The Curate in Charge Part 18

"Yours very truly,

"ROGER MILDMAY."

This letter excited Cicely greatly. By chance it arrived before the others had come into the breakfast-room, and she was able to read it without any looker-on. She put it hurriedly into her pocket before her father and sister appeared. She did not know what answer to make, neither did she feel comfortable about making any answer, and she said nothing about it all day; though--oh, how the letter burned her pocket and her mind! She had scarcely ever known what it was to have a secret before, and not to tell Mab seemed almost wrong. She felt that there was something clandestine about her, going up and down the house with that letter in her possession which n.o.body knew of. And to answer it--to answer it without any one knowing? This she could not do. She bore the burden of her secret all the day, and surprised Mab very much by her silence about Mr. Mildmay, whom the younger sister abused roundly.

"Perhaps it was not his fault," Cicely faltered. What had come over her?

What change had happened? Mab was lost in a maze.

The difficulty, however, was solved in a very unexpected way. Next morning--no later--Mr. St. John himself had a letter from Oxford; a letter which made him change colour, and bend his meek brows, and then smile--but not like himself. "Cicely, this must be your doing," he said.

"I never made any complaints to Mr. Mildmay, nor said anything to call for his pity. He asks me to be his curate," the old man added, after a pause, with a strange smile. No one had suspected that Mr. St. John was proud, until it became apparent all at once how proud he was.

"His curate--O papa! you will stay here, and never go away at all,"

cried Mab out of the fulness of her heart. Cicely knew better. She grew pale, and to stop that outcry of inconvenient delight, grasped tightly her sister's hand.

"Stay here!" said Mr. St. John, smiling again. "No, Mab, I am not fallen so low as that, I hope. There is no need of a curate at Brentburn. If I could do without one, at double his age, what should he want with a curate? It is pity, pity! Oh yes, my dear, I know very creditable to him; but I did not expect--I never expected to be exposed. Cicely, have you that letter about the curacy in Liverpool? I should like to look at it again."

"But, papa, we agreed that it would not do; a bad town district full of dreadful people----"

"The more dreadful people are, the more they want to be looked after,"

he said. "Write and inquire about it, my dear; I am not particular.

Work! that is all I want, not idleness and charity. You all know I am old--but you don't know how much strength I have in me, nor how I like work!" he cried, with a quiver in his voice.

The shock had something of the same effect upon him now that it had previously had on Cicely. The latent pride in him rose up in arms. She had to write by that post about the Liverpool curacy; and before the week was out he had accepted this strange, uncongenial post. He was to be one of three curates in a large parish, including some of the most wretched quarters in the town; the work very hard; the people very degraded.

"Papa, you will never be able to bear it," cried Cicely, with tears in her eyes.

"Nonsense, nonsense," he cried, with feverish energy; "write at once and say I accept. It will do me all the good in the world."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BREAKING UP.

The day after Mr. St. John made this abrupt decision--almost the only decision he had made for himself, without stimulation from others, all his life--he went out into the parish as usual, but came home very tired, and went to bed early, which the girls thought natural enough.

During the day Cicely had told Mab of her letter from Mildmay, and had written an answer to it, thanking him for his consideration, and informing him of the step her father had taken. "We shall never forget how kind you have been," she wrote, gratefully; "both Mab and I feel it to the bottom of our hearts. Is that too much?" she said, reading it over. "I don't want to say too much."

"But we must not say too little; and if a man who is willing to sacrifice the half of his income is not to be thanked for it, I don't know who is," cried Mab, always practical.

"It is not so much the income," Cicely said, slightly wounded by this matter-of-fact suggestion; "it is the feeling."

"But the offer proves the feeling," said her sister; and indeed she was right.

Mr. St. John came home, as has been said, before his usual hour, and went very early to bed. Next morning he rang his bell--the most unusual sound--and sent word by Betsy that he thought he would not get up. When Cicely went to him--as she did at once in a fright, for the bell and the message together produced a great panic in a house quite unaccustomed (at least, so far as the girls' experience went) to illness--she found him in a partial doze, his large pale hand, looking very nerveless and feeble, lying outside the coverlet.

"No, no!" he said, when she roused him; "not very bad; not bad at all; only tired--and lazy. I have often thought of late that I should like to lie still some morning; and to-day I have done it. That's all, that's all, my dear." He would not hear of the doctor being sent for; and wanted nothing, he declared--nothing but a day's rest. Cicely had to go downstairs, feigning content with this; but she was far from satisfied.

They talked it over all the morning, but there was little enough to be made of it. There was no harm in a day's laziness, and nothing but good in a day's rest; but yet--the girls did not know what to think. Had he been looking ill lately? they asked each other. But, no! he had not been looking ill--a little fatigued, perhaps; tired by the hot weather, as he often was; but just as usual, doing as much as he always did; spending the whole long day "in the parish;" ready to go out morning or night when he was called to any one who was sick. "And what so natural as that he should be tired?" Mab said; "a day's rest will do him good." Cicely, though she was generally the leader, accepted this decision humbly, saying nothing for her own part, but feeling a sense of dismay steal into her mind, she could not tell why; for though it was quite natural that he should do this, he had never done it before; and an innovation on habits so long established and firmly fixed was very alarming and bewildering. But Mab had the coolest judgment of the two, she said to herself--and no doubt Mab was right.

And next day it appeared indeed that Mab had been right. Mr. St. John came down to breakfast as usual; saying cheerfully that he was quite well, and went out "into the parish" as usual. The day's rest had done him "all the good in the world;" it had "set him up;" nor did he say anything more again about feeling tired. How quickly the days past during that last fortnight! They seemed to tumble on each other, one following on another's heels, holding so little of all the work they ought to see completed. It was settled that the curate was to leave on the 25th of September, in order that the sale should be over and everything cleared away before the quarter-day. Mildmay wrote again a pleading note to Cicely, a guarded but anxious one to her father, pointing out with abject civility that it would be the greatest possible advantage to himself if Mr. St. John would consent to stay. Mr. St. John only smiled and shook his head, and handed the letter over to Cicely, who was not so confidential in return. "Write to him for me, my dear, for I have not time. Say how obliged I am, but that it is impossible."

"Is that all, papa?" said Cicely, faltering. "All? What could be said more? And that everything will be ready by quarter-day--everything ready." As he said this he gave a strange bewildered look round him at the solid mahogany furniture which stood steadfast against the walls, looking as if it never could be changed or taken away. This look was still in his eyes when he went out to the parish, and when he came back--a sort of dreamy wonder and confusion. Cicely thought he had the same look next morning, and the next and next, as if he had somehow got astray from his moorings in life, and could not make out what was going to happen to him, or why it was going to happen. Mab said, "Nonsense, you are getting fanciful. Papa looks exactly as he has always looked;"

and indeed everything went on just the same as usual, showing no other difference except this look, if there was a difference at all. He went about just as usual, preached his two little sermons on the Sunday, went to the schools, kept up all the occupations he had been used to for twenty years; but nevertheless continued to have that dazed look in his eyes, sometimes only bewildered, sometimes startled, like the look of an animal who dumbly foresees something approaching which it knows to be malign, but can neither avert nor understand. This, at least, was what Cicely saw in her father's eyes; no one else dreamt of looking at his eyes particularly, or cared what they meant. Perhaps his usually tranquil manners were disturbed a little, but how natural that was! In the evening when they were sitting together he would grow quite talkative, telling the girls little stories of his first coming here, and of their mother's trials in the new parish, and would even laugh softly over them, saying, "Poor Hester! You grow more and more like her, Cicely, my dear!" and then he would drop into long silence, never taking a book or the newspaper which came in the evening, but sitting quite still looking round him. The girls did not know, however, that his parish rounds got shorter; that in several of the cottages he had been compelled to wait and rest, and that here and there he had seemed to forget everything around him, falling into a half faint or harmless trance, from which he would rouse up, and smile upon them, and go on.

This, however, they were not told till long after, when it seemed to them, that, if they had but known;--but if they had, I don't know what they could have done.

On the 22nd Mab went to London to Aunt Jane. It was not to be a parting, for it was arranged that Mr. St. John and the rest of the family were to go there also on the 25th, and rest for the night, and afterwards start on their journey to Liverpool; but still the girls were sad enough as they walked to the station together, Mab's boxes having been sent on before by Farmer Dent's cart. Their eyes were dim with tears as they went through the faded heather on the common. "You will have plenty to fret about," said Mab, "with all you have got to do; and, oh, Cicely, I beg of you, don't be silly and fret about papa! He feels it, of course--but he is quite well, as well as you or me." "I hope so, dear,"

said Cicely, meekly, with a tremor in her voice; and when they got to the station they looked through all the carriages till they saw in one a middle-aged homely woman, whose box, labelled for "London," was being put in, under the seat. Then Cicely established Mab in the opposite corner. It was the best that could be done for her, for no one could be spared to go with her, even could they have afforded the expense. Cicely walked home alone, feeling as if the world had suddenly grown dark and lonely round her. Mab had set out upon life, and she for her part was returning to hers--to the tradespeople, who were all to be paid so much, out of the fifty pounds which the curate had to receive, and to the babies, who had no one to look after them but herself, and to her father with that bewildered look in his eyes. Next morning the auctioneer was coming to begin his inventory, and arrange the business of the sale, though the actual auction did not commence until twelve o'clock on Thursday, the day they were to leave.

On Tuesday morning, however, before he went out to the parish, Mr. St.

John suddenly stumbled upon the auctioneer, who had gone quietly into the study as soon as its temporary master left, and was kneeling before the large old-fas.h.i.+oned writing-table, which Mr. St. John had used for so long, examining it, and tapping it with his knuckles to see where the drawers were. He had his back to the door, and did not see the surprised spectator, who stood and looked at him for a whole minute in silence.

The curate went back to the hall where Cicely stood waiting for him with his hat in her hand. "Who is that?--who is that man?" he said, with his eyes more cloudy and wild than they had ever been, and a sort of palsied trembling all over him.

"No harm, papa," said Cicely, trying to be cheerful; "only the auctioneer."

"Yes, yes, I remember," he said, taking his hat from her. "It was stupid of me not to remember."

"But, papa, you are trembling. You are not well. Come back and rest a little," she cried.

"No, no; it is nothing. Go back where? I suppose he is going through all the rooms?" said Mr. St. John. "No, no; it gave me a little shock, foolishly, but the air will blow it all away," he said, with a smile, recovering himself.

What terrors were in Cicely's mind all that day! but fortunately for her she had not much time to indulge them. She had to do all her packing, to take care of the children, to separate the few things her father possessed from Mr. Chester's furniture, to see after everything and everybody, providing something even (though she had so little) for the auctioneer and his men. And it was a relief to her when her father came back a little earlier than usual, and looking no worse. She said to herself that Mab was right; that he felt it, of course--which was to be expected--but otherwise was as well as usual. He had a little colour in his cheeks, and ate very well, and afterwards fell asleep in his chair.

How natural it was that he should fall asleep! It was the very best thing for him. Notwithstanding, in her anxiety, Cicely went out into the garden to look at him through the open window, and make sure that all was right. How white his venerable head looked lying against the dark corner of the chair, his face like ivory but for the little pink in his cheeks, but he looked well, although he was wearied out, evidently; and no wonder! It was the most natural thing in the world.

Next day he was stronger and more cheerful in the morning. He went out, and made a round of all the poor people, saying good-bye to them; and half the people in Brentburn came crying to the doors of the cottages, and said "Good-bye, sir!" and "G.o.d bless you, sir!" curtsying and wiping their eyes with their ap.r.o.ns. All the last sixpences he had went that day to the old women and the children, to buy a little tea or some sweets in the little shop. He was very heavy about the eyes when he came home, and took his tea eagerly. Then he went out for an evening stroll, as he had been used to do before all these troubles came. He did not ask Cicely to go with him, but no doubt he knew how busy she was. When, however, she had put the children to bed, and packed everything but the last box, which was left till to-morrow morning, Cicely perceived that daylight was over, and that it was getting late. Her father was not in any of the rooms. Frightened, she ran out, and gazed about her looking for him; then, seeing no one up or down, in a sudden pa.s.sion of terror, hurried up the bank to the white churchyard stile. There she found him at once, standing close by the cross on her mother's grave. He had one arm round it, and with his other hand was picking away the yellow mosses that had crept over the stone; but he stopped when she called him, and picked up his hat which lay at his feet, and came with her quite submissively.

"It is late, papa," said Cicely, with quivering lips.

"Yes, yes, my dear; yes, you are quite right," he said, and walked towards the rectory--but like a blind man, as if he did not see where he was going. Two or three times she had to guide him to keep him from stumbling over the humble graves, for which usually he had so much reverence. He went into the house in the same way, going straight before him, as if he did not know where the door were; and, instead of going into the dining-room, where supper was laid as usual, he took up a candle which stood on the hall-table, and went to his study. Cicely followed him, alarmed; but he did nothing more than seat himself at his writing-table.

"Are you not coming to supper, papa?" she said.

"Did any one speak?" he asked, looking up eagerly as if he did not see.

"O papa, dear, come to supper!" she cried. Then his vacant face seemed to brighten.

"Yes, my love, yes. I am coming; I am coming----"

Cicely did not know what to say or to think. Was it to her he was speaking? She went away, her heart beating loud, to see that all was ready, hoping he would follow. But as he did not come in about ten minutes after, she went back. The room was dark, one corner of it only lighted by the candle, which threw all its light on his pale face and white hair. He was turning over some papers, apparently absorbed. He did not seem to observe her entrance. She went up to him softly, and put her hand upon his shoulder. "Come, please, papa, I am waiting," she said.

He turned to her, a great light s.h.i.+ning over his face. "Ah! yes, my darling, you are waiting. How long you have been waiting! But I'm ready--ready.--I knew you would come, Hester, I knew you would come when I wanted you most----"

"Papa!" cried Cicely, in a voice shrill with terror.

He started, the light went out of his face, his eyes grew cloudy and bewildered. "What were you saying, Cicely? I am getting--a little hard of hearing. I don't think I heard what you said."

"Come in to supper, papa."

"Yes, yes; but you need not trouble; there is nothing the matter," he said, recovering himself. And he went with her and ate something dutifully, not without appet.i.te. Then he returned to his study. When Cicely went to him there to say good-night he was smiling to himself. "I am coming; I am coming," he said. "No need to tell me twice; I know when I am in good hands."

"Good night, papa--you are going to bed?--we must be early to-morrow,"