Book of Ghosts — 27 - Black Ram, part 2
All had vanished.
I thought now I might as well rise and continue my journey.
But before I had left the bench I observed the rector of Fifewell sauntering up the path, with uncertain step, as he fumbled in his coat-tail pockets, and said: "Where the deuce is the key?"
The Reverend William Hexworthy was a man of good private means, and was just the sort of man that a bishop delights to honour.
He was one who would never cause him an hour's anxiety; he was not the man to indulge in ecclesiastical vagaries.
He flattered himself that he was strictly a _via media_ man.
He kept dogs, he was a good judge of horses, was fond of sport.
He did not hunt, but he shot and fished.
He was a favourite in Society, was of irreproachable conduct, and was a magistrate on the bench.
As the ray from the keyhole smote on him he seemed to be wholly dark,--made up of nothing but Black Ram.
He came on slowly, as though not very sure of his way.
"Bless me!
where can be the key?"
he asked.
Then from out of the graves, and from over the wall of the churchyard, came rushing up a crowd of his dead parishioners, and blocked his way to the porch.
"Please, your reverence!"
said one, "you did not visit me when I was dying."
"I sent you a bottle of my best port," said the parson.
"Ay, sir, and thank you for it.
But that went into my stomick, and what I wanted was medicine for my soul.
You never said a prayer by me.
You never urged me to repentance for my bad life, and you let me go out of the world with all my sins about me."
"And I, sir," said another, thrusting himself before Mr. Hexworthy--"I was a young man, sir, going wild, and you never said a word to restrain me; never sent for me and gave me a bit of warning and advice which would have checked me.
You just shrugged your shoulders and laughed, and said that a young chap like me must sow his wild oats."
"And we," shouted the rest--"we were never taught by you anything at all."
"Now this is really too bad," said the rector.
"I preached twice every Sunday."
"Oh, yes--right enough that.
But precious little good it did when nothing came out of your heart, and all out of your pocket--and that you did give us was copied in your library.
Why, sir, not one of your sermons ever did anybody a farthing of good."
"We were your sheep," protested others, "and you let us wander where we would!
You didn't seem to know yourself that there was a fold into which to draw us."
"And we," said others, "went off to chapel, and all the good we ever got was from the dissenting minister--never a mite from you."
"And some of us," cried out others, "went to the bad altogether, through your neglect.
What did you care about our souls so long as your terriers were washed and combed, and your horses well groomed?
You were a fisherman, but all you fished for were trout--not souls.
And if some of us turned out well, it was in spite of your neglect--no thanks to you."
Then some children's voices were raised: "Sir, you never taught us no Catechism, nor our duty to God and to man, and we grew up regular heathens."
"That was your fathers' and mothers' duty."
"But our fathers and mothers never taught us anything."
"Come, this is intolerable," shouted Mr. Hexworthy.
"Get out of the way, all of you.
I can't be bothered with you now.
I want to go in there."
"You can't, parson!
the door is shut, and you have not got your key."
Mr. Hexworthy stood bewildered and irresolute.
He rubbed his chin.
"What the dickens am I to do?"
he asked.
Then the crowd closed about him, and thrust him back towards the gate.
"You must go whither we send you," they said.
I stood up to follow.
It was curious to see a flock drive its shepherd, who, indeed, had never attempted to lead.
I walked in the rear, and it seemed as though we were all swept forward as by a mighty wind.
I did not gain my breath, or realise whither I was going, till I found myself in the slums of a large manufacturing town before a mean house such as those occupied by artisans, with the conventional one window on one side of the door and two windows above.
Out of one of these latter shone a scarlet glow.
The crowd hustled Mr. Hexworthy in at the door, which was opened by a hospital nurse.
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."
"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."
