CHAPTER V

A Critical Moment

EASTER was occupied at the rectory all the next day, and being satisfied that Chrissie would be taken good care of, she gave little thought to him. It had been a sorrowful harvest-time to her, and her future had never seemed quite so dark as now that her best friend was gone, and her father showed himself altogether irreconcilable. But her trust in God was not shaken. Once, for a few minutes, when there came a short interval of leisure, she stood at a window overlooking the churchyard, where every tombstone was as well-known to her as the faces of her neighbours. Then the blank, dark future presented itself to her, and pressed itself upon her.

There was no chance of remaining where she was, among the old familiar places, surrounded by the sights and sounds which had filled up nearly all her life. Where was she to be tossed to? What resting-place could she find? It was with a strong effort that she turned away from the dreary prospect.

"Take 'no thought for the morrow,'" she said to herself, "'for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'"

Christmas Williams had never been less master of himself than he was all that day after hearing that the old rector was really gone. He had been his clergyman for nearly forty years, and never had an unfriendly word passed between them, unless he could call his remonstrances on behalf of Easter unfriendly. He wished he had not left him in a rage last night. Yet never had his servants seen Christmas so testy and passionate; until at length, he shut himself up in his own little room. A lad who crept timorously to peep through the lowest corner of the lattice casement reported that the master was sitting with his face hidden by his hands, and the big, strongly-bound family Bible before him.

But Christmas was not studying any portion of the printed pages; he had taken it down from the shelf over his old-fashioned desk to pore over the written entries made in his own hand, of Easter's birth on Easter Sunday twenty-eight years before, and of her mother's death the same evening. He had given Easter her last chance, and she had spurned it; it was time to take her name out of the Bible. He had resolved to tear the page out of the book, but he could not destroy the record of his child's birth without destroying that of his wife's death. Which must he sacrifice—his resolve to wreak his resentment against Easter, or his lingering tenderness for the memory of his wife?

The long hours of the day passed by miserably for Christmas Williams. He was irresolute and troubled by vague doubts, such as had never disturbed him before. How could he possibly be in the wrong? For his opinions were those of his father and grandfather before him, and his ways were like their ways. They had never given in to new-fangled notions, to psalm-singing, and meetings for prayer in cottages. It was well-known that they had always been true blue. The old church was good enough and religious enough for them; and they had been loyal to it, never missing to present themselves on a Sunday morning in the churchwarden's pew, and to keep Christmas Day and Good Friday with equal strictness. If God was not pleased with such service, why, nine-tenths of the people he knew, living or dead, were in a bad way. But how could they be in the wrong, those honest, thrifty, steady forefathers of his, whose word was as good as their bond all the country through?

Yet he could not satisfy himself, or silence the still, small voice of conscience. What sin was Easter guilty of? What was her crime that must not be forgiven? She had always been good, and obedient, and true; she had never crossed him until he required her to be false. There was the point, and the sting of it. He prided himself on being true; but he demanded of her to be false; false to herself, false to him, false to God!

Why should not Easter be true to her word, and resolute, as well as himself? The old dying rector had declared that her way was really better than his way. Did he actually believe in God? All these years he had let the words slip glibly over his tongue every Sunday morning, and thought no more of them. Had he verily been true in saying them, or had he been in the habit of standing in the church, before God, with a lie in his mouth?

"Do you believe in God Almighty, and in Jesus Christ?—in God's Holy Spirit, and in the forgiveness of sins?" asked his conscience.

And a still deeper and lower voice gave the mournful answer, "No!"

The afternoon had passed by, and the evening was coming on. Already the sun had sunk low in the sky, and the long shadows fell from the church-tower and the headstones upon the graveyard where his old friend, the rector, would soon be lying quietly, after the sunset of his life's long day. It was an hour when Christmas loved to linger in his garden, strolling slowly along the walks, and watching his flowers grow dim in the darkening twilight. The little river was singing the same tune it sang in his boyhood, and the blackbirds were whistling from the hedges, as if the years had not touched them as they had touched him. For, though he was a strong man yet, his hair was growing grey; and he knew he was going the down-hill path of life to the narrow valley, soft and dim only for some, but of utter blackness to others. The little clouds hastening towards the west gave a sweet promise of a splendid sunset; and Christmas loved to see both sunset and sunrise.

He sauntered leisurely through his orchard, where the commoner fruit was ripening, to the well-fenced-in garden of his delight. There was almost priceless fruit growing there, which he watched with a jealous eye. Not a month ago he had caught a village urchin in his orchard, and, in spite of all entreaties and beseechings, he had shut him up in the crib, and taken him before the magistrate the next morning, and heard him sentenced to three weeks' imprisonment in jail. That offence was committed in his orchard; but to-day, as he drew near to his garden, he could hear a sharp snapping of twigs, and the patter of fruit falling to the ground. He crept cautiously and noiselessly forward, and carefully lifted his head just above the fence. There was a thief, and that thief was Easter's boy, his own grandson!

All the passion of his mingled love and hatred flamed up in Christmas Williams' heart. This merry, ragged, brown-faced, handsome lad was his own flesh and blood, and seemed to have a natural right to be there. He watched Chrissie swing himself down from the tree, and strip off his tattered jacket, and pile up the precious fruit in it. But as the boy caught sight of his grandfather's face, gazing at him over the fence, his heart stood still for very fear, and his knees knocked together. Yet he lifted up his eyes to Christmas with a wistful, speechless prayer in them. Chrissie could not utter a word, to say how the lad just returned from jail had lifted him over the fence, telling him the fruit was all his own, or would be some day. When he met his grandfather's stern frown and awful silence, his little heart died within him.

[Illustration: HE MET HIS GRANDFATHER'S STERN FROWN.]

"Grandfather!" he cried at last, dropping his stolen load, and bursting into tears.

"A thief!" muttered Christmas, between his teeth. It was the first word he had ever spoken to the lad. This boy of Easter's, this grandson of his own, was a petty thief already! He thought of the urchin he had sent to jail a month ago for precisely the same offence. But Chrissie was so like himself when he was a boy! He could recollect plucking the fruit without stint from these very trees, while his grandfather looked on with delight at his dexterity and courage in climbing to the highest boughs, and pointed out to him the ripest pears and rosiest apples. Chrissie ought to be doing the same under his eye, not standing there like a culprit, sobbing and trembling before him. Yet how could he keep his word and make a difference between this lad and the one just out of jail for the self-same thing? Besides, now he could make Easter feel; perhaps bring her to her senses, if anything would do that. She had been reckless of his displeasure so far; this would bring her on her knees before him, ready to yield her will to his.

Without uttering a word to the terrified child, he entered his garden, and seized him by the arm, not roughly, but firmly. He had never touched him before, and his hand, firm as it was, trembled. Chrissie lifted his brown, tearful face to him, and submitted without any attempt at resistance. Silently his grandfather led him along the pleasant garden paths, across the deep lawn, and through the green churchyard, under the window of the room where the dead body of the rector lay, to that dismal and neglected corner, overgrown with nettles and docks, where the crib was built. It was an old, small, strongly-built place, with windows closely barred, and a door thickly studded with iron nails. It looked prepared for the blackest criminals, rather than for the starved and poverty-stricken poachers and the frightened urchins who had been its usual occupants. There was a heavy padlock on the outer door, and this Christmas slowly unlocked, holding his grandson between his arms and knees, as his hands were busy at their task.

"Grandfather," sobbed the boy, "don't let mother know; it 'll break her heart!"

Christmas could not speak a word, for his tongue was dry and parched; but Chrissie walked in through the dark door unbidden. He listened to it being closed and fastened securely behind him. This place had been a terror and dread to him from his earliest days, when he had now and then strayed with baby feet to the moss-grown step, and heard the wind moan through the keyhole of the old lock, which had been in use before the padlock. He stepped over the threshold with the courage of despair. No hope of softening the heart of his grandfather entered his own, and he made no effort to do it. If only his mother might not know!

At present there was still a little daylight, and through the close cross-bars of the window he could see the crimson and golden cloudlets hovering over the setting sun. He looked away from them with dazzled eyes to examine shudderingly the interior of his prison. It was gloomy enough; the only furniture was a low stone bench, but at one end of the bench a chain was fastened to a ring in the wall, and handcuffs and fetters were attached to the chain. He was almost glad to think that his grandfather had not chained him to that ring in the wall. Sitting down on the stone bench, Chrissie looked up again at the gradually dying colours in the sky, not caring to turn away his eyes from them, as they faded softly away into a quiet grey, which scarcely shed a gleam of light into his dismal cell.

Chrissie's courage had held out fairly; but as the darkness gathered, his imagination awoke, and called up all the sleeping, lurking fancies which dwell in every child's young brain. They had been only biding their time, and now trooped out in crowds to haunt the lonely lad. All the stories he had ever heard of people being imprisoned for many, many years, and even starved to death, hurried through his excited mind. There had been a tale told for generations in the village of a man who had killed himself in this very place. And were there not outside the wall, amidst the docks and nettles, the forsaken graves of people too wicked to lie even in death among their better neighbours? Every one dreaded being buried there. Was it true that ghosts of wicked people could not rest in their graves, but came forth at night to visit the places they had once dwelt in, and to tell fearful secrets to those they found alone? How fast the night was coming on, and he was quite alone!

Nobody knew where he was, thought poor little Chrissie; nobody but his grandfather, who hated him. He could not climb as high as the window, barred as it was, to show himself through it. He was sorry almost that he had asked that his mother might not know. She would never, never know what had become of him, and he fancied he could see her weeping for him through long years. For he felt certain he should die in this dreary prison, and his grandfather would bury him secretly at night, amid the wicked people who lay under the docks and nettles.

The church clock struck ten. It was quite dark by this time, except for the pale, ghostly gleam of the strip of sky seen through the bars of the window. The child passed through long ages of pain and terror before it struck eleven. The dreadful hour of midnight came creeping on towards him. He had never yet been awake at twelve; and twelve at night was the most awful and ghostly hour of all the twenty-four. What would happen then he could not guess; but something beyond all words, and beyond all thought.

Chrissie could not ask God to take care of him; for had he not been taken in the very act of breaking God's commandments? There was no one, therefore, to stand between him and the unknown horrors that were coming nearer every moment. There was no refuge, no Saviour for him. He had offended God.

A strange sound somewhere in the prison jarred upon his ear, and with a scream of terror, which rang shrilly out into the quiet night, Chrissie lost his senses, and fell like one dead on the stone floor.