LUKE SEES HIMSELF.
Luke, full of his great news, ran upstairs to his mother's room, with
the letter from London in his hands.
He found her crouching over the fire in the big horsehair chair, the
only armchair in the room. He was surprised that she did not look round
at the sound of his footsteps and give him her usual smile of welcome.
Instead, she stretched out her hand to him with averted eyes.
"Mother what is it?" he asked. He knew she must have bad news of some
kind and wanted to express her sympathy before she broke it to him.
"My poor boy," was all she said.
Luke took a chair by her and looked anxiously at her. She had been
so much better lately, was able to walk a little and was getting
altogether stronger, that her action perplexed him. Had the doctor
given her a depressing account of herself, he wondered? Mrs. Greville's
first words confirmed this fear.
"Dr. Fleming has been here."
"And surely he thinks you much better? Don't let him make you nervous
about yourself, mother."
"It isn't about myself," said Mrs. Greville in a strained tone of
voice, "it's about Rachel."
Luke's face cleared at once.
"Oh well," he said laughing, "you may make your mind easy about her. I
left her this morning in good spirits."
He was much relieved.
"My poor boy!" said his mother again, "You must prepare for a great
blow."
He began to wonder if the slight stroke his mother had had, affected
her brain. He put his hand caressingly on hers. "Let's have it out," he
said with a smile. "I don't think what ever it is that it can affect me
as much as you imagine."
"Rachel is not well," said his mother watching his face anxiously. "She
saw the doctor yesterday."
"Not well!" said Luke astonished. "Why, what is the matter with her?
She was quite well anyhow this morning. Has she had an accident?"
"No. It is worse than an accident. The doctor thinks very seriously of
her."
Luke rose and stood before his mother. All the colour had left his face.
"Tell me outright what you mean," he said sharply. "What is wrong with
her?"
"Both her heart and her lungs."
Luke stood quite still and silent. He was always silent and unnaturally
quiet when agitated in his mind.
"When did she see the doctor?" he asked at last.
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday!"
"Yes. The Bishop, you remember, called on her. He made her promise to
consult him."
"And why didn't she tell me?" said Luke. And the agonised expression in
his eyes showed his mother how intensely he was moved.
"I don't know, except that she wanted to save you anxiety. She has
not told me either and I don't suppose that she has any idea that Dr.
Fleming came round to see me about her."
Luke dropped into a chair. Then he looked up again at his mother.
"Did he give any directions or say what should be done?" he asked.
"I'm afraid he did my dear boy. He mentioned something about a
Sanatorium, but anyhow, he said it was absolutely necessary for her to
have perfect rest and a change of air and environment. In fact Luke,"
she added, and her voice trembled, "he seemed to think it a matter of
life and death."
Luke groaned and covered his face with his hands.
"He says," continued his mother, "that she has evidently been doing too
much and has not taken care of herself. He particularly dwelt on her
thinness. Apparently she has not had nourishing food."
Luke groaned again.
"I feel Rachel is greatly to be blamed for having been so careless
about her health," added Mrs. Greville.
Luke looked up, and his mother was startled by the stern expression of
his face.
"Rachel to be blamed!" he repeated. "I am to be blamed, not Rachel."
There was anguish in his tone of voice. He picked up the letter from
London which had fallen to the ground, ramming it into his coat pocket.
Then he sprang up and looked at his watch.
"I shall go and see the doctor at once," he said. And without another
word, he hurried away.
His visit confirmed his worst fears, and the doctor seemed surprised
that he had never noticed the gradual change in his wife's appearance.
Even he had seen it, casually meeting her in the street.
Luke walked home as if in a dream. The letters in his pocket were
absolutely forgotten; his one thought was Rachel.
He opened the door of the house softly and went up into his study.
He felt he could not meet his wife till he had looked the terrible
truth in the face. The thought that he might possibly lose her was too
painful to him to be able to bear calmly, and yet he knew that he must
not give her any hint as to his fears.
He shut the door of his study after him and sank into the large
armchair by the fire burying his face in his hands.
The fire! Even that seemed to cry out in condemnation of his
selfishness. Of course Rachel had lit his fire so that his room might
be warm and comfortable for him, while she probably had had no fire
to sit by except that in the kitchen. He had been so preoccupied with
his own interests and concerns that he had scarcely given a thought to
hers. His mother had said, that the doctor gave it out as his opinion
that she had not eaten enough. How was it that this fact had never been
noticed by him! She always supplied him with plenty, and it had not
struck him to notice what food she had provided for herself. Husband
and child had never wanted for anything.
The doctor had said that she was thoroughly overworked. And yet he had
never noticed how she was getting thin and pale! How often had he asked
her to do things for him so that he might go off to some meeting or
other, and it had never crossed his mind that the anxiety of leaving
Pat with inexperienced Polly must have added to the strain.
Then he had never shared in the care of the child; in fact he had at
times asked Rachel to do what she could to keep him quiet as his crying
somewhat disturbed him working. Not many weeks after his birth he had
moved his bed into his dressing room, as the child's restlessness
prevented him sleeping, and he felt his sleep to be all important to
his work. He had never realised that Rachel also wanted an occasional
night's rest.
And what had she not given up for him! Her luxurious home, where she
had every comfort; her mother and sisters who had petted and loved her;
her out of door pursuits; her flowers which she loved so passionately;
her ease and her friends. And what had he given up for her in return?
Nothing! Nothing!
In exchange for all her home comforts, he had given her a pokey little
house, poverty, overwork, and strain!
He was indeed in the Valley of Humiliation!
Then he suddenly rebelled at his thoughts and he started up and began
to pace the room. Given her nothing! He had given her his heart's love.
All the love that he knew how to give. Next to his God was his love for
his wife; and he knew that in this sudden reaction of thought Rachel
would be one with him. Though poor compared to her love for him he had
given her his best. She knew she was all the world to him. Life without
her was unthinkable. He paused as he reached his writing table, looking
down absently at his Sunday sermon which he had already begun. The text
of it faced him.
"'These ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.'"
The words gave him a shock. They so exactly described him, and yet
he had been so unconscious of his delinquencies that he had actually
intended to preach to his people about theirs.
"'These ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.'" The
Word of God condemned him. He had forgotten that preaching and visiting
were not the only duties to be done for God, or the only work. Did not
St. Paul lay a special stress on the home life?
He realised now that though he loved his wife so devotedly, he had
been so engrossed in his own affairs that he had neglected her. He
suddenly paused in his walk. That was Rachel's voice. Evidently little
Pat was restless and his mother was singing him to sleep. Luke could
hardly bear the sound of her dear voice. It pierced his heart like an
arrow. He pictured just how she was looking, walking up and down in her
bedroom with the child in her arms. He had often heard her sing the
words that he now heard, but he remembered how even the sound of her
singing at times had disturbed him, and he had asked her to stop. But
this evening, he listened and wept.
"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head,
The stars in the bright sky looked down where He lay,
The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay."
"The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus no crying He makes.
I love Thee Lord Jesus! look down from the sky,
And stay by my side until morning is nigh."
"Be near me Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stay
Close by me for ever, and love me I pray.
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there."
The voice grew softer and softer; then it ceased altogether and Luke
knew Pat was asleep.
He so dreaded to meet Rachel that he stayed up in his study till he
heard her footstep outside. When she opened the door she found him
sitting over the fire in an attitude of deep depression, and knew at
once that somehow he had learnt the news about her. Kneeling by his
side she laid her head on his breast.
"You mustn't worry about me dearest," she said, "I think myself that
Dr. Fleming is a pessimist and has made a mistake. Anyhow I don't mean
to act as if what he said was true. I shall just go on as I have done
before; that is to say after a little rest. I suppose I must have that."
Luke was silent. He hardly thought that she could be aware of her
serious condition.
"Why did you not tell me?" he asked after a pause. There was a tone of
reproach in his voice.
"I didn't want to worry you, you have so much to trouble you. Besides,
I don't suppose there is anything really the matter with me. Doctors
make such mistakes."
He took up one of her hands and looked at it. He was shocked to notice
how thin it was.
He held it to his lips and kissed it. The unusual action almost broke
Rachel's self-control.
She rose saying, "I must go now and see after the supper. Polly will
wonder where I am." But once out of the room her tears began to flow.
"Oh, I mustn't be ill," she gasped, as instead of going into the
kitchen, she sank into a chair in the drawing-room. "I shall be no good
to Luke, only an anxiety. Oh God show me what to do. Don't let me be a
burden to him."
Luke, after Rachel had left, sat sunk again in deep depression.
Then suddenly he remembered the letters in his pocket. He had
completely forgotten them, and now when he opened for the second time
the Bishop's letter, it suddenly dawned upon him that here was the way
out of his difficulty. To accept the country living meant that Rachel
could live in the garden, and her strenuous life at Trowsby would be
over. She would go to the place as a known invalid and would not be
expected to take up parish work. The cloud on his face lifted, and the
weight on his heart grew lighter. Moreover, the struggle with poverty
of which Rachel had been more conscious evidently than he had, would be
over, for the stipend was unusually good.
With a feeling of great thankfulness, he closed the letter and opened
the one from London intending to answer them both that night. Of course
the London living must be refused. There was no question about it. But
as he read over again the description of the work a feeling of intense
disappointment took possession of him. He had been longing for this
offer! It was, as he had once said to Rachel, the dream of his life.
And here it was within his grasp and yet he was unable to accept it.
Instead of preaching to a large congregation and ministering to their
souls needs, he would have to vegetate in the country! It would be a
living death to him.
During the first year or two of his present charge he had tasted what
it was to be able to move people by his oratory; it was only the
extra-ordinary craze for amusements that had spoilt it all. It was then
he began to long for a wider sphere, and though the parish in which was
the church that had been offered to him was in a poor part of London,
the congregation consisted of many who had been drawn there by the
preaching of the former Vicar. The Trustees were most anxious to secure
a good preacher to succeed him. One of them had visited St. Marks on
purpose to judge of Luke's preaching, and was much struck by it. This
was why the living had been offered to him notwithstanding the fact
that he was somewhat young for such an important post. All this was
mentioned in the letter that Luke held in his hand, and the fact that
he had to decline it filled him with the keenest disappointment. So
keen was it that he decided not to tell Rachel that night about either
letter. He would wait to answer them till the next day. It was never a
good thing to do anything in a hurry.
Luke's silence at supper did not surprise her. She knew that it was a
sign that he had some problem to solve. The problem of course, this
evening, she knew must be what to do about her. Once or twice she
tried to make him smile as she recounted some event of the day; but
she was so unsuccessful that she felt it was better to leave him to
his thoughts. She was trying herself to unravel the difficulty that
had arisen, but so impossible did she find it that she came to the
conclusion that the only thing was to leave it in Higher Hands. God
had always provided for them and would do so still. Was He not a very
present help in time of trouble?
Luke sat up late that night. He was standing before the Bar of his own
conscience. He had to face the fact that he was feeling rebellious;
struggling against the Will of God. To bury his talents in a village
was a repugnant thought to him. How could he endure the quiet and
dullness of it? Would it not tend to make him indolent in work? What
would be the good of reading all the new thought of the day in order to
help those who were troubled by it, if there was no-one who had even
heard of the false teaching. How could he spend his time in preparing
sermons suitable to men and women whose brains had never been taught
to work. He pictured himself preaching to a congregation, the half of
which were asleep and the other half on the verge of going to sleep.
Then he suddenly remembered how his Lord had spent time over the soul
of one poor woman, the Lord of whom it was said, "Never man spake like
this man." Had He not taught again and again, both by his words and
actions, the value of one individual soul?
Luke's disinclination for a village congregation made him look into
his own motives. Had all his work been at Trowsby been done for the
glory of God? Had not the first year or two of his great popularity
somewhat intoxicated him? Was the wish to preach to large audiences to
win them to the service of the Lord? Or was it the delightful sense of
power to sway their minds, that attracted him? Was the disappointment
and the longing for a larger sphere caused at all by the fact that he
was conscious that he had lost hold of his people? That they no longer
hung on his words as of yore; that instead of looking up to him, as
formerly, with admiration, they looked down on him as out of date?
Sitting by his fire that night, looking at the dying coals, he saw
himself for the first time in the light of one who had been weighed
in the balances and found wanting. He was right down in the Valley of
Humiliation, and in agony of soul.
It was late when he went to his room. Then he dreamt that he was a
Bishop preaching in St. Paul's Cathedral. He looked down at the sea
of faces, and was conscious of a thrill of emotion as he saw the vast
congregation before him. He felt triumphant and elated as among the
number he noticed some of his parishioners at Trowsby, who had left his
Church because they did not consider him up to date.
He heard his fine voice echoing down the aisles as he gave out his
text, and was congratulating himself on its texture, when the whole
congregation rose to its feet, saying solemnly and slowly, "Thou art
weighed in the balances, and art found wanting." Then they filed out of
the Cathedral till he was left standing alone in the pulpit, with the
condemning words still echoing among the pillars.
He awoke trembling with horror, and knew, in the anguish of his soul,
that it was true of him. He had been weighed in the balances and found
wanting.
The cry of his little son in the adjoining room reached him; and he
heard Rachel's soft voice singing:
"Be near me Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stay
Close by me for ever, and love me I pray.
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there."
He rose and opened the door softly, and took the child from her arms.
Rachel, almost too tired to smile or feel any surprise, lay down and
slept.
"Perhaps," said Luke to himself, "To take care of my little son, may be
more to God's glory than to preach in St. Paul's Cathedral."
He wrote the next morning before breakfast to refuse the London living
and to accept the one in the country; and he never told his wife nor
his mother that he had had a chance of experiencing the dream of his
life and had put it away.
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