‘ONE day over,’ said Forester to himself, with a sigh of relief, when he woke the following morning. ‘Only Saturday and Sunday now!’
The elements appeared to be ready to help him out of his difficulty, for when he jumped out of bed he found that it was a pouring wet day. There would be no sitting on the rocks or walking on the shore; he would not even have the pain of picturing Doris at work on her picture, with his seat beside her either filled by Jack or left empty. He looked out, but beyond a driving mist nothing could be seen. It reminded him of his first day of camp life, and his feelings seemed to be in harmony with the weather.
He was boiling his kettle inside the tent, and was smoking, to drown the smell of paraffin, when he heard footsteps coming up the lane. He looked out, and saw Val in a long mackintosh coming towards him.
‘Hullo!’ he called out to him, ‘what are you after, taking your walks abroad in the rain like a duck?’
‘I’ve come for you,’ said Val; ‘put out that horrible stove, get on your coat, and come at once. Breakfast is just coming in, and mother wants you to spend the day at the Castle.’
Forester as usual made many excuses, but Val would hear none of them, and carried him off with him. Joyce was feeding the collies at the door when they arrived in the courtyard, and called to them that breakfast was ready. It was certainly a pleasant exchange for the doctor from the damp, dismal tent. It was a chilly morning, and a fire had been lighted in the broad fireplace of the parlor, and looked cheery and bright.
Mrs. Norris was bringing in a dish of fried ham and eggs, and greeted Forester with a pleasant smile. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair welcomed him most kindly, and the boys were delighted to have a visitor to help them to pass what promised to be a somewhat monotonous day.
During breakfast Dick boasted that he had been up before any of them.
‘I heard you go past my door,’ said Mrs. Sinclair. ‘Why did you get up so soon, on such an awfully wet morning? Surely you did not bathe!’
‘Not I,’ said Dick; ‘but I made up my mind last night that I would see whether old Sly-boots and the long-haired one really did go away on the ‘bus. I had my suspicions that when they told us they were going it was only a blind. I had an idea that they wanted us to think they were gone, so that we might be off our guard, but that they would still be sneaking around all the time.’
The doctor remembered what he had seen the day before, when he went to the cottage by the shore, and listened with great interest.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘go on; what did you find out?’
‘I got up at six,’ said Dick, ‘for I didn’t know exactly what time that lumbering old ‘bus would start. Rupert was only just going out, and I expect he wondered what I was after. I ran down the hill for fear I should be late, but when I got to the village I saw a man pulling out the ‘bus, and harnessing the horses. I knew then that I was too soon, so I had a run up the village, but saw nothing of those two fellows. However, after I got back to the ‘bus, and had watched all sorts of old dames getting in with their baskets, I suddenly caught sight of them coming down the hill. Sly-boots soon spied me when he came up, and had the impudence to cross the road and shake hands with me, as if I was a dear friend of his.
‘Did they go in the ‘bus?’ asked the doctor.
‘Oh yes, they went right enough, and called out goodbye to everybody they saw, and waved their hats and pocket-handkerchiefs till they were out of sight.’
‘Was that fellow Dan anywhere about?’ asked Forester.
‘Not that I know of,’ said Dick; ‘I never caught sight of him.’
‘I’m awfully glad they’ve gone!’ said Val.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Dick.
‘Why sorry?’
‘Oh! because I wanted to find out what they were after at the Castle, and I thought I was on the scent, and now I’ve lost it again.’
The heavy rain lasted all day, and it seemed useless to think of going out. The doctor and the boys took a constitutional over the hill in the afternoon, but beyond that there was nothing to be done outside. In the comfortable Castle parlor, however, they had all manner of games, and the day passed more quickly than any of them would have thought possible.
Jack came up the hill to fetch Forester to the Bank, but he found his friend already at the Castle, and the doctor was glad, under the circumstances, that he had had this previous invitation. He had won his way manfully through two days, and now there was only Sunday to be lived through, and then he would be able to relax the constraint which he had put upon himself. Monday was no day, he told himself, for lie would be too busy taking down the tent, and packing up his belongings, to have time for thought of any kind, and no one would expect him to come on the shore on such a busy morning.
‘A clear shining after rain.’ Where had he heard those words? They seemed to the doctor exactly to describe what he saw when he opened his tent door on that Sunday morning. Everything looked refreshed and invigorated by the rain of the day before, and the bright sunshine was making the drops still clinging to the hedges and long grass sparkle like so many diamonds.
It was his last day at Hildick. He could not help feeling sorry when he remembered this, in spite of his great anxiety to get away and to be back in his busy life in town.
How should he pass the morning? The Sunday before, he had walked with Jack to the distant church; but today surely Doris would be going with him, and if he went they would wish him at Jericho, or a little farther. So he sat alone at the head of the promontory, and watched the waves, and drank in the pure sea air, and thought how long it would be before he saw so lovely a place again.
In the afternoon he sat with old Mr. Norris on the seat in the Castle courtyard, and had tea afterwards in the farmhouse kitchen. Then he went back to his tent to get ready for church. He went into the Castle on his way down the hill, but found no one there but the old man, all the rest had gone down the hill, that they might be in time to get seats in the tiny church.
The doctor followed them quickly, but found when he got near that the bell had just stopped. He saw that the place was full, even the porch was packed with people, who were afraid of the heat inside and preferred a cooler seat. Forester looked inside the church, and saw only one vacant chair. He made his way to it, and just as he was sitting down he noticed that Doris was next him. Jack will not mind now, he thought, for he cannot sit here himself. Forester would never have chosen to sit there, but as he found himself there with no possibility of changing his place he could not keep back a feeling of pleasure at being near her, just once more. ‘It is the last night, the very last night!’ he said to himself.
What a hearty service it was! Everyone joined in the responses; everyone listened attentively as Jack, in his clear voice, read the lessons. And then came the first hymn. The doctor had no hymn book, there were very few hymn books in the church; Doris had one, however. She found the place, and when they stood up to sing she held it for him to look over with her. How well he could hear her sweet voice as she sang the beautiful words:
‘I heard the voice of Jesus say,
Come unto me and rest.’
Forester tried to sing too, but the words seemed to choke him. Was his hand trembling as he held the book? or was it hers? It surely could not have been hers! He was glad when the hymn was over and they knelt down again.
The next hymn was easier, and he joined in; no one could help singing in that church. And then came Jack’s sermon, the last he would hear at Hildick. He wondered when he would hear him preach again, and where.
The doctor blamed himself afterwards that he could remember so little of that sermon. He heard it as if he were in a dream; he listened to it, and it comforted him at the time, yet when he tried to recall it afterwards he could only remember a few sentences. But he never forgot the text. It dwelt with him long after the remembrance of the sermon had quite passed away.
‘Thou shalt guide me with Thy counsel, and afterward receive me into glory.’
That text should be his sheet anchor, he thought, in the new life of work which he was to enter upon that week. The guide should be his here; the glory would be his in the Eternity beyond.
Then came the last hymn, and Forester started as Jack gave it out:
‘O Thou by long experience tried,
Near whom no grief can long abide.’
He had learnt that hymn years ago. He looked at the end, and there, as he felt sure he should find it, was the well-known verse:
‘While place we seek or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none;
But with my God to guide my way
‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.’
Doris began to sing the verse, but she suddenly stopped. He felt sure now that her hand was trembling as well as his. He did not dare to look at her, but kept his eyes fixed on the book. It was over at last, and they knelt down, and Jack’s manly voice gave the blessing.
The doctor let the others go on, and waited for Jack, who was some time in coming, as he was talking to the old clerk. Forester had promised to go to the Bank for supper, and he could not get out of it that last evening. He wondered very much whether Doris had told Jack what he had said about that verse. He thought she must have done so, and it rather surprised him. He had said to her what he would never have dreamt of saying to anyone else, and he thought she would have respected his confidence. But after all, he thought, what could be more natural than that she should tell Jack? Was he not Jack’s friend? And of course, now she would tell Jack everything. Yet although he argued with himself in this way, still, at the bottom of his heart, it rather hurt him that she should have repeated words which after all were only meant for her ear.
Yet perhaps even in this thought he wronged her, perhaps it was only a remarkable coincidence that that hymn should have been chosen. Stranger things than that have happened, and indeed are constantly happening.
Jack was ready at last, and the two friends walked up the village together.
‘Jack,’ said Forester, ‘who chooses the hymns?’
‘I do. I choose them every Saturday, and let the organist have them, that she may play them over.’
Then she had told him; there could be no doubt about it now.
‘I liked those we had tonight very much,’ said Forester.
‘So did I! Oh, by the by, I didn’t choose those hymns, I had forgotten. I was busy yesterday evening, and Doris said she would choose them for me. So you have to thank her for choosing those you liked.’
The doctor gave a sigh of relief, she had not betrayed his confidence after all; but, on the other hand, she had chosen that hymn because she knew it was his last Sunday, and because she felt sure that he was fond of it. It is just like her, he said to himself. Even in her joy she can think of others, and try to give them pleasure.
Doris and her father came to the Bank for supper. She was very pale and quiet, Forester thought; perhaps she was not feeling well. He devoted himself to Mab and Dolly, but he could not help glancing at her from time to time, and he rather wondered that Jack did not talk to her more, and that he seemed to take so little notice of her; but, doubtless, he was feeling tired after his Sunday’s work.
It was nearly ten o’clock when the doctor rose and said goodnight to them all.
‘We shall see you tomorrow,’ Mrs. Sinclair said. ‘Come to breakfast; it’s the last morning, so you can’t refuse.’
He thanked her, but said he was afraid he would not be able to come down the hill, as Maxie was to arrive at nine o’clock to help him to take down his tent; but she promised to have breakfast half an hour earlier, and he was obliged to tell her he would come.
Doris was in the hall getting her coat as he came out. He put it on for her, and whispered as he said goodnight, ‘It was good of you to choose my hymn, Miss Somerville.’
Jack followed him out.
‘You’re not coming with me, Jack. No, I can’t allow it. You’re tired out, and it’s a stiff pull to the top at any time.’
‘Of course, I’m coming,’ said Jack. ‘Why, it’s your last night, more’s the pity, and who knows when you and I will get a chat together again?’
Yet, although Jack said this, he did not seem much inclined to talk when they first set out, and the doctor was thinking of Doris, and wondering why she seemed so much out of spirits that evening. The two friends walked on almost in silence for some time. It was Jack who spoke first.
‘Forester—Norman.’
‘Yes, Jack.’
‘I want to tell you something.’
The doctor felt very much like a soldier buckling on his armor, as he pulled himself together, and answered in as cheerful a voice as he could command—
‘Well, dear old man; what is it?’
‘It’s a secret at present, but I must tell you. I know I can trust you, Forester. We’ve been friends such a long time; haven’t we?’
‘Shall I guess what it is? Something very jolly; isn’t it? You are going to tell me you are engaged, Jack.’
How steadily he said the words. How calmly he spoke! Who, that heard him speak, would ever have suspected the tumult of soul within?
‘However in the world did you know?’ said Jack.
‘Oh, I see! Don must have told you. Don never can keep a secret. He never could when we were at school, and he is no better now. It’s as good as telling the town-crier to tell Don anything!’
‘Well, he didn’t exactly tell me,’ said Forester.
‘Oh, I understand; he threw out hints, and left you to guess the rest,’ said Jack, laughing. ‘Well, it’s true, and I don’t mind your knowing; in fact, I wanted you to know. That’s why I came up the hill with you tonight. I wanted to tell you how happy I am.’
Forester slipped his arm in Jack’s as he said, ‘You know, don’t you, how glad, how very glad I am for you? You could not have done better!’
‘Then you know all about it; Don has evidently told you the whole story. Yes, I am indeed a happy man. You see, we’ve known each other so long, and Doris is such a splendid girl. Oh! you don’t know what she is, or how she has helped me. I could never tell you all, if I were to try. But I hadn’t much hope that I should ever get her. You see, her father has rather put difficulties in the way, and all the time I’ve been here I’ve been trying to persuade him to let us be engaged. We’ve loved each other a long time now, and he knows we have, but he said he would never let us be engaged until I had a living. He did not believe in long engagements.’
‘But have you a living now?’
‘No, not yet, but I have hopes of one soon; still, it is not certain; and it seemed so long to wait. And all this time he would not let me write to her, and I scarcely ever saw her. But just this last week he has come round so far as to say we may be privately engaged; that is to say, the family may know, her family and mine, and we may correspond, and I may go there sometimes; so that altogether things will be on a much more comfortable footing. And then, of course, if I get a church of my own, everyone can know, and he will consent to our being married at once. I feel years younger already, and Doris says she does. I felt I couldn’t let you go away without telling you.’
Forester pressed his friend’s hand, as he said goodnight to him at the top of the hill, and Jack rather wondered at the serious way in which he said as he did so, ‘I do congratulate you, Jack, with all my heart I do. God bless you both!’
Then the doctor went on in the darkness alone. What had been a fear before was a certainty now. Once or twice during the last two or three days he had asked himself whether he had not rather jumped to conclusions, and at any rate somewhat anticipated events.
But now he knew, Jack had told him all, and he found that he had made no mistake. Well, he was thankful that he was going tomorrow; in thirty-six hours he would be in London.