Mrs. Cardew recovered, but Dr. Turnbull recommended that as soon as she could be moved she should have an entire change, and at the end of the autumn she and her husband went abroad.
That winter was a bad winter for Mr. Furze. The harvest had been the worst known for years: farmers had no money; his expenses had increased; many of his customers had left him, and Catharine’s cough had become so much worse that, except on fine days, she was not allowed to go out of doors. For the first time in his life he was obliged to overdraw his account at the bank, and when his wife questioned him about his troubles he became angry and vicious. One afternoon he had a visit from one of the partners in the bank, who politely informed him that no further advances could be made. It was near Christmas, and it was Mr. Furze’s practice at Christmas to take stock. He set to work, and his balance-sheet showed that he was a poorer man by three hundred pounds than he was a twelvemonth before. Catharine did not see him on the night on which he made this discovery. He came home very late, and she had gone to bed. At breakfast he was unlike himself—strange, excited, and with a hunted, terrified look in the eyes which alarmed her. It was not so much the actual loss which upset him as the old incapacity of dealing with the unusual. Oh, for one hour with Tom! What should he do? Should he retrench? Should he leave the Terrace? Should he try and borrow money? A dizzy whirl of a dozen projects swung round and round in his brain, and he could resolve on nothing. He pictured most vividly and imagined most vividly the consequences of bankruptcy. His intellectual activity in that direction was amazing, and if one-tenth part of it could have been expended on the consideration of the next best thing to be done, not only would he have discovered what the next best thing was, but the dreadful energy of his imagination would have been enfeebled. He was sitting at his desk at the back of the shop with his head propped on his elbows, when he heard a soft footstep behind him. He turned round: it was Catharine.
“Dearest father,” she said, “what is the matter? Why do you not tell me?”
“I am a ruined man. The bank refuses to make any further advances to me, and I cannot go on.”
Catharine was not greatly surprised.
“Look at that,” he said. “I don’t know what to do; it is as if my head were going wrong. If I had lost a lot of money through a bad debt it would be different, but it is not that: the business has been going down bit by bit. There is nothing before us but starvation.”
Catharine glanced at the abstract of the balance-sheet.
“You must call your creditors together and make a proposal to them. You will then start fair, and we will reduce our expenses. Nothing will be easier. We will live at the shop again; you will be able to look after things properly, and everything will go right—it will, indeed, father.”
She was very tender with him, and her love and counsel revived his spirits. Suddenly she was seized with a fit of coughing, and had to sit down. He thought he saw a red stain on the pocket-handkerchief she put to her mouth.
“You shall not stay in this cold shop, my dear; you ought not to have come out.”
“Nonsense, father! There is nothing the matter. Have you a list of your creditors?”
“Yes; there it is.”
She glanced at it, and to her amazement saw Mr. Cardew’s name down for £100.
“Mr. Cardew, father?”
“Yes; he came in one day, and said that he had some money lying idle, and did not know what to do with it. I was welcome to it if I wanted it for the business.”
A statement was duly prepared by Mr. Askew, Mr. Furze’s solicitor; the usual notice was sent round, and the meeting took place in a room at the Bell. A composition of seven-and-sixpence in the pound was offered, to be paid within a twelvemonth, with a further half-crown in two years’ time, the debtor undertaking to give up his house in the Terrace.
“Considering,” said the lawyer, “that the debts owing to the estate are nearly all good, although just now it is difficult to realise, I think, gentlemen, you are safe, and I may add that this seems to me a very fair proposal. My client, I may say, would personally have preferred a different course, and would like to bind himself to pay in full at some future time, but I cannot advise any such promise, for I do not think he would be able to keep it.”
“I shall want some security for the half-crown,” said Mr. Crook, representative of the firm of Jenkins, Crook, and Hardman, iron merchants in Staffordshire.
“Can’t say as I’m satisfied,” said Mr. Nagle, brass founder. “The debtor takes an expensive house without any warranty, and he cannot expect much consideration. I must have ten shillings now. Times are bad for us as well as for him.”
Mr. Furze turned very white and rose to speak, but Mr. Askew pulled him down.
“I beg, gentlemen, you will not take extreme measures. Ten shillings now would mean a sale of furniture, and perhaps ruin. My client has been a good customer to you.”
“I am inclined to agree with Mr. Nagle,” said Mr. Crook. “Sentiment is all very well, but I do not see why we should make the debtor a present of half a crown for a couple of years. For my own part, if I want to be generous with my money, I have plenty of friends of my own to whom to give it.”
There was a pause, but it was clear that Mr. Nagle’s proposal would be carried.
“I am authorised,” said a tall gentleman at the back of the room, whom Mr. Askew knew to be Mr. Carruthers, of Cambridge, head of the firm of Carruthers, Doubleday, Carruthers and Pearse, one of the most respectable legal firms in the county, “to offer payment in full at once.”
“It is a pity,” said Mr. Nagle, “that this offer could not have been made before. We might have been saved the trouble of coming here.”
“Pardon me,” replied Mr. Carruthers; “my client has been abroad for some time, and did not return till last night.”
The February in which the meeting of Mr. Furze’s creditors took place was unusually wet. There had been a deep snow in January, with the wind from the north-east. The London coaches had, many of them, been stopped both on the Norwich, Cambridge, and Great North roads. The wind had driven with terrible force across the flat country, piling up the snow in great drifts, and curling it in fantastic waves which hung suspended over the hedges and entirely obliterated them. Between Eaton Socon and Huntingdon one of the York coaches was fairly buried, and the passengers, after being near death’s door with cold and hunger, made their way to a farmhouse which had great difficulty in supplying them with provisions. Coals rose in Abchurch and Eastthorpe to four pounds a ton, and just before the frost broke there were not ten tons in both places taken together. Suddenly the wind went round by the east to the south-west, and it began to rain heavily, not only in the Eastern Midlands, but far away in the counties to the west and south-west through which the river ran. The snow and ice melted very quickly, and then came a flood, the like of which had not been seen in those parts before. The outfall has been improved since that time, so that in all probability no such flood will happen again. The water of course went all over the low-lying meadows. For miles and miles on either bank it spread into vast lakes, and the only mark by which to distinguish the bed of the stream was the greater rush and the roar. Cottages were surrounded, and people were rescued by boats. Every sluice and mill-dam were opened, but the torrent poured past them, and at Cottington Mill it swept from millpool to tail right over the road which divided them, and washed away nearly the whole garden. When the rain ceased the worst had to come, for the upper waters did not reach Eastthorpe until three or four days later. Then there was indeed a sight to be seen! The southern end of Eastthorpe High Street was actually two feet under water, and a man in a boat—event to be recorded for ever in the Eastthorpe annals—went from the timber yard on one side of the street through the timber-yard gates and into the coal-yard opposite. Parts of haystacks, trees, and dead bodies of sheep and oxen drove down on the yellow, raging waves, and were caught against the abutments of the bridge. At one time it was thought that it must give way, for the arches were choked; the water was inches higher on the west side than on the east, and men with long poles stood on the parapet to break up the obstructions.
At last the flood began to subside, and on the afternoon of the day of the creditors’ meeting Mr. Orkid Jim appeared at the boathouse at the bottom of Rectory Lane and asked to be taken across. The stream was still very strong, but the meadows were clear, and some repair was necessary to the iron work of a sluice-gate just opposite, which Jim wished to inspect before the men were set to work.
“Don’t know as it’s safe, Mr. Jim,” said the boatman. “It’s as much as ever I can get through. It goes uncommon strong against the willows there.”
“You’ll get through all right. I’ll give yer a hand. I don’t care to go a mile round over the bridge.”
“Yes, that’s all very well, Mr. Jim, but I don’t want my boat smashed.”
“Smashed! I am a lucky one, I am. No harm comes to any boat or trap as long as I’m in it.”
The boatman consented. Just as he was about to push off, another man came down and asked for a passage. It was Tom Catchpole. Jim stared, but said nothing to him. The boatman also knew Tom, but did not speak. Jim now had half a mind to alter his intention of crossing.
“I don’t know as I’ll go,” said he. “It does look queer, and no mistake.”
“Well, don’t keep me a-waitin’, that’s all.”
Jim took his seat and went to the stern. Tom sat in the bow, and the boatman took the sculls. He had to make for a point far above the island, so as to allow for the current, and he just succeeded in clearing it. He then began to drift down to the landing-place in the comparatively still water between the island and the mainland.
Jim stood up with a boathook in his hand and laid hold of an overhanging willow in order to slacken their progress, but the hook stuck in the wood, and in an instant the boat was swept from under him and he was in the water. He went down like a stone, for he could not swim, but rose again just as he was passing. Tom leaned over the side, managed to catch him by the coat-collar and hold his head above water. Fortunately the boat had swung round somewhat, and in a few seconds struck the bank. It was made fast, and in an instant Jim was dragged ashore and was in safety.
“That’s a narrow squeak for you, Mr. Jim. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Catchpole you’d have been in another world by this time.”
Jim was perfectly sensible, but his eyes were fixed on Tom with a strange, steady stare.
“Hadn’t you better be moving and take off them things?”
Still he did not stir; but at last, without a word, he turned round and—slowly walked away.
“That’s a rum customer,” observed the boatman; “he might have thanked us at least, and he hasn’t paid me. Howsomever, I shan’t forget it the next time I see him.”
Tom made no reply: gave the man double his usual fare and went across the meadow. He had no particular object in coming to Eastthorpe, excepting that he had heard there was to be a meeting of Mr. Furze’s creditors, and he could not rest until he knew the result. He avoided the main street as much as possible, but he intended to obtain his information from Mr. Nagle at the Bell.
As to Jim, he went home, changed his clothes and went out again. He walked up and down the street, and presently met Tom.
“Mr. Catchpole,” he said, “will you please come along o’ me?”
There was something of authority in the tone of Jim’s voice, and yet something which forbade all fear. Tom followed him in silence, and they went to the Terrace. Mr. Furze was not at home, but Jim knew he would back directly, and they waited in the kitchen, Tom much wondering, but restrained by some strange compulsion—he could not say what—not only to remain, but to refrain from asking any questions. Directly Mr. Furze returned, Jim went upstairs, with Tom behind him, and to the amazement of Mr. and Mrs. Furze presented him in the dining-room.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Mrs. Furze.
“Mrs. Furze,” said Jim, “will you please excuse me, and allow me to speak for this once? I don’t see Miss Catharine here. I want yer to send for her. Wot I’ve got to say, I mean to say afore you all.”
Catharine was in her bedroom. She came down wrapped up in a shawl, and Jim stood up.
“Mr. Furze, Mrs. Furze, Miss Catharine, and you, Mr. Catchpole, you see afore you the biggest liar as ever was, and one as deserves to go to hell, if ever any man did. Everything agin Mr. Catchpole was all trumped up, for he never had Humphries’ money, and it was me as put the marked sovereign in his pocket. I was tempted by the devil and by—but the Lord ’as ’ad mercy on me and ’as saved my body and soul this day. I can’t speak no more, but ’ere I am if I’m to be locked up and transported as I deserve.”
“Never,” said Tom.
“You say never, Mr. Catchpole. Very well, then: on my knees I axes your pardon, and you won’t see me agin.” Jim actually knelt down. “May the Lord forgive me, and do you forgive me, Mr. Catchpole, for being such a—” (Jim was about to use a familiar word, but checked himself, and contented himself with one which is blasphemous but also orthodox)—“such a damned sinner.”
He rose, walked out, left Eastthorpe that night, and nothing more was heard of him for years. Then there came news from an Eastthorpe man, who had gone to America, that Jim was at work at Pittsburg; that he was also a preacher of God’s Word, and that by God’s grace he had brought hundreds to a knowledge of their Saviour.
This story may be deemed impossible by the ordinary cultivated reader, but he will please to recollect John Bunyan’s account of the strange behaviour of Mr. Tod. “At a summer assizes holden at Hertford,” says Bunyan, “while the judge was sitting up on the bench, comes this old Tod into court, clothed in a green suit, with his leathern girdle in his hand, his bosom open, and all in a dung sweat, as if he had run for his life; and being come in, he spake aloud as follows: ‘My Lord,’ said he, ‘here is the veriest rogue that breathes upon the face of the earth. I have been a thief from a child. When I was but a little one I gave myself to rob orchards, and to do other such like wicked things, and I have continued a thief ever since. My Lord, there has not been a robbery committed these many years, within so many miles of this place, but I have been either at it, or privy to it!’ The judge thought the fellow was mad, but after some conference with some of the justices, they agreed to indict him; and so they did of several felonious actions; to all of which he heartily confessed guilty, and so was hanged with his wife at the same time.” I can also assure my incredulous literary friends that years ago it was not uncommon for men and women suddenly to awake to the fact that they had been sinners, and to determine that henceforth they would keep God’s commandments by the help of Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. What is more extraordinary is that they did keep God’s commandments for the rest of their lives. Fear of hell fire and hope of heaven may have had something to do with their reformation, but these were not the sole motives, and even if they were, the strength of mind necessary in order to sacrifice the present for the sake of something remote—a capacity which lies, we are told, at the basis of all virtue—was singular.
Tom was restored to his former position, and Mr. Furze’s business began to improve. Arrangements were made for the removal from the Terrace, and they were eagerly pressed forward by Catharine. Her mother pleaded that they could not leave till June; that even in June they would sacrifice a quarter’s rent, but Catharine’s reply was that they would pay no more if they went beforehand. Her father was anxious to please her, and the necessary alterations at the shop were taken in hand at once, and towards the beginning of May were completed. She was not allowed to move to the High Street with her father and mother; it was thought that the worry and fatigue would be too much for her, and it was settled, as the weather was wonderfully warm, and bright for the time of year, that she should go over to Chapel Farm for a week. At the end of the week she would find the furniture all in its place and her room quite straight.
Mrs. Bellamy called for her, and she reached the farm in safety, and looking better. The next morning she begged to be taken for a drive. Mr. Bellamy had to go over to Thingleby, and she was able to go with him. It a lovely sunny day, one of those days which we sometimes have in May, summer days in advance of the main body, and more beautiful, perhaps, than any that follow, because they are days of anticipation and hope, our delight in the full midsummer being sobered by the thought of approaching autumn and winter. When they reached the bridge Mr. Bellamy remembered that he had forgotten his cheque-book and his money, and it was of no use to go to Thingleby without them.
“Botheration! I must go back, my dear.”
“Leave me here, Mr. Bellamy; you won’t be long. Let me get out, though, and just turn the mare aside off the road on to the grass against the gate; she will be quite quiet.”
“Had you not better sit still? I shall be back in a quarter of an hour.”
“If you do not mind, dear Mr. Bellamy, I should so like to stand on the bridge. I cannot let the gig stay there.”
“Well, my dear, you shall have your own way. You know,” he said, laughing, “I’ve long ago given up asking why my Catharine wants anything whatsomever. If she wishes it that’s enough for me.”
Catharine dismounted, and Mr. Bellamy walked back.
She went to the parapet and once more looked up the stream. Once more, as on a memorable day in August, the sun was upon the water. Then the heat was intense, and the heavy cumulus clouds were charged with thunder and lightning. Now the sun shone with nothing more than warmth, and though the clouds, the same clouds, hung in the south-west, there was no fire in them, nothing but soft, warm showers. She looked and looked, and tears came into her eyes—tears of joy. Never had a day been to her what that day was. She felt as if she lay open to all the life of spring which was pouring up through the earth, and it swept into her as if she were one of those bursting exultant chestnut buds, the sight of which she loved so in April and May. Always for years when the season came round had she gathered one of those buds and carried it home, and it was more to her than any summer flower. The bliss of life passed over into contentment with death, and her delight was so great that she could happily have lain down amid the hum of the insects to die on the grass.
When they came back to the farm Mr. Bellamy observed to his wife that he had not seen Catharine looking better or in better spirits for months. Mrs. Bellamy said nothing, but on the following morning Catharine was certainly not so well. It was intended that she should go home that day, but it was wet, and a message was sent to Eastthorpe to explain why she did not come. The next day she was worse, and Mrs. Bellamy went to Eastthorpe and counselled Mr. and Mrs. Furze to come to the Farm, and bring Dr. Turnbull with them. They all three came at once, and found Catharine in bed. She was feverish, and during the night had been slightly delirious. The doctor examined her carefully, and after the examination was over she turned to him and said—
“I want to hear the truth; I can bear it. Am I to die?”
“I know you can bear it. No man could be certain; but I believe the end is near.”
“How much time have I?”
He sat down by the bedside. “Perhaps a day, perhaps a week. Is there anybody you wish to see?”
“I should like to see Mr. Cardew.”
“Mr. Cardew!” said Dr. Turnbull to himself; “I fancied she would not care to have a clergyman with her; I thought she was a little beyond that kind of thing, but when people are about to die even the strongest are a little weak.”
“She always liked Mr. Cardew’s preaching,” said Mrs. Furze, sobbing, “but I wish she had asked for her own rector. It isn’t as if Mr. Cardew were her personal friend.”
It was Saturday evening when the message was dispatched to Abchurch, but Mr. Cardew was fortunately able to secure a substitute for the morrow; Sunday morning came. Mrs. Furze, who had been sitting up all night, drew down the blinds at dawn, but Catharine asked, not only that they might be drawn up again, but that her bed might be shifted a little so that she might look out across the meadow and towards the bridge. “The view that way is so lovely,” said she. It was again a triumphal spring day, and light and warmth streamed into the sick chamber.
Presently her mother went to take a little rest, and Mr. Cardew was announced almost immediately afterwards. He came upstairs, and Mrs. Bellamy, who had taken Mrs. Furze’s place, left the room. She did not think it proper to intrude when the clergyman visited anybody who was dying. Mr. Cardew remained standing and speechless.
“Sit down, Mr. Cardew. I felt that I should like to see you once more.”
He sat down by the bedside.
“Do you mind opening the window and drawing up the blind again? It has fallen a little. That is better: now I can see the meadows and away towards the bridge foot. Will you give me a glass of water?”
She drank the water: he looked steadily at her, and he knew too well what was on her face. Her hand dropped on the bed: he fell on his knees beside her with that hand in his, but still he was dumb, and not a single article of his creed which he had preached for so many years presented itself to him: forgiveness, the atonement, heaven—it had all vanished.
“Mr. Cardew, I want to say something.”
“Wait a moment, let me tell you—you have saved me.”
She smiled, her lips moved, and she whispered—
“Youhave savedme.”
By their love for each other they were both saved. The disguises are manifold which the Immortal Son assumes in the work of our redemption.
* * * * *
Tom henceforth wore the ring on his finger. Mr. Cardew resigned his living, and did not preach for many years. When pressed for an explanation he generally gave his health as an excuse. Later in life he took up work again in a far distant, purely agricultural parish, but his sermons were of the simplest kind—exhortations to pity, consideration, gentleness, and counsels as to the common duties of life. He spent much of his time in visiting his parishioners and in helping them in their difficulties. Mrs. Cardew, as we have said, died before him, but no woman ever had a husband more tender and devoted than hers in these later years. He had changed much, and she knew it, but she did not know exactly how, nor did she know the reason. It was not the kind of change which comes from a new theory or a new principle: it was something deeper. Some men are determined by principles, and others are drawn and directed by a vision or a face. Before Mr. Cardew was set for evermore the face which he saw white and saintly at Chapel Farm that May Sunday morning when death had entered, and it controlled and moulded him with an all-pervading power more subtle and penetrating than that which could have been exercised by theology or ethics.
{1}“Not now nor of yesterday are they, but for ever they live, and no one knows whence to date their appearance.”—Sophocles, “Antigone.”
{2}“You, yourself, some time or other, overcome by the terror-speaking tales of the seers, will seek to fall away from us.”—Lucritius, “De Rerum Natura.”