Paul faber surgeon, p.9
PAUL FABER, SURGEON, page 9
I will tell no more of it. Perhaps it is silly of me to tell any, but it moved me strangely.
I have said enough to show there was a contrast between the two ladies. As to what passed in the way of talk, that, from pure incapacity, I dare not attempt to report. I did hear them talk once, and they laughed too, but not one salient point could I lay hold of by which afterward to recall their conversation. Do I dislike Mrs. Bevis? Not in the smallest degree. I could read a book I loved in her presence. That would be impossible to me in the presence of Mrs. Ramshorn.
Mrs. Wingfold had developed a great faculty for liking people. It was quite a fresh shoot of her nature, for she had before been rather of a repellent disposition. I wish there were more, and amongst them some of the best of people, similarly changed. Surely the latter would soon be, if once they had a glimpse of how much the coming of the kingdom is retarded by defect of courtesy. The people I mean are slow to like, and until they come to like, they seem to dislike. I have known such whose manner was fit to imply entire disapprobation of the very existence of those upon whom they looked for the first time. They might then have been saying to themselves, “I would never have created such people!” Had I not known them, I could not have imagined them lovers of God or man, though they were of both. True courtesy, that is, courtesy born of a true heart, is a most lovely, and absolutely indispensable grace — one that nobody but a Christian can thoroughly develop. God grant us a “coming-on disposition,” as Shakespeare calls it. Who shall tell whose angel stands nearer to the face of the Father? Should my brother stand lower in the social scale than I, shall I not be the more tender, and respectful, and self-refusing toward him, that God has placed him there who may all the time be greater than I? A year before, Helen could hardly endure doughy Mrs. Bevis, but now she had found something to like in her, and there was confidence and faith between them. So there they sat, the elder lady meandering on, and Helen, who had taken care to bring some work with her, every now and then casting a bright glance in her face, or saying two or three words with a smile, or asking some simple question. Mrs. Bevis talked chiefly of the supposed affairs and undoubted illness of Miss Meredith, concerning both of which rather strange reports had reached her.
Meantime the gentlemen were walking through the park in earnest conversation. They crossed the little brook and climbed to the heath on the other side. There the rector stood, and turning to his companion, said:
“It’s rather late in the day for a fellow to wake up, ain’t it, Wingfold? You see I was brought up to hate fanaticism, and that may have blinded me to something you have seen and got a hold of. I wish I could just see what it is, but I never was much of a theologian. Indeed I suspect I am rather stupid in some things. But I would fain try to look my duty in the face. It’s not for me to start up and teach the people, because I ought to have been doing it all this time: I’ve got nothing to teach them. God only knows whether I haven’t been breaking every one of the commandments I used to read to them every Sunday.”
“But God does know, sir,” said the curate, with even more than his usual respect in his tone, “and that is well, for otherwise we might go on breaking them forever.”
The rector gave him a sudden look, full in the face, but said nothing, seemed to fall a thinking, and for some time was silent.
“There’s one thing clear,” he resumed: “I’ve been taking pay, and doing no work. I used to think I was at least doing no harm — that I was merely using one of the privileges of my position: I not only paid a curate, but all the repair the church ever got was from me. Now, however, for the first time, I reflect that the money was not given me for that. Doubtless it has been all the better for my congregation, but that is only an instance of the good God brings out of evil, and the evil is mine still. Then, again, there’s all this property my wife brought me: what have I done with that? The kingdom of heaven has not come a hair’s-breadth nearer for my being a parson of the Church of England; neither are the people of England a shade the better that I am one of her land-owners. It is surely time I did something, Wingfold, my boy!”
“I think it is, sir,” answered the curate.
“Then, in God’s name, what am I to do?” returned the rector, almost testily.
“Nobody can answer that question but yourself, sir,” replied Wingfold.
“It’s no use my trying to preach. I could not write a sermon if I took a month to it. If it were a paper on the management of a stable, now, I think I could write that — respectably. I know what I am about there. I could even write one on some of the diseases of horses and bullocks — but that’s not what the church pays me for. There’s one thing though — it comes over me strong that I should like to read prayers in the old place again. I want to pray, and I don’t know how; and it seems as if I could shove in some of my own if I had them going through my head once again. I tell you what: we won’t make any fuss about it — what’s in a name? — but from this day you shall be incumbent, and I will be curate. You shall preach — or what you please, and I shall read the prayers or not, just as you please. Try what you can make of me, Wingfold. Don’t ask me to do what I can’t, but help me to do what I can. Look here — here’s what I’ve been thinking — it came to me last night as I was walking about here after coming from Glaston: — here, in this corner of the parish, we are a long way from church. In the village there, there is no place of worship except a little Methodist one. There isn’t one of their — local preachers, I believe they call them — that don’t preach a deal better than I could if I tried ever so much. It’s vulgar enough sometimes, they tell me, but then they preach, and mean it. Now I might mean it, but I shouldn’t preach; — for what is it to people at work all the week to have a man read a sermon to them? You might as well drive a nail by pushing it in with the palm of your hand. Those men use the hammer. Ill-bred, conceited fellows, some of them, I happen to know, but they know their business. Now why shouldn’t I build a little place here on my own ground, and get the bishop to consecrate it? I would read prayers for you in the abbey church in the morning, and then you would not be too tired to come and preach here in the evening. I would read the prayers here too, if you liked.”
“I think your scheme delightful,” answered the curate, after a moment’s pause. “I would only venture to suggest one improvement — that you should not have your chapel consecrated. You will find it ever so much more useful. It will then be dedicated to the God of the whole earth, instead of the God of the Church of England.”
“Why! ain’t they the same?” cried the rector, half aghast, as he stopped and faced round on the curate.
“Yes,” answered Wingfold; “and all will be well when the Church of England really recognizes the fact. Meantime its idea of God is such as will not at all fit the God of the whole earth. And that is why she is in bondage. Except she burst the bonds of her own selfishness, she will burst her heart and go to pieces, as her enemies would have her. Every piece will be alive, though, I trust, more or less.”
“I don’t understand you,” said the rector. “What has all that to do with the consecration of my chapel?”
“If you don’t consecrate it,” answered Wingfold, “it will remain a portion of the universe, a thoroughfare for all divine influences, open as the heavens to every wind that blows. Consecration—”
Here the curate checked himself. He was going to say— “is another word for congestion,” — but he bethought himself what a wicked thing it would be, for the satisfaction of speaking his mind, to disturb that of his rector, brooding over a good work.
“But,” he concluded therefore, “there will be time enough to think about that. The scheme is a delightful one. Apart from it, however, altogether — if you would but read prayers in your own church, it would wonderfully strengthen my hands. Only I am afraid I should shock you sometimes.”
“I will take my chance of that. If you do, I will tell you of it. And if I do what you don’t like, you must tell me of it. I trust neither of us will find the other incapable of understanding his neighbor’s position.”
They walked to the spot which the rector had already in his mind as the most suitable for the projected chapel. It was a bit of gently rising ground, near one of the gates, whence they could see the whole of the little village of Owlkirk. One of the nearest cottages was that of Mrs. Puckridge. They saw the doctor ride in at the other end of the street, stop there, fasten his horse to the paling, and go in.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE GARDEN AT OWLKIRK.
No sooner had Faber left the cottage that same morning, than the foolish Mrs. Puckridge proceeded to pour out to the patient, still agitated both with her dream and her waking vision, all the terrible danger she had been in, and the marvelous way in which the doctor had brought her back from the threshold of death. Every drop of the little blood in her body seemed to rush to her face, then back to her heart, leaving behind it a look of terror. She covered her face with the sheet, and lay so long without moving that her nurse was alarmed. When she drew the sheet back, she found her in a faint, and it was with great difficulty she brought her out of it. But not one word could she get from her. She did not seem even to hear what she said. Presently she grew restless, and soon her flushed cheek and bright eye indicated an increase of fever. When Faber saw her, he was much disappointed, perceived at once that something had excited her, and strongly suspected that, for all her promises, Mrs. Puckridge had betrayed the means by which he recovered her.
He said to himself that he had had no choice, but then neither had the lady, and the thing might be hateful to her. She might be in love, and then how she must abominate the business, and detest him! It was horrible to think of her knowing it. But for knowing it, she would never be a whit the worse, for he never had a day’s illness in his life and knew of no taint in his family.
When she saw him approach her bedside, a look reminding him of the ripple of a sudden cold gust passing with the shadow of a cloud over still water swept across her face. She closed her eyes, and turned a little from him. What color she had, came and went painfully. Cursing in his heart the faithlessness of Mrs. Puckridge, he assumed his coldest, hardest professional manner, felt her pulse with the gentlest, yet most peremptory inquiry, gave her attendant some authoritative directions, and left her, saying he would call again in the afternoon.
During seven days he visited her twice a day. He had good cause to be anxious, and her recovery was very slow. Once and again appeared threatenings of the primary complaint, while from the tardiness with which her veins refilled, he feared for her lungs. During all these visits, hardly a word beyond the most necessary passed between them. After that time they were reduced to one a day. Ever as the lady grew stronger, she seemed to become colder, and her manner grew more distant. After a fortnight, he again reduced them to one in two days — very unwillingly, for by that time she had come to occupy nearly as much of his thoughts as all the rest of his patients together. She made him feel that his visits were less than welcome to her, except for the help they brought her, allowed him no insight into her character and ways of thinking, behaved to him indeed with such restraint, that he could recall no expression of her face the memory of which drew him to dwell upon it; yet her face and form possessed him with their mere perfection. He had to set himself sometimes to get rid of what seemed all but her very presence, for it threatened to unfit him for the right discharge of his duties. He was haunted with the form to which he had given a renewal of life, as a murderer is haunted with the form of the man he has killed. In those marvelous intervals betwixt sleep and waking, when the soul is like a camera obscura, into which throng shapes unbidden, hers had displaced all others, and came constantly — now flashing with feverous radiance, now pale and bloodless as death itself. But ever and always her countenance wore a look of aversion. She seemed in these visions, to regard him as a vile necromancer, who first cast her into the sepulcher, and then brought her back by some hellish art. She had fascinated him. But he would not allow that he was in love with her. A man may be fascinated and hate. A man is not necessarily in love with the woman whose form haunts him. So said Faber to himself; and I can not yet tell whether he was in love with her or not. I do not know where the individuality of love commences — when love begins to be love. He must have been a good way toward that point, however, to have thus betaken himself to denial. He was the more interested to prove himself free, that he feared, almost believed, there was a lover concerned, and that was the reason she hated him so severely for what he had done.
He had long come to the conclusion that circumstances had straitened themselves around her. Experience had given him a keen eye, and he had noted several things about her dress. For one thing, while he had observed that her under-clothing was peculiarly dainty, he had once or twice caught a glimpse of such an incongruity as he was compelled to set down to poverty. Besides, what reason in which poverty bore no part, could a lady have for being alone in a poor country lodging, without even a maid? Indeed, might it not be the consciousness of the peculiarity of her position, and no dislike to him, that made her treat him with such impenetrable politeness? Might she not well dread being misunderstood!
She would be wanting to pay him for his attendance — and what was he to do? He must let her pay something, or she would consider herself still more grievously wronged by him, but how was he to take the money from her hand? It was very hard that ephemeral creatures of the earth, born but to die, to gleam out upon the black curtain and vanish again, might not, for the brief time the poor yet glorious bubble swelled and throbbed, offer and accept from each other even a few sunbeams in which to dance! Would not the inevitable rain beat them down at night, and “mass them into the common clay”? How then could they hurt each other — why should they fear it — when they were all wandering home to the black, obliterative bosom of their grandmother Night? He well knew a certain reply to such reflection, but so he talked with himself.
He would take his leave as if she were a duchess. But he would not until she made him feel another visit would be an intrusion.
One day Mrs. Puckridge met him at the door, looking mysterious. She pointed with her thumb over her shoulder to indicate that the lady was in the garden, but at the same time nudged him with her elbow, confident that the impartment she had to make would justify the liberty, and led the way into the little parlor.
“Please, sir, and tell me,” she said, turning and closing the door, “what I be to do. She says she’s got no money to pay neither me nor the doctor, so she give me this, and wants me to sell it. I daren’t show it! They’d say I stole it! She declares that if I mention to a living soul where I got it, she’ll never speak to me again. In course she didn’t mean you, sir, seein’ as doctors an’ clergymen ain’t nobody — leastways nobody to speak on — and I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir, but my meanin’ is as they ain’t them as ain’t to be told things. I declare I’m most terrified to set eyes on the thing!”
She handed the doctor a little morocco case. He opened it, and saw a ring, which was plainly of value. It was old-fashioned — a round mass of small diamonds with a good-sized central one.
“You are quite right,” he said. “The ring is far too valuable for you to dispose of. Bring it to my house at four o’clock, and I will get rid of it for you.”
Mrs. Puckridge was greatly relieved, and ended the interview by leading the way to the back-door. When she opened it, he saw his patient sitting in the little arbor. She rose, and came to meet him.
“You see I am quite well now,” she said, holding out her hand.
Her tone was guarded, but surely the ice was melting a little! Was she taking courage at the near approach of her deliverance?
She stooped to pick a double daisy from the border. Prompt as he generally was, he could say nothing: he knew what was coming next. She spoke while still she stooped.
“When you come again,” she said, “will you kindly let me know how much I am in your debt?”
As she ended she rose and stood before him, but she looked no higher than his shirt-studs. She was ashamed to speak of her indebtedness as an amount that could be reckoned. The whiteness of her cheek grew warm, which was all her complexion ever revealed of a blush. It showed plainer in the deepened darkness of her eyes, and the tremulous increase of light in them.
“I will,” he replied, without the smallest response of confusion, for he had recovered himself. “You will be careful!” he added. “Indeed you must, or you will never be strong.”
She answered only with a little sigh, as if weakness was such a weariness! and looked away across the garden-hedge out into the infinite — into more of it at least I think, than Faber recognized.
“And of all things,” he went on, “wear shoes — every time you have to step off a carpet — not mere foot-gloves like those.”
“Is this a healthy place, Doctor Faber?” she asked, looking haughtier, he thought, but plainly with a little trouble in her eyes.
“Decidedly,” he answered. “And when you are able to walk on the heath you will find the air invigorating. Only please mind what I say about your shoes. — May I ask if you intend remaining here any time?”
“I have already remained so much longer than I intended, that I am afraid to say. My plans are now uncertain.”
“Excuse me — I know I presume — but in our profession we must venture a little now and then — could you not have some friend with you until you are perfectly strong again? After what you have come through, it may be years before you are quite what you were. I don’t want to frighten you — only to make you careful.”
“There is no one,” she answered in a low voice, which trembled a little.
“No one — ?” repeated Faber, as if waiting for the end of the sentence.
But his heart gave a great bound.
“No one to come to me. I am alone in the world. My mother died when I was a child and my father two years ago. He was an officer. I was his only child, and used to go about with him. I have no friends.”
