More Tales of the Ridings

by F. W. Moorman

"What doesta want wi' me?" he exclaimed, in a harsh whisper.

"I've coom to tak care o' thee," Mary replied.

"Thou's coom to plague me, that's what thou's coom for. I know thee. I've seen thee o' neights, aye, an' i' t' daytime too; an' if it's revenge thou wants, I tell thee thou's gotten it already, capital an' interest, interest an' capital."

Mary's swift intuition afforded her an insight into Learoyd's mind. She realised that the fangs of remorse were buried in his heart and she determined to remove them at all costs.

"Father," she said—and it was hard for her to utter the word which even when she was a child had seemed unnatural to her—"let us forget all that's gone afore. Sufferin' has coom to both on us, but it has bin warr for thee nor ever it was for me. Let us start agean."

As she said this she knelt down by the side of his chair and gently stroked his hands and smoothed back the iron-grey locks that had fallen over his eyes. At first he shrank from her touch, but in a little time it soothed his agitation. After all, this was not the Mary Whittaker that he had seen in his dreams, and the soft grey eyes that looked steadily into his face were different from those downcast eyes in the figure of the haltered girl that haunted him.

For some minutes Mary and her stepfather remained in this position, and then the former, after imprinting a kiss on Learoyd's forehead, rose softly to her feet and set to work to prepare the dinner. They partook of their meal almost in silence, and then Mary, fetching his hat and stick, led him out of doors into the spring sunshine, encouraged him to pay a visit to the stables, and talked to him about the labours of the farm. His voice was now more natural when he answered her questions, and the frightened look disappeared from his eyes. That night, when she came into his bedroom, in order to smooth his pillow after he had gone to bed, he held her hand for a moment and said: "Thou's a gooid lass, Mary; if I'd wed a lass like thee I'd hae been a different man."

Mary made no answer, but there were tears in her voice when she wished him good-night.

In the days which followed, Mary Whittaker made new advances in the task of winning Learoyd's confidence and stifling the furies of remorse that had gripped his heart. All her quiet patience was needed, for although her progress was sure, there were times when he lapsed, apparently without reason, into his old mood of suspicion and hostility towards her. The doctor, when he came to the farm, was full of hope. He found the farmer's pulse steadier, and saw in him a greater composure of mind. Learoyd spent long hours over his Bible, and it seemed at last as though his religious conversion was to be fully accomplished. Conviction of sin had been followed by contrite repentance, and soon, Mary hoped, he would attain that peace of mind which the sinner experiences when he knows that his sins have been forgiven him.

But when Mary had been a fortnight at the farm a sudden change took place in his demeanour. It was early evening and Learoyd was, as usual, reading his Bible. The chapter before him was the twelfth of Romans, and he read the verses quietly to himself until he came to the last but one: "Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head." As he finished the verse he cast a troubled look at his stepdaughter, who was quietly sewing on the other side of the fire. "Coals o' fire," he muttered under his breath, and the old look of terror came back into his eyes. Mary had never learnt to read, but she saw that the Bible, which before had brought him peace of mind, was now driving a sword into his heart. She tried to comfort him, but the farmer shrank from her, as he had done when she first entered his house, and when she came into his bedroom to say good-night, he screamed out in terror and would not let her come near him. That night the vision of the girl with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing in the Holmton market-place, came back to him with all its old haunting power. From the adjoining bedroom Mary heard him groaning and tossing on his pillow, and she felt herself powerless to comfort him. Pity for this tortured soul filled her breast, but it seemed as though all her resources of solace had failed her, and that her mere presence in the house aggravated his suffering.