The Ann Serrup of whom the sewing circle had whispered, was one of those
melancholy scapegoats found, alas! in nearly every rural community, and
lost in cities among myriads of her kind. She had lived in the Brixton
parish all her life, but had lately come with her shame to a little house
within the precincts of Dole. Left at thirteen the only sister among four
drunken brothers much older than herself, the only gospel preached at—not
to—her had been the terrorism of consequences. Like all false gospels
this one had proved a broken reed—and not only broken but empoisoned. The
unfathered child of this poor girl had been born about a year prior to
her appearance in Dole.
Mabella’s heart went out to the forlorn creature, and a few days after
the memorable meeting at Mrs. Winder’s she set forth to visit her,
leaving Dorothy in charge of Temperance. It was a calm, sweet season. The
shadow of white clouds lay upon the earth, and as Mabella walked along
the country roads the chrism of the gentle day seemed to be laid upon
her aching heart. For a space, in consideration of the needs of the poor
creature to whom she was going, Mabella forgot the shadows which dogged
her own steps.
She was going on a little absent-mindedly, when at a sudden turn in the
road she came upon Vashti, who had paused and was standing looking,
great-eyed, across the fields to where the sun smote the windows of
Lanty’s house.
“Well, Mabella,” she said, taking the initiative in the conversation as
became the “preacher’s wife.” “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see Ann Serrup,” said Mabella. “I’ve wished to do so for
some time—how plainly you can see our house from here.”
“Yes—how’s Lanty?”
“He’s very well—haven’t you seen him lately?—he looks splendid.”
“I didn’t mean his looks,” said Vashti with emphasis.
“Well, one’s looks are generally the sign of how one feels,” said Mabella
bravely, although she winced beneath Vashti’s regard. “And Vashti,
Dorothy can speak, she——”
Vashti broke in with the inconsiderateness of a childless woman.
“Do you know anything about Ann Serrup? Is she penitent?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Mabella hesitatingly (she had heard most
unpromising accounts of Ann’s state of mind, “Fair rampageous,”
Temperance had said), “she has suffered a great deal.”
“She has sinned a great deal,” said Vashti sententiously.
They walked on almost in silence, and ere long stood before the
low-lying, desolate dwelling.
A girl came to the open door as they drew near—poorly but neatly clad,
and with tightly rolled hair. A girl in years—a woman in experience. A
child stood tottering beside her.
“Come in,” she said to them before they had time to speak, “come in and
set down.”
She picked up the child, and unceremoniously tucking him under one
arm, set two chairs side by side; then put the baby down and stood as
one before her accusers. Her brows were a little sullen; her mouth
irresolute. Her expression discontented and peevish, as of one weary of
uncomprehended rebuke. The baby clutched her dress, and eyed the visitors
placidly, quite unaware that his presence was disgraceful.
Mabella looked at the little figure standing tottering upon its uncertain
legs; the little dress was so grotesquely ill-made; the sleeves were
little square sacks; the skirt was as wide at the neck as at the hem. She
thought of her well-clad Dorothy and her heart went out to the desolate
pair.
The mother, tired of Vashti’s cold, condemnatory scrutiny, began to
shift uneasily from one foot to the other.
“What’s your baby’s name?” asked Mabella, her sympathies urging her to
take precedence of the preacher’s wife.
“Reuben,” said Ann.
“Reuben _what_?” demanded Vashti in sepulchral tones.
“Jest Reuben—Reuben was my father’s name”—then with fretful
irritation—“jest Reuben.”
“Is your child _deformed_?” asked Vashti suddenly, eyeing with disfavour
the little chest and shoulders where the ill-made frock stuck out so
pitifully.
“Deformed!” cried Ann, the pure mother in her aroused; “there ain’t a
better-shaped baby in Dole than my Reub.”
She sat down upon the floor, and, it seemed to Mabella, with two
movements, unclothed the child, and holding him out cried indignantly—
“Look at him, Missus Martin, look at him! and if you know what a baby’s
like when you see one you’ll know he’s jest perfect—ain’t he, Missus
Lansing? Ain’t he? You know, don’t you?”
Vashti glared in fixed disapproval at the baby, who regarded her not at
all, but after a leisurely and contemplative survey of himself began to
investigate the marvels of his feet, becoming as thoroughly absorbed in
the mysteries of his own toes as we older infants do in our theories.
“He’s a beautiful baby—I’m sure you are very proud of him,” said Mabella
kindly. Then her gaze rested upon the two poor garments which had formed
all the baby’s costume. Tears filled her eyes as she saw the scrap of red
woollen edging sewn clumsily upon the little yellow cotton shirt.
“I’m afraid you are not used to sewing much,” she said, “it was the
clothes which spoiled the baby.”
Ann, who, unstable as water, never remained in the same mood for ten
minutes together, began to cry softly, rocking back and forth sometimes.
“Oh, I wisht I was dead! I do. I never was learned nothing. ’Scuse me
if I spoke up to you, Missus Martin, but I’m that ignerent! And you the
preacher’s lady too! My! I dunno how I came t’ be so bad. I guess I’m
jest real condemned bad; but I haint had no chance, I haint; never a
mother, not so much as a grandma. Nothing but a tormented old aunt. And
brothers! Lord! I’m sick of brotherses and men. I jest can’t abear the
sight of a man, and I’m that ignerent. Lord! I can’t make clo’es for
Reub, now he is here.” Then vehemently—“I am jest dead sick of men.”
“But, think,” said Mabella soothingly, “when Reuben is a man he’ll look
after you and take care of you.”
“Yes—I s’pose he will,” said Ann, drying her eyes; then, with a sudden
change of mood, she began smiling bravely. “Say—he’s that knowin’! You
wouldn’t believe it; if I’m agoin’ out in a hurry I give him sometimes
an old sugar rag, but he knows the difference, right smart he does, and
he jest won’t touch it if ’taint new filled; and”—with a touch of awe as
at a more subtle phenomenon—“he yawned like a big person when he was two
days old.”
“Why, so did my baby,” said Mabella in utter astonishment that another
baby had done anything so extraordinary.
“Are you coming, Mabella?” said Vashti austerely from the doorway.
Direst disapproval darkened her countenance. Ann’s mutable face clouded
at the words.
“Yes, I’m coming,” said Mabella hastily to Vashti, then she turned to
Ann. “I will send you some patterns to cut his dress by,” she said. “It’s
very hard at first; Temperance helped me; I’ll mark all the pieces so
that you’ll know how to place them,” then she went close to Ann and put a
trembling hand upon her arm.
“Ann,” she said, “promise that you’ll never do anything wicked
again—promise you’ll never make your baby ashamed of you.”
“No, I won’t; I’ve had enough of all that—you’ll be sure to send a
pattering with a yoke?” inquired Ann eagerly.
Poor Ann! Her one virtue of neatness was for the moment degraded to a
vice; she so thoroughly slighted the spirit of Mabella’s speech. But
Mabella, out of the depths of her motherly experience, pardoned this.
“Yes, I will send the nicest patterns I have,” she said.
“Soon?”
“Soon—and Ann—you’ll come to church next Sunday?”
Ann began to whimper.
“Oh, I hate t’ be a poppyshow! and all the girls do stare so, and——”
“Ann,” said Mabella pleadingly, “you’ll come?”
“Yes, I’ll come, Missus Lansing, being as you want me to,” then another
swift change of mood overtook the poor, variable creature.
“They kin stare if they want to! I could tell things! Some of ’em ain’t
no better nor me if all was known. I’ll jest come to spite ’em out. You
see—I’ll be there.”
“I shall be so glad,” said Mabella gently, having the rare wisdom to
ignore side issues. “I’ll see you, then.”
“Oh, Lor’,” said Ann, whimpering again, “ye won’t want to see me when
other folkses are around, and I s’pose you’ve got a white dress and blue
ribbings for church, or red bows, like as not. Lor’! Lor’! what ’tis
to be born lucky. ‘Better lucky nor rich,’ I’ve heard said ofting and
ofting, and it’s true, dreadful true. I never had no luck; neither had
mother; she never could cook anything without burning it, and when she
dyed ’twas allus streaky! I’ve heard Aunt Ann say that ofting and ofting;
he _is_ a fine baby, isn’t he?” she broke off abruptly.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mabella heartily. “Good-bye, Ann,” and stooping she
kissed the girl and went out and down the path. Ann stood gazing after
her.
“She kissed me,” she said dully, then in an echo-like voice repeated
“kissed me.”
The old clock ticked loudly, the kettle sang on the fire, the baby fell
over with a soft thud upon the floor. Ann sat down beside him, and
clasping him to her breast cried bitterly to herself, and as has been
often the case, the mother’s sobs lullabyed the child to a soft and
peaceful sleep. She rose, with the art which comes with even unblessed
motherhood, without waking the child, and laid him down gently.
“I know she won’t send a pattering with a yoke,” she said in the tone of
one who warns herself against hoping too much.
Meanwhile Mabella sped after Vashti; she overtook her in about a mile.
“Goodness, Vashti,” said Mabella; “I’m sure you need not have hurried so!
I’m all out of breath catching up.”
“Well, I couldn’t stand it any longer,” said Vashti.
“Stand what?” demanded Mabella, a little irritated by Vashti’s
ponderosity of manner.
“That exhibition,” said Vashti with a gesture to the forlorn house, which
somehow looked pitiably naked and unsheltered. “It was disgusting! To go
about petting people like that is putting a premium upon vice.”
Mabella laughed.
“You dear old Vashti,” she said, “you said that as if you had been the
preacher himself—what the world could I say to her? standing there with
that poor child.” A sudden break interrupted her speech. “Oh, Vashti,”
she said, “isn’t it terrible? Think of that baby; what a difference
between it and Dorothy! And so poor—so very poor; without even a name;
Vashti—you’re a lot cleverer than me; you don’t think, do you, that they
will be judged alike? You don’t think there will be one rule for all?
There will be allowances made, won’t there?”
“I wonder at you, Mabella,” said Vashti, “putting yourself in a state
over that girl and her brat! It’s easy seeing you’ve precious little
to trouble you or you’d never carry on about Ann Serrup; a bad lot the
Serrups are, root and branch; bad they are and bad they’ll be. The
Ethiopian don’t change his spots! and as for crying and carrying on about
her! take care, Mabella, that you are not sent something to cry for—take
care.” The last ominous words uttered in Vashti’s full rich voice made
Mabella tremble. Ah—she knew and _Vashti knew_ how great cause she
already had to weep.
“How can you talk to me like that?” she said to Vashti passionately; “how
can you? One would think you would be glad to see me in trouble. If it’s
any satisfaction to you to know it I may as well tell you that——” Mabella
arrested her speech with crimson cheeks. What had she been about to do?
To betray Lanty for the sake of stinging Vashti into shame.
“Dear me,” said Vashti coolly; “you are growing very uncertain, Mabella!”
“Yes, I know,” stammered Mabella. “Forgive me, Vashti.”
“Oh! It doesn’t matter about my forgiveness,” said Vashti; “but it’s a
pity to let yourself get into that excitable state.”
They were near the spot where their ways parted.
Mabella looked at Vashti, a half inclination to confide in her cousin
came to her. It would be such a help to have a confidant, but her wifely
allegiance rose to forbid any confidences regarding her husband’s lapses;
she must bear the burden alone. A lump tightened her throat as she closed
her lips resolutely. These little victories seem small but they are
costly.
“Good-bye, Mabella,” said Vashti; “come over and have tea with us soon.”
“I’ll come over after dinner and stay awhile with you,” said Mabella,
“but I won’t stay to supper.”
“Oh, why?” said Vashti. “Lanty can come in on his way home from Brixton;
if he turns off at the cross road he can come straight up Winder’s lane
to the parsonage. He’s often at Brixton, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Mabella, once more calm in her _rôle_ of defender. “Yes, but
I’ll come over some day after dinner; Lanty likes supper at home. He’s
often tired after being in Brixton. I’ll bring Dorothy and come over soon
for a little visit.”
“Well, you might as well come all of you for supper,” said Vashti; and
somehow by a subtle intonation of the voice she conveyed to Mabella the
fact that her unconsciousness was only feigned.
As Mabella went towards home the lump in her throat dissolved in tears;
she allowed herself the rare luxury of self-pity for a little space,
then with the instinctive feeling that she must not give footing to such
weakness she pulled herself together, and went forward where Lanty waited
at the gate.
When Vashti turned away from Mabella to take the little path to the
parsonage, her heart also was wrung by regret and pain; she had made
Mabella feel, but how gladly she would have exchanged her empty heartache
for the honour of suffering for Lanty’s misdeeds. Lanty Lansing was
very handsome, very winning, with that masterful tenderness and tender
tyranny which women love; but it is doubtful if he (or many other men)
deserved the love which these two women lavished upon him. And it must
be said for Vashti that whatever her faults were, she loved her cousin
well and constantly. His excesses rent her very heart; if she saw in
them a hope of vengeance upon Mabella she yet deplored them sincerely.
The hate which was growing in her heart against Mabella was intensified
a thousand-fold by the thought that she did not, in some way, drag
Lanty back from the pit. Had she been his wife she would have saved
him in spite of himself. The thought that the village was sneering and
whispering about her idol made her eyes venomous, and in this mood she
entered the house. Sidney was waiting for her and suddenly there swept
across the woman’s soul a terrible sense of the relentless Destiny
which she was working out. As in a mirror she saw herself, not the free
and imperious creature she had imagined, but a serf, shackled hand and
foot, so that her feet trod the devious path prepared for them from time
immemorial, and her hands wrought painfully at a fabric whose fashion and
design were fixed by other power than her own.
And Sidney, with his pale spiritual face, his unearthly exalted eyes, his
eager-winged soul, was bound to her side. His footsteps were constrained
to hers, only it seemed that whereas the path was chosen for her, his
way was simply outlined by her will; she remembered the strange incident
which had taken her away from the sewing circle. Again she experienced
the thrill, half of fear, half of mad unreasoning triumph, which had held
her very heart in suspense when Sidney had said, “You wished me to come
at five.” Could it be that whilst his mind was passive, whilst he slept
the sleep her waving hands induced, whilst his faculties were seemingly
numbed by the artificial slumber, could it be that he could yet grasp
her desires and awake to fulfil them? The simplest knowledge of hypnotic
suggestion would at once have given her incalculable command over Sidney.
As it was, she could only grope forward in the darkness of half fearful
and hesitating ignorance. In her advance to the knowledge that Sidney,
whilst in this sleep, was amenable to suggestion (although she did not
phrase it thus) she had skipped one step which would have given her the
key to the whole; she had seen that he would carry out, whilst awake, a
wish of hers expressed whilst he slept. She did not know that he would
have been a mere automaton in her hands whilst he was in the hypnotic
sleep, but she told herself that she must measure and ascertain exactly
the control she had over her husband; thus nearly every day she cast
the spell of deep slumber upon him and gradually, little by little, she
discovered the potency of suggestion.
It must be said that Sidney was entirely acquiescent to her will. The
old weird fables of people hypnotised against their wills have long
since been relegated to the limbo of forgotten and discredited myths;
and while it is certainly true that each hypnosis leaves the subject
more susceptible to hypnotic influence, it is utter rubbish to think
that influence can be acquired arbitrarily without the concurrence of
the subject. But Sidney had given himself up to the subtle delight of
these dreamless slumbers as the hasheesh-eater delivers himself to the
intoxication of his drugged dreams.
Sidney’s mind was torn by perpetual self-questionings; not about his own
personal salvation, but about his responsibility towards the people of
Dole. The more he studied the Bible the more deeply he was impressed by
the marvellous beauty of the Christ story. Never surely had man realized
more keenly than Sidney did the ineffable pathos and self-sacrifice of
the Carpenter of Galilee. Often as he passed the little carpenter-shop
where Nathan Peck came twice a week, he entered and stood watching
Nathan planing the boards, and as the long wooden ribbons curled off
before the steel, and the odour of the wood came to his nostrils, quick
with that aroma of the forest which obtains even at the core of the
oak, there surged about Sidney’s heart all the emotions of yearning
and hope, and sorrow and despair which long, long ago had lifted That
_Other_ from a worker in wood to be a Saviour of Souls; and he went forth
from the little carpenter-shop as one who has partaken of a sacrament.
And often he stood upon the little hill above Dole, his eyes full of
tears, remembering that immortal, irrepressible outburst of yearning,
“O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often would I have gathered thy children
together, as a hen doth gather her brood under her wings and _ye would
not_!”—the poignancy of this plaint wrung Sidney’s very soul. And how
sweet it seemed to Sidney to steal away from all these questions and
questionings, to fall asleep with Vashti’s eyes looking, as it seemed to
him, deep down into his very soul, seeing the turmoil there and easing
it with the balm of her confidence and strength—to awaken with the
knowledge that there was something Vashti wished done, something he could
do. Thus, whereas the occasions of Sidney’s acute headaches had been
formerly the only opportunity Vashti had had of experimenting with this
new and wonderful force which she so dimly understood, now it was a daily
occurrence for Sidney to cast himself down upon the green leather couch
and seek from Vashti the gift of sleep.
Thus, gradually, surely, Vashti won an ascendency over this man which
made him in every sense her tool. Happily she did not know the full
extent of her power. But if knowledge is power, certainly power brings
knowledge, and thus it was that ere long Vashti was turning over in her
mind the different ways and manners in which she could apply this power
of hers. Thus equipped with her own unfaltering resolution and having the
energy of a second person at her command, Vashti brooded over her plans.
The night after Mabella’s visit to Ann Serrup, Lanty was at home, and
seated before the open door, was coaxing plaintive melodies from out
the old fiddle, which having been regarded as a godless and profane
instrument for several generations in his father’s family, had at last
fallen upon happy days and into appreciative hands, for Lanty Lansing
could bring music out of any instrument, although, of course, he had
never been taught a note. The old fiddle under Lanty’s curving bow
whispered and yearned and moaned and pleaded—the dusk fell and still he
played on and on—till Mabella, having put Dorothy to bed, came out to sit
upon the doorstep before his chair, resting her head against his knee.
The fiddle was put down. For a little the two sat in silence. Afterwards
the scene came back to them and helped them when they had sore need.
“Lanty,” said Mabella, “will you do something for me to-morrow?”
“What is it?”
“Oh, Lanty!” reproachfully.
“Of course I’ll do it; but I can’t, can I, unless I have some slight
idea.”
“Well, you are right there,” she said; “I thought you were going to
object! Well, you know Ann Serrup?”
“I know her, yes; a precious bad lot she is too!” Lanty’s face clouded.
“Lanty, dear, wasn’t that just a man’s word? She’s a woman, you know,
and Lanty, I’ve been to see her, and it’s all so forlorn; and she’s
so—so—oh, Lanty! And Vashti was there and she asked if her baby was
_deformed_, fancy that! And it was the poor little scraps of clothes
which made the child look queer. But it was the sort of queerness which
makes you cry, and Lanty, I said I would send her some patterns, and
you’ll take them over to-morrow morning, won’t you?”
“But, girlie,” he began; just then Dorothy gave a sleepy cry.
Lanty and Mabella rose as by one impulse and went into the twilight of
the room where the child’s cot was. But their baby slept serenely and
smiled as she slept.
“The angels are whispering to her,” said Mabella. The old sweet mother
fable which exists in all lands.
“Yes,” said Lanty. A tremor shaking his heart as he wondered why this
heaven of wife and child was his.
As they passed into the other room they saw the child’s clothes upon a
chair in a soft little heap like a nest; and all at once there rushed
over Mabella’s tender heart all the misery of that other mother, and
before Lanty knew it, Mabella was in his arms crying as if her heart
would break.
“Oh, Lanty, Lanty,” she sobbed; “think of poor Ann Serrup! When her baby
cries in the night who goes with her to look after it?”
“There, there,” said Lanty, searching distractedly for soothing
arguments; “don’t, Mabella, don’t; I’ll take the traps over first thing
in the morning.” And presently Mabella was comforted, and peace rested
like a dove upon the roof-tree.
So early next morning Lanty departed with the parcel. In due time he
arrived before the little house. The house door stood open—humbly eager
to be entered. Early as it was Ann was up, and came to the door looking
neat and tidy. She took the parcel with the undisguised eagerness of
a child. Lanty turned away, letting his horse walk down the lane-like
road. He was not much given to theorizing; a good woman was a good one,
a bad one a bad one in his estimation, but this morning he found himself
puzzling uneasily over the whys and wherefores. It is an old, old puzzle,
and like the conundrum of Eternity, has baffled all generations, since
the patriarch of Uz set forth that one vessel is created to honour and
another to dishonour. So Lanty found no solution, and was tightening his
reins to lift his horse into a gallop when he heard someone calling, and
turning, saw Ann speeding in pursuit. She reached him somewhat blown and
decidedly incoherent as to speech.
“She has sent the yoke pattering, and a white apron and heaps of things!
There ain’t nothing but real lady in Mis’ Lansing! Sakes! I wisht the
preacher’s wife could see Reub now! I’ll take him to church next Sunday,
and if he squalls I can’t help it And here—take this and keep it—and
don’t let him harm me, will you? And I never meant no harm to you
personal, but he was for ever pestering me, and he said he was coming
over early this morning for ’em, and for me to sign ’em; but Lor’! I
didn’t have no ink—and don’t tell Mis’ Lansing, she’s a lovely lady, and
I didn’t mean no harm, and he said there wouldn’t be no law business,
because you’d give me heaps of money, ’cause being as you drank, people
would believe anything of you; and Lor’! hear that baby! Mind you don’t
tell Mis’ Lansing”—with which Ann turned and fled back to console her
child. Lanty, much mystified, opened the thin packet of papers. An
instant’s scrutiny sent him into a blind mad rage, which made him curse
aloud in a way not good to hear.
For before him, writ fairly forth in black and white, was a horrible and
utterly baseless accusation, purporting to be sworn to by Ann Serrup, and
witnessed by Hemans, the machine agent of Brixton.
The witness had signed his name prematurely before Ann, and had written
faintly in pencil “Sign here” for her benefit and guidance.
Lanty gathered the import of the papers and put them securely in his
pocket.
He was just opposite a thicket of wild plums, shooting up through them
was a slim and lithe young hickory. Lanty flung the roan’s bridle over
a fence fork, cut the young hickory, and remounting went on his way.
Only he turned away from Dole, and proceeded slowly towards Brixton,
and presently, just as he entered the shadow of Ab Ranger’s wood by
the roadside, he saw a blaze-faced sorrel appear round the bend and he
rejoiced, for he knew that his enemy was given into his hand....
Hemans was sorely bruised when Lanty flung him from him with a final
blow and a final curse. He tossed aside the short fragment of the young
hickory which remained in his grasp.
Lanty’s fury had lent him strength, and he had well-nigh fulfilled the
promise made in the first generosity of rage to thrash Hemans “within an
inch of his life.”
“And now,” said Lanty, addressing Hemans with a few words unavailable
for quotation. “And now, open your lips if you dare! If you so much as
mention my name, I’ll cram the words and your teeth down your throat.
Remember, too, that I have something in my pocket which would send you
where you’d have less chance to prowl. And, mind you, don’t try to take
it out of Ann Serrup. If you do I’ll finish your business once for all.
Paugh! Vermin like you should be knocked on the head out of hand. If I
stay I’ll begin on you again——.” Lanty swung himself up on the roan.
“Don’t make any mistake as to my intentions,” he called over his
shoulder. “I’ve given you one warning, but you won’t get two.”
Hemans lay groaning upon the ground, and just about that time Ann,
having dressed her baby in the white pinafore Mabella had sent, came to
her door, and, leaning against it, looked forth at the morning.
She thought of Hemans and the papers.
“The fat’s in the fire now,” she said, smiling inanely, divided between
vague curiosity over the outcome and gratification over the baby’s
appearance in its new finery.
Lanty had given Hemans salutary punishment, but his heart sickened within
him.
He knew what a leech Hemans would have proved if he had once got a hold
upon him; and if he had refused to be blackmailed——?
Lanty knew well with what insidious, untraceable persistency a scandal
springs and grows and spreads in the country. He knew how hard it is to
kill, how difficult to locate, like trying to catch mist in one’s hands.
He had heard often that wicked proverb which says, “Where there’s smoke
there must be some fire.” A man has often self-possession to extricate
himself from a danger, the retrospect of which makes him nearly die of
fear. And so it was with Lanty, as there grew upon him the sense of what
a calamity might have overtaken him.
How Mabella might have been tortured by this horrible falsehood. Mabella,
his wife, who blushed still like the girl that she was! It was a very
tender greeting he gave his wife and child when he reached home, and he
made Mabella very happy by his account of Ann’s delight over her gift.
And then he strode off to his fields, and all day long he remembered two
things—that Mabella’s charity to the poor disgraced girl had already
brought its blessing back to the giver, and that one phrase of Ann’s,
“being as you drank.”
Lanty had never realized fully before what he was doing. But his eyes
opened. He could look forward to the future, but the thought of the past
gave him a sense of helplessness which made his heart ache.
With every honest effort of his hands that day he registered a vow. The
peril he had escaped had opened his eyes to the other dangers which
threatened the heaven, which he had thought he possessed so securely, of
wife and child.
The real purification of Lanty’s life from the sporadic sin which had
beset him took place that day as he worked in his fields, but his friends
and neighbours always thought the change dated from another day a few
weeks later.
For although we have learned our lesson well, yet Destiny, like a careful
schoolmaster, takes us by the hand, and leading us over sharp flints and
through thorny thickets, revises the teachings of our sufferings.