“I should like to see Mr. Cardew.”
“Mr. Cardew!” said Dr. Turnbull to himself; “I fancied she would not care to have a clergyman with her; I thought she was a little beyond that kind of thing, but when people are about to die even the strongest are a little weak.”
“She always liked Mr. Cardew’s preaching,” said Mrs. Furze, sobbing, “but I wish she had asked for her own rector. It isn’t as if Mr. Cardew were her personal friend.”
It was Saturday evening when the message was dispatched to Abchurch, but Mr. Cardew was fortunately able to secure a substitute for the morrow; Sunday morning came. Mrs. Furze, who had been sitting up all night, drew down the blinds at dawn, but Catharine asked, not only that they might be drawn up again, but that her bed might be shifted a little so that she might look out across the meadow and towards the bridge. “The view that way is so lovely,” said she. It was again a triumphal spring day, and light and warmth streamed into the sick chamber.
Presently her mother went to take a little rest, and Mr. Cardew was announced almost immediately afterwards. He came upstairs, and Mrs. Bellamy, who had taken Mrs. Furze’s place, left the room. She did not think it proper to intrude when the clergyman visited anybody who was dying. Mr. Cardew remained standing and speechless.
“Sit down, Mr. Cardew. I felt that I should like to see you once more.”
He sat down by the bedside.
“Do you mind opening the window and drawing up the blind again? It has fallen a little. That is better: now I can see the meadows and away towards the bridge foot. Will you give me a glass of water?”
She drank the water: he looked steadily at her, and he knew too well what was on her face. Her hand dropped on the bed: he fell on his knees beside her with that hand in his, but still he was dumb, and not a single article of his creed which he had preached for so many years presented itself to him: forgiveness, the atonement, heaven—it had all vanished.
“Mr. Cardew, I want to say something.”