Читать книгу A Woman of Samaria - Rita - Страница 9

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No one had ever considered Miss Sarah Webbe as a very remarkable person. A good-natured, honest soul, with no special talents and a fair amount of common sense, would have seemed a just estimate of her character. But there are characters which lie dormant, so to speak, until some strong emergency rouses them to active life. The quiet routine of months and years had made no call upon faculties that were not purely domestic or charitable. No breath of trouble or tragedy had disturbed the even flow of monotonous works. Then suddenly a storm of both broke over the vicarage roof, and the two old people woke to face its ravages as best they could.

The woman faced it better than the man. Perhaps her feelings were less concerned in it, and the sense of feminine propriety outweighed, temporarily, all other emotion. In any case it was doubtful whether any amount of experience or consideration would have planned a better scheme for concealing the real facts of the case than that upon which Sarah Webbe had hit.

If the servants wondered, they were old family domestics to whom the honour of the household meant a great deal. They accepted facts as told them, and when their mistress departed for London kept their mouths discreetly closed as to the suddenness of another departure preceding and apparently obliging her own. That the Vicar was in heavy trouble was less easy to hide. His nature was too simple and open for concealment. His food was untouched, his face had grown aged and lined within a few hours. He was more than ever absent-minded and dreamy, but his gentleness was shadowed by a gloom that had never touched it before.

"Poor master! he do miss the young ladies," said the kindly cook, whose years of active service had been many in the family. And she devoted much energy to the manufacture of soups and jellies and "light nourishment" by way of diverting his attention from his troubles.

But creature comforts cannot mend a broken heart, and the Vicar, blaming himself for neglect of his dead wife's child, seeing himself confronted by a total ignorance of the character which had suddenly flashed out at him in that strange letter, felt as if his heart was broken. If harm had come to her he should have guessed at its proximity. He had taken too much for granted, and this was his punishment.

He thought of that last night when she had clung to him so passionately, when her white young face had been so eloquent of suffering, and her voice speechless with tears. Why had he been blind and careless before such signs?

His sleep was broken. In his dreams he saw always his wife's accusing face, and heard her ask again and again, "Where is the child with whom I trusted you?" He awoke in grey dawns and stared at the shadows. He folded trembling hands in prayer, yet found no words that shaped his errant thoughts. He faced the day's duties self-accused before his fellow-men, and people wondered at the change, and asked themselves what had come to their beloved parson.

Miss Webbe and her niece were blamed for deserting him at such a time, and the wedding also came in for a share of criticism now that the hall was deserted and the fine folks flown Londonwards.

So passed a week, and then Sarah Webbe returned—alone. Dolores had stayed behind, they were informed, and as time drifted on it was hinted that she had gone abroad to finish her education.

Only her father was silent on the subject. He ministered to them as of old, but the spirit of such ministry was lacking. It was performed mechanically, as a duty, and his sermons were always read. It was noticed also that whenever he could get assistance for the services he did so. At last a final breakdown of health necessitated a long absence. An old college friend took his place, and being genial and easy going and of a lively disposition he suited the parish remarkably well.

The secret of Dolores's flight had been well kept.

There had been no one present at that interview between the Vicar and his sister on her return. No one to hear of the tracing of the girl to London, of a visit to theatrical agents, of the proof that she had accepted an engagement in a company going to Australia, of her change of name, of her final departure, authenticated by a letter from herself, and bidding them farewell for a long time. None of these things crept out. They knew she was safe; that she lived; that she had entered upon a career of independence. They could but think her heartless as their best excuse.

To race to the goal of one's own desires over the broken hearts and ruined hopes of others is not a meritorious achievement. Even success has limitations of self glory. They spoke of her but seldom after that letter. The Vicar's heart was sore, but too tender for blame, and his sister feared to add to his grief. She devoted her energies to his comfort, served, and cheered and tended him, but the months scarcely made a year before she knew his earthly ministry was over.

He "set his house in order," and so in patience and with broken spirit waited for the call that he knew must come. And when it came it found him ready. Gladly his feet went forth on that unknown journey, and with the smile of a little child upon his lips he followed the messenger who came for him.