More Tales of the Ridings Part 7

"But will it last?" asked Tom Parfitt, whose long experience as a chapel member had taught him the snares of backsliding.

"Aye, 'twill last," replied the circuit steward. "Sam's a changed man: he has gien ower sweerin', goes no more to t' public, but bides at home o' neight an' sits cowerin' ower t' fire readin' t' Book."

The account which the circuit steward gave of the farmer's conversion was substantially correct, but it did not furnish the whole truth. The character of his life had changed, but his conversion was only half accomplished. In the process known as religious conversion there are usually three well-marked stages: first of all comes conviction of sin, then repentance, and finally a sense of forgiveness and peace. Learoyd attained the first stage in the process that stormy night in the little Methodist chapel. In a dull, blurred way he arrived too at a state of repentance for the evil he had done. But the final stage of pardon and peace remained strange to him, and the chief spiritual effect of his conversion upon him was the attainment of an exquisite agony of soul.

His conscience, long dormant, was roused to feverish activity. His sins, which were many, haunted him like demons, and chief among these he accounted, not without reason, the wrong he had done to Mary Whittaker.

She came to him in his dreams, and always under the same form. What he saw was a girl, with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing at the foot of the Holmton market-cross, with a halter round her neck. Nor was it only in his dreams that he saw her. Sometimes as he led home his horses at nightfall after a day's ploughmg, the same form, patient and unreproachful, would be seen standing at the open door of the farm waiting to receive him. With a cowed look on his face he would turn away from the house and pa.s.s the night in the hayloft.

The effect of all this upon his const.i.tution was what might have been expected. One evening, after a night and day of acutest torment, he fell in an epileptic fit upon the kitchen floor, and was found there next morning by a child from the village who had come to the farm for milk. A doctor was summoned, who brought with him a nurse, and for some days Learoyd's life hung in the balance. Recovery came at last but the doctor insisted that he must no longer live alone, but must secure the services of an experienced house-keeper. In vain did Learoyd protest against this plan. The medical man remained firm. The nurse would have to leave in a few days and someone else must take her place. The farmer would not stir a finger to find such a person, so that the responsibility rested with the doctor. But all his inquiries availed little. There was no lack of women suitable for the post, but not one of them would undertake it. The memory of the scene in the market-place held them back.

Then it was that the call came to Mary Whittaker. She must go back to the man that had wronged her. At first the thought struck terror to her heart; all the horror of her ignominy in the market-place came back to her mind and filled her with a loathing sickness. For two days she fought against the promptings of her better nature, but it was a losing battle. At last she broached the subject to her husband. "I mun go back to Learoyd," she said, speaking in those quiet, measured tones which Tom Parfitt had learnt to a.s.sociate with an inflexible will. Her husband gave her a look in which admiration for her courage was at odds with bitter opposition to the proposal.

"Thou sal do nowt o' t' sort," he said, after a moment's pause. "There's no call for thee to go nigh him after all he's done to thee."

"Nay, but he wants me; t' doctor says he mun have somebody to live wi'

him."

"If he wanted thee he'd coom an' seek thee, stubbornly answered Parfitt.

"He'll noan do that. I know Learoyd. He's ower proud to axe a favour thro' anybody, let alone thro' me."

"Then he can dee in his pride. He's gotten shut o' thee for good an'

all, an' trodden thee i' t' muck, t' owd Jezebel."

"Nay, don't call him, Tom. Didn't chapel steward say that he was a changed man sin' he took to goin' to t' chapil?"

This was almost the only serious dispute that had disturbed the even tenor of their married life, and it ended in compromise. Mary was to go to the farm, and if Learoyd needed her she was to stay for a month; at the end of that time she would return home. Her husband's offer to accompany her was declined. Instead, she asked him to pay a visit to the doctor and inform him of her plan. The doctor heartily approved of all that Mary Whittaker had taken upon herself to do; he said he would visit his patient in the morning, and if all were going on well would take away the nurse with him in his brougham. Then, as soon as possible after their departure, Mary was to come to the farm and see Learoyd when he was alone.

It was a bright April morning when Mary Whittaker set out on foot for Fieldhead Farm. There had been rain the night before and the whole sky was full of fleecy c.u.mulus clouds, some of which enclosed large patches of blue sky that looked like tranquil polar seas surrounded by hummocks of frozen snow. Now and again a small cloud, at a lower elevation than the rest, would sail gaily across these blue pools, and then be lost to view against the white clouds on the other side. Larks and chaffinches were everywhere in full song, and the suns.h.i.+ne had brought the honey-bees to the palm-willows which, during the last ten days, had changed their flower-buds from silver to gold. As Mary approached the farm she saw the first swallows of the season darting in tremulous flight across the meadows, and their presence cheered her. They had come back to the farm, like herself, after a period of absence, and a feeling of comrades.h.i.+p with them penetrated to her heart.

She needed all the cheering that the sights and sounds of nature could give her. As she climbed the hill-side and saw the seventeenth-century farm-house, with its mullioned windows and hood-mouldings, her heart sank within her. The cruel memory of the morning when she had last left it came back to her mind, and the hard look of Learoyd, as he disclosed his purpose to her, made her flinch. She closed her eyes for a moment, as though to shut out the past, and then braced herself for the coming interview. Arrived at the front door, which opened directly into the kitchen, she paused for a moment to summon up her courage, then knocked, and, without waiting, lifted the latch. Learoyd, still too weak to attend to farm duties, was seated in the arm-chair by the fire; in his hands was the family Bible, but he was not reading. Mary was shocked at the change which fifteen years had wrought in him. He was not more than sixty, but he looked at least ten years older, and in his eyes there was the look of a hunted animal. The sullen pride, which was the habitual expression of his face in the old days, had given way to a look of morbid irritability. The farmer looked up from his book as she entered, but, failing to recognise her, asked who she was.

"It's Mary," she answered, and advanced towards him.

"Mary!" he exclaimed, and then, realising who Mary was, he shrank from her as though she had been an avenging spirit. The Mary of his dreams, the girl standing in the market-place with a halter round her neck, came back to his mind and deepened the look of terror in his eyes.

"What doesta want wi' me?" he exclaimed, in a harsh whisper.

"I've coom to tak care o' thee," Mary replied.

"Thou's coom to plague me, that's what thou's coom for. I know thee.

I've seen thee o' neights, aye, an' i' t' daytime too; an' if it's revenge thou wants, I tell thee thou's gotten it already, capital an'

interest, interest an' capital."

Mary's swift intuition afforded her an insight into Learoyd's mind. She realised that the fangs of remorse were buried in his heart and she determined to remove them at all costs.

"Father," she said--and it was hard for her to utter the word which even when she was a child had seemed unnatural to her--"let us forget all that's gone afore. Sufferin' has coom to both on us, but it has bin warr for thee nor ever it was for me. Let us start agean."

As she said this she knelt down by the side of his chair and gently stroked his hands and smoothed back the iron-grey locks that had fallen over his eyes. At first he shrank from her touch, but in a little time it soothed his agitation. After all, this was not the Mary Whittaker that he had seen in his dreams, and the soft grey eyes that looked steadily into his face were different from those downcast eyes in the figure of the haltered girl that haunted him.

For some minutes Mary and her stepfather remained in this position, and then the former, after imprinting a kiss on Learoyd's forehead, rose softly to her feet and set to work to prepare the dinner. They partook of their meal almost in silence, and then Mary, fetching his hat and stick, led him out of doors into the spring suns.h.i.+ne, encouraged him to pay a visit to the stables, and talked to him about the labours of the farm. His voice was now more natural when he answered her questions, and the frightened look disappeared from his eyes. That night, when she came into his bedroom, in order to smooth his pillow after he had gone to bed, he held her hand for a moment and said: "Thou's a gooid la.s.s, Mary; if I'd wed a la.s.s like thee I'd hae been a different man."

Mary made no answer, but there were tears in her voice when she wished him good-night.

In the days which followed, Mary Whittaker made new advances in the task of winning Learoyd's confidence and stifling the furies of remorse that had gripped his heart. All her quiet patience was needed, for although her progress was sure, there were times when he lapsed, apparently without reason, into his old mood of suspicion and hostility towards her. The doctor, when he came to the farm, was full of hope. He found the farmer's pulse steadier, and saw in him a greater composure of mind.

Learoyd spent long hours over his Bible, and it seemed at last as though his religious conversion was to be fully accomplished. Conviction of sin had been followed by contrite repentance, and soon, Mary hoped, he would attain that peace of mind which the sinner experiences when he knows that his sins have been forgiven him.

But when Mary had been a fortnight at the farm a sudden change took place in his demeanour. It was early evening and Learoyd was, as usual, reading his Bible. The chapter before him was the twelfth of Romans, and he read the verses quietly to himself until he came to the last but one: "Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head." As he finished the verse he cast a troubled look at his stepdaughter, who was quietly sewing on the other side of the fire. "Coals o' fire," he muttered under his breath, and the old look of terror came back into his eyes. Mary had never learnt to read, but she saw that the Bible, which before had brought him peace of mind, was now driving a sword into his heart. She tried to comfort him, but the farmer shrank from her, as he had done when she first entered his house, and when she came into his bedroom to say good-night, he screamed out in terror and would not let her come near him. That night the vision of the girl with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing in the Holmton market-place, came back to him with all its old haunting power. From the adjoining bedroom Mary heard him groaning and tossing on his pillow, and she felt herself powerless to comfort him. Pity for this tortured soul filled her breast, but it seemed as though all her resources of solace had failed her, and that her mere presence in the house aggravated his suffering.

Next morning, with tears in her eyes, she told the doctor of the change that had come over his patient. The doctor tried his pulse and looked puzzled. He ordered Learoyd a soothing draught, but it had no effect.

All through the day his agony was frightful to witness. He sat with glowering eyes gazing at the verse which had destroyed his peace of mind. Mary tried to take the Bible from him but, with an oath, he refused to give it up. The day was a busy one for her. Learoyd's man-servant had gone with a flock of sheep and lambs to a distant moor, and the duties of feeding the stock and milking the cows fell to her.

The farmer preserved a sullen silence while she was in the house, but no sooner was she outside than his muttering began.

"Coals o' fire, aye, that's what shoo's heapin' on me, coals o' h.e.l.l fire; they're burnin' my heart to a cinder. It's vengeance shoo's after; shoo favours her mother. All women are just t' same. She-devils, that's what they are. Shoo sal have her vengeance, sure enough, an' then mebbe t' coals o' fire will burn her as they're burnin' me." A red-hot cinder fell into the grate as he spoke, and Learoyd gazed at it with curious intentness until it had lost all its glow.

"I'll fotch t' halter out o' t' kist, an' I'll do it," he began once more. "Shoo san't torment me no longer: t' coals o' fire sal be upon her own heead."

Here he lapsed into morose silence, and Mary, re-entering the farm kitchen shortly afterwards, found him, as she had left him, gazing intently into the fire with the Bible open on his knees. She got tea ready, but Learoyd stubbornly refused to eat or drink anything, and when at last ten o'clock came the farmer roused himself from his lethargy and stole off to bed, casting furtive glances at Mary as he pa.s.sed through the door. She wisely refrained from intruding herself upon him that night, but, climbing the stairs to her bedroom, listened for sounds in the adjoining chamber. She could hear Learoyd muttering to himself, and she noticed that he was quicker in getting into bed than usual. A suspicion crossed her mind that he had not undressed, and this confirmed the idea which she had formed earlier in the evening that some secret purpose was maturing in his mind. Sleep was not to be thought of, and so, without taking off her clothes, she got into bed and listened.

Two hours pa.s.sed, and all the time she heard Learoyd groaning in his bed. Then he got up, struck a light, and remained still for a moment as though he were listening for any sound that might come from her room.

Then she heard him open the door of his bedroom and creep, candle in hand, along the pa.s.sage. As he pa.s.sed her door he stopped, and Mary held her breath lest he should discover that she was awake and listening for every sound. Apparently satisfied that she was asleep, the farmer descended the stairs to the kitchen. Mary noiselessly crept out of bed and, lifting the latch of her bedroom door, stood in the shadow of the pa.s.sage and watched every movement of her stepfather in the kitchen below. He had opened the old oak chest by the wall and was fumbling among its contents. At last he found what he was looking for and drew it forth. It was a long rope, and, with a shudder, Mary recognised the halter which had once been round her neck. Her head swam as the thought came to her that Samuel Learoyd was going to sell her again, and groping her way back to her room she locked the door and threw herself on her bed. Anxiously she listened for the farmer's step on the staircase, but it did not come. Instead, she heard him moving about in the kitchen, and then came the sound of the bolts being withdrawn from the front door. A moment later his footsteps were heard on the gravel path. Rousing herself with an effort, she once more unlocked the door and crept to the head of the stairs. Come what may, she resolved to follow her stepfather and discover what were his plans. She made her way down into the kitchen and, without striking a light, moved towards the front door. It was ajar, and, opening it, she stared out into the starry night. All was still, and no sound of Learoyd's footsteps came to her from the farmyard.

Drawing her shawl tightly round her, she stepped out into the darkness.

Once she fancied that she heard the farmer muttering to himself in the croft below and the harrowing thought crossed her mind that this was all some cunning plan on his part to lure her out of the house and slip the halter round her neck under cover of night. Her fears counselled her to return to the house and seek shelter from his mad frenzy behind lock and key, but the thought that Learoyd, if seized with a fit while exposed to the chill night air, would certainly meet his death overcame her fears and urged her on.

After more than two hours of fruitless search she returned to the farm, cheris.h.i.+ng the hope that her stepfather might have returned too. But the house was empty and the door still stood ajar. Realising that further search in the darkness was unavailing, she waited for the dawn and determined that, as soon as the clock struck four, she would wake up the farm labourer at his cottage and get him to search the moors while she made her way down to Holmton to engage her husband and his son in the task of tracking the fugitive. The dreary night pa.s.sed at last, the larks burst into song above her head, and the cry of the curlew was heard on the moors. She closed the farm door behind her, roused the hind, and then made her way as swiftly as possible to the town. Here everybody was still asleep, and her footfalls waked echoes in the stone-paved streets. Her nearest way to the weaver's cottage lay through the market-place, and for a moment she hesitated whether she should pa.s.s that way or take the more circuitous route by the beck-side. Realising that there was no time to lose, she summoned up all her courage, and, making her way past the church, entered the market-place. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, as though to avoid beholding the scene of her humiliation; but the market-cross and the stocks, now that she was within a few yards of them, exerted a strange fascination over her. Do what she might, she could not refrain from gazing upon them once more, and as she did so a cry of horror escaped her. In front of the cross hung the lifeless figure of a man. About his neck was a halter, the other end of which was securely fastened to the broken arms of the cross.

It was Learoyd. The wretched man, tortured by a sense of guilt, and obsessed with the idea that Mary Whittaker's act of sacrifice was a cold-blooded device to shame him and aggravate his misery, had hanged himself, choosing as the scene of his death the spot where, fifteen years before, he had exposed his stepdaughter for sale. In so doing, his warped imagination a.s.sured him that the coals of fire which seared his brain would henceforth be poured upon the head of Mary Whittaker.

Such was the end of Samuel Learoyd. If there was stern retribution in his death so was there also malign mockery. The chalice of pardon and peace was filled for him, but before he could raise the cup to his lips a fiendish hand had dashed it to the ground and subst.i.tuted in its place a draught of venomous hemlock.