Lilias Wyndham never forgot that last Sunday with Gerald spent at
Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. The day in itself was perfect, the air blew
softly from the west, the sun shone in a nearly cloudless heaven; the
gentle breezes, the opening flowers, the first faint buds of spring on
tree and hedge-row seemed all to give a foretaste of summer. Nobody
knew, none could guess, that in one sense they foretold the desolation
of dark winter.
It was in this light that Wyndham himself regarded the lovely day.
"I leap from calm to storm," he said to himself. "Never mind, I will
enjoy the present bliss!"
He did enjoy it, really, not seemingly. He took every scrap of
sweetness out of it, almost forgetting Valentine for the time being,
and living over again the days when he was a light-hearted boy.
He went to church twice, and sat in the corner of the square family pew
which had always been reserved for him. As of old, Lilias sat by his
side, and when the sermon came he lifted little Joan into his arms, and
she fell asleep with her golden head on his breast. The rector preached
and Gerald listened. It was an old-fashioned sermon, somewhat long for
the taste of the present day. It had been carefully prepared, and was
read aloud, for the benefit of the congregation, in a clear,
gentlemanly voice.
Gerald almost forgot that he was a man with an unusual load of
suffering upon him, as he listened to the time-honored softly-flowing
sentences.
"Blessed are the pure in heart," was the rector's text, and it seemed
to more than one of that little village congregation that he was
describing his own son when he drew his picture of the man of purity.
In the evening Carr preached. He was as modern as the rector was the
reverse. He used neither M.S. nor notes, and his sermon scarcely
occupied ten minutes.
"To die is gain" was his text. There were some in the congregation who
scarcely understood the vigorous words, but they seemed to one weary
man like the first trumpet notes of coming battle. They spoke of a
fight which led to a victory. Wyndham remembered them by-and-bye.
It was the custom at the rectory to have a kind of open house on Sunday
evening, and to-night many of Gerald's friends dropped in. The large
party seemed a happy one. The merriment of the night before had
deepened into something better. Lilias spoke of it afterwards as bliss.
"Do you remember," she said to Marjory, in the desolate days which
followed, "how Gerald looked when he played the organ in the hall? Do
you remember his face when we sang 'Sun of my soul?'"
The happiest days come to an end. The children went to bed, the friends
one by one departed. Even Lilias and Marjory kissed their brother and
bade him good-night. He was to leave before they were up in the
morning. This he insisted on, against their will.
"But we shall see you soon in London," they both said, for they were
coming up in a few weeks to stay with an aunt. Then they told him to
kiss Valentine for them, and went upstairs, chatting lightly to one
another.
The rector and his son were alone.
"We have had a happy day," said Gerald, abruptly.
"We have, my son. It does us all good to have you with us, Gerald. I
could have wished--but there's no good regretting now. Each man must
choose his own path, and you seem happy, my dear son; that is the main
thing."
"I never thought primarily of happiness," responded Gerald. "Did you
listen to Carr's sermon to-night? He proved his case well. To die _is_
sometimes gain."
The rector, who was seated by the fire, softly patted his knee with one
hand.
"Yes, yes," he said, "Carr proved his case ably. He's a good fellow. A
_little_ inclined to the broad church, don't you think?"
"Perhaps so."
Gerald stood up. His face had suddenly grown deadly white.
"Father, I kept a secret from you all day. I did not wish to do
anything to mar the bliss of this perfect Sunday. You--you'll break it
to Lilias and Maggie, and the younger children. I'm going to Sydney on
Wednesday. I came down to say good-bye."
He held out his hand. The rector stood up and grasped it.
"My dear lad--my boy. Well--well--you'll come back again. Of course, I
did know that you expected to go abroad on business for your firm. My
dear son. Yes, my boy--aye--you'll come back again soon. How queer you
look, Gerald. Sit down. I'm afraid you're a little overdone."
"Good-bye, father. You're an old man, and Sydney is a long way off.
Good-bye. I have a queer request to make. Grant it, and don't think me
weak or foolish. Give me your blessing before I go."
Suddenly Wyndham fell on his knees, and taking his father's hand laid
it on his head.
"I am like Esau," he said. "Is there not one blessing left for me?"
The rector was deeply moved.
"Heaven above bless you, my boy," he said. "Your mother's God go with
you. There, Gerald, you are morbid. You will be back with me before
the snows of next winter fall. But God bless you, my boy, wherever you
are and whatever you do!"