STEPHEN AND THE RECTOR.
The report of the expulsion of the family from Fern's Hollow spread through Botfield before morning; and Stephen found an eager cluster of men, as well as boys and girls, awaiting his appearance on the pit-bank. There was the steady step and glance of a man about him when he came—a grave, reserved air, which had an effect upon even the rough colliers. Black Thompson came forward to shake hands with him, and his example was followed by many of the others, with hearty expressions of sympathy and attempts at consolation.
'It'll be put right some day,' said Stephen; and that was all they could provoke him to utter. He went down to his work; and, though now and then the recollection thrilled through him that there was no pleasant Fern's Hollow for him to return to in the evening, none of his comrades could betray him into any expression of resentment against his oppressor.
In the meantime Miss Anne did not forget to visit the cabin, and cheer, as well as she could, the trouble of poor Martha, whose good and proud housewifery had kept Fern's Hollow cleaner and tidier than any of the cottages at Botfield. It was no easy matter to rouse Martha to take any interest in the miserable cabin where the household furniture had been hastily heaped in the night before; but when her heart warmed to the work, in which Miss Anne was taking an active part, she began to feel something like pleasure in making the new home like the old one, as far as the interior went. Out of doors, no improvement could be made until soil could be carried up the barren and steep bank, to make a little plot of garden ground. But within, the work went on so heartily that, when Stephen returned from the pit, half an hour earlier than usual,—for he had no long walk of two miles now,—he found his grandfather settled in the chimney corner, apparently unconscious of any removal, while both Martha and little Nan seemed in some measure reconciled to their change of dwelling. Moreover, Miss Anne was waiting to greet him kindly.
'Stephen,' she said, 'Martha has found the three notes in your grandfather's pocket all safe. You had better take them with you to the clergyman at Danesford, and do what he advises you with them. And now you are come to live at Botfield, you can manage to go to church every Sunday; even little Nan can go; and there is a night-school at Longville, where you can learn to write as well as read. It will not be all loss, my boy.'
The opportunity for going to Danesford was not long in coming, for Black Thompson and Cole, who were the chief colliers in the pit, chose to take a 'play-day' with the rest of their comrades; and the boys and girls employed at the works were obliged to play also, though it involved the forfeiture of their day's wages—always a serious loss to Stephen. This time, however, he heard the news gladly; and, carefully securing the three notes by pinning them inside his pocket, he set out for his ten miles walk across the tableland to the other side of the mountains, where Danesford lay. His nearest way led straight by Fern's Hollow, and he saw that already upon the old site the foundation was laid for a new house containing three rooms. In everything else the aspect of the place remained unchanged; there still hung the creaking wicket, where little Nan had been wont to look for his coming home, until she could run with outstretched arms to meet him. The beehives stood yet beneath the hedge, and the bees were flying to and fro, seeking out the few flowers of the autumn upon the hillside. The fern upon the uplands, just behind the hollow, was beginning to die, and its rich red-brown hue showed that it was ready to be cut and carried away for fodder; but a squatter from some other hill-hut had trespassed upon Stephen's old domain. Except this one man, the whole tableland was deserted; and so silent was it that the rustle of his own feet through the fading ferns sounded like other footsteps following him closely. The sheep were not yet driven down into the valleys, and they and the wild ponies stood and stared boldly at the solitary boy, without fleeing from his path, as if they had long since forgotten how the bilberry gatherers had delighted in frightening them. Stephen was too grave and manlike to startle them into memory of it, and he plodded on mile after mile with the three notes in his pocket and his hand closed upon them, pondering deeply with what words he should speak to the unknown clergyman at Danesford.
When he reached Danesford, he found it a very quiet, sleepy little village, with a gleaming river flowing through it placidly, and such respectable houses and small clean cottages as put to shame the dwellings at Botfield. So early was it yet, that the village children were only just going to school; and the biggest boy turned back with Stephen to the gate of the Rectory. Stephen had never seen so large and grand a mansion, standing far back from the road, in a park, through which ran a carriage drive up to a magnificent portico. He stole shyly along a narrow side path to the back door, and even there was afraid of knocking; but when his low single rap was answered by a good-tempered-looking girl, not much older than Martha, his courage revived, and he asked, in a straightforward and steady manner, if he could see the parson. At which the servant laughed a little, and, after inquiring his name, said she would see if Mr. Lockwood could spare time to speak to him.
Before long the girl returned, and led Stephen through many winding and twisting passages, more puzzling than the roads in the pit, to a large, grand room, with windows down to the ground, and looking out upon a beautiful flower-garden. It was like the palace Miss Anne had spoken of, for he could not understand half the things that were in the room; only he saw a fire burning in a low grate, the bars of which shone like silver, and upon the carpeted hearth beside it was a sofa, where a young lady was lying, and near to it was a breakfast-table, at which an elderly gentleman was seated alone. He was a very keen, shrewd-looking man, and very pleasant to look at when he smiled; and he smiled upon Stephen, as he stood awe-struck and speechless at his own daring in coming to speak to such a gentleman, and in such a place as this.
'So you are Stephen Fern, of Fern's Hollow,' said Mr. Lockwood; 'I remember christening you, and giving you my own name, thirteen or fourteen years since, isn't it? Your mother had been my faithful servant for several years; and she brought you all across the hills to Danesford to be christened. Is she well—my good Sarah Moore?'
'Mother died four years ago, sir,' murmured Stephen, unable to say any more.
'Poor boy!' said the young lady on the sofa. 'Father, is there anything we can do for him?'
'That is what I am going to hear, my child,' replied Mr. Lockwood. 'Stephen has not come over the hills without some errand. Now, my boy, speak out plainly and boldly, and let me hear what has brought you to your mother's old master.'
Thus encouraged, Stephen, with the utmost simplicity and frankness, though with fewer words than Martha would have put into the narrative, told Mr. Lockwood the whole history of his life; to which the clergyman listened with ever-increasing interest, as he noticed how the boy was telling all the truth, and nothing but the truth, even to his joining Black Thompson in poaching. When he had finished, Mr. Lockwood went to a large cabinet in the room, and, bringing out a bundle of old yellow documents, soon found among them the paper James Fern had spoken of on his death-bed. It was written by the clergyman living in Longville at the time of old Martha Fern's death, to certify that she had settled, and maintained her settlement on the hillside, without paying rent, or having her fences destroyed, for upwards of twenty years, and that the land was her own by the usages of the common.
'I don't know what use it will be,' said Mr. Lockwood, 'but I will take legal advice upon it; that is, I will tell my lawyer all about it, and see what we had best do. You may leave the case in my hands, Stephen. But to-morrow morning we start for the south of France, where my daughter must live all the winter for the benefit of the warm climate; and I must go with her, for she is my only treasure now. Can you live in your cabin till we come home? Will you trust yourself to me, Stephen? I will not see a son of my old servant wronged.'
'Please, sir,' said Stephen, 'the cabin is good enough for us, and we are nearer church and the night-school; only I didn't like to break my word to father, besides losing the old home: we can stay all winter well. I'll trust you, sir; but my work is dangersome, and please God I should get killed, will you do the same for Martha and little Nan?'
'Ay!' answered Mr. Lockwood, coughing down his emotion at the young boy's forethought and care for his sisters. 'If it pleases God, my boy, you will live to make a right good, true-hearted Christian man; but if He should take you home before me, I'll befriend your sisters as long as I live. I like your Miss Anne, Stephen; but your master is a terrible rascal, I fear.'
'Yes, sir,' said Stephen quietly.
'You don't say much about him, however,' replied Mr. Lockwood, smiling at his few words.
'Please, sir, I am trying to love my enemies,' he answered, with a feeling of shyness; 'if I was to call him a rascal, or any other bad word, it 'ud throw me back like, and it's very hard work anyhow. I feel as if I'd like to do it sometimes.'
'You are right, Stephen,' said Mr. Lockwood; 'you are wise in keeping your tongue from evil speaking: for "therewith bless we God, even the Father; and therewith curse we men, which are made after the similitude of God. Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing." You have taught an old parson a lesson, my boy. You had better leave your money with me until my lawyer gives us his opinion. Now go home in peace, and serve your master faithfully; but if you should need a friend before I return, come here and ask for the clergyman who is going to take my duty. I will tell him about you, and he will help you until I come home.'
That afternoon Stephen retraced his lonely path across the hills in great gladness of heart; and when he came to Fern's Hollow, he leaped lightly down the bank against which the old stove-pipe had been reared as a chimney, and stood again on the site of the old hearth, in the midst of the new walls of red bricks that were being built up. How the master could remove the new house and restore the old hut was a question of some perplexity to him; but his confidence in the parson at Danesford was so perfect, that he did not doubt for a moment that he could call Fern's Hollow his own again next spring.