Chapter VII: A Christian Convert

With another summer Hilary Woodrow again returned to his home, and time passed as during previous years. But the passage of the last winter had left its mark upon him, and the least observant noticed a change. Physically he had grown thinner. His cheek-bones thrust out, and there were hollows beneath them. He still rode, and he still read; but his books belonged now to a different plane of thought, and a man by glancing at them might have calculated with pretty close accuracy the nature of his bent, and the slow but sure victory of faith over reason.

In some respects he looked younger, for a colour that means health in infancy and death at adolescence, lighted his fallen cheek. His eyes were bright; his manner continued courteous and kind as of yore; his energies were not yet much decreased, save in certain directions. From predisposition he had gradually passed into actual disease; and as the bodily fires waned and cooled, his interest in the superhuman waxed and dominated every waking hour. He believed in a life beyond the grave; he had infected the domain of reason by deep reading of irrational authors; and these created an atmosphere through which he groped his way back to the faith of his fathers.

Sarah Jane held secret speech with him, at oncoming of another autumn, and the great matter arose upon his lips. This happened towards the end of his stay at home, when already it became necessary to think of leaving the Moor. First he treated of his health, and confessed, to her grief, that he was not so well; then he discussed the superstitions now supremely precious to him.

"What will you say when I tell you that I have followed in the path of many and many a greater man than myself, and changed my opinions?" he asked.

"I know it," she answered. "You told me nine months agone at Dawlish. You believe in God and heaven; and so do I with all my heart."

"But I've gone beyond that--higher--higher. We must believe in that, when our eyes are opened to read the meaning of the world--or even a glimpse of the meaning. Looking back, I tremble to see what a dreadful, lonely thing I was--walking here in my pride. But God's too great a thought for the mind of man to grasp single-handed. I've come to see there must be something between--something within reach of human intellect--something that man's mind can understand and even love--something that will bring the divine light to us, yet soften its wonder and terror, so that we can gaze upon it. Without Christ, the idea of God dazzles and blinds and bewilders. With Christ, the thought can be received and taken home into our hearts. The only possible God for man is made clear to us by the Son of God. Therefore I am a Christian, Sarah Jane."

Frank but fleeting anxiety filled her eyes as they opened widely to regard him. Great excitement was manifested by Hilary. An expression she had never seen there shone in his countenance as he spoke. It was the same light that she knew as a familiar beacon upon her husband's face; but there it glowed steady and flameless; here it shot up and played like fire.

"You believe all that my Dan believes?"

"All. Oh, Sarah Jane, the grief of it is greater than the joy; for who, when the light comes, but must look back as well as forward? If I could only look forward! But a man in my case sees the past clear enough--clearer and clearer as the sun sets upon it. My sun-setting will be stormy now. I should have died happy enough with the glorious thought of you and the past; but now 'tis just that thought that will darken all."

"Can't you forget? The years and years it was ago! The scores and scores of things that have happened since."

"I can't forget. I lament it--I lament for it with my whole heart and soul. I mourn it waking and moan for it sleeping. I'd die a hundred deaths if the time could come again."

"This be Christianity?"

"Yes; it shows that I have not deceived myself. I am a Christian--therefore this thing that I have done torments me."

"How it festers in your mind! I've forgot it--very near. Many a dream that I dream seems more real to me than that."

"It's the only reality left in my life."

"Then I wish you'd die quick and be at peace," she said fiercely. "I love you so dear that I can wish that for you!"

"I'm dying fast enough--yet not fast enough. I'm impatient now to see what mercy means--mercy and forgiveness. I shall know soon. How clear the stages are, Sarah Jane! I wonder if they are so clear with you? First joy and pride in what I'd done; then content and a blessed memory to look back upon; then, as disease got hold of me, and I had to begin to fight for life, clouds came between me and the past. Then the first sharp twinge of regret, as my soul began to waken; then sorrow; then frantic, undying grief and a vain agony of longing that I'd not sinned so damnably against those I loved best in the world. Have you felt so, Sarah Jane?"

"Never," she said. "I wept fire for a week after; I was half raving for joy and half raving for misery--mad like. Then I put it all behind me. Things stronger than me--or you--worked that deed. I'll pay the price, if I must. I didn't do it for myself--you know that."

"Can't you feel for my sufferings?"

At the bottom of her heart flashed a passing scorn; but she expelled it and blamed only his unhappy physical decay.

"'Twill all be made up if what you think is right. Your Christ will be so pleased with you for being sorry, that He'll forgive you everything--and me too. We sinners are His sort. The just persons go into heaven without any fuss, by all accounts. 'Tis such as we are--weak, wicked, good-for-noughts--that the angels will blow their trumpets for."

Hilary was astonished at her attitude and its satire--the more terrible because quite unconscious.

"What would Daniel say to that?" he asked.

"I don't know," she answered. "And I don't care."

Then her outlook utterly changed at a breath.

"Yet that's folly, if justice be anything," she continued. "And I do care--care with all my might. 'Tis the like of Daniel--pure in heart and soul, the faithful servant of his God, that must go in first. And so he should. If heaven's waiting, 'tis Dan and my dear, dear father, and such as them--not me and you--will be put first. 'Tis for their sakes I ever think or care about it, or want to go there. For their sakes. But for them and my little boy, I'd sooner go nowhere. I've had nearly enough of living anywhere--beautiful though 'tis to be alive. I don't want much more of it--not now you've said this to me."

"May you live long--very, very long--long enough to forgive me."

"You needn't say things like that," she answered. "The more you heap all this misery on your own head, the less I'm likely to blame you. I never did--not even in thought, 'Twould have been a coward's part. 'Twas no more than a bitter bargain, when all's said."

"How can you have the heart to speak so?"

"Because I ban't the religious creature you are, I suppose. Let the dead past be--or you'll fret yourself to death afore your time."

"Daniel is never out of my thoughts. Sometimes I feel almost as though I could fling myself on the ground at his feet and, for my peace of mind, tell all."

"So you said last year, and made my heart stand still. Yet 'tis a cruel, selfish wish--even for a full-blown new Christian, I should reckon. I loathed you for it at the time, and my thoughts choked me to think as a man who--to think such a wish could come to you. But now I'm changed too. 'Tis all one to me what you do, so far as I'm concerned, and I'd tell Dan myself, if he was anything but what he is. Not for fear of him do I keep dumb--God He knows that--but for love of him. For great love of his dear self I want the past to be dead and buried. If it would better Dan to tell it, I'd tell it; if my death would help his life and his power of goodness, and fix him any stronger and surer with heaven, I'd die laughing. But what would hap to him if he knew? Would it bring him nearer to his God? No--worse luck: I'd be casting down his God and leaving him stripped of everything he cares for and clings to. You know what he'd do--if you have spared a thought from yourself for him."

The man winced.

"I deserve that," he said. "You're right enough. I shall die with this on my conscience. I shall die, and trust Christ to do the rest--for you and him--and even for me."

He left her then, and passed down from the high ground on which they had walked and talked. Her little boy picked whortleberries and filled a can with them not far off. Woodrow was on foot, and now he sank into the valley. She rose and stood perched on the stone crown of a hill--stood with fluttering skirt and lifting bosom, to drink in the great wind that panted overhead from its strife with the Atlantic. Mist swept here and there, and Hilary Woodrow was presently obliterated by grey vapours that drove against the hills, and broke along them, like waves upon a shore.

All that was most precious of this man had already died to Sarah Jane. What remained went ghostly, shadowy as the grey vapour winding at her feet. He had slain himself before her eyes, and she mourned for him, and dumbly wondered at the dreadful change. Was it only the evil-doer who trembled? So did not Dan face his destiny. But Dan's heart and hands were clean. She asked herself what she believed; and she waived the subject as a thing altogether indifferent. Her soul was centred upon her husband and his good. She knew now that she wished Hilary to die. She looked straight and fearless upon her own desire, and did not flinch from it. Death would end his tribulations and bring him peace; and his death must prevent the haunting possibility of the past from ever falling upon her husband's ear.

She went home presently, and was heartened on the way by little Gregory's prattle and happiness. His berries were to make a pudding for dear Aunt Tab, and nobody else was to eat of that pudding.

Presently Tabitha Prout received the gift with immense gratitude, and promised faithfully that she would make a pudding and eat every bit of it herself. The child grew more and more like his father. He was spoiled by all but Daniel, and his little tyrannies brought merriment to Ruddyford, where life did not stand still.

Brendon without question now took command and stood in his master's stead. What he held good to do was done. The old order changed steadily. Further land had been taken from the wilderness; larger flocks and herds roamed the summer Moor; new cattle-byres rose; success attended the homestead, and content dwelt therein. Prout's work was now as much or little as he cared to make it, and when Woodrow abode at Dawlish, the old man spent a good deal of time there and insisted on being his body-servant. Another labourer had been engaged at the farm, and the rest of the men remained, save Joe Tapson. Him Daniel reluctantly dismissed, since rheumatism in the shoulder had spoiled his usefulness. He left in a bitter mood, and though Brendon found him work, showed hate rather than gratitude. Sarah Jane was still dairymaid; Tabitha still controlled the internal economy of the farm.

Much speculation was rife as to the real relations of Woodrow and Daniel Brendon. Those interested guessed at a bargain, and foresaw that the latter would ere long take over Ruddyford; but the truth none knew, save only John Prout, the Brendons, and Hilary himself.

Prout was indifferent, and troubled little about his own old age. That he trusted to Daniel, as he had trusted it to his master. Indeed, he made no leisure for more than grief. He knew now that Woodrow must presently die, and the fact darkened his days, for he greatly loved him.

As for small Gregory, his attractive behaviour continued to appeal to Mrs. Weekes, who hesitated not to set him up above her own grandchild. The circumstance annoyed her son a good deal; but now had come an addition to Jarratt's family, so interesting, that he expected Hephzibah would forget Brendon's child before the wonder of the new arrivals. For, succeeding upon some further bad fortune, the man's wife bore twin boys, and the parents and grandparents found themselves uncertain whether to welcome or deplore such a sudden increase of responsibility. Finally the grandparents rejoiced, but the father and mother resented their cheerful and sanguine view, and thought themselves ill-used.

The matter formed subject for a serious debate at the Castle Inn on a Saturday night, and several of those personally interested contributed to the discussion.

"'Tis very well for you to be so gay," said Jarratt to his father, who was much pleased with the twins. "You're like t'other man in the corner there." He pointed to Mr. Churchward. "To hear you two old fools, one would think you'd both been left a legacy. If you're so jolly pleased with 'em, you'd better each take one. You're welcome."

He pulled at his beer gloomily.

"You oughtn't to speak so," answered the miller, Jacob Taverner. "You'd be sorry presently if the Lord took them. Then you'd look back at such bitter words in a very different spirit."

"That I certainly should not. The Lord's welcome to 'em, I assure you. Time was when I wouldn't have minded; but now I do. Everybody knows the sort of luck I've had of late."

"This may be good luck in disguise," returned Taverner.

"Who knows but what these infants be born to set you on your legs again? They may have the very cleverness of their grandfather Churchward or their grandmother Weekes."

In a corner Mr. Huggins and Philip Weekes sat together. They were not discussing the twins; but it happened that one of the huckster's fits of depression was upon him, and he hinted at a few personal sorrows to the aged man. Valentine's mind moved slowly, and demanded great length of time to grasp any change. Many months had passed since his friend's illness, yet Mr. Huggins only now began to appreciate the fact that he was restored to health. He continued to inquire as to Philip's condition.

"'Tis a great blessing to know that you'm fully returned to the use of all your parts, I'm sure. It encourages us old chaps to hear of such recoveries. Do you call yourself perfectly well again yet?"

"Well as ever I was. 'Twasn't doctor, but the missis told me when I'd recovered. One day, without any warning, as I comed in from the fowls for my drop of beef tea, which I'd got rather to rely upon, she said there wasn't none, and she went on to add that I was 'a dare-devil old Gubbins, and would eat us all out of hearth and home, if she'd let me.' So then I knowed I was cured."

"A great female, Phil."

"She is; yet here and there, to say it without any bad meaning, I often wish she wanted more sleep. I'm a hog for sleep--'tis my nature to be so. I like ten hours when I can get it; but she--she don't cry out for more sleep than a bird takes in summer. I've knowed her talk till light scores an' scores of times. And she stops gradual, not sudden. She'll drop remarks, on and on and on--like a bell tolling for death, or a cock crowing. She don't snore, thank God--which shows how one evil be balanced against another, come to think of it."

"The human snore cuts to the ear-drum almost afore any other sound," declared Mr. Huggins. "For my part I can go on through thunder or the elements like a new-born child; but my wife was a great midnight trumpeter. Cotton-wool's a good thing against it."

"What be you going to call your brace o' boys, Weekes, Junior?" asked Mr. Pearn. He had just returned home, and now appeared behind his bar and renewed a subject that was already exhausted.

"Damn my brace of boys," retorted Weekes brutally. "I don't want to hear no more about my brace of boys for the present. Give me a drop of whisky."

Noah Pearn obeyed and laughed.

"Dare say you wish they was a brace of birds instead of boys--then you could eat 'em and have done with them."

"Pearn!" said Mr. Churchward. "I'll thank you to be more careful. A jest is a jest, and I believe I am considered as quick to laugh at a piece of wholesome fun, within the limits of propriety, as any man; but it ill becomes the head of a family, like you, to say such a thing. That is not a gentlemanly joke, but simple coarseness, and you ought to know a great deal better."

"Sorry," answered Mr. Pearn. "I stand corrected."

"Their names are already decided upon," continued the schoolmaster. "Very much to my gratification one tender bud is going to be called 'Adam'--after me, rather than the original father of the human race; and the other will be called 'Jarratt,' after his father. So much is settled. They will each bear a second Christian name, but these have not yet been decided upon. I may mention that I was the only member of the family who was not astonished at this circumstance."

"Why not?" asked Jacob Taverner.

"For the simple reason that the thing has frequently happened before in the Churchward race," answered Adam. "I myself was one of two at a birth, though who would think it?"

"It runs in families--like drink and other disasters," said Mr. Huggins. "Did your twin die early or late, schoolmaster?"

"Almost immediately. In fact, my dear parents had to have her christened before she was two days old. Otherwise she would have passed away outside the pale of Christianity. I also seemed likely to perish; and they were so hurried that they had no leisure to think out our names. So they called us after our first parents. Poor Eve died soon after the sacred ceremony had been consummated. And I was spared by the inscrutable intelligence of Heaven. Still it was a case of _arcades ambo_, as we say."