TWO POINTS OF VIEW.
Rachel found it a little difficult to keep up her spirits as the days
passed. Luke was so engrossed with Parish matters that she saw little
of him; and when he was at home, his thoughts were apparently full of
his work. He did not realise how little he talked of anything else,
nor how long his silences were. His great desire to keep all sorrowful
things from his wife prevented him sharing his worries with her, and
instead of coming home after a meeting he would often turn in to 10,
High Street, and discuss the difficulties with his mother, while Rachel
tried to occupy herself in things over which she had to concentrate her
attention so as not to worry over his long absences.
At times he would suddenly awake to the consciousness that Rachel was
not looking quite as bright as usual and felt remorse at having taken
her away from her home.
On these occasions he would try and manage to get a free day off and
take her for a jaunt. But he felt it an effort and it put him back in
his work. These free days, however, were days of bliss to his wife,
till she recognised the fact that it was only when he was not engaged
in his life work that they had communion with one another. She was of
no help to him in the most important times of his life. This knowledge
made her grow restless and unhappy.
At last she spoke to him of her longing to help him more. They had gone
by train to some woods not far off and had lunch in a lovely spot they
had discovered. The morning was bright and sunny, and as weather had
a great effect on Rachel she was in a merry mood which communicated
itself to her husband. Then, as after lunch they still sat on enjoying
the rest and the smell of the damp earth, Rachel sighed.
"Isn't this heavenly?" she said. "I wish we lived in the country, don't
you?"
"No, I don't," said Luke. "I should die of ennui! and I cannot imagine
life without plenty of work. My work is my life."
"And I am kept outside," said Rachel. The moment the words were out of
her mouth she regretted them.
Luke looked down at her in surprise.
"How do you mean?" he asked.
Rachel, her hands clasped round her knees, looked up into the branches
of the tree above her, saying slowly, "I mean that there does not seem
any possible way in which I can help you or share your life; for you
say your work is your life. I am outside your work."
Luke did not answer. He was conscious that what she said was true. Had
he not taken pains that her bright spirit might not be quenched by
knowing all the sin that abounded in his parish? He could not bear the
thought of his wife hearing the sad stories that she would inevitably
come across if she worked in the parish. He felt convinced that the
shock she would receive would be too much for her sensitive spirit.
No, she was meant for happiness; why cloud it before the time? After a
moment of troubled silence, he said:
"As for helping me, you can best do that dearest, by being happy. You
cannot tell what it is to me when I come home to find you there; and
to know that you have not been troubled by the sin that has weighed
upon my own heart all day. The very fact of being with someone who is
unconnected with it is a tremendous help."
Rachel was silent. It did not seem to cross Luke's mind that it was
difficult to keep happy and bright so long as she had only the house
and its cares to think about. She needed outside interests to fill her
unoccupied time and thoughts.
"I suppose your mother shares your difficulties with you?" she said.
"Yes. My mother always has done so. She has a happy knack of letting
troubles of that sort drop away from her like water off a duck's back.
That is one of the great differences between you and her. She is not
sensitive as you are, and she has worked so long at this kind of thing
that she does not feel it as you would. My mother is just the one
that I need in my work. I can discuss anything with her and I lean
considerably on her judgment." He did not see the change of expression
on his wife's face, nor that the sun had gone out of it, but he noticed
her silence.
"You understand, don't you?" he said.
Rachel did not answer, but kept her eyes on the top branches of the
tree above her. He did not know her eyes were full of tears. He thought
he had explained the situation to her satisfaction, and supposed she
knew him well enough to understand that it was his great love for her
that was the cause of his decision not to worry her with his troubles.
And Rachel, sitting by his side on the soft moss, kept her eyes away,
and wondered if all men were as ignorant of a woman's heart as Luke, or
whether it was just because he lived so much up in the clouds that he
had never studied human nature.
Luke flung himself back on the moss with his hands behind his head and
looked in the same direction as his wife. The silence between them
struck him as beautiful and restful, and he felt certain that Rachel
was enjoying it to the full, as he was. Silence is the greatest proof
of friendship, and it was a luxury to him.
Rachel on the other hand, felt she had rather too much of that luxury.
As yet she had made no real friends. Mrs. Stone was the one that she
liked best, but they were not on sufficiently intimate terms for her
to feel she could run into her house should she be dull. So that with
the exception of Polly and her mother-in-law she had no conversation
except when callers came. And the callers were not always of the stamp
of people with whom she could exchange thoughts. Besides, they often
talked about people and things of which she knew nothing, as Luke
was not communicative. She sometimes felt in an awkward position in
consequence.
"What!" they would exclaim. "Did not the Vicar tell you?"
So now as Luke lay back enjoying the quiet and fully convinced that his
wife, whom he loved as his own soul, was equally enjoying it, Rachel
sat looking away from him feeling miserable and lonely, conscious
that Luke had not found her the helpmeet he had expected her to be.
She was feeling it all so much that she knew if the subject was again
touched upon she would burst into tears, and cause her husband surprise
and worry; so when she had successfully controlled her feelings she
turned the conversation to the beauty of the trees. She felt it almost
difficult to think of anything to talk about that would interest
him, as he had just told her that his work was his life, and she was
debarred from taking any part in it.
But Luke, quite unconscious of the sad thoughts of his wife,
enthusiastically agreed in her admiration of the trees and began
reciting a poem on the subject, thus giving Rachel time to try to get
over her sore feelings; before the poem was finished she was able to
turn and smile upon him.
"I never indulged in these holidays before I married," he said
laughing, "consequently I revel in them with you beside me. You can't
think Rachel what it is to come home and find you always there. It is a
little heaven on earth. Don't say again that you are outside my life or
don't help me. It just makes all the difference to me and to my work.
Do you know that sometimes in the very midst of it I suddenly think of
you and thank God for giving you to me."
Rachel flushed with happiness. If this really was so, and Luke was not
one to flatter, perhaps her longing to be near him in the battle with
evil and sin in the belief that she could help him, was a mistake.
She was more of a help to him, apparently, in seeing to his house and
welcoming him back from his work than if she was actually fighting, as
it were, by his side.
Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by Luke saying, as he had said
on that moonlight night at Southwold, which seemed now so long ago:
"Sing Rachel."
Rachel hesitated. "I don't know what to sing," she said.
"Sing what you sang at Southwold, on the sea. What a perfect night that
was, do you remember?"
Remember! Rachel could never forget it. How often had the thought of
it saddened her. Somehow things had not been just as she had hoped and
expected on that moonlight evening when she and Luke had been alone
on the great wide sea. She had never had him quite so absolutely to
herself since that day; ever since then she had had to share him with
others. No, she could not sing those words just now. They seemed sacred
to that wonderful time which they had spent in the pathway of the moon.
"Not that Luke," she remonstrated.
"Well sing something else," he said, not having noticed the slight
tremor in her voice. "I want to hear your voice among the trees."
"I'll sing the two last verses of your favourite hymn," she said.
"Drop Thy still dews of quietness,
Till all our strivings cease;
Take from our souls the strain and stress
And let our ordered lives confess
The beauty of Thy peace.
Breathe through the heats of our desire
Thy coolness and Thy balm,
Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire,
Speak through the earthquake, wind and fire.
O still small voice of calm."
Luke did not move. He lay looking up at the green leaves above him.
Then he said:
"How is it you always know exactly the right words to sing? My soul
has been full of strain and stress lately. A great deal of sadness is
going on among my people. I need to let the peace of God rule my heart,
and to listen to 'the still small voice of calm,' and to remember that
there is my wife at home praying for me."
Rachel forgot her own trials to think of his.
"I did not know you had been so worried," she said, her voice full of
sympathy. "Have people been horrid?"
"No, not horrid to me; but the devil is playing havoc in the place, and
it is a strain."
Rachel felt ashamed. Luke had been enduring the strain and stress of
battle with the enemy, thinking altogether of his people, while she had
been engrossed in her own little trials, caused by an insane jealousy
of the one who was the only person who could advise and help him. How
small she was! How poor and mean! How unlike the good Christian that
Luke supposed her to be. She was filled with shame and scorn of herself.
[Illustration]