Chapter VII: Rachel Confides in the Bishop

The Bishop was in his garden, surrounded by the Clergy of his diocese and their wives. He was a grey-haired man, upright and spare of build. His face was full of kindness and love as he went among his guests, entering into their difficulties and encouraging them in their work.

It was his annual garden party, and he looked forward to it almost as much as did his clergy. Being a widower, had it not been for his work he would have felt the Palace lonely. It was an old and hoary building, and lay in the shadow of the cathedral; but the greater part of the garden was full of sunshine, and wherever the Bishop was, there was brightness and the atmosphere of love and fellowship.

He now stood glancing around as if looking for someone; then he caught sight of Rachel who was making her way swiftly towards him, her face alight with love and eagerness.

The child is happy, he thought gladly, and stretched out both his hands in welcome.

"I was looking for you," he said, "and was hoping that you and your good husband were not going to play me false. Where is he?"

"He's coming by the next train, in half an hour's time, but I was so impatient to see you that I told him I could not wait. Some parishioner has been taken ill and he had to go and see him. But I simply had to come."

"Now," said the Bishop, "I want to know all about your dear mother, and about your new life. We will go towards the nut walk where we shall not be interrupted. I also want to show you the Palace. I promised to do that in the old days I remember."

"It's perfectly delightful to talk to anyone who remembers those old days," said Rachel, with a slight catch in her voice, "and specially with you of all people. How father loved you."

"He was my best friend," said the Bishop, "and the world for me is the poorer for his absence. But tell me about your new life. Are you getting used to it?"

A slight cloud crossed Rachel's face which was not unnoticed by the Bishop.

"It's just a little difficult," she answered. "Luke's parishioners are quite different from any people I have met; some of them are nice, and they adore Luke. But oh they are so funny! They take offence at such small things. I don't think they like me much. You see I was labelled as young and incompetent before they saw me. But after all it does not much matter, as I have Luke. Perhaps if it were not for a few worries I should be almost too happy."

"You have a good husband in Greville."

Rachel looked up into the Bishop's face. Her look was enough to convince him of her happiness.

"He's much too good for me," she said, "I'm not half worthy of him, and of course his people can't help seeing that, specially his mother."

"She does not live with you, does she?"

"No. She turned out for me, but she lives very near."

The Bishop detected a shade of bitterness in the little laugh that escaped her lips.

"Is it difficult?" he asked kindly.

"I think you had better not ask me," said Rachel. Then unable to restrain her feelings, she added, "She just spoils everything, and I am so afraid of Luke finding it out; he is so devoted to her."

The Bishop was silent.

"The worst of it is," said Rachel, after a slight pause, "I can't talk it over with Luke, so there is a secret always between us. Don't you think it was horrid of her to tell people how incapable she thinks me? The result is that I can't help Luke in his work; people don't believe in me."

"How do you know this?"

"Someone let it out by mistake when she called," said Rachel. "There are always, I suppose, people like that in a place who talk more than they mean to. This person is a regular gossip, and I learnt more about the people in half an hour from her than I should have learnt in a year from Luke. Luke never tells me anything. I wish he would."

"No, I don't think you should wish that. A man who does not talk over his people is a man to be trusted with the secrets of their souls. That is just the one disadvantage in my eyes of a man being married. It is difficult for some wives to tolerate their husbands not telling them what should be kept sacred. For every other reason I am a great advocate of married clergy. A wife may be of the very greatest help to a man. But in order to be so she must be a woman of high ideals, and one who understands what is due to his position. But my dear child, why did not you try to turn the conversation of this parishioner? Take my advice and don't listen to criticisms of yourself."

"I am not sure that I have high ideals," said Rachel with a little laugh, "but I'm afraid I do like being appreciated. I am sure the people as a whole don't like me, and I can't think why."

The Bishop laughed.

"I expect you are mistaken about that," he said, "It's very easy to get fancies of that sort into one's head."

"Oh no it is not fancy. Anyhow the older people do not like or appreciate me. They think I am no help to Luke; but he won't give me any work to do. I expect it's his mother's fault as she thinks I am incapable. It worries me very much, as I want them to like me for Luke's sake. Then I sometimes wonder if it is anything to do with my dress. I see Mrs. Greville's face change sometimes when I put on one of my specially pretty dresses."

The Bishop held her at arm's length and looked at her. Certainly she was one of the best dressed women in the palace garden that day, but it was all very pretty and becoming.

"Perhaps you are a little smart for the wife of the Vicar of Trowsby," he said reluctantly. "It is very pretty, but in a parish where there are so many poor, it might be wise to dress in a somewhat less luxurious fashion."

"It's part of my wedding trousseau," said Rachel regretfully, "and I do love pretty clothes; perhaps they are my temptation."

"Perhaps they are," said the Bishop, smiling kindly.

"Anyhow when these are worn out the temptation will be over as I shall have no money to spend on clothes. I am not sure that we shall not be eligible for Gifts from the 'Poor Pious Clergy Society'," she added laughing. "Mrs. Greville does not seem to think we have a penny to spare. I hate having to think of every penny; it makes one inclined to be miserly and mean."

"No; it's the poor who are most generous. Don't wish to be rich; by far the nicest people are those who are not endowed with this world's goods. It is far harder to persuade the rich man to give of his wealth than the really poor widow of her mite. I am glad that you have not too much of this world's goods."

"I should love to be rich, or quite comfortably off as we were at home. I never thought of taking care of the pence in those days, nor indeed of the pounds either. Now I am always thinking 'can we afford it,' and find myself choosing the thing that costs threepence rather than threepence halfpenny. It seems to me horrid and cramping."

"Not nearly so bad as if you spent five pounds carelessly, when your poor neighbour had only five shillings to spend. You will find that if you do not allow yourself to grow miserly, you will be the richer for being poorer."

They had reached the door of the Palace by this time and the Bishop led the way up the winding stone steps which led to the drawing-room. It was a long low panelled room with large windows looking over the garden.

"How charming," said Rachel. "I hope you are going to ask us to stay with you one day. I can imagine sitting here and dreaming all kinds of pleasant dreams. Don't you love it?"

"If my dear wife was living and we had a houseful of children I should appreciate it. But except when I have visitors, or when the house is full of clergy, I have no use for this room. Come and I will show you my study."

That the study was a room in constant use Rachel saw at a glance, and wondered if the Bishop was as anxious over the many papers and letters that were arranged neatly on his writing table, as Luke was.

The sight of the papers brought to Rachel's mind the sudden panic that had arisen in her heart at the idea of her husband renting a room in his mother's house, and she told the Bishop of her fears as she moved about looking at the pictures on the walls. Then suddenly turning round and facing him, she asked:

"Do you think all this is very small of me? I can't tell you how trying Luke's mother is. She simply has no tact whatever and I can't help thinking that she is a little jealous of me."

"Come and sit down," said the Bishop. Then he looked at her gravely. "I am going to say something that I fear will hurt you. But I do it as your father's friend and as your Bishop. Will you let me tell you the truth?"

Rachel's eyes filled with tears.

"I only want the truth," she said. "And I could never mind anything you said. Indeed I want help."

"I will try to help you. And first let me tell you that you have the most splendid opportunity of growing into a noble strong woman. This mother-in-law of yours, instead of being a hindrance to your soul's life, may be a stepping stone to a higher life. It depends a great deal upon yourself which she becomes, a hindrance, or a stepping stone."

"I don't see how," said Rachel.

"She will be a tremendous hindrance if you give way to your present feelings about her. You must forgive me, my dear child, but I am perfectly certain from all you have told me that you are suffering from a terrible enemy. Let me call him by his right name: his name is jealousy."

"Oh no," said Rachel shrinking. "I despise jealous people, I don't think it is that."

"In the depths of your heart you are afraid lest your influence over your husband should be undermined by his mother; lest he should grow more dependent on her than on you. You do not like him to spend time with her which you think ought to be given to you. In fact you generally suspect him of being with her when he is late home, and all this makes it impossible for you to like her. Is it not so?"

Rachel was silent. She knew he was telling her the truth.

"But you must remember that his love for his mother is the most natural thing in the world. You would not really have it otherwise. If he did not remain faithful to her now he has married you, you would have cause to doubt if he would always remain faithful to you. You should encourage this filial love in him."

"But you don't know her," said Rachel.

"Yes, I have met her; and though I can understand that she may not have much tact, and may be lacking in sensitiveness, in fact is rather a rough jewel, nevertheless she is a jewel, and I think you should be grateful rather than otherwise to her for the beautiful influence she has had over her son, which provides you with such a husband. And do not you think that possibly she has more cause for jealousy than you? Remember, she has had to turn out of her home, to give up her son, to see him wrapped up in his love for you. I own I feel a little for Mrs. Greville."

Rachel looked up at him with her eyes still full of tears. "I know you are right," she said, "and I think I have been horrid. Somehow I have selfishly been thinking of my own trials and have forgotten hers. But I don't know how I can be different."

"Unless you get the victory over this sin, it will get the victory over you and embitter your life. Jealousy becomes a kind of obsession, if given way to. It has wrecked many a life."

"It is just that, an obsession. I can't sleep sometimes for thinking of her, and my first waking thoughts are of how I can circumvent her."

"Then let me give you a receipt for jealousy. Whenever you find yourself thinking of Mrs. Greville, pray, and then resolutely turn your thoughts away from her."

"It will be very difficult," said Rachel, looking down. "She has got quite on my mind."

"With God all things are possible."

"I sometimes wonder if I am really a Child of God," said Rachel. "I am so very far from being like the Lord Jesus Christ."

"You must not let the great enemy of souls tempt you to despond," said the Bishop. "That is the kind of atmosphere in which he delights to do his work. You gave yourself to God at the time of your confirmation, I remember. Don't listen to the doubts that the Devil suggests. You are a Child of God, but just at present not a very happy or good one."

"I ought to be happy," said Rachel looking up with a smile, "with such a husband as Luke. I only hope I do not love him too much."

"I don't think so. I doubt if it is possible to love a husband too much; but it is very possible to love God, Who gave him to you, too little."

Rachel looked up again into the Bishop's face.

"I do want to be good," she said, "and really I have everything to make me happy; if I am not happy it is my own fault, I quite see that." Then she looked at her watch.

"Luke's train must be in by now and he will be hunting for you. I ought not to keep you any longer; but I am so glad that you are my Bishop and my father's best friend. I feel just as if I had had a talk with him. He, I know, would agree with every word you have said."

Then finding it was so late they hurried into the garden where they discovered Luke among a crowd of clergy, and Rachel, feeling as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, left them together.

Luke's eyes rested lovingly on the retreating figure of his wife, and as he turned to the Bishop the question in his eyes was so evident that the latter answered it.

"Yes," he said laughing, "I know what you want me to say—that there never was a sweeter girl in the world; I congratulate you Greville on your marriage."

"It is an ideal marriage," said Luke. "She is all I could possibly wish for."

"Knowing her father I'm not surprised to hear you say so. What does she do in the parish?"

For a moment Luke was taken aback. He suddenly realized the fact that she did nothing but keep his home for him.

"I don't encourage her to work in the parish," he said. "She is much too young, I feel, as yet; I consulted my mother about it and we both came to the conclusion that it was best at present for her to do nothing in that line."

"But is not that rather a pity? For the Vicar's wife to be a nonentity is not good for a parish, surely there is something she can do."

"I can't tell you the state of the place," said Luke. "It would not really be fit for her to go among the people. I could not endure for her to learn of all the awful sin that abounds. It would be such a terrible shock to her."

"But, my dear fellow; you married her to be a helpmeet for you. I don't think a man has any right to marry a girl and then to keep her entirely to himself just to make his home comfortable, when there is God's work to be done. I think you should trust her with God. It is no good keeping people blissfully ignorant of the sin that abounds. Besides, ignorance is not innocence. It is almost as if you were leading her about blindfold."

"My mother felt very strongly about it," said Luke. And yet for the first time a suspicion crossed his mind that possibly he was denying to Rachel from selfish motives, the wonderful privilege of working for God in the Parish. He could not bear that his sweet wife should touch pitch even though it was in God's service. He remembered saying to her what a rest it was for him to come home and be with someone who knew nothing of the awful matters with which he had come in contact during the day. Might not this be a subtle form of selfishness on his part?

"Do you suppose that the women who go as Missionaries," added the Bishop "have the faintest idea of the horrors they will see and learn about? Yet you would not urge them to stay at home. Help her to work for her God regardless of the consequences. Leave these with God. Besides you may not always have your mother who I suppose is as good as a curate to you."

Luke determined to think the matter out when alone, and was soon pacing the nut walk with a fellow clergyman discussing the attitude of the modernists in the Church of England.