not once caught sight of Samuel Learoyd. Fieldhead Farm was only four
miles away, but she had never had the courage to go near it. The farmer
visited Holmton only on market days, and notlung could ever induce his
stepdaughter to go near the scene of her deep humiliation. But though
she did not see Learoyd he was never long out of her mind, and through
her husband and children she kept herself informed of what was going on
at the farm.
After his shameless traffic in the Holmton market-place Learoyd had for
some months lived alone. Never a sociable man, he shunned the society of
the neighbouring farmers, and they, on their side, resenting his
outrageous conduct to his stepdaughter, studiously kept out of his way.
Doggedly he set himself to do both the labours of the house and farm,
and sought to stifle in hard work the memory of his wife's desertion of
him, together with whatever twinges of remorse may have come to him when
he thought of the revenge which he had taken upon her daughter. But as
time went on he found it impossible to attend to all his duties. Nothing
could induce him to enlist the services of a housekeeper, but he engaged
a man, who occupied a two-roomed cottage a hundred yards away from the
farm, and helped him in stable and field. But the sullen humour of
Learoyd was hard to put up with, and the men who came to him soon sought
employment elsewhere. He would engage a servant for the year at the
Martinmas hiring, but as soon as the year was up the man would leave,
and it became increasingly difficult for the farmer to find a
substitute.
"What mak o' a gaffer is Learoyd?" one labourer would ask of another as
they stood together in the Holmton market-place waiting to be hired.
"A dowly, harden-faced mon, an' gey hard to bide wi', accordin' to what
all t' day-tale men is sayin'," replied the other.
"He looks it," answered the first. "He's gotten a face that's like beer
when t' thunder has turned it to allicker. If I was to live wi' him I'd
want a clothes-horse set betwix' me an' him at dinner, or he'd turn my
vittles sour i' my belly."
"He twilted his wife, did Learoyd, while she ran away wi' Sam Woodhead
at t' Woolpack, an' then he selled his dowter for sixpence. He can't
bide women-fowks i' t' house."
"Then he'll not git me to coom an' live wi' him. I've swallowed t'
church i' my last place, but I'm noan baan to swallow t' steeple at
efter."
Such were the opinions passed on Learoyd by the farm labourers round
about Holmton, and it was little wonder that, as the years went by, the
condition of his farm grew steadily worse.
When the Parfitts had been married fifteen years, a strange rumour
reached their cottage of a spiritual change that had been wrought in the
soul of Samuel Learoyd. It was reported that the farmer had been
attending the revival services held in the little Primitive Methodist
chapel about a mile away from his farm, that his flinty heart had been
melted, and that he had "found the Lord." The weaver's family was slow
to credit this change, though Mary prayed fervently night and morning
that it might be true. Their doubts, however, were set at rest by the
circuit steward of the Holmton chapel where they attended service. He
had taken part in the revival meetings and related what he had seen.
"Aye, it's true, sure enough," he said. "Sam Learoyd's a changed man. It
were t' local preacher that done it. He gat him on to his knees anent t'
penitential forms at after t' sarvice, an' there were a two-three more
wi' him; an' t' preacher an' me wrastled wi' t' devil for their souls.
I've niver seen sich tewin' o' t' spirit sin I becom a Methody. 'Twere a
hot neight, and what wi' t' heat an' t' spiritual exercises, t'
penitents were fair reekin' an' sweatin'. We went thro' one to t' other
and kept pleadin' wi' 'em. 'Tread t' owd devil under fooit,' says we;
'think on t' blooid o' t' Lamb that weshes us thro' all sin.' An' t'
penitents would holla out: 'I can't, I can't: he's ower strang for me;
I'm baan to smoor i' hell fires.' But t' local were stranger nor t'
devil for all that, an' first one an' then another on 'em would shout
out: 'I'm saved; I've fun' Him, I've fun' the Lord!' Then they'd git up
an' walk out o' t' room that weak you could hae knocked 'em down wi' a
feather.
"At lang length there was nobbut Sam Learoyd left. He was quieter nor t'
others, but t' load o' sins about his heart was as tough as Whangby
cheese. So me an' t' preacher gat on either side o' him an' we prayed
an' better prayed, but all for nowt. So at last Sam got up off his
knees, an' wi' a despert look on his face, says: 'Let me be. If I'm baan
to find salvation I'll find it misen.'
"At that we gav ower prayin', but kept kneelin' by his side an' waited
for the Lord to sattle t' job. An' outside t' wind were yowlin' as if it
would blow down t' walls and chimleys. But warr nor t' yowlin' o' t'
wind were t' groans o' Sam Learoyd.
"After a while t' groans gat easier, and then t' local started singin'
in a low voice, 'Rock of Ages.' But Sam would have noan o' his singin'.
So we just waited to see what would happen. Well, after a while t'
groans stopped, an' Sam lifted up his heead an' looked round. 'Arta
saved?' asked t' local, and Sam answered: 'I'm convicted o' sin.'
'Praise be to God,' sang out t' local, and we gat Sam off his knees and
out o' t' chapil an' away home. An' ivver sin that time Sam's coom
reg'lar to chapil twice on Sundays an' to t' weeknight sarvice too."
"But will it last?" asked Tom Parfitt, whose long experience as a chapel
member had taught him the snares of backsliding.
"Aye, 'twill last," replied the circuit steward. "Sam's a changed man:
he has gien ower sweerin', goes no more to t' public, but bides at home
o' neight an' sits cowerin' ower t' fire readin' t' Book."
The account which the circuit steward gave of the farmer's conversion
was substantially correct, but it did not furnish the whole truth. The
character of his life had changed, but his conversion was only half
accomplished. In the process known as religious conversion there are
usually three well-marked stages: first of all comes conviction of sin,
then repentance, and finally a sense of forgiveness and peace. Learoyd
attained the first stage in the process that stormy night in the little
Methodist chapel. In a dull, blurred way he arrived too at a state of
repentance for the evil he had done. But the final stage of pardon and
peace remained strange to him, and the chief spiritual effect of his
conversion upon him was the attainment of an exquisite agony of soul.
His conscience, long dormant, was roused to feverish activity. His sins,
which were many, haunted him like demons, and chief among these he
accounted, not without reason, the wrong he had done to Mary Whittaker.
She came to him in his dreams, and always under the same form. What he
saw was a girl, with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing at
the foot of the Holmton market-cross, with a halter round her neck. Nor
was it only in his dreams that he saw her. Sometimes as he led home his
horses at nightfall after a day's ploughmg, the same form, patient and
unreproachful, would be seen standing at the open door of the farm
waiting to receive him. With a cowed look on his face he would turn away
from the house and pass the night in the hayloft.
The effect of all this upon his constitution was what might have been
expected. One evening, after a night and day of acutest torment, he fell
in an epileptic fit upon the kitchen floor, and was found there next
morning by a child from the village who had come to the farm for milk. A
doctor was summoned, who brought with him a nurse, and for some days
Learoyd's life hung in the balance. Recovery came at last but the doctor
insisted that he must no longer live alone, but must secure the services
of an experienced house-keeper. In vain did Learoyd protest against this
plan. The medical man remained firm. The nurse would have to leave in a
few days and someone else must take her place. The farmer would not stir
a finger to find such a person, so that the responsibility rested with
the doctor. But all his inquiries availed little. There was no lack of
women suitable for the post, but not one of them would undertake it. The
memory of the scene in the market-place held them back.
Then it was that the call came to Mary Whittaker. She must go back to
the man that had wronged her. At first the thought struck terror to her
heart; all the horror of her ignominy in the market-place came back to
her mind and filled her with a loathing sickness. For two days she
fought against the promptings of her better nature, but it was a losing
battle. At last she broached the subject to her husband. "I mun go back
to Learoyd," she said, speaking in those quiet, measured tones which Tom
Parfitt had learnt to associate with an inflexible will. Her husband
gave her a look in which admiration for her courage was at odds with
bitter opposition to the proposal.
"Thou sal do nowt o' t' sort," he said, after a moment's pause. "There's
no call for thee to go nigh him after all he's done to thee."
"Nay, but he wants me; t' doctor says he mun have somebody to live wi'
him."
"If he wanted thee he'd coom an' seek thee, stubbornly answered Parfitt.
"He'll noan do that. I know Learoyd. He's ower proud to axe a favour
thro' anybody, let alone thro' me."
"Then he can dee in his pride. He's gotten shut o' thee for good an'
all, an' trodden thee i' t' muck, t' owd Jezebel."
"Nay, don't call him, Tom. Didn't chapel steward say that he was a
changed man sin' he took to goin' to t' chapil?"
This was almost the only serious dispute that had disturbed the even
tenor of their married life, and it ended in compromise. Mary was to go
to the farm, and if Learoyd needed her she was to stay for a month; at
the end of that time she would return home. Her husband's offer to
accompany her was declined. Instead, she asked him to pay a visit to the
doctor and inform him of her plan. The doctor heartily approved of all
that Mary Whittaker had taken upon herself to do; he said he would visit
his patient in the morning, and if all were going on well would take
away the nurse with him in his brougham. Then, as soon as possible after
their departure, Mary was to come to the farm and see Learoyd when he
was alone.
It was a bright April morning when Mary Whittaker set out on foot for
Fieldhead Farm. There had been rain the night before and the whole sky
was full of fleecy cumulus clouds, some of which enclosed large patches
of blue sky that looked like tranquil polar seas surrounded by hummocks
of frozen snow. Now and again a small cloud, at a lower elevation than
the rest, would sail gaily across these blue pools, and then be lost to
view against the white clouds on the other side. Larks and chaffinches
were everywhere in full song, and the sunshine had brought the
honey-bees to the palm-willows which, during the last ten days, had
changed their flower-buds from silver to gold. As Mary approached the
farm she saw the first swallows of the season darting in tremulous
flight across the meadows, and their presence cheered her. They had come
back to the farm, like herself, after a period of absence, and a feeling
of comradeship with them penetrated to her heart.
She needed all the cheering that the sights and sounds of nature could
give her. As she climbed the hill-side and saw the seventeenth-century
farm-house, with its mullioned windows and hood-mouldings, her heart
sank within her. The cruel memory of the morning when she had last left
it came back to her mind, and the hard look of Learoyd, as he disclosed
his purpose to her, made her flinch. She closed her eyes for a moment,
as though to shut out the past, and then braced herself for the coming
interview. Arrived at the front door, which opened directly into the
kitchen, she paused for a moment to summon up her courage, then knocked,
and, without waiting, lifted the latch. Learoyd, still too weak to
attend to farm duties, was seated in the arm-chair by the fire; in his
hands was the family Bible, but he was not reading. Mary was shocked at
the change which fifteen years had wrought in him. He was not more than
sixty, but he looked at least ten years older, and in his eyes there was
the look of a hunted animal. The sullen pride, which was the habitual
expression of his face in the old days, had given way to a look of
morbid irritability. The farmer looked up from his book as she entered,
but, failing to recognise her, asked who she was.
"It's Mary," she answered, and advanced towards him.
"Mary!" he exclaimed, and then, realising who Mary was, he shrank from
her as though she had been an avenging spirit. The Mary of his dreams,
the girl standing in the market-place with a halter round her neck, came
back to his mind and deepened the look of terror in his eyes.
"What doesta want wi' me?" he exclaimed, in a harsh whisper.
"I've coom to tak care o' thee," Mary replied.
"Thou's coom to plague me, that's what thou's coom for. I know thee.
I've seen thee o' neights, aye, an' i' t' daytime too; an' if it's
revenge thou wants, I tell thee thou's gotten it already, capital an'
interest, interest an' capital."
Mary's swift intuition afforded her an insight into Learoyd's mind. She
realised that the fangs of remorse were buried in his heart and she
determined to remove them at all costs.
"Father," she said--and it was hard for her to utter the word which even
when she was a child had seemed unnatural to her--"let us forget all
that's gone afore. Sufferin' has coom to both on us, but it has bin warr
for thee nor ever it was for me. Let us start agean."
As she said this she knelt down by the side of his chair and gently
stroked his hands and smoothed back the iron-grey locks that had fallen
over his eyes. At first he shrank from her touch, but in a little time
it soothed his agitation. After all, this was not the Mary Whittaker
that he had seen in his dreams, and the soft grey eyes that looked
steadily into his face were different from those downcast eyes in the
figure of the haltered girl that haunted him.
For some minutes Mary and her stepfather remained in this position, and
then the former, after imprinting a kiss on Learoyd's forehead, rose
softly to her feet and set to work to prepare the dinner. They partook
of their meal almost in silence, and then Mary, fetching his hat and
stick, led him out of doors into the spring sunshine, encouraged him to
pay a visit to the stables, and talked to him about the labours of the
farm. His voice was now more natural when he answered her questions, and
the frightened look disappeared from his eyes. That night, when she came
into his bedroom, in order to smooth his pillow after he had gone to
bed, he held her hand for a moment and said: "Thou's a gooid lass, Mary;
if I'd wed a lass like thee I'd hae been a different man."
Mary made no answer, but there were tears in her voice when she wished
him good-night.
In the days which followed, Mary Whittaker made new advances in the task
of winning Learoyd's confidence and stifling the furies of remorse that
had gripped his heart. All her quiet patience was needed, for although
her progress was sure, there were times when he lapsed, apparently
without reason, into his old mood of suspicion and hostility towards
her. The doctor, when he came to the farm, was full of hope. He found
the farmer's pulse steadier, and saw in him a greater composure of mind.
Learoyd spent long hours over his Bible, and it seemed at last as though
his religious conversion was to be fully accomplished. Conviction of sin
had been followed by contrite repentance, and soon, Mary hoped, he would
attain that peace of mind which the sinner experiences when he knows
that his sins have been forgiven him.
But when Mary had been a fortnight at the farm a sudden change took
place in his demeanour. It was early evening and Learoyd was, as usual,
reading his Bible. The chapter before him was the twelfth of Romans, and
he read the verses quietly to himself until he came to the last but one:
"Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him
drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head." As he
finished the verse he cast a troubled look at his stepdaughter, who was
quietly sewing on the other side of the fire. "Coals o' fire," he
muttered under his breath, and the old look of terror came back into his
eyes. Mary had never learnt to read, but she saw that the Bible, which
before had brought him peace of mind, was now driving a sword into his
heart. She tried to comfort him, but the farmer shrank from her, as he
had done when she first entered his house, and when she came into his
bedroom to say good-night, he screamed out in terror and would not let
her come near him. That night the vision of the girl with downcast eyes
and supplicating hands, standing in the Holmton market-place, came back
to him with all its old haunting power. From the adjoining bedroom Mary
heard him groaning and tossing on his pillow, and she felt herself
powerless to comfort him. Pity for this tortured soul filled her breast,
but it seemed as though all her resources of solace had failed her, and
that her mere presence in the house aggravated his suffering.
Next morning, with tears in her eyes, she told the doctor of the change
that had come over his patient. The doctor tried his pulse and looked
puzzled. He ordered Learoyd a soothing draught, but it had no effect.
All through the day his agony was frightful to witness. He sat with
glowering eyes gazing at the verse which had destroyed his peace of
mind. Mary tried to take the Bible from him but, with an oath, he
refused to give it up. The day was a busy one for her. Learoyd's
man-servant had gone with a flock of sheep and lambs to a distant moor,
and the duties of feeding the stock and milking the cows fell to her.
The farmer preserved a sullen silence while she was in the house, but no
sooner was she outside than his muttering began.
"Coals o' fire, aye, that's what shoo's heapin' on me, coals o' hell
fire; they're burnin' my heart to a cinder. It's vengeance shoo's after;
shoo favours her mother. All women are just t' same. She-devils, that's
what they are. Shoo sal have her vengeance, sure enough, an' then mebbe
t' coals o' fire will burn her as they're burnin' me." A red-hot cinder
fell into the grate as he spoke, and Learoyd gazed at it with curious
intentness until it had lost all its glow.
"I'll fotch t' halter out o' t' kist, an' I'll do it," he began once
more. "Shoo san't torment me no longer: t' coals o' fire sal be upon her
own heead."
Here he lapsed into morose silence, and Mary, re-entering the farm
kitchen shortly afterwards, found him, as she had left him, gazing
intently into the fire with the Bible open on his knees. She got tea
ready, but Learoyd stubbornly refused to eat or drink anything, and when
at last ten o'clock came the farmer roused himself from his lethargy and
stole off to bed, casting furtive glances at Mary as he passed through
the door. She wisely refrained from intruding herself upon him that
night, but, climbing the stairs to her bedroom, listened for sounds in
the adjoining chamber. She could hear Learoyd muttering to himself, and
she noticed that he was quicker in getting into bed than usual. A
suspicion crossed her mind that he had not undressed, and this confirmed
the idea which she had formed earlier in the evening that some secret
purpose was maturing in his mind. Sleep was not to be thought of, and
so, without taking off her clothes, she got into bed and listened.
Two hours passed, and all the time she heard Learoyd groaning in his
bed. Then he got up, struck a light, and remained still for a moment as
though he were listening for any sound that might come from her room.
Then she heard him open the door of his bedroom and creep, candle in
hand, along the passage. As he passed her door he stopped, and Mary held
her breath lest he should discover that she was awake and listening for
every sound. Apparently satisfied that she was asleep, the farmer
descended the stairs to the kitchen. Mary noiselessly crept out of bed
and, lifting the latch of her bedroom door, stood in the shadow of the
passage and watched every movement of her stepfather in the kitchen
below. He had opened the old oak chest by the wall and was fumbling
among its contents. At last he found what he was looking for and drew it
forth. It was a long rope, and, with a shudder, Mary recognised the
halter which had once been round her neck. Her head swam as the thought
came to her that Samuel Learoyd was going to sell her again, and groping
her way back to her room she locked the door and threw herself on her
bed. Anxiously she listened for the farmer's step on the staircase, but
it did not come. Instead, she heard him moving about in the kitchen, and
then came the sound of the bolts being withdrawn from the front door. A
moment later his footsteps were heard on the gravel path. Rousing
herself with an effort, she once more unlocked the door and crept to the
head of the stairs. Come what may, she resolved to follow her stepfather
and discover what were his plans. She made her way down into the kitchen
and, without striking a light, moved towards the front door. It was
ajar, and, opening it, she stared out into the starry night. All was
still, and no sound of Learoyd's footsteps came to her from the
farmyard.
Drawing her shawl tightly round her, she stepped out into the darkness.
Once she fancied that she heard the farmer muttering to himself in the
croft below and the harrowing thought crossed her mind that this was all
some cunning plan on his part to lure her out of the house and slip the
halter round her neck under cover of night. Her fears counselled her to
return to the house and seek shelter from his mad frenzy behind lock and
key, but the thought that Learoyd, if seized with a fit while exposed to
the chill night air, would certainly meet his death overcame her fears
and urged her on.
After more than two hours of fruitless search she returned to the farm,
cherishing the hope that her stepfather might have returned too. But the
house was empty and the door still stood ajar. Realising that further
search in the darkness was unavailing, she waited for the dawn and
determined that, as soon as the clock struck four, she would wake up the
farm labourer at his cottage and get him to search the moors while she
made her way down to Holmton to engage her husband and his son in the
task of tracking the fugitive. The dreary night passed at last, the
larks burst into song above her head, and the cry of the curlew was
heard on the moors. She closed the farm door behind her, roused the
hind, and then made her way as swiftly as possible to the town. Here
everybody was still asleep, and her footfalls waked echoes in the
stone-paved streets. Her nearest way to the weaver's cottage lay through
the market-place, and for a moment she hesitated whether she should pass
that way or take the more circuitous route by the beck-side. Realising
that there was no time to lose, she summoned up all her courage, and,
making her way past the church, entered the market-place. Her eyes were
fixed on the ground, as though to avoid beholding the scene of her
humiliation; but the market-cross and the stocks, now that she was
within a few yards of them, exerted a strange fascination over her. Do
what she might, she could not refrain from gazing upon them once more,
and as she did so a cry of horror escaped her. In front of the cross
hung the lifeless figure of a man. About his neck was a halter, the
other end of which was securely fastened to the broken arms of the
cross.
It was Learoyd. The wretched man, tortured by a sense of guilt, and
obsessed with the idea that Mary Whittaker's act of sacrifice was a
cold-blooded device to shame him and aggravate his misery, had hanged
himself, choosing as the scene of his death the spot where, fifteen
years before, he had exposed his stepdaughter for sale. In so doing, his
warped imagination assured him that the coals of fire which seared his
brain would henceforth be poured upon the head of Mary Whittaker.
Such was the end of Samuel Learoyd. If there was stern retribution in
his death so was there also malign mockery. The chalice of pardon and
peace was filled for him, but before he could raise the cup to his lips
a fiendish hand had dashed it to the ground and substituted in its place
a draught of venomous hemlock.
End of Project Gutenberg's More Tales of the Ridings, by Frederic Moorman