“And I’ve made him some beef-tea and a custard,” broke in Mary. “An’ mind yo’ see he eits ’em. Aw’d go wi’ yo’ mysen an’ red th’ house up for him, but to tell th’ truth aw’m noan so keen on folk ’at go live bi theirsen i’ a hut on a moor. It’s noan Christian, an’ there’s summat at th’ back on it, or my name’s not Mary Haigh.”
It was a glorious day of early autumn, and I strode blithely up the steep ascent that led from the Valley to the Cutting. (The Cutting is a rather deep defile where the road over Stanedge dips into the Diggle Valley.) My young heart sang within me, and I felt almost ashamed of the glad glow of perfect health and rich content that made the mere living so rich a feast, even for one so poor as I, when I reached the hermit’s cot, and lifted the sneck of the door.
There was no one in the bottom room or “house,” which was all uncared for—no fire in the grate, which argued badly for the comforts a sick man should have; and again I reproached myself that I had suffered myself to be beguiled into going to the Wakes, though a quick afterthought told me that to have missed the Wakes would have been to have missed one whose dark bright eyes had haunted me day and night ever since, dancing in and out with my shuttle at the loom, and mocking me in my dreams. I took off my clogs and stole in my stocking feet up the straight and narrow staircase that led to the upper chamber. Mr. Turner was tossing and turning on the pallet, muttering in a feverish sleep. So I lied me down again as softly as I could, raked out the embers from the rusty fireplace, kindled a fire, and set about warming up the beef-tea Mary’s forethought had provided. A violent fit of coughing waked the uneasy sleeper, and I carried up a basin-full of the broth, into which I had broken some haver-bread I found on a rack above the fireplace. Mr. Turner smiled and seemed pleased to see me. I propped him up in bed, covered his thin bent shoulders with an old frieze coat, and coaxed him to sip the broth out of a leaden spoon that I had found.
“I knew you’d not forget me, Abel,” he said feebly, “and it’s good of Mrs. Haigh to have sent me this excellent soup. Convey to her my compliments and thanks. Or, stay, you’ll find a trinket or two in what I’m going to hand over to you in charge. Select a fitting one, and ask Mrs. Haigh to wear it when the old hermit’s gone; the others keep in memory of the man you have befriended, whose solitude you have shared.”
I could scarce restrain a smile. I imagined Mary wearing anything the sick man would be likely leave behind him. I thought sure his wits were leaving him. But he went on:
“Put your arm up the chimney yonder. You’ll have to pull out the sacking. Don’t be afraid of soot. It’s little enough there’s in that flue. Your right arm, and feel on the left side.”
Wondering greatly, I did as I was bid, and felt my groping fingers touch what I rightly guessed to be the handle of a box. It was a rare weight, but I got the case down and took it to the bed-side. Mr. Turner, with trembling hands, undid the collar of his shirt, and took from a thin chain around his neck a small key.
“Now, listen,” he said, “and as you value your peace hereafter keep the charge I commit to you. You’re young, Abel, and I’ve not known you long. But I think I can trust you. I am about to tell you what has never before passed my lips. I know you have wondered often who I am, and why I have lived this lonely and wretched life. It’s a sad, sad tale—a tale of sin and shame and sorrow but maybe I shall be the easier for the telling of it, and there’s that to be done which must be done if it can be done There’s retribution to be made if it can be made, and yours must be the hands to do it.”
Now it must not be supposed that all this was spoken straight off, as I have written it. It was almost gasped out, and the cold, clammy sweat stood on the poor man’s brow as the words came feebly forth from his pallid lips.
“You know me, as all about here know me, and have known me ever since, some twenty long years ago, I came to dwell, to drag out my weary years rather, in this wretched haunt in this cold, bleak, inhospitable moor—known me as Mr. Turner, the mad hermit. But that is not my name—it is Garside, the Reverend James Garside, for I am a deacon, duly presented and admitted, of the Established Church. Aye, you may well start and stare. My father was a manufacturer in Manchester. His name, too, was James. I tell you this because you may need all the particulars I can furnish. He died when I was in my second year, leaving my mother in circumstances more than comfortable, I their only child. She was but young when my father left her a widow—he was her senior by many years. She never married again, but devoted her life to the upbringing of her unworthy son. My God! my God! how have I repaid that wealth of love so unstintingly lavished upon me. She could scarce bear me out of her sight, and as I grew older rejected the counsel of her few friends that I should be sent to the Grammar School. I must have a tutor, and be taught at home.