Chapter III: Part 3

“On Sunday, Sir,” said Neale at last, in a whispering kind of voice, “you read that I have kept back the hire of the labourers that reaped down my fields, and that their cry has entered into the ears of the Lord.”

“That _you_ kept back the hire of the labourer?” exclaimed Mr. Kirby, quickly turning in his seat, so as to face his visitor. He laid his hand on the pocket-bible on the table, opened at the Epistle of James, and, with his finger on the line, walked to the window with it.

“Yes, Sir, that is it,” said Neale. “I would return the hire I kept back,—(I can’t exactly say by fraud, for it was from hardness)—I would pay it all willingly now; but the men are dead. The fever has left but a few of them.”

“I see,” said Mr. Kirby. “I see how it is. You think the fever is dogging your heels, because the cries of your labourers have entered into the ears of the Lord. You want to buy off the complaints of the dead, and the anger of God, by spending now on the living. You are afraid of dying; and you would rather part with your money, dearly as you love it, than die; and so you are planning to bribe God to let you live.”

“Is not that rather hard, Sir?”

“Hard?—Is it true? that is the question.”

When they came to look closely into the matter, it was clear enough. Neale, driven from his accustomed methods and employments, and from his profits, and all his outward reliances, was adrift and panic-stricken. When the Good Lady was carried out of the hollow, the last security seemed gone, and the place appeared to be delivered over to God’s wrath; his share of which, his conscience showed him to be pointed out in the words of scripture which had so impressed his mind, and which were ringing in his ears, as he said, day and night.

“As for the Good Lady,” said Mr. Kirby, “I am sure I hope she will never hear how some of the people here regard her, after all she has done for them. If anything could bow her spirit, it would be that.” Seeing Neale stare in surprise, he went on. “One would think she was a kind of witch or sorceress; that there was some sort of magic about her; instead of her being a sensible, kind-hearted, fearless woman, who knows how to nurse, and is not afraid to do it when it is most wanted.”

“Don’t you think then, Sir, that God sent her to us?”

“Certainly; as he sent the Doctor, and my wife and me: as he sends people to each other whenever they meet. I am sure you never heard the Good Lady say that she was specially sent.”

“She is so humble,—so natural, Sir,—she was not likely to say such a thing.”

“Very true: and she is too wise to think it. No—there is nothing to be frightened about in her going away. She could have done no good here, while unable to walk or sit up; and she will recover better where she is gone. If she recovers, as I expect she will, she will come and see us; and I shall think that as good luck as you can do; not because she carries luck about with her, but because there is nothing we so much want as her example of courage, and sense and cheerfulness.”

“To be sure,” said Neale, in a meditative way, “she could not keep the people from dying.”

“No indeed,” observed Mr. Kirby; “you and some others took care that she should not.”

In reply to the man’s stare of amazement, Mr. Kirby asked:—

“Are not you the proprietor of several of the cottages in Bleaburn?”

“Yes: I have seven altogether.”

“I know them well,—too well. Neale, your conscience accuses you about the hire of your labourers: but you have done worse things than oppress them about wages. Part of the mischief you may be unaware of; but I know you are not of all. I know that Widow Slaney speaks to you, year by year, about repairing that wretched place she lives in. Have you done it yet? Not you! I need not have asked; and yet you screw that poor woman for her rent till she cannot sleep at night for thinking of it. You know in your heart that what she says is true,—that if her son was alive,—(and it was partly your hardness that sent him to the wars, and to his terrible fate)—”

“Stop, Sir! I cannot bear it!” exclaimed Neale. “Sir, you should not bear so hard on me. I have a son that met another bad fate at the wars: and you know it, Mr. Kirby.”

“To be sure I do. And how do you treat him? You drove him away by harshness; and now you say he shall not come back, because you cannot be troubled with a cripple at home.”

“Not now, Sir. I say no such thing now. When I said that, I was in a bad mood. I mean to be kind to him now: and I have told him so:—that is, I have said so to the girl he is attached to.”

“You have? You have really seen her, and shown respect to the young people?”

“I have, Sir.”

“Well: that is so far good. That is some foundation laid for a better future.”

“I should be thankful, Sir, to make up for the past.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Kirby, shaking his head; “that is what can never be done. The people, as you say, are dead: the misery is suffered: the mischief is done, and cannot be undone. It is a lie, and a very fatal one, to say that past sins may be atoned for.”

“O, Mr. Kirby!—don’t say that!”

“I must say it, because it is true. You said yourself that you cannot make it up to those you have injured, because the men are dead. What is that you are saying? that you wish the fever had taken you; and you could go now and shoot yourself? Before you dare to say such things, you should look at the other half of the case. Is not the future greater than the past, because we have power over it? And is there not a good text somewhere about forgetting the things that are behind, and pressing forwards to those that are before?”

“O, Sir! if I could forget the past!”

“Well: you see you have scripture warrant for trying. But then the pressing forwards to better things must go with it. If you forget the past, and go on the same as ever, you might as well be in hell at once. Then, I don’t know that your shooting yourself would do much harm to anybody.”

“But, Sir, I am willing to do all I can. I am willing to spend all I have. I am, indeed.”

“Well, spend away,—money, time, thought, kindness,—till you can fairly say that you have done by everybody as you would be done by! It will be time enough then to think what next. And, first, about these cottages of yours. If no more people are to die in them, murdered by filth and damp, you have no time to lose. You must not sit here, talking remorse, and planning fine deeds, but you must set the work going this very day. Come! let us go and see.”

Farmer Neale walked rather feebly through the hall: so Mr. Kirby called him into the parlour, and gave him a glass of wine. Still, as they went down the street, one man observed to another, that Neale looked ten years older in a day. He looked round him, however, with some signs of returning spirits, when he saw the boys at their street-cleaning, and observed, that hereabouts things looked wholesome enough.

“Mere outside scouring,” said Mr. Kirby. “Better than dirt, as far as it goes; unless, indeed, it makes us satisfied to have whited sepulchres for dwellings. Come and see the uncleanness within.”

Mr. Kirby did not spare him. He took him through all the seven cottages, for which he had extorted extravagant rents, without fulfilling any conditions on his own part. He showed him every bit of broken roof, of damp wall, of soaked floor. He showed him every heap of filth, every puddle of nastiness caused by there being no drains, or other means of removal of refuse. He advised him to make a note of every repair needed; and, when he saw that Neale’s hand shook so that he could not write, took the pencil from his hand, and did it himself. Two of the seven cottages he condemned utterly: and Neale eagerly agreed to pull them down, and rebuild them with every improvement requisite to health. To the others he would supply what was wanting, and especially drainage. They stood in such a cluster that it was practicable to drain them all into a gully of the rock which, by being covered over, by a little building up at one end, and a little blasting at one side, might be made into a considerable tank, which was to be closed by a tight-fitting, and very heavy slab at top. Mr. Kirby conceded so much to the worldly spirit of the man he had to deal with, as to point out that the manure thus saved would so fertilise his fields as soon to repay the cost of this batch of drainage. Neale did not care for this at the moment. He was too sore at heart at the spectacle of these cottages and their inmates,—too much shaken by remorse and fear,—for any idea of profit and loss: but Mr. Kirby thought it as well to point out the fact, as it might help to animate the hard man to proceed in a good work, when his present melting mood should be passing away.

“Well: I think this is all we can do to-day,” said Mr. Kirby, as they issued from the seventh cottage. “The worst of it is, the workmen from O—— will not come,—I am afraid no builder will come, even to make an estimate—till we are declared free of fever. But there is a good deal that your own people can do.”

“They can knock on a few slates before dark, Sir; and those windows can be mended to-day. I trust, Mr. Kirby, you will give me encouragement; and not be harder than you can help.”

“Why, Neale; the thing is this. You do not hold your doom from my hand; and you ought not to hang upon my words. You come to me to tell me what you feel, and to ask what I think. All I can do is to be honest with you, and (as indeed I am) sorry for you. Time must do the rest. If you are now acting well from fear of the fever only, time will show you how worthless is the effort; for you will break off as soon as the fright has passed away. If you really mean to do justly and love mercy, through good and bad fortune, time will prove you there, too: and then you will see whether I am hard, or whether we are to be friends. This is my view of the matter.”

Neale touched his hat, and was slowly going away, when Mr. Kirby followed him, to say one thing more.

“It may throw light to yourself, on your own state of mind, to tell you that it is quite a usual one among people who have deeply sinned, when any thing happens to terrify them. Histories of earthquakes and plagues tell of people thinking and feeling as you do to-day. I dare say you think nobody ever felt the same before; but you are not the only one in Bleaburn.”

“Indeed, Sir!” exclaimed Neale, exceedingly struck.

“Far from it. A person who has often robbed your poultry-yard, and taken your duck eggs, thought that I was preaching at him, last Sunday; though I knew nothing about it. He wished to make reparation; and he asked me if I thought you would forgive him. Do you really wish to know my answer? I told him I thought you would not: but that he must confess and make reparation, nevertheless.”

“You thought I should not forgive him?”

“I did: and I think so now, thus far. You would say and believe that you forgave him: but, at odd times, for years to come, you would show him that you had not forgotten it, and remind him that you had a hold over him. If not,—if I do you injustice in this, I should——”

“You do not, Sir. I am afraid what you say is very true.”

“Well, just think it over, before he comes to you. This is the only confession made to me which it concerns you to hear: but I assure you, I believe there is not an evil doer in Bleaburn that is not sick at heart as you are; and for the same reason. We all have our pains and troubles; and yours may turn out a great blessing to you,—or a curse, according as you persevere or give way.”

Neale said to himself as he went home, that Mr. Kirby had surely been very hard. If a man hanged for murder was filled with hope and triumph, and certainty of glory, there must be some more speedy comfort for him than the pastor had held out. Yet, in his inmost heart, he felt that Mr. Kirby was right; and he could not for the life of him, keep away from him. He managed to meet him every day. He could seldom get a word said about the state of his mind; for Mr. Kirby did not approve of people’s talking of their feelings,—and especially of those connected with conscience: but in the deeds which issued from conscientious feelings, he found cordial assistance given. And Farmer Neale sometimes fancied that he could see the time,—far as it was ahead—when Mr. Kirby and he might be, as the pastor had himself said,—friends.

The amount of confession and remorse opened out to the pastor was indeed striking, and more affecting to him than he chose to show to anybody but his wife; and not even to her did he tell many of the facts. The mushroom resolutions spawned in the heat of panic were offensive and discouraging to him: but there were better cases than these. A man who had taken into wrath with a neighbour about a gate, and had kept so for years, and refused to go to church lest he should meet him there, now discovered that life is too short for strife, and too precarious to be wasted in painful quarrels. A little girl whispered to Mr. Kirby that she had taken a turnip in his field without leave, and got permission to weed the great flower-bed without pay, to make up for it. Simpson and Sally asked him to marry them; and for poor Sally’s sake, he was right glad to do it. They were straightforward enough in their declaration of their reasons. Simpson thought nobody’s life was worth a halfpenny now, and he did not wish to be taken in his sins: while Sally said it would be worse still if the innocent baby was taken for its parents’ sin. They had to hear the publication of banns, at a time when other people were thinking of anything but marriage; and, when the now disused church was unlocked to admit them to the altar,—just themselves and the clerk,—it was very dreary; but they immediately after felt the safer and better for it. Sally thought the Good Lady would have gone to church with her, if she had been here; and she wished she could let her know that Simpson had fulfilled his promise at last. Other people besides Sally wished they could let the Good Lady know how they were going on;—how frost came at last, in January, and stopped the fever;—how families who had lived crowded together now spread themselves into the empty houses; and how there was so much room that the worst cottages were left uninhabited, or were already in course of demolition, to make airy spaces, or afford sites for better dwellings; and how it was now certain that above two-thirds of the people of Bleaburn had perished in the fever, or by decline, after it. But they did not think of getting anybody who could write to tell all this to the Good Lady: nor did it occur to them that she might possibly know it all. The men and boys collected pretty spars for her; and the women and girls knitted gloves and comforters, and made pincushions for her, in the faith that they should some day see her again. Meanwhile, they talked of her every day.

CHAPTER IX, AND LAST.

It was a fine spring day when the Good Lady re-appeared at Bleaburn. There she was, perfectly well, and glad to see health on so many of the faces about her. Some were absent whom she had left walking about in the strength of their prime; but others whom she had last seen lying helpless, like living skeletons, were now on their feet, with a light in their eyes, and some little tinge of colour in their cheeks. There were sad spectacles to be seen of premature decrepitude, of dreadful sores, of deafness, of lameness, left by the fever. There were enough of these to have saddened the heart of any stranger entering Bleaburn for the first time, but to Mary, the impression was that of a place risen from the dead. There was much grass in the churchyard, and none in the streets: the windows of the cottages were standing wide, letting it be seen that the rooms were white-washed within. There was an indescribable air of freshness and brightness about the whole place, which made her feel and say that she hardly thought the fever could harbour there again. As she turned into the lane leading to her aunt’s, the sound of the hammer, and the chipping of stone were heard; and some workmen whom she did not know, turned from their work of planing boards, to see why a crowd could be coming round the corner. These were workmen from O——, building Neale’s new cottages, in capital style. And, for a moment, two young ladies entering from the other end, were equally perplexed as to what the extraordinary bustle could mean. Their mother, however, understood it at a glance, and hastened forward to greet the Good Lady, sending a boy to fetch Mr. Kirby immediately. Mrs. Kirby’s dryness of manner broke down altogether when she introduced her daughters to Mary. “Let them say they have shaken hands with you,” said she, as she herself kissed the hand she held.

It was not easy for Mary to spare a hand, so laden was she with pincushions and knitted wares; but the Kirbys took them from her, and followed in her train, till the Widow Johnson appeared on her threshold, pale as marble, and grave as a monument, but well and able to hold out her arms to Mary. Poor Jem’s excitement seemed to show that he was aware that some great event was happening. His habits were the same as before his illness, and he had no peace till he had shut the door when Mary entered. Everybody then went away for the time; plenty of eyes, however, being on the watch for the moment when the Good Lady should be visible again.

In a few minutes, the movements of Jem’s head showed his mother that, as she said, something was coming. Jem’s hearing was uncommonly acute: and what he now heard, and what other people heard directly after, was a drum and fife. Neighbour after neighbour came to tell the Johnsons what their ears had told them already,—that there was a recruiting party in Bleaburn again; and Jem went out, attracted by the music.

“It is like the candle to the moth to him,” said his mother. “I must go and see that nobody makes sport of him, or gives him drink.”

“Sit still, Aunty; I will go. And there is Warrender, I see, and Ann. We will take care of Jem.”

And so they did. Ann looked so meaningly at Mary, meantime, as to make Mary look inquiringly at Ann.

“Only, Ma’am,” said Ann, “that Sally Simpson is standing yonder. She does not like to come forward, but I know she would be pleased.”

“Her name is Simpson? How glad I am he has married her!” whispered Mary, as she glanced at the ring which Sally was rather striving to show. “I hope you are happy at last, Sally.”

“Oh, Ma’am, it is such a weight gone! And I do try to make him happy at home, that he may never repent.”

Mary thought the doubt should be all the other way—whether the wife might not be the most likely to repent having bound herself to a man who could act towards her as Simpson had done. Widow Slaney was not to be seen. The fife and drum had sent her to the loft. She came down to see Mary; but her agitation was so great that it would have been cruelty to stay. They heard her draw the bolt as they turned from the door.

“She does not like seeing Jack Neale any more than hearing the drum,” observed the host of the Plough and Harrow, who had come forth to invite the Good Lady in, ‘to take a glass of something.’ “That is Jack Neale, Ma’am; that wooden-legged young man. He is married, though, for all his being so crippled. The young woman loved him before; and she loves him all the more now; and they married last week, and live at his father’s. It must be a sad sight to his father; but he says no word about it. Better not; for Britons must be loyal.”

“And why not?” said the Doctor, who had hastened in from the brow, on seeing that something unusual was going forward below, and had ventured to offer the Good Lady his arm, as he thought an old comrade in the conflict with sickness and death might do.

“Why not?” said the Doctor. “We make grievous complaints of the fatality of war; and it _is_ sad to see the maiming and hear of the slaughter. But we had better spend our lamentations on a fatality that we can manage. It would take many a battle of Albuera to mow us down, and hurt us in sense and limb, as the fever has done.”

“Why, that is true!” cried some, as if struck by a new conviction.

“True, yes,” continued the Doctor. “I don’t like the sight of a recruiting party, or the sound of the drum much better than the poor woman in yonder house, who will die of heart-break after all—of horror and pining for her son. But there is something that I like still less; the first giddiness and trembling of the strong man, the sinking feebleness of the young mother, the dimming of the infant’s eyes; and the creeping fog along the river-bank, the stench in the hot weather, and the damp in the cold, that tell us that fever has lodged among us. I know then that we shall have, many times over, the slaughter of war, without any comfort from thoughts of glory to ourselves or duty to our country. There is neither glory nor duty in dying like vermin in a ditch.”

“I don’t see,” said Warrender, “that the sergeant will carry off any of our youngsters now. If he had come with his drum three months since, some might have gone with him to get away from the fever, as a more terrible thing than war; but at present I think he will find that death has left us no young men to spare.”

And so it proved. The sergeant and his party soon marched up to the brow, and disappeared, delivering the prophecy that Bleaburn would now lose its reputation for eagerness to support king and country. And in truth, Bleaburn was little heard of from that time till the peace.

Mary could not stay now. She had been detained very long from home—in America—and somebody was waiting very impatiently there to give her a new and happy home. This is said as if we were speaking of a real person—and so we are. There was such a Mary Pickard; and what she did for a Yorkshire village in a season of fever is TRUE.

THE REVENGE OF ÆSOP.

IMITATED FROM PHÆDRUS.
A blockhead once a stone at Æsop threw:
‘A better marksman, friend, I never knew,’
Exclaimed the wit, and gaily rubbed his leg;
‘A hand so dexterous ne’er will come to beg.
‘Excuse these pence; how poor I am, you know!
‘If _I_ give these, what would the rich bestow?
‘Look, look! that well-drest gentleman you see;
‘Quick, prove on him the skill misspent on me!
‘Here, take the stone. Be cool—a steadfast eye—
‘And make your fortune with one lucky shy.’
The blockhead took the counsel of the wit;
He poised the pebble, and his mark he hit.
‘Arrest the traitor! He has struck the king!’
And Æsop, smiling, saw the ruffian swing.

THE GOLDEN FAGOTS.

A CHILD’S TALE.

An old woman went into a wood to gather fagots. As she was breaking, with much difficulty, one very long, tough branch across her knee, a splinter went into her hand. It made a wound from which the blood flowed, but she bound her hand up with a ragged handkerchief, and went home to her hut.

Now this old woman was very cross, because she had hurt herself; and therefore when she arrived home and saw her little granddaughter, Ellie, singing and spinning, she was very glad that there was somebody to punish. So she told little Ellie that she was a minx, and beat her with a fagot. But the old woman had for a long time depended for support upon her granddaughter, and the daily bread had never yet been wanting from her table.

Then this old woman told little Ellie that she was to untie the handkerchief and dress the wound upon her hand.

“The cloth feels very stiff,” said the old woman.

And that was a thing not to be wondered at, for when the bandage was unrolled, one half of it was found to be made of a thick golden tissue. And there was a lump of gold in the old woman’s hand, where otherwise a blood clot might have been.

At all this Ellie was not much surprised, because she knew little of gold, and as her grandmother was very yellow outside, it appeared to her not unlikely that she was yellow the whole way through.

But the sun now shone into the little room, and Ellie started with delight: “Look at the beautiful bright beetles there among the fagots!” She had often watched the golden beetles, scampering to and fro, near a hot stone upon the rock. “Ah, this is very odd!” said little Ellie, seeing that the bright specks did not move. “These poor insects must be all asleep!”

But the old woman, who had fallen down upon her knees before the wood, bade Ellie go into the town and sell the caps that she had finished; not forgetting to bring home another load of flax.

Grannie, when left to herself, made a great many curious grimaces. Then she scratched another wound into her hand, and caused the blood to drop among the fagots. Then she hobbled and screamed, endeavouring, no doubt, all the while to dance and sing. It was quite certain that her blood had the power of converting into gold whatever lifeless thing it dropped upon.

For many months after this time little Ellie continued to support her grandmother by daily toil. The old woman left off fires, although it was cold winter weather, and the snow lay thick upon the cottage roof. Ellie must jump to warm herself, and her grandmother dragged all the fagots into her own bedroom. Ellie was forbidden ever again to make Grannie’s bed, or to go into the old woman’s room on any account whatever. Grannie’s head was always in a bandage; and it never required dressing. Grannie could not hurt Ellie so much now when she used the stick, her strength was considerably lessened.

One day, this old woman did not come out to breakfast; and she made no answer when she was called to dinner; and Ellie, when she listened through a crevice, could not hear her snore. She always snored when she was asleep, so Ellie made no doubt she must be obstinate.

When the night came, Ellie was frightened, and dared not sleep until she had peeped in.

There was a stack of golden fagots; and her grandmother was on the floor quite white and dead.

When she alarmed her neighbours they all came together, and held up their hands and said, “What a clever miser this old woman must have been!” But when they looked at little Ellie, as she sat weeping on the pile of gold, they all quarrelled among each other over the question, Who should be her friend?

A good spirit came in the night, and that was Ellie’s friend; for in the morning all her fagots were of wood again.

Nobody then quarrelled for her love; but she found love, and was happy; because nobody thought it worth while to deceive her.

* * * * *

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Renumbered footnotes. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● The caret (^) is used to indicate superscript, whether applied to a single character (as in 2^d) or to an entire expression (as in 1^{st}).