But the decision was not going to be as easy as these first thoughts might have led him to believe. An acceptance of his inheritance would be a betrayal of his commitment no matter how little he used of it for his own comfort. He had known for several years that for him service could not be a half-and-half affair. If he were to serve his Lord, he must do so with the whole of his being. He had never made any public vow of poverty, but he had made a private and solemn one before the altar of a chapel in Oxford. He did not believe it was impossible for a wealthy man to serve God, but he did believe it would be impossible for him. He could serve the vast majority of the people in the land only by becoming like them. Money would come between him and them even if it were money that he spent only on his wife and on charity. And how could he serve God unless he served His people?

The whole dilemma narrowed down to a choice between Rachel and God, he realized finally. But the thought chilled him. He did not want it to be as simple as that because then the answer was too glaringly obvious.

His godmother had loved him, he thought. She had given him an enormous gift of love: everything that was left of herself after she died. Could he reject that gift and deny her love? And was he rationalizing to think thus? Surely a gift of love must be free. Her gift was designed to set chains on him, albeit golden chains.

David finally pushed his chair back from beneath him and got restlessly to his feet. He was thinking in circles. He would go and visit the Perkins family. Mr. Perkins' mother was always glad of some company, and Mrs. Perkins' time was close. He must make sure that she had everything she needed when her time of confinement came. Mrs. Saunders had been baking. The smell of sweet spices was coming from the direction of the kitchen. He would take something with him. Mrs. Saunders would scold, of course, but she knew him well enough by now to make a double batch of almost everything she cooked.


***

It was oppressively hot the following day even though the morning was only half over. Rachel was wearing her finest muslin dress, but even so she was finding it hard to sit comfortably in old Mrs. Perkins' inner room. The leather binding of The Pilgrim's Progress was wet and sticky under her hand.

"There," she said, closing the book with a decisive snap. "That is the end."

"Ah." Mrs. Perkins sighed and laid her head back against the pillow. "I won't mind dying, my lady, if it can just be like that on the other side. That is a right good book."

"It is one of my favorites," Rachel said. "Shall we start another the next time I come? I thought you might enjoy one of Miss Burney's books. Camilla, perhaps."

"I don't know, my lady," old Mrs. Perkins said. "You must choose. But I would like to hear the whole story of that Ruth all the way to the end, if you would be so good. The reverend said that there is a whole book in the Bible about her."

"Yes, so there is," Rachel said. "Would you like to hear some now? I have the Bible out in the gig. And this morning's episode was very short, was it not?"

She smiled and went quickly from the room and out to the gig. She looked down at the child who grasped her skirt as she leaned across the seat to reach the Bible.

"Hello, Molly," she said. "You were helping Mam this morning by washing your own hands and face, were you not? What a helpful girl you are getting to be."

"I got a gap," the child said, smiling broadly so that Rachel could see where she had lost a front tooth.

"Oh, so you have," Rachel said. "And soon you will have a lovely new tooth to take its place."

The child danced off to her play again, satisfied that her gap had been seen and admired. Rachel picked up the Bible, only to have it taken from her grasp. She looked up, startled.

"It is too hot a day for a lady to be carrying even so slight a burden," David said with a grin. "Allow me."

Rachel smiled. "And so you should carry it," she said, "as it is on account of you that I need it. It seems that you told Mrs. Perkins that Ruth has a whole book to herself in the Old Testament. I have agreed to begin it today."

David stayed in the main room of the house for a while, talking to Mr. and Mrs. Perkins. He had two good reasons to be back at this house for the second day in succession. One concerned these two people. He had spoken to the Earl of Edgeley, he explained to Mr. Perkins, and his lordship was very willing to take him on as a footman, a job that would require a minimum of stooping and lifting. The job would be different, of course. A man who had spent his life working outdoors in the fields might find the rules and restrictions of life in a great house confining, and he might find the wearing of a grand uniform irksome. But the work was respectable and within his capabilities. He would be able to support his large family again without assistance.

His other errand concerned the elderly Mrs. Perkins. He had brought her Communion since she could no longer go to church. It seemed that his predecessor had done so only on special occasions, and no more than two or three times a year. David had pledged himself to bring Communion to all the elderly people once a week. He stepped quietly into the doorway leading to the inner room.

" 'And they said unto her,' " Rachel was reading, " 'Surely we will return with thee unto thy people.

" 'And Naomi said, Turn again, my daughters: why will ye go with me?' "

She read with an eagerness that made the story sound very immediate, David thought. Why did so many people reserve a special, very sober voice for reading the Bible?

" Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go.' "

Naomi gave in to the pleading of her daughter-in-law, David thought. She was convinced that Ruth would be unhappy following her into a foreign land to live a life that was outside her experience, yet when she had seen that Ruth's heart was set on going, she had given in to her. She should have stayed firm. Ruth would surely be unhappy with her decision. So the voice of wisdom would have said. Yet Ruth had settled in her new country, made a good marriage, and become the great-grandmother of King David, and thus an ancestress of Jesus himself.

So much for caution, for wisdom, for common sense.

"I shall read the rest of the book next time," Rachel said, then looked around sharply and saw David standing in the doorway. She got hastily to her feet. "I shall leave you with the Reverend Gower."

David had had a third reason for stopping at that particular cottage that morning. "Will you wait for me?" he asked as Rachel turned to leave. "I wish to talk with you."

"There is going to be a storm, Reverend," Mrs. Perkins said when Rachel had left. "Make sure her ladyship gets home before the rain."

David smiled. "I think you are right," he said. "But I believe it will be night before the storm breaks.''

"She is very pretty," Mrs. Perkins said, giving him a shrewd look that stopped just short of a wink.


***

Rachel had missed David at the picnic the afternoon before. She was very conscious of the passing of each day. After tonight's ball there would be only one more day before the departure of all the guests. David would leave soon after that. In fact the whole of life would then change. She would tell Algie that she did not after all think it wise for them to become betrothed. And she would begin living without either of the two men she loved so dearly.

She held herself firm against panic. There were still a few days left. She must enjoy them to the full. The future was so very unknown that it would serve no purpose to try to look ahead. She must enjoy today and tomorrow and then face the future one day at a time.

She was afraid. If she allowed herself to think, she was terrified. But she should not be. It was a long-ingrained habit always to fear that life's yawning emptiness would claim her. Her new certain knowledge that it would not do so had not yet had time to take root in her unconscious mind. She did not know what her future would be. She did not believe that she would ever marry, though it might be a childishly romantic notion to think that one would mourn the loss of one man for a lifetime. She did not know for sure that she would stay at Oakland. Perhaps Papa would wish to remove to his principal seat of Greenslades at some time in the future. He frequently talked of doing so. Perhaps she would beg him to take her there if she found that her friendship with Algie was no longer the comfortable thing it had always been.

Of only one thing was she certain. She was going to allow the pattern of her life to unfold without resistance. She was going to put her faith in a higher power than herself. David had been quite right. She had done much thinking about what he had said in the nursery at Singleton Hall. And he was right. There was nothing restricting or dreary about accepting and living a religious faith. She had already started to do both without even fully realizing the fact.

And she had told David the truth. Her mornings were the happiest part of her days. The happiest part of her life, in fact. There was meaning in doing things for others. It was only in giving that one could receive. Jesus Himself had said it. What she had given over the years and especially in the past few weeks was paltry in return for the happiness and the friendships she had gained.

So for the first time she had abandoned herself to life without fear. And she had hunted through the New Testament until she found the passage she was looking for: "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.... Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself."