Chapter XI: Trouble at Amicombe Hill

Tabitha Prout, despite her general contempt of the married state and those duties that belonged to it, awoke into a very active love for Mrs. Brendon's baby; and Gregory Daniel, doubtless appreciating the importance of having Tabitha upon his side, did all that he could to increase this regard. So it came about that when the little boy's mother was called away, as sometimes happened for a few hours at a time, the child found a friend in the old maid. She enjoyed to have the baby beside her at Ruddyford kitchen, and Daniel foretold that, as soon as the infant could steer a steady course from his mother's cottage to the farm, Tabitha would quickly find him a nuisance.

Brendon returned from his master in a very happy and exalted frame of mind. To Sarah Jane only he imparted his news; and it was not until nightfall that he did so. Then he chose the curious form of a prayer for his intelligence, and while they knelt together and he prayed aloud, as his custom occasionally was, she heard for the first time, in her husband's thanksgiving to Heaven, how Hilary Woodrow had kept his promise.

"O Almighty Father, I thank Thee for touching this man's heart to lift me up and advance my earthly welfare. And I pray Thee to be on my side always, that I may do wisely with Thy good gifts and turn more and more to Thee and trust Thee. And let me do worthy work and never bate my mind from thinking how to help Ruddyford and advance the prosperity of Mr. Woodrow. I thank Thee humbly, O God, for all Thy mercies, through Jesus Christ. Amen."

Before she slept he told his wife that Hilary had added ten shillings a week to his money.

"I must go on as I'm going, so he said," explained Daniel; "but his eyes are opened at last. I gathered from him that he quite understood what I am here. I must give him time, and all will come right. It's a lot of money, and better things in store, I do think. 'Tis the beginning of great blessings, Sarah Jane."

She expressed her delight; but when another morning came and the man awakened, like a joyful giant, to run his course, it was not only happiness, but the cloudy pain of a memory unhappy that dawned in his wife's spirit. Two different emotions pressed down upon her heart: remorse at the thing never to be recalled, and wonder at the price. The remorse waned and the wonder grew.

She mourned and rejoiced and went on with her life, into which henceforth Hilary Woodrow intruded.

Then her abstracted soul was rudely shaken out of itself, for one day there came running from the Moor a boy with an evil message. He had been picking whortleberries near the peat-works, when a man hailed him, and, approaching the ruin, he encountered Mr. Friend.

"He's cruel bad, seemingly. In a great heat--so he tells me. I was to let Mrs. Brendon know as he was ill. He'm short of victuals, and drink, too, and I was to say as if you could bring up a drop of spirits in a bottle, no doubt 'twould soon put him right. And I was to have sixpence, please, for coming. He hadn't got any small money by him for the moment; but he said he'll pay you back presently."

In ten minutes Sarah Jane was hastening over the Moor, and soon afterwards Daniel, carrying a basket, set out after her. He had visited the farm and collected such things as Tabitha advised. The man made light of his load, however, and soon overtook Sarah Jane.

"Don't you fret," he said. "You know what he is. The wonder is he haven't been struck down a score of times ere this. So careless of hisself as a child. 'Tis a bit of a tissick on the lungs, I reckon. Us'll soon have him to rights again."

"If he'm bad, I shall bide along with him, Dan. I can't leave him here--not for anything in the world."

"Of course not. I shouldn't ax it. Very like I'll bide too. If we think he's bad enough for a doctor, I'll go off for one myself."

She thanked him gratefully, and they spoke on indifferent subjects to calm their hearts. Sarah Jane hesitated not to praise Hilary Woodrow for his recent action. Indeed, she felt they owed him a very real debt of gratitude, and said so many times.

"You're almost too affectionate and kind to everybody," her husband declared. "Pushed so far as you push it, 'tis weakness."

"How can that be, Daniel? Even you hold it right to love your neighbour as yourself."

"You can strain that into foolishness," he answered. "And you are prone to do it. 'Tis a sort of gush in you. You mean nought--yet there 'tis. See how you look at a tramp that comes begging, and how Tabitha Prout looks at him. She tells the truth in her eyes, and shows her contempt of the rascal; you look as if you doted on his lazy carcase, and would gladly pour out the fat of the larder for him."

"I know 'tis so. I be fond of my kind--just because they be my kind, I think. I like 'em all--men, women, childern."

"So you should do--in a general spirit of religion, because they are made in God's image."

"No!" she said vehemently. "Not that--not that. Because they are made in mine!"

He showed discontent.

"You won't come to see the truth, talk as I may."

"Look at the night when you heard our good news," she answered. "That shows the difference betwixt us. You was thanking God so deep and true, that you hadn't a thought for Mr. Woodrow. You was so wrapped up in heaven that you never seemed to think 'twas a man on earth--a creature like yourself--that had lifted you up. All the credit went to God Almighty--all. Not a drop to farmer. Can't us poor human souls have a bit of praise when our hearts are generous and we do good things?"

So she argued in all honesty and out of a passionate abstract love for her kind. At that moment she forgot the circumstances and the nature of the bargain. She only begged that her husband should bestow a little of his gratitude on his earthly master.

"As for that, a good human being be only the middle-man between God and us," he said. "The Book says all good comes from Him, and only from Him. Same as evil comes from the Prince of Evil into man's heart."

"Then what be we but a pack of dancing dolls with them two--God an' the Dowl--fighting for the strings? Is that all you'd make of us? Is that all you'd make of me? You'll live to know different, Daniel."

"You fly away so," he said. "Of course there's Free Will, an' a very great subject 'tis; an' Mr. Matherson be going to preach upon it next Sunday, I'm glad to say. So I hope we'll both win a bit of light when he does."

Sarah Jane said no more. Strange thoughts, not wholly unhappy, worked in her heart, and she felt frank joy to think that, though Daniel Brendon had not paid Hilary for his kindness, somebody had done so.

So the husband and wife each failed to grasp the reality of the other. While she thus reflected, he was busying himself with how to earn this handsome increase of salary. A dozen plans began to develop in his mind. Only the inertia of old routine and custom still opposed his various enterprises. But now had dawned a promise of power, and he was full of hope.

They reached the mournful habitation of Gregory Friend to find him very ill. He sat by his fire with a couple of sacks over his shoulders, and complained of great pain in the lower chest and back, with difficulty of breathing.

"It came on two days ago, and I thought I'd throw it off, as I have many an ache before," he said. "But it gained on me. Then this morning, with light, I began to wonder what I'd better do, for I felt some deep mischief had got hold upon me. I put on my clothes and thought to try and get down to Ruddyford, as the shortest road to people. But by good chance there came a boy picking hurts, and no doubt he reached you."

They spoke together for five minutes. Then Daniel started for Bridgetstowe to get a doctor, and Sarah Jane attended to her father. She got him out of his clothes and into bed; she built a big wood fire that set the moisture glimmering on the walls of Gregory's hovel; she heated water and made him drink a stiff glass of hot spirits; and she set about a dish of broth, the ingredients of which Daniel had brought in the basket. Mr. Friend revived presently, but his pain was considerable and he found it difficult to breathe.

"Give me some more brandy," he said. "It lifts up the strength. I did ought to have a plaster put upon my back without a doubt, for I mind a man up here being took just like this. And they put a fiery plaster on him and drawed the evil out."

"There's nought but bread to make it of," said Sarah Jane. "Or else peat."

His eyes brightened.

"That's a good thought--a capital idea! Fetch a bit of the soft and make it red-hot in a saucepan, and 'twill be a very useful thing--better than mustard, very like."

She did her best, and presently Mr. Friend, with a mass of hot peat pressed against his side in a piece of Sarah Jane's flannel petticoat, declared himself much easier.

"'Tis life every way," he said. "This be a great discovery, and very like, if doctors come to know about it, 'twill go further than all they bird-witted engineers to set Amicombe Hill up again."

He stuck to it that the peat was doing him immense good. He drank a little broth when Sarah Jane brought it to him. Then he wandered in his speech, and then for a time he kept silence.

"Better for certain--better for certain now," he said at intervals.

Presently he asked after his grandchild.

"Must have him up here a lot next summer when the weather's good," he said.

He seemed easier presently, and his daughter had leisure to think of herself. She loved him dearly, and, since marriage, the gentleness and simplicity of his character had more impressed her than formerly. Before, she had no experience by which to measure his virtues. Now, with a larger knowledge of men and life, she could appreciate the single-hearted Gregory, sympathize with him and perceive the pathos of his life and futile hope.

She talked to him now very openly of her own secret tribulations and the difficulties of late forced upon her by her husband's master.

"He's lifted Daniel up, father; and Daniel have thanked God ever since; but--but 'tis me he ought to thank."

Then she proceeded, told her father of the scene at Kit's Steps, and asked him to help her.

"Do nothing to anger Daniel," he said. "You're playing with death and worse. This can't come to good, and I only hope to God you haven't gone too far already. That man Brendon as--as--build me up another hot poultice, will 'e, while I talk?--Brendon is a lion of the Lord; and he'd be a lion on his own account if anything happened to cross him in his den. Have 'e ever marked his eyes, Sarah Jane? But of course you have. They glow sometimes in the dimpsy light, like a dog's do glow. When you see that in a human's eyes, it means that, down under, there's a large share of burning fire in 'em. If Dan thought that he'd been wronged, not heaven or earth would stand between him and payment."

He began to cough and held his hands to his head.

"'Tis like red-hot wires going through the brain," he said. "But 'twill be better presently. I'm in a proper heat now. I've been praying to God to fetch out the sweat on me. Now the peat have done it."

"Don't talk no more, dear father. Bide quiet a bit an' try an' see if you can't sleep."

"So I will, then; but there's two things I must say first. One is that you must go away from Ruddyford. Mark me, 'tis life or death if the wind's in that quarter and Woodrow's after you. He's a desperate sort of man because he've got nobody to think of but himself--no family to consider--no wife or child--nothing. You must go--go--far ways off, where he can't come at you."

He stopped, and shut his eyes. Then, when Sarah Jane hoped that he slept, her father spoke again.

"The other thing is my knife--the famous one wi' the ivory handle and long, narrer blade, that I use when I do my chemical work. It have a history. My uncle fetched it from a foreign land, and it be made of a steel called Damascus--the best in the world; and there's gold letters let into it in a foreign tongue. 'Tis in the works, along with a few other things, Sarah Jane. My watch be there--not that 'tis any use, for it haven't gone for a year. Still, if the worst comes, I'd like little Greg to have 'em from me--also the shares in the Company. He'll live to see them a useful bit of money. And the rest must go to you and Dan."

"Don't--don't be talking. You've got to get well again quick," she said. Then she took away his plaster and brought another hot from the saucepan.

"A great invention," he said. "A great invention. If I'm spared, the thing shall be known far and wide afore long."

He dozed between fits of coughing, and moved uneasily in a semi-dream. Then came the sound of a galloping horse, and Sarah hastened to the door.

"Can't be doctor yet, unless by happy fortune Dan ran across him," she said.

But it was not the doctor. The bearded and grave countenance of Mr. Henry Norseman met Sarah Jane's eyes.

"Just met Brendon," he explained, "and hearing that Mr. Friend was in peril, I come up so hard as my hoss would go, to see if I could comfort him. I've been light at more death-beds than one in my time, including my own father's, and often a word helps the wanderer in the Valley."

"He'm not in the Valley, or anywheres near it," answered the woman stoutly. "But come in by all means. If you could bide with him a little, I'll look about, and set his living chamber in order, and try to make an egg pudding for him."

Mr. Norseman, who knew Gregory and his daughter but slightly, now dismounted, tethered his horse, and presently sat by the sufferer; while Sarah Jane, glad of the opportunity, worked hard to make the dismal hole that was her father's home a little clean and a little comfortable.

"Very kind of you to call, I'm sure," said Mr. Friend, when his daughter had gone. "Don't tell her yet, for I may be wrong; but I'm very much afraid 'tis all up with me. 'Tis awful deep in me. I got properly wetted two days ago, and went to sleep afore the fire."

"Where there's life there's hope," said Mr. Norseman. "But you're wise to face it. I wish you'd been more of a church-worshipper, Friend."

"Well, well. I've worked hard and tried to do my duty."

"But more goes to life than that. What are man's days without faith? Here you've lived for years, more like a wild savage of the woods than a devout Christian. I wish you'd planned your life wiser, Friend, I do indeed."

"So do I. So do all. So will yourself, when you'm down."

"As to that, I think I can look forward in hope. But you--you see, you put this life first always. Your thoughts ran upon making a fortune out of fuel in this world. You never thought about making a fortune in the next, I'm afraid."

Gregory laughed painfully.

"Plenty of free fuel where you think I'm going," he said.

Mr. Norseman was hurt.

"You ought not to jest about a sacred subject--never--and least of all at a time like this," he answered. "You're wise to face it--as we all should--but not in a ribald spirit. Don't die with a jest on your lips, Gregory Friend."

The other moved and groaned, but with present misery not in future fear.

"For your comfort I can tell you that hell's not what it was," said Henry Norseman kindly. "The more understanding way with respect to it, so parson says, is to believe that it won't last for ever. 'Tis a noble discovery, if true. No man was better pleased to hear the sermon he preached about it than I was. I can say that honestly. If hell's only a matter of centuries and not eternity--think what an uplifting thought for a death-bed! I don't say you're on your death-bed, Friend, and I hope you're not. But some day you will be for certain. And 'tis a great thought that the Lord may be found so forgiving that He'll abolish the place of torment once and for all--so soon as justice have been done. Justice first, of course. Even you, as can't be called a church member, or even chapel--very likely a thousand years will see you through it--or less."

"God is Love, my mother used to tell," said the sufferer.

"And for that reason we have a right to be hopeful," declared the churchwarden. "And I'm for limiting hellfire heart and soul; though, I warn you, everybody ban't of the same opinion. 'Tis justice against love weighed in the balance of the Almighty Mind; and ban't for us worms to say which will come out top."

Sarah Jane returned a little later, and found her father somewhat agitated.

"This man reckons I shan't have more than a thousand years in hell, if I'm lucky, Sarah," he said. "'Twas kind of him to come and lift my thoughts. And I said that I'd like to be buried up here 'pon Amicombe Hill, in the peat; but he reckons 'twould be against high religion."

"A most profane wish without a doubt," answered Mr. Norseman; "and as a Christian man, let alone other reasons, I shall object to it."

Gregory's daughter looked at him, then she turned to her father. "Try and eat a little bit of this, dear heart," she said. "'Twill strengthen you, I'm sure."

A moment later she drew herself up, regarded Mr. Norseman, and pointed to the entrance with a simple gesture.

"And you--you that could talk of hell to this poor stricken man, whose good life don't harbour one dark hour--you, that can bring your poor church stuff to my father--I'll ax you to leave him if you please. When he dies--and may it be far off from him--he'll go where the large, gentle hearts go--to the God that made him and that watches over the least. He's done man's work and been faithful. He's been loving and kind to all. Not here, nor in heaven, can any harsh word be spoke against my dear, dear father."

Mr. Norseman pulled his black beard and began to get annoyed.

"This isn't at all the way that Brendon would speak," he said--from the door.

"No," she answered. "He's a man, and strong in the arm. He wouldn't speak: he'd do. He'd take you by the neck and fling you back into Lydford--and your horse after you."

"You'll be sorry for this disgraceful behaviour," said the churchwarden. "'Tisn't a nice way to treat a religious person who rides four miles out of his way to comfort the sick."

"Rides four mile out of his way to bring hell-fire to a better man than himself," she retorted hotly; then Mr. Norseman turned his back and went to his horse.

Gregory chid Sarah Jane, but she would not let him talk, renewed his poultices and strove to make him eat and drink. He could, however, do neither, and he was wandering in his speech and partly unconscious before another hour had passed.

Time stretched interminably, and not until the evening of the day did a medical man arrive on horseback.

He had guessed from Daniel's description of the case what was amiss, and had directed Brendon to bring certain things to the peat-works as quickly as possible.

Sarah Jane watched while the physician made his examination. Then he took her into the other room, and told her that her father was dying.