Chapter XXIII: Luke Sees Himself

Luke, full of his great news, ran upstairs to his mother's room, with the letter from London in his hands.

He found her crouching over the fire in the big horsehair chair, the only armchair in the room. He was surprised that she did not look round at the sound of his footsteps and give him her usual smile of welcome. Instead, she stretched out her hand to him with averted eyes.

"Mother what is it?" he asked. He knew she must have bad news of some kind and wanted to express her sympathy before she broke it to him.

"My poor boy," was all she said.

Luke took a chair by her and looked anxiously at her. She had been so much better lately, was able to walk a little and was getting altogether stronger, that her action perplexed him. Had the doctor given her a depressing account of herself, he wondered? Mrs. Greville's first words confirmed this fear.

"Dr. Fleming has been here."

"And surely he thinks you much better? Don't let him make you nervous about yourself, mother."

"It isn't about myself," said Mrs. Greville in a strained tone of voice, "it's about Rachel."

Luke's face cleared at once.

"Oh well," he said laughing, "you may make your mind easy about her. I left her this morning in good spirits."

He was much relieved.

"My poor boy!" said his mother again, "You must prepare for a great blow."

He began to wonder if the slight stroke his mother had had, affected her brain. He put his hand caressingly on hers. "Let's have it out," he said with a smile. "I don't think what ever it is that it can affect me as much as you imagine."

"Rachel is not well," said his mother watching his face anxiously. "She saw the doctor yesterday."

"Not well!" said Luke astonished. "Why, what is the matter with her? She was quite well anyhow this morning. Has she had an accident?"

"No. It is worse than an accident. The doctor thinks very seriously of her."

Luke rose and stood before his mother. All the colour had left his face.

"Tell me outright what you mean," he said sharply. "What is wrong with her?"

"Both her heart and her lungs."

Luke stood quite still and silent. He was always silent and unnaturally quiet when agitated in his mind.

"When did she see the doctor?" he asked at last.

"Yesterday."

"Yesterday!"

"Yes. The Bishop, you remember, called on her. He made her promise to consult him."

"And why didn't she tell me?" said Luke. And the agonised expression in his eyes showed his mother how intensely he was moved.

"I don't know, except that she wanted to save you anxiety. She has not told me either and I don't suppose that she has any idea that Dr. Fleming came round to see me about her."

Luke dropped into a chair. Then he looked up again at his mother.

"Did he give any directions or say what should be done?" he asked.

"I'm afraid he did my dear boy. He mentioned something about a Sanatorium, but anyhow, he said it was absolutely necessary for her to have perfect rest and a change of air and environment. In fact Luke," she added, and her voice trembled, "he seemed to think it a matter of life and death."

Luke groaned and covered his face with his hands.

"He says," continued his mother, "that she has evidently been doing too much and has not taken care of herself. He particularly dwelt on her thinness. Apparently she has not had nourishing food."

Luke groaned again.

"I feel Rachel is greatly to be blamed for having been so careless about her health," added Mrs. Greville.

Luke looked up, and his mother was startled by the stern expression of his face.

"Rachel to be blamed!" he repeated. "I am to be blamed, not Rachel."

There was anguish in his tone of voice. He picked up the letter from London which had fallen to the ground, ramming it into his coat pocket. Then he sprang up and looked at his watch.

"I shall go and see the doctor at once," he said. And without another word, he hurried away.

His visit confirmed his worst fears, and the doctor seemed surprised that he had never noticed the gradual change in his wife's appearance. Even he had seen it, casually meeting her in the street.

Luke walked home as if in a dream. The letters in his pocket were absolutely forgotten; his one thought was Rachel.

He opened the door of the house softly and went up into his study. He felt he could not meet his wife till he had looked the terrible truth in the face. The thought that he might possibly lose her was too painful to him to be able to bear calmly, and yet he knew that he must not give her any hint as to his fears.

He shut the door of his study after him and sank into the large armchair by the fire burying his face in his hands.

The fire! Even that seemed to cry out in condemnation of his selfishness. Of course Rachel had lit his fire so that his room might be warm and comfortable for him, while she probably had had no fire to sit by except that in the kitchen. He had been so preoccupied with his own interests and concerns that he had scarcely given a thought to hers. His mother had said, that the doctor gave it out as his opinion that she had not eaten enough. How was it that this fact had never been noticed by him! She always supplied him with plenty, and it had not struck him to notice what food she had provided for herself. Husband and child had never wanted for anything.

The doctor had said that she was thoroughly overworked. And yet he had never noticed how she was getting thin and pale! How often had he asked her to do things for him so that he might go off to some meeting or other, and it had never crossed his mind that the anxiety of leaving Pat with inexperienced Polly must have added to the strain.

Then he had never shared in the care of the child; in fact he had at times asked Rachel to do what she could to keep him quiet as his crying somewhat disturbed him working. Not many weeks after his birth he had moved his bed into his dressing room, as the child's restlessness prevented him sleeping, and he felt his sleep to be all important to his work. He had never realised that Rachel also wanted an occasional night's rest.

And what had she not given up for him! Her luxurious home, where she had every comfort; her mother and sisters who had petted and loved her; her out of door pursuits; her flowers which she loved so passionately; her ease and her friends. And what had he given up for her in return? Nothing! Nothing!

In exchange for all her home comforts, he had given her a pokey little house, poverty, overwork, and strain!

He was indeed in the Valley of Humiliation!

Then he suddenly rebelled at his thoughts and he started up and began to pace the room. Given her nothing! He had given her his heart's love. All the love that he knew how to give. Next to his God was his love for his wife; and he knew that in this sudden reaction of thought Rachel would be one with him. Though poor compared to her love for him he had given her his best. She knew she was all the world to him. Life without her was unthinkable. He paused as he reached his writing table, looking down absently at his Sunday sermon which he had already begun. The text of it faced him.

"'These ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.'"

The words gave him a shock. They so exactly described him, and yet he had been so unconscious of his delinquencies that he had actually intended to preach to his people about theirs.

"'These ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.'" The Word of God condemned him. He had forgotten that preaching and visiting were not the only duties to be done for God, or the only work. Did not St. Paul lay a special stress on the home life?

He realised now that though he loved his wife so devotedly, he had been so engrossed in his own affairs that he had neglected her. He suddenly paused in his walk. That was Rachel's voice. Evidently little Pat was restless and his mother was singing him to sleep. Luke could hardly bear the sound of her dear voice. It pierced his heart like an arrow. He pictured just how she was looking, walking up and down in her bedroom with the child in her arms. He had often heard her sing the words that he now heard, but he remembered how even the sound of her singing at times had disturbed him, and he had asked her to stop. But this evening, he listened and wept.

"Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head,
The stars in the bright sky looked down where He lay,
The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay."

"The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus no crying He makes.
I love Thee Lord Jesus! look down from the sky,
And stay by my side until morning is nigh."

"Be near me Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stay
Close by me for ever, and love me I pray.
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there."

The voice grew softer and softer; then it ceased altogether and Luke knew Pat was asleep.

He so dreaded to meet Rachel that he stayed up in his study till he heard her footstep outside. When she opened the door she found him sitting over the fire in an attitude of deep depression, and knew at once that somehow he had learnt the news about her. Kneeling by his side she laid her head on his breast.

"You mustn't worry about me dearest," she said, "I think myself that Dr. Fleming is a pessimist and has made a mistake. Anyhow I don't mean to act as if what he said was true. I shall just go on as I have done before; that is to say after a little rest. I suppose I must have that."

Luke was silent. He hardly thought that she could be aware of her serious condition.

"Why did you not tell me?" he asked after a pause. There was a tone of reproach in his voice.

"I didn't want to worry you, you have so much to trouble you. Besides, I don't suppose there is anything really the matter with me. Doctors make such mistakes."

He took up one of her hands and looked at it. He was shocked to notice how thin it was.

He held it to his lips and kissed it. The unusual action almost broke Rachel's self-control.

She rose saying, "I must go now and see after the supper. Polly will wonder where I am." But once out of the room her tears began to flow.

"Oh, I mustn't be ill," she gasped, as instead of going into the kitchen, she sank into a chair in the drawing-room. "I shall be no good to Luke, only an anxiety. Oh God show me what to do. Don't let me be a burden to him."

Luke, after Rachel had left, sat sunk again in deep depression.

Then suddenly he remembered the letters in his pocket. He had completely forgotten them, and now when he opened for the second time the Bishop's letter, it suddenly dawned upon him that here was the way out of his difficulty. To accept the country living meant that Rachel could live in the garden, and her strenuous life at Trowsby would be over. She would go to the place as a known invalid and would not be expected to take up parish work. The cloud on his face lifted, and the weight on his heart grew lighter. Moreover, the struggle with poverty of which Rachel had been more conscious evidently than he had, would be over, for the stipend was unusually good.

With a feeling of great thankfulness, he closed the letter and opened the one from London intending to answer them both that night. Of course the London living must be refused. There was no question about it. But as he read over again the description of the work a feeling of intense disappointment took possession of him. He had been longing for this offer! It was, as he had once said to Rachel, the dream of his life.

And here it was within his grasp and yet he was unable to accept it. Instead of preaching to a large congregation and ministering to their souls needs, he would have to vegetate in the country! It would be a living death to him.

During the first year or two of his present charge he had tasted what it was to be able to move people by his oratory; it was only the extra-ordinary craze for amusements that had spoilt it all. It was then he began to long for a wider sphere, and though the parish in which was the church that had been offered to him was in a poor part of London, the congregation consisted of many who had been drawn there by the preaching of the former Vicar. The Trustees were most anxious to secure a good preacher to succeed him. One of them had visited St. Marks on purpose to judge of Luke's preaching, and was much struck by it. This was why the living had been offered to him notwithstanding the fact that he was somewhat young for such an important post. All this was mentioned in the letter that Luke held in his hand, and the fact that he had to decline it filled him with the keenest disappointment. So keen was it that he decided not to tell Rachel that night about either letter. He would wait to answer them till the next day. It was never a good thing to do anything in a hurry.

Luke's silence at supper did not surprise her. She knew that it was a sign that he had some problem to solve. The problem of course, this evening, she knew must be what to do about her. Once or twice she tried to make him smile as she recounted some event of the day; but she was so unsuccessful that she felt it was better to leave him to his thoughts. She was trying herself to unravel the difficulty that had arisen, but so impossible did she find it that she came to the conclusion that the only thing was to leave it in Higher Hands. God had always provided for them and would do so still. Was He not a very present help in time of trouble?

Luke sat up late that night. He was standing before the Bar of his own conscience. He had to face the fact that he was feeling rebellious; struggling against the Will of God. To bury his talents in a village was a repugnant thought to him. How could he endure the quiet and dullness of it? Would it not tend to make him indolent in work? What would be the good of reading all the new thought of the day in order to help those who were troubled by it, if there was no-one who had even heard of the false teaching. How could he spend his time in preparing sermons suitable to men and women whose brains had never been taught to work. He pictured himself preaching to a congregation, the half of which were asleep and the other half on the verge of going to sleep. Then he suddenly remembered how his Lord had spent time over the soul of one poor woman, the Lord of whom it was said, "Never man spake like this man." Had He not taught again and again, both by his words and actions, the value of one individual soul?

Luke's disinclination for a village congregation made him look into his own motives. Had all his work been at Trowsby been done for the glory of God? Had not the first year or two of his great popularity somewhat intoxicated him? Was the wish to preach to large audiences to win them to the service of the Lord? Or was it the delightful sense of power to sway their minds, that attracted him? Was the disappointment and the longing for a larger sphere caused at all by the fact that he was conscious that he had lost hold of his people? That they no longer hung on his words as of yore; that instead of looking up to him, as formerly, with admiration, they looked down on him as out of date?

Sitting by his fire that night, looking at the dying coals, he saw himself for the first time in the light of one who had been weighed in the balances and found wanting. He was right down in the Valley of Humiliation, and in agony of soul.

It was late when he went to his room. Then he dreamt that he was a Bishop preaching in St. Paul's Cathedral. He looked down at the sea of faces, and was conscious of a thrill of emotion as he saw the vast congregation before him. He felt triumphant and elated as among the number he noticed some of his parishioners at Trowsby, who had left his Church because they did not consider him up to date.

He heard his fine voice echoing down the aisles as he gave out his text, and was congratulating himself on its texture, when the whole congregation rose to its feet, saying solemnly and slowly, "Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting." Then they filed out of the Cathedral till he was left standing alone in the pulpit, with the condemning words still echoing among the pillars.

He awoke trembling with horror, and knew, in the anguish of his soul, that it was true of him. He had been weighed in the balances and found wanting.

The cry of his little son in the adjoining room reached him; and he heard Rachel's soft voice singing:

"Be near me Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stay
Close by me for ever, and love me I pray.
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there."

He rose and opened the door softly, and took the child from her arms. Rachel, almost too tired to smile or feel any surprise, lay down and slept.

"Perhaps," said Luke to himself, "To take care of my little son, may be more to God's glory than to preach in St. Paul's Cathedral."

He wrote the next morning before breakfast to refuse the London living and to accept the one in the country; and he never told his wife nor his mother that he had had a chance of experiencing the dream of his life and had put it away.