The Son of His Father. Mrs. Oliphant
by the lantern which threw a gleam along the road and showed them the irregularities in it, which indeed they both knew very well, avoiding by instinct the bit of broken causeway before the schoolhouse, and the heap of crates and packages that were always to be found in front of the shop. The darkness of the village was not like the modified darkness to which dwellers in towns are accustomed. It was a blackness which could be felt; without any relief. But then both of these people knew every step of the way. The drawback of the darkness, however, was that one could not see who might be listening, and had, therefore, no guidance to tone one’s voice or change the subject when there were people passing by, to whom one did not care to confess all one’s thoughts. This, however, very little affected John and the curate, who knew everybody, and had nothing in the world to conceal.
‘I’m very glad, John,’ said the curate, as they trudged along, speaking a little louder than usual because of the night; for it was so heavy and depressing that it seemed to require more cheer than usual in the human voices, ‘very glad that your grandfather and grandmother take it so well. It’s a very fine profession, the best you can have.’
‘Yes, that is just what I think,’ said John, ‘it’s not a mere trade to make one’s living by. It means more than that.’
‘Yes, a great deal; but, all the same, a sure trade to make one’s living by is something. You must not be contemptuous——’
‘I, sir!’ said John. ‘I hope I’m not contemptuous of anything; but if you can make your living and do something for your fellow-creatures at the same time—like yourself,’ the boy said, lowering his voice, ‘though not in such a fine way——’
‘Ah, my boy,’ said the curate, in a tone which implied that he was shaking his head ‘when you’re older even you, perhaps, won’t think so much of my way of serving my fellow-creatures. It is not very much one can do. If I were in the East-End of London, perhaps, or on a mission—but never mind about that. You must remember that building lighthouses is the heroic part, but learning to survey and to calculate, or having to work at machinery, as you would do if you went to my brother——’
‘I’d like the one for the sake of the other,’ said John.
‘But you might never, perhaps, get to the other. You may have to grind for years at the mechanical part. You must not form too high expectations. We all have our dreams of lighthouses—and then, perhaps, never get any further than to make a bit of railway or to look after the fall of the water in a lock.’
‘You always say,’ cried the boy, ‘that a firm resolution is half the battle.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said the curate, and once more there was that in his voice which sounded as if he were shaking his head. ‘Ah, yes,’ he went on, with a laugh, ‘that’s the greatest part of the battle. I never said a wiser thing (if I said it) than that. Solomon himself couldn’t teach you anything better. Stick to it with a determination that you are going to succeed, and, unless you are very unfortunate indeed, you will succeed. Ah! what is that! Who is there? The lantern, John.’
They had just passed the village public-house, which was a thorn in the curate’s flesh, and had dimly perceived, by the light of the half-open door, dim figures striding out and flitting into the darkness; for the hour of closing was near. Perhaps one of the times Mr. Cattley shook his head, it was at this headquarters of opposition to all he was trying to do. He was not of different clay from other men, and he hated the place, as those who have had to contend against an evil influence, whose headquarters they cannot reach, are apt to do, with more vehemence than perfect justice demands. Some one had addressed him, as he spoke to John, with a hoarse, ‘I say, master,’ out of the darkness, and there had come along with the voice into the fresh, chill, and wide air round them that overpowering smell of drink which sickens both the senses and the heart. It must have been a very bold parishioner, indeed, who could have addressed the curate at that stage, and it was with a voice much sterner than usual that he said,
‘The lantern, John!’
John raised the lantern quickly, sharing his master’s indignation, and, the light suddenly shifting, fell upon a figure which, happily, was not that of a village toper. It was a tall man, in rough clothes, with a red spotted handkerchief tied round his neck, and a hat slouched over his eyes. If there had been any possibility of violence in Edgeley, the curate, who was a slim man, and, notwithstanding his height, not very strong, might have shrunk from such a meeting in the dark; but he was in his own kingdom, and there was not one even of the worst characters in the village who did not more or less acknowledge his authority. And Mr. Cattley, besides, was not the sort of man to be afraid. He said, with a voice which changed at once from the friendly softness with which he had been talking to the boy,
‘Who are you? and what do you want?’
His tone, John thought, was enough to strike terror to the most obdurate heart.
‘No offence, master,’ said the man. ‘I was only wishful to ask if you know’d of a Missis May, that I’ve been told lived about here.’
‘No. I know no one of that name,’ said the curate. ‘There is no Mrs. May in this village. You seem to be a stranger here. Wherever you’re lodging, I advise you to go home and go to bed. It’s too late to be asking for anyone at this hour of the night.’
‘You think I’m drunk, and so do a many; but I’m not drunk. I’ve only a drop of beer on board,’ said the man. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve had the chance, and I’m a-making up for lost time.’
‘Where are you lodging?’ said the curate, in his stern voice.
‘They said they’d give me a bed there,’ said the stranger, pointing with a hand towards the public-house; ‘but, now they’ve found out about me, they say they won’t. And it’s drefful hard upon a man as has come out of his way for nothing, as ye may say, but to do a good turn. And that’s the reason as I was asking for Missis May; for she’ll put me up if he won’t, a good lady as her husband was my mate, and I’m come to bring her news out of my way.’
‘Sir,’ said Johnson of the public-house, coming up on the other side, ‘he’s a man as has let out as he’s fresh from Portland, just served out his time; and he’s looking for a woman as is the wife of another of ’em. There ain’t no such person here. I’ve told him over and over again. And I’ve told him to move on, and be off to the station afore the last train goes by. But I can’t get him to do neither one thing nor the other. And I can’t be expected to put up a fellow like that in my house.’
‘Was it in your house he got all the drink he has swallowed?’ said the curate. ‘If you will not give him a bed to sleep it off in, why did you give him the drink?’
‘Oh, that’s a different thing. Every man is free to have his glass,’ said Johnson, with a growl of insolence. Then he added, ‘And it only came out in his drink who he was, and all this bother about his Mrs. May. There’s nobody here or hereabout of that name.’
‘It’s none of you or your miserable holes I want. It’s my mate’s wife as I want,’ said the man. ‘You tell me where she lives, or I’ll—I’ll break all your windows and pull your old barracks about your ears.’
He said this with an interlarding of many oaths, and, swaying back and forward, finally lost his balance and dropped upon the roadside, where John, changing the level of the lantern, poured a stream of light upon him, as he sat up with tipsy gravity, leaning against a low wall which bordered the path, and looking up at the group before him with blank, lacklustre eyes.
‘He can’t be left out here in the cold, whatever he is,’ the curate said.
‘That’s all very well for you, Mr. Cattley. Them as hasn’t got to do a thing never see any difficulty in it,’ said the master of the public-house.
‘I can’t stand here bandying words,’ said the curate; ‘if you will not take him in, I must do it. He can’t be left to be frozen to death in the public road. Some of those fellows who are skulking away in the dark not to face me—but I see them