Gildas Haven, Page 4

  "Him's Jacky," says the child in the Holland blouse. "I'm Jemmie. Jacky and me's twins. Gordon's the biggest of us. He's eight, and a grammar school boy. And Jemmie and me's going there too when brother can afford to get us knickerbockers. Milly's our sister. Can't you hear her getting baby to sleep?"

  "Baby always wants that song, you know," says Gordon, confidentially. "Brother was nursing him one day, and he made it up while he nursed, and baby liked it, and it always gets him quiet. It goes to the same tune, you know, as 'Now the day is over.' Now Milly's beginning it over again. You listen."

  Pendrill seats himself by the side of the diligent worker, wondering why the simple lullaby from the childish voice that renders it being so tenderly, being extremely flat at times, should so move his heart.

  "Baby-boy is sleeping

  Tiny limbs at rest;

  Weary little birdie

  Quiet in the nest.

  "Evening dews are falling,

  Evening winds are cold;

  Little white lambs gather

  In the grassy fold.

  "With a gentle murmur,

  Like a lullaby,

  Flows the rippling river,

  Where the rushes lie.

  "Flowers are faintly sighing

  O'er the darkened plain;

  Rest thee, sweet, till morning

  Kiss thy lips again.

  "Jesus, bless our birdie!

  Keep him close to Thee;

  Now beneath Thy shadow

  Hush him tenderly.

  "Baby-boy is sleeping,

  Tiny limbs at rest;

  Weary little birdie,

  Quiet in the nest:"

  "Baby's feeling better," says talkative Jemmie. "Chidgey gave him a crust with a lot of dripping, and he ate it all this morning. Chidgey says he'll make old bones yet; he's getting quite a man. Chidgey's the lady that takes care of us, you know. What's your name, please; and how old are you? Do you know brother? Isn't brother a brick? I heard our milkman tell Chidgey so. Why did he call brother a brick?"

  Gordon, with a grave shake of his curly head, admonishes Jemmie to be less conversational.

  "He doesn't know who you are," he explains, "but I do, You're the new clergyman that's come to help Mr. Bertram. You're Mr. Pendrill, aren't you, please?"

  "Yes," says the curate, much amused, "that is my name, Gordon, and I hope we'll be great friends."

  "Mr. Pendrill!" repeats Jemmie. "But you're very wicked, aren't you? I think it's downright mean of you to steal little boys and girls from Gildas."

  "My child," says Pendrill, laughing, "I don't know who Gildas may be, but I never stole a boy or girl in my life, I assure you."

  "Jemmie means Gildas Haven," says Gordon. "He's a very rude boy. He shouldn't go repeating things."

  "Gildas shouldn't tell stories then," says Jemmie, sturdily. "I heard her tell brother that Mr. Pendrill steals her boys and girls from the day school and the Sunday school, but I don't believe he do, and please I want to see inside the stomach of your watch."

  Jacky, perseveringly pursuing his needlework on behalf of Jasper's birthday, hides it now in his treasure drawer, unable to resist the attraction of the curate's large watch. While all three boys bend over it, holding their breath vigorously lest they should dim the works, seven-year-old Milly runs in, fat, rosy, and smiling, as chubby a little dumpling as lassie ever could be.

  "He's sound asleep," she announces, triumphantly, "and Chidgey's given me this for getting him off so soon. Gordon, you divide it. Oh, I didn't see there was anybody here -- how do you do?"

  She offers her hand to Pendrill.

  "I thought all the jam had gone," says Jemmie, doubtfully. "I suppose Chidgey scraped round the bottom of the jar."

  "Yes, she did," says Milly; "and she says brother can't get us any more, because the boy Burrows has given up his lessons, and some of the others don't pay their bills. So we'll be a long time eating this, and make it last out."

  Gordon takes the bread and jam, dividing it into five portions, one being hospitably pressed upon the curate. When he declines it, this is transferred to Milly, "because she's a girl."

  Milly, too, must see the watch, and exhibit her own treasures of a family of wooden dolls. Confidences have waxed deep and cordial by the time Chidgey comes in -- a tiny old woman in a clean mob cap, who surveys the curate with feelings divided between pride in his notice of the children, and anxiety lest he inoculate them with his liturgical views.

  Jemmie has just volunteered to recite "The Young Lochinvar," and, on its termination, Pendrill enquires if his little friends know any hymns.

  "They don't know any Church hymns, sir," says Chidgey, with respectful decision. "They were born and bred in the chapel, and chapel they'll live and die, please Heaven. No offence taken where none is meant, but I don't hold with them as can't stick up for their principles and give an answer to priest or parson for the faith as is in them."

  "I am glad you think so highly of principle, Mrs. Chidgey," says Pendrill. "So you don't know any Church hymns, children?"

  "No," says Milly, shaking her little brown head. "We can't sing those."

  "What do you know then?" he asks.

  "We know 'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,' and 'There's a Friend for little children,'" says Jacky.

  "And 'There is a happy land,' and 'Around the Throne,' and 'Now the day is over,'" adds Jemmie.

  "And 'Once in royal David's city,' and 'Brightest and best,'" says Gordon.

  "Yes," says Milly; "and that one brother's teaching us now:

  "Lead us on our journey,

  Be Thyself the way

  Through celestial darkness

  To celestial day.'"

  "I can sing another one," says Jemmie. "Jacky doesn't sing it in tune, but I do! I'll sing it now, if you like; but I don't know any Church ones." And he sings at the top of his voice:

  "O Jesus, King most wonderful,

  Thou conqueror renowned..."

  "I don't know how it goes next," he explains; "but then it goes like this:

  "May every heart confess Thy Name,

  And ever Thee adore,

  And seeking Thee itself inflame,

  To seek Thee more and more.'"

  The hymn is dear to Bernard Pendrill and he gently touches Jemmie's eager face, saying softly, "Do you know our boys and girls at church sing those very same hymns? Only last Sunday afternoon at the catechising we had 'There's a Friend for little children,' but very few were as careful to sing the correct notes as Jemmie."

  He is privately considerably astonished to find that these little ones, whom he has for some time believed to be in heathen ignorance, are learning very much the same hymns as the happier children who enjoy Church privileges.

  "I'm afraid he'll tire you, sir," says Chidgey, looking proudly at the sturdy boy. "He's twice the heaviness of the boy next door, though born in the same month of the same year, which well do I remember, the children were making May garlands, and begging at our door for pence, when---- Ah, here's Master Jasper. I do hope he hasn't been and forgotten the yellow soap, for it's washing day Monday, and the way those precious children do run through socks and blouses and pinafores----"

  Her remarks are interrupted by the entrance of Jasper Ruthven, laden with sugar, treacle, soda, and a variety of assorted groceries.

  "Housekeeping cares must come rather arduous in addition to your teaching work, Mr. Ruthven," says Pendrill, shaking hands, and feeling sympathetic towards the frank, cheery face of the tutor.

  "Oh, the pulse of the machine is Chidgey," he answers, smiling; "but today being a holiday at the Chapel school in honour of the headmaster's birthday, I have turned domesticated for once. I hope you have not been waiting long. I see the children have come down on you like an avalanche."

  Jasper smiles at chubby little Milly, and seems much gratified by the curate's reply that he has greatly enjoyed making friends with the children.

  "I came to bring a message from the Rector,
" Pendrill says. "He's heard of a pony at Greendell that he thinks will suit his grandson, Gilbert. He wants to drive the boy over to see it this afternoon. So please do not trouble to go to the Rectory to tutor Gilbert today."

  "Oh, brother," exclaims Gordon, eagerly, "now you'll have a long, long day for the Rose of Life!"

  "That's brother's poem," explains Jacky. "Brother's going to be very great one day. Did you know?"

  "No, Mr. Pendrill knows nothing of the kind," says Jasper Ruthven, with a burning face. "Now run away, children. I hope Mr. Pendrill will excuse your far-too-ready tongues."

  "But why should we run away?" asks matter-of-fact Jemmie. "It's dinner time, and we'd only have the trouble of coming back. It's soup today. Gordon went and got twopenny-worth of bones yesterday, and Chidgey's boiled them down; and there's suetty pudding -- but no plums in it."

  Amid Jemmie's excitement, the curate makes his way into the porch. There is much that as an earnest shepherd of the flock in Meadthorpe, obedient or wandering, he feels called to say to Ruthven concerning his personal practices and omissions, and his responsibility as regards these children. But he feels he cannot speak abruptly on sacred subjects, and lingering for a moment he remarks to Ruthven that he has noticed his overflowing bookcase, and seeing he is a book lover he would be pleased to lend any volume acceptable from his own store at his rooms.

  "If you're passing this evening, look in," he says, cordially. "I always have a bachelor cup of tea at five, and you might cheer me up with a visit when you're round my way. I'd like your opinion on a book I have just finished reading, a treatise of the foundations of the Christian faith."

  Jasper feels a glow of pleasure in being thus set free to use the curate's library. Only a few years earlier he was the centre of clever, hard working, go-ahead University men, some of whom have since come out brilliantly, and all of whom have hopeful prospects. But Jasper had only one year at college, and then the crash came that killed his father -- the father who was taken hence five months before little Noel's birth, that came as an added anxiety to the ruined household.

  Mrs. Ruthven never entirely recovered from her illness. She passed away in a slow decline, entrusting Jasper without a fear with the little ones she left to God's care and his. Then, with none to know the daily struggles save the old lady, his father's mother, whom he refused to send to an institution, and whose holy patience in her helplessness blessed the humble little home, Jasper Ruthven shouldered the burden of life, and never looked back to the "might have been."

  But the shades of existence are dark at times, and association with a cultured mind like Bernard Pendrill's has an attraction for him. As for the children, they are charmed with the new curate, and Milly has every detail of his attire at her finger's ends, from the "nice clean collar choky at the neck," to the "grand new boots with lots of beautiful shiny blacking."

  The curate has heard of a little girl who is ill in a cottage on the moor, the child of one of Farmer Burrows' carters. He thinks he will call this morning to make his enquiries, Forest Cottage being on the borders of the expanse of heath. He has become well known by this time, and one and another salutes him with respect in passing, though there are others who seem to think it needful to hold their heads extra high and betray overacted indifference and contempt when they catch sight of his soft felt hat approaching. A choirboy he meets directs him to the Demseys', and informs him that little Kitty has had "information of the lungs."

  In front of the cottage door lies an elderly collie, grown white about the mouth and a little dim of sight. At present the dog is using all his vision to observe the proceedings of a kitten that sits in the sun, that is equally interested in the dog. There appears to be a degree of mutual awe couched under an aspect of deferential survey. Jones does not stir, feeling this would give Tibby an advantage, and Pendrill steps over the collie's shaggy form, knocking gently at the door.

  He obtains no reply, and presently turns the handle and ventures within the little kitchen, which is empty, the child's mother having gone to draw water from the pump in the garden. He hears voices upstairs, however, and knocks softly at the door that leads to the higher regions. Presently, steps sound on the staircase, and he begins with kind solicitude,

  "I have heard of your trouble," Pendrill says gently.

  But here he pauses aghast. He is confronted by a haughty-faced, bright-eyed young lady whom he never remembers having seen in Meadthorpe before. He wonders who she can be. She is dressed in some neatly braided, brown woollen costume, with furs at her neck, and a Christmas rose or two shining among them.

  Pendrill is never embarrassed by the gentler sex, knowing that as a priest he has constrained himself to celibacy by the force of his own opinions, but both sexes alike simply represent to him his spiritual flock, those immortal souls he is to guide faithfully, tirelessly within the sheltering bosom of Mother Church.

  "I have called to see the little invalid," he says pleasantly, recovering very soon from his surprise. "Allow me to introduce myself as the curate of Saint Simeon's, Meadthorpe. Can I speak to the child's mother? If special nourishment should be required----"

  "Mr. Pendrill," says Gildas Haven, her pretty figure drawn to its full height in the earnestness of her protest, "allow me to introduce myself as Kitty Demsey's Sunday school teacher. The child has been three years in my class, and I visit her four times a week. My father, Mr. Gilead Haven of Rehoboth Chapel, also comes here when he is able, and the superintendent of our Sunday school has been more than once. The Demseys are Nonconformists, and neither need nor desire your ministrations. In my opinion it is as unchristian as ungentlemanly to go from house to house making sickness and need an excuse for proselytizing, and using underhand means to weaken the influences of Dissent as you do. At any rate, you will obtain no footing in this house, and no influence over the poor sick child upstairs. Her father is one of those honestly indignant at the desertion of a few -- a very few -- of those who worshipped with us. If you think you will get these children to the Church Sunday school----"

  "I am sorry, Miss Haven," says the curate, politely, "to find I have unconsciously been the cause of such mental agitation. I assure you since I have been in Meadthorpe I have simply followed the dictates of duty as to parochial visitation. I have had no thought or intention of offending anybody. I am glad the little invalid is the object of care and attention, and I will not intrude further this morning, though in due course I shall come here again, the family residing in my parish. Good morning, Miss Haven. What a glorious day, is it not?"

  He bows politely, pausing as he retires to bestow a pat on Jones, who receives it with gracious toleration. The dog's calm, quiet manner is so opposed to Gildas' agitation that she feels ashamed of the torrent of words she outpoured on him. She remembers a remark she once overheard in a train that "The clergy always keep their tempers, but Dissenters cannot be emphatic without quarrelling."

  She is the more indignant against Pendrill, because in this instance she feels she has not displayed the unruffled serenity that is victorious in argument. And her flippant remark was without foundation, as she recalls it now uncomfortably, with self-reproach for conversational heat and rancour.

  Chapter 5

  "That Man will be the Death of Me!"

  HUMAN nature likes to be popular, and it would doubtless be far more to the taste of Bernard Pendrill if he could possibly please everybody, and perform his vocation as a parish priest (for the Rector is virtually laid by at present through the delicacy of his throat) without causing offence to Shiloh or Rehoboth, or the stewards and deacons thereof -- or Gildas Haven.

  But duty is to him as the voice of God, and he has exalted ideas of his calling. If his efforts to promote the faith of his fathers bring upon him abuse and persecution, he is not the first one, he tells himself, who has suffered for conscience sake, and he will not be laughed or sneered away from the task before him of combating the results of past inactivity and lack of energy.

  He strongl
y objects to the lassitude that has crept into the service at Saint Simeon's -- the half-lounging, half-sitting attitude of those engaged in prayer; the plain old-fashioned Communion table that has so little in keeping with his reverential ideas of the "Holy Eucharist"; the closed church doors during the week, except for the Wednesday evensong.

  He has not been long at the parish church before a row of neatly surpliced boys is seen, instead of the lads in various shades and patterns of jackets and knickerbockers. The schoolmaster who plays the organ supports the diligent practices desired by the energetic curate, and he gives up one of his own evenings weekly to training the voices of the white robed band.

  Bernard Pendrill makes a special request from the pulpit that those of his congregation who are not debarred by infirmity will kneel with reverence at worship; and his efforts to supersede by intoning the diverse keys wherein the service proceeded of meets with congregational support, with but few exceptions.

  The Communion table likewise experiences changes. It becomes an altar, with coverings appropriate to various seasons, and shines forth radiant with flowers and lights. Under the new order of things there are frequent celebrations of what is now called the Eucharist. Matins and evensong are held daily, and the church door always stands open for private prayer and meditation.

  RITUALS AT OUR PARISH CHURCH remains for weeks the heading in the local paper of an animated controversy between Mr. Weston and Hopkinson, one of the churchwardens. Several others are drawn into the correspondence, protesting and defending, and the new curate is alternately described as an angel of light, and quite the reverse.

  Pendrill cares for none of these things. The Rector, cheered by the large congregations that are found within the church, lets him take his own way and choose the methods dictated by conscience, and in all his reforms he has the help and deep though unspoken sympathy of the Rector's daughter, Rowena Bertram, a devout Churchwoman whose heart has never been satisfied with the easy-going ministrations at Saint Simeon's in the past.