Chapter 11

A light was burning at the Horselunges, but the cold lamp of dawn shone on Jerry as he stood fumbling in the doorway, then, finding the door unlocked, crept in. A footstep creaked in his father’s room, and the next minute the door was flung open and the minister stood at the top of the stairs, blocked against the light, looming, monstrous, like a huge black Satan.

“Where’ve you been?”

“In the woods.”

Jerry’s teeth were chattering as his father took him by the arm and pulled him into the room. A fire was burning on the hearth, with the old, old cat purring squeakily before it, while the broken-winged thrush, which Mr. Sumption had forgotten to cover up for the night, hopped to and fro, twittering its best effort at a song.

“Oh, may the Lord forgive you, you scamp,” groaned [98] the minister, as Jerry fell crumpled on the sofa. His boots and uniform were caked with leaf-mould and clay, his hair was full of leaves and mud and his face was streaked with dirty wet.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

There was a pot of something on the fire, but it was just as well that Jerry was not hungry, for it had been burnt to a cinder long ago.

“I’ve been sitting up for you all night,” said Mr. Sumption. “When you didn’t come in, I went over to Worge, and Ivy said you’d been out with her, but had gone off by yourself, she didn’t know where. She’s a kind girl, and told me not to worry.”

“Father—I’ve lost her for ever.”

It was the first time he had said the words aloud, and their wretchedness swept over him, breaking his spirit, so that he began to cry.

“I’ve lost her ... I was mad ... and she’s gone.”

Mr. Sumption stood staring at the small, slight figure on the sofa, lying with its dirty face turned away, its back showing him the split tunic of a soldier of the King. His bowels yearned towards the son of the woman from Ihornden, and his rage switched violently from Jerry to the cause of his grief.

“Drat the girl! Drat the slut! What is she after, despising her betters? She’s led you on—she’s played with you. Don’t trouble about her, Jerry, my boy. She isn’t worth it.”

“I love her,” gasped Jerry—“and I’ve lost her. It’s my own fault. I went mad. I frightened her.... Father, I’m a beast—I reckon Satan’s got me.”

Mr. Sumption patted his shoulder.

“I reckon Satan’s got me,” moaned the boy—“or why [99] did I go wild like that?”

“Satan can’t hurt the elect.”

“What’s that to me? I reckon I’m none of your elect. I’m just a poor boy who’s done for himself.”

Mr. Sumption dropped on his knees beside him, and began to pray.

“O Lord, Thou hast given me a sore trial in this son of mine, and now terrible doubts are in my soul as to whether he is one of the elect for whom Jesus died. O Lord, he’s my flesh and bone, and the flesh and bone of my dear wife who’s dead, and yet it looks as if Satan had got him. O Lord, save my son from the lion and my darling from the power of the dog, from the dreadful day that shall burn like an oven, and the furnace of pitch and tow....”

“Father, have done, do—you give me the creeps.”

“I’m praying for your soul, ungrateful child.”

“Let my soul be—I’m tired to death.”

Indeed a grey shade of utter weariness had crept into his skin, so that his face looked ghastly in the morning twilight fighting round the lamp. Mr. Sumption, who had stood up, knelt down again, and took off Jerry’s boots.

“Have a sleep then, my laddie—there on the sofy. It’s scarce worth going to bed. Besides, you’d have to clean yourself first.”

“You won’t leave me, father—you’ll stay along of me?”

“I’ll stay along of you and pray quiet.”

Jerry gave a grunt, and drew up his knees to his chin, like some animal rolling itself for sleep. Mr. Sumption knelt beside him and continued his prayer:

[100]

“O Lord, Thou hast a son, and doesn’t Thou know what I feel about this wretched boy of mine? Lord, give me a token that he is not predestined to everlasting death; save him from the snares of hell, in which he seems tangled like a bird in the snare of the fowler....”

“Oh, father, do pray cheerful,” groaned Jerry.

But praying cheerful was quite beyond the poor father’s powers, never remarkable in this direction at the best of times. All he could do was to sing, “Let Christian faith and hope dispel the fears of guilt and woe,” till Jerry had fallen asleep.