THE FATAL TOKEN.
Tuesday morning brought a strange little untidy packet, tied with blue
ribbon, understamped, and directed to Harold Alison, Esquire, in the
worst form of poor Dora's always bad handwriting. Within was a single
knitted muffatee, and a long lock of the stiffly curling yellow hair
peculiar to Dora's head. In blotted, sloping roundhand was written:--
"My Dear Harry,--
"Good-bye, I do fele so very ill, I can't do any more. Don't forget I
allwaies was your wiffe.
"I am your affex., D. A."
We looked at each other in wonder and dismay, sure that the child must
be very ill, and indignant that we had not been told. Harold talked of
going up to town to find out; I was rather for going, or sending, to
Therford for tidings, and all the time, alas! alas! he was smoothing
and caressing the yellow tress between his fingers, pitying the child
and fancying she was being moped to death in the school-room.
We determined on riding to Therford, and Harold had hastened to the
office to despatch some business first, when Mr. Horsman himself came
in--on his way to the Petty Sessions--to explain matters.
Mrs. Randall Horsman had arrived with her children at Therford the day
before, flying from the infection of smallpox, for which the doctor had
declared Dora to be sickening. The whole family had been spending the
autumn months at the seaside. Nessy Horsman had been with them and had
taken Dora about with him much more than had been approved. In one of
these expeditions he had taken her into the shop of a village
ratcatcher, where, it had since been ascertained, two children were ill
of smallpox. She had been ailing ever since the party had returned to
London; the doctor had been called in on Monday, and had not only
pronounced the dreadful name of the disease, but, seeking in vain for
the marks of vaccination on her arms, he greatly apprehended that she
would have it in full and unmitigated virulence.
Mrs. Randall Horsman had herself and her children vaccinated without
loss of time and fled to the country. Her husband would spend all day
in his chambers, and only sleep at home on the ground-floor with every
precaution, and Dora had been left in the charge of a young
under-house-maid, whose marked face proved her safety, until the doctor
could send in a regular nurse. It was this wretched little stupid maid
who was ignorant enough to assist the poor child in sending off her
unhappy packet, all unknowing of the seeds of destruction it conveyed.
I had had a slight attack of undoubted smallpox when a young child, and
I immediately resolved on going to nurse my poor Dora, secure that she
would now be left to me, and unable to bear the thought of her being
among strangers. I went at once to the office to tell Harry, and Baby
Jack walked with me as far as our roads lay together, asking me on the
way if it were true that Harold Alison was engaged to Miss Tracy, and
on my denial, saying that Mrs. Randall had come down full of the
report; that Nessy had heard of it, and, on Sunday afternoon, had
teased Dora about it to such a degree that she had leaped up from the
sofa and actually boxed his ears, after which she had gone into such a
paroxysm of tears and sobs that she had been sent to bed, and in the
morning the family mind began to perceive she was really ill. The poor
child's passionate jealousy had no doubt prompted her letter, as well
as her desire to take leave of the object of her love; and knowing her
strange character as I did, I was sure the idea was adding tenfold to
the misery of the dreadful illness that was coming on her.
I had to pursue Harold to the potteries, where one of the workmen
directed me to him, as he was helping to put in order some machine for
hoisting that was out of gear. "Bless you, ma'am," said the man, "he
is as strong as any four of we."
When I found him, his consternation was great, and he quite agreed with
me that I had better go up that very afternoon and take charge of Dora,
since Baby Jack answered for it that Randall Horsman would be most
grateful and thankful.
Harold found out the hours for the trains, and did everything to
expedite me. He made it certain that poor little Dora had not been
vaccinated. When she was born, no doctor lived within sixty miles of
Boola Boola, and nobody had ever thought of such a thing.
"And you, Harry?" I asked, with a sudden thrill of alarm.
"Do you expect me to remember?" he asked with a smile.
I begged him to look for the moons upon his arm, and at any rate to
undergo the operation again, since, even if it had been done in his
infancy, the effect might have worn out, and it was only too probable
that in the case of a child born on board a sailing vessel, without a
doctor, it had been forgotten. He gave in to my solicitude so far as
to say that he would see about it, but reminded me that it was not he
who was going into the infection. Yes, I said, but there was that lock
of hair and the worsted cuff. Such things did carry contagion, and he
ought to burn them at once.
"Poor Dora!" he said, rather indignantly.
Oh that I had seen them burnt! Oh that I had taken him to Dr.
Kingston's for vaccination before I went away, instead of contenting
myself with the unmeaning, half-incredulous promise to "see about it!"
by which, of course, he meant to mention it when George Yolland came
home. Yet it might have made no difference, for he had been fondling
and smoothing that fatal curl all the time we were talking over the
letter.
He came to the station with me, gave me the kindest messages for Dora,
arranged for my telegraphing reports of her every day--took care of me
as men will do when they seem to think their womankind incapable
without them, making all the more of me because I did not venture to
take Colman, whom I sent to visit her home. He insisted on Mr. Ben
Yolland, who had been detained a day behind his brother, going in a
first-class carriage with me. I leant out at the window for the
parting kiss, and the last sight I had of my dear Harold, as the train
steamed out of the station, was bearing on his shoulder a fat child--a
potter's--who had just arrived by the train, and had been screaming to
his mother to carry him, regardless of the younger baby and baskets in
her arms. It might well make my last sight of him remind me of St.
Christopher.
That journey with the curate was comfortable in itself, and a great
comfort to me afterwards. We could not but rejoice together over that
Sunday, and Ben Yolland showed himself deeply struck with the
simplicity and depth that had been revealed to him, the reality of
whatever Harold said, and his manner of taking his dire disappointment
as the just and natural outcome of his former life. Many men would have
been soured and driven back to evil by such a rejection. Harold had
made it the occasion of his most difficult victory and sharpest
struggle; yet all the time he was unconscious how great a victory it
was. And so thorough was the penitence, so great the need of
refreshment after the keen struggle for self-mastery, and so needful
the pledge of pardon, that though he had never been confirmed, there
was no doubt as to making him welcome at once to the Heavenly Feast.
Well that it was so!
The "What next" concerned Mr. Yolland as much as it did me. He could
not bear to think of relinquishing one who--all unknown to himself--did
more to guide and win the hearts of those Hydriots than teaching or
sermons could ever do, and yet no one could advise Harold to remain
after this winter. In the reprieve, however, we both rejoiced, and Ben
then added, "For my brother's sake, especially."
"Do you think the example tells on him?" I ventured on asking.
"I can hardly say it does," was the answer. "George used to point to
Harold Alison as a specimen of a vigorous physical development so
perfectly balanced as to be in a manner self-adjusting, without need of
what he called imaginative influences. I always thought he was a
little staggered that evening that he had to summon you, Miss Alison,
to his help; but he had some theory of sentiment to account for it, and
managed, as people do, to put it aside. Lately, however, he has been
looking on, he says, with curiosity--I believe with something more.
You see he reveres Alison for what he is, not for what he knows."
"Of course not; your brother must know far more than Harold."
"But the strength of character and will impresses him. The bending of
such a nature to faith, the acceptance of things spiritual, by one
_real_, unimaginative and unsophisticated, and, above all, the _self_
conquest, just where a great Greek hero would have failed, have
certainly told on George, so that I see more hope than I have ever done
before."
So careful of me was Mr. Yolland, that he only parted with me at
Randall Horsman's door, where I was gladly welcomed by the master of
the house, and found my poor little niece a grievous spectacle, and so
miserable with the horrible illness, that she only showed her pleasure
in my coming by fretting whenever anyone else touched her.
She had it badly in the natural form, but never was in immediate
danger, and began in due time to recover. I had ceased my daily
telegrams, and had not been alarmed by some days' intermission of
Harold's letters, for I knew that Dermot was at Arked alone, and that
by this time the Yollands would be returned and my nephew would have
less time to spend on me.
One dismal wintry afternoon, however, when I was sitting in the dark,
telling Dora stories, a card was brought up to me by the little
housemaid. The gentleman begged to see me. "Mr. Tracy" was on the
card, and the very sight startled me with the certainty that something
was amiss.
I left the girl in charge and hurried down to the room, where Dermot
was leaning over the mantel-shelf, with his head against his arms, in a
sorrowful attitude, as if he could not bear to turn round and face me,
I flew up to him, crying out that I knew he was come to fetch me to
Harold; Dora was so much better that I could leave her.
He turned up to me a white haggard face, and eyes with dismay, pity,
and grief in them, such as even now it wrings my heart to recall, and
hoarsely said in a sunken voice, "No, Lucy, I am not come to fetch
you!" and he took my hand and grasped it convulsively.
"But he has caught it?" Dermot bent his head. "I must go to him, even
if he bids me not. I know he wants me."
"No!" again said Dermot, as if his tongue refused to move. "Oh, Lucy,
Lucy, I cannot tell you!"
And he burst into a flood of tears, shaking, choking, even rending him.
I stood, feeling as if turned to stone, and presently the words came
out in a sob, "Oh, Lucy, he is dead!" and, sinking on the nearest seat,
his tempest of grief was for the moment more frightful than the
tidings, which I could not take in, so impossible did the sudden
quenching of that glorious vitality seem. I began in some foolish way
to try to console him, as if it were a mere fancy. I brought him a
glass of water from the sideboard, and implored him to compose himself,
and tell me what made him say such terrible things, but he wrung my
hand and leant his head against me, as he groaned, "I tell you, it is
true. We buried him this morning. The noblest, dearest friend that
ever--"
"And you never told me! You never fetched me; I might have saved him,"
was my cry; then, "Oh! why did you not?"
Then he told me that there had been no time, and how useless my
presence would have been. We sat on the sofa, and he gasped out
something of the sad story, though not by any means all that I
afterwards learnt from himself and from the Yollands, but enough to
make me feel the reality of the terrible loss. And I will tell the
whole here.
Left to himself, the dear fellow had no doubt forgotten all about
vaccination, or any peril to himself, for he never mentioned it to
Dermot, who only thought him anxious about Dora. On the Saturday they
were to have had a day's shooting, and then to have dined at Erymanth,
but Harold sent over in the morning to say he had a headache and could
not come, so Dermot went alone. When the Yollands came home at nine at
night a message was given that Mr. Alison would like to see Mr. George
as soon as he came in; but as the train had been an hour late, and the
message had not been delivered immediately on their coming in, George
thought it could not concern that night, so he waited till morning; but
he was awaked in the winter twilight by Harold at his door, saying,
"Doctor, I'm not quite right. I wish you would come up presently and
see after me."
He was gone again, while he was being called to wait; and, dressing as
fast as possible, George Yolland went out after him into the dark,
cold, frosty, foggy morning, and overtook him, leaning on the gate of a
field, shivering, panting, and so dizzy, that it was with difficulty he
was helped to the house. He made known that he had felt very unwell
all the day before, and had had a miserable night, in which all the
warnings about infection had returned on him. The desire to keep clear
of all whom he might endanger, as well as a fevered--perhaps already
half-delirious--longing for cool air, had sent him forth himself to
summon George Yolland. And already strong shivering fits and increased
distress showed what fatal mischief that cold walk had done. All he
cared now to say was that he trusted to his doctor to keep everybody
out of the house; that I was not to be called away from Dora, and that
it was all his own fault.
One person could not be kept away, and that was Dermot Tracy. He came
over to spend the Sunday with his friend, and finding the door closed,
and Richardson giving warning of smallpox, only made him the more
eagerly run upstairs. George could by that time ill dispense with a
strong man's help, and after vaccinating him, admitted him to the room,
where the checking of the eruption had already produced terrible fever
and violent raving.
It was a very remarkable delirium, as the three faithful watchers
described it. The mind and senses seemed astray, only not the will. It
was as if all the vices of his past life came in turn to assail him,
and he was writhing and struggling under their attacks, yet not
surrendering himself. When--the Sunday duties over--Ben Yolland came
in, he found him apparently acting over some of the wild scenes of his
early youth, with shreds of the dreadful mirth, and evil words of
profane revelry; and yet, as if they struck his ears, he would catch
himself up and strike his fist on his mouth, and when Ben entered, he
stretched out his arms and said, "Don't let me." Prayer soothed him
for a short interval, but just as they hoped that sleep might come, the
fierce struggle with oppression brought back the old habits of violent
language, and then the distressed endeavour to check himself, and the
clutch at the clergyman's aid. Ben Yolland saw, standing in the room,
a great rough wooden cross which Harold had made for some decorating
plan of mine. He held it over him, put it into his hand, and bade him
repeat after him, "Christ has conquered. By Thy Cross and Passion; by
Thy precious Death and Burial, good Lord deliver us."
So it went on hour after hour, evening closing into night, the long,
long night brightening at last into day, and still the fever raged, and
the fits of delirious agony came on, as though every fiend that had
ever tempted him were assailing him now. Yet still he had the power to
grasp the Cross when it was held to him, and speak the words, "Christ
has conquered," and his ears were open to the prayer, "By Thy Cross and
Passion, by Thine Agony and Bloody Sweat, good Lord deliver us!"--the
prayer that Ben prayed like Moses at Rephidim. Time came and went, the
Northchester physician came and said he might be saved, if the eruption
could only be brought out, but he feared that it had been thrown
inwards, so that nothing would avail; but of all this Harold knew
nothing, he was only in that seething brain, whose former injury now
added to the danger, living over again all his former life, as those
who knew it could trace in the choked and broken words. Yet, as the
doctors averred, that the conscience and the will should not be
mastered by the delirium was most unusual, and proved the extraordinary
force of his character and resolution, even though the conflict was
evidently a great addition to his sufferings.
Worst of all was the deadly strife, when with darkness came the old
horror of being pursued by hell hounds, driven on by Meg and the rival
he had killed--nay, once it was even by his little children. Then he
turned even from the Cross in agony. "I cannot! See there! They will
not let me!" and he would have thrown himself from his bed, taking the
hands that held him for the dogs' fangs. And yet even then a command
rather than a prayer from the priest reached his ears. He wrestled,
with choking, stifling breath, as though with a weight on his chest,
grappling with his hands as if the dog were at his throat; but at last
he uttered those words once more, "Christ has conquered;" then with a
gasp, as from a freed breast, for his strength was going fast, fell
back in a kind of swoon. Yes, he was delivered from the power of the
dog, for after that, when he woke, it was in a different mood. He knew
Ben, but he thought he had little Ambrose sitting on his pillow; held
his arm as if his baby were in it, and talked to them smiling and
tenderly, as if glad they had come to him, and he were enjoying their
caresses, their brightness, and beauty. Nor did the peace pass away.
He was so quiet that all hoped except George Yolland, who knew the
mischief had become irreparable; and though he never was actually
sensible, the borderland was haunted no more with images of evil or of
terror, but with the fair visions fit for "him that overcometh." Once
they thought he fancied he was showing his children to Viola or to me.
Once, when Dermot's face came before him, he recurred to some of the
words used in the struggle about Viola.
"I don't deserve her. Good things are not for me. All will be made
pure there."
They thought then that he was himself, and knew he was dying, but the
next moment some words, evidently addressed to his child, showed them
he was not in our world; and after that all the murmurs were about what
had last taken up his mind--the Bread of Heaven, the Fruit of
Everlasting Life.
"To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the Fruit of the Tree of
Life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God." That was what Mr.
Yolland ventured now to say over him, and it woke the last respondent
glance of his eyes. He had tasted of that Feast of Life on the Sunday
he was alone, and Ben Yolland would even then have given it to him, but
before it could be arranged, he could no longer swallow, and the
affection of the brain was fast blocking up the senses, so that
blindness and deafness came on, and passed into that insensibility in
which the last struggles of life are, as they tell us, rather agonising
to the beholder than to the sufferer. It was at sundown at last that
the mightiest and gentlest spirit I ever knew was set free.
Those three durst not wait to mourn. Their first duty was to hasten
the burial, so as to prevent the spread of contagion, and they went at
once their different ways to make the preparations. No form of
conventional respect could be used, but it was the three who so deeply
loved him who laid him in the rough-made coffin, hastily put together
the same evening, with the cross that had served him in his conflict on
his breast, and three camellia buds from Viola's tree. Dermot had
thought of her and ridden over to fetch them. There had been no
disfigurement. If there had been he might have lived, but still it was
a comfort to know that the dear face was last seen in more than its own
calm majesty, as of one who lay asleep after a mighty conquest. Over
the coffin they placed the lion's skin. It had been left in the room
during his illness, and must have been condemned, and it made his fit
pall when they took it to be buried with him. It was before daybreak
that, with good old Richardson's help, they carried him down to a large
cart belonging to the potteries, drawn by the two big horses he used to
pet, and driven by George Yolland himself. They took him to our own
family burial-place in Arghouse churchyard, where the grave had been
dug at night. They meant no one to be there, but behold! there was a
multitude of heads gathered round, two or three hundred at least, and
when the faithful four seemed to need aid in carrying that great weight
the few steps from the gate, there was a rush forward, in spite of the
peril, and disappointment when no help was accepted.
Ben Yolland read the service over the grave, and therewith there was
the low voice of many, many weepers, as they closed it in, and left him
there among his forefathers, under his lion's skin; and even at that
moment a great, golden, glorious sun broke out above the horizon, and
bathed them all over with light, while going forth as a giant to run
his course, conquering the night mists.
Then they turned back to the town, and Dermot came by the next train to
town to tell me. But of all this I at first gathered but little, for
his words were broken and his voice faint and choked, not only with
grief, but with utter exhaustion; and I was so slow to realise all,
that I hardly knew more than the absolute fact, before a message came
hurriedly down that Dora was worse, and I must come instantly. Dermot,
who had talked himself into a kind of dull composure, stood up and said
he would come again on the morrow, when he was a little rested, for,
indeed, he had not lain down since Saturday, and was quite worn out.
I went up, with heart quailing at the thought of letting that
passionately loving creature guess what had befallen her, and yet how
could I command myself with her? But that perplexity was spared me.
The tidings had, through the Horsman family, reached the house, and, in
my absence, that same foolish housemaid had actually told Dora of them
point-blank. She said nothing, but presently the girl found her with
her teeth locked and eyes fixed in what looked like a convulsion, but
was in reality such suppressed hysteria as she had had before.
She soon came out of that attack, but was exceedingly ill all that
night and the next day, her recovery being altogether thrown back by
feverishness and loss of appetite; but, strange child that she was, she
never named Harold, nor let me speak of him. I think she instinctively
shrank from her own emotion, and had a kind of dread and jealous horror
of seeing anyone else grieve for him.
Dermot did not come the next day, but a note was brought me, left, the
servant said, by the gentleman in a cab. It told me that he felt so
ill that he thought it wisest to go at once to the smallpox hospital,
and find out whether it were the disease, or only vaccination and
fatigue. It was a brave unselfish resolve, full of the spirit he had
imbibed, and it was wise, for the illness was upon him already, the
more severe from his exhausted state and the shock he had undergone.
Mr. Randall Horsman, who was very kind, managed that I should hear of
him, and I knew he was going on fairly well, and not in any special
danger.
But oh! that time seems to me the most wretched that ever I passed, up
in those great London attic nurseries, where Dora and I were
prisoners--all winter fogginess, with the gas from below sending up its
light on the ceiling, and Dora never letting me sit still to grieve.
She could not bear the association or memory, I believe, and with the
imperious power of recovery used to keep me reading Mayne Reid's
storybooks to her incessantly, or else playing at backgammon. I hate
the sound of dice to this hour, and when I heard that unhappy French
criminals, the night before their execution, are apt to send for
Fenimore Cooper's novels, it seemed to reveal Dora's state of mind.
After two or three days, George Yolland came up to see me. He had been
to see Dermot, and gave me comfort as to his condition and the care
taken of him; but the chief cause of the visit was that they wanted my
authority for the needful destruction of whatever had been in that
room, and could not be passed through fire. Mr. Yolland had brought me
my Harold's big, well-worn pocket-book, which he said must undergo the
same doom, for though I was contagion proof, yet harm might be laid up
for others, and only what was absolutely necessary must be saved.
First of all, indeed, lay in their crumpled paper poor Dora's fatal
gifts, treasured, no doubt, as probably her last; and there, in a deep
leathern pocket, was another little parcel with Viola's crystal cross,
which her mother had made her return. She might have that now, it
would bear disinfecting; but the Irish heath-bells that told of autumn
days at Killey Marey must go, and that brief note to me that had been
treasured up--yes, and the quaint old housewife, with D. L. (his aunt's
maiden initials), whence his needles and thread used to come for his
mending work. An old, worn pencil-case kept for his mother's sake--for
Alice was on the seal--was the only thing I could rescue; but next
there came an envelope with "My will" scrawled on it. Mr. Yolland
thought I ought to open it, to see who had authority to act, and it
proved that we alone had, for he was made executor, with L1,000. A
favourite rifle was bequeathed to Eustace, an annuity of L50 to Smith,
and all the rest of the property was to be shared between Dora and me.
It was in the fewest words, not at all in form, but all right, and
fully witnessed. It was in the dear handwriting, and was dated on the
sad lonely Saturday when he felt himself sickening. The other things
were accounts and all my letters, most of which could follow the fate
of all that he had touched in those last days. However, the visit was
a comfort to me. George Yolland answered my questions, and told me much
more than poor Dermot could do in his stupefaction from grief, fatigue,
and illness, even if I then could have understood.
He told me of the grief shown by all Mycening and Arghouse, and of the
sobbing and weeping of mothers and children, who went in a broken
pilgrimage on Sunday afternoon to the grave at Arghouse, of the throngs
at the church and the hush, like a sob held back, when the text was
given out: "Thanks be to Him who giveth us the victory through Jesus
Christ our Lord."
Yet on the Saturday evening there was something more noted still. The
men stood about when they had come up for their wages to the office,
where, but a week before, Harold had paid them, with a sore struggle to
see and to count aright, as some even then had observed; and at last
their spokesman had explained their great desire to do something
themselves in memory of "the best friend they ever had," as they truly
called him. Some of them had seen memorial-windows, and they wanted
Mr. Yolland to take from each a small weekly subscription throughout
the winter, to adorn the new chapel with windows. "With the history of
Samson a killin' of the lion," called out a gruff voice. It was the
voice of the father of the boy whom Harold had rescued on Neme Heath.
"So," said George Yolland, as he told me, "the poor fellows' hearty way
was almost more than one could bear, but I knew Alison would have me
try to turn it to some sort of good to themselves; so I stood up and
said I'd take it on one condition only. They knew very well what vexed
Mr. Alison most in themselves, and the example he had set--how he had
striven to make them give up making beasts of themselves. Wouldn't they
think with me it was insulting him to let a drunkard have a hand in
doing a thing to his memory? So I would manage their collection on
condition they agreed that whoever took more than his decent pint a
day--or whatever else sober men among them chose to fix it at--should
have his money returned on the spot. Poor fellows, they cheered and
said I was in the right, but whether they will keep to it is another
thing."
They did keep to it. All that winter, while the chapel was building,
there were only five cases in which the money had to be returned, and
two of those took the pledge, pleaded hard, and were restored. Indeed,
I believe it was only the habitually sober who ventured on the
tolerated pint. Of course there were some who never came into the
thing at all, and continued in their usual course; but these were the
dregs, sure to be found everywhere, and the main body of the Hydriot
potters kept their word so staunchly, that the demon of intoxication
among them was slain by those Samson windows, as Harold had never slain
it during his life.
Beautiful bright windows they are, glowing with Samson in his typical
might, slaying his lion, out of the strong finding sweetness, drinking
water after the fight, bearing away the gates, and slaying his foes in
his death. But Samson is not there alone. As the more thoughtful
remarked, Samson was scarce a worthy likeness for one who had had grace
to triumph. No, Samson, whose life always seems like a great type in
shattered fragments, must be set in juxtaposition with the great
Antitype. His conflict with Satan, His Last Supper, His pointing out
the Water of Life, His Death and His victory over death, shine forth,
giving their own lesson of Who hath won the victory.
We ventured to add two little windows with St. George and St.
Christopher, to show how Christ's soldiers may follow in the conquest,
treading down the dragon, and bending to the yoke of the Little Child
who leads them out of many waters.
That winter of temperance proved the fulcrum that had been wanting to
the lever of improvement. Schools of art, concerts, lectures, choir
preparation, recreation, occupation, and interests of all sorts were
vigorously devised by the two Yollands; and, moreover, the "New
Dragon's Head" and the "Genuine Dragon's Head," with sundry of their
congeners, died a natural death by inanition; so that when the winter
was over, habits had been formed, and a standard of respectability set
up, which has never entirely fallen, and a spirit which has withstood
the temptation of strikes. Of course, the world has much to do with
the tone of many. What amount of true and real religion there may be,
can only be tested by trial, and there are many who do not show any
signs of being influenced by anything more than public opinion, some
who fall below that; but, as everyone knows, the Hydriot works have
come to be not only noted for the beauty and excellence of their
execution, and the orderliness, intelligence, and sobriety of their
artisans, but for their large congregations, ample offertories, and
numerous communicants.
Of course all this would never have kept up but for the Yollands. The
Hydriots are wife, children, everything to him who is now called Vicar
of St. Christopher's, Mycening. He has refused better preferment, for
he has grown noted now, since the work that Harold had begun is still
the task he feels his charge.
And whatever is good is led by the manager of the works, whose
influence over the workmen's minds has never failed. Even when he
talked to me on that day, I thought there was a change in his tone. He
had never sneered (at least in my hearing) nor questioned other men's
faith, but when he told me of Harold his manner had something of awe,
as well as of sorrow and admiration, and I could not but think that a
sense had dawned out that the spiritual was a reality, and an absolute
power over the material.
The great simple nature that had gradually and truly undergone that
influence had been watched and studied by him, and had had its effect.
The supernatural had made itself felt, and thenceforth he made it his
study, in a quiet, unobtrusive manner, scarcely known even to his
brother, but gradually resulting in heart-whole acceptance of faith,
and therewith in full devotion of heart and soul.
Did Harold rejoice in that victory, which to him would have been one of
the dearest of all?