“Nay, Ned,” interposed Foster hastily, “I don’t want to know; I’d rather not know. I can guess pretty well, though I saw none of their faces distinctly. They don’t want any punishment from me if I wished to give it them, for they’re getting it hot and strong from all sides already; and as for Sharples, poor wretched man, he’s got caught in his own trap as neatly as if he’d set it on purpose to catch himself.”
“Just as you please, William; I’m sure it’s very good of you to take it as you do.”
“No, Ned, don’t say so; there’s no goodness anywhere in the matter, except in that merciful God who so wonderfully watched over and protected me. I’m sure it has been worth all I’ve gone through a thousand times over, to have learnt what he has taught me in this trouble,—a lesson of trust and love. But I will come and see you again, Ned; you have had talking enough for one time.”
The vicar also called on the sufferer frequently, and was glad to find him humble, patient, and willing to receive instruction. But it was to Thomas Bradly that the poor man seemed specially drawn, and to him he felt that he could open all his heart.
“I’ve summat on my mind, Thomas, as I wants to talk to you about,” he said to Bradly one day when they were left quite alone; it was about a week after the return home of Dr and Mrs Prosser. The sick man was able to sit up in a chair by the fire, though the doctor gave no hope of any real or lasting improvement. Through the kindness of his friends his cottage had partly lost its comfortless appearance, and himself, his wife, and children had been provided with sufficient food and clothing. Yet the stamp of death was on the poor patient’s wasted features, and a racking cough tried him terribly at times. But his mind was quite clear, and he had begun to see his way to pardon and peace, though it was with but a trembling hand that his faith laid hold of the offered salvation.
“What is it that you want to tell me?” asked Bradly cheerfully.
“I’ll tell you, Thomas: I know I’m a dying man, and it’s all right it should be so; I’ve brought it upon myself, more’s the sin, and more’s the pity.”
“Nay, Ned, take heart, man; you’ll come round yet, and be spared to set a good example.”
The sick man shook his head, and then broke out into a violent fit of coughing. “It’s pulling me to pieces,” he said, when he could recover himself; “but I shall be happier if I can just tell you, Thomas, what’s on my mind. It ain’t about any of the wicked things as I’ve done, but I shall be better content when I’ve told you all about it. You remember the night as poor Joe Wright met his death on the line last December? Well, I’d summat to do with that.”
“You, Ned!”