A Critical Moment
EASTER was occupied at the rectory all the next day, and being
satisfied that Chrissie would be taken good care of, she gave little
thought to him. It had been a sorrowful harvest-time to her, and her
future had never seemed quite so dark as now that her best friend was
gone, and her father showed himself altogether irreconcilable. But her
trust in God was not shaken. Once, for a few minutes, when there came
a short interval of leisure, she stood at a window overlooking the
churchyard, where every tombstone was as well-known to her as the faces
of her neighbours. Then the blank, dark future presented itself to her,
and pressed itself upon her.
There was no chance of remaining where she was, among the old familiar
places, surrounded by the sights and sounds which had filled up nearly
all her life. Where was she to be tossed to? What resting-place could
she find? It was with a strong effort that she turned away from the
dreary prospect.
"Take 'no thought for the morrow,'" she said to herself, "'for the
morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the
day is the evil thereof.'"
Christmas Williams had never been less master of himself than he was
all that day after hearing that the old rector was really gone. He had
been his clergyman for nearly forty years, and never had an unfriendly
word passed between them, unless he could call his remonstrances on
behalf of Easter unfriendly. He wished he had not left him in a rage
last night. Yet never had his servants seen Christmas so testy and
passionate; until at length, he shut himself up in his own little room.
A lad who crept timorously to peep through the lowest corner of the
lattice casement reported that the master was sitting with his face
hidden by his hands, and the big, strongly-bound family Bible before
him.
But Christmas was not studying any portion of the printed pages; he had
taken it down from the shelf over his old-fashioned desk to pore over
the written entries made in his own hand, of Easter's birth on Easter
Sunday twenty-eight years before, and of her mother's death the same
evening. He had given Easter her last chance, and she had spurned it;
it was time to take her name out of the Bible. He had resolved to tear
the page out of the book, but he could not destroy the record of his
child's birth without destroying that of his wife's death. Which must
he sacrifice—his resolve to wreak his resentment against Easter, or his
lingering tenderness for the memory of his wife?
The long hours of the day passed by miserably for Christmas Williams.
He was irresolute and troubled by vague doubts, such as had never
disturbed him before. How could he possibly be in the wrong? For his
opinions were those of his father and grandfather before him, and his
ways were like their ways. They had never given in to new-fangled
notions, to psalm-singing, and meetings for prayer in cottages. It
was well-known that they had always been true blue. The old church
was good enough and religious enough for them; and they had been
loyal to it, never missing to present themselves on a Sunday morning
in the churchwarden's pew, and to keep Christmas Day and Good Friday
with equal strictness. If God was not pleased with such service, why,
nine-tenths of the people he knew, living or dead, were in a bad way.
But how could they be in the wrong, those honest, thrifty, steady
forefathers of his, whose word was as good as their bond all the
country through?
Yet he could not satisfy himself, or silence the still, small voice of
conscience. What sin was Easter guilty of? What was her crime that must
not be forgiven? She had always been good, and obedient, and true; she
had never crossed him until he required her to be false. There was the
point, and the sting of it. He prided himself on being true; but he
demanded of her to be false; false to herself, false to him, false to
God!
Why should not Easter be true to her word, and resolute, as well as
himself? The old dying rector had declared that her way was really
better than his way. Did he actually believe in God? All these years he
had let the words slip glibly over his tongue every Sunday morning, and
thought no more of them. Had he verily been true in saying them, or had
he been in the habit of standing in the church, before God, with a lie
in his mouth?
"Do you believe in God Almighty, and in Jesus Christ?—in God's Holy
Spirit, and in the forgiveness of sins?" asked his conscience.
And a still deeper and lower voice gave the mournful answer, "No!"
The afternoon had passed by, and the evening was coming on. Already
the sun had sunk low in the sky, and the long shadows fell from the
church-tower and the headstones upon the graveyard where his old
friend, the rector, would soon be lying quietly, after the sunset of
his life's long day. It was an hour when Christmas loved to linger in
his garden, strolling slowly along the walks, and watching his flowers
grow dim in the darkening twilight. The little river was singing the
same tune it sang in his boyhood, and the blackbirds were whistling
from the hedges, as if the years had not touched them as they had
touched him. For, though he was a strong man yet, his hair was growing
grey; and he knew he was going the down-hill path of life to the narrow
valley, soft and dim only for some, but of utter blackness to others.
The little clouds hastening towards the west gave a sweet promise of a
splendid sunset; and Christmas loved to see both sunset and sunrise.
He sauntered leisurely through his orchard, where the commoner fruit
was ripening, to the well-fenced-in garden of his delight. There was
almost priceless fruit growing there, which he watched with a jealous
eye. Not a month ago he had caught a village urchin in his orchard,
and, in spite of all entreaties and beseechings, he had shut him up
in the crib, and taken him before the magistrate the next morning,
and heard him sentenced to three weeks' imprisonment in jail. That
offence was committed in his orchard; but to-day, as he drew near to
his garden, he could hear a sharp snapping of twigs, and the patter
of fruit falling to the ground. He crept cautiously and noiselessly
forward, and carefully lifted his head just above the fence. There was
a thief, and that thief was Easter's boy, his own grandson!
All the passion of his mingled love and hatred flamed up in Christmas
Williams' heart. This merry, ragged, brown-faced, handsome lad was his
own flesh and blood, and seemed to have a natural right to be there.
He watched Chrissie swing himself down from the tree, and strip off
his tattered jacket, and pile up the precious fruit in it. But as the
boy caught sight of his grandfather's face, gazing at him over the
fence, his heart stood still for very fear, and his knees knocked
together. Yet he lifted up his eyes to Christmas with a wistful,
speechless prayer in them. Chrissie could not utter a word, to say how
the lad just returned from jail had lifted him over the fence, telling
him the fruit was all his own, or would be some day. When he met his
grandfather's stern frown and awful silence, his little heart died
within him.
[Illustration: HE MET HIS GRANDFATHER'S STERN FROWN.]
"Grandfather!" he cried at last, dropping his stolen load, and bursting
into tears.
"A thief!" muttered Christmas, between his teeth. It was the first word
he had ever spoken to the lad. This boy of Easter's, this grandson of
his own, was a petty thief already! He thought of the urchin he had
sent to jail a month ago for precisely the same offence. But Chrissie
was so like himself when he was a boy! He could recollect plucking the
fruit without stint from these very trees, while his grandfather looked
on with delight at his dexterity and courage in climbing to the highest
boughs, and pointed out to him the ripest pears and rosiest apples.
Chrissie ought to be doing the same under his eye, not standing there
like a culprit, sobbing and trembling before him. Yet how could he keep
his word and make a difference between this lad and the one just out of
jail for the self-same thing? Besides, now he could make Easter feel;
perhaps bring her to her senses, if anything would do that. She had
been reckless of his displeasure so far; this would bring her on her
knees before him, ready to yield her will to his.
Without uttering a word to the terrified child, he entered his garden,
and seized him by the arm, not roughly, but firmly. He had never
touched him before, and his hand, firm as it was, trembled. Chrissie
lifted his brown, tearful face to him, and submitted without any
attempt at resistance. Silently his grandfather led him along the
pleasant garden paths, across the deep lawn, and through the green
churchyard, under the window of the room where the dead body of the
rector lay, to that dismal and neglected corner, overgrown with
nettles and docks, where the crib was built. It was an old, small,
strongly-built place, with windows closely barred, and a door thickly
studded with iron nails. It looked prepared for the blackest criminals,
rather than for the starved and poverty-stricken poachers and the
frightened urchins who had been its usual occupants. There was a heavy
padlock on the outer door, and this Christmas slowly unlocked, holding
his grandson between his arms and knees, as his hands were busy at
their task.
"Grandfather," sobbed the boy, "don't let mother know; it 'll break her
heart!"
Christmas could not speak a word, for his tongue was dry and parched;
but Chrissie walked in through the dark door unbidden. He listened to
it being closed and fastened securely behind him. This place had been
a terror and dread to him from his earliest days, when he had now and
then strayed with baby feet to the moss-grown step, and heard the wind
moan through the keyhole of the old lock, which had been in use before
the padlock. He stepped over the threshold with the courage of despair.
No hope of softening the heart of his grandfather entered his own, and
he made no effort to do it. If only his mother might not know!
At present there was still a little daylight, and through the close
cross-bars of the window he could see the crimson and golden cloudlets
hovering over the setting sun. He looked away from them with dazzled
eyes to examine shudderingly the interior of his prison. It was gloomy
enough; the only furniture was a low stone bench, but at one end of the
bench a chain was fastened to a ring in the wall, and handcuffs and
fetters were attached to the chain. He was almost glad to think that
his grandfather had not chained him to that ring in the wall. Sitting
down on the stone bench, Chrissie looked up again at the gradually
dying colours in the sky, not caring to turn away his eyes from them,
as they faded softly away into a quiet grey, which scarcely shed a
gleam of light into his dismal cell.
Chrissie's courage had held out fairly; but as the darkness gathered,
his imagination awoke, and called up all the sleeping, lurking fancies
which dwell in every child's young brain. They had been only biding
their time, and now trooped out in crowds to haunt the lonely lad. All
the stories he had ever heard of people being imprisoned for many, many
years, and even starved to death, hurried through his excited mind.
There had been a tale told for generations in the village of a man who
had killed himself in this very place. And were there not outside the
wall, amidst the docks and nettles, the forsaken graves of people too
wicked to lie even in death among their better neighbours? Every one
dreaded being buried there. Was it true that ghosts of wicked people
could not rest in their graves, but came forth at night to visit the
places they had once dwelt in, and to tell fearful secrets to those
they found alone? How fast the night was coming on, and he was quite
alone!
Nobody knew where he was, thought poor little Chrissie; nobody but his
grandfather, who hated him. He could not climb as high as the window,
barred as it was, to show himself through it. He was sorry almost that
he had asked that his mother might not know. She would never, never
know what had become of him, and he fancied he could see her weeping
for him through long years. For he felt certain he should die in this
dreary prison, and his grandfather would bury him secretly at night,
amid the wicked people who lay under the docks and nettles.
The church clock struck ten. It was quite dark by this time, except
for the pale, ghostly gleam of the strip of sky seen through the bars
of the window. The child passed through long ages of pain and terror
before it struck eleven. The dreadful hour of midnight came creeping on
towards him. He had never yet been awake at twelve; and twelve at night
was the most awful and ghostly hour of all the twenty-four. What would
happen then he could not guess; but something beyond all words, and
beyond all thought.
Chrissie could not ask God to take care of him; for had he not been
taken in the very act of breaking God's commandments? There was no
one, therefore, to stand between him and the unknown horrors that were
coming nearer every moment. There was no refuge, no Saviour for him. He
had offended God.
A strange sound somewhere in the prison jarred upon his ear, and with a
scream of terror, which rang shrilly out into the quiet night, Chrissie
lost his senses, and fell like one dead on the stone floor.