Then said a fifth, with bowed head, sobbing: "I was in prison, and he
came to me."
Thereupon I went out and looked up at the red window, and I felt as if I
must see the man for whom so many prayed. I tapped at the door, and a
woman opened.
"I should so much like to see him, if I may," said I.
"Well, sir," spoke the woman, a plain, middle-aged, rough creature, but
her eyes were full of tears: "Oh, sir, I think you may, if you will go
up softly. There has come over him a great change. It is as though a new
life had entered into him."
I mounted the narrow staircase of very steep steps and entered the
sick-room. There was an all-pervading glow of red. The fire was low--no
flame, and a screen was before it. The lamp had a scarlet shade over it.
I stepped to the side of the bed, where stood a nurse. I looked on the
patient. He was an awful object. His face had been smeared over with
some dark solution, with the purpose of keeping all light from the skin,
with the object of saving it from permanent disfigurement.
The sick priest lay with eyes raised, and I thought I saw in them those
of Mr. Hexworthy, but with a new light, a new faith, a new fervour, a
new love in them. The lips were moving in prayer, and the hands were
folded over the breast. The nurse whispered to me: "We thought he was
passing away, but the prayers of those he loved have prevailed. A great
change has come over him. The last words he spoke were: 'God's will be
done. If I live, I will live only--only for my dear sheep, and die among
them'; and now he is in an ecstasy, and says nothing. But he is praying
still--for his people."
As I stood looking I saw what might have been tears, but seemed to be
molten Black Ram, roll over the painted cheeks. The spirit of Mr.
Hexworthy was in this body.
Then, without a word, I turned to the door, went through, groped my way
down the steps, passed out into the street, and found myself back in the
porch of Fifewell Church.
"Upon my word," said I, "I have been here long enough." I wrapped my fur
coat about me, and prepared to go, when I saw a well-known figure, that
of Mr. Fothergill, advancing up the path.
I knew the old gentleman well. His age must have been seventy. He was a
spare man, he was rather bald, and had sunken cheeks. He was a bachelor,
living in a pretty little villa of his own. He had a good fortune, and
was a harmless, but self-centred, old fellow. He prided himself on his
cellar and his cook. He always dressed well, and was scrupulously neat.
I had often played a game of chess with him.
I would have run towards him to remonstrate with him for exposing
himself to the night air, but I was forestalled. Slipping past me, his
old manservant, David, went to meet him. David had died three years
before. Mr. Fothergill had then been dangerously ill with typhoid fever,
and the man had attended to him night and day. The old gentleman, as I
heard, had been most irritable and exacting in his illness. When his
malady took a turn, and he was on the way to convalescence, David had
succumbed in his turn, and in three days was dead.
This man now met his master, touched his cap, and said: "Beg pardon,
sir, you will not be admitted."
"Not admitted? Why not, Davie?"
"I really am very sorry, sir. If my key would have availed, you would
have been welcome to it; but, sir, there's such a terrible lot of Black
Ram in you, sir. That must be got out first."
"I don't understand, Davie."
"I'm sorry, sir, to have to say it; but you've never done anyone any
good."
"I paid you your wages regularly."
"Yes, sir, to be sure, sir, for my services to yourself."
"And I've always subscribed when asked for money."
"Yes, that is very true, sir, but that was because you thought it was
expected of you, not because you had any sympathy with those in need,
and sickness, and suffering."
"I'm sure I never did anyone any harm."
"No, sir, and never anyone any good. You'll excuse me for mentioning
it."
"But, Davie, what do you mean? I can't get in?"
"No, sir, not till you have the key."
"But, bless my soul! what is to become of me? Am I to stick out here?"
"Yes, sir, unless----"
"In this damp, and cold, and darkness?"
"There is no help for it, Mr. Fothergill, unless----"
"Unless what, Davie?"
"Unless you become a mother, sir!"
"What?"
"Of twins, sir."
"Fiddlesticks!"
"Indeed, it is so, sir, and you will have to nurse them."
"I can't do it. I'm physically incapable."
"It must be done, sir. Very sorry to mention it, but there is no
alternative. There's Sally Bowker is approaching her confinement, and
it's going terribly hard with her. The doctor thinks she'll never pull
through. But if you'd consent to pass into her and become a mother----"
"And nurse the twins? Oh, Davie, I shall need a great amount of stout."
"I grieve to say it, Mr. Fothergill, but you'll be too poor to afford
it."
"Is there no alternative?"
"None in the world, sir."
"I don't know my way to the place."
"If you'd do me the honour, sir, to take my arm, I would lead you to the
house."
"It's hard--cruel hard on an old bachelor. Must it be twins? It's a
rather large order."
"It really must, sir."
Then I saw David lend his arm to his former master and conduct him out
of the churchyard, across the street, into the house of Seth Bowker, the
shoemaker.
I was so interested in the fate of my old friend, and so curious as to
the result, that I followed, and went into the cobbler's house. I found
myself in the little room on the ground floor. Seth Bowker was sitting
over the fire with his face in his hands, swaying himself, and moaning:
"Oh dear! dear life! whatever shall I do without her? and she the best
woman as breathed, and knew all my little ways."
Overhead was a trampling. The doctor and the midwife were with the
woman. Seth looked up, and listened. Then he flung himself on his knees
at the deal table, and prayed: "Oh, good God in heaven! have pity on me,
and spare me my wife. I shall be a lost man without her--and no one to
sew on my shirt-buttons!"
At the moment I heard a feeble twitter aloft, then it grew in volume,
and presently became cries. Seth looked up; his face was bathed in
tears. Still that strange sound like the chirping of sparrows. He rose
to his feet and made for the stairs, and held on to the banister.
Forth from the chamber above came the doctor, and leisurely descended
the stairs.
"Well, Bowker," said he, "I congratulate you; you have two fine boys."
"And my Sally--my wife?"
"She has pulled through. But really, upon my soul, I did fear for her at
one time. But she rallied marvellously."
"Can I go up to her?"
"In a minute or two, not just now, the babes are being washed."
"And my wife will get over it?"
"I trust so, Bowker; a new life came into her as she gave birth to
twins."
"God be praised!" Seth's mouth quivered, all his face worked, and he
clasped his hands.
Presently the door of the chamber upstairs was opened, the nurse looked
down, and said: "Mr. Bowker, you may come up. Your wife wants you. Lawk!
you will see the beautifullest twins that ever was."
I followed Seth upstairs, and entered the sick-room. It was humble
enough, with whitewashed walls, all scrupulously clean. The happy mother
lay in the bed, her pale face on the pillow, but the eyes were lighted
up with ineffable love and pride.
"Kiss them, Bowker," said she, exhibiting at her side two little pink
heads, with down on them. But her husband just stooped and pressed his
lips to her brow, and after that kissed the tiny morsels at her side.
"Ain't they loves!" exclaimed the midwife.
But oh! what a rapture of triumph, pity, fervour, love, was in that
mother's face, and--the eyes looking on those children were the eyes of
Mr. Fothergill. Never had I seen such an expression in them, not even
when he had exclaimed "Checkmate" over a game of chess.
Then I knew what would follow. How night and day that mother would live
only for her twins, how she would cheerfully sacrifice her night's rest
to them; how she would go downstairs, even before it was judicious, to
see to her husband's meals. Verily, with the mother's milk that fed
those babes, the Black Ram would run out of the Fothergill soul. There
was no need for me to tarry. I went forth, and as I issued into the
street heard the clock strike one.
"Bless me!" I exclaimed, "I have spent an hour in the porch. What will
my wife say?"
I walked home as fast as I could in my fur coat. When I arrived I found
Bessie up.
"Oh, Bessie!" said I, "with your cold you ought to have been in bed."
"My dear Edward," she replied, "how could I? I had lain down, but when I
heard of the accident I could not rest. Have you been hurt?"
"My head is somewhat contused," I replied.
"Let me feel. Indeed, it is burning. I will put on some cold
compresses."
"But, Bessie, I have a story to tell you."
"Oh! never mind the story, we'll have that another day. I'll send for
some ice from the fishmonger to-morrow for your head."
* * * * *
I did eventually tell my wife the story of my experience in the porch of
Fifewell on St. Mark's eve.
I have since regretted that I did so; for whenever I cross her will, or
express my determination to do something of which she does not approve,
she says: "Edward, Edward! I very much fear there is still in you too
much Black Ram."