sweetness and of sadness, of the mysteries of love, birth, and death, lay
bare to the sky and the street.




CHAPTER III


The stone bridge was deeply recessed, and in each recess was a stone
seat. In the last recess but one, at the north end, and on the east
side, there sat daily, some few years before 1840, a blind man, Michael
Catchpole by name, selling shoelaces. He originally came out of Suffolk,
but he had lived in Eastthorpe ever since he was a boy, and had worked
for Mr. Furze's father. He was blinded by a splash of melted iron, and
was suddenly left helpless, a widower with one boy, Tom, fifteen years
old. His employer, the present Mr. Furze, did nothing for him, save
sending him two bottles of lotion which he had heard were good for the
eyes, and Mike for a time was confounded. His club helped him so long as
he was actually suffering and confined to his house, but their pay did
not last above six weeks. In these six weeks Mike learned much. He was
brought face to face with a blank wall with the pursuer behind him--an
experience which teaches more than most books, and he was on the point of
doing what some of us have been compelled to do--that is to say, to
recognise that the worst is inevitable, throw up the arms and bravely
yield. But Mike also learned that this is not always necessary to a man
with courage, and that very often escape lies in the last moment, the
very last, when endurance seems no longer possible. His deliverance did
not burst upon him in rainbow colours out of the sky complete. It was a
very slow affair. He heard that an old woman had died who lived in