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.”
And another rose up and said: “I was a stranger, and he took me in.”
Then a third said: “I was naked, and he clothed me.”
And a fourth: “I was sick, and he visited me.”
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.”
“An
d 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 tomorrow 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.”
Pomps and Vanities
(A tale from A Book of Ghosts)
Colonel Mountjoy had an appointment in India that kept him there permanently. Consequently he was constrained to send his two daughters to England when they were quite children. His wife had died of cholera at Madras. The girls were Letice and Betty. There was a year’s difference in their ages, but they were extraordinarily alike, so much so that they might have been supposed to be twins.
Letice was given up to the charge of Miss Mountjoy, her father’s sister, and Betty to that of Lady Lacy, her maternal aunt. Their father would have preferred that his daughters should have been together, but there were difficulties in the way; neither of the ladies was inclined to be burdened with both, and if both had been placed with one the other might have regarded and resented this as a slight.
As the children grew up their likeness in feature became more close, but they diverged exceedingly in expression. A sullenness, an unhappy look, a towering fire of resentment characterised that of Letice, whereas the face of Betty was open and gay.
This difference was due to the difference in their bringing up.
Lady Lacy, who had a small house in North Devon, was a kindly, intellectual, and broad-minded old lady, of sweet disposition but a decided will. She saw a good deal of society, and did her best to train Betty to be an educated and liberal-minded woman of culture and graceful manners. She did not send her to school, but had her taught at home; and on the excuse that her eyes were weak by artificial light she made the girl read to her in the evenings, and always read books that were standard and calculated to increase her knowledge and to develop her understanding. Lady Lacy detested all shams, and under her influence Betty grew up to be thoroughly straightforward, healthy-minded, and true.
On the other hand, Miss Mountjoy was, as Letice called her, a Killjoy. She had herself been reared in the midst of the Clapham sect; had become rigid in all her ideas, narrow in all her sympathies, and a bundle of prejudices.
The present generation of young people know nothing of the system of repression that was exercised in that of their fathers and mothers. Now the tendency is wholly in the other direction, and too greatly so. It is possibly due to a revulsion of feeling against a training that is looked back upon with a shudder.
To that narrow school there existed but two categories of men and women, the Christians and the Worldlings, and those who pertained to it arrogated to themselves the former title. The Judgment had already begun with the severance of the sheep from the goats, and the saints who judged the world had their Jerusalem at Clapham.
In that school the works of the great masters of English literature, Shakespeare, Pope, Scott, Byron, were taboo; no work of imagination was tolerated save the Apocalypse, and that was degraded into a polemic by such scribblers as Elliot and Cumming.
No entertainments, not even the oratorios of Handel, were tolerated; they savoured of the world. The nearest approach to excitement was found in a missionary meeting. The Chinese contract the feet of their daughters, but those English Claphamites cramped the minds of their children. The Venetians made use of an iron prison, with gradually contracting walls, that finally crushed the life out of the captive. But these elect Christians put their sons and daughters into a school that squeezed their energies and their intelligences to death. Dickens caricatured such people in Mrs. Jellyby and Mr. Chadband; but he sketched them only in their external aspect, and left untouched their private action in distorting young minds, maiming their wills, damping down all youthful buoyancy.
But the result did not answer the expectations of those who adopted this system with the young. Some daughters, indeed, of weaker wills were permanently stunted and shaped on the approved model, but nearly all the sons, and most of the daughters, on obtaining their freedom, broke away into utter frivolity and dissipation, or, if they retained any religious impressions, galloped through the Church of England, performing strange antics on the way, and plunged into the arms of Rome.
Such was the system to which the high-spirited, strong-willed Letice was subjected, and from which was no escape. The consequence was that Letice tossed and bit at her chains, and that there ensued frequent outbreaks of resentment against her aunt.
“Oh, Aunt Hannah! I want something to read.”
After some demur, and disdainful rejection of more serious works, she was allowed Milton.
Then she said, “Oh! I do love Comus.”
“Comus!” gasped Miss Mountjoy.
“And L’Allegro and Il Penseroso, they are not bad.”
“My child. These were the compositions of the immortal bard before his eyes were opened.”
“I thought, aunt, that he had dictated the Paradise Lost and Regained after he was blind.”
“I refer to the eyes of his soul,” said the old lady sternly.
“I want a story-book.”
“There is the Dairyman’s Daughter.”
“I have read it, and hate it.”
“I fear, Leticia, that you are in the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity.”
Unhappily the sisters very rarely met one another. It was but occasionally that Lady Lacy and Betty came to town, and when they did, Miss Mountjoy put as many difficulties as she could in the way of their associat
ing together.
On one such visit to London, Lady Lacy called and asked if she might take Letice with herself to the theatre. Miss Mountjoy shivered with horror, reared herself, and expressed her opinion of stage-plays and those who went to see them in strong and uncomplimentary terms. As she had the custody of Letice, she would by no persuasion be induced to allow her to imperil her soul by going to such a wicked place. Lady Lacy was fain to withdraw in some dismay and much regret.
Poor Letice, who had heard this offer made, had flashed into sudden brightness and a tremor of joy; when it was refused, she burst into a flood of tears and an ecstasy of rage. She ran up to her room, and took and tore to pieces a volume of Clayton’s Sermons, scattered the leaves over the floor, and stamped upon them.
“Letice,” said Miss Mountjoy, when she saw the devastation, “you are a child of wrath.”
“Why mayn’t I go where there is something pretty to see? Why may I not hear good music? Why must I be kept forever in the Doleful Dumps?”
“Because all these things are of the world, worldly.”
“If God hates all that is fair and beautiful, why did He create the peacock, the humming-bird, and the bird of paradise, instead of filling the world with barn-door fowls?”
“You have a carnal mind. You will never go to heaven.”
“Lucky I—if the saints there do nothing but hold missionary meetings to convert one another. Pray what else can they do?”
“They are engaged in the worship of God.”
“I don’t know what that means. All I am acquainted with is the worship of the congregation. At Salem Chapel the minister faces it, mouths at it, gesticulates to it, harangues, flatters, fawns at it, and, indeed, prays at it. If that be all, heaven must be a deadly dull hole.”
Miss Mountjoy reared herself, she became livid with wrath. “You wicked girl.”
“Aunt,” said Letice, intent on further incensing her, “I do wish you would let me go—just for once—to a Catholic church to see what the worship of God is.”
“I would rather see you dead at my feet!” exclaimed the incensed lady, and stalked, rigid as a poker, out of the room.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould Page 22
