VIA DOLOROSA
Bleed on beneath the rod,
Weep on until thou see;
Turn fear and hope to love of God,
Who loveth thee.
Turn all to love, poor soul;
Be love thy starting-point, thy goal,
Be love thy watch and ward;
And thy reward.
--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
It was the Feast of the Epiphany, and morning service was just over in
Rotherwood church, when Elizabeth Templeton came out of the porch and
walked slowly towards the gate, as though she expected some one to
overtake her.
At the sound of short, hurrying footsteps behind her she turned round
and welcomed the new-comer with a faint smile, and they went on
together. The Rev. Rupert Carlyon had been taking the service at his
son's request, and now, as he walked beside Elizabeth and tried vainly
to adapt his brisk, rapid step to hers, he looked more than ever like a
gray-haired, shabby David Carlyon. The resemblance between father and
son had always been striking, and even the mannerisms and tricks of
speech were absurdly similar. "A dry, chippy little man," Cedric had
once called him, and now, in his worn Inverness cape and slouched
clerical hat, he seemed smaller and more shrunken than ever.
It was a lovely winter's day, and the hoar-frost on the hedges
glittered in the sunshine; the air was crisp and buoyant in spite of
the cold; but Elizabeth, who so revelled in the beauty of Nature, and
thought every season good and perfect, now only glanced round her with
the indifferent air of one whose thoughts were elsewhere.
"You are going to the vicarage?" she remarked at last; "I must not take
you out of your way."
"Oh, I will walk as far as the White Cottage with you," returned Mr.
Carlyon briskly. "You have promised to spend my last day with my boy
and me, so I shall be sure to turn up at tea. Charrington will give me
some luncheon, and then I have two or three visits to pay for David; he
is worrying himself dreadfully about that cobbler's child."
"Ah, poor little Kit," observed Elizabeth sadly; "how sorry Mr. Herrick
will be--Kit is his special protegee. But Dr. Randolph says that she
could never have lived to grow up. Her stepmother is nursing her
devotedly; but it is so sad to see Caleb Martin: he is quite bound up
in the child, and it seems no use to try and comfort him. 'Ay, it is
the Lord's will,' he said to me yesterday, 'and maybe Kit will have a
fine time when the angels make much of her; but what will Ma'am and I
do without her--that is what I want to know?'"
"To be sure--to be sure," returned Mr. Carlyon hurriedly, "that is what
we all want to know. Well, Elizabeth, you will do your best to make my
boy hear reason? Theo and I have failed, and this is our last chance."
"I will do what I can," replied Elizabeth dejectedly; "but David is a
difficult patient, and I very much fear that even I shall have little
influence with him. It is so strange," she continued sorrowfully, "that
with all his unselfishness he should think so little of our feelings in
this."
"Oh, you must make allowances for the morbidness of disease," returned
Mr. Carlyon, shaking his head. "Sick people have their fancies. You
must not lose heart, my dear,--remember you are my chief comfort as
well as David's." Then again she tried to smile. The next minute they
came in sight of the White Cottage, and Mr. Carlyon left her to fulfil
his self-imposed duties.
Elizabeth was right when she confessed that David Carlyon was a
difficult patient, for his high spirit and energy had prevented him for
a long time from owning he was ill.
Even in the early days of their engagement there had been symptoms that
ought not to have been neglected; but he had fought his languor and
fever manfully, and even Elizabeth knew nothing of an alarming attack
of faintness that had followed an unusually hard day's work.
Afterwards he had taken cold, and his illness had been so sharp that
Elizabeth in desperation had summoned his sister; but even then David
had absolutely refused any further medical advice, and had also
resisted all his friends' entreaties that he would be moved to the
vicarage or the Wood House to be properly nursed. "His old diggings
were good enough for the likes of him," he would say, "and though
Mother Pratt had her failings, she was not a bad sort;" and when
Elizabeth pressed him more closely he had seemed quite worried.
"Do give me my way in this," he said to her coaxingly. "If you knew how
I love this dear old cottage! It was in this room I first saw you,
dearest. You were standing by that window, in the sunshine, when the
vicar brought me to see the place, and you turned round with such a
beaming smile on your face. I think I loved you then. I could not be so
happy anywhere else." And Elizabeth had reluctantly yielded her opinion.
But the humble cottage rooms had been beautified and transformed by
hers and Dinah's thoughtful care for the invalid, and one comfort after
another had found their way from the Wood House. The very couch that
Dinah had used in her illness, with its soft silk cushions and
eider-down foot-quilt, the gold and black screen from the inner
drawing-room, and a favourite easy-chair that David had often praised,
were all at the White Cottage, Nor was Mr. Charrington behindhand in
his attentions. His housekeeper, Mrs. Finch, always prepared the
invalid's dainty little dinners: the excellent beef-tea and soups, the
jellies, rusks, and delicate puddings, were all Mrs. Finch's handiwork.
Mrs. Pratt's cookery was not to be depended on, and though she
pretended to grumble at other folks' interference, she was only too
glad to be saved trouble.
It may be doubted whether David Carlyon really realized his own serious
condition until the physician's opinion had been made known to him.
"Advanced phthisis," he muttered thoughtfully. But when Dr. Broderick
proceeded to recommend Mentone or some southern health resort for the
winter, he had turned upon him almost abruptly.
"I suppose Davos Platz would not cure me?" he asked. Then, as the
doctor hesitated with the natural dislike to give pain, David continued
bluntly--
"It would be the truest kindness on your part, Dr. Broderick, to tell
me the truth. If I take your advice and go to one of these places, may
I expect to get well in time?"
"I am afraid not, Mr. Carlyon," returned the physician reluctantly. "It
would be wrong of me to let you go away with this idea. You have
consulted me too late--the disease is too far advanced. But it is my
duty to tell you that life would certainly be prolonged in a warmer
climate."
"There, David," and the Rev Rupert Carlyon looked pleadingly at his son.
"Wait a moment, father," returned David firmly; "I have not quite
finished my questions. Let us understand each other, doctor. If I go
away, you tell me my life will be prolonged--do you mean for years?"
Dr. Broderick shook his head.
"Oh, I see"--but David tried not to look at his father's pinched, white
face--"you mean months probably?"
"Yes--yes," returned the doctor hurriedly; "with care, and under
favourable circumstances, there might be no further breakdown for
another year; but"--with a keen look at his patient--"I will not
undertake to promise this."
"I quite understand," returned David quietly. "Dr. Broderick, I am
sorry, but I cannot take your prescription. They sent my mother to
Davos Platz--there seemed hope for her--and she died away from us all;
and one of my sisters died at Mentone too. But I do not intend to
follow their example;" and then he had risen from his chair and put an
end to the interview.
Nothing would induce him to go abroad. Even when Elizabeth promised
that she and Dinah would go too, his resolution to remain in England
had been unshaken.
"Why should I let them sacrifice themselves for me?" he said to his
father. "Am I not bringing trouble enough on Elizabeth? Why did I ever
speak to her? I was mad to let her engage herself to me--I might have
known how it would be!" And that day David's despondency was very great.
But at other times he made heroic efforts to hide his deep inward
sadness from Elizabeth. He was so young, and the love of life was so
strong within him, and the thought of disease and death so terrible.
Sometimes in the dark hours of the winter's night, when his racking
cough would not let him sleep, he wrestled with his despair as
Christian wrestled with Apollyon.
"A soldier who refuses wounds and death," he would say to himself--"a
minister of Christ who fears to tread in his Master's footsteps, what
is he but a coward and deserter--and I am both!"
And then the torrent of his human passion would sweep over his
soul--his love for Elizabeth, the knowledge that but for this
hereditary malady he would have had the blessed certainty of calling
her wife!
What a noble life they two would have lived! What plans of
unselfishness they had formed! How the treasures of their happiness
would have overflowed and fertilised other and more barren lives! And
now not life but death claimed him!
Ah, no wonder if his human weakness blenched at the prospect, if his
heart at times quailed and grew sick within him; for when one is young
and happy it is not easy to die, and fuller life, not rest, is the
thing desired.
But there were times when his fears seemed lulled and tranquillised,
and when, with the strange hopefulness that was a feature of his
disease, he would even delude himself with the idea that the doctors
were wrong, and that he would surely get better.
These intervals of comparative brightness would come to him when the
sun shone, or his nights had been less suffering, or when Elizabeth was
with him. Her presence so rested and stimulated him that it was
impossible for him always to realise the truth. "I can think of nothing
but you," he would say to her--"I can think of nothing but you."
The sitting-room at the White Cottage looked snug and cosy that
morning; the fire burned cheerily, and David Carlyon lay on his
luxurious couch in the sunshine in a perfect nest of pillows, carefully
screened from draughts, and with a small table beside him, with flowers
and fruit and books--all carefully and tastefully arranged by
Elizabeth's own hands, on her way to church, while the invalid was
still in his bedroom.
It was a good day with David, and the old cheery smile was on his lips
as Elizabeth entered; but as she knelt beside him to give him her usual
greeting, the ravages of the fatal disease were fearfully perceptible
in the strong light.
The hollowed temples and sharply-defined features, the tightened skin,
the hectic flush, the emaciation and shortness of breathing, and the
constant cough, all told their sad tale of rapid decline and decay. Too
late--she knew it well--for any human skill to arrest those symptoms;
no earthly care and love could preserve that cherished life much longer!
"You are late, dearest," he said, holding her hand; "I saw the
church-goers pass a quarter of an hour ago. I expect you and my father
were gossiping as usual. But all the same I know my good Fairy has been
at work," with a glance at his flowers. "You must not spoil me like
this, my darling," and he raised her hand to his lips.
"You know I love to do it," returned Elizabeth gently. And then she
brought a low chair to his side, and placed herself where he could see
her. He would lie for hours contentedly watching her as she worked or
read to him. Sometimes the thin hand would touch a fold of her dress
caressingly, as though even that were sacred to him, and not a change
of the speaking face or an intonation of her voice would be lost on him.
Perhaps no two men were more dissimilar than David Carlyon and Malcolm
Herrick, and yet they were alike in this, that they each loved
Elizabeth with a profound and noble love.
"You are looking serious, dear," he said presently, as Elizabeth made a
pretence of sorting the silks of her embroidery. That little piece of
embroidery with its gay silken flowers became one of Elizabeth's
dearest relics. It was David who helped her choose the shades, who
insisted on a spray of his favourite lilies of the valley being
inserted. How he had praised her skill and made his little jokes over
her industry! But the screen would never be used by him now, and the
stitches were put in perfunctorily and with a heavy heart.
Elizabeth had made no answer to David's remark about her gravity. She
was trying to collect her thoughts for the business she had in view;
but the next minute a hand was laid upon her work.
"Tell me all about it," he said persuasively. "Of course I know you and
my father have been brewing mischief. I think I can read your very
thoughts," as Elizabeth looked up at him; "you need not try to hide
things from me."
"I could not if I tried," she returned in a low voice. "David, I want
you to do something for my sake. Your father and I--yes, and Dinah
too--have been making such a nice little plan. We have heard of a
delightful house at Ventnor; it belongs to a friend of Mrs. Godfrey,
and it is so comfortable and so beautifully furnished, and with such a
pleasant view. You are so fond of the sea, David, and your father loves
it too; and we thought"--hesitating a moment, as she felt the grip of
David's fingers round her wrist--"Dinah and I both thought it would be
a capital arrangement to take Red Brae for three or four months. There
would be plenty of room for you, and your father and Theo too," she
continued as he remained silent; "and it would be so nice for us to be
together, and our old nurse Mrs. Gibbon--you know Mrs. Gibbon,
dear--would help us to take care of you."
David drew a deep breath. "Yes, I see," he returned slowly, "and all
the expense and trouble would be for me. Don't I know your generosity,
Elizabeth," in a choked voice. "But it is too much--I cannot do it.
Don't you know, darling--don't we both know--that nothing really
matters? Ventnor will do me no good. Let me bide where I am," and
David's voice was pathetic in its pleading--"let me die in this dear
old cottage."
"No, no," returned Elizabeth, bursting into tears. "David, how can you
be so cruel! Surely you wish to stay longer with me! Why need we be
parted yet! Think of it, dear--that it is for my sake, and your
father's and Theo's. If it is a sacrifice, it is a sacrifice for those
you love. Oh, David, my David, it is such a little thing I ask--just
for us to be a few months longer together. I know how you hated going
abroad, and I would not have pressed it for worlds; but Ventnor--oh,
David, you cannot have the heart to refuse me!" And Elizabeth broke
down utterly and hid her face in her hands.
Perhaps it was as well that she did not see David's expression that
moment; as he lay back upon his pillows his face was deathly. Why did
they ask this of him? He was just growing more resigned and peaceful.
Those agonised prayers of his for aid and succour had been answered,
and the deep blessedness of an accepted cross seemed to fill his soul
with a strange calm. He must die, and he knew it; but his Heavenly
Father had been merciful to him, and death had lost its terrors; and
now his longing was to die in the village he had chosen as his home,
and under the shadow of the church where he had ministered as God's
priest.
He knew where they would lay him: he and Elizabeth had chosen his last
resting-place, and she had listened dry-eyed to his simple directions
and wishes. He had talked out his heart to her, and her unselfish
sympathy had been his greatest comfort. But now she was asking this
sacrifice of him, and how was he to refuse her? And yet, if Elizabeth
had guessed how the thought of that exile filled him with dismay and
desolation, she would surely have denied her own craving for a few more
weeks of life. But David knew better than to tell her.
Presently the hot hand was laid on her head.
"Elizabeth, let me see your dear face. You and my father shall have
your way, darling; I will go to Ventnor." David's breathing was so
laboured that he was obliged to stop here; but Elizabeth, with a cry of
joy, threw her arms round him.
"Oh, David dear, thank you--thank you! You have made me so happy!" and
the smile he loved so well beamed through her tears. But David's
answering smile was rather forced.
"There is little cause for thankfulness," he replied wearily--"a poor
helpless invalid who will only give you trouble! But there is one thing
you must promise, dearest." And, as she looked at him expectantly, he
whispered, "You must promise to bring me back here." Then Elizabeth
bowed her head in silence, for she knew too well what he meant.