Читать книгу The Stumbling Shepherd - H. A. Cody - Страница 7
ОглавлениеTHE STRENGTH OF LOVE
"Drink this in remembrance that Christ's blood was shed for thee." Slowly and impressively Mr. Landrose uttered these words as he held the chalice to the lips of the invalid woman. He knew that he had now crossed the Rubicon and that there could be no turning back. Calmly and in a low voice he continued the service to the end. After he had pronounced the benediction, he knelt and remained longer than usual upon his knees, so long, in fact, that he was at last aroused by the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. Looking quickly up, he saw the woman leaning toward him with a new expression in her eyes.
"Daniel," she whispered, "why don't you speak?"
Rising to his feet, he removed his surplice and stole, carefully folded them up, drew a chair close to the bed and sat down.
"Why should I speak, Martha? Has not this deed of mine spoken louder than words?"
"That you care for me—love me still?"
"Have you any doubt of it now?"
"No, no." The woman gave a deep sigh of contentment as she sank back upon the pillow. "It is wonderful."
"In what way?"
"That you should do this for me. It is a certain proof of your love."
"But it has caused me to commit a great sin, Martha. How can I ever face my Bishop after what I have done to-night?"
"Oh, don't worry about that, Daniel. You need not tell him."
"I must, and just as soon as possible. My conscience would give me no peace if I keep this from him."
"And what will that mean?"
"That remains to be seen. However, the deed is done, so I must bear my punishment no matter what that may be."
The clergyman rose from his chair, lifted his surplice and placed it back into the grip.
"Daniel!"
He started and looked around, so intense was the sound of the woman's voice.
"What is it, Martha?"
"Don't leave me yet, Daniel. I have something to say to you."
"But you are too weak, Martha. You have tired yourself too much already. You must rest."
"No, no, I cannot rest. I am stronger than I have been for days, and I must speak to you now. Will you listen?"
Mr. Landrose felt that he could not refuse this request. He was quite sure that this sudden animation was but temporary owing to the woman's excited condition. If she did not tell him now what was on her mind, she might never have sufficient strength again. That it was something of considerable importance there could be no doubt. Once more he drew forward the chair and sat down by her side.
"Very well, Martha, I shall listen to what you have to say. But be as brief as possible lest you exhaust your strength."
A slight smile, almost of triumph, overspread the woman's face. For about half a minute she lay very still, as if thinking deeply. Then she turned her eyes full upon the clergyman's face.
"You have been wondering, I suppose, Daniel, why I came here?"
"Didn't you tell me? You wished to be near me."
"Did you think that was the only reason?"
"Was there anything else?"
"There was, and a very important one. Doris thinks that I came here for my health."
"Does she know anything about the—the past?"
"Nothing. She only knows that I have appointed you as her guardian when I am gone."
"Guardian!" Mr. Landrose gasped the word, and his face turned pale. "Guardian to your grand-daughter!"
"That's just it. Who else should undertake the charge but you? I know you will not refuse."
"But I must, Martha. I am not a suitable person to look after your grand-daughter. What do I know about the ways of young women?"
"You will have no trouble, Daniel. Doris is a good girl, though a little headstrong at times. She doesn't like the idea of my appointing you as her guardian. But she will get over that in time."
"So that is the reason, I suppose, for her coolness to me when I came here this evening. She has evidently taken a dislike to me which will make my task all the more difficult."
"So you agree, then?" the invalid eagerly asked.
"Oh, no, not yet. I must have time to think this over."
"But there is no time, Daniel. I am a very sick woman, and I must know before I die that Doris will have someone I can trust to look after her when I am dead. Surely you will not refuse my request."
"And was it for this that you came here, Martha?"
"It was, and that I might see you again."
"So you did not forget me, then?"
"Forget you! Why, you have been seldom out of my mind since that night we parted—oh, you remember, do you not?"
"Indeed I do. Please say nothing more about it."
"I cannot help it, Daniel. What a difference it would have made to both of us if I had not been such an idiot. I thought only of money then, and position in society. What a wreck I have made of my life."
"You obtained your heart's desire, though."
"I did, and found it nothing but gall and worm-wood. You know what my life has been, don't you?"
"I have not been altogether ignorant of it, for the newspapers have kept you well in the lime-light. I always hoped that you were happy with so much attention."
"Happy! It was unhappiness which drove me on. It was the demon of unrest which forced me from place to place always seeking for some new excitement. I have been flattered and fawned upon everywhere. And why? Simply because of my money. People cared nothing for me, but for what I had in worldly goods."
"And so you came at last to this quiet spot after your many adventures. You must have found it lonely here."
"I have found it a haven of rest. I envy you, Daniel, for the good you have been doing in this parish while I was wasting my life."
"How do you know of my work?"
"Oh, I know something, but not all. Susie, my maid, has told me much, and I have imagined the rest. You are loved by everyone, and your good influence is felt far and near."
"I am afraid Susie has been exaggerating," and the clergyman sighed. "She is a good girl, and I am fond of her. But she does not know how I have failed, and now that this place has been turned into a summer resort, I am losing my hold over my flock. It is very sad, and I am too old now to cope with the problem. People are becoming very indifferent to religious matters."
"I know they are, Daniel, and for that reason I want Doris to be brought under your influence and have the benefit of your instruction. She is almost entirely ignorant of religious things, although she attends church because I compel her to go."
"But suppose she should refuse to obey me, if I agree to act as her guardian?"
"Then she will not get a cent of my money. It is all arranged for in my will. Everything is in the hands of The Golden Trust Company, and they are to take their instructions from you. Any money that Doris receives until she is of age must be upon your order."
"And what will become of your money if your grand-daughter disobeys me?"
"I have arranged for that. It will go to several charitable institutions, and to you."
"To me!"
"That is my wish, Daniel. It may atone somewhat for the past. I have specified that you are to receive a certain amount as long as you live."
"Martha, I cannot—"
"Just a minute, Daniel. Please do not interrupt me. My strength is failing rapidly, and I have something more I wish to say. But first promise that you will act as Doris's guardian. The papers are all made out, so you will have little or no trouble."
"Let me consider this just for to-night, Martha."
"No, no, it will be too late. Promise me now. Take my hand, Daniel, like you used to do, and promise me. Don't refuse."
Quietly the clergyman took her cold right hand in his. His heart was stirred, and a mistiness came into his eyes. The glamor of her influence was still strong upon him, and he could no longer resist her pleading.
"I promise, Martha," he at length murmured in a trembling voice. "May God help me to do my duty whatever that may be."
"Thank you, oh, thank you, Daniel. My mind is now at rest."
Gently the clergyman withdrew his hand from hers and rose to his feet.
"I must go now, Martha. You are very weary."
"Just a minute, Daniel. I have one more request to make. When I am dead, I want you to bury me at night."
These words caused Mr. Landrose to stare at the woman in amazement.
"Martha, what do you mean?"
"Just what I said, Daniel. I want to be buried at night. It will be in keeping with the darkness of my life. And, besides, I cannot bear the thought of my body going into the cold ground when the sun is shining. And I do not want people to come just for curiosity to see me buried. Promise me, Daniel, that you will do this for me."
"I suppose I must, Martha. You have forced me already to agree to several things against my will. This, anyway, will be no offense against the Church. But it is a strange request, for all that."
To these words the invalid made no reply, and as the clergyman looked upon her he was deeply impressed by the stern dignity of her face. Although time had wrought great changes, yet there remained the evidence of the beauty that once was hers. Her hair, formerly as black as the raven's wing, was now as white as the driven snow, and in harmony with the pallor of her face.
"Good-night, Martha, I must go now."
"Kiss me, Daniel, and I shall be happy."
It was her last request, and for the rest of his life he was thankful that he did not refuse her dying wish.
