."
There was no need to ask, in the event. The old sexton was failing fast,
and "not long for this world," as his daughter announced in front of
him. The poor man was in bed, and very dirty, but as sensible as he ever
had been; and he welcomed the rector with cadaverous grins.
"They tell me," he whispered, "you fare to finish the church with your
own two hands. You're a wonderful man, sir--and I'm another."
"You are, indeed. Why, you must be nearly ninety, Busby?"
"Eighty-eight, sir, come next September. But I wasn't thinkun o' my age,
sir. Do you remember that little varmin I swallered out 'f a pond?"
"I remember."
"I've killed that, sir!"
And the sunken eyes shone like lamps.
"I congratulate you, Busby."
"I killed that two year ago; and you'll never guess how!" The ex-sexton
proceeded to rehearse the various remedies he had tried in vain. "I
killed that with bacca-smoke," he concluded in sepulchral triumph. "It
was the minister's idea. I had to swaller the bacca-smoke instead o'
puffun that out, an' that choked that in three pipes!"