“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-fashioned 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 “God bless you, sir!” curtsying and wiping their eyes with their aprons. 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 passion 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 shining 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 appetite. 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,” said Cicely.
“Yes, early – early,” he said, still smiling. “Directly, Hester – before you have reached the gate – ”
“Papa! don’t you know me?” cried Cicely, trembling from head to foot.
Again he turned to her with his old face all lighted up and shining. “Know you! my darling!” he said.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE CURATE LEAVES BRENTBURN
CICELY went to her room that night in a very nervous and disturbed condition. It was her last night, too, in the house in which she had been born; but she had no leisure to think of that, or to indulge in any natural sentiments on the subject. She was very much alarmed about her father, whose looks were so strange, but did not know what to do. That he should take her for her mother was perhaps not wonderful at such a moment of agitation; but it frightened her more than words can say. What could she do? It was night, and there was no one in the house with her but Betsy, who had for hours been buried in deepest slumbers; and even had she been able to send for the doctor, what advance would that have made? – for he was not ill, only strange, and it was so natural that he should be strange; – and the good steady-going country doctor, acquainted with honest practical fevers and rheumatism, what help could he bring to a mind diseased? Cicely had changed her room in her new office of nurse, and now occupied a small inner chamber communicating with that of the two children. She was sitting there pondering and thinking when she heard her father come upstairs. Then he appeared suddenly bending over the children’s little cots. He had a candle in his hand, and stooping feebly, kissed the little boys. He was talking to himself all the time; but she could not make out what he said, except, as he stood looking at the children, “Poor things, poor things! God bless you.” Cicely did not show herself, anxiously as she watched, and he went out again and on to his own room. He was going to bed quietly, and after all it might turn out to be nothing; perhaps he had been dozing when he called her Hester, and was scarcely awake. After this she intended to go to bed herself; for she was sadly worn out with her long day’s work and many cares, and fell dead asleep, as youth unaccustomed to watching ever will do in the face of all trouble. The house was perfectly still so long as she was awake; not a sound disturbed the quiet except the breathing of Harry and Charley, and the tap of the jessamine branches against her windows. There was one last blossom at the end of a branch, late and long after its neighbours, which shed some of its peculiar sweetness through the open window. The relief was so great to hear her father come upstairs, and to know that he was safe in his room, that her previous fright seemed folly. She said her prayers, poor child! in her loneliness, giving tearful thanks for this blessing, and fell asleep without time to think of any bothers or sorrow of her own. Thus sometimes, perhaps, those who have other people to carry on their shoulders avoid occasionally the sharp sting of personal feeling – at least, of all the sentiments which are of a secondary kind.
The morning was less warm and bright than usual, with a true autumnal haze over the trees. This soothed Cicely when she looked out. She was very early, for there were still various last things to do. She had finished her own individual concerns, and locked her box ready for removal, before it was time to call the children, who slept later and more quietly than usual by another happy dispensation of providence. Cicely heard the auctioneer arrive, and the sound of chatter and laughter with which Betsy received the men, with whom already she had made acquaintance. Why not? Shall everybody be sad because we are in trouble? Cicely asked herself; and she leant out of the window which overlooked the garden, and took a deep draught of the dewy freshness of the morning before she proceeded to wake the children and begin the day’s work. Her eyes, poor child! were as dewy as the morning; but she did not give herself time to cry, or waste her strength by such an indulgence. A knock at her door disturbed her, and she shut the window hastily, and shaking off those stray drops from her eyelashes, went to see what Betsy wanted so early. Betsy stood outside, looking pale and excited. “The men says, please, miss, will you come downstairs?” said Betsy, making an effort at a curtsy, which was so very unusual that Cicely was half amused.
“What do they want? I have to dress the children, Betsy. Could not you do instead?”
“If you please, miss, I’ll dress the children. Do go – go, please Miss Cicely! I’m too frightened. O miss, your poor papa!”
“Papa?” Cicely gave the girl one frightened beseeching look, and then flew downstairs, her feet scarcely touching the steps. Why was he up so early? Why was he vexing himself with those men, and their preparations, making himself miserable about nothing, when there were so many real troubles to bear? The men were standing in a little knot by the study door, which was half open. “What do you want with me? What is it?”
They were confused; one of them put forward another to speak to her, and there was a little rustling, and shuffling, and changing of position, which permitted her to see, as she thought, Mr. St. John sitting, facing the door, in his usual chair. “Ah! it is papa who has come down, I see – thank you for not wishing to disturb him. I will tell him,” said Cicely, passing through the midst of them with swift light youthful steps.
“Don’t let her go! Stop her, for God’s sake!” cried one of the men, in subdued confused tones. She heard them, for she remembered them afterwards; but at that moment the words conveyed no meaning to her. She went in as any child would go up to any father. The chair was pushed away from the writing-table, facing towards the door, as if he had been expecting some one. What surprised Cicely more than the aspect of his countenance, in which at the first glance she saw no particular difference, was that he had upon his knees, folded neatly, a woman’s cloak and hat – her mother’s cloak and hat – which had remained in his room by his particular desire ever since Hester died.
“Papa, what are you doing with these?” she said.
There was no reply. “Papa, are you asleep?” cried Cicely. She was getting very much frightened, her heart beating against her breast. For the moment some impulse of terror drove her back upon the men at the door. “He has gone to sleep,” she said, hurriedly; “he was tired, very much tired last night.”
“We have sent for the doctor, miss,” said one of the men.
“Papa, papa!” said Cicely. She had gone back to him paying no attention to them; and then she gave a low cry, and threw herself on her knees by his side, gazing up into his face, trembling. “What is the matter?” said the girl, speaking low; “what is it, papa? Where were you going with that hat and cloak? Speak to me; don’t sit there and doze. We are to go away – to go away – don’t you remember, to-day?”
Some one else came in just then, though she did not hear. It was the doctor, who came and took her by the arm to raise her. “Run away, my dear; run upstairs till I see what is to be done,” he said. “Somebody take her away.”
Cicely rose up quickly. “I cannot awake him,” she said. “Doctor, I am so glad you have come, though he would not let me send yesterday. I think he must be in a faint.”
“Go away, go away, my dear.”
It neither occurred to the poor girl to obey him nor to think what he meant. She stood by breathless while he looked at the motionless figure in the chair, and took into his own the grey cold hand which hung helpless by Mr. St. John’s side. Cicely did not look at her father, but at the doctor, to know what it was; and round the door the group of men gazed too awestricken, with Betsy, whom curiosity and the attraction of terror had brought downstairs, and one or two labourers from the village passing to their morning’s work, who had come in, drawn by the strange fascination of what had happened, and staring too.
“Hours ago,” said the doctor to himself, shaking his head; “he is quite cold; who saw him last?”
“O doctor, do something!” cried Cicely, clasping her hands; “don’t lose time; don’t let him be like this; do something – oh, do something, doctor! Don’t you know that we are going to-day?”
He turned round upon her very gently, and the group at the door moved with a rustling movement of sympathy. Betsy fell a crying loudly, and some of the men put their hands to their eyes. The doctor took Cicely by the arm, and turned her away with gentle force.
“My dear, you must come with me. I want to speak to you in the next room.”
“But papa?” she cried.
“My poor child,” said the compassionate doctor, “we can do nothing for him now.”
Cicely stood quite still for a moment, then the hot blood flushed into her face, followed by sudden paleness. She drew herself out of the kind doctor’s hold, and went back and knelt down again by her father’s side. Do nothing more for him – while still he sat there, just as he always did, in his own chair?
“Papa, what is it?” she said, trembling, while they all stood round. Suddenly the roughest of all the men, one of the labourers, broke forth into loud sobs.
“Don’t you, miss – don’t, for the love of God!” cried the man.
She could not hear it. All this came fresh to her word for word a little later, but just then she heard nothing. She took the hand the doctor had taken, and put her warm cheek and her young lips to it.
“He is cold because he has been sleeping in his chair,” she cried, appealing to them. “Nothing else – what could it be else? and we are going away to-day!”
The doctor grasped at her arm, almost hurting her. “Come,” he said, “Cicely, this is not like you. We must carry him to bed. Come with me to another room. I want to ask you how he was last night.”
This argument subdued her, and she went meekly out of the room, trying to think that her father was to be carried to his bed, and that all might still be well. Trying to think so; though a chill had fallen upon her, and she knew, in spite of herself.
The men shut the door reverently as the doctor took her away, leaving him there whom no one dared to touch, while they stood outside talking in whispers. Mr. St. John, still and cold, kept possession of the place. He had gone last night, when Cicely saw him, to fetch those relics of his Hester, which he had kept for so many years in his room; but, in his feeble state, had been so long searching before he could find them, that sleep had overtaken Cicely, and she had not heard him stumbling downstairs again with his candle. Heaven knows what fancy it was that had sent him to seek his wife’s cloak and hat; his mind had got confused altogether with trouble and weakness, and the shock of uprootal; and then he had sat down again with a smile, with her familiar garments ready for her, to wait through the night till Hester came. What hour or moment it was no one could tell; but Hester, or some other angel, had come for him according to his expectation, and left nothing but the case and husk of him sitting, as he had sat waiting for her, with her cloak upon his knees.
“I am going to telegraph for her sister,” said the doctor, coming out with red eyes after all was done that could be done, both for the living and the dead. “Of course you will send and stop the people from coming; there can be no sale to-day.”
“Of course,” said the auctioneer. “The young lady wouldn’t believe it, my man tells me. I must get them off at once, or they’ll get drinking. They’re all upset like a parcel of women – what with finding him, and what with seeing the young lady. Poor thing! and, so far as I can learn, very badly left?”
“Left!” cried the doctor; there was derision in the very word. “They are not left at all; they have not a penny in the world. Poor St. John, we must not say a word now against him, and there is not much to say. He got on with everybody. He did his duty by rich and poor. There was never a better clergyman, always ready when you called him, early or late; more ready for nothing,” the doctor added remorsefully, “than I am for my best paying patients. We might have done more to smooth his way for him, perhaps, but he never could take care of money or do anything to help himself; and now they’ll have to pay for it, these two poor girls.”
Thus the curate’s record was made. The news went through the parish like the wind, in all its details; dozens of people were stopped in the village going to the sale, and a little comforted for their disappointment by the exciting story. Some of the people thought it was poor Miss Brown, the other Mrs. St. John, whom he was looking for. Some felt it a strange heathenish sort of thing of him, a clergyman, that he should be thinking at that last moment of anything but the golden city with the gates of pearl; and thought there was a dreadful materialism in the cloak and hat. But most people felt a thrill of real emotion, and the moment he was dead, mourned Mr. St. John truly, declaring that Brentburn would never see the like of him again. Mrs. Ascott cried so that she got a very bad headache, and was obliged to go and lie down. But she sent her maid to ask if they could do anything, and even postponed a dinner-party which was to have been that evening, which was a very gratifying token of respect. Mrs. Joel, who was perhaps at the other extremity of the social scale, cried too, but had no headache, and went off at once to the rectory to make herself useful, pulling all the blinds down, which Betsy had neglected, and telling all the callers that poor Miss Cicely was as well as could be expected, though “it have given her a dreadful shock.” The trunks stood all ready packed and corded, with Mr. St. John’s name upon them. But he had no need of them, though he had kept his word and left Brentburn on the appointed day. After a while people began to think that perhaps it was the best thing that could have happened – best for him certainly – he could never have borne the rooting up, they said – he could never have borne Liverpool, so noisy and quarrelsome. “Why, it would have killed him in a fortnight, such a place,” said Mr. Ascott, who had not, however, lent a hand in any way to help him in his struggle against fate.