"'I could never repay the man who taught my boy to love G.o.d,'" he repeated, "and he said those words to me--to me."

I bowed my head.

"And I--I accepted the responsibility, and it has come to this."

I was silent, and, indeed, what was there to say?

I suppose we both tried to think out the best course for the future, but for myself my brain refused to do aught but call up, and recall, and recall again, that last meeting in Camslove Grange:

"I want the old place to have a good master.

"I want my son to be a gentleman.

"G.o.d bless you, old comrades."

Back they came, those old ghosts of the past, until the gentle, well-bred voice seemed even now appealing to me, and the well-loved form apparent before my eyes. And I writhed in my chair.

A little later the poet came in. He looked almost frightened, and spoke in a hushed voice.

"Is--is he better?" he asked.

"He is asleep," I answered, moodily.

The poet sighed.

"Ah! that's good, that's good."

For a little while we talked, the aimless, useless talk of unnerved men, and at last the poet suggested we should go upstairs.

As I held the candle over Tommy's bed we could see that the flush had faded from his cheeks, and as he lay there he might well have been a healthy cherub on some earthly holiday.

I think the sight cheered us all, and in some measure restored our hope.

The vicar turned to us, gravely.

"There is one thing we can all do," he said; "we ought to have thought of it first, and it is surely the best."

As we parted, the poet turned to me.

"I will take him over the downs with me to-morrow; they always appeal to Tommy, and one is never saner, or nearer to G.o.d, or more ready for repentance, than out there upon the ranges."

There was a sound of wheels down the lane, and in a minute the doctor drove by.

"Hullo," he called out, cheerily, "I have just got myself a new bat."

XII

IN WHICH TOMMY MAKES A RESOLVE

It is one of the privileges of youth that alimentary indulgence is but rarely penalized, and if either of us next morning was pale and disinclined for breakfast it was certainly not Tommy.

On the contrary, he seemed cool, and fit, and hungry, and although he looked at me occasionally in a shy, questioning way, yet he chattered away much as usual, and made no reference to yesterday's adventures.

Only when the poet called for him and at the window I laid a hand upon his shoulder to bid him a happy day, he turned to me, impulsively:

"You are a ripper," he said.

There is no sweeter or more genuine praise than a boy's.

I watched them down the lane, and my eyes sought the downs, clear, and wide, and sunny. I thought of the tawdry inn, and its a.s.sociations, and prayed that Tommy might learn a lesson from the contrast.

Says Jasper the gipsy:

"Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?"

Hark back to your well-thumbed Lavengro and you will find, if you do not remember, his reasons.

Nor are they weightier than these:

"Night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath."

Deep in the heart of every boy lies something of the gipsy, and even if, in after life, it grows sick and stifled by reason of much traffic among crowded streets, yet I doubt if it ever so far vanishes that to it the wind on the heath shall appeal in vain. Nor was the poet wrong in his prognosis, for to Tommy, at any rate, it was full of unspoken messages on this August morning. Wind on the heath--yes, it is always there, clean, and strong, and happy, lingering with soft wings over furze and bracken, full of whispered melodies from the harp of G.o.d.

Are you in trouble?

Go up and face this wind on the heath. Bare your head to it, open your lungs to it. Let it steal about your heart, with its messages of greatness, and futurity, and hope.

Are you listless and discouraged?

Go up and breathe this wind on the heath, and it will sting to life the ambition and resolve in you, and in it you will hear, if you listen aright, the saga of victory.

"In sickness, Jasper?"

"There's the sun and stars, brother."

"In blindness, Jasper?"

"There's the wind on the heath, brother: if I could only feel that, I would gladly live forever. Dosta, we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves, and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother."

Tommy and the poet were bound for some ruins which lay across Becklington common and beyond the downs.

Harvest ruled the world, and the fields in the valley and on the hillside were dotted with stooks and stacks.

It was a day on which it was good to be alive, and, if a little subdued, yet they were both in good spirits.