What magician had transformed John Bolland? Was it possible that beneath the patriarchial inflexibility of the rugged farmer’s character there lay a spring of human tenderness, a clear fountain hidden by half a century of toil and narrow religion, but now unearthed forcibly by circumstances stronger than the man himself? The boy could not put these questions into words. He was too young to understand even the meaning of psychological analysis. He could only sit there mute, stunned by the glory of the unexpected promise.
Of course, if a thinker like Dr. MacGregor were aware of all the facts, he would have seen that the rebellion of Martha had been a lightning stroke. The few winged words she shot at her husband on that memorable night had penetrated deeper than she thought. It chanced, too, that the revivalist preacher whom Bolland took into his confidence was a man of sound common sense, and much more acute in private life than anyone could imagine who witnessed his methods of hammering the Gospel into the dullards of the village. He it was who advised a timely diminution of devotional exercises which were likely to become distasteful to a spirited lad. He recommended the farmer to educate Martin beyond the common run, while the choice of a profession might be left to maturer consideration. Among the many influences conspiring in that hour to mold the boy’s future life, none was more wholesome than that of the tub-thumping preacher.
Bolland seemed to be gratified by Martin’s tongue-tied enthusiasm.
“Well,” he said, rising. “Noo my hand’s te t’ plow I’ll keep it there. Remember, Martin, when ye tak te study t’ Word o’ yer own accord, ye can start at t’ second chapter o’ t’ Third Book o’ Kings. I’ll be throng wi’ t’ harvest until t’ middle o’ September, but I’ll ax Mr. Herbert te recommend a good school. He’s a fair man, if he does lean ower much te t’ Romans. Soa, fer t’ next few days, run wild an’ enjoy yersen. Happen ye’ll never hae as happy a time again.”
He patted the boy’s head, a rare sign of sentiment, and walked heavily out of the room. Martin saw him cross the road and clout a stable-boy’s ears because the yard was not swept clean. Then he called to his foreman, and the two went off to the low-lying meadows. Bolland had been turning over in his mind Mrs. Saumarez’s remarks about draining; they were worthy of consideration and, perhaps, of experiment.
Martin remained standing at the window. So he was to leave Elmsdale, go out into the wide world beyond the hills, mix with people who spoke and acted and moved like the great ones of whom he had read in books. He was glad of it; oh, so glad! He would learn Greek and Latin, French and German. No longer would the queer-looking words trouble his eyes. Their meaning would be made clear to his understanding. He would soon acquire that nameless manner of which the squire, the vicar, Mrs. Saumarez, the young university students he met yesterday, possessed the secret. Elsie Herbert had it, and Angèle was veneered with it, though in her case he knew quite well that the polish was only skin deep.
It was what he had longed for with all his heart, yet now that the longing was to be appeased he had never felt more drawn to his parents; his only by adoption, it was true; but nevertheless father and mother by every tie known to him.
By the way, whose child was he? No one had told him the literal manner in which he fell into the hands of the Bollands. Probably his real progenitors were dead long since. Were it not for the kindness of the farmer and his wife he might have been reared in that awful place, the “Union,” of which the poverty-stricken old people in the parish spoke with such dread. His own folk must have been poor. Those who were well off were fond of their children and loth to part from them. Well, he must be a real son to John and Martha Bolland. They should have reason to be proud of him. He would do nothing to disgrace their honored name.
What was it his father said just now? When he studied the Bible of his own accord he might begin at the second chapter of the Second Book of Kings.
It would please the old man to know that he gave the first moment of liberty to reading the Word which was held so precious. He opened the book at the page where the long, narrow strip of black silk marked the close of the last lesson. For the first time in his life the boy brought to bear on the task an unaided and sympathetic intelligence, and this is what he read: