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.”

“Had you not better sit still? I shall be back in a quarter of an hour.”

“If you do not mind, dear Mr. Bellamy, I should so like to stand on the bridge. I cannot let the gig stay there.”

“Well, my dear, you shall have your own way. You know,” he said, laughing, “I’ve long ago given up asking why my Catharine wants anything whatsomever. If she wishes it that’s enough for me.”

Catharine dismounted, and Mr. Bellamy walked back.

She went to the parapet and once more looked up the stream. Once more, as on a memorable day in August, the sun was upon the water. Then the heat was intense, and the heavy cumulus clouds were charged with thunder and lightning. Now the sun shone with nothing more than warmth, and though the clouds, the same clouds, hung in the south-west, there was no fire in them, nothing but soft, warm showers. She looked and looked, and tears came into her eyes—tears of joy. Never had a day been to her what that day was. She felt as if she lay open to all the life of spring which was pouring up through the earth, and it swept into her as if she were one of those bursting exultant chestnut buds, the sight of which she loved so in April and May. Always for years when the season came round had she gathered one of those buds and carried it home, and it was more to her than any summer flower. The bliss of life passed over into contentment with death, and her delight was so great that she could happily have lain down amid the hum of the insects to die on the grass.

When they came back to the farm Mr. Bellamy observed to his wife that he had not seen Catharine looking better or in better spirits for months. Mrs. Bellamy said nothing, but on the following morning Catharine was certainly not so well. It was intended that she should go home that day, but it was wet, and a message was sent to Eastthorpe to explain why she did not come. The next day she was worse, and Mrs. Bellamy went to Eastthorpe and counselled Mr. and Mrs. Furze to come to the Farm, and bring Dr. Turnbull with them. They all three came at once, and found Catharine in bed. She was feverish, and during the night had been slightly delirious. The doctor examined her carefully, and after the examination was over she turned to him and said—

“I want to hear the truth; I can bear it. Am I to die?”

“I know you can bear it. No man could be certain; but I believe the end is near.”

“How much time have I?”

He sat down by the bedside. “Perhaps a day, perhaps a week. Is there anybody you wish to see?”

“I should like to see Mr. Cardew.”

“Mr. Cardew!” said Dr. Turnbull to himself; “I fancied she would not care to have a clergyman with her; I thought she was a little beyond that kind of thing, but when people are about to die even the strongest are a little weak.”

“She always liked Mr. Cardew’s preaching,” said Mrs. Furze, sobbing, “but I wish she had asked for her own rector. It isn’t as if Mr. Cardew were her personal friend.”

It was Saturday evening when the message was dispatched to Abchurch, but Mr. Cardew was fortunately able to secure a substitute for the morrow; Sunday morning came. Mrs. Furze, who had been sitting up all night, drew down the blinds at dawn, but Catharine asked, not only that they might be drawn up again, but that her bed might be shifted a little so that she might look out across the meadow and towards the bridge. “The view that way is so lovely,” said she. It was again a triumphal spring day, and light and warmth streamed into the sick chamber.

Presently her mother went to take a little rest, and Mr. Cardew was announced almost immediately afterwards. He came upstairs, and Mrs. Bellamy, who had taken Mrs. Furze’s place, left the room. She did not think it proper to intrude when the clergyman visited anybody who was dying. Mr. Cardew remained standing and speechless.

“Sit down, Mr. Cardew. I felt that I should like to see you once more.”

He sat down by the bedside.

“Do you mind opening the window and drawing up the blind again? It has fallen a little. That is better: now I can see the meadows and away towards the bridge foot. Will you give me a glass of water?”

She drank the water: he looked steadily at her, and he knew too well what was on her face. Her hand dropped on the bed: he fell on his knees beside her with that hand in his, but still he was dumb, and not a single article of his creed which he had preached for so many years presented itself to him: forgiveness, the atonement, heaven—it had all vanished.

“Mr. Cardew, I want to say something.”

“Wait a moment, let me tell you—you have saved me.”

She smiled, her lips moved, and she whispered—

“You have saved me.”

By their love for each other they were both saved. The disguises are manifold which the Immortal Son assumes in the work of our redemption.

* * * * *

Tom henceforth wore the ring on his finger. Mr. Cardew resigned his living, and did not preach for many years. When pressed for an explanation he generally gave his health as an excuse. Later in life he took up work again in a far distant, purely agricultural parish, but his sermons were of the simplest kind—exhortations to pity, consideration, gentleness, and counsels as to the common duties of life. He spent much of his time in visiting his parishioners and in helping them in their difficulties. Mrs. Cardew, as we have said, died before him, but no woman ever had a husband more tender and devoted than hers in these later years. He had changed much, and she knew it, but she did not know exactly how, nor did she know the reason. It was not the kind of change which comes from a new theory or a new principle: it was something deeper. Some men are determined by principles, and others are drawn and directed by a vision or a face. Before Mr. Cardew was set for evermore the face which he saw white and saintly at Chapel Farm that May Sunday morning when death had entered, and it controlled and moulded him with an all-pervading power more subtle and penetrating than that which could have been exercised by theology or ethics.