“Excuse me, sir. Bill was my all. You see, I buried the wife in the spring. Things are at a dead end for me now.”
The vicar, unable to speak, offered his hand again.
All at once Hickman took him firmly by the coat-sleeve and led him a dozen paces away from the ostler. “Excuse the great freedom, sir”—the big, not over-bright fellow’s whisper was excessive in its humility—“but, as a minister of the Gospel, there’s one question I’d like to ask you.”
Mr. Perry-Hennington shuddered at the perception of what was coming.
“The only hope for a chap like me is that I’ll meet the wife and the boy in Heaven. Otherwise, I’m at a dead end as you might say. As one man to another, what chance do you think there is?”
The vicar grew cold at the heart.
“Of course, I’m not a churchgoer; I am not a religious man or anything of that kind. My father wasn’t. I’ve always tried to go straight, keep sober, pay my way and so on, but of course, I’ve never taken Communion or read the Bible or done anything to curry favor. That’s not my nature. Still, I reckon myself a fairish, decentish chap; and on Sunday evening, after the service, I went round to talk to our vicar here, Mr. Pierce.”
“Yes.” Mr. Perry-Hennington gave an eager gasp. “That was very wise. What did he say to you?” His lips could hardly shape the question.
“Why, sir, he said that a Christian couldn’t doubt for a moment that one day he would be with his wife and children in Heaven.”
“Mr. Pierce said that!”