«^* mm .fiir^ m>* : ww* oo 1 , THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES S. F. McLean, bookseller, Thro' Lattice -Windows THRO' LATTICE-WIN- DOWS j» BY W. J. DAWSON " And homely faces, seen where house-fires glow Thro 1 lattice-windows, not in vain protest Earth's humblest life her happiest and her best" I NEW YORK J* DOUBLEDAY AND McCLURE CO. £ MDCCCXCVII Copyright, 1897, By Doubleday & McClure Co. ©fatbrrsttg $res»: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. PR 4515 D3ZZ £ I WISH TO ASSOCIATE WITH THIS BOOK A NAME SIGNIFICANT OF FAITHFULNESS IN FRIENDSHIP FIRMNESS AND WISDOM IN COUNSEL AND SINGULAR GENEROSITY IN CRITICISM W. ROBERTSON NICOLL TO WHOM MANY WRITERS BESIDE MYSELF OWE A DEBT NOT EASILY COMPUTED AND BUT INADEQUATELY ACKNOWLEDGED IN HONEST ADMIRATION TRUE RESPECT AND WARM AFFECTION 1 anwAR* Contents Pagb I. Where the Sun Shines ... i II. The Children of Amalek . . 12 III. Why Thomas Craddock did not go to Church .... 35 IV. The Tired Wife 55 V. The Man from London ... 77 VI. A Lost Idyll 96 VII. The Parsimony of Mrs. Shan- non 117 VIII. The Money in the Drawer . 138 IX. Potterbee's First Sermon . . 157 X. A Pious Fraud 179 XI. The Extravagance of Solo- mon Gill 196 XII. A Case for Conflict .... 215 XIII. The Last Home 235 vii Contents Page XIV. An Innocent Impostor . . 254 XV. Rue with a Difference . . 275 XVI. Craddock goes to Church . 303 XVII. Brother Dyeball 323 XVIII. The Last Adventure of Johnny Dexter 343 XIX. The Gate of Heaven . . . 364 vin Thro' Lattice-Windows WHERE THE SUN SHINES STEPPING westward from South Bar- ton, the traveller follows for about two miles a deeply shaded lane, which gradually becomes narrower and more uneven till it climbs abruptly to the open moorland. The last building which he passes on leaving the lane is a ruined windmill, which crowns a little green acclivity like a white lighthouse ; and this illusion is still further strengthened by the sea-like emptiness and vastness of the surrounding scenery. Over this sad-coloured and unpopulated waste the wind beats incessantly, piping and cry- ing in the dusk of summer days like a human voice, and passing with a sound like the noise of battling armies through the long nights of winter tempest. Thro' Lattice-Windows The moor is broken and rugged, sug- gesting equally a boundless freedom and a lurking treachery. It invites and it repels, and there are moments when it were not difficult to imagine it pos- sessed of a certain formless and subtle spirit of life. Perhaps such a spirit does inhabit it; and thus the perception of something awful and occult which haunts the traveller who penetrates its solitude is not altogether fanciful. When the nimble fire of dawn burns along its tumbled crests in a hundred fantasies of colour, it is easy to believe that great things have happened there ; so vast a theatre can scarce be without its drama. But if such a drama be enacted, it is one in which man has no part, executed on a scale of plot and passion beyond his puny reach, the merely human being everywhere over- whelmed in the elemental and eternal. The moor knows a hundred moods, but its greatest moment happens close on daybreak. If one should chance to visit Barton Moor at dawn, he will no- 2 Where the Sun Shines tice something terrible in its solemnity of silence, and will hold his breath. From time to time, at inevitable inter- vals,a faint stir of air runs through the yellow gorse, as though the world breathed in its dreams. Northward, the broken summits of the hills are stained with indigo ; a white scarf of mist floats along their base, through which the fir-trees rise like sentinels, silent, plumed, and spectral. Presently a long band of orange light appears to eastward, each instant glowing brighter, as though it were a fire fanned by a gigantic bellows. Simultaneously pink vapours, floating in the zenith, coil themselves into a roof of rose, and san- guine clouds begin to move in steady files, like the trained battalions of an army. The east glows and throbs now like the mouth of a mysterious furnace. Six miles away the red sail of a fishing boat absorbs the flame, and lies upon the water, a spot of unconsuming splen- dour. A moment later all the firma- ment is full of movement ; flocks of 3 Thro' Lattice- Windows clouds appear, twisted and blown by some higher current of the air into a manifold caprice of form, and each touched with gold, or orange, or tri- umphant crimson. Above the band of yellow in the east, the eye discovers seas of emerald, shut in by turquoise cliffs, on which stray argosies of cloud hang becalmed. At last a throbbing splendour pushes up its rim above the distant heights, and a sudden lark be- gins to sing. The world becomes a wonder and a joy, and the silent watcher finds himself a mute spectator of the birth-throes of creation. In more ways than one, this untu- tored moorland claims kinship with the neighbouring sea, to which it presents many obscure but palpable resem- blances. When the slow purple shadows move across it, they give to the more distant hollows the exact aspect of curved waves, which carry darkness in their bosoms; and, at times, white sea- gulls may be seen floating motionless or sailing low over these long-ranged 4 Where the Sun Shines immobile crests. On the northerly- horizon many fir-plumed promontories push themselves out into this uncharted solitude in a sort of shore-line ; and there is a sound of waters, too, for in- numerous tiny streams hurry through the channels of the peaty soil, gathering here and there into shallow pools, which glitter blue in the distance with reflec- tions of the eternal upper depths. Even the white road which zigzags over this immense expanse suggests a thin track of foam on dark and boundless waters. It is the one faint yet enduring record which man, with all his age-long effort, has been able to inscribe on this pri- meval wilderness — his scrawled signa- ture on a blank page ; or, to follow our ocean simile, the one signal that humanity has passed this way, as some bubbling track upon the soli- tary sea declares the vanished keels of destiny. It is perhaps because man has been so visibly repulsed on Barton Moor, that here nature often meets us with a 5 Thro' Lattice-Windows certain air of tranquil amenity, and even magnanimity, as of one who can afford to be generous. She appears no longer in the grotesque disguise of a partial civilisation, and makes no scruple to disclose the naked wonder of her loveli- ness. The plough has never turned this soil, the sower never passed across the smoking furrow ; yet here is a spacious beauty, and a wild riot of vitality not discovered in the most fertile pastures of the plain. Nowhere does the sunset linger longer in rich saturations of ethereal colour ; nowhere is the air so brisk and pleasant; no- where does the soil distil such pungent fragrances. The whole effect is of a vital and contented desolation. Following this exposed and lonely moorland road, by many miniature de- clivities and heights, the traveller finds at last the fifth milestone, and with it the summit and boundary of the moor. The rolling purple waves end abruptly, as though arrested by a magic wand ; they hang poised, as in the act of break- 6 Where the Sun Shines ing, over a broad and pleasant valley. This is the valley of the Bar. The valley is some two miles in breadth, and five or six in length. It is a land of orchards, pastures, and white farmhouses, where the passing of a thousand years has altered little in the essential aspects of human life. A clear stream flows softly through the valley, till it gains the ocean at St. Colam, whose clustering masts and glittering church-vane complete the perspective to the west. To the east- ward, piled upon the rising ground above the river, is the town of Barford. On Sabbath mornings, when the air is still, the bells of Barford and St. Colam discourse antiphonies along this happy valley; and, on stormy nights when Atlantic gales are blowing, the noise of the sea murmurs in the hills as in some vast and convoluted shell. Barford is a town by courtesy, a vil- lage in reality, but with many pleasant features of the English hamlet yet dis- tinguishable. The houses crowd to- 7 Thro' Lattice-Windows gether in the High Street, with some vague purpose of municipal cohesion, but beyond it they elbow one another in a growing distance in the frankest scorn of uniformity. Outstanding gable- chimneys buttress every cottage ; win- dows look out on you from unexpected angles. Lilac and laburnum, with here and there a crimson fuchsia, stand on guard at each porched doorway ; it would seem that each was built for no other purpose but the picturesque. Bees murmur in the streets, and blazoned butterflies float unnoticed. Here the country has no quarrel with the town, and nowhere shall you find a land of happier fertility, more orderly, well cared for, habitable. An extraordinary richness of verdure and of foliage is everywhere, and the trees and pastures have a depth of colour in them as though purple mingled with their nor- mal green. The air has a sweetness and a vigour all its own, soft, yet exhilarat- ing, for it is distilled from the finest essences of the moorland and the sea. 8 Where the Sun Shines Life passes slowly in these parts ; a few thoughts suffice the wisest, a few joys the happiest. There is no confusion of impression, no sharpening of percep- tion into morbid subtlety. Yet the primitive elements of all human tragedy are not wanting, for love sits beside the hearth, and sorrow weeps among the graves, and the stream that eddies under Barford bridge sings a song as ancient as the centuries. This was, for me, the place where the sun always shone. One notices the days of rain only as one grows older ; for the child all days were sunny. The old town glitters through a mist of gold, a faery town, under a firmament of divin- est weather. And if to the maturer mind such unsubstantial allegories be accepted, and acceptable, no more, yet some authentic elements of joy remain undiminished, — the valley-wind, pun- gent with scents of sea and moorland, blowing through the streets, the bees hiving in the gardens, the larks singing high above the silent houses in the 9 Thro' Lattice-Windows noontide, the sound of a mother singing to her child in the open doorway, of a cradle rocked upon a brick floor, and of whispering voices in the dusk beneath the honeysuckled walls. Amid this later roar of towns one has but to close the eyes an instant, and the involuntary dream comes back, — the picture of red roofs and white walls beside the river, of an open market-place with groups of quaint and brightly coloured figures, of lattice-windowed houses, with their glit- ter of extreme cleanliness and proud boast of flowers ; and behind these lat- tice-windows — what was not apparent long ago — the busy loom of life, pro- ducing hour by hour a fabric gay with coloured threads of comedy, and here and there shot with the darker threads of tragedy and fate. Long years ago I marched over Bar- ford bridge with imagined sounds of drum and trumpet to the great campaign of life. To-day I wander back again, quiet and lonely as a ghost. No one waits for me ; none recognise or know 10 Where the Sun Shines me : there is a silence in the streets. The bells are ringing through the mel- low afternoon, but the chime is muffled. The sun still shines ; but there is a sense of emptiness and coldness in the air. I look wistfully at the lattice-windows one by one, but strange faces move behind them. It makes me shiver. And there is a voice in the gardens be- hind the empty street singing the bees home, by which I know that death is here. Perhaps it is my youth only that is dead : it is for that the bell is tolling. I sit beside the old bridge and think, and one by one little humble shreds of old romance piece themselves together in my mind, episodes of love and faith- fulness emerge, uncommemorated histo- ries take significance and shape. When the evening falls I will pass again along the silent street, tapping lightly at these lattice-windows, and I think the old familiar faces will still greet me there, and the unforgotten voices speak. ii II THE CHILDREN OF AMALEK THERE could be no doubt, none whatever, that Dexter was ' the worst man in the place.' His badness was of a quite incomparable order, so that when the various misdeeds of other Barford sinners were touched upon in pious conversation, Dexter was left out, as standing in a class by himself. His drunken shout had terrorised a generation of small mortals in Barford ; his crapulous, disordered figure was known to every- body. He worked at intervals ; shaved himself, or caused himself to be shaved, at longer intervals ; washed with any true efficiency at yet longer intervals. Latterly the only work he had done was grave-digging, which being an intermit- tent employment entirely shaped itself with the general intermittence of his habits. Fearful stories were circulated 12 The Children of Amalek about the manner in which he did this work ; the unholy songs he sung, the desecrating oaths he uttered, the many gallons of beer he consumed in the operation. ' One don't grudge him the beer,' was the general verdict, ' for 't is an awful job, a live man a-diggin' the place where a dead man is to lie, but he might keep a still tongue in 'is head while he's at it' 'An' 'tis bad old ancient randy songs he do sing too,' re- marked Mrs. Splown, whose house was near the graveyard. ' I Ve heerd 'em myself, and 't is enough to make a body blush. A pity it is he don't know no hymn-tunes, nor somethin' kinder psalmy, like " My soul doth magnerfy." ' But if Dexter knew any psalm tunes he never sung them in the graveyard. He did his work in a bacchanalian spirit, and many a girl hurrying past the church- yard wall in the dusk trembled at the sound of that dreadful voice, singing and laughing from the deep pit of death in drunken ecstasy. Now it was a singular circumstance *3 Thro' Lattice-Windows that the worst man in the place was the father of two of the prettiest children, and that Polly and Johnny Dexter were always clean and tidy. This was mani- festly something out of the course of nature, and provoked the cynicism of Craddock, who deduced therefrom the general law that Providence worked upon the absurd principle of sending the prettiest children to the ugliest and most worthless parents. But even Crad- dock was quite unable to explain the cleanliness and tidiness of the two chil- dren, except upon the obviously weak hypothesis that ' they did it theirselves, an' it came nateral to 'em.' No one had imagination enough to read the real solution of the mystery, which was that the worst man in the place actually loved his children, and cared for them with all the patience of a mother. The fact was Dexter washed them himself, and if any one had looked into the window of his ramshackle cottage about midnight, he would have seen the curious spectacle of this abandoned grave-dig- 14 The Children of Amalek ger laboriously trying to darn a small pair of socks, or mend a rent in some article of diminutive underclothing. If, further, such a spectator could have passed into the cottage invisibly, and have ascended the broken stair, he would have found two little golden- haired children lying asleep in a perfectly clean truckle-bed, and he would have observed that the soft calm of entire happiness suffused their faces, like sun- shine on sleeping flowers. For Dexter kept all his bad deeds for the public, and his better deeds for his home. From the day when his wife died he had steadily gone to the bad, but the one uncorrupted spot in his heart was his love of his children. The sight of their innocent faces always recalled him to his better self, and it afforded him a certain ironic satisfaction to remember how bad he really was, and how good they thought him. ' I wonder you don't keep straight for the sake of your children,' said Reckitt to him severely, one day. *5 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' Ah, Muster Reckitt,' he replied, with a grin, ' you ain't got no childer. Lor', you don't know what little deevils childer can be.' Reckitt went away sadly, with the conviction that Dexter was an incor- rigible brute. But perversity was one of Dexter's chief pleasures, and, having attained a character for supreme wicked- ness, not without considerable exertion, he did not wish to throw it away lightly. It pleased him to know that he had added another wilful and quite false element to his evil reputation, which would further establish him in his bad pre-eminence as the worst man in Bar- ford. In his way Dexter was an artist. He knew how to live up to his part. It will be easily believed that two small children, brought up in entire ignorance of any parental control, or any other sort of control, soon dis- covered many pleasant ways of extend- ing their liberties. Dexter disappeared from his cottage in Bogie's Lane about seven in the morning, and from that 16 The Children of Amalek hour till evening the children did as they liked. Of course they were cap- tured by Geake, the schoolmaster, whose modes of taming them proved wholly ineffectual. They were quick and bright children, who soon learned to read, but at that point they stubbornly refused to follow any further the sterile paths of knowledge. In the matter of Scripture Johnny early developed vigorous ten- dencies toward heresy, which, as Geake told the curate, were only such as might be expected in a child of Dexter's. After an Old Testament lesson one day, in which Geake had dilated at length on the intentions of God toward the chil- dren of Amalek, Johnny asked innocently whether ' God had not improved a good deal since those days.' The subsequent castigation which he received lessened his interest in Old Testament narratives, and gave to the act of truancy a greatly heightened fascination. When he and Polly talked the affair over in bed at night, they unanimously resolved that the children of Amalek were greatly to 2 *7 Thro' Lattice-Windows be pitied, and they would have presented their votes of condolence in person, if they had had the least idea where these persecuted children were to be found. Upon the whole they were inclined to believe that Amalek was a bad word that had some reference to the gipsies, and they spent a delightful week of summer weather on the moors, looking in vain for wandering gipsy children, that they might reassure them as to their ultimate destiny. Geake was very bitter on the subject of these repeated truancies, but, as he knew that it would be worse than useless to appeal to Dexter, he had to put up with them as best he could. In course of time the affair grew to the propor- tions of a public joke. ' There go Dexter's brats ; you just watch 'em,' one person would say to another in the street. It was a sight quite worth watching. The two children would come along, hand in hand, with a look of excellent demureness on their faces, and turn up the road to the school- 18 The Children of Atnalek house with what appeared to be the most scholarly intentions. But beside the school-house wall they usually paused. Johnny would stoop to tie his shoe, and Polly would whisper some- thing in his ear, at which both children would look at the sky with questioning eyes. ' Going? ' whispered Polly. Then Johnny would look grave, and thrust his hands deep into his patched knickerbockers. ' I know where there 's a blackbird's nest, truly. I heard Billy Smith say he was going after it this evening. Truly.' At this point the school-bell would stop ringing, the door would be shut, and if it were a fine morning the song of a lark would fall clear and sweet out of the upper air, with a wizard note of temptation in it. ' The door 's shut. It 's no good to go now, is it? ' Johnny would reply, with the neatest air of melancholy, his eyes nevertheless subtly brightened by the lark's call. 19 Thro' Lattice-Windows 'No, it's no good. I'll run you for an apple down the lane, Johnny.' And straightway the two small fugitives would disappear — once more to search for those miraculous children of Amalek upon the moors. In the case of most children it is ex- ceedingly improbable that an obscure phase of Old Testament history would have exercised any lasting power on the imagination, but Dexter's children were not as other children. They were lonely children ; their life, their home, their very games were all lonely. A child's book they had never seen ; the only book that approached that qualification was a dog's-eared copy of the ' Pilgrim's Progress,' which was the frequent com- panion of their truancies to the moors. The sad case of the children of Amalek was therefore elevated by them into a legend of first-rate importance and en- during fascination. They talked about it in bed at night, and soon wove round it a cycle of subsidiary legends. They realised a sense of almost personal tri- 20 The Children of Amalek umph when they discovered that these despised children of Amalek — and of course they were real children to them — once smote Israel and 'possessed the city of palm-trees.' What palm-trees were they could not imagine, but they soon decided that a group of stone-firs on the highest part of the moor might very well represent them, and they took possession of them in the most matter-of- fact way in the name of Amalek. Here they kept tryst through long summer days, waiting for these dream-children of their fancy to put in an appearance, and discussing gravely from which part of the purple-shadowed moorland they would make their approach. In the meantime the wind in the firs sung them strange songs, and Polly spelled through the more dramatic passages of the ' Pil- grim's Progress,' with a marked pref- erence for the fight with Apollyon, and the city where all the trumpets blew on the other side of the river ; and the two lonely children might well have been pitied by some kind angel, of starred 21 Thro' Lattice- Windows and rainbowed wings, had he but hap- pened to have come that way. But if no angel came, butterflies with wings of azure and beaten gold came, and dragon- flies in jewelled armour and diamond gauze, and flowers, which are the stars of the earth, grew round their feet, and the gorse like a burning bush flared on every hilltop ; so that Dexter's children were supremely happy, and were in no wise to be pitied by the urchins into whose dull brains Geake was engaged in whacking and thumping the rule of three. Their one perennial disappoint- ment was that, although they had found the city of palm-trees right enough, and had saved their lunch as long as possible every day, with the vague notion that they must be prepared to show due hospitality to the hereditary foes of Israel if they came, yet these mysteri- ous, persecuted, and forlorn children of Amalek never came — doubtless, through some misunderstanding of the reception that awaited them, and a deadly fear of Geake and the town police force. 22 The Children of Amalek But one has only to wait long enough and the miraculous is sure to happen, and one day the children of Amalek really arrived. They were very brown, dirty, and hun- gry, and made short work of the frugal lunch that was pityingly offered them. They then explained that they belonged to a caravan, which was pitched a mile away in Deadman's Hollow. Johnny looked grave at this information, for Deadman's Hollow had not an alluring sound; but Polly, recognising in it some- thing akin to the Valley of Apollyon, was all for an immediate exploration, having hopes that she might even be permitted to see Apollyon himself, by way of spe- cial favour. She did not see that winged and armoured figure of her dreams, but she saw a pair of tall gipsies, who ex- amined her clothes with many exclama- tions in an unknown tongue. She made no resistance when they gave her boots to a grinning child of Amalek who stood by, because she felt that, after marching about all these years with the hand of 2 3 Thro' Lattice- Windows God against them, her new friends might fairly claim a little sacrifice on her part; and besides, she had a natural preference for bare feet. The inside of the caravan, with its air of snugness, delighted and amazed the children, and when the bony horse was put into the shafts, and they found themselves mov- ing away on the broad sandy road toward St. Colam, they felt the exquisite delight of adventure. After a while they fell asleep, with the happiest ' I- told-you-so ' consciousness that the children of Amalek were not so bad as they were painted. When they woke up they were miles away from the city of palm-trees, and instead of the blow- ing of trumpets they heard the organ- note of the sea, and the sons of Amalek in violent altercation round the door of the van. In the meantime Barford was enjoying the trepidations of a first-rate sensation. Dexter had been seen running up the street at night quite sober and in great agitation. Geake smiled grimly ; he 24 The Children of Amalek alone extracted from the situation a sweet drop of personal triumph. Dex- ter's children became the question of the hour. "T is a judgment on him,' Mrs. Splown explained. ' You can't expect but the Almighty '11 punish a drunken raskell like him, what sings his randy songs while he 's a-diggin' decent people's graves. Him as made us ain't a-goin' to put up wi' a chap like Dexter for ever no more. My man used ter go on the same way, an' I often said to him, says I, " Splown, Him as is above '11 have it outer you some day for your drunken ways, for all you blow the orgin in the church a-Sundays." An', sure enough, he died mysterious, his liver 'aven slipped down suddin, and no doctor bein' able to put it back agen, though it warn't for want o' tryin', which they did night an' day for nigh on three weeks, which you could 'ear his groans on the other side the street. Not but what it 's hard the Almighty hev took them dear childer, which He might hev Thro' Lattice-Windows took Dexter, as no one would ha' missed. But that 's jest the contrairy way things do go in this world, as might make one think Him as is above do forget all about it now an' then, though God for- gie me for a-saying it, knowin' as the curate do lodge wi' me an' would n't approve.' The good woman thereupon ran in- doors, and, having spanked as many of the children as she could catch as a warning against truancy, sat down and burst into tears over the general con- trariness of things. But when the third day came and there was no news of the lost children, public sympathy began to go out strongly toward poor Dexter. The man looked so pale and forlorn that a heart of stone might have pitied him. People began to remember that the worst man in the place was a human creature. The Misses Splashett, of the Red House, a pair of dear withered spinsters, who had the most definite convictions on the origin and destiny of the world, did in- 26 The Children of Amalek deed send him a few tracts of a some- what inflammatory description, but as they were accompanied by a large bas- ket of provisions, including cakes made with their own frail hands after a special recipe transmitted through ten genera- tions of Splashetts, their conduct might be confidently accounted to them for righteousness. Dexter became a sort of inverted hero. It was remembered that he had always been kind to the children, and a man who had known him in St. Colam in earlier days in- dustriously spread the rumour that be- fore his wife died Dexter had been a ' reg'lar church-goer ' and ' as decent a chap as might be.' ' Ay,' said Craddock, ' Dexter 's none so bad. A man as sings at his work ain't never very bad, though he don't allers sing what 's fittin'. I 'd liefer trust him any day than a fellow like Geake, whose face is allers screwed up hard as though his mouth was full o' sour sloes, an' his blood run vineger. I '11 warrant now as Geake thinks them ^7 Thro' Lattice- Windows poor childer is made away wi' jest be- cause they did n't come to schule reg'lar. It 'd be a mighty poor sorter world if Geake was the Lord A'mighty.' Dexter's own view of the situation was pathetically simple. ' I '11 allow,' he said to the curate, with tears streaming down his face, ' that I did n't deserve no childer like them. But, Muster Reckitt, I loved 'em dear, I did. I promised her as died I 'd allers look well arter 'em, an' so I hev. You ask 'em if I ain't loved 'em dear. An' I '11 tell you what, Muster Reckitt, if so be as God '11 let me hev 'em back, I '11 never touch another drop o' drink as long as I live. Look 'e here, Muster Reckitt, them 's their best clothes, an' them 's Johnny's little shoes what I mended mysel', an' many a night I 've set up a-menden their little things. P'raps if I 'd ha' bought 'em some toys they would n't ha' run away, but some- way, bein' a man o' clumsy mind, I never thought o' that. It 's hard for a man o' clumsy mind to justly remem- 28 The Children of Amalek ber what little childer do like. But I tried my best, sir, indeed I did, an' I loved 'em dear.' Search parties went out upon the moors, ponds were dragged, and every inch of the river bank down to St. Colam was sedulously searched. Dexter lived with the constant vision before his eyes of the children being carried up the street, Johnny's little hand hanging limp with the water dripping from it, and Polly with green river-weed tangled in her golden hair. In his dreams he heard the drip of deathly water, and saw white faces, luminously alive, rising out of the green scum of desolate pools. His thoughts never lit upon the truth. His dreams turned wholly upon death, and held dreadful pictures of all the graves he had ever dug, in each one of which, as he stooped to gaze, lay two still pale faces, softer and paler than the white flowers that lay at their feet, or the linen pillow on which their heads rested in the long repose. And from that dim and populous land of dreams 29 Thro' Lattice-Windows came such cries and sighs of infinite agony and despair that Dexter woke trembling, with the sweat of a great terror on his brow. In the meantime the two children, after a week of most romantic happiness, had arrived at the distressing conclusion that the children of Amalek were, after all, persons of dubious character, and that any prolonged friendship with them presented unsuspected difficulties. It is no doubt a delightful thing to be ini- tiated into the mysteries of guddling trout and snaring rabbits, but it is less delightful to find your clothes gradually transferred to the backs of your instruc- tors. Moreover, the children of Amalek had learned many bad habits in their long exile, among which was fighting without cause, and swearing without ceasing, not to speak of a tendency to devour their food with extreme rapidity, as a prelude to a ravenous raid upon the platters of their guests. Altogether, a week was quite sufficient to explode the Amalek legend, and so it happened 3 1 The Children of Amalek that when the master of the caravan set the children down upon the road one windy October morning, and gruffly bade them ' cut along home,' they felt a joyous but unconfessed sense of release. But where was home? Alas, they did not know. The clouds rolled black across the moor, and the sea bellowed loud at their backs, and there was no sign of the ' city of palms.' The stones cut their bare feet, the rain came in gushes like the spouting of a geyser, and never were there two more forlorn little pilgrims on the forsaken roads of this habitable earth. But Polly, being a child of bright imagination, carried off the situation with a fine bravery. ' It 's the hill Difficulty, this hill is, Johnny. An' round the corner I guess there 's the Interpreter's House.' ' Can you hear the trumpets blowing on the other side? ' asked Johnny, in a tearful voice. ' Why, not yet. Of course ! We are n't near far enough.' 3 1 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' Suppose we meet 'Polyon ? ' ' Oh, but you won't. He lives right away over there ' — with a sweep of a little ragged arm in the general direction of America. ' Let me carry you a little bit, Johnny.' ' I 'm a man, and shan't be carried. I 'm goin' to take care of you. I only asked where 'Polyon was 'cause I wanted to fight him,' said Johnny proudly, but with manifest untruth. 1 Shall I tell you somethin', Johnny?' • A tale ? ' ' No ; somethin' true.' 'What is it?' ' There is n't no real 'Polyon, I don't think. He 's dead a long while ago, truly.' This refreshing intelligence greatly comforted Johnny, who straightway be- gan to walk with much dignity, as though he were personally responsi- ble for the demise of that ghostly enemy. It was late at night when the two ragged little mortals caught sight of 3 2 The Children of Amalek the veritable ' city of palms ' cresting the hill of heather above Barford. At that very hour a forlorn man was plod- ding up the hill, and, standing for a moment on its ridge, he saw in the broken moonlight two fluttering little figures emerge from the shadows of the tall fir-trees. ' Why, it 's father,' shouted Polly. 1 But he is n't singin', not a bit. I guess he 's sorry 'cause we wented away.' Dexter, at the sound of the voice, rushed forward like a man with winged feet. In a moment the fugitives were in his arms. ' We 've been 'mong the Malekites, but when we wented we did n't mean to stay so long,' sobbed Polly. 1 An' we don't like them any more/ said Johnny gravely. 'We love you best, father dear.' Half an hour later there was a great shout in Barford High Street. Dexter was coming up the street with Polly on his shoulders and Johnny in his arms. 3 33 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' Well, to be sure,' said Mrs. Splown, as she ran out to kiss the children, ' 't is jest like Scripter. Tis the dead as is alive, an' the lost as is found.' ' There 's some one else as is found beside the childer,' said Dexter joy- ously. 34 Ill WHY THOMAS CRADDOCK DID NOT GO TO CHURCH THE reasons why Thomas Craddock did not go to church were, like his supposed reasons for being unmar- ried, somewhat inscrutable to the public, though no doubt sufficing to himself. When Nathaniel Dring, who had married his third wife, and had been rendered presumptuous by that circumstance, started out one fine spring morning to convert Craddock to the toleration of matrimony as asocial institution of some importance, it was generally admitted that he got the worst of the argument. For when Dring asserted with quite unnecessary effusiveness that he had never had a cross word with one of his three wives, Craddock merely grunted, 'How monotonous,' and indicated by a 35 Thro' Lattice-Windows slight smile, which seemed to confine itself to the corners of his grim mouth, that he regarded Dring's statement as a cunningly devised fable. ' Not as I object to your marryin' as many wives as you like,' he added, by way of conciliation, ' though when a man has 'ad three wives in seven years, 't is uncommon like polygamy, which is forbidden in the new dispensation.' ' But marriage is ordained for the mutual help, society, and comfort the one ought to have of the other,' re- torted Dring, with a sudden recollection of the terms of the Marriage Service, with which his acquaintance was in- timate and unusual. ' You can't say, Craddock, but what you 'd be a good deal happier for a tidy woman to look arter you, an' talk to you when you 're lonely.' ' No doubt, no doubt,' he replied, with a gleam in his grey eyes which wiser persons than Dring had long ago rec- ognised as dangerous. ' But s'pose she talked when I was n't lonely, eh ? 36 Why Craddock did not go to Church They do, you know, friend Dring; they do — at times. I can't deny but what I 've know 'd a case or two. Maybe you Ve know 'd such a case yourself, eh?" There was always something peculiarly irritating in the ' eh ' of Thomas Crad- dock. It was something between a malignant chuckle and the sharp explo- sive click of a secret spring, which one could fancy was ingeniously concealed in his lean throat. Craddock's throat was one of his strong points. When he spoke, what is called an Adam's apple shot up and down like the weight on the machines for the trial of the relative strength of men's fists at fairs. It pos- sessed a dreadful fascination for chil- dren, and in the minds of older people was curiously associated with ideas of pugnacity — like the weight on the machines at the fair again. It was the common belief of the children that this untoward Adam's apple was the diabolic instrument which produced that om- inous eh ? and, viewed in the light of 37 Thro' Lattice-Windows natural phenomena, the belief did not appear to be wholly irrational. ' There ain't enough for us all, any- way, an' if you take more 'n your share, it stands to reason some o' we poor chaps must go without. We starvin' chaps do do it out o' pure good nature, jest to oblige you greedy chaps — eh?" At this point in the argument, Dring recollected an engagement, and saun- tered up the street with the fine affecta- tion of a man absorbed in vast affairs. When he had gone, Craddock ham- mered vigorously at the boot that lay on his lap, and said to himself grimly, ' He 've meekened two on 'em, he 'ave ; I misdoubt but the third one '11 meeken him before he's done wi' her — eh?' And the ' eh ' sounded more than ever like a malicious chuckle. Craddock was a man who suffered from an unsatisfied thirst for knowledge, which accounted for the circumstance that on the wall of the dingy room where he worked at his shoemaking there was conspicuously displayed a 38 Why Craddock did not go to Church map of the world. When he was very lonely he looked at the map, and was straightway consoled with the sense of the multitudinousness of life ; when he was oppressed with the narrowness of his career, he reflected on the immensity of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and repeated the heights of the great moun- tains which were boldly printed on the map. It caused him a curious pleasure =- or at least a negation of pain — to re- flect on the number of people reported to exist in London, New York, or Chi- cago, a great many of whom were no better off than himself. Chimborazo was a name that thrilled him, and the Himalayas brought suggestions of infin- ity to his lonely thoughts. He would have liked to know something of astron- omy, but as there was no one to tell him anything, he contented himself with Job's enumeration of Arcturus, and Orion, and the sweet influences of the Pleiades, which planets he had tried to identify in vain in his solitary night- walks on the moors. 39 Thro' Lattice-Windows Many efforts had been made to induce him to attend public worship on the Sunday, but none had succeeded. He was always ready to receive any sort of embassy upon the subject, but no amount of argument made any difference to his habits. Every Sunday morning he shaved, put on a prehistoric blue coat with brass buttons, four only of which remained, lit a short pipe, and disappeared in the direction of the moors. For some years he had been accompanied by an old retriever dog, but when the dog died he never got another, and henceforth went alone. The mystery of his proceedings was further enhanced by the circumstance that he usually carried in his hand a small black book, not unlike a Bible, carefully wrapped in a red cotton hand- kerchief. There were not wanting those who said that the book was doubtless an atheistic publication, — Paine's 'Age of Reason,' the schoolmaster once af- firmed in unjust conjecture, which, being destitute of any element of proof, did 40 Why Craddock did not go to Church much to raise the schoolmaster's rep- utation for pious and almost preter- natural sagacity. People who did not scruple to discuss every sort of question with Craddock had never quite ventured to ask him what was the book he took with him on his solitary Sabbath walks. Perhaps it was because they did not wish to destroy the dramatic mystery which attached to it ; more likely it was because there was something in Crad- dock's grim mouth which warned them not to go too far with him. It was not until Reckitt, the new curate, came that Craddock's doings at- tracted wide public notice, and he him- self became a personage. Reckitt was an indefatigable little fellow, with strong views on the divine necessity of State Churches and the providential govern- ment of the world as displayed in an apostolical succession. He was slightly lame in one foot, but his lameness did not prevent him tramping up and down in all weathers in heroic attempts to shepherd a scattered and somewhat 4i Thro' Lattice- Windows recalcitrant flock. He never wore an overcoat — out of mere vanity, some people said, because if he had he would have covered up the silver cross which was conspicuously displayed on his black watch-ribbon. Motherly women, with a sound traditional faith in the virtues of flannel, were much exercised in their minds on the conjectural subject of his under-clothing, and remarked that he did not look strong, and that his landlady, Mrs. Splown, was not a person calculated to exercise a proper watch over either his health or his clothing, since she was ' moithered ' with a large family, and was a person known to entertain lax views on the airing of linen. But the little curate limped upon his heroic way ignorant of these crit- icisms, and put so brave a face on matters that no one but himself knew that according to the best medical opin- ion his lungs were not good for more than two years' work at most. One day he met the schoolmaster and asked him if he knew a man called 42 Why Craddock did not go to Church Craddock, — ' A shoemaker, you know, a bony, angular man, with a long throat and a lot of grey hair — lives in Tibbit's Row.' As every one in Barford knew every- body else, this question was quite un- necessary, which fact, however, did not prevent the schoolmaster rubbing his chin meditatively, as if that operation helped him to recall the well-known physiognomy of Craddock. When the aforesaid operation had been satisfac- torily completed, he admitted cautiously that he might have seen him, pronoun- cing his words in such a way as to inti- mate that it was by no means his habit to notice such persons as Craddock, although for reasons connected with a State Church it might be the duty of a person in the apostolic succession to do so. ' I find he does n't go to church,' said Reckitt. ' There 's a good many in Barford that don't,' said the schoolmaster, with a fresh rubbing of his chin. 43 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' But he does n't go to chapel either. It 's bad enough to be a Dissenter, but he is n't even that. In fact, he does n't go anywhere at all.' The schoolmaster thought this very likely, and being emboldened by an op- portunity of explaining Craddock's true character, which might never occur again, went on to repeat his conjectural infor- mation about the nature of the book which Craddock carried with him on his Sunday walks. The curate was much shocked. He would at once have gone to Craddock and demanded an explanation, had not the schoolmaster promptly repudiated all authority for his own statement, and further suggested that a lost sheep like Craddock should be treated with ten- derness, not to say with diplomacy. ' Well, Geake,' said the curate at last, ' perhaps you 're right. I '11 tell you what we '11 do. I 'm going to hold a public discussion on the necessity of a State Church in the schoolroom next Tuesday. Get Craddock to come. It 's 44 Why Craddock did not go to Church not like going to church, you see. I think the man likes me — in a way ; and if he comes, perhaps something I may say may bring him to the right way of thinking.' When the discussion was held on the following Tuesday, Craddock was there, to the great surprise of everybody and the exceeding joy of the curate. It was on this occasion that Craddock's repu- tation as a controversialist was finally established. It was generally admitted that the curate spoke with great ability, and the deacons of the old meeting-house, who had lived for fifty years in the fix«ed opinion that Dissent possessed the mo- nopoly and only true patent of oratory, whatever else it lacked, were much sur- prised. There had never been a rector of Barford with the slightest capacity for public speech, and Reckitt shone all the more brightly by comparison with generations of fumble-mouthed apos- tolical successors. The curate's perora- tion was exceedingly impressive. He 45 Thro' Lattice-Windows compared all other sects and churches to ships more or less adrift, whose lights were of an illusory and vanishing char- acter, whereas ' the Church ' — he did not condescend to any more exact des- ignation — was like a lighthouse, stand- ing grandly amid the storms, founded on the immutable rock, and shedding a serene perpetual radiance on the troubled waters of Time. He sat down amid loud applause, and even the deacons of the old meeting-house could scarce for- bear to cheer. It was then that Craddock rose from a form at the extreme end of the room, and asked permission to say a few words. There was a general feeling of dismay, which was not lessened when he ignored the chair, and pointedly addressed the curate as ' Muster Reckitt, sir.' A more inappropriate David for such a strug- gle with the Philistine could not have been imagined, and the deacons of the meetin'-house were much grieved. ' Chair, chair ! ' cried the audience. ' Oh, I forgot the cheer, did I ? ' the 46 Why Craddock did not go to Church old man went on serenely. ' Well, then, I '11 say Muster Cheer, sir, if so be that'll suit you better. I ain't a man as Is give to public speech, an' I would n't hev got up, only I thought maybe as Muster Reckitt would like to hear the views of a — a sorter outsider so to speak.' Here the curate nodded assent, which, as several of the motherly women re- marked, showed ' a angelic temper ' on his part. ' Now what was it as Muster Reckitt did say? If I heerd aright, he did say as Church were a lighthouse, which by all accounts is a very respectable sort of place, but not one as folk is particu- lar anxious to live in — eh? There 's a lighthouse down to St. Colam, as you may know, an' I know all about it, 'cause my brother was a keeper there. Well, 'twas uncommon risky work a-gettin' to it, to begin with. 'Twas only fine days you could go anigh it, an' when you got there you did n't see nothin' to make you wish to stay; an' Muster Reckitt, 47 Thro' Lattice- Windows 'e says as Church is a lighthouse — eh?' There was a burst of laughter at this sally, though I think it was mainly pro- voked by that chuckling eh, which went off like a sharp report, as though Crad- dock were engaged in firing guns over the grave of Reckitt's metaphor. ' But that is n't all. A lighthouse is a cold draughty sorter a place anyway. Them as lives in it sees the ships a-goin' past, an' oftentimes wishes they was on 'em, an' is sorry enough they ever give up the sea to start livin' on a bit o' rock. It may be as the ships toss up an' down a bit, an' sometimes one on 'em goes down, an' her lights is dowsed ; but 't is ten times happier work a-livin' on a ship any day than what it is on a lighthouse, 'cause they as lives on a ship is free, an' they as lives on a lighthouse is n't. An' half the winter through the lighthouse is in a fog, an' then her light ain't much use. In a fog, Muster Reckitt — or I beg pardon, Mr. Cheer — and passon said as Church were a lighthouse — eh? 48 Why Craddock did not go to Church ' But I ask further, what do that there light upon the lighthouse mean when so be it does shine? What do that there bell mean when they ring it slow and solemn in a fog? Muster Reckitt did n't tell we that. P'raps he forgot. Well, I '11 tell him, though I be only an out- sider, so to speak. The light an' the bell both do mean same thing. They say, " Beware o' me ; there 's danger here." And Muster Reckitt, 'e said as Church were a lighthouse. Eh? ' Having fired this last gun over the grave of an unhappy metaphor, Craddock smiled benignly on the audience, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and, with a final cluck of the instrument in his throat, sat down amid general laughter. Now it happened that about a month after this famous controversy the curate went to St. Colam to spend a quiet Sun- day with his friends. His winter work had tired him out, and, brave as he was, he was beginning to doubt if he could live through another winter. It was a 4 49 Thro' Lattice-Windows day of ethereal brightness, with a suave and sparkling air, and in the afternoon he was tempted to walk along the cliffs toward a little deserted church that stood on the cliff's edge about midway between St. Colam and Barford. It was twenty years or more since it had been used. Part of the tower had fallen, and the west front was fractured. Its grave- yard hung forlornly over the sea on a gentle slope, and quiet sheep were feed- ing on the grassy barrows of the dead. Reckitt limped slowly up the hill, for now that he had no duty to hold him taut he made no pretence of energy. He came softly over the crisp turf, entered the gateless porch, and was about to pass round the chancel to the little graveyard, when he was arrested by the sound of a voice. It was speaking in a low monotone. Presently it rose into a clear mournful cadence, and his ear rec- ognised the sublime phrases of the Burial Service. ' Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not Thy merciful ears 5° Why Craddock did not go to Church to our prayer: but spare us, Lord most holy, God most mighty, holy and merciful Saviour, Thou most worthy yudge eternal, suffer us not at our last hour for any pains of death to fall from Thee.' There was a long pause, and a skylark could be heard singing over the sea. Then the voice began again : ' Forasmuch as it hath pleased Al- mighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed — ' No, no ... O my God, I can't say that,' the voice broke forth in sudden agony. ' O Lizabeth, Lizabeth, why did you leave me?' The curate knew not what to do. At first he had been ready to suppose that an interment was going on, but that thrilling cry, ' Lizabeth} revealed not the solemn priest, but the human mourner. He felt that he had no right to intrude on that mystery of grief, — and yet, what if there was some poor soul here who needed comfort, — what 5 1 Thro' Lattice-Windows if God had given him this bit of work to do on this Sabbath, when by reason of weakness he could not preach? He stepped softly out of the shadow of the chancel, and looked over the huddled stones. A man was kneeling beside one of them which looked more cared for than the rest. It was Crad- dock. In the same instant the two men recognized one another. The curate was about to turn away, when Craddock beckoned him. He limped over the turfy mounds, and came to the old man, putting out his hand to him as he came. ' Look,' said Craddock grimly. The stone had been freshly scraped and lettered. It bore no memorial verse, — two names only and a date : — Elizabeth Craddock and her Infant Child, July 1 8th, 1845. There was a lilac bush in full blossom on the grave, and beside it lay a worn 52 Why Craddock did not go to Church Book of Common Prayer, open at the Burial Service. ' You 're a good man, Muster Reckitt,' said Craddock slowly. ' You . . . you understand. I loved her ... my Liza- beth ... an' forty years don't make no difference. I 've come here every Sun- day these forty years, and read them same words over her, an' I can't yet say that prayer 'bout thankin' God it hev pleased Him to take her. . . . I 've been tryin' all these years. . . . ' This is the Prayer Book we read to- gether the night before we was married. That's why I don't come to church. . . . I come where she is, an' I think God '11 understand, an' not be hard on me. . . . You '11 kep' my secret, Muster Reckitt — eh?" For answer the curate took Crad- dock's rough hand in his. ' God bless you, Craddock,' he said softly. He picked up the open Prayer Book, and read in a clear voice that trembled a little the prayer for all sorts and condi- tions of men, laying special emphasis 53 Thro' Lattice-Windows on the words, ' those who are in any ways afflicted or distressed in mind, body, or estate ; that it may please Thee to comfort and relieve them . . . giving them patience under their sufferings, and a happy issue out of all their afflic- tions.' The lark sang overhead, and the sound of the sea and the fragrance of the lilac mingled in the spring wind. Craddock stood with bowed head, and felt for one hushed instant the passage of an angel of peace upon the air. 54 IV THE TIRED WIFE NO one in Barford had ever given Geake credit for much heart, and there was certainly nothing in his be- haviour to encourage the suspicion that he possessed such an organ. He was a high-dried looking man, whose very- appearance suggested a lack of the generous juices of humanity. His very gait had a mechanical stiffness and pre- cision, and he was generally regarded rather as a mechanism than a man. If he had any feelings, they were so sedu- lously concealed that in course of time their existence was generally forgotten, and he himself was the last person to make any active demonstration on their behalf. People took so little interest in him as a man that, when he fell ill during the 55 Thro' Lattice-Windows Christmas holidays, it was a week before even Reckitt knew anything about it. This may be taken as conclusive of the manner in which Geake was generally regarded, since the illness of any one else in Barford would have been matter of common report in less than twenty- four hours. But even Mrs. Splown, who had a vampire-like capacity for scenting out news of this kind, and whose meat and drink was the discussion of the many mysterious symptoms to which human flesh is heir, knew nothing about it. It was a morning of hard frost, black and dismal, when Reckitt went to the schoolhouse to inquire for the sick dom- inie, and little as the curate was used to comfort, he shivered at the bleak dis- order of the house. Books and papers lay scattered in the narrow living-room, and the hearth was mountainous with ash and half-burnt coal. The window had not been opened for a week, and the air was stale and acrid. On the steep stair leading to Geake's bedroom 56 The Tired Wife the carpet hung in shreds, and the paper on the wall was discoloured with damp. In the bedroom the furniture was old and broken. Clothes lay piled upon the floor, and books lay upon the bed. It was not the squalor of poverty that met the eye ; it was the more sorrowful squalor and confusion of a house in which no woman's step was ever heard, no woman's hand was ever busy, except the hand and step of the hireling. Perhaps it was this suggestion of the absence of woman in the house that led Reckitt to note particularly a miniature in a black frame that hung over the bed- room mantel. It represented a young woman, whose face was noticeable for a certain bright candour which had all the effect of beauty. The brown hair was piled high above the smooth fore- head, and the hazel eyes had a singular liquid fulness. The nose was delicately aquiline, and the face itself a perfect oval. It was the face of a woman made for love, and especially for that form of love which shields and protects, and 57 Thro' Lattice-Windows finds its joy in serving rather than in being served. Geake, as he lay back on his tousled pillows, noticed Reckitt's eyes seeking the miniature from time to time. They had talked of indifferent things, and Reckitt had risen to go. But when Reckitt put out his hand in farewell, he was suprised to find that Geake held it fast. A soft wave of trouble spread itself over the sick man's face. His lips moved and stammered. There was a gleam of unusual fire in his hard grey eyes. ' I don't know why I should speak,' said Geake slowly, ' except that I 'm lonely. I 'm not the sort of man who needs friendship when I 'm well. But I 've lain here a week in dreadful silence. . . . No one has come, no one has cared. I 've heard the ice crackle out- side, the wind cry at night, but never a step upon the path. It 's come home to me that I'm not loved. It's a ter- rible thing to feel that. And once things were different. . . . O, sir,' and his voice 58 The Tired Wife suddenly broke into a wail, ' I 've heard you say that there's something in human nature that makes confession necessary. It 's true. You can bear things in silence for thirty years, but the hour comes when you must speak or die. And when I saw you looking at that face, things came back to me . . . the past . . . the pain, the sin . . . and I want to make confession.' Reckitt looked pitifully at the hard face, with its fringe of iron-grey whisker, and deep lines across the brows, and was about to speak, when Geake interrupted him. ' I don't want you to say anything. There 's a little warm jet of feeling bubbling up in my heart just now. If you speak, if you sympathise, I believe it will freeze again at once. Let me speak — do you listen. That 's all I ask.' He put his hand over his eyes, and began to talk like a man in a dream. 'It'll surprise you, no doubt, sir, to know that I once had a wife. It 's a 59 Thro' Lattice-Windows long time ago, long before I came to Barford. In those days I lived at Bel- chester, and there are still people who will tell you that no one in Belchester thirty years ago had a better chance of happiness than John Geake. I took orders when I was three-and-twenty, and at twenty-six, mainly by family influence, was appointed to the liv- ing of St. Peter's in Belchester, and had excellent chances of further preferment. It was a small living, but it was suffi- cient for my needs, for at that time my plan of life was simple enough. Im- mediately on my appointment to the living I married — the face yonder is the face of my wife. I don't need to tell you what sort of woman she was ; there are some women whose souls shine in their faces.' ' I never knew you had been in orders,' interrupted Reckitt. He felt a great pity for the man. ' No one in Barford does know it,' rejoined Geake bitterly. ' It is some- thing I want to be forgotten. I 've 60 The Tired Wife sunk a good deal since those days, but not nearly so low as I deserve.' There was a pause, and Geake stirred uneasily. Suddenly he removed his hand from his face, and sat up in the bed. His hard face seemed mystically softened, and when he began to speak again there was a new note in his voice. ■ You 've seen something of life and known something of men,' he continued ; ' has it ever happened to you to know a man whose curse was reticence? I '11 tell you what I mean — it 's not alto- gether reticence of speech, but a sort of hard constriction in the heart that pre- vents a man giving way to his emotions, however much he may want to do it. Well, I have always been conscious of it. As a youth I was proud and re- served. I remember that, when I left home first, I left without kissing my mother. I wanted to badly enough, for my heart was sore in me, but my mon- strous pride whispered at my ear that it would be unmanly. I was always haunted by a sense that it was a sort of 61 Thro' Lattice-Windows shameful weakness to give way to feeling, even when feeling was strongest in me. In my heart I was constantly rehearsing passionate speeches of love, but as sure as the time came to utter them, a cold finger was laid upon my lips, and my heart seemed turned to iron. As a child I never ran to kiss my mother as the other children did. I simply could not. I raged in private with myself about it, and I could see by the grieved look in my mother's eyes that she felt it ; but I was powerless to alter it. I was like a man chained to a pillar by invisible chains, — a shivering and starv- ing man who saw fire and food, but could not get at them. ' Well, it did seem that when I first met Alice I had got the better of my difficulty. To my infinite delight I found that I could speak as I felt. My heart seemed to thaw and expand. There was an almost delirious joy in the sense of freedom from that inner obstruction which had maimed my life. It was as though the strong flood of a 62 The Tired Wife first love had broken down some obsti- nate valve in my nature, and my heart beat freely. ' For some weeks after our marriage I revelled in this new freedom. It was an intoxicating joy. Merely to kiss Alice set every nerve in me trembling with delight. I was almost afraid of the excess of pleasure which I found in the least contact with her. It was a pleasure that went through me like a strong wind, and shook me, as a wind shakes a forest. And in my ignorance of myself I thought, " This will last for ever. This is the very love of which poets have sung, and it has come to me." My whole life had burst into flower at the touch of some miraculous spring. ' I need n't tell you that it did not last, that it all altered, but it was by such slow degrees that I was barely conscious of it. 'One incident I remember — I think it marked the first moment of alteration. We had gone for a walk one afternoon 63 Thro' Lattice-Windows beside the river, which was then in spring flood. About a mile and a half from Belchester, the river flows through a small gorge. There are no rocks, but the grass banks slope steeply, and after rain are slippery. Alice was full of girlish spirits that day, and ran down the banks in search of primroses. I called to her to come back, for I was in terror lest she should slip, but she only waved her hand gaily, and took no notice. When she returned to me she affected to think that it was all a silly piece of arbitrary conduct on my part in calling her back. Now it was really no such thing ; it was, as I have said, unselfish terror for her safety. I could have told her so in a word, and I knew how her eyes would have softened with happy tears had I spoken my lover's fears — but I could not say the word. For the first time since our marriage a shadow had come between us ; the old obstinate valve seemed to close down again upon the heart. I walked on, brooding and thinking, " She ought to 64 The Tired Wife have known better. She might have known instinctively what I felt." I brooded until I developed in myself a sense of injury. Her high spirits only inflamed this foolish sense of injury. That night I shut myself up in my library, and went to bed late. I did so because I wanted to avoid kissing her. ' Next morning she said, with a sad little smile on her dear face, " How late you were last night. And you came to bed without kissing me ! " ' " Did I? " I rejoined stupidly. ' " And you have n't kissed me this morning — yet." ' " I '11 kiss you now, if you wish." ' " You know what I wish, dear. But I don't want you to do things only be- cause I wish them." ' I kissed her, of course ; but I re- alized with a sense of fear that I had to force myself to do so. I felt just as I used to feel when a boy about kissing my mother. Yet all the while my heart ached and cried for her. I longed to take her into my arms, and all the more 5 6 S Thro' Lattice-Windows because I saw the pain of a just reproach in her eyes. But no — I told myself that I was injured, that she had wilfully misinterpreted my motives. Good God, how mad and foolish I was ! How is it men can let love, which is the most pre- cious thing in all the world, escape them for so little — a word, a glance, a sign? ' From that day things began to alter with us. We never quarrelled — that is the vengeance of the vulgar — but the atmosphere was changed. In private I raged with myself just as I had done when a boy. Again and again I re- solved to go to her and say frankly, " Dear wife, I am a brute. I am un- worthy of you. Forgive me." But when the hour came to speak I was tongue-tied. I hung my head at the sight of that pain in her eyes, but I said nothing. And as the days passed, the pain seemed to widen like a shadow, and a fixed look of sorrow came into her face. ' Our means were narrow, but Alice took care that our house showed no 66 The Tired Wife signs of it. There was always the care- fully prepared meal, and the more I neglected her the more studious was she of my comfort. As for me, I asked no questions. I knew we were not in debt, and I took the rest for granted. I was shut up in my library most of the day now, and knew nothing of what went on in the house. I noticed, however, that at night she often seemed strangely tired. She would sometimes fall asleep over a book she was trying to read. She had grown thin and pale, but there were reasons to account for that. I can see her now, as she sat there in the lamplight, her book or work lying on her lap, her head leaning a little on one side, the small blue veins showing in her closed eyelids, the delicate fretwork of faint lines running across her fore- head. . . . There were times when I looked upon her in a perfect agony of thought. I longed to fall at her feet — I could have kissed them in my abject shame of myself. But, as usual, I was tongue-tied. When she woke I would 67 Thro' Lattice- Windows say formally, " It 's time to go to bed." Often she would say, " I can't go yet, I must finish this sewing," and she would point to a little garment, the very sight of which ought to have softened any man's heart. I could have wept in such moments, and I would have given worlds to weep. But I felt utterly incapable of any sign, and so I would go off to bed, saying coldly, " I suppose you know best." And for an hour, and sometimes hours afterwards, she would sit there ; and in the dead silence I imagined I could hear the click of her ceaseless needle, and every thrust of it was a stab in my heart. ' There is one thing I have never forgotten. She was very fond of mu- sic, and in the first weeks of our mar- riage she never passed an evening without playing me something I liked. One night in this sadder time I said, " You don't play much now. Can't you put your work down and play something? " 1 I could see that she was pleased, and 68 The Tired Wife a little thrill of the old joy shot through me. ' I opened the piano for her, and ar- ranged the music, and as I stooped over her I softly kissed her hair. She looked up, with oh, such a look — the look of a heart hungry for love, and just then I felt that I could have given all she asked. But I know not by what malig- nity of circumstance I happened at that moment to catch sight of her hands. She had beautiful hands, with delicate, rosy palms and slender fingers, — I had often praised and kissed them in those earlier days. But what I saw now struck me like a blow. The joints of the fingers were slightly swollen, the palms were coarsened, and on the thumb of the left hand there was a scar like a burn. ' "What's this ?" I said, pointing to the scar. ' " Oh, it 's nothing. I happened to burn myself in the kitchen the other day. Since Mary left I 've had to do many things myself, dear, or I don't know how the house could have gone on." 69 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' I stared and flushed. I knew per- fectly well what it all meant. I saw for one intense moment that this dear woman had made herself a drudge for my sake, — that all the comfort of the house was the fruit of her labour. I knew precisely how I ought to have felt ; yes, and I did feel so. An inexpressible pity throbbed in my heart. Those ruined hands smote me with reproach. There was a sacred- ness in every line and scar of labour which they bore. I had kissed them once, when the skin was soft as velvet ; how much more did they deserve my kisses now — those sacrificial hands that had taken up the burden of my house for me ! I could have poured my heart out in torrents of love — I felt it literally raging within me like a flood. But in an instant my old perversity had mas- tered me. I fell into unreasoning anger. I affected to think myself disgraced be- cause my wife had done menial work. I did not wish to see her play with hands like these. I closed the piano and turned away. 70 The Tired Wife * She sat quite still, as if overwhelmed with painful astonishment, the rough- ened hands lying on her lap. Then she said gently, " I 'm sorry dear. I did n't want to worry you about the servants. That was why I did things myself which were not pleasant to me. It was for your sake, after all." ' But I was already at the door of the room, and could not turn back. If I had, everything might have been altered perhaps. ' I went to bed late that night, and when I entered the bedroom Alice was already asleep. She had been weeping, and a small lace-fringed handkerchief lay beside her on the pillow. One hand was under the tear-stained cheek — the other, with the scar upon it, lay on the coverlet. And I could kiss it then — fool that I was — when kisses were use- less ; I had not kissed it when there was healing in a kiss. ' It seemed to me, when I looked back upon it all, that this was the last time the Angel of Opportunity crossed my 7 1 Thro* Lattice-Windows path. That night he turned away from me for ever. ' I knew now that I was growing harder day by day, resist as I would. I was in the curious position of a man who sees his treasure being stolen from him, but is impotent to interfere. My eyes were open now to discern what was the life, the real life, of her I loved. I could not plead blindness. Yet my pride prevented me from confessing that I saw anything amiss. ' It was about this time that I thought fit to give a dinner-party to the Dean of Belchester, and some half a dozen cleri- cal friends and their wives. Alice fell in with my plans without a word, though there was abundant reason why no extra burden should have been laid upon her at such a time. For two davs before the party she was on her feet from morning till night, for there were a hundred things to be done that no one else could do as well. When the night came, all was com- pleted to her satisfaction. She called me out of the library, and asked me 72 The Tired Wife timidly how I liked the table. It looked beautiful, with its fresh-cut flowers, and some old silver we had borrowed of my mother. The party also was a great success ; the only thing that marred my pleasure was that Alice looked pale and ate nothing. ' When the Dean was leaving, he said to me kindly, " I hope, Geake, our com- ing has n't been too much for your wife. She 's a sweet creature and you must take care of her. I 'm afraid she is n't over-strong." ' For the first time a vague terror seized me. What had the Dean meant? I remembered the kindly anxiety in his eyes, the warm pressure of his hand ; had he meant to sympathise with me because he had perceived what I had not — a shadow of doom that was steal- ing over my life? 4 As soon as all the guests had left, I rushed upstairs to find Alice. I opened the bedroom door softly, and found her fast asleep in a low chair before the fire. Yes, she was much changed — there 73 Thro' Lattice-Windows could be no doubt of it. She looked like a sleeping flower, — a flower beaten down by the wind. There was an excess in her languor which smote the heart — her whole attitude bespoke extreme ex- haustion. But, as usual, my harder mood prevailed over my tenderer. I said to myself, " There 's nothing much the matter. She 's only tired. She '11 be all right to-morrow." Had I but known it, the shadow of death was already falling on her. ' That night the blow which every one but myself had feared, fell. The baby was born dead. ' In the grey light of the November morning I stood beside her, listening to her last words. On the little table beside the bed lay her worn purse, and her small account book. She had put them there, expecting to go on with her patient household management as usual during her illness. She made an effort to smile brightly when I entered the room — it was like the last touch of wan sunlight before the night falls. 74 The Tired Wife * " I have no pain," she whispered. " I 'm only tired — so tired. I 've felt tired for ever so long. ' " Stoop down. I want to say some- thing, dear. Do you really love me? Because ... I 've thought . . . some- times that you did n't." ' And then that obstinate valve in the heart was wrenched open once more. I was trembling with the flood of love that swept through me. I drew her dear head to my shoulder, my tears fell upon her closed eyelids. Closed? — yes, and for ever. My tenderness had come too late. ' It all happened thirty years ago, but time makes no difference to sorrows like this. They are fools who talk of time healing grief. Grief like mine is past healing. Time widens some wounds instead of closing them. ' I have never wept since the day she died. But I 've grown harder, always harder. I don't know why I 've spoken now — I suppose it 's only because I am lonely, lying here knowing that no one 75 Thro' Lattice-Windows loves me, and remembering that I was loved once. I am a very miserable old man. O, Mr. Reckitt, if ever you love a woman, don't grudge her tenderness ; men may live without it, but women cannot.' ' O, Mr. Geake,' said Reckitt in a chok- ing voice, ' there is forgiveness of sins. God pities you, because He understands you.' But the old man made no answer. He lay with his face to the wall, and his hand over his eyes. Presently he said in his habitual voice, ' I think it 's a little warmer. There 's going to be a thaw. I shall be well again in a day or two, and you must forget that you ever came to visit me.' 76 V THE MAN FROM LONDON ONCE a year there was always a crowd at the old Meeting-house in Barford, for on that day Plumridge Green added its forces to the Barford congregation. The occasion was a great one. It was to hear a man from Lon- don. It was well within the bounds of possibility that quite as good a man might have been found in Belchester, but this was a hypothesis which at that time no one had ever ventured to dis- cuss. Even to have suggested it would have roused scorn and contempt, and he who so dared would have instantly earned the reputation of a cantankerous fellow who had set himself against the traditions of the elders. On this point Barford stood firm. The man who preached the annual sermon must come from London. It did n't matter much 77 Thro' Lattice-Windows who he was ; but come from London he must. It was not that Barford always found unqualified pleasure in the sermon. On the contrary, it was very freely criticised when the man from London had de- parted, and Davy Lumsden rarely failed to explain that its imperfections were numerous and startling. But even Davy, when the committee met to select the next year's preacher, was as strong as anybody else on this primary qualifica- tion, that he must come from London. In the days before Mr. Shannon had entirely gauged the peculiarities of his people, he had once inadvertently sug- gested that they might try Bunting of Belchester, whose local reputation had been of a soberly meteoric kind. But the discussion which ensued soon opened his blind eyes to the depth of his error. Davy undertook to explain the situa- tion, and he did so in a single sentence. The sentence was this : ' But what about the bills?' 'Well, what about them? ' retorted the 78 The Man from London minister, who in those early days still cultivated a tendency to strict logic, which he had not yet learned was a form of mental activity better suited to colleges than committees. ' Why, you can't say " Bunting of Lonnun," can you?' said Davy. ' Certainly not,' said the minister. ' Though I 've know'd such things done. The St. Colam folk did it once. They got a man from up Southminster way, to save expense, and put after his name, " From Lonnun." They thought as no one 'ud know no better, but they did. They know'd as he did n't come in by the Lonnun train, and they saw as there warn't no Lonnun label on his portmanny. An' they would n't go to hear 'un ' ' I don 't understand what that has to do with the question,' said Mr. Shannon stiffly. ' Well, it 's like this,' continued Davy se- renely. ' It 's Lonnun as does it. 'Tain't the man, it 's Lonnun. The biggest fool from Lonnun is more good to we than 79 Thro' Lattice-Windows the wisest man from Belchester. Folks do look at they bills, particerlar they Church folk, an' say, " Well, we '11 go to hear he, because he be from Lonnun." 'T aint so much like encouragin' Dissent somehow, as it 'ud be if the man come from Belchester. An' what I want to know is, "what about the bills? " How 'ud they kind o' strike the public mind, so to speak, if there warn't no word about Lonnun on 'em? ' This was a point of view not to be gainsaid. Mr. Shannon remembered that when he had preached for the first time at Barford, as a candidate, he had been announced as ' from London,' and the type in which London was printed was much larger than the type which announced his own humble name to the public. For the first time, he caught a glimpse of the main reason of his suc- cess, and it amused and mollified him. So it was henceforth a settled prin- ciple that the annual preacher should be metropolitan. Johnny Button did indeed suggest that 'from near London' would 80 The Man from London look quite as well on the bills, and, as that was an elastic term, a great deal might be done to widen the field of choice. Every one knew that this was merely a sly dig at Davy, who would have done almost anything to save expense. But Davy, whose financial ge- nius always shone supreme on commit- tees, found no difficulty in proving that what you saved upon the railway fare you would infallibly lose in the collec- tion. Besides which, it would lay you open to the insinuation on the part of the Church folk that Dissent no longer had in London any preachers worthy of a Barford anniversary; to say nothing of the more painful contingency that Barford might follow the example of the St. Colam folk, and ' refuse to hear 'un.' On the April morning when the man from London was expected, there was usually a great stir of quiet expectation in the air. Mumsley, the grocer, always met him at the station, for Mumsley was the only man who had a pony-cart, and in the calculation of travelling expenses 6 81 Thro' Lattice- Windows the sixpence charged by the 'White Lion ' 'bus was not included. Besides which, this was the chief adventure of the year for Mumsley, who was a man of such strong clerical proclivities that he never appeared in public without a white tie, and a coat which had an ob- vious cousinly relationship to the ortho- dox clerical garment. It was well known that Mumsley never went to the station to look after a barrel of sugar without arraying himself in semi-priestly raiment, and his proudest memory was that once, when travelling by error in a second- class carriage on the other side of Bel- chester, he had been mistaken for the incumbent of a neighbouring village. The man from London never failed to single him out at once as the person sent to meet him. But if he had, there could have been no corresponding error on Mumsley's part. Thirty years' practice in the art had long ago taught him pre- cisely the sort of shiny black leather bag which might be confidently suspected of containing a sermon, a night-shirt, and 82 The Man from London a pair of faded wool slippers, worked long ago by the ladies of an admiring congregation. Mumsley was so per- fectly fitted by nature and by training for the duty of producing a good im- pression on the man from London, that no one would have thought of super- seding him, and even Mr. Shannon, who was slow to learn the Barford niceties of etiquette, felt that it would look like an injustice to Mumsley had he offered to accompany him to the station. But it was in the quiet manse up the Meeting-house yard that the full force of this annual excitement was felt. This was the true cyclonic centre. For a week before the man from Lon- don came there was a turning-out of the house, so diligent, and so destructive of tranquillity, that poor Mr. Shannon used to say that he was hunted from room to room like a partridge on the mountains. For this week the will of Mrs. Shannon was supreme. There was no exemption even for the study. Papers were bun- dled indiscriminately into the wrong 8x Thro' Lattice-Windows drawers, books were thrust into the handiest places on the shelves, in direct defiance of their natural affinities, and sermons were so cleverly concealed that it was months afterwards before their whereabouts were discovered. Floors were scrubbed, linen was mended, laven- der was put into the best bed, windows were polished till they shone again. It was a standing remark in Barford that Mr. Shannon was sure to visit his flock in April, if he did so at no other time. The night before the anniversary Mr. Shannon was invited to inspect his re- garnished house, and was expected to express delight in the same. ' I 'm sure it looks beautiful,' Mrs. Shannon would say, as she stood with tired hands meekly folded. ' But is n't it just a little cold without a fire, dear? ' 'Oh, how can you say so, John? I 'm sure it's quite a warm night. And besides, you know we really can't have a fire lit till to-morrow. Fires make so 84 The Man from London much dust that I should have all my work to do over again.' This was conclusive, and the minister, whose blood had not been warmed by a week's scrubbing of floors, shivered in silence. ' Come and see the study, dear. You would n't know it, it looks so tidy.' It did look tidy ; there was no doubt of it. A perfectly clean piece of blot- ting paper lay upon the desk, and a per- fectly clean pen lay beside it. There was an odour of borax in the air. 'But I don't see my pipe, Susan.' 'Oh, it's in the cupboard. It looks so bad for a stranger to see pipes lying about. He might suppose you were always smoking.' ' Is it a new carpet you 've got, dear? ' This was an annual remark which he was expected to make ; it was of the nature of a delicate compliment. 'Why, no, dear. It's only turned. The part with the hole in it, that used to be under the window, is under your 35 Thro' Lattice-Windows desk, where no one can see it. It's a great improvement, is n't it? ' This was a proposition to which he could yield sincere agreement. But he had different views concerning the posi- tion of the desk. ' I don't like the desk in that corner, dear. There 's no light there, and I shan't be able to write at it.' ' Yes, but you see, John, I could n't help that. That 's the place where the hole was, you know.' A similar revolution had been effected in each room, but the controlling prin- ciple in every case appeared to be the exigencies of the carpet. It was mani- fest that wherever the carpet was shabby something must be put over it. Thus it happened that the couch in the draw- ing-room now stood immediately under the central plaster bulb that adorned the ceiling. There had been some paraffin oil spilt at this particular spot during the early part of the year. But, as Mrs. Shannon explained, it was quite custom- ary nowadays to put the couch in the 86 The Man from London centre of the room, instead of against the wall. Of course the Splashetts did n't do it, but then Mrs. Trevarton did ; and as Mrs. Trevarton had an aunt living in London, no doubt she imported her notions direct from the latest fashions of the metropolis. ' I expect the minister's room is ar- ranged that way in London,' she con- cluded. ' It will be nice for him to see that we know how to do things properly in the country.' In the course of the evening the Splashetts and Mrs. Trevarton called. They always did so, for a reason which was very well understood but never ex- pressed. They wished to see for them- selves that the manse was in proper order. They felt that it was of the high- est importance that the reputation of Barford should not suffer in the eyes of the man from London. Mrs. Trevarton was a little scornful in her survey, being conscious that her own drawing-room was vastly superior, and that by rights the man from London should have been §7 Thro' Lattice-Windows her guest. Dorcas Splashett contented herself with running her finger along the window-ledge, to discover any dust that might have lurked there unsuspected. She also viewed the position of the couch with cold disfavour. She had long ago observed the stain in the carpet, and was well enough aware of the reason why the couch had been torn from its natural environment against the wall. ' It 's all very well,' she observed to Priscilla, as they went home. ' But it 's a new-fangled way I don't like. Besides, when any one sits upon it, it 's ten chances to one that it '11 get pushed back, and then every one '11 see why it was put there. I 'd rather be honest any day than be found out like that. You may depend upon it Mrs. Shan- non '11 be in a fever all day for fear some one '11 push that couch back.' Mrs. Trevarton, whose discernment did not carry her so far, simply sniffed at the arrangement, seeing in it a fee- ble attempt to copy her own superior methods. 88 The Man from London ' It looks well enough when the couch is a good one,' she said to her husband that night ; ' but when it 's only a poor old rep thing like that, it 's simply expos- ing its shabbiness. Besides, I know that one of its legs is weak, for I sat on it to find out. It never ought to be sat on, an' if it was mine I 'd push it out of the way where no one 'ud think o' sitting on it.' The approach of the man from Lon- don was heralded in a variety of ways. When Mumsley's pony-cart appeared in the street about noon, it was generally understood that certain intelligence had been received that the man from London was really on his way. The train was not due at the junction till half-past one, and Mumsley's pony was capable of covering the distance in a quarter of an hour. But Mumsley was a man who knew the art of getting the most out of his sensations, and liked to approach the crisis of the year by deliberate stages. He also knew what was ex- pected of him. There was always a S 9 Thro' Lattice- Windows more or less acute suspicion in some minds that the man from London might not come after all. It was not until the pony-cart was wheeled out into the street that this suspicion was felt to be unfounded. The pony followed the cart at about the space of half an hour. The animal was ostentatiously put into the shafts, in the full observation of the street. When all was complete, one and an- other would stroll up to the cart, and address Mumsley with a false air of nonchalance. ' He 's comin', then? ' ' Ay, ay. He '11 just be gettin' near Belchester.' ' Do 'ee know what he 's like? ' ' No, this is a new 'un. A young man, as I 'm told, but amazin' clever. They Belchester people '11 be rare an' mad if they should see him a-comin' through the station, an' think as they might ha' had him, if they 'd been sharp enough to speak for him sooner.' 4 Well, they can't get him to stop now. 9° The Man from London They '11 hev' to come to Barford if they want to hear 'im.' ' That 's so, sonny,' Mumsley would conclude complacently, as he pulled on his black kid gloves. On ordinary oc- casions he wore common tan driving gloves, but when he met the man from London he always wore the pair which he reserved for funerals. At regular distances along the road to the station, children stationed them- selves, and certain grown people, who might have been supposed to have some- thing better to do, strangely discovered that it was as near to go home to dinner by the station road as any other, which was manifestly absurd to a mathematical mind. Observations would be shouted up the road in shrill voices. ' I 've seed the smoke of her.' ' I can hear her a-rumbling.' 'She's in the tunnel. There's the whistle. She's stopped now.' After this, expectant silence fell upon the scene. It was not until the distant 9 1 Thro' Lattice-Windows grind of wheels on the gravelly road dis- turbed the stillness, that speech broke out again. ' I can see 'im.' ' He 's a-comin'.' ' Here he be, sure enough.' There was a rush of feet up the lane, and one by one each little sentinel de- serted his post, to join the throng that ran behind Mumsley's pony-cart. As the cart rattled over the bridge the escort grew, till it was a triumphant procession in miniature. In the cart sat a pale young man, with a shiny black leather bag upon his knees. It was a solemn moment when the cart drew up at the broad brick gateway that led to the manse and Meeting-house. It is im- possible to judge accurately what a man is like by merely seeing him in a pony- cart. It is not until he stands bodily on the pavement that you can really be assured that his legs are spindly, and that his boots are town made and quite new. Inside the manse the dinner was al- 92 The Man from London ready waiting, for the service began in three quarters of an hour. The pale young man was led triumphantly to the room prepared for him, which he thought rather small and bare. The sweet scent of lavender was entirely wasted on him. He did not observe it, and did not know what it was. It is a long time since lavender grew in Hoxton and Hackney. At the foot of the stair stood Mrs. Trevarton's servant, who had been bor- rowed for the day, holding in her hands a dish of potatoes carefully covered with a napkin, and ready to plump it on the table at the least sign of the young man's step upon the landing. It was a great disappointment to Mrs. Shannon to find that when the young man came down he declined her best dishes. He explained that he never ate before preaching. When she innocently rerfiarked that Mr. Shannon never preached so well as after a full meal, he smiled sadly, as if in gentle deprecation of a pleasant form of barbarism, from which he was long ago emancipated. That smile was so dis- 93 Thro' Lattice- Windows concerting that it quite spoiled the meal. But after all you cannot expect the sermons of a man from London to be produced by the same methods as the quite ordinary sermons of so ordinary a man as Mr. Shannon. On reflecting over the matter afterwards, Mrs. Shannon felt sad to think she had been so want- ing in tact as to make such a suggestion. I think it was this pale young man who finally destroyed the tradition that only a man from London was equal to the honours of a Barford anniversary. He preached so learned a discourse on the perils of science that Davy Lumsden, whose mind was supposed to be equal to the most abstruse problems, grunted quite offensively, and at last fell into an ostentatious sleep. There were some people, of course, who thought it very fine, on the principle that the less you understand of a thing, the more wonderful it may be supposed to be. But when the committee met next year, old Mr. Potterbee summed up the general feeling when he said : 94 The Man from London ' It 's Christ we want to hear about, for if a preacher does n't bring Christ nearer to us when he preaches, what 's the use of preaching? ' ' Yes,' said Davy Lumsden, ' London 's getting too fine for we. After all, I like a man to talk our sort o' talk, howiver clever he may be.' Since that discussion Barford has been content to go to Belchester for its annual preacher; though, as Mumsley says, ' he can't never feel the same about meetin* a man from Belchester as he would a man from London.' The black kid gloves are never worn now. Common tan are manifestly good enough for a man from Belchester. VI A LOST IDYLL ONCE a year Priscilla Splashett suffered from a curious trouble, for which medicine had no remedy. It always came upon her in the spring, with the song of the thrush and the flowering of the hawthorn. In a general way the course of life at the Red House was serene almost to the point of deadness. There never was a house where the order was more perfect. The most jealous eye could not discern the least speck of dust upon the furniture ; every chair had stood in the same place for forty years, and might have been ima- gined a sort of permanent excrescence of the floor. The meals were served to the fraction of a minute, and their character never varied. If all the clocks in Bar- ford had suddenly stopped, the town 96 A Lost Idyll might have learned the time of day from observation of Dorcas Splashett, as mari- ners, take the time by observation of the sun. Housewives, who were not afflicted with any vivid fear of dust, naturally felt the immaculate tidiness of the Red House to be something of a reproach, and occasionally made spiteful remarks upon the subject. They found a pleas- ure in spreading the report, that after a caller left the Red House the mat at the door was carefully shaken, and the chair which had been used was freshly pol- ished. Mrs. Trevarton, the lawyer's wife, even went so far as to affirm that the Splashetts' cat had her feet washed every night, and had been seen going about in a pair of wool socks, similar to a baby's, after the operation, in order to avoid the least peril of footmarks on the oilcloth. But Mrs. Trevarton was not eminent for truth, and people who had seen her house did not need to be told why she said ill-natured things about the Splashetts. The first symptom that anything was 7 97 Thro' Lattice-Windows wrong with Priscilla Splashett was that some fine spring morning she would be late for breakfast. Dorcas would look at her grimly from behind the tea-urn and say : ' Priscilla, I wonder at you.' ' I 'm sorry, Dorcas, but I ain't quite well' ' Have you took your pills reg'lar, Priscilla? ' ' It ain't pills. I think I want a change.' ' Fiddlesticks ! A change, indeed ! Why don't you take a walk oftener?' ' I 'm sure I 've walked every day, Dorcas,' she would answer meekly. ' I 've walked till I 'm tired, an' always along the same ways. One gets tired always walking the same ways. It gets kind of dull. I want to go away some- wheres.' Then she would shake her grey head dolefully, and the tears would come into her soft blue eyes. She had always been afraid of her sister since the days when Dorcas used to play at giving her 9 S A Lost Idyll medicine, and insist upon her swallow- ing it, and going to bed in the middle of the afternoon, when she wanted to amuse herself in the garden. She had a timid sense that Dorcas was capable of slapping her still. For Dorcas was tall and angular, and never ailed any- thing ; while Priscilla was delicately petite, with the soft curves of a child, and the faded pink of childhood still visible on her cheeks. 'It's all sinful discontent, Priscilla,' Dorcas would retort severely. ' You 're old enough to know better, one would think. I suppose you want to go gadding off to Belchester again to your friend Ann Hobbs ; though what you can see in Belchester, a nasty, stuffy, smoky place, / can't tell. An' Ann Hobbs always was a slut, though she has married better than might have been supposed, an' there 's never a place in her house where any one can sit down in peace, an' I 'd be sorry enough to eat anything of her cook- ing. But I reckon you '11 have to go. 99 Thro' Lattice-Windows There 's no living with you, when you 're took with this sort of fit, until you 've got your way.' ' Don't be angry, Dorcas. There 's only the two of us left, you know.' ' I 'm not angry, child. Only I wish you was a little more like me. I 've never been out of Barford half a dozen times in my life, an' I 'm sure I don't want to. I can't abide other people's houses, an' I wonder how you can.' Priscilla would then make her escape into the garden, where she would wan- der up and down aimlessly, and had any one been near to observe her he would have felt a suggestion of forlorn pathos in her movements. He would have seen her, for example, pluck a spray of hawthorn and hold it to her lips with an air of guilty secrecy; and at the south corner of the garden, where the violets grew, she would stoop and gather a handful, and thrust them into her bosom, weeping quietly the while ; and at the stile where the path crossed the paddock, she would sit for a long IOO A Lost Idyll time with clasped hands, listening to the mounting skylark. And all the time something more than the subtle passion of the spring worked in her blood, which was, of course, what no spectator would have guessed at; for old scenes were coming back, and old, fond words thrilled upon the air, and old, soft hand-pressures sent a warmth through her veins ; for this was the stile where John Dartford had told her that he loved her nearly forty years before. The last time Priscilla took this yearly journey to Belchester I saw her start, and, although I am not a person of un- usual discernment, I felt that there was something curious and wonderful in the look upon her face. There was an ele- ment so sad and joyous in that look, that I always remembered it; the eyes were the eyes of a bride, but the mouth, with its wistful trembling, was the mouth of an unhappy child. A year later I came across this Ann Hobbs, with whom Pris- cilla always stayed in Belchester, and it was from her lips I heard Priscilla's story. 101 Thro' Lattice-Windows 'Yes,' said Ann Hobbs, ' I 've know'd her ever since she were eighteen, for my father had a farm at Barford, and it be- longed to the Splashetts, and was close to their house. All the trouble came with that there John Dartford, though 'eaven forbid as I should speak a word agenst him as were a good master to me. I was nurse in his house for nigh on two years after he married, but of course this affair of the Splashetts came before his marriage. ' In them days the two Miss Splashetts were as real beauties as you could wish to see. Dorcas, she were always tall, and had fine eyes, and walked proud ; but Priscilla — Prissy, as we 'd use to call her — were the sweetest and the prettiest. John Dartford, he were a land-surveyor, and one day he came to Barford on some business, and owing to the business proving more contrairy than was expected, it happened that he stayed about six weeks, and took lodg- ings with us at the farm. ' I could see how it was to be from 102 A Lost Idyll the first. He were a fine, tall man, with big brown eyes, an' he used to talk free to mother at nights as they sat beside the fire before goin' to bed. One night it happened he came in late, and his face looked white and drawed-up, so to speak. He did n't say nothin', but after supper he went out sudden, and I could see by the way he went that he were goin' across the fields towards the Red House. It were lovely spring moon- light, and from my bedroom window I watched him cross the bridge by the brook, and go up the field to the stile, where I could see some one all in white awaiting for him. Now we had been told in Barford nigh a week before how he were going to marry Dorcas Splashett, an' we 'd thought it strange he had n't said nothing to we, seeing as he were so free in his speech as a rule. So, being but a girl, and curious, what must I do but slip a shawl over my head and go round by another path through the little wood, thinking to surprise him at the stile, and see whether it were Dorcas 103 Thro' Lattice-Windows he had gone to meet. I thought it would n't be like Dorcas, as were always so proud, to meet any one after such a fashion, and yet I know'd I 'd ha' gone anywheres to meet a man like John Dartford, if I loved him, an' I thought how funny it would be to see Dorcas doin' it. I went through the wood, treading tiptoe, till at last I came to the gap in the hedge close by the stile, and there stood John Dartford sure enough, but I could see at once that it wasn't Dorcas as was wi' him. It were Priscilla, and he had his arm round her, and she had her head on his shoul- der, an' was sobbing. I was so frighted that I slipped, and a bough broke with a crack ; but bless you, they did n't hear it. They would n't ha' heard jest then, not even if Gabriel had blew his trumpet right over their heads. '"It's been all a mistake," I heard him say. " O Priscilla, darling, what a blessing we've found it out in time." '"But it's not in time. It's a fort- night too late," she sobbed. 104 A Lost Idyll ' " It 's not too late," he answered almost fiercely. " I 've been a fool, but I 'rri wise now. It 's you I love, and it 's you I shall always love. I can see it all now quite plain. It 's you I loved from the first, and not Dorcas." ' " But you let Dorcas think you loved her, and that 's what makes it too late. Oh, it breaks my heart to say it, but it is too late, for ever too late." ' She drew herself away from him, and stood there wringing her hands like a ghost in the moonshine. ' He seemed to shiver, as if some one had struck him a sharp blow, and then he began again, speaking low and delib- erate. ' " How can it be too late? " he says. " I 've only known Dorcas a month, and she can't love me all that." ' " And you 've only known me a month, and yet I shall love you till I die," says she. '"Then marry me." ' " I can't, indeed I can't. I couldn't steal something from Dorcas, even if I io 5 Thro' Lattice-Windows wanted it ever so. I could n't ever be happy if I 'd got my happiness by mak- ing some one else miserable. And Dor- cas has taken care of me ever since mother died, ever since I was a little girl." ' But he was not to be put off so easily. He argued with her, and kissed her, but it always came back to that, — " it was too late." ' " If you did n't love me well enough to marry me, why did you meet me?" he said at last. She felt it was a cruel speech, and it was her turn to shiver now. But she drew herself up, and "an- swered very quietly : ' " Because I knew it was the only time, — the last time. It was weak of me, I know, but I could n't help it. I told myself that it was only this once. I could n't grudge myself one hour of you, one little hour. . . . Dorcas can have you all the rest of your life now, if she likes." '"But she won't," he said, with a groan. " Don't think you are helping 106 A Lost Idyll Dorcas by saying no to me. You don't suppose I could ever marry Dorcas after what we've said this night, do you? It's better that one should be made miserable than two, is n't it? " ' " Not if the other two have made the one miserable by stealing her happi- ness," she answered, sadly. " O John, kiss me, kiss me once more, dear, and let me go. No one else will ever touch these lips. I '11 keep them pure for you till we meet in heaven, John. Perhaps things will come right there . . . will be different. . . ." ' He broke into such a cry at those words that I was fairly frighted, for I 'd never seen a man weep, and I hurried away. But right down the hill I heard that cry, and all night long it seemed to come and go like a wind at the window. ' The next day John Dartford packed up his things and went back to Belches- ter. The last thing he did was to walk over the meadow to the stile, where I saw him standing, as if waiting. Of course she did n't come, and I don't 107 Thro' Lattice-Windows suppose as he expected she would. But she 'd laid a little bunch of may-blossom and violets on the stile as a love token. He put them in his pocket, knowing very well what they meant, and strode away in the dusk. ' Well, it were a month after that, nigh on the beginning o' June, that one day Priscilla came over to the farm, and wanted to speak with me. The menfolk were all a-field, and it happened as I were alone in the house. She looked rare an' bad, poor thing; there was big black rings under her eyes, an' it seemed as though the tears had nigh washed all the pinky colour out o' her pretty cheeks, like the rain does wi' flowers. She did n't say much at first : jest looked about her sort o' frighted, and sat in the window-seat and sighed. At last she said, timid like, " So you Ve lost your lodger, have you?" ' " Mr. Dartford, you might be mean- ing?" says T. ' " Yes," says she. " An' I 've been thinkin', Ann, that sometimes when we 108 A Lost Idyll have n't no room for our guests at the Red House, it might be convenient if you could let us have a bedroom here." ' I knew very well as that was all make-believe. There never had been no guests at the Red House, and never would be as long as Dorcas was the mistress. But I didn't like to see the poor thing so put to it to say what she wanted, so I said it for her. ' " Maybe," I says, " you 'd like jest to see the room as Mr. Dartford had? " 4 " If you wouldn't mind," she says, with a little flush on her face. ' So she gets up, and follers me wi'out a word up the stair into the room where he 'd slept. It were jest as he left it, and the window stood open, and the smell o' the roses was being blowed in by the wind. ' She looked round sort of dazed, and said over and over agen, " So this was his room, was it?" Then she went to the window, and stood there with her back turned to me. Sudden she cries, 109 Thro' Lattice- Windows with a voice like a startled bird, "Ann, come here, and look at this ! ' ' In course I came, but at first I could n't see what she meant. She had her finger on the glass of the window, and the tears were dropping slow down her face, as if she 'd forgotten them. I looked where her finger touched the glass, and then I saw what she meant. Some one had written on the window- pane Priscilla, and she had seen it. 'There must have been something in my face that told her I understood, for all at once she put her arms round my neck, and began to tell me everything. She 'd never breathed a word to Dorcas, and never did. ' " O Ann," she says, " I 'm sore tempted. I do love him so, an' it 's hard to give him up. I would n't mind if Dorcas did n't love him too, but I know now that she does. She goes about the house like a ghost, and never says a word. She does n't in the least know what made him give her up, an' I dare n't tell her. If I only thought she I 10 A Lost Idyll did n't care, I 'd go to him at once ; but she does care, and we 're both being killed for love of him." ' She wept and talked a long time. At last she said, " Well, it has to be so. I '11 try an' make things happy for Dorcas, for maybe she 's hurt worse than I am. It 's not so hard to know you love some one as loves you, even if you can't have him, as it is to know you love some one who doesn't love you, is it? I should like to have something that was his — some little thing. I don't think as Dorcas 'ud mind that." 'We looked round the room, but there was nothing of John Dartford's there except a withered bit of hawthorn in a pot on the mantelpiece. I s'pose it had been forgotten when the room was tidied up. So she took that, putting it careful into her bosom, an' went away. ' After a while she got her colour back, and went about much as usual. It came to be understood that there had been something between Dorcas Splashett and John Dartford, but people soon forgot in Thro' Lattice-Windows to talk of it. They took it for granted after a time that the Miss Splashetts had settled to be old maids, an' did n't wish no other. As for John Dartford, he were never seen in Barford agen, an' presently we heard as he were married. ' But every spring, as hawthorn-time came round, Priscilla used to get pale and peaky, and grew strange in her manner. She 'd sit for hours on the stile as if waiting for some one as did n't come, an' she could n't speak to you without the tears coming into her eyes. ' By this time I had left the farm, an' by chance was nurse in John Dartford's house at Belchester. After a bit I mar- ried, and settled down in Belchester, and had almost forgot about Priscilla, when one spring day the door opens and in she walks. She looked jest as she did when she come to the farm that day, and my heart went out to her, an' all the more because I was married to a man as loved me dear. I had n't any need to ask why she 'd come — least- ways I did n't ask her. I made her up 112 A Lost Idyll a bed, an' took it for granted she'd come to stop a bit. ' The next day she says, timid-like, " Do you think you could let me see him, Ann? Not to speak to, you know — jest to see him as he passes. I don't think Dorcas 'ud object to that." ' So I told her that John Dartford's office was about a hundred yards away, and that he mostly passed my window at four in the afternoon, as he went home. ' " That will do," she said, with a sad little smile. ' At three o'clock she came in with a bit of hawthorn in her hand, and put it in a pot in the window. Then she sat down and waited. At four he came down the street. I saw her face flush, and turned away. " He 's looking older, and he does n't look happy," was all she said. ' She stayed a fortnight, and after that she came back every year at the same time. I 've heerd o' flowers as is quite content if they get jest a blink o' sun- 8 117 Thro' Lattice-Windows shine once a day, and manage to thrive on it ; an' it were the same wi' her. She 'd sit and wait at the window reg'lar for her bit o' sunshine. Every year she come for more years than I care to count, more 'en thirty it must be any- ways, till she were an old woman. She always did the same thing — put her bit o' hawthorn in the window an' waited. In course he never knew, an' it were best he should n't. 'The nighest she ever came to him was one day years ago, when she 'd met his little boy out in the street, and kissed him. She came in quite flushed, and told me. Then she began to weep quietly, and said, " Ah, Ann, it 's terrible to grow old, and have no little mouth to call you mother." She seemed hurt be- cause the child had been surprised at being kissed by a strange lady in the street. She seemed to think he ought to ha' known how she had loved his father. ' But she won't come any more now. That time as you saw her start for Bel- 114 A Lost Idyll Chester were the last time. The very day as she come John Dartford died sudden. It were foolish o' me not to tell her, but I had n't the heart to. So I let her put her bit o' hawthorn in the window as usual, and sit an' watch. I 'd altogether forgot that the funeral might pass that way, the proper way to the cemetery from Dartford's house being quite a dif- ferent one. But it chanced they took a freak to carry his body past the office where he 'd worked so many years, and so the funeral came down our street. I heard the bell a-tolling, and presently the slow grind o' wheels along the road, and before I could drag her from the window the funeral were in sight. ' " Who 's that they 're berrying, Ann? " says she. ' I 'd ha' given worlds to hold my tongue, but there was something in her face as made me tell the truth. * " It's John Dartford," says I, speak- ing soft. 'I thought she would ha' fainted, or burst out crying, but she did n't. In- "5 Thro' Lattice- Windows stead o' that a smile came on her face, and she laughed a strange, happy sort o' laugh. '"John Dartford 's dead," says she. " Then he 's mine at last. No one won't blame me for loving him now, for it 's no sin to love the dead. I don't think Dorcas will object to that." ' 116 VII THE PARSIMONY OF MRS. SHANNON FRAIL little Mrs. Shannon, the min- ister's wife, had always been a popular figure in Barford, but there was quite a new sentiment concerning her after her son Arthur ran away to sea. The grocer with whom she dealt put an extra half-ounce in her weekly quar- ter of a pound of tea, and the fortnightly washerwoman showed a reluctance to charge her legitimate day's wage. These were little matters, but they meant much. The washerwoman came nearest to their exposition, when she dropped in to see Mrs. Splown one wet spring night on her way back from the manse, and said, ' Poor thing, I 'm sorry for her, I am. She ain't long for this world. She goes about like a 117 Thro' Lattice-Windows dazed body, she do. Grieving for that boy o' hern, I reckon.' 1 All the same,' said Mrs. Splown judicially, ' I don't see as you are called on to work for nothin', Sarah Ann.' 4 Bless you, I don't mind,' said Sarah Ann, with what might have been called a blush, had her rubicund countenance permitted any margin for such an ex- travagance. ' I ain't one o' them as looks too long at a ha'penny. Besides, I believe they Shannons is poorer than they was.' 'How's that?' asked Mrs. Splown, with curiosity. ' Oh, I don't know for certing. But I heard some o' they Meetin'ers say that Mrs. Shannon used to give to everything before that boy o' hern ran away, an' now she don't give to nothin'.' This was true, and the fact had been duly commented on at the Meeting- house. The Sunday after Arthur ran away, Mrs. Shannon was in the big square pew as usual, but when the col- 118 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon lection was taken she looked at the plate in a confused way, and dropped her head. She sat nervously taking off her black thread gloves and pulling them on again, and then looked up with a foolish smile, which was belied by the glance of fear and agony in the eyes. The deacon who held the plate stood quite a long time at the door of her pew, not knowing what to make of it. For twenty years he had held the plate to this frail little woman, and had never been refused. It was as though some fundamental law of the universe had gone wrong and refused to work. A great deal may happen in a minute — hearts have broken in even less time: and during that dreadful minute the lonely woman in the big pew seemed visibly to shrink and dwindle. Her face, which at first had flushed pain- fully, turned to pale wax, on which every line and wrinkle, and some of the blue veins knotted round the temples, stood out with the distinctness of an etching. Then she whispered faintly, 119 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' Not to-day,' and the deacon turned away with wonder written on his brow. It was remarked that when the hymn was sung the minister's wife did not stand up. She sat in the same crushed attitude in the corner of the big pew. During that week it somehow got about that when Miss Splashett had called at the manse to collect the usual subscription for a certain ' society,' she had been refused, to her painful aston- ishment. She gave an account of the matter to her sister the same afternoon, and the two old ladies, as they sat over their tea, discussed the question from every point of view. ' I know the minister is n't as well off as he was,' she said, ' for things have gone down a little at the chapel — but I never knew Mrs. Shannon refuse to give before. She's always been most generous — indeed I wonder how she's done it. But all at once to decline giving anything — it 's most strange, most strange, my dear.' ' Did n't she explain? ' asked Priscilla. 1 20 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon 'Not a word. Besides, her manner was so curious. She stammered, and only spoke in whispers. Generally she 's always been prepared with the money, and has said, with a smile, " You see, I 've not forgotten. I knew you would come to-day, and I like to keep the Lord's money ready." But this after- noon she seemed quite frightened to see me. She stood all the time, and kept fidgeting with her hands, and did n't seem to know what she was saying. It 's my belief she's going to have a stroke or something; and she looks years older the last week or two.' Priscilla shook her head sadly. She was the younger sister, and had not yet outlived sentiment. She sometimes had dreams of quite astonishing sweetness, in which she tasted the elusive and de- nied bliss of motherhood, and sighed wistfully over the thought of how differ- ent life might have been if she had mar- ried John Dartford. But that was an old story, and one that could never be discussed with her sister Dorcas. Yet 121 Thro' Lattice-Windows there was a bitter sweetness in the thought that though John Dartford had been engaged to Dorcas, it was Priscilla whom he had loved ; and deep in the heart of this white-haired woman there burned the embers of this first and only passion. There were times still, when as these two solitary women sat before the fire on winter nights, the spirit of John Dartford came between them, and Priscilla's gentle heart burned with soft resentment against the elder sister, who had not loved her lover well enough to keep him, but had made it impossible for him to claim the woman who would have loved him to the death. Poor, sad, aged women, who hear the wind of regret blowing round the world, and keep in the heart the faded rose-leaves of a first passion, — I wonder if there are any women who deserve a larger share of the world's pity than these ! Priscilla was full of these poignant memories while her sister was talking of the curious conduct of Mrs. Shannon. Presently she said gently, ' You may 122 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon depend upon it, the poor thing 's broken down by the conduct of Arthur. Per- haps we don't quite understand how a mother feels things.' ' I don't see what that has to do with it, Priscilla,' Dorcas retorted sharply. ' There 's no sense in giving up doing your duty because your son has n't turned out well. It 's like trying to pay God out because things are n't as you wish 'em. And as for feeling like a mother, that 's what neither of us knows anything about, and don't want to, and I 'm surprised at your indelicacy in naming it. I 'm quite sure if you was to die to-morrow, Priscilla, / shouldn't withdraw my subscriptions to things, and for my part I don't see any sense in such conduct. Not but what I 'm sorry for her,' she continued, ' and I in- tend paying her subscription for her, without saying anything. But all the same, I 'm puzzled to know what it all means.' In the course of the next month a good many people shared the puzzle, i^3 Thro' Lattice-Windows and in the social circles of the Meeting- house it was constantly discussed. Many- eyes were fixed upon the frail little woman in the big pew, especially when the collection came. After that first memorable Sunday she did not permit the plate to pass, but she put her coin into it with a gesture that was eloquent of shame. The old deacon who held the plate knew the reason of her shame, but he was magnanimous enough to keep his own counsel. He saw that the coin so stealthily slipped into the plate by that trembling hand was no longer silver, but copper. The people in the next pew might have seen it also, had he not fixed his eyes upon them with so ferocious a stare that they were forced to turn theirs away. But if such an episode as this could be con- cealed, it was obviously impossible to conceal the fact that Mrs. Shannon had not paid her yearly subscriptions to some half a dozen ' societies,' and the discussion of this theme was gen- eral. 124 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon There was one person who might have been expected to know all about it; but, as a matter of fact, the minister knew less than anybody else. From the commencement of his married life he had been accustomed to leave the entire management of his slender finances in the hands of his wife. Sometimes he would say, ' I hope, Susan, you 're not giving away too much?' Whereupon she would retort brightly, ' You leave all that to me, John. I can manage.' She did manage, by many shifts and self-denials, which were known only to herself. Now and then the minister would have an illuminated moment, when he thought that he discovered in an apparently new dress a suspicious resemblance to an old one. But the woman who cannot hoodwink a man on such a subject is manifestly unworthy of her sex. The most difficult moments were those in which he had arrived at a passing conviction that his wife was not as well dressed as the average of the congregation. I2 5 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' I don't like to see you shabby, Susan, and that dress is shabby.' ' Why, how can it be shabby ? I 've only had it two years.' ' But everybody has new dresses in the spring. I noticed several in the chapel this morning. Mrs. Trevarton's for one.' ' O John, John, how can you be so foolish? Why, I know that dress of Mrs. Trevarton's well enough. It 's only been turned, dear, and to my perfect knowledge she 's had it four years. So that 's all you know.' ' Well, I believe yours has been turned, too.' ' Of course it has, but only once, dear, and Mrs. Trevarton's has been turned twice. Now don't you worry. I 've got all the clothes I want. And besides, there 's my wedding dress, which is as good as new still. I '11 put it on again some day, if you 're good and don't worry.' In those days Susan Shannon had a sweet bird-like trick of putting her head 1 26 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon on one side when engaged in contro- versy, which gave her an air of amiable pefkiness. Had any one risen very early on some magical May morning, and seen her gravely hopping over a dewy lawn, uttering a soft lyrical flute- note for pure joy of the dawn, he would scarcely have been surprised. John Shannon in his earlier years rather liked to provoke this bird-like semblance. He found it pretty, and a trifle pathetic. But as time wore away John Shannon had seen less and less of what went on around him. I honestly believe that he had not noticed the least change in his wife for close on thirty years. The image of the girl he had loved and won remained so steadfast and firm of out- line in his mind, that he was uncon- scious of any defacement worked by the passing of the years. She was still to him young and pretty, and for his eyes there were neither faded cheeks, nor grey hairs, nor deep lines graved by the sure hand of that melancholy artist we call Sorrow. 127 Thro' Lattice-Windows In this time of grief it was natural that his eyes should be turned within more resolutely than ever. His thoughts brooded so constantly over his lost son, that all external things seemed to have melted away into dim, unreal perspec- tive. Once or twice, indeed, it did oc- cur to him that his table was more scantily furnished than usual, and he was conscious of a cold breath of parsi- mony that had stolen through his house. It puzzled him a little ; and, lifting his eyes to the worn face of his wife, for the fraction of a second he almost saw what others saw in it. A thrill of fear shook his heart, but the impression was quite momentary. The mask which his im- agination had created had merely slipped away for an instant from the brow of tragic reality ; swiftly and silently it was readjusted, and once more before him there sat the bride of his youth. Never- theless he was frightened, and he began to watch his wife with innocent stealth. It was her necessity to be economical, he thought, but it was hardly in her 128 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon nature to be parsimonious. She was aware of his thought, and said with a gesture of deprecation, ' We don't need so much now Arthur 's gone.' They looked at one another and said nothing. The very name of the prodigal was like the loud clanging of a knell in their hearts. It at once withdrew attention from all other thoughts. It was perhaps a month later that the minister went to bed early one night, leaving Mrs. Shannon at work in the little sitting-room. He dropped asleep at once, and slept soundly for some hours. When he woke he stretched out his arm in the darkness, and was sur- prised to find his wife had not come to bed. At that moment he heard a dis- tant clock chime two. It was a moonless night in June, and the room was in entire darkness. An immense loneliness weighed upon him. His heart cried for his son, and there came to him the vivid picture of how long years before a cradle had stood beside the bed, and a small hand had 9 129 Thro' Lattice-Windows often been stretched out to find his in the early dawn. Instinctively he put out his hand, and withdrew it as though he had thrust it into a flame. The darkness was no longer lonely ; it closed upon him like a thing alive, — a crowd of moments, the thronging forms of de- parted joys and hopes. So acute was this sense of the living pressure of the darkness, that he sprang out of bed with a cry of pain. The action broke the spell, and his mind returned to its first impression of surprise at the absence of his wife. Slipping on his clothes, he went down the stair with silent feet. He pushed open the door of the sitting-room noise- lessly, and looked in. There sat Susan Shannon, hard at work beside a table covered with innumerable clippings of coloured cloth. She was apparently engaged in manufacturing a hearth-rug of the kind often seen in farm parlours. Each bit of cloth was carefully knotted with strong twine upon an oblong of rough canvas, and under her skilful 130 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon touch a pattern of coloured wheels and crosses was growing into shape. The work was rough and hard ; as her palms were turned slightly upward after knot- ting the twine, he could see the redness of rising blisters on them. From time to time she put her head on one side, critically examining her work. While he looked, he saw her carefully fold up the rug, and heard her sigh deeply. The rug was put away in an oaken chest, with an air of the utmost secrecy. John Shannon's tongue was tied ; he was too amazed to speak. Noiselessly he stole upstairs again, and, once there, could not find the courage to mention the strange sight he had seen. But a month later his amazement was greatly increased when he saw what seemed to be this very rug hanging in a shop-window at Belchester, marked at twenty-five shillings. The sudden effort of perception in a man usually unob- servant is often singularly acute ; it is the quickening of a dormant faculty into special and spasmodic intensity. John 131 Thro' Lattice-Windows Shannon was sure he knew that rug. The gaudy wheels and crosses on the black background were as familiar as his own hand. The next afternoon he made pretence of indisposition, that he might stay at home while his wife went out. As soon as the house was still he found the key of the oaken chest, and unlocked it with trembling hands. It was as he thought; another partly com- pleted rug was concealed in it. He unrolled it, eyeing it critically. He must fix this pattern in his mind, he must. The one business of his life must be to penetrate this strange mystery. Was it possible his wife was deliberately set- ting herself to earn money by such means as this? And if so, why? His mind groped vainly for the least clue. But he would be sure this time. Taking a pair of scissors, he carefully snipped away three tags of yellow cloth in the very centre of the rug. It was impossi- ble that any one but himself could per- ceive the difference. But he would know ; he would know that rug any- 132 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon where after this. He felt for a moment painfully proud of his acuteness. Then he carefully replaced the rug, and locked the chest. He sighed heavily in doing so, as his wife had done. It was now the end of June, and in the second week of July the minister took his annual holiday. For the first time in his life he went alone. Mrs. Shannon had pleaded for a wee' s perfect rest in her own house, saying that she could rest nowhere so completely. At the end of the week she would join him at Barcombe. John Shannon left her with reluctant heart; he perhaps had some forewarn- ing of the blow that was impending. But she smiled brightly on him as he went. ' I shall do very well, dear,' she said. ' I am only a little more tired than usual this year. I shall be all right by the end of the week.' He did not notice her extreme and growing frailty. The fair image of the bride still stood between him and her, and his eyes were holden that he should 133 Thro' Lattice-Windows not see the melancholy attenuation of that real woman, who drooped under his eyes like a withered flower. Nor did he say a word of that painful curi- osity which had eaten its way into his heart. He felt afraid to speak of it. But, as he left her, he did one significant thing which marked the current of his thoughts. He took her right hand in his, and lifted it up, so that the rough- ened palm was exposed. He surveyed it attentively for an instant, and his lips moved, as though he wished to speak. Then he bowed his head reverently and kissed it. No sooner had he gone than Susan Shannon unlocked the oaken chest, and began to work. Through the long day, and far into the night, those patient, ceaseless hands toiled on. The next day it was the same, and the next, and the next. She seemed to grow thinner and older each hour ; it was as though her spirit were drained out of her by the monstrous thing that lay upon her knees. She scarcely stopped now to eat or 134 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon drink. She felt no pain from the sharp twine which had cut her fingers till they bled. The whole world swam be- fore her as a maze of coloured wheels and crosses. She feared her eyes were failing her, but she did not care if they only lasted till her work was done. She was dying, — she knew it now. But she would not die till the Lord's debt had been paid . . . till. . . . There was another thought, but that she did not dare to mention. It found ex- pression only in one sigh, deep and oft-recurring, that came and went round her like a wind as she worked, — ' O my boy, my boy, how could you have done it?' On Friday night her work was all done. The last of these hideous rugs was finished, and safely sent to Bel- chester. She cleared away all the shreds, and burned them. On Satur- day the payment of her work arrived. It was in gold, and was sent as she had requested by special messenger from Belchester. The youth who brought r 35 Thro' Lattice-Windows the money whistled as he went out at the door. He was half frightened by what he had seen within, and whistled to keep up his courage. During the morning she employed herself in writing several notes. Each was addressed to the secretary of some society, and contained half a sovereign. She counted up what was left of her earnings, and added some money which she had saved from her housekeeping expenses. This she put in the drawer beside her bed and locked the drawer. She was ready now to meet her husband, but she knew that she would never join him at Barcombe. Once more a frightful sensation of weakness overcame her; once more the world swam away from her in an intricate revolving pattern of blazing wheels and crosses. She wrote with difficulty a telegram begging him to come to her, and got the chapel-keeper to take it to the office. Then she carefully ar- rayed herself in her wedding-dress, and lay down upon the bed to rest. She 136 The Parsimony of Mrs. Shannon was waiting for the bridegroom. She heard bells ringing in her brain, heard solemn words spoken over her, as if the clouds spoke, . . . and the air was lilac-scented, and spring danced with sun-winged feet upon the water, and the wind chanted one glad monotonous note, a cuckoo-word, eternally reiter- ated, ' Behold, the Bridegroom cometh.' Then the darkness rolled over her like a sea. ' My husband, my boy,' she Avhispered, as the wave engulfed her. It was so John Shannon found her that night when he came home from Bar- combe — unconscious, worn out, arrayed in her wedding-dress — a woman who had already passed far into the mortal shadow. And his eyes were no longer holden ; he knew he looked upon the bride of death. 137 VIII THE MONEY IN THE DRAWER IT was Davy Lumsden who was the first to catch sight of Arthur Shan- non on the day when he came home, and he communicated his discovery to Johnny Button. The autumn rains had begun, and Davy was absorbed in thinking out a new architectural design for his pigsty, when he happened to look over the hedge of his garden, and saw the figure of a young man slinking in and out among the trees that grew on the south side of Plumridge Green. Coming out an hour later, when the afternoon had darkened, he was surprised to find the figure still standing immobile under the trees. The last watery burst of sunset light, striking across the common, em- phasised the forlornness of this unusual 138 The Money in the Drawer traveller. The rain shone upon his tattered mackintosh coat, and his blue cloth cap was drawn down close over his eyes. He stood as one utterly for- saken, equally without hope or aim, his arms folded, his eyes fixed upon the inhospitable skies. As the light struck upon him, Davy discerned the close- curling rings of light hair beneath the cloth cap, and was dimly aware of something familiar in the figure. « He don't look like a tramp, and he don't look like a tourist,' said Davy. ' That cap 's most like a sailor's by what I can make out. But 't ain't like a sailor to stand all' day under them trees a-shelterin' from a squeeze o' rain. I 'm a-goin' over to see what 't is he wants.' Davy lit his pipe, and clanged his garden gate behind him. But at the sound of the shut gate the figure be- neath the trees at once made off, and Davy, watching him, said, 'Well, I'm blest if that ain't young Shannon.' An hour later, Johnny Button, saunter- i39 Thro' Lattice-Windows ing serenely through the rain with an empty sack drawn round his shoulders, stopped at Davy's gate. ' Yes, I seed 'en,' said Johnny, in reply to Davy's inquiry, ' an' pretty bad he looked. His face were all whisht an' white, and he went lame on one foot. His face fair frighted me, it were that miserable ; it were like the face o' one what had looked on bad sights, an' could n't forget 'em.' ' Did 'ee speak to 'en, Johnny?' 1 1 tried to,' said Johnny. ' I 'd a mind to ask 'en to come home along, an' get warmed up wi' a cup o' tea, but he just waved me away wi' his hand, an' made off like one possessed. Reminded me o' the madman among the tombs, he did.' 1 Ah, you may be sure he hev done somethin' wrong to be actin' like that,' said Davy. ' 'T is queer 'o\v they sons o' ministers do moastly turn out so bad. I doubt 'tis the case o' Eli an' Phineas over agen.' * I did n't feel I 'd no call to think 140 The Money in the Drawer that way,' said Johnny. ' I was jest sorry for 'en, an' wishin' I could help 'en a bit' In the meantime the prodigal had limped his way to the crest of the hill above Barford. He was wet through, and had eaten nothing since the early morning. At the entrance to the town was a little shop, where mixed comesti- bles, dear to the tastes of boyhood, were sold. As a child he had often spent his pennies there, and his feet halted by a kind of instinct at its threshold. Pres- ently he entered, and bought a handful of biscuits. It was a great relief to find that during the months he had been away the shop had changed hands, and the bustling motherly woman behind the counter did not know him. He saw in the little room behind the shop a fire burning brightly, and children gath- ered round the hearth, and he groaned. They were roasting apples at the fire, and a poignant memory of his own lost childhood came back to him with the fragrance of the apples. 141 Thro' Lattice-Windows 'You look rare an' bad, young man/ said the woman. ' Hev you come far?' ' I have come from the far country,' he replied sadly. The woman was puzzled at his speech, and looked at him anxiously. Then she stepped hastily into the room be- hind the shop, and returned, bringing him a roasted apple. ' Eat it up, my sonny; 'twill do 'ee good,' she said. But he, seeing the children watching him wide-eyed in the doorway, turned and fled. They seemed to him a hostile jury about to deliver a verdict against him, and he trembled before their aston- ished innocence. In the grey gloaming he stole into the town like a shadow. His whole past life marched with him as he walked ; it was a spectral army, marching with arms reversed, to the sound of mournful music. He was Arthur Shannon, he told him- self, the minister's son ; he had always been clever ; he was cut out for success — every one had said so — and he could not understand how this immense calam- 142 The Money in the Drawer ity had overtaken him, how he came to be marching in this rabble army of de- feat. He had meant to take all the bright and good things of the world as a natural right, certainly by an easy conquest ; and in his ears there sounded only these melancholy drums, derisive, eloquent of disaster. He had always meant to be good, — he would swear he had ; and here he was, Arthur Shannon, the minister's son, carrying his black heart through the streets where he was born. There was something monstrous in it all, intolerable, unjust. It was not fair that he should be punished so heav- ily. He felt sure that he would never have punished any one else after this fash- ion. He would have let them off — it was the duty of the world to let people off. But his protest died upon his lips when he remembered what he had done, and his passion of revolt whimpered in him like a beaten cur. For the moment he had squared his shoulders, for he had felt indignant with destiny; now they fell forward again, and he walked as one i43 Thro' Lattice-Windows thoroughly cowed. The hot tears rushed into his eyes and half blinded him. He was conscious only of his misery, a misery like the sea, immense and mourn- ful, to which none could set a bound. He was now close to Potterbee's house, and he remembered how many times he had vanquished Paul Potterbee in debate, how they had read the same books, and dreamed the same dreams, and sworn to love one another as Jonathan and David did. He looked hard at the house, but there was no light in any window, and he felt the darkness of the house like a rebuke, a reproach, a purposed inhos- pitality. There was something in the blankness of its aspect that chilled him to the bone. The cold rain was falling faster now, and the wind was rising. A door opened a little further up the street, and a gush of warm light shot forth. A youth of about his own age came out, carefully wrapped up against the weather. He heard the youth's cheery ' good-night ' as he crossed the threshold, and saw him stoop his head i44 The Money in the Drawer to an old woman who put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. ' Oh, my mother ! ' he half sobbed. ' No one will ever kiss me again like that ! ' He began to wonder vaguely who this youth was, and where he was going. He had a mind to run after him, and warn him. He felt quite sure of the very words that he would use. He saw himself leading back this truant son in triumph, restoring him to his mother. ... It was some moments before he recognised the stupidity of his ideas. Then he said bitterly, ' But no one ever does stop a man who has set his face toward the dark ; no one ever does know what the far country's like till he 's got there.' He moved away slowly, with dragging feet. Presently he came to the low wall of the churchyard. Here he paused again, leaning wearily against the wall. The wooden gate swung and rattled in the wind, and the noise suggested a new idea to his troubled mind. He entered io I45 Thro' Lattice-Windows the graveyard stealthily, closing the gate behind him. But if he had had any intention of finding his mother's grave, the gathering darkness had now made such a search impossible. Nevertheless he sought patiently for some minutes, stumbling in the wet grass, and stoop- ing down from time to time over some mound of new-turned earth. There were three fresh graves — so much he could discern — but there was not a sien to show him under which of these hideous earthen barriers slept his mother's face. He had a vague notion of passing the night there. It struck him that to die upon his mother's grave was the one thing required of him — he had read of such things in books. People would find him there in the morning, and they would look at him mercifully, knowing he had expiated all his faults. ' Oh, my mother,' he sobbed again; and the rising wind roaring in the great elms caught his voice up, and made a mockery of it, and the rain beat down with a new violence. When the 146 The Money in the Drawer squall passed he heard the water tric- kling in little rivulets down the slope of the three new-made graves. A new thought came to him — he would go to the Red House and see the Splashetts. Priscilla Splashett had always been kind to him. It would be easier to face his father if he had already looked upon some human face he knew, and seen pity in it. He turned into a back lane behind the church, in order to avoid the town, and made his way to the Red House. At the end of the lane he came out upon the main road, directly opposite the big iron gates of the Red House. He entered, and knocked timidly at the door. A maid opened the door, and tossed her head when he asked to see Miss Priscilla. She went to the dining- room, and he could overhear all that was said. 'Who is it?' said the sharp voice of Dorcas. ' He looks like a tramp, mem,' said the girl. i47 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' Goodness ! You surely hav' n't asked him in a-trapesin' his wet feet over the hall?' ' No, mem. He 's in the porch.' ' Well, give him a shilling, and tell him to go away. I dare say he 's no good, but on a night like this you can't turn him away without giving him something.' ' Perhaps he is n't begging,' said the soft voice of Priscilla. ' He may be some one in sorrow. Let me go and see.' . . . But he waited to hear no more. A wave of intolerable shame swept over him. There was only one place where such misery as his could claim asylum, only one door at which he would not knock in vain. He would go home at once. He ran down the gravelled path into the main road, and walked rapidly up the High Street, till he came to the broad archway within which stood the Meeting-house, and the low red-brick manse, and the pebbled quadrangle 148 The Money in the Drawer with the great oak-tree, which he knew so well. The lamp which hung in the archway was not lit, for there was no meeting in the chapel that night. He felt this to be fortunate ; he would meet no one, he would not be recognised. And yet that unlit lamp pained him like an extinguished hope. Once within the archway, his resolu- tion failed him utterly. For months he had foreseen and forefelt this hour, but he had never imagined how bitter it would be. Perhaps after all it would be better if he went away. It would be a less pain to his father to think him dead than to see him thus. He crept slowly to the window that opened on the small living-room, and stood there a long time irresolute. The blind was not drawn, and looking in, he saw the fire- light playing on the polish of the mahogany chairs, and the furniture with which he had been familiar from a child. All was as he had left it; it was as though he had dreamed an evil dream of wretchedness and hunger, and all that 149 Thro' Lattice- Windows he had suffered was unreal. This room was the one real thing in the universe, the rest a whirling phantasm. This stood steadfast, unalterable ; the rest heaved and melted like a mist. And yet, as he looked with hungry eyes, he saw that this room was after all not quite as he left it. One thing he missed — his mother's work-basket. It had always stood on the small round table in the re- cess of the window. It was not there now. He might have stood there half the night in miserable retrospect, but just then the door opened, and his father came out. Before the old man could utter even a cry of astonishment, the boy was in his arms. Both were weep- ing as they passed into the house. In that firelit room they sat and talked for hours, till the fire burned low, and they could scarcely see each other's faces. But it was not until near mid- night, as they were going to bed, that the last bitter drop of penitence was wrung out of the boy's heart. ICO The Money in the Drawer ' Did mother tell you anything about me before she died? Did she say any- thing? ' ' She died in silence, my son. But the night before she died she prayed for you, and said she should meet you some day in heaven.' There was a moment of embarrassed silence. The father, standing with the bedroom candle in his hand, saw by its light that the boy's eyes had dropped, and that his face had grown paler. ' We won't talk of it any more, my son. It 's all over now, and God has brought you back safe and sound.' ' But there 's something I must talk of, father — something I hav' n't told you. May I see . . . see the room where mother died? ' The old man's face contracted in sud- den pain. He had never entered that room since the coffin passed out of it. But it was only natural, he thought, that Arthur should wish to see it. God had brought his son back; perhaps it was God's will that that sacred room of '5 1 Thro' Lattice-Windows death should be the shrine where the boy's vows of penitence should be di- vinely sealed. Yet he could not forbear shuddering as he entered it. The coldness of the dead was in it still. It had the dismal orderliness of the room that is swept and garnished, because the spirit of life has passed out of it for ever. The pillowless bed yawned stark and flat, the dressing-table was bare. On the wooden chair beside the bed was a Bible, and on the Bible the little book of ' Daily Meditations ' which the dead woman had used for half a century. Arthur stood on tiptoe, gazing, and shivered in the frozen air. Then, with sudden resolve, he walked across the room to the chest of drawers which stood beside the window. He tried to open the top drawer, but it was locked. He looked helplessly at his father, who watched him with grow- ing concern. ' I want this opened,' he whispered hoarsely. ' There 's something in it . . . T 52 The Money in the Drawer something I must see. Have you never opened it, father? ' 1 I could n't. I had n't the heart to. Come away, my son.' He stood fumbling in his pocket. Then he said, with a deep sigh, ' Stay, here 's the key. But wait till to-morrow, then we '11 open it together.' 'No, father, it must be to-night — now.' The key was already in the lock. ' Did mother lock it after I went away? ' said the boy. ' I don't know. It was her drawer — I never saw it open. Why do you ask? ' ' I thought she might. There would have been reasons. It never used to be locked before I went away.' An inexplicable misgiving seized the old minister. A sort of dreadful illu- mination passed over his mind. Frag- mentary observations and intuitions began to piece themselves together in his thoughts. He remembered his wife's midnight toil, his conviction that it was under- *53 Thro' Lattice-Windows taken as a means of raising money, her air of strange secrecy, and her curious parsimony. He remembered that none of these things had happened till Arthur went away. There came back to his mind certain softened hints of long-de- ferred subscriptions suddenly paid — paid just before her death. And now there was the mystery of the locked drawer. It had never been locked until after Arthur went away. Arthur him- self had said that. There was the sweat of great terror on his brow. His teeth chattered in his head. He looked fear- fully at his son. But Arthur Shannon was now stand- ing quite still, with agony and triumph written on his face. He had unlocked the drawer, he stood before it awe- struck. In his hand he held his mother's faded leather purse, and from it he had taken five sovereigns, which he placed upon the bed. From the purse he had also taken a piece of folded paper, on which was written, ' The Lord's money,' in his mother's delicate handwriting. !54 The Money in the Drawer He laid the piece of paper beside the gold, and falling on his knees at the bedside, burst into an agony of tears. ' My son, my son,' gasped the old man. But his mouth was dry, a fire burned in his throat, no other word would come. The boy looked up at his voice, and that vision of his father's face decided him. How could he break his father's heart by telling him he had been a thief ? He knew now that his mother had kept the secret of his sin. She had gone to the grave with it locked up in her heart. She had paid back, by what means he knew not, all that he had taken away on that dreadful day when he had robbed her of the ' Lord's money.' Surely the Lord would not be hard with him, if he left that sin unconfessed ; surely it was his mother's hand that was even now laid upon his lips, and her voice which said, ' For my sake, be silent. I alone know the sin. For my sake, spare your father.' There is a sin that is not unto death, 155 Thro' Lattice-Windows and the silence of Arthur Shannon was such a sin. ' Father/ said the boy, ' kneel down and pray with me. I ... I think mother wants you to.' The old man knelt and prayed long and earnestly, wrestling for the soul of his son, till the Angel of the Dawn shook glimmering wings of gold against the window. That hideous terror which had rent his heart passed out upon the passion of his prayer. It vanished like a blur of breath from the mirror of his simple nature, and left no stain behind. He prayed with his hand upon the boy's bowed head, remembering only the child who had stammered at his knee, and slept within his arms. And over both there leaned unseen a spirit brighter than the Angel of the Dawn, — the spirit of a woman who knew she had not died in vain. 156 IX POTTERBEE'S FIRST SERMON IT was always remembered in Barford that when the Squire lay dying he had sent for Potterbee to pray with him, and had said to him, 'You dear little man, I believe I can die easy now.' Some men might have been puffed up at such a speech, and there was certainly no other man in Barford to whom pub- lic opinion would not have grudged the honour of such a compliment; but every one felt that Potterbee had fairly earned it. He was, in truth, a ' dear little man.' He came of a long ances- try of Quakers, and although he had become, by force of circumstance, a deacon at the Meeting-house, he never lost the Quaker mould. He usually wore a high white cravat, and a black coat of antiquated cut. His hair was of a silvery whiteness, and his face had the 157 Thro' Lattice- Windows peace of quiet waters in a sunny pool. He lived in a small house at the end of the High Street, and behind it stretched a long garden full of old-fashioned flowers. He had means of his own, although they were very much less than was generally supposed, and had he cared to lead an idle life, there was no one to say him nay. But Potterbee was one of those men who are visibly ordained for the comfort of the world, and he had long ago recognised his mission. Every morning, on the stroke of ten, he went down the street to visit the sick, and there was no day when he did not carry a little of his sunshine into some place of darkness. I, for one, can bear witness that, when I first made acquaintance with death, I found no peace till Potter- bee prayed in that dark room where the coffin stood ; I felt as though I had seen an angel sitting in the tomb when he finished. Now the Potterbees had only one son, and it was he whose first sermon occa- sioned so much sensation. Paul Potter- 15S Potterbee's First Sermon bee was a shy and retiring youth, and from his birth his parents had prayed that he might become a minister. It is to be feared that on many a dull Sunday at the Meeting-house, when old Mr. Shannon was not quite at his best, the two innocent old people in the big corner pew had wandering thoughts, through which there ran like a bright thread the fancy of how Paul would look in the pulpit. Many times Rachel Pot- terbee would say to her husband, ' I begin to fear it is not the Lord's will, William.' But he would reply, ' Well, we can pray about it, Rachel,' and Paul never knew how often at dead of night these two old folks knelt in the room next to his, holding one another's hands, and praying softly that it might please the Lord to make their boy His messenger. At length, on one happy spring morn- ing, Paul, who was now eighteen, with many blushes told his father that he would like to preach. The old man kissed him on the forehead, and went 159 Thro' Lattice-Windows out into the garden quite pale with joy. Rachel saw him standing with clasped hands beside the bed of yellow jonquils near the blossoming apple-tree, and with a swift divination of what had happened ran out to him with a face as pale as his own. ' Is it Paul?' she whispered, and the shining in the old man's eyes gave her eloquent reply. They fell back, as they always did in moments of great excitement, into the sweet Quaker tongue, ' the single language,' as it is called, and began to ' thee ' and ' thou ' one another in soft voices. Paul, look- ing out of the window of the little room he called his study, saw them, and never forgot the sight. Years afterwards, when he got adrift on strange seas of doubt for a time, the memory of that spring morning came back to him like a holy vision, and it held within it the light by which he found his way back to faith. Men often forget many things that learned theologians teach them, but they never forget that their parents knew what the gate of heaven meant. 160 Potterbee's First Sermon But, if the truth were told, Paul on that morning had only the vaguest ideas of what preaching meant. He had but lately found his tongue in the debates of ' the Society ' at the Meeting-house, and was somewhat intoxicated with the pleasure of his newly discovered gift. The fact was, his desire to preach owed a good deal to the conviction that he was capable of doing quite as well as Mr. Shannon, who had begun to fail lately. It is not an unusual thing for a shy youth to hide under his diffidence a quite preposterous pride. Paul had lately read by stealth certain modern books which sounded quite a new note, — a note not found in any of the solid and respectable volumes on old Mr. Potterbee's shelves. He felt a convic- tion that he was born to grapple with great problems. He had attentively surveyed his forehead in the glass, and was inclined to argue from its contour the possession of genius. He was per- fectly aware of the hopes with which his parents regarded him, although he ii i6i Thro' Lattice-Windows was quite incapable of measuring the profound deeps of spirituality from which they sprung. On that April morn- ing, when he saw his parents under the blossoming apple-tree, his first sermon lay completed on his desk. He knew every word of it by heart. It was an elaborate vindication of the ways of God with men, founded on the saying of Elihu that ' men see not the bright light that is in the clouds.' The place where aspirants for pulpit honours were accustomed to exercise their gifts was a small red-brick chapel on the edge of a common, that went by the name of Plumridge Green. It lay about three miles to the south of Bar- ford, and its people were notorious for the bluntness of their speech. Many a candidate for the pulpit had buried his hopes on Plumridge Green, to the un- feigned satisfaction of its inhabitants, who made light of all genius that came from Barford. Even Mr. Shannon rather dreaded the impassive faces of a Plum- ridge audience. There were half a 162 Potterbee's First Sermon dozen old men who used to sit near one another in the front pews, and they had a most disconcerting habit of pretending to be asleep, which might have imposed upon a person not observant enough to remark that at any error of doctrine twelve white eyebrows were simultane- ously lifted, in what seemed like patient scorn. It was at Plumridge Green that young Paul Potterbee preached his first sermon. It was a solemn moment when he left the small house in the High Street to go upon his momentous journey. ' Oh, my dear boy, preach Christ,' said his mother, as she drew him to her breast and kissed him. ' There 's nothing else worth preaching.' It made him a little uncomfortable, for he knew that there was nothing in his sermon about Christ. His father walked with him a mile upon the road, and would have liked to have gone with him all the way, but dared not. They parted at the point where the road strikes the open moor, and the dear old 163 Thro' Lattice-Windows man stood bare-headed in the spring wind, and prayed for Paul. At that moment Paul felt the strongest impulse to turn back. He was oppressed by a miserable sense that after all he had nothing to say. ' Dear Lord, be good to my boy,' pleaded the old man. ' Give him utter- ance and knowledge. Help him to preach the grace and truth of Thy Son, our Saviour.' He took his son's hand, and asked timidly what text he was going to take. Paul told him with a blush. He dared not tell him that he had learned his sermon by heart. ' Yes, yes,' the old man replied. ' It 's a good text. I can read God's truth in it. But don't forget that the only true light in the cloud is the bright and Morn- ing Star. Oh, my dear boy, preach Christ.' There was no one near, and he kissed the youth. At that moment each had an unspoken misgiving in his heart. The old man was afraid that Paul had 164 Potterbee's First Sermon taken a wrong text, and Paul had begun to doubt the excellence of his elaborate sermon. 'Won't you come with me, father?' said Paul, with a sudden rush of affec- tion. There was entreaty in his voice too, for he was growing afraid of the ordeal. He had never before realised that it is a terrible thing to preach. ' I can't, I dare not,' said the old man. ' But I won't go home. I shall walk up and down the road and pray for you. You '11 find me waiting for you here when you come back.' He felt in his pocket, and drew from it a packet of jujubes, which he solemnly placed in Paul's hand. ' Your mother forgot to give them to you. They 're good for the voice, I believe.' It sounded oddly enough, but neither recognised the oddity. It was a relief to both to smile with simple human kindliness just then. 'And you must wrap your throat up after preaching. Have you got your 165 Thro' Lattice-Windows silk neckerchief ? Your mother was very particular about that.' Paul produced it, and there were tears in his eyes as he said, ' Mother 's always thinking of me, is n't she? I hope she '11 pray for me.' ' We shall both be praying for you, my son. We prayed for this night eighteen years ago when you were born.' Paul moved slowly away, looking back from time to time to the small black figure silhouetted against the amber sky. He had already discerned in the distance the two ' chief men ' of the Plumridge Green Chapel, whose custom it was to meet the preachers from Barford half-way, in order that they might talk to them for their good during the latter part of their journey. They were two of the six old men who sat in the front pew. They walked slowly, with shoulders sloped forward, for their backs were bent with forty years of outdoor work. ' Be you the praicher? ' said one. Paul modestly admitted the fact. 166 Potterbee's First Sermon 'Well, you be a little 'un, to be sure. Let's look at 'ee, now.' They surveyed him slowly, as though he had been a natural curiosity. Paul felt that they were quite capable of walking round him and poking their fingers into his ribs to ascertain if he was in condition. He smiled feebly and blushed vividly. When they had completed their sur- vey, they addressed one another on the subject. ' Well, he be a little 'un, sure enough, bain't 'ee? ' ' Do look as if he have somethin' in him, howsoever.' ' Bigness ain't everythin'.' 'No. Tis said David were a little 'un.' ' We shall know by the time we 've done wi' him.' ' An' so will he.' Whereat they smiled grimly, remem- bering the fate of many other promising apostles who had found martyrdom at Plumridge Green. They established 167 Thro' Lattice-Windows themselves one on either side of the blushing Paul, as though they had been commissioned to take him into custody. In that order they proceeded along the road in silence for about half a mile. At last one of them said, rather un- justly, ' Well, young man, you have n't much to say for yourself ' What do you expect me to say? ' ' Well, talk to us — tell us what you 're goin' to praich about. Be 'ee goin' to praich to us about Peter, now? ' Paul meekly observed that he was not. ' But you must. We 're fond o' Peter up hereabouts.' ' But I can't,' said Paul, with a touch of irritation. There was silence for a few minutes, and then his persecutors began again. ' Do 'ee praich about Peter, now. Tell us what you do think of his char- acter.' Paul could not understand this un- reasonable obstinacy. It was a positive relief when one of the old men turned to 168 Potterbee's First Sermon personal questions again by asking how old he was. Paul made confession to his eighteen years, whereupon the other re- marked, 'Well, 'tis true, you're but a little 'un.' Plumridge Green was in sight, and at the fourth cottage on the Green his con- ductors stopped. There was an hour before service, and Paul was expected to take tea. The other four ' chief men ' had already arrived, and were carefully scrutinising him. They began to talk about him with the most elaborate disregard of his presence. ' Potterbee's son?' ' Yes.' 'Well, he ought to be fairish. But 't ain't good fathers as make good sons. I knew a man at St. Colam once who had the cleverest head-piece anywhere roundabout — Romford his name were — an' his son were a fool.' ' Last one we had up here praiching broke down. He 'd learned his sermon, an' when Johnny Flint pushed the form over it upset him so he forgot ivery 169 Thro' Lattice-Windows word. So we singed a hymn and went home.' ' Seemed like a good sermon too, if he only could ha' remembered it.' ' No doubt, no doubt. The eggs as is never laid is always the finest.' ' 'T is a pity to learn sermons. They do never sound the same. 'T is like water from a pump, — the water 's good enough, but you hear the pump-handle a-creaking.' ' 'T ain't given to iverybody to have his words flow from him nateral.' Paul felt more and more uncomfort- able. He suddenly realised that he must be alone. He wanted once more to consult that excellently written dis- course which lay in his breast-pocket. He was certain that he had forgotten the passage in which he treated of life as a cloudy day, and of the natural phenomenon that there was always a blue sky somewhere behind the cloud. ' I should like to be alone for half an hour,' he said apologetically. ' I think I '11 go out for a walk.' 170 Potterbee's First Sermon ' Certainly, certainly,' said his host. ' Bless you, I '11 go with 'ee. I '11 show 'ee round the village now.' ' But I 'd rather go alone.' ' Oh, but you 'd get lost. You 'd never find your way about. I '11 go with 'ee.' The six old men looked at one another significantly. They quite understood that Paul wanted to re-read the elabo- rate production in his pocket. ' T is so,' one said sadly. ' He 've learned it for certain. 'T will be very fine, no doubt, but that sort won't bind up no broken hearts.' The words caused a curious vibration in the mind of Paul. For the first time, he looked closely at these six old men. It was not only labour that had written all those lines on their faces ; the relent- less graver of sorrow had been busy there also. Those deep furrows on the cheek had been the channels down which tears had rushed. And in their eyes there was a look that troubled his young heart, that suggested a hunger 171 Thro' Lattice-Windows not of the body, a yearning for visions not of the earth. ' You '11 praich about Peter, won't 'ee ? ' was the last word of his host, as he con- ducted him to the pulpit-stair. ' There 's a many of us here as wants comforting, and we allers feels better when we hear what the dear Lord said to Peter. I wish 'ee well, young man. Don't 'ee be afeard.' He shook Paul's hand with clumsy cordiality, and the next moment the youth found himself face to face with his audience. The 'chief men' sat in their pews, sad and monumental ; three or four dozen people were sprinkled over the place. In a pew near the door sat a woman in black, with five small children ; her husband had been buried the week before. The tall, con- sumptive-looking man by her side was her husband's brother, who had walked over from St. Colam with some vague idea of a funeral service. The only smiling face in the little chapel was that of Solomon Gill, the ploughman, who 172 Potterbee's First Sermon acted as precentor. But then Gill was always happy. He glowed under the dullest sermon. The mere name of his Lord made his face kindle. It was only by degrees that Paul saw all this. A mist was before his eyes, and a great terror clutched his heart. His voice sounded to him like the voice of some one else. It seemed like the thin echo of a voice in a dream, an at- tenuated voice, the ghost of a voice. He could not believe it possible that any one but himself could hear it. It was with genuine relief that he heard the people join in the singing of the hymn he had given out, — it was an as- surance that he could not have been quite inaudible, after all. ' Hark, my soul, it is the Lord,' — yes, they were really singing. Solomon Gill looked up at him with a grateful smile, — it was his favourite hymn. He began to breathe freely again. The hymn was sung, the Scripture was read, and he had contrived to pray. But now a new terror confronted him. J 73 Thro' Lattice-Windows He was certain that he had forgotten every word of his sermon. He had forgotten where the text was. A ter- rible suspicion seized him that it was not in the Bible at all. In his agony he boldly dragged his manuscript out of his pocket, but his agitation was so great that he could scarcely read a word of it. They were singing the hymn before the sermon. In another moment or two, preach he must. He turned the Bible over with feverish hands to find the Book of Job. He could not find it. There seemed to be nothing but the Psalms in the Old Tes- tament. It was perfectly ridiculous, — Job must be in the Bible. An absurd thought occurred to him, that the Bible used at Plumridge Green Chapel must be some other edition of the Scriptures. Job had been cut out of it, as the Apoc- rypha had. He would have to give his text out without saying where it was. But then he did not even know the text, — it was something about clouds, and that was all he knew. Dark- i74 Potterbee's First Sermon ness seemed to settle over his mind ; it fell like a curtain. And then he was suddenly aware of a terrific silence. The hymn had ceased, the people were wait- ing for him to preach. ' You '11 praich about Peter, won't 'ee? There 's a many of us here wants com- forting.' Who was it had said that? It was a long time ago — perhaps when he was a boy. And with it there sounded like a far-away bell another sentence, — ' Preach Christ ; there 's nothing else worth preaching.' Half mechanically his hand turned to the New Testament. It was quite use- less to search for the Book of Job any longer ; he was certain that it was not in the Bible — at least, not in the Plum- ridge Green edition. His pride hung in tatters. It was all a bitter blunder, — he could not preach. All at once a light broke upon him. He was at the last chapter of St. John's Gospel. He was actually reading out a text, — ' So when they had dined, Jesus 175 Thro' Lattice-Windows saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me more than these? ' The mist lifted, and he saw the people sitting hushed. The ' chief men ' were wide awake, and their impassive faces were lifted eagerly to his. A warm rush of love, pity, sympathy, filled his young heart like a tide. He felt borne along by a wind of God, — the sensation was like that he had experienced when he had dreamed he was flying. Yes ; he was preaching, but he could not have told how. He was only conscious of a keen passion for souls. He felt as though he was passing into the lives of these people by some sort of miraculous instinct. The woman in black near the door was smiling through her tears, the consumptive-looking man beside her was bent forward, listening. As for Solomon Gill, his face shone like the face of an angel. It was over. He descended the pul- pit, treading delicately, as with winged feet. He walked down the aisle in a kind of rapture, vaguely conscious of 176 Potterbee's First Sermon friendly faces shining on him through a heaven-tinted mist. At the door the woman in black laid her hand in his, and said something which sounded like thanks, and he saw the eyes of five small children raised to his in solemn awe. It astonished him as he passed into the open air to find the world quite unchanged. A cuckoo was calling in the woods, the first stars of evening hung in the pale blue sky. He hurried over the Green with the blood surging in his veins. He could not contain him- self. His whole experience had been so extraordinary that he found himself talking of it to the very trees as he walked. He wanted to take the whole world into his confidence. At the cross roads, on the edge of the moor, he met his father that night. ' Father,' he said breathlessly, ' I did n't preach it. I could n't.' ' What did you preach then, my son? ' ' I tried to preach Christ,' said Paul, in a low voice. 12 177 Thro' Lattice-Windows The old man put his arms round the boy's neck and kissed him. ' I knew you would, my dear boy. For eighteen years your mother and I have prayed for this night, and God is too good to disappoint us. You '11 be an old man some day, Paul, and when you are you '11 be sorry to think that you ever preached anything but Christ. If ever you are tempted to do so, don't forget this night.' And Paul never did. 178 X A PIOUS FRAUD COMING into Barford one spring evening to get a pair of boots mended at Craddock's, Johnny Button saw Lumsden going up the street, and said to Craddock, ' Davy seems in a hurry-like. I wonder now what he 's up to.' ' On the save, you may be sure,' grunted Craddock, for Lumsden's repu- tation was well known. 'He be a near 'un, bain't'ee?' said Johnny, adding after a meditative pause, ' though I 've know 'd nearer.' ' Nearness is nearness,' said Craddock philosophically. ' It be like gutta-per- cha, you can shape it differen' ways, but, so to speak, 't is always the same thing.' 'That's true,' said Johnny, 'but still I 've know'd nearer nor Davy. There was a man I know 'd once as had to 179 Thro' Lattice-Windows take the praicher home to dinner two Sundays runnin', an' bein' a near man, he cast about to see W he could do it cheap. Now it so happed that he 'd read in a paper that if you was to put a jint of cooked meat in a oil-cloth, and bury it about a foot in the earth, it 'ud keep no end o' time. This man, I should say, wure a farmer, an' a bache- lor, wi' nobody but a old, ancient housekeeper to look after him, an' he put up wi' her bein' old and doddery 'cause she wure cheap. So he says, " Betsy, read that," and he show her the paper. "Shall us try it?" The old 'ooman did n't like to say " no," though she had her doubts. So the farmer digged a hole in his garden, an' the old 'ooman wropped the beef up in an oil-cloth what belonged to her parler table, and put one o' her flanney petti- coats round it all, to be quite safe, an' they buried it. ' " I reckon that '11 keep fresh till doomsday," said the farmer, quite proud. 180 A Pious Fraud ' " Next Sunday 's long enough for we," grunted the old 'ooman, for she know'd sh 'd want her flanney petticoat back by then, not havin' more than two anyway. ' And so it might, but for one thing, which both on 'em forgot. They forgot the old retriever dog what was a-watch- ing 'em over the wall all the time. That dog went about lookin' as tho' butter would n't melt in his mouth, till it come dark, an' then the old thief jumped in among the gooseberry bushes, an' went to work. He wure there all night; an' farmer as he went to bed wondered why Rover were so quiet, for gin'rally he wure a dog as barked a lot o' nights. An' what 's more, the old dog raked the earth all down careful agen when he 'd done, as though he understood the joke ; so that farmer and Betsy they did n't suspect nothin', tho' I don't doubt the dog wure a-winking at 'em all the time. When the praicher come to dinner that nex' Sunday, he 'ad to be content wi' eggs. The farmer explained as the 181 Thro' Lattice- Windows reason why he 'ad n't got no beef was that the foot-an '-mouth disease was about awful.' ' I guess he shot that dog,' said Crad- dock, with a grin. ' Not he. He sort o' respeckit the dog for 'aving got the better o' 'im, though it wure a long time before they was on speakin' terms agen. Well, I must be goin'.' ' If you meet Davy Lumsden goin' home, you might tell him that story. Mayhap it 'ud do him good. He owes me for some mendin', an' I can't get nothin' out o' him. His money '11 be like that jint — saved up for somebody else to steal, if he don't mind.' ' I '11 give 'im a hint,' said Johnny solemnly. As Johnny climbed the hill out of Barford, he saw the tall form of Lums- den ahead of him. Lumsden had a heavy brown paper parcel, whose weight seemed to try him a little. He changed the parcel from hand to hand repeatedly, and at length sat down on the crest of 182 A Pious Fraud the hill, wiping his forehead with a red handkerchief. It was here that Johnny caught him up. 'What hav' ee got there, Davy? ' said Johnny. ' Somethin' you won't never guess.' ' 'T ain't sugar, an' it ain't salt,' said Johnny meditatively. ' An' by the shape o' it it ain't ironmongery, an' it ain't grocery. Let me feel of it.' ' Why,' he exclaimed, ' 't is as heavy as a 'ouse. Sure, Davy, it ain't books ? ' 1 Books it is,' said Davy. ' Books may be for the childer in the school? ' ' No, 't aint 'T is poetry.' ' Well, I never know'd as poetry wure so heavy. An' I never know'd as you cared for poetry, Davy.' 'No more I don't. Tis for Benjy. Fact is, 't is Benjy's own poetry.' A light began to break on Johnny. Benjy was Lumsden's grandson, who had long been engaged in making a painful exit from the world by con- sumption. It was generally known in 183 Thro' Lattice-Windows Plumridge Green that Benjy was a poet. Even Mr. Shannon had admitted that there was merit in the lines which he had written for the funeral card of young Penrose, and which began : ' He 's gone because he could n't no more stay, He 's gone out of earth's night to find heaven's day.' Poor Benjy had already been a year dying, and as he lay against the window, and looked out on the green world, his one occupation had been to write verses, moulded on the only model he knew, which was the chapel hymn-book. ' You don't mean to say as you 've gone an' prented 'em? ' said Johnny. ' I hev',' said Davy, grimly. ' Not in a book, Davy? ' ' In a book, sure enough, Johnny. These is them. There 's two hundred an' fifty on 'em. Bambridge, the prenter, would n't prent less, nohow.' ' But what be 'ee goin' to do wi' 'em, Davy?' ' That 's the point,' said Davy, shaking 184 A Pious Fraud his grey head, ' an' since you Ve spoke, I '11 tell 'ee all about it. ' 'T is this way. Benjy, since he hev' been took worse, hev' been powerful set on gettin' these po-ums o' his prented. He says, says 'ee, " I want to see 'em in prent, grandfur, all together, like Dr. Watts' hymns. There's a many poets as hev' died, an' been famous arter they was dead. But it stands to reason as you can't be famous when you 're dead onless you do leave your po-ums all nicely prented. I want 'em all bound up nice, an' on the back o' 'em these words : The Works of Benjamin Lums- den, Poet, of Plumridge Green." 'That sounds all right,' said Johnny. 'People couldn't help a buyin' a book wi' that upon it.' ' So Benjy said. He worked it out careful on a slate. He made out as every man and woman and child in Plumridge Green 'ud want a copy, an' 'ud pay a shillin' for it, free an' glad. Calculating upon that basis, he said, as there 'ud be enough to pay Bambridge 185 Thro' Lattice-Windows for prenting 'em, an' leave a few pund over to berry 'im with respectable, as a poet ought to be berried. An' he wure likewise particerlar that a copy of the book should be put in the coffin wi' 'im, and that on his gravestone there should be wrote, " Here lieth Benjamin Lums- den of Plumridge Green, Poet." ' It would n't do, I s'pose,' said Johnny meditatively, ' to put that there tomb- stone up afore he wure dead, wi' them words on it ? I was thinkin' that it 'ud sort o' adverteese the book.' 'Well, he mightn't like it, if he know'd,' said Davy anxiously. ' Not but what that is a good idea o' yours, Johnny.' ' You 're welcome to it, Davy,' said Johnny, magnanimously. ' I was think- in' Benjy 'ud be sure o' havin' his tomb- stone that way, an' he might n't the other way.' ' I ain't the man to cheat Benjy of his tombstone, and that you know,' said Davy severely. ' I know you ain't, Davy. You 'd 186 A Pious Fraud raise it by subscription first, would n't 'ee, Davy? I 've heared o' lots o' poets as they 're subscribed for when they was dead.' ' 'T ain't the tombstone as troubles me.' went on Davy serenely, ' 't is this 'ere book. I '11 allow that when Benjy first worked it all out on the slate I was took with the notion — commercially speakin'. I thought as it might be made to pay. But that Bambridge, he hev' discouraged me. He says as he don't see how any one 's goin' to buy the book. Now, Benjy 's keen on the book bein' sold, an' if it ain't sold he '11 be more miserable than if it wure n't prented.' ' I 've always heard as poets was curous folk. I 've had a feel o' bein' took that way myself,' said Johnny. ' But,' he added, with great gravity, ' I resisted it, Davy, I resisted.' ' 'T ain't no sort o' good talkin' to you, Johnny. You 've got a aggravatin' way o' interruptin', and makin' me for- get my thoughts jest when I 'd get the 187 Thro' Lattice-Windows hang on 'em, so to speak. Now what was I a-sayin' of ? ' ' Why, about gettin' 'em sold, — Ben- jy's books, you know.' ' Ah, to be sure,' said Davy, with an air of relief. ' Now, I 've got an idea, Johnny, if so be as you '11 help me.' 'Well, let's hear it,' said Johnny, sit- ing down upon the parcel of books, which lay conveniently on the road. ' 'T is this, Johnny. I don't see no- how what 's to be done wi' these blamed books o' Benjy's, but I want to please the poor lad. I doubt I 've been a fool in getting 'em prented, but Benjy, he looked so whisht, an' begged so hard, that I could n't say him no. Six pund ten I hev' paid Bambridge for prentin' o' 'em, an' that 's an awful lot o' money to lose, Johnny.' 'Tis so,' said Johnny. 'Eh, but it must ha' hurt 'ee to part wi' so much.' ' It did,' said Davy. ' You never spoke a truer word. But 't were for the lad's sake, an' when anybody 's dyin', you somehow do feel different about things.' 188 A Pious Fraud ' Well, now, what I were a thinking was this. Suppose you, an' Baxter, an' Gill, an' the rest o' you, do come in one arter another, an' say, " We 've heard as Benjy's po-ums is prented, and we wants a copy." You can put down a shillin' on the table, each on you, where Benjy can see it, an' I '11 give it back to 'ee at the door. 'T is a game as might be kep' up till all they books was gone, you sayin' that other folk has sent you, an' the whole place wanted 'em. It 'ud kind o' cheer up Benjy, and maybe he 'd die more easier.' ' But maybe you would n't give me that shillin' back agen,' said Johnny slyly. ' It 'ud hurt 'ee dreadful to do it, Davy.' ' Honour bright,' said Davy earnestly. ' Benjy's all I 've got left, an' I want 'im to die happy.' ' Well,' said Johnny, ' 't is a sort o' pious fraud, but p'raps God 'ull forgive it we, for Benjy's sake. I don't think as Gill will take the shillin' back, an' I know I won't. Otherwise, 't is a good 189 Thro' Lattice-Windows idea, Davy, an' if 't will help Benjy to die more easier I don't mind a tryin' it.' It was so arranged between the two old men, and that very night the pious fraud was put into operation. Johnny Button was the first to come, and gave a great air of reality to the proceedings by the eager manner in which he opened Benjy's book, and led Benjy to describe the circumstances under which this or that poem was composed. 1 It comes to me sudden-like,' said the poor boy, as he sat up in his bed under the window, his pale face touched with a little flame of modest pride. ' I hear the lark a-singing, an' I see the hedges gettin' white, an' I think how as I shan't see 'em much longer, an' then I wants to write somethin'.' ' Ah,' said Johnny sympathetically, ' I 've been took that way myself, but I resisted.' ' So did I, at first,' said Benjy simply. ' I thought as it were n't possible for me to put down what I felt. But after a while the knack o' it came to me, an' it 190 A Pious Fraud made me happy to do it. There 's them lines about Will Penrose, " He 's gone out of earth's night to find heaven's day," — I can mind I cried when I wrote 'em — sort o' happy cryin', you know, thinkin' that I was a-goin' too.' Lumsden's living-room was full of visitors that night. Benjy's book was handed from one to another in silent wonder. Baxter made no pretence of hiding his tears, for he had found at page sixteen some memorial lines on a 'Child Who Died Young,' and Benjy confessed that it was little Elsie Baxter he was thinking of when he wrote them. ' I '11 ha' six o' they books, Davy,' said Baxter, ' an' there 's my six shillens.' Gill, in his simple fashion, prayed with Benjy, and so, after all, there was a thread of true piety woven into the fraud. The piece Gill liked best was some lines upon the Cross, which he said he knew a tune as 'ud fit, and might be taught the childer in the school. In fact he produced his tuning-fork, and struck the tune there and then, saying, 191 Thro' Lattice-Windows 'Listen to this, my sonny. It do fit it beautiful ; an' maybe 't will help 'ee to die, knowin' when you 're a-singin' up there wi' God, we shall be a-singin' down here what you did write.' In fact, it must be confessed that the brilliant fraud devised by the genius of Davy Lumsden never came off. Johnny himself felt, after that night with Benjy, that he could not very well bring him- self to cheat a dying boy, even with the most benevolent intentions. Nor was there any need. The news of Benjy's book spread through the village, and there were very few persons who did not want to possess a copy. Every evening, when work was over, people came to Davy's door asking for Benjy's book. The news of it spread as far as Barford, and the crowning joy came when the ' Barford Recorder ' had a paragraph about it, and drew a pathetic picture of the dying poet, with certain fine literary allusions to some one called John Keats, whose name was quite unknown at Plumridge Green. 192 A Pious Fraud The night on which the ' Barford Recorder ' reached Lumsden's cottage, Benjy was taken much worse. But to- ward midnight he rallied a good deal, and Davy was content to think him about as usual. ' Gran'fur,' he said, ' is they all sold yet?' ' Most all,' said Davy. ' Maybe there 's a dozen left, sonny.' ' Draw the table out, and let me see the money.' The table was pushed against his bed, and the boy counted over the coins with delighted fingers. ' 'T is wonderful, ain't it, gran'fur, to think of all this money bein' earned out o' my little book. But I said as it 'ud be so, did n't I? ' ' You did, my sonny.' ' An' you won't lose nothin' by it, will you, gran'fur? An' I shall get my tombstone, an' on it you will put in black letters, " Here lieth Benjamin Lumsden, of Plumridge Green, Poet." Well, I don't mind dyin' now.' 12 t 93 Thro' Lattice-Windows The old man's mouth quivered. ' Benjy,' he said, ' you shall hev' the finest tombstone as was ever seen put over 'ee.' ' But I don't want it to cost you nothin', gran'fur. I 've cost 'ee a lot a'ready, bein' ill so long.' The old man's heart suddenly melted. He realised that he was about to be left alone. ' Benjy, boy,' he said in a broken voice, ' I 'd give all I 've got rather than lose 'ee. I would, indeed.' The boy lay quite quiet for five minutes after that speech, with a glow of joy on his face. 1 Gran'fur,' he said at last, ' 't is better for me to go, for I don't think as I could write another book. An' I 've been a great expense . . . so long ... an' you not well-off, as you 've often said. You 'd use to blame me because I did n't earn noth- in', an' that's why I'm so glad I've earned somethin' before I died. Give me the book again, and the paper, 194 A Pious Fraud and draw up the blind, so as I can see the moon a-shinin'.' The old man obeyed without a word. He was heart-sick with reproach. He turned as he left the room to take a last look at Benjy. The boy lay back on his pillows under the window, and the moon put a coverlet of silver over him ; in his hand he held the ' Works of Benjamin Lums- den, Poet,' and on the pillow beside him lay the paper which had praised him. He had not moved in the morning. The only difference was that the sun had cast a brocade of gold across the lad, and the whiteness of the moonlight had passed into his face. 195 XI THE EXTRAVAGANCE OF SOLOMON GILL I WOULD N'T like to say as it were wicked,' remarked old David Lumsden as he met Johnny Button crossing Plumridge Green, ' but I 'm bound to say as it ain't fittin'.' Lumsden and Button were the two old men who met young Potterbee on the night he preached his first sermon, and they were now engaged in discus- sing the conduct of Solomon Gill. ' To my knowledge, Gill have been hard put to it this winter a'ready, ' he continued, ' an' he ain't so young as he were. He ought to be a-savin' some- thin', he did. But you can't move Gill when he have made up his mind. He 've giv' that missionary supper this thirty year, an' 't is my belief that if he 196 The Extravagance of Solomon Gill know'd he 'd go scat to-morrow morn, he 'd spend his last penny on it. ' Johnny Button indulged in a snigger, which was instantly suppressed. He was not by nature a humorous man, but he had occasional moments when, as he said, ' things came to him, funny- like. ' The ' thing ' that had come to him at this moment was a very old story about Lumsden. It was said that Lumsden had once been a ' chief man ' in a neighbouring chapel, where upon a cer- tain occasion it had been necessary to find a home for a ' supply. ' No one had felt equal to the honour, and there was a prolonged discussion on the sub- ject, which ended in Lumsden offering to submit to the inconvenience if the people would pay the costs which he incurred. This was agreed upon, and Lumsden received much praise for his public-spirited conduct. ' You 'd like him to be treated respect- able? ' he was reported to have said. The people agreed that they would. 197 Thro' Lattice-Windows ' And waited on proper ? If we be poor, 't is no cause why we should be looked down upon. ' This also was felt to be an admirable sentiment, which did Lumsden honour. 'They "supplies" what come from the collidge is used to luxury,' he con- tinued. ' 'T is said they do moastly sleep on feather beds, and stay with gentle-foak when they do go to praich. They do have four meals a day reg'lar, and the collidge is a kind o' palace. I know a man as seed it, and he told me. ' These facts produced consternation. Such grandeur in connection with ' sup- plies ' had not been dreamed of. ' We wonder as you dare attempt it. 'Twill be dreadful tryin' for 'ee to keep it up proper from Saturday night to Monday morning. And very like he '11 stay to dinner Monday too. They moastly does. ' 'You leave that to me,' Lumsden replied. ' I '11 not disgrace ye. ' Lumsden certainly did not disgrace them. He had long felt that his cot- 198 The Extravagance of Solomon Gill tage needed papering, and manifestly this was the predestined hour for the operation. A fresh coat of whitewash is known to be a good thing for health, and when you are whitewashing one room you may as well do the whole house. It is likewise an accepted axiom that cleanliness is next to god- liness, and when a charwoman costs only one-and-sixpence per day, no one would grudge that the cottage should be thoroughly scrubbed. As for slight repairs to a window that would not open, and a bedroom door that would not shut, these were matters which Lumsden could do himself, and charge for at a purely nominal rate. The end of the affair was that Lumsden got his cottage completely repaired at the cost of the Bethesda folk, besides laying in so much food for the ' supply ' that it was commonly estimated that he didn't need to buy anything more for a week. Such was the philanthropy of David Lumsden. Johnny Button happened to think of it when he heard Lumsden de- 199 Thro' Lattice-Windows nounce the extravagance of Solomon Gill, and that was why he sniggered. 'There's no call to laugh,' said Lumsden severely. ' I was a-thinkin' o' somethin',' said Button meekly. ' Foaks can't help their thoughts. ' ' An' I 'm a-thinkin' of somethin' too,' said Lumsden. ' I 'm a-thinkin' what '11 become o' Gill if that rheuma- tis of his gets worse. I '11 warrant he ain't saved a penny agenst a rainy day. ' ' Not like you, eh ? ' ' I should think not indeed. Foaks like Gill thinks as Providence hasn't nothin' else to do but pay their debts for 'em. I 'd rather pay my own, in case Providence should n't happen to remember. ' The two old men strolled across to the chapel, whose doors stood wide open, for Roach, the carpenter, was busy putting up the platform for the missionary meeting. Baxter, the wheel- wright, was already there, under pre- tence of helping him. They also were 200 The Extravagance of Solomon Gill engaged in discussing Solomon Gill, but from another point of view. 'He's about done, is Gill,' said Roach, as he sat down to rest on a trestle. ' He 've struck the tune wrong these two Sundays runnin'. My opeenion is as the time's come when we should have an orgin. ' 'I don't hold with orgins, myself,' said Baxter. ' That 's 'cause you don't know no better,' said Roach. ' I '11 allow they ain't much good when you do twidle- twidle 'em, like that chap do down to Barford Church. You do want to bang 'em and whack 'em, and then they 're grand. I 've heer'd a horgin as shook the winders. ' ' Where might that be? ' said Johnny Button, whose knowledge of music was supposed to be profound, owing to the circumstance that he had once been known to play the Old Hundred on his flute without a single error of any importance. ' Down Belchester way,' said Roach. 20I Thro' Lattice-Windows ' It were in a new chapel they 'd put up, an' it were on the opening day. It were a chap from Belchester as come over an' played. My! You should ha' seed him! When he couldn't get no more sound out o' the top part o' her, he jest stood up, an' jumped like mad on them things they calls the pedals, like a jumpin' on her toes, so to speak, an' you should ha' heard 'er roar ! ' 'I don't like music like that,' said Button critically, as became a master of the flute. ' I like it soft, like birds a-singin'. ' ' Well, an' he played her soft too, if it comes to that. When he 'd made her roar, he made her whisper, so to speak. I seed foak a-cryin'. I did. ' ' I ain't goin' to say a word agenst Gill,' said Baxter. ' I don't say as I 'd stand out on princerple agenst one o' them little orgins — harmonys they calls 'em. They don't shake no win- ders, an' you can sing to 'em. But Gill's good enough for me. There ain't a better man hereabout, an' when 202 The Extravagance of Solomon Gill the sermon 's a bit poorish, I take a look at Gill all a-beamin' in his pew, an' someway I feel better for it — feel as if 'twere a middlin' good sermon after all.' ' Be you goin' to Gill's supper to- night ? ' interposed Lumsden, who was anxious to lead the conversation back to a theme on which he was better qualified to offer an opinion. ' I be,' said Baxter, ' an' proud to go. Wouldn't miss it nohow.' ' Well, what I 've been a-sayin' to Johnny Button is jest this,' said Lums- den oracularly, ' that I don't think we ought to encourage Gill in any sich extravagance. I don't believe as he can afford it, an' he ought n't to do it.' ' Don't you worry about Gill,' said Baxter, with a sardonic smile. ' There 's some foak as finds more pleasure in givin' than what they does in savin'. 'T is n't every one as looks as long at a ha'peny as you do, Davy. ' ' An' there 's some foak as lives long enough to wish they'd got a ha'penny 203 Thro' Lattice-Windows to look at,' retorted Lumsden. ' 'T is a poor lookout when you 're nigh an seventy, an' got the rheumatis bad, to think o' all the money you 've give to them missionaries what never had no rheumatis. ' ' I don't see mysel' what the rheuma- tis has to do wi' it,' said Baxter. ' If they missionaries don't have the rheu- matis, they has things which is a hun- dred times as bad. There 's Widow Penrose's boy down to St. Colam, he went for a missionary, and everybody knows as he come home as yellow as a guinea, and she's a-wearin' black for him still.' 'Very like,' said Lumsden, 'very like. That ain't my point. My point is that there ain't no call for Gill to starve hisself to feed foak what 's better fed nor what he is. I don't believe in payin' men to put their heads in the lion's mouth, neither. Not that there 's much o' that. They missionaries knows how to take care o' theirselves, you may depend. ' 204 The Extravagance of Solomon Gill Lumsden and Johnny Button strolled away, taking the path across the Green which led them out on the high road, past Gill's cottage. 'You see,' said Lumsden, pointing ironically to the smoke that was rising from Gill's chimney, ' he's at it a'ready. Boilin' and bakin' like mad, I '11 be bound. You take warnin', Johnny, and don't you go and spend your substance in riotous livin' like to 'im, for I '11 warn 'ee, Johnny, though I be your freend, that I won't help 'ee, when ye comes to the husks which the swine do eat. ' 'I know ye wouldn't, Davy,' said Johnny meekly. ' No, not a stiver. ' ' I might want to, ye know, ' said Davy, by way of vindicating his better nature. There were times when he half suspected that Johnny made fun of him. ' Ah, but ye would n't,' said Johnny. ' Not if ye wanted never so. I 've know'd ye want to put sixpence in the plate many a time, Davy, but ye never did, did ye? An' I 've said many a 205 Thro' Lattice-Windows time, when I 've seed 'ee put a ha'penny in, "Well, Davy did want to put a six- pence in that time, but maybe he did n't want hard enough." It takes a power- ful lot o' wanting to git as high as six- pence, don't it, Davy?' ' It do,' said Davy solemnly. 'I'll say this for mysel', I allers takes a six- pence with me when I goes to meetin'. ' ' An' can't never get it put in. Eh, but that must be a trial to 'ee, Davy. ' ' 'T is so, Johnny, in a way o' speak- ing. Some on us is tried one way, and some on us another. It all comes of bein' a man with a far-seein' mind, Johnny. ' ' I always know'd you 'd that sort o' mind, Davy. You 've been famous for that sort o' mind iver since you corned among we. Kind o' mind that acts on princerple, ain't it, Davy? ' ' That 's it, Johnny. 'T is princerple what keeps me from givin'. I says to mysel', says I, "'T ain't 'cordin' to princerple to give your 'ard-earned money to them what wears better coats 206 The Extravagance of Solomon Gill nor what you do." Now Gill ain't got no princerple. He ain't gifted with a far seein' mind. He 'd give his shirt away if he felt like it, and niver ask whether he'd got another at home in the drawer. ' 'Ah, 'tis so,' said Johnny, with an air of profound commiseration. ' An' as for them husks you was a-speakin* of, I dare say the pigs felt, when that there prodigal come among 'em, that on princerple they did n't ought to let 'im have any. 'Tis a queer thing is princerple ! ' Davy glanced at Johnny suspiciously, but Johnny had the art of looking quite impenetrable when he pleased. He wore just now the air of a man who was merely uttering a few pious medita- tions in a lonely place, where no one could overhear him. Solomon Gill's supper that night was one of unusual splendour. His cottage was a three-roomed one, with a lean-to scullery at the back, for Gill was a bachelor, and needed little accommoda- 207 Thro' Lattice- Windows tion. As a rule he did his own clean- ing and cooking, but on this great annual occasion he got old Mrs. Maddi- son to come in and help him, and Mrs. Maddison's bread was a thing of renown at Plumridge Green. The brick floor of the living-room had been scrubbed till it had a ruddy polish; the common black handled knives glittered like silver, and the coarse table-cloth was of princely white- ness. On the table was a huge loaf of home-baked bread, a loin of pork roasted to a turn, a jug of very small beer for those who had not learned the superi- ority of tea, and an apple-pie, flanked by a jug of fresh cream. But the place of honour was given to a missionary- box of the largest attainable dimensions, which stood upon a basin turned the wrong side up, between the pork and the apple-pie. ' Ye '11 make yourselves kindly wel- come,' said Gill, as he shook hands with the deputation from Barford, which consisted of old Mr. Shannon, 208 The Extravagance of Solomon Gill and a sallow missionary who had been astonishing an audience at the chapel for the last hour, with extraordinary stories of the work of Christ in Mada- gascar. Baxter, and Button, and three or four of the chapel worthies stood modestly near the door till the deputa- tion was seated. They then took their places on a plank, insecurely supported by two empty soap-boxes, and held an animated conversation with each other by means of nods and nudges. And I, who witnessed it, can aver that it was a sight to see old Solomon Gill rise solemnly to ask a blessing. He had a noble head, with a high, bald forehead, such as I have often seen since in the portraits of great ecclesi- astics, which the famous masters of a great age of painting have bequeathed to us. He wore his ploughman's smock, which one might easily have mistaken for the cassock of a saint, so fair and white was it. And in that wrinkled face of his there was a true light of sainthood, a softened glow of great '4 209 Thro' Lattice-Windows peace, which is found only on the faces of those who are much alone with God. ' We thank Thee, who hast given us richly all things to enjoy,' said the old man solemnly. I have sometimes thought that that thanksgiving might have better suited the tables of the rich ; but I have never heard it there. I only heard it once; and it was upon the lips of an old ploughman, who earned from nine to eleven shillings a week. 'Well,' whispered Baxter to Johnny Button, ' I must say as Gill have done it 'andsomer than iver this year. I dunno' how he do manage it.' ' Does it on princerple, ' said Johnny drily, with a recollection of the morn- ing's conversation. ' I don't 'spose now that there mis- sionary do get a meal like to this ivery day.' ' ' Not he. Do look as if he 'd like to, however. ' ' Wonnerful, to think what he have gone through. ' 2IO The Extravagance of Solomon Gill ' Lost his little childer there, they do say. Died one arter another wi' the fever. He 've got a look him- self like Widow Penrose's son what died. ' ' They do say as he 's goin' back, howsomever, an' his wife as mad to go as he be. Takes a brave heart to do that, I reckon, 'specially when they thinks o' them little graves.' ' I doubt I could n't do it,' said Bax- ter, with a sigh. He was thinking of his own four little children, and of the one who died of the measles in the spring. 1 Gill could,' said Johnny. ' Ah, Gill 's someway different to we. I 've often wondered what it was. Maybe Christ is more real-like to him than what He be to some on us. ' The meal was over, and the crowning event of the year for Solomon Gill was about to happen. This was the open- ing of the missionary-box. It was solemnly deposed from its place upon the basin, and Gill's hand 211 Thro' Lattice-Windows trembled as he took one of the knives to open it. ' I ain't as quick as I were,' he said. ' My poor hands 'as got all crippled up with the rheumatis this winter. But, bless 'ee, I'll manage it all right, if ye '11 only give me time. ' No one thought of offering him help. The missionary, who had it on his tongue to do so, saw well enough by our faces how we regarded the affair. Gill was tasting the most ecstatic hour of his simple life. He lingered over the box fondly, as if anxious to prolong the exquisite suspense. He cut the paper at the back which concealed the flap of the box, gingerly, as though it hurt him to do so. I saw the mission- ary pass his hand over his eyes, and I respected him for those tears. Perhaps he was thinking that those little graves in a far land were worth the price after all, so long as men like Solomon Gill existed. At last the wooden flap opened with a creak. The money began to pour out 212 The Extravagance of Solomon Gill into the plate upon the table. There was scarcely any copper. There were many sixpences and some shillings. There was one gold piece which I thought I recognised. I knew that Gill had had a half-sovereign that year as a Christmas-box from his employer. It was slowly counted up, while we stood round the table in expressive silence. The half-sovereign lay by it- self in golden dignity; the little piles of silver stood round at a respectful dis- tance; the coppers seemed ashamed of themselves, and cowered in the shadow of the cream -jug. ' Three pound fifteen and sevenpence, ' said Mr. Shannon slowly. ' Well, Gill, that 's the best you 've done yet. I wish my people in Barford would do half as well. ' ' 'T ain't too much for such a cause,' said Gill, his face all aglow. ' I wish 'twere more, sir. When I think o' all the good Lord ha' done for me, I feel as I can't niver do enough for Him. ' There was a pause, and then Gill said 213 Thro' Lattice-Windows timidly, ' You wouldn't think it proud o' me, sir, if we was to sing the Dox- ology, would 'ee? I feel as if I 'd like to sing summat, an' there ain't nothin' I 'd like to sing so well. ' So Gill produced his well-worn tun- ing-fork, and struck the key-note, and we all sung with a will. It was a pity Davy Lumsden was not there ; but, as he said next day, he ' stayed away on princerple. ' 21A XII A CASE FOR CONFLICT NO one who saw Solomon Gill lis- tening with meek ecstasy to an indifferent discourse in the Plumridge Green Chapel would ever have imagined that he had in him the stuff of which warriors are made; nevertheless, there had been a time when Gill had fought a good fight which had made him quite a popular hero. It had happened in the years before his shoulders stooped, when his Sunday coat had lost none of its gilt buttons. In those days Gill was straight and elastic as a poplar, and was noted as the handiest man upon a farm who could be found in four parishes. Now it fell out at this time that the farm where he had worked from a boy changed hands, and the new tenant was a rough, bullying fellow called Wildgent, who came from 2*5 Thro' Lattice-Windows beyond Southminster. Gill would have taken no notice of his bullying ways, but it happened that this Wildgent soon gave out that he detested all ' meeting- ers, ' and was determined that no ' meet- inger ' should work on his farm. Gill heard of this, and his grey eyes flashed. But he took no notice of it; if any- thing, he did his work better than ever, so that Wildgent, who was no fool, put off giving him notice to go because he knew well enough that it would be mighty difficult to fill his place. ' You 've heard what that Wildgent 's a-doing of?' said Johnny Button to Gill, as he met him coming home from work one spring night. 'Ay,' said Gill, 'there's not much you can tell me about Wildgent that I don't know. He 's rootin' we meetin'- ers out, one by one, an' I don't doubt but my turn '11 come presently.' ' An' what be you a-goin' to do about it?' ' I '11 tell 'ee when the time do come, Johnny,' said Gill, with a wise smile. 216 A Case for Conflict ' I 'm not one o' those who can't eat to-day's bread because I 'm not sure how to-morrow's '11 turn out in the bakin'. ' And with these enigmatic words Gill went off down the road to his cottage, softly whistling a hymn-tune as he walked. This was on Saturday night, and after supper. Gill's mother, who was alive then, began to talk to him on the same subject. She was one of those querulous, faint-hearted women who live with the vision of the workhouse before their eyes, and she had heard rumours of the conduct of Wildgent, and was full of trouble over what she had heard. ' I should think as you would n't let him turn you away on account of your goin' to meetin', Sol, would 'ee, now? ' she remarked, in her thin, complaining voice. ' Why, mother,' he answered, ' we 're in the Lord's hands, and who can harm the Lord's elect? There's no cause 217 Thro' Lattice-Windows for you to worry,' and he stooped his tall figure and kissed her gently on the forehead. ' Cause enough if we be goin' to starve, ' she retorted. ' There, there, don't 'ee fear, mother. If the Lord meant we to starve He could do it directly minute, by just touchin' these poor bodies of ours, an' takin' our strength away. You and me has been kept strong and been well fed these many years, an' the Lord ain't to be put out o' His ways by no Wildgents. ' 'That don't satisfy me,' she replied petulantly. ' If we let the bread be took out of our own mouths, we can't expect the Lord to put it in agen. An', for my part, I can't see that it matters much to the Lord whether we do go to church or meetin'. He as is above won't think any better of we whichever we do, nor any worse neither. ' ' But He expects us to do what we know is right,' said Gill, 'an' I'm agoin' to do it. It 'ud take a bigger 218 A Case for Conflict man than Wildgent to make me do any other. ' Gill consoled himself with several warlike Psalms that night, and as he read them aloud with much quiet ani- mation, even his mother felt a little pulse of courage throb in her members. ' I allers did like they bloodthirsty stories about they old wars,' she re- marked with a serene Pagan indiffer- ence to any more spiritual suggestion; ' they do kind o' warm 'ee up, anyway.' Now it is extremely unlikely that Wildgent would have dismissed Gill at all, knowing his worth too well, but on this very Sunday he happened to be in an evil mood, and what must he do but ride down into Plumridge Green, on the lookout for a cause to quarrel with Gill. He had been drinking a good deal during the day, and warming up his fury against meetingers, whom he regarded as a parcel of sanctimonious knaves who neglected their duty. As he galloped along the roads it was easy to persuade himself that he was doing 219 Thro' Lattice-Windows all the work of his farm himself while Gill was idling his time away in the Meeting-house. By the time he reached Plumridge Green he was in as hot a rage as could be wished, and the sound of singing in the chapel did not im- prove his temper. He reined up his horse at the door, and began to think of what a fine surprise it would be for Gill if he dismissed him then and there. The dusk had fallen, and the service was near its close. The lamps had been lit in the chapel, and Wildgent could see through the windows Gill standing at his desk, beating time as the hymn was sun?. ' If some poor wandering child of Thine To-day had spurned the voice divine,' were the pathetic words which floated out upon the evening stillness. But they only increased Wildgent's unrea- sonable anger. ' I '11 have no psalm- singing fools on my farm,' he said, with an oath. He struck his horse a pur- 220 A Case for Conflict poseless blow, and his dark face be- came flushed and evil. Just then the doors opened, and the little congrega- tion began to troop out in twos and threes. They looked at the dark man seated on his foam-flecked horse with wondering and alarmed eyes. 'Been to your Sunday cant-shop?' he said with a bitter smile. But no one answered him a word. ' Oh, you won't open your mouths,' he roared at them. ' You could open them wide enough a minute ago. Ah, Sammy Baker, you 're one of 'em, are you? Here, take your week's wage, and don't show yourself on my farm again, unless you want horsewhipping. Where's Gill? Oh, there he is, the long-jawed hypocrite. Won't work on Sundays, eh? Then, by heavens, I'll take care you shan't work on week- days either.' He flung some silver on the ground with a passionate gesture. 'There's your money, you snivelling psalm-singer. Get those who like your cursed noise pay you for making it. 221 Thro' Lattice-Windows Not another penny of my money shall you handle, my man ! ' No one thought of touching the money, least of all Gill. It lay glit- tering on the little paved path that led to the chapel-door. ' I 've served you true, sir, ' said Gill, in a steady voice, ' an' I 'd ha' gone on servin' you true if you 'd ha' let me. But I 'm not the man to sell my Lord for thirty pieces of silver. Don't none o' you touch that money, ' he said, with a glance at the frightened crowd. ' Let it lie there. Thy money perish with thee,' he concluded, with a gesture that might almost be called sublime, ' and the Lord be judge between me and thee, sir. ' 'Don't try your humbug on me,' cried Wildgent threateningly. In his rage he lifted his whip, as if he would strike Gill. ' You can't forbid my prayin' for you,' said Gill. 'An' I'll pray the dear Lord that He may bring you to a better mind. ' 222 A. Case for Conflict At that Wildgent seemed a little ashamed of his passion. He scowled down at Gill, and swore a deep oath. Then he turned his horse and rode sulkily away. The next morning the money still lay scattered on the ground. No one had picked it up. That week there was very little else talked about all over the countryside but this strange folly of Wildgent. Every man and boy left upon the farm watched Wildgent out of the tail of his eye. After work at night they reported progress to interested groups upon the Green. 'Seems to me,' said Slocombe, the chief shepherd, a tall and excessively lean man, much given to gloomy thoughts and superstitious fancies, ' the maister be demented. Like as though the devil had entered into him for sure, same as in the Gospels. ' ' Such things don't happen now-a- days, ' said Jan Peascod, a withered old labourer, who had never been to either church or chapel in his life, and was 223 Thro' Lattice-Windows supposed to entertain a fine free-think- ing scorn for every species of religion. ' Much you do know about it, ' re- torted Slocombe severely. ' Folk as shut their eyes don't see much, an' least o' all blasphemiously-minded folk like you. But I know what I know, an' I hev' seen sights. ' ' It were you as saw Poll Trevanion's ghost the night she were drownded, weren't it, shepherd?' said Sanders, a middle-aged bilious carter, who was a notorious coward after dark. ' It were,' said the shepherd sol- emnly. ' Saw the pore thing a-comin' over the Three Acre Bottom, a-wring- ing of her 'ands, an' the water a-drip- pin' from her hair as she coomed. An' there was a wind coomed with her, cold as death, though it were, as you do all know, the mid-week of August. ' ' You hev' n't seed Wildgent's ghost by no manner o' means, hev' 'ee, shep- herd, ' said Jan with a feeble effort at jocosity. - No, but I hev' seen what 's worse,' 224 A Case for Conflict said the shepherd. ' I hev' seen an awful thing a-lookin' out of his eyes. Can ye tell me, nee'bours, what 't is d