“I did it for the best, as I thought.”
The minister shut the book to hastily, and stood up. Then I saw how angry he was.
“For the best, do you say? It was best, was it, to go and tell a young girl what you never told a word of to her parents, who trusted you like a son of their own?”
He began walking about, up and down the room close under the open windows, churning up his bitter thoughts of me.
“To put such thoughts into the child’s head,” continued he; “to spoil her peaceful maidenhood with talk about another man’s love; and such love, too,” he spoke scornfully now—“a love that is ready for any young woman. Oh, the misery in my poor little daughter’s face today at dinner—the misery, Paul! I thought you were one to be trusted—your father’s son too, to go and put such thoughts into the child’s mind; you two talking together about that man wishing to marry her.”
I could not help remembering the pinafore, the childish garment which Phillis wore so long, as if her parents were unaware of her progress towards womanhood. Just in the same way the minister spoke and thought of her now, as a child, whose innocent peace I had spoiled by vain and foolish talk. I knew that the truth was different, though I could hardly have told it now; but, indeed, I never thought of trying to tell; it was far from my mind to add one iota to the sorrow which I had caused. The minister went on walking, occasionally stopping to move things on the table, or articles of furniture, in a sharp, impatient, meaningless way, then he began again—
“So young, so pure from the world! how could you go and talk to such a child, raising hopes, exciting feelings—all to end thus; and best so, even though I saw her poor piteous face look as it did. I can’t forgive you, Paul; it was more than wrong—it was wicked—to go and repeat that man’s words.”
His back was now to the door, and, in listening to his low angry tones, he did not hear it slowly open, nor did he see Phillis, standing just within the room, until he turned round; then he stood still. She must have been half undressed; but she had covered herself with a dark winter cloak, which fell in long folds to her white, naked, noiseless feet. Her face was strangely pale: her eyes heavy in the black circles round them. She came up to the table very slowly, and leant her hand upon it, saying mournfully—
“Father, you must not blame Paul. I could not help hearing a great deal of what you were saying. He did tell me, and perhaps it would have been wiser not, dear Paul! But—oh, dear! oh, dear! I am so sick with shame! He told me out of his kind heart, because he saw—that I was so very unhappy at his going away.” She hung her head, and leant more heavily than before on her supporting hand.
“I don’t understand,” said her father; but he was beginning to understand. Phillis did not answer till he asked her again. I could have struck him now for his cruelty; but then I knew all.
“I loved him, father!” she said at length, raising her eyes to the minister’s face. “Had he ever spoken of love to you? Paul says not!”
“Never.” She let fall her eyes, and drooped more than ever. I almost thought she would fall.
“I could not have believed it,” said he, in a hard voice, yet sighing the moment he had spoken. A dead silence for a moment. “Paul! I was unjust to you. You deserved blame, but not all that I said.” Then again a silence. I thought I saw Phillis’s white lips moving, but it might have been the flickering of the candlelight—a moth had flown in through the open casement, and was fluttering round the flame; I might have saved it, but I did not care to do so, my heart was too full of other things. At any rate, no sound was heard for long endless minutes. Then he said—“Phillis! did we not make you happy here? Have we not loved you enough?”
She did not seem to understand the drift of this question; she looked up as if bewildered, and her beautiful eyes dilated with a painful, tortured expression. He went on, without noticing the look on her face; he did not see it, I am sure.
“And yet you would have left us, left your home, left your father and your mother, and gone away with this stranger, wandering over the world.” He suffered, too; there were tones of pain in the voice in which he uttered this reproach. Probably the father and daughter were never so far apart in their lives, so unsympathetic. Yet some new terror came over her, and it was to him she turned for help. A shadow came over her face, and she tottered towards her father; falling down, her arms across his knees, and moaning out—
“Father, my head! my head!” and then slipped through his quick-enfolding arms, and lay on the ground at his feet.
I shall never forget his sudden look of agony while I live; never! We raised her up; her colour had strangely darkened; she was insensible. I ran through the back-kitchen to the yard pump, and brought back water. The minister had her on his knees, her head against his breast, almost as though she were a sleeping child. He was trying to rise up with his poor precious burden, but the momentary terror had robbed the strong man of his strength, and he sank back in his chair with sobbing breath.
“She is not dead, Paul! is she?” he whispered, hoarse, as I came near him. I, too, could not speak, but I pointed to the quivering of the muscles round her mouth. Just then cousin Holman, attracted by some unwonted sound, came down. I remember I was surprised at the time at her presence of mind, she seemed to know so much better what to do than the minister, in the midst of the sick affright which blanched her countenance, and made her tremble all over. I think now that it was the recollection of what had gone before; the miserable thought that possibly his words had brought on this attack, whatever it might be, that so unmanned the minister. We carried her upstairs, and while the women were putting her to bed, still unconscious, still slightly convulsed, I slipped out, and saddled one of the horses, and rode as fast as the heavy-trotting beast could go, to Hornby, to find the doctor there, and bring him back. He was out, might be detained the whole night. I remember saying, “God help us all!” as I sate on my horse, under the window, through which the apprentice’s head had appeared to answer my furious tugs at the night-bell. He was a good-natured fellow. He said—
“He may be home in half an hour, there’s no knowing; but I daresay he will. I’ll send him out to the Hope Farm directly he comes in. It’s that good-looking young woman, Holman’s daughter, that’s ill, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It would be a pity if she was to go. She’s an only child, isn’t she? I’ll get up, and smoke a pipe in the surgery, ready for the governor’s coming home. I might go to sleep if I went to bed again.”
“Thank you, you’re a good fellow!” and I rode back almost as quickly as I came. It was a brain fever. The doctor said so, when he came in the early summer morning. I believe we had come to know the nature of the illness in the night-watches that had gone before. As to hope of ultimate recovery, or even evil prophecy of the probable end, the cautious doctor would be entrapped into neither. He gave his directions, and promised to come again; so soon, that this one thing showed his opinion of the gravity of the case.
By God’s mercy she recovered, but it was a long, weary time first. According to previously made plans, I was to have gone home at the beginning of August. But all such ideas were put aside now, without a word being spoken. I really think that I was necessary in the house, and especially necessary to the minister at this time; my father was the last man in the world, under such circumstances, to expect me home.
I say, I think I was necessary in the house. Every person (1 had almost said every creature, for all the dumb beasts seemed to know and love Phillis) about the place went grieving and sad, as though a cloud was over the sun. They did their work, each striving to steer clear of the temptation to eye-service, in fulfilment of the trust reposed in them by the minister. For the day after Phillis had been taken ill, he had called all the men employed on the farm into the empty barn; and there he had entreated their prayers for his only child; and then and there he had told them of his present incapacity for thought about any other thing in this world but his little daughte
r, lying nigh unto death, and he had asked them to go on with their daily labours as best they could, without his direction. So, as I say, these honest men did their work to the best of their ability, but they slouched along with sad and careful faces, coming one by one in the dim mornings to ask news of the sorrow that overshadowed the house; and receiving Betty’s intelligence, always rather darkened by passing through her mind, with slow shakes of the head, and a dull wistfulness of sympathy. But, poor fellows, they were hardly fit to be trusted with hasty messages, and here my poor services came in. One time I was to ride hard to Sir William Bentinck’s, and petition for ice out of his ice-house, to put on Phillis’s head. Another it was to Eltham I must go, by train, horse, anyhow, and bid the doctor there come for a consultation, for fresh symptoms had appeared, which Mr. Brown, of Hornby, considered unfavourable. Many an hour have I sate on the window-seat, half-way up the stairs, close by the old clock, listening in the hot stillness of the house for the sounds in the sick-room. The minister and I met often, but spoke together seldom. He looked so old—so old! He shared the nursing with his wife; the strength that was needed seemed to be given to them both in that day. They required no one else about their child. Every office about her was sacred to them; even Betty only went into the room for the most necessary purposes. Once I saw Phillis through the open door; her pretty golden hair had been cut off long before; her head was covered with wet cloths, and she was moving it backwards and forwards on the pillow, with weary, never-ending motion, her poor eyes shut, trying in the old accustomed way to croon out a hymn tune, but perpetually breaking it up into moans of pain. Her mother sate by her, tearless, changing the cloths upon her head with patient solicitude. I did not see the minister at first, but there he was in a dark corner, down upon his knees, his hands clasped together in passionate prayer. Then the door shut, and I saw no more. One day he was wanted; and I had to summon him. Brother Robinson and another minister, hearing of his “trial,” had come to see him. I told him this upon the stair-landing in a whisper. He was strangely troubled.
“They will want me to lay bare my heart. I cannot do it. Paul, stay with me. They mean well; but as for spiritual help at such a time—it is God only, God only, who can give it.
So I went in with him. They were two ministers from the neighbourhood; both older than Ebenezer Holman; but evidently inferior to him in education and worldly position. I thought they looked at me as if I were an intruder, but remembering the minister’s words I held my ground, and took up one of poor Phillis’s books (of which I could not read a word) to have an ostensible occupation. Presently I was asked to “engage in prayer,” and we all knelt down; Brother Robinson “leading,” and quoting largely as I remember from the Book of Job. He seemed to take for his text, if texts are ever taken for prayers,
“Behold thou hast instructed many; but now it is come upon thee, and thou faintest, it toucheth thee and thou art troubled.” When we others rose up, the minister continued for some minutes on his knees. Then he too got up, and stood facing us, for a moment, before we all sate down in conclave. After a pause Robinson began—
“We grieve for you, Brother Holman, for your trouble is great. But we would fain have you remember you are as a light set on a hill; and the congregations are looking at you with watchful eyes. We have been talking as we came along on the two duties required of you in this strait; Brother Hodgson and me. And we have resolved to exhort you on these two points. First, God has given you the opportunity of showing forth an example of resignation.” Poor Mr. Holman visibly winced at this word. I could fancy how he had tossed aside such brotherly preachings in his happier moments; but now his whole system was unstrung, and “resignation” seemed a term which presupposed that the dreaded misery of losing Phillis was inevitable. But good stupid Mr. Robinson went on. “We hear on all sides that there are scarce any hopes of your child’s recovery; and it may be well to bring you to mind of Abraham; and how he was willing to kill his only child when the Lord commanded. Take example by him, Brother Holman. Let us hear you say, ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!’ ”
There was a pause of expectancy. I verily believe the minister tried to feel it; but he could not. Heart of flesh was too strong. Heart of stone he had not.
“I will say it to my God, when He gives me strength—when the day comes,” he spoke at last.
The other two looked at each other, and shook their heads. I think the reluctance to answer as they wished was not quite unexpected. The minister went on “There are yet” he said, as if to himself. “God has given me a great heart for hoping, and I will not look forward beyond the hour.” Then turning more to them—and speaking louder, he added: “Brethren, God will strengthen me when the time comes, when such resignation as you speak of is needed. Till then I cannot feel it; and what I do not feel I will not express; using words as if they were a charm.” He was getting chafed, I could see. He had rather put them out by these speeches of his; but after a short time and some more shakes of the head, Robinson began again—
“Secondly, we would have you listen to the voice of the rod, and ask yourself for what sins this trial has been laid upon you; whether you may not have been too much given up to your farm and your cattle; whether this world’s learning has not puffed you up to vain conceit and neglect of the things of God; whether you have not made an idol of your daughter?”
“I cannot answer—I will not answer,” exclaimed the minister. “My sins I confess to God. But if they were scarlet (and they are so in His sight),” he added, humbly, “I hold with Christ that afflictions are not sent by God in wrath as penalties for sin.”
“Is that orthodox, Brother Robinson?” asked the third minister, in a deferential tone of inquiry.
Despite the minister’s injunction not to leave him, I thought matters were getting so serious that a little homely interruption would be more to the purpose than my continued presence, and I went round to the kitchen to ask for Betty’s help.
“ ’Od rot ’em!” said she; “they’re always a-coming at ill-convenient times; and they have such hearty appetites, they’ll make nothing of what would have served master and you since our poor lass has been ill. I’ve but a bit of cold beef in th’ house; but I’ll do some ham and eggs, and that’ll rout ’em from worrying the minister. They’re a deal quieter after they’ve had their victual. Last time as old Robinson came, he was very reprehensible upon master’s learning, which he couldn’t compass to save his life, so he needn’t have been afeard of that temptation, and used words long enough to have knocked a body down; but after me and missus had given him his fill of victual, and he’d had some good ale and a pipe, he spoke just like any other man, and could crack a joke with me.”
Their visit was the only break in the long weary days and nights. I do not mean that no other inquiries were made. I believe that all the neighbours hung about the place daily till they could learn from some out-comer how Phillis Holman was. But they knew better than to come up to the house, for the August weather was so hot that every door and window was kept constantly open, and the least sound outside penetrated all through. I am sure the cocks and hens had a sad time of it; for Betty drove them all into an empty barn, and kept them fastened up in the dark for several days, with very little effect as regarded their crowing and clacking. At length came a sleep which was the crisis, and from which she wakened up with a new faint life. Her slumber had lasted many, many hours. We scarcely dared to breathe or move during the time; we had striven to hope so long, that we were sick at heart, and durst not trust in the favourable signs: the even breathing, the moistened skin, the slight return of delicate colour into the pale, wan lips. I recollect stealing out that evening in the dusk, and wandering down the grassy lane, under the shadow of the over-arching elms to the little bridge at the foot of the hill, where the lane to the Hope Farm joined another road to Hornby. On the low parapet of that bridge I found Timothy Cooper, the stupid, half-witted labourer, sitting, idl
y throwing bits of mortar into the brook below. He just looked up at me as I came near, but gave me no greeting either by word or gesture. He had generally made some sign of recognition to me, but this time I thought he was sullen at being dismissed. Nevertheless I felt as if it would be a relief to talk a little to some one, and I sate down by him. While I was thinking how to begin, he yawned weariedly.
“You are tired, Tim?” said I.
“Ay,” said he. “But I reckon I may go home now.”
“Have you been sitting here long?”
“Welly all day long. Leastways sin’ seven i’ th’ morning.”
“Why, what in the world have you been doing?”
“Nought.”
“Why have you been sitting here, then?”
“T’ keep carts off.” He was up now, stretching himself, and shaking his lubberly limbs.
“Carts! what carts?”
“Carts as might ha’ wakened yon wench! It’s Hornby market day. I reckon yo’re no better nor a half-wit yoursel’.” He cocked his eye at me as if he were gauging my intellect.
“And have you been sitting here all day to keep the lane quiet?”
“Ay. I’ve nought else to do. Th’ minister has turned me adrift. Have yo’ heard how th’ lass is faring tonight?”
“They hope she’ll waken better for this long sleep. Good night to you, and God bless you, Timothy,” said I.
He scarcely took any notice of my words, as he lumbered across a Stile that led to his cottage. Presently I went home to the farm. Phillis had stirred, had spoken two or three faint words. Her mother was with her, dropping nourishment into her scarce conscious mouth. The rest of the household were summoned to evening prayer for the first time for many days. It was a return to the daily habits of happiness and health. But in these silent days our very lives had been an unspoken prayer. Now we met in the house-place, and looked at each other with strange recognition of the thankfulness on all our faces. We knelt down; we waited for the minister’s voice. He did not begin as usual. He could not; he was choking. Presently we heard the strong man’s sob. Then old John turned round on his knees, and said—
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