“Thank you,” he replied, smiling, and putting out a large white hand; the stranger took the glass from Catharine and held it to him; he drank it with seeming unconsciousness and with lowered eyes. “A most delicious draught; but your hand is trembling, Catharine; are you tired or unwell?”
“Neither, sir, thank you,” replied Catharine, huskily, while the girl drew back in evident alarm. “Ah, there is Johnnie come for you, he is waiting at the gate; here is your stick, Mr. Raby. Don’t forget your hat, for the sun is very powerful.”
“No, no,” returned the clergyman, absently. “Good-morning, Catharine.” Then, as he walked down the little brick-paved path, “How strange; Catharine’s hand never felt like that; it always seemed puckered and rough to me, but this felt soft and cold as it touched me, and shook so that it could hardly hold the glass. Johnnie, lad, is there any one standing in the porch with your mother?”
“No, sir, only mother.”
“Strange,” he muttered, “strange; I suppose it was my fancy, I am always fancying things;” and then he sighed and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, for Raby Ferrers was blind.
CHAPTER II.
THE BLIND VICAR OF SANDYCLIFFE.
Over-proud of course,
Even so!—but not so stupid, blind, that I,
Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world
Has set to meditate, mistaken work,
My dreary face against a dim blank wall,
Throughout man a natural life-time—could pretend or wish.
Browning’s Aurora Leigh.
About five miles from Singleton, where Redmond Hall stands, is the little village of Sandycliffe, a small primitive place set in corn-fields, with long sloping fields of grain, alternating with smooth green uplands and winding lanes, with the tangled hedgerows, so well known in southern scenery.
Sandycliffe is not actually on the sea-shore, but a short walk from the village up one of those breezy uplands would bring the foot-passenger within view of the blue sea-line; on one side is Singleton, with its white cliffs and row of modest, unpretending houses, and on the other the busy port of Pierrepoint, with its bustle and traffic, its long narrow streets, and ceaseless activity. Sandycliffe lies snugly in its green hollow; a tiny village with one winding street, a few whitewashed cottages grouped round a small Norman church, with a rose-covered vicarage inhabited by the curate’s large family. The vicar lived a mile away, at the Grange, a large red-brick house with curious gables, half covered with ivy, standing on high ground, with a grand view of the sea and the harbor of Pierrepoint.
It might seem strange to any one not conversant with the facts of the case, that the small, sparsely populated village should require the services of a curate, and especially a hardworking man like Mr. Anderson; but a sad affliction had befallen the young vicar of Sandycliffe; the result of some illness or accident, two or three years after his ordination, had left him totally blind.
People who had heard him had prophesied great things of Mr. Ferrers—he had the rare gift of eloquence; he was a born orator, as they said—a rising light in his profession; it was absurd that such powers should be wasted on a village congregation, made up of rustics and old women; he must preach from some city pulpit; he was a man fitted to sway the masses in the east end of London, to be a leader among his fellows; it was seldom that one saw such penetration and power united with such simple unobtrusive goodness.
Mr. Ferrers would smile a little sadly when the speeches reached his ear. He was a man who cared little for the praises of his generation; his one aim in life was to devote his talents to his Master’s service—to work in the corner of the vineyard allotted to him. His inner consciousness, indeed, told him that he had capabilities for a larger sphere, a wider range of work; when the call came he would be ready to leave his few sheep in the wilderness and go out into pastures now. He was like a knight watching beside his armor until the reveillé sounded; when the time came he was ready to go down to the battle.
When the call came! Alas! it never came in this world for Raby Ferrers. In the full prime of youth and strength the mysterious doom of blindness came upon the young vicar and left him groping in a darkened world.
There was bitter trouble at the Grange just then; a young cousin of Margaret and Raby Ferrers, who had lived with them from childhood, and had been the spoiled darling of the house, had left her home suddenly, leaving no trace behind her.
Gossip had been rife in Sandycliffe, but no one except Hugh Redmond knew the rights of the case, or why the girl should have abandoned her home when Raby Ferrers was lying on a bed of suffering, and Margaret was watching beside him in trembling anguish for the result.
There were weeks and months of bodily suffering and fierce internal conflict—bitter hand to hand fights with despair. And then the strong will and faith of Raby Ferrers triumphed; back from the shadow of the valley of death he came, mutilated, scarred, and victorious; and like blind Samson, led by a boy, he one day electrified his people by entering his pulpit again; and at the sight of the changed pale face, and of the deep melodious voice speaking with its old tender authority, there was hardly a dry eye in the church.
From that day Mr. Ferrers never flinched from the purpose he had set before him as far as lay in his power to do his duty. Bound by his ordination vows, he still gloried in the dignity of his priesthood. Sunday after Sunday saw him occupying the pulpit of his little church, which, as the fame of his rare eloquence went abroad, was always crowded with strangers.
He had secured the services of an earnest hard-working man—the ill-paid, overworked curate of an East End parish with a large sickly family—and installed them in the sunny pleasant vicarage.
There was little work for either of them in Sandycliffe, but they carried their joint energies further afield. Pierrepoint had a large poor population, and the vicar was old and supine; he accepted gladly the volunteered services of his zealous coadjutors, and, led by his faithful Johnnie, Mr. Ferrers penetrated into the winding alleys, and carried comfort to many a sick and dying bed. And as Mr. Brabazon grew more infirm, it became a rule to Mr. Ferrers to occupy his pulpit on Sunday evenings, and it was always remarked that on these occasions the church was crowded; people would come ten or twelve miles to hear the blind clergyman from Sandycliffe. It was even mooted by the bishop whether, after Mr. Brabazon’s death, Pierrepoint should not be offered to Mr. Ferrers.
After the first few weeks Raby Ferrers never spoke of his blindness to any one; even his half-sister Margaret who lived with him, and was his dearest and closest friend, never heard a repining word from his lips; neither did he waste his strength by silent brooding—the activity of his life left him no time for this; when he was not occupied with his ministrations, or preparing his sermons, Margaret would read to him for hours.
Yet, it was evident to any keen observer who studied the quiet face, that some load of care lay on the bowed shoulders of Mr. Ferrers; some heavy weight that at times seemed to crush him. Sometimes when Margaret was reading to him, he would make a sign for her to stop, and, laying down the book, she would watch him pacing up and down the green alleys of the Grange garden with his sightless eyes turned to the sunshine; but she knew that it was not of his blindness he was thinking, but of a heavier trouble still.
Few people about Sandycliffe knew that Margaret Ferrers was only Raby’s half-sister; there were only a few years between them, and in the close intimacy that had grown up between the brother and sister, it was seldom remembered by either of them that they had different mothers. Colonel Ferrers had married within two years of his first wife’s death, and the second Mrs. Ferrers had brought the Grange and a wealthy dowry to her husband.
But the marriage had not been a happy one, and the three last years of Mrs. Ferrers’