I put my other hand to my head, and at once saw a further scene in the
life-story of Polly.
She was now a middle-aged woman, and had a cottage of her own. She was
despatching her children to school. They had bright, rosy faces, their
hair was neatly combed, their pinafores were white as snow. One after
another, before leaving, put up the cherry lips to kiss mammy; and when
they were gone, for a moment she stood in the door looking after them,
then sharply turned, brought out a basket, and emptied its contents on
the table. There were little girls' stockings with "potatoes" in them to
be darned, torn jackets to be mended, a little boy's trousers to be
reseated, pocket-handkerchiefs to be hemmed. She laboured on with her
needle the greater part of the day, then put away the garments, some
finished, others to be finished, and going to the flour-bin took forth
flour and began to knead dough, and then to roll it out to make pasties
for her husband and the children.
"Poll!" called a voice from without; she ran to the door.
"Back, Joe! I have your dinner hot in the oven."
"I must say, Poll, you are the best of good wives, and there isn't a
mother like you in the shire. My word! that was a lucky day when I chose
you, and didn't take Mary Matters, who was setting her cap at me. See
what a slattern she has turned out. Why, I do believe, Poll, if I'd took
her she'd have drove me long ago to the public-house."
I saw the mother of Gwendoline standing by me and looking out on this
scene, and I heard her say: "The Black Ram is run out, and the key is
forged."
All had vanished. I thought now I might as well rise and continue my
journey. But before I had left the bench I observed the rector of
Fifewell sauntering up the path, with uncertain step, as he fumbled in
his coat-tail pockets, and said: "Where the deuce is the key?"
The Reverend William Hexworthy was a man of good private means, and was
just the sort of man that a bishop delights to honour. He was one who
would never cause him an hour's anxiety; he was not the man to indulge
in ecclesiastical vagaries. He flattered himself that he was strictly a
_via media_ man. He kept dogs, he was a good judge of horses, was fond
of sport. He did not hunt, but he shot and fished. He was a favourite in
Society, was of irreproachable conduct, and was a magistrate on the
bench.
As the ray from the keyhole smote on him he seemed to be wholly
dark,--made up of nothing but Black Ram. He came on slowly, as though
not very sure of his way.
"Bless me! where can be the key?" he asked.
Then from out of the graves, and from over the wall of the churchyard,
came rushing up a crowd of his dead parishioners, and blocked his way to
the porch.
"Please, your reverence!" said one, "you did not visit me when I was
dying."
"I sent you a bottle of my best port," said the parson.
"Ay, sir, and thank you for it. But that went into my stomick, and what
I wanted was medicine for my soul. You never said a prayer by me. You
never urged me to repentance for my bad life, and you let me go out of
the world with all my sins about me."
"And I, sir," said another, thrusting himself before Mr. Hexworthy--"I
was a young man, sir, going wild, and you never said a word to restrain
me; never sent for me and gave me a bit of warning and advice which
would have checked me. You just shrugged your shoulders and laughed, and
said that a young chap like me must sow his wild oats."
"And we," shouted the rest--"we were never taught by you anything at
all."
"Now this is really too bad," said the rector. "I preached twice every
Sunday."
"Oh, yes--right enough that. But precious little good it did when
nothing came out of your heart, and all out of your pocket--and that you
did give us was copied in your library. Why, sir, not one of your
sermons ever did anybody a farthing of good."
"We were your sheep," protested others, "and you let us wander where we
would! You didn't seem to know yourself that there was a fold into which
to draw us."
"And we," said others, "went off to chapel, and all the good we ever got
was from the dissenting minister--never a mite from you."
"And some of us," cried out others, "went to the bad altogether, through
your neglect. What did you care about our souls so long as your terriers
were washed and combed, and your horses well groomed? You were a
fisherman, but all you fished for were trout--not souls. And if some of
us turned out well, it was in spite of your neglect--no thanks to you."
Then some children's voices were raised: "Sir, you never taught us no
Catechism, nor our duty to God and to man, and we grew up regular
heathens."
"That was your fathers' and mothers' duty."
"But our fathers and mothers never taught us anything."
"Come, this is intolerable," shouted Mr. Hexworthy. "Get out of the way,
all of you. I can't be bothered with you now. I want to go in there."
"You can't, parson! the door is shut, and you have not got your key."
Mr. Hexworthy stood bewildered and irresolute. He rubbed his chin.
"What the dickens am I to do?" he asked.
Then the crowd closed about him, and thrust him back towards the gate.
"You must go whither we send you," they said.
I stood up to follow. It was curious to see a flock drive its shepherd,
who, indeed, had never attempted to lead. I walked in the rear, and it
seemed as though we were all swept forward as by a mighty wind. I did
not gain my breath, or realise whither I was going, till I found myself
in the slums of a large manufacturing town before a mean house such as
those occupied by artisans, with the conventional one window on one side
of the door and two windows above. Out of one of these latter shone a
scarlet glow.
The crowd hustled Mr. Hexworthy in at the door, which was opened by a
hospital nurse.
I stood hesitating what to do, and not understanding what had taken
place. On the opposite side of the street was a mission church, and the
windows were lighted. I entered, and saw that there were at least a
score of people, shabbily dressed, and belonging to the lowest class, on
their knees in prayer. There was a sort of door-opener or verger at the
entrance, and I said to him: "What is the meaning of all this?"
"Oh, sir!" said he, "_he_ is ill, he has been attacked by smallpox. It
has been raging in the place, and he has been with all the sick, and
now he has taken it himself, and we are terribly afraid that he is
dying. So we are praying God to spare him to us."
Then one of those who was kneeling turned to me and said: "I was an
hungred, and he gave me meat."