The Man Who Rose Again

"Not that you be anything like en," assured Mrs. Pethick. "Aw, my deear, 'ee was as pale as a ghost, and as thin as a coot, 'ee was. Not but wot 'ee was a fine 'an'some gen'leman, for oal that. 'Twas, lev me zee, six years agone this last spring. Aw, 'ee ded talk funny, he ded. He zed 'ee loved the devil, 'ee ded, and towld me 'ow the devil tempted un to go to Crazzick pool, and sink, and sink, and sink, and thus find paice."

"And what did you say to him?"

"I towld un that 'ee'd never find no paice that way. Ther's no paice 'cept in the dear Lord. I'm sorry you be'ant a perfessin' Christian, sur."

It did not seem strange to Leicester that she should talk in this way. It seemed natural to her. Besides, in the rural parts of Cornwall and Devonshire, religion is the main topic of conversation among those who love the little roadside chapels.

"Well, as I was a-sayin'," she went on, "this gen'l'man ded zay funny things. He zed 'ee'd nuther father, nor mawther, nor wife, nor sweetheart, and that he ded'n care nothin' 'bout livin'. And then all ov a sudden he axed me wot I wud do ef I wos in his plaace."

"And what did you tell him?" asked Leicester.

"I towld 'im that he must seek the Lord, and fight the devil. Ther's no other way fer et, sur."

"And did he, do you think?"

"I'm feard not, sur. For afterwards it comed to me who he was. I d' believe he was the gen'leman who tried to git into Parliament for Taviton. I s'pose 'ee wos a awful character. He decaived 'is young laady, he was a ter'ble drunkard, and then afterwards, he thrawed hisself in the revver up to London. 'Twa'sn' he that ded conquer the devil, but the devil conquered he. Ah well, the poor thing es ded now ef 'twas 'ee; 'tes a sad pity."

"And do you believe if he'd sought the Lord, as you call it, that he would have conquered the devil?"

"I doan't believe, sur, I'm sure."

Again Leicester became interested in the country-woman's simple talk. There was such a ring of sincerity in her voice, that he could not but be respectful.

"Mrs. Pethick," he said, "I've been in many countries, and known many religions, but I don't find that the devil is easily killed."

"The Lord Jesus can do et, sur."

"How do you know?"

"Knaw, sur! I do knaw the difference in my heart before I was converted, and after. Besides, there was Aaron Goudge; you doan't know Aaron Goudge, I s'poase?"

"No, I don't know him."

"Well, ef you do look out of the winder you can zee his 'ouse. Aaron was a ter'ble character, 'ee was. He killed his wife, 'ee ded. Ah, poor critter, she ded live a life! Not as you may say oal to wance he ded'n kill her, but little by little. She jist faaded away, she ded. Aaron was a poacher too, and used to stail things. He was allays a-gittin' drunk and fightin'. He was a terror to the parish, he was. Aw, many es the time I've talked to un, bit 'twas oal no use. Grace ded'n tich his heart, so to spaik. Then after his poor wife died, his maid got into trouble, and ef there wos wawn thing in life Aaron cared 'bout, 'twas this maid, and the man that ruined her was Bill Liddicoat, Squire Hendy's gamekeeper. Nothin' could be proved 'gin un, and then, to maake matters wuss, Bill Liddicoat catched Aaron poachin', and he wos put to gaol. When Aaron comed out ov gaol, I spoke to un, and tried to do un good. 'Mrs. Pethick,' ses 'ee, 'I've sould myself to the devil to do fer Bill Liddicoat. I've offered un my soul, ef 'ee'll 'elp me, and 'ee've promised to. And I tell 'ee what, I'll never rest till I've paid out Bill Liddicoat, ef I've got to swing fer it, and ef I've got to go to hell for it, I'll be square with un.' 'But what good'll that do 'ee?' ses I. ''Tes oal I've got to live fer now,' ses 'ee, 'and I b'leeve I cud be 'appy ef I cud pay en out. And I will too, by God, I will!' I tried to raison weth un, but 'twas no use. You cud zee murder in 'is eyes, as he walked the roads. Then wawn mornin', we 'eard 'ow Bill Liddicoat was vound up in Ternouth woods in a pool of blood. He wad'n dead, but the doctors ded'n give much 'ope ov his life. Aaron was tooked up, and tried, but nothin' could be proved agin him. He proved wot is called a allyby – that es, he made out that he was zum plaace else that very night."

Leicester listened eagerly to the story.

"And was he ever found out?" he asked.

"No, as you may zay he wos never vound out. But aw, my deear, wot a way 'ee wos in. You never seed such a ghastly faace as 'ee 'ad. Ef ever the devil 'aunted a man, it was Aaron. He went as thin and pale as a ghoast. In a way he 'ad 'is rights in payin' out Bill Liddicoat, but he suffered the torments of the lost. He wudden tell nothin' and nothin' cud be proved agin un, but 'ee wos the most miserable man that ever walked the earth. Wawn day I spoked to un, but 'ee wudden zay nothin,' but 'The devil's a 'ard maaster, Mrs. Pethick.' I axed un to come to chapel, but he wudden come. Night after night I wrastled in prayer fur un, but 'ee wad'n altered. He jist went round like a man weth a 'alter round 'is neck. I've been the class laider up to the Bible Christian Chapel for a long time, and one night we zed as 'ow we would agree to pray fer Aaron, and we ded. For two weeks we prayed, and then wawn Sunday night Aaron comed to chapel. The praicher ded'n come that night, so we turned the sarvice into a prayer-meetin'. Oa, Aaron was convicted of sin, but 'ee wudden yield for a long while; but after a time he got 'pon his knees, and began to cry, 'God be merciful to me, a sinner.' But he ded'n git no liberty. 'Wy caan't I git paice?' he cried. So I said, 'Ef we repent ov our sins, He is faithful and just to fergive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' 'Wot do 'ee main by repent?' ses 'ee. 'Be sorry fer all the wrong you've done,' I sed; 'make yer paice with man and God, and fergive everybody, and then trust in the mercy of the Lord for salvation.' 'Wot! fergive Bill Liddicoat?' he zed; 'never!' 'But you've paid un out,' I zed; 'surely you can fergive un now.' ''Ow do you knaw I've paid un out?' he asked. 'The Lord tould me,' I said. For a long time he was hardened, then he said, 'Lord, ef You'll fergive me, I'll fergive Bill Liddicoat.' And still 'ee ded'n git no paice. At this my faith was a bit shaken; then it comed to me that I hadn't quoted the Scripture right, so I repeated et agean. 'Ef we confess our sins,' I sed. 'Confess wot?' ses 'ee. 'Confess wot you've done to Bill Liddicoat, and ax un to forgive 'ee,' I sed. 'Wot, ax Bill Liddicoat to forgive me?' he said; 'wot, 'ee that 'ave ruined my little maid? I'll burn in hell first.' 'If ye fergive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive your trespasses,' I said. 'Is that in the Bible?' ses 'ee. 'Our dear Lord said it Himself,' I replied. Oh, the struggle was terrible. 'I've bin in hell for weeks,' ses 'ee, 'ever since I tried to kill Bill. I thought ef I 'ad my revenge I should be 'appy, but I was in hell.' Then oal of a sudden he cried out, 'Lord, ef You'll give paice, ef You'll make a new man ov me, I'll do wotever You want me to. I'll forgive Bill Liddicoat, I'll ax un to forgive me, I'll confess that I tried to kill un. 'Tes ter'ble 'ard, but I'll do et.'"

Mrs. Pethick stopped in her recital, and looked at the eager face of the man who was watching her.

"Would you believe et, sur, his faace changed in a moment. He seemed to become like a little child. Then he got on his feet, and praised the Lord. That was five years agone, and Aaron Goudge is a local preacher now, and the happiest man in the parish. As for Bill Liddicoat, well, sur, he got better, and now Aaron's maid is his wife. Tha's wot the dear Lord Jesus can do fer a man, sur."

Leicester made no reply. He tried to think of something mocking to say, but the words would not come. It seemed to be impossible to call up a sneer in the face of the woman's simple faith.

"Plaise forgive me, sur, for talkin' like this. But I was prayin' when I heerd you knock; besides, in a way you do make me think of the poor gen'l'man that comed 'ere years agone, and wot throwed 'isself into the revver afterwards. As I sed to 'ee, ef we doan't conquer the devil, 'ee'll conquer we. You be'ant offended, be 'ee, sur?"

"Offended? Certainly not." He tried to laugh, but somehow the laugh died on his lips. "But you see, it's – it's a long time since I heard any one talk like this."

"Es et, sur? Ah, but the dear Loard Jesus es oal I've got to live for now. Four years ago my 'usband died, and then my boy was killed in the war. I felt 'ard and bitter for a little time. But 'tes oal right, I shall meet them again. They will not come to me, but I shall go to them."

Leicester rose to his feet, and looked for his hat.

"You wa'ant 'ave another cup of tay, sur?"

"No, thank you."

"You'll forgive an old woman, sur, and I knaw I'm very bould in spaikin' to 'ee, and I'm fast baitin' on for sixty, but you do'ant look 'appy, sur. I'm tould sometimes that I talk too much 'bout the Lord Jesus, but He's all I've got now, and d'reckly you comed into the 'ouse, I had a feelin' that you wad'n 'appy. Be 'ee, sur?"

"No, great God, no," and Leicester seized his hat as though he were angry.

"Then you do'ant mind an old woman prayin' for 'ee, do 'ee, sur?"

"Yes, pray for me, I need it," he said. "Thank you very much for the tea, and, by the way, I want you to give something for me to your chapel."

He gave her a sovereign, and walked away. A few minutes later he was out on the moors again.

CHAPTER XXIX

GOD AND THE MAN

When he reached the top of the hill he drew a long, deep breath. Away on every hand stretched the fine, undulating country – patches of wood, homely farmsteads, well-cultivated fields, and broad stretches of moorland. It was a day to rejoice in, it was a scene to revel in; but Leicester did not rejoice. And yet he had gained that for which he had struggled. Olive Castlemaine had promised to be his wife, and thus he would be able to wreak the vengeance over which he had brooded. Last night the thought had brought him a cruel, savage joy; that morning even he had gloated over the thought of his revenge; but now all was different. Suppose he had his way, suppose he played the game he was playing to the bitter end, what would be the good of it all? He would have fulfilled his vow; but somehow it seemed mean, paltry, unworthy. Besides, his scheme was of a devilish nature. It was savagery, coated with the veneer of civilisation. Murder would be far more merciful.

"That woman knows a secret to which I am a stranger," he said as he looked down on the lonely farmhouse. "Of course I could explain away all she said, and I could laugh at her childish superstition, but she possesses something which is hidden from me. And she was right, too. What is a man the better for revenge? When one has had his eye for an eye, when he has given measure for measure of scorn and disgrace, who's the better? Suppose I have my way and – do what I said, what then? Suppose, when I have worked my will, I go away, leaving only desolation and disgrace behind, should I be any happier? No, I should still be in hell!"

He strode along like a man in anger.

"I felt that I was Radford Leicester again when she kissed me last night," he went on. "I was at The Beeches again, and for a minute I was in heaven – yes, in heaven. I was the lover once more, and, great heaven, how sweet it was to love!"

A new light came into his eyes, and he looked more like the Leicester of old, Leicester at his best. For a moment dark passions were dispelled by something higher, purer; the sunshine of joy rested upon him, but only for a moment.

"No," he cried, "that's all gone. I'll see the thing through to the end. Besides, it is not I whom she loves. It is a rich foreigner, a partner in the Great Tripoli Company, a Signor Ricordo, a man with an Italian father and a Moorish mother. Radford Leicester is nothing to her; she said so. She declared she could never marry him; ay, and in spite of her promise to him, she is willing to marry Ricordo. A woman's promise! Byron was right, in spite of all canting moralists. A woman's fidelity is like thistledown, and her promises are written in the sands.

"I wonder why that woman is so happy?" he went on presently. "A lonely widow, she has lost her husband, and her son was killed in the war, and yet she is happy. Her faith is strong, she has no fear. Of course she's simple, and she's ignorant; but if she's happy – great God, what does all our learning amount to? What is the value of all this culture of which we boast? She might have known all about me in telling that story of Aaron Goudge, for, after all, the motives of that sullen blackguard were quite as high as mine. Liddicoat wronged him and he tried to murder him. Olive Castlemaine wronged me, and I have brooded over something which is really worse than murder. He had his way, and then lived in torments; and supposing I have my way, what shall I be the better? Oh, what a bitter mockery life is!"

He strode along the valley which he had entered, and then, climbing the hill before him, came upon a long stretch of waste land.

"She told me she loved me," he went on; "told me that, in spite of struggle, her heart went out to me; told me, that while she feared me, she was never happy unless I was near; ay, and she told me, that although her promise never to marry seemed binding when she thought of others, it seemed to become less and less real when she thought of me. Well, why can't I be happy? Why can't I keep up my character, and live in happiness with her? She loves me, and I – no, I don't – I hate her still – yes, I hate her more than ever!"

But evidently he was not satisfied. The simple farmwoman had started him off on a new train of thought.

"'Nothing is ever worth doing wrong for; it never was, and it never will be.' Who said that? It's true after all. We may sneer at right and wrong, we may say that right and wrong alter with different peoples, different countries, but they remain; yes, and right is heaven, and wrong is hell. And I know enough of life to have learnt that hate means black night. The joy of it is devil's joy, only to turn to bitterness and gall. What is revenge, after all, but going to hell yourself in order to drag some one else there? And that's what I've been thinking of. But if I don't, what then? Let me think of that now; but no, I won't. I'm not one who vows to do a thing, and then throws it over lightly."

The sun began to lower, and the air grew cooler. The sweet, fresh air of the moors fanned his brow, and it seemed to bring healthier thoughts to him.

"Winfield refused to stay with me as my guest, when he knew what was in my heart," he said, "and Winfield does not profess to be a saint; he's only just a clean-minded, honest fellow. Was he right, I wonder? Why, after all, can't I be happy? Let me think now; yes, I will think it out. Suppose I give up my scheme of revenge; suppose I go away and leave my plans unrealised. Not that I am going to do it; but suppose, for the sake of argument, that I did, what then? I should never see her again, and she would think of me as an Eastern adventurer who proposed to her, and then was obliged to leave the neighbourhood because he feared the law or something of that sort. Never see her again!"