Part 21 (1/2)

this winder at them clouds drifting across the sky. And they're a lot higher up than they were this afternoon. And I tell you these 'ere prayers as we've been puttin' up in church are bound to do _some_ good, though they mayn't do _all_ the good as we want. I've noticed it again and again, both wet seasons and droughty.”

”The prayer of a righteous man availeth much,” said Mrs Jeremy, who, notwithstanding her mental wanderings during the Athanasian Creed, was a pious soul.

I was sorry the conversation had taken this turn, being disinclined to discuss the subject just then. But Jeremy was only too ready to take the cue.

”Yes,” he said; ”and the prayer of a sinner is sometimes _almost_ as good as the prayer of a righteous man; though, mind you, I don't say it's _quite_ as good. I'm a bit of a sinner myself; but I've had lots of answers to prayer in my life. _Lots_, I tell you. You see, it's this way. My belief is, that you've no business to want a thing unless you're ready to pray for it. Of course, you can't always tell what you ought to want and what you oughtn't--that's the difficulty. But my plan is to pray for everything as I wants and then leave the Lord to sort out the bad from the good. There's a Collect in church as puts it in that way.

Mind you, I wouldn't pray for anything as I _knowed_ were bad. There'd be no sense in that. And as for fine weather, all points to that being _good_, and your prayer stands a fair chance of being answered. Of course, it may be bad for reasons we don't know about; though I don't think it is _myself_. So it's right to pray for it. Pray for everything you want--that's what I says; and leave the rest to the Lord.”

Jeremy would no doubt have said much more, for he was a great talker when started on his favourite themes, and this was one of them. But we were interrupted by a cry from Mrs Jeremy at the other side of the table. It was simply, ”Oh dear!”

Looking up, I saw that she was leaning forward with her face buried in her hands, sobbing violently.

”Darn my gaiters!” said Jeremy, ”I'm nought but a fool. I oughtn't to ha' talked about them things before my missus. I never do; but something's made me forget myself to-night. You see, it's reminded her of our trouble.”

I did not understand this last remark. But I asked no question, being too much occupied in watching the infinite tenderness of the good man as he sought to comfort his wife. I draw a veil over that. ”Now go to bed, there's a good girl, and think no more about it,” was the end of what he had to say.

Mrs Jeremy retired, the tears standing in her eyes. She shook hands with me, but didn't speak.

Jeremy resumed his seat, lit his pipe, and began to explain. His voice trembled and almost broke down with the first sentence.

”You see,” he said, waving his hand towards the fire, ”it's a childless hearth.... It hasn't always been. There was one, once--fifteen years ago. He was six years of age--as bright a little nipper as ever you see.

Oh yes, he said his prayers: said one too many, that he did.... O my G.o.d!... Well, it was this way. It was one Christmas Eve, and a young lady as we had for his governess had been telling the little nipper all about Father Christmas--I don't blame _her_; she's never got over it any more than we have, and never will--... all about Father Christmas, as I was saying; and he drinks it all in with his wide little eyes, as though it was Gospel truth. 'I'll tell Father Christmas to bring me something real nice,' he says. So just before they put him to bed that night he goes to that open fireplace, where you're sitting now, and pops his head up the chimney, and calls out, 'Father Christmas, please bring me to-night a magic lantern, a pair of roller skates, four wax candles, and a box o' them chocolates with the little nuts inside 'em, for Jesus Christ sake, Amen.' Then he goes away from the fire, and I says, 'All right, nipper, I'll bring 'em,' from behind that door, in a voice to make him believe as Father Christmas was answering. Well, he starts to go to bed; but just as he reached them stairs in the pa.s.sage he runs back, and pops his little head up the chimney again. 'Father Christmas,'

he says, 'don't forget the little nuts in the chocolates. I don't want none o' them pink 'uns.' And, O my G.o.d! he'd hardly spoken the words when more than half a hundredweight of blazing soot comes slathering down the chimney and falls right on the top of him just where he stood.

I tell you there never was a thing seen like it since this world began!

The room was filled with black smoke in a second; we were all blinded; we could neither breathe nor see. We couldn't see him, we couldn't find him; and we all stumbled up against one another; and the missus fell insensible on the floor. And him screaming with pain all the time--and I tell you I couldn't find him, though I rushed like a madman all over the room and groped everywhere, and put my hands into the very fire! Then I went too--dropped like a stone. It was all over in a minute. They pulled the rest of us out in the nick of time: but the poor little nipper was burned to death....”

Farmer Jeremy rose from his seat and went to the window. He was shaking all over; but I averted my glance, for it is a terrible thing to see a strong man in the agony of his soul, and the eyes cannot bear it long.

”The clouds are breaking,” he said; ”and, please G.o.d, I'll cut 'the Slaughters' to-morrow. But there's one harvest as will never be reaped: and there's one cloud that will never break. Not till the Resurrection Morn. Ah me!”

On the lovely afternoon of an autumn Sunday, about a fortnight after these things, I met Jeremy in the fields, walking the round with his terrier dog.

”Grand weather for farmers,” I cried.

”Grand it is, sir,” he answered, ”and let us be thankful for it.”

”Yes,” I said; ”it has been long enough in coming, and is all the more welcome now it has come.”

I felt that the words struck the wrong note; or rather they struck none at all, where a note of music was needed. But I knew not what else to say. Jeremy with all his reserve was less timid and more affluent than I.

”Have you never thought, sir,” he said, drawing near to me, ”what brought the fine weather?”

I hesitated and was silent.

”Then I'll tell you,” said he. ”_The power o' prayer._”

That very day I had been reading a book on Primitive Religion; and as I parted from Jeremy a question flashed through my mind. ”May it not be,”