Herbert's Christmas
And when the self-abhorring thrill
Is past--as pass it must,
When tasks of life thy spirit fill,
Then be the self-renouncing will
The seal of thy calm trust.--Lyra Apostolica
By Christmas Day Archie Douglas was in the Bay of Biscay; but even
to Joanna it was not a sorrowful day, for did not Herbert on that
day crawl back into his sitting-room, full dressed for the first
time, holding tight by her shoulder, and by every piece of furniture
on his way to the sofa, Rollo attending in almost pathetic delight,
gazing at him from time to time, and thumping the floor with his
tail? He had various visitors after his arrival--the first being
his Rector, who came on his way back from church to give his
congratulations, mention the number of convalescents who had there
appeared, and speak of the wedding he had celebrated that morning,
that of Fanny Reynolds and her Drake, who were going forth the next
day to try whether they could accomplish a hawker's career free from
what the man, at least, had only of late learnt to be sins. It was
a great risk, but there had been a penitence about both that Julius
trusted was genuine. A print of the Guardian Angel, which had been
her boy's treasure, had been hung by Fanny in her odd little
bedroom, and she had protested with tears that it would seem like
her boy calling her back if she were tempted again.
"Not that I trust much to that," said Julius. "Poor Fanny is soft,
and likes to produce an effect; but I believe there is sterling
stuff in Drake."
"And he never had a chance before," said Herbert.
"No. Which makes a great difference--all indeed between the
Publicans, or the Heathens, and the Pharisees. He can't read, and I
doubt whether he said the words rightly after me; but I am sure he
meant them."
"I suppose all this has done great good?" said Jenny.
"It will be our fault if it do not do permanent good. It ought,"
said Julius, gravely. "No, no, Herbert, I did not mean to load you
with the thought. Getting well is your business for the present--
not improving the occasion to others."
To which all that Herbert answered was, "Harry Hornblower!" as if
that name spoke volumes of oppression of mind.
That discussion, however, was hindered by Mrs. Hornblower's own
arrival with one of her lodger's numerous meals, and Julius went off
to luncheon. The next step on the stairs made Herbert start and
exclaim, "That's the dragoon! Come in, Phil."
And there did indeed stand the eldest brother, who had obtained a
few days' leave, as he told them, and had ridden over from Strawyers
after church. He came in with elaborate caution in his great muddy
boots, and looked at Herbert like a sort of natural curiosity,
exclaiming that he only wanted a black cap and a pair of bands to be
exactly like Bishop Bowater, a Caroline divine, with a meek, oval,
spiritual face, and a great display of delicate attenuated fingers,
the length of which had always been a doubt and marvel to his sturdy
descendants.
"Hands and all," quoth Philip; "and what are you doing with them?"
as he spied a Greek Testament in the fingers, and something far too
ponderous for them within reach. "Jenny, how dare you?" he
remonstrated, poising the bigger book as if to heave it at her head.
"That's what comes of your encouraging followers, eh?"
"Ah!" said Jenny, pretending to dodge the missile, while Rollo
exercised great forbearance in stifling a bark, "Greek is not quite
so severe to some folks as dragoon captains think."
"Severe or not he might let it alone," said Phil, looking much
disposed to wrest away the little book, which Herbert thrust under
his pillow, saying--
"It was only the Lesson."
"Why can't you read the Lesson like a sensible man in its native
English? Don't laugh, children, you know what I mean. There's no
good in this fellow working his brain. He can't go up again before
September, and according to the Bishop's letter to my father, he is
safe to pass, if he could not construe a line, after what he did at
Wil'sbro'. The Bishop and Co. found they had made considerable
donkeys of themselves. Yes, 'tis the ticket for you to be shocked;
but it is just like badgering a fellow for his commission by asking
him how many facets go to a dragon-fly's eye, instead of how he can
stand up to a battery."
"So I thought," said Herbert; "but I know now what it is to be in
the teeth of the battery without having done my best to get my
weapons about me."
"Come now! Would any of those poor creatures have been the better
for your knowing
"How many notes a sackbut has,
Or whether shawms have strings,"
or the Greek particles, which I believe were what sacked you?"
"They would have been the better if I had ever learnt to think what
men's souls are, or my own either," said Herbert, with a heavy sigh.
"Ah! well, you have had a sharp campaign," said Phil; "but you'll
soon get the better of it when you are at Nice with the old folks.
Jolly place--lots of nice girls--something always going on. I'll
try and get leave to take you out; but you'll cut us all out!
Ladies won't look at a fellow when there's an interesting young
parson to the fore."
Herbert made an action of negation, and his sister said--
"The doctors say Nice will not do after such an illness as this.
Papa asked the doctor there, and he said he could not advise it."
"Indeed! Then I'll tell you what, Herbs, you shall come into
lodgings at York, and I'll look after you there. You shall ride
Pimento, and dine at the mess."
"Thank you, Phil," said Herbert, to whom a few months ago this
proposal would have been most seducing, "but I am going home, and
that's all the change I shall want."
"Home! Yes, Ellen is getting ready for you. Not your room--oh, no!
but the state bedroom! When will you come? My leave is only till
Tuesday."
"Oh! I don't know how to think of the drive," sighed Herbert
wearily.
"We must wait for a fine day, when he feels strong enough," said
Jenny.
"All right," said Phil; "but ten days or a fortnight there will be
quite enough, and then you'll come. There are some friends of
yours, that only looked at me, I can tell you, for the sake of your
name--eh, Master Herbs?"
Herbert did not rise to the bait; but Jenny said, "The Miss
Strangeways?"
"Yes. Wouldn't he be flattered to hear of the stunning excitement
when they heard of Captain Bowater, and how the old lady, their
mother, talked by the yard about him? You'll get a welcome indeed
when you come, old fellow. When shall it be?"
"No, thank you, Phil," said Herbert, gravely. "I shall come back
here as soon as I am well enough. But there is one thing I wish you
would do for me."
"Well, what? I'll speak about having any horse you please taken up
for you to ride; I came over on Brown Ben, but he would shake you
too much."
"No, no, it's about a young fellow. If you could take him back to
York to enlist--"
"My dear Herbert, I ain't a recruiting-sergeant."
"No, but it might be the saving of him," said Herbert, raising
himself and speaking with more animation. "It is Harry Hornblower."
"Why, that's the chap that bagged your athletic prizes! Whew!
Rather strong, ain't it, Joan!"
"He did no such thing," said Herbert, rather petulantly; "never
dreamt of it. He only was rather a fool in talking of them--
vaunting of me, I believe, as not such a bad fellow for a parson; so
his friends got out of him where to find them. But they knew better
than to take him with them. Tell him, Jenny; he won't believe me."
"It is quite true, Phil," said Jenny, "the poor fellow did get into
bad company at the races, but that was all. He did not come home
that night, but he was stupefied with drink and the beginning of the
fever, and it was proved--perfectly proved--that he was fast asleep
at a house at Backsworth when the robbery was committed, and he was
as much shocked about it as any one--more, I am sure, than Herbert,
who was so relieved on finding him clear of it, that he troubled
himself very little about the things. And now he has had the fever--
not very badly--and he is quite well now, but he can't get anything
to do. Truelove turned him off before the races for hanging about
at the Three Pigeons, and nobody will employ him. I do think it is
true what they say--his mother, and Julius, and Herbert, and all--
that he has had a lesson, and wants to turn over a new leaf, but the
people here won't let him. Julius and Herbert want him to enlist,
and I believe he would, but his mother--as they all do--thinks that
the last degradation; but she might listen if Captain Bowater came
and told her about his own regiment--cavalry too--and the style of
men in it--and it is the only chance for him."
Philip made a wry face.
"You see I took him up and let him down," said Herbert, sadly and
earnestly.
"I really do believe," said Jenny, clenching the matter, "that
Herbert would get well much faster if Harry Hornblower were off his
mind."
Phil growled, and his younger brother and sister knew that they
would do their cause no good by another word. There was an odd
shyness about them all. The elder brother had not yet said anything
about Jenny's prospects, and only asked after the party at the Hall.
"All nearly well, except Frank's deafness," said Jenny. "In a day
or two he is going up to London to consult an aurist, and see
whether he can keep his clerkship. Miles is going with him, and
Rosamond takes Terry up to see his brother in London, and then, I
believe, she is going on to get rooms at Rockpier, while Miles comes
home to fetch his mother there."
"Mrs. Poynsett!" with infinite wonder.
"Oh yes, all this has really brought out much more power of activity
in her. You know it was said that there was more damage to the
nervous system than anything else, and the shock has done her good.
Besides, Miles is so much less timid about her than dear Raymond,
who always handled her like a cracked teapot, and never having known
much of any other woman, did not understand what was good for her."
"Miles has more pith in him than ever poor old Raymond had," said
Phil. "Poor old Poynsett, I used to think he wanted to be spoony on
you, Joan, if he had only known his own mind. If he had, I suppose
he would have been alive now!"
"What a pleasing situation for Jenny!" Herbert could not help
muttering.
"Much better than running after ostriches in the wilderness," quoth
Philip. "You ride them double, don't you?"
"Two little negro boys at a time," replied Jenny, "according to the
nursery-book. Will you come and try, Phil?"
"You don't mean to go out?"
"I don't know," said Jenny; "it depends on how mamma is, and how
Edith gets on."
Philip gave a long whistle of dismay. Herbert looked at him
wistfully, longing to hear him utter some word of congratulation or
sympathy with his sister; but none was forthcoming. Philip had
disliked the engagement originally--never had cared for Archie
Douglas, and was not melted now that Jenny was more valuable than
ever. She knew him too well to expect it of him, and did not want
to leave him to vex Herbert by any expression of his opinion on the
matter, and on this account, as well as on that of the fatigue she
saw on her patient's features, she refused his kind offer of keeping
guard while she went in the afternoon to church, adding that Herbert
must rest, as Mrs. Duncombe was coming afterwards to take leave of
him.
Philip shrugged his shoulders in horror, and declared that he should
not return again till _that_ was over; but he should look in again
before he went home to settle about Herbert's coming to York.
"York!" said Herbert, with a gasp, as Jenny brought his jelly, and
arranged his pillows for a rest, while the dragoon's boots resounded
on the stairs. "Please tell him to say no more about it. I want
them all to understand that I'm not going in for that sort of thing
any more."
"My dear, I think you had better not say things hotly and rashly;
you may feel so very differently by and by."
"I know that," said Herbert; "but after all it is only what my
ordination vows mean, though I did not see it then. And this year
must be a penance year; I had made up my mind to that before I fell
ill."
"Only you must get well," said Jenny.
"That takes care of itself when one is sound to begin with," said
Herbert. "And now that I have been brought back again, and had my
eyes opened, and have got another trial given me, it would be double
shame to throw it away."
"I don't think you will do that."
"I only pray that all that seems burnt out of me by what I have
seen, and heard, and felt, may not come back with my strength."
"I could hardly pray that for you, Herbert," said Jenny. "Spirits
are wanted to bear a clergyman through his work, and though you are
quite right not to _go in_ for those things, I should be sorry if
you never enjoyed what came in your way."
"If I never was tempted."
"It need not be temptation. It would not be if your mind were full
of your work--it would only be refreshment. I don't want my boy to
turn stern, and dry, and ungenial. That would not be like your
Rector."
"My Rector did not make such a bad start, and can trust himself
better," said Herbert. "Come, Jenny, don't look at me in that way.
You can't wish me to go to York, and meet those rattling girls
again?"
"No, certainly not, though Sister Margaret told Rosamond they had
never had such a sobering lesson in their lives as their share in
the mischief to you."
"It was not their fault," said Herbert. "It was deeper down than
that. And they were good girls after all, if one only had had
sense."
"Oh!--"
"Nonsense, Jenny," with a little smile, as he read her face, "I'm
not bitten--no--but they, and poor Lady Tyrrell, and all are proof
enough that it is easy to turn my head, and that I am one who ought
to keep out of that style of thing for the future. So do silence
Phil, for you know when he gets a thing into his head how he goes
on, and I do not think I can bear it now."
"I am sure you can't," said Jenny, emphatically, "and I'll do my
best. Only, Herbie, dear, do one thing for me, don't bind yourself
by any regular renunciations of moderate things now your mind is
excited, and you are weak. I am sure Julius or Dr. Easterby would
say so."
"I'll think," said Herbert. "But if I am forgiven for this year,
nothing seems to me too much to give up to the Great Shepherd to
show my sorrow. 'Feed My sheep' was the way He bade St. Peter prove
his love."
Jenny longed to say it was feeding the sheep rather than self-
privation, but she was not sure of her ground, and Herbert's low,
quiet, soft voice went to her heart. There were two great tears on
his cheeks, he shut his eyes as if to keep back any more, and turned
his face inwards on the sofa, his lips still murmuring over 'Feed My
sheep.' She looked at him, feeling as if, while her heart had
wakened to new glad hopes of earth, her brother, in her fulfilled
prayer, had soared beyond her. They were both quite still till Mrs.
Duncombe came to the door.
She was at the Rectory, her house being dismantled, and she, having
stayed till the last case of fever was convalescent, and the Sisters
recalled, was to go the next day to her mother-in-law's. She was
almost as much altered as Herbert himself. Her jaunty air had given
way to something equally energetic, but she looked wiry and worn,
and her gold pheasant's crest had become little more than a sandy
wisp, as she came quietly in and took the hand that Herbert held out
to her, saying how glad she was to see him on the mend.
He asked after some of the people whom they had attended together,
and listened to the details, asking specially after one or two
families, where one or both parents had been taken away. "Poor
Cecil Poynsett is undertaking them," was the answer in each case.
Some had been already sent to orphanages; others were boarded out
till places could be found for them; and the Sisters had taken
charge of two.
Then one widow was to 'do for' the Vicar, who had taken solitary
possession of the Vicarage, but would soon be joined there by one or
more curates. He had been inducted into the ruinous chancel of the
poor old church, had paid the architect of the Rat-house fifty
pounds (a sum just equalling the proceeds of the bazaar) to be rid
of his plans; had brought down a first-rate architect; and in the
meantime was working the little iron church vigorously.
"Everything seems to be beginning there just as I go into exile!"
said Mrs. Duncombe. "It seems odd that I should have to go from
what I have only just learnt to prize. But you have taught mo a
good deal--"
"Every one must have learnt a good deal," said Herbert wearily. "If
one only has!"
"I meant you yourself, and that is what I came to thank you for.
Yes, I did; even if you don't like to hear it, your sister does, and
I must have it out. I shall recollect you again and again standing
over all those beds, and shrinking from nothing, and I shall hold up
the example to my boys."
"Do hold up something better!"
"Can you write?" she said abruptly.
"I have written a few lines to my mother."
"Do you remember what you said that night, when you had to hold that
poor man in his delirium, and his wife was so wild with fright that
she could not help?"
"I am not sure what you mean."
"You said it three or four times. It was only--"
"I remember," said Herbert, as she paused; "it was the only thing I
could recollect in the turmoil."
"Would it tire you very much to write it for me in the flyleaf of
this Prayer-Book that Mr. Charnock has given me?"
Herbert pulled himself into a sitting posture, and signed to his
sister to give him the ink.
"I shall spoil your book," he said, as his hand shook.
"Never mind," she said, eagerly, "the words come back to me whenever
I think of the life I have to face, and I want them written; they
soothe me, as they soothed that frightened woman and raving man."
And Herbert wrote. It was only--'The Lord is a very present help in
trouble.'
"Yes," she said; "thank you. Put your initials, pray. There--thank
you. No, you can never tell what it was to me to hear those words,
so quietly, and gravely, and strongly, in that deadly struggle. It
seemed to me, for the first time in all my life, that God is a real
Presence and an actual Help. There! I see Miss Bowater wants me
gone; so I am off. I shall hear of you."
Herbert was exhausted with the exertion, and only exchanged a close
pressure of the hand, and when Jenny came back, after seeing the
lady to the door, she thought there were tears on his cheek, and
bent down to kiss him.
"That was just the way, Jenny," his low, tired voice said. "I never
could recollect what I wanted to say. Only just those few Psalms
that you did manage to teach me before I went to school, they came
back and back."
Jenny had no time to answer, for the feet of Philip were on the
stairs. He had been visiting Mrs. Hornblower, and persuading her
that to make a dragoon of her son was the very best thing for him--
great promotion, and quite removed from the ordinary vulgar
enlistment in the line--till he had wiled consent out of her. And
though Philip declared it was blarney, and was inclined to think it
infra dig. to have thus exerted his eloquence, it was certain that
Mrs. Hornblower would console herself by mentioning to her
neighbours that her son was gone in compliment to Captain Bowater,
who had taken a fancy to him.
The relief to Herbert was infinite; but he was by this time too much
tired to do anything but murmur his thanks, and wish himself safe
back in his bed, and Philip's strong-armed aid in reaching that
haven was not a little appreciated.
Julius looked in with his mother's entreaty that Philip, and if
possible his sister, should come up to eat their Christmas dinner at
the Hall; and Herbert, wearily declaring that sleep was all he
needed, and that Cranky would be more than sufficient for him,
insisted on their accepting the invitation; and Jenny was not sorry,
for she did not want a tete-a-tete with Philip so close to her
patient's room, that whatever he chose to hear, he might.
She had quite enough of it in the walk to the Hall. Phil, with the
persistency of a person bent on doing a kind thing, returned to his
York plan, viewing it as excellent relaxation for a depressed, over-
worked man, and certain it would be a great treat to 'little Herb.'
He still looked on the tall young man as the small brother to be
patronized, and protected, and dragged out of home-petting; so he
pooh-poohed all Jenny's gentler hints as to Herbert's need of care
and desire to return to his work, until she was obliged to say
plainly that he had entreated her to beg it might not be argued with
him again, as he was resolved against amusement for the present.
Then Phil grew very angry both with Herbert and Jenny.
"Did they suppose he wanted the boy to do anything unclerical?"
"No; but you know it was by nothing positively unclerical that he
was led aside before."
Phil broke out into a tirade against the folly of Jenny's speech.
In his view, Herbert's conduct at Wil'sbro' had confuted the
Bishop's censure, and for his own part, he only wished to amuse the
boy, and give him rest, and if he did take him to a ball, or even
out with the hounds, he would be on leave, and in another diocese,
where the Bishop had nothing to do with him.
Jenny tried to make him understand that dread of the Bishop was the
last thing in Herbert's mind. It was rather that he did not think
it right to dissipate away a serious impression.
That was worse than before. She was threatened with the most
serious displeasure of her father and mother, if she encouraged
Herbert in the morbid ascetic notions ascribed to Dr. Easterby.
"It was always the way with the women--they never knew where to
stop."
"No," said Jenny, "I did not know there was anywhere to stop in the
way of Heaven."
"As if there were no way to Heaven without making a fool of
oneself."
This answer made Jenny sorry for her own, as needlessly vexatious,
and yet she recollected St. Paul's Christian paradoxes, and felt
that poor Herbert might have laid hold of the true theory of the
ministry. At any rate, she was glad that they were at that moment
hailed and overtaken by the party from the Rectory, and that Phil
pounced at once on Julius, to obtain his sanction to giving Herbert
a little diversion at York.
Julius answered more warily, "Does he wish it?"
"No; but he is too weak yet, and is hipped and morbid."
"Well, Phil, I would not put it into his head. No doubt you would
take very good care of him, but I doubt whether your father would
like the Bishop to hear of him--under the circumstances--going to
disport himself at the dragoon mess. Besides, I don't think he will
be well enough before Lent, and then of course he could not."
This outer argument in a man's voice pacified Phil, as Julius knew
it would, much better than the deeper one, and he contented himself
with muttering that he should write to his father about it, which
every one knew he was most likely not to do.
Who could have foretold last Christmas who would be the party at
that dinner? Mrs. Poynsett at the head of her own table, and Miles
in the master's place, and the three waifs from absent families
would have seemed equally unlikely guests; while of last year's
party--Charlie was in India, Tom De Lancey with the aunts in
Ireland, Cecil at Dunstone. Mrs. Duncombe was perfectly quiet, not
only from the subduing influence of all she had undergone, but
because she felt herself there like an intruder, and would have
refused, but that to leave her at home would have distressed her
hostess. Mrs. Poynsett had never seen her before, and after all she
had heard about her, was quite amazed at the sight of such an
insignificant little person as she was without her dash and sparkle,
and in a dress which, when no longer coquettish, verged upon the
slovenly.
Poor thing, she was waiting till the Christmas visit of the elder
Mrs. Duncombe's own daughter was over, so that there might be room
for her, and she was thankful for the reprieve, which left her able
to spend Christmas among the privileges she had only learnt to value
just as she was deprived of them. She looked at Mrs. Poynsett, half
in curiosity, half in compunction, as she remembered how she had
helped to set Cecil against her.
"But then," as she said to Rosamond, in going home, "I had
prejudices about the genus belle-mere. And mine always knew and
said I should ruin her son, in which, alas! she was quite right!"
"She will be pleased now," said Rosamond.
"No, indeed, I believe she had rather I were rapidity personified
than owe the change to any one of your Rector's sort. I have had a
letter or two, warning me against the Sisters, or thinking there is
any merit in works of mercy. Ah, well! I'll try to think her a
good old woman! But if she had only not strained the cord till it
snapped, how much happier Bob and I should have been!"
What a difference there is between straining the cord for one's self
and for other people! So Julius could not help feeling when
Herbert, in spite of all that could be said to him, about morbid
haste in renunciation, sent for the village captain of the cricket-
club, and delivered over to him the bat, which had hitherto been as
a knightly sword to him, resigning his place in the Compton Poynsett
Eleven, and replying to the dismayed entreaties and assurances of
the young farmer that he would reconsider his decision, and that he
would soon be quite strong again, that he had spent too much time
over cricket, and liked it too well to trust himself at it again.
That was the last thing before on a New Year's Day, which was like
an April day, Herbert came into church once more, and then was
carried off in the Strawyers carriage, lying back half ashamed, half
astonished, at the shower of strange tears which the ecstatic shouts
and cheers of the village boys had called forth.