CHAPTER XII
ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER
Oh! that this story could end where it is now! But it must be told, if told at all, to the end. There seems to be a tacit assumption among story-tellers that every story that is told should issue in happiness. That is the way of stories; it is not the way of life. Life is full of tragedies, often known, oftener unknown, that find no satisfaction in this world. It is not permitted to man to see the ending of them; the fierce light beyond the veil will discover it.
Gerald Eversley’s engagement took place in September. He spent the remainder of his vacation at Helmsbury. How bright, how beautiful the days were! For the first time in his life since childhood—and ah! for the last—Gerald Eversley seemed to himself to live as the Blessed live. Whatever restraint had lain upon his association with Ethel Venniker was now done away. His place was at her side. He was no more open to the fear that, in allowing himself the luxury of accompanying her, he might be doing her a wrong. Day followed day in bliss unalloyed. The mornings were spent in reading and discussing the masterpieces of literature, Gerald exposing to her view literary treasures of which she had no idea; the afternoons in long walks over the downs, often with the object of paying a visit and ministering relief to some one who was in sickness or distress; then before dinner and in the evening they would have music, which was always a strong bond between them, or they would sit in Lady Venniker’s room, and she would give them her experience of life, and would watch with tender interest how each of them seemed more and more to find a complement in the other. It pleased her to fancy that, when they were man and wife, each would be the better and the nobler for the other. Now and again, too, she would speak of marriage, sometimes religiously, saying that it was the symbol of the Saviour’s spiritual union with His church, and, as it was so, wife and husband must be infinitely faithful and tender each to the other, nor must any word or thought come between them to desecrate the sanctity of that relation.
‘Try to think, dear children,’ she added, ‘of some work that you may do in common for His sake. My cottage hospital has been a great delight to me. Your father, Ethel, built it for me in the first year of our married life, and I think he has cared for it so much because I cared for it, and he has been so good in helping the poor children when they were convalescent, and many of them who have been nursed there write to me now. I seem to have a little family scattered all over England and even beyond it, and I know it will be a happiness to you both to do some such work as this from the very first.’
One question that arose in those happy days at Helmsbury, and was discussed afterwards several times, was the question of Gerald’s profession. No one suggested that he should take Holy Orders. But he was now within sight of a fellowship, the crowning ornament of an academical career. When that had been gained (if it should be gained) it would be necessary for him to decide upon his profession.
Lord Venniker, who possessed considerable political influence, was anxious that he should enter one of the Government offices, thinking that he was not qualified for public life, but that in such a sphere his conspicuous ability would bring him to the front. It was a line of life for which Gerald himself displayed some taste, though he had an inclination towards work in a university, or at least under the shadow of a great library. He reflected, however, that much of the best literary work in the world had been done by men who were not strictly students, but devoted to learning the fragments of leisure of which they had made better use than other men of a whole lifetime. Lady Venniker, though she often spoke of his profession, did not expressly state what she wished it to be; but it is probable that in her heart she cherished the hope (and Miss Venniker seems to have shared it) that he would yet see his way to entering upon the parochial ministry of the Church of England. To her it seemed that the profession of the clergyman, if it were conscientiously embraced, offered the blessing, which so few professions offer, of being in itself purely useful and beneficent; he who embraced it did not need to seek opportunities of doing good or to make them for himself apart from his professional life, but they came to him every day in the natural course of his duty; she thought no one could do so much good as a good clergyman, and once she quoted Coleridge’s description of the rural clergyman’s home as ‘the one idyll in English life.’ But Lady Venniker would never let the free choice of a profession, especially one so sacred as the clerical, be compromised or influenced by any deference to her own understood wish. Therefore Gerald was left to make his own choice.
One incident of this time may not be passed over. Mrs. Eversley, after much anxious consultation with her husband, had decided that it would be ‘the right thing’ to invite her future daughter-in-law to spend a few days at the beginning of the new year in Kestercham Vicarage. It would not be true to say that the invitation proceeded from Mrs. Eversley as a matter of grace; it was rather (like so much else that she did) a matter of duty. ‘You see, my dear,’ she said to Mr. Eversley, ‘it is clearly the right thing for us to do. If she is going to be Gerald’s wife (as I suppose she is), she must come to know some day what sort of people we are, and what our life is like, and it is better she should know it before marriage than after. If she turns up her nose at our humble way of living, she need not come here any more. But I think, or at least I hope, she will do her duty as a good wife ought.’
Mr. Eversley assented to this view, though he would perhaps have expressed it rather differently.
So the invitation was sent to Helmsbury Hall. Rather to Mrs. Eversley’s surprise, it was at once gratefully accepted.
It was an anxious day when Ethel Venniker came to Kestercham. Mr. Eversley went himself with Gerald to meet her at the railway station of X——. Mrs. Eversley, whose culinary conceptions were circumscribed and generally resulted, on the rare occasions when she ‘entertained company,’ in doing what she was wont to describe as ‘falling back upon a hash,’ had made great preparations for receiving her in a manner not wholly unworthy of her social position. Judging by the number and variety of the provisions congregated in Mrs. Eversley’s store-room, one might have surmised that social position was marked in England by an unparalleled development of the appetite. She had ordered new dresses for herself and all the children, except the two youngest, whom it was proposed to confine to the nursery. She had persuaded her husband that the stair-carpet ‘had a common look,’ and must be renewed in anticipation of the visit. She understood that ladies of quality like Miss Venniker always brought a ladies’ maid with them, if they did not bring two, and she had made arrangements for receiving these invariable concomitants of rank, and for giving them meals suitable to their status, which appeared to be about midway between her own family and the servants. But Miss Venniker did not come attended by any retinue. She came alone, simply and quietly. Her costume was not impressive in its grandeur. She found no fault with the food. She said how much she liked the view from her bedroom window. It seemed that she was contented with everything. She went into the nursery and played with the children; she had actually brought presents for some of them. She captivated the hearts of Mr. and Mrs. Seaford by paying them a visit at the Grange and taking tea with them, and expressing an interest in agricultural matters; she even promised to accompany Mr. Seaford in one of his morning walks over the farm. Mr. Eversley himself she treated with a respectful delicacy which won its way to his affection. She entered eagerly into all the affairs of the parish. She begged leave to go with him on his visits to his sick people, saying how much she was in the habit of paying such visits, as her mother’s representative, at Helmsbury; she was even to be seen walking at his side and, in spite of his repeated protest, carrying a basin of soup to a poor woman who had just been confined. She volunteered to take a part in the choir at church; and the villagers, who had been duly apprised of her rank and title by Mrs. Eversley, listened in open-mouthed admiration to her sweet voice, and said it seemed to them as if they had heard a voice from a better world. Mr. Eversley found to his delight that she loved her Saviour. It was enough for him; he did not ask if she had been ‘converted,’ but he spoke of her afterwards as ‘an elect soul.’ Perhaps Ethel Venniker did not need ‘conversion;’ there are some souls that do not seem to need it.
But nothing awoke in Mr. Eversley’s heart such fervent satisfaction, nothing was to him such a subject of pious and devout thanksgiving, as her evidently strong spiritual influence upon Gerald. If there had been any roughness, any cynicism noticeable in his manner during the dark days of his doubtings, it disappeared when she was at his side. The old simplicity of faith returned to him, or was as if it returned. It happened that the period of Ethel Venniker’s stay at Kestercham included the first Sunday of the year, the day of the great Sacrament, to which reference has been made in an earlier chapter. Gerald had never attended the Sacrament in Kestercham Church since that first Sunday of the year when he absented himself so tragically. Judge, then, what was Mr. Eversley’s joy, how he lifted his heart in reverent praise to the Almighty, when he saw his son and his future daughter-in-law kneeling side by side, and, without his having said a word to either of them, receiving from his hands the memorials of the Divine Passion. It was almost too much for him; his eyes were filled with tears. The cloud was lifted from his life. Once more, after many days, there was peace—a sacred peace—in Kestercham Vicarage. Once more the relation of father and son was perfected. Once more the old familiar intercourse returned. The two lives became, as it were, one again. Mr. Eversley took out his diary and drew his pen through one ominous entry made there long ago. And she who had done it all, and done it unconsciously, was the beautiful girl who had promised to be Gerald’s bride.
It was more difficult for Ethel Venniker to conquer Mrs. Eversley. Mrs. Eversley’s sense of duty had raised a strong partition-wall between her visitor and herself. There are some people whose sense of duty approximates to a sense of the duty which other people owe to them. Mrs. Eversley, while admitting Miss Venniker’s social superiority, was very careful not to take any such steps as would imply an acknowledgement of her own inferiority; and she wasted a good deal of time in the vain occupation (to which other ladies besides Mrs. Eversley are sometimes given) of thinking what her visitor would think about her, when her visitor was not thinking about her at all, or was only thinking how to please her. But the time came when Mrs. Eversley was called upon to preside at her annual mothers’ tea-party on Twelfth Night. ‘You must not dream of coming to it,’ she said to Miss Venniker on the morning of the party. ‘They are only a number of old women, the labourers’ wives, very common people, as all ours are, and they do not know how to behave; but I think it right to have them. It gives them pleasure, poor things. Mr. Eversley or Gerald will amuse you in the drawing-room.’
But Ethel would not hear of being left out. She brushed aside all Mrs. Eversley’s kindly objections, that she was looking pale and tired, and must not over-fatigue herself. She insisted upon waiting on the old women herself, pouring out cups of tea, carrying round plates of bread and butter and buns, and persuading them to consume more than was good for their health, and to put something in their pockets for their children or grandchildren. When the tea was over, she asked if she might sing to them for a short time. They had listened, or some of them had, to her in church, and they were eager to listen again. So she took her seat at the piano, and for half an hour poured out in rich, liquid tones a series of simple melodies, ending with ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ which so worked upon the simple, uncultured natures of her audience that there were few dry eyes when the music died away. ‘Thank you, miss; God bless you, miss,’ they said at parting, as she shook hands with them all, and more than one of them on the way home were heard to remark that ‘it was somehow like being in heaven.’
Ethel Venniker was not conscious of having done any great thing. She had acted in the way that was most natural to her. The stars are not conscious of the holy thoughts that they kindle by their shining, nor the flowers of the beauty of their petals. It was her pleasure to make others pleased. But hers was the blessing of those who lay their graces and talents at the foot of the Throne, where the poor of God may gather them up.
Ethel Venniker was to return to Helmsbury on the day following the mothers’ tea-party. Gerald was to accompany her home, and go from Helmsbury to Oxford. Before she left Kestercham, two of the mothers to whom she had sung brought her a wreath of holly leaves and berries, saying, in the name of them all, that they wanted so much to thank her for singing, and did not know how they could express their thanks but in this way.
Her last act while she was at Kestercham was to go with Gerald (unknown to Mr. and Mrs. Eversley) into the churchyard. There he showed her his mother’s grave under the yew tree. It was a lovely spot, even in the winter. They stood looking at the lettered headstone.
‘Poor Gerald,’ she said, tenderly, ‘you do not remember her at all?’
‘No,’ he answered, ‘she died when I was born.’
‘I wonder if she was like mamma,’ said Ethel.
The thought had not occurred to Gerald before, but he answered, ‘I think she must have been—I mean, I hope so.’
As they turned away, Miss Venniker added, ‘I do not think life would be possible without mamma.’
Gerald Eversley tore himself away from Helmsbury for a critical event. It was no less than his examination for a fellowship, which was to take place almost immediately. A fellowship is the natural consummation of a distinguished academical life. Lady Venniker and Ethel were alike anxious that he should win it. They were only afraid that the disturbing influence of his engagement had somewhat interfered with his work.
He had now obtained, through Lord Venniker’s mediation, a nomination for the Treasury. His marriage with Ethel Venniker was to take place soon after Easter. They were to begin their married life in Lord Venniker’s London house.
Gerald Eversley spent at Oxford the fortnight immediately preceding the examination for the fellowship. As soon as it was over, he went back to Helmsbury. He was sitting in the boudoir with Lady Venniker and Ethel, when a telegram announcing his election was placed in his hands. It was easy to see by the flush on his face that he had been successful. He handed the telegram to Lady Venniker, and she pressed his hand affectionately.
‘Gerald,’ said Ethel, ‘this is the greatest prize you have ever won, is it not?’
‘No,’ said Gerald, ‘I think I have won a greater prize than a fellowship,’ as he stooped and kissed her.
It is no part of this story to relate in detail the events of the weeks between the election to the fellowship and the wedding-day. Gerald Eversley spent them principally at Helmsbury. His life was secure and serene. Nothing remained—not even the thought of an examination—to mar its exquisite felicity. He and Ethel could be always together. The thousand and one things which need to be settled even before an ordinary wedding—but what wedding was ever ordinary in the eyes of the persons most concerned in it?—occupied and engrossed their thoughts. Mr. Eversley would, of course, take part in the service; so would the worthy rector of Helmsbury; but the bishop of the diocese would marry them. Mrs. Eversley would be present in her new silk gown, and one of her daughters was to be a bridesmaid. Harry Venniker would not hear of anyone being the best man but himself, and indeed Gerald Eversley had no other intimate friend. Slices of wedding-cake would be sent to innumerable friends and acquaintances, not omitting Mr. and Mrs. Seaford as representatives of the secular or agricultural life at Kestercham. Lady Venniker took care that all the tenants on the estate, men and women and their children too, should participate in the general rejoicing. If there was any malevolent person who thought of suggesting that Miss Venniker was not making very much of a match, the answer was ready in the language of the village carpenter, that he supposed ‘she know’d her own feelin’ best,’ and she looked ‘as happy as a cherubim, bless her soul!’
And what of the spiritual conflict that had made Gerald Eversley’s life so bitter? Was it reasonable that religious doubts should be dissipated by the glow of affection for a beautiful girl? It was not reasonable, but it was human, it was true.
When the soul of man is at peace, it is easy to believe. How could Gerald, to whom the greatest of human blessings had been vouchsafed in the hour of his despair, deny any more the goodness of God? A great poet said he was always most religious on a fine summer’s day. Gerald lived now in the sunshine of summer. The love of man or woman facilitates the love of God. To live in the presence of the good and holy is to believe in Him who is All-Good and All-Holy. One man sees in Nature only the earthquake and the pestilence. Another sees the peacefulness of the evening, the sunshine, and the soft and beauteous rain. It is not Nature that is different, but it is man or the mood of man.
Mr. Eversley made no allusion to Gerald’s profession. Perhaps a place in the Treasury would seem to him to involve some danger of ‘laying up treasure upon earth.’ He had a vague idea, however, that Gerald would get on in the world, by his own ability or by Lord Venniker’s influence, and that it would not be well for him to interfere. But in the secrecy of his heart he could not surrender the hope that his dear son—the child of so many prayers—would yet be guided by the Divine Light to take upon him the sacred profession which fulfilled all the deepest emotions and the loftiest aspirations of his own heart. Could he see that result, he felt it would be easy for him to ‘depart in peace.’ That was his soul’s desire. He did not know that Lady Venniker, perhaps Ethel herself, desired it too. Even Gerald himself did not know it. They spoke of his life in the Treasury as settled and permanent. Women do not as a rule gain their object by asking directly for it; they have other ways of gaining it.
But how happy was Gerald in being encompassed, on the eve of his marriage, by the prayers and influences of these devout souls!