“Mr. Furze, Mrs. Furze, Miss Catharine, and you, Mr. Catchpole, you see afore you the biggest liar as ever was, and one as deserves to go to hell, if ever any man did. Everything agin Mr. Catchpole was all trumped up, for he never had Humphries’ money, and it was me as put the marked sovereign in his pocket. I was tempted by the devil and by—but the Lord ’as ’ad mercy on me and ’as saved my body and soul this day. I can’t speak no more, but ’ere I am if I’m to be locked up and transported as I deserve.”
“Never,” said Tom.
“You say never, Mr. Catchpole. Very well, then: on my knees I axes your pardon, and you won’t see me agin.” Jim actually knelt down. “May the Lord forgive me, and do you forgive me, Mr. Catchpole, for being such a—” (Jim was about to use a familiar word, but checked himself, and contented himself with one which is blasphemous but also orthodox)—“such a damned sinner.”
He rose, walked out, left Eastthorpe that night, and nothing more was heard of him for years. Then there came news from an Eastthorpe man, who had gone to America, that Jim was at work at Pittsburg; that he was also a preacher of God’s Word, and that by God’s grace he had brought hundreds to a knowledge of their Saviour.
This story may be deemed impossible by the ordinary cultivated reader, but he will please to recollect John Bunyan’s account of the strange behaviour of Mr. Tod. “At a summer assizes holden at Hertford,” says Bunyan, “while the judge was sitting up on the bench, comes this old Tod into court, clothed in a green suit, with his leathern girdle in his hand, his bosom open, and all in a dung sweat, as if he had run for his life; and being come in, he spake aloud as follows: ‘My Lord,’ said he, ‘here is the veriest rogue that breathes upon the face of the earth. I have been a thief from a child. When I was but a little one I gave myself to rob orchards, and to do other such like wicked things, and I have continued a thief ever since. My Lord, there has not been a robbery committed these many years, within so many miles of this place, but I have been either at it, or privy to it!’ The judge thought the fellow was mad, but after some conference with some of the justices, they agreed to indict him; and so they did of several felonious actions; to all of which he heartily confessed guilty, and so was hanged with his wife at the same time.” I can also assure my incredulous literary friends that years ago it was not uncommon for men and women suddenly to awake to the fact that they had been sinners, and to determine that henceforth they would keep God’s commandments by the help of Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. What is more extraordinary is that they did keep God’s commandments for the rest of their lives. Fear of hell fire and hope of heaven may have had something to do with their reformation, but these were not the sole motives, and even if they were, the strength of mind necessary in order to sacrifice the present for the sake of something remote—a capacity which lies, we are told, at the basis of all virtue—was singular.
CHAPTER XXI
Tom was restored to his former position, and Mr. Furze’s business began to improve. Arrangements were made for the removal from the Terrace, and they were eagerly pressed forward by Catharine. Her mother pleaded that they could not leave till June; that even in June they would sacrifice a quarter’s rent, but Catharine’s reply was that they would pay no more if they went beforehand. Her father was anxious to please her, and the necessary alterations at the shop were taken in hand at once, and towards the beginning of May were completed. She was not allowed to move to the High Street with her father and mother; it was thought that the worry and fatigue would be too much for her, and it was settled, as the weather was wonderfully warm, and bright for the time of year, that she should go over to Chapel Farm for a week. At the end of the week she would find the furniture all in its place and her room quite straight.
Mrs. Bellamy called for her, and she reached the farm in safety, and looking better. The next morning she begged to be taken for a drive. Mr. Bellamy had to go over to Thingleby, and she was able to go with him. It a lovely sunny day, one of those days which we sometimes have in May, summer days in advance of the main body, and more beautiful, perhaps, than any that follow, because they are days of anticipation and hope, our delight in the full midsummer being sobered by the thought of approaching autumn and winter. When they reached the bridge Mr. Bellamy remembered that he had forgotten his cheque-book and his money, and it was of no use to go to Thingleby without them.
“Botheration! I must go back, my dear.”
“Leave me here, Mr. Bellamy; you won’t be long. Let me get out, though, and just turn the mare aside off the road on to the grass against the gate; she will be quite quiet.”