Chapter 7

A MOMENTOUS DECISION.

The rector walked home through the starlight night with a thankful heart. It was possibly his sanguine temperament, backed by his strong faith in the Christ Who must reign until He had brought all to His Feet, that gave him such large success in his work; and against the background of this day two special subjects for thanksgiving stood out in strong relief: first, that he had received positive proof that he possessed the confidence of the majority of his parishioners; and secondly, that an accident--a deliverance from what might have been a horrible death--had given him an insight into the deeper side of May Webster's character. That she had this deeper side he had been fully assured, but hitherto he had been powerless to touch it.

To-night, however, she had appealed to him to give expression to the gratitude which she felt to God. For a moment the spiritual life that was in her had touched his, and he trusted that the foundation of a deeper, truer, more lasting friendship had been laid--a friendship that might enable him, possibly, to give May Webster a helping hand on her road to Heaven.

Mr. Curzon was not one of those who believe that a clergyman's mission is fulfilled by looking after the poor who are committed to his care. He had seen enough of society to realize both its fascination and its special temptations; and the well-to-do members of his flock were as frequently included in his prayers as the poor, the afflicted, the sick, or the unhappy.

It was of May and her needs that his heart was full as he turned from the drive into the road, but as he did so he stumbled against a man's figure propped against the gate-post. The man lurched heavily forward, and would have fallen had not Mr. Curzon caught him in his arms, peering at the same time into his face to see who it might be.

"Tom! Tom Burney! Poor lad," he exclaimed, with a heavy sigh, for the mere touch of the inert body showed that Tom was not overcome by illness but by drink.

"Tom!" said the rector, giving him a slight shake of the shoulders, "rouse yourself, and get home to bed. To-morrow we will talk this over, but you are in no fit state to listen to-night."

The familiar voice roused the muddled brain to some sense of shame, and instinctively Tom's hand was raised to his cap.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but I won't go home; same roof shan't cover that beast Dixon and me!"

The words reminded Mr. Curzon that Dixon, Burney, and several other men employed at the Court were lodged in rooms over the coach-house and stables; evidently Tom and Dixon had quarrelled.

"That's sheer nonsense!" he answered sharply. "I'm not going to leave you out here all night, for the sake of your own character. If you won't go without me, I shall take you."

Tom made some show of sullen resistance, but a sober man always has the advantage over a tipsy one; and Mr. Curzon was physically so strong that, drunk as Tom was, he knew he could enforce obedience. Once more, therefore, the rector had to retrace his steps, and half supported, half led, he presently landed Tom Burney in the stable-yard of the Court. A light burning in one of the upper windows showed him that somebody was still awake, and a whistle readily attracted the attention of the occupant. The window was thrown wide and a head thrust out into the night.

"So it's you, is it?" said a voice, that the rector recognized as Dixon's. "It would serve you right to keep you out there all night."

"You hound! you mean hound!" hiccoughed Tom, trying to wrest himself from the strong restraining hand laid upon his collar. "If only I can get at you, I'll----"

The threat was nipped in the bud by the rector. "Is that you, Dixon?" he asked, in a low, authoritative tones. "Just come down and open the door, please. I found Burney like this, and brought him home; and keep out of sight, will you? I've no intention of being landed in a quarrel."

There was a smothered exclamation of surprise, the window was closed, and, in another moment, the lower door was thrown wide to admit the rector and his charge. By a rapid signal Mr. Curzon directed Dixon to conceal himself in an angle of the staircase, whilst he gave Tom a helping hand up the staircase to the room which Dixon indicated with a nod. Once safely inside, he placed him on the bed and came away, closing the door behind him.

"He won't come out again to-night, I think," he said to Dixon, who followed him to the door.

"Oh no, sir; I'll see to that," replied the man, with a rather unpleasant smile. "I'll turn the key on him, and unlock the door again before he wakes in the morning. I'm sorry you've had all this trouble. I tried my best to get him to come along quietly with me, but I had to leave him to himself at last; he was so desperate quarrelsome. He's a quick temper at any time, and he's just mad when he's drunk."

"Which has not been very often, I think," interposed the rector. "But in the last few months, I fear he has fallen into bad company. Good night, Dixon."

"We shan't hear the end of this in a hurry. What business has he prowling about the place at this time of night, I should like to know?" grumbled Dixon aloud, as he closed the door. "Bad company, indeed! He'll see for himself that I'm not drunk, whatever that fool Tom may be."

Meanwhile the rector pursued his way home in less joyful mood than before he had stumbled across poor Tom Burney; he was sorely troubled about him as, for a long time, he had been one of the most promising young fellows in the place. He let himself quietly into the rectory, shading the light with his hand as he passed the door of Kitty's room; but a half-stifled cry of "Daddy!" arrested his steps. He pushed open the door and entered, crossing with swift, light tread to her bedside. The frightened look in the child's eyes died away as she looked into the smiling face.

"What does my little Kitty mean by lying awake to this hour?"

"I've been frightened, daddy. I lay awake on purpose, at first, because you promised to come and kiss me when you came home after the meeting."

"Oh, I shan't promise that any more if it keeps you awake. Well!"

"And then I heard Mr. Paul's voice down in the hall, and I thought he said something about fire. But Nurse said I was silly, and must go to sleep; but I couldn't till I knew you were safe."

"What from, little one?"

"The fire," said Kitty, with a suppressed sob. "I thought you might be burned, and nobody would tell me."

"Well, that was very silly, certainly," said her father, with a little laugh that had a singularly reassuring effect upon Kitty.

"And I tried to think of the three men with long names that the fire did not hurt; but it did not do me a bit of good, daddy."

"Because you forgot about the fourth one who stood by them, even in the fire, whose form was like the Son of God," said the rector, gently. "And He was close by you, Kitty, although you were so frightened--by you, and me too. There! think of that and go to sleep now."

But though Mr. Curzon spoke so cheerfully, there were tears in his eyes as he kissed his little daughter and tucked her into bed with strong, gentle hands.

"Poor little soul! She's bound to suffer, with her crippled body and over-sensitive brain," he thought.

The next morning at breakfast he told Kitty the story of the previous evening, quite simply, without any terrifying details.

"I should think Mr. Paul is very brave--almost as brave as you are, daddy," said Kitty, whose terror seemed to have vanished into thin air with the light of day.

"Much braver, I expect," agreed her father, good-humouredly. "But I wonder why you think so!"

"Oh, Sally has told me lots of things. How he killed a mad dog, and nursed a man with smallpox, and knocked down a costermonger for kicking his pony. That was brave, wasn't it?" said Kitty, who clearly regarded the last item as the crowning act of bravery.

"Well, it was speedy punishment, certainly," answered her father, laughing. "But since you admire bravery so much, you'll have to learn a little more about it yourself; and not lie awake every time I'm kept out late at night. A clergyman's work is like a doctor's--never done, you know."

The word doctor gave Kitty an opportunity of rapidly changing the subject.

"What's a stroke, father? What's good for it?"

"A 'stroke' generally means paralysis, in some form or other, which affects people's limbs--often making them useless."

"Like my legs?" asked Kitty, quickly.

Her father winced palpably. "Not just like that, darling; I wonder what you are thinking of?"

"Mr. Allison's mother. She's very old and very deaf; and now she's had a stroke. I heard some one tell Nurse so; and, of course, I must go and ask about her when I go out; but I can't tell what to take her."

"I should think beef-tea will be the kind of thing she needs. Nurse can say we will make her some if you like," said the rector, who always humoured Kitty's fancy for taking sick people especially under her wing.

The day was a full one, and it was late in the afternoon before he found himself rapping at the door of the house which adjoined the forge.

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Allison, in answer to his inquiry about her mother-in-law; "she's a bit tired to-day, though going on as well as we could hope. She's had a visitor this afternoon," with a glance round at the chimney-corner from which Sally Lessing's tall, girlish figure emerged rather shyly; "and if you did not mind looking in rather earlier to-morrow she'd be ready to see you."

"Very good," said the rector. "If you'll name the time, I'll be here. Miss Lessing, our way home lies in the same direction. Shall we walk together?"

No excuse presented itself for refusing Mr. Curzon's offer, though a _tête-à-tête_ with the rector was not much to her taste--especially as her brother was a little sore about his last night's defeat.

"How are you taking to the life down here? Do you like it?" he asked, as they started off together.

"I don't quite know," Sally said with a frank smile. "At first it was delightful--a new experience,--but the novelty is wearing off. And Paul said this morning that we were both of us fish out of water; that he must stay here, at any rate for the present, but that I might please myself."

"And what particular pond do you want to swim in?"

"London. And that's not to be described as a pond, is it? but rather a great, strong river. You see, down here, there is literally nothing to do."

"Plenty, if you choose to do it," replied Mr. Curzon, quietly.

Sally shook her head. "You would only want workers of your own way of thinking."

"I should prefer them, certainly; if by _my_ way of thinking you mean the Church to which I belong--to which you belong also, I expect."

"Only by name. I was baptized, but I've not been brought up on church lines. I've been allowed to think for myself, and judge the truth for myself. Paul says that that is the only truth worth believing."

"It still leaves you finally dependent on other people's judgment, does it not? In your case, I should say, your views unconsciously are moulded entirely by your brother."

"But it is so with every one more or less!" retorted Sally, quickly. "You've got your ideas, either from the people who have influenced you the most, or the books you have read."

"Quite so. The books that have influenced me most largely are those contained in the Bible; but the only person upon whose judgment and character I find I can wholly rely, is the Lord Himself. An old-fashioned belief, you will say, but I find it practically true."

"But Paul says the only facts based on history in the Gospels are that Christ lived and died a martyr to his opinions," said Sally.

"So many men say nowadays. If so, it is curious that faith in the Name of a Jew who died nearly two thousand years ago, is still able to work moral miracles in hundreds and thousands of lives in the present day; that men and women, tied and bound with the chain of their sins, looking to Him and asking help, can rise and walk in the glorious liberty of the sons of God. When I see that, as, thank God, I have seen it, I feel I have a reason for the faith that is in me, that Jesus is, as He claims to be, the Son of God; that it was no idle boast on His part that He would give His Spirit to those that seek it."

Sally caught her breath. There was no doubting the sincerity of the speaker, but the very simplicity of the teaching was an argument against accepting it.

"Well, of course, you as a clergyman have to do with people's morals," she said hurriedly; "but the bodily wretchedness and misery of hundreds and thousands of people in London and other big places appeals more to me. I feel it's not a bit of good telling them to be good in this world, and they will be happy in the next, whilst they have bad houses to live in, and bad food to eat, and insufficient wages, and never a ray of brightness in their lives. To stay down here and potter about amongst a few children and sick people seems such a small thing to do, when one might help to set any one of these great wrongs right."

She pulled herself up, and broke into a peal of laughter.

"I'm talking of things that I dare say you will think I don't understand," she said; "but Paul has interested me in them, and I had thought, if I went on studying, I might some day work and speak about them. Lots of women do."

"And why not? One of the best speakers I ever heard was a woman."

"I thought you would be sure to hate the notion."

"Why should I, unless----"

"Unless what?"

"You should speak any word against the Master whom I serve," said the rector. "On philanthropic subjects I could go with you heart and soul."

"I would not speak on a subject of which I know nothing," said Sally, eagerly. "I've told you that I am only a seeker after truth, picking up a scrap here and there as I can find it."

"And you will reach the truth after a time," said Mr. Curzon, holding out his hand, "if you are ready to acknowledge a Power higher than yourself, to Whom you may safely appeal to guide you to all truth. Without that, you will grope along in the darkness."

Before Sally could answer he had gone. Was there such a power she wondered? What rest and comfort such a conviction would bring with it. She made no mention of her talk to the rector to Paul when he came in; she shrank from his glib criticism of Mr. Curzon's simple declaration of faith.

As Mr. Curzon walked home he caught sight of Tom Burney leaning over a gate with his back turned towards the road. The very poise of his head, and droop of his shoulders, showed depression of body and mind; and with intuitive sympathy Mr. Curzon stopped and laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

"The very man I was wanting!" he said cheerily. "I thought you would be sure to come and see me to-night."

For a moment Tom's dark, handsome eyes sought his; then dropped for very shame.

"No, I wasn't," he said bluntly. "But I'm glad to have the chance of telling you that I've got the sack for what happened last night. Dixon took good care to report me; and I'm to leave at the end of this week."

"What is your quarrel with Dixon?"

There was a long pause. "We're after the same girl," said Tom, a little huskily; "and he don't care what he does as long as he can get me out of the way. He made me drunk last night."

"Oh no," replied Mr. Curzon, shortly; "you made yourself drunk. Tell the truth about it, Tom."

"Well, I'll tell you straight what happened. We were all in the public together----"

"You went there of your own free will, I suppose?"

"Yes. I've been there plenty of times before, and never had a drop too much," said Tom, rather resentfully, "and I was just going away last night, when Dixon offered me another glass; and Allison laughed and said, 'Don't you take it, young 'un; head ain't strong and temper too short.' And I told him I could drink against any man if I chose, and keep my wits about me too; and Dixon said he'd stand treat, and see whose head would last the longest, mine or Allison's----"

"With the result that I found you how and when I did, and you've lost your place into the bargain. Truly the wages of sin are hard," commented Mr. Curzon; "but I'm ready to help you, Tom, if you are willing to help yourself, for I think, to a certain extent, you've been hardly done by. If you are sorry for what has happened, and really wish to turn over a new leaf, and make yourself worthy of the girl you love, you'll take my advice and sign the pledge. If you see your way to doing this, I know of a situation that I could offer you; if not, I strongly advise you to go away altogether."

"And leave the field clear for Dixon? I'll never do it!" said Tom, fiercely. "And what would he call me but a coward if I signed the pledge, just because I've been beastly drunk once in my life? There's no reason why I should do it again."

"That you will do it again is an absolute certainty; and with your hot temper and the rivalry that exists between you and Dixon, there will be serious mischief if you allow drink to get the upper hand. The place I offer you is that of gardener at the rectory. Old Plumptree is retiring on a pension; he's too old to do the work any longer. But I tell you frankly that I dare not undertake the responsibility of keeping you here unless I feel that you are determined, God helping you, to make a better start. You need not decide in a hurry; you can call to-morrow evening and let me know about it. Until then I will keep the situation open for you."

It was on the tip of Tom's tongue to tell the rector that he needed no time for consideration, that he readily accepted the required condition, and should be thankful for the situation that he offered, when, as ill-luck would have it, Dixon passed by on a swift-trotting horse, and turned upon Tom with a mocking smile.

"He thinks I'm catching it," thought poor Tom; "but I'll let him know better."

"It's not that I'm ungrateful, sir, for your kindness last night, but my mind's pretty well made up now. I can't face Dixon and Allison, and all the lot of 'em calling me a fool who can't take his glass without getting drunk; I'll show 'em different. But I'll promise you this: it's the first time as any one of em, sneaks as they are, could tell you that I'd been drunk, and it's the last too! You shall hear no more of it."

"And it's a promise that I tell you honestly you'll not keep," answered Mr. Curzon, sadly. "But you'll think it over; you won't decide until to-morrow."

"Yes, sir; I've made up my mind, thank you kindly all the same," said Tom. "It's a thing I must settle for myself."

"Good night, then; I've nothing more to say except that at any time if you are in trouble I shall be glad to see you. I don't wish you to think that this difference of opinion need separate us; although, remember, I feel sure that I am right and you wrong."

The next morning, when Paul Lessing started for his walk, Tom Burney stood waiting at the gate.

"Beg your pardon, sir," he said, touching his hat; "but I want to know if you can give me work?"

Paul turned to the speaker with dawning recognition in his glance.

"Why, aren't you the fellow who gave me a lift for nothing the first evening I came into the place."

"Yes, sir; I've often thought on it since. I shouldn't have spoke so free if I'd known who I was talking to."

"Why not?" said Paul, smiling pleasantly. "You sent me to the proper person to find me a lodging, at any rate; and you certainly spoke no harm of any one. I thought you told me you worked at the Court.

"So I did, sir; but I'm leaving there on Saturday."

"Of your own free will?"

"Not exactly; I got notice because I came home drunk one night."

"Is that your habit, may I ask? It's a bad one."

"No, sir, it's not," said Tom, lifting fearless eyes. "It was the first time."

"Let it be the last, then. What kind of work can you do?"

"I've been in the garden; but I know something about horses."

"Well, I'm going to take the management of the home farm that lies near the Court, into my own hands, and I think I can find you work amongst the horses. I'll see the bailiff about it, and you can call on Saturday night, when we will settle the question of wages."

Tom's heart gave a joyful throb! A place on the farm close to the Court would give him opportunities of many a stolen interview with Rose; and if he showed himself willing and ready to do the thing that came to his hand, he might rise to the position of bailiff before very long, and find himself able to give his Rose as pretty a home as she could wish for.

"I won't forget your kindness, nor how you're ready to take me without a character. I'll serve you honest and true," he said.

"It is only one more example of the capriciousness of rich people," said Paul, as he told the tale to Sally later in the day. "Here was this poor fellow dismissed without a character for what I honestly believe was a first offence. I'm glad to give him a helping hand."

But Paul was judging hastily; Tom Burney had received notice from the gardener, who had not thought it worth while to consult Mrs. Webster about the matter.