Bywater pushed his honest, red face, forward; but it did not look quite so impudent as usual. “Jenkins,” said he, plunging headlong into the fear, “DID—THAT—FALL—DO—IT?”
“Fall, sir! What fall?”
“That fall down from the organ loft. Because that was my fault. I had the most to do with locking up the cloisters, that night.”
“Oh, bless you, sir, no! Never think that. Master Bywater”—lowering his voice till it was as grave as Bywater’s—“that fall did me good—good, sir, instead of harm.”
“How do you make out that?” asked Bywater, drawing his breath a little easier.
“Because, sir, in the few days’ quiet that I had in bed, my thoughts seemed in an unaccountable manner to be drawn to thinking of heaven. I can’t rightly describe, sir, how or why it could have been. I remember his lordship, the bishop, talked to me a little bit in his pleasant, affable way, about the necessity of always, being prepared; and my wife’s Bible lay on the drawers by my bed’s head, and I used to pick up that. But I don’t think it was either of those causes much; I believe, sir, that it was God Himself working in my heart. I believe He sent the fall in His mercy. After I got up, I seemed to know that I should soon go to Him; and—I hope it is not wrong to say it—I seemed to wish to go.”
Bywater felt somewhat puzzled. “I am not speaking about your heart and religion, and all that, Jenkins. I want to know if the fall helped to bring on this illness?”
“No, sir; it had nothing to do with it. The fall hurt my head a little—nothing more; and I got well from it directly. This illness, which has been taking me off, must have been born with me.”
“Hoo—” Bywater’s shout, as he tossed up his trencher, was broken in upon by Mrs. Jenkins. She had been beating up an egg with sugar and wine, and now brought it in in a tumbler.
“My dear,” said Jenkins, “I don’t feel to want it.”