Sibylla, at any rate, would not fail to do so—we must give another word to that zealous missionary, Brother Jarrum.
The seed, scattered broadcast by Brother Jarrum, had had time to fructify. He had left the glowing promises of all that awaited them, did they decide to voyage out to New Jerusalem, to take root in the imaginations of his listeners, and absented himself for a time from Deerham. This may have been crafty policy on Brother Jarrum’s part; or may have resulted from necessity. It was hardly likely that so talented and enlightened an apostle as Brother Jarrum, should confine his labours to the limited sphere of Deerham: in all probability, they had to be put in requisition elsewhere. However it may have been, for several weeks towards the end of spring, Brother Jarrum was away from Deerham. Mr. Bitterworth, and one or two more influential people, of whom Lionel was one, had very strongly objected to Brother Jarrum’s presence in it at all; and, again, this may have been the reason of his quitting it. However it was, he did quit it; though not without establishing a secret understanding with the more faithful of his converts. With the exception of these converts, Deerham thought he had left it for good; that it was, as they not at all politely expressed it, “shut of him.” In this, Deerham was mistaken.
On the very day of Lionel Verner’s marriage, Brother Jarrum reappeared in the place. He took up his abode, as before, in Mrs. Peckaby’s spare room. Peckaby, this time, held out against it. However welcome the four shillings rent, weekly, was from Brother Jarrum, Peckaby assumed a lordly indifference to it, and protested he’d rather starve, nor have pison like him in the house. Peckaby, however, possessed a wife, who on occasion wore, metaphorically speaking, his nether garments, and it was her will and pleasure to countenance the expectant guest. Brother Jarrum, therefore, was received and welcomed.
He did not hold forth this time in Peckaby’s shop. He did not in public urge the delights of New Jerusalem, or the expediency of departure for it. He kept himself quiet and retired, receiving visits in the privacy of his chamber. After dark, especially, friends would drop in; admitted without noise or bustle by Mrs. Peckaby; parties of ones, of twos, of threes, until there would be quite an assembly collected up-stairs: why should not Brother Jarrum hold his levees as well as his betters?
That something unusual was in the wind, was very evident; some scheme, or project, which it appeared expedient to keep a secret. Had Peckaby been a little less fond of the seductions of the Plough and Harrow, he would not have failed to have had his suspicions aroused. Unfortunately Peckaby yielded unremittingly to the temptation, and spent every evening there, leaving full sway to his wife and Brother Jarrum.
About a month thus passed on, and Lionel Verner and his wife were expected home, when Deerham woke up one morning to a commotion. A flitting had taken place from it in the night. Brother Jarrum had departed, conveying with him a train of followers.
One of the first to hear of it was Jan Verner: and, curious to say, he heard it from Mrs. Baynton, the lady at Chalk Cottage. Jan, who, let him be called abroad in the night as he would, was always up with the sun, stood one morning in his surgery, between seven and eight o’clock, when he was surprised by the entrance of Mrs. Baynton; a little woman, with a meek, pinched face, and grey hair. Since Dr. West’s departure, Jan had attended the sickly daughter, therefore he knew Mrs. Baynton, but he had never seen her abroad in his life. Her bonnet looked ten years old. Her daughters were named—at least, they were called—Flore and Kitty; Kitty being the sickly one. To see Mrs. Baynton arrive thus, Jan jumped to the conclusion that Kitty must be dying.
“Is she ill again?” he hastily asked, with his usual absence of ceremony.
“She’s gone,” gasped Mrs. Baynton.
“Gone—dead?” asked Jan, with wondering eyes.
“She’s gone off with the Mormons.”
Jan stood upright against the counter, and stared at the old lady. He could not understand. “Who is gone off with the Mormons?” was his rejoinder.
“Kitty is. Oh, Mr. Jan, think of her sufferings! A journey, like that, before her! All the way to that dreadful place! I have heard that even strong women die on the road of the hardships.”
Jan had stood with open mouth. “Is she mad?” he questioned.
“She has not been much better than mad since—since—But I don’t wish to go into family troubles. Can you give me Dr. West’s address? She might come back for him.”
Now Jan had received positive commands from that wandering physician not to give his address to chance applicants: the inmates of Chalk Cottage having come in for a special interdiction. Therefore Jan could only decline.
“He is moving about from one place to another,” said Jan. “To-day in Switzerland, to-morrow in France; the next day in the moon, for what we can tell. You can give me a letter, and I’ll try and get it conveyed to him, somehow.”
Mrs. Baynton shook her head.
“It would be too late. I thought if I could telegraph to him, he might have got to Liverpool in time to stop Kitty. There’s a large migration of Mormons to take place in a day or two, and they are collecting at Liverpool.”
“Go and stop her yourself,” said Jan, sensibly.
“She’d not come back for me,” replied Mrs. Baynton, in a depressed tone. “What with her delicate health, and what with her wilfulness, I have always had trouble with her. Dr. West was the only one—but I can’t refer to those matters. Flore is broken-hearted. Poor Flore! she has never given me an hour’s grief in her life. Kitty has given me little else. And now to go off with the Mormons!”
“Who has she gone with?”
“With the rest from Deerham. They have gone off in the night. That Brother Jarrum and a company of about fifteen, they say.”
