"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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sing away, but the prayers of those he loved have prevailed. A great change has come over him. The last words he spoke were: "G.o.d"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, pa.s.sed 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 succ.u.mbed 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 pa.s.s 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."