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A good while ago I got your " Acmo " set, as I was suffering from a Norvous Debility and Impotency, and I am now thankful to say it cure4 me ; and the best evidence I can give is the above order, ad I got married since and have now a big bouncing baby boy, which, for nize and strength, uo baby in Canada can beat, and before I sent for the Belts I had no hopa of such a bleciaing, not even of marriage. I remain, yours in gratitude, G. W. D. Mb. a. Norman : Toronto, Ont. Dbar Sir, — I have S^eat uleasure in being able to testify to the efficacy of your Electric Belts. They nave benefited nie greatly. Before Igot them I used to suffer with Catarrh in the head and General Debility. Tue Belts deansed my blood, and cured my Catarrh ; I scarcely ever catch cold now. I recommend them to all who suffer. Yours truly, N. MoM. 199 YoNOE Strret, A. Norman, Tbb^i. : Toronto, Dec. 6, 1887. Dear Sir, — Twelve months ago I had to leave m^ biisinefls through complete prostration, and by the advice of my physician I travelled and stayed at different country resorts. After tour months, circumstances occurred which compelled me to return to my business. I hardly knew how to do so, as my heau felt so bad with creeping sonsations through it, and my thoughts I could not concentrate for two minutes together ; also I could not rest at night owing to dreams and sweats. In this condition I consulted you, and you told me if I carried out the course you recommended, I would get relief in a few days. I was doubtful, but I tried it, and I must own in two days I felt like a new man, since which time I have rested more and worked leu, and to-day I am in better health then I have been for years past. Yours respectfully, AUVE BOLLARD. NORMAN'S Electro-Curative Belt InstitutioD, ESTABLISHED 1874. 4 Queen Street East, Toronto. N.B.-BATHS OF ALL KINDS. 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NATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY. V >• ©he ^vitsiSimaksv9* nAsie * SGAI2E. culw. WILL. O. ROOD'8 PATENT. CutKpro- ■rnti th« Maglo Srtlc.hriugone-ninUi it* ■rtiiftltizc. It tinots iiindcinrcbart.but a 8ca1c of liicbM Dv It any lady can cut from any taililop plato, inakinK a prrfrct fit without CI.:iii;:i-of Seam. Agcnti wanted, tnclose thrco Cunts l<>r VU • The Simplest a?id most Perfect Tailor System of Cuttmg. • MISS E. J. CHUBB, • 179 KljNG ST. WEST, - TOF^ONTO. Best Tape Measures, Measure Books, Tracing Wheels, &c., always on hand ; also^ an assortment of both Wicker and A djustable Wire ; Fcathcrbone and other Corsets, &c. Dresses and Linings Cut and Fitted. Perfect Fit Guaranteed. mrwtWL Remove on Ist October, \%%%y to 41S«>^ YONCE STREET. W' IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. CHAPTER I. TIIORHILDA THEYN. ' what a thin;; ia man I bow far from power From settled peace ami rest I He is some twenty several men at least Each several hour 1' Georoe Herbf.rt. • Happy ! What right hast thou to be happy ?' This prej?uant question, asked once emphatically by Carlyle, and repeated often by him in modified form, is certainly worthy of attention. Consciously or unconsciously, the need for happiness is a factor in the life of each one of us : and no attempt to deny the need is so successful as we dream. Thorhilda Theyn was not greatly given to self -questioning. So far, perhaps, there had seemed to be no special necessity for it in her life — that is, no necessity caused by pressure of outward cir- cumstance, by any of the strong crises that come upon most human iives at one time or another. She was yet young ; she was very beautiful. Life was all before her, and the promise of it exceeding fair. "What need for question so far ? Yet as she stood there on that blue, breezy May morning, she felt herself decidedly in the grasp of some new spirit of inquiry, born within her apparently of the day and of the hour, strong at its birth, and demanding attention. The waters of the North Sea were her grand outlook. They were spread all before her across the bay, rippling from point to point, leaping, darting, dancing. The free, fresh, rustling sound was sweeter to her always than the similar sound of the wind in the woodland trees ; and it was soothing as soft music to watch the wavelets at play, leaping into light, flashing for a gay, glad moment, then dissolving instantly into apparent nothingness. Over and over it was all repeated, and the entrancingly uncertain cer- 1 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL tainty was as a spell to bold her there by the foot of the tall cliffs of Umtan Bight as one held in a dream. 'They say that life is like that— the poets, the philosophers,' Thorhilda said to herself, leaning lightly upon the uarapet, tall and •traight, and still, and beautiful. She was dresseu as became her ■tately style, in a fashion that might have been of that day or of this, io few of its details were borrowed from any extraneous source. Her gown fell gracefully about her feet : her long cloak almost ooYored it ; her small hands were crossed lightly, and held her hat, 80 that the fair face, so sweet and yet so strong, was all unshaded from the morning sun. And it was a face that could well bear the full, clear light ; no thought-line was yet graven upon the wide forehead, on either side of which the dark abundant hair was braided ' Madonna-wise ' ; deep, changeful gray eyes looked out from below the white drooping lids that give to any face a touch of pathos — a touch contradicted at that moment on Thorhilda's face by an evidently half- unconscious smile, which played fitfully about ner mouth. It was a mouth that was almost childlike in the fine roundness of its curves, and yet it was the lower part of tha face that displayed firmness, decision. The eyes were all gentle- ness, all tenderness, in repose. When the lips smiled in convei'sation the eves smiled too; and a fascinating piquancy of expression would suddenly light up features that had seemed too grave and gentle ever to be piquant. The effect was apt to be surprising ; but it was always a pleasant surprise, and betrayed the observer to admiration, though no such effect had been expected on the one side, or certainly intended on the other. Thorhilda was innocent of the art of producing effects. That such an art existed was a matter of hearsay, and therefore dubious. ' They say that life is like that I' she had murmured half audibly, 'like ,« •" A momentary ray, Smiling in a winter's day. ■ 'Tis a current's rapid stream, 'Tis a shadow, 'tis a dream.' " So wrote Francis Quarles, over two hundred years ago ; so others have written,' she went on. ' And yet how different one feels ! I feel this morning as if life were ages long. I have lived but four- and-twenty years, yet I seem to have centuries in my personal memory.' Presently definite thought passed on into indefinite. Dreams came up out of the past, with reminiscence sad and sunny ; and finally came that bright yet questioning mood of which mention has been made already, the disposition to ask herself, not * What right have I to be hat>py ?' but ' Why am I so happy ?' Once as she leaned by the edge of the sea-wall, watching the gulls float up and down with folded wing and yielding breast upon the gently heaving waters, an answer came suddenly. Was it from THOK HILDA THEYN. of tho tall cliffs ed half audibly, rhich mention tho heart, or from the braiu only? Though she wim alone, she bluHhed, the long eyelashes drooped ; and a little inst^int, negative movement of the head might have been detected had anyone to detect it been there. ' No, no / It is not that, it is not that /' she made haste to assure herself. *I do nut feel that he could make happiness of mine. No, it is not that !' It was perhaps significant that she did not long continue to dwell upon the idea of Percival Meredith. He was a neighbour, the owner of Ormston Magna, a place some three miles nearer to the sea than Yarburgh ; indeed, from its terraced gardens you could look out over the wide expanse of the German Ocean. Percival, who was an elderly-looking man if you considered his thirty-four summers, lived at Ormston with his mother, a lady who might easily have been mistaken for his elder sister. It had been made evident for some time to Canon and Mrs. Godfrey that the Merediths had especial motives for gladly accepting every invitation that was sent to them from the Rectory, and for inviting the in- habitants of the Rectory to Ormston on any and every possible occasion. Of late Thorhilda had herself discovered the reason of all this ; and she was perplexed, pleased, perturbed by turns. Only at rare moments was she conscious of any true satisfaction in thinking of Percival Meredith and his too evident intentions. Yes ; it was certainly significant that at the present moment she made haste to put away all thought of him, and went on thinking, meditating, on the strong, glad sense of her life and its happiness. She was not old enough, or tried enough, to know how on such days the mere sense of living is enough for unusual exultation. ' lilisH was it on that morn to be alive, . But to be youiiy was very heaven.' So wrote Wordsworth ; but he had passed his youth when he wrote this. Had anyone in Thorhilda's circle of friends — Gertrude Douglas, for instance, who was considered to be her most intimate friend, been asked to give a reason for Miss Theyn's happiness, Gertrude would have made answer, ' How should she not be happy ?' Her home in the house of her uncle. Canon Godfrey, the Rector of Market Yarburgh, was, admittedly, as happy a home as a woman could have. The Canon's wife, Milicent Godfrey, was the sister of Thorhilda's dead mother; and, being a childless woman herself, with a passionate love for children, she had done all that might be done to make Thorhilda's life a life full of all sweetness, all light, all good. It was for her niece's sake that the old Rectory had been refurnished, made beautiful with all artistic beauty that fair means could command. Indeed, nothing had been left undone that love could suggest as better to be done. And Thorhilda, having a keen appreciation of the material good of life — too keen, said some of 1-2 i I I ! 4 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. the friendlieHt of her friendH — wan neither unconociouB nor un- grateful. Therefore what rciiHon for not hoing happy ? Is it true, that old saying, ' Every light han its shadow' ? Scientifically, it must be true, always ; but surely the analogy will not bear stretching to meet and to tit this human life in every tossible phase. We know that it will not, and are happier for the nowledge— happier and better. But the bnght picture of Thorhilda Th^yn's life was not without that enhancing touch of dt^pth in the background of it, which gives both to colour and light their rightful prominence and effect. There had been hours, nay days, when that dark background had claimed more of the girl's life r.hiin any foreground object that could be put before her for her distraction. 'I must think of thene things, Aunt Milicent,' she had said. ♦Qarlaflf Grange is my own home. They are my own people who live there.' *No; there I cannot agree,' Mrs. Godfrey had replied. 'Your mother gave you to me solemnly, prayerfully, when she was dying. She entreated me to promise that the lleotury should be your home. ... I have tried to Keep my promise.' The touch of emotion with which tlieso and other sayings wei > uttered was usually conclusive. Thorhilda had no heart to go on with arguments presented to her only by an inade({n;ite sense of duty. If people so much older and wiser than herself as Canon Godfrey and her aunt considered that it was her wisdom to sit still, why should she not agree — especially since movement in the direction indicated by conscience was so eminently distasteful? And yet from time to time conscience would have its way. Did she really do all that it was her duty to do in going to the Grange now and then when it was quite convenient to her aunt to drive round that way; in sending presents on birthdays and Christiius Days ; in calling occasionally to see how her sister llhoda was, or to inquire after her Aunt Averil ? It was not pleasant for her to go there — the reverse of that — and she did not for a moment imagine that she gave any pleasure by going. She was saved from all illusion on that head. So far as she could remember, her father had never once in his life said, ' I am glad to see you !' never, even when she was a child, offered her any greeting or parting kiss. Once or twice he had shaken hands ; once or twice he had — not at all ironically — taken off his hat as the Rectory carriage drove away with only Thorhilda in it ; and there bad seemed nothing incon- gruous in his doing so. His daughter knew little of him except what she heard from others ; and it was long since she had heard any pleasant thing. For years past everything had been going down at GarlafF Grange ; and though repeated efforts had been made by Canon Godfrey and others to stop tho descent, no such efforts had availed, and it was long now since Squire Theyn had permitted anything of what he termed ' interference.' THOR HILDA THEYN. % * Ahll ha' neii nmir on't !' he had said to his only son, ITartaB, on one occaHion. Canon (iotlfioy had l)een Hpending an hour with Sqaire Theyn — spending it mostly in farnest entreaty; and he had left the (rrange with the Sqiiiru'M ' words of high disdain' ringing in his ears painfully. 'Ah'U ha' neii nmir on't!' repented the old man; and Hartas helped greatly to contlnu hitu in this decision. The younger man's dislike to anythinf? that could touch his liberty was at least as strong as the same feeling in the elder one. There were some who said that Squire Theyn and his son were not unworthy of each other ; and it is possible that the saying had more in it than appciirud on the surface. Certainly it waa one to bear investigation, had any uniilytically minded person been drawn to interest himself in tlie mutter. And a student bent upon humanity might have travelled fur before finding two more unique subjects for his reseurch. CHAPTER II. ▲ NORTH YOKKSMIKK FISIIBK-.MAIDEN. ' Sho was a ciiri'l«3ss, fearless nitl, And inadu her uiiswer plHiii, Outspoken she to earl or <-linrl, Kiudheurted in the main.' CuUiSTINA ROSSETTT. WirY Thorhilda's thou<,'hts, as slio stood there by the margent of the sea, sliotild suddenly he dniwn to hiT lir-otlier Hartas she could hardly have told in that first moment. Sb(i had not been thinWing of him as she stood, letting the breez(;s blow upon her forehead, turning from watching the wide, white tlecked sea to note the fisher folk on the beach and on the (juays. She knew nothing of any of these save by hearsay, and yet she was aware of something prompting her interest in a group of tall, handsome fisher-girls who were down by the edge of the tide — such girls as you would hardly see anywhere else in England for strength and straightness, for roundness of foim and bright, fresh healthfulness of countenance. They wore blue flannel petticoats, and rough, dark-blue masculine- looking guernseys of their own knitting. Their heads were either bare, or covered with picturesque hoods of cotton — blue, pink, lilac, buff, pale blue. One, the tallest of them, and decidedly the handsomest, had no bonnet at all, and her rich chestnut hair blew about in the breeze in shining rings and curls in a way that attracted Thorhilda's attention, and even her admiration, though as a rule ■he 1. id slight sympathy with the 'admired disorder' school of aesthetics. And as she watched the girl, all at once there darted a new thought across her brain, a new and disturbing conviction. i i I IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. / 1. \ ' That is Barbara Burdas !' alio said to herself. Then fihe amileil a liMlo. and wondered at the force of a feeling that had so far-off a cause. Miss Theyn knew vei-y little of Barbara Bnrdas. Though the reputation of the handsome fisber-girl was rapidly spreading along the coast from Flamborough Head to Hild's Haven, her name had seldom been heard within the walls of the Rectory at Market Yarburgh ; but one day Canon Godfrey had spoken in a somewhat grieving tone to his wife concerning some new rumour which had reached his ear — a story in which both Barbara's bravery and the influence of her beauty were brought into prominence. Mrs. Godfrey tried to prevent liis sonow from deepening. *It will do the girl no harm,' she said, with her usual somewhat emphatic vivacity. ' Barbara Burdas is as good a woman as I am, and as strong. Think of her life, of all she is doing for her grand- father and the children ! Oh, a little admiration won't harm Barbara ! It may even be some lightness in her life — some relief ; I hope it will. She has not known much pleasure.' Thorhilda being present, Canon Godfrey had made no reply at that moment ; but later he had confided to his wife the things that he had heard in the parish concerning Barbara Burdas and her own nephew, Hartas Theyn. Subsequently some guesses had been made by Thorhilda, but they were little more than guesses, arising out of a word dropped by her aunt in an unguarded moment. Now, seeing Barbara there on the beach, a sudden desire to know something of the truth came upon her ; and after a few moments' consideration she left the promeuaae, and went down between the nursemaids and the babies, the donkeys and the Bath-chairs, to where the shore was wet and shining, and, for the present, almost untrodden. The wind seemed freer, and the sun brighter there by the changing edge of the sea. Miss "Theyn was not a woman to saunter on aimlessly, to wait for .in opportunity of speaking to Bab alone. She went straight across ihe stretch of brown sea-tangle, going directly to the group of laughing girls, with that firm nerve and presence which comes mostly of good health and right training. The laughter died down an she came nearer ; and with apparent courtesy Bab and her iiiende half turned and drew togutlier waitingly. They were not aMused to conversation with curious strangers. Thorhilda was the first to speak. She looked at Bab as she did so, and there was involuntary admiration in her look, which Bab saw, and did not resent. Yet there was an unconscious touch of scorn about the fisher-girl's mouth, a half-disdain in the inquiring glance she fixed upon the lady whose delicate gray silk dress had come in contact with tlie slimy weed and the coarse, brown sand, and whose small dainty Loots were surely being ruined as they sank and slipped among the great drifting fronds that lay h«ap«d upon th« thai*. Thorhilda understood th« disdain. OUL. If. Then Hhe smilcii g that had so far-off inrdas. Though the idly spreading along laven, her name had Rectory at Market token in a somewhat ' rumour which had ra's bravery and the prominence. Mrs. ening, her usual somewhat d a woman as I am, Joing for her grand- ration won't harm r life — some relief : ire. d made no reply at wife the things that Burdas and her own jsses had been made guesses, arising out I moment. Iden desire to know ter a few moments' down between the he Bath-chairs, to he present, almost brighter there by ulossly, to wait for cnt straight acrosa to the group of nee which comes tughter died down esy Bab and her They were not at Bab as she did look, which Bab n scions touch of in the inquiring ay silk dress had irse, brown sand, ;ned as they sank lay litap«d upon A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN, 7 * Are you not Barbara Burdas ?' she asked, in her clear yet gentle Toice, as she drew quite near. Bab hesitated a moment, during which her lips compressed them- selves firmly, yet without discharging the scorn from the curves at he corners. Her gaze was still steady and inquiring. A slight inge of colour crept under the creamy olive of her cheek. She was about to reply ; but it was a moment too late. Her friend. Nan Tyas, a young fish-wife, almost as tall, almost as hand- some as herself, but in a different way, had come to an end of her slight store of patience. Looking over Bab's shoulder, her keen dark eyes glittering as she tared straight into Miss Theyn's face, an expression of suspicion n every feature, she asked : •Whca telled ya her neame ?' This was meant to be facetious, and there was esprit de corps enough among the girls to cause it to be received as it was meant. A general titter wont round, in the midst of which another voice found courage to remark : * Mebbe she kenned it of her o/in sharpness.' A second laugh was heard, less restrained than before. Thorhilda looked on with interest, but not smilingly, still less resentfully. The moment and its experience were new to her. Moreover, she discerned that a grave clear look from Bab was quelling the tendency to sarcasm. ' Hand yer tongues, ya fools,' Bab said quietly, but with a certain force in the tone of her voice. Then she turned to Miss Theyn, the lingering displeasure still about her mouth. Speaking with decidedly less of the northern accent and intonation than before, she said : ' Yes, Barbara Burdas ; that's what they call ma. Ah'm noan shamed o' my name. . . . Did ya want anything wi' me ?' ' Yes ; I wished to speak to you for awhile. I do not know that I have much of importance to say at present ; but I wished to know you. to ask you one or two questions. I thought that perhaps your friends would permit me to speak to you alone.' A certain power in Miss Theyns glance as she looked round upon the six or seven young women might have as much to do with their compliance as the tone of expectant authority which she in- voluntarily used. They smiled satirically to each other ; and then went gliding away with the strong easy grace of movement which seems their birthright. Thorhilda watched them admiringly for a few moments ; then she turned to walk with Bab in the opposite direction ; and for a little while there was silence ; but it was not at all an awkward silence. Though the moment was not a facile one, the elements of awkwardness did not exist for these two, who walked there side by side, so near, yet so widely separated. Again it was Thorhilda who spoke first. She did bo naturally, and without constraint. i 8 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. * Thank you for telling me your name,' she said. ' It is only fair that I should tell you mine in return ; it is Thorhilda Theyn.' Bab did not quite stay the firm ste]i that was going on over the beach ; but Miss Theyn perceived the partial arresting of move-l ment ; she divined the cause of it ; and she understood the presence! of mind that gave Bab the power to go on again as if nothing had] happened. 'Then you'll live at the Grange,' Bab said, speaking as if even| cariosity were far from her. 'No,' Thorhilda replied. 'I live at Market Yarburgh, at the' Rectory ; but the Grange is my real home.' An' the Squire is yer father ?' ' Yes. . . . And Hartas Theyn is my biother.' The sun was still shining down with brilliancy upon the blue waters of the North Sea, ui)on the white wavelets that broke gently but just below where the two girls were sauntering. A couple of sea-gulls were crying softly overhead ; the fishing boats in the offing were ploughing their way northward. A light breeze fluttered the loops of gray ribbon that fastened Thorhilda's dress. Bab's attention seemed drawn in rather a marked way to the ribbon. Her eyes followed its fluttering as she walked on in silence, but it was not of the ribbon that she was thinking. Perhaps she was hardly thinking at all in any true sense of the word ; yet she was .aware of some new and gentle influence that was stealing upon her swiftly, awakening an admiration that was almost emotion ; subduing the natural pride that was in her ; the strong natural independence of her spirit, an independence of which she was as utterly unconscious as she was of the ordinary pulsations of her heart ; but which was yet one of the dominant traits of her nature ; and produced difficulties, perplexities, which she had often found bewildering, but never more bewildering than at the present moment. Here was one, far above her by birth, by beauty, by position, by education, yet possessing a something (Bab did not know it to be sympathy) that had the power to charm, to extract the bitterness from pain, and the sting from an unacknowledged dread. Bab hesitated some time, sighing as she repressed one impulse after another toward unsuitable speech. The right words would not come. At last came some awkward ones. 'If ya've anything to saiiy, Miss Theyn. ya'd better say it,* the girl remarked, decidedly more in the tone of one urging blame than deprecating it. ' It is evident that you ha^e nothing to fear,' Thorliilda replied, turning to look into the proirl yet winning face so near her own. 'Fear !' exclaimed Bab, a great scorn flashing in lier eyes and on her lips. ' Fear ! what would / ha' to fear, think ya ? If ya dream that I'm feared o' yon brother o' yours, or of ony mischief he can bring aboot for me, ya can put away the notion without a second thowt. It's as big a mistake as you've ever made. Fearl I'm 1 iOUL. horhiJda Theyn.' t^as going on over the il arreating of move- derstood the presence iin as if nothing had , speaking as if even et Yaiburgh, at the iancy upon the blue ets that broke gently jering. A couple of ashing boats in the d. A light breeze d Thorhilda's dress, id way to the ribbon, on in silence, but it y true sense of the mtle influence that dmiration that was at was in her ; the ependence of which ordinary pulsations linant traits of her k'hich she had often than at the present ■th, by beaury, by ling (Bab did not charm, to extract u unacknowledged she repressed one The right words les. better say it,* the urging blame than riiorhilda replied, > Jioar her own. 1 lier eyes and on 'a? If ya dream ^ mischief he can iv'ithout a second do. Fear I I'm A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 9 noan feared of him. . . . Noa ! ... But Ah know what it is, Miss Theyn. I know what's brought you here ; you'we feared for him—foT your brother ! You've feared he's goin' to disgrace hisself, an' you, wi' marryin' a flither*- picker. Don't hev no fear o' that sort, Miss Theyn !' And here even Bab's voice grew fainter as her breathing became overpowered by betraying emotion. * Don't hev no fear o' that sort. I'll , . . well, I'll let ya know when he's i' daanger !' It was evident that Bab had not intended to end her speech thus ; and other things more important were evident also. Thor- hilda's experience ha'^ not been wide, but she had her woman's instincts to guide her, and her instinct told her plainly that Bab's emotion could only have one cause. This and other new knowledge complicated the feeling which had brought Miss Theyn to saunter there, in the very middle of Ulvstan Bight, with Barbara Burdas. Other complications were at hand. Thorhilda herself hardly knew what drew her to notice that Bab's perturbation had suddenly and greatly increased, but instantly her eyes followed the direction of her companion's eyes, and almost to her distress she saw that the figure advancing rapidly toward them oa er the beach was the figure of her brother Hartas. Thorhilda's exclamation of concern did not escape Bab's notice. CHAPTER III. ULVSTAN BIGHT. • For hftst tbou not a herald on my cheek, To ti'U the coming nearer of thy ways, And in !ny veins a stronger blood tliat flows, A bell that strikes on pulses of my heart, Submissive life that proudly comes and Roea Through eyes that burn, and speechless lips that part? And hast thou not a hidden life in mine, In thee a fioul which none may know for thine?' Mauk ANDitfi Raffalovitch. Hartas Tiievn was coming down the beach slowly, yet with more intentness in his deliberate gait than wa-^ usually to be observed. He had seen fiom the road by the Forecliff that the lady who was walking with Barbara Burdas was none other than his elder sister. Thoihilda consciously repressed all outward sign as she watched lus approach ; her face did not betray tlie sadness she felt as she noted his slouching air— his shabby, shapeless clothing. The very hut he wore, an old gray felt, seemed to betray what manner of man its wearer had come to be ; and as he came nearer, his bauds in the pockets of his trousers, a pipe between his lips, a sullen, defiant, yet questioning look in the depths of his dark eyes, a tou^-h of something that was almost dread entered into her feeling. It * Flither8 = limrt■t^. used for bait. 1 ! lO /A' EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL, was bnt momentary, this stranjjft emotion ; and Bhe offered her greeting without more restraint than was usual between them. * You did not expect to see me here, llartas ?' she said pleasantly. * No, I didn't,' replied the youni; man, after half a minute's irritating silence. ' An' if I'm to tell the truth, 1 don't know ';it I'd any particular wish to see yo'\' And his eyes flashed a little, as if conscious of a certain amount of daring in his speech. If this daring were ventured upon for Bab's sake, or because of her presence there, it was. a mistake ; but this llartas had not dis- cernment enough to perceive. Bab was looking on with interest, jut she repressed all tendency to smile. Thorhilda replied instantly and easily. * That is not polite, Hartas,' she said. ♦ But let it pass. I did not come here to irritate you. And ' * Could you say what you did come for ?' interrupted Hartas, with a certain coarse sharpness in his tone. ' Readily. I came down to make the acquaintance of Barbara Burdas. I wished to know her ; I had wished it for some time. So far, I am glad I did come. Don't try to make me regret it.' * I don't spend my breath in such efforts as them, as a rule,' re- joined the young man. t?'iing his pipe from his mouth, and speaking with evident strong effort to restrain himself. ' But have a care ! I don't force myself upon your friends.' ' True,' said Thorhilda ; and again, before she could find the word she wished to use, the opportunity was taken from her. ' D'ya want yer sister to think she's forced herself upon a friend o' yours?* Bab asked, still seeming as if she tried to restrain the sarcastic smile that appeared to play about her lips almost cease- lessly. Hartas Theyn's manner changed instantly in replying to Bab. It was as if the better nature within him asserted itself all at once ; his higher manhood responded to her slightest touch. * I don't want no quarrellin',* he replied, speaking with a mildness and softness so new to him that even his sister discerned it with an infinite surprise. ' I don't want no quarrellin', an' it's only fair to expect that if I keep away f ra them, as I always hev done ' [this with an unmitigated scorn], 'they'll hev the goodness to keep away fra me. Friends o' that sori 's best separated ; so I've heard tell afore to-day.' Then, warming with his own eloquence, Hartas turned again to Thorhilda, saying emphatically : * I mean no harm ; an' as I said just now, I want no quarrellin ; but if you want to keep out o' mischief, keep away fra me an from all interference in my affairs. I can manage them for myself thank ya all the same.' Thorhilda hesitated a moment, recognising the effort Hartas had made, and also the element of fairness in his words, yet it was intvitabl* that other thoughts should force themselves upon her. UL, nd Bhe oflFered her between them, she said pleasantly. Br half a minute's ih, 1 don't know 'nt f a certain amount sake, or because of liutas had not dis- J on with interest. let it pass. I did iterrupted Hartas, ntance of Barbara it for some time, e me regret it.' hem, as a rule,' re- outh, and speaking * But have a care ! he could find the en from her. self upon a friend ed to restrain the lips almost cease- ly in replying to asserted itself all ghtest touch. ng with a mildness discerned it with , an' it's only fair ^8 hev done ' [this ness to keep away 80 I've heard tell IS turned again to at no quarrellin ; away fra me an them for myself jffort Hartas had ^ords, yet it was jlves upon her. ULVSTAN BIGHT, %t * Hartas, do yon remember that you are my brother ?' she asked after a moment of swift, deep thinking. * An' what o' that ? It's neither your fault nor mine.' * Ko ; it is no one's fault ; but it is a fact, a fact that means much, and, for me, involves much. If I could forget it I should be — well, something I hope I am not. Fortunately for me I cannot forget it ; more fortunately still, I cannot altogether ignore it. I cannot let you and your life's deepest affairs pass by me as if no tie existed. ... I do not wish to forget or to ignore. Why should you wish it ?' ' Because I'm made of a different sort n' stuff — a commoner sort, if you will ; an' because I'm cast in a different mould. Say what you like, it isn't easy for you to look down — fool as I am I can see as much as that. But, take viy word for it^ it i$nt any easier for me to look up. An' wliy should either you or me strive to look up or down against the grain ? Because the world expects it ! Then let it expect, I'm good at disappointin' expectations o' that sort. We're better apart, an' you know it /' Then turning away, a little excited, a little angry, disquieted by nervous perturbations of various kinds, he lifted his eyes to discern the approach of influences J ret more disturbing to him than any he had encountered that uckless morning. And yet it was only two ladies who were approaching, two elderly and, more or less, elegantly dressed ladies. Hartas instantly divined that they were his aunts in search of Thorhilda. ' Heaven help us !' he exclaimed. * Here's two more of 'em ! Bab, let's fly. There's the cave !' * Me fly !' Bab exclaimed indignantly. ' It will be thte first time !* And as she stood watching the two ladies advancing slowly over the slimy, slippery stones and tangle, again the half-satirical smile gathered about her mouth. Hartas watched her face with admira- tion expressed on every feature of his own ; and Thorhilda stood, controlling the fear of a scene that wa& mingled with her ex- pectancy. Mrs. Godfrey, the Canon's stalely and still beautiful wife ; Mrs. Kerne, the sister of Squire Theyne, an elderly and rugged-featured woman, the widow o^ a rich shipowner, had not much in common ; and therefore, very wisely, seldom sought each other's society. There certainly seemed to be something strange ir the fact of their leaving the wide sea-wall together, aud coming down over the wet unstable beach. Besides, there was that in the expression of one of them that was at lea^*^ oniinous. iTT- I i 1 11 !i la IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, CHAPTER IV. SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS. ' O how this i^pring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an Ai)ril day ; Which now shows all the beauty of tue son And by-and'by a cloud takes all away.' Shakespeabb. 'Think again, Bab,' Hartas whispered to the only quite self- poHsessed one of the waiting three. ' Think again ! There's the Pirate's Hole !' * Go into it, if you're frightened,' replied Bab curtly. Hartas was silenced ; but the unpleasant anticipation of the moment was not done away. He smoked on more vigorously than before. Thorhilda utterea some small nothing to Bab, and then turned to meet the two approaching figures. To her comfort her Aunt Miliccnt's face was tne face it usually was— beautiful, kind, smiling ; free from all disfigurement of untoward exi)rea8ion. She was not a woman to mar any influence she might have by un- controlled feminine petulance. * Well !' she said cheerfully to Thorhilda. * I thought you were to wait for me on the promenade, dear ! But how lovely this ia I How breezy ! — And there is Hartas ! I haven't seem him for an age. . . . Hartas — how do you do ? And how are you all at the Grange ? We were thinking of driving round that way, but now we needn't. . . . All quite well ? Delightful ! But, of course, that doesn't include your poor Aunt Averil. How I should like to hear for once that she was quite well !' So Mrs. Godfrey ran on in her easy, woman-of-the-world way ; glancing at Barbara Burdas, understanding, feeling acutely, all the incongruity of the elements that made np the surrounding atmosphere ; knowing herself to be ten time'j less distressed than Mrs. Kerne, who stood by her side, yet not too near — silent, hard, stern, disapproving to the uttermost. And yet Mrs. Godfrey's social nerves should surely have been as Iceenly sensitive as those of Squire Theyn's sister. All the world knew of the upbringing of the latter in a household where a fox-hunting mother had been the only feminine influence ; and a seldom sober squire, with his like-minded brother, the ruling masculine powers. There had only been one son, the present Squire Theyn ; and only one daughter, the present Mrs. Kerne ; who bad attained the height of her ambition in marrying a rich and vulgar man. The rich man was dead ; his widow was a rich woman ; and none the more pleasing because durint; a dozen years of companionship she bad managed to add some of her husband's coarsenesses and vulgarities to her own innate ones. The force of natural assimilation was never more clearly proved. OUL. 3 0THER3. I V oe son my." Shakespeabb. ;he only quite self- again ! There's the b curtly. anticipation of the lore vigorously than ig to Bab, and then To her comfort her '^as— beautiful, kind, 1 to ward expression. I might have by un- I thought you were how lovely this ia I [t seem him for an k are you all at the that way, but now But, of course, ow I should like to of-the-world way ; ing acutely, all the the surrounding ess distressed than near— silent, hard, Mrs. Godfrey's sensitive as those of the upbringing mother had been squire, with his peers. There had and only one ned the height of The rich man I none the more nionship she bad es and vulgarities lilation was never SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS. 13 Mrs. Godfrey's early recollections were of a different order. She [was one of the five daughters of the Rector of Luneworth, a small Ivillage in a midland county— a village where a kindly duke and Iduchess had reigned supreme, making much of the Rector's pretty children, and affording thera many advantages as they grew up Iwhich could not otherwise have been obtained. As all the neigh- jurhood knew, the Miss Chalgroves had shared the lessons that jasters came down from London to give to the Ladies Haddiugley. I And, later in life, some of the Rector's daughters had made a first social appearance on the same evening, and in the same place, as some of their more favoured friends. And they were truly friends, [who had remained friendly — much to Milicent Godfrey's permanent jood, pleasure, and satisfaction— much to her Mister Avcril's leterioration. Averil had been the eldest of them all— a clever, fretful, nervous woman, who had all her life magnified her slight [ailments into illnesses, and who had condescended to share her [sister Grace's home when the latter married Squire Theyn, with an inexpressible disgust. That her sister Milicent had never offered \ her a couple of rooms at the Rectory at Market Yarburgh remained j a standing cause for bitterness. It was not likely to be removed so long as Mrs. Godfrey should care for her husband's peace of mind. It was the quick sight of Mrs. Kerne, the Squire's widowed sister, I that had discerned the group upon the beach. She had met Mrs. i Godfrey at the turn leading down to the promenade, accepted her ' invitation to walk with her to meet Thorhilda with an indifference that was more than merely ungraciousness, and when they found that Thorhilda had left the promenade, her instinct led her to express her shallow satisfaction in somewhat irritating speech. Peering round above the rim of her gold eye-glass, she exclaimed at last : ' There is Miss Theyn ! — there is your niece !' — speaking as if she herself were no relation whatever. ' What can have ied hor to seek the society of fish-wives, I wonder ? . . . Ah, I see ! Master Hartas is there. That accounts. But I did not know that the brother and sister were on such affectionate terras as to induce her to lend her distinguished countenance to such as Bab ^iurdas for his sake. Dear me 1 What a new departure !' Mrs. Kerne was a short, stout woman, moving with the ungainly movement natural to her age and proportions. Her red face grew redder as she descended the narrow, unsavoury road that led to the beach, and her usually unamiable expression did not grow more amiable. By the time sh(5 had arrived at the point when it was necessary to shake hands with Thorhilda she had — perhaps unaware, poor woman ! — acquired a most forbidding aspect. Thorhilda shrank, as from a coming blow ; but this was only for a second ; her larger nature conquered, and she stood considei-ate, courageous. The influence of Barbara Burdas alone held Hartas Theyn to i/ 14 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. the spot of wet, wecd-strcwn sand on which he stood, his pipe stilll in his mouth, his big, unlcept brown hands still in the pockets ofl bis trousers. The mere sight of him .seemed to awaken the ire ofl Mrs. Kerne. That he should stand there before her, calmljl smoking, with Barbara Burdas by his side, was too much for the I small amount of equanimity at her disposal. No description madal by means of pen or pencil could do justice to the expression of her face as she broke the brief silence, sniffing the air as she did so as an ill-tempered horse sniffs it at the beginning of the mischief he has it in his head to bring about. | * I can't saj that I see exactly why I've been brought down here,' | she remarked, glancing from her niece to her even less favoured nephew. ' What is the meaning of it ? An' why are you standing there, Hartas, looking more like a fool than usual, if that's possible ? . . . 1 suppose the truth is I've been tricked ! brought down here to be introduced to your ' * Stop a minute,' Hartas interposed, at last taking the pipe from between his lips, putting it behind him, and letting his dark eyes flash their fullest power upon Mrs. Kerne. ' Stop a minute,' he said. ' If you've been brought down here, it's been by no will o' mine. I haven't seen you this year past, and wouldn't ha' minded if I hadn't seen you for years to come. . . . All the same, say what you've got to say to me, but take my advice for once, leave other folks alone — especially folks 'at's never me'lled wi' you.' ' It isn't much I've got to say to you,' Mrs. Kerne replied, the angry colour deepening on her face as she spoke, and a keen light darting from her small eyes. ' It isn't much I've got to say ; an' first I may as well just thank you for your plain speaking. I'll not forget it 1 You may have cause to remember it yourseli', sooner or later. It 'ill not be the first time 'at the readiness of your tongue has had to do with the emptiness of your pocket.' ' Mebbe not,' interrupted Hartas. ' I'd as soon my pockets were empty as try to fill 'em wi' toadyin' rich relations .... Most things has their price.' * I'm glad you've found that out,' replied Mrs. Kerne. * But you've more to learn yet, if all be true 'at one hears an* sees. However, as you say, perhaps I'd better leave you to go to ruin by your own road. You've been travellin' on it a good bit now, by all accounts, an' from the very first I've felt that tryin' to stop you would be like tryin' to stop a thunderbolt.* 'Just like that ; an' about as much of a mistake,' said Hartas, with an irritating attempt to seem cool. But the effort was obvious, and Thorhilda, who discerned all too plainly whither these amenities were likely to lead, turning to her brother, said gently : * Hartas, it is my fault that this has happened. I couldn't foresee it, of course. But let us put an end to it. Aunt E^therine will take cold if she remains bore on the wet beaoh any longer ; and we SOUL ho stowl, his pipo stjuj Htill in the pockets of i I to awaken the ire of ; 8 before her, calmly; was too much for the No description made the expression of her le air as she did so as ig of the m:8chief he I brought down here,' 5r even less favoured «vhy are you standing ihan usual, if that's sen tricked I brought :aking the pipe from letting his dark eyes ' Stop a minute,' he 8 been by no will o' wouldn't ha' minded II the same, say what 'or once, leave other wi' you.' Kerne replied, the ^e, and a keen light I've got to say ; an' n speaking. I'll not t yourseli', sooner or uess of your tongue on my pockets were lations .... Most VIrs. Kerne. 'But one hears an' sees, 'ou to go to ruin by rood bit now, by all tryin' to stop you stake,' said Hartas, ut the effort -was >o plainly whither ) her brother, said I couldn't foresee int Katherine will ny longer ; and we \quire theyn's sister, and some others. 15 going home — Annt Milicent and myself. Hadn't you better go ? And shall you be at the Grange to-iiiorrow, in the afternoon ? Iwant to see you. Don't refuse me, Hartas ; I don't often ask rours of you.' [It was strange how Thorhilda's voice, speaking gently, kindly, jietly, seemed to change the elements of that untoward atmo> ►here. Mrs. Kerne's countenance relaxed all unconsciouisly ; Mrs. Ifrey smiled, and turned with a pleasant word to Barbara irdas, who had been standing there during those brief moments, [ent, wondering, perplexed, and not a little saddened. Bab knew >thing of Tennyson, but the spirit of one of the poet's verses was ikling in her heart— _ * If this be high, wliat is it to be low ?* lb could not put the inquiry in these words, but in her own way, id of her own self, she asked the question ; and later, in her own )me, it came back upon her with fuller force than ever. Was lis the surrounding of the man who had seemed to step down rom some higher place, to condescend in speaking to her, to seem if he stood on the verge of ruin in making known to her his deep id passionate affection ? Bab understood much, more even than le knew that she understood, but naturally, from her social stand- )int, there was a good deal that was confusing to her. Hitherto 10 had not cared to know of any dividing lines there might be in inks above her own, and though discernment had seldom failed ier in such cases of pretension as she had come across, she yet had 10 knowledge of the great gulfs that are fixed between class and ^lass, and are only now and then bridged over by bridges of gold. "^ut ignorant as she might be, she had yet discerned, instantly and [nstinctively, that Mrs. Godfrey and Miss Theyn were at least as Ear above Hartas as Hartas was above herself, and that the lines in which Mrs. Kerne's life was laid down were more familiar to lim, and, in a certain sense, more consonant, than the lines of the two other lives into which Bab had had so mere a glimpse. Yet Srief aa the insight had been, it had developed an infinitude of suggestive ideas ; and it was significant that Bab's thought was Irawn to dwell mainly upon the gentler, the higher phase of the [humanity presented to he" in those few moments. Naturally, her jthinking and wondering was of a vague and inexact order, but it jwas not without its influence, for she recognised clearly that the [hour of her meeting with Miss Theyn was the most striking land- jmark of her hitherto uneventful history. i6 /A' EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. \\ Mi; ill ii i. CHAPTER V. ON THE FORECLIFF. • Whither away, Delight 7 Thon earnest but now ; wilt thou so sooQ depart^ And give me up to-nifjht? For weeks of liugeriug pain and sjnnrt, But one bolf-hour of comfort for my luart !' GeOROE BKRbEAT. ' Yes ; I'm glad to have seen them,' P>ab said to herself, as she stood alone at the door of her grandfather's cottage at night. The children were all in bed, litllp Stevie with his grandfather, Jack and Zeb in another bed in the far corner of the attic. Ailsie was in Bab's room, down below, a little square, dark place, with only room for a bed and a chair and the box in which Bab kept her ' Sunday things ' — her own and Ailsie's, and the latter were more than the former. Few thin<;s pleased Bab more than to be able to bnv some bit of bright ribbon for Ailsio's hat, or a kerchief for Ailsie's neck. No child on the Foreclilf was more warmly and prettily clad than Ailsie Burdas. It was moonlijjht now, the tide was half high, and the bay was filled from point to point with the sparkling of the silent silver sea. There were a few fishing-cobles in the offing, two or three more were lan3ing, making a picturesque group of dark, moving outlines upon the white margin of the waters. Bab was no artist, no pcot, but something of the poet temperament there was in the girl, and that something was heightened at the present moment by the emotion she was contending against, striving to hide its intensity even from her own self. Bab had never acknowledged, even in her inmost thonqht, that there was any possibility of Uartas Theyn winning f r> m bor a return of the affection he professed so passion- ately. Bather was she conscious of that spirit of rebellion which so often dawns with a dawning love, the spirit of fear, of shrinking reluctance. Hitherto the thought of becoming the wife of a man whose posi- tion in life was superior to her own had held but little temptation for her. She was not dazzled by the knowledge of Hartas Thevn's higher standing, of his better birth, of hia reputed wealth. She would have been glad to exchange her life for one that offered greater freedom from care, greater ease, more ability to procure for herself and those belonging to her some of the things that were now counted as luxuries not to be thought of ; but she had never been prepared to sacrifice herself too completely for such advan- tages as these. She was young and stroni;, and as willing to work as she was able. Why, then, should she dream of purchasing at a great price the things she did not very greatly desire to have ? But now to-night other thoughts came across her as she stood ON THE FORECUFF. • 7 there, other visions filled her bmin, vntrne visions of a gentler and more Iteautifiil life — ft life far from all roughness and rudiMieMg — in a word, the life that might he lived by the woman to whom Misa Theyn would say, ' My sister !' ' My ni«tcr /' Uib had said the words to herself ; then she uttered them half audibly, with a thrill like that of the lover who first says to himself, ' My wife' Could Thorhilda Theyn have known it all, could she have looked but one moment into liab's heart and brain as the girl stood there by the cottag* door, feeling almost as if her very breathing were restrained by the force of the new vision, the compelling touch of the new affection, surely for very humility Miss Theyn would have been sad at heart. It was well for her peace that she might not know. Bab had 'lever before come into contact with any woman of such winning grace, such refined loveliness ; never before had she been moved by such attractive gentleness. And there was something more than these — a mystic and far-off something that drew the untrained fisher-girl with a strong and strange fascination, a fasci- nation that she could m ither understand nor resist. ' I'd lay my life down for her,' she said, blushing as she spoke for the warmth of her own word, though no one was by to hear it, or to hold her in contempt for evermore for having used it. The blush was the sign of her heart's inexj»erionce. Thinking thus of Miss Theyn, it was not wonderful that softened thoughts of JMiss I'hoyn's brother should come ; that his humility of manner to heiself should appear in a new and more attractive light ; that the remembrance of his affection should have more force to touch her own ; that his oft-repeated assurance of life-long ])rotection and unfailing devotion should appeal more strongly to ijer imagination. Ah, what a dream it was ! how bright ! how sweet ! how possible ! but, alas, how very brief ! Bab would not look at the ending of the dream : she put it away resolutely. Some day she would be compelled to look at it, but not to-night, not to-night. It was as if she herself were pleading; with herself for a little good, a little beauty, a little softness, a little ease. Some day she might have to pay the price for the dream. Well, let the demand be made, and she would honour it — for Miss Tlieyn's sake she wouM honour it, though it cost all that she liad, to the last limit. ' Yes, I'd do that ; I'd lay down my life if so 'twere to be that she needed it !' Bab repeated, still standing there, watching the dark, picturesque grouping of the men and boats ujjon the silver of the beach, the swiftly-changing lights and shadows seeming to correspond with the changes of her own thought and emotion. Presently a voice broke upon the silence, not roughly or rudely, yet with a strangely jarring effect upon her present mood, an effect that was for thi' iusiant almost as the first rising of anger. No intrusion could have been more unwelcome. o i8 IN EXCHASGE FOR A SOUL, CHAPTER VI. *AnOVE THK SOUND OF THE SEA.' * * •^ • " JcHsii', JcRHJo rnincron. • Hcur me but tbis once," qiiotli he. " Oood luck no witli jou, nrij,'blionr's Hon, But I'm 110 mato for jon," qtiotb Hbe. Day was TerKin^ towanl the iii({bt, There beside the moaniii({ uea, DitnnesB overtook the litfbt, , There where the breakers be. "O Jessie, Jessie Cameron. I have loved yon long nnd tme," ••Good luck no with you, neighbour's son, But I'm no mate for yor. Christina Rosbeti'I. The voice was the voice of Davi't Aurioe, the brother of Nan Tyas, a brave, strong,', youni^ fislierrnan, with that slow solemnity of speech and movement which secinH always to have been won out of the moments of strife witii death and danger. David was not surprised to find Hah standiiii^ there, though it was nearly mid- night and the world about her was all asleep. Like others of his craft, he was used to the keeping of untimely hours. No, he had no surprise ; but an unusual sense of satisfaction came upon him, almost overpowering him for the moment. * Waitin'for daaylight, Bab ?' ho asked, stopping near the door of the cottage and resting upc^ the ground the end of an oar which he was carrying homeward for rr pairs. It looked like a lance as it stood edgewise in. the moonlight; and he who carried it might certainly have passed for a young knight of an older time had his dress been other than the knitted blue guernsey and the slouching sou'wester of the north coast. There was little difference between BaVs guernsey and his own ; his was knitted in a pattern of broad stripes, hers in a fine 'honey-comb' — the shape was the same precisely. Bab replied to his question \\ ith discouraging carelessness. * No,' 5he said ; I'll get a good sleep in yet afore the sun's above the sea. Im bound to be at the fiither-beds afore five o'clock. . . What bev ya got this tide? Not much to boast about, Ah reckon.' *No,' David replied, half sadly. *It strikes me 'at it'll be a good while afore anybody he rabouts has aught to boast on again. If you could put a stop to ^/he trawlers to-night, it 'ud take years to fill the sea as full o' fish as it was afore them devil's instriments was invented.' * The devil has nongbt to do wi' tuom,' said Bab, perhaps taking a wider outlook for contradiction's sake. 'There's more i' the heaven's above, and i* the e't! beneath, an' i' the waters under the e'tb, than such as you an' me knows on. . . . Let em be wi' their li It: 'ABOVE THE SOUXD OF THE SEA* 19 ISTINA RossEni. trawlers, an' thoir Htt;:im fiHhin' yawls, an' all tlio re^t of it. D'ya think thoy can niter tho ways of Providonco ? Let 'em IVi !' David was nilenced for a inotn(Mit, not fueling qiiitt; Hiire in hin own mind that this hopeful philosophy was being countenanced by actual ciroii instance. Yet for him, as for Bab, there would have been imtnenhe, almost insuperable difliculty in trying to set aside, or ignore, the old, tried belief in tho wisdom of the ways of Provi- dence. In this thoy were happy, in having been trained from childhood to at least reveience for a creed that hold the Fatherhood of God, the Brotherhood of Christ, as facts that none might dis- believe save to his soul's imperilling. Though no intimate spiritual influence had yet been theirs to draw them toattemptany spiritual life of their own. they were yet aware that such a life might be lived ; and David's inner experience had not been so colourless as some of his more fervid mates imagined But, like most of his class, he was uot given to wear his heart upon his sleeve. His life, generally, had much in it o' which the little world about him was only very dimly aware. H.e was one of a rather large family. The father was not a sober man ; the mother was an ill- tempered woman, dirty withal, and intolerably selfish ; caring nothing for the comfort or well-being of her family so that she might sit tho long day through upou the doorstop of her oottag<», idle, half-clad, and almosc repulsive in her personal untidiness. Yet is it strange to confess that David could never rid himself of the old affection for her, the old yearning for her that had so beset him when ho was a little lad, suffering keenly from her cruel humours, yet ."uflering silently and always forgivingly ? He had loved his mother and worked for hur, ai.'d taktm thought for her when there was no one else ; but he knew that his mother loved not him. Then naturally, almost inevitably, the aflFectionateness of his whole strong affectionate nature had gathered itself together in another love — a deeper and more yearning and more passionate love ; but, so far, this had seemed to give no sign, save in the keen and ceaseless aching of his heart. No lonely woman ever suffered a lonelier life, or was ever more sensitive to the lightest touch of alleviation. At the present moment not even Bab herself knew the tremulous way in which one instinct waS lighting against another within him. 'Go home now; leave this preoccupied and unimpressionable girl till a more favourable moment.' So spoke the instinct of common sense. But another and a stronger instinct was there — too strong to utter itself in words. It was by the depth of its silence that he was influenced ; and he made a mistake, nnd he stayed. 'It's all very well to talk i' that way, Bab,' he said at last, answering her word as if uo other thought had intervened. ' Bat 2—2 ! I I' Hi ■■., I 20 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. when one thinks o' what Ulvstan Bi<,'ht was nobbut twenty years agone, an' what it is now. one can't but feel half maddened. Why, there isn't a fifth jiart o' the fish browt into the bay 'at used to be browt in. It isn^t there to be catchrd ; how can it, wi' the spawn lyin' killed at the bottom o' the sea, mashed wi' the trav»i-boam as completely as a railway train 'ud mash a basket of eggs ?' * They tell me, them 'at knows, 'at the spawn doesn't lie at the sea-bottom. It floats on the top.' 'That's true of a few sorts,' said David, half glad that the girl should reply to him at all ; yet suspecting an allusion to one whom he hated with a hate proportionate to his love for Bab, ' It's true of a few sorts ; but it isn't true o' the sorts we depend upon for a livin'. I've had proof anuff o' that ; an' so hcs my father. Why, he was sayin' nobbut yesterday 'at he'd browt into Ulvstan as many as thirteen hundred big fish at a single catch. But he'll never do it again — no, nor no other man,' * The lasi (Reason warn't such a bad season for herrin's,' said Bab, still speaking in a conciliatory, but only half -interested way. David Andoe was roused even more than before. ' Herrin's !' he exclaimed. ' There's nowt like the number catched nowadays 'at used to be. Why, I've known mysel' a single boat to take eighteen lasts at a catch ; an' sell 'em for ten pound a last.* An' 'twas a reg'lar thing wiv us, when Ah was a lad, te fetch in four or five lasts of a mornin'. Now you may go till you're grayhcaded, an' you'll not do it. An' ' (here David's voice changed and softened, and betrayed him to his own great pain), * an' it's moan 'at Ah care so much for money, Bab, nut on my oiin account. Thou knows that ! Thou knows well anuff why Ah'd be fain to see things as they once was, when every man 'at chose to work could live by his work, whether on land or sea. Ah'm naught at landwork mysel', nut havin' been bred to it ; or Ah'd soon try an' see whether Ah couldn't mak' better addlins nor Ah can noo. . . . An' it's that keeps ma back ; an' hinders ma fra speakin' when my heart's achin to saiiy a word.' * Then ilonH say it, David !' protested Bab eagerly ; and the tone of her voice attested to the uttermost her sincerity of appeal. 'I mun saJiy it,' David replied passionately. 'Tho' Ah can't bard the notion o' askin' to leave thy gran'father's home, wi' never another home ready for thee to go to. But I'd try to mak' one ready, Bab ; I'd try all I could to mak' thee a better one ! For it breaks my heart to see thee workin' an' toilin' like ony slave. Ay, it is bad to bear, when Ah'd work mysel' te skin an' bone te save thee. But what can Ah do when neet after neet we toil an' moil, an' come back i' the moruin' wi' barely anuff te pay for the oil i' the lamp, let alone for the bait, or the wear an' tear o' the lines an* * A last consists of ten thotisaiKl liemngs ; but a hundred and twenty-four is counted to each hundred. A* YaniKjuth they count (or used to do so) ou« hundred and thirty-two. iili ABOVE THE SOUND OF TuE SEA: 21 )ut twenty years laddeiied. Why, ly 'at used to be it, wi' the spawn be trav»i-boam as eggs ?' doesn't lie at the lad that the girl ion to one whom ■ Bab. ' It's true pend upon for a ly father. Why, Ulvstan as many t he'll never do it jrrin's,' said Bab, -interested way. ke the number 'n mysel' a single for ten pound a A.h was a lad, te you may go till 2re David's voice )wn great pain), ), nut on my oJin luff why Ah'd be man 'at chose to Ah'm naught r Ah'd soon try or Ah can noo. . a speakin' when y and the tone of appeal, o' Ah can't bard liome, wi' never ;ry to mak' one ter one ! For it ony slave. Ay, an' bone te save we toil an' moil, ly for the oil i' o' the lines an' 3cl and twenty-four ised to do bo) ouu nets? What can Ah do? An' all the while me foariii' 'at some- body else— an' that somebody none so worthy — '11 stop in, an' spoil my life for me. . . . Bab, doesn't thee cave for me a little? An' me sa troubled wi' carin' for thee ! It takes the life out o' me ; because there's nought else, no, nou-^ht iiowheres. An' what is the good o' life to a man if there's no;in to care so as how he lives it ? Xni'iu to see whether the misery on it's more nor he cm bear ; rman to hel]> him i' the beariii' ; noiiu to say "Well done!' wiicu he's got the victory ; an' no;in to speak a word o' comfort when ho falls to the i,'r()iiiid? What's the good o' life when one hes te live it like that ?' ' You might as Wiill say, " Whal's the good o' life at all V" if ya ])ut it so,' Bab replied, sadly and gravely. The visions of the past isMlf-hoiir had not been all illumined by the sun. ' I hope I'd never be bold enough i' the wickedness to saay that /' David replied. ' Still it's of ton been forced in upon rae 'at if folks miss the happiness o'life at the beginning they don't easily o'ertake it after. Ah don't know 'at Ah'm so keen set o' hevin' a happy life ; still — Ah may say it to thee, Bab — A/i'm doled o' mkery, the misery 'at sits at a man's fireside, an' dulls the lowe o' the coal, an' taints the tast ov his every bite and sup, no matter how good it be ! Eh, but Ah am doled o' misery o' that sort, Bab ; an' o' some other sorts. Thee doesn't know the wretchedness of havin' every word — the gentlest ya can utter, re;>liod to wiv a snap o' the tongue, an' a toss o' the head, an' a rasp o' the voice 'at sileucos ya like a blow frev a hammer, an' makes the heart i' ycr body sink as if a stone had been dropped te tlie middle on't ; an' all th<; while the soul within ya achin', an' achin', an' aeliin' for the sound of a kindly word till ya're fit to lay doon yer life wi' the longiii'. An' it's; not for so many days an' weeks ya ha' to bear it — no, nor not for so many months an' years— i/'.s- yt-r life 'c/Z's goin'. . . . But, eh, me, what an Ah saying ? Thou knows nought o' life o' (hut kind, Bab, an' thou shall never know, so it be that Ah hev my wa/iy. It all depends on thysel' ! . . . Doesn't thee care for me a little, nobbut a little, just anufi; to lead thee to promise me to wait a bit ? Things'll be better by-an'-by ; and there'll be two on us to fight instead o' only thyself. Can't thee sa;iy a word ? Bab had listened quite silently ; but not without strongly- repressed emotion. The emotion evident in David Andoe had alone been sufficient to awaken her own ; and theie was more behind. Bab's first girlish though of love aud marriage had been bound up with the thought of David. IMany a morning ho had helped her to fill her flither-basket out of the rocks at the foot of Yarva-Ness ; many a time he had helped her to bring up the lines from her grandfather's boat, or rather the boat in which her grandfather had a single share ; many a time he had helped to shorten her daily task of mussel-scaling. Of late Bab had not accepted his help, but this had not greatly distressed him. The meaning of her refusal might not be so untoward as, on the surface « y 22 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ill ! I 11 ill lili! of it, it seemed to be. And Bab quite understood. Long ago she had discerned the patience in the man, his faithfulness, his power of loving and suffering in silence ; and long ago, at least it seemed long to her now, she had desired to say something that should relieve her own soul from the burden of seeming to encourage attentions she might never accept as they were meant to be accepted. She knew now that it was not love that was in her heart when she thought of David Andoe, and by consequence his love for her was as a weight that she was fain to put away. Hero at last was an opportunity. ' Can't thee say a word, Bab ? David had pled in the gentle, humble tones of true lovingness. ' I'm feared I've nought to say 'at you'd care to hear,' Bab replied quietly, and as she spoke a light yet chill bret/j' came up from the sea, making a stir that seemed to cover a little the nakedness of speech. 'I'm noan thinkin' o' changin' ! nut i' noa waaj'. I'd never leave the childer, still less could I leave my gran'father. Noa, I'll never change.' *Ah'd niver ask thee to change,' David made haste to reply. * Ah've thowt it all oot lang sen ; an' Ah can see no reason why we shouldn't take a place— a bit biggt-r nor this — such a one as Storrs' 'ud do right well. An' we'd all live together ; an' the most o' the work 'ud fall on me, an' Ah'd be as happy as the day's long. An' surely there'll be a chaiinge by-an'-by,' the poor fellow urged, half- forgetful of the prophecy he had uttered but five minutes before. 'Either the fish '11 be easier to come by, or the prices '11 be better, or something '11 turn up i' some way. An' even supposin' noa great chaange comes at all, why we'd go on easier together nor apart. There's nought Ah wouldn't do for thee, Bab — noa, nought i' the world. Ah think, indeed, Ah do think, truly, 'at Ah could never live without thee !' ' Don't talk i' that way. David,' she replied, 'An' try an' forget ivery word 'at you've said. There's half a dozen lasses an' more i' Ulvstan Bight as 'd be proud an' glad to know 'at you cared for 'em. An' there's good women among 'em ; more nor one 'at would make a better wife nor ever I could do wi' four bairns an' a gran'father to start wi'. No, don't saay no more, David ! It 'ud be noJi use. Don't saay no more !' But David was hurt, and his hurt would have words. ' Ah'll only say this,' he urged, his dark eyes flashing in the mor- . light, * Ah'll only say this — you can't lissen to me, because you've thought of another i' yer mind— another 'at '11 bring ya to misery as sure as you're born ; an' make you bite the dust o' the e'th as you've niver been brought to bite it yet. There is a good bit o' pride in ya, Bab — pride 'at Ah've been proud to see, because it seemed to speak o' the high natur' 'at was in ya — a natur' 'at would never let ya ntter no mean word, nor do no mean thing. But yer pride '11 lUL. ;ood. Lon<j ago she thfulness, his power D, at least it seemed aething that should 3niiiig to encourage were meant to be ? in her heart when !nce his love for her J. Here at last was pled in the gentle, to hear,' Bab replied ;i' came up from the le the nakedness of t i' no;i wa;\y. I'd ive my gran'father. lade haste to reply. ;e no reason why we uch a one as Storrs' an' the most o' the he day's long. An' \ fellow urged, balf- ve minutes before. prices 'II be better, supposin' noa great iogether nor apart. -noii, nought i' the 'at Ah could never 'An' try an' forget n lasses an' more i' t you cared for 'em. one 'at would make 18 an' a gran'father It 'ud be noii use. words. shing in themor- •• me, because you've ing ya to misery as 3' the e'th as you've ood bit o' pride in cause it seemed to at would never let But yer pride '11 ■■ I 1^ THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. 23 be brought low, m^i he'll do it f Mark my word. Ah'Te got no other word to say.' David Andoe turned away, stung, pained beyond endurance. There had been a certain studied impaaaiveness in Bab't manner, a cold discouragement that had never been there before for him. He knew nothing of the events of the day, nothing of the new elements that had come into Bab'8 atmosphere ; but he felt the presence of change, and knew it to be full of all adverseness so far as he waa concerned. The night was a slee])les8 one, and tinctured deeply with the one great trial of his much-tried life. CHAPTER VII. THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGII. ' I come from haunts of coot aiid hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out amoug the fern, To bicker down a valley. # * # * * I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-uots That grow for happy lovers.' Tennysok. The river Yarva ceases to bicker before it comes to the old town of Market Yarburgh. It winds slowly along between banks so steep as to be almost cliff-like ; yet it has four miles farther to flow before reaching the more rugged cliffs by the sea. The ruin of the ancient Priory stands on a rock at least two hundred feet above the river level ; and the bridge which unites the divided town has a somewhat perilous look, seeming slender for its great height and length ; but since it has stood the traffic of more prosperous times it is probably equal to anything likely to be demanded of it in the present. For Market Yarburgh has pre-eminently the air of a town that has ' seen better days.' There are quaint coaching inns in the ancient streets ; stately- looking old houses of brick and stone stand in high-walled gardens — gardens sloping to the sun for the most part. But indeeed every- thing stands on a slope in Market Yarburgh. The streets, one and all, whether on the east side or on the west, rise at an angle of about forty-five degress ; one and all are narrow ; one and all are quiet, clean, silent. Women sit on the doorsteps in the main street, with their knitting in their hands, their children about them, just as they would do in the remotest country village. Fowls peck about among the worn, rounded flint-stones ; linen is stretclied out across the street to dry. All is slow, dull, primitive, and prosaic. The Rectory, a long, low, red-brick building, without one trace of architectural beauty natural to it, stojd on the hill-top opposite !!l!ll'!' i I mi;!- Ill' ill' 24 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. to the ruined Priory. The ganli-iin jihoiit it were wide aiil beautiful, the orchards wide and bountiful. A large fish-ponj divided the two ; rustic arbours, ancient and modern, were dotteif about the grounds everywhere, with garden chairs and tables undel drooping trees, placed always where you could have,some glimpse o| the blue distant beauty of the landscape, or some sweet, brighl picture of flowers, or trees, or trailing, blossoming creepers. It waj a place to make happiness itself happier ; to turn unrest intc perfect calm ; to help to soothe any trouole ; uplift the gloom f ron| any hour of sorrow ; upraise the mind and heart in almost an;; moment of heaviness, or lowness, or inaptuess for pleasures purt and true. To a man like Canon Godfrey it was a veritable ' earthlj| paradise,' a place to he gratefrl for at all times, to look upon witt an especial gratitude in hours of discouragement or self-deprecia- tion. And many such hours were known to the Canon, as they are to all souls that are pure and true, and live by aspiration. He was a man of influence — an influence which had spread beyond his own immediate neighbourhood. Though he was, comparatively speaking, a young man, that is considering the dignity of the position he had arrived at in the Church, people came to him from afar with troubles, difficulties, perplexities, spiritual and temporal, and few went away but went with lighter heart or clearer brain, though now and then one went with heavier conscience than before. Canon Godfrey was a man who had no tenderness for sin, no sympathy with continuance in wrong-doing. Expediency was a word he did not understand. * You had only to see his face once to perceive the bravery written there. The broad, unfurrowed brow had yet a stamp of vigorous resolution ; the mouth, half hidden by a short moustache, and the square chin, were visibly marked by sti'ength and determina- tion. And yet the face was not hard — the reverse of that. The kind, blue eyes alone would have redeemed it from any suspicion of hardness or harshness. And now and then a singular expression would pass over the handsome countenance, an indefinable some- thing that seemed not only to win your admiration for the man, but your love, and even your compassion. Had some great sorrow left its touch there ? or was the passing claim upon your pathos prophetic of sorrow to come ? As ' ' has been said, it was only now and then that this sadder expression was upon his face. His usual look was one of extreme openness, of gladness and brightness subdued by the never-failing consciousness that his life was being lived in the presence of that life's Giver. In his merriest and most light-hearted moments — and they were not few — that look was in the thoughtful blue eyes — the look that told of recoUoctedness. The consultation between the Canon and his wife as to whether or no Thorhilda should be allowed to go over to Garlaff Grange on a mission of remonstrance to her brother Hartas, was a prolonged one, and included side questions of some importance. SOUL. ut it were wide and 1. A large fish-pond I modern, were dotted ;hairs and tables undei 1 have,sorae glimpse ot or some sweet, bright mi ng creepers. It was ; to turn unrest into uplift the gloom from I heart in almost any iss for pleasures pure as a veritable ' earthly les, to look upon with ment or self-deprecia- the Canon, as they are j^ aspiration, ich had spread beyond he was, comparatively I the dignity of the pie came to him from liritual and temporal, eart or clearer brain, vier conscience than lo tenderness for sin, ng. Expediency was erceive the bravery had yet a stamp of •y a short moustache, 3ngthanddetermina- verse of that. The from any suspicion singular expression n indefinable some- ration for the man, i some great sorrow a upon your pathos THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARIWRGII. !5 * What, ])rocisely, does Thorda wish to do?' £he Canon askt'd. He was sitting by the broad window-sill of his study, leaning his h#ad upon his hand in thoughtfulness. ' What is she thinking, or tearing ?' ' She is fearing that one of two things will happen,' replied Mrs. Gk)df rey, speaking with graver face and voice than usual. ' Either tltsit Hartas will marry Barbara Burdas, or that he will tritie with hjjr — win her affection, and then leave her to her misery. Thorhilda h^])es to be able to persuade him to break off the well, let us n^ the acquaintanceship, at once.' ' Does she think that Hartas really cares for the girl ?' ♦ She is persuaded that ^le cares intensely ; that is the difficulty. All her hope lies in the^dea that Barbara does not yet care greatly fW" him. She means to try to influence them both.' .Canon Godfrey was silent for a while ; but it was an eloquent a^eiice. He wife knew that he was thinking deeply. I am not sure that I should consider Hartas's marriage to rbara Burdas such a great calamity,' he said presently. ' My dear Hugh P exclaimed his wife. Her astonishment pre- dnded further speech. ' Think of it !' said the Canon gravely. * You would never wish him to remain unmarried — that would round his chances of ruin as few other things would do. And what kind of wife can you expect him to win ? I do not forget that I am speaking of your nephew ; and I speak precisely as I should of any relation of my own — you k»ow that, Milicent ; and therefore I can ask you to think seriously " his utter want of culture, of his idleness, his rough manner ; and it, but not least, of his utter pennilessness. He is Squire Theyn's I grant you ; but what woman, in what the world would call own rank of life, would marry him ? It may seem a hard ai^'iug, but, so far as I can perceive, it would not be at all a bad tiling that he should marry a woman of the working class. His tfry surroundings would then impel him to work himself ; he Would be happier, stronger, and he would be a better and more reBpectable member of society. . . . But these are extempore thoughts, my dear Milicent. Therefore don't let them disturb m. hen that this sadder was one of extreme by the never-failing the presence of that hearted moments — loughtful blue eyes wife as to whether I Garlaff Grange on as, was a prolonged a nee. ' You will not mention them to Thorhilda yet awhile ?' ' Certainly not. I shall expect her to do all she can to avert the reatened catastrophe. There are nlany other things to be said, iciety is so constituted nowadays that it would not be at all edful for Hartas to make such a violent descent in the social ale. I could name half a dozen good girls in the neighbourhood lore suitable than Bab Burdas. There are the three daughters of ephens, at the saw-mills, then there is Annie Prior, and there are race and Agnes Young. No ; he need not go to the limpet-rocks r a wife. Still I have, and always have had, a high opinion of rbara Burdas, There is more in her than meets the eye at the 26 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, ■II 1 I ' ! I !l IM-Iir i lii! ■ ill. i first momont, and beyond all doubt she is attractive, stron'j^lv ■trikingly attractive. It is in Hartas's favour that hd bhoulu drawn to admire a woman of such force of character.' * Yet you would hardly wish to call her your niece ?' The Canon saw that hia wife was moved to a greater extent t she wished to betray. Her face was flushed, her lips aligh tremulous. The moment was a weighty one to both. * I should not,' the Canon replied ; ' but I half suspect myself making the admission. I am no Radical, as you know, but a staui and loyal Conservative, with a firm belief in the fact that soc differences — differences of wealth, rank, and position — are part c divinely-ordered plan. It is childhh to .vippose oihenoise — childish i unscriptural. The roots of all such differences are innate, and not be done away by any merely human legislation. The foolish peo] who suppose that the nationalisation of the land, the dispersion capital, the equalization of wealth would change the order of thin permanently, must be strangely incapable of looking beyond t morrow. Put all humanity on one level — so far as the possess! of wealth is concerned — this afternoon, and by this day week ) should find ourselves more widely separated than ever befoi Yet, do not mistake me, do not suppose that I am satisfied wii things as they are ; do not for one moment imagine that I can loc upon, or think upon, the poor of the land, the poor at our vei gate, and not be filled with compunction, nay, with remorse, have thought much of these things of late ; I hope to think muc more ; and I cannot tell whither I maybe led and guided. All m prayer is that I may have strenijth to obey whatever light may b given me. I feel strongly that I am on the verge of some spiritu; and human crisis ; and it is thought of, and knowledge of, thecoi dition of the poor of England that have led me to this critic verge. I cannot speak now of my thought, of my aim, of m aspiration ; I cannot tell you now how I yearn to be instrumenta were it but ever so slightly, in bringing about a better order c things, a reconcilement of ideas, a union of hopes, an amelioratic of the actual present condition of " poor humanity." But you wi understand that I cannot look with quite your horror upon tl thing you are dreading. I have said that I have no desire to ca Barbara Burdas ray niece, yet I trust that I should exhibit no u: manly or unchristian pride if I were called upon to acknowledj tbe relationship. My ideas want readjusting,' •If yours need readjustment, what mus-t other people's need ?' 'T cannot tell — I cannot tell! And I am, in a certain sens responsible for so many people's idcAs. The thought is appalliiii ' ■> comes to me in the night when I wake, and I grow hot with tl sudden pressure of conscience ; and then the weight of dread chil me and I sleep. Is it typical — the night's programme ? Can it be I pray that it may not ! Come what may, I trust that my soul wi never sleep, nor words of mine lull any other soul to sleep. . . . SOUL attractive, stronjrly a;i| vonr that he shoulu character.* rour niece ?' to a greater extent th i! ished, her lips slightl le to both. I half suspect myself i,| you know, but a staunc 'in the fact that socu> d position — are part of le otherwise — childish ad 368 are innate, and not t ion. The foolish peop e land, the dispersion c ange the order of thinf of looking beyond t -so far as the possessic id by this day week y ated than ever befor hat I am satisfied wii imagine that I can loc , the poor at our ver nay, with remorse. ; I hope to think miic ed and guided. All m whatever light may b verge of some spiritu; knowledge of, the cot ed me to this critic;| ht, of my aim, of m; arn to be instruments iQut a better order c hopes, an amelioratif manity." But you wi your horror upon tl '. have no desire to ca should exhibit no u: upon to acknowledj iher people's need ?' m, in a certain sensi e thought is appallir d I grow hot with tH weight of dread chiil )gramme ? Can it be _• trust that my soul w; J ir soul to sleep. . THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. 27 always glad to see that Thorda's conscience is quick enough rith regard to her own people.' * Quick enough ! I fear it is only too quick,' replied Mrs. God- frey with enthusiasm. ' If you had seen her face yesterday morning |rou would not think it needful to harrow her feelings about such a rorthless weed as her brother Hartas.' * Milicent ! That is not like you !' 'I know it is not. Forgive me ! But when I think of the way fn which he has received your most kindly advice aiul persuasion — Xo say nothing of my own — and when I renumber his lifelong iziness, his insolence, his utter and wilful ignorance, I feel all that wicked within me stirred to the last dregs. . . . And, oh me ! I ^ear that Rhoda is but very little better.' ' You are not alone in that fear, Milicent. And every now and len there comes across me a sharp pang — have we, after all, striven the uttermost ? One can never know !' * You can never know, Hugh dear ; because you are never itisfied with yourself — do what you may. Tliink of the manner In which you strove with Rhoda for weeks together after the long illness that she had, three years ago ; and when her veiy life had peen despaired of ! How you talked to her, and besought her, and )rayed with her, and for her, even when she was answering your Bvery word with a sneer. Oh, don't speak of your not having done bnough. Surely there is a limit to human effort !' * Ah 1 but who shall dare to fix it ? Not any human being, i'hink of the long-suft'erance one almost expects from Ood Himself ! Think of His exclaiming, by the mouth of His prophet Aiuoh, Behold^ I am pressa/ under yuu (is a carf. is pres.<e(l that is fall of iheaves .'" What human experience can be named by the side of fchat ? Oh ! don't let us talk of having done enough ; rather let us jegin again at the beginning, and strengthen one's effort as one Perceives greater need for effort. Let Thorda go this afternoon by ^11 means. Her very calmness, her simple, natural elevation, may |o more than words can do. Certainly, let her go ; let her have ich satisfaction as may come from the knowledge that " she has lone what she could." ' CHAPTER VIII. AT GARLAFF GRANGE. ' A piteous lot it were to flee from man, Yet not rejoice in Nature.' Wordsworth, Phb Grange stood in a deep hollow, surrounded by green folding lills. The sloping fields were each o: e bordered by hedges of lawthorn, tall straggling hedges with crisp emerald foliagej and 98 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOU!.. j : \ : I !! 11 ill 11!' i 'n ;i',:ii !l ilil scented flowers of creamy wliite embossing ovciy s|i!!iy. There were still cattle in the pastures, l)ut they were few and iil-favuu.«'.l. There were sheep and young lambs, but not of the l)reed that h;id once been the pride and boast of (Jarlaff Ciran<,'e. In the hill-side paddock at the back of the house, the ancient hack on which the Squire now and then rode to market was grazing at his ease. The garden was shut in by gray stone walls, high and missive, and of quaint style. Below, a road wound round to half a dozen labourers' cottages, which stood at the back of the Cirange, half biirit"! among pear and cherry and apple trees. Sweet briar biisln s, miiiglud with crisp gooseberries, pushed their way through the dilapidated palings, currants shot upward and waved about with the airy ligiitness of spirit common to unproductive men and things everywhere. Tiie stables were near the cottages, the unsavoury refuse heaps stood in front, and made debataVjle land for fowls and pigs. Down there in the hollow all was so sunny, so warm, so picturL'sijue, so luxuriant, that a sense of drowsiness seemed the natural and inevitable in- fluence of the place. Thorhilda, step{)ing from the carriage, seemed certainly as if she stepped into some Lotus Land wherein it was ' always afternoon.' There was an ancient archway in the wall, filled by a big old oaken door, and then a long pathway under meeting lilacs and laburnums. There were some snowy guelder-roses on either hand, and the rosy mauve of rhododendrons. The broad steps up to the house were moss-grown, the bent and broken railing of wrought iron was half covered by the young green of climbing rose-trees, A scarlet japonica hung from the wall between the low stone mullioned windows, needing sorely a little kindly pruning and training. This air of neglect was upon everything, uj)on the panes of the leaded windows upon the steep red-tiled roof, under the eaves where long spires of grass waved in the wooden spouting, stopping the flowing of the rain. The nests of familiar swallows clung to the wall, pigeons cooed upon the roof. All was still, and sad, and sweet, and melancholy. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, the Squire was there by the fireside of the big untidy dining-room. His long clay pipe w^as in his hand, his tankard of ale before him. His whole air and appearance was that of a man defiant of all opinion, careless of all regard, hopeless of any good, present or future. That he had once been a man with some claim to be considered fine-looking you saw at a glance, and indeed there was still some- thing in the expression of his face, especially when the deep-gray eyes wei'e lifted to youi's suddenly and seriously, that awoke in you a kind of wonder, mingled with compassion. It was an expression that told you that, whatever the present, the past had not been wholly bounded by poverty, inner or outer, by mental lowness, by physical carelessness. His dress was characteristic. The black velveteen coat was not new, nor had it been well preserved, and fVfiy sii'iiy. Tliero fewiuid iii-f:ivo\i ;»!<!. f the breed that lia<l i<4e. In the hill-si(U; t hack- on which the ing at hia ease. The and m;issive. and of alf a dozen hibonrers' re, half buried iimonc,' bushes, niiiVuded with le dilapidated i).din<,'--. the airy lit^iitnens r)f ys everywhere. Tiie refuse heajjs stood ii' d i)i<^H. Down thei>' iires(iue, so luxuriant, ral and inevitable in- ti the carriage, aeeme<i Land wherein it was 11, filled by a big old »r meeting lilacs and -roses on either hand, broad steps up to the n railing of wrought climbing rose-trees ween the low stone kindly pruning and hing, upon the panes tiled roof, under the he wooden spouting, of familiar swallows )f. All was still, and the Squire was there His long clay pipe His whole air and pinion, careless of all e. lim to be considered there was still some- when the deep-gray ily, that awoke in you It was an expression le past had not been )y mental lowness, by cteristic. The black well preserved, and AT GARLAFF GRAXGE. 29 t it had an air of its own, an air that neither dust nor dirt could ite destroy ; and tliecordur(»y knee-breeches were not of the kind rn by the Squire's stable-boy. The fiidsliiug touch to his tume was given by a low, wide-bi'ininied, gray felt hat, wliich he 1 not removed when he sat down to his one o'clock dinncu*. ongh his dead wife's sister, IMiss Aveiil Chalgrove, and llhoda, younger daughter, had dined at the same luhle, their presence not moved him to any courtesy. ]Miss Chalgrove had ceased expect it long ago, and Rhoda, never having known her father "le gnilty of weakness of that kind, wo\dd have been surprised to ern any sign of charge. She had no wish for such change. Things would be very well as they were if only money were not so aotrce at the Grange. Very naturally Rhoda craved for more life, more movement, more pleasure, and it may be that tlie denial of these and other needs had done more to warp a nature not naturally d or lovable than any about her could perceive. No one pro- ved to understand Squire Theyn's youngeist daughter. Ihoda was there in the room, and Hartas. Miss (Jhalgrove had e ' to lie down,' as her custom was always in the afternoon, w else could she keep that look of youthfulness upon which she ded herself so greatly ? It was haste, and impetuosity, and over- iety that destroyed the looks of nine women out of ten, so she rred, with an emphasis unsuitcd to the theory she was maintain- And she added always an expression of her opinion that Qtrlaff Grange was no fitting home for one so sensitive to rongh- tW8s, to unrefinement, to unorthodox ways of living as herself. It never had been, but no alternative had been open to her. These CiiBts she dwelt upon in a manner that might have done something iolrard destroying the harmony of any other household. At the Q-raiige, unhappily, there was no harmony to be destroyed. They had heard the carriage, this strange trio, and Khoda had joae to the window as quickly as the rjovetnents of her ungainly figipire would permit. As she seated herself again the said in a tone >riullen disappointment : *Kobbut the Princess !' "plo one rose when Thorhilda opened for herself the door of the (ripe, gray, slovenly-looking room. She was smiling pleasantly, ng to look geuial, as she glanced from one unsmiling, irresponsive to another ; saying in her lightest and cheeriest tone : ^Good-morning, father! good-morning, all of you! What a {Iwrious day it is ! Surely Aunt Averil could not make up her i#)d to go and lie down to-day ! I thought that perliaps she and rgi would have gone for a little drive, Rhoda, while I am here .... uld you like to go ?' Naiiy, — Ah care nowt aboot it,' said Rhoda slowly and sullenly, T a somewhat irritating period of hesitation. She was not in habit of speaking broad Yorkshire except to the Rectory party. that subtle instinct which such people always seem to possess 'l!!: 30 /.V EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. in perfection, she knew that her use of the dialect in its coarseJ form gave annoyance. But Thorhilrfa was not to be easily aniiny:Hl to-day. 'Then I will have the carriage put up, if 1 may,' she said, pleasantly as if no refusal of a kind offer had had to bo cncouiil tered. 'And perhaps you will give me a cup of tea presently Hartas, will you please tell Woodward to come round for me al five? — or no, say half-past ; that will give me a little longer tinicJ Hartas rose slowly, and went out, his pipe still in his mouth, hif hands in his pockets ; a look of strange indocile determinatioi| upon his unformed features. ' Forewarned's forearmed !' he said to himself half audibly as hi^ went down under the white and purple lilac trees to the front gatcl to give the message. The two men on the box of the carriage listened, touched their hats respectfully, and turned a .vay, the oldt;r man half sorry for Miss Theyn, whom he had known and liked greatly from her earliest childhood. The younger man was some- what scornful under his outer respectfulness, and contemptuous of •Miss Theyn's brother. Hartas was less imperccptive, less indifferent than ho appeared to be ; and his perception did not tend to modify the feeling witli which he turned to meet his elder sister, who was coming down tli • steps, smiling kindly, yet half sadly, and looking into his face with a beseeching, winning look that would have won any other man' favour in spite of himself. ' Let us go into the orchard, Hartas,' she said, making a move- ment as if she would put her hand within his arm, but this he evaded skilfully. It was much that he consented to follow her through the narrow door that was all overhung with white blossom. and green waving sprays. He was in no mood to bear expostu- lation. ' Might as well have it over though,' he said to himself. ' An' the sooner the better. But tboy must'n think, none of 'em, 'at they're goin' to come between me an' Barbara Burdas.' CHAPTER IX. 'lovk's nobility.' • Man was made of social earth, Child and brother from his birth, Fettered by the lightest cord Of blood thro' veins of kindness poured. Next his heart the fireside band Of mother, father, children stand ; N imes from awful childhood heard, Throbs of a wild religion stirred.' Emerson. Curiously enough, it was Hartas who opened the conversation, rather to Thorhilda's relief. It was not so easy to her to go SOUL, dialect in its coarsest 'd to-day. f T may,' ghe said, as lad had to bo cnconn- cup of tea presently, ome round for me at e a little longer time.' 8till in hia mouth, his ndocile determination elf half audibly as he ;rees to the front gate ! box of the carriage burned a.vay, the old<r had known and liked •unger man was somo and contemptuous of 3nt than ho appearor] adify the feeling with was coming down tli" :ing into his face with won any other man's said, making a move- hia arm, but this he sented to follow her g with white blossom aod to bear expostu- id to himself, ' An' nk, none of 'em, 'at Burdas.' 'LOVE'S xXoiULnv: It iniGfl. Emerson. m d the con versation, i easy to her to go! fiti-aight to the heart of this delicate matter as it had appeared to be beforehand ; and, in the moment of silence that followed their entrance into the orchard, it seemed to Miss Theyn that she had never before so clearly recognised the strangeness that was between jher brother and herself, the absence of all fraternal feeling on his part, the presence of non-sisterly diffidence and trepidation on her |own. lint, as was usual with her in .such cri.ses, she made a strong mental effort to regain her natural standpoint ; and the effort was successful. She listened quite calmly to Hartas's opening speech. ' Time's not o' much vally to me,' he began, taking his pipe from his mouth with evident reluctance. * Therefore I can't say 'at I don't want to waste it. An' as for words, well, I've no special t.ilent i' that direction ; as no doubt you've found out afore to-day. 8lill, I don't want to spend neither words nor time upon the asubject you've come here to talk about. It won't do no good, you jf 8ee, not the least. If Baibara Burdas would but listen to me, an' the law o' the land allowed, I'd marry her to-night. I'd not wait for to-morrow.' Real earnestness is always impressive, and is as the 'heat which sets our human atoms spinning ' in the direction the one in earnest would have us travel. The fervour of a true atlection is seldom to be altogether ignored, even by the coldest. 'How long have you cared for her so much ?' Miss Theyn asked in a gentle and sym])athetic way. And her very voice, the affec- tionate unexpected kindness of it, touched Hartas as no remonstrance could have done. All unaware he was already betrayed. ' How long ? All my life, or so it seems to me now,' he replied, ' or mebbe I'd better say, all her life. Why, it only seems like yesterday 'at she was a little hard-working thing of twelve or fourteen ; bright, an' bonny, an' full o' mischief, yet as disdainful as the highest lady o' the land. An' then somehow, all at once it seemed, she came to be eighteen ; and ' ' Eighteen !' interposed Thorhilda in amazement. ' I should have said she was at least eight-and-twenty !' ' She looks more like that.' Hartas admitted somewhat sadly. 'But think of the life she's lived for the last six years ! Mebbe you don't know nought about it ; an' couldn't understand if you did ; but / know, I've watched her all along when she little thought of it ; an' many a time the sight's been bad anuff to bear, I can tell you.' * "What made you think of her first ?' Thorhilda a.sked, still speaking in a tone that told of more than mere kindly interest. ♦ First of all ! That I can hardly say,' Hartas replied with softened voice, and a decided increase of confidingness in his manner. ' I remember when she was a little thing. (I'm ten years older than she is— ten all but tbree months.) An' I always noticed her when I was down at the Bight. She was so different from the rest somehow, so- superior, au' yet so winnin' ; an' they m • \>\l \ m iiiiij !) il P IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL fill Reemed to know it, an' to give in whoti sbo was by. . . . An then (h;it aAvful Htorni caiiio ; an' I was down on the cliif-top that mornin'. Oli ! I'll never foruct it!' * Was that the diy her father was drowned ?' 'Her father and her Mother. . . . But you can't have forgot! Why, the whole land rang wi' the stories o' that gale for weeks after !' ' There have been so many gales,' replied Thorhilda deprecatingly, 'And J was younger tlien ; and perhaps less Hy!n))aihiz.ing. But I do remember something of the loss of the North tStur. . . . Wasn't that the name of the boat that suffered here ?' ' It was the lame o' one of the boats 'at was wrecked in TJIvstan Bight that mornin', but it was not the name o' the one 'at belonged mostly to Kphraim Burdas. She was called the Seameio. An' a line boat she was, for her size. I remember her well. Old Ephraim had only pointed her out to me about a week before, telling me how she was the fulfilment of all his hopes, the result of all his long life's toil. Shed cost him over four hundred pounds alto- gether ; an' she was every plank his own save one-eighth part, the single share that Jim Tyas had bought. An' 'twas old Ephraim 'at sailed her ; tlie others never t^eemed right when the old man wasn't at the helm. An' he'd taken his usual place that night ; never dreamin o' nought happenin' out o' the common. All 'at ever he remembered after was at his eon, Bab's father, had seemed out o' spirits ; an' had never spoken to nobody after they went out o' the Bight till the storm burst upon 'em all of a sudden. 'Twas him 'at first saw it cumin', in fact. But you should hear old Ephraim tell the tale.' I would rather hear it from you ; only make it brief ; and not too sad. . . . Mow many were there in the boat altogether?' ' Only four. As I said, the old man was in the stern ; an' they'd shot the lines some nine or ten miles off the land. Then they'd sat down to rest for awhile ; an' to pass the darkest time o' the night. 'Twas a fair sort o' mornin' ; fine, an' light, an' calm : but about four o'clock, as old E{>hraim were leanin' again the side o' the boat, his head upon his hand, half asleep, all of a sudden he heard his son shoutin': ' " Bj/ heaii'n, thrre'a a storm upon us / Tender's a ship flyin' afore the gale, wi' her sails all torn to rags an' ribbons !" ' The old man couldn't believe it ; but he jumped up, an' looked out seaward ; an' sure anuff, 'twas as young Ephraim had said. There wasn't a second to be lost. They tried to head the boat for the nearest land— it happened to be Yarva Wyke ; but long afore they could reach it the gale broke up the sea ; an' Jim Tyas wasn't at all for landin' there. Jim was a chap 'at was alius desperate feared in a storm, so old Ephraim told me ; an' he said he'd never seen the man so feared as he was that mornin' when the hurricane was fairly upon 'em. They down with the sail afore they touched ' /.Ol'E'S NOIilLITV* S^ tbo sea-break ; but tbere seemed no chanco for 'em ; an' afore tliey'd been tossiiij^ npoii the edj^'e o' the breakers many niinnteM a great wave struck the boat, an' knocked the side completely out of her. It appeared to l)e all over then. Jim cried out, ^^ Lord ha' virrri; upon inj/ iniclrfi soul t/iix (/<i;//" an' as old Ephraim said, it almost seemed as if Providence had heard him, for the strangest thing happened 'at ever the old man had seen in all his loiif< life. The sea broke away riyht in front of tlnin in the euriousest manner, an' stood np like walls on either hand ; an' they were driven through between as fast as they could go. lUit the boat was breakin' to bits under 'cm every minute ; an' at last they were all four tossin' i' that awful sea. ' They could all of 'em swim, better or worse, an' they all reached the rocks, but 'twere in a bad place. The clill "s lik(! a house-end just there : an' though a dozen or more people had gathered on the top of it, they'd neithei- rope nor lac'der ; an' the worst of it was young Ejjhiaim's wife was there, IJab's mother, an' she'd three little children clingin' to her gown : an' a four-weeks old baby at her breast ; an' she weren't well — hadn't never been since the child was born. An' when she saw the boat's crew just below, clingin' to one another on the narrow ledge under the clill", the straight wall of rock behind 'em, an' the rising tide beating upon 'em more furiously eveiy moment, 'twere n>ore than she could bear. Breakin' away fra the little ones all of a sudden, she sprang from the top o* the rock wi' her new-born baby in her arms ; an' almost as she struck the water her husband dashed in again after her ; an' folks has told me since 'at it was all they could do to keep Bab from makin' a fourth. Nobody could help the three 'at was strugglin' there. They went down, within half a dozen yards o' dry land. An' the euriousest part of it all was that little Ailsie washed up, not only alive, but seeming none so much the worse. I helped to catch hold of her, and to give her to Bab. An' that's why B;d) cares for her so much, an' can hardly bear to let the little thing out of her sight. . . . Bab was only twelve years old when it all happened ; but if she'd been twice twelve she couldn't have been a better mother to the three small lads an' the little girl. But it's no use talkin'. Such as you can never see the good in such a woman as Barbara Buidas. She can't play the piano. I doubt much whether she's ever either heard one, or seen one. An' pickin' flithers for the fishermen of Ulvstan Bight isn't quite such a refined way o' spendin'time as makin' wax-tiowers, or crochy antimacassars. No : Bab isn't refined wi" what you an' most others such as you would call refinement — not what you d call a " lady." Bnt no lady "at I've ever seen, or ever can see, would lift me out o' the mii*e as Barbara Burdas could do, if she cared to think about me at all ; an' there isn't another woman in the world, 'at I know of, 'at under- stands what unselfishness means as aha understands it ; not another nowhere 'at lives a life so totally .self-sacrificin'. An' the best of it is she doesn't never dream 'at she's doin' aught but what she'g ..■vt MmmnM M 34 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ! • li bound to do. You couldn't open her eyes, if you tried, to the meanin' o' self an' self-interest. . . . But I siiid I didn't want to waste no time (m this suijjcct, an here I am, wastin' a whole quarter of an hour.' 'Don't regret it,' Thorhilda replied, using the brevity that comes of over-fulness of new thought. Ilartas's vividly told story, the graphic touches of it, the intense reality, had impressed his sister greatly. And that in communicating to her his knowledge of Barbara Bui das and her life he should at the same time have betrayed much that was new, and not unfavourable, of himself, was a fact demanding consideration. 'I am glad to hear all this from yoii, Hartas,' she continued. *I am pleased that you should talk to me about Barbara Burdas.' 'An' you'll be glad if I'll lisscn to what you've got to say in return,' the young man broke in with some impetuosity. ' But remember what I said at the beginning. I mean to make her my wife if she will but consent — consent on any terms.' ' And if she will not ?' ' If she won't, I don't care what becomes of me.' ' I do"'t want to preach to you, Hartas,' Thorhilda replied with eome natural diffidence, ' but is that altogether a manly mood in which to meet one of the greatest crises that can happen in your life i me ?' ' Manly ? Mebbe not. But I reckon 'at you Gon't know much o' what such a disappointment 'ud mean to me — if it came to that. An' you an' all your set 'ud be rejoicin', as if something good had happened.' ' Can you put yourself in our place for a moment — in my place, for instance ?' Thorhilda asked with gentle firmness. * Can you even try to imagine what such a marriage would be to me, what it would mean to my life, were you, my only brother, to marry a — a bait gatherer '?' 'It needn't mean no more to you than the wind that blows!' Hartas replied, with his rough, ready t-niphasis. ' Why should you think it would ? Why should we ever come near you ? When have I ever come in your way, except when I couldn't help it ? "When have I ever asked a favour of you ? When have I ever expected so much as a kind word from you, or a helpful one, when I was particularly netding it V AVhat have I ever asked, or requosted of you at all, save 'at you should go your Avay an' leave me to go mine ?' ' You have requested nothing— that is true enough,' Thorhilda replied, involuntarily subduing her voice to the softest and gentlest contrast possible. 'But, remember, the ditt'erence between us was never created by me, nor by anyone at the Rectory. You must admit that my aunt and uncle have done what they could. And you must also admit that, though you have repulsed them time after time, they have never ceased to make fresh advances. Be generous, at least in word ; as they have been in deed, . . . But, WL * Lo VE 's nobility: I you tried, lo the d I didn't w.mt to 1, wastin' a whole brevity that comeB idly told story, the mpressed his sister his knowledge of e same time have ble, of himself, was she continued. * I rhara Burdas.' ai've got to say in mpetuosit}', ' But x\ to make her my ms.' •hilda replied with [• a manly mood in an happen in your 1 Gon't know much [if it came to that, mething good had Qent — in my place, nness. * Can you be to me, what it icr, to marry a — a ind that blows !' ' Why should you t'Av you ? When !"uldu't help it ? hen have I ever lelpful one, when ever asked, or ur way an' leave longh,' Thorhilda test and gentlest between us was )iy. You must ey could. And Ised them time advances. Be oed. . . . But. pardon me, I am saving more than I meant to aay. I do not want to in-itate you — anytliiiig but that. But I filt constrained to say that all the coldno-is and strangeness has been your doing — not mire— not ours. It lias pained me ceaselessly and infinitely. It has hurt me, and kept me from my sUep ; it has darkened man^ a day ; poisoned many a pleasure. . . . Ilartas, do you think that I have no affection for you ?' It was a singular scene. That a wonum of !Miss Theyn's state- liuess and loveliness, of her extreme reiiiiement, should stand there pleading for some sign of recoguition of the tie that was between herself and the man who seined ns the veriest elod by hcT side, was surely a touching and pathetic thing. Was Ilartas feeling it to be strange ? Was he moved in any way? — iujpelled to iiny warmth of responsiveness that he yet had no art or intellect to express V 'It's a bad moment to speak o' such a thing now,' he said, having less of his natural harshness and brusqueness of manner than before. *I don't doubt but that you may feel moi-e like a sister to me than I ever dreamed you did ; an' at another time I might ha' been glad of it. But, as I said, I know what's brought you here this after- noon ; an' I've only one answer to all you have said, or can say. That answer you've had. I won't anger jou wi' sayin' it again.' Thorhilda was silent for awhile. One thing she had to congratu- late herself upon — nay, two moved her to a momentary content. She had not irritated her brother ; and she had a hopeful feeling of having opened a way that might some day lend to his heart. ' I hope your time has not been (piite wasted, Hartas,' she replied. * I should certainly not consider that it has l)eeu if we might begin to realize, but ever so faintly, that we each owe something to the othei" — some help, some sympiithy, some all'ection, or, at least, some friendliness of feeling. . . . Has it ever occurred to you that L could feel lonely '? — that / have no brother or sister, except in name V Hartas Theyn's face was lifted in most earnest surprise. ^ You lonely!' he exclaimed. 'No; when I've thought ahout you at all ['ve thought that if ever anybodj- in this world did have all they wanted it was you.' ' Then, ah, how you have been niist;'.ken !' Thorhilda replied with some era[)hasis. ' Don't imagim; that I complain. I am much too conscious of the good that is mine to do that ; but my life has not been perfect in its happiness— how should it V You little dream of what 1 have felt in other people's houses— homes where there may have been a dozen, or half a dozen brothers and sisters, all kind, all loving, all happy ! Ah ! how often it has pained me to see it all — to see it from outside, as a. wanderer may sit on a doorstep on a winter's night and see the warmth and light within, which he may not feel or share ! I am not l)laming you — I am blaming no one. I am merely telling you how it has heen with me — how it is yet. I want you to understand how it is, even now.' 'I don't see that I can help matters much,' Hartas replied, not 3- -2 !. 1 111 iil '''1 i. ., :ii|l 36 L\ EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL sullenly or indifferently, but with the perplexed absence of one absorbt-d in thought. ' I have thought that you might — some day,' T^ ' ilda said. *I have so often thought of your marriage, so often . amed of your wife as one who would be ray sister, who wojld w us together, who would make me feel that I was your sister in reality. And I have seen her in my mind many a time, a good, loving, understand- ing woman, with — pardon me for saying it— culture enough to be a friend to me, and love enough to iDear with all short-comings in you. . . . And now, now my dream is ended. . . . What wonder that I should plead with you, entreat you, at least, to consider, to do nothing in haste !' Perhaps it was fortunate that at that moment Rhoda came up un<1er the white orchard trees. Her appearance might have been amusing to anyone in a mood to be amused lightly ; but to Thorhilda all was distressing, from the heavy rolling gait to the untidy tweed dress, unfastened at the throat, yet displaying no finishing touch in the shape of lace or linen collar. Her pretty golden hair was huddled into a shapeless coil at the back of her head ; there was a sullen expression about the large mouth, and in the greenish hazel eyes. Her voice was in keeping, being gruff, indistinct, unpleasant. ' If ya want that tea, it's ready,' she said, stopping short of her elder sister and brother by some yards. Then she turned and rolled back again. Thorhilda sighed and followed her. The visit was over, and it had availed nothing. 'Nothing at all !' she said to herself sadly. 'Nothing, nothing at all!' she repeated to the Canon, who was walking thoughtfully up and down under the veranda at the Rectory when she returned, waiting to console her, or to rejoice with her, as occasion might require. And now, as always, his con- solation was sufficientlv effective. ' Be patient, Thorda dtar, and don't despair,' he said, holding her hand in his warm, fatherly grasp. ' The most far-seeing of us can't see the length of the next hour, or the full meaning of this. . . . And now go and dress quickly and prettily ; there are some of your favourite pale yellow pansius to wear. The Merediths will be here in twenty minutes.' CHAPTER X. 'in all time of our wealth.' ' Dear friend — If I were sure of thee, sure of thy caducity, sure to match my mood with tliiue, I should never a(j;ain thiuk of trifles in relation to thy comings and goings. . . . Thou art to me a delicious torment. Thine ever, or never.' — Emeuson. The dinner-party at the Rectory was quite a small one. Mrs. Meiedith, handsome, correct, more affable than usual, sat at Canon Godfrey's right hand. Her son Percival was next to Miss Theyn. *IN ALL TIME OF OUR WEALTH: ibsence of one ' ilda said. *I . araed of your w us together, ■eality. And I ng, understand- enough to be a lort-comings in What wonder to consider, to Ihoda came up ight have been ightly ; but to ing gait to the , displaying no r. Her pretty he back of her mouth, and in ig, being gruff, ig short of her [Ida sighed and i nothing. anon, who was ^eranda at the or to rejoice ways, his con- lid, holding her ing of us can't g of this. . . . e some of your IS will be here 37 r, sure to match relation to thy it. Thine ever, ill one. Mrs. , sat at Canon Miss Theyn. \ "■ Cei'trude Don^das, Thorhilda's friend, had been taken in to dinner hy the Rev. ]\I;uciis Ei^erton, the one curate of Market Yaiburgh. Gossip had been busy about the four la'^t-nientioned names for some time ; but, as u>tual, the suggestions and hints that had been passed about were at least preni iture. INIiss Theyn, as we have soon, was by no means sure even of her own wish and will, and Miss Douglas was not a likely woman to marry a poor curate. She was older than Thorhilda, taller, stronger, and perhaps equally beautiful iu the eyes ol s'^:ne, though in quite a diiferent way, and she was certainly more ambitious. Being the daughter of a not too successful country surgeon, she had a very natural dread of small means. 'I must marry,' she had said openly to Tliorhilda, 'and I must marry a rich man. I have had enough of poverty !' 'But you would not marry anyone merely because he was rich?' Thorhilda had asked in unfeigned surprise. '•I fear I should,' Gertrude made answer, speaking half sadly and tentatively. She had no wish to shock Miss Theyn, tin u'.,'ii often she came nearer to doing so than she dreamed. ' I fear 1 should,' she had replied. 'Market Yaiburgh is not a place to afford one many chances. I am nearly thirty, and I look older than I am. . . . But don't let us talk of it at present, dear. Let us speak of your chances rather than of mine. There is not another Percival Meredith in tlie neii^'libourhood.' JNIiss Doufflas had perceived without being able quite to compre- hend Miss Theyn's ilush of annoyance and indignation. Not even a friend so intimate as Gertrude Douglas might speak of a matter so delicate, so immature, without offending her sense of good taste. 'My chances !' she exclaimed. 'If you care for me, Gertrude, if you care for my friendship in the least, you will hardly speak so agaiu to me. Indeed, indeed, I thought you had known me better 1 than to speak like that !' This had happened some time before. Gertrude had laughed most musically, most good-naturedly, and had kissed away Thor- hilda's offended dignity at once. There was a peculiar fascination about Miss Douglas ; she never took offence, and .she was cleverer than Th(jrhilda in many ways ; she had wider knowledge of the world, keener insight into certain sides of human nature ; her manner was full of charm, and her temperament most cheerful and amiable. If these good qualities had some alloy, Thorhilda was not one to dwell upon the fact. Gertrude Douglas was her friend, and perfect loyalty requires that even thought itself should be silent now and then. Gertrude came often to the Rectory, She appreciated the pleasant litile dinner-parties ; not only the varied menu, the delicate cookery, the careful service, but also the beautiful silver, the lovely ti iwcrs that decorated the table and the rooms in such profusion, the perfect lighting, the general air of daintiness and finish that was upon everything. Her own narrow home was sadly apt to 38 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL m !l jijiji 'II ''■ill i ilMlll iiUi'l !ll seem iir.rro\ver after a few clays in the wider rooius in the house on the hill-toj) ; the very carpets seemed dingier and poorer, the chairs h;i!<ler, the sofas more uncomfortable ; the meals were hardly worth sitting down too. As a matter of course she kept silence as to her appreciation ; she hnd too much tact to speak of such matters, expect now and then to Thorhilda alone. For social life she had enough of other and brighter topics, and to-night, as usual, she gave sufficient rein to her conversational powers without seeming to display them \a any undue manner. No awkward pauses might happen at any table to which Miss Douglas had bf en invited. After dinner, while the two elder ladies sat chatting by the fire in the drawing-room, Thorhilda and Gertrude stood near the window in the dim twilight, the hour that so often attunes two waiting sonls to helpful intcicburse ; wo owe more, spiritually, than we acknowledge, to the physical alternation of night and day. The curtains by that especial Avest window had been left undrawn, as usual, by Thorhilda's wish. Outside the stars were burning in a clear, dark sky ; a young moon was dropping over the towers of tho ruin on the opposite hill-top ; beyond the moon there was a faint, white mist overspreading the distance ; the whole scene was touched by that mystery of mingled light and darkness which makes so much of the poetry of this most poetic world. And yet the poetry is often tinged with sadness ; the sadness of all nvgpested beauty. It is in music of almost every kind ; it is not absent from any good picture ; but it is in the natural world that one feels its charm most strongly and strangely. The first morning hour when the light as it were breathes upon the east, the last evening hour, when it seems to sigh itself gentl}- and sadly away.- the calm, stirless moonlight, the soft, woijdrous glowing of the winter starlight over the wide expanse of moor or of sea ; all these i i their tender disclosures, their mystic reservations, move the soul to 'strange yearnings after we know not what, and awful impressions from we know not whence.' The wise man is he who seeks these finer influences frequently, and having found them, acknowledges with gratitude that it is ' good to be there.' The two younger women were still standing silently, but Miss Douglas broke the silence so soon as she felt it. ' Thorda dear, you are not hapivy to-night !' she said in her round, full, musical voice, a voice didicult to soften at any time. Thorhilda smiled, and lifted her face to her friend. ' It is odd that you should make that remark,' she replied, in tones that contrasted perfectly with those of Gertrude Douglas. ' All day, nay, for quite two days noAV, I have found myself think- ing of happiness at every spare moment, and this by no deliberate Ai ish or will of my own. Is it not strange ?' ' Very. . . . But surely you are happy enough ? What happi- nss you haven't yet is coming toward you as fast as it can come. i-'o, don't turn your face away, dear ; I won't say another word. I Coaldu t Iielp sitting opposite to you at dinner, you know; neither •/;V ALL TLME OF OUR WEALTW 39 s in the house on )oorer, the chairs ere hardly worth silence as to her )f 8uch matters, cial life she had as usnal, she gave hoiit 8«;t'ming to ,rd pauses might en invited. Ltting hy the fire stood near the ften attunes two :, spiritually, than rht and day. een left undrawn, were burning In a the towers of tbo ;here was a faint, scene was touched which makes so nd yet the poetry .wgffested beauty, nt from any good 3ls its charm most js^hen the light as lur, when it seems tivless moonlight, ht over the wide nder disclosures, range yearnings om we know not finer influences )s with gratitude ilently, but Miss she said in her n iit any time, nd. she replied, in ertrude Douglas, nd myself think- by no deliberate ? What happi- ,t as it can come, mother word. I u know; neither could I help seeing Mr. Meredith's face, or hearing his voice. There— I've d )iie !' ' Of that I'm glad. . . . But, Gertrude, you mistake me alto- gether. It was not only of my own happiness I was thinking, but of that of other people — of the whole human race in fact. We all want to be happy ; we are, many of us, striving for it ; yet surely we none of us know very exactly what happiness is !' While Gertrude was laughing, a long, low, pleasant laugh, the Canon and the two youuger m lu came in, and involuntarily began to smile for very sympathy with the musictil sound that was coming from the window. *Just at the right moment!' cried JMiss Douglas. 'Do come here, all of you, and tell us what happiness is ! Here is Thorhilda miserable because she can't make out what happiness consists of. Isn't it an idea ?' Miss Douglas had sauntered out from the recess by the window as she spoke, coming forth with that half-imperious air of conscious fascination that became her so well. And in the back<,fround of her thought, of which she was also conscious, was a curious query as to whether in the sight of — say Percival Meredith, for instance — she or Thorhilda made the most attractive picture. They were nearly alike in height, in a certain cultured air of self- possession, but there, suddenly, all possibility of comparison ended. Their very dress told something of the radical difference of their natures. Miss Douglas's costume of amber satiu and black lace, v;ith a profusion of yellow roses, gi'own under the Rectory glass, was sufficiently aesthetic even for the taste of Mr. Meredith, but it did not charm him as did the soft heliotrope-tinted crape that Thorhilda was wearing with only a few pale primrose -coloured pansies and some maidenhair by way of ornament. He felt a little proud of his superior taste. But in justice to him let it be said that it was not only the outer appearance of the woman he loved that attracted him ; this by no means, lie was sufficiently cultured to feel the drawing of the finer nature, the more finished delicacy. As to whether or not he raitrht find himself in perfect agreement with a deeper soul or more asi)ii-iiig spirit, was not a question likely to trouble him as yet. So far no doubt of this kind had beset him. CHAPTER XI. CONCERNING HAPPINESS. ' He could afford to suffer With those whom he saw suffer. Heuce it came Tliiit ui our l)e8t experience lie was rich, And in the wisdom of our daily life.' Wordsworth. ' Happiness !' Percival Meredith ejaculated softly, as he drew away toward the window, turning with a self-possessed air, as of 40 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, \ I invitation, to Thorhilda, Then lower still and more emphatically he said, ' I know what would make my happiness !' But for Miss Douglas it is possible that Thorhilda's eyes had yet been so far closed as to permit of her replying to this remark as it was intended to be replied to, with some ' soft nothing ' that would provide in -r'ng for a stronger and less dubious declaration. As it w.i3, tb!, nothing could not be uttered at that moment. Instead, Miss Theyn said aloud : 'Uncle Hugh, what is your idea of happiness? You are the happiest man I know.' A touch of gravity came over the Canon's face, into the blue, kindly eyes : ^^' '•••wiV faded from about the mouth. * I am hap; ^^ be .*;/id, ' nnd I am glad to acknowledge it ; but it is not an unshadcr j , ^ 'ncss. How should it be, when I fear that — takini; the wond about vs generally— not one person in a hundred could s: ' tlie t-ame thing ! K?. to defining happiness — who could give any <".rtie 'li ! ^e.erali} > -p+able definition of the word ? It is probable that to ea .i hcaf m v->=ni.'- it means some totally different thing. Not one of uscnr/.o le^jii-ibe for another so far as merely human happiness is concerned.' ' I should say the best definition is " having all one wants," ' Gertrude Douglas replied with her usual readiness. ' That seema adequate,' said the Canon. ' And yet if by that you mean the gratification of all material desires, I can only reply that I know men who have not a single desire unfulfilled, but who are yet far enough from happiness. On the other hand, I know people, ground dowij under what men term the heel of Fate, poor, lonely, bereaved, neglected, but yet as bright, as cheerful, as hopeful as any human being need wish to be.' 'Ah, if they have hopef said Mr. Egerton, in his usual sugges- tive way. * You think that is the great secret ?' the Canon asked. ' And you, Mr. Meredith — where does your opinion lie ?' Percival smiled languidly. ' Upon my word, I don't know that I've ever thought of it, either one Wiiy or another,' he said. 'Just now, when Miss Douglas was speakiug, I felt decidedly inclined to agree with her. But I should fancy there's a good deal to be said for Egerton's idea. Why not combine the two — have everything you want, and something to hope for besides ? Then, surely, you would touch something like real felicity !' Canon Godfrey looked at his neighbour with something that was almost curiosity, and for a few seconds he made no reply. His best and most spiritual thoughts on this topic seemed hardly suited to the present environment. ' It ia probable,' he said at last, ' that a true answer to the ques- tion asked in the beginning would draw upon the deepest resources of the nature of each one of us, and it would be no bad theme for an hour's quiet meditation to tiy to find an answer. The quenes mmm i COXCERXING HA PP/AESS. 4« 1 more emphatically less? You are the in his usual sugges- need only be three : I. Am I happy ? IT. If not, then u% .' III. What can I do to bring happiness somewhat nearer ?' ' Let us do it now ! and each of us write down our answer !' exclaimed Miss Douglas in her sparkling, ready way. But Thorhilda protested instantly, ' Oh no, no /' she cried. ' I could not do that, not now. I could not make a game of it, pour pa,--iipr Ji' ttjvpn/ . . . Forgive me, Gertrude ; but I could not, I could not tonight.' 'Oh, dear; how terribly in earnest wc are!' exclaimi;d Miss Dou!jlas, smiling — nay, laughing quite sweetly. * One uever expects to have to take things an sn'it'ux after dinner !' *I fear we are some of us talking groat nonsense !' interposed practical little ]\[rs. Meredith. She was l)eing ignored in a way she was not accustomed to. The very set of her imposing cap upon her most al)undant and artistic white hair told you that she was not a person to be overlooked. She was as full of lite, of vigour, as she had always been, and the snow-white hair w;is as surprising as it was picturesque. In fpite of it, she did not look more than forty, though her age was fifty- five ; and that her (iily son should already be giving himself some of the airs of a middle-aged man was not pleasing to her. The surest way for a stranger to reach her heart was to make some allusion to ' her brother.' * I fear wc are talking nonsense,' she repeated. For my part, I think happiness is very much a matter of mental hal'it. George Eliot a<hnits something like that. Does she not say somewhere that "' unhappiness may become a habit of mind " ? And doubtless such habits are very hard to break.' ' There is truth in that,' replied the Canon. 'Bul^urely, before sorrow can become so habitual as to be more congenial than joy, any human being must have bent to discipline both long and s<ji-e, and, in such cases, which of us, not havii)g sounded the same depths, shall dare to judge ?' , ' Oh, bu' we always do judge one another,' the little woman broke in with soraething that seemed more like hardness than flippancy in her tone. ' We can't help it ; and when we see people whose troubles are over, but who yet u-o«V forget them, you know we can't help thinking they want a little more trouble to bring them to thcjir senses .... Oh, don't prt-tcnd, Canon Godfrey, you know you agree with me !' ' I certainly won't protend,' replied the Canon, smiling gravely, and putting away into the background of his mind some stern ex- periences of which he knew only too mucli. 'No. I won't pretend ; instead, I will add to what yon have urged. I have a firm bdief that a sense of happiness is a thing to be cultivated, a sense of daily and hourly gratitude for our human well-being, let the drawbacks be what they may. I fear that there are people in whom this hcnse is so imperfectly developed that it can hardly be said to exist at all ! , . . . Don't you think that is true, Egevton ?' *Only too true!' responded Mr. Egortv^n with his usual quick 42 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. jl i j 1 i i j 1 li 1 1 1 .1 11 appreciation, giving you an impression of a human mind all all because of the warmth of heart not hidden within. 'Indee have often fancied that we might have a new Prof essor — a Prof e| of the Art of Happiness — a man with psychological knowlt enough to do for our emotional half what the physiologist is I deavouring to do for our bodies ; a man who would go on his d| rounds to this house, or to that, as a doctor does ; finding out woman's reason for habitual sadness, the cause of that man's gloc despair ; who would analyse our feelings for us, put them il definite shape, and then put before us the unphilosophical view] were taking so strongly and clearly as to change the whole mei atmosphere. It might be done, surely !' It was easy to see that Mr. p]gerton had only meant to be tal half seriously. But the Canon, listening, had passed on into earne * Are we not trying to do it — some of us Y he asked. ' Trying do just that — to minister to minds diseased wherever we may fi them ? It is not easy ; how should it be ? We have high author for believing that each heart alone knows its own bitterness, tl no other heart can know it, or share it. Think of Keble, too •*' Not even the tenderest heart, and next onr own, Knows half the reusous why we smile or sigh." Of course it doesn't ; how should it ? And the most close! surrounded heart is lonelier than we know. How, then, must it with those who, admittedly, have not a single soul to whom th< can unburden themselves for an hour ? It is cases like these oi is glad to find out, to help, not heeding the difficulties. If one m? not create happiness, one may, at least now and then, alleviate u happiness. And that is not a little ; no, it is certainly not a litt in the sight of Him who said, " Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of t least of these, ye did it unto Me." ' ' Won't you give us a sermon on happiness some Sunday, Unc Hugh ?' Thorhilda asked gravely. ' Certainly I will, or else a lecture in the schoolroom son Wednesday evening. The latter will be better ; even on your o\i showing, my dear ! It is not so long since you admitted th; sermons were difficult things to listen to.' * So they are to me !^ Miss Theyn admitted, preparatory to askir yet another leading question on the topic just begun. JBut beo the question could be put into suitable and sufficiently earne words. Gertrude Douglas had changed the subject altogether, was a way she had. For all her tact she knew little of the decayii art of conversation. And for Pei'cival Meredith, too, the evening was spoiled, that i so far as his one intention was concerned. It yet remained to hi to ask formally for an interview on the morrow, and though I thought seriously on this, he put the idea away rather impatient at last. It seemed to belong to a past day ; and Percival w; anxious, beyond even his natural years, to keep pace with tl ^ SOUL, CONCERNLXG HA PPINESS. 43 a human mind all aliph' dden within. 'Indeed ' !w Professor -a Professo, psychological knowledge at the physiologist is en ^ho would go on his daih >r docs : finding out tbi'- luse of that man's gloom J s for us, pnt them intc ' unphilosophical view W( change the whole menta only meant to be taken ■d passed on into earnest i he asked. ' Trying tr '^wherever we may fin* We have high authority its own bitterness, that hink of Keble, too : next onr own, le or sigh. " And the most cloaely- How, then, must it be ngle soul to whom they t 18 cases like these one difficulties. If one may .and then, alleviate un- is certainly not a little ye did it unto one of th tsent. The fact that he was so mncli older than Miss Theyn had re than its due weight M'itli him. The dilVonnct! would have n as nothing to a man who had not, in some way, passed the ow feet ' of the years. Aud yet his mood that night was by no means a sad one. He alone in his smoking room for some time, half wishing that he d asked Mr. Kgerton to come over to Orraston for a few days, d half glad that he had not. 'Still,' he ^aid to himself, 'when one is in a state of perplexity suspense, solitude is seldom quite welcome.' Then he chose for mself a good cigar, and poked the fire into a blaze, and put up the rlin slippers which his mother had worked with such extreme ire to be thoroughly toasted. ' And yet, why should I be per- xed ?' he said to himself when these. arrangementl3 for his isonal comfort had been made to his satisfaction. ' I know what ish to do, and what I mean to do ; then why perplexity ? . . . nd as for t^uspense V , . . and here Mr. Meredith took his cigar om between his lips and smiled satirically. ' Suspense ! with a dy so dainty and so shy, waiting in her utmost daintiness and yness for one to throw the handkerchief. Well, it is certainly ot — not altogether unpleasant ! One might — at Market Yarburgh bide ones time, and make a successful throw after all ! That is a country place. . . . And there are others — . At the present moment I am in love with |iic advantage of neral others ! ►luiston Magna,' CHAPTER XII. IN THE YlLL.VCti: STKKET. 38 some Sunday, Uncle the schoolroom some ter ; even on your own ce you admitted that preparatory to asking St begun. But be. ore id sufficiently earnest ubject altogether. It ' little of the decaying ? was spoiled, that is, ' yet remained to him rrow, and though he ly rather impatiently ' ; and Percival was keep pace with the ? 'Can another be so blessed, and we so pure, tliat we we can offer him liiideruess ? When a man becomes dear to me I have touched the goal of fuituue. ■ — Emehson. ^J'liEY were roses, lovely fresh roses that filled Miss Theyn's hands. f^tie was alone in the carriage as it drove down one of the narrow t" treets of Ulvstan — streets where greengrocers lived, and pastry- ocks iind vendors of bathing garments. Thorhilda had no pur- chases to make, and the roses were intended for the matron of the f^niall cottage hospital which the Canon bad done so much towards instituting, and now maintained almost solely by his own generosity, lint the roses never reached Mrs. Nesbitt. A tall figure, bearing a lt;i.sket covered with seaweed, suddenly turned the corner of the ,, street — a blue worsted-clad figure, with no bonnet to hide the coils oi her beautiful chestnut hair, no hat to shade the finely-cut features upon which the cast of thought was already marked so plainly. Miss Theyn saw the girl, recognised her, and stopped the carriage instantly. A moment's reflection might perhajjs have changed her feeling, but that moment was not possible. Thorhilda was acting and speaking out of her first impulse. ' Barbara,' she cried, holding out the big bouquet of lovely roseS| 44 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. reel. croftTpy-whitc, deej) crimson, and p;ilest blush. ' TJarbnra ! wl you have tlit-sc V They nro quite fresh. Arul how is your j^'ranl father? My uncle iiiiKiicd he was not looking quite so well usu;i! at church on Smul.iy morning.' The tide of rich coU)ur that was po irinof over Tj:i1)'s face, undj her hiiir, down her neek, attested the confusion to which she wJ moved by the suddenness of the encounter ; but no muscle of h<j beautiful, ie.ru lar features was tortured to express her eraotioi The girl lif ttd her {i[ray-blue eyes — there was no sauciness in theJ now, no deiiar.ce ; there was nothing but a deep and deferentil admiration — nay, it was more, aflection, devotion, as Miss Theyl saw. And tUe ^irl stood like a ytatue for calmness and for dignity taking the boiiquet — such a one as slio had never saw before — anc apart from thi- fact that IMiss Thcyn had given it to her, th| roses were in themselves as precious as any pearls or diaraonc Bab's limited experience enabled her to imagine. The bl'!«he continued to grow upon the fine face, but Bab was not si-coch less, 'You moan them for rae ?' she said, usini? a soft, grave surpris that was as touching as it was welcome. Ilcr eves were dro(j> n over the llowers, her lips a litilo tremulous w%h the weight o pleasure. ' How will I thank you. IMiss Theyn ?* she added. * How will ever thank you ? An' tbove's nothing I can do, nothing !' 'You hnidly need to tliank me, not for a few flowers,' ^lisi Theyn replied ; and it was easy to see that she was receiving almos' as much pleasure as she was giving. ' Do you care for them sc much ? I am glad of that. I can bring you some often, almosl everv time we come into Ulvstan.' ' Oh, don't think of that. Miss Theyn,' Bab replied, her inde^ pendence taking quick alarm at the idea of a pleasure so spon taneous being converted into a benefit ' to be continued.' ' Don'1 think of that,' she isaid ; ' I'll never forget as you've given me these. Thorhilda was quick to understand. , Very well !' she said, with one of her usual winning smiles. ' ] think I kr/ow what you feel, and I will respect it. All the same, ] may come and see you, I hope ? I have been promising mysel; that pleasure.' The blush on Barbara's face deepened ; and since the words sh( could have said — words of gratitude for even the hope of som( crumbs of affection — since these might not be spoken, she had fev others, and these were not adequate. Td like to see you,' she said, lifting her truthful eyes to Mis Theyn's face ; ' I'd like to see you of;eu — every day of my life if i mi'-'ht be. But ' li.ib hesitated here, and looked somewhat embarrassed ; andwhiL she was silent a probable cause for her sudden hesitation crosse( Mis> Theyn's mind. ' You are not afraid that I might try to influence you agains SOUL, lush. ' r.nvbira ! will ' nl bow is your j^raml- ing quite so well as )ver Bab's face, under <iou to which she was but no muscle of her express her emotion. - no sauoiness in them deep and deferential ation, as Miss Theyn nness and for dignity, 3vev saw before — and, given it to her, the y fiearls or diamonds lagine. The bbi^hes Bab was not sp^och- a soft, grave surprise or eves were dro<'p iig IS w'l^h the weight of J added. * How will I do, nothing !' ■ a few flowers,' ^tisa e was receiving almost \ on care for theiu ho u some often, almobt ab replied, her inde- a pleasure so spon- coutinued.' ' Don't rou've given me these.' ll winning smiles. * I jt it. All the same, I jen promising myself [d since the words she [u the hope of some spoken, she had few rutbful eyes to Mias [•y day of my life if it ^barrassed ; and while iu hesitation crossed influence you against AY TIJE VILLAGE STREET. 45 /our wish, are you IJarbara ?' she asked. * Are you thinking, for Insiance, tbat 1 may try to persuade you to discountenance ray )rothor ? Is it that ?' Barbara lifted her straightforward, unsuspicious face, and some |)ain was written there, some surprise. ' No,' she said, ' I was not thinking o' that, not then. But since ^ou have spoke of it of yoursel', Miss Theyn, would you mind lyin' more — all you think, indeed ?' All that I think on the matter,' Thorbilda said earnestly ; 'that rould be difficult. Still, T should like you to know the truth. . . . Let us speak exactly. I went over to the Grange one day on pur- )se to speak to my brother about you ; it was tlie day after I had fen you on the beach. I went to talk to him about his intercourse nth you, to ask him his wishes and intentions, to beg him to con- ler seriously what he was doing. But afierwjird when I came ray, and was trying to remember what I hat! said, I was surprised find that I had said so little of all that I had meant to say. . . . ife is seldom cut and squared to one's anticipations. Some new cperience, giving rise to some new feeling, does away with all the |d conclusions, and one is left perplexed.' Bab was listening, fully understanding, and Miss Theyn knew kat she understood. Half unaware, an opinion as to Bab's quick ^d strong intellectual capacity was growii",' within her with every irn of the conversation. It was not what the girl said, but what le expression of her face said for her, I' Let us speak exactly, you said just now. Miss Theyn ;' and ib's repetition of the phrase, her very intonation of it, might \vQ been amusing at another time. ' Let us speak exactly, yon Well, then, you did wish to persuade your brother from inkin' o' me. You went to the Grange on purpose ?' I' Yes,' Mias Theyn replied, sorry for the sudden sorrow she saw Barbara's eyes and about the finely-curved, sensitive mouth, krbara remained quite silent. I did go on that errand,' Miss Theyn repeated. * But I must you sill ; I must tell you that I found my brother's miud completely made up that no infiuence of mine availed to move from his purpose for a second. . . . We are a stubborn race, \ of Garlaff, and we seldom change.' Then you failed of your erran' ! Bab asked quietly. [Yes ; utterly.' lAn' you were sorry ?' [How shall I reply to that, Barbara ? I wish to tell the truth, I do not wish to pain you.' And the truth is ' [The truth is simply this," interrupted Miss Theyn, not liking to any longer the sad, h( art-hungry look on Bab's face— it was watching the going down of some emotional thermometer, iking the degrees of lowering disappointment. ' The truth is B, that I do not at present understand myself, my own feeling in Ill JN KXCHAXGE FOR A SOUU the matter. ... I supposn T had soino regret ; I suppose I did some aiitioyiwici' (it my Ijiother'H stnjiig dftermiiiation.' * Thank you, Miss Thoyn,' Barbara said very calmly, 'I kt you'd spiak plain, an' I'm ^'l;id yoti si)oku today. . . . An' th; you again for the roses. 'Twas goi-d of you, an' kind, to g them to me,' Barbara's face had g o\\ n paler as she turned away ; her U was grave to dignity, and hi r bow graceful enough for any ladj the land. Thorhiida bowed an I smiled, then gave a word to co'ichraan, who was glad that his impatient horses should at last delivered from that long stay in the village street. 'Home,' ^ Theyn said, throwing herself back among the rugs and cushio and yielding herself up to feelings of mingled dissatisfaction self-reproach. In wishing to be perfectly truthful, had she g( beyond the truth ? Had she b( en quite careful enough of evidently too-sensitive feelings of another ? Barbara Burdas I touched her, appealed to the yet but half-awakened sense humanity that was struggling for existence within her, and i could not put away the appeal. ' I wish I had said a word more — but one word !' she exclainr half audibly. ' Perhaps I may say it yet— I must. That sad lo of Barbara's will certainly haunt me so long as it is unsaid I* CIIAPTEIl XIII. EXTENUATING CIltCUMSTANf'ES. * Well you may, you must, set down to me, Love that was life, — life that was love.' KoBERT Browning. Was it a little unfortunate that Hartas should take it into his he to go down to Ulvstan that same evening? He had not se Barbara for some days ; he was feeling lonely and unhappy, a also unhopeful ; and the unexpected darkness and chilliness of t summer night helped his feeling of depression. And he soon d cerned that Bab was not likely to ])ut it away that evening. ] recognised at once that she was in some highly- wrought mood r to be accounted for by failure or success in gathering her ti of limpets. He had been waiting patiently below the little wooden gallery 1 some time when Bab a])peared. He knew her ways. She woi come out to the spring b}' the corner of the house for water, or close the old green window shutters, or to stand and look at t sky and breathe the fresh sea-air for a few minutes, as was 1: wont during the indoor evenings she bore so badly. Hartas did r dare, now or ever, to do anything but wait quite silently ; and had been waiting for more than an hour when at last he heard t click of the wooden latch. Barbara came out, stood at the top ih© five little steps, listening, as it were. How was it that s souu , ; I siipro^ie I did feel luiaation.' rery calmly. ' I know day An' thank ,QU, uu' kind, to give Lirncd away ; ber look enough for any lady m in gave a word to the tiorses should at laat be , street. ' Home,' Miss the rugs and cushions, rled dissatisfaction and 'truthful, had she gone careful enough of the ? Barbara Burdas had ialf-awakened sense of ,ce within her, and she le word!' she exclaimed; 1 must. That sad look a as it is unsaid I' lVNCES. )\vii to me, >as love.' KoBERT Browning. luld take it into his hea ig? He had not sec , pSely and unhappy, and less and chilliness of the .„.!. And he soon dis [way that evening. Ho LThly-wrought mood no'; fs iu gathering her talej EXTENUA TING CIRCUMSTANCES. 47 tlittle wooden gallery f oj ' her ways. She wou I , house for water, or t« I stand and look at thi lew minutes, as was hel ■) badly. Hartasdidnol 1 quite silently ; and M jien at last he heard tM [out, stood at the top o" How was it that st leemed to know so quickly that somcono was there, that that lOmeone was Hartaa Thfyn? She certainly could not see him in he f''"' light that wns where he stood. ' .tc for you to he so far fra GarlalT,' she said, coming to the dge yji. the little wooden platfornand bending over. Hartas could 60 her now in the light from the window, and he could hear her oico, the unencouraging tone of it, the absence of all welcome in it, f all pleasure. And yet what was the meaning of that slight difli- ulty that seemed almost like tremulousness for the moment? artas was perplexed. ' It's none so late,' he replied, putting much emotion into tho uiet emotionless words, and drawing nearer to the gallery as he poke. ' It's none so late. Why there's lights all over the place yet.' 'The lights i' the windows o' fashionable folk,' Bab replied, with naccustouied satire. 'Thi;y're goin' to bed, worn out wi' lissenin' the baud all the mornin', an' goin' up the cliff side i' tho lift ♦<) unch. An' then they get more tired wi' drivin' aboot i' carria^'cs \\\ the afternoon ; an' they've got to sit two hours at dinner, an' [hen t> o's the band again. Oli, it muu be a wearyin' life, that o' Ihein . Yet, after all, I'd like to try it for aboot a foil night.' 'A light ! You'd never stand it that long, Barbara ' llartas id, speaking in far gentler tones than Bab herself had useu. ' But d(m't wonder that .\ou should wish for rest, for change of some ind. I often think of you, an' of the way you work, morn, noon, night. It would kill most women.' Barbara laughed, not a pleasant laugh to the cars of Hartas heyn. 'It ud' kill some men,' she said ; ' it might even do 'era harm to ,ev to think of it. An' Ah don't wonder at you bein' struck wi' e sight o' work of any kind !' Then she stopjjtd, and pi'esently added with even more of bitter- ss in her tone : ' If you've wondered about me, I've wondered about you, an' not little ! How do you ever get through the days V I should think ery day was like a week ; an' every week like a year. Oh, me ! can tell you I hev wondered how you live you life, an' you a lan !' Hartas was blushing under the cover of the night ; Bab's too karp and eager words smote upon his own consciousness of the [iworthiness of his existence so that every sentence hurt him like blow. And yet there was something to be said in answer. [astering as well as he could the hot tide of anger that was pour- |g over him, making him quiver to the very lips, he strove to make I ' Every word you've said shows how little you know o' the truth,' began, using more impressiveness in his tones than she had |er heard Ijefore. ' I've been idle anuff, most o' my life, I admit jat, an' not without regret neither ; but there was s mcthing to be id for me, if there'd been anybody to say it. I'd no eddication, Ijijii! 'I \r I ji;iil<iii4i)iiiili 48 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. because when I was a little fellow I didn't want none, an' lik( better bein' all day lonf/ about the Grange, wi' the men, an' horse an' cattle. An' instead of anyone forcin' me to go to school, n father was proud o' me, because, bein' so little, I rebelled ar, wouldn't go. An' they used to set me upon the table, my uncle ai him, an' make me tell folk what I thowt o' the schoolmaster, a when I said some impident thing, they'd all burst out i' laughte as if I was the cleverest child i' the world, ' An' then by the time I was older, my father had grown ii different, an' didn'4; care how things went, nor what I did, nor wh nobody did. All he wanted was to be let alone. An' he dreadc when folks like the Canon or Mrs, Kerne came botherin' about ra An' because I was ignorant and uncultured, an' couldn't talk them as an equal, an' felt nought but embarrassment, I grew bate the sight o' them ; an' the hatred was like anger, an' made n insolent. An' all the while I was as miserable as I could be ; ft the home's miserable anuff, I can tell you, and always has bee But 'twas never till I'd seen you, Bab, 'at I knew what shame wr Even when you were a little thing toilin' and moilin' on the scaur fi day, I'd ha' given the world to ha' come an' helped you a bit, as th David Andoe used to do, as he does yet maybe, for aught I know. 'I'm noiin one to need help fra no man,' Barbara said, soften, into replying with less of b'ttcrness in her tone. 'An' if all true as you say, why mebbe one ought to ha' been more sorry n vexed wi' you. But it's noan over late i' life, it could never be ov late to begin to mend.' ' An' that's just what I'm trying to do ; what I've been tryin' do this year past, ever since I came to know more of you and yoi life. But there's nobody to see any change in me, or if they do s^ any it's only something to be sneered at, an' there's nought i' tl world so bad to bear as a sneer because your tryin' to get yourse out o' the old groove.' Bab did not reply for a moment or two, then she said eagerly ; ' Does your sister sneer at you, the one that lives at the Rectorr Does she sneer when she knows you're tryin' to make a nc beginnin' ?' Hartas felt his answer too dt. eply to have it on his tongue ver readily. ' Her sneer I' he said at last ; ' her sneer at anything good ! E! but the very question shows how little you know her. ... I don know much of her myself, an' mebbe I might say " more's the pity if I knew all it meant. An' it's not her fault 'at we're little mo: than strangers. I didn't want to know her, or to see her ; an' fi years I took some paius to let her know that I didn't. An' }'( she's never resented it i' no way ; mebbe she knows 'at there things to be said on the other side. They've talked against her 1 the Grange, and said as how she was " stuck up ;" an' of all ha things to bear, that's about the worst to me. An' I believed then au' when I heard her talk it seemed to me 'at her way o' speakii ' SOUL. I't want none, an' lik(|j wi' the men, an' horseJ me to go to school, nj ) little, I rebelled arj L the table, my uncle an )' the schoolmaster, a| 11 burst out i' laughtes T father had grown iiil or what I did, nor wh= ilone. An' he dreadt me botherin' about mtj^ d, an' couldn't talk tl barrassment, I grew t| ike anger, an' made able as I could be ; fc , and always has bee; knew what shame wrJ moilin' on the scaur ft elped you a bit, as th be, for aught I know, J Barbara said, softens, tone, ' An' if all : ' been more sorry n , it could never be ov 'hat I've been tryin' more of you and yot in me, or if they do si- ' there's nought i' tH r try in' to get yourse; len she said eagerly ; t lives at the Rectorji ;ryin' to make a ne^l > it on his tongue ver| anything good ! Elp :now her. ... I don| say •' more's the pityi t 'at we're little moif or to see her ; an' fi| that I didn't. An' ye she knows 'at therel talked against her up ;" an' of all ba| An' I believed thei at her way o' speakiii EXTEXUA TIXG CIRC UAfS TA ACES. 49 ^■as mmcin , an' over fine an' her Avays was fai- o'er fastidious for rough chap like me. An' at last she was no more to me nor a ranger I'd never heard tell of. ... But now,' and here Hartas's oice changed and softened — ' now it seems as if she'd been carin' |ll the while, an' feelin' lonely, an' wishin'only as she'd had so much one real brother or sister i' the world. I'd never dreamed of it, 's all new ; an' —well, if the truth must be told, I'm feeling as if ere was nought I wouldn't do to please her. No, there's nou-^'ht ut one thing, an' that she'll never ask, no, she'll never ask it, Bab, you let her know you as / know you. She'd never dream o' ishin' anybody to make such a sacrifice o' their whole life as that.' For a little while Barbara was thoughtful and silent. ' No, your sister would never ask it,' she said, speaking in a low, rvid way, rather as if she spoke to h(n"self for her own strengthen- g than as one speaking to another. ' She'd noan do that — not of er own free will ; but what she'd never ask for one might offer er, mebbe. . . . Or no, it 'ud ha' to be done without words ! Any- [ow, for her^ one would do it, an' rillingly.' Willi ngly,- -ay, more than CHAPTER XIV. THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. •And soon we feel the want of one kind heart To love what's well, and to forgive wliat's ill In us — that heart we play for at all risks." Festus, P. J. Bailey, [artas quite understood ; comprehending not only the meaning ^f the woman he loved, but the depth of her strong determination. she was capable of this thing that she was evidently revolving in ier mind ; and the idea thus newly and suddenly presented to 'um ras sufficiently disturbing. ' When have you seen my sister last ?' he asked, after a pause rhich had given him time to view the situation with some dismay. ' This afternoon,' replied Bab without hesitation. ' I'd been )ver to Danesborough for flithers ; and had come back to Ulvstan )y the train . . . Miss Theyn was i' the street, in her carriage, ^he'd her hands full o' roses ; an' she gave 'em to me.' ' An' you'd sacrifice, not only yourself but me, because o' that V [artas exclaimed, the hastiness in his tone betraying much that the lerciful darkness was hidiug. But though Bab could not discern bhe hot tide of colour that had risen to his face, she felt the change [n his accents, and was silent. ' Because of a handful o' flowers that never cost her a ha'penny, m' likely anuff was never meant for you, you're willin' to throw le an' all my hopes overboard for ever ! . . . Good heavena, what ^trange sort o' stuff a woman's made of I* Even as he spoke he remembered the day on the beach, when, Eor all his natural want of perspicaciousness, he had discovered that 1:1 A SOUL. his sister Ij-.l^ suddenly won more of Bab's favour and affectioj be bad been able to win by the effort of mouths, nay, of year? tbat moment be bad been half glad, half proud ; but he saw! in a now light doav ; and the vision exasperated hira, thoul could hardly have told wbother it was his sister or Barbara lil against whom his anger was turned. He bad not been particil hopeful before ; but this new fear seemed to destroy the hoi had had, and to do iliis with a completeness for which he bi( could not have accounted. 'I didn't come down here to hev no words,' he said, remembj sadly enough the loving, longing feeling tbat had beset him walked down from the (rrango ; a longing to y)our out all his to Bab ; to tell her of his new consciousness of wasted life, oi remorse and repenliince, of his only half-comprehended desire bettui' things. For him, as for most human beings, a true love proving that it held the key to truer life, to fuller light. He not attained to anything yet ; but knowledge was coming to hourly, that attainment was not only desiralile, not only poss but imperative, jf be would live at all, if he would not remair that slough wherein he bad lain so long. He putitdowu'to fact of his ignorance that all seemed so obscure, so undetined, 1 instead of some clear aim and rule to guide him be had only a n or less vague longing for better things — a longing that seemed t( bound up inseparably with his desire to win the love of Barb Burdas. * The cygnet finds the wnter, but the man Is bi)) 11 in i<;noiaiice of his olemeiit, And feels out blind at iiist, disorf/anized By sui i' tlie blood — his s] irit-uisiy;bt dulled And crossed by bis sens iliuus. Presently He feels it quicken in the dark sometimes, When mark, be reverent, be obedient, For such dundi motions of imperfect life Are (nacles of vital Deity, Attesting the hereafter.' The aspiration which had come to Hartas Theyn did not toi any far-oif future ; it was held by strong bonds to the disappoi ing and cruel-seeming present ; and out of all his thinking, ; feeling, and enduring, hardly anything could be put into woi Bab understood how it was with him ; and the long silence did seem long to her, the torrent of her own thought and emotion too full and rapid for that, and certainly neither of tliem drear that another was impatient of the pause, that another listened the next word — listened breathlessly and eagerly. Having hitht caught only the tones of the speakers, and perceiving that these not betoken the friendliness of feeling believed on the Forecliti exist between Barbara Burdas and the Squire's son, it was wonder that Nan Tyas should be drawn by an irresistible curio; to listen. Nan was not at any time what might be called an oi scrupulous woman. Though she had now been married some A SOUL. THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 51 IS favour and affection (\<|rHi3, she was still little more than a gir' ; and bein-jf David months, nay, of years. ndoLi'b sister she had especial n a^ons for wishing to know the If proud ; but he saw it-ttth, casperated him, thouqli ^he was not a loving woman. Passion of various kinds, she IS sister or Barbara Bm ) had not been particul ed to destroy the hopi] iiess for which he hini >rds,'he said, remember that had b( set him as g to pour out all his hn i, to fuller light. He fledge was coming to hi sirahle, not only possi he would not remain He put it down' to ht already be acquainted with, but the gentlene-s of true afPec- was as strange and unaccustomed to her as to any of her entle family. Yet she had some liking for her brother David, king made up of regard for his forbearance, of respect for his mitable high principle, for his unswerving elVort alter a ectly patient endurance of trials which she but half undeistood e trying at all. She knew, as siie could not fail to do, of his ._|a])py love for Barbara Burdas, nad iu this matter her sympathy, tiess of wasted life, cl' ftfcdeed 'sympathy' her tierce and narrow feeling could be called, '-comprehended desire 7«i all for him. an beings, a true love v=^o-night accident had led her round by old Ephraim's cottage, or "agged Hoose,'* as it was called upon the Forecliff, from the of it haviag sutfered so severly in a landslip as to have lost all m to perpendicularity. Strangers lo. iked on it with amazement en they knew that it was inhabiteil by a family of respectable Ts«^^^'"^^^^- ^"^ ^'"^'^ ^^^^ ^^^ thinking of the house, or of its bscure, so undefined, traokeduess, as she went rapidly by the path from the Andoes' 'e him he had only a niwne to her own. a path that, led behind the Sagged House, and longing tliat seemed toMpiy across the waste sea-front of the rock to her own cottage on win the love of BarhwfP southern side. It was late, half-past ten at least ; and though n was alone she had no expectation of anything happening, least all anything that would enable her to carry a word of comfort her brother David. an was already weary of standing there by the tarred paling t ran along the edge of what had once been a stone- quarry, and s just above old Ephriam's cottage. She knew that the Squire's was still there ; she could discern the outline of his figure as he ned upon a solitary gate-post, from which the gate had gone long Barbara, being on the little wooden gallery, was out of sight, ugh not out of hearing. I didn't come down to hev no words,' Hartas had said at last, akiug with much more of sullen anger in his tone than was in f all h" fW 1 ■' "^ " IW* ^®'^^'*' 1.1^' v.^ i inking, a |aj3.j[, feeling sorry for him, and being in pain and perplexity for uJa be put intowor^iH,„ ^e \ ^ of L t J F ^ lULu wui i^.ggij-^ made no reply. "aturally the mind of each had wandered far enough from the int touched at that moment ; still Hartas seemed as if he would e up the conversation where it had been left off. 'Xo ; I didn't come down here to quarrel,' he said, in gentler and ler tones. (Nan Tyas could distinguish every syllable.) ' I came t the man lOllt, orjianized usijjflit (lulled Presently soinetitues, odient, erfect life IS Theyn did not tou )onds to the disappoin the long silence did ii;"^ ought and emotion v, ither of them dream lat another listened erly. Having hithc 3rceiving that these d: ved on the Forechfi' quire's son, it was m irresistible curiosii ight be called an ove; >een married some s I* Safjgcil (according to Robinson's Yorkshire 'Glossary') means 'bulged It at the side, as a bowing wall.' But the word is used in other ways. For Vtnnce, a woman's gown, drawn ut the seams, will bo said to ' sag.' So, too lakespoure iu Macbeth v. iii. : — ' Tlic lu>:irt T bear yii.ill nevei s ig with tiuubt.' ^ 4—2 m li ii'; !::n 52 /A' EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. for a purpose very different fra that, Barbara ; an' I can't go nc roundabout way to it neither. . . . You know what it is ! If I've never asked you the name question in plain words before, I've al! but done it many a time, when you've stopped me, either by oiu mt^ans or another ; an' I must ask it now. An' I'll say the truth as-- to what I believe. I don't think 'at you care so much for me, noL yet ; but I do think 'at you'll come to care, if you'll let me hev the^ chance o' winnin' you. Hev I made a mistake, Bab, i' thinkin' 'at you don't alius look at me so coldly now as you used to do ? I'veij. fancied so sometimes lately ; an' I've been that glad when you«^ seemed to give me a kinder look 'at I've hardly known whether 1-. were walkin' on the ground or on the air. It's none my way toti, talk wild, as you know ; or I'd say things stronger nor that. Mebbe 1 may say 'em yet if you give me the answer I want. . . , Babj. you will say it ? You"ll be my wife ? I know you will ! You'lli- never cut a fellow oif f rev all the hope he hes i' the world ? An' -, you shan't repent ; no, never for a moment so long as you live, if I can help it.' Still the^e was silence. Barbara's heart was boating with such wildness as it had perhaps- never known before ; and the tears would have come but for tht*ju strong forcefulness exerted to keep them back. Never yet, never -. for one moment, had temptation been so strong ; never before hadu- it seemed so light a matter that Miss Theyn should some day blush « for he,T ignorance, that Miss Theyn's kind eyes should droop inji^ 30] A sorrow because of her awkwardness, her ill-bred ungraciousness the sole hindrance on the below, much that surface of she her thought ; but This was there was more below, much that she only half comprehended. jg What was it, that something that spoke of some light to be had.jj^ some good to be gained, some platform to be reached, the lowci ^^ step of which might be reached by even a gatherer from the limpet 3 \ rocks ? The one thing that was clear to her in this perjUexing g' moment vras that she must at least wait, that she must not obey them, longing— it was pressing upon her somewhat heavily to-night— the jj longing to lay down her life's hard burden, and rest upon the deep ^^ and true affection offered to her. Bab did not doubt its truth. g If she had spoken openly, she would have said : m 'I do love you, even now ; and my love for \ou is sweet to me \ ^y yours for me is comforting — sustaining. Love is more than all I \^ had dreamed or imagined. But something within me is incredulous « n of so great a good, and will not let me accept it.' ^i, It even seemed as if in this strong and strange contest Bab's j courage was giving way — the one great quality which had seemed j^j tc place her so high above her fellows, leaving her timid and help- less as women are supposed always to be. And inevitably Hartas Theyn discerned the fact. We hide nothing from each other. Dissimulation at its best is never more than a partial success. ' You've no answer, Bab ?' he asked, with tender surprise in his tone : but intense feeling was underneath. fli lUL. an' I can't go no! hat it is ! If I VJ rds before. I've alll me, either by one! ril say the truth as! 3 much for me, noti m'll let me hev thei Bab, i' thinkin' \\ I used to do ? I'vej lat glad when youl ^ known whether l! 's none my way toj jr nor that. Mebbei I want. . . . BabJ yr you will ! You'llj i' the world ? An'! long as you live, if] ss as it had perhaps 76 come but for the , Never yet, never; f ; never before hadj uld someday blush ;s should droop in| ed ungraciousness her thought ; but! alf comprehended.] e light to be had., reached, the lower irer from the lira pet in this perplexing must not obey the] avily to-night— the rest upon the deep oubt its truth. |ou is sweet to me ; is more than all I In me is incredulous I) |ange contest Bab's which had seemed ^er timid and help- inevitably Hartas from each other. Irtial success. ler surprise in his THE STORY OF A MISTAKE, 53 'or all his fever of anxiety he could yet be glad that no quick emphatic denial had swept his ho[)C to the ground. t last Barbara spoke. No,' she said. And Hartas knew, and Nan Tyaa know, that he :e was the voice of one subduing r. very passion of sobs and s. ' No, I've no answer. . . . That's just the t uth — I can't :e no answer.' \\\ one moment, one misguided moment later, Hartas Theyn was |ide her on the little wooden gallery, his arm was round ber, her was raised to his, all unawares and against her will. For one to-be-forgotten moment, Barbara Burdas was overmastered by mingled forces of love and strength. nd Nan Tyas knew it all. stooping there in the darkness, [ding forward with her ear turned in the direction of the cottage ', and her face hot with the strain of listening. She knew •ything. have no answer,' Bab had said. ben I'll take an answer !' Hartas Theyn exclaimed in the first of his momentary success, lut the next moment Barbara had freed herself with a single ig effort. Standing apart, alone, conscious to her finger-tips of iw shame, a nesv and unexpected humiliation, speaking louder before, and far more aiigiily than she knew : V/Zr an answer !' she exclaimed. And Hartas Tbeyn could see [flushing of her eyes in the faint light from the window ; he discern in her tone the surprise and indignation tliat had upon her with his ill-judged action. * You'll take, an answer !' ■epeated. ' Eh, but it's little you know o' me, if you think I'm :o be treated so ! . . . No, Mr. Theyn, I'll find an answer noo, you're so eager for one ; an' it's soon said. You asked me to [our wife, an' I say, No^ never / I'd marry no man 'at showed plain he'd no more respect for me nor that ! There's my fer ! . . . Good-night.' m Tyas heard the quick boltu:g of the cottage door, the sh-^'p of the window-blind as it dropped over the panes. Then new that Hartas Theyn walked away with slow and heavy and frequent pauses, but not pausing near enough or long ;h to hear the sound that Nan heard later — tLe sound of led and bitter weeping. e'U noiin wed liim,^ Nan said to herself, as she went home- ' Her pride '11 never stand such ways as that. There's more chance for David yet ; as he shall know afore he's a day I i i ''''"'''' i ill III:!: ', i i j mmm I i iili 1 ' I i! mm !lMi|;||iii I ' i 11. ii . I will Ii Ii liLiinIil. 54 LV EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. CHAPTER XV. so mi: AUT CRITICf. ' Humanity is gx^^ni ; And if I would not rather pore upon An ounce of u<,'lj', coinuioii, Inniinn dnst, An artisan's palm, or a peasant's Ikuw, Unsniootb, i{,'nol)!(', save to mo and (ii)d, Than track old Nilns to his silver roots, Set it down As weakness— strength by no means. ' E. B. BuowNiNO. All the morning, since the first ebbing of the tide, Damian ^ mede had been sitting there under the cliffs beyond Yarva Nc easel with its bi'oad canvas before him, a white umbrella 1 him, a carefully kept and curiously-set palette, with the usua of brushes in his hand. A noticeable figure he made in tha stretch of land and sea. Usually the scene was a more ( dreary one, inclining to a melancholy speculativeness, or hopeful acquiescence ; but no such mood might beset any resp human being on a morning so free, so fresh, so blue, so su this. Damian Aldenmede's tall, thin frame was not the horn soul that could be called unresponsive. After working with more than his usual ra[)idity for a cou hours, putting on canvas, with what truth and poetry of trut in his power, the great gray nab that ran out from the lai crossed a considerable stretch of the sea, he w :-( now i*esting \ surveying the i^oult of that long spell of sea-born inspiratioi was not wholly satisfied ; what true creator is ever satisfie his own creation ? In all the Bible is there no more striking and suggestive { than that one to be read in the Book of Genesis : ' And it re the Lord that He had made man on the earth ; and it grieve at His heart.' This is startling ; but it is entirely conceivable ; and a mar find motive-power enough for a change of life, were he to for one hour to grasp all that that strange and awful rep( must have meant. It must have involved and included sc more than we can even dream of here. The repentance of knowing and All-foreaecing God ! We imagine it to be coi tory ; and so it is to our finite reasoning and understanding utmost effort can bring about no satisfactory reconciliation, a altogether reverent minds could wish to attempt any such rc'( ment. The great hereafter, heaven itself, is made more att by the thought of all we have to learn ; and if to this you j added power of learning and discerning that we may hope get a brighter and more living glance and grasp of that e which, being in a large sense vague, may not be entirely unaii to some, and thoso not the worst, not the most dead to aspir By the ancient Greeks — the worthiest and best of the A SOUL. 'ICf». ore n]>on hiuuan dust, Siint's l.i-.iw, me anil (lod, silver roots, no meiins.' E. B. BuoWNiNO. of the tide, Daraian All liff s beyond Yarva Nessj 1 a wb'ite timbrella bcM )alette, with the usual s| ffure he made in that "scene was a more or ■ speculativeness, or to I 1 might beset any respor fresh, 80 blue, so sunr •ame was not the home sual rapidity for a couplj ith and poetry of truth 1 rfin oat from the land,! V, be w .:^ now resting a\\j i sea born inspiration. cator is ever satisfied iking and suggestive pa| Genesis : ' And it rep le earth ; and it grieved SOME ART CRITICS. $5 )uceivable : and a man of life, were he to tv Itrange and awful repon ^olved and included so i The repentance of ui; imagine it to be cont ing and understanding, lactory reconciliation, an |o attempt any such reco self is made more attr and if to this you joi that we may hope t and grasp of that et ly not be entirely unap the most dead to aspu* iest and best of theref Iff lures of the intellect were accounted the highest of all, the iires of learning, o£ knowing, of tliitiking, of discovering ; his pleasure was inherent, not heightened in any way by the ly of knowledge as an accomplishment. So far as these )r8 and thinkers of that olden time knew they were wise and ; but the pleasures of the still finer, the still higher ])art of nature had not then been made manifest as they were to be by the development of a now dispensation. This higher ning was reserved for the followers of One despised, rejected, ideistood in His own day, save by a responsive few. We, the itors of these few, seeing by their light, discern more clearly ature of the most perfect felicity possible to man, and there- have keener appetence for it. keener hope and expectancy. is hope we live. The miserable man is he whose hope is dulled by care, by sin, or by neglect of spiritual culture. it need the combined effort of the three to destroy the sonl it for far other than destruction ? That they run one in..o er in ways unexpected, undreamed, we all of us know ; and who deny most strenuously the existence of any tempting nal spirit of evil, must yet admit the existence of some in- ius and most forcible laws of deterioration. . . . These we do iderstand ; how should we ? But we can at least believe in sufiiciently to dread a time when disbelief may be no longer le. 8 not the man who, to use an easy saying, is 'born good ' — to purity and uprightness are as first instincts ; it is not this ho can enter fully into the life of him whose soul is weighted the Ijeginning with strong impulses toward evil that beset ody and mind. And here is the root of much of our harsh ent. We see the error, but not the strange and peculiar iof circumstance that led the erring man into sin before he ell aware. We see his fall, but not the long and bore strife verwhelming temptation. while We are thanking God that we are not as this man, it e th.it God Himself is sto )ping from heaven to comfort him 11 D;vine and most efficacious comfort. ich of My Saints, of the men possessed by the Prayer-spirit, braham to Gordon, was without spwt or stain '? Which of as unblessed by repentance ? W^as not the oft and grievously David a man after My own heart ? Did not Magdalen love re because there was in her so much co be forgiven ? Is it echo, and also a proof of the felicitous bliss of My Divine eness, that there is no finer and more perfect human emotion at between two loving human souls, one of which receives giveness from the other ?' ne might hear, if one listened," with other words more con- till, Damian Aldenmede had heard, upright man is dear to Me,' saith One. 'The man who uch is dearer yot ' iii!|:|l|ii|!l! ■,'■ I' I } > I . I i! 1 1 Wmw ''I I UMi :' !., Iliiif'l'l^ 'i i . mm iiii mmi ''iliillli! I II 56 IN EXCHAXGE FOR A SOUL And there is even another. ' To him that overcometh will I i to sit with Me in My^Throne.' Him that overcoiueth ! This is the touchstone. The man ^ way i.s plain, and smooth, and easy ; into whose life no questi to strife, as to yielding, has ever erjtered ; this man may n shut out from the kingcom, since sucli sliglit test was giver whereby he might prove .limself woitliy to enter. But not fo the shout that shall go up before the Throne of Clod as greeti th"Ro who have come out of great tribulation. * In My Father's house are many mansions.' You had only to look once into the face of Daraian Alden to see that he was now, at least in one sense, like the Master i he would fain follow, were it but afar off. At the Grst sigh knew that you looked upon a man over whose head the wave storms of life had swept pitilessly. It was a calm enough face now — indeed, the most forcibl pression you received was one of a human being, strong tranquil ; and in the same moment you saw that both the str and the tranquillity were of the kind that come by long am strife. Contradictions were not wanting — they seldom are on the f; man or woman of middle ;ige. The young, who have not er into the fight, the old, who have fought and won — or lost- may impress you with unity, with consistency — seldom others On this artist's face, for instance, except when in perfect r the extreme gravity would be half betrayed by certain curve declared him not incapable of humour ; and the stern, ascetic about the mouth were somewhat neutralised by the tenderm the deep, sad, gray eyes — eyes that were sure to be uplift yours, at first with something of inquiry in them, of searchi if once more he were asking the question : ' Shall one find human faith on this human earth ?' It is Emerson who says : ' I confess to an extreme teml of nature on this point. It is almost dangerous to me to " the sweet poison of misused wine " of the affections. A person is to me a great event, and hinders me from sleep.' Not less keenly had Damian Aldenmede felt on this matter need one say it, all his life he had suffered in proportion 1 depth and keenness of his feeling. The assurance most p With him now was that they are happiest who expect least. In one thing at least he was fortunate, in being able to g his insi net for movement whenever the desire came upon hit he had not we:ilth, then poverty did not chain him by the fee no ues of human love held him by beseeching hands, still h freedom and power to secure the solitude he had come to pi gre::tly. And he was not inca^jable of weighing, of duly apf ting the good he had, A s he sat there on the point of rock by his easel, lookin over the rippling tide, soothed by its murmuring, soothed yet A SOUL ,t overcometh will I gra SOME ART CRITICS. 57 3hstone. The man wh whose life no question d ; this man may not aight test was given h ;o enter. But not for b ;he far stretches of blue sky, of bluer distant sea, the extreme ity of his face seemed to relax a little ; then his head was bent ni'ngly. By-and-by he smiled, and the austere face became iiing, beautiful, pathetic, in the light of one of the most human uman pleasures. ;o enter, uut nw" — -^ ^as only a song that he listened to, a doleful ballad of an one of (lod as greetingjjj. ^^^^ ^^^^^ ]^y gjj.jj,- voices, that rose and fell upon the breeze, tion. Wt seeming near, now floating afar. At last the words became ons.' lailiiy discernible : ce of Damian Aldennv nse like the ;Master wl. 'And tell that liulye of my woe, c 'a* +V,o fir<*t siaht ■ And ti'lllar of my love ; e. At the hist Slgni Andgive to her tl.ys gohUm ring vhose head the waves . ^^ tender fay the to prove.' eed, the most forcible human being, strong *aw that both the stren| hat come by long and y seldom are on the f acj inif, who have not ente it °a'nd won— or lost— tl stency— seldom others, ept when in perfect rep' iyed by certain curves t and the stern, ascetic Ij ilised by the tendernes? ere sure to be uplifted ■y in them, of searching n : uman earth ?' to an extreme tender langerous to me to '' c| )f the affections. A irs me from sleep.' de felt on this matter ; Tered in proportion toj 'he assurance most pre* ,t who expect least, te, in being able to gvaj desire came upon him.j . chain him by the feet.j [eeching hands, still hel de he had come to pria weighing, of duly appri |k by his easel, looking! irmuring, soothed yet i" lis was only sung by one or two voices ; next there came a chatting and some laughing ; then a chorus came that might been sung by a dozen voices at least : Yea fayre diunes of merrye Englande, Faste youre teares must posuro ; For manye'a the valuuite Enghshman That yee sail aee uoe more.' [he voices joined in this, with some attempt at part-singing — 3, unscientific, yet with a certain most attractively wild sweet- This was followed by a single voice, young, clear, fresh, as rind from the sea. Now and then it seemed to vibrate aliugly, as if to the pathos of tlie words of the old ballad : 'JFayre Alice shee sat her on the grounde, And never a worde shee spake ; But like the pale image dyd shee looke, For her hearte was nighe to hreako. • The rose that once soc ting'd her cheeke, Was nowe, alas ! noe more ; But the whiteness of her Hllye skin Was fayrer than before.' , [this time the girls had come to the angle of the rock ; there [seven of them, tall, straight, strong-limbed fisher-girls, each ler basket of limpets on her head ; each dressed in her own lasculine, wholly picturesque costume. They made a striking as they came swiftly onward, with swinging gait, and gay, 3s countenance. lian Aldenmede, comparatively young though he might be, lertainly strong, was yet half envious of the quick, vivid, 3tic life displayed in every movement made by these fisher- ^f ITlvstan Bight. He had discerned them before they were of his presence under the tall, blue-black rock. ?as the white umbrella, the easel with its wide canvas, that lied their attention first. Then came a momentary pause in iging, an echo of faint, surprised laughter ; but almost im- lit (ni,riM;iii.ijii| ■li' llili I. 11 |i!l|i|i!'iiiiiiiiiin i.l iiSlil 5« /.y EXCHANCK FOR A SOUL. mediately tliu siiigiii<» was licanl again. \\y tlii> tiim- it was turn of thy soloist, who was no other than IJarbara Burdas. ' And no\v(! ciiiiu' liorsciiicn to tlio towiie, Tliiit tbr pryiict" had sfiit with sjK'i-do ; With tydiiif,'H to Alice tlmt liou dyd live To east' her of lier dreude.' « * * • « • But tlie imge hoc saw tlio lovulye Alice • In n deepe, deepo grave let dowiie, And at her heade a Rreone turfe yiade, And at her feete a stone.' So Barbara sang, in impressive, thrilling tones, that rose died away with a jilaintivencss that seemed to belong n _t altoge to the words, nor yet to the quaint and simple music, but to >. special quality in the singer's own nature. She came onwai little in advance of the others, singing as she came, and bearing burden of limpets— some three stones of them — on her head, ' a kind of unconscious consciousness of grace, the grace of stre in her bearing. Daraian Aldenmede, watching her, seemed to be almost perph in his surprise. The possibilities of form, of action, of attit were all awakened in him with that new forcefulness of impres which is so much to an artist. It is in such moments that he and moves — moves rapidly onward. Yet nearer the girls came, smiling archly, singing — ' Yee fayre dames of nierrye Englande,' lifting coquettish glances to the face of the artist who sat qui by his easel, a man too grave, too long and too dee-^ly tried, t abashed in such a crisis as this. He raised his eyes to meet eyes of the tall central figure — it was nearer to him than the ot — and almost on the instant he became aware that this was n first.meeting. Apparently they were both aware of it. But the others did not perceive. They were finishing their eh in a light, easy way. With the last wordn they stopped by easel, looked at the artist with eager, interested, surprised lo( then they turned to the nab in the distance, glancing from it tr canvas and back again with the glance supposed to be pecniia practised and competent judges. ' It's Tioiin sa bad !' said Nan Tyas encouragingly. "Tisn't black anuff,' Marget Scurr interposed. * It's ower far awaiiy,' remarked Nell Furniss. Still the artist sat there with seeming impassivenfess, listenin these untrained, yet perhaps not quite untrue art-critics ; but f their remarks were in nowise addressed to him he could ha make reply. He notic 1 many things as he sat there ; amo others, that Barbara Burdas had no word to say, critical or ol She was looking at the sketch with eager eyes, with parted lips, with an air of intense interest, which naturally increased the avi SOME ART CRITICS, A SOl/I. By ilii-. tiiiu' il \v;is [\ I IJarbara liurdan. 59 JO toWIlG, [\i a))('iHlo ; (lytl live * lyo Alice lowne, fe yliule, ling tonf a, tliat rose aJ d to belong nL.t altogethj irnple music, but to sot re. She came onward.l she came, and bearing hi them — on her head, wil 'ace, the grace of streiigj led to be almost perplexj 'm, of action, of attitu(f forcefulness of irapressij cb moments that he li^ y, singing— EnKlande,' the artist who sat quic lid too dee'^ly tried, to] sed his eyes to meet rer to him than the othl ware that this was nof aware of it. svere finishing their cho:] rdpi they stopped by terested, surprised lool^ 36, glancing from it to ipposed to be peculinrj uragingly. •posed. irniss. mpassiveness, listening! true art-critics ; but sif to him he could hari he sat there ; amoDi to say, critical or oth jyes. with parted lips, rally increased the altii literest in her. Meantime her companions were moving away, ipatient f^r their noonday cup of tea and frcslilv caught herring. ' Ya'll bo comin' when yer ready, Bib !' Nan Tyas said, looking ick with a meaning, mocking glam o, which IJab returned with a leady look of warning. Diimian .\ldonmede saw and understond. fhis woman was not to be tritlcnl with, even by her own com- mions. Her look, the power in it, the unconscious demand of blf-respect it betrayed, increased his sudden regard for her, and ,'()ke the desire to know more of her that was later to lead to such Int'xpected results. How frequently in our life does a lok have In; dynamic force of an event ! No observant human being has [ved his life without being aware of the fact that much is said, luch done, in which neither word nor action has any part. CHAPTER XVI. BARIUIt.V HiyniAYS HKKSKl.r. The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is a cortain cordial thiliinition. In poetry and in common siicccli th(3 iinotioiiH of I)fiH'V()l( iico ad complacency wliich are felt towards othcr.s are likened to tlio mnterial jfcicts of fire, so swift, or much more swift, more active, more cheeriuj^, are le fine inward irradiations. From the highest degree of pa.ssionate love, to [e lowest degree of good-will, they make the sweetness of life.' — Emkuhon. Inotiier moment or two they stood in silence, then the artist said, |ith respectful tone and manner : ' Surely I have seen you somewhpre before ? . . . I have not been ere for many years ; yet I seem to remember you.' 'Many years!' Barbara replied, looking into the worn, much iduring face before her, and all unconsciously using a less rude Bgree of the dialect of her daily life. 'Many years! It's just ire this herring-time ... I renK.inlier so well. It was the year [ter the big storm. Mebbe you heard o' that V ' Yes, indeed ; and now I remember. You are Barbara liurdas,' said, with an increase of gravity, and speaking as much to himself to Bab. ' And many things come back with my remembrance that same summer. . . . Yes, many things.' Then he looked into the girl's face again, the face that had been I beautiful, so touching, five years ago, and now was more beautiful, ^ore touching than ever. He could not but continue to look, to lestion silently, to answer himself silently also. ' There is trouble there,' he said, discerning by the light of the i'gone trouble that was dead, but not buried, in his own heart. . . . There is sorrow, and yearning, and strength, and determination, here is no yielding, there is no. joy, there is no hope. . . . Poor »ild ! for you are but a child in spite of all contrary seeming.' All this the artist's eyes said, and Barbara understood in a degree, id her face wr.s slightly averted : she was not used to sympathy id understanding. ill ! i lllllll ' iiljilli: liiiiiiii 'Nillili IN EXCHANGE EOR /i SOUL. * 1 remember your loss,' the artist said. ' Your great loss ! your grundfiitlKT- how is he V ' Ho's hearty, thank ya.' 'And the little ones —how m;uiy P I for<(ot the number.' ' Four ; they are all well, all bonny, all ^'ood. Nobbut Jack g a bit o' bother now an' then ; but he's not a batl bairn.' ' Only troublesome ? You are right, thiit doesn't mean badri Tery seldom. But about yourself — what have you been doinj these years? Working— that I know ; but your life has not l all work, not merely work, that I can see ! . . . I can see mi some things that makenio sad. Will you forgive mo if I speak — if I say just what I am thinking V ... I am fearing that have suilerccl, that you have some sorrow now — some sorrow which you do not speak. Am I mistaken ? Am I reading y face wrongly ?' Bab blushed deeply and smiled with a very sad sweetness, w the tears that rose to her eyes were dashed away with most patient gestures. ' It mun be a queer face, I'm thinkin',' she said, with a toucl inevitable satire. ' Or else you mun be one o' the thought-reai 'at one hears tell on i' the newspapers.' * But you don't read the newspapers, Barbara ?' The girl looked up in surprise. The tone of the interlocut voice seemed to her to have reproach in it, which she could understanil, yet she must speak out. ' Yes,' she said. ' Every w eek o' my life I read the Ulvi Mercury — most of it I read alou3 to ray gran'father — he's desj keen o' the news. I used to be troubled wi' the strange things ' didn't understand ; an' more especially wi' the strange words 'i couldn't sai'iy. But now I can guess sometimes ; an' I've begut see 'at it's all i' eddication, the difference atween folk. If you' thousand pounds i' gold, and had no eddication, you'd be nowh But the worst o' the newspaper is that there's never auulf ab nothing to satisfy ya. There's a little bit o' this, an' a little bi that, an' ya're left just about as wise as ya were before.' The artist was listening keenly, noting sadly. * You books, then ?' he asked after a time. * Oh, yes, ever so many !' said Bab, rather proudly. ' Bible, an' two prayer-books, an' the Methodist Hymn-b. then, noan so long ago, Miss Theyn gave me the " Progress," an' I've read it three times through already. But the other books I know, a sight o' them, an' I reckon they've all something in 'era 'at one 'ud be the better for knowing. One i them i' the shop-winda's. But then, they're not the sort o' bo for such as me — very few o' them. They're meant for scholar for such as ' Barbara did not finish her sentence, nor did she sigh or 1 despondent as before. Instead, she merely turned her face looked out to the sea, out to where the white-sailed ships ^ gleaming and gliding in toe far blue distance. have Igri * Your great loss ! Aivl •<rot the number.' kkI. Nobbut Jack give] a l>a<l bairn.' at doesn't mean badness] have you been doing alj iit your life has not beei ) ! . . . I can see muchi 'orgive mo if I speak ou| , I am fearing that yoij w now — some sorrow of n? Am I reading yonj 'ery sad sweetness, whilJ hcd away with most imj she said, with a touch ol ne o' the thought-readoi| ,rbara ?' One of the interlocutor' L it, which she could noj life I read the Ulvsta{ rran' father — he's despei n' the strange things 'at the strange words 'at mies ; an' I've begun t(| tween folk. If you'd ation, you'd be nowherq here's never anulf abouj o' this, an' a little bit were before.' sadly. 'You have v er proudly. * ^'' odist Hymn-b Ai. ave me the '' Igrim'j gh already. But there' I reckon they've all g' for knowing. One sei re not the sort o' bookj 're meant for scholars BAR n Ah' A betrays; IfERSELF. 61 1 or did she sigh or loo^ }ly turned her face and white-sailed ships wed [on are thinking of Konic one ?' Daniian asked gently. les,' Hal) replied, with her iismil instinct toward ingeiniousnofls. I was thinking of her — Miss Tlieyn. You'll know her ke?' I do not. I was here a very short time, and T did not then to know anyone. . . Who is Miss Theyn ? The Hector's XAvr'i' b ; the Rector's niece. Old Squire Thcyn's her father ; but [vcs at the Rectory.' |nd she is a scholar ?' raised her eyes swiftly, should think she is!' was the emphatic reply. 'Eh! yon id hear her talk — it's beautiful. The words is like— oh, I don't what it is I would say ! It's just us if one was lissoiiiu' to 1 this lady young ?' }s . . . I think so ; but Ah do.'in't know, for she's sa tall an' Itely, at times she's even haughty like ; but I can't tell hoo it seem ta love her more for it. Ah'm noiin one 'ats given to i' nought fra nobody ; but there's been times when I've felt [would sooner lake a blow frcv her than a good word frev »dy else. . . . It is stiaiinge I' lian was list* i ing, noting. The girl was rising to eloquence, exactly of v\ords, then of tone, of expression. The colour land went on her fa.ie, the fine mouth quivered slightly, the lyes sparkled to each fresh thought. ke is beautiful, this lady, I atn sure ?' the ai tist said, not with Hty in his tone, but musingly, as if he confirmed something Welf. ^ sautiful !' exclairned Bab, her own face iriadinted to a beauty [erself could not have appreciated, even h d she seen it. itiful ! Eh, me ! Ya should see her when she looks at ya, [she turus her head a little i' talkin', so as (o look straight ir eyes '. An' then when she smiles — oh, 1 could never tell 'a feel as if there's nought i' the world ya wouldn't do for '1 ferl looncast like, an' ever sa far away, because the e's Jo. I've laid awake o' nights many a time thinkin' wasn't nought she'd hev, nuiu/ht I could do. . . . lie sters ; they're despert sought after by the better •Ik. ta know the old sayin' about Ulvstan lobsteis and >ro' crabs ? Well, but then, you see, so 'twere to be 'at she any such thing, she could buy a pot full, an' never miss the So Where's the good ?' lian Aldenmede ^ listening quite gravely, comprehending clearly. he said, with a shadow of a smile. ' No, I shouldn't |of the lobster iut needlework, now — something of that sdlework !' poor ab said sadly. ' I've thought of it ; but ice. illiii'tll! iWii! :l llliJ! iifiiiiii 63 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. I'm a despert poor hand. Ah can make a bit o' frock for . but it never fits, not rightly. Ah'd no help i' loarnin', ya b mother bein' gone. An' as for fancy things, such as ya se( shops, beautiful silky things, wi' pearls an' velvet, why, a tc my hand 'ud drag 'em all to pieces, as if ya swe])t a ling across 'em. No, there's nought Ah can do, not a thing, but s her like a fool when Ah see her, an' then go home an' cry fit tc the heart in my body because Ah can never be nothing to nothing at all !' It would bo difficult to describe with any accuracy the imp] that Damian was receiving from t?.e fisher-girl's betrayal deep affection won by a woman so far above her in all that difference in human sight. He would not deliberately have himself a student of human nature, yet few things des notice passed him by unobserved. One of the many ideas pressing upon him now wa?i this here was a woman, young, eager, capable of some culture, y< by ignorance as some are held by physical blindness. He coi her, as it were, groping for light, patient under the need for with deep sadness lying concealed under the patience. Whai could help a little?' Not being quite a young man, having drunk somewhat ' than most men of the cup of experience, he could not all a give way to the sudden impulse that ')eset him — an impuls would have led him to surround this girl with such books as be useful, and to help her to suitable teaching. He must th it. Yet he would retain, or rather acquire, the acquaintance ful to the carrying out of his project, if he should dec continue his intention. For awhile he had been silent, looking down to the stone-! beach at his feet, apparently wondering if this oi' that pebbl the celeb'^ated 'plum-pudding stone' of Ulvstan Bight. was anoiher kind of wondering that really occupied his brain It moved him to speech at last. ' Do you work all the day ?' he asked, 'or is there some c time set to your working ? What, for instance, do you usuj in the mornings from ten to one ?' Bab smiled thoughtfully. * Ah do a deal i' that time, most days,' she replied. ' B worst's over afore one o'clock. 'As a rule, we're at the flithc by four these light morniu's — that is, when the tide fits.' ' And the flither-beds are two miles away ?' ' Nearer three.' * And you come back about this time ?' 'It's accordin' to the tide. We'll be late this week, an o' next.' ' I see ! Then if I were to ask you to be kind enough to or sit for me, whilst I make a picture, a likeness of you, it only be in the afternoon ?' A SOUL. BARBARA BETRA YS HERSELF :e a bit o' frock for AiU help i' learnin', ya see, things, such a.s ya see i' an' velvet, why, a toucli if ya swept a ling bes do, not a thing, but stard [1 go home an' cry fit to bd never be nothing to hej any accuracy the impress] fisher-girl's "betrayal of i above her in all that maj Qot deliberately have caf yet few things deserr on him now wa? this, tl le of some culture, yet tl cal blindness. He couldf it under the need for it, ir the patience. What if| mg drunk somewhat dee Lce, he could not all at o )eset him— an impulse tl rl with such books as m] ^aching. He must thinl [uire, the acquaintance \\\ ct, if he should decide! ig down to the stone-str| °if this oi' that pebble of Ulvstan Bight. Buf .Uy occupied his brain. 63 1, 'or is there some defij instance, do you usuallj lys,' she replied. ' But! lie, we're at the flither-| (Then the tide fits.' iwiiy ?' je late this week, an' to be kind enough to sj 1, a likeness of you, it cJ I Only i' the afternoon these tides,' said Bab, again blushing |l)ly. |And you have no objection ? You would oblige me by coming, •emaining in the same position here on the rocks for an hour or •e at a time ? ... I do not, of course, wish you to give me r time without adequate return.' id Bait understand this ' art of putting things ' ? Damian was i^uro. The girl looked into his face half wonderingly. Then she 1, in her simple, straightforward, yet not undignified manner: [I'd like to come. ... I like to lissen to ya when ya speak. . . . I come to-morrow ? What time will ya want me ? Two •ck, will I saiiy ?' CHAPTER XVII. A UEVKLAXroN, ' Ob what a power hath white simplicity 1' MOST as a matter of course, Barbara had told her grandfather of interview with the gentleman dow^n on the rocks by the ness. Ephraira listened silently, smoking his pipe, looking up some- |it curiously into Bab's face. it last he spoke, 'hoo mun mak' a baru'iiin wiv him, Bab !' he said, slowly and )hatically. ' Dean't thdo go;i wa^tiu' thy tahme for now't. ?y can alford it, them arti.«es. Why, o;id Tommy Battensby |M me wiv bis oiin tongue 'at yon man 'at painted sa raony tares o' t' watermill up aboon (iarlatf had meiide a thoosan' jmn o' that bit o' beck alieiin — a thoosan' pun i' less nor fower ! Think on't ! Think o' that noo, an' dean't thoo be owcr ir-like. Hand off a bit, an' he'll come doon — niver fear !' [oor Bab ! 8he hardly kncnv why this speech jarred upon her — everything seemed to be jarring just now. She said but little ?ply to the old man's chaiacteristic warnings and exhortations. )a<i never before seemed to her to be sellish or grasping. Now, igh they were quite alone, the idea of ' making a bargain ' with Ikindly and under!-:tanding stranger caused the colour to rise to face for very pain. Already shu had been thinking in a vague tliac if he should ask her to accept money she would not take Other girls on the Forecliff had taken payment for the same |ice, she knew ; and they had boasted of it afterward ; and (bara had felt herself to shrink from self-comparison with these. she shrank more than ever, since coarse handling had made her as if the transaction itself would have a certain coarseness in md a sting was already in the pleasure that was to have been so and so welcome. Nevertheless, she w '>nt down to the rocks the next day ; and lian Aldenmede ;?aw with something that was almost distress she hud brushed her luxuriantly-straying auburn hair until it i i ili illi 'ii! I %l ■!i: i; il 'Ml - !l ' ■i'i' I ill i ' I'!: 64 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. was as nearly smooth as it could be made to lie, that she 1 carded her red shawl and her blue guernsey for a badly-fittii print gown and a clean white apron. The change was as a C( transfiguration. 'Who shall say that dress goes for nothing after th exclaimed inwardly. Outwardly he was as much at a loss t what to say as if he had been dealing with a duchess. But Bab saw instantly that something was wrong. Was Ailsie's presence ? Bab had brought her sister down wi thinking' that she might cover any awkward moment that occur ; and also because she was never so happy as when tl was by her side. She was a winning little thing, as Daraian saw at once, the Sunday frock and the hideously-shaped hat of white with its grass-green feather. Bab had daringly gone to t! milliner's shop in the town to buy the hat, knowing that she have to pay for her temerity ; but she had not grudged he earned money, since little Ailsie was so pleased and had kisi so warmly. It had made chatter for a week on the Forecli nowhere laad it created the impression it was creating now artist was in despair, for the little one's face grew upon hi every glance he gave. It was so soft, so sweet, so pure, so ing, that he resolved at once to paint the sisters togethei might. The contrast between Bab's largely-moulded figi handsome features, her air of independence, and the gentle, ^ delicate appearance of the seven years old child at her feet, striking to be foregone. He would make an effort, a de effort if need were. There had been a moment of awkwardness, of silence, of disappointment, which Barbara did not at all understand, the artist spoke : ' I ought to have told you,' he began, speaking in a regretful way — ' I ought to have said that I wanted you just as you were yesterday, without your bonnet, and wearii work-day dress, as I wear mine,' he added, glancing at his gray tweed. ' And the little one — don't be offended with she is lovely ; and if I might paint her too, I should b grateful to you than I can say just now, . . . You are not The latter question came because of the change that th saw on Bab's face — the tide of hot colour, the quivering lids over eyes, that seemed as if they might fill with tears so little more provocation. * Angry ? No,' she saia, restraining herself by a great ' but when I thought I'd done everything I could to pier it's ' ' It seems a little hard,' said the artist, speaking so gen sympathetically that Bab could not but perceive that he k about it. And as a glimmering of the true state of affair; to dawn upon her mind, the tendency to tears became a t( t ill tu i R A SOUL. de to lie, that she had nsey for a badly-fitting 1 'he change was as a complJ )r nothing after this ?' LS as much at a loss to kn| vith a duchess, ig was wrong. Was it ht her sister down with h| vkward moment that mig so happy as when the Daraian saw at once, de . -shaped hat of white stra ,d daringly gone to the b hat, knowing that she woil had not grudged her ha| pleased and had kissed ' week on the Forecliff ; 1 it was creating now. e's face grew upon him ), so sweet, so pure, so touj it the sisters together if| r largely-moulded figure, \^ lence, and the gentle, wisti old child at her feet, was \ make an effort, a despeij ardness, of silence, of mut t at all understand. At ' 3gan, speaking in a kin* that I wanted you to ccj )ur l)onnet, and wearing yl Ided, glancing at his sui' I't be offended with me, her too, I should be i: w . . . . You are not an!,'r^ f the change that the ;u iolour, the quivering of • might fill with tears on e| fl herself by a great eff( thing I could to please H irtist, speaking so gently )ut perceive that he knev e true state of affairs bej ly to tears became a tende" A REVELATION. 65 a [smile ; and the artist smiled too ; and little Ailsio laughed a soft laugh that drew all attention to herself. ' Then what will we do ?' said Bab, quite herself again, and ring a generous twinkle of humour in her glance, that proved quickness in passing from one extreme to the other. ' What 11 we do ? Come down again to-morrow afternoon, me wi' my lei on my head, an' Ailsie wiv a string o' dabs in her hand ? How [uld that be like suitin' ya ?' 'It would suit me to a T,' replied Daraian, entering into Bab's mood all the more gladly becau-e of the momout of pained Istraint. He could not help adding, ' How quick you are to [D'ya think so ? D'ya think that truly ?' Bab asked, with Iden glad earnestness. [Certainly I do, or I should not have said it.' $ab did not ask the next question that was trembling on her lips, [tead, she paused, and looked out, as her frequent Avay- was, over peaceful sea, that seemed so Avide, so sugge.stive of things not 5e reached or touched, yet always to be desired. lYa really meant that?' she said, looking into the grave face lore her with a wistful, eager, pathetic look that marked the ^tionship between herself and little Ailsie. * Ya mean it— that not sa stupid V ^ou stupid ? By no means !' was the emphatic reply. * What Id make you think that ?' Everything,' said Bab decidedly. ' I know nothing, not as tliey I can't even speak as they speak. An' if I were even to try n\ here, there'd be nought but laughin' an'jeerin'. Oh, it's hard Jiirder than you think !' Lgain the artist was silent, impressed by the fervour of the girl's mer ; discerning that there was more below the surface than he lid expect to arrive at all at once. Surely there must be some- beyond mere admiration for the Rector's niece underneath all I'ervidness, all this strong desire ! And then, quite suddenly, Recollected that he might have known the truth — perhaps more the truth, if he had not, somewhat peremptorily, closed the of his too-loquacious landlady on the previous evening. Now lad to bear the result of his want of knowledge. think I can understand,' he said presently, putting down his shes and palette, ar»d seating himself upon a big, brown, tangle- jred stone. He had previously offered his camp-stool to Ail.sie, sat perched upon itwith the prettiest ease of manner and bearing; little brown legs crossed, her clumsily-clad feet swaying down )w. Overhead the tall cliffs were towering darkly ; the gulls |e screaming and chuckling in and out. think I can understand,' he went on. *I can remember the , though it seems long enough ago, when nothing seemed to me precious as knowledge. And — don't answer m« unless you like it that that is troubling you, that you have not what the world 5 'iili n: i ■H.w\ JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. calls education ? Is it that you are desiring bo much — for its own sake ?' He might well ask the question. For the most part, those who do so desire it are the last to dream of external help. They have helped themselves, unknowingly, unconsciously, long before they were aware of what they were doing ; and there is no crisis of their life wherein they awaken to demand of others some aid in taking the first step. But though Barbara Burdas was not of these, her desire was not the less real. She listened to what Damian Aldenmede was saying wonderingly ; her face was bent downward, her forehead drawn into lines by he weight of the thought presented to her. ' For its oan sake,' she murmured presently. Then she lifted her troubled eyes to the artist's face, and continued, ' Hoo can one tell ? Would 1 ha' cared if it hadn't been for him ? Would I ha* cared it all?' Damian could only look at the girl with inquiring looks. She comprehended the inquiry, and an expression of pain came over her face. ' Ya don't know ! How should ya ? Yet I thought ya might have heard, sin' it's all over the place. . . . It's him ; her brother, as I told you of yesterday. But, oh me ! what am I saving ? . What He's nought to me — no more than the wind that blows, is it in ya that makes me talk o' things that never was, nor never can lie ? . . . What have I said ? There's nought in it — no, nought at all !' ' You are speaking of the brother of the lady you mentioned yesterday — Miss Theyn. Do you know him ? Do you know him intimately ?' 'I knowanuff about him— more nor anuff,' Bab replied. Then, instantly remembering herself, regretting her words, she said, speaking more sadly, ' All I've got to do wiv him now is to forget him — to forget I ever set my eyes on him, or ever opened my lips to si)cak to him, or ever let my ears listen to a word he'd got to say.' Damian Aldenmede was not blind, nor altogether shortsighted. It was but natural that he should construe for himself the words he had hoard ; and his own past experience led him to an almost dangerous verge of sympathy. * I think I know all you would wish mt > know,' he replied ; ' and I I see that you are distrusting yourself — your own wish for' something more than the mere production ol a daily tale of bricks. Yet whyj should you— especially since you are so sure that you have no other wish, no other hope ? And yet I think I understand you, the doubt you are in ; and, if I may advise you, I should say, put all doubt aside, and trust your higher instinct. I speak to you out of my own past; experience when I urge you to set your mind on the attainment of something outside yourself.' ' Some knowledge, ya mean — some laming ? I'm thinkin' on it always, night an' day.' A REVELATION. UL. luch — for its own )st part, those who help. They have long before they eie i8 no crisis of thers some aid in Jurdas was not of lying wonderingly; n into lines by he Then she lifted her ' Hoo can one tell ? Would I ha' cared quiring looks. She of pain came over [ thought ya might 's him ; her brother, what am I saying? it blows. . . . What lever was, nor never ;ht in it— no, nought lady you mentioned Do you know him Bab replied. Then, r words, she said, him now is to forget ever opened my lips word he'd got to say.' gether shortsighted. )r himself the words led him to an almost ow; he replied ; ' and nwibh for something of bricks. Yet why lat you have no other understand you, the : should say, put all I speak to you out of let your mind on the ? I'm thinkin' on it 67 ' Then no greater earthly gift could have been given to you than a desire like that. I know what I am saying. I have tried to influence others to the same end ; but I have failed for the most part because I could not put into other minds, other hearts, the Hjyj'ing that moves my own — the nioin^prin() of desire. . . . This great blessing you possess ; however you may have come by it, I perceive that you have it ; and to any man who can see as I see, who is look- ing out over the dreary waste of human life as I am looking to discern one human soul like yours, truly hungering and thirsting for something more than mere bread and shelter, is, believe me, to see a sight to encourage one — to make one glad. Nothing could give me greater pleasure than to be allowed to help you. It would take the dreariness from my evenings while I am here as few other things could do. Please say that you consent.' Bab was watching him, gravely, wonderingly. There was a quiver at the corner of her mouth — a light in her blue earnest eyes. ' Do I take ya rightly ?' she said, speaking as if with difficulty. ' You would be willin' to lam me something yoursel'?' ' Yes — more than merely willing.' * An' ya think I could larn ?' ' I am quite sure of it ; quite sure that you could learn every- thing that it is necessary for you to know.' Bab remained silent, and Damian turned away, searching among the pebbles at his feet for the belemnites so frequently found on the beach at Ulvstan. He would give her time to think of his proposal. But by-and-by he was startled by the sound of a sob ; one deep, half-restrniqed burst of emotion. He turned to where the girl was standing, little Ailsie by her side. The child was clinging to her, lifting a pale beseeching face. ' Doiin't cry, Barbie ; don't cry ! What's he done to ya ? What's e said ?' ' It's noiin him 'at's made me cry, honey,' Bab answered, taking he little one in her arms, kissing her to hide her own emotion. It's noiin him ! . . . He's kind an' good ; an' we mun be kind to im if we can. But we can't ; that's the worst of bein' poor, ^'here's nought you can do for nobody to show 'cm how ya care.' There are various ways of showing,' said the artist. ' And iiice you feel that you would be glad to do some good turn for me, lease believe I am equally glad to do something for you. But we ustn't stop at words ; and since I may not stay here very long, we ust waste no time. How much time can you give me ? A very lever man once said that an hour a day, regularly given, would mable a student to climb almost any particular mountain of know- 'dge he might wish to climb. Can you give me that — a whole hour 'Ay, an' more,' replied Bab eagerly, wiping some tears away with e corner of her apron. ' There's four-an'-twenty hours in adaay ; 5—2 !||jii|ii|| 11 i|l|:iY';!i!i!!i,|] Hi I 68 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL an' I'm never i* bed more nor five on 'em. . . . But you've yer ( work to think on.' ' So I have ; but I seldom work more than four hours a day. eyes grow less sensitive to colour after that ; and for conscier sake I desist. So don't think of me. I have idle time enougl time that I shall be glad to spend in a manner that will bring more gratification than all the art-work I shall accomplish in lifetime.' * Doesn't yer work give ya no pleasure ?' *It doesn't give me the pleasure I long for, the pleasure of be in any sense satisfied with what I do.' ' Still ya go on trying ?' * Always trying, always hoping.' * Then mebbe ya'll come to it at last I . , . I hope ya will, you've been sa good to me.* ' You will let me be good ? You will let me come in the ev ings for an hour, shall I say seven to eight ? Would that b suitable time ?' ' It would be suitable anufp,' said Bab, again changing colour, i speaking with some indecision. ' But couldn't I spare you trouble o' comin' ? Couldn't I come to Mrs. Featherstone's ?' ' No,' the artist replied. ' It would be better that I should co to your grandfather's house. Is he at home in the evenings ?' ' Yes : alius. But he'd not be i' the waiiy. He smokes his pi an' dozes till bedtime without much talkin'.' ' Then I'll come to-night, if I may. And you will forgive me : the mistake of this morning ?' Bab smiled, — not the scornful smile she was so apt to use. ' Forgive !' she said. ' Ay, an' forget an' all.' * You won't forget to come down to the rocks again to-morrov * No, — an' I'll not forget 'at you like us best i' the every-df wear. . . . Come, Ailsie ! Sa;iy good-bye to the gentleman. '^ mun be goin' home. Gran'father '11 be wantin' his tea badly V CHAPTER XVm. AT ORMSTON MAGNA. ' To mau propose this test — Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ?' KoBEUT Browning It is strange how, in some lives — lives that seem fair, pure^ pea f ul — any true, and high, and perfectly spiritual aspiration is ye rare thing. The outside world looks on, seeing a man or won whose life is without spot or stain ; whose name is on every list names charitable ; whose place in church is never empty ; wh whole demeanour tells of a careful walk, with uprightness in ev( sense of the term. And that outside world is not mistaken j SOUL . But you've yer oati four hours a day. My ,t ; and for conscience live idle time enough- iner that will bring me hall accomplish in my AT ORMSTON MAGNA. 69 lelflom ia. Hypocriay may remain practically undetected ; it never passes altogether without suspicion. And yet even that outwardly stainless, and inwardly true human b< iiig may be aware of a lowness, a deadness, that is almost as bad to bear as any consciousness of actual sin could be. : Thorhilda Theyn was a woman of too high nature to permit of ttuch deadness of spirit without self-protest. Hitherto her inner ^e had consisted laigely of a kind of mild warfare, with more of « hftino jipmpromise in it than she cared to perceive except on the occasiona ,r, the pleaisureoi oeiug j^^^ ^^^ ^^^ compelled to be honest with her own soul. And Wese were perturbed times ; for she did not spare herself. Any 0|her person, knowing her whole life, would have set down much •y, X li| the exaggeration natural to an imaginative woman. . , . I hope ya wi , |The heart knows its own bitterness, and the soul knows its own ' "lure ; and few could have felt more acutely than did Miss Theyn t her life was below her own highest standard. And she had no real excuse — this she knew. *I have no cares,' she had admitted to herself ; *my mind is not tracted by the need of fighting for bread. I have no doubts ; d has mercifully given me a soul, a mind, that can accept His ry saying without question. I have no hindrances to bar me ^m the spiritual life, none but such as are within myself, growing, casing within myself ! I am too much at ease ! Trouble might stir me ; and yet, how rink from it, even from the idea of it ! If I had to live Gertrude's life, for instance, I think I should care for another year of existence. These surroundings are so ch to me ; the ease, the comfort, the never having to move from sofa or easy-chair, not so much as to write a note unless it is I wish to write ; the warmth and softness of everything, the y fire in my bedroom night and morning for nine months of the et me come in the even- rht ? Would that be a ain changing colour, and mldn't I spare you the •a Featherstone's ?' etter that I should come le in the evenings ?' y. He smokes his pipe will forgive me for you was so apt to use. all.' rocks again to*-morrow best i' the every-daaj, to the gentleman. ^ Wf. Intin' his tea badly l' N A. It- its lone way ?' RoBEUT Browning. it seem fair, pure, peacej Iritual aspiration is yet P seeing a man or woma'^ name is on every list c| is never empty ; whos-l ath uprightness in eveij )rld is not mistaken ■ yr ; the fact of having a carriage at command morn, noon, and 'it ; the knowledge that no wish of mine for food or dress, or [ any of the little luxuries of daily life, is ever disregarded or jotten, all these things are as the air I breathe. I have never le thought of them definitely till now ; but now I know that I [id not exist without them. I fear that the smallest deprivation lid be intolerable.' l11 these things Miss Theyn had admitted to herself, and not lout self-blame, on the evening before the garden-party at iston Magna. "The party of the year it was to be, so everybody saying ; and Thorhilda was not without suspicion that it was Ig given with a definite end in view, an end that concerned Self. She would be made to perceive more clearly than ever )re Percival Meredith's ability to gather about him, in his own ^e, whatever of rank or fashion the neighbourhood contained, fhere were several county families within a certain radius of bs. Lord Hermeston, of llermeston Peel, had accejited the tation. Lady Thelton and her four honourable daughters were , '!;||'M lllll ! ill , ' IF' '' j I filliiiiiil-ll mill ! JMm\ ! ill '''■'lilillliF """iillill ft|ll!|l [till,, iiiiiill ilii' „„, iii Wr 'U 'llllii I i !^!|iii:riii i I i I i M\ It I 1 1.!' lir" i,iiij I 70 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. corning. Sir Robert and Lady Sinnington were expected ; squires and dames of all degrees ; and people not distinguisl any particular way had been invited in numbers sufficient to a fill the terraces and gardens of Ormston. l*oth Canon (Godfrey and his wife were of opinion that tb was meant to have a special influence upon their niece's dec] and ]Mrs. Godfrey did not for a moment doubt what that de would be. From the first she had thrown all the weight of he conviction into the scale on the side of the owner of Ormston believed that she had not done so in vain, but her husbani very greatly questioned as to whether the matter was so enti foregone conclusion as Mrs. Godfrey appeared to think. It would soon be seen, however. The eventful day — a ( early August — broke brightly upon the earth. Not a threatened. The far, still sea was shining, studded with the s rippling lights that seem to glitter like stars upon a saj floor. All the morning Thorhilda walked about the Rectory garde unread book in her hand ; cool, sweet-scented airs upon her head ; perturbing thoughts in her heart— so perturbing thej that she was glad to see Gertrude Douglas come smiling between the standard roses, the great blue larkspurs, and the \ lilies. Gertrude was beautifully dressed in primrose cashmere and ] plush. Even Miss Theyn did not know that the costume present from her Aunt Milicent to Miss Douglas. Mrs. G( was not a woman who liked to do such things as that ostentation. ' Let it be between ourselves, dear,' she had said to Ger ' For after all it is a selfish sort of gift. I do so like to s f liends well dressed. And Thorhilda really cares so very that I often feel quite troubled,' That had all been said a fortnight ago ; but Miss Dough not forgotten it. She came gliding down to the west a conscious of beauty, of a certain indefinable fascination whit neither of the heart nor of the intellect, and yet had fo impress others. There were moments when Thorhilda half rei an impressiveness which she could not comprehend. ' Not dressed yet ! Why, my dear P Miss Douglas exclain her high-pitched, yet most musical voice, coming forward to \ an eager kiss as she spoke. ' What time do we -Btart ? Isn't that late considering the length of the drive ? And what's the matter ? You look qui lie doleful ! And on this 1 all days of the year ! Well, you do surprise me ! If such a had been given in tny honour, I should have been dressed beforehand, and rehearsing my part in a darkened room, so concentrate all my faculties.' Thorhilaa returned her friend's kiss with a certain em quietness ; and not wishing to discuss the matter alluded 1 A SOUL. on were expected ; witi iople not distinguished j mbers sufficient to almo* e of opinion that the dj on their niece's decisioi doubt what that decisn 1 all the weight of her ov le owner of Ormston ; ai ain, but her husband h e matter was so entire^ )eared to think, le eventful day— a day the earth. Not a clot ig, studded with the silvfe ike stars upon a sapp; ,out the Rectory gardens.^ cented airs upon her fc? t_8o perturbing they wj ouglas come smiling del ue larkspurs, and the gol(f Umrose cashmere and pur| )W that the costume wsjj iss Douglas. Mrs. Godf>^ such things as that she had said to Gertru Et. I do so like to seel really cares so very lil ago ; but Miss Douglas [down to the west arW Inable fascination which 1 lUect, and yet had f orc^ Then Thorhilda half resei*' fcomprehend, [Miss Douglas exclaimed k, coming forward to besi [time do we -start? Fcf of the drive? And, )lcf ul ! And on this daj rpvise me ! If such a pj have been dressed nj a darkened room, so AT 01? MS TON MAGNA. 71 3s with a certain empc the matter alluded to,| |d not disclaim Gertrude's idea as to the intention of the gathering Ormston Magna. 1* A rehearsal in a darkened room ?' she said, by way of reply. ihat does remind me of poor Aunt Averil, who, for years past, \a tried to induce me to give an honr a day to the study of inners. She has a little morocco-bound book, with tinted paper gilt title, in which she has written an entire code of good inners, with extracts from every book she has ever read bearing [all upon the subject. A fresh acquisition is read out to me each le I go to the Grange. The time before last it was a quotation \m " Lothair," to the effect that rejjose was of the essence of luty ; I forget the exact words. Last time the quotation was Lord Ljtton, and urged the larf,'er duty of trving to enter other people's views, other people's ways of thinking. It was lething like this : f' Few there were for whom Harley L'Estrange li;ul not aj)propriate iction. Distinguished reputation .la solilii-r and schol ir for the grave ; and pleasantry for the guy ; novelty for the sated ; and for more vulgar ires was he not Lord L'Estrauge ?" ' [And your Auni nveril keeps a book of that kind ?' said Miss iglas, with such regard in her mention as she had never shown ^ard Miss Chalgrove before. * I do hope she will leave it to porhilda could not help the anile that came — a smile of many ^nings. In reply, she said ; told Uncle Hugh of our conversation when I came home. He, was amused at first. Then he o ned a New Testament that lying near, and for a little while .^ scerned to be readinrf, or iking. Then it was as if he spoke to himself rather than to his utterance was disjointed, like one speaking in his sleep : [' There is nothing new under the sun," he said, rising from his Ir and walking to a^d fro slowly in the dim light that was at |fni ther end of ti. irawing-room ; his hands, still holding the lament, were crossed behind him, his head was bowed thought- j^, his voice came sweet and pure and earnest. No, there is nothing new," he continued. " The finest refioe- |t of manners cannot go beyond St. Paul — except in one direc- only — the manners of his Master, But to remain below these, le merest human level, has it not all been said, all that your nsts and novelists and poetical critics of life can bring forward the essence of the matter ? You are not to think of. you are fcc?-/^e selff — that was said long ago ! You are to be all things \\ men ! St. Paul said, ' I made myself a servant unto all.' " Lud then he went much further, into greater and finer detail, ^ly for a moment," he said—" just for one moment, change St. p word ' charity,' and substitute ' fine manners !' Fine manners are kind ; they envy not, they vaunt not ; those ihave them are not puffed up. lil.i'l I M: i ! ,j ' , ii.'I'i'! ill !'< I II 72 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL •"Fine manners behave in no unseemly way ; the man hapny ennuffh to po sess them docs not seek his own. H easily provokof]. Ho is not ciipablo of thiukinf? evil. * " l\.c> rejoices not in iniquity — no, nor even in hearing of greatest joy is to hear of the pood and the true. ' " Moreover, the man of fine manners can bear all his s his trials, in the dignity of silence. If even he should have upon his heart and brain the weight of the wrong-doing of he can yet bear without complaint. '"And the secret of all this is simple in the extreme believes all things,* Believing, he can endure in calmness, ii '"And yet another event, his fine manners 'never fail.' things may fail, and cease, and vanish away ; but the 1 woman who shall use as his or her pocket-book of etique thirteenth chapter of the First Corinthians shall not be wanting. ' " The man or woman nurtured, trained on the teaching New Testament alone, shall be at a loss in no good society rules are there ; the disposition to obey the rules is innate lowest saint, the humblest follovver of Jesus, shall shine highest human society that this or any other land can produ So the Canon had spoken one evening, not long bef( eventful day to be recorded. And Thorhilda reproduced hii as closely as her memory permitted. Becoming aware tl complacent friend was growing restless, she desisted. After all the preparations that had been made, it was i when the Rectory party started — four of them in Mrs. Go pretty light brougham, the remainder in the waggonott arriving they saw at once that the lawns and seaward terrad filled with guests. A band was playing in the shadow of th end of the house ; tennis courts had been marked ; a Ion; tent sheltered the refreshments that were being dispen numerous servants, male and female. In the paddock, southward side of the house, targets had been set up for ai but since the Market Yarburgh club was of recent date, expected much entertainment from the efforts of its men and, indeed, just now it was too hot for exertion of any kin( Meredith came forward to greet the Rectory party under the of a rose-pink parasol ; her son Percival was by her side, r take Thorhilda's hand as she stepped from lae carriage, and forgetful of Mrs. Godfrey or Miss Douglas. No one couh flaw in his courtesy, now or ever ; but he at once made it ' to everyone that his especial attention that day was to be ( to Miss Theyn. He had reason enough for being proud position. He remained by her side as she shook hands w group of distinguished guests, and with that, and his appn of her graceful, reserved courteousness increased at every ste noted her perfect ease of manner, her unconscious dignity, 1 and exquisite lovehuess, with all the pride of one anticipat AT OR MS TON MAGNA, 73 krthor pride of possession. All through the afternoon ho remafned bar her, moving with her through th« gay crowd, sitting a little lart with her under the shade of the wide beech-trees listening to |e band, watching the tennis-players, pointini^ out to her his rarest p most perfect flowers, waiting upon her lightest word, and doing with the quiet, eager intention that alone might have betrayed \vr it was with him. Feoplo looked at each other with the look If-amused intelligence natural at such times : some whispered, le even ventured on a question to Mrs. Meredith, whoso pretty silk dress seemed to be shining everywhere. Is it all fixed ? Mayn't we know ?' asked Lady Thelton, who the most intimate of the friends present at Ormston. Jut Mrs. Meredith put up her little white hand deprccatingly. 'Oh, hush !' she said. 'I am superstitious. I never talk of a [ng until it is beyond the possibility of failure.' You superstitious !' laughed Lady Thelton. ' 01>, my dear, what 11 you accuse yourself of next ? But I see ; I am to be discreet'! "1, give me time to think of a wedding-prcsctit worth sending.' ^as Thorhilda conscious of all the wondcrings, the surraisinga it were going on about her ? She hardly knew. Sh 3 seemed to rself to be more perturbed than happy ; more bewildered than itent. And yet as the hours went on, swiftly, dreamily, she that she was yielding, yielding half against her wish, to the Brpowering influence of the emotion that was subduing another completely that its force, like an electiic touch, was communi- 3d to herself. Outwardly as calm, as strong, as dignified as ever, hardly she felt helpless ; and she could make no protest when she that she was being gradually and dc;i<rncdly separated from crowd — drawn by a glance, or less, to a s-olitary nook between hillsides, and beyond the gardens, a copse lilltd with a tangled lergrowth, through which a little bet-k went trickling and singing Iwn to the sea. Before she knew it, they were alone — she and pcival Meredith ; alone and silent — iso silent that the note of a pd seemed loud and intrusive, and the gurgling of the water some Int of deference on nature's part. For a long while there was no Tier sound. CHAPTER XIX. UNDER THE LARCHES. ' A vague nnroso And a nameless loiifnng tilled her hrt-ast— A wish that she hardly dared to owl, For something better than she had known.' J. G. WniTTIEB. iRCiVAL Meredith was & man who had sufficient assurance for the ordinary purposes of life, but he was well euongh aware that present moment was in no sense an ordinary one. Yet he niii mm '"I'lill I IN) I !il,l in:; III lit 74 IN EXCHANGE FOR A 'JOUL. wondered a little at the stroDgth of the emotion that was bos him ; it was now and strange. Though he hiul known love b or somothing that ho had counted for love, ho liad never til felt this almost hesitancy that hold him in its grasp. It wi till he had made the effort of recalling the facta that Mrs. Go had given him all the encounigenicnt that a woman in her po could give ; that the ('anon had shown him a kindly wolcoi all times, whilst Miss Thoyn herself had never exhibited the fa distaste, or seemed other than pleased by his presence— it w( till he had recollected these things with some vigour that he to regain the standpoint natural to him. Even now it was not and Thorhilda was not making anything easier for him. Rhe stood loaning against the trunk of a young larch-tree, sti and whit and still, even a little sad now, if her expression any true index of her feeling, and yot to Percival Mere thinking Pho liad never looked more beautiful. Her white casl dress fell into graceful folds, and minulcd with soft, cream; and loopings and floatings of ribbon and bordorings of plush, only ornament she wore was a Niphetos rose, which he himsel gathered for her and given to her earlier in the afternoon. ' It was good of you to wear my rose,' he said at last, speak a low voice, and lifting his long dark eyelashes in a certain la yet effective way peculiarly his own. Thorhilda blushed und gaze, but faintly, and with as much consciousness of distiirbai of pleasure, yet the beautiful soft, sea-shell pink made her lovelier than ever in his sight, and, half unconsciou.-^ly, he di little nearer to her side. ' But all you do is good and kind,' he continued. * It is that me hope, and that only. Though I have watt:l • d you, tri make myself something to you, some part of your life, thos years past, I must aiiinit tliat I have yet no a uiance. moment, nay, perhaps i'or a whole evening, I have felt more o happy, because I fancied you had given me more or less grout hoping that you were beginning to care for me. Then, pe the very next evening, you have taken the ground from undi feet. Can you wonder that I have often known somethini despair ? That for a long time past I have felt as if I must what the end was to be— whether I was to hope for a whole life of happiness, or for a life of something more nearly like n than I dartd to think. . . . Lately the susp( use has been gn terribly. Can you not imagine it V Can you not 8ymi)athiz( it — at least so far as to say that I may hope that you will soc an end to it — the end I yearn for ? . . . You can never, destroy my one earthly hope !' While Pole vui was speaking, naturally enough Thorhild thinking, thinking rapidly, feeling in n-ely, as people do wh( heart and brain are raided to their higliest and swiftest pow the rush of the fresh force of life through vein and nerve, here she found the good of much previous right thought, high c ' A 'JOUL. jraotion that was beaettiij he hivd known love befoi| ve, ho liiid never till nn . in itfi gniap. It was nJ he facta that Mrs. Godfii it a woman in her posit iij him a kindly woleomc never exhibited thofainte )y his presence— it was nl some vigour that he bcgi Even now it was not eai« ; easier for him. a young larch-tree, straicj ^w, if her expression wt' et to Pevcival Mereditl* itiful. Her white cashm(| ;lcd with soft, creamy h| I bordcringa of plush. Tt rose, which he himself h{ V in the afternoon. ' he siiid at last, speaking j clashes in a certain laiii,'i:' .'horliilda blushed under sciousness of disturbance j -shell pink made her sep f unconsciously, he drew| continued. * It is that giv lave watt:l t <1 you, triid )art of yoiu" life, those tt yet no :i - u ranee. 01 g, I have ftlt more or ij me more or less ground •e for me. Then, perliaj le ground from under tn known something 11 lave felt as if I most knq s to hope for a whole 1( ng more nearly like niisej susp( nse has been growil n you not sympathize wij ope that you will soon pj . You can never, ner dly enough Thorhilda •ely, as people do whenti est and swiftest pawer igh vein and nerve. A| s right thought, high desij UNDER THE LARCHES. f| frequent prayer. Even in this impetuous moment ahe said to keif, ' I cannot have lived under the same roof with my uncle Igh for nothing, and surely now, if ever, I must strive to see the it. . . . Woultl that I had openly asked him about this before, ced it over with him ! . . . I must do it, I must do it yet before ive any definite answer. . . . Yes, I must request time for that !' Tot once did it occur to her— how should it, in her youth, her [peiience of love, Hie, all things ?—-that a perfect affection, feet within itself, would have needed no outward constraint, no jernal drawing or pres.-Nuro, no help of any kind. Jut meantime, while she was thinking, Percival Meredith was I'ed to pouring out a very rhapsody of loving, pleading words, preconsidercd than those he hud used before. Thorhilda had I dreamed that he could bo so eloquent, so impressive, so fervent ! iras her perception of this latter quality that drew her to be real II did not know, indeed I did not, that you cared for me so 2h,' Thorhilda replied with timid simplicity, trembling, blushing, ling so faint under the weight of new and strong emotion, that longed to lean upon the strength of the man who seemed so Isullicient for her support, then and after. What was it re- lined her? She could not do it. Despite her weakness, her pst yearning and tender weakness, she shrank from self -betrayal, cannot answer,' eho said at l.;st. * I cannot give you any answer !' Jhe stopped. Percival took her hand, holding it gently, as one would quiet the fear betrayed. It was some time before he ([an to plead again. Not one ward f he said at last, ' not one iinf/le word f It is all I . . And, no, I will not ask even that, if it is to cost you so Ich. How could I ask anything from you but that you should forbid me to wait V I will wait as long as you wish, only do say that I may not hope. At least, at the very least, say that lay hope that you will be good to me some day ! . . . I wish you ^w how I long to be sonuthlng to you, to be in a position to — to you from anything that might happen in the future. . . . And Ind we none of us know !' Thorhilda was only half aware of the sudden restraint that came kr Percival Meredith. Of the reason for it, for the sudden [oping of the eyes, the unexpected failure of the words of the she was, or seemed to be, on the verge of loving with her )le life's love, she knew nothing. low should she know ? There Had been whispers abroad of the ion's unrestrained and unconsidered generosity ; of family jms, the claims of younger brothers, with their wives and little s ; poor, unenterprising, clamorous ; but of all this Thorhilda known nothing, and therefore had thought nothing. Once or ce it had struck her as a little strange that her Aunt Milicent uld seem to be so emphatically on the side of early marriages. WKm r--r ill i! '^:^-:| 11. 76 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ' I might have thought she wished me to leave her,' Thorhilda h said to herself more than once in moments of perplexity ; but yuch ungracious and ungrateful ideas had remained with her p( manently. And no thought of this kind had any weight with \ now. She was only conscious of a strong uc?,ire to avoid t utterance of anything that should seem to be binding upon b afterward. And yet, even in this troubled moment, she felt that she mi some time yield. Half she feared that she would do this, and hi she hoped that she might be compelled by some circumstar outside herself to do it. But even now she did not recognise the fact that no hesitati ought to have been possible to her — no, not for a moment. A tr and healthy human love knows no more of hesitation as to wheth it shall betray itself, than a healthy human life knows of hesitati as to whether it shall go on living. If a test were wanting, he is one ready-made for most uses. But Miss Theyn was fully conscious of her perplexity ; and, was natural to her upright spirit, she confessed it. * I cannot, I cannot understand it,' Percival Meredith said reply ; speaking with a new and moving humility, that was yet n untempered with self-respect. * I cannot understand. You eith care for me, or you do not ! . . . Yet forgive me ! As I said ju now, I am most willing to wait, only, only tell me why I mi wait ? Will you not tell me that ?' | A moment Thorhilda was silent. Then all at once, as it we her spirit broke from the bewilderment that had held her as trance all the afternoon. She lifted her face, raised her boau gray eyes, which were deeply charged with all earnestness sincerity. * I will answer you plainly,' she said, speaking witti far less trepidation in her manner than she felt within herself. ' I wJll you the truth so far as I can. And the first thing I must is that I have no doubt of your affection for me. . . .' * Then thank you for that, a thousand times thank you !' Perc broke in with fervidness, and raising Thorhilda's hand to his gracefully as he spoke. 'Again and again I thank you for j faith iu me, . But having admitted so much, what can !nr you now ? Not yrur want of love for me. Once more I say I will wait for that. I will try to win that ! "With all my he will try ! . . . And what is there beside? — nothing, surely nothi "What was there in all this ready protestation that seemed, if r«nreal, yet still in some curious way unsatisfactory ? Was it way of men ? of lovers ? The inquiries that Thorhilda pi herself were utterly childlike in their ignorance, their confu She had had no lover before, nor any dream of love. How s' she know V Yet sbo replied gravely, and with an altogether womanly di ' There is much beside,' she said, and then there was a pause ir ■■r ■;:. WUL. - her,' Thorhilda had I perplexity ; but no nained with bar per- any weight with her desire to avoid the be binding upon her ho felt that she must ^ould do this, and half oy some circumstance act that no hesitation for a moment. A true esitation as to whether ife knows of hesitation test were wanting, here tier perplexity ; and, as ssed it. . , . •cival Meredith said in mility, that was yet not ;ndcrstand. Jou eitbe veme! As I said jus ily tell me why I must 1 all at once, as it were, ,t had held her as ma I ace, raised her b^^autifulf ;fith aU earnestness, aU| .peaking w^^b far l^s crfl thin hcrseil. ' I w.U telli first thing I must say ^^LXnky^ul'Perciv., .rhilda's hand to his hp in I thank you for yon much, what can !nnde e. Once more I say tlia ,at! WithallmybeartP -nothing, surely nfthing^ tation that seemed, if nj | ,a>sfactory? Wasittbl es that Thorhilda put tc gnorance. tbeir conf usiou ^am of love. How should lto<^ether womanly dignitv hen tbere was a pause while UNDER THE LARCHES, 77 she made an effort to continue. ' If I am sure of you, or of your affection rather, I am not sure of myself, not in any way. / am ffarinq mi/Hplf^mij own intef/rili/ ; and I think that you should know of this !' ' Your integrity — ycjurfi P exclaimed Percival. feeling at least as much surprised as he seemed. ' Wliat can you mean ? I should as soon doubt the integrity of an angel from heaven.' 'I mean this,' Thorhilda said, her breath coming and going heavily, her eyes set with a seeming hardness in the expression of them, as if the effort after a perfect straightforwardijess were testing her strength to the utmost limit — ' I mean this, that I am not sure that I return your affection, or that I ever can return it as it should be returned. I fear much that I never can. And, let me speak the truth in all sinceiity, I know that I am tempted by your position, by the prospiet you have to offer me — the prospect of ease, of wealth, of unlimited luxury for all my future life. I have been used to these things, though they are not mine by birtbright ; and now it seems to me that I could not well live without them. . . . And, as I fancied you suggested just now, I may not be able to live at the Rectory always. . . . And there is nowhere else — nowhere.' The silence, the utter silence that followeu, was not one to be forgotten. For some monK^nts Percival Meredith could make no reply ; and yet he hardly knew what it was that hindered him so powerfully, so completely. In his own heart he had long ago admitted to himself that in all probability worldly considerations would have some influence with Miss Theyn, more with her friends ; and the idea had not hurt ihim grievously. Xow he was conscious of pain, of disappointment, of disillusion- liuent ; and though he could not analyze his feeling, he was aware Itliat he stood as one watching the visible shattering of some idol he lad set up to worship ; and being not greatly given to such worshipping, the loss seemed all the greater. Miss Theyn began to perceive in a slight degree. ' I have grieved you,' she said sorrowfully, gently. * Forgive me. th;vjght it better to be honest, quite honest.' ' Yes,' Percival replied musingly. ' Yes, perhaps it was. And 'et, I wish you had spared me !' Again there was silence. Somewhere beyond the distant purjAe >f the tree-tops the sun was sinking to the moor ; twilight was jlealing into the hollow ; the ripplint,' of the streamlet seemed to nk to a sadder, a less living tone. ' Let us forget this,' Percival said at last. ' Y'ou have not said lat you could not care for me ; and I think you will learn to care least for my kindness, my love — the rest will come. I do hope id believe that it will come. I trust the future.' ' The rest !' It had never been so m ;ir coming as it was at that lomeut. Percival Meredith, a little saddened, a little unhooeful. 78 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 1 ■ i . . 1 ' i i ' ' ■ i ! 1 1 ' 1 ;!■■■' ! ;i ; , 1 ■ i 'i M : : ' j:' n j i 1 ' 1 I . an: i<3 !i:!;il!! I mill and subdued to a new humility, was very different from th( assured man wlio h;id put aside every thought of faihire, an not been able, for all his diplomacy, to quite hide the fact tl bad done so. Now he had nothing to hide ; and it may have that one more kindly and earnest appeal would have been au!* to his wish. But that appeal was not made ; and it n: admitted that there was reason enough why it should not. 1 hurt, and reasonably, and one sign of it was the touch of pet about his small, restrained mouth ; another sign was the w perseverance at the one sigiiiticant moment. ' I will go on hoping,' he said, turning to go, and cleaving through the briars for Miss Theyn to pass. 'And you will b to me ; Bay that you will ?' Thorhilda smiled. 'Haven't I always been good ?' she said, holding out her timidly, half reluctantly. ' Yes ; indeed you have !' Percival replied. ' As I said 1 that was the only excuse I had for my presumption.' CHAPTER XX. THE CANON AND HIS NIECE. ' To thine owu si'lf be true ; And it shall follow, as the night tlu; iluy, Thou canst not then be false to any man.' Miss Theyn was not quite happy that evening — how shou be V She was confused herself ; circumstance was confusir there seemed no light — no hel}) anywhere. On the way hom Ormston Magna, G-ertrude Douglas indulged in a littl badinage, which was quickly re])ressed. The Canon was tl ful, absorbed. When Mrs. Godfrey came to know, from the Percival Meredith himself, that Thorhildas answer had been and not altoj- '■ ?r encouraging, an unusual but most visibl of anger mouuLed to her forehead, and remained there. Th saw and understood ; and having hitherto seen so little unquiet side there might be to her aunt's character, the sigh to her perplexity. It was some time before the two women spoke to each o the great event of the day : and then nothing passed tl helpful in any way. Mrs. Godfrey knew more than Th knew of the reasons why Percival Meredith's offer shoul been graciously accepted, and she was too much a woman world not to prize to the uttermost the advantage^ that seemed quite willing, and quite unthinkingly, to forego f indifference. This was how the matter seemed to the . wife ; the Canon himself saw much farther. ' Surely you would not force her iyiclination in anyway V said, after listening to the torrent of words his wife had A SOUL. ■y different from the sel!^ ought of failiiro, and ha. uite hide the fact that \\ de ; and it may have bc: would have beeu answir^^ ot made ; and it may ,vhy it should not. He w-: was the touch of petulaii'l )ther sign was the want 3nt. f to go, and cleaving a wf Is8. ' And you will be goo said, holding out her hai^ e plied. 'As I said befo| presumption.' Cv. [S NIECE. Hilf l)e true; iglit till! day, ^ e to any man.' it evening— how should s mstance was confusir ^ ; a iie. On the way home frq indulged in a little m The Canon was thoui' ne to know% from the lips Id as answer bad been vag: usual but most visible fli remained there. Thor'ii! therto seen so little c it's character, the sight ;i'l|- luen spoke to each otherj A\ nothing passed that knew more than Thoih' leredith's offer should 1 s too much a woman of the advantage" that The: liukingly, to forego for v| ,tter seemed to the Canf irthcr. ^lination iu any M'ay V he ij ■ words his wife had poi THE CANON AND HIS NIECE. 79 in his ear while they were dressing for dinner, the door between iiv rooms being open for this especial purpose ; and Mrs. idfrey's reply was one that Ke could only meet with a pained mce. Yet he was by no means insensible to the worldly advan- res offered to his neice— nay, for reasons known in all their [ionsness only to himself, he would have beeu at least as glad as wife had been if Tliorhilda had chosen to accept without demur offer of the owner of Ormston Magna. Yet that she should be m by one word persuaded, was repugnant to every notion of lour that he had, later in the evening, seizing a brief opportunity, he could not speak to the girl, whose white, and lovely, and lonely face led to be appealing to all the tenderness, all the u^anliness he in his soul. Tell me about it, Thorda,' he said, laying a gentle kindly hand in his niece's shoulder as she sat musing sadly by the drawing- \va fire. Mrs. Godfrey had retired eaiiy, boing wearied with the juietude of her own spirit, and of the day's event. * Tell me lut it,' he said. ' I know the outside facts. You could not say "es," not conscientiously.' jKo, I could not,' Thorhilda said, letting a single sob escape !j)ite of all repression. A weaker woman as much perturbed, as |ch excited, would have answered with a burst of tears. * No ; 1+ is just it. But to tell the truth I can hardly say where the Iscieniiousness lies. I am afraid of being dishonest — dishonest 'ard him or with myself.' You have never at any time felt that your mind was made up at [on this matter ?' No ; not for more than five minutes together. . . . Shall I tell the truth, Uncle Huj^h — all the truth? I should like to be itress of Ormston Magna— I should like it much. In one sense iems the very place in the world marie for me to fill.' That is just how it has seemed to me,' replied the Canon. u have every quality that would bo required — every grace. . . . I had hf)ped long ago that it might come to pass. But my le has limitations. Now. tell rae the rest !' iiere is no rest ! I like Mr. Meredith, as you know ; but not, till ilk, Avith the liking I ought to have before I can accept the ")ition he wishes me to till. . . . He snys that this is but natural ; ju.st what he expected ; and that all the rest will come. It is [e that my trouble lies. A^ you kuow, I have hardly known — rdly ever seen anyoi e else. And at one time I am drawn to ; at another time almost re[)elled, without any reasom for 1". ... I cannot understand !' Ihe Canon was watching, listening ; hi? inmost heart was lifted for the Onn light, the One strength, the One guidance that Jd come to him. Have you no word for me, Uncle Hugh— no help ?' And as uhilda spoke j'-e laid her white, beseeching hand gently upon amauiaiSffr^mma^^ 80 /N EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ' ■ i' : ' 'i: L 1 1' I'l: ■ Ij In) ! 1 1 i 1 mm m ■ ■:■ ililjl'ii m liiih W i ''''iN-'Li|i liii; m 1 1 'rl'iil ilii his arm. * I am no heroine,' she said. * I want to do right, 1 have not evon self-knowledt^e enough to enable me to know w right. Can't you help me ? . . . I have never needed he much before.' The unintended touch of pathos in her voice moved the C greatly. He turned to Thorhilda with all the warmth of o whom the unrealized idea of fatherhood was inexpressibly dea ' I will help you all I can,' he said soothingly. ' I have blind myself — at least it seems so to me now. And let m( whilst I have opportunity, that I have not done all for you t should Lave done. I could not. I had other claims, hidden the world's sight, for the most part, but binding to the utter Your claim was binding also ; I knew that all the while, realizing it rather bitterly now. And it may be too late ; I ca tell ! And I fear — I fear much that I counted on your making a marriage as would quiet all my care for you, at once and for Therefore you see how it is that I cannot urge you to think favourably of Peicival Meredith than your own inclination n you to do. Under other circumstances I might have pointed c you much that is good in him, and also the possibility of influence heightening the good qualities he already has. As xni stand I cannot do this — not without suspecting myself, indeed, at present I can advise nothing but waiting — pray waiting. . . . Try that, Thorda AQdv—j)rmjer. There is no help for this human world. And when light comej, he true t That is all that I can say. Be true to the light given, where^ may lead !' CHAPTER XXI. THAT WAS THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. • The love which soonest responds to love — even what we call " 1( first-sight " — is the surest love ; and for this reason — that it does not d upon any one merit or quality, but embraces in its view the whole That is the love which is likely to last— incomprehensible, indefinab] arguable-about.' — Sir Arthur Helps: Brevia. There was no one to counsel, to strengthen Barbara Burdas she stood up straight and strong, she stood somewhat apart those who surrounded her more immediately. And it said as 1 for their human insight as for her tact that no one seemed to r her position. If any did a kindly thing for her, the doer certainly that in his or her place Bab would have done as : or more. It is so that many of us accept kindnesses whicu unsupp pride might rise up to reject. We take them as thej'^ are m knowing that our own meaning would have led us to the samt ward expression. ' You shall do this for me if you will, becai your position 1 should have wished to do the same for you.' ': :"v,.i ? A SOUL. * I want to do rif^ht, bir enable me to know wha; live never needed help ^^ )r voice moved the Cat all the warmth of one;! was inexpressibly dear, soothingly. ' I have be ae now. And let me j- lOt done all for you tha: other claims, hidden fr: binding to the utterrac that all the while. T may be too late ; I cam )unted on your making si you, at once and for q\ lot urge you to think m. >ur own inclination mo: [ might have p. minted on- so the possibility of y he already has. As matt THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 8i >ly to ourselves when a false dignity with all its suspiciousness [uld spoil the moment. .11 her life Bab's place among her fellows had been an easy one. [e had been admired without jealousy, commended without bitter- Js, respected without undertone of detraction. Even when her |de, her independence offended, her large kindliness of heart fde quick atonement. "So it was that no one resented the fact that she had been chosen the artist to be the principal figure of his great picture, 'The ^sting-place of the Flither- pickers.' Bab was to be in the fore- mnd, just rising up from a brief rest, her basket of limpets on head, Ailsie clinging by her side, and bearing her little basket- of bait. Hiilf a dozen others were to be seated upon the rocks stones of the mid-distance. [iss Thoyn had heard of the picture, though, as a rule, she ird little of anything concerning the fisher-folk of the Bight, might have known quite as much of their innermost life had lived at York or at Lancaster. It is the stranger who is curious interested where the resident is indifferent and supine. It was on the morrow after that unsatisfactory hour at Ormston ausnecl- cr If ' a-^'^'^S"^. that Miss Theyn went down to Ulvstan to do some shopping i» but w °t'- - ' ^ ftii'Mrs. Godfrey, and to make one or two calls in her aunt's name grayer. light -ig— praye There is no ot he true to (M| some of the more prominent paiishioners. At Mrs. Squire's, ti|k milliner's shop, she had been so unfortunate as to meet her tv, r ui™-"*' ^ u"^ " iiint Katherine, and though this was only for one moment, Mrs. the light given, wherever ||^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^ opportunity of making the moment as bitter aft might be. Thorhilda bore the small unmerited sneers with outward calmness, but with more of inward irritation than she was accustomed to feel — an irritation that added to the things she was abeady bearing. When the morning's work she was done she diflniissed the carnage. ' Wait for me at tlie Cross Roads ' she said to Woodward. ' I shall not be long.' Then turning do^n the iteep street tl-'at led to the beach and to the Forecliff, she half admitted to herself that she was in search of some distraction that hud no name. '^ Where am I going, and why ?' she asked vaguely, not demanding Ig^ answer from herself. It seemed as if the blueness of the l^phire sea alone had power to urge her onward, as if tbo soothing BOHiud of the wavelets falling and breaking upon the beach alone itely. And it said as ni :Qp|,l^l i^pel her to Avatch, to listen, to pause upon the brink of that hat no one seemed to ro- jji^pf ^f life upon which she stood. She seemed to be filled with a ^^ ^A ^^^' A^ ^^^ '' si^iuige hopefulness as she went or ward over the beach, threading would have done as nv.|gj. ^^,^y daintily among the tangle-covered stones on either hand. she went onward, the sea-breezes blowing upon her face, the ill cry of the gulls in her ear, she seemed to lose the tremulous se of the paiufultiess of human life that had held her so strongly if ore. A new warmth grew about her heart, a new peacefulness, ich made all the futui'e seem plain and easy. Mere physical vt-ment beeraed a deli'/htful and pleasant thing. KI. THE T)\Y WE MET. — even what we call " kv eason — that it does not (L i in its view the whole 1-. omprehensible, indefinaljli , ;then Barbara Burdas. ood somewhat apart f: 3nesses whicn unsuppoq s them as they are uiea ave led us to the same o^ r me if you will, becan^e-j o the same for you.' So fsmm BSPS^ Ml ,1 ■'W n I , I ! ilHlllijlii II III ! illllllillilil ill !l lhl:j!|K!|, ; I irii^iiMii : I I' t ! , ' ^ i! lill I i 82 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. Was it the sunshine that inspired her and allured her went slowly by the edge of the wavelets that rounded the spi sea, which was retreating for awhile from the Bight of U moving gracefully, as to »ome rhythm, unheard and unknowi and-by it would advance again to the singing of the na stars, joining its music to theirs, helping to complete the harmony. Thorhilda's mood was quiet and sweet, yet there was yean it ; and the smile that was on her face as she rounded the p( Yarva Ness might certainly have been counted a smile of tancy. She was looking out dreamily, half unconsciously, as sometimes do who walk alone, and then, quite suddenly, she I aware that she was not alone. There was a largo white urr an easel, a wide canvas ; an artist with a big gray felt soi was bending over a palette, over a sheaf of brushes, making touches, as he glanced to vv)iere Barbara Burdas stood, witl Ailsie beside her, among the weed-hung boulders of the Beyond were the tall cliffs, half hidden by the yellow su mist, that made the scene like the coast-line of some dreaml wonderland. Miss Theyn saw none of these details defini she went onward with a smile toward Barbara, who stood tall, beautiful, almost as dignified as Miss Theyn herself, moment she forgot all about the artist, and lifted her cree her head, without dreaming that the slight action was one tc him almost to despair. Yet he stood by with grave fa( courteous attitude, wondering what his next duty might bi was not so free from pertuibation as he seemed. He had for Bab's description, his own anticipation, yet all at once he himself to be possessed by that flash of feeling which arouse of B" when at last we stand in the presence of a long fel ideal. Here at last is the beauty we have tried to grasp in \ here ■ the goodness, here the grace of soul. Being thus pr we fall down and worship, and are at once the better fc worship. Rudel knew when the pilgrims brought from the Ea accounts of the grace, the loveliness, the goodness of the L Tripoli. He lisU iied till he lost himself, lost huuself utt the hope to find another. But the story of the troubadour been told already it may not be repeated here. Browning' poem contains the essence of the drama, its most vital meaning. The man heard and loved, loved so intcD^ely tha the moment came when sight was to be vouchsafed to h strength was not suHicient for the ordeal ; it had been con by thon<rht, lit by a supreme imagination. He fell at the the woman whom he had loved unseen, and he died there since men have sneered at his name, or have grown sad< hearing it. A few tnen. a few t len, have understood. Damian Aldenmede had not the poem in remembrance moment when he turned to meet the dithdeut, almost timid )R A SOUL. her and allured her ? a that rounrlcd the sparkll from the Bight of Ulvstf unheard and unknown. he singing of the morrJ ing to complete the cosij et, yet there was yearnin as she rounded the point n counted a smile of ex half unconsciously, as peo| , quite suddenly, she bef! was a large white uml ith a big gray felt sombr* af of brushes, making ra| ,ra Burdas stood, with lit* ung boulders of the Bi len by the yellow sunsli; it-line of some dreamland' >f these details definitely d Barbara, who stood th^ ^liss Theyn herself. F^ =;t, and lifted her creel fr; ight action was one to mi )d by with grave face aj s next duty might be. e seemed. He had forgotti n, yet all at once he kn: feeling which arouses mi resence of a long felt-af' ^ve tried to grasp in visioi soul. Being thus prepa: at once the better for t:' rought from the East he goodness of the Ladyl iself, lost hiiiiself utterlyl ry of the troubadour havii ed here. Browning's brJ ama, its most vital him| oved so intensely that wlij be vouchsafed to him leal ; it had been conMini| ion. He fell at the feetj n, and he died there. E^ i, or have grown sadder have understood. -etn in remembrance at littident, almost timid glaij THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 83 he lady of whom he had h^ard so much. Bab, in her own mal yet unembarrassed way, was introducing this new Lady of oli or of Ulvstan. What's in a name ? The iliidul of the hour holding his brushes and palette in one hand, raising his gray hat with the other, lifting a grave, unsmiling, austere face, far-seeing eyes, that seemed so full of sadness, of some old lessness, that Miss Tlieyn's one impression was that of a man ainted with sorrow, and with little beside. Later she knew , and judged far otherwise, e was the first to speak, fear I have interrupted you,' she said, in sweet, musical, yet unaffected tones. ' I ought not to have stopped, but I could y help it.' she ended her speech she glanced first at the canvas, then at with undisguised admiration. Bab was listening to her, ering how her words, her voice, her grace, her beauty would e this most perceptive artist, who was now disclaiming all idea eing interrupted. "t is good to have a brief rest sometimes,' he w:is saying. ' And proud that my picture tempted you to stay and look at it. I wish that it had been in a more attractive stage.' me it is very attractive,' Miss Theyn replied eagerly. ' I not seen an unfinished picture half a dozen times in my life. 1 find great charm about a canvas only half -covered.' you paint yourself ?' ^o, I regret to say. I learnt to draw, as people do learn for m drawing is classed with crewel work. My governess taught 1 did a drawing every month, the usual chalk trees, the usual k figures, with the usual river impeded by large stones. The variation was in the ruins, sometimes it was a ruined castle, etimes a church, sometimes a mill. There was a trick of touch each .' nd you learnt the receipt by heart ?' learnt it thoroughly. When I had done so I laid down my e-e. 'yon for ever.' nirely not ? ... It is not too late to make up for lost time.' i'b, who was listening closely, and with intense interest, was aware of the quiet smile that was creeping unnoticed over her face. s he always wantin' to learn somebody something V she asked elf. And truth to say she had hit rather cleverly upon one of singularities of his character. It was not that he liked teaching iself, nay, it would hardly be too much to say that he hated it ; the pleasure of knowing that he had satisfied another's craving knowledge, or even for mere information, was one of the most ^sfactory pleasures remaining to him in life. 'ot that he was dreaming of offering lessons in drawing tj Miss yn ; nor had Thorhilda's vision progressed so far as yet. Still was silent for a moment ; and during that moment she was 6—2 .W^tmKmmmimmmmMf--i H IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. thinking of the possibility of takin'^' up an art that would require time, labour and earnest thought. Then her future, as it had been placed before her only yesterday, rose up all at once, making her feel as one awakiug from a pi ant dream to the dull and chill reality of daily life. The smile seemed to die from her lips and from her eyes. Damian Ald(;nmede, watching her closely, eagerly, taw, and , . . grievously misunderstood. * She thinks I am presuming — this dainty lady. ... I will be mindful ! . . . She shall think so no more !' Thorhilda replied at last -speaking in quite another tone. *Iam afraid it is too late,' she said, watching the artist as he began to rearrange his brushes, to replenish his paletto from the tubes. She discerned the change in him, the increase of gravity, the power of self-effacement ; and above all she saw the loneliness, the true heart-loneliness that has outworn all waiting, all searching, all hoping. Seeing that he was wi<hful to begin his work again, she said a few more words to Bab, gave a smile and a kiss to Ailsie, and turned to go. There was no embarrassment visible in her manner as she bowed to the artist, saying gracefully, but not without an undertone of sadness : ' Good-morning, Mr. Aldenraede. Thank you much for letting me see your picture. I am sure it will bt a very beautiful one.' ' Will he ask me to come and see it when it is done ?' was the question in her own heart. * Shall I say that I shall be glad if she will come and see it many times before the finishing touch is given ?' was the question asked on the other side. Neither interrogation was uttered aloud, though perhaps the inward thought did not stray so very wildly. Miss Theyn went back over the beach alone, perhaps sadder than before, and with a strange and utterly unaccountable sadness. Yet she felt as if all at once a new restf ulness had overshadowed her. ' How quiet he makes one feel !' she said to herself, speaking as she might have spoken of one whom she had known for years. ' Is it the strength in him .•* che goodness ? I am sure he is good ; and I am sure that he is strong. . . . There is nothing frivolous there ! nothing selfish, nothing idle, nothing that could even tolerate luxuriousness.' . . . Then there was a pause — a graver moment. ' And there is nothing that could savour for one second of secrecy, of duplicity. If he is resei'ved, it is with the reserve of one who would hide from the world's eyes a sorrow that the world could never understand. ... If I had a trouble, I could tell it to him ; he would comprehend, he would alleviate it somehow. ... I wish, I wish he had not been. — what he is !' Even in thought Miss Theyn could not put any words to her vague ideas of this stranger's poverty ; she shrank from her own notion, and felt curiously perplexed. That one who had a more true distinction of mannei. a more perfect grace of address, a finer THE DA Y WE LOVED, THE DA Y WE MET, 85 reticepce in speech and demeanour than she had ever seen before — that such a one should be lodginpf at Mrs. Fcatherstone's, a small, tidy cottage at the back of the Foncliff ; that he should seem to 1)0 dependent upon his brush ; that he should have come into the I neighbourhood of the east of North Yorkshire without credentials of any kind, was assuredly bewildering. Yet Miss Theyn's utmost vision did not pass beyond his own presentment of himself. 'Yet I wish— I wish he had been different,' she repeated half audibly. ' I know no one whom I should be so glad to have as a friend. All my life I shall think of him as the one man between whom and myself there might have been a perfect friendship.' Meanwhile the artist had resumed his painting with redoubled [vigour — working rapidly, silently, eagerly ; and Bab t^aw by the compression about bis mouth that he was in no mood for conver- jsation. It was not till he had flung down his brushes and palette laud patted Ailsie on the cheek, with thank'^ ir being so still, giving I her a bright new florin for her very own, ti. Bab dared to speak. There was a touch of humour in her blue eyes when she raised Ithem. Noo— did Ah tell ya wrong ?' she asked, speaking gently and [smiling softly. ' Did Ah saiiy a word overmuch ? Have ya ever in |yer whole life seen a lady half ^o beautiful ?' Aldenmede did not reply for a moment. Then, laying his hand Igently on little Ailsie's shoulder, and turning to Bab with his [kindliest voice and accent, he said, using much emphasis : Don't misunderstand me, Barbara— indeed, I feel sure that you [will not ! . . . But how shall I say it ? how shall I express what I (am thinking — that it will be better that . . . better if you do not |speak to me of Miss Theyn any more.' Bab's only answer was a quick, curious, wondering look. As she Iwent homeward, she smiled to herself, saying : * He'll speak of her to me afore I'll speak of her to him ! But le'U do that, an' afore long, or my naiime's noan Barbara Burdas.' CHAPTER XXII. IN YARVA WYKE. * And we entreat Thee, that all men whom Thou Hast gifted with great minds may love Tliee well, And praise Thee for their powers, and use them most Humbly and holily, and, lever-hke, Act but in lifting up the mass of mind About them. ' P. J. Bailey : Festus. .'HE summer was passing on— a bright beautiful summer it was, [with now and then a summer storm by way of variation, tossing ip the white waves into Ulvstau Bight, scattering the herring-fleet lorth and south ; now and then a sea-fret, chilling yet stifling, 86 IN EXCHANGI. FOR A SOUL. • m .m: I ! ■"v ■ |i^ !1 i ■ i defraudinf^ the sight as witli a tomporary ]>lindnoss. Yet th in the dr.itna of life, as life was displayod on tho stage of 1 Bight, went on playing their parts ;ill the same, apparently I of storm or shine. Somti were boaiiiig patiently, snlforing s some now and then flew ont into mad street brawls, sn ifterward to hide their misery, cowering by fires of shi svood, seeming to cease from emotion altogether, and only t in a dumb bnite-liko way to tho mere fact of existence. Canon Godfrey, going in and out amongst them, was t ifresh each day by tlio endurance he saw. Misery was ace natural thing, as natural as labour or pain ; and oft ho ma r,o see how such as were suffering most seemed best to contrast that was daily increasing bef<n'e thtjir eyes. It was in tho early autumn that the richer people Ulvstan, the people who brought their ovn carriages, thei man-servants and maid-servants. The resources of the neig hood were taxed to provide for their wants, or what were c as wants ; the little shops grew quite enterprising in their e the scene on the bench grew daily more and more gay. Lac horseback came gallcping up and down by the rippling tit valids in chairs and carriages were drawn to and fro more s little browu-holland children with pails and spades went pa in and out of pools and sand-castles ; crimson parasols bui the yellow sunghine ; pink dresses and blue, white dresses ai went flitting about among the batliing-raachines ; and the folk looked on, and wondered, and did little kindnesses whi opportunity came in their way with a curious and not unbe? acceptance of the inevitable. * Good God ! that one can bear to see it all, and to think the Canon said to himself one morning, as he walked with hi in search of Thorhilda, who had gone toward the Forecliff basket of flowers for Barbara Burdas, and had not returned place where they had expected her. She had meant to leave them at the Sagged House ; but si found the door locked ; and Nan Tyas, passing by at the m( had stopped to say : ' Is it Bab ya're wantin' ? She's noan i' the boose ; she i is at this time o' daay.' There was a pertness in Nan's manner, as she leaned ov gate and lifted her bold black eyes, that aroused within the E niece a ouch of something that was almost indignation. ' Thank you !' Miss Theyn replied. * Perhaps you know w may find her ?' * Perhaps !' Nan admitted, evidently resenting the mom haughtiness her own manner had awakened. ' Perhaps A Ah'm noan boun' te saay, sa far as I understand the law land !' Thorhilda's first impulse was to pass onward, without so m a civil word of departure ; but she had force enough to r ? A SOUL. IN VARl'A irvKi:. 87 J it all, and to think of ij as he walked with his )vj toward the Forecliff wit nd had not returned to iin i' the hoose ; she seld(j ler, as she leaned over aroused within the Rectcj lost indignation. Perhaps you know wher )nward, without so muchj d force enough to reco( ?lf. Turning to Xati, who slill stood Avlth her elbow upon the -post ami an unplua^^aut Huiile upon her lip, slio s:iid (iiit-tly, [with dit,'nity : [as it Fo happened tli;it I have ofTtiidod you in soini' way? e I hceii so unfortunate as to displease you, to cross your will [iSh in any direction ? Pardon my questions ; but you seem to as if yon had some reason for wisliiiij^ not to oblige rao.' m stared for a moment into the pale, gentle, yet resolute face re her. The kindly e::pression answering her own insolent one [puzzling. Nan could not resent it. Ji do/int know as you're ever vexed me,' she said, jiverting her slightly, partly in embarrassment, partly in shame. ' But if lun tell the truth, you're near anull' akin to them 'at hes.' iss Tli(;yn began to understand ; and in spite of eltort after L'ontrol the undeistanding bronghta flush of pain to tier cheek, am not quite sure that I know what you mean,' she replied, :ing in changed tones, yet still with a kindly and wituiing tesy. ' You wih know that I cannot speak to you of — of rs. . . . If you cannot tell me where Barbara is, I will say )d-morning." ' od-niorning,' Nan retorted, lifting herself from the gate-post [moving away. But she turned again quickly, Miss Theyn's and tone constraining her. * Ah meant noii otVence,' she said, nebbe Ah'd better gie ya a woid o' warnin'. They mean mis- I — some o' Dave's mates. . . . But, there, Ah can saay no more.' tay a moment !' ^liss Tlieyu entreated. ' Mischief, yuu say ? rhom ? Not to Barbara— surely not to her ?' fo Bab? Noii, niver ! They'll noiin harm her! But there's rs— there's one ya know, not so far away by kin. Give him a If he's not a fool, hell take it.' |ou are meaning my brother V |h niver naiimed no naiimes,' Nan I'eplied, half tremulously, fain turning to depart. ' It's well auuff known i' the Bight ive's heart's been set upon her for years past ; an' there's uo;iu ?hat thinks she'd ha' given in sooner or later if nobody else tome between. An' they know how it is ! They can see that art's just breakin' ; and hers is noiin so much at rest. They Be it all ; an' they've said . . . But, oh me ! What am Ah I? They'd murder me — toss me over the cliff-edge as soon as it me if they knew Ah'd betrayed 'em ! Eh, me, I is a fool ! Jut you'll noiin let on, IMiss Thoyn ?' in you not trust me ?' Thoihilda asked, her face alight with ule, with sympathy, with kindness, kust you ? Ay, to the death ! But let ma go noo. Ah darn't )o longer.' Theyn was left standing there by llie steps of the Sagged J, perple.xed, wondering, irresolute. Then all at once her mind lade up. She would lind Barbara first, and then go on at once rlaff. Doubtless the fisher-girl would be on the Scaur some- ^1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) 1.0 »r ilM 112 I.I 1^ I— 2.2 IM 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 ■• 6" ► V] <p /i c^. <$> p% 0^ c»i^ .*; /: y .^ Photographic Sciences Corporation ^ ^ ^ \ <v ^^ ^\ V l^^'^O^ 'o- ^ >^/i. ^' ^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 11 %^ 88 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. where— in all probability at the point boyond Yarva Neas where the artist was at work upon his picture. Miss Theyn could see the white umbrella gleaming even from the Forecliff ; and at once she began to -make her way thither, though not without some reluctance — a reluctance she herself could hardly understand. She had not seen the artist since that day when Bab had, in her own simple and unembarrassed way, introduced him to her. More than once her uncle had seen him at church, and subsequently had called upon him at his lodging ; and unfortunately the call had been returned one afternoon when the whole of the Bectoiy party had gone to Danesborough. Naturally, a stranger of such distinguished presence and bearing had been discussed at the house on the hill at Yarbnrgh. ' We must see him somehow ' Mrs. Godfrey had said one even- ing, not thinking how and where they were to meet. It was Barbara who was the first to discern Miss Theyn's approach. She was standing in the usual position some two or three yards away from the artist, her creel on her head, little Ailsie by her side. Mr. Aldenmede saw by the sudden change on her face that some one was coming — some one in whom his model was interested. ' • Who is it ?' he said, smiling. * Miss Theyn f Bab looked at him, and only the word ' roguish ' could perfectly describe the meaning of her glance. 'Ah thought that were a name 'at had been forbidden to be said/ she remarked, her expression saving her speech from all toach of temper. The artist looked up with quick appreciation. There was no time for words. Miss Theyn's step was upon the gravel behind him. He rose and bowed. Bab saw his colour change, and the carnation that was on Miss Theyn's face deepened to an almost painful degree. The words of greeting were curiously confused. Thorhilda offered the basket of flowers to Barbara — rich and rare roses, heliotrope, stephanotis, sweet verbena, half buried in daintiest ferns. Bab took them with an emotion that betrayed to each of the on-lookers that her soul's sensitiveness to beauty was not to be measured by any of the outward circumstances of her life. She turned away, silent, tremulous, to hide the basket from the sun within the cave close at hand. Miss Thevn was looking at the picture ; Damian Aldenmede was explaining his further intention concerning it ; while little Ailsie was resting on his campstool, her small hand clasped in his. The artist knew himself to have already a singular affection for this tiny child of seven, and that she responded to it helped to fill the lonely days with a quite new and felicitous warmth. He was glad that she was there while Miss Theyn was speaking. * Have you not been working very hard ?' she asked, looking at bis canvas, upon which the figures were growing — coming to a fuller I life, a finer beauty, a truer human expreesiyeness. Her question { IN YARVA WYKE. Fouuded common-place ; her well-meant grain the veriest chaff ; yet no other word would come. The artist smiled in answer. Then he said : ' That is true in one sense, yet one never counts the work hard that is done con aniore. The hardness would be in being deprived of the opportunity of working. I do not think that in the intel- lectual life of man there can be a greater trial than to know that you have something to say or do, and to learn by sad and sore experience that the opportunity of uttering your word or doing your deed is to be for ever denied you.' Then the man's voice changed, faltered a little as he continued : * If there be a true taking up of a bitter cross it is known to the man who must do some lower work while his whole soul is drawn to live and to toil on greater heights. And it iz a trial that not one human being in a thousand can comprehend ; therefore the man who suffers it can have no sympathy, hope for none. In the beginning he yearns for it, throwing out feelers here and there, as if searching after response, comprehension ; but by-and-by, borne down by sheer dis- appointment, he ceases to expect these things, and schools himself to a life of silent uncomprehended negation, knowing that he does this to his own loss, perhaps to the world's loss also. Everything has its price.' Had the man forgotten himself? All at once he seemed to wake up. ' I beg your pardon 1' he said emphatically. ' I fear I was not thinking !' But he saw that Miss Theyn was thinking as she stood there silent, impressed, beside his picture, looking into it with quite new vision. Bab was coming back from the cool cave where she had left her flowers, something glittering among the petals that was not the morning dew. She was by Ailsie's side again, the little one was lifting her disengaged hand to Bab, Miss Theyn was smiling at the evidence of affection that was between the two, when all at once everybody became aware of a figure, leaping, sliding, gliding, making for himself a pathway down the pathless cliff but just beyond Yarva Ness. Involuntarily the artist was drawn to look at Miss Theyn. She was pallid, trembling, distressed. ' It is Hartas, my brother, ' she said ; then she turned aside. If some madness were moving him to self-destruction she would not look on while the deed was being done. *•! Hi; ■; 'i CHAPTER XXIIL CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. ' For worse than being fool'd Of others, is to fool one's self.' Tennyson : Oareth and Lyn«tt0. I It seemed like a miracle that Hartas Theyn should make that perilous descent, and yet touch the beach unhurt. Tborhilda, tern- ^% .,..] 1 :! iihi'ri'i; IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ing to meet him, siiw that he was white and rigid to the very lij:. He looked I iiner than he had looked before ; and liis diirk eyts as he lookod from one to another of the little ^'loiip before him, seemed alight with new and strange fires. So impressive his in; expected presence was that no one spoke for a moment. At la<! Thorhilda broke the silence : ' This is my brother, lAv. Aldenmede,' she said, making a grc;i; effort after Helf -command. Then, turning to Hartas, she exclaimed •How could you do such a thing as that ? How could you ? . It seemed impossible that you should ever reach the foot of ih cliff alive !' 'There's mor than one here that would have been glad anuff i: I never had ret led it alive !' he replied with ill-controlled emotionS * But I didn't come down here to talk about myself.' he went on glancing hurriedly, nervously,^ to where Bab stood, inwardly per turbed with strange apprehensions, withuncoirprehendfJ yearning yet outwardly calm, alrao-t dignified. 'I didn't come for tlm . Hartas was saying. 'I had another erran' — an erran' I'm m ashamed of !' Then he paused for want of power to continue, rather than fo want of words, and Damian Aldenmede, seeing this, came forwan with intentions of the kindest. ' Have yon known anyone to make that descent before ?' h asked, speaking as of a mere question of Alpine climbing, or ratiie descending. 'Pardon me for saying it. but I think you risked w much. A he alum shale hereabout is like soap— quite as slipp. ij quite as much to be distrusted for climbing puiposes.' ' There's things as is more slippery, more to be distrusted thai the alum-shale,' returned the young man, still pallid, still tremulous No woman with a woman's heart could have failed of pity or o sympathy ; and two women, not of the hardest natures, werebcssid him there. And Damian Aldenmede was watching them, seeing on the on face — the face he had turned to note first — a white, perturbs pathetic sadness ; on the other a burning and increasing sense o pain and anxiety, almost of fear ; and yet it was easy to see thati was the fear that is waiting to be cast out by love. He could no but understand, at least up to a certain point ; yet he knew tlu there was much behind that he could not see. Half unknown to himself he was looking at this matter wholl through the eyes of another. However admirable Barbara Burda might be as a woman of ' the masses,' strong to labour, yet wit innate ideas of gentle living ; having for duty's sake to give he life, her youth, her best energies to earning the bread of others a well as her own, yet cherishing a certain consciousness of the fac that man does not live by bread alone ; content to spend the best o each day in toil that might even be considered disgusting ; expose to every element of an unkindly and hardening clime, yet indulgio ceaseless yearnings after knowledge, after light, after good — yean CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW, 9' Ingfl that had to be kept in the straitest silence — however great, ilinost noble, all this in its wfty might be, Barbara was yet no fitting pister for the refined and cultured lady standing beside her now, laking a contrast as complete as humanity could show. All this and much more the artist saw ; and in that moment it Beemed to him that the truest kindness to Bab herself would be to endeavour to deliver her from the thaldom of the love into which Bhe had so unwittingly fallen. He could see no happiness for her in any future that should include a union with this evidently hot- learted, and perhaps more or less shallow-headed young man. All unaware bis mind was made up, and this with a swiftness, a rant of deliberation almost unprecedented in his mental history, jater, he wondered over that hour by the sea at Ulvstan. Not many seconds had passed since Hartas spoke. The young lan was standing there, breathing quickly, glancing irately from )ne to another. As his glance fell upon Aldenmede the latter ipoke: ' You were mentioning some errand, I think — some motive ?' he legan inquiringly, and in placid, respectful tones — the respect a nan of good breeding instinctively displays to a stranger, however Inferior that stranger may be to himself. All unknowingly poor Lartas was moved to a less antagonistic attitude for the moment. Tes ; I did speak of an erran',' he said, his brown face coming to its natural brownness, with something over. * I didn't risk my leck for nothing !' * Naturally,' Aldenmede replied with unaffected gravity. He lad seen that Miss Theyn was looking toward him pleadingly ; thcit Bab's face was averted somewhat distressfully. ' Naturally fou did not, and your motive must hate been a tolerably strong jne ; and though I, perhaps, may have nothing to do with it ' I reckon you've more to do with it than you may be willin' to idmit !' Hartas broke in angrily : ' an' if I were in your place I'd "lake no pretence o' not knowing. With a sudden gesture of impatience Bab turned herself towards ^he little group ; a light flashed to her eyes — the light of remem- irance. She had not seen the Squire's son except in the distance ^ince that unhappy evening, when he had hurt her woman's scn&e )f dignity by his too fervid and too hasty behaviour. For the loment his boldness, his rudeness, his roughness had caused a some- thing that was almost revulsion in her heart. But naturally it was [>nlv, so to speak, for the moment, and it had been succeeded by a ithetic yearning for what she thought of in her own mind as a peace-making, or at any rate some understanding that should tend a feeling of peace ; and yet all the while she had precluded the bossibility of any such opportunity happening to him ; and this, [hough she knew that his yearning was at least as intense as her >wn. So it is ever with this ' Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood. m '.%' il. il 1 1 iJlT ' 'i IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, That blashes one way, feels another way, And praya, perhaps, another.'* And DOW again he was paining her, awakening within hei mi^^gled sense of anger and heartache. Had she been alone w: him, she had not shrunk from putting her pain into words, but it was she could only restrain herself. Arresting the word tl was on her lips, she tnmed away ; but the artist had seen, and b in a measure understood. There was yet no anger in Damian Aldenmede's heart ; nothi bnt that large and generous pity. ' I am sorry if I have given you any cause of offence,' he sa speaking calmly. ' May I add that I have done so quite ancc ■oiously ?' ' All the same, yon know what I mean ?' asked Hartas. 'I fear I am beginning to suspect.' ^I'll put it into words for you,' said Barbara, coming forward a speaking tremulously. ' I'll help ya both if I can, since it seems be me 'at's at the bottom o' the trouble. . . . Here's you ' (turning the artist), ' a stranger to the place, good an' kind-hearted^ an' a1 to see when a woman's heart's aching for the need of help, of und standin', able to «ee, an' more nor that, willin' to give the help knows to be needed ; willin' to give time, an' trouble, an' pains tr;^ to make that woman's life i' the present, and i' the future, set brighter, an' pleasanter ; better worth the livin' ; willin' to g her, not only a word of encouragement, but to put the words ii deeds ; to come an' sit by the hour at a time in a little smoky fish man'R cottage, wi' the smell o' the oilskins,- an' the salt fish, and herrin's all about, an' never by no svord nor sign to show no ( gust, not for a moment ; an' all this for the sake o' giving an hoi farnin' to one as had never had noan afore ; but had gone on cra^ for help i' such things as a dumb beast out i' the cold might cr for the shelter it couldn't even pictnr' to itself. . . . There I thi what you might say for yourself, if ya would. . . . An' as for y (turning to Hartas Theyn, who stood near, with an air of une suUenness), ' as for you, it's more difficult to say. You've thou to stoop down, to — to. . . .' What ailed Barbara ? What could ail a woman, young, strc ignorant of nerves, of fainting, of hysteria ? She had stop suddenly ; her breathing was coming and going rapidly, painf u her whole frame seeirod to be heaving with a sudden violence, it was evident that no more words were possible to her. In tn to describe Hartas Tbeyn's position, had she attempted a beyond her power ; or was it merely that the emotion of moment was too great to be borne ? No one had time to think. Before Thorhilda could even attempt to comfort or soothe girl, she perceived that two figures were rounding Tarva Ness ; * Mrs. Browning : Aurora Leigh. CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 95 mede'8 heart •, nothing th a suaueu tiw.^.---, - ossible to her. In tryw id she attempted a taj that the emotion of w >fit at the Hame moment Barbara herself saw them. The Canon helping Mrs. Godfrey over the slippery stones. Tborhilda eagerly to meet them, with teai-ful face and outstretohed 18. Here, at any rate, was strength and guidance. Jome !' she exclaimed. ' Come and make peace, Uncle Hngh I is here— he came dashing right down the face of the olifl \e it is steepest — he had seen Mr. Aldenmede sketching, and taken some wrong notions into his head. Barbara Burdas waa telling him how wrong they were. Do come and pat things , I' was very unnsual to see Thorhilda so much excited, and her iment caused the Canon to wonder how much the strength of >rdinary woman might be exhibited in her power to keep at I an outward show of calmness. Mrs. Godfrey, whose notions of propriety were, in a certain Y rather rigid, it was somewhat annoying to have to be in- peed to this stranger, of whom she had heard so much, under circumstances as these. Nevertheless she smiled sweetly, and hands graciously, and did her best to hide her annoyance. she turned to Bab and Hartas, as she might have turned to ither troublesome children in the Sunday-school, the beautiful still on her lip, a general expression of wondering amiability face, [hat is it all about, Hartas ?' she asked ; and anyone who had Mrs. Godfrey well might, for all her amiable look, have a certain undertone of vexation. ' What is it ? Ah ! how you would take my advice and leave Garlaff for awhile ! It irise for a young man to remain always at home, unwise to limself no chance of widening his mind, enlarging his ex- kce, expanding bis thoughts by contact with the thoughts ana ^ns of others. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Aldenmede ?' ced, turning quickly ; but the artist was talking to her husband, ^as listening to Thorhilda's pained regrets, le background, under the cliffs, half a dozen fishermen were 1g the beach, David Andoe among them, suddenly silenced [middle of a story he had been repeating. He had recc^nised rom afar ; he had seen that Hartas Theyn was one of the and now he was passing on, saddened, depressed with a sion that did not escape the notice of his mates. And for singularity they counted him to have, David was yet a ite among them : and a whispered word was flashed along ^le line of men like the lightning that goes before a stoim. inderatood, or believed that they did, and the new under- pg added to the old determination ; but the threat that Nan ird was not repeated in David Andoe's hearing, le of the little group near the easel was dreaming of any 11 Mrs. Godfrey, as usual, equal to every occasion, was asKiug lenmede to dine at the Rectory on the following eveuing ceremony. The Canon was talking to Hartas, sa'3Qteiing "k % . 11 m M IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. on orer the beaoh with him, drawing slowljr from the yonth a oob.1 f««ion of a twofold jealouiiy, and therefore in all probability oaQa*i| less on either hand. If Barbara were caring for David Andoe, ■btl oonld certainly not be yielding to any fancy or feeling that might| oome of intercourse witn snch a man as Damian Aldenmede. 'Ton perplex me altogether,' the Canon said half sadly, an trying to keep back all reproach from his tone. ' I can understan beliere me, I can understand more than yon think of ^onr am affection for Barbara Bardas ; bat it seems to me that if yoa tm]]| eared for her, you would not run the risk of alienating her for ete by soch displays of small jealousy as this 1 There is nothing sma' aboat Barlmra. She will hardly endure behaviour of this kind] and I confess that you sarprise me by apparently endeavouring \ see how much she will bear. . . . Tet don't mistake me I I donl mean to be hard or unsympathetic ; and I am sorry to see yo ■uffering like this. But believe a man nearly twenty years oldd than yourself, and fifty years more experienced in the world's wayij believe me, when I say that you are not going the right way i work to win a large-hearted woman like Barbara Burdas. You i doing your utmost to repel her best and highest feeling. Perhaij I ought to be glad of this ; but I cannot, quite honestly, say tb lam.' ' Why not ?' Hartas asked cnrtly, and with aa evident dispositi^ toward incredulousness. * Why ? . . . Well, shall I tell you the truth ? Perhaps I better ! I am not glad, because I think I perceive that Barbara 1 ■ome affection for you. If she have, it may save you ! . . . The you have all my reason !' Slowly, half unwillingly, and with a whole shyness, Hartas dr his clumsy brown hand from his pocket, and offered it to Canon's grasp. ' I thank you for sayin' that,' the Squire's son replied. ' An trust you — that's more nor I can say for the most o' folks. . I Tea, 1 trust you. . . . An' if I can help it, I'll go against youl more. I'll be different from to-day, if I can. I'd like to[ different. I've wished it a good bit. Thorhilda told you mel (How strange it was that it should jar upon the Canon to hearl niece's Christian name used familiarly by her own brother.) ' Sli tell you 'at I'd been tryin' to make a change. But lately slipped back, an' I've been aware of it ; but I couldn't help it, I so troubled ; bavin' no sort of hope nowhere. . . . But since y( told me thaty I'll begin again. . . . I'U begin at once ! I can't | no more !' *I am glad you've said so much,' the Canon replied, witb| extreme quietude of voice and manner. ' And I am sure you i it. I won't say any more now — only this : if you want help, I of any kind that I can give, will you come to me ? Ill make tb M easy for you as I can. . . . Promise me that you will comej * Ay, I'U promise that,' Hartas said, in tones that made • THE HELP OF ONE WE HA VE HELPED: 9f Oodf rey look op with an unintended qnioknen ; he nw at onoe that tbe young fellow's eyes were saspioioasly bright, as with tears held back by very force. It was Hartas who delivered that last silent moment from itf awkwardness. 'Oood-day,' he said suddenly, amin holding out his hand ; ' I'll go back to Oarlaff by way o' the Howes. Irs none so far round I from hereabouts.' The Canon watched him a little as he went onward, sending after I him a yearning look, a sigh, a prayer. ' There's plenty of good in the lad yet,' he said to himself, i^ing I back to the Ness. * May God defend him from the powers of ill f I'M CHAPTER XXIV. •sweet the help op one we hate helped.' ' Some men are nobly rich, som* nobly poor, Some the reverse. Rank makes no diifft;reuce.' P. J. Bailey : Fettu$. )amian Aldenmede had accepted the invitation of the Oodfroys dine at tbe Rectory. ' Come up to-morrow evening, if yon can,' Mrs. Oodf rey had said. ' There will only be ourselves, and perbap Mr. Egerton ;' and the Danon bad warmly seconded tbe invitation ; adding, in his usuid outspoken and simply cordial way : ' One does not too often, in a small place like Tarburgh, have the ^hance of a chat with congenially-minded people. I hope you aro emaining some time ?' It will depend upon my work,' the artist had said ; and to rhorhilda's balf-unconscious regret, the reply confirmed her im- kreKsion of bis dependence upon bis own effort. She could not help tbe sigh that came ; but she might, by meana ' strong effort, have resisted tbe making of comparisons that should }t have been made, with that tendency to concession growing lily in her heart which Percival Meredith was daily expecting ; [ways waiting for it with a finely diplomatic patience. There lould be no haste ; and, until fhe right moment came, no moro ressore. Owing to the seclusion in which he lived, Damian Aldenmede had Bard nothing of Miss Theyn's supposed engagement ; though |rerywhere the matter was now spuken of as iif no doubt exist^. le artist was not a man to whom people could gossip ; even hia idlady was learning this, somewhat to her perplexity. I All day — that ia. all bis working day — he bad been painting ia trva Wyke. Bab and Ailsie had been sitting to him for H&ont hoar ; but Bab's mind Lad been too full of a recent event to krmit of her being quite so perfect a model as she usually was. ^Tbe story was soon told. In the night a sorew-steamer had eat 'm 9^ IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ber way thront^h the herring-nete> belonging to the Star of tht North Thei-' had been lightfi on board the fishing-boat ; every reasonable and usual precaution had been attended to, yet disaster had overtaken the poor fishermen in the hour of their midnight toil * It means many a bright pound to us/ Bab admitted, when at last the artist'H evident sympathy unloosed her tongue ; though even then she regretted the confession ; and added, ' of course, we share it among us. There's five if us— we'll get over it somehow.' The artist hesitated a while, trying first to find the exact thought he wanted, then the word. It was not easy to find the latter on the spar of the moment. By way of temporising, he said, ' Is the name of the steamer known ?* ' Tes, they saw it on her stern fair enough as she sheered o£P. She was the Oiiana, of Cardiff.' 'And can no redress be had — I mean, cannot an action be brought to compel the owners of the vessel to pay at least something toward the damage done to the nets ? Bab langhed, a sad. sarcastic, understanding little laugh. ' It is little you know,' she replied, not meaning to be unflattering. ' Why there's never a week i' the herring season but somebody s nets 18 cut all to bits. An' where d'ya think fisher-folks 'ud get the money to go to law, wi' the lawyers all on the side o' the rich owners ? It 'ud cost more to pay the law bills than you conld get new nets for. No, we never think o' seekin' justice. The law isn't for such as ns ; an' the owners an' captains o' them screw-steamers know it. They'd be more careful if they'd any fear.' Again the artist was silent for a moment. Presently, speaking with a grave considerateness, he said : ' It seems to me then that there is only one earthly hope for you — the help of friends. For instance, since you have helped me so much — you and Ailsie, given me such help that iA all probability my picture will be hung in the Grosvenor Gallery — that is a place in London where many beautiful pictures are hung, and sometimes sold— since you have given me this help, ^hy should I not help yon ? Why should I not provide your grandfather's boat, or rather the one he nas a share in, with new nets? ... I should like to do it ! Will you allow me ?' Barbara's face as she listened was certainly a study ; and one worthy of any portrait- painter's best attention. The sadness that was half-amusement, the wonder that was half-pity, would have taxed any ordinary talent to the uttermost. * You 11 buy new nets for the Star o' the North V she said, with an inquiring note in her accent not quite free from something that was almost derision. ' What d'ya suppose they'd cost ? Ninepence a- piece, mebbe ? or it ma be you d think of hevin' to go as far as eighteenpence ! Eh, m ! 'W^'y,a rew8''tcfiTnpl"te'ud nei^ercostfar $hort of a hundred pounds I Think o' that ! An' you to talk o' Uar of thi ,at; every ^et disaster r midnight ,d, when at ,e; though course, we t somehow.' ;act thought latter on the the steamer sheered off. n be brought thing toward ,ugh. . I unflattering, it somebody 8 ks 'ud get the le o' the rich ton could get The law isn't jrew-steamers lily, speaking hope for you helped me so ,11 probability that is a tjlace ,nd sometimes Id I not help ooat, or rather ,uld like to do idy ; aud o^® sadness that would have le said, with an Ithing that was 1 Ninepencea- Vo go at* far as Id never cost far pou to talk o « r//E HELP O'F ONE WE HAVE HELPED* 97 giving 'em, as one 'ud give a tramp 'at iiHked for a light for his piptt a farden box o' matciies ! Eh, but you raun know little o' the valley o' money if that's bow you tliink un it ! New nets for a fishin' coble I It fair stuns one to hoar ya talk !' The artist had listened quite gravely, subdued his amusement to interest quite successfully. *■ A hundred pounds, did you say ?' • Ay ! That's what I said ! . . . Anyhow, buyin' the nets at the very cheapest we'll never get 'em for no leas nor ninety.' ' That is a large sum, relatively,' the artist replied. ... * But — I do not tell you this by way of boasting ; quite the reverse—last year I sold a picture for about the same price. It was one that I had painted in a very short time, and happening to have no need of the money, I have not touched it. I han reasons for wishing not to put it to any of the ordinary uses of life. For one thing, it was the first picture I had ever sold ; for another ' (and here the artist hesitated, and seemed embarrassed), ' for another reason, something had passed between the buyer of the picture and myself long ago, very long ago, that made me wish to put the money aside for some especial purpose, some emergency happening to some life— not my own. It seems to me that this emergency is now before me. I could buy the nets ; and so far from missing the money, I should feel that I had, at last, freed myself from a trust.' The look of wonder, of perplexity, was deepening on Barbara's face ; sadness and wistfulness mingling with it. ' There's a lot o' things yon could buy for a hundred pounds !' she said presently. ' True ! I have told you why I cannot buy them, with that money. Though, please remember, 1 told you in confidence. Perhaps I do not need to add that.' Barbara looked into his eyes steadfastly. * If I thought you mistrusted me once, you'd have no opportunity o' doin' it again,' she said, adding, 'Eh, but it does take folks a long time to know one another down to the bottom !* There was another brief silence before she spoke again. Evidently she had been thinking of the artist rather than of herself. ' If ya couldn't buy nought wi' that money, ya might live in better lodgiu's. Yon's noan a place for you !' ' Why not ? But, if it troubles you, I may say that I could, if I wished to do so, stay at the hotel. It is not on account of the expense that I prefer the Forecliff.' ' At the '^ Empress o' India," ' Bab said, rather to herself than quite aloud. It was only the other day that Mrs. Nossifer at the fish-shop in the Cliff Road at Yarburgh had told her that the gentlemen who stayed at the new hotel at Ulvstan were charged a guinea a day for their food and lodging. Bab had acuepte the fact as surprising, but not as one likely ever to concern her- self, or eY«n anyone she might know. Now she recalled it in nltno*^ ; ' •1': I '• .} "^i li 9S tN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, ' Toa hare not given me any answer ?' the artist said prejently, in a tone of inquiry. ' Tell me what yon are thinking.' 'I'm thinking this,' Bab replied with a qnite new emphasii, and tremnlonsly consoions of a certain amount of daring. ' I m thinkin' 'at you're nofin what you seem. . . . You're nofin one o' them 'at paints pictures for a livin'.' * No ? What makes yon think that ?' ' Everything ! You've no&n the manner, nor the bearin' o' them *at hes to depend on other folk for the bread they eat.' Aldenmede paused a moment ; then he said : ' Oranted, so far I For if I am not working solely for my own bread, why should I not try to help those who must do so ? whv, for instance, should yon refuse to allow me to help yon in a trouble that has unexpectedly come upon yon ?' Barbara looked at him again ; ner lips were trembling with the unsaid words, but her thought was not for herself, nor wholly of the artist She had others in her mind, others to whom this munificence would seem as a miraculous gift of Ood. * You may help if you will,' she said at last The words might have been counted ungracious, but her manner, the e Motion of it, neutralised all idea of that kind. * You may if yon will,' she repeated. Then, out of the fulness of her heart, rather than by aid of any shadow of impertinence, she added, * I'd no&n be surprised if ya turned out to be a duke.' Much laughter was not in Aldenmede's way, yet to his relief and to Bab's he indulged for once. Presently, still smiling, he said : ' I suppose, then, that all the surprise would be on m^ purt I Certainly it would be very creat . . . Believe me, your imagination is running away with you r ' But noan sa far ?' * Very far indeed.' * You've no title o' no sort ?' ' Not a shadow of one. I should like, I should very much like to write R.A. after my name, or even A.K.A., which means something much less. But I am talking idly. Enough of pleasantries of that kind. They are not so very pleasant after all . . . And now it is all settled ! I may buy the nets ?' * Will ya think on it till the mornin' ?' ' No ; pafdoD me, I have given more than enough of thought to the matter. I have other things to think of.' * Yes ; so you have,' Barbara replied after a moment of heaita- tion. 'Things 'at's mebbe even more to you nor that.' . . . Then, with a swift change of tone, she said, ^ Yon're goin' up there to get your dinner to-night — to the Rectory ?' •Yes.' * Do you like goin' ?' *Yes. I am very glad to go.' * I don't doubt it ... . Yet I'm nofin envyin* you.' THE HELP OF ONE WE HA VE HELPED' 99 a common envioaanesa waa maoh _ » Jmpbatii, and je o' them'ftt Still one oan't help Why ia there aucD ly for my own /do so ? whj, ^ouina trouble nbling witb the f , nor whoUy w 'to whom ihU ^he words migbt ,e e lotionol U, \ you wiU; sbe ; rither than by Ao&nbesurpnsed yet to his relief , still amiUng.be be on mjr P«ft 1 your imagination very mucb Uke to mTanaaomething leaaantnea of that . And now it i» ,ughof thongbtto moment of bejta. r that.' . . . Tben, oin' up there to get I I'you,' ' No. I should not think that in your way.' * You lean see that ? . . . Well's it'a true, thinkin' sometimes ; aometimes wiahin' . . difference atweeu one an' another ?' 'Why indeed?' The fiaher-girl had set a problem that the educated gentleman was almoat as unable to aolve aa she herself was, though he was not thinking about it now for the first time. Yet, seeing that the question had been asked in no bitterness of heart or mmKl, he did his beat to make the girl perceive up to the point he himself perceived. * Why these differences between class and class exist is more than I can say/ he answered. ' Perhaps it is more than anvone can say. It is enough for a reverent mind that they were ordained of Ood. Along the whole line of what we term sacred history there is proof of that from the da^ when we hear of the herdsmen who tended Abram's cattle to this day. But there is proof alHo that God Him- self had a special regard for the poor. David perceived that : and the mere fact of GckI's own Sun choo$ing a life of poverty should reconcile some of us who are very far from any true reconciliation. Still, it is a mystery. One might think, to read of the pauperism, the suffering of the poor of our own time, that God had forgotten them, or had, at least, forgotten to be gracious ; but that can never be. Why He permits such suffering I cannot tell ; but this I can tell, that it is the duty of everyone who is not suffering to do something for those who are ; to think of them and for them ; to try at least to comfort them in their sorrows ; to help them over their troubles ; in a word, to show them some fnenoliness, some human, loving-kindness.' ' If '"^ the poor 'at helps the poor, for the most part,' said Bab, ■peaking almost like one in a dream. ' I could tell ya many a tale 0' things 'at's happened at Ulvstan Bight, things 'at might surprise ya. It was yesterday ya were speaking o' self-sacrifice, an' I thought o' some I know. We're noiin such a hard lot as you might think I' ' You shall tell me some of the tales before I go away ; that is if you will.' ' Before you go away 1 . . . . You're noan goin' I' The artist smiled not unpleasantly. * You did not think I had come to live in Ulvstan Bight, did you V Mebbe not,' Bab replied. Then more wistfully she asked, ' But ya'll noan go till the picture's done, will ya ?' ' I shall not need to stay here to finish it But I can do no ore to-day Will you ask your grandfather to come and ve a chat with me to-morrow morning ? I want to know more bout those accidents to the fisbiug-uets.' 7-2 V1 •^-.-y ■'M* 100 /JV EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, CHAPTER XXV. DAMIAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY. • Have yoa seen but a bright lily grow • Before rudo hands have touched it ? Have you marked but the fall of the snow Before the soil has smutched it ? Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? Or swan's-down ever ? Or have snelt o" the bud of the briar f Or thpnard in thefire? ' 'V Or hive tasted the bag o' the bee ? . • t. jr.. Oh, so white ! oh, so soft 1 oh, so sweet ii ahe t Ben Jonboh. It is strange how some men seem to change with the changing of the society about them ; there might even seem to be hypocrisy in 8uch modifications, or at least weakness of will and character. But in tinith these drawbacks are not always existent. A sensitive nature responds to its environment so unconsciously that it is often utterly unaware of its own facility in responding, and the too- friendl}' friend who shall point out the seeming inconsistency may give a thrust not lightly or easily borne. You are in trouble, or you have pain, apprehension, and you write a letter to an old friend who has known your history from first to last. Naturally, almost inevitably, you permit yourself the relief of an utter outpouring. You may know yourself to be even morbidly apprehensive, yet you dare to admit this ; you are aware that you are feeling some pain, mental and physical, with an undue keenness ; yet you can confess it, and this readily, gladly. Or Bome little bit of unusual joy has come in your way, and in unwonted exuberance of spirit you ask that your friend shall rejoice with you. In a word, you wear your heart, not on your sleeve, but on a sheet or two of note-paper. And, believe it always, the true friend is drawn to be truer ; he would scorn to betray you to even his own soul's censure. That letter written, you write another to another correspondent, you date it with the same date, write it in the same hour ; yet this second letter shall be (without your being wholly aware of it) stiff and chill and pallid. Not only heart shall be mis«sing, but soul, spirit, even intellect. Were these letters read out to you on a later day, in the presence, not of enemies (we none of us have enemies in these suave times), but of friends who are on sufficiently intimate terms with you to express the measure of their friendliness by the amount of their freedom, you would blush for your own apparent duplicity. It would seem nothing less than that. And yet there is no equivocation, no intentional or other insin- cerity. A man's nature is manifold, and can turn this side to the friend who wins his ooufideuce, this to the man whose talent h« i k'! DAM IAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY loi admires, this to one who needs only a social oourtesy ; so it ii that be can meet so many other human souls with some human pleasure, gome refreshment. It is only the narrow of spirit, the uncultured in social intercourse, who imagine that they discern mendacity in this varied face turned to a varying humanity. Naturally enough Damian Aldenmede was unaware that he was a different man to his host and hostess at the Rectory from that he bad seemed to be to Barbara Burdas. To the latter he was genial, sympathetic, not caring to hide the fact tbat he was thoughtful for her present and her future. To the former he was a grave and comparatively silent man — in a certain sense evidently a man of tbe world, betraving a distinction of manner and aspect that instantly won its due regard. And yet the Godfreys, as well as their niece, were conscious of something to which they could put no name. To have used the word ' mystery ' would have been to suggest something that none of them for a moment intended. He did not talk much of himself, this new guest, and no one at tbe Rectory, save Gertrude Douglas, made the slightest attempt to induce him to do so. And though it could not be said tbat he declined to respond to her effort, yet but little real knowledge was elicited. He was an Englishman, he had travelled much abroad, especially in Italy, and had been glad to return to his own country. He gave a decided impression of having nothing to hide ; but, on the other hand, he made it evident that he did not greatly care to permit himself to become a topic of conversation in his own presence. His host took care that his desire was respected. The dinner passed off as dinners at the Rectory alwajrs did, pleasantly and easily. No display for display's sake was visible ; no neglect or inadequacy tolerated. The Canon was in one of his happiest and most winning moods. Mr. Egerton was, as usual, equal to anything and everything that came in his way ; and the conversation sparkled about this topic and about that, as it will when people give themselves, for the lighter social hour, to interchange of the more superficial ideas of life and living. But gradually, almost inevitably, the stream deepened. Before tl:o evening was over the new guest was better comprehended at Yarburgh Rectory. It was evident that he had intended no betrayal of himself. All unaware he was drawn by the Canon's earnestness to confess his own ; perhaps confessing more than he was well aware of. * Ton say that it is weighing upon you more than anything else — the present condition of the poor of England, of your own parish,' he had replied in answer to a remark the Canon had made. *I can well believe it. I have often thought that it must be even more terrible for a clergyman than for anyone else.' ' So it is ; he stands in such a different position towards the poor. He preaches a gospel of brotherhood, or professes to do so ; but mostly he refrains from details on that head in his sermons and perhaps wisely. For what does such brotherhood mean, for even the best of ns ? What do we really know of our brother ? m ■itii IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. What do we really care ? In the heart of ub, what is the depth of our cAring ?' ' Be moderate I' interrupted Mr. Egerton, his spiritual face lights ing up with earnest entreaty. ' Don't run the risk of giving a false impression. Mr. Aldenmede ia a stranger ; he may take you at your own valuation !' *It would be wise of him to do so. Mr. Aldenmede has seen enough, known enough of humanity, to know that no man confesses himself a sinner who has not sinned ; not unless he has tendencies more or less morbid, an accusation of which I am not afraid.' * Doesn't it rather depend upon what one calls sin, or even error, or mistake V the artist asked. ' With regard to the problem of the suffering poor we have all of us erred, most of us are yet erring ; bat one is glad to see everywhere a certain sensitiveness on the Bubject, oft enough showing itself in irritation, annoyance, some- times in incredulousness, sometimes in an attempt to prove that each state of life has its own "compensations." What can be the compensation for having no fire, no food, no clothing worth the name ; no decent bed even ; and only the most inhuman shelter ?' * But,' said Mr. Egerton, ^ but short of that extreme of want, putting all such extremes aside for the moment, do yon not think that even the life of the very poor has alleviations ?' ' Alleviations I' exclaimed Aldenmede. ' Tes, thank Heaven ! One is glad to know that it has, to believe in it to the uttermost. I may say that some of the happiest and pleasantest people I have known have been people who were living from week to week. Alleviation I Their life is, in many cases, full of it ! So long as things keep on at the moderate level of possible living they have few cares, anxiety dies down, fear for the future is quiescent. Such people often have the kindliest feelings ; they have known trouble, sickness, loss, pain ; and these things have made them sympathetic, and sympathy brings them nearer to their friends and neighbours. Oh, "love in a cottage" is not a dream ! It may be an ideal ; but it might be the most magnificent, most beneficent ideal. It wants raising, however. The man who lives and loves in a cottage wants help for the most part, such help as can only come from those who are somewhat his superiors in culture, in insight. He wants teaching how to find delight in books, in music, in a in all things lovely, and pure, and of good report ; the things ihat elevate thought, that awaken the beginnings of aspiration. He needs to be made to perceive that the mere possession of houses, of land, of capital, can do nothing to help his highest happiness ; to be shown how, in the simplest wayside cottage, life may be lived as its very best, life intellectual, life spiritual — nay, one might almost say the perfect life which has been the ideal of the saints from the first Christian century to this nineteenth. It has never died out, the grand vision. It never can. Perfection ! Well for the man who has not ceased to dream of it, to yearn for it, to work for it I If the mere yearning exists in any man, that man if DAM IAN ALDENMEDE A T THE RECTOR Y. 103 ,t 5.8 the depth of IrUual face light- risk of giving a he may take you enmede has seen no man confesses tie has tendencies not afraid.' iin, or even error, tie problem of the 8 are yet erring ; isitivenesR on the annoyance, some- ipt to prove that What can be the slothing worth the [ihuman shelter : extreme of want, do you not think ins?' I, thank Heaven! to the uttermost. utest people I have om week to week, of it 1 So long as e living they have utnre is quiescent. ; they have known \ have made them to their friends and iream ! It may be nt, moat beneficent 10 lives and loves in p as can only come culture, in insight. in music, in a in rt • the things that of aspiration. He Bess^ion of houses, of jhest happiness ; to -e, life may be lived al_nay, one might ideal of the saints enth. It has never rfection 1 Well for to yearn for it, to ,ny man, that man i» to be envied. How to implant it where it does not exist should be one of the problems of the modem philanthropist.* Thorhilda had been seated at the piano for the last half-hour, now and then playing one of the softer of Mendelssohn's Lieder, now and then stopping to listen, to say a few words to Gertrude Douglas, who was sittiug with her embroidery near the table by the piano. It was evident that the evening was proving more or less a disappointing one to Miss Douglas ; and Thorhilda, seeing that such was the case, left the piano and went to the fireside, where her uncle stoof' on the rug, the new guest near him. Mrs. Godfrey was seated on the sofa by the fire. * Are you not tired or my uncle's parochial conversation ?' Miss Tbeyn asked, looking into JB^r. Aldenmede's sad grave face. ' Uncle Hugh, I know, will never be tired ; but he may weaiy other gsople. ... I often wish I were poor — quite poor, like Barbara urdas, for instance ; then he would care for me !' There was a pause. The artist was watching the piquant humour of the lovely face before him, the changing light in the gray appealing eyes, the tender winning smile with which she turned to her uncle. What sweetness such a woman was capable of putting into any home-life ! What beauty ! What grace ! Even for one evening to taste of such life, to feel the warmth of it, was like coming under some touch of enchantment. The artist had forgotten the reply he intended to make. ' Bar- bara Burdas !' he said at last. ' What a good woman she is I Speaking of the poor, of their desert, their endurance, where will ^ou find a braver or a better girl ? Think of all that she has done, 18 yet doing, and by her own unaided strength, so far as human help is concerned ! She likes to keep up the fiction that her grand- father helps ; and naturally the old man likes to keep up the same comforting notion. But it is a notion utterly mistaken. She profits somewhat by his share, or part of a share, in the Star of the Norths but last year the sum was less than four pounds ; it did not S>ay for the rent of the house. And this year, owing to accidents, lamage done by the trawlers, and such-like things, she is afraid it will be even less ; yet she never utters a word of complaint. It is old Ephraim who does the complaining, though he admits that he " wants for nothing.' ' ' The most striking thing about Barbara is her cravinc for know- ledge, for education,' said the Canon, who knew a little of what was being said in the Bight as to the artist's kindness in lending the girl books, helping her to understand them, and teaching her in a general way something of the right use and meaning of her own language. But the Canon made no direct reference to the subject, though he perceived that Miss Douglas was waiting with suspended needle for details of the matter. She was not to be gratified. Aldenmede replied only to what the Canon hod said. * That is one striking thing ; another is her hatred of all r ano- I .' i 11:1 (04 IN EXCHANGE FOk A SOUL, ''ss or rongbnesf), her desire for refinement ; and being surrounded V things rough aud coarse, her duty seeming to lie amongst them, er everyday life must be more or less one of pain to a sensitive nature. Yet I do not believe that she ever dreams of escape of my kind ; that in one sense she can even be said to desire ii That is the touchstone. She does her duty, and more ; and being urged onward and upward by unseen influences she knows no con* tent in so doing. How should she ? Contentment is not for such as Barbara. To be content is too often to know no aspiration for one's self or for others, to know no sympathy, to have no human outlook, no passionate human desire for progress, for attainment of any kind. Contentment ! It is for the cattle in the fields, that graze and fatten and die ! No thinking human soul can in these days be contented.' Thorhilda was listening, thinking, recalling the speech of another on the same topic, and as she thought her heart-beats came the faster. Was she not deliberately dreaming of this lower content ? And at what cost ? Never had the price seemed to be what it p*«emed now with this stranger standing by her uncle's hearth, nn- veiliug his own heart, his own aspiration, all unknowingly. She shrank even from herself as she listened. It was as if some voice were heard drawing her from ease, from wealth, from luxury, entreating her to take some higher way. And, harder still, this higher way was made attractive. She could hardly help fearing that this stranger had read her true character. She seemed to dis- cem his perception in every look, every word. And the more she discerned, the more she was drawn to watch for further signs. Here, if anywhere, was the guide she had longed for, the one true helper, the one adequate friend. Again the feeling that she had first known on that day by the sea came back to her, bnt witb redoubled emotion, and again it was followed by the remembrance that all such feeli ■'gs must be put strongly away. ' Strongly and surely,' she said to herself that night in hsr own room as she walked up and down, trying to quiet her unsettled spirit, yet unable to put away from her mdntal vision that grave yet tender glance, to close her ears to the tones of the most sympa- thetic, and sad, and kindly voice she had ever heard. Now, for the first time, she realized what it was to be subjugated by a look, coerced by a turn of the head, silenced by another's silence. What might it mean, this new and peculiar experience ? Whatever it meant it must be put away, and the sooner the better, the better for everyone concerned. * It is evident he does not know,' Thorhilda continued to herself, ' he has not heard of —of Mr. Meredith, of hia friendship for me. He must know soon, very soon ! Then it will be over — this — this unrest, this strain. It will all be over, and I shall be at peace. . . . Will he come again ? It would be better that he should not — better far. . . . Yet it would be pleasant, very pleasant. . . . And I am not a fool. . . . Indeed, now that I think of it, I should wish him to come to the Rectory again, tEat I might prove to my- / MIND ME HOW WE PARTED THEN, 105 id being surronnded a lie amongst tbem, pain to a sensitive ireams of escape of le said to desire it ad more ; and being I she knows no con* ment is not for such ow no aspiration for ■, to hare no human sss, for attainment of le in the fields, that an soul can in these the speech of another leart-beats came the ; this lower content ? eemed to be what it er uncle's hearth, nn- l unknowingly. She , was as if some voice wealth, from luxury, ind, harder still, this hardly help fearing '. She seemed to dis- i. And U>e more she ch for further signs. iged for, the one true feeling that she had lack to her, but with by the remembranci ay. bat night in her own quiet her unsettled .al vision that grave (8 of the most sympa- heard. Now, for the (ubjugated by a look, other's silence. What ience ? Whatever it i better, the better for not know,' Thorhilda f Mr. Meredith, of his soon ! Then it will ill all be over, and I „ would be better that (leasant, very pleasant I think of it, I should might prove to my- 9lf my self-possession. I wish it, certainly I do, and I wish that le may come soon 1 The sounor he comes the bouiiui will this inrest be ended.' CHAPTER XXVI. 1 MIND ME HOW WR PARTED THEN. '60 have I dreamed ! oh, may the dreain be true ; That praying souls are pur{;ed from mortal hue, And grow as pure as He to Whom they pray.' Hartley Coleridob. )AMrAN Aldenmede, coming home in the moonlight alone, did lot dream that Barbara Burdas was watching him frora the side of the Forecliff, above the Sagged House. She stood iu the shadow there, though it was nearly midnight, looking out over the cliff-top rays. The sea was rolling softly, breaking monotonously, evou Badly for one in a sad mood ; and Bab's mood was not of the )rigbtest. An intolerable sense of yearning had possessed her ull the evening, as if somewhere, some influence were drawing her From herself ; and the strain was so great that she found Tierbelf to De wearier than usual — weary of life, of light, of all things. Once )avid Andoe, had prised by. not stopping to spfak, but looking at ler as he went onward with the old heart-broken look that was growing to be so painful since Bab was learning what such pain leant. Yes, she knew now ; and as she stood there, thinking of the Rectory, trying to imagine what could be hapj.ening there, h w jach one world be looking at and speaking to the other, her know- ledge seemed to deepen ; and presently, when her thoue'its wan- lered away to Gailaff, to Hartas Tbeyn, who might '^e there, or light not, she could not help dropping a quiet tea" or two. The luietnesb was not the measure of the bitterness. * It's hard to be sa lonely, an' to care so tor others all the while ; ^n' all the while to know at you can never '>3 nought to them,' hhe lid, half audibly. ' Mebbe Id not mind i. so if I weren't sa lontl* So she stood, wondering if perhaps the artist might pass that ?ay— if he would stop and speak. It was one of Bab's weuk loments, and her soul was hungering for a word. All was so ^ lill the little house behind her, where her gnndfather slept, ani the lildren ; all was so still on the land and on the sea ; and th veiy tillness seemed to have aching in it, and pain. ' It »8 dree — oh it is dree !' she cried softly to herself, clappinc hpr inds, and lifting her eyes as if she would pierce the ver} otars loi sign. But none came that night. Her appeal wa»a prayer ; but )t yet was it to be answered. Bab did not see when the artist passpc out of sight The ro d [as hidden by a point of the green ciiif top, and he did not r ap- 3ar on the shoreward pathway. It was as she guessed. He had Den drawn by the beauty of the night to go down to the rocks io6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. Mow, whert the moonlight was quivering npon the wraok-frin pools that the sea had left. He went on rapidly over the waj knew 80 weU now ; keeping mainly to the shelving banks of i worn gravel that had collected just below the sand-dunes under cliff. The moon was still sparkhng upon the sea ; brightly, softly ; the small waves were still breaking with far faint murn ings. All was bright light, or deep shadow ; all was silence, peace, and beauty. And all was ctdm, save the heart and brain of the man who walking rapidly, fighting with himself, with a new and str temptation ; a temptation that had come npon him suddenly, yet not all undreaded. There had been a moment of warning soul wounded long ago had spoken words of entreaty to n heart jet beyond the possibility of further wounding. He had listei .promised obedience— and now the chance of keeping his proc was threatened grievously. But he was well aware. The very rapidity of his movement betrayed the force of emotion that was impelling him onward, beyond the Bight, bey the Ness, beyond the rocks and caves he knew so familiarly. It had not been so before. Love had come to him with all soft and sweet enchantment of love. He had not known dreamed of resistance. Now all was otherwise. He had loved ; he had been betray he had suffered — suffered so that he dreaded love as a man mi dread the most desolating disaster his human life could know. Until this evening he had seen, and clearly, all that a second passion might mean to him ; now he saw no longer. Here wasl one serious sign of the pass to which he had come. Now he cj perceive nought save the drawing, the delight, the good, the hs ness — the most perfect happiness ever beheld by him, even ii most perfect vision. AU the drear dread days o^.' his penan^.e poured their depths] this day ; all the lost dayi of his delight returned their es^ upon this. * I have been as one diad,' he said to himself as he went on> 'I have had life, and yet I have not lived ; I have had the apl ance of living without the reality ; I have professed belil hoping, whilst I myself was hopeless ; I have taught loving, I myself was loveless. And now — now whither am I being | May all that is good guide me ; all that is strong strengthen : I would not willingly fall — no, I would not fall again — such fl is too terrible. Half my life has gone in trying to recover| that last undoing, and I thought its effect not yet over. over ? It is a dozen years since — more than a dozen, I thinkl I hardly know, since time has gone by on wings so broken-f speeding feverishly, now halting faintly — but never at a nl pace. . . . And what does this portend, this change, this si glow of light — the light of hope ? Another disaster ? or co| •ation for the last ? ... If it might mean the latter, if it * / MIND ME HOW WE PARTED THEN* Wl ire T think it will ? Does Fate ever take a sadden tnm in th* Idle of a man's life, lifting him from the lowest depth of nega- 1 to the supreme height of fulfilment ? Is it possible ? There those who declare that it is not — that a life once certainly set ill-fated lines can come to no true point of turning, of real cape ; but that I do not believe, I have never believed it ; too jch lies in a man's own hand for any pre-dooming of that kind to taken as a rule. No ; it could never be ! Far better the old and >rn-out proverb that declares that it is a long lane that haa no rning ! . . . Dare I hope that I have come to a turning? . . . )W L:ood she looks ! how pure ! how true ! Her every expression sympathy in it, and perception, with nov« and then faint touchei something that is almost sadness. It is like a question, that sad )k, like an appeal ! More than once I longed to know her thought, {if it must be something needing hel[», needing consolation. . . . kali I see her to-morrow ? Will she come down to the beach ? kail I venture there, or shall I fly by the first train to-morrow >rning ? ... If I did — if I even did that, my life would no more life it has been !' \o absorbed had Damian Aldenmede been in his own reflectioni it certain sounds, not very distinct or aggressive, had fallen npoa ear almost without his noticing them ; then all at once it seemed him that he heard human voices in the distance, voices that bmed raised in anger or distress. The sound came from beyond point of the dark rock that stretched across the beach ; and naturally he hastened onward, feeling more and more certain step that he should find someone in need of assistance. But t once, just as he rounded the point of rock, the sounds fell 1 the air, fell to a lower tone, and more pathetically moving. before he saw the dark figure kneeling upon the sands he knew it only one voice was uplifted, the voice of a man in a very [>ny of prayer. Instinctively he stood still, took off his hat, and jiyed with and for the lonely snppliant, who knelt with bared >w and uplifted hands under the midnight sky. No thought of |reating occurred to the artist. Te did not at first dream that it was David Andoe who k^'elt That it was one of the fishermen of the neighbourhood he by the tone and the dialect ; but by-and-by he discerned that ras the man whose love for Barbara Burdas was apparently one [the chief topics of conversation at Ulvstan. le was near enough to hear most of the words that fell tremu- sly from the man's lips ; touching, simple words they were ; and igh in a sense familiar, they were yet reverently uttered. )h, Jesus !' he was saying, * let ma speak yet again, an' yet again ma whiles Ah'm speakin' ! Ah've never another friend — no, one 'at cares ; an' my heart's well-nigh breakin' wi' sorrow, fair sick wi' sorrow, an' worse nor that, my sorrow's leadin' ta sin. Ah'm thinkin' on her when Ah should be thinkin' '/ ; prayin' 'at she may turn te me when Ah'd better be pra^ in' lOl IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. for grace te tarn more wholly to Thee. All iny prayers is tainted wi' the thought of her, an' of tens enuff Ah can't pray at all. Ah can't see Thee for the Right of her comin' atween ; an' what can Ah do ? What can Ah do to stop my heart fra achin' an' yearnin' ? What can Ah do ?' And then the pleading voice fell a little, the words hecame in- { distinct, and Aldenmede would have turned away silently, as he had come ; but he could not ; some constraining force of sympathy drew I him a little nearer. He would speak with David Andoe when hit | prftver was ended. The words were more audible again now. * Whatever happens to me, be good te Aw,' the poor fellow was I continuing. * Let no trouble come anigh her. Keep her fra doin' aught 'at's wrong, aught 'at 'ud bring misery to her afterward. An' if she has ony sorrow now, do Thou comfort it Thyself., wi' that love o' Thine, that love 'at Ah can't yet feel rightly mysel'. Some- how Ah know it's there ; Ah believe in it wi' my head, but Ah can't get hold on it wi' my heart, not so as to feel happy wiv it, and satisfied. That s what Ah'm wantin', but Ah can't get hold on it Ah niver could, not so as te be no help te me when Ah was needin' help. . . . An' Ah need it noo I if iver Ah wanted upholdin' Ah do to-night ! Ah'm sa despert lone — Ah'm a'most faint wi' lone- - ness an' unfriendedness, an' wi' the want o' peace ; Ah've no peace | nowheres, not even a place where Ah can lie my head i' peace. . . An' mebbe it hes te be so, mebbe it hes, so as Ah may larn 'at I there's no peace nowheres oot o' Thee — none hut that 'at peases aXi\ vnderttatiifin' . . . . God gie me that — that precious peace 1* Once more the pleading voice trembled and failed, and by-and-byl another sound came upon the wind, the sound of painful, convul- sive sobbing. The moon was half hidden in a nest of clouds, there were shadows upon the sands of the Bight. Then by-and-by all | was still, silent. Tho fisherman, yet kneeling, heard the steps upon the beach be* I hind him, and rose to his feet just as the moon swept herself free I of the clouds that were driving on. He recognised the artist, whoj spoke at once. 'Forgive me,' he said in kindly and sympathetic tones. *I had! not dreamed of finding anyone on the beach so late. ... I wasj walking here because I was troubled, not thinking to find anyone in I the same trouble, or nearly the same, as my own. Believe me, l| meant no intrusion.' David hesitated awhile. He had heard much of what had been I said on the Foreclifif about the stranger's influence over Barbara,! but the freemasonry which exists between one true soul and anotherl bad hitherto prevented him from having any doubt, any fear of thai artist. Yet now for a moment all was chanjred. Andoe was trying to collect himself so far that h«^ mi' ht do no injustice to another,] but in his lar<;e symp-ihy not m-ch elFort was needed. * Ah'm nofin sure ;irt I uikU t:it <i. sir,' he replied. ' You've heardl me, you ve htuid as Ah was i' troui-ie, au you saay your trouble's the! * / MIND ME HOW WE PARTED THEN* 109 ohin'an'yearnin'?] same as mine. ... Do Ah understand ya rightly ? — ^yon're oarin' for her, for Barbara Bnrdas ?' The poor tisherniaD could not see the expression on the artist's face ; it might have been helpful to him if he could. ' For Barbara Burdas !' Aldenraede exclaimed in a tone most com- forting. ' I was not even thinking of her at tbe present moment, except in connection with yourself. No ; to pi event misunder- standing, let me say plainly that I was thinking of someone else, and lor sympathy's sake I may add, someone who is troubling me much as Barbara is troubling you. I think it was this drew me to come and speak to you, instead of turning back, as I was moved to do at first. ... I thought that perhaps I might say a word to com- fort you, or, if not that, I thought that mere sympathy might bo fiorae consoliitjon. I have often in my life found it so — that to Bpeuk with one who had endured the same suffering as myself was in some subtle way very helpful.' ' Ah doJin't dooht,' said the fisherman, only half understanding much tliiit he bad heard. Presently he said, ' You've seen a good bit o' Barbara lately, sir ?' ' Yes. I have ; and I may add that the more I have seen of her the better 1 have liked her.' ' Tiiat was certain. . . . But you spoke o' comfort — surely yon'd never ha' done that if you'd known all they were sayin' — the folks i' itbe toon — 'at she's only one thought, an' that for the Squire's son.' ' I have heard of that. ... I have thought of it. I may say that I have thought of it a good deal.' 'D'ya know him, sir ?' , ; '1 have seen him once.' ' Tlieji that would be yesterday — yesterday afternoon ?' ' Yes, so it was ! It seems a week ago !' * All were passin' by at the time — me an' my mates. An' 'twere that made my heart sa sore, that drove me out here last night, an' atjain to-nit^ht, to seek for a spot where Ah could be alone. . . . Ah'd noii other jilace.' 'And I have -disturbed you? ... I am sorry, very sorry! But I meant well.' ' That Aa'm sure on, sir. An' since you've spokken so kind, Ah may aaay 'at more nor once Ah've wished ta hev speech o* ya. Knowiii' 'at you'd influence over Bab, Ah thought mebbe 'at if ye knew all ya'd say a word for me. Ah believe — naiiy, Ah know — as she'd take a deal o' notice o' what you sajiy. . . . An' hoo can Ah tell ya the rest "? Hoo can Ah tell you o' the one she seems to ha' set her lit art on ? Ah noiin wish te be guilty o' the sin o' evil- speaking —a sin 'at surely does such harm i' the world as only Satan hisself can know on— noa ; God helpin' me, Ah'il noan saay aught .'I'jajn him as Ah can help. Ah'U only ask ya ta think for yourself :io la whether one like me, 'at's plashed i' the saut water for my bread eveu sen Ah was eleven years old, 'ud be more likely te win :ot Kl !i I to IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. bread for her an' hera nor a skip- jack like yon, 'at's walked the eth wiv his han'H in his pockets an' a pipe in his mouth, well-nigh i^er ■en he could walk at all ? Ah'U leave it to you, sir, te think that question oot, and then to act a^ roems ya best. Ah'U saav nonsfht o' mvself o' my oiin trouble. . Mobbe you've heerd anuff. An' if AhVe said aught o' him Ah Hhonldn't ha' laid, aught 'at sounded like malice or a bad sperrit, why, then, forgive it, please, sir, an' foraet it. Ah no/ia meant ta be malicious.' "5, was only a word or two that Damian Aldenmede said in reply — a word of assurance, of comprehension. But the fisherman went on his way comforted ; the artist went on his way somewhat per- plexed, yet with a very definite picture in his own mind of David Andoe's happiness by some cottage fireside with Barbara Burdas for the spring and inspiration of his happiness. And a touch of something that was almost envy came with the Tision. A home fireside, a happy home ! Surely that was the Alpha and Omega of human felicity ! Given the highest hopes, the highest ambitions, even aspirations, yet when were such ever reached by men whose home-life was chilled, embittered ? Loneliness might be endurable^ but it was only that. The man who had no sustenance ■are such as came to him from contact with the outer world was a man to be pitied indeed. His life could know no true encourage- ment, no true support. In times of failure, or of pain, what had he to rest upon for consolation ? In hours of success, if such came to him, of what vatue was the thing that men were congratulating him upon ? It had not even a name of any real import. It was not happiness ; it was not content ; it was not felicity t Success was hardly successf ulness to the man who must meet his day's end- ing in an empty room, by a lonely fireside, with not a hand to clasp his in the warmth of the new emotion ; not a voice to say, ' Well done' ; not a heart to beat in unison with his own heart's increased pulsation. Much of the artist's thought as he went homeward was for him- self, much for David Andoe and Barbara Burdas ; and the strong feeling he had for the latter found some expression in his conver- sation with Barbara ; but to his regret he was quickly made to perceive that his words were but as snowflakes upon a running stream of contrary emotion. Bab had no thought of David Andoe, save of his pain and of bis trouble, of which she was but too well aware ; she nad no other thought of him. * Don't speak of it,' she had said in conclusion. ' Don't speak of it never again. . . . My life's over — all that's worth the name o' life. I'll live, God helpin' me ; I'll live for many a year yet. I man do that for the sake o' them 'at needs my life. Ya can tell David that — it may quiet him ; it's quietin' for lae. . . . Yes ; just tell him that my life's o'er. . . . I've made the last moan I'll make i' this world, or so I think 1 There's no knowin' what's i' store.' A WILD NIGHTS WORK. Ill CHAPTER XXVII. A WILD NIOHT'8 WORK. * A man can have but one life and one death. .... Let me fnltil my f itte. ' itoBBBT BROWIOKA. Aft RK WARD, long afterward, it was said that there bad been ft settled plan for the work of that wild night in the Bight of UWatan; but the saying was untrue. The whole, from first to last, was ft consecutive series of accidents, undesigned, nnd in a certain sense unpremeditated : one leading to another by the sort of inevitable- ne.xs that is not so uncommon in human life, as anyone might perceive who was careful in noting such seouences. It all happened on the night following that on which the artist and David Andoe had met so unexpectedly on the beach. Neither had then dreamed of what the next night was to bring. As it has been told, they met and 8e])arated somewhere aboni midnight. The artist had gone home, but not to rest ; sleep wae imnossible. The only possible thing was bewildering and torturing thought. Before dawn be rose, went down to the sea for his bath. and returned to the Forecliif to watch the grand stormy rising of the sun. It was impressive that morning beyond aescription. The rose-red bars lay straight across the sky between bars of orange - vermilion, and these again were bounded by bands of burning scarlet. Xot the faintest, floating, formless cloud disturbed the impression made by the long, unbroken, glowing lines. No painter — not even Turner himself — might even have attempted to reproduce such a sky ; its calmness of form, its dazzling lnminous> ness of colour, its tragic glow of intensity. All the morning the influence of it was upon the receptive mind of the artist He expected some sudden storm to arise ; and when, about noon, the sun was obscured, the whole sky overspread by a gray, leaden cloud which showed only a rift here and there, disclosing the aerial silver fields beyond, he felt that the change was but the precursor of something wilder and more majestic. Yet no wind had arisen as yet ; not a ripple disturbed the cold ominons gray of the bound- less sea. So the evening closed in ; a dead leaden colouring was upon the outdoor world everywhere. The great gray gulls flapped their wings slowly between a gray heaven and a grayer world of waters. Hardly a sail was visible in the offing. The herring fleet had gone northward, and was in safer shelter than that afforded by Ulvstan Bight ; only a pleasure-boat or two remained moored by the quay. The greater part of the smaller craft of the place had been drawn up to the Forecliff ; they were better there. It might be eight o'clock when Barbara came out to the door of the Sagged House, glancing to the north and to the south with her usual discerning glance. Not a star had appeared ; no moon might V :. ^ !| .* i --1 iia IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, pierce that dense oloud-pall which had Reenied to hanq lower and yet lower each time she had olmerycd it. And ever the surae ominous stillneRS brooded beneath, upon the land, and upon th« deep, chill darkness of the pitileHH 8ea. ' It'll be on us afore mornin' !' Bab said to herself, turning to go indoors again. ' Thank God 'at most about here's i' shelter. Tliere'll noan be a soul I kt ow out on yon sea to-night.' It was growing ccldor now — much colder. A little later Damian Aldrnmede, saunterl-jg down to the beach to smoke his last cigar, was surprised b> tho chasu^e in the temperature. *If I remain at Ulvstan much longer I shall have to write nnd «8k Carel to send me a greatcoat or two,' he said audibly as he increased his pace. Still he remained there, walking up and down between the New and the Forecliff, now facing uorth and now south, but finding not much difference whichever way he turned. It was a strange night, The mere air, which was hardly stirred as yet, seemed to have the force and the peculiar biting quality of a strong north-eaatei; thongh such wind as there was came off the land. And there was no change either on the ocean or in the sky. The cloud-muBs Htil! loomed above, seeming as if fain to drop its gloomy weight upon the wide, and dark, and gloomy sea. At last the sigh arose — the long, low, tristful sigh, the first breath of the storm, which seemed to sweep across the face of the water with a sadness like to that of the sigh tliat is heard before the last breath parses from out the lips of the dying. The storm sigh rises, it sweeps onward, not comii ^ to a moan, not fluttering or hurrying the lightest wavelet. There is no visible sign — yet you see it ; there is only the faintest audible sound, yet you not only hear it, but, hearing, you shiver, arid, if you have dread for anyone, turn faint for the strife to be. Then the nuse comcH — a dead stillness, us if the natural progress of the worlu were arrested. One might imugine that the earth itfiylf had ceased to move. Btit this is only for awhile ; sometimes it is a very brief while, sometimes it is longer. Of this evening it was afterwards said that this strange interval had lasted so long that it was thought that the storm might be passing by without breaking on this part of the north-easttrn coast. It was at the very beginning of the calm period that a little band of men came out irom the small inn on the quay, known as the Cod and Lobster. They were fishermen, all of them : and two, Jim Tyas and John Scurr (Lang Jack, the name he was better known by), were David Audoe's mates, and each held share ^^ in the Star of the Nortn. David was not among them. The Star oftk North was with a povtion of the herring-fleet off Danesborough ; and David, witL Will Scurr and Luke Fumiss, had remained on boarcl. The two others had walked over to Ulvstan for the night, M thoy often did. They would return at daybreak. OUL, i to hant? lower and I And ever the 8um«| land, and upon tbil erBolf, turninc to gol 5'b i' shelter. There'll A little later DamiaDl smoke his last cigar, | •e. 11 have to write niid 3 said audibly as he I vn between the Ntw outh, V)iit finding not , was a strange night, ;, seenird to have the strong north-eastfi, and. And there was The cloud-mass Btili gloomy weight uponi istful sigh, the first icross the face of the that is heard before | dying. comii J to a moan,! There is no visible t audible sound, yet er, arid, if you have )e. the natural progress gine that the earth a very brief while,! was afterwards said that it was thought breaking on this part period that a little I the quay, known asj all of them : audi name he was betterl h held sbarc^ in thej pm. TheStor ofm ofE Danesborougb ; 88, had remained on I Ivstan for the night, | )reak. A WILD NIGHTS WORK, 113 Q [oat of the erening they had spent in the little inn, smokinff I clay pip«R. drinking muddy beer, denouncing trawlera ana imers, gossiping of this neighbour and of that, but more than of David Andoe and his trouble. They were angry, but not :ited, when they went out, so Ann Stamper, the lone old woman was landlady of the Cod and Lobster, had said afterward, and >re her testimony ended. She knew nothing more. iTbey sauntered on awhile, the four men ; then Lang Jack went Ime, as he was in the habit of doing, having a wife capable of [citing the * reason why ' when he did not. It was after ten now, it the others stood about on the narrow, rugged quay, and then Bnt down to the beach, still smoking, still angrily discusHing the inner and method of the revenge they meant to take when kportunity served. One was for adopting the time-honoured (d effective process known as ' tarring and feathering ;' another, a moment of bitterness, had suggested that the Squire's son )nld be decoyed on board some vessel in the ofling and subjected the punishment known as keel-hauling.° But since Hartas leyn had one day done some small kindn^s to Samson VerriU's [tie son, Sampey had demurred to these more violent measures. ' Let's givo him a duckin', an' ha' done wi' it,' Sampey said. ^et'^. pon him under water at the point o' the Ness at high-tide, kd then let him go.' I And thereupon Jim Tyaa had given expression to his opinion |at Verrill was a sneak and a spiritless coward. Sampey was not lan to bear such an accusation tamely. His pipe was dashed ^wn, his jacket off, before the others were aware of his intcn- )n. I 'Come on — we'll fight thftt oot, thoo an' me!' he said with Ibdued passion. |0f course, Jim Tyas was ready. Richard Reah had no thought interfering ; and in the light of later events it seemed almost that intei-ference should have come in any shape whatever. Bfore the first blow had been struck, a step came up quickly hind ; a stranger's voice broke in hurriedly : I' What's up ? Who's goin' to fight in the dark, an' at this time jnight ? What's the row about ?' [There was yet no moon ; but a rift in the heavy purple-black Sud disclosed a steely glare that enabled the fishermen to recog- je that this stranger was no other than the man whose conduct By had been discussing, whom they had been desiring to get into eir power by any means. And now, when the hot blood of anger )» already coursing along their veins, it was surely the worst of ttments for him to come in contact with them. Before he knew iat had happened he was struggling with the three men — three For the benefit of the uninitiated it may be explained that keel-hauling ' a mode of pnnishment need at sea in former times. The offender, ing heavy laden weights attached to hie feet, wag dragged by means of e> to and fro onder the keel of the ship. 8 "4 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, mg^inst one — and two of them certainly mad against him. F Dick Boah had thought of Bab almost as long as David Andi had done ; thoagh a certain rude sense of honour had restraia him from expressing his preference by other than indefinite wa; and means. Yet Bab knew, and he was aware that she knew ; ai the knowledge kept up a certain amount of uneasy sensation o either side. Certainly the feeling he had for her added to tl strength of the present moment's passion. Sampey Verriirs voice was the only one heard above the strife: * Let him hev a chance !' Verrill pleaded. ' It's noan fair, thn again one ! . . . An' give him a chance o* speakin' ! Let's hear he's owt to saay for hissel'. Let him speak !' * Speak !' exclaimed Jim Tyas breathlessly. His blood was upi thoroughly as that of Hartas Theyn, who was struggling to defe himself in no unscientific manner. ' Speak ! He's spokken 01 much. . . . We'll put a stop tiv his speakin' !' * Mak' him promise !' shouted Dick Reah. ' Mak him promise \ he'll niver oppen his lips to Bab Burdas ageean ; 'at he'll nifl come near her, nor even near the hoose she lives in. . . . Give I that chance. Mak' him promise ; an' then give him a good dre and let him go.' The suggestion seemed fair enough, but it was not readily upon. The strife continued for a few moments because the petus accumulated did not permit of its being stopped all at on The fishermen had been trying to bring Hartas to the ground, strange to say, tbey only succeeded after some difficulty. He ! more muscular strength than they had anticipated, and he some knowledge of the science of self-defence. At last, howeij they were successful, and Reah repeated his suggestion. I ' Ya hear what Dick says ?' Jim Tyas asked, when Hartas waij his feet again. ' Ya hear that ? If ya'U promise we'll let ya f for te-neet Ah'U noan saay it means peace for iver ; but yaj goa for this time, if ya promise — promise to keep away f ra 1 Burdas, fra the boose she lives in — naay, fra the varry toon I' 'I will not make one of those promises,' Hartas replied fir and clearly. He was not blind to his position. He knew himself to be at I mercy of three strong, nnscmpulons, vengeful men — men to wl( revenge was as a natural instinct, not to be subdued without of the slur of effeminacy. Yet he did not yield. \ * I will not make one of those promises/ he said ; and the came quickly : * You'll either promise or you'll go where there'll be no chance o' promisin'.' '; * Then I choose the latter/ V »Youdo?' ' . .^v > \ •Ido.' '•" ■■'• - ■■ '"- ■.■■•'--.•■- - r:r'- . •Wi' yer eyes oppen ?' ■■■*•' A IVILD NIGHT* S WORK. "S More open than yours appear to be.' 'Then hev at him, mates!' Jim Tyaa exclaimed uragely, prt> itory to suiting hie action to his word ; but Sampey mad« ter effort to arrest Jim's wild, mad impetuousness. ,'1I aoan do to murdther the fool — remember that ; an' that'll the end on't afore we know, if we doant tak* care. . . . Noo think ^innit, Jim ! An' let's thry this— let's put the idiot into yon. o' Dandy Will's, an' row him oot to sea, an' leave him there — re him if be won't promise, fetch him back if he will 1' The suggestion was no sooner made than steps were taken to. it into effect. Hartas Theyn was bound with the ropes that only too ready, and then placed in one of the tiny, gaily- ited little pleasure-boatn that had been moored alongside the The oars had been removed when the boat was made fast, speedily the men launched it, placed themsieives in another a larger one, took the little craft in tow, and made ready for ting. At the last moment Sampey Yerrill shouted : ^romise 1* • fever !' ^way the two boats went, the fishermen pulling as if their lives !)aded on their exertions, and in a few minutes they were out the wide black ocean, full of revenge, of triumph, of deter- ition. id Uartas Theyn'a determination was as strong; as theirs, igh he lay in the boat, bound hand and foot, shivering with now that the struggle was over and he was out upon the dark nng water, he yet kept his courage, was aware that the battle would be fought out at sea, too far the land for any sound to be heard, any help afforded ; yet khought of breaking his resolve came to him. No promise lid be wrung from him by such means as this. fith all bis faults, he was yet no coward, and the stnbbomnesi |ral to his race might almost be counted as a virtue in a risis "lis. knew that the present action was the result of no deep-laid yet had it been so it could hardly have been more effective e purpose of the men who were concerned in it. They were idling to the utmost of their power. Hartas, raising mmself \ boat, watched the receding lights of the Bight, and knew they were going rather to the north than to the south, though well aware that this would signify but little to him if they ed their threat. And that they would fulfil it he knew but rtainly. 1 now that strange calm had lasted, brooding ominously upon and sea ; but Hartas became aware that change was im- ng. A breeze was rising, beginning to sigh and wail ; a chill, ng breeze it was, and the lapping of the waves bv the very of the little boat was a dreary sound in the ear of the man ~y there anticipating the coming ordeal, and nerving himself 8~2 las 11 ii6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, for it with what strength was left him. But even yet he was unshaken by any thought of yielding, of surrender. If it came to the worst, he could die, and some day Bab might come to know how and why he had died. That was the one com- forting thought that he had ; she might come to know, she might even regret. And strange to say it did comfort him, even this — that by his death he might win • Such tears . . As wonld have made life precious.* • •; ■ • Strange it is, and sad, that a human life should so often miss the one human preciousness — the preciousuess of love, with all the sympathy, all the compassion, all the sustenance that a worthy love includes I Strange and ead, for you, for me, if we have so missed that best lasting good ; stranger and sadder far to have known it and lost it ! Ah, that bitter, that unspeakably bitter losing 1 Was Barbara Burdas to find how bitter it was ? Were there any others who might see and suffer, but too latef CHAPTER XXVIII. Uf .'• * ALONE, ALONE, ON A WIDE, WIDE SEA I* ' Then all was still. Upon me fell the night, And a voice whispered to me, " Life is Past. John Patks. Still the two boats went onward over the dark heaving sea ; the three rowers rowing swiftly and silently as might be, under the dark silent sky. It was past midnight now ; the heaving water was heaving more strongly against the sides of the little boat ; the heavy pall of cloud was beginning to break and scatter and drift wildly across the heavens ; now disclosing a glimpse of the wan moon that was riding high by this time, yet veiling her face, as if not wishing to look upon that scene of cruelty, of inhumanity. . Hartas Theyn was still awaiting the coming moment with auilicient fortitude ; and almost he persuaded himself that he was indifferent. Truth to say, young as he was, he was very weary life had never been a very happy or very pleasant thing to him. He had been to blame, as he knew, and had confessed. He had lived idly, carelessly, thoughtlessly ; and, worse than all (it seemed \. ^/senow in this hour of testing), he had resisted the help of those who would have helped him from himself. This was the painful sting that lent its piercing to the chill of the wind on the midnight sea. Yet it did not embitter his thought or emotion. When at last the rowers laid their oars on the rowlocks, and after brief con- sultation turned to him, though his determination was as resolute yet he was y Bab might the one com< wr, she might , even this — f ten miss the with all the I worthy love ised that best n it and lost Were there Paynb. ing sea ; the )e, under the leaving more pall of cloud y across the on that was )t wishing to oment with that he was very weary to him. He ad lived idly, ;d \. ^xse now f those who lainful sting dnight sea. ^ben at last iv brief con- ,s as resolute ^ ALONE, ALONEy ON A WIDE, WIDE SEA / 117 as before, he was less vehement in the expression of it. He did not even take the trouble to raise himself from the side of the boat in which he lay bound. Unfortunately Jim Tyas was the spokesman ; the rancorous and truculent one of the three, though it may be that Dick Reah was not far behind in evil will. ' Here's a last chance for ya !' Jim shouted, standing up in the stern of the larger boat, and hauling the grating tow-rope as he spoke BO as to bring the two boats nearer. ' A last chance ! Give us yer word an' honour 'at ya'U keep away fra' Barbara Burdas, an' fra the Forecliff, an' we'll row ya back to the quay wi' niver another word ! But refuse, an' you're left driftin' here, oot at sea. ov a dark night, with never so much as a sail i' sight, an' wi' never a bite o' meat, nor a sup o' water ; left to drift te the north, or t j the south, as wind and wave may take you — or what's likelier far, left to drift downwards to the bottomless pit. Tak' yer choice.' 'I've done so already.' ' An' yer mind's noiin changed ?* ' Never for a second.' ' It may be as you're ower much of an idiot to tak' in what we're meanin',' Dick Reah broke in with characteristic impetuousness.. ' Think again, ya fool ! What'U ya do two hours after this— ay, or less nor that, when ya find the waves chopping ower the sides o' that bit o* boat you're in as if she were a cockle-shell ? What'U you do then ? Think on it for a moment — that is, if ya've brain anuff to tak' it in. Think of hoo ya'll feel when ya're goin' doon to the bottom, an' niver a soul near ya, even to see when or where ya go.' ' My brain can see all I wish to see, thank you,' Hartas replied^ speaking with a dignity, a calmness so unusual as to be a surprise to himself. He had not even raised his head as he spoke, and his tones were untainted by any harshness, any defiance. A keen instinct might have discerned an underlying sadness ; but no huch instinct was there out upon the dark water. Still, Samson Verrill was moved to make yet another effort. 'Look here, you son of a squire — a fine squire's son you are I But all the same, look here — this is suicide you're coiuraittin'.' ' Or you are committing murder, which is it ?' Hartas asked calmly. ' An' what o' that ?' Jim Tyas asked mockingly. 'It 'ud not be the first murder done on the seas atween the points of Ulvstan Bight — no, not the first by a lot. There's more sorts o' murder nor one. An' who'll know o' this, think ya ?' Hartas hesitated for one impressive moment ; then he said quietly emphatically : ' It will be known. There will be evidence you little dream of.* ' What might move him to speak so, he could hardly have told ; yet the quiet, oracular tone in which he spoke was not without its effect upon the men who heard. The night was still a dark ooe ; si ' . \ i ■ i ^i. ,1 ii8 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, the moon wm behind a bank of thick clond ; the wind was wailing ladly, wildly, coldly. Sampey Yerrill, with only his shore-going jacket on, was shivering in a way be was not much acquainted with. The wind he knew, and the sea he knew ; but strong and deep •motion was sometbing to be dreaded. ' Are ya mad T Sampey asked, coming to the stern of the boat, and standing a little behind Jim Tyas. ' Are ya clean daft ? TaVe only got to safiy a word, an' back ya'll go, wi' no more harm npon ya nor if ya'd been sittin' i' yer oau arm-chair.' ' Oh, he'll sit on a sofy, he will, wiv a sixpenny cigar atween his lips,' Dick Reah interposed by way of aside. And Sampey Yemll added, perhaps not without undertone of warning to his word : ' The boat'll do better nor even a sofy. Itll be more like a rockin' chair by-and-by.' But the patience of Jim Tyas, never a large store at the best, was being rapidly exhausted. ' We've had anuff o' this !' he exclaimed, moving away with an impatient gesture. Then, turning again to the stem of the boat, taking a huge knife from his pocket, and unclasping it with ostenta- tion, ne said, speaking loudly, emphatically : * Ah'U give ya a last chance, an' then yer life 'U be i' yer oan hand. Will ya mak' that promise, or will ya not ?' The answer came clearly, deliberately : • I will noV No more v^as said just then. None dared to prevent Jim Tyas from cutting ihe rope that held the smaller boat in tow ; strand by strand, and with scientific manipulation, he did it. . . . There was only a last fibre.' * Speak, ya fool !' But no one spoke. Hartas Theyn felt the moment when the last strand was severed, the boat set adrift ; he felt it through his very soul as with a shock, Eet comparatively but a slight shock. It was much as if some one ad opened a vein in his ^dy, from out of which his life would slowly but surely flow. For perhaps one minute the two boats had drifted apart ; yet the space between was a wide one. The sky seemed darker and wilder ; the waters blacker and more turbulent. Thou once more a .voice came from out the distant gloom : ♦ Will ya saay that word, ya born idiot ?' It was Samson Yerrill's voice, and there was an undertone of strong entreaty in it ; but no response was made. For a long while they listened, but there came never ftny • spouse. THE SHADOW OF DEATH "f at the best, was CHAPTER XXIX. ^ -.-^^ •habt thou then wrapped us in thy shadow, death?' And yet that hollow moaning will not go, . . . Nor the old fears that with the sea abide.' '; WiLLUM M. W. Calu As some of the older people had expected, that night was one of the wildest nights ever known on the north-east coast of England. The storj of it — or rather a mere outline of the story— may be read in the local chronicles of that day. It is told in the usual brief, journalistic fashion how the sloop Joanna, of Sunderland^ came ashore at Flamboro' ; how her crew were drowned, all but the little cabin-boy, who was washed ashore, stunned and senseless, and awoke to learn that his father had gone down in that same squall only a few miles farther to the south. The next wreck to come ashore was the schooner Vik'mg. Though the vessel was registered as sailing from Hild's Haven, the crew were all of them Ulvstan men. There were six of them— a fa 'ier, his brother, his three sons, and a cousin. They had been ca ght oat at sea suddenly during that wild night, and almost immediately the little vessel had sprung a leak. It had probably seemed to the crew, in the first moments of their danger, that it was a matter of congratulation that distress had come upon them so near to their own home. They made at once for the Bight of Ulvstan ; but in those days the men of the Bight had no help to offer ; no lifeboat was stationed there, no rocket-apparatus ; they could only ^o up to the cliff-top with the wives and children, the parents and sisters of the men in danger, and watch there. They presently saw that the crew had 'taken up aloft.' But the sea was breaking over the rigging. One tremendous wave was seen to wash several of them off into the boiling surf ; this was about daybreak, and at last the ship went down. Before she quite sank, the top-gallant-mast was seen to be out of the water, with men clinging to it, in sight of their agonized and powerless friends. But the storm went on raging ; and at last, one by one, the poor fellows were seen to drop off, to battle with the furiously-dashing sea below for a moment or two, and then to go under. If you should ask for any of the Burrells of Ulvstan Bight now, you would receive for answer, * The sea gat him f An hour or two later, when the crimson of the rising sun had ceased to flush the tossing surf with fiery colour, another vessel came in sight, remained visible for a few minutes, and then suddenly disappeared with all hands on board. Later the hull of this brigantine washed up, and her name-board proved her to have been the Marie Sieden of Rotterdam. The captain, a voung man of not more than five-and-twenty. was found lashed to the helm, his right arm broken, a pitiless bruise on his l«f t ttmpk. Tliere was still a smile on the dead placid f aoo. If 120 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, A lovely miniature on ivory, a portrait of a young girl, golden haired (a rich red gold it was), blue-eyed, crimson-lipped, was nea; the heart of the drowned captain of the Marie Sieden. Two dayi later strangers laid him to rest in the quiet churchyard at Markei Yarburgh ; and he was not unwept. Naturally enough these days of storm and stress were days ol great excitement in Ulvstan Bight. When the tide was out thi fisher-folk gathered about the sands and the foot of the Forecliff when it was high and the storm was at its worst, they went up to the quay and to the ledges of shaly rock that ran to the southwan of the Bight. This they did especially when any sail was in sight watching the labouring of the distant vessel as it passed from poin; to point, wondering what its fate might be. But very few ship passed by, and these were screw-steamers for the most part, mon equal to the fight with wind and wave than the wooden-bull^ canvas-sped vessels that awoke iso much more interest. It was tiu oak or teak built brig, the white sail, that aroused the fears i every heart watching in or near the Bight of Ulvstan. All day the excitement was kept up in an intermittent way, an at nightfall it increased. There were two or three vessels in sight one seemed as if it might hold on its way with some chance oi safety ; the second, a brigantine, appeared to be driving more « less at the mercy of the waves ; a third, the Lady Godiva o! Danesborough, a schooner with only four men on board, wai evidently trying to make for the beach when the night began ti fall, and the chance for her crew, with that awful sea whitening al the bay, seemed very small indeed — they must surely know hoi small, those poor storm-driven souls whose own home was not ti very far away. Yes ; they would know all the coast, its dangen its advantages, its possibilities. Yet they were trying to rui aground in Ulvstan Bight, that was evident. It seemed as if not only the population of Ulvstan was there ( watch the on-coming of the little schooner, but people from all tb neighbourhood round about. Barbara Burdas, with two of tli three little lads beside her, was out upon the Forecliff. 0! Ephraim was down below answering Mrs. Kerne's brusque questioD with a quite equal brusquencss, yet he was not at all averse fromn ceiving a shilling for his apparently grudgingly-given informatioi Jim Tyas, with Dick Reah, Samson Verrill, and a dozen other were by the edge of the quay, waiting in readiness to do aught tbi might be done, waiting patiently, watching closely, almost silentl; If they grieved that they could do so little, their grief was m audible. More than one there present noticed how downcast some few ( these fishermen seemed that day ; but' none dreamed that they hi other cause for being dispirited than the very natural sympatl they must be feeling for those in danger. Their close watcbii was approved, their patient waiting commended. Though no bo might be launched in such a sea, yet all else that might be done WUL, \ young girl, goldeni Qson-lipped, was neurl ie Sieden. Two dayJ hurchyard at Markefl 1 stress were days of! the tide was out th»| foot of the ForechfE ^orst, they went up t t ran to the southwai I any sail was in sight as it passed from poni ) But very few ship )r the most part, mor han the wooden-buiH re interest. It was iV t aroused the fears f Ulvstan. L intermittent way, an« r three vessels in sigbtj y with some chance "i to he driving more [, the Lady Godiva o? ir men on board, hen the night began awful sea whitening must surely know hoi 3 own home was not? \ the coast, its dangei sy were trying to " [of Ulvstan was there but people from «m t urdas with two of tl Ton the ForeclifE. Oi erne's brusque questiot lot at all averse from r incly-given informatioi •ill, and a dozen other idiness to do aught t r closely, almost silentl! [tie, their grief was no iw downcast some few U dreamed that they bi very natural sympatM g Their close watchia ■ended. Though no be Ise that might be done T//E SHADOW OF DEATH. 121 readiness to help was done, and with an almost passionate eagerness. lAnd no one was handier in coiling ropes than Samson Verrill ; no lie took more tronltlo to see that the tar-barreKs were rightly pre- iircd thiin Dick Roah. Jim Tyas was more sullen, more restless ; nd shook oiF poor Xan when she went down to the quaj' with some ot roflV'o in a can for him, with a harshntsiof manner he was never repent of. Nan's eyes filled with tears as she turned away ; and others saw nd wore sorry, even some of the roughest of them felt pain. They new that Nan was not well just now. and that she had fought her ay down to the quay at one of the wildest moments of the gale, ith a fnrions rain beating upon her; all were things to Ije ro- ombored after wai'd — too late. Yet it was .Jini Tyas who improvised the life-line that was to be ung on board the schooner if she came near enough to be helped he it was who kept to the quay and to the Forecliff, while thers went home to snatch a hasty meal. ' He's noiin such a bad 'un after all, isn't Jim I' said some of the Id fi<liernien, watching his alertness with a certain pride as in me way belonging to themselves. He was not much liked, he had f len made himselt to be dreaded, though his temper was rather of e hitter than of the passionate type. Yet he could be violent iuugh ou occasion. He was best known for his daring, his wild d reckless daring ; courage, one called it ; fool-hardiness, another ; t none had ever doubted his desperate bravery. More than one an living in the Bight knew well that he owed his life to the gtr teiiierity of Jim Tyas. They were watching there in the deepening twilight. Groups of ilors and fi>her-folk went down on the as yet uncovered beach ; e women and cliildren were for the most part on the quay. There s a carriage or two at the bottom of the hilly road that led dovyn to the Bight from Yarva, and from the moorland townlet of ildwick. It seemed as if few could rest in their own warm and Imt'ortable homes on such a right as this. All day Damian Aldenmedo had been there. At first he had ed to sketch, to put on canvas the fierce, wild rolling and curving the waves — waves more dread, more magnificent than any he had |er seen ; but he had soon to desist. It was like trying to make istic capital of some influence that was appalling, impressing his st nature. In a word, he was too greatly overcome by the ce of the spirit of the storm to make use of his talent. He had )wn nothing like this before. Ie could not paint or sketch ; he could hardly think to any nite end. What responsive man or woman can ever use the .ver of thought to any intelligible purpose during a hurricane that weeping both lanii and sea ? The least sensitive person must t'ly be unstrung. The sound alone — the loud, continuous, n«rve- ling. brain-racking sound must of itself be sufficient to untune iry string of the chords of human life. And then there is always ttt /AT EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, tome dread present, either in the background, or in the forefront of wnsatiou. And it is a strange, peculiar, magnetic kind of dread, for some of as much akin to that which strains the soul when the Mrth is all a-tremble beneath one's feet. ... It is only when the ttorm has ceased, only when the wind lies dead upon land and sen, only when the ocean is stilled to an almost appalling stillness, that one can at all measure the depth of prostration one has reached. If the tension be taken off suddenly the reaction is almost in- deacribabla Damian Aldenmede was all unaccustomed to the strain caused by a ftorm at the sea's marge. He could not realize it, or understand it altogether, and consequently he gave to other perturbing causes more than their due share in his perturbation. Twice or thrice during that day he had seen Canon Godfrey in the Bight ; once he had met him coming out ttom the cottage where the poor little shipwrecked lad was lying, conscious now of the fact that he had been left fatherless, and, since his captain was gone and his shipmates, almost friendless. The Canon grasped the artist's hand warmly, hurriedly. *We must look to the little stranger,' he «aid, passing on to the next cottage, where an old woman, mother of one of the drowned Burrell family, was sitting alone, stunned, tearless, resentful, waiting for some one to listen to her raving against the ways of God and man. No such task had ever had to be met by Hugh Godfrey as that which f eU to him under the low red roof of the Burrells. The long, gray, stormy twilight, how it seemed to linger that evening 1 The groups of anxious people gathered and grew ; the great waves rose, and tossed, and fell in long, whitening lines upon the beach. The little schooner was still struggling bravely, but ah ! how slowly, toward the land where alone was safety. And now once again the Canon and Damian Aldenmede met ; it was at the point where the road that crossed the Forecliff joined the path that led to the new promenade. There was a tiny wooden bridge across the beck that ran down from the moorH above to the sea. Close at hand a coastguardsman's cottage stood behind trim garden palings. Some fisher-folk were grouped about the little gate, the gray road that led up the hill behiod was lined on either hand by people seeking the slight shelter afforded by the rising ground. Everywhere the samn si^bdued excitement was noticeable. ♦ What do you think ?' the artist was asking. ' What do you think of the chances of the schooner ? Is there any hope for . . .' Mr. Aldenmede's question was never finished. There- was a •udden commotion among the little crowd by the coastguardsman's gate ; a stepping aside as if to make way ; a murmur of conster- nation ; a white figure flying down the dark road I The Canon tomed in instant anxiety, and the artist's sympathy was with him. Then, all at once, as if TborhMda had known where her uncle must be, she flew to him, clinging to his arm with pathetic fervour of lsndem«M. NAN TYAS AND HER TROUBLES, "3 i r ' Is it yoa ? I» it Uncle Hugh T she cried, gasping between e«oh word, being so very breathless. ' Is Hartas with you ? . Is he ? . , . Surely he is ?' She could say no more just then, and the Rector, seeing how it was with her, placed her arm within his own, and drew her away from the gaping little crowd that had gathered round. ' Come with me/ he said gently. ' Come into Mackenzie's cottage. . . . Aldenmede, will you see if Mrs. Mackenzie has come home?* "'»^~ CHAPTER XXX. . , ^ ' •<•.-.)■ NAN TYAS AND HER TROUBLES. " - ' * Let not the waters close above my head, Uphold me that I sink not in this mire ; For flesh and blood are frail and sore afraid ; And young I am, unsatisfied and ^onng, With memories, hopes, with cravmgs all unfed, ' My song half sung, its sweetest notes imsung, AU phins cut short, all possibilities.' Chbistina Bosbetti. Thus invited, the artist was well content to accompany them, to see Miss Theyn seated by the cottage fire, trying to collect herself, to overcome her emotion ; but it was evident that these things were difficult to her. ' Have you not seen Hartas V she asked, still speaking with effort. ' He is missing / He has not been at home all day, all night ! Some time yesterday he left the Grange, and they have not seen him since ! . . . Rhoda is at the Rectory, with Aunt Milicent. . . . She has walked all the way from the Grange alone and in this storm to see if we could tell her anything about him. . . . Poor Rhoda, she cares so much more about him than I ever dreamed she did. . . She guessed when I was there yesterday that I had something particular to say to him. As I told you, he was out ; but I ought to have gone before. ... I ought to have done something. / was asked to warn him ! . . , And I did not. . . . How shall I bear it ? — how shall I hear f , , What can they have done, those enemies of his ?' ' You know nothing more than you told me of before ?' the Canon asked. ' You told me that Nan Tyas had intimated that some harm was intended him ; you know no more ?' • I know nothing but that. Surely it is enough. And I did not forget — not for a second. But I wanted to see Hartas alone, to talk to him a little, that is, to appeal to him. . , You have not seen him since ' ' Not since that moment I told you something of — the moment when we parted on the sands, and he gave me such hope of hit future.' It was strange how the Canon's heart sank, remembering that hour. Of tlMs be did not speak, but for a momeat ho left tbt in V 1 !' 5. I 134 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. room. Thorhilda had seen that the blue, kindly eyes were bright with unshed tears. She made a momentary effort. ' You have not seen my brother, Mr. Aldenmede, I need hardly ask ?' she said. Then, worn out by physical fatigue, by mental strain, she closed her eyes and sank back in her chair ; and he hhw by the dread pallor on her face that she was unconscious. The sight was sfru igtly overwhelming, almost paralyzing. *My child I my child P he exclaimed, in a subdued, agonizing tone, as he took her cold hands in his and cliafed them. It was only a moment or two before consciousness began to return. Her colour came back with a sudden betraying ilush. Hatl she heard ? And what exactly had he said ? He hardly knew, ("anon (Jodfrey was re-entering the little room ; Mrs. Mackenzie was coming with a cup of tea ; Miss Theyn, recovering herself, was asking : ' What can we do ? . . . Uncle Hugh, you will do «o//<r///i/?,7.* for my sake you will do something. I feel as if it were all on my head ; on my own head. Remember that. I ought to have made more effort, but I did not dream of anything happening yet ; how should I ? And now it may be too late — it may be 1 . . . What can we do ?' * There are some things to be done at once,' the Canon replied, with peremptoriness. ' You must, in the first place, take this tea. . . . You have acted with sufficient unwisdom for "one day, Thorda dear. The carriage could have been brought round in ten minutes, and in the end you would have been here much sooner. Now you must please obey. me. Mr. Aldenmede will get a cab ; he will take you home in it, and then he will come back, and kelp me to do all that may be done. . . . You see I am counting upon you in a very cavaher fashion,' he added, turning to Aldenmede. ' But this is no time for deliberate courtesies. ... 1 need not ask if you will do all you can ?' The artist was not one to deal in words at such a moment. ' ' I will do all I may do, and gladly,' he replied. But the re- strained, eager f ervidness of his tone said more than many eloquent phrases. It was about this time that somehow, no one ever knew exactly how, the news was flashed about Ulvstan Bight that Hartas Theyn was missing ; that he had been missing since the previous day. . . . This was Miss Theyn's motive for flying all the way from Yarburgh Rectory on a stormy evening with only a white shawl for protec- tion. The sensation seemed to mingle itself with that that was gathering about the little schooner that was struggling to reach the Bight with her crew of four exhausted men — each man now lashed to the rigging. Once, about an hour earlier, a flash had been seen ; the dull boom of a signal gun had struck upon the ears of the waiting, helpless, saddened crowd. That was the last effort, the last appeal. And no answer could be made — none. There was no lifeboat in that little bay. ill NAN TYAS AND HER TROUBLES. 125 1 were brigbt 1 my brother, in, she closed p, dread pallor was stra.igi-ly led, agonizing them. It was return. Her iid she heard ? Jiuion Godfrey s coming with kin<^ : something ? for ere all on my to have made ning yet ; how I . . . What can Canon replied, D, take this tea. ne day, Thorda in ten minutes, Iner. Now you ., ; he will take i\[) nie to do all n you in a very ' i3ut this is no you Avill do all moment. But the re- mauy eloquent Lt knew exactly ft Hartas Theyn revious day. . . • irfromYarburgh law I for protec- h that that was ling to reach the Iman now lashed had been seen ; |the ears of the last effort, the There was no Had a boat been there, there were filly men from whom a crew of twelve might have been chosen. Surely all the ))e()i)le of the neighbourhood must now have been there by the sea's wild margin! (Iray-headed men and women, who had lived by the sea, and toiled by it, and siilTered by it ; little children, whose brief life was all bound up with the sea-lifci of the jilace ; young men, strong, anxious, eager to fight for the lives of these men, their fellows, bound helplessly there in the rigging of the drifting ship, yet having no means of fighting ; young maidens excited by sympathy, prayerful, tearful, calm, hysterical— all these and others were there ; emotion mingling with emotion ; thoughts, hopes, regrets, repentance finding expression in that unwent»d moment that might have remained unexpressed for ever in the routine of daily existence. The twilight yet lingered ; the tide was not yet at its highest. The little vessel, with her black hull, could be seen quite distinctly as she tossed there in the white surf. She yet held together, and she was beating in ; these were the sole grounds for ho{)ing. Intense as were the hopes, the fears, tluit held that multitude of people in a common thrall, the news that the Rector's niece liad brought to the Bight was by no means ignored. All at once the feehng that some dark deed had been perpetrated seemed to seize the people. No one knew how this idea had arisen, yet it was there ; and almost immediately spoken of more or less openly. ' They've done it — them Andoes,' old Dan Furniss said at once. ' Ne'er a worse woman lived nor old Suze, an' they're all of a breed, 'cept David ; an' he's like anuff a changlin', whoii knows ? Wi' such a family as yon — whoii knows ? But that's neither here nor there ! What ha' they done wi' the young Squire ? lie's noan sa much, or he'd never ha' set his heart on a flither-picker ! But for all that they're scarce within the law o' the land i' murderin' him I . . . An' whoJi knows ?' Such were the words, the hints, the suggestions, that flew round the Bight on that wild autumn evening. Did they hear, those three men who had rowed out to sea the night before, towing a tiny boat which they had cut adrift miles from the land ? Did they need to hear any spoken word ? Was not the voice of j the stormy sea as it rolled and broke and thundered at the foot of I the cliffs — was not this sufficiently informing ? Who can say what it was that was lending such desperation to I their effort to save life — the lives of those comparative strangers I that fate was driving into their hands ? As everyone saw, the men of Ulvstan were doing their utmost. I A tar-barrel had been lighted on the beach, indicating the spot [toward which the schooner's crew might aim with some hope of ieUverance— supposing any power of aiming anywhere were left to |them. Very soon after this it was perceived that they had ibandoned themselves to the mercy of wind and wave. i^'i 126 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ■ft " ■4 -I Hi Thti gun had been fired at sea ; tho burning iar-barrel had answered on tho phore ; and now out upon the Baldorstone— a long, dark tongue of low -lying rock that stretched across the bay at a right angle from the cliff, some fifty men and lads of the place were assembled, a few with ropes, a few with flares of blazing pitch or tar. They were all anxious, all ready, a few pressed forward in a very passion of desperate eagerness. It was just then that Nan Tyas and Bab Burdas met unex- pectedly on a shelving part of the Foreclilf. Nan was sobbing, shivering, trying to cover herself with a little red woollen hi^nd- kerchief that was about her neck. Bab saw and understood, and vras all compassion in a moment. ' Ya daft lass !' she exclaimed, unfastening her own big warm Scotch plaid, and pinning it in motherly fashion about the young fishw if o's shoulders. ' Ya daft body ! What are ya doin' here V You've no right to be out o' doors at all ! One'll hear tell o' ya bein' i' bed the next thing !' Nan's first answer was a deeper sob ; then at last words came. ' Eh, but you're a good friend, Bab, an' kind ! As for stayin' indoorn, it's noiin sa easy at a. time like this !' * You're gettin' nervous, Nan, an' no wonder I What's your mother about 'at she's not lookin' after ya ?' * My mother !'Nan exclaimed, checking her tears for the moment! and lifting her face with a look of scorn upon it, *My mother ; . . . Eh, well, she is my mother, so mebbe I'd better say no more ; but it's little ya know o' her if ya think she'd put herself oot o' the way for me. ... If I thought I'd ever \\\v to be as hard to a bairn o' mine, I'd wish to die to-night, afore to-morrow. . . . But what am I sayin' ? She is my mother !' ' Don't say no more of her, Nan — not just now,' Bab urged gently and kindly. * You're noan dependent on her now. , . . Surely Jim's kind anuff ?' Bab had no idea of being inquisitive. She was only wondering how far she need go in case of Nan being in any trouble or danger. For awhile Nan did not reply. Then she said sadly and slowly : ' Off an' on he's kind ; there's worse nor he is.' It was evident that she wished to say no more ; and Bab under- stood and was silent in her comjiassion, but she drew a little nearer to Nan, and watched her in the motherly protecting way that was an instinct always, when anyone needed her care. Nan was well able to appreciate kindness. And still the storm seemed to be increasing. The few stars that had appeared in the sky were obscured, the heavens became one black mass of cloud, and suddenly from out the mass there came a vivid, blinding flash of lightning, disclosing the scene in the Bight with painful clearness. The schooner was still there, her dark hull rocking slowly in the white waves, her masts still standing, and aj'parently two at least of the crew had descended from the rigging, WHEN THE CRY WAS AfADE. 127 The crowd of men were still clufitoring upon the tongue of rock : Borae of them seemed quite near tin; 8liip. In point of fiict, they WiTo lioldiiit,' :i (lilliciilt iu»nv»'i>':iti()n with the master and mate of the Ldihi (iodicu. 'J'ho lightning tlash Kilouccd the spoukors for the moment. Then came the thunder, loud, dread, long-continued, seeming as if it silencLil all thini,'s. * You Diiiii go home, Xan 1' liah urgiid ngain, her 8ynjp:ithv roused to the ntturmost l»y the uncontrolliil>lo ticinor of the girl at her side. ' You're none will ! You raun go home' ' Let ma wait a bit lon<^'ei— just a hit,' Nan begged with a new (juietnt sa, a new gentleness. 'I'd like to see what comes o* yon schooner.* CHAPTER XXXI. *AT MrnNKJIIT, WIIKN THK CUY «VA8 MADE.* • " Love mo hi sinnoiH niul in siiints, lu eiich who ncods or fiiiiitH,'— hort], I will love Tliee as I can , III every brother man. • '• All sore, nil cripjiled, all who ache, Tend all lor My dear siike, ' — All for Thy sake, Lord : I will see lu every sutleror Thee. " Christina Rossettl It was just at that moment that old Ephraim Burdas eame up to the point of the Forecliif where Barbara and Nan were standing. Bab saw at once that he was somewhat excited, and longing to unburden himself of the cause of his excitement. ' What's i' the wind noo, granf ather V she asked. * What have ya heerd that's new ? Nought 'at's good such a day as this, I'm fearin',' ' Good or bad — whoa can saliy ?' exclaimed the old man. ' Think ov a laiidy like yon, dressed all i' white, fra the crown of her head te the sole of her foot, flyin' doon fra Yarbvirgh Rectory, all aleiin, an' wi' niver a hat nor a bonnet on her head ! Think on it ! An' a storm like this ragin' — wind an' ra;iin,'an' thunder an' leetnin', an' slush an' mud — think on it 1 An' what's she done it for ? All acause yon scapegrace brother of hers is missin'. Missin' ? Nea doobt on it ; an' missin' he'll be ! Missin' ? Some o' thoni Andoes could tell what sort o' missing it means. They're bad anulf for owght— all but Dave ; an' as for Jim Tyas, . . .' ' Gran\faiher V Bab exclaimed warmly, feeling the heavy weight of poor Nan, as the young fishwife reeled and fell against her. For all Bab's strength it was as much as she could do tf) sustain the half-conscious form. She had no time or ojiportunity to realize the stun and hurt that the old man's words had been to her own m; fj 128 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, % brain. But almost immediately Nan made a great effoi't— there was need for it— and recovered herself sufficiently to say : ' Keep a quiet tongue i' yer lie?ld, Barbie. I'll tell ya what Ah know ; it isn't much, but I'll tell ya by-an'-by.' That was all Nan could say just then ; and she spoke the truth in saying that she did not know much. One thing everybody knew. Dandy Will's little boat had been missed at daybreak ; but that such a tiny craft should have broken from its moorings and drifted out to sea during such a night as that just passed was far too commonplace a matter to attract much remark. Why 'had not the owner taken the trouble to do what the owners of other boats had done — draw his little possession up to the side of the Forecliff, and turn her upside down among the grass and the gray-green bents ? Who could pity him ? Perhaps it was fortunate for Bab that she had Nan to think of and care for in this tirst moment. Still she began to feel as if her own strength were bei^g taken from her ; as if she must be grow- ing cold and white ana ill. Miss Theyn was there in the Bight ? Her brother Hartas was missing ? People were suspecting foul play ? Surely her little world was crumbling beneath her feet ? Yes, certainly it was well that Bab had to give the best energy she had left to the suffering girl by her side. ' You'll go home now, Nan !' she said entreatingly. But Nan was not yet to be persuaded. 'Hoo ya talk !' she replied, with the mingled tremor of cold and fear and pain in her voice. 'Go home^ an' him doo*.. there, bent o* risking' his life as he were never bent afore ! Us been on him all day^ that desperateness / , . . Eh me ! it's been the strangest day o' my life — the strangest of all. . . . God send Ah may never know such another !' Sobs prevented Nan's utterance of any further foreboding. By this time the lightning was flashing across the bay with some frequency, the thunder rolling and crnshing with appalling nearness ; the white waves were still flying and tossing down below. Every now and thou the schooner could be seen ; the long dark Balderstone, with a few men yet remaining upon it, lingering there becaui>e of their humane errand. There were not more than five or six of them now ; the rest had fled with the rising of the tide, warning the others that the deep gutter that surrounded the rock was already filled with water. Jim Tyas and Samson Verrill were among those who remained, beseeching the crew of the Lady Godlva to leave the vessel while yet there was time. Again Jim Tyas was the spokesman. He knew the captain of the little ship, knew that he was part owner as well as captain, and he knew also that, for economy's sake, she had not been insured. If she were lost that night, left to the mercy of the wild waters of Ulvstan Bight, all was lost so far as Jonas Lee was concerned. He would be a penniless man. His crew knew this, and held by their captain bravely. _;!i^ WHEN THE CRY WAS MADE. ta$ * There's no more nor five minutes noo !' Jim Tyas urged, apparently moved by such urgent compassion as had never moved him before. ' Give us a rope ! We'll land the lot on ya i' less time nor it's ta'en us to talk of it.' The captain shook his head ; being an old maa his voice could hardly be heard above the roar of that wild storm ; and the rest of the crew made no reply. They were free to do as they would, and their freedom might have meant their death-warranv .had fate so willed it. A few more words passed between the men on the shuddering vessel and those who would save them even from their own self- sacrifice. Then all at once a cry was heard, the cry of men suddenly, wildly despairing. One of the five fisherman who had stayed on the Balderstone discovered all at once that their sole chance of escape was cut off. They were surrounded by the rising tide. A rush was made ; the men on the deck of the schooner, exhausted as they were, fired another flare, as if to help the fisher- men who were making that desperate rush through the tossing, hurling waves. ' Follow me !' Jim Tyas shouted, as he dashed foremost into the surf at the one point whence escape might be possible. And the men followed him. Again, in the middle of the narrow channel, they heard his voice. It sounded strange and faint and heavy, yet the word was encouraging. ' Follow me !' And they did follow him, through the fierce, fatal, narrow sea, but not to his doom. Whether he had struck his head upon some point of rock, or whether some piece of floating wreck had struck him, none know, none ever might know. When Jim Tyas washed up, as he did within half an hour of his leaving the Balderstone, he was bruised and hurt, and cold and dead. They dared not tell Nan the truth — no one ever did tell her. She saw it in the look of the men who had escaped so hardly from the rocky peninsula, and who came up to the Forecliff with torn and bleeding hands, with white and ghastly faces, with drippiiiir hair and clothing, and the smell of the salt seaweed about them everywhere. Nan met them, looked upon them — there were four where five had been. All her questioning was in that one look. She turq^d away silently, quite quietly. Only Barbara Bunlas turned with her. ' Come wi' me. Nan, come home wi' me. You'll be quieter there nor anywhere else. . . . An' there's noan i' the world '11 do better by ya. Say you'll come 1' Nan made no reply, but she permitted herself to be led away, Bab's arm round her, Bab's soothing word in her ear. All t'ud* night Bab had no thought of herself, of her own strange grief. How should she ? Dr. Douglas came and went ; old Hagar Furniss came and stayed. Suzie Andoe refused to come, and Nan never asked for her. She asked for nothing, for no one. She made no moan. 9 I i 5 ' IJ Sffl^; I 130 /A' EXCHANGE FOR A SOUU It was some time about midnight when her baby was bom — a fine, fair woman-child as any mother need wish to look upon. But it was evident that poor Nan's heart sank still lower, hearing what was said. ' Don't say it's a girl, Barbie, dorUt I'd liefer you'd say it were dead-born nor tell me it's a girl ! . . . Poor folk should niver ha' nowt but lads. . . . They can figl jir own waay, lads can ! They've less to suffer. . . . Nobod; ver dreams o' what women has to go through, when they're poor ., God, no ! . . . Does God Hisself know o' what woman bears — an' nobody to 'give em a thought ; nobody to make nought no easier for 'em ? . . . Does He know ? ... If He does, why doesn't He put it into the hearts o' rich folk to think, to help a bit ? . . . They could do such a lot ! Oh, do they iver think o* what they could do ? . . . Why doesn't He make 'em think ? . . . Why a easier bed, a softer pilla', a better blanket, a few better bits of under-things for one's sel' an' for the bairn, they'd all make a difference, a strange difference. . . . Not 'at I've aught to complain on noo, no ; but that's your doin', Barbie. . . . Gie me a kiss ! . • . You'll be as good to the little un as ya've been to me ?' 'Nannie, be still!' Barbara sobbed, kissing the dying woman as she spoke. But Bab did not dream that death was near. She sat on the edge of her own little bed where Nan lay ; all was quiet, and clean, and warm. The doctor had gone, saying that he would retiirn presently ; and Hagar Furniss shook her old head wisely when she heard this, saying nothing of her fear to Bab. It was poor Nan herself who first awoke the dread that was slumbering in Barbara's brain. ' Gie me a word,' Nan whispered after a brief silence. * I'll sleep quieter under the sod if ya'll say one word. You'll be a mother to the little un !' ' Me be a mother to her !' Bab said, restraining herself where's the good o' talking to-night, when you're sa You'll be a mother to her yersel'.' ' Then ya'll noan promise, Barbara ?' 'Promise' What need o' promise, Nan? D'ya think 'at I'd ever see tho bairn want so long as I'd bite or sup for mysel' ?' Then she put out her hand, and took Nan's chill fingers in her own. ' Be at rest,' she said. ' If the little un ever wants any mother but you, I'll be proud to take your place. . . . Eh, me I Anybody 'ud be proud of a bairn like this. Why there's princesses 'ud give a thousand pound to hev one like it ! ... Be at rest about her. Nan.' The poor girl smiled faintly, opened her eyes, in which there was a new, soft, strange light, and clasped Barbara's hand more strongly and warmly in her own. ' It is good o' ya, Barbara, it t« good ! But you were alius like that, alius so different fra me. . . . Ah've never been good mysel', though Dave's said so much, an' tried so hard. . . . But Ah wasn't like him— no, never. ... Will Ah be forgiven, d'ya think V 'But down? WHEN THE CRY WAS MADE: 131 * The Bible says so, if ya're sorry.' ' Ah'm sorry enough noo. . . . Ah've often been sorry when Ah couldn't say so. . . . An' Ah doant know how to saay noa prayers nor nothing. . . . Could you saay one — a prayer, Barbie ? Ah'd like ya to, if ya can. . . . But afore ya do, will ye saJiy again 'at ya won't forsake the little lass ? ... If ever they take her fra ya, her father's folk, ya won't forget her ?' ' Me forget / . . . What's the girl thinking on ? . . . Hevn't Ah said 'at ya were to set yer mind at rest ?' Barbara was still sitting on the edge of the bed ; the chill hand of the dying mother was still clasped in her own strong and warm one. But even yet Barbara did not dream that the end was near. Strange to say she had never witnessed the oncoming of the last enemy save in that hour when her father and mother had struggled with hiiT in the deep waters of Ulvstan Bight. Now all was different. Bab thought awhile, praying silently with closed eyes, then a few tremulous and reverent words came audibly. Nan was comforted. Presently she spoke again ; ' I'm still thinkin' o' the little lass,' she said. ' It's a strange thought mebbe, but I would like ta call her after yon lady — her ya think so much on ! . . . Would She take it badly, d'ya think ?' * Take it badly ! None her I . . She'll be ever sa proud to know ya wish it.' ' Then will ya tell her ?• ' Ay, or you'll tell her yourself.' * No ; Ah 11 noan do that, not now. . . .' Then there came a pause. Old Hagar was dozing by the crackling fire, the clock ticked loudly. Presently Nan spoke again : ' Barbie ! . . . Ah'll noan live till the mornin',' she said slowly and feebly. 'Ah'm dying noo. . . Ah know Ah'm dying ! Give me another kiss. . . . An' be gooJ to the little lass. . . . An', Barbie, say that prayer again. . . . Ah'd like ya te be sayin' that just when Ah go. Ah'd like ya te be speakin' a word for me then ! 'Twould gowi' me like. . . . Ah'd not seem to be sa lone— not .... not sa despert lone !' }.5 • ' \ ■ ■u CHAPTER XXXII. CONJECTURE VAGUE. • Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew I In quiet she reposes ; Ab, would that I did too !' Matthew Arnold. It is strange, recalling the story of the sea, to lemember how often desperate effort has been made, lifeboats launched, rockets fired, men's lives sacrificed, in the desire to aid some ship's crew, while afterward that crew have been able calmly to leave their stranded q— 2 \ I. \ 132 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. vessel, to walk ashore without danger or difficulty. It is strange, and it is sad ; yet no human forethought may avert such sad- seeming incidents. It happened thus, precisely thus, to the crew of the Lady Godiva. They clung to their vessel, and about three o'clock on the following morning they descended from the side to the beach as if no very extraordinary escape had been theirs. It even seemed to some matter for congratulation that only one life was lost in connection with the wreck of the schooner, and that the life of a man not too highly respected or too greatly beloved. Yet the death of Jim Tyas made sensation enough on the Fore- cliff, and far beyond ; and that the poor girl-wife should have laid dov n her life with his did not make the sensation less. The child, left BO solemnly to Bab Burdas, would have been a cause of curiosity had Bab permitted ; but she did not, and, as old Mrs. Andoe said, in an aggrieved tone — 'Nobody daures say "wrong does she do "!' As a matter of course, Bab had admitted old Suzie to see her little grandchild, and the child's dead mother. Suzie had wept, knelt, prayed, wept again, and thanked Bab almost abjectly for her goodness. Barbara stood strong, and silent, and pale, dreading the next event ; but there was not much need for dread. ' You must say once for all what you mean to do, Susan,' Bab began, speaking even more gravely and weightily than was her wont. * I've told you what she said, her that's lying there on my own pillow. I've repeated what she said almost with her last breath, an' I've told you my own wish an' all. But for all that, you're the bairn's grandmother, an' the mother o' her 'at's lyin' there. So speak, but let it be once for all. D'ya want to take the child, to bring it up as you've brought up most o' yer own — i' rags, i' misery, i' dirt, i' hunger, i' ignorance, i' wickedness ? I'm noan sparin' yon, as mebbe I ought to ha' done, seein' as yer hair's gray, an' yer head trerablin'. But I've no pat:?^ ice with you — I never had. . . . Still, if yer bent on takin' the buira fra me, take it ! I'll none forget it, for her sake. But if you've ony regard for her last word, you'll leave it here, where it lies.' Another gush of ready tears was the first answer, and Bab, not being trained to refinement of humanity, turned away impatiently. Then all at once her conscience troubled her. She would have spoken again, and more kindly, but Susan prevented her. ' Dea as ya will, Bab ; dea as ya will I What could Ah mak' of a little wrecklin' like yen at this tahme o' daily '? . . . Naay, Ah can noan be bothered wi' it. . . . Ah'd get noa sleep of a night, nowther me nor Pete. We're ower oad te take a new-born bairn 1 Dea as ya will, Bab. Ah'U niver goa agaain ya !' * You promise ? . . . You won't take the child away fra me when I've got her beyond bein' a burden ?' * Noa. Ah'd noiin do that, Bab. . . . You're hard, so they all CONJECTURE VAGUE. 133 r-born bairn I frame when say ; you're hard when ya do tak' asfajiin onybody. . . , But you're good to children, they alloo that. It's such as Dave you're hard wiv, an' such as yon son o' the Squire's. . . . I'^h, hoo'ivver can ya resti' the hoose, an knaw, . . . naay, what is Ah sayin' ? Ya knaw nowt — nobody does — that's the worst on't. It 'ud noan seem sa bad if onybody knew.' All at once Bab's attention had been aircsted. She had turned so as to face old Susan, watching her closely, almost fiercely. ' Nobody doe^ know, ya say ? That's a lie — a downright lie 1 Ya know yerself !' It was in vain the old woman denied, protested, shuffled, wept, denied again. The more she protested, the less Bab believed her. ' Now look here,. Suzie,' Bab said at last. ' If ya don't tell me all ya know about young Theyn, I go straight this very hour to Dr. Douglas an' tell him what / know, what I know about the watch that Miss Douglas lost on the sands two years agone. . . . Oh, don't look sa startled ; ya know all about that !' Poor old Suzie I She could hardly be said to turn pale, but the smoke-brown tint of her face yielded to a mingled green and yellow ; her lips dropped apart, her eyes stared angrily. ' A watch ! . . . What are ya talkin' on, Bab ? Are ya daft to- night ? What are ya meanin' ?' 'Ah'm noiin one to waste words!' Bab replied curtly. 'You know what I mean ! . . . You know what I'm going to do — that is, unless ya tell me what they've done to — to him yaspokeof— Squire Theyn's son ! . . . Tell the truth, an' all the truth, or I start for Yarburgh within five minutes.' It was of no avail that the old woman denied all knowledge of the matter Barbara spoke of. She had to disclose all she knew ; indeed, all she conjectured at last. It was not much ; but Bab was satisfied that no more was to be extracted. ' Ah can only guess,' the poor old fishwife said. ' I heerd a word, only a word ; 'twas poor Jim spoke it. An' thi n somebody said aa how Dandy Will's little boat were missing', an' Ah couldn't but put two an' two togetbor. . . . An' noo, if ya tell o' ma, they'll murther ma, as sure as Ah'm stannin' here ! But ya won't, Bab ; Ah know ya won't. . . . Ya were never one o' the leaky sort !' Bab's heart was palpitating ; her eyes seemed blinded with a mist, not of tears, but certainly of emotion. Though Susan had done no more than confirm poor Nan's word, the confirmation was more than Bab could easily bear then. The storm was still raging, the wind was howling round the little cottage, wailing in the chimney, beating at the door, shuddering at the window. Even there, in the middle of the Forecliff, the sound of the sea thundering at the foot of the cliffs, breaking upon the shore, booming, as it were, in the very ears of those who listened, and of those who would fain cease from listening— even there the violence of the storm seemed !sulH(!iently appalling. What must it be out at sea ? What could it be to any mau exposed to the worst ? M * v '., i ! 1 : 'l '■ 1 134 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. \ — on the deck of a ship for instance, or lashed in the rigging, as those had been lashed in the Bight below. That any man should be out in such a storm in a small boat and live was an idea to be mocked at, if any had heart for such mockery. Bab had stood by her own fireside, silent for a while ; but at last she spoke : ' Ya can go noo, Suzie,' she said at last, speaking gently enough ror • The funeral '11 be the day after to-morrow. The rector's been .ere, an' he says Miss Theyn's goin' to tak' all the expense hersei'. Ah'll let Ixer do it ; I wouldn't ha' let nobody else. . . . It may be a bit o' satisfaction to her. She'll ha' trouble anuff now. . . . She cared for }iim — him 'at they've done to death oot o' spite. . . . An' now go, Susan. . . . An' if ya can fetch any news — neM^f" o' Injj — I'll pay ya as ya niver was paid for no piece o' work 8in< ' you w*>ro born. . . . Remember that.' busa 1 .1;' "' had hardly left the door of the cottage on the Fore- cliff, y/^QU J3:th, a little to her surprise, saw two other figures approcching — ii.- • ' "rly, worn, sorrowful-looking man, and a young tyirl viz-pfef. in 'loak, with the hood drawn over her head '•r.?'.>t, a wise enough arrangement on such in the place a day. Intuitively Bab recognised Squire Theyn and his younger daughter ; and when the old man knocked at the door Bab was at least as white, as much overcome by emotion, as Rhoda herself was. She listened to the Squire's questions— questions put briefly, calmly, and with dignity, and she answered with a dignity at least equal to that she heard. ' I know but little, but very little, sir,' she replied. The wind was shaking the door so violently that she could hardly hold it, hardly hear herself speak. ' What I do know I'll tell ya if ya come into the house.' ' That I will not do,' the Squire replied. ' How can you ask it V , . . Tell me what you know about my son.' Bab grew so pale that even Rhoda grew pitiful. * If you know anything, do tell us,' Rhoda urged in her hoarse low-pitched voice. There was trouble in it, as Bab heard. In very few words Barbara told the Squire what she had gathered, what she feared. This she did without betraying either the dead or the living. Squire Theyn listened, looked into the face of the girl who was speaking with a dazed, wondering look, as if he hardly understood. Then he turned away, stunned, silent. For above an hour he went on silently over the cliff-top ways ; and Rhoda, walking beside him, had no heart to break that sad silence. Then, apparently awakening to her presence all at once, he turned quickly, but not savagely, as the child half expected. ' Go home, Rhoda,' he said, speaking gently enough ; ' go home at once. . . You can't walk all the way back to Garlaff. Take BkipuJii's cab. . , . Here's the money to pay for it.' >>.>N-\'A CONJECTURE VAGUE. 135 * Come with me,' the girl ventured to say, unwonted tears in her even. ' Don't stay here, father, don't. . . . What can you do ?' ' The Squire was not angry, nay, he was touched more than he knew ; but no thought of yielding came to him. ' Do as I said, Rhoda ; go home. I'll come by-and-by.' The Squire turned away, but slowly and sadly rather than im- patiently; and Rhoda. going back by the Bight, came suddenly upon Canon Godfrey and Mrs. Kerne in earnest conversatioa with David Andoe. But David knew very little more than they did, though perhaps he feared more. . He was about to express his worst fear, when Mrs. Kerne discerned Rhoda coming down the pathway that led from the cliff. She saw that the girl was alone and in tears. Mrs, Kerne's own face was not free from the sign of weeping. • Hush !' she said imperatively ; ' say no more now.' Then she turned to her niece with a kindness, a sympathy that caused poor Rhoda to break down altogether. If her Aunt Kathe- rine could be so gentle, so affectionate as this, things must be look- ing very dark indeed. Rhoda's distress increased her aunt's attempt to relieve it ; and presently they all went together to Laburnum Villa, the beautiful new house that Mr. Kerne had built out beyond the promenade. Tea was ordered, gas lighted everywhere, fires stirred to a blaze ; but Mrs. Kerne's tears were more than all her hospitalities in her niece's sight. People who have v/ept together are friendlier friends than before. When Rhoda went home, her uncle went with her in the cab, and did his best to comfort her. ' Don't give up hoping,' the Canon said understandingly ; ' don't do that. Will it help you to know that I, for my part, feel some- thing that is almost certainty that I have not looked my last upon the face of your brother Hartas ? . . . I won't say too much ; but I will repeat what I have said in other words. I have not yet for one moment felt hopeless.' CHAPTER XXXIIL WATCHING BY THE SEA. ' Jnst Heaven instructs ns with an awful voice. That Conscience rules ua e'en against our choice, ' ^ Our inward monitress to guide or warn, If listened to,— but, if repelled with scorn, At length as dire Remorse, she reappears, Works in our guilty hopes and seltish learh. Still bids Remember ! and still cries, Too late I And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.' COLERIDOB. All alone the old Squire walked there on the wind-swept elifE-top — the thundering of the ocean at the foot of the cliffs in his ear, the far white wide sea filling all his sight. Night was closing in again ; the storm had not abated. Men's fears were not yet at rest. 136 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 'it& Some there were who had especial cause for fear. Dick Heah, not able to bear the sight of the little inn after the inquiry, during which he had been called upon to give evidence as to the death of Jim Tyaa, had escaped from the place altogether, taking up his quarters at Danesborongh. Sarapey Vefrill took a different view of the matter, and was no^j by any entreaty of wife or child to be drawn from walking to and fro by the edge of the still stormy sea. At high water, when he might walk there no longer, he took his stand on a rugged point of blue-black rock to the south of the Bight, and remained there till the tide had turned. He might not escape from that drear watch-.point if he would, till the receding sea gave him permission. They did not know of each other, these two lonely watchers. All night the Squire walked up and down to the north of the Bight ; all night Samson Verrill sat or stood on the point of rock to the south, within a few feet of the sea that was still tossing wildly, madly, eagerly, as if no crv of lamentation were going up from the little bay for the deaths it had already caused. At daybreak three of the drowned Burrells were found lying on the shore— the father was there, his eldest son, and the youngest. They were taken home, and a day or two later they were laid to rest in the old churchyard. You may see the tombstone now, with the date and manner of their death told in brief words. It is all the biography of men who lived brave lives, and died sad deaths, and it is told in some five or six lines cut with a graver's tool. This is the conclusion : * Through many various tempests have we past, But a safe harbour we have found at last. ' It was David Andoe who found the youngest Burrell lying among the weed-covered stones to the north of the bay. David was sauntering over the beach, hoping to meet Samson Verrill, to get the truth from him as to what had become of Squire Theyn's son. David could not yet quite believe the tale that was spreading everywhere now ; yet he feared that Sampey knew whether it were true or no. How else could his strange conduct be accounted for ? Why should he be wandering about among the rocks by night and by day, only going home for a few moments at a time to snatch a little food between the tides ? Surely Samson knew something, and David was fain to learn what he knew. But when at last opportunity came, he could extract no details. Samson would acknowledge nothing, deny nothing. ' For the sake o' yon old man, hia father, as is wandering aboot yon cliffs — for his sake tell me the truth, Sampey.' So David urged ; but the truth did not come. ' If the Squire's watchin', let him watch. I'd noan hinder him !' That was all that Samson Verrill would say. But he turned back to his own watching, and David could hardly fail to fear the worst. \ WATCHING BY THE SEA, 137 r. Dick Reah, inquiry, during to the death of taking up his I different view 3 or child to be still stormy sea. Ter, he took his he south of the He might not till the receding lonely watchers, he north of the ;he point of rock was still tossing n were going up aused. re found lying on and the youngest, they were laid to ibstbne now, with f words. It IS all d died sad deaths, graver's tool. )aBt, est Burrell lying F the bay. David fSamson Verrill, to )f Squire Theyn's rhat was spreading ;w whether it were be accounted for ? :ocks by night and time to snatch a knew something, lextract no details. 'wandering aboot noan hinder him V Jy. But he turned fdly fail to fear the Another night passed, the storm continued, and at daybreak the ocean seemed churned, so to speak, so far did the white surf extend, BO entirely one mass of surging foam did it appear to be. That a small boat should be anywhere on such a sea and not be broken to matchwood seemed an impossibility. The one possible thing was an event not to be thought of without pain, even by those least concerned. Hope dies hardly — how hardly let those say who have spent not only days but long nights in the endurance of the agony of desperate hoping. No entreaty prevailed with Squire Theyn. All the first night he had walked there, wind-driven, rain-swept, on the cliff-top. His eyes had looked upon the sea at even, while the last ray of light was dying from the farthest white wave, and his sight swept the same sea when the first ray of morning broke above the eastern horizon, spreading so slowly, so very slowly to the margin of the sea at his feet. And in all that wide stretch of water there was no sail, nor any boat ; there was nothing for the poor old man's wearied gaze to rest upon save the stormy sea itself. Very weary he was, for the soul within him was already fainting. * Hartas 1' he said, speaking softly, as if he were heard. ' Hartas I forgive me I . . , Forgive me, and come back. . . . I've not been a good father to you, but things shall be different. . . . Only come back !' When the day was full in the sky he went home and took some food when Rhoda urged him, and rested awhile. But before night- fall he went back to the cliff-top pathway ; and when Canon Godfrey, wearied with his day's work, his many visits to the cottages of the bereaved, his ministrations in the churchyard — when the Canon joined the old man, and would have walked with him, he found no response. * Leave me — leave me alone !' the Squire prayed. ' It is all I ask of any human being now, that I may be left alone !' On the fourth day the storm w ^ at down, but the comparative calm brought no hope to any who believed that Hartas Theyn had been dealt with as the people on the Forecliff were declaring. But little else was talked of in the place now. Dick Reah had never returned from I)anesborough. Samson Yerrill still went to and fro on the rocks, already a mere shadow of himself ; and the sight of the Squire's gray, gaunt figure, going up and down the hillside road in the twilight and at dawn, dreAV tears from eyes not much accustomed to weeping. Each day the carriage came down from the Rectory with Mrs. Godfrey in it, and sometimes Mrs. Meredith and her son Percival. Thorhilda did not come. And none saw Barbara Burdas outside the cottage door during these terrible days. It was understood that she must have enough to do. One day there had been a double funeral, attended by half the people of the Bight. James Grainger Tyas, fisherman, and •- ^ "^ I ■■■' 'ii 138 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, But, eh, God helpin' me, be father an' mother to you. Ann Eliza, bis wife, bad been laid side by side in the old church- yard at Yarburgh, on the same day, in the same hour. Bab Burdas was there by the two graves, the threo-days t>ii.l baby safely sheltered in her arms. * I'll tell ya on it some day, my bairn,' she whispered through her blinding tears to the little one, ' An' maybe you'll be glad to know I brought you here. . . . that is, if you may ever be glad at all, bein' fatherloBs an' motherless ! ~ " you shall never miss them I , , . I'll both i' one !' That day passed, and then the next. Yet no tidings came of Hartas Theyn. Rhoda wept at home, growing paler and thinner ; yet she did her father's bidding, and kept one room ready for anything that might happen, doing all more willinqly and gladly than ever before. Even her short-sighted and self-ubsorbed Aunt Averill marvelled at the change, and had not the human grace to keep her marvelling to herself. And Bab Burdas wept in the rude house on the Forecliff ; but not when anyone was by to see. l.ab's weeping was done when her grandfather and the children were in bed, and Nan's baby lay quietly smiling and sleeping on her lap. ... It was only then that Bab gave way. So another day went on — it was the sixth. And yet another came^nd went. Each night Squire 'Theyn had kept his vigil on the cliff to the north of the Bight of Ulvstan ; and the people saw and wondered. Was the old man going to watch there for ever ? What was he hoping now ? What could he be thinking ? They could not hear what he still kept saying : * Hartas ! Hartas ! forgive me ! Come back, and forgive me ! I wasn't a good father, but I cared for you. I always cared. . . . Even when you were a little lad, I cared. . . . Come back again !' At last came the eighth evening — the eighth from that on which three angry and resentful men had sought to express their resent- ment in a manner not altogether unknown in the annals of Ulvstan Bight. And now one was lying in the churchvard at Yarburgh ; one was drowning his remorse in drink at Danesborough ; and one was trying in his own dumb and blind way to atone by wander- ing among the rocks by the edge of that sea that might give up the dead, but could surely never give up the living man to whom that cruel deed had been done. * Yon Sampey Verrill's losin' his senses, he mun be !' It was old Hagar Furniss who spoke. She had gone in to help Bab awhile, as she did almost every evening now when her own day's work was done, knowing that nothing she could do for Bab would be unrequited. The old woman saw at once that some change had come over Barbara. The girl's face was flushed to a burning crimson ; her WATCHTAG BY THE SEA, m eyefl bright and restless ; her lips seemed to tremble when she spoke. ' Eh, but I've looked long for you, Ha«ar !' she said eagerly. ' I'm wanting you sorely ! Can you stay the night, all night here with the bairn ? Say you can !' ' Ah can stay if Ah'm wanted, honey !' the old woman replied kindly. ' "What's wrong ? Naught wi' the bairn, I hope ?' 'No, it's none her, thank Cod ! But I'm goin' out o' doors, I must go. . . . Don't ask ma no question, Hagar ! Give the little one all she needs, an' take the best o' care on her. ... I must go at once !' Then, kissing the new-born infant, taking an anxious look at the .sleeping children in the next room, at little Ailsie in the room above, Bab went out. It was dark by this time ; but not entirely dark. There was no moon ; but that wondrous clear, deep starlight so often seen on autumn evenings in the north seemed to glow upon the earth as if some light came from below to meet that from above. Bab took her way to the north without a thought ; going down into the Bight, up the opposite cliff-side, and away out across the cliff-fields. The Squire was there ; she passed him silently, tremu- lously, about a mile and a half beyond the Bight. He too was going northward, but slowly, wearily, hopelessly. A sigh reached Bab's ears as she flew onward — a long sad sigh that was half a groan, and drew the tears from her eyes once more ; a very passion of tears — blinding, scalding, not relieving. She felt shattered when the moment was over. And yet she was not hopeless, not as others were, no thought that Hartas Theyn was yet alive she had not been there. Bab was too sensitive to ridicule to have been able to tell aynone about her of the real reason for her present action. ' I could ha' told her ' (' her ' meaning always Miss Theyn) — * I could ha' told her 'at I was moved by a dream. She wouldn't ha' laughed at me. She wouldn't ha' looked at me as if she thought I was a fool.' 'A dream— only a dream ; but one so vivid that all day Bab had lived and moved in the atmosphere of it. For days past all her thought, all her imagining, had been of the sea, and of what might be happening somewhere out upon it if the things that people were whispering were true ; and almost as a matter of course her dream had been a sea-dream. She seemed to see it quite plainly, even after she awoke — the wide stormy ocean she knew so well ; and far away in the horizon a boat, a mere dark speck upon a shining fteor. And she had known — at once she had known— that in the boat was a solitary man, the man she loved. Then all at once, as things do happen in dreams, she had found herself in the same tiny craft, and there, at her feet, this man dying or fainting. She took the dark, drooping head in her arms, the hair wet with the salt sea-spray, and in her dream she Had she had ..ir I' i i >it. . ( f^ .4 140 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL r' m I i ! caressed it, in her drer.m she kissed the pallid lips ; kissed them again and again ; kissed them so passionately that once more life, dear life, breathed through them. And with this bieath of another's life on her lip she awoke. This was why Bab was out upon the clilf-top that calm star -lit night ; this was why she remained there, waiting to see what might come to pass. She no more cam so near to the Squire, though she knew of his presence there. Always she remained a little farther to the north, receding when he advanced. Her instinct toward self-effacement in all things had developed rapidly of late. It was a certain sign of other developments. Only the coarser soul desires to be aggres- sively en Evidence,, Long after midnight Bab watched there. She thought oft^n of the old man behind ; of what his sorrow must be, his longing, his v/eariness, his despair. Her heart yearned toward him ; for another's sake, perhaps, still the yearning was tender and true. If only she might have spoken to him ; if only she might have dared to comfort him with the nope that still lingered in her own heart ! So the night went on— that long, drear, silent night. At last the dawn broke ; a soft, pink-gray dawn above a soft, pink-gray sea. Slowly the faint pink deepened to rose colour ; slowly the rose- tint spread across the wide, far distance. Then, presently, above the pure rose-red, a glowing gold gleamed through the shining edge of each ascending cloud ; pearl-gray shadows subdued the amber and the rose into one lovely harmony of colour ; the sea took up each note and repeated it ; while over- head, even now, the stars wore fading one by one from the night- toned ether of deepest blue. Bab had seen many sunrises, but none had moved her as she was moved now. She was standing on the farthest point of the big brown point called Scarcliff Nab, tremulous, hopeful, admiring, despairing, ex- pectant ; above all, expectant. Every moment the scene about her seemed to reproduce more closely the scene of the vision she had had. Expectant ! Yes, her very soul seemed to tremble within her as her quick sight swept the sea-leagues of the wide horizon before her. Her heart was beating wildly. This was the scene ! this the light ; this the hour ! this the moment ! ' He is there ! he must be there ! And yet no, not there, but liere — somewhere near to me. . . I feel it 1 I know it I . . . He is living ! He is near 1' Bab did not say these .ihinga ; even to herself she did not say them. For a long time, or long it seemed, she stood there on the brown, rugged ness. The light morning breeze sighed as it passed her by ; she had no sigh to give in response. Her whole being was strained to the utmost tension she might bear. AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE. 141 ; kissed them loe uQore life, ; awoke. b calm star -lit e what might ; knew of hia to the north, effiicoinentin rtain sign of to be aggres- ught of t^n of s longing, his rd him ; for and true. If it have dared r own heart ! b. above a soft, wly the rose- gold gleamed ; pearl-gray ely harmony while over- Ira the night- Ises, but none brown point Ispairing, ex- Ine about her ^ion she had rithin her as rizon before le ! this the It there, but it I ... He [did not say the brown, |sed her by ; 12A strained At last ! at laxt / at last I Bab knelt on the dark bare rock, and covered hnr face with her hands ; and as she knelt she prayed ; prayed ptisaionate prayers for whomsoever might be living, or dying, in the far-off speck that she knew to be a boat. But for her dream, that warning dream, she had not been there. Beyond doubt this was the very boat of her dream, the very aspect it had had in that vision of the night, a more dark speck out upon a wide and shining sea. *He is there ! living or dead, he is (here /' Barbara said, rising to her feet, and hastening over the cliffs to find the old man, who was yet doubtless watching. ' Living or dead, llartas Thei/n ia in yon little boat/' CHAPTER XXXIV. AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE. It may be, somewbat tbns we shall have leave To walk with momory, — when distant lies Poor earth, where we were wont to live and ^" icvo.' "\V . Allingham. To sit by a warm fireside on a stormy night of autumn or of winter, the glow of the crackling coal brightening the forefront of the scene ; the lamplight enlivening Jhe mid-distance ; curtains carefully drawn over door and window — to sit thus and listen to the incessant roar of the sea at the foot of tl cliffs — but just out- side, is a state of things apt to have very different effects upon different natures. One man will feel how good and pleasant it is to be safe and comfortable indoors ; another will not perceive his thought or emotion to be changed in any way ; while a third will be saddened : consciously or unconsciously his mind will wander to those who must go down to the sea in ships and do business in great waters. To be aware that only a stone's throw away some brave ship may be sinking to her doom, with souls on board, despairing, helpless, hopeless — to be reminded of this by the ceaseless surging of the sea is to have but little peace of mind while the gale may last. One may readily be brought to wonder why, since the eye may be closed from seeing, the tongue made to cease from speaking, the ear alone should be undefended by any power over its own function ? To be able to close one's ears as easily as the eyes are closed would seem a boon not easily to be overrated — certainly not while compelled to listen to a wild storm at sea. Night by night, while the hurricane lasted, Damian Aldenmede walked on the beach, now talking with this fisherman, now with that, and seldom returning to his lodgings on the Forecliff before midnight, and bearing within himself then a sense of apprehension, of dread, not to be done away by any reasoning, any argument. He had never seen much of Hartas Theyn, and the little he had seen had not been calculated to awaken any esteem ; yet, strangely ^ ■ 1,1 •.*:: 1 142 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. S.:U:,.v enough, he was aware of a certain drawing, a certain attraction. He had discerned that the face that could look so sullen, so heavy, could yet flush with genei'ous feeling ; that the eyes from which such fierce anger could flash were yet eyes that could soften to love and love's most pathetic expression. * He seems on the way to ruin,' the artist had said to himself ; ' but I fancy he is one of the few so tending that one would care to save from going any farther. Ho may be saved — 1 feel sure that he may ; his strong and pure love for Barbara Burdas may be the means of saving him. . . . Perhaps I have not seen the matter all round.' These thoughts had come to him only an hour or two before he had heard that Hartas was missing, and inevitably the distressing news had deepened his compassion to the uttermost, and some self- blame was mingled with his thought as he paced the narrow floor of his lodging in a very throe of pity and pain. Night by night, during this sad, strange week, Damian Alden- mede was thus constrained by his suffering for another , and night by night the man for whom he suffered was tossing out at sea, drifting there alone, yet not altogether desjjairing, not in any sense desperate. It had been no easy matter to undo the ropes wherewith he had been bound ; yet he had found it possible, after long effort, to free himself, and with the unfastening of the last knot one phase of his physical suffering had ended. The sense of being so bound that he could not lift his arms, or raise his hand to his head, had gradually and quite unexpectedly become a very terrible thing, so terrible that for some two hours this alone seemed as if it might be a sufficient cause of death. Why, because he was not able to move.his limbs, he should have felt that he could not breathe, is probably as much a question for the psychologist as the physiologist. The intolerable sense as of strangulation might possibly have been avoided by anyone who had understood the matter sufficiently well to enable him to remain calm, refraining from all effort, or only making effort of the quietest. But this Hartas did not understand. How should he ? So long as his position had had the interest of novelty, so long as others had been near at hand to witness his coolness, his bravery — which yet was not assumed — till then there had been motive enough to sustain his mond. And it was not till some four or five hours had passed by that nature recoiled upon him, and the recoil was strong. The truth of those succeeding hours could never be told in words, written or spoken, Silvio Pellico has related, for the interest of all time, how terrible are the first hours and days of life within prison walls. The sense of confinement, of the nearness of everything, of the inability to mo've beyond a certain limit, must in itself be sufli- ciently dreadful ; yet in most recorded cases it would seem as if another dread had been added, vogue, pitiful, terrifying, unspeak- AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE. M3 able. Hartas Theyn had known but little of such records, so that TFhatever his sensations might be they were not charged with the experience of others. And in one sense his present state bore no resemblance to the state of a man imprisoned. No walls enclosed him ; the rising wind swept across his heated forehead refreshingly ; there was the consciousness of limitless space about him every- where. Yet so long as ho was bound his suffering was intense, and the effort to free himself from the ropes, the painful, powerful, long-continued effort, was producing something that might without exaggeration be called agony. . . . But at last he was free, and for a time he knew nothing but grateful sensation. And all the while the hurricane was increasing, the little boat was tossing to and fro like a nutshell upon that wide waste of waters. And now the darkness was of itself a terrible thing. No light was visible anywhere, either on the land or on the sea; the stars were overspread by the dense storm-cloud. Nothing remained save the heaving sea — heaving, splashing, rolling in that dread darkness. A stouter heart than that of Hartas Theyn might have quailed. Inevitably in such an hour the man was brought face to face with himself, with his own soul. When no future remains, the present is quickly effaced ; it is the past that becomes all we have to offer. To offer! When we think of it so — the offering of that past life of ours with all its shortcomings, all its sins, all its selfishnesses, its little care for others, the few hours spent in prayer, the many hours given to the world and worldly matters ; when we would think of this brief earthly life thus, as of something that the soul must take with it — must brirg as an offering to lay down at the feet of Him who sits upon the Great White Throne, then we do not dare to think — thought is silenced. The life is there ; it has been lived. Not one hour of it may.be effaced, not one hour lived over again. To Hartas Theyn that time of silence was long, and dark, and fearful ; he dreaded the awakening of thought that he knew must come if life remained to him but a little while 1-? ger. It is said that drowning men see all the past as in a lightning flash ; and this is entirely conceivable. We most of us have such moments, even when we are far from any chance of drowning. Sometimes they come, as in a dream, between sleeping and waking — sometimes in hours of deep grief, of anxiety, of suspense. Now and then a flash of disclosing light crosses a moment of intense joy. . . . Usually this disclosure, or the effect of it, remains with ua — usually for our good. The time of enlightenment that came to Hartas The\ n could certainly not be spoken of as momentary ; it lasted for some hours — hours of vivid, vigorous presentment of all the chief incidents and feat. ires of his pust life ; and each one was heightened as by the light of some spiritual electricity, so that every detail was seen ''■ i f if ^^ 144 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. Hli Bicj; and in an altogether new aspect. There was nothing now to hide his nakedness from his own sonl's sight. He saw that he was naked, and he saw it to his bitter and painful shame. Strangely enough, the very words of St. Paul came to him as he sat there, chilled, suffering much in body, and yet more in mind. Doubtless they were as an echo from some sermon heard long ago: 'For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed nponwith our house which is from heaven : If so be that being clothed we shall not be found naked.' It was somewhat of a surprise to himself that a text of Scripture should cross his mind, especially since it appeared to come with some accuracy ; that he should be drawn to dwell upon it, to try to find the meaning of it, was more surprising still. He had yet to learn how true it is that even the smallest amount of spiritual awakening, of spiritual light and strength, means an immense widening of whatever powers the intellect may possess. Carlyle's definition of genius is this : ' The clearer presence of God Most High in the soul of man.* And it is certain that no truer or fiuer definition of that mysterious quality, or faculty, has been given to the world as yet. No soont^r does a man begin to be aware of some higher influence working within his soul than he becomes also aware that that higher in- fluence, acting through the soul, is developing his thinlang and reasoning and perceiving powers to the uttermost. The event, unprecedented in his soul's history, is equally unprecedented in his mental history— a fact he is apt to perceive with as much regret as astonishment. He now knows what he ' might have been !' But now dimly he knows ! His utmost imagination may not disclose to him all that true living had disclosed. That night at sea — that first dread night of many that were to be yet more dreo.d, was a crisis in the life of Hartas Theyn. How could he have been so senseless, so unseeing ? . . . By- and-by he became aware that this comparative sight was but as comparative blindness. And over and over came the thought. What I might have been 1 If I had tried simply to do what I knew to be right, to be wise ; if, as the Canon said the other day, I had but been true to the light I had, what might I not have been ?' And then thought itself seemed hushed., He could not realize the man he might have been had he been happy, good, respected, at peace with others, at ease with himself. The ideas were all too dim, too unusual. He was not equal to the double strain of listening to a wild storm that was blowing so closely about him, and at the same time creating a vision of that< slain self whose wreck he was. f AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE. 145 with onr house illest amount He knew the wreck. * If / had been different, all had been different,' he said, speaking audibly, since there was none to hear. ' IShe would have cared then ; she might even have looked up to me, instead of despising me, as I know she does, ... as I know she has done ! . . . How will it be with her, with others, when I am only a memory ? . . . Will they care to remember at all ? Can she forget f But as he lay there, the boat lurching heavily from side to side, shuddering under the blows of wind and wave, the power of consecutive thought began to desert him. Very gradually it departed from him ; but there came an hour when neither remorse, nor hope, nor fear dwelt with him persistently. It was only by moments at a time that he could lay bare his soul before that Unknown God whom hitherto he had only thought of with a blind, unreasoning, ignorant dread. It did not even seem strange to him that tne dread had passed away, that he could speak as to One near — not speaking complainingly, not bitterly, not even as one be- wailing his evil case ; but simply as one seeking forgiveness, first of ell forgiveness ; and to this end he did not spare himself in confes- sion. From the first memory of his life to the last there was relief, unutterable relief, in laying bare his soul before that soul's Maker, in desiring pardon for sins remembered and unremembered — sins of boyhood and of later age, sins of omission and sins of commission, sins of body and sins of soul — never before had he known such relief as that which came to him as he tossed there on the midnight sea, recalling all his life, all his errors ; and then, in desiring for- giveness for the same, bending his knee as reverently as he might, but only able to do this for moments at a time. First, forgiveness he craved ; then compassion ; last of all, companionship. ' Be near me !' he cried, when once more the darkness came down and the storm was apparently at its worst. * Be near me ! I don't deserve it ; I know, I feel I do not. But stay with me, good God — stay with me through this night I' \r CHAPTER XXXV. STILL DRIFTING, DRIFTING ON, NO LAND, NO SAIL. * O, let me be awake, my God 1 Or let mo sleep alway.' Again the darkness fell and stayed ; the storm still raged on ; and a long period of merciful unconsciousness came upon Hartas Theyn, whether of sleep or of the semblance of coma that comes of exhaustion and hunger, he did not know, nor might he know how long it had lasted, whether four hours or forty. He awoke at last, unref reshed, and consumed by a burning thirst. That was his worst physical trouble, that terrible thirst. Only once did a dread paroxysm of hunger seize him. Sinoe then he has written the story of that fierce hour on paper — in ^. 146 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, a little book not yet yellow with age or worn with time. There is no needs to reproduce his words here, buffering of that kind may be studied, by all who care for such study, in many accounts of shipwreck, and in most records of Arctic research. It is not always profitable. Afterward it seemed to him that all that had been really terrible had lain within the lines of his mental or spiritual sulfering, rather than in the physicaL From time to time there arose a cry in his heart, but now it was one cry, and now another. ' Would that I might live my life again !' That was the cry that came most frequently. * Would that I might live but one week of that old life ! ' To see my f athers face, to sit there by the old fireside, were it but for an hour — hut for one hour — oh, God, what would I not give ? * And to see hfr, to touch her hand ! Is it possible that yesterday —was it yesterday ? was it a week ago ? —I might have done it ? And I did not know. I did not know what it all meant, that heavy, stupid, misused life. No, I knew nothing yesterday.* And ever between his wordless thought there came the sound of the wind as it rose passionately, and fell with its own disturbed sadness. And the waves leapt upon the little boat, and hurled and clashed together, now in the darkness, and now in the dawn, now in the drear setting of the sun. And he who was drifting there did not always know whether the dim light meant the coming on of night or the departing ; for ever again and again came that prolonged merciful unconsciousness. The thunderstorm that broke upon the Bit^lit of Ulvstan about that hour when Jim Tyas came to his death had not seemed so terrible to Hartas Theyn, and by that he knew that he must have been far enough away at ihat time. The recollection of it was about the last definite recollection that he had. After that, for some four or five days and nights, he must have lain more or less in that strange and ever-deepening stupor. It was not — so he thought — at any time pure, simple, refreshing sleep. Though he dreamt strange dreams, and had strange visions, yet it was not sleep. Always while the storm lasted he was conscious of the deafening, exhausting rush and roar of the wind, the whirl, and flash, and roll of the vast unbroken waves. That the wind had remained so long unchanged, so that he was kept out there in the deep water, had been matter of gratitude too deep for words. Having no oars, he could have done nothing to help himself, and he knew that if he were once to come near to the broken surf that fringed the land nothing could save him. Yet the knowledge did not now, even in his waking moment?, distress him ; feeling was too much benumbed for that. It would soon be over, that last dread strife, with that last dread enemy to ■ %■■■• it now it was HO IV RESCUE CAME. 147 be destroyed ; while the death he was even now dying, hour by hour, might in the end be very painful. The storm began to subside during the fourth night, and Hartas, rousing himself from a long lethargic slumber, saw the gleam of the rising sun upon the gradually calming sea. But he saw nothing else — no sail, no land. Thrice a screw-steamer had passed by, one quite near, and he had managed to stand up in the boat to wave his blue silk scarf to and fro with some energy ; but the steamer passed on, and took no notice. It was a time of harrowing excitement and suspense, and what wonder that he felt sure that he had been seen ? The two other steamers were too far away for suspicion, though each time his effort was made to the uttermost of his power. All the last days and nights, the dawns, the twilights, seemed mingled together in a strange confusion ; and since the calm that succeeded the storm was so great, there was now no external influence to arouse him. The temperature was not low for the time of year ; he had no sense of hunijcr ; there was nothing to be done but to lie in seeming slumber, drifting, on^and on, and on, not even knowing that since the wind had changed he must be drifting back within sight of land. From all suffering he had ceased, from all hoping, from all despairing. That last dawn rose slowly, quietly, holily ; and it rose upon one who might see nothing of its beauty, know nothing of its dread solemnity. The little boat might have been his bier for all he knew. CHAPTER XXXVI. HOW RESCUE CAME. ' Tonch not— hold ! And if you weep still, weep where John was laid While Jesus loved him." E. B. Browning. Long afterward Barbara Burdas rememl)ored that autumn morn- ing, and remembeied certain passages of it wit!: a feeling that was almost shame. Had she really forgotten herself so far, her position, the strange complications of her life, as to put her trembling hand upon Squire Theyn's arm, to urge him to come with her at once — at once / ' He is there r she had cried, one hand pressing in excited entreaty the old man's shoulder, the other pointing to that speck out upon the rose-red sea. ' Do you understand ? It is your son ! He is there, out at sea — dead or alive., he is there ! Won't you come with me ? Won't you come at once ?' The Squire did not repulse her in any way, yet he did not respond, or seem to comprehend. The old man svas wearied by the want of sleep, exhausted by sorrow, by remorse, by suspense. The words he heard were only half understood, and this Barbara per- 10—2 148 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ceived. But she dared not, could not stay longer there. Besides, her instinct told her that Squire Theyn could not be of use in the present crisis. ' He is there /' she repeated as she flew on over the fields, brushing the dew from the grass, from the tall dead hemlocks, the crisp rest- harrow ; her eyes still straining to watch that small dark speck out upon the wide, still sea. ' He m there f she kept on saying, saying it solely for her own consolation. There was no one else to be consoled. The little townlet had not yet awakened, and the tide being barely half out, Samson Vernll had not yet returned from the lonely point of rock where he still kept watch. Barbara knew that he would be there, and she knew that all the little world about her would be yet asleep, and that time would be required for any effective awakening. And who could say what time might mean? A quarter of an hour — nay, five minutes might mean much to a man who had been drifting about the North Sea without sustenance of any kind for over a week. There was no opportunity for deliberation. Barbara flew down to the beach, unmoored the lightest boat she could find there, and managed by almost superhuman effort to launch it all alone. As she drew rapidly away from the shore, she saw that the Squire was hastening down the chff ; had he understood at last ? Would he do all that might be done in the way of preparation for her return — her return, and his — his of whom not only her thought but her very life seemed full? The smoke was beginning to curl upward from a cottage chimney on the Forecliff ; the gulls from the rocks to the sonth were flying in and out by myriads, chuckling, screaming, subsiding, rising again ; and there, far away upon the dark point in the distance, Samson Verrill stood, lonely between sea and sky. Barbara could see him quite plainly, and he would see her, that she knew, and he would wonder what her errand might be ; not being able from his own comparatively low-lying position to see the speck that she had seen from the utmost height of the northern cliff-top. But Barbara did not think long of Samson Verrill. Thought was merged in action, in effort ; such effort as Barbara herself had never made before this hour. Not the strongest man could have made swifter progress ; yet, after nearly an hour's rowing, that dark speck still seemed leagues away upon the sub- siding silvery gray of the sunlit sea. It was not always that Barbara cotdd see the small dark point which she knew to be a boat, yet she rowed on in the direction where she had first seen it ; and now and then for her helping she caught sight of it, and the sight lent always fresh energy to her utmost effort. At last she came nearer, consciously, tremulously. She had not been mistaken, it was a boat, a small, brightly painted boat, blue and white and vivid green, the exact counterpart of that she knew to be missing ; but why should she say even that to her herself, being so assured it was the same ? She stood up in her own boat, HOW RESCUE CAME, 149 Besides, use in the 3, brushing crisp rest- ; speck out ing, saying iwnlet had it, Samson rock where re, and she yet asleep, ning. And an hour- en drifting d for over arbara flew . find there, b all alone, the Squire t ? Would on for her bought but ng to curl gulls from chuckling, y^ upon the etween sea would see and might ig position * gbt of the of Samson effort as e strongest an hour's the sub- lark point direction ^ el ping she energy to le had not 1 boat, blue she knew 3r herself, [own boat, shading h»3r eyes with her hand from the uprising stin. Then sud- denly she felt her face flush with fear, with a strange unknown dread. After all, cotJd it be that the boat was empty ? Was it possible ? She saw no sign. More slowly, more sadly now, she bent herself again to the oars, then sadder and slower still, as one who draws near to the bed on which a friend is lying, breathing out the last breath of the life that had been to others so precious, so dear. The girl dared not look. She paused a little, rowed on again, stopped, covering her face with her hands. She was quite near, yet no sign came, no sound. ... At last, she raised her head. A wild throbbing pulsation seized all her frame. He was there ; Someone was there — a dark figure was lying helplessly at the bottom of the boat, toward the stern. And it was the figure of him she had seen in her dream. She made no cry, asked no question : that would have been so use- less. And then it was that she entered into that vivid vision once more, not conscious of what she did. Afterward te dream and the deeds of its realization were as one in her recollection. She made no effort to .. -ouse or to move the prostrate, stirless figure that lay, as the dead lie, at the bottom of the boat ; bat, seeing it, regret awoke like a lightning flash. Why had she brought no food, no water, no restoratives of any kind ? Had excitement bereft her of sense ? She hardly dared to look upon the pallid face, above which the heavy black hair was lying in Avild disarrangement. Removing the oars from the boat she was in, placing them in the rowlocks of the little boat that had been drifting to and fro during the terrible storm, she sat down for a moment or two overcome by exhaustion, by emotion. Yet she could not look upon the face of Hartas Theyn. Presently she took tlie boat in which she had rowed out in tow, and started back for the land. For near two hours she pulled slowly to the shore, knowing but little more than Hartas Theyn himself knew. By this time there was a crowd gathered upon the beach, an eager, anxious, fervid, almost unbelieving crowd, David Andoe was foremost in grasping the bow of the boat as it grated upon the bed of gravel. Damian Aldenmede was but just behind, and had the greater strength of the t^o. Between them they lifted the dead, or dying, man to the shore, and carried him to the nearest house. Early as it yet was, Canon Godfrey was there, and Mrs. Kerne. The news had spread fast and far. ... As a matter of course, old Ephraim was in the very forefront of the scene ; and to Barbara's satisfaction he was there when David Andoe returned, and was able to help her to reach the cottage on the Forecliff. She needed help, though she was hardly able to thank those who helped her. ' Let me be,' she said faintly, as she sank into a chair by the fire, t me be ! . . . It's all I'd ask of you— let me be !' f ;■ ISO IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. CHAPTER XXX7IL FORGIVENESS. A MERRICLE ! Noan sa much of a merricle !* said old Ephraim when they told him with numy wondering words that Hartas Theyn yet lived. ' Whya Ah've snowed a man mysel', the captain o' the Eagle brigantine, sailing fra Shields for Dieppe ' (Deep, he called it), ' laden wi' coals. An' the vessel were o'erta'en i' the gale o' '31 ; an' ivery man aboard except the Captain were washed off o* the deck wiv a single sweep of a single wave, an' he'd ha' gone an' all ef so it hadn't been 'at he'd been lashed to the mast. But lashed he were, an' — fortnit for him — lashed he remained. Noo mind it's no lie Ah'm tellin' o' ya. Ah knowed the man, Hebbin'ton, his name were. Captain Hebbin'ton, but whether James or John, Ah'U not saiiy. But this Ah will saay, for I heerd him tell the taale wi' my oan ears, as how he were tossin' aboot i' the German Ocean for no less nor two-an'-twenty days — noo, two-and-twenty ! Think o' that ! An' never no bite nor sup passed his lips save once, an' that was after a heavy rain, when he wrung his shirt-sleeves, an' so got a few drops o' water! That were something like a marvel ! . . . Eight days ! an' the last fouer on 'em fairly mild weather ! Well, it's hardly much to boast on, let aloane callin' it a merricle 1' Such was old Ephraim's opinion, but it need hardly be said that it was not generally held throughout the neighbourhood. The Squire's son had been removed, so soon as Dr. Douglas considered it safe, to Mrs. Kerne's house, where he lay, still exhausted, still silent, still pallid. Thorhilda and Mrs. Godfrey came and went ; Rhoda came and stayed ; and the Squire seldom left Laburnum Villa till nightfall. Yet, so far, little was known to anyone of Hartas's experience during that terrible time, or its effect upon himself. It was evident that he could not talk of these things as yet. When at last his strength did begin to return to him it was but natural that his father should ask him of the beginning of the strange event ; that he should desire to know how it had been brought about, and, above all, by whose immediate agency. The Squire had only suspicion where others felt certainty. It was a fine October afternoon when the old man first spoke of the past. The sun was streaming through Mrs. Kerne's costly Indian -urtains ; shining into a large richly-furnished room, laden with ornament of perhaps not the most refined description. Hartas was lying upon a sofa near the fire, his father sat on a chair near the foot of it. Canon Godfrey was by his side. Mrs. Kerne was walking up and down the room, knitting as she went, openly CO ifessing herself too nervous to sit still. ' You must forgive me, you must bear with me,' Hartas said, raising himself by feeble effort from the cushions. FORGIVENESS. 151 d Epbraitn rtaa Theyn ptain o' tho ,, he called the gale o'^ ashed off o' ha' gone an' mast. But ained. Noo ,Hebbin'ton, les or John, him tell the the German ).and-twenty ! ips save once, shirt-sleeves, Bthing like a a fairly mild ine callin' it a y be said that urhood. The las considered xhausted, still ne and went ; sft Laburnum to anyone of s effect upon : these things im it -was but inning of the ^ it had been agency. The first spoke of Kerne's costly sd room, laden iption. Hartas a chair near ■8. Kerne was went, openly Hartas said, And it was a strauge face that was lifted to look npon the two mou uenide bira, a face never again to be wnat it had bfen. Not only the expression, but every feature seemed changed. The dark eyes, though deeply sunk, yet looked larger, and had deeper in- tensity of colour, of meaning, of outlook. The once bronzed face was shrunken, and pale, and nervous-looking. A certain sad eager- ness was written upon the countenance, a certain sad remembrance ; it was the face of a man who had passed through his life's crisis, find was yet all unaware of its full meaning, of the intiuonce it was intended to have upon the days to be. 'You must forgive me,' he said in answer to bis father's desire for knowledge of the days but just past. ' I know the men ; one is not living, so I am told. The others shall be to mo as if they had died also. . , , It cannot be otherwise, it cannot. They did wrong. They were mistaken, they were cruel — bitterly cruel and hard. But it is not for me lo punish them, not for anyone belonging to me. Don't say any more, don't ask me to say any more. . , I can say nothing but that.' For a moment Squire Theyn could hardly speak, so divided he was between emotions of varying nature. Disappointment was probably uppermost. ' They'll say it's cowardice, nothing but rank cowardice 1' he exclaimed bitterly. Hartas smiled ; a wan, sad smile it was. *No, they won't think that,' he said faintly. After a little more uncomfortable and unprofitable discussion the Squire got up and went away. He would not quarrel with this newly-restored son of his, not willingly, yet it was an effort to subdue his anger, and Mrs. Kerne was feeling for him and with him as she seldom did. When Canon Godfrey and Hartas were left alone, the former asked a question he had been wishing to ask for some time. ' Would you mind telling me why you wish to shield these men — these ruffians, I may almost say ?' ' No ; I can tell you,' Hartas replied, speaking with the new gentle- ness of manner that seemed so curiously natural to him already, as if some inner and better self had been set free from the outer. ' I can tell you, but surely you do not need that I should put it into Words ? You can see for yourself that for her sake alone^Barbara's •—it would be better that the matter should drop at once and for ever. If I bring it to light, if I bring these men to justice, the cause of their deed must become even a commoner topic for con- versation than it is now. And how could I bear that, kuowing how ill she would bear it ? ... No ; help me once more, be the friend you have always been, even when I couldn't see that you were my friend at all. And try to persuade my father to see the matter from my point of view. . . . He will thank you afterward ; so shall I.' The Canon thought for a moment ; then he lifted his kindly blue eyes to the face of tho still suffering man before him. I / isa IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. I" *I will do what you wish,' he said, with an eager concession in his manner. ' And I believe after all that you are right ; I believe you are. It would do little good to bring these men to what is called justice — it might do harm. I do think you are right, that the affair, painful as it is, had better be allowed to die out of itself.' * Better far ; and I thank you. . . . But now, how shall I put the question ? Have you nothing to tell me of her — of Barbara?' *Not much — that is, not much that will gladden you in any way to hear. I can only say that the more I see of her, the more I dis- cern the true greatness, the true beauty of her character. She seems to be absolutely without any trace of selfishness, of self- seeking.' * Have you seen her lately ?' * I saw her yesterday ; the baby was baptized. Barbara, your sister, and myself were the sponsors. . . . Poor little mite that it is I What will be its future, I wonder ?' * But Barbara ? . . . Has she got over it all— that terrible time ? Did she look hke herself ?' ' To tell the truth she did not, not quite. She looks older, paler, thinner, as if she had gone through an illness. But what wonder ? And she is young enough to recover ; and I expect she will do so, by-and-by.' * What makes you say that ?' Hartas asked, with the lifficulty in his voice that comes of emotion. * Hope makes me say it,' the Canon replied. Presently he added, * You have not forgotten that day on the scaur ? You remember what I said ?' * Yes, I remember,' Hartas replied, with faint white lips, and un- hopeful tones ; ' perhaps it would be better if I did not.' ' What makes you say that ? Of what are you thinking ?' * I am thinking of her, that it cannot be, .that it can never be, that dream of mine. How shall I tell you all — aJ I have dis- covered ? Sorrow enlightens one. ... I believe, as you kindly told me you believed, that Barbara cares for me ; perhaps she may even care more than I know ; but there are things she cares for more. . . . I fancy she sees a certain honourableness in refusing to consent to a marriage that seems in her sight one of — what shall I say ? — mere difference .of position seems so poor a ground, and I feel sure that it does not cover all her thought. To say the truth, I fear that to Barbara my sister Thorhilda represents all goodness, all refinement, all culture, all that she herself thinks highest and worthiest ; and therefore it is that her admiration is a sort of worship, a worship that counts self-sacrifice as the purest pleasure. I have expressed my thought badly, inadequately, but you will know what I mean. And this — this event — before I see Barbara I seem to know that it will make her less willing to yield than ever. And I will not arge her ; I will never again, if I can help it, put any pressure upon her. I seem to know now that it can never be, that dream of mine I • • . Yet how I care for her I How I care / . . . But for- BARBARA BURDAS AND HARTAS THEYN. 153 ion in ^w alieve you t is called the affair, 1 1 put the jara ?' n any way more I clis- icter. She 38, of self- rbara, your ynite that it rrible time ? older, paler, lat wonder r le will do so, difficulty in tly he added, )U remember lips, and un- 3t.' cing ?• ^ jan never be, J I have dis- [u kindly told the may even [for more. . . • consent to a gay ?— mere 'eel sure that [ fear that to 11 refinement, )rthiest; and lip, a worship Ue expressed [what I mean, to know that id I will not pressure upon Htiat dream of , . But for- give me 1 I never meant to say all this. Forgive me, and don't betray mo !' Hardly thinking of what he was doing under the pressure of emotion, the Canon rose to his feet and held out his hand as a sign of leave-taking. ' I will not betray you,' he said gently, and with etfort ; ' but let me mention one thing that I had been thinking of : it seems to me that as a matter of common gratitude Barbara liurdas should be asked to come and see you, . . . She saved your life, remember.' ' She will not come,' Hartas replied instantly, his fear overcoming his desire. ' Do you think not ? . . . I imagine that she will, if I make a point of it.' ' Ah, if you put it so !' Hartas said, turning his face away in dis- appointed sadness. ' She will not refuse you, but her coming under those conditions will be no help to me. ... I know her better now than I used to do. I almost understand her ; but she is above me, and consequently she sees beyond me. . . . She may come, I may see her, but we shall separate as we meet, as far apart, quite as far, or perhaps even farther.' And even as Hartas predicted, so it came to pasfl^ CHAPTER XXXVIII. BARBARA BURDAS AND HARTAS THEYN. / ' The eyes smiled too, But 'twas as if remembering they had wept, And knowing they should some day weep again.* Hearing footsteps upon the garden path behind him — footsteps waited for, listened for long — Hartas turned with a crimson tide ef emotion flushing ail his face. Two figures were coming towards him— Barbara Burdas and his sister Thorhilda. But for a second or two he hardly recognised the former, and the very strangeness about her enabled him to recover himself. Was this young yet stately-looking woman, dressed in quiet, simple mourning of no antiquated date, yet far enough removed from the fashionable — was this Barbara Burdas ? He had to assure himself by an effort. Considering the shortness of the time since the first appearance of Damian Aldenmede at Ulvstan Bight, certainly the change in Barbara Burdas was very great, and said much for her powers of adaptability — yet, nay, what a low word is that to use I She had adapted herself to nothing. In some ways she had found her own, yet that but scantily, scarcely. She had much yet to find, though, to her credit be it said, she hardly knew even that. She only knew that as yet certain desires within her were all unfulfilled. All the way Barbara was being led step by step, not knowing whither she went, not knowing why she was led onward at all. That she should be accused of the vain and vulgar ambition of «54 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL desiring snoinl advancMiipnt did not occur to her, nor, for fho honour of tho liuni.'inity about hor be it said, did it (-.('cur to otlieih. She was not at all aware that when she advanct^l so tremulously to meet llartas Thoyu in Mrs. Kerne's garden bIio was other than tho Barbara Burdas she had always been — the change, so it Koeined, was in him. Tho first few moments were only made endurnbleby tho pro'^cnce of Miss Thoyn, who understood the difficulty of this lirst uiretirif?, and now, as always, had enough of sympathy to olfer. If she felt any pain she was successful in hiding it. Turiiin^ to her brother, seeing hia sad, white, unhopeful face, then lookini^ upon P.:irbara, admiring the tall, fine figure of the girl, seeing how the dark, bronzod face was paled by intense thought, intense snfTering, how the light of new perception was visible in the deep blue eyes — freeing the e things, she could not but be surprised by the alteration she snw. She had not dreamed that a few short days, or wtclcs, or even months, could work such change in any human persotiality. There was a moment that might have been awkward but for Barbara's adequate and straightforward courtesy. 'You are better?' she said, looking into the face that was watching hers so eagerly, so yearningly. She took the hand Hartas held out — a hand so white, so thin, so tremulous, that her heart ached to see it. ' Yes, I am all right now,' he replied with pallid lips and some- what troubled tone. Then he added : ' It was good of you to come and see me.' * The Canon wished it,* she said simply. ' And you would do anything he wifhod ?' ' Yes, aniith'ing / He could never ask me to do aught I wouldn't be glad to do.' ; ■ * That is high praise from you ?' ' I didn't mean it for praise,' Bab said, discerning instantly the unbefittingness of praise of hers bestowed upon one like Canon Godfrey. ' I didn't mean it for that I I only meant to say that I'd that regard for him that I'd never had for no one in my life afore, and, as I think, can never have for no one again.' ' Not for Mr. Aldenmede ?' Hartas asked, wishing the word un- said so soon as it escaped him. ' No, not even for him. He's good ; but it's not quite ih «n' sort of goodness. . . . He's different altogether.' Hartas was not ill-pleased to hear this eulogy of on oii.^. closely connected with himself, but well-disposed tow. him ; and the change, the new power of perception visible in Uai barr was impressing him more at every turn of her every phrase. H' grammar might be defective, but the utterance of almost every word was pure and true, and for him the inflection of each tone had the charm, the winningness, that only love can lend. Yet his heart did not rise to the charm — rather did it sink, depressed, un- hopeful. . - .. , , t> I BARBARA BURDAS AND HART AS TIIEYN. 155 Quito unperceived "Mi.ss Thcyn had loft these two together, and now thoy were walkiiij^ slowly iilonj^ under the belt of all but leaf- less trees that divided the wide garden from the paddock where Mrs, Kerne's pony was grazing at his ease. The afternoon was warm and yellow and hazy ; a late rose or two leaned out from the garden beds as if craving notice for having bloomed in Novem- ber, and a very grove of hollyhocks stood in a corner, late, strag- gling, and with only a few half-developed flowers on the top of each tall stem. ' Are they English flowers, those ?' Barbara asked, touching a soft, pale pink hollyhock with her black cotton glove. 'I was reading of some foreit,'n flowers the other night in a book Mr. Aldonniede lent rae, and I asked him about them afterward. The strangest flowers they are— orchids they call them. There'll be some i' this garden, I reckon ?' ' Don't talk of things like that, Barbara — not now, not to-day,' HartJis pleaded, and there was something strangely touching in his pleading. All the old roughness — the almost rudeness — was gone, and in the place of these things there was a gentleness, a wistful- ness, a refinement, that had more power to move than Barbara was prepared to resist. ' Don't speak of those things,' he begged. * Have you nothing else to say to me ? You don't know how I've been hoping that yon had — hoping against hope. . . . Have you forgotten that you saved my life ? that but for you I shouldn't have been here ?' Barbara gently interrupted him. 'You were drifting in,' she said, lifting a face which had all the recollection of that strange time written on the features of it. ' Perhaps ; but it must have been very slowly. And who can say that I should have lived to touch the land ? But let that pass, T know in my own mind that I owe my life to you ; and I am glad that I do. . . . I've heard it said that people always think kindly of anybody they've done a good turn to. . . . But I'm not going to take advantage of that. ... I know you would have done the same for anybody else,' ' So I should if I'd been moved in the same way,' Bab replied n-Miitly. ' Still, I can never forget.' ' Mor can I.* ' No ; but it will not meai the same thing to you. I see that. . . I think I saw it before, a id I made up my mind not to weary you with the old entreaty. . . You know what I mean, Barbara — what is in my thoughts.' * Yes ; I know, and you are rijht in not pressing it. It is wise and kind you to have made up your mind not to do that.' She spr so calmly, with such quiet self-possession, that it was not pos'-' for Hartas to discern how her heart was sinking with every -v she uttered, sinking for the need of love, the return of that lovi he was being drawn to give so lavishly. Her very .^ iS6 IN FXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. '.m. strength, contrasted with Hartas Theyn's present weakness, seemed a new reason for new and increasing love. Yet when did love ever stand in need of reason ? ' Because it was he ; because it was I.' That is the beginning and the end of love's reasoning. Hartas did not reply for a while to Barbara's seemingly cold speech. He could not, being chilled and hurt. At last he said simply, * Thank you,' but he said it in so weary a way, with lips so pallid and eyes so sad, that Barbara could not part from him thus. ' Try to understand me,' she said. ' I'm trying — trying to do what seems right ; and all the more I'm striving, because every- body seems so kind and good. Think of Canon Godfrey, of how he speaks to me, how he looks at me, a'-.d how he thinks for me. If I were the greatest lady in the land he could care no more. And then Miss Theyn, your sister. . . .' * Well, what of her ?' Hartas interposed with a touch of the old hastiness. ' Oh, I could say so much of her ! How can I begin ? She is 80 different,* Barbara began enthusiastically. ' She is so very different from anybody else I have ever known or seen.' ' She's at the root of all your hesitation— of all my sorrow,' Hartas broke in again. Barbara thought for a moment. ' That's only true in one sense,' she replied. * It is because I know Miss Theyn, and see what your wife ought to be, that I cannot say the word you want me to say. From the very first hour I saw her I knew that she was the kind of lady you should have, that if any good were to come to you, any upliftin' (forgive the plain speaking), you should marry some one as much above you as your sister is, instead of one so much below you as I am. Your father sees this ; he shows it in the very way he looks at me. And Mrs. Kerne knows it, and Mrs. Godfrey ; they can't help but know. And they all feel, and one way or another they make me feel, that I am the one thing that stands in the way of your betterin' your- self by maruage. Excuse the plain words — I've none better. But now think for a minute, how could I say that word you want me to say, an' keep a shred of self-respect afterward ? I could not do it. But there ! . . . I've said overmuch. You're none too strong yet. Won't you go into that little summer-house and sit down ?' ' No ; I don't want to sit down. I'm not tired— not with that sort of tiredness.' Then presently Hartas stopped and turned, and took the girl's hand in his, fixing his dark, sad eyes upon her lovely, yet much pained face. ' I said I would make no plea,' he began tremulonely ; ' but I cannot, I cannot help it ! It is so terrible ! How shall I bear it ? How shall I face the future at all ? . . . Is that your last word ? . . . Would it make any ditference if ray sister herself came and asked you to be my wife ?' BARBARA BURDAS AND HART AS THEYN. 157 , seemed )ve ever was I.' gly cold he said h lips so im thus, ig to do e every- , of how 1 for me. ao more. : the old > She is so very ' sorrow,' because I 36, that I first hour )uld have, orgive the )ve you as m. Your tne. And but know, feel, that nin' your- tter. But 1 want me lid not do too strong and sit with that the girl's yet much y ; ' but I I bear it ? ast word ? came and Barbara was nearly as pale as Hartas himself was. The conflict within her was passionately strong. *I cannot say that it wouldn't make a difference,* she replied. * I might yield, / mi(iht ; but I should always know that in one way or another she had been forced, overcome. . . . And no happiness could come of it, believe me — no happiness that could last ; none for you, none for me. ... I cannot say all that's in me. There's a deal one can find no expression for ; and I think and feel so many things that I cannot say in words. . . . Sometimes I think of your sister's marryin', as they say she's about to do, that son of Lady Meredith's.' ' She's nc^ Lady Meredith.' Hartas interrupted brusquely. * Isn't she ? They always call her so over at the Howes. But anyhow, if your sister is to be her daughter, how would they like to meet me— wze, a flither-picker off the scaur ? How would Mrs. Percival Meredith like to have to say to the grand people about her, " This is my sister-in-law — this bait-gatherer." . .' 'How much do you look like — like that this afternoon ?' Barbara blushed, for once a little self-consciously. * It's not looks. I am tliat — just that. And oh, how could you ever dream that foolish dream, knowing what you did know, even then ! I didn't know ! I wish I had known — I whli I had. Bnt I didn't. . . . And now there's only one thing,' Barbara continued, lifting a pathetic, beseeching face to the sad eyes that were watching her. ' There's only one thing left for us. Can it be ? Will you lot it be ? Will you be my friend ?' ' Friend, in that sense ? No, never P Hartas replied with vehe- mence. ' It couldn't be — it could never bo ! Friends ! you and me ! Think of the torture of it I' * Torture !' Barbara repeated in surprise. * Torture ! I waa thinking of it as bein' only a happiness. . . . You don't know what it would be to me. I'm so lone at times, so despirate lone. ... I'd not weary you, not if I knew !' Her very pleading, the pathos of it, the ' swtet reasonableness,* were more than Hartas could bear just then, * It cannot be,' he said again. * I could never sta.id it ; no, never. If there's nothing else left we'd better part ! . . .' ' Well, then, let us part kindly,' Barbara said, speaking with in- creased effort. 'Then if by chance we have to meet any v, here, we'd meet without more — more pain than need be.' The sun had gone down cold and wan behind the leafless ash- trees ; a damp, misty air was coming over the field.s, over the brown moor beyond. Hartas shivered and turned away, white and desjjonding. * Pain ! There's nought else but pain nowhere. The world's full of pain. . . . I wish — I wish you had left me to drift on to death in peace !' Barbara made no re]ily. They were near the little gate that led out into the lane ; and iialf unconciously their pa'ie grew slower and slower. It was Hartas who broke the silence at last. 1 58 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. * Forgive me ; I pray you to forgive me,' he said in a tone and manner quite imlike his own. 'I did not mean that — no, God knows I did not ; and He alone knows what my gratitude is. , . . I muE,t be miserably weak, for I meant all to be so very different to-day. ... It was that overcame me— the idea of parting. How can 1 bear it ? And you seemed to take it so lightly, so easily.' They were standing by the gate now, facing each other. The last moment was near. Barbara held out her hand, and on her face was the betrayal that few can see and misunderstand. ' Did you suppose that I could add my pain to yours ?' she asked, suppressing the deep undertone of feeling that struggled below. ' Then it is pain to you ?' ' Look in my fac(s and see,' Barbara replied, qnite unconsciously quoting from one of the most beautiful and touching poems in the English language, ' Then if it be so — if I may know even that — I think I can bear — I think I can. , . . Yet — yet it is hard !' A moment or two longer they stood there in the deepening twilight, hand in hand, heart beating to heart, loving, suffering, silent. Each feared to add to the other's sorrow by uttering the final last word. The after-glow had faded from the sky ; darkness was beginning to overspread the earth with all the strange stillness that darkness brings. * I must go,' Barbara said at last, thinking of the little ones at home — p"<necially of the baby, who now sometimes seemed the best loved of them all, and certainly needed most of her loving attention. 'I must go. . . . And in spite of what you said, I'll look to you when I want a friend.' ' Come to me when you want friendliness. . • , I'd always do aught 1 could, you'd know that.' ' Bat you won't be all a friend might be to me ?* * No. , , , It mubt be more, or less. And you've said it is to be less.' ' Good-night, then. , . . You'll understand me better some day.' * I think I shall,' Hartas replied quietly, sadly, yet with deep significance in his tone. *" I will think, even yet^ that there will come a time for better understanding.^ CHAPTER XXXIX. THE BANDS OF FATE TWINE CLOSER AND YET CLOSER, ' Seldom nomes the moiuent In life, wliich is indeed sublime and weighty To make a great decision possible.' CoLEniDOE. While all these things had been happening in the Bight down below, life had not been standing still on the higher ground. At last THE BANDS OF FATE TWINE CLOSER. 159 1 it is to be Damian Aldenmede had become acquainted with Percival Meredith — at last he had come to kuow that everywhere it was being said that Mr. JMeredith was engaged, or 'all but engaged,' to Miss Theyn. He had felt a momentary stun, then disbelief had followed. When he came to know Mr. Percival Meredith but a little more intimately, his disbelief had become tinged with scorn, Thorhilda Tjjeyn, a pure, noble-minded, high-toned woman to m;iiiy a man like that ! Bat there thought paused awhile ; the artist was not the man to discolour his own soul by even a momentary dwelling upon the imperfections of another. Having spcat one evening in the f-ociety of Mi\ Percival Meredith, he felt no more incliuiiLion to disturb himself. That he should make a fiiend of such a man being an utter impossibility, was it not a thousand times more impossible that Miss Theyn should accept him for her husband, her companion, her friend, her guide for life ? Ah ! why trouble himself for a second with the gossip of one village, or of two ? And the more he thought the more certainly he convinced himself. Seeing in imagination, in memory, those pure, far-seeing, and far-seeking gray eyes looking into his, betray- ing all their depth of tenderness, all their assurance of strength, then turning to that other face, those other eyes with all their dis- closures of selfishness, of narrowness, of other things to which he put no name — how could he trouble himself any further ? And yet the trouble did not quite die down. It might have gone lower than it did but for a brief conversation he had had with Gertrude Douglas, whom he had met one morn- ing, by untoward accident, on the promenade. Miss Douglas was looking very beautiful, feeling full of po\ver — the power that comes of youth, of beauty, of health, of the consciousness of social adequateness. 'Ah, is it you, is it reaJl;/ you f she exclaimed in her wonderfully sweet, and liquid and musical voice. Her words, her pretty laugh, came like a rippling rain of music, you on the promenade ! I volities ?' ' No ; I trust that contempt is not mucb in my way.' ' Oh, I don't know about that !' IMiss Douglas exclaimed, all unaware that she was treading upon the thinnest ice. ' I thought you looked dreadfully scornful at the Hartof t's the other evening — especially when you looked at poor Mr, ^Meredith !' Then Gertrude laughed a little, and blushed, and let her long dark eyelashes droop over her unperceptive eyes in a very effective ^ay. . No answer coming — none being possible to Damian Aldenmede— she went on again, quite as unconsciously as before, ' Of course I didn't wonder ; nobody who knew as much as I know could have wondered. . . , But don't be too much cast down ; it isn't a settled thing yet. . . . However, I suppose it will be soon. There is to be another grand dinner-party at the Rectory on the thought 'How unusual it is to see you despised all such fri- h'-^'i't '"i vt 160 /JV EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. Ii .' :m V2h.H M 22nd, and I expect it will be announced that evening. . . . You will be there, of course ?* * No ; I shall not,' Aldenmode replied, turning away with the scantiest courtesy, and not able at thiit moment to weigh all the contradictions and insinuations that he had heard in their proper balance. Entering his lodging a few minutes later, and finding the invitation to the dinner-party Miss Douglas had spoken of lying on his writing-table, he could have groaned aloud for the folly that had led him to declare his intention so prematurely. Yet the strain of perverseness that is in every nervous man or woman would not permit him to accept the pleasure now — for pleasure it would have been, however mingled with pain. He had pain enough as it was ; every recollection of the past, every thought of the future, had its own separate suffering. Even his face grew crimson, remembering that momdnt in the coastgnardsman's cottage, when he had at least betrayed himself to himself, and hoped — in a certain sense— that he also had betrayed the truth to her. Yet no sign had been given to him — or if any, then only such as must for ever forbid his hoping. He had watched ; he had sought her presence ; he had refrained from seeking it : yet by no effort could he extract any sign. The least response to his advances, the least seeming acceptance of his evident desire for — for friendship, to put it at its lowest ; the smallest sign of any hint would have given him hope. But in his worst moments he could do this justice to Miss Theyn— that she had not falsely allured him. And meantime, how was it with Miss Theyn herself? Not well. None who knew could make answer that it was well with her. To be drawn by all that is best and purest within you and about you on an upward road, yet to know and feel yourself gradually gliding downward, can never produce aught save an absolute misery. Ignore that misery how you will, call it by what name you will, the thing remains the same, as sooner or later you must know. In excuse for her only this may be said, that she had not divined the full depth of the feeling Damian Aldenmede already had for her. Half unknowingly, yet only half, she had checked the advance he would have made ; she had dreaded his coming farther, nearer, even while she had hoped that he would insist upon coming. There was his defect. He should hav: treated as straws all that stood in the way of the end he desired. In excuse for him there was this — in his former life he had loved, he had been betrayed, and he had suffered. What wonder, t£en, that he did not rise lightly, not gladly, to the new hope that was before him ? How could he even know with any sureness that he might dare to hope ? Thorhilda was quite aware of the fact that she had not given him one particle of encouragement, yet there were moments when «he felt more than half inclined to blame him for doubt, for vacil- . Sv THE BANDS OF FATE TWINE CLOSER. i6i latioa ; and these moments came usually when she was feeling with a dread akin to terror that her time for vacillation was now grow- ing perilously short. Day by day she discerned more clearly in the manner of almost everyone about her — her Aunt Milicent, Mrs. Meredith, Percival himself — that her decision, one way or the other, must be made soon — her binding, irrevocable decision. Yet, despite this previous sense of preparation, the moment came suddenly. She felt, she hardly knew how, that a net had been drawn about her. For days past there had been a sort of uncomfortable electricity in the 'cXx. The ostensible cause of this was a dinner-party to be given at Yarburgh Rectory on the 2"Jnd of November. It was to be a large party, almost unprecedentedly large ; many of the guests were to come from afar, many to stay all night. ' It is due to Percy as well as to you, dear, to make an occasion of it,' Mrs. Godfrey had said gently. And Thorhilda, understanding in a strange, surprised sort of way, had made no reply save such ls was conveyed by a hot, sudden blush, a pained glance, and a hast y retirement to her own room. . . . More than ever Mrs. Godfrey wi.8 pleased with her own little diplomacies. It was on that same evening t'lat Percival Meredith came in quite accidentally. Miss Theyn, altogether unsuspicious, had been persuaded by her aunt to dress a little earlier than usual, and had come down to find Mr. Meredith there in the drawing-room alone. There was no lamplight as yet, only the bright cheerful glow of the fire, the ruddy warmth lighting up even the farthest corners of the wide artistically-decorated room. For a second Thorhilda showed her embarrassment ; then she came forward with a dignity, a self-possession that Percival Mere- dith admired even while feeling almost overpowered by it. It was very natural that there should be a moment's i)ause between the two ; and it would have been difficult to say which was the first to recover. It was Percival Meredith who spoke first. ' It may seem a crude thing to say, perhaps almost cruel,' he began, in tones not free from tremulousness, ' but do you know I am almost glad that the time before us is so brief. We have only a few minutes, but surely, since we understand each other so well, have understood e? h other so long, one minute might be enough. ... I have so little to say that you do not know. It has all been said so often, so long ago . . . and — and do admit it, Hilda dear, I have been so patient. ... I won't even yet say that my patience has come to an end ; it could never do that while there was any hope at all. . . . But surely you won't strain it any longer ! I have insisted that no pressure should be put upon you by others ; I have demanded that from your aunt and from my mother ceaselessly, I have entreated them to let me have my own way : assuring them that I understood you better than they could do. , . . You will 11 ^i m •! m 163 rN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL justify my speaking bo strongly, so emphatically — I know you will. The love I have for you in my own heart tells me that you will do that. ... I don't yet feel elated in any way, still less triumphant ; do you know, it seems to me as if I could never for a moment feel any real elation in the matter. I must always, however happy I may be, still feel subdued in my happiness, I may almost say humiliated, because of my unworthiness. . . . Don't think that I am speaking untruly, or exaggerating what I feel ; at least tell me that you have no thought of that kind,' 'I have not,' Thorhilda replied, ppeaking truly. And in that moment she had no reason for doubting anything that Mr. Meredith had said. Doubt, suspicion, was not natural to her at any time ; and in this moment of perturbation it was not likely that she should suddenly put on or acquire such undesirable qualities as these. Yet she could not, even now, say the word that was asked of her. The timepiece on the mantelshelf pointed to three minutes to seven. Her uncle was always punctual, only putting down the Bible or Prayer-book he held in his hand when the last moment came. This both Thorhilda and Percival Meredith knew. ' Then if you have no doubt of me,' Percival urged, coming nearer to her, taking her hand in a warm loving grasp, ' if you do not doubt me, if you do not doubt my love, what can hinder you from saying the one word I want ?' There was a footstep on the stair, a bell ringing in the hall ; then the door opened behind them, and Redshaw entered with the lamp. ' I will write to you — I will write to-night,' Thorhilda said in a hurried whisper as Mrs. Godfrey entered the room by the further door. ''And your letter will contain a definite answer V Percival Meredith urged in tones no less fervid than her own. ' Yes, yes.' * You will my yes or no; please^ promise me this /' Before Thorhilda could reply, Mrs. Godfrey was there between them, her purple satin gown with all its ribbons and laces rustling impressively ; a hand was held out in congratulation to each, her eyes were bright with ready sympathetic tears. ' It is settled ; it is all settled and decided 1' she began, almost sobbing in her emotion. Thorhilda had no heart to undeceive her ; nay, now she had no desire. It would be decided so soon, and surely, surely, it must be as her Aunt Milicent was thinking. Very naturally Percival Meredith had no wish to interpose. He felt that the chain was being tightened precisely in the direction he wished. And there was good advice in the old proverb, * Let well alone.^ A NIGHT OF QUESTIONING. . 163 ou will, will do iphant ; ent feel happy I oat say f that I , tell me nything itural to was not iesirable \ of her. to seven. Bible or ae. This , coming E you do nder you he hall ; with th» said in a further [eredith Ibetween rustling [ach, her [, almost had no Imust be Ise. He 3tion he jet well CHAPTER XL. A NIGHT OF QESTIONING. The more insight a man acquires into human nature, the more it seems possible to him that a human life may be lived from the cradle to the grave without once even for one whole hour having been seriously brought face to face with any serious human problem. Thorhilda Theyn imagined that she had faced many problems, and, as we have seen, her life was no thoughtless, careless life. Her character had always been a more or less perplexing and contradic- tory one. Her uncle Godfrey, discerning the inconsistencies of her temperament while she was yet quite young, had done his utmost to bring about certain changes, certain developments which should tend to a greater harmony, and his efforts had been by no means unavailing. The very difficulty he had had, the mere fact that he had watched over so many struggles, noted so many small conquests, witnessed the growth of such a sweet affectionateness, the dawning and increasing of an intellect so clear, so full of fine perception, the strengthening of all impulses towards things good and right and pure and true, the very fact that it had been his duty, his pleasure, thus to watch over her, to endeavour to influence her, had drawn the bond of affectionate relationship closer and closer between them. No father or daughter could have been nearer to each other, or dearer. Yet the Canon had never allowed his tenderness to blind him. He knew of the struggle that was going on now ; it may be that he understood its true nature better than Thorhilda herself did. And if he said but little, he prayed the more, not dreaming how his prayer was to be answered. Percival Meredith stayed to dinner that evening, declaring that he had not intended it, in proof of which he glanced towards his morning-coat ; and when, after dinner, Thorhilda and her aunt entered the drawing-room together, arm-in-arm, they found Ger- trude Douglas there— a thing that often happened— she was always made welcome. ' It must be so dreadfully dull for her at home,' Mrs. Godfrey would remark to her husband. ' And with all her talent for soci- ability, it seems such a pity that she should be buried night after night "the winter through in that most dingy of little parlours.' 'But the father and mother !' the Canon said suggestively. *Ah, they have lived their life! Gertrude is not, unhappily, very young ; but all her life, her true life, is yet to live. . . . Oh, I think of her often ! There is no one in all this neighbourhood suitable for her ; and when Thorhilda is happily settled I shall cer- tainly try to do something for Gertrude — take her to some southern watering-place for a couple of months, or even go abroad with her. . . There is no one else to do anything to help her ; and if she was 11—2 1 64 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. as attractive as Circe herself, she could not round the chances of her life in a neighbourhood like this. . . . And she is so clever, so charming, so amiable — oh ! I mu»t turn my attention to her when this is over.' It was not often that Canon Godfrey said a severe thing, or aught that had even the shadow of severity about it. But his eyes were not closed. * I have no wish to interfere for one moment with ono kindly intention of yours, my dear Milicent,' he replied ; ' but I have a firm impression that Miss Douglas is quite equal to taking care of herself. It seems to me even probable that if she had been less evidently equal, less effort had been needed on the part of her friends. . . . Most men like to do what I did myself — to discover for themselves the goodness, the truth, the real beauty of character of the woman they would choose for their wife. . . . Nothing dis- tresses me so much as to think of effort being made, even of the slightest, to interfere with absolute freedom of choice — if, indeed, that is the right word — but it is not. True men, true women have no choice in the matter. It is almost a vulgarism in these days to say that marriages are made in heaven ; my feeling certainly is this, that the happiest and highest marriages are not made at all — they are the result of most inevitable laws. One feels that this had to be ; this, and no other.' ' Ah, well ! you are a little Quixotic, dear ; you always were in such matters as these — not that I have thought any the less of you for that.' The Canon understood Miss Douglas better than his wife did ; and yet even he did not comprehend her shallow nature to its last widening ring. On this evening she was a little perturbed bv something that had happened at home ; and her perturbation took the form it often did, making itself evident in a restless, glittering, fascinating excitement of word and manner. For an hour or so after the two gentlemen had come back to the drawing-room she took the lead in conversation, and her uncertainly- directed effort was not unsuccessful. Part of the time she walked up and down the room, declaring herself utterly unable to sit still. * I know what you must be thinking of me,' she said laughingly, as she turned once more, her rose-coloured dress shining as she came nearer the lamp, the large and fine outlines of her figure showing to more and more advantage. ' I know what you must be thinking. I once read a novel, years ago — it seemed to me stupid and antiquated even then ; now I believe that it, and the set it belongs to, are all the fashion among people of culture. I haven't any culture, I never had, and therefore I don't admire " Pride and Prejudice," nor any other of Miss Austen's novels. Yet I will say this — you can't forget them ! Just now myself reminded myself of a certain scene : A young lady, a Miss Bingiey, is walking about a drawing- room one evening, and the gentleman to whom her attentions are directed perceives that she has a good figure, and has taken this A NIGHT OF QUESTIONING. 165 lanceB of jlever, so tier when thing, or t his eyes JO kindly I have a ig care of been less rt of her discover character •thing dis- ren of the if, indeed, )men have se days to nly is this, b all— they this had to ways were the less of wife did ; to its last tnrbed bv )ation took glittering, lOur or so •room she Icted effort and down method of displaying it. I never get np to walk about for five minutes without thinking of that scene.' ' A proof of the graphic forcef ulness of Miss Austen's writing,' Canon Godfrey interposed. 'And yet, Uncle Hugh,' Thorhilda replied, 'with the exception of the characters of Emma Woodhouse and Anne Elliot, there are not many characters one would care to choose as patterns in life ; and Emma is as charming by reason of her faults as of her virtues. The whole atmosphere of Miss Austen's novels is full of a charm all her own ; yet surely it is not so very elevating, not so very full of incentive to live and move by the highest standard of all. For instance, everyone in marrying, or, in giving in marriarge, thinks first of a decent settlement.' ' That is precisely why and where I can admire her novels,' Ger- trude Douglas broke in, cutting in two the very sentence in which Thorhilda had meant to explain something of her own ideal — per- haps to the benefit of more than one listener present there. ' That characteristic of her books would alone be sufficient to win me to her side,' Miss Douglas declared, with an openness of re- velation meant to be enchanting, but which was more or less of a shock to ^t least one listener. ' It is the merest hypocrisy to de- clare that poverty may be preferable to wealth, and we all of us know it — that is, all of us to whom the word " poverty " brings any meaning whatever. But what do you know of it, Thorda dear ? What can you ever know ? . . . I don't want to speak of myself — it is not good taste, T am aware. . . . But in all your life you have never suifered so much as I have done this week because one of my father's two farms is unlet and he cannot find a tenant.' And then even Miss Douglas's fine powers of self-sustenance gave way in a slight measure. She still continued to walk to and fro between the lamplight and the shade ; but only those who watched her closely could see the tears that heightened the lustre of her brii-h' eyes, the quivering that deepened the pathos of her beautiful luv/.^th. ' I know you are friends, all of you,' she continued by-and-by, with most pathetic tones in her liquid and musical voice. ' If you Lad not been, I could not have spoken so. . . And I have said nothing — nothing of all that I might have said, of all that even (his seemingly slight matter means to me. ... I would not have spoken at all but for your sake, Thorda dear, that you might feel to the full how happy you are, what splendid reasons you have for being happy !* Thorhilda was sitting upon the sofa by her aunt's side ; she was soon overcome by this unusual display of emotion. Percival Meredith, sitting opposite to her, staring into the glowing fire, seemed lost in a very mist of perplexity. He hardly dared to lift his eyes to the tearful face of Miss Douglas ; yet, for the first time, her voice sounded strangely winning in his ears, strangely charged with some new spell of enchantment. Was this indeed the voice ;l; 166 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, he had listened to 80 often ? Were these the tones he had heard with such indifference 'i There were no signs of any further breaking down on the part of Miss Douglas ; yet by-and-by Thorhilda drew her away to her own room, where a cheery fire was burning, with an easy-chair pushed forward to the fender, a pale blue dressing-gown laid ready, with fur-lined slippers, cashmere shawl, and tiny gipsy-table with its tray of lovely china all prepared for the last cup of hot choco- late. Brushes were spread out upon the toilette-table, hot water ready in the cans, a maid was waiting in the dressing-room that was between Thorhilda's room and the one occupied by Miss Douglas. Gertrude Douglas understood all that was to be decided that night to the full— perhaps even better than Miss Theyn herself understood. Was it only during the last few hours that a new and strange idea hud taken possession of Gertrude's mind and heart ? Had the uplifted face, the admiring eyes, the expression of deep sympathy she had discerned while watching Percival Meredith aught to do with the attitude she displayed now ? Thorhilda was instantly aware of change. ' Do think of it all, dear — do think seriously,' Miss Douglas begged, seating herself in the depth of the easiest of easy-chairs, and sinking back exhausted with the contending emotions of the evening. ' Do ildnlc ! It is not a matter of life and death, but it is all-important so far as life is concerned. Have courage, dear. If you cannot love him as you feel you ought to love your future hus- band, do dare to say so ! . . . And if there should be anyone else — I don't mean anyone in particular — but if there should be, do not let anything that I have said come between you. After all, wealth or poverty, what is it '? It is only for this life, dear !' For almost the first time the ring of — not falseness, but of the want of certain coherent sincerity, smote upon the heart and brain of Thorhilda as an outward blow had done. She raised her head from Miss Douglas's knee, said ' good-night ' in a kind of stupor, and went to her own room, dispensing with the services of her maid for that night. For awhile she sat alone, not caring to take oflf even the few ornaments she had worn, but resting her wearied head upon the Bofa before the fire. * Lonely !' she said, in the half -audible whisper that people use who are roused by deep emotion. ' Lonely ! How anyone might smile to hear me utter the word 1 The one intimate friend with which circumstance has provided me is in the next room ; the two kindest guardians that ever woman had are in the room below; and the one man whom I know does love me greatly is not half a dozen miles away. . . , Yet, yet^ I am as lonely as the loneliest woman in the world !' Presently she rose to her feet, and began walking up and down A NIGHT OF QUESTIONING. 167 id heard the part ly to her afty-cbair id ready, ible with ot choco- lot water oom that by Miss ;ided that m herself A strange n of deep Meredith ihilda was i8 Douglas lasy-chairs, jns of the ath, but it ., dear. If iuture hus- ine else — I do not let wealtli or yoX of the and brain her head lof stupor, Ices of her In the few upon the Deople use jne might Fiend with the two \xQ. below; lot half a loneliest md down the room ; and when her eye caught sight of her writing-table, the paper lying ready, the pons in admired disorder, everything seem- ing to await that one word she had promised to write, she felt im- pelled all at once to a new level of thought and emotion. "Was it possible that she liad yet a decision to make ? No, that could not be 1 . . . Yet she might still unmake one — one made rather by others than by herself. It was a terrible hour. A more passionately-loving woman, or one aroused to a deeper depth of passionate human loving, had known no such inner contention. She had only been partially aware of the betrayal of which Damian Aldenmede had been guilty that night in the coastguards- man's cottage, and it was not in her nature to dwell upon an accidental word wrung from a man by the sight of a woman's suffering. She had never at any time dwelt much upon the idea that the artist might care for her, nor was she a woman to linger in long reverie over such a possibility. She had been drawn to him — drawn by his superiority over every other mai; she had met — and she had been fully aware of the fact that he had reciprocated to the full whatever feeling of mere admiration she had given to him. Beyond that she had not consciously permitted her thought, her emotion to stray. How far she might be governed by things of which she was largely unconscious she could not know. Wo none of us know. We are influenced by motives we have never sus- pected, led by hopes we have never grasped, deluded by visions into which we have never looked. So it is that men find them- selves OP the edge of precipices from which they start back aghast, like travellers coming to the clitf-top in tlie thick Avhite mist of autumn evenings. It is well for the traveller who has firm and safe land behind him to retreat upon. All complications, all pressures notwitstanding, Thorhilda Theyn knew that up to this hour safety was hers. Yet she did not say to herself, as she might have done, that by one strong wrench she might break every strand of the fine network of circumstance by which she was enmeshed. Of a dozen people knowing the truth as to the battle she fought alone in her own room that night, it is possil)]e that while six might have blamed her, the other six would certainly have been found sad for pity. It must be remembered that she was still young. Where is the man or woman who has passed from childhood to middle age with- out making some grievous mistakes ? Who has known nothing of love's treachery ? — of the betrayal of that which ' was not love at all,' but yet came with all fair and plausible seeming and promise of love ? And Thorhilda Theyn was not only young. Notwithstanding a certain adequate intellectual development, she was still simply and ' ;•*; i68 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. Vi: r>- I^^HRIp^ 1 '^^^bH^^ ^'m ■ ^^^^^^H 1, singularly youthful in many ways ; almost impossibly youtlif ul In the matter of lovo, and all love's mystic meaning, she was lit !• more than a child The little she did know she had been told, and that not to wisely. Had she known the truth with regard to herself that night, she would have known that the real love of her heart had yet to be truly awakened. Yet HO long, so persistently had her aunt Milicont, whom sh( trusted to the uttormost, seemed to consider her love for Percivul Meredith a settled thing, that hardly one thought of question on this head seemed to rise up to confront her. And it was not only Mrs. Godfrey who hud done this grievous thing ; Mrs. Meredith had added her share of the weight of pressure ; Gertrude Douglas — until to-night — had added hers. And of late the Canon had been all but silent — silent with a silence that was one day to be hi? bitterest memory. So it was that she was left alone to fight with her worst enemy, herself ; to see on one hand the luxury, the ease, the freedom from care, the presence of every desirable thing that had come to seem needful to her life. There was no need for imagination here. She saw this strong temptation in its highest light, clearly, distinctly. And why should she look upon it as a temptation at all ? why not accept all that was offered to her in the spirit in which every- one who surrounded her was expecting her to accept it— as a natural result, a natural consequence ? lu this question and its answer lay all her difficulty. There was only one answer ; and she returned it to herself, shrinking from its full meaning. ' I have not been able to accept the offer of Percival Meredith's hand at once, and without hesitation, because I know that in marrying I should wish to feel that my husband was the best man I had ever seen ; the highest-souled I had ever known. I appre- ciate Mrs. Browning's utterance on this head to the full : ' " Unless you can think when the song is done, No other is soft in the rhythm ; Unless you cnu feel when left by one, That all men else go with him. Unless you can know when uprn ised by his breath That your beauty itself wants proving ; Unless you can swear, ' For life, for death l' Oh, fear to call it loving." * Is it thus with me ? It in not. But they say, they all say, that this is only natural, that that deeper, intenser love will come. Perhaps it might have done, perhaps it might, if I had hever seen any other man, any higher, nobler, greater. And I believe, I admit it to myself now and here, that that other is as much greater in soul as he is poorer in means. As to whether he cares for me or nob, with that caring, I do not know, I only dream. Certainly it is A NIGHT OF QUESTIONING, 169 nothing but a dream, and one that, perhaps, could never be realized. Of Percival's love I am very suro. And I mean to live as truly as I can, as nobly ; but if I fiii), shall I not remember ? Sliall I not see a strong, spiritual face looking into mine, lookinj,' nadly, re- proachfully, the face of one who would liavo led me onward and upward, step by step ?' Then for awhile thouf^ht itself seemed to pause ; and the visions that came were not such as to fix themselves on the mind by moans of formed words and jthrasea. And each vision seemed to be twofold, to disclose now this side, now that. At l.ist quite sud- denly, as day began to break, worn and wearied with the nightV perplexity, Thorhilda threw herself on the sofa by lier writing- table and began to write. ' I will think no more, I will hesitate no more,' she said to herself in soino agitation. ' I will give my promise to Percival Meredith, and my lite to God. . . . J\Iay lie do with me as lie will.' The note was written in the gray dawn ; then Miss Theyn slept awhile, to be awakcued by a very hurricane of wind and rain dashing upon hor o.isoment ; and even then it seemed as if at the foot of the far-off clifl'a she could hear the sounding of the sleep- less melancholy sea. * Not the sort of morning one would have chosen to make one's first greeting to " a plighted bride," iou't that the proper phrase, dear V her aunt Milicent said an hour or two later when Thorda went down. The cheeriest and warmest of coal lires was burning in the wide grate, lighting up the dining-room with a ruddy glow. Mrs. Godfrey kissed the girl with a warm and motherly kiss, on either cheek ; the Canon's lips wore pressed tenderly to her forehead ; and he held her hand awhile, not caring to look much into the face he had read at the first glance. Presently a bell was rung, the servants came in, and sat down quietly in their places, and the Canon opened his Biblj and read : ' The light of the body is the eye : if, therefore, thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be ftJl of li^ht. I No man can serve two maaterH : for cither he will hate the one, and love the other ; or clyc he will hold to the one nnd despise the other. Yo cannot serve God and niaratnon. ' Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your hfe, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink ; nor yet for your body, what ye shall i)ut on. Is not the life more thai: ine"* nnd the body tliuu raiment ? .# ' # # > « •Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteoir^^ncBs; and all these things shall be added unto you.' V B'<t u. 170 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, CHAPTER XLL *LATE, LaTE, so late 1* * At peace ! ay, the peace of the ocean, When past is the storm when we foundered, Aud ea}j;er and bre.ithless the moriiiug Looks over the waste.' W. W. Stort. A DINNER-PAP.TY of eight-and- twenty people must always mean the mingling of some very different, not to say di!=cordant, ele- ments ; and the party given in honour of Miss Theyn's engage- ment to Mr. Pticival Meredith could be no exception to this in- teresting rule. The scene — taking it merely as a scene — was an unusually brilliant one. Certainly — ' The tnhours played their best, Lumps above and laughs below.' And perhaps some present there might afterward have finished tho quotation — * "Love me" soundod like a jest, Fit for yes, or lit for no.' But Misa Theyn could not be numbered among them. Long after- ward it was remarked that she had never looked more beautiful, more winning, more touching, more sad. Many there did not see the sadness. Her quietude was taken for maiden modesty ; her wistful, wondering look for the new tenderness always born of love. She moved about the rooms likft a very embodiment of grace and beauty, of sweetnei^s, and almost pathetic gentleness. Mr. Egerton (' the Canon's curate,' as Mrs. Kerne was careful always to describe him), watching LJiss Theyn on this eventful evening, knew that he had never before seen such outward and visible signs of the invvard and beautiful grace of humility. It was not only the down-dropt eyes, the restrained smile, the new paleness ; but something in her smile, her grace, her attitude, be- trayed to him that all tliis demonstration of gaiety and festivity, so well and kindly intended, so far as the Canon and bis wife were concerned, was not exactly in accord with the inward mood of her for whom it Avas mainly meant. Mr. p]gerton could not quite un- derstand Ills ow'.i feeling. Where all should have been joy, glad- ness, congratulation, he was moved, all unaware of any reason, to somt'tliing that was mrionsly- like jdty, strano'-ly akin to com- passion. And inevitably Miss Theyn discerned how it was with him, and returned the pressure of hia hand with a gentle, meaning waraith that he could not forget. Afterward — long, long after- ward he understood. 'Evei-ybody w;is there!' Mrs. Kerne said, describing the evening to a frienci of hers on the following day. ' An' it was the pretties* « LA TE, LA TE, SO LA TE t 171 ays mean dant, ele- s engage- ;o this in- y brilliaut lished tho ong af ter- heautiful, id not see esty ; her born of raent of entleness. careful eventful ward and lility. It the new tude, be- "estivity, wife were od of her quite un- oy, glad- euson, to to cora- Avas with meaning r;g after- evening pretiiesi dinner-party I ever was at. The dresses was splendid — they really was. My niece Thorhilda wore a cream satin, very plain, vei'y simply made, but very good. It was like an old brocade for that ; it would ha' stood by itself splendid. An' she'd some magnificent old lace all about it, real Brussels, 'at had belonged to Mrs. God- frey's mother ; she was a cousin of the Duke of St. Dunstan's ; that was how the father, old Chalgiove, got the living; and how it came to pass 'at the Duke an' Duchess took such notice of them all. Why, I don't believe 'at the cddication o' that family o' girls ever cost the father sixpence. . . . An' so far so good ; but they needn't hold their heads quite so high as they do ; though I must say 'at I consider Mrs. Godfrey a real lady down to the toes of her shoes. An' that's moro nor I'd ever say for Averil Chalgrove.' ' But you don't moan to say that she was there V inquired Mrs. Kerne's intcrlocutoi-, who was none otlier than Mrs. Mouk-Fryston, the wife of the principal lawyer of Market Yarburgh. ^ There! my dear; yes, and with all her war-paint on, I can assure you. And truth to say, she amazes me ! She's forty-seven, if she's a day ; and you'd never ha' taken her for much over thirty. Would you believe it, she'd a cream lace dress on ; and all tossed off wi* splendid dark red chrysanthemums. An' she'd a great diamond jiendant at her throat, half as big again as that 'at poor Kerne gave £(10 for the day we'd been married twenty year. She's none a favourite o' mine, she's over proud an' stiif for tlrat ; but I'm bound to say she lool-rd every inch a lady, an' behaved like one. They do do that, them Chalgroves.' ' But who else was tliere ? You have told me nothing yet.' ' Oh, tlicre's none so much to tell. One dinner-party's very much like another. The rooms looked beautiful ; the lamps had sp^ ndid shades, so had the candles ; and the ttower?^ wrs ueyond all descrip- tion. . A lot o' them came from abroad ; I got that out of Mrs. Godfrey herself, An' then the music made such adilfereuce Oh me ; if I was ?. grand lady I'd alius hev music at dinner- time.' * But who played ? surely not any of the guests ?' Mrs. Kerne paused a moment, quite a pitiful look mingling with the look of suticrior understanding on her face. * "Who pla.t ed ? why the baud played, to be sure ; the Volunteer bind from Danesborough.' . ' Oh, really ! But wasn't it very loud ?' *Loud ? not a bit of it. At first, in fact, we couldn't hear 'em at all. The Cauon had asked 'em to play in the courtyard at the back of the Bectory. An" by-an'-by Mrs. Godfrey appealed to me — 'twas very nice an' polito of her really--" Mrs. Kerne," she says, "can you hear the baud? 'what ilo you think? JTad we better hev' ic a little nearer ? Would it be too near in the ante-room, d' ya tliink ?" ' So I s;iid no. I thought it 'ud be a deal better ; so she sends a message by the butler, an' within five minutes tho baud was play- 173 IN EXCH4NGE FOR A SOUL. ing just in tlic next room, so Boft, so beautiful, so overcomin' 'at yoM could liardly help the tears, specially not when they played " Home, Sweet Home," and the " Last Rose o' Summer. Believe-- me, I put down my knife an' fork upon the finest bit o' partridge ! I couldn't ha' eaten it wi' my horn swellin' so, — no I couldn't ; though I don't make out 'at I'm on? of the sofest-hearted sort o' folk. Still, there's moments, I reckon, there's moments i' most lives, an' that was one, certainly that was one !' 'But you've not told me yet who the main part of the guests were!' Mrs. Monk-Fryston said with a little querulousness. She had not the suave manner of your true interviewer. But then, the interviewer is like the poet — born, not made. ' Ob, I've no list of 'em,' Mrs. Kerne replied, in a manner meant to be grand, but which was only rude aud brusque. 'I've no list of 'em ; an' titles don't dazzle mo^ as they do some folk. I saw no more in Lord Hermcston than I did in the Canon, maybe not so much. An' as for Sir Robert an' Lady Siunington, well, if it weren't for the title I reckon they'd never be received into no first- rate society.' ' You don't say so I . . , But Lady Thelton now, wasn't she there ?' ' Of course she was ; no party at the Rectory would be complete without hr. Aiul very handsome and stylish she looked with her rubies, and her point lace, and her dark red velvet dress. . . . But I make nought of all that ! What did take me, was her real polite- ness. She spoke to me about the engagement as feelingly as if my "iece had been my own daughter. In truth, altogether, I was strucK with the way in which everybody seemed to be interested. In pc^at of fact, it was a real sensation ; an' so he seemed to think. As for her — my niece — well, I must say she was more like a white marble statue than a girl just engaged to be married. And with all these grand folks about her ; and all raakin' so much to do, I didn't, at the bottom of my heart, think it was quite nice of her. But then she was always od -"' that sort, sweet anuff, an' nice annlf in her own way — but th , uer way %c<is her own, an' it was a little bit " stuck up," as the sayin' goes ; Imt if I didn't altogether like it, Ld no need to give in to it ; an' I never did. Yet, I'll do her the justice to say as she never resented it, never bore me no ill-will. She was as sweet last night as if wed alius been the best friends in the world. She's no bitterness about her.' ' And Mr. Aldenmede, the artist, wasn't he, there ? I've heard more than one say that ho had ideas about Miss Theyn Himself. They've been seen talkin' on the beach over and over again.' Mrs. Kerne's smiie was wonderful to see, it was so superior, so pitiful, so full of never-to-bt: ■ Npliuned meaning. ' Him have ideas ! No doubt. 1' it if my niece isn't very sharp, she's not quite a fool ! An' as ior him bein' asked to dine at the Rectory on such an occasion as that — well, it wasn't very likely.' Such was the terrible drift of the gossip that was circulating 'LATE, LATE, SO LATE P 173 Tiin' 'at playfd Believ tridgt ! .uldn't ; port o' 1' most : guests IS. She aen, the r meant 5 no list ; saw no e not so 11, if it no first- isn't she ;omplete with her . . But ,1 polite- as if my ,3 struc'-. n pc*jt As for marble ill these |idn't, at at then in her ttle bit e it, Vd justice fehe was in the heard liimself. [rior, so sharp, at the Jely.' lulating almost everywhere. It was well for Thorhilda that she did not even dream of it. She had made her choice ; she would abide by it — so she was determining while everyone about her was congratulating her on the happiness of her choice. For some days she avoided any moment of calm reflection, and this of set purpose. Miss Dougias was asked to come and stay at the Rectory, to occupy the room next to Thorhi Ida's ; and each night the last, worst moments were passed in conversation that seldom came near the one matter predominant above all others in Thorhilda's heart and soul. It was strango, and Gertrude D!)U2:la3 knew it to be strange, that she was hardly permitted to mention the name of Percival Meredith. ' You are so different from me, dear,' she said one night as she sat by Thorhilda's fire, her long, i)retty brown hair flowing over her pale pink flannel dressing-gown, her dark, bright eyes alight with interest, with curiosity. ' You are so different from me I If I loved anyone, I think I should wish always to be near them, or at any rate always near to someone who would talk to me of the one I loved. And you — you seem to shrink if I mention Mr. Meredith's name ! Why is it ? Do you know Why ? Are you conscious of it at all yoursol:' !' Thorhilda was silent for a moment — silent and even paler than usual. 'I think I am only conscious so far,' she said at last. ' It seems now such a terrible matter ; for life or for death. There is no escape.' ' Escape ! My dear child, what an odd word to have in your head ! Escape from Percival Meredith ! from Ormston Magna ! from nearly three thousand a year ! My dear, cautious-speaking old father says two thousand five hundred. And you speak o.t escape ! My child, are you insane ?' ' I am not sure,' Thorhi'da said slowly. * I am not sure ! Yon are putting words to thoughts that have been in my mind for some time. What is sanity — pure, clear, human sanity ? ... I am not so sure that I know !* This was beyond Miss Douglas ; she laughed a low, sweet, empty laugh, drew Thorhilda down lo the sofa by the fire^ and held her younger friend's hand affectionately in her own. ' Don't tempt Providence, dear,' she said with sufficient solemnity. * I am not an envious person — If I were, I should envy you from the bottom of my heart. It seemed to me that you have everything any human being could wish for. You have a good home — I might :^'iiy a luxurious one ; but I know that that would pain you ; you have the kindest of kind friends ; and now, to crown all, the Prince comes by. He throws himself at your feet ; and after long enough probation, you bid him rise and allow him to kiss the tips of your fingers. 1; ;ving done that, you put on a melancholy air as if the sacrifice were too much for you.' 174 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. All this was far too near the truth to be qnite pleasiint ; and it was small wonder that Miss Theyn avoided such conversation as much as was possible. Yet she could not avoid the growing sense of being bound, irrevocably bound.' ' I suppose it is always so,' she said to herself one night, standing alone by the window of her osvn room. It was a clear, calm, moonlit night. The trees in the garden stood still and gray, the mystic interweaving of the leafless branches showing agairst the silver-toned ether beyond. It was a night, a scene, to compel the soul to be truthful to itself, however painful such truth might be ; and Tliorhilda Theyn could not escape from that compelling influence. ' I suppose it is so with all thinking women,' she said. * To have given one's self to another must be to know one's self poorer for the gift ! How strange it is to be called upon to surrender one's very identify. It is certainly fitting and typical that one should lose one's very name. And to be congratulated, felicitated on every baud as if it were the greatest good that had come to one— a good with no drawback, a gain with no loss ! Is that why tbe whole thing is smothered in iiuery and the tawdriest of outward show — that a woman may net think — that she may be dazzled by the millinery of the whole affair to such an extent that she may not have time to think of the hereafter ? Is this what marriage means ? Is this the highest ? Is this the best ? This time of storm and stress lasted for some days after the irre- vocable word had been given ; but naturally it wore itself out. It is seldom given to human nature to remain long upon the mountain- peak of any emotion whatever. Preparations for the marriage were being hurried forward ; in one way or another, things connected with the approaching change in her life came to the Sdrface every hour iJid she need a new gown, or pair of boots ? She was ren)inded that it would be better to wait a little while — a very little — then to choose this for tra- velling, that for receptions, and so forth. She was never allowed to forget. Percival Meredith came and went. He was quiet, happy, never visibly triumphant, or over-assured to any offensive degree. He understood too well for that. He sat on the sofa in the Rectory draAving-roou)., rather silent, well-bred, distirguishcd-looking, wait- ing upon Thorhilda's lightest word, letting no wish or desire of hers escape him. Yet he was never obtrusive, never forward, or exigeant. Mrs. Godfrey mavvelied a little at them b(,th. Were tho'se lovers — these two reticent, sclf-ooiituinrd people, who >pokc of the ' weather and the crops-,' ' Shakespeare and the musical glasses,' with such perfect equaniniity ? The Rector's wife was even a little impatient at time^^. Being so full of life, and of all life's minor enthusiasms, herself, it chafed her ^o watch the unmoved bearing of two people who should have boon — so to speak — electric with 'LATE, LATE, SO LATE P 175 and it tioii as mse of anding 1 stood anches light, a painful B from ^o have for the :'s very lid lose ry baud )d with thing is -that a inery of time to this the he irre- but. It ntain- inone mge in gown, itter to or tra- illowed never . He ectory , wait- Isire of rd, or I lovers i the ' with little [minor leaving with iympathy, with emotion ; who should have rarified the very atmosphere about them with the ferviduess, the intensity of their affection. * Well,' she said one day to Gertrude Douglas, who was full of understanding as to this perplexing state of things, ' Well, I sup- pose we are not made alike ; but when I remeinbcr the last few weeks before my own marriage, and then look at Thorda, I am all bewilderment. Looking back upon myself, upon the state of exalta- tion I was in, and then turning to watch her — her perfect self-con- trol, her unbroken quietness, her uneager manner, her unfervid glance — I cannot, I ccamot but dread that all this means indifference. . . . Why should she be so hard to move ? She is not cold-hearted —anything but that. Indeed I have always felt that somewhere in her nature there must be a most passionate intensity of loving- ness, I had hoped to see it come to the surface now ; I felt sure of it. Yet day by day I wait and watch, and the day ends in disap- pointment.' * Yet she isn't reserved with one,' Miss Douglas said musingly. ' Reserved ! No, not exactly that ; nor exactly open. The reserve is somehow thrown upon one's self. I do not — 1 do not dure to speak the siTr4)ie truth ; I do not dare to question her, to remon- strate with her. What is there that one could take hold of ? She receives Percival with all kindness, all politeness ! If she would but once be a little rude, a little brusque, one would dare to speak.' ' But that she will never be,' said Gertrude Douglas, who fell again into that unusual mood of absent-mindedness ; and was not again to be roused out of it during the whole of the afternoon. What new and forcible idea had taken possession of her, who should say ? CHAPTER XLII. SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT.* • Tlie crown and cf)iufort of my life, your favour, I do give lost, for I cio feel it gone." SlIAKEPPKARE. Outwardly Barbara's life was going on much as it had always done ; but the changes of which she never spoke were not small, not unimportant. It was no light matter to have an infant to care for in addition to the four children she had cared and toiled for before. True, the KL.'ahbours were good, and any fishwife en the Foreclift' would take ' Bab'' Ildy ' for a few hours while Barbara went, as of old, to the flither-beds, or eat at the herring-house ' scaling mussels,' or 'bait- ing lines,' or mending nets, or doing any of the hundred and one things by which the wives and daughte s of the fishermen e-irn a little money to help in the providing of the household needs. There -"•(i 176 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. was no other house on the Forecliff where the burden of providing for a family fell upon a girl not yet twenty, Bab had never before suflPered much from the narrowness of her narrow means. She had never known anything else. Economy of the closest had been familiar to her from her very childhood. To have a dinner — and that a scanty one — of animal food once a week, on a Sunday usually, was all that she had ever dreamed of. And Bab had had no lessons in cooking ; she had never seen a scientific scale of diet ; she knew nothing of the various values of various foods. That albumen should not be hardened ; that osma- zome should be retained ; that ' body- warmers,' and ' flesh-formei s ' should be given in about equal quantities — alas! all this, was un- known to Barbara Burdas ; yet she did her best, obeying instinct, which goes for something, and tradition, which is worth less, but yet is binding when no other light or law is known. The wonder of it was that Bab herself had always had such splendid health ; her complexion was bright and clear, the carmine tints of it full and vivid ; her deep-blue eyes were as lustrous and as beautiful as if her diet had been regulated by a whole college of physicians. And it was the same with the little ones. The three lads, rude, robust, seemed likely to suffer far more from plethora than from inanition ; and if little Ailsie's more delicate frame caused greater fear, greater perplexity, this was not shared by any who knew the sacrifice that Bab was even now making. Over and over, a few pence at a time, she had saved enough to buy this book or that, usually one lent to her by Damian Aldenmede, but which in her natural independence she had declined to keep. ' I ^ '^e kept so many,' she said one evening. * Why, there's over Uv nty on the shelf upstairs ; an' your shelves, in your own room, 1' k as !:are as can be. It fairly made my heart ache to see thera.' ' It need not,* Aldenmede replied '|uite carelessly. * I have some other shelves at homo, not badly filled.' Again Bab had looked into his face with that questioning look he knew so well, and wliich amused him so deeply. Some time he would satisfy her questions by an answer he liked to think of. Meanwhile he found a rather cruel amusement in raising hrr wonder, her interest, and then watching how she forbore to ask a single question in words that could betray curiosity. Already he was proud of Bab. But yet how little, how very little, he knew of her real life ! He had acquaintance enough with the interior arrangements of the cottage on the Forecliff' not to intrude when th« mid-day meal was on the table. How he mi^ht have shivered to see six people enjoy- ing a dish made of the boiled udder of a cow ; of a gaunt and spare salted cod's head ; and yet the dishes were, in their way, nourish- ing ; witness the boys^ whose hardy, rosy cheeks might have made many a richer mother envious ! And almost ea jh evening came a supper that might be more nourishing still. Bao seldom failed to * SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT: 177 lave some prepare a big kettle of rice boiled in the quart of skim milk which she could purchase for three-ha'pence ; or to fill the big frying-pan with potatoes and onions, and a scrap of good salted fish if she could get it. It is certain that there were children on the Forecliff worse fed than those brought up by poor, ignorant Bab Burdaa. But it was for little Ailsie, and Nan's baby, that time after time her hoard of money, one shilling or two, had to be taken to buy better food — now a tin of costly-seeming fariiaceous food for little Ildy (named Thorhilda in the register of the parish church at Yar- burgh, but never again till a recent event in her girl-life demanded it). And now the shilling or the sixpence was taken to buy a real mutton-chop ; or a few ounces of real port wine for her little sister who was always so quiet, so pale, yet so bright, so good, so full of small childish sympathies. It was only by watching, by slowly and silently watching, that David Andoe came to discern what it really meant to Bab to have the charge of his sister's child ; and his instinct led him to perceive that no offer of help on his })art would be welcome. Once or twice iie had called to see Nan's baby ; he had bent over the cradle where the little one lay sleeping ; not only in quietness and cleanliness, but with some attempt at daintiness all about her. Barbara told him that Miss Theyn had sent the swing-cot, with all its pretty chintz draperies, its loops and bows of rose-red ribbon. A small white counterpane covered the warm blanket. Th^; little Ildy lay smiling upon the soft pillow ; happy, comfortable as the veriest princess of a baby might have been. Bab's pride was touching to see. David smiled and sighed both in a breath as he watched the child. How did Barbara manage to do all her own work, and yet make possible such home-life as this ? The Sagged House was but very little better furnished than his own home ; yet, ah, the diflPerence ! Here the brick floor was clean and whohsome — at home it was so foul that no one might say whether it was brick or stone. Here the old oaken dresser with its blue plates, its suspended cups and jugs, was a pleasant thing to contemplate ; at home hardly a piece of crockery-ware was to be found that was not dirty, or cracked, or actually broken. And then under the dresser Barbara had ranged her copper tea-kettle, her bright brass pans, her brass candlesticks — heirlooms these for the most part, and seldom to be used in the common daily life. That Bab was a little proud of them was known all over the Forecliff, and helped in some vague way to add to the impression that she was not quite as the other fisher- folk were. David Andoe saw it all again, and again it saddened him to a degree of .sadness lower than before. The contrast was too pointed. There was no pile of ill-smelling nets or lines cumbering the floor hero ; no dishes of potato-peeling standing about the floor for elderly and ragged -look ing fowls to come in and peck at at their pleasure. Even old Ephraim's sou'wester hung in the tiny pas- 12"^ 178 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ',1 sage, and his sea-boots stood within the door of the coal-shed outside. Barbara was as sensitive to strong odours as any lady of her land. David did not enter into any details as he sat there. All that he knew, or rather felt, was that he sat by a home fireside where there was warmth, and order, and peace, and the certain security that comes of the presence of but one human being whose character is strong, and stable, and pure. This was rest ; this was soothing! Had hope been there, it had been happiness of the finest. He could not help speaking out of his full lueart. His training had not been such as to lead him on to the finer and more perfect restraints. ' It's like bein' in heaven, Barberie, this is !' the poor fellow said, in somewhat pathetic tones, as he drew near to the blazing fire. Old Ephraira was nodding in his chair on the other side of the fire ; the children were all in bed and asleep. A lamp burnt clearly and brightly on the table ; Barbara sat by the little cot, her knitting in her hand, the needle plying fast, yet not claiming all her attention. Every moment or two she glanced at the little Ildy, touching the cradle to a light rocking movement if the baby seemed restless, leaving it alone if she slept in y.^ace. Bab had had no training in such matters, but her instincts being kindly — nay, loving — reason served her for the rest. ' It is like heaven,' David said in a low, touching voice. Barbara quite understood ; and almost trembled in her understanding. But for awhile, suspending her knitting-needles, she tried to think calmly, ' I don't know about this bein' much like heaven,* she said at last. ' But, eh, it does seem to me that people needn't make their lives so much like — like the other place, as they so often do 1 It w a mystery.' ' Ay, so it is — but they do do that.' ' It's the wart of understanding,' Barbara replied, looking into the fire thouglilf ully. ' It's nothing but that — they don't under- stand. And how siiould they ? There's been none to teach them — none that could see the sort of teaching that poor people wanted. They looked down from above, and comprehended nothing that they saw. They didn't know wlnj ])oor folk's houses was dirty, nor why their bit of food was badly cooked ; 'repulsive ' they would call it, an' so it is to them. But they couldn't trace all this to its beginning — how should they ? All they could do was to blame, and blame, and never see to the root of things. . . . But, eh, me ! I've hope enough 1 I see signs on evei'y side. Why, the very books one reads gives one hope 'at they're beginning to see — them that can help. Oh, yes, believe me, David, tiiere's hope on every side !' ' Hope for some, maybe, not for me,' the poor fellow replied, with sadness in his tone. ' Hope for some. May God grant as you'll be one o' them T al-shed lady of that he where ecurity whose his was of the training perfect 3W said, ing fire, ihe fire ; irly and itting in itention. ling the restless, ining in —reason Barbara landing. o think said at Ike their ! It is fng into under- Ich them Iwanted. Ing that ]irty, nor )u Id call to its [me, and ! I've )oks one [bat can el' ed, with lou'U be 'SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT! 179 Then he rose to go, standing for another moment or two by the cheery fire, lingering another by the diiinty little cot where t!ie !i!iby lay smiling on its soft white pillow. It wa:-! hard to go, and Jlirbura, with compassionate soul and warm heart, fully understood, i';ir too fully for her own peace of mind. 'Don't be downcast. David,' she said, speaking kindly, sadly. ' There's many a one that has more reason to be downcast than you have.' Was she meaning herself ? Was that ])ossil)le, conoid iii'.;^ .'ill tliat had happened of late ? David did not know, he felt bewildered, and by-and-by he went away, leaving Barbara Burdas far more un- settled, more saddened, more perplexed than ho himself was. After a difficult quarter of an hour, Barbara was glad to hear the familiar click of the latch that betol- ned the coming of old Hagar Furniss. It was not only that she n. A distraction ; some impelling instinct within her required more than that. ' Come in, Hagar ; come to the fire,' Bab said warmly. - It's cold anuff outside ; but, thank God, we're able to keep a fire going.' The old woman began to shed quiet, feeble, inefltectual tears, the tear? of age, that have in them no piission, no vehemence, nothing to touch any heart not the most sensitive. ' It's well for you, honey,' she said, sobbing gently, speaking gently. ' It's well for you 'at hes a bit o' coal at the hooso end an' a bite bread i' the cupboard ! 'Tisn't iverybody can saay as much.' * Why, you don't mean to say 'at you^re wantin', Hagnr ?' Bab asked, surprised out 01 her own troubles. But she did not express her true feeling in words. In a very few minutes there was a com- fortable meal spread on the table : tea, and toasted bread and butter, and a boiled egg. Poor old Hagar began to eat at once, in that painful, eager, tremulous fashion that lotrays long hunger, long faintness, and need. Bab, her own troubles regaining their domi- nance, only waited to see the old v/oman fairly comfortable, fairly satisfied ; then, obeying an instinct that was strong within her, she rose to her feet and took out her shawl from the oaken press at the further end of the room, and prepared to go out of doors. ' You won't mind, Hagar — you won't mind my going out for a while. I've not been out since the early morning, and I'm keenly set upon walkin' over the fields for a bit. Can you stay ?' ' Can Ah staiiy, honey ? . . . Why if Ah mun tell the truth Ah were wantin' to ask ya if Ah mud sleep here, on the mat by the fire ? Ah've seen neither bite nor sup to-da;iy, nor a bit o' coal — noa, niver the lowe of a coal fire till Ah come in here to-neet. an' Ah'd niver ha' done that but Ah were fairly starvin' ! . . . Let ma staiiy Bab, honey — let ma sleep here on the mat ! Ah'll do owt Ah can for ya i' the mornin'. Ah d he ri^'ht glad to do a bit o' washia' — an' ya'mum hev a lot o' that wiv a young bairn to do for !' 10 o i8o IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ■rjli^l:c m .(■■>;■ ■•'j: w Bab's only reply was to bring a spare rug and a pillow from her own bed, and to make the old woman quite cozy on the ' settle ' by the fire. * Now lie there till I como back,' she said, ' An' if ya hear any of the little ones stirring, go an' see what they want. There's Ildy's milk by the fire, an' none o' them else wants nothing till the morning, Gran'father '11 go to bed at eight o'clock. Don't wake him before !' So Bab went out into the cool dark December night. There was no moon — the tiny silver crescent had gone down behind the hills long before ; but the stars shone at their best and brightest, and the world seemed quieter, holier for their far-off shining ; and the sea seemed subdued to a gentler movement ; the land was wrapt as in a peaceful dream. Everywhere there was peace, save in Barbara's own soul , She had seemed to herself to be quiet enough till David Andoe, with all his subdued and unsubdued emotion, had awakened the echoes of that love which she had hoped was dying — yet, oh ! so hardly, so very hardly in her own heart. Now she was all unstrung Btgain. The battle had to be fought once more. Once more ! How many times more ? Was her life to be spent in this need of love? Ah! how many lives are spent— spent exactly thus — in needing love, in craving for it, in trying everywhere to search it out ? And one shall find it, and presently lose it again ; and another shall find it, and know no good, no beauty in it. How few have life and love, continuance of love — love remaining always for blessing and up- raising ! Was Barbara Burdas going to pass her life thus — in hoping, in finding the end of hope ? She thought of it in a vague passing way as she flew onward through the lanes beyond the Bight. There was a flagged pathway through the fields, a descMit into a fir copse, a hill to be climbed on the other side ; and that the top of the hill was a long three miles from the Forecliff, Barbara was very well aware : yet she did not sto]) to think of the distance ; she was thinking of nothing save a dream that was growing gradually in her own brain — a vision of Yarburgh Rectory, with the windows all alight with splendid lamps and glowing fires. So Thomasin Furniss had described it to her once, when some halibut had had to be taken to the Rectory even while the guests were assembled to p^t it. Bab had never forgotten the description of all that Thomasin had seen that evening. This was no dinner-party, not so far as Barbara knew ; and certainly she did not care. She had no desire, uo dream, except that but for a moment she might be near to Miss Theyn. That was the one cry that she would allow her heart to make. All the rest could be stifled, it must be stifled ; but this might be allowed, sxirely this ! And it "would not happen often, perhaps never again ; but surely it might be permitted to her for once, just for once, to *SOMFAVIlRRE THERE MUST BE LIGHT: i8l )maain I had to )led to II that and {except That ill the [lowed, lagain ; ice, to walk outside the house where Miss Theyn lived — perhaps even in the garden, if the gates were not shut ! And she might see the window of Misa Theyn's room ; perhaps oven know, from the shadow on the blind, that she was dressing for dinner. Bab had learnt much of late. And all this detail of vision notwithstanding, there was nothing small at the root of Barl)ara's ideals. The one motive was the drawing to be for a little while near to one she loved. Forgive her, if even in this mere drawing there was yet a laint of materialism. It is only the very finest natures of all who can live in love, knowing that this love is growing, strengthening, though actual nearness be not attained for weeks, for months, nay, even for years. The test of time is not only the strongest, it is the most beautiful test of all. This Barbara had yet to learn in all its truth, all its fulness. She only knew to-night that she was moved to pass over miles of lane and field as if she were but passing over a few yards. Her imagination saw only the quaint gray old house upon the hill-top at Market Yarburgh. She stood upon the lawn at last. She had found no bolts or bars to prevent her, and she had made her way up the wide avenue aa one not dreaming of any right or title to be there. Instantly she found her way to the front of the house, not knowing it to be the front. There was only a light here and there in the u])per windows, but on the lower :itory there was what seemed to Barbara a very illumination from three of the windows, each of which reached to the ground, and, being uncurtained, disclosed the room within. Bab stood staring awhile, not dazzled so much by the light, not by the stmnge wonderful beauty, as by the silence, the emptiness of it all. She had not meant to be curious, still less to be a spy upon aught to be seen of the Rectory from without ; yet she stood as if spell-bound when once she had discerned that in all this wide magnificence of light, of colour, of beauty, there was no human soul to enjoy. For a time Barbara was bewildered. At last, as she stood there she saw a door open, far away at the end of the room, and then two ladies entered slowly, gracefully, richly dressed. They came in together, arm-in-arm ; the elder lady was bending down toward the younger one, and as they reached the glow of the fire the younger one lifted her face for a kiss — a warm, lovingly-given kiss. Then Bab did not know any more for awhile ; but under the evergreen oak opposite to the drawing-room window there was the sound of sobbing, much subdued, yet painful enough had any been there to listen. Barbara was but too sure that no listener was there. All her grief lay in her louliness. ,.*^„.. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // 1.0 I.I |50 ""^^ IRIIHIB im 1-25 1 1.4 1.6 4 6" ► V] 7] ^ '^ .^ // ^^.*' - '> '/ /^ Photographic Sciences Corporation '^'^jT^ '9(^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 l83 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, CHAPTER XLIII. IP MUSIC BE THE FOOD OP LOVE, PLAY ON.* • Tnifit mp, no more skill of subtle power. No more practi(!e of n rtext'rons hand, Will suffice without a hidden spirit, That we may or may not andentand.' A. A. Ibocteb. Bardaka's tears had been stayed some time, yet she knelt theie under the shadow of the tree, quiet, wondering at herself, yet thinking mainly of others. It was a still, clear night ; the stars shone and glittered, the outlines of the trees and of the house were distinct against the deep indigo of the sky. For a time hardly a round brolce the silence, save the hooting of a melancholy owl in a tree at the bottom of the garden. Presently even this ceased, leaving a perfect stillness upon the land everywhere. Not a twig was stirred, not a blade of glass quivered, not a bird moved in its nest with any audible movement. It was a moment when silence itself is a strong impression. Then all at once that beautiful silence was broken, but broken by a sound so thrilling, bo SAveet, and to Barbara so strange, that she rose to her feet and stood with clasped hands and uplifted face, as one entranced might have done. What could it be, this beautiful, this ineffably beautiful music ? It may seem strange in these days that Barbara should never have heard the tones of a piano ; but so it was. And now that this iirst experience should come under circumstances so unusual was sufficient to stamp the impression on her mind for ever. She remained standing there for some time; one of the windows of the drawing-room was open ; the light from the room was streaming out over the terrace, over the shrubs, over the leaf- less trees. And somehow the music seemed jiart of the light, part of all the beauty within and without. Bab had no idea of what the music might be. It seemed like a prayer, like pleading, and con- fessing, and beseeching. And now there was agitation in the cry, an excitement that seemed to stir the very air. It ^was as if she was watching a shipwreck, listening to the cry of drowning women, of children left to perish. Half unconsciously she drew nearer to the window ; she could see Miss Theyn sitting by the piano, her white hands moving up and down, now slowly and gracefully, now in a quick, impassioned way. Only her profile was visible from where Barbara stood, and Bab could see that she looked pale and sad — sad as the music she was making, which now by degrees was growing sadder than ever, more plaintive, more deeply charged with pain and regret, with loss and trembling and fear. Bab hardly knew that the tears were running down her own face — tears of sympathy, of longing ; and when at last a sob broke from her, a passionate, overwhelming sob that was half a cry, she ■».' (■■■ ni 'If music be the food of LOl^E, PLA Y ON.' 183 was startled at least as much as ^liss Tbeyn was, whose fingc*-a stopped suddenly upon the keys in the middle of a soft, sad passajje in a Nocturne by Cho))in. Pab saw that she had hoard, she Haw the uplifted, surprised face ; yet she could not move ; she had no wi-ih to move. ' Go on playing, Thorda dear,' said a sleepy voice from among the sofa cnsbioHM behind the screen. *I will bejjin again presently, Aunt Milicent,* Thorhilda replied calmly as she came near to the window. She was not altogether unalarmed, yet she wonld not betray her alarm yet awhile. Opening the window a little wider she looked out, and saw the dark figure upon the terrace, quite close. ' Is it auyoae I know ?' she asked in a tone so as not to disturb her aunt. And instantly the answer came : * Yes, Miss Tbeyn, its me, Barbara BurdAS. Will you forgive me ? I never meant to disturb you.' Thorhilda, discerning the sound of tears in Barbara's voice, would not ask her to enter the drawing-room. • Wait there awhile, will you ? I want to see you,' she replied. Then she turned and said a few words to her aunt, who was too elcepy to take a very lively interest in her niece's movements at that moment. A few seconii later Thorhilda was by Barbara's side, holding her hand, entreating her to come into the house, to her own room ; but Barbara was not easily persuaded to this. At last, however, fear- ing that Miss Theyn might take cold there on the terrace, she yielded. It was a somewhat memorable moment. For the first time Miss Theyn was conscious of a feeling — was it gratitude for devotion ? was it affection ? was it 8ymi)athy ? She hardly knew herself ; but the sense of being drawn to Barbara was certainly there, and the simple, truthful way in which she said, ' I am glad to see you, Barbara,' as she took the girl's hand again, and led her to her own easy-chair by the fireside, was sufficient to make poor Bab's heart rise and swell for very gladness. No words could have told it all. ' I never thought of this— not for a moment,' Bab said, in Eng- Ush almost as pure as ^liss Theyn's own. The very accent was changed, softened, purified ; now and then some inflection stirred Thorhilda strangely, as if it were a disturb- ing memory. At last she detected the cause of this ; it was the echo of Damian Aldenmede's way of speaking that she heard, and the detection caused the hot colour to flow over her face and neck in a way that was perplexing to Barbara. Had she said aught that had been taken amiss ? It was a curious hour. Barbara felt the warmth, the softness, the delicate beauty of the room almost as she had felt the music. Did people live thus always ? Was this no rare occasion ? Was the house always thus— filled with light, and warmth, and lovelineaa i '} ■ ' if i84 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, UF r everywhere ? The walU of even the laiidingfl and staircases seemed almost crowded with pictures ; bookciises filled with books seemed to occupy every recess. Lamps hung from the ceiling ; white muslin and lace looped back with rose-pink ribbons floated about the windows of Miss Theyn's room ; the toilet-table, with all its belongings, seemed a very miracle of artistic arrangement. Was it kept so always ? That was the mystery. A thing might be done for once, but to keep up all this refinement of surrounding seemed almost impossible. Yet Bab did not consciously dwell upon these ideas — they came later. Now she was troubled, and glad, and half ashamed, and half enchanted. Was it possible that Miss Thejm was ' glad to see her '? *I never thought of this,' she repeated, sitting in Thorhilda's little chair, her rich red-gold hair gleaming in the light of lamp and fire, her deep sad blue eyes shining with a new and happy light. Miss Theyn, sitting opposite to her, watching her wonderful beauty — really wonderful now in the new softness, the new gentle- ness, the new refinement that had come upon it — watching her thus, she could not but be amazed ; and to listen to the words that fell from the fisher-girl's lips was more amazing still. ' Could love, mere love, do so much ?' ' Tell me what you did intend ?' Miss Theyn said gently. ' I hope you intended to come and see me. Long ago I asked you.' * So you did ; but I never meant to come— not then. No— nor not now in this way. . . . How shall I tell you the truth ? I was tired, tired and lonely, and old Hagar came in so that I could leave the little ones, and all at once I felt as if I muit come here — as if I must but just look at your house — the home you lived in always, but just outside of it ! I had no thought of the distance — none. I wanted to come, to stand for a few minutes, and then go back. But when I heard the music I couldn't go— no, I could not. . . . Do you know, I've never heard music like that before — no, nor never dreamed of none like it. Is it a piano ?' • Yes. . . . You have never heard one ?' ' No. . . . There's none on the Forecliff. And I've never been much in the way of goin' to the town. . . . I've heard the band, though — them that has twc fiddles and the harp at Danesborough. That is beautiful— but not— not like this. . . . How did you ever learn to play so splendid ?' ' I do not play well— not very well. I have a friend — Miss Douglas— who can play much better.' ' Oh ; is that so ? Because I heard him say - Mr. Aldenmede, I mean — I heard him say one day to the Canon — it was when he was paintin' on the Scaur — I heard him say as he'd never heard no playin' like yours — no, none to come near it for — for expression — that was what he said. I remember, because I wondered so much what he meant. And the Canon looked pleased, and said he thought so too.' Thorhilda knew only too well that the crimson glow on her face was f heart muse] •H her el 'Y« four I And, ( of tea he hai nothia much notice all thei ones. . so muc Ther At last •You that hii Bight ?' ♦Not uncertai And in other Wi Thorl cambric had seen 'Iha^ said at U She CO her, •Ih have exp but day 1 ■paring n Thorhi nise that sorrow, b silent, as •I thou ' Perhaps it ; that I late. I n( It's ever 8( no heart f( * Do you Theyn asli ♦Yes . . cJiught up \ in >no. iver cace *JF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE, PLA Y ON* 185 was going on deepening and dce])CDiDg, that the agitation of her heart and mind was visible on every feature ot her face, in every muscle of her figure. ' Have you seen Mr. Aldenmede lately ?' she said, trying with all her effort to seem calm and self-possessed. ' Yes ; I saw him last night, and on Monday nic;ht. I see him four nights of every week. Isn't that kind of him, and good? And, oh ! how could I ever tell you of all he does and says by way of teaching rae, and helping me ? You couldn't think of the wav he has of reminding me when I don't sound the h's. But that s nothing, he says, to dropping the g's ; that hurts his ear ever ao much worse, and I'd never known that there was any g's, not to notice them in speaking. But every now and then I forget. Yet all these are little things, not to be named by the side of the greater ones. . . . Oh, how can I ever be grateful enough to one that s done so much for me?' There was a moment's silence — a painful silence on the one ddo. At last Miss Theyn si>oke, evidently with effort : * You speak of what Mr. Aldenmede has done. Does that mean that his kindness to you is at an end ? ... Is he leaving Ulvstan Bight?' * Not just yet — at least, I hope not. But he has seemed very uncertain of late, as if he didn't know what he was going to do. . . . And in other ways — I don't know whether you have noticed it — in other ways he seems changed. Don't you think so Miss Theyn ?' Thorhilda sat looking into the fire, smoothing out the hem of her cambric handkerchief, seeming now as calm and cold as before she had seemed agitated. ' I have not seen Mr. Aldenmede, not for some time past,' she said at length, speaking with an almost exaggerated quietness. She could not say more to Barbara Burdas ; she could not say to her, 'I have not seen him since my engagement. Day by day I have expected to see him, to have to listen to his congratulations, but day by day he has spared me ; and now, now I know what such sparing means !' Thorhilda could say nothing of all this, nor did she qnite recog- nise that ehe was speaking to one whose eyes had been opened by sorrow, by pain — the pain of loving and losini;. Barbara was as silent, as thoughtful as Miss Theyn herself for awhile. *I thought you had been seeing him often,' she said at last. * Perhaps it was that I hoped you had. I think that must have been it ; that I hoped you'd seen him — seen how much he'd changed of late. I never knew no one turn so despuratily sad all of a sudden. It's ever so long now since he touched his picture ; he seems to have no heart for pamtin' — there / painting, I meant to say.' ' Do you always think of Mr. Aldenmede when you speak ?' Miss Theyn asked, with a wan, faint smile brealdng about her mouth. ' Yes . . . how can I help it, when nearly every word has been caught up by him and set right? . . . There's a few. words yet i\ i86 IN EXCHAXGE FOR A SOUL, that's fearfully difficult I think I'll never know how to use them properly.' The conv(;r8ation seemed triflinf^ enouRh, but wfthin tbs heart of each speaker some painful emotion was being cru«l)ed and hidden. Thorhilda knew ,*»^ore of Barbara's suffering than Barbara dreamed of hers ; and now Miss Theyn's sympathy was more open to defect the depth of emotion and pain, her thought more drawn to dwell upon it Already she was beginning to learn the lessons that •orrow alone can teach. There had been another long pausp, during which Miss Theyn's thought had travelled rapidly, as thought always does travel when it is charged by the finer emotions. ' And now tell me of yourself, Barbara,' she said, speaking gently, and bending forward in the soft firelii.'ht till she seemed quite close to the pale, tired girl beside her. 'Tell me of yourself. 1'oh hove told me nothing, and Ilartas has told rac nothinp. He said he bad nothing to tell — nothing but disappointment and pain« , , . Can you not tell me how it is ?' Barbara was silent for awhile ; then she lifted her wide blue eyes — eyes full of an inexpief-sible astoni?htnent, an unspeakable sorrow. Did Miss Theyn yet understand no more than this ? In her perturbation, Barbam rose to her feot, feeling as if she must be away from this close and narrow atmosphere of misunder- standing. She could not go over all the old ground again now with Miss Theyn. Miss Theyn should not have required it — so it seemed. 'I told your brother how it was,' she said, with dignity '//a understands, if anyone does. I am beginning to think no one can — that no one ever does enter into a life not their own no, not even to a life lived closest to theirs. But I must go home now; it's late enough. . . .' ' Stay a moment,' Miss Theyn interrupted, leaving the room as she spoke. Presently she came back with some food on a small tray, which she carried herself, and she insisted that Barbara should eat of it. Then, to Bab's distress, she heard the sound of carriage-wheels ; and Miss Theyn went with her to the door ; and the Canon was there ; and he was glad — truly glad that his niece should have been so thoughtful. But while Barbara was being driven rapidly down to the Fore- cliff, Thorhilda Theyn was thinking more rapidly, more seriously than she had ever thought in her life before. ' Was a true, all that Barbara had said, or rather intimated ; could it be really true that another — one who had occupied so much of her thought — was really caring, really sorrowing /or her, for her loss 1 Alas, that it did not seem impossible ! Alas, that she should be drawn to dwell again and again upon the sweetness of another's sorrow 1 I. ■^'; '< « FAJ^F WELL r 187 CHAPTER XLIV. *B0 FAREWELL THOU WHOM I HAVE KNOWN TOO LATE.* ' If tbns to look behind is all in vnin, And all in vain to look to left or right, • * Why face we not our future once apiin, Launching with hardier hearts across the main, Strauiing dim eyes to catch the inviHihie sight, And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain ?' GufilHTINA BOSSETTI. It was not much more than a week after Barbara's yisit to the Rectory. The afternoon was cold and gray and wintry. The Canon bad gone to the Bight, saying that he bad some forty sick people on his list, and would therefore probably not return till late. Mrs. Godfrey, having a headache, had gone to lie down, and her niece, being all alone, tried various ways of passing the afternoon endurably. She found, however, that she was in no mood for prac- tising, none for writing letters, though there were many that she ought to have written. Within the past three days nearly twenty more wedding presents had arrived — to Mrs. Godfrey's distress no fewer than eight carriage-clocks among them. In a humorous mood the Canon had wound them all, set them agoing, placed them in a row on the top of a cabinet in the drawing-room, where they stood chiming — one sweeter and more silvery in tone than another ; yet Thorhilda could not bear to hear them, nor did the idea of stopping them commend itself to her taste. She remembered that one of them had been sent by Lady Diana Haddingley — her Aunt's friend rather than her own — and with the clock had come a long and kindly letter. At the end there was a postcript, meant mainly for Mrs. Godfrey. Thorhilda bad seated herself by the writing-table in the drawing- room ; her intentions were of the best. One after another the clocks had chimed the hour of three. There was time enough to write a dozen letters before the post went out at five ; but, unfor- tunately, the topmost letter was Lady Di Haddingley's, and the postscript arrested all Miss Theyn's attention. ' I hear that an old acquaintance of ours — Damian Aldenmede — is somewhere in your neighbourhood,' Lady Di had written. * A friend — you will remember her — Lady Sarah Channing, declares that he has fallen in love with a fishwife, the mother of four or five children. The Channings have been staying for nearly a week at Danesborongh, and Sarah wrote to ask me for your address. . . . Do, if you know anything of Mr. Aldenmede, tell me about him. He was a man I always had the highest admiration for, though I never felt that I understood him, though, perhaps, that was not his fault altogether. It is only like that can understand like, and there is no likeness between him and me. Perhaps I needn't point that out if you have met him. What a fancy it is on his part to ^ake to i88 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, painting in that yigorouB way ! Bnt thea he never did things by halTeR. Sarah says the iutimacy between him and the fishwoman began by his painting her, 80 I suppose she must be pretty. All the same, I hope there's no truth in tne rumour. Sarah was always a terrible gossip. Still there is no saying what a man like that will do who has gone through such seas of trouble. And I can easily imagine, now that his first youth has passed, that it is very probable that he may be caught bv genuine sympathy, whoever may offer it to him. All the same, I shall be glad to know that I have been misinformed.' Mrs. Godfrey had read this aloud at breakfast-time, when the letters came in. Thorhilda had listened with burning checks, not daring to raise her eyes to her uncle's face, How much he saw, how zar he understood, who shall say T Perhaps he could hardly have said all himself. It may be that his thought went the deeper that his prayer became the more earnest. It is certain that the trifling episode did not pass over him lightly. Now that Thorhilda was alone, that she might read this gossiping postscript in silence, it seemed to have a thon^iand meanings for her, and some of them were meanings that she did not dare to look into —not closely, not truly. She could not answer Lady Di's letter now ; and presently she became aware of the fact that she could answer no other letter. Leaving the room in a very tumult of per- turbation, she took the garden-hat that always hung in the hall and went out of doors. It was cooler there, and freer, and fresher. She seemed able to think more truly, more clearly, out i,here among the leafless trees, that hung sadly and swayed softly, and lent an intensity of impressiveness to the always impressive scene. For some time Miss Theyn walked there, now quiet and hopeful, now roused and excited, then suddenly depressed. She had almost forgotten the peacefulness that had been hers— not so long ago. For some time she had walked up and down the garden paths, pass- ing from one mood to another ; then at last the big iron gates at the bottom of the avenue swung open ; she could hear the sharp metallic click of them, and instinctively she recoiled. Percival Meredith had been at the Rectory more than half of the day before. Had he the deficient taste, the imperfect tact, to come again to-day ? Miss Theyn knew of no other visitor to be expected. Her surprise was at least as great as her emotion was deep when she discovered Mr. Aldenmede coming up the avenue, slowly, and with the gait and movement of a man to whom all things were indifferent. When he saw Miss Theyn he came forward more quickly, raising his hat with an almost eager courtesy. In his worst moments instinct stood for something. Yet the meeting was not an easy one— how should it be ? Tet neither of them dreamed how difficult the parting was to prove. It was evident to Thorhilda from the first that Damian Alden- mede was not in an ordinary mood. His face was paler, thinner yon. *So voice _ 8ndden< some ti 'Ide •Oh I not qui she will 'Thai E>e her len gla These how the; offer his the top hardly hi Thorh effort she •Perha leaving £ 'Ileav indeed wl Again been the < beautiful the hidde that Barl betraying ' She's 1 Her eyes i the future at times, j hope, at 84 about her It was j just the k lost. ' FAREWELL r 189 than araal ; Us gray eyes seemed more deeply set ; the lines aboal his month were sterner, colder. 'Is Oanon Godfrey at home?* he asked, without mach appear* anoe of interest in the answer. ' I will not disturb him for long. I hsTe merely called to say " good-bye." ' Thorhilda understood all, the colduess, the depth of intensity behind this stiffness and rigidity of manner. ' I am sorry ' she replied, using all effort to neem calm, and sno- ceeding beyond her own hope. 'I am sorry, but my uncle is not at home. He will regret much when he knows that he has missed yon. ... Do you leave Ulrstan soon ?' *I go to-morrow.* * So early !' Thorhilda exclaimed, still endeayonring to keep her ▼oice free from tremor, her manner from all agitation. ' Is it sndden — your determination — or have you been thinking of it for some time ?' ' I decided last evening.' 'Oh 1 . . . Will you come into the drawing-room ? My aunt is not quite well, but if I tell her that it is a farewell visit, I as; sure she will wish to see you.' ' Thank you ; I would not disturb her on any account. Please E've her my kind regards, and tell her of my regret. I should have ten glad to see her.' These stiff civilities should have ended the interview ; but some- how they did not. Thorhilda did not turn away ; Damian did not offer his hand. For a strange moment or two they stood there by the top of the avenue, not looking at each other, not speaking ; hardly breathing. Thorhilda broke the silence, saying in tones that betrayed the effort she used : ' Perhaps your absence may not be for long. . . . Ton are not leaving England ?' • I leave England for Italy to-morrow night. . . . When I return, or indeed whether or no I return at all, must remain with the future.* Again for awhile there was silence ; a silence that would have been the end of the meeting if Damian had not raised his eyes to the beautiful face before him, discerning there much of the hidden pain, the hidden suffering. And as he looked he remembered the words that Barbara Burdas had said to him only the evening before, betraying much more than she knew that she betrayed. ' She's none happy,' Bab had said, ' not happy as she ought to be. Her eyes are full of dread and fear, as if she didn't dare look into the future. And all about her mouth there's the strangest trembling at times, just as if she'd be glad to lay down all her life, all her hope, at somebody's feet, and die there. ... Oh, don't talk to me about her no more ; she's none happy !' It was just as Barbara had said in her expressive way. This was just the look he saw on the face of the woman he loved, and bad lost. y i9^ IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. raising her his. There No, htt ooold not turn away ; not yet, not thus. The past da^ and nights of suffering seemed to be pouring all their painful •nergy into the present moment. Strong man though he was, his heart was beating wildly, his brain tiirobbinff fiercely. Was it over — was it possible that it could be over, all the new sweet promise that had seemed to be sent as a kind of aftermath ; a blessing upon the later life of one whose earlier years had been sil nnblessM save for the benediction of sorrow ? Was it not rather a dream, a delusion, all that he had heard of her engagement, her intended marriage ? Had he indeed heard of these things from any authentic source at all? The very question seemed perplexing, almost stupefying. It was the first word, the first question, that was difficult ' Is it true — ^is it aU quite true ?' he said, speaking with such evident effort, taking a tone so different to any he had used to her before that she could not but understand. She endeavoured to reply quietly ; and even in this painful moment the extreme graciousness of her manner, the unaffected truth of her soul, strudc him afresh with fresh pain. *You are speaking of my engagement?* she said, grave, gray eyes with all their burden of sadness to was no pretence, no subterfuge. ' Yes,'^ was the brief reply. •It is true.' . ,. ' You are going to marry Mr. Meredith Y * Yes. ... I have promised to do so.' There was no mistaking her tone— the sadness of it, the weari- ness; He understood as well as if she had knelt at his feet and there poured out all the tale of her confession. For awhile there was silence. Damian Aldenmede would not wrong himself, his own soul, by so much as one word of congratu- lation, or anything that could be taken for such. Thorhilda under- stood. She understood also that no small or mean jealousy was at the root of his silence, his reticence. A man like that to be jealous of such a one as Percival Meredith ! The mere irony of her own soul as the idea crossed her brain showed her more tiuin she had seen before. Never till now had the wide disparity between the two men been so apparent to her. The hour was full of disclosures. ^ And it is done/* she said to herself, an aura passing over her like to that which passes over a human being when he is told that he must presently die from some secret ailment he had barely suspected. Jt i» done ; it cannot be undone* _' , . And Damian Aldenmede also uuderatood. The pallid lips and cheeks, the pleading look about the wild, sad •yes, the new gentleness where all had been gentle before — all these things told him that she was conscious of mistake, of error. Now he knew, as he had never dreamed to know, that he himself vtas not guiltless of her misery. ' FAREWELL f Ifl *t did it for the be«t— altogether for the bent,' he nid to himtelf M he stood there, etaring intently into the depths of a white-edged holly-tree that stood npon the lawn, |[reen, bright, gloesr in iU wintrv beauty. Sparrows were darting in and out, a bold biaokbird peered from an upper bough, starlings were whirring all aboat, from the ffarden-bods to the unused chimneys. * I did it all for the best . . . But I did wrong— a wrong I oan- not undo. No ; not by so much as a word, a look, may I now, or ever, attempt any undoing. It is with the smallest error as with the deepest sin — it may be repented of. it may be condoned, it may be forgiven —forgiven by God and by man — it cannot be un- done. And it is no alleviation of my suffering to know that I do not suffer alone— nay, it is an aggravation rather. . . . What can I hope— that she will forget, that she will be happ^ ? * Happy! This woman happy with a man like Percival Mera> deth I Good heavens I What must her ignorance, her innocence be, since she can even have dreamt of it ? And they, her guardians, her natural protectors — they must be as ignorant of evil as herself , of all that betrays evil, or they could never have done what I am persuaded they must have done — influenced her towards Uiii marriage.' They were sauntering about now, from path to P&th, silently, or all but silently. The remark as to the beauty of this evergreen, the failure of that, was not conversation ; something had to be said by way of escape from the awkwardness of perfect silence. More than once a time of perfect silence came. They were passing quite close by the drawing-room windows at one snch moment. Two of the windows were open wide ; a sudden simultaneous sound of chiming came with a silvery, musical burst. At the first moment Damian storted, fancying he heard some distant peal of bells ; but when peal followed peal, he turned to Thorhilda with a question on his every feature. To his surprise, she was not only blushing with a deep scarlet blush, but her eves were suffused with tears that insisted upon falling. She could not hide them ; she could not explain them. * I must say good-bye,' she said, sobbing painfully, and holding out a tremulous hand. ' Do not come in ! 1 will tell Aunt Milicent — I will say all you could wish. • . , Good-bye — and — and my best wishes.' She was still weeping, weeping bitterly, unrestrainedly ; and when Mr. Aldenmede took her hand in his, and held it warmly, she let it rest there for a moment or two. Nature had her way for that brief while. It seemed very brief to Damian Aldenmede. All at once some secret spring of strength gave Miss Theyn power to recover herself for the moment Recollection, sadden shame — but a foretaste of that shame that was to overpower her afterward — these and other things became momentarily helpful. ' &iy good-bye/ she urged. ' If yon cannot congratulate me, yoa 19ft IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. can at least winh me well— you can at least hope for me that when fe meet again I shall be— be somewhat Htronger; that I shall disgi'aoe the dignity of my womanhood K m than I have done to> day.' Mr. Aldenmede replied after a pause. ' I know what you are antioipatinff,' he said kindly ; ' you oan see already the hours of anguish, of self-reproach, that will follow this brief moment of weakness. I, too, know something of such hours. Every thinking human being has to know them, to suifer from them. It is only the utterly callous who pass through life able to put aside every pang that comes from the oonsciouKuess of error, of mistake. . . . But, believe me, all this will pass — it may be late —I fear it will — yet eventually it will pass, and leave you wonder- ing — not that you were moved so deeply, but that you should have been rioved at all !' * la that how the future seems to yon ?' ' It 'a how I should wish it to appear in yonr sight.* Thorhilda bowed her head meekly, sadly, heavily. Life seemed over — all save endurance of living. It was then, in that moment, that there flashed across her mind the thought of one who. thousands of years before, had sold his birthright ; and a few seconds later the words of the truest of our Ohristian poets passed across her thought : * We barter life for pottage, sell true blisi For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown ; Thus, Esan-like, oar Father s blessing miss. Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.* Could it be possible that she had done this — bartered her life, her soul, at four-and-twenty years of age ? And for what ? ' Oood Ood I for what V she asked in all reverence, as she stood there. ' If I had the strength of sonl, the daring of spirit, I would at this moment tell all to Damian Aldenmede,' she continued in the depth of her thought. * But I have not— how should I have, with the attention of a very world of people fixed upon my marriage — my marriage to Percival Meredith, and that within a month ? How could I dare to speak out all that is in me ?' Thought passes swiftly. Only a few seconds had passed since Damian spoke his last kindly word. He was still standing before her, pale, quiet, self-repressed. ' I suppose we mutt part,' he said at last, looking into her eyes once more. ' But we shall meet again,' Thorhilda said, trying to smile, but failing rather miserably. There was something in her face, her expression, that Damian Aldenmede could not bear to see jnst then. ■\ We njay meet again, we may not ; at any rate, we must part ww^ he said, raising his hat and turning away. *■ Ood bless you !' wa9 the. last word that Miss Theyn heard from beyond the white- «di 114 priv ups * UNSEEN I'JMUERS ON THE HALL* i93 •dffod hoUy-tree Farther ' llay God oleu you !' off it wan repeated more ferrtatly Tbe marriage-day waa fixed ; it wai to be on Tueiday, January 11th. That Ghri8troa8 waa naturally a busy time. ' Busy, and ob, ao happy up at the Rectory !' Miss Douglas declared to frienda who were not so fortunate as to be able to come and go at the Rectory when they chose. Miss Douglas was quite able to appreciate her Erivileges, and ail appertaining to them. Moreover, whatever her pa might say, her eyes were not blinded. Yea; certainly it was a busy time. Postmen and railway porters thronged the way at times ; so many letters came, so many parcels, that more tables had to be brought down from the upper rooms to hold the still accumulating presents. Thorhilda did not dare to say that each one was an added pang ; how could she, when almost every day Mrs. Meredith came with her son, each of them kissing the blushing, shrinking bride-eleot on either cheek, each of them glad for the many tokens that betrayed such a deep and widespread regard ? Only one eye saw the true cause of the shrinking ; only one heart understood the meaning of the hot, painful blush. Only one man, comprehending all, feared, and suffered, and prayed in silence. And his prayer was answered ; but not as he had dreamt and thought it might be. In this very*answer there was to be 8uch a sting, such an agony, as Canon Godfrey had never in his life known. CHAPTER XLV. •unseen fingers on the wall.* ' With aching handi and bleeding fe«t We dig and heap, lay stone on stona, We bear the burden and the heat . Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hoars of light retnni, Ail we have built do we discern.' Matthew Abnold. Though the times were bad, ' very bad indeed,' the fisher-folk of Ulvstan Bight said, yet some curious and not infrequent allevia- tions came in their way about Christmas-time. It was only natural that the Canon should interest himself largely in the matters of soup and Christmas beef, of blankets and coals ; it was only to be expected that Mrs. Godfrey and her niece should drive down to the Forecliff almost every day with flannel petticoats, with knitted 8tockings-<-there were at least some half-dozen old women in th« neighbourhood who were kept in full work from January to December of each year executing Mrs. Godfrey's rrders for stock- 13 t94 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, ingt and sockR. And then, too, there were the lifile frockfl, mad* of snch ill-smelling brown winsey that the carriage window had to be kept open. * Au hour in the sea-breeze of the Bight will blow all that awiy/ Mrs. Godfrey said, noticing her niece's absiolnte f aintness and pallor ; and then, by way of diversion, drawing her attention to theseemli- ness of the little garments, which had most of them been made by a clever tiny woman, whom nobody ever called a ' dwarf ' because of her perfect proportion. Miss Birkin had done her best for the children this cold Christmas-time. The little frocks were biight witli scarlet braid and blue ; the little jackets were warm with red flannel linings ; the capo, the comforters, the mnfiFateea, the mittens, the gloves,ah,how bnght they all looked I and what pleasure they gave ! The Oanon'b wife and his niece, driving back to baskets Yai and T,-. rgh bags, Rectory, the carriage half-filled with empty should hardly have been silent or depressed. There was no mystery about all this. But when some large SBoldnK-cases began to arrive at Ulvstan, for the moat part ad- ressedon the outside to Mr. David Andoe, and found to contain many smaller packages otherwise addressed within, a sense of wonder was developed very rapidly ; this largely because, so far, there was no clue to the sender. Ann Stamper, the landlady of the inn, a poor, ailing, worn-out old woman, who had a little packing-case of comforts especially directed to her, declared that nobody cculd have sept it save Lord Hermeston, of Hermeston Peel, who had taken shelter in her house one showery day, and had been so affable, so simple, as to win all the old woman's warmest regard for him. But Ann Stamper was not the only one to whom the anonymous preheats gave cause for mistake. Old Hagar Fumiss found a waterproof basket at her door one morning, containing tea, and biscuits, and tinned meats of various kinds, with a b;g round plum-cake of &uch quality that Hagar declared, with tears in her eyes, that no bride-cake could ever have surpassed it. But this was not all : warm scarlet flannel .was there in sufficient quantity to last the old woman her lifetime, with a large eider-down connterpone, a thick iiig for her fireside, some soft, warm brown woollen serge for a gowu, and finally such a big plaided woollen shawl that the poor old creiiture declared she could never know what it was to be co)d any riore. 'Don't tell me,' the old fishwife said, her head trembling more than naual in the depth of this new emotion. ' Don't tell me. It's Aim — it's the Rector. Don't say it isn't— for there's nobody else, nobody living, as 'ud know so exactly what an old woman like me ad want an' crave for, an' sit an' dream of when the fire's dying out of a night, an' ya daren't put a bit more coal on to keep ya fra starvin' for the dread o' the next night seeing ye without an ounce o' coal i' the house S . . . Xn. finn't tell me ; 'twas him, an' nobody • UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALL* 19$ lid •Ise. An' may the good God reward him, for I can't ; no, I can't so mach as say what it all mcanp to me, leave alone thankin' him. . . . Mebbe God '11 thank him 8ome day. There's something like that i' St. Mattha'. It's the Laxt Daiiy, the Judgment Daily, an' the King says : " Acanse ya did unto them," meaniu' the poor, such as me, " Ah reckon Ah'll take it as if ya'd done it unto Me Mysel."' Here and there, all over Ibo Bight, there were these pleasant touches of mystery ; and yet, helpful as they were, they could not altogether put a stop to the growing hardness of things — the in- creasing anxietv. Even in such hoiuos as that of old Ephraim Burdas, that Christmas was a time of dread, of strain, of hand-to- hand fight with each sixpence that had to be sent out for food or •fire eldin.' As a matter of course, Barbara had not been forgotten. Miss Theyn herself had come down one day with a closely packed bag, which had seemed to the children standing round as if it were never going to be emptied. Toys were there ; chocolates (less tempting, because less known), sweets, paper baj^s full of toffee — made in the Rectory kitchen ; and then below came the w.arm, comfortable little articles of dress. But this was not all. Outside a hamper had been left, which Woodward had been told to unfasten, and then to leave it standing under the little porch. Bab saw it there when she went to the door with Miss Theyn, She had not seen it at the rtrst moment. Ailsie had called her elder sister back entreatingly, ouly to whisper, in a curiously agitated way for so mere a clnld : 'Ask her tg come again, Barbio, will yon ? Do ask her to come again ! . . . It's not the goodies. . . . Ah can't eat 'era ; Stevie can — an' Zeb, an' Jack — but Ah noiin care for 'em. But will you ask her to come again ? . . . She smiles so — doesn't she. Barbie ? . . . An' she looks at ya so ! An' her bonny white hands, and the way she has o' touching things, oh, Ah do like to see her ! Ask her to •^ome again. Barbie !' But whilst Barbara was putting the child's request into vrords, her eye fell upon the hamper, as 5liss Theyn saw, enabling her to speak of it in a careless, incidental way. * That is something from the llictory,' she said, * I believe it is my aunt's present to your grajiJt'atlier,' But Thorhilda perceived the nionuntary flush of pain that passed over the girl's face, Barbara had always been so equal to the house- hold needs, that she could not bear iliat the truth should be sus- pected now ; nor was it, — no, nor anything near the ti'uth. If anyone had approximate dreams, it must have been the sender of the mysterious parcel that Bab found on the doorstep one morn- ing in Cnristmas-week — not that it was mysterious to her ; and all at once she saw to the bottom of the other mysteries that were happening ali about. Yet, if he chose to do good by stealth, he should not be put to the blush of finding it fame by any word of her«. Doubtless .Mr. 13—2 '»Mi!<:' '1 196 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, j^d«nmed« had sufiBcient reasons for wishing to seem a compara- tively poor man ; but no man so poor as he chose to appear to be coald afford to scatter gifts over a whole village in this prodigal way. ' No ; I'll not speak of it — not even to her' Barbara said, with tears in her eyes, as she stood contemplating the dozen new and tempting books that had been packed so carefolly at the bottom of the case, and the pile of bright scarlet merino, evidently meant for Ailsie. How well she remembered his saying that he always felt grateful to any child who came tripping across his out-door vision in a scarlet frock or a scarlet cloak ! Ailsie should have both before he came again. Then thought itself seemed to pause. Would Mr. Aldenmede ever come to Ulvstan Bight any more ? With a sigh, Bab admitted to herself that it seemed impossible he should. He had not been happy for a long time before he went away — not even as happy, as equable as when he first came — and he had seemed a man of sufficiently saddened soul then. And Barbara knew all about the cause of his more recent unhappiness — how could she help but know ? And each time she saw Miss Theyn she saw more certainly than before that happiness was not there— not the happiness that should have been at such a time as this. Barbara saw no future ; how should she ? *I suppose they were engaged before — Mr. Meredith and her. And then Mr. Aldenmede came, and she saw the difference — ay, me I how could she help ? Why, yon man at Ormston minds me of a peacock most of all ; he shines so, and he struts so, with his beautiful white shirtfront standing out in a bow before him — and him turning round in that slow, stiff way, as if he'd got to move altogether or not at all ; eh me, how cnuld one like her ever demean herself to one like him ? an' his hair turning gray ; and a big bald patch on the top of his crown already ! Eh, how could she ?' Jiut Barbara was just, and had to remember that Damiaa Alden- mt'de's hair had at least a grayer look than Mr. Meredith's had. ' He looks as old, Mr. Aldenmede does, mebbe older — but it's none the same sort of ayiiig, not at all. Why, when he laughs, he laughs like a boy — an' the other smiles as if he were ashamed o' demeaning himself so far.' Was it strange that just now Barbara Burdas should be drawn to dwell upon Miss Theyn so much ? Does it not often happen, all unknowingly, all unconsciously, that our thoughts, our very dreams, are drawn to those (near to us either by sympathy, or by relation- ship) who are passing through crises of which we are altogether un- aware, or have but the merest suspicion ? This fisher-girl of the Forecliff could really know nothing of the strife that was deepening day by day in the soul of Thorhilda Theyn. ' Xct I cannot forget her ; no, not for an hour I It is strange pres beei • UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALU 197 len- lone ighs ling In to all imH, lion- lun- the lilda Inge how I am always finding myself thinking of her 1 I wondtr bM she got any thought of me ?' Inevitably Miss Theyn had thought of Barbara Burdas, ' many % time and oft.' How should it not be so ? ' She loves Hartas — I know she docs. I believe his love ii precious to her ; yet she will not marry him, lest she should even seem to be self-seeking — lest she should even seem to desire to raise herself to a different social level ; to desire to tind ease, and rest, and comfort, and what would perhaps even appear to her as luxury ! Barbara Burdas, fisber-girl as she is, will not even have it thought that she coul^^ sell her soul for a mess of pottage. And I . . . I . . . ? Good God ! what have I done ?' There was no irreverence in Miss Theyn's cry. She covered her face with her hands, and knelt by her bed in all the agony of know- ledge of error and mistake — irrevocable mistake. Every swiftly-passing day and hour increased the irrevocableness. Once there had been a chance. Until others knew, and added the pressure of their knowledge, their congratulations, there had surely been a way of escape. Now there was none ; and day by day the yearning grew — the longing to escape by any means. With each fresh wedding present, each new congratulation, each allusion to the coming event, she felt afresh the weight, the dread, it might almost be said the repulsion. It could not be that things should be thus with his niece and Canon Godfrey have no knowledge. It seemed to him now that he had had suspicion from the first. He could not ask her of her own feeling. It is strange how sometimes the fact of a deep affection, with all the sympathy, all the nearness that such affection means, will yet act as a barrier be- tween sensitive souls. There are things that it is easier to say to a comparative stranger than to a mother reverenced and beloved. Canon Godfrey's eyes once fairly opened, he began to see much that he had been blind to before ; and for a brief time ho withdrew himself, and lived as much apart from his household as was possible to him. He had a great determination to make. At last, one Wednesday afternoon — it was the Wednesday in the week before the marriage, which was to take place on the Tuesday following — he asked his niece to go with him for a drive. It was a mild day for January. A gray mist was on all the land, rolling over the brown barren fields, over the leafless hedges, over the sparsely -scattered trees. ' Where would you like to go T the Canon said, taking his seat beside her in the open carriage. *■ Oh, to the Grange !' Thorhilda replied. ' Aunt Averil isn't well, and Rhoda has a cold. Wejmust go and see after them.' This was not what the Canon had wished, but he yielded ; and his yielding was a little fatal from his own point of view. He had no chance of driving along the moorland road above Ormston Magna, of looking down upon the house, the gardens, the wide I9ft IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. Iftwns, the small but beautiful pnrk, of Iculiiifj the conversation from these to their owner, and from tlicii owner to the future — his and hers. If the Canon had but known how hi» niece was de- siring it I How she was yearning for help, for strength, for light ! That was the worst — all seemed so dark now, so hopeless. The visit to the Grange was pleananter than usual. Miss Averil Chalgrove was in her own room, and Thorhilda went up to see her. It was the one pretty room in the house — the only one where there was any true feminine daintiness ; and Thorhilda was glad to see even that. ' I wonder Rhoda is not influenced by your pretty roon, Aunt Averil,' she said, glancing at the elegantly-decorated toilet-table, the silver-mounted pots and bottles, the ivory- backed brushes, the mother-o'-pearl glove-boxes, etc., etc. It was not easy to see them all, the light being so exceedingly dim. Sunny as the afternoon was, the rose-red blinds were half drawn ; the lace curtains closed utterly. It was a most becoming light, however, as Miss Chalgrove knew. She was lying upon a sofa, with a pale-blue dressing-gown, elaborately trimmed with lace and ribbon, robing her from head to foot. A tiny table, with an exquisite little set of cups and saucers, was by her side ; and a vase with the loveliest wb '.te and yellow roses in it. Roses ! yes, and even orange-blossom, as Miss Theyn perceived to her agitation. * The room is moderately pretty,' Miss Chalgrove admitted with a sigh ; ' but yon know how it comes to be so. Half my small pos- sessions, nay, far more than half, are birthday or Christmas presents from the Haddingleys. They never forget me. I hear they have not forgotten you. What have they sent you, Thorhilda ?' * Don't speak of wedding presents, Aunt Averil, dovit ; I can't bear it I' the girl exclaimed passionately. ' I came here this after- noon to be free from it all for a while. . . . Please talk of some- thing else — anything. What is Hartas doing ?' Miss Chalgrove was so overcome by her niece's most unusual and most unexpected vehemence that she had to use both vinaigrette and fan before she could recover strength enough to reply. * You were always a strange girl,' she said at last in faint tones. *I often think that you have had just a little too much prosperity, that life has come to you just a little too easily. . . . Ah me 1 if — if only some others might taste of such happiness as yours !' Thorhilda was silent for a moment. Miss Chalgrove could not see in that dim rose-coloured light how pale, how rigid her niece had grown. But presently she felt her hand grasped warmly in a younger and stronger one, yet the grasp was tremulous. * Don't speak to me of happiness just now. Aunt Averil ; do not speak to me of myself at all. Tell me how things are going on here. Uncle Hugh fancied there was improvement.' * Improvement, my dear ! If you said revolution you would almost be within the mark. Why, only to-day your father and Hartas have gone to Danesboruugb, to a sale of cattle and farming • UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALU. 199 things. They hftve gone together, and for hnsiness purposes. Do yon know all that that means ? I suppose yoa do not,' Miss Chalgrove concluded, with tears in her eyes. 'And things are really going better ?' * They are promising to go better ; that is everything. Hartas is just one of those people who can do nothing by halves ; yet I never thought he had in him such a power of work, and of ability to or- ganize work, as he has displayed of late. Of course, I only hear of it all throngh your father and Rhoda ; but they seem as if they could not make enough of him now. ... It is very strange ! Think of a crisis in a man's life making such a change !' ' Bat remember what a crisis it was !' * I dare not remember ; I cannot, even yet. . . . Why, for nights and nights afterward I awoke screaming, and Bhoda had to come and sit beside me for hours together. Once your father came ; and immediately, as soon as he saw me, he sent Burdon off for Dr. Douglas. And all tliat came of my suffering because of his suffering — Hartas's. I had dwelt upon it so, imagined it all so vividly in my own brain, that I never s7ept without being instantly introduced to scenes of sea-suffering. It was terrible, oh ! it was very terrible ; but the curious part of it is that ever since that time Hartas has been so much more to me than he was before. I am not myself to-day, be- cause he is not here. I like to know that he is not far away from the Grange ; I like hiri to come to my room and sit for an hour or two at a time ; and you would not wonder if you saw him here by my fireside in the twilight. There is such a change I It is not only that he looks paler, thinner, more refined, that he has sentler ways, quieter manners ; there is something beyond all that. Thorhilda mused for awhile, then she said : * Don't you think that " something " may be love, Aunt Averil ?* Miss Chalgrove knew what Thorhilda was meaning ; but she did not reply in her usual light and crude manner. Even to Miss Chalgrove there was a change in the atmosphere — a change for the better ; how much for the better who shall say ? * A little leaven leaveneth the whole.' 'I know of what, or rather of whom you are thinkina,' Miss Chalgrove said at last, evidently speaking with some difSculty, and then pausing for a considerable time. At last, roused by the subject, she spoke with some vehemence. * It pained me terribly at first,' !Mis8 Chalgrove said. *How should it not pain me, to think of my n<^phew, my only nephew, marrying a fisher-girl, a bait-gatherer ! The mere idea was repul- sive in the extreme.' * Have you ever seen Barbara Burdas ?' ' No ; nor do I wish to see her. . . « I am told you have quite taken what people cp.'i a " fancy " to her.' ' That is hardly ceuiLct. I have been slow, extremely slow, to perceive that she is one of the best, one of the purest, one of th» most high-miu'lcil wonun it has ever been my privilege to meet,' 200 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. * Beally ! . . . And very pretty, I Buppose ?' ' Not pretty at all ; at any rate not now. Six months aso she had a sort of pink-and-cream freshness, and certainly her hright bine eyes were very attractive. All that has eone. She is thinner, and she looks faded ; and the light has gone from her eyes, except just when some emotion brings it back for a moment. . . . No ; of mere prettiness Barbara has little left, I am sorry enough to say it.' *Bnt all the while yon are meaning that she has some stronger and deeper attraction ?' * Yes ; that is just what I am thinking, but I cannot explain it. . . . Anyhow, I do not now wonder that one like Hartas should have been drawn to her. ... I have only seen it lately, but she is his superior in every way 1' * In every way ? But that is exaggeration surely Think of it, Thorda dear !' ' I have thought of it often. The girl has naturally the " air " of her class. For all her fine independence of spirit, she is yet want- ing in self-sufficiency, especially when anyone is present that she cares for ; but of this, of all this, one thinks nothing in her pre- sence. She stands there, dignified with a certain moral dignity — my uncle Hugh would say spiritual — and one is even conscious of a kind of inferiority, as if she were the superior. It is difficult to explain how, on the one hand, she seems wanting —just a little ; how, on the other, she surprises you with an almost overpowering sort of supremacy. You would never dare to utter a silly joke if Barbara Burdas were within bearing.' * I don't know that I am given to uttering " silly jokee " under any circumstances,' Miss Chalgrove said, evidently, with her usual amusinff egotism, having taken part of Miss Theyn's remark in a personal way. ' Yet what you say interests me. I do not doubt out that it is partly her influence that has wrought such a change in Hartas. And what a change it is ! He is not the same in any sense of the word. From being the most absoluto idler on the face of the earth, he has become one of the most hard- working men I have ever known. And he must have some strong piurpose in his brain to induce him to go on working thus. I cannot tell what it is. He has said that he has no hope of inducinr^ the girl to change her mind. One cannot but be glad, very glad ; yet the matter is not without interest.' * No, it is not without interest,' Thorhilda replied, with a certain dreaminess of manner which altogether belied the emotion in her heart. It seemed as if everywhere the strong, pure influence of a pure love was having a good effect upon others — upon all whom it touched save herself. And what was it meaning to her ? She asked the question with apparent sincerity. Yet she dared not look upon the anawer. FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURE. 2Jl ' I mnst make answer sometime,' she said, as they went homer_ ward, her uncle silent, absorbed, by her side. * He, too, had seen much in the changes that were happening to make him thoughtful, yet far from unhopeful. Nay, it almost seemed as if his brightest outlook were here. The few moments^ that Thorhilda had passed upstairs with her valetudinarian aunt the Canon had spent with Rhoda; and he could not but discern the change that had passed over the household. It was visible in the aspect of the room, in Rhoda's look and manner, and speech and appearance. ' Sweet are the nses of adversity. Which like the toad, uglj and venomous, , y Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.' . ^ Such were the words that struck Canon n^odfrey as he went home to his comfortable- seeming Rectory at Yarbur<^h ; a home thuji seemed to outsiders as if no cloud might ever overshadow it, no thorn come near any rose within its walls. All the way the Canon was silent ; all the way his niece was won- dering if she might make one more effort, one more attempt to con- fess her mistake, her misery, her dread. Then she remembered tha£ it was Wednesday. ' Uncle Hugh will be thinking over his lecture for this evening.* she said to herself. ' That is why he is so silent, so absorbed, t mnst not disturb him.' CHAPTER XLVI. ' SOME WORDS FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURB, ' For this I say is death, and the sole death, When a man's loss comes to him from his gain.' ROBKRT BrOWNINO. It was not by any means a studied informality that marked the Wednesday evening services at St. Margaret's, yet the Canon had, with some care, decided upon the lines he wished to occupy. This pre-consideration notwithstanding, he found that experience considerably modified the rules he had laid down. To feel himself face to face with some dozen fishermen and their wives in the dim light of the nave of the old church on a winter's evening was a moment sufficiently realistic to call forth new effort, new sensitive- ness to the need of effort. In such hours as these Canon Godfrey felt always that the nttermost was demanded of him — the very best that he was prepared to give. And, conscientious as ne was, often he knew that his preparation had not enabled him to meet the moment and its demand. Again and Again he had to kneel at night, crying, ' My God, my God, why hast Thon forsaken me ?' So it is that the saints of God are trained to their saintliness by IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ill* seiiM of fftilnre, of inadequacy. It is not the man who makti th« fair and truthful statement : ' Lo theae many years do I serre Thee, neither transgressed I at ftny time Thy commandments.' It is not this man whose career is held out for the encouragement of erring humanity. It is his younger brother, who could only cry, in the agony of conscious abasement : ' Father, I have sinned igainst Heaven, and before Thee ; ''^" ' And am no more worthy to be called Thy son . make me as on* <rf Thy hired servants !' It is this yonnger son who draws onr sympathy, who ckims our eompassion ; it is here that we feel a true like-mindedness. In the worst moments we have known, has not this same Prodigal Son ■eemed also as a friend and a brother ? On this particular winter's night— it was the fifth of January- Mr. Egerton had taken the service, the Canon remaining in the Testry till the end of it— an altogether unprecedented proceeding o& his part. It was a dull, chill night ; and certainly not twenty people were ■cattered about in the gloom. The Canon came down the chancel steps slowly, looked about him calmly, sadly, then bowed his head in prayer for a moment or two upon the reading-desk, from whence he always gave his homely lecture. It was nearer to the people than the pulpit was ; and the position seemed to have less of for- mality about it. The church was large for the place— large, and old, and gray, and, notwithstanding restoration, somewhat dismal Canon Godfrey tried always to refrain from seeing who might be present before him, and who absent But to-night almost every face seemed to be impressed upon his vision in an instant. t Each old fisherman he knew, each old or young fishwife— there might be ten of them altogether. Amongst them was the uplifted, Appealing face of Barbara Burdas. And a little nearer to him— only a little, he had caught sight of the face of his niece, Thorhilda. He had not been sure as to her presence beforehand ; he had hoped for it ; he had let drop a word as to his hope. And she was here. All alone she sat in a dim comer where the lamp-light did not fall. The old brown oak cast shadows about her ; her dress was dark and unobtrusive ; only her face seemed white — white, and sad, and still. While the Canon's head was bowed in prayer, hers was bent too in aU reverence. She did not lift her face till the preparatory silence was broken. The Canon's voice was lower than usual, sadder, more impressive. * As you know, my friends, it is not my usual way to take a text for these Wednesday-evening lectures ; rather have I preferred a thought, a quotation from some poet, an idea from some impressive writer. To-night I would go back to the old and time-tried plan ; I would give you a text of the Holy Scripture, This text you will fin^ or dif II thai FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURE. to\ find either in the pages of St. Matthew, chapter 16th, and Tene 26th, or in St Mark, chapter Sth, verse 37th. . , . There is but little difference :— ♦ * " What ihall a man giT* n exchange for his loal Y* * If yon turn to the New Version of the Gospels, yon will find that the word " sonl " is translated *' life," so that the questioa appears much less impressive : * " What shall a man give in exchange for his life ?" * For mere physical life men have been drawn to exchange many things —honour, money, faith itself. The life of the body ii precious to the most miserable among us. It is a first instinct to tight for it, care for it, protect it ; and that this instinct was thus strongly implanted in us for wise ends who can doubt ? There is even a sacredness—a most solemn sacredness— about the most pitiful human life. * What, then, shall we say of the soul — the soul's life — the life that is to know no ending ? Thought itself seem*) silenced whilo we ask the question : * " What ahall a man give in exchange for hi$ 80ulf' * I think it possible that some of us may have read this text wrongly ; that we may have understood it as if it were written : ' " What shall a man take in exchange for his soul ?" * It is as if the enemy of souls might offer us a kind of bargain, as doubtless often he does ; saying to this man, " Will you take fame ?" to this, "Will you take riches?" to this, "Will you take the praise of men ?" ' To some of us the voice of the tempter may come in tones of far lowlier seeming— he knows precisely where to strike. So to the man weary of strife he will offer peace ; to the woman worn by labour and care he will offer rest ; to the brain tried sorely by responsibility he will offer the means of luxury and ease, the moet perfect cessation from all strain, all fear as to the future. It is this complete knowledge that renders him so formidable ai an adversary. ' Yet we are not defenceless. We are put on our guard from th« first moment of capacity to distinguish between good and evil. ' The question is writ large and plain : * " What will vou give in exchange for your soul ?" *What will you givef ' It is a strange thought at first. Is a man's soul not really his f MuRt he buy it ? must he redeem it ? must he give something in exchange for it if it is to be really his own ? * The answer is, Yes / ' You must work out your own salvation. *■ Not the smallest tmng worth having is to be had for nothing. Everything has its price, and the price is proportioned to the value. e Of ooone bo compl«(« sarmon is intended h«r« — this is no plac« for it 204 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. \ What, then, is the value you put upon your toni — the part of yon that is to live for ever ? It must live for ever. How it is to live hereafter you must decide here ; this is the only time for decision. And if you fancy that you can defer the moment for deciding, believe me that is a mistake. While you are putting off from day to day, the spiritual laws that rule your spiritual life are deciding for you. The longer you leave your soul's life to chance, the more difficult will you find it to take your rightful position again. 'Even now, to-night, you are asked— not by me, but by One ■peaking through me — even now you are asked this question : '" What will you GIVE in exchange for your soul^' * You must give something — that is the nature of yoar tenure ; and seldom, if ever, is it left to any of us to choose what we will give. As a rule something is put before us ; something that we know instantly to be a crux—& trial of our faith. * Daily we must give something ; hourly. ^' Take up your cross daily and follow Me," said the Master, speaking as none had ever spoken before, with a regal commandingness that drew all hearts capable of being drawn. It is so still. * *' I die daily," St. Paul declares ; and in another place he said, " For we who live are delivered always unto death for Jesus' sake ; that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our mortal flesh." ' Everywhere it is put before the Christian that the price he has to pay for his soul's life is a daily death — a death to something more than what the world counts sin. ' The words may seem harsh, the thought forbidding ; so they might be in reality, but for two things : first, the love that con- strains us, that is all about us, that is all within us, filling us with warmth, surrounding us with light. This love is the first and greatest thing that turns the true Christian's sorrow into joy. ' The second thought that should forbid the way of life from seeming a hard way is the certain and cruel hardness of the world's way. Oh, my friends, believe one who has known all too much of what the world has to offer ; believe him when he says to you that its best is a hollow and bitter mockery of what you draam, of what you seek ! ' " What shall a man give in exchange for his soul .'" * Ah. what is it that he accepts ? Unrest, wild, maddening unrest, where he had thought peace would be ; disappointment where he had dreamed only of fruition, the fullest fruition, of his every hope ; pain where he had felt sure of finding joy ; sorrow instead of gladness ; loneliness on the heights where love was to have met him ; humiliation where praise and honour were to have been ; thanklessness in the place of gratitude ; coldness and unkindnesa where friendship had held out both hands in token of warmth, and sympathy, and loving-kindness. his I lose ourl < ti FROM A WEDNESDA Y EVENING LECTURE. 205 * These are the things we accept in exchange for our sooL All too late we begin to find the truth. ' " For whosoever will save his life sball looe it ; bnt whosoever shall lose his life for My sake and thti gospera, the same shall save it. ' " For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul ?" * What shall it profit him ? Oh, that we should need to wait for our dying hour to see this — to be able to answer this ! ' Every day the question is asked of us, but to each one of ui there comes a special hour of questioning. Sometimes it is early in life, sometimes late ; sometimes God in His mercy sends the ques- tioner " Fate " more than once. " Fate," one will say ; " Circum- stance," another. It is the same thing, ^Uho Providence, the forethought of God." * It is God taking care for your soul, for mine. * " Be snre of thifl," says a Christian writer yet Uving, long distinguished for the purity and holiness of his living — " Be sure of this, that if He has any love for you, if He sees aught of good in your soul. He will afflict yon, if you wUl not afllict yourselves. He will not let you escape. He has ten thousand ways of pur{>ing those whom He has chosen, from the dross and alloy with which the tine gold is defaced. He can bring diseases on you, or can visit yon with misfortunes, or take away your friends, or oppress your minds with durliness, or refuse you strength to hear up against pain when it comes upon you. He can inflict on you a lingering and painful death. He can make ' the bitterness of death ' pass not. We, indeed, cannot decide, in the case of others, when trouble is a punishment, and when not ; yet this we know, that all sin brings affliction. Wc have no means of judging others, but, we may judge ourselves. Let us judge ourselves, that we be not judged. Let us afflict ourselves, that God may not afflict us." * " Let us afflict ourselves." That is usually the meaning of these times of temptation. We are brought into a strait, asked what we will give to be delivered from it, and given free choice between two answers, often enough, God knows, almost equally painful. Then the result may safely be left to God Himself ; a God to Whom we have prayed, confessed, and before Whom we have laid all our straits and helplessness. ' But more frequently it happens that our Temptation in the Wilderness — the wilderness of this wide, cold, unfriendly world — more frequently it happens that our temptation resembles His. On the one hand there is the offer of bread, of relief from hunger, symbolising deliverance from temporal care. Many of us are acquainted with that form of temptation, and to many of us it is the strongest of all. From the man with a little money, who is told that with that little he may "grow money" if he will but speculate, or gamble with sufficient unscrupulousness, from him to the man who can write a pure book, and is told, over and over again, that if he will but put the same talent or genius into a book more or less mpure, all the golden gates will be opened to him hence- forth—from the one to the other there is no wide stretch. The temptation is the same. m6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ' " Tou bare the stones," thii wily tempter points out. * And you have the power to command those stones tp be made bread. Why not ? It is a simple matter. The world that lookx upon you now coldly, or shyly, or, at best, with hope that some day you may be worthy of its warm patronage, the same world would be at yonr feet if you did but issue the simple command to the stones before you that they should be made bread." 'The second temf^tation, to spiritual power, comes seldom to ordinary men in the$e days. The time for its predominance has not yet arrived ; it is in the distant future, the far future, that this temptation will assail men more frequently, more fiercely. We hay* not arrived at that time, nor shall we ; not any of us who are living now. * " I shall see it, but not now ; I shall behold it, but not nigh." ' The third temptation, to temporal power, is rife enough ; but it does not come so near, so strenuously, to most of us as the first. Yet the two are often combined ; then they are strong indeed. Who shall resist them ? o o • e # * Again the question comes, " What shall a man f/ive in exchange for his soul ?» ' Most of us, at any rate many of ns, would be ready to say at once : « <• Lord, I will follow Thee whithersoever Thou goe^t. ' But ah ! almost at the first step we stumble. The stones are <hnrd, the darkness, the loneliness, the need of human sympathy and help make the way all too difficult, and we shrink back dis- heartened, dismayed, still farther eren from being at peace with ourselves. ' If now, just now in this hour of discouragement we are drawn up to some mountain-top of temptation, left alone there, with the tempter, a tempter who offers us all the good things of this world, offering them in precisely the manner to suit our circumstances, our age, or inclination, how shall we escape ? ' How, indeed ? . . . First of all there must be a strong and dear sense of what yielding will mean ; what it must mean here, what hereafter. ' And if there be any soul here to*night struggling alone on the barren mountain-top of temptation, struggling with the strange, dark form of evil which has been permitted to tempt mankind from the first created human being unto, undoubtedly, the last ; if there be any such here to-night, let him think, let him pause, now and here. In the name of God, I ask any such tempted soul to lay down his soul's burden before Him who created that soul, and who knew of the burden, who pre arranged it, even before the world was. Think of that ; that however keen, and bitter, and deep, and un- bearable your trial may seem, your Creator foresaw and arranged it all down to the last detaiL orf • il' the Inge, dnd if \nou} lay Iwho 908. un- Iged FXOAf A WEDNESDA Y EVENING LECTURE, so ' He knows what 70a will do. He knows whether 70a will itand or fall * It may be that 7011 havtt fallen. If «o, the price to be paid in exchanffe for your sonl will be so much the greater. ' He knows whether yon will pay it, or whether 70U will exchange 70ur Bonl instead of paying it. * Also He knows that He has put every inducement in your way. While permitting temptation, as a sole means of spiritual growth and strengthening, He has uboed the way of escape. The New Testa- ment, as the Old, is charged with the appeal, " Why will ve die f" * And yet we choose death. Thousands of us day by dav are choosing death — smiling while we choose. And yet, bebindf the smile, what tears ! * Again I will quote from that writer whose words of spiritual helpfulness I used but now : •"It is said that we ought to enjoy this life as the gift of Ood Easy ciTcnmstanMB are generally thonght a s^ial happiness ; it ia thoaght a great point to gtst rid of onnoyanee or discomfort of mind and body ; it ia thouKut allowable and saitable to make use of all means available for making life pleasant. We desire, and confess we desire, to make tinje pass agreeably, and to live in the sonsbine. All things harsh and austere are carefolly pot aside. We shrink from the mde lap of earth, and the embrace of the elements, and we build ourselves houses in which the flesh may eujoy its lost, and the eye its pride. We aim at having all things at our will. Cold, and hunger, and hard lodging, and ill-usage, and homble oflBces, and mean appearance, are all considered serious evils. And thus year follows yoar, to-morrow as to- day, till we think that this, our artificial life, is our na'ural state, and must and ever will be. But, O ye sons and daughters of men, what if this fair weather but insure the storm afterwards t What if it be that the nearer you attain to making yourselves as gods on earth now, the greater pain lies before yon in time to come, or even (if it must be said) the more certain becomes your ruin when time is at an end ? Come down then from your high chambers at this season to avert what else may be." o • • • • ' There is yet time, yet, even yet, to answer the question, " What will yon give in exchange for your soul ?' 'Yon may yet say, *' I do not care to buy my soul. I will give nothing. I will buy my life. I will give one sort of happiness for another sort. I am doing this consciously. But as for my soul, that is a question that at least may be deferred. There is always hope for one's soul. The thief, dying on the cross, had hope that he might be saved.' ' So he had. " This hope was given to one man that not one might despair ; it was given but to one, that none might presume.' * But few of us, very, very few are so presumptuous as to reply thus : *' No ; we will give ourselves to God when this crisis is over, or that." Not next year, but this ; not next month, but this ; sometimes not even to-morrow, but to-night ; this very night, when we kneel for onr last prayer. ' Then why not now, this hour, this moment ? Why not— ob t why not surrender at once V 3o8 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. The Canon bad spoken the latter words tremulously, beseechingly ; with his last cadetice his voice had broken pathetically. ... It was evident that he could say but little more. The last words he had said were yet lingering on the ear of each listener. The candles were flickering and dying in the tin sconces ; a chill wind was wailing outside, shivering up the wide gray aisles of the church. Wilder and wilder the wind clamoured round the old gray tower ; dreary and yet more dreary it came wailing up the silent aisle. Once more Canon Godfrey broke the silence, saying, in low, penetrating, fervid tones : ' Think of this. I beseech you, think of it — * " What toill you give in exchange /or your soul f"* Another moment, the moment following this plea, there was silence. Then a cry rang through the church — a sudden, thrilling, despairing, appalling cry— such as few of those who were listening then had ever heard before. For a moment, a long moment, so it seemed to Canon Godfrey, no one stirred ; no one dared to stir. The Canon himself could not. He bowed his head once again upon the desk, expecting to hear the cry repeated ; but no repetition came ; instead, he heard a low, intense, irrepressible sobbing. Did those few uncultured people understand ? One by one, they left the place. Mr. Egerton went to the dim corner, where a figure knelt in a very agony of mental pain, not even yet to be subdued by any mere effort of will. Mr. Egerton did the best thing he could do. He knelt by the sobbing, suffering woman ; awhile he knelt in silence, then m an nudible whisper he prayed. And his prayer brought help and strength. 'I will go r ome with you, Miss Theyn, if you will permit me,* he said at last. ' The Canon will follow. I do not think he will go to the Rectory for some time yet.' Mr. Egerton's surmise was correct. Till long past midnight the Rector of Market Yarburgh knelt and prayed in the chancel of the church he loved so well. lu a very agony of prayer he knelt, and his prayer was for the most part a prayer of intercession. That prayer may not be written on this page. It is written otherwhere — in the book that is open before the Great White Throne. 'No E very T her- of h it, m a me gofc im CHAPTER XLYII. IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT. • God answers sharp aud sudden on seme prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, ^ A Gauntlet with a gift in it." E. B. Browning. Not a moment — not one moment might be given to deliberation. Thought would undo all. IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT. 209 'I hare thought too much,' Thorhilda Theyn said to herself. ' Now I must act' Endure long as we may, long as we can, if at any time we deter- mine to cease from endurance, there is always a determining cause. As a rule this cause comes suddenly ; as a rule it is a trifling one ; wry trifling if compared with our months or years of suffering. The working-man who strikes his wife — perhaps half murders her — and so brings himself into public disgrace for the remainder of his life, because his dinner was not ready at the time he needed it, may perhaps not have known for years past what it was to have a meal decently cooked, and ready in time. All his years of patience go for nothing in a moment, so far as the world is concerned. In a dim and dumb way he may thank God in his prison-cell that there is another world, but he is not very likely to know much of thank- fulness of any kind, any more than his wife will know of remorse or of repentance. No, the remorse must be aU his, who forgot himself after long years of patient endurance ; and largely the feeling is born of what he knows the world to be feeling toward him. He had a trifling grievance to bear for once, and he struck a helpless and defence- less woman. Such is he in the eyes of the little world all about him. It is a typical case ; there are thousands such — thousands that would show how one moment will undo aU that years have done. Such a moment bad come to Miss Theyn, of all people one the most ill-adapted to bearing it. That cry in the church — that piercing, bitter, betraying cry — had undone all. She did not once think of it— not with anything like deliberate thought— yet her very brain seemed on fire with the sound of it. Think of it ! She was possessed by it. All the world— all the little world about her — would know to-morrow. They would know of her scream, how it had pierced her through and through till she could bear no more. All round her room there were preparations for the following Tuesday — the day that was to have been the wedding-day. Her wedding-gown hung in the wardrobe — a rich, lustrous dreo.. of white silk, and lace, and ribbons, and flowers. Her bridal veil, with its wreath of orange-blossoms, lay carefully folded by her aunt's own hands in the drawer below, folded and covered with white tissue paper, that it might not be seen or touched any more till the eventful morning. On the dressing-table was the box which Percival Meredith had brought only the day before for her acceptance. It contained a, necklace of family jewels, diamonds, and pearls, which he had had reset for her. They were very beautiful ; she had admired them ; she had put the necklace round her throat for her annt Milicent to see whether it fitted well, and she had felt a momentary pleasure in them. Now the mere outside of the case was an addea pang. Olose to it was another case, containing the four lockets, the four bracelets for her bridesmaids. These had been brought for her in H 3IO IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. epeetion only. They were Percivars presents— lockets and bracelets of gold, with a mnnogram on each in pearls and tnrqnoise. What would Gertrude Doaglas say ? What would Maura, and Helaine, and Glarimond Thelton think ? These were the four girls she had herself asked to stand beside her at the altar next Tuesday — less than a week hence. What would it be possible for them to think or say ? On reaching the Bectory, Miss Theyn had dismissed IVfr. Egerton, not ungratefully. ' I know now that you have seen, have understood all,' she said, yet in a state of extreme nervous agitation, as he perceived ; ' but do not think too hardly of me. Try to think the beut you can, will you ?' * I hope I am not given to thinking hard things of anyone. If I tried I should never be able to think other than kindly of you. . . . But — may I say it ? may I speak as if I were your brother ?— will you not reconsider, even now f Such things have been done before to-day.' Thorhilda held out her hand. * Thank you t Good-night 1 good- bye I Again I thank you !' Going indoors, she had sent a message to her aunt, simply saying that she was not quite well and would go to her own room. Mrs. Godfrey bad no suspicion ; she sat reading, waiting for her husband's return, and finding he did not come, she supposed that he had been sent for to see some sick person. That happened so often that she was quite accustomed to it. ' I will go to bed,' she said to herself at last, ' but I must see how Thorda is first.' Thorhilda's door was unfastened. Mrs. Godfrey tapped, and then went in as usual. Even now there was nothing to arouse qneetion. The room looked as it had done for some weeks past — a little crowded, a little disarranged. Her niece was not in bed. ' How is this, dear ?' she said, going round to the sofa, where a pale figure sat, with clasped rigid hands, white set face, and eyes that seemed to burn in their brilliance. ' How is this ? I thought you had gone to bed long ago, and I would not disturb you. What 18 it ? The old enemy — a bad headache V * My head does ache, I think.' * Be thankful, darling, that it isn't your neart that aches,' Mrs. Godfrey answered, certainly not meaning to be unkind, and not dreaming that she could be unperceptive. To Thurda the speech was as if someone had cast a stone at her. For one moment— one wildly ngitating moment — she had had an impulse to throw herself at her aunt's feet, to confess all, beseech her aid ; but a second glance at the tall, stately figure, at the beautiful, undisturbed, unperceptive face, the blue eyes that c. Jd change and look cold and surprised, oveu uugry — this second glance noade the suffering girl shudder to wuiak of her impulse, and the onsiei nation that would have been Imii she obeyed it. Bowles, 'lere was the .strong conviction that no good could come of any ■ni ofi qui wa,l yoi is CI oth| mai nns4 stat IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT. Ill rach betrayal. ' I should have been over-persuaded. ... All ohano* of escape would have been at an end.' •Do go to bed, dear,' Mrs. Godfrey urged. 'You are looking quite worn. This will never do, and the 1 1th so near I By the way, have you seen the parcel that came to-night ? It came whilst you were at church. No ? I fancy it is from Lady Margaret ; it is certainly like her handwriting. I should not wonder if it is an- other silver tray — it looked like that. What a pity it is that so many 6f your presents are duplicates !' Tborhilda did not reply ; she felt her heart havdening under this unseeing gentleness of speech and manner. One word— one under- standing word — and that night's work — that sad night's work — had never been done. But the word was not said. Mrs. Godfrey went away, offering to send tea, sal-volatile, wine and hot water ; but these were not the things her niece was needing. With a warm, loving kiss, a word of benediction that seemed to have no blessing in it, Mrs. Godfrey parted from her niece. For a long while Tborhilda sat by the fire in silence. Thought itself was silent — she dared not think. Some time after midnight she heard her uncle opening the door of his study. Her heart beat the quicker for the sound. No shadow of resentment crossed her mind — nay, rather did she feel sorrow, regret for the pain she knew she had caused to him. His intention had been of the best. He had been moved to speak thus b^ his conscience ; by the highest and holiest influences acting upon his sensitive soul. And he could not have dreamed of any such result as that which had actually happened. What had he dreamed of ? Had Miss Theyn once asked herself this question, once tried in solitude and quietness of soul to answer it, she must have been im- pelled to a mood different from that which was dominating her now. One idea had entered into her soul, taken complete and absorbing possession of it, as she left the church ; and nothing since had shaken it, or lessened its persistent weight. There was only one way of escape, only one ; and this she must follow. ' What shall a man give in exchange for his soul V All night the words rang in her ears : while she sat watching the flickering blaze of the fire : while she knelt by her bedside, in dumb, wordless prayer ; while she paced to and fro across her room ; ever and again bety cen the wailing of the winter wind there came the words, coming like a cry, a plea : ' What will you give in exchange for your soul ?' And now her answer was ready. * I will give all. * I will sacrifice this prospect that has seemed so much to me ( and in doing so nov) I must pay the price for the sin of indulging in it so ofteA ; the sin of yielding to a temptation that I knew — 14-2 lia IN EXCHANGE FOH A SOUL. that all the while I knew to be a temptation — tempting me from the right— and for what ? . . . For these ?' she said, looking round upon the costly jewellery, the splendid dress. * Was it possible that I could be so drawn away /or these f No ; in a calm moment she was constrained to admit that it was not mere finery, not mere luxury, that had been her temptation. There had been many things beyond, a multiplicity of ideas merging in one. There had been the dread of an uncertain future : with the sight of Garlaff Grange and its unlovely, unseemly poverty on the one hand ; of Ormston Magna and all its graceful and artistic ease on the other. * I was tempted, and I fell.* That was all she could say now. * I have been tempted, and I have fallen ; but I will fall no farther. There is one way of escape, only one, and that one, agonizing though it be, I will take. . I must take it . . . There is no other way.' All these things were said as one speaking in a kind of trance might have spoken. That moment in the church had marked a certain amount of disorganization of the brain. A discerning man, a psychologist as well as a pl'^ysiologist, said some time ago that from the first betrayal of temper on the part of a wayward girl to the last raving of .the mai ac in the cell of a lunatic asylum there is no break, no missing link in the chain of aberration. This is not understood as it ought to be. There is only One who understands. We blame this man for this divergence from what we conceive to be right ; that woman for that ; while all the while, what know we ? When Christ forgave the woman taken in sin, brought before Him by vehement accusers, doubtless these same accusers were startled ' 1 do not condemn thee. Go, and sin no more.' So He spake ; but there was none left to hear this conclusion. Self -condemned they had gone out from Hia pure Presence. They had perceived that He understood ; that not only His com- passion, but His comprehension, passed far beyond theirs. They were silenced. One cannot help somewhat envying that sinful woman. Her sin was understood ; and it was not condemned. 'We, even we^ pardon all that we comprehend,' says the old French proverb ; and, ah, the truth of it ! We comprehend so little. We see the sin, but not the temptation. We witness the fall, but not the oft-repeated, and greatly- prolonged strife which has preceded the fatal moment It was Thorhilda Theyn's misfortune that in this hour of her deepest trial she had no friend to whom she could turn in all her weakness, all her despair, all her sense of wrong-doyig, and say, • Forgive me, save me ; help me to save myself !' it, oi As it is IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT, ai3 ion. nn old Ion. Iged Only on« thing she had strength to resolve upon : she would sin no farthef, not in the same direction. If the idea she was now re- solved to carry out was also a sin, surely it were a more venial one, surely it were more easily forgiven, since it involved such desperate pain. So the night passed, not in thought, not in prayer, but in a dull mechanical semblance of each. It was some hours past midnight when at last she sat down by her writing-table. * I must at least say " good-bye," dear Aunt Milicent,' she began. ' And I roust ask you to forgive me. This will seem like terrible ingratitude for all that you have been to me. I dare not think of it, of all that I know you will suffer. Yet no one can blame you. Ajb for dear Uncle Hugh, I must not let myself think of him. Yet it t« hi» doing. He has saved me. It is his word that has helped me, given me back the power to see things in their true light. . . . And there was no other way of escape but this — at least I cannot see any other. How could I remain here with that day, that dread day so near, and refuse to keep my promise ? All the world ubput me would have thought me mad. I had no excuse for further dehiy, not one ; and as for breaking off the engagement now, when all is ready down to the ordering of the last dish for the breakfast, and yet remaining here, you will see for yourself how impossible (hat would have been. No ; I have no resource but this. . . I cannot write of it. ... I can write no more of anything. My brain is strangely tortured. It does not seem my oum, but soratono eise's brain — one that I cannot understand. Yet it seems that I mu»t obey its dictates, write what it bids me write, do what it bids me do. . . . Again I entreat you to forgive me, and if you can, forget me. Dear Aunt Milicent, I never loved you more than I do at this moment, believing that I shall never see you again. How good you have been to me I how kind ! Will anyone ever care for me again ?' This was her weakest moment. Her hand trembled so that the words were nearly illegible ; yet no tears came, no sobs. She sat on, listening to the wind as it wailed round the house, tossing the trees close to her window, moaning in the casement. Then came a soft sudden dashing as of snow upon the window-pane ; yet she hardly heard it, or, hearing, did not recognise. So the night went on ; passed in an agony so intense as to be most mercifully benumbing. When or how any purpose shaped itself in her mind she could not afterward recall. She had no remembrance of ever having looked into that future that was not terrible, only because it was not visible. She had sinned ; and after sin punishment was sure to follow. ' Be sure your sin will find you out.' Not, ' Be sure your sin will be found out.' Sin often is not * found out ' of others ; but it finds one's self ; and shows no mercy in the finding. But not even yet was the sense of wrong-doing Thorhilda Theyn's «4 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. wont trouble. Full knowledge, full consciousness, could only oeme with the return of tko fuller tide of life. The hour for the utter- ance of the exceeding bitter cry of a perfect repentance had not yet struck. And now the night was almost gone ; there was a faint light showing through the curtains when Miss Theyn once more took up her pen to add a final word. * Again '• good-bye," again I ask you to forgive ma If I knew aught of my future I should think it best /or you that I should keep silence. If you know nothing people cannot torture you to confide in them. (I am not meaning anyone in particular.) But I could not tell you if I would, for I know nothing myself. I know nothing but that I am leaving the happiest home that ever anyone had. 'Dear Uncle Hugh, what it is to leave you ! to go out into an un- known world ! . . . I dare not think ! , , . Once more "good-bye." Ton can yet pray for your unhappy ' Thorda.' About half an hour later a figure in a gray cloak and closely fit- ting bonnet and veil passed out from the front-door of Yarburgh Bectory into a world of such wild whitening beauty as is seldom seen. Every tree in the garden stood in radiant white, each tiny branch with each of its curves fully developed against the deep indigo of the snow-laden sky beyonu. The flakes were falling dowly, sadly ; the wind wailing less wildly and wearily ; yet it was a chilling wind, and swept through the very heart of the carefully nurtured girl who strove even in that hour of abandonment not to betrapr herself to herself by yielding to mere physical weakness. ' Life can no more be what life has been,' she said to herself. * I must learn to strive, to endure.' So saying, she came to the big iron gates. It was a difficult matter to open them, to pass out, with snow under her feet, snow and wind driving overhead. And just then a sudden squall arose, seeming as if it swept upward from the great gray sea that lay darkling under the stormy snow-cloud. Wildly and more wildly it swept through the leafless trees ; the accumulated snow came down in avalanches upon the slight gray figure that struggled onward with such bravery as might belong to a broken heart. In that hour life itself seemed over. All that could remain, at the best, would be endurance. Why live, only to endure ? Surely there was a limit to human suffering ! ' I would be content to die, nay, glad to die,* she said to herself, still striving with the bitter wind and the driving snow. ' Strong men have died thus, beaten to their death by merciless storms. \Vhy cannot I die ? I should be so glad, so very glad to lie down under the nearest hedgerow, and so " swoon on to death." ' Yet she strove onward ; some principle and instinct of life '.ithin her urging her to strive. THE DA Y THA T CAME-AFTER, 21$ So Bkriving, the dawn-light slowly growing, the cruel storm in- ereasing, she passed on, on beyond Yarburgh ; far above the Bight of TJlvstan where the white water was breaking upon the scaur. Still onward she strove, and whither she went, none Icnew. CHAPTER XLVIIL THE DAY THAT CAME AFTER. * 'Tis when we saffer gentlest thoaghts Within the bosom aprtng.' Fabeb. It was a wild tempestuous morning. The snow swept past the window-pane, the outside world was blotted from si(;ht, the trees were snow-laden to the smallest branch ; and yet the flakes kept on falling, now wildly, now madly ; now gently and softly. Looking upward, all was gray, and dim, and formless : looking below, all was white, and soft, and lovely and entrancing. ' One is almost glad to see it, for a change,' Canon Godfrey said, rubbing his chill hands one over the other. For nearly an hour, he had been reading in a fireless room. ' Yet how carelessly one says that !' he added presently. * One does not think, at first, of all that frost and snow must mean down in the Bight. . . . God help them all ! How good they are, for the most part ; how brave, how patient !' Still the big white flakes came whirling down, hiding the white- edged holly-tree : the tall cedar beyond, the dark Scotch firs that yet retained their picturesque form. Indoors all was perfect in the wdy of contrast. A large coal fire blazed vigorously ; the lamp burned under the coflFee-pot, warm dishes were appearing one after another upon the table — muflins, toast, eggs, grilled chicken. ' Why doesn't Thorda come ?' the Canon said at last, not speaking with quite his usual easiness. His remembrance of the night before was still too strong upon him for ease. ' We will not wait, Hugh dear,' Mrs. Godfrey said. She was not angry, not displeased ; yet in no way was she touched to any unwonted forbearance. * But it is not usual for her to be late !' her husband urged. • All the more reason why we should give her a little grace when it does happen,' Mrs. Godfrey replied lightly. She spoke quite lightly and carelessly, and breakfast was begun and ended without further remonstrance on the part of Canon Godfrey ; but when he rose from the table he sent a message to his niece. Her aunt desired to know whether she was well enough to come down, or whether she preferred to have breakfast in her own room. Quite thinkingly he sent the message in his wife's name. He had not now to discern that there was some little rift within the lute that once had made only such sweet and pleasant mnsio. • 3l6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. He felt a utroiig wish to see hia niece again before going back to bis study, to judge for himself aH to how the distressing occurrence of the previous evening had added to the unhappiness he feared she had had before. He had not mentioned that sad moment to his wife, and since she had not mentioned it to him, he knew that Thorhilda had not cared to seek her aunt's sympathy. He under- stood his niece's reluctance to meet him ; and he knew that it would be better they should meet at once, and in the presence of a third person. He was sorry that she had not come down as usual. It is always best and easiest to take no outward notice of an awkward moment. The inner soul is stronger for the external reticence. It was Ellerton who had taken the Canon's message to Martha, the girl who waited upon Miss Theyn. It was Martha's answer that Ellerton brought. The man entered the room, and stood for awhile by the side- board with a strange look on his face. ' Well !' the Canon exclaimed, in an almost amused surprise. He was not accustomed to see the somewhat loquacious Ellerton pale and speechless. * She's not there, sir— Miss Theyn ; she's not there !' the man said at last. ' Not where ? . . . Where have you been ? What's the matter with you ?' was the impatient questioning. * Martha went upstairs, sir — she went to Miss Theyn's room 1 • • . And the bed ! ... It haven't been slept in, sir !' A few seconds later Canon Godfrey himself stood gazing upon the bed where his niece should have slept. His wife was close be- side him ; with pallid faces they looked upon each other, and had no strength to speak. They entered farther into the room, looked round upon the dainty, feminine arrangements. Some of the wedding presents were there ; the case containing the diamond necklace had been left half -open ; the lockets and bracelets for the bridesmaids were in their cream coloured velvet tray. The door of the wardrobe had been left open ; the glitter of the white dress showed in the gray light ; a spray of orange-blossoms festooning some tulle was visible. A rose-coloured dressing-gown was lying over a chair in front of the long-dead fire ; a pair of tiny woollen slippers were set up against the fender ; a prayer-book lay open upon the white coverlet of the bed. It was the Canon who saw Thorhilda's letter lying upon the writing-table. It was addressed to his wife ; yet he knew that he should be sparing her if he opened it and read it. Quite calmly he read on from the first plea to the last, from the first confession to the last betrayal. * Dear Uncle Hugh, forgive me I What it is to leave you, to go out into an unknown world ! . . . I dare not think !' Canon Godfrey read a part of the letter to his wife ; she begged y^ THE DA y THAT CAME AFTER. ti7 to be allowed to see it, to read it herself ; but this h« would not permit. ' There is nothinij; in it you iMed to know, dear ; trust me for that, can you not ?' ' Trust you I There is no one, no one else in all the world I can trust,' she Raid with tearful eyes and trembling, hardly restrained lips. * But Hugh, my darling Hugh, you will bring Thorda back ? lou will not let her go ? . . . We will persuade her, we will per- suade him ; there may be delay ; there must, I fear, be pain and even exposure. But it will come right in the end. Say that it will ! She cannot— she cannot be meaning now, at this eleventh hour, to say that she will not marry Percival !' The Canon sighed. Would his wife never understand ? Within himself, and unknown to himself, he dreaded the labour of trying to bring about a full and clear comprehension. And in truth it was a difficult task. When all was done that might be done, all said that might be said, Mrs. Godfrey was still irrational, uncon- vinced, more or less hopeful. The Canon could only sigh and turn away. ' What are you going to do, Hugh dear ?' she asked plaintively. • What can you do ? You have no clue ?' ' None whatever so far, not the very slightest. . , I am going up to — to her room again, to see if I can find any. . . . No, dear, I would rather go alone. . . Excuse me. You are not equal to going again to that room yet.' Mrs. Godfrey was not unwilling to rest her aching head upon the cushions of her sofa. Meanwhile the Canon was moving about a dainty upper room, moving reverently, slowly, as he might have gone about some altar-place. At last he came upon a letter-case, and within it there was the rough draft of a letter — whether it had ever been rightly written and sent he could not tell. There was no indication, nor was there any superscription ; it was only by in- ternal evidence that he judged it to have been intended for a lady whom he knew to be living near Loudon, a lady whom Thorhilda bad only seen once for a few days in her early girlhood, and of whom she could have known but very little except from hearsay. "WiA a possible that she could have taken refuge with so mere a stranger? Was it possible that she could have turned from a heart that lived and beat — humanly speaking — so truly for her, for her purest happiness, her highest good, to find shelter, sympathy, in a home all unknown to her — was this really within the bounds of possibility ? Almost for the first time in his life a deadly f aintness overcame Canon Godfrey as he sat down upon the sofa his niece had occupied so lately, and a strange unconsciousness passed upon him. Not till long afterwards did he know what that uncon- sciousness meant. When he did know, those about him said, ' Too late I too late I' Within himself there was joy, because he could say, ' So soon V •iS IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUU ■^ CHAPTER XLTX, ,• ^ •can you not bring again my nLESSED YF.STKRDAYf* * And shame drives back what nothing else can give, Man to himself — then sets him ap on high.' Chbibtina Robsbtti. Haying that slight cine gathered from the rough draft of a letter, Canon Godfrey was spared the pain and mistake of making in quiries in the immediate neighbourhood of Yarburgh Rectory. Yet he had enough of pain before him. He was quite calm. Five minutes alone in prayer had been sufficient to ensure for him hours of calmness. His first step was to ride over to Danesborough, send off a telegram or two, and arrange with a clerical friend there to take his place if he should be absent on the following Sunday. His next duty, to go over to Ormston Magna and explain all before the tongne of gossip had had time to tell the sad story, was an unutter- ably painful one. Yet he seemed to see beforehand precisely how Percival Meredith would receive his news. There would be no cry of despair, no expression of unspeakable agony. And in thus thinking he was not mistaken. Naturally, the Tde .ediths were sur- prised to see him. It was yet quite early ; and the pallor, the still- ness of his face was like a warning. ' Don't say that anybody at the Rectory is ill t' Mrs. Meredith cried, putting up her two pretty white hands as if she would ward off any evil news. * 111 I' the Canon replied, with no answer to his interlocutor's half-smile on his grave face. ' If it were a question of mere illness I think I could bear to speak. . . As it is. . . .' 'Whatever it is, tell us — tell «« at onceT Mrs. Meredith cried impatiently, glancing at her son, who stood with a philosophic smile on his lip, turning a broad gold ring that was upon his finger with a certain meaning in the action. There was no alarm upon his face, no anxiety. For Yery surprise the Canon could not speak. ' And I thought myself prepared,' he was saying to himself. Mrs. Meredith's attitude was very different *For heaven's sake speak. Canon Godfrey — say what you havw come to say !' she urged. ' I feel sure it is something dreadful ; and I cannot bear suspense.' * Pardon me,' Hugh Godfrey replied, lifting his sad eyes, turning his tense white face. ' Do forgive me. It is ns you say, something very terrible I have to disclose. ... I can find no words. It is my niece — Thorhilda, who was to have been your son's wife wiihin the week. ... It seems she . . . she could not bear the thought of marriage now that it came so near. . . . And she has . . . she has gone away ; she left the Rectory this morning. . . . My wife hsraly realizes it. I think.' Mn. Meredith 8 laugh, a long, low, soft, unbelieving laugh, made *My YESTERDAYS fli9 Canon Godfrey shndder. The smile on the son's face wu wone than the mother's laughter. Percival Meredith was the one to break the silence. ' What a pretty comedy yon have arranged !' he remarked in the smoothest of tones. *■ I am only sorry that yoa have given me the part of "fool " to play.' Canon Godfrey could only turn in silent misery to Mrs. Meredith. His fine face was not discomfited by the sneer that was upon her lips. ' Would you ask us — would you even wish us to believe that you do not know where they have gone— the happy and interesting pair ?• * Who are you alluding to ?' the Canon asked in sudden fierce- ness, and with most unusual lack of grammatical precision. Mrs. Meredith was equal to the moment. ' I am not alluding to anyone. I am speaking of your pet niece, Miss Theyn, and her fortunate lover, Damian Aldenmede,.a wander- ing artist, a penniless adventurer, who is doubtless at this moment congratulating himself on his good luck.' Canon Godfr&y had no alternative but to sit down in the chair nearest to him ; and again that strange, appalling sense of power- lesBuess came over him, and he knew himself to be in the grasp of a power against which he could offer no resistance. ' How many times must one die before death comes ?' was the silent cry of the much-tried heart within the man. For some time he was silent. Then he rose to his feet, himself again, a Christian, and a gentleman, therefore considerate of those to whom it had been his duty to bring a painful disclosure. ' I will forget what you have said, Mrs. Meredith ; I can do that — not easily, but I can do it, knowing what I must know of your — your annoyance !* ' That is the exact word,' the lady replied proudly. ' I am annoyed — my son is annoyed — how should we be otherwise ? We 8ball be a laughing-stock for the Three Ridings ! But be assured that we shall recover ; it is not impossible that we may live to be grateful for what has happened.' For some time longer the Canon stood there, feeling it a mere matter of duty to endure the last scornful sentence, the final bitter word. Percival Meredith's smiling and supercilious silence was as difRo lit to bear as anything his mother could say. The Canon took his leave at last. His gray-white face — the look of hidden suffering written there — made no impression upon those who watched him as he departed. To either of them it was but an hypocrisy the more. They were able to comfort each other — the mother and son ; and before half the day was over to assure each othei that all was for the best. And as for the gossip, the amusement — well, they were above it, apart from it. It would not come near them, and they need not sjo to seek it. - . 320 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ' "We can afford it, Percy ; we can afford even this I' Mrs. Mere* dith 8aid with a satirical pride not made too evident. ' We must let no one see that Miss Theyn's elopement caases us anything but a very mitigated regret.' And, indeed, there was nothing else to be seen. If Percival Meredith did imagine once or twice for a few moments that he Buffei'od deeper, truer grief, ii, was not necessary on that account that any compassion should be wasted upon him. His strength was equal to his grief. As a matter of course, within four-nnd-twenty hours the news bad spread everywhere ; with the usual exaggerations and ad- ditions, more than one of which might have been traced to Ormston Magna. It is only fair to say that no one who had really known either Thorhilda Theyn or Damian Aldenmtde dreamt that there could be the slightest grain of truth in the rumour that included these two names in one hateful lie. When it was repeated to Barbara Burdas, the woman who uttered it had reason for wishing that the gift of reticence had been hers. Barbara was silent for a moment ; the hot, rapid colour spread over her face and neck ; a strange sudden light flashed from her eyes. * Are they daring to say that ? and of her^ of him V she exclaimed in a very passion of earnestness. 'Good heavens, what a world this is I Is there ever a good man or woman in it that escapes slander and lying ? Is there one ? To think that any human lips could dare to utter a lie like that 1' Later, Barbara seemed to understand how it had been with Miss Theyn at the last. It did not seem like any lightning flash of comprehension that came to her, but just a gradual development of natural light. ' She could do no other,' Bab declared, that light still flashing in her eyes, a flash coming again upon her olive-tinted cheek. It was night now, the world about her was all asleep. But the little Ildy was not well, and needed that Bab should walk up and down the cottage floor with her till long past midnight. Barbara was all gatience, all kindness for the suffering baby ; but yet to-uight her nrning thought was of the tale she had been told. ' She could do no other than she has done,' Bab raid to herself. * They'd surrounded her, overpowered her, and she had yielded. Then she saw what she had done, and knew there was only one way out of it. And that way she has taken, never heeding what the end may be! And as for him^ Mr. Aldenmede, him that went beyond the seas ever so long ago, he'll never know. Perhaps it's better so. He can never know the wickedness a wicked world can invent. . . . But, oh 1 was there nobody to spend their inventions on but her and him, two of the best and purest that ever lived ? Was there none but them V While Barbara was spending her indignation thus, the gossips of *Afy YESTERDAYS 221 the Bight, and far beyond the Bicht, were findinir RnflTioicnt food for the Blander they revelled ii). TluTe ia no need to write here the h)W taunts, thospitofulnccusalionH of hvpicrisy. It is snflicit-nt to Hay that |ierhaps no man or woman, upon whose lips the slaii»Kr dwtit, would not have grieved, and hittoily, comp.issionately, had they been able to enter into the heart of the suil'oring Thorhilda Theyn was endurinj? even while they spoke. * The, Sftcrifice of (Jofl is a broken tipiril.^ To how many thotisaiids have these words given comfort ! To how many thouHnrnis have they seennrJ as if 8j>ecially written for them ! *A broken .xpir it /' To have nothing,' left but that; nothing, in all the world nothiii<», hut a heart, a spirit broken with the sense of its own sin, its own error, its own mistake, its own life-long short- coming, and to know that even that seemingly-wrecked soul may be accepted of God ! Oh, where shall one find words wherewith to recognise, but ever so feebly, that magnificent mercy ! When all is done, all lost — whon hope itself lies dead in the heart, to ktiow that even then this broken and contrite spirit will be accepted of Ilini who sits upon the Great White Throne, accepted as a sacrifice of value— to have this knowledge is to be lost as much in wonder as in gratitude. Not at once may the broken in heart and soul diire to lift eyes of liope and thankfulness. Had we no other guide but instinct we should remain prostrate, {)enitent, 'submitting,' as Bishop Jeremy Taylor says, * to such sadness as God sends on us; patiently enduring the Cross of Sorrow which He sends as our punish- ment.' Hope as we will, pray as we may, it can never be other than an agony to pass through this strait gate of repentance. The soul that passes easily may suspect itself from the beginning. Yet the Slough of Despond is not of the same depth to each of us. It is the man or woman who has sinned against light, in the midst of light, who must suffer the more keenly for having chosen darkness. Thorhilda Theyn, kneeling that night in a strange room, in a stranger's home — alone and lonely, saddened, stricken, yearning, repentant, had no cry bnt one — that cry she uttered in the lowliest, the inost utter self -abasement. ' My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me ?' Not long did she kneel there in the chill silence before an answer came. 'Forsaken theef Ah, no ; I gave My life for thee. I strove co constrain thee by My Love — My Love alone ! How often have I urged it upon thee, this Love of Mine, by how many ways ! By the softness and ease of life I urged it ; by the sweetness of human love and friendship I urged it ; by the contrast of the pain and loneliness of other lives I urged it. In the stars of the midnight sky I spoke ; ia the flowers of the spring-time I whispered ; each 221 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ruBtling leaf, eacli dcw-Vjvight petal, wasaploa I . . , Forsake thee! . . . Never did I leave thy side for one moment ! • No ; I stood at the door of thy heart and kn<v;lcod, but in vain. *My knocking was heard ; but it was not answered. • Not in so many words didst thou make to Me the old rep\-. ** Come again at a more convenient season,'' but such was the answer thy life made to Me. The result is at hand." Yet the tear-blinded, heart-broken woman knelt on. Though \\c comfort came, no help, she would yet remain where alone comfoii could be. And again, and ever again, came the cry : ' ' . *My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me V CHAPTER L. •at your soft toucei ok pitv li:t mk wf:i:p.' •Experience is like the stern-ligbts of a ship at sea, ami illuminates only the track we have passed over.' — Coi.ERiixiK. Happiness, dear! Is that the rock on wl)i(;h you have been •tranded ?' The speaker was a woman, young-looking for her age ; r.nd, with- out consideration, one would add, beautiful. It was not a face that people felt inclined to analyse, The ex- pression of goodness, of quietness, of res- rved strength, was of that unobtrusive kind which people accept without (juestion. Few who knew Margaret Thurstoue, and had a trouble, could help con- fiding in her ; though she did not always make such confidence quite easy. Her tendency being toward reticence, she had naturally a dread of the unguarded and unrcstraiued outpourings of others. To-night she had had no fear ; no strain had been put upon her forbearance. From first to last she had listened to th(! story Thor- hilda Theyn had told with interest, '.vi'h sympathy ; yet with a growing wonder that a woman whose instincts were evidently pure and good, whose principles Avere upright, whose outlook over men and things was both cloar and wide— that one apparently so irre- proachable could yet have been so blinded, could yet have been permitted to fall so far from her own first estate as to be now lying, BO to speak, in the very dust, with ashes of humiliation on a heai! that had always been hcKl, perhaps unconsciously, a little proudly above its fellows. Certainly it was not quite easy to see beyond and behind this strange and sad complication. Mrs. Thurstone's life had been lived in the world. Though her means were now narrow, her way of living straitened, she hail many friends who did not forget that she was the daughter of an admiral, the widow of a cavalry dfii^er who had fallen in the Crimea. She herself at that time had not been twenty years of age ; her husband had not completed his thirtieth w'nter. ^ LET ME weep: 223 L'S. Her life since tin n hail becu not only pure and blameless, but those alone who were privileged to wiitch it closely knew ot the ceaseless self-sacritice, the untiring devotion with which she g;iv^ her time, her strength, and such means as she had. to the service of such as were yet poorer than herself. Her name '\\ as not in the newspapers, she sat on no committees, she organized no new and popular ways of being philanthropic. Yet it may be that she dared to think prayerfully of a time when she would hear the words, ' / wa» an hungered, and you gave Me meat.' Still, as it has been intimated, her life was not one of social seclusion. Her society was too much valued by such as understood for that to be possible. And so it was tliat she was able to estimate to the full the gravity of the thing that Thorhilda Theyn had done. A woman less conversant with the way of the modern world might have underrated the matter altogether ; indeed, it is probable that Miss Theyn had a little hoped to be consoled by hearing some words that should betray that a lighter and easier view might be taken ; but if so her hope was disappointed. Margaret Thurstone's memory was good ; her affection enduring. Though so many years had passed since she had counted Squire Theyn's dead wife among her friends — a friend older than herself by fourteen years, and possibly weaker in some ways, yet a woman so loving, so gentle, so full of all sweet human kindliness that her memory could never be recalled without a sigh — though all this had been so long ago, Mrs. Thurstone had received the daughter of her dead friend almost without surprise, and certainly without regret. It was chiefly from her Aunt Averil that Thorhilda had heard of Mrs. Thurstone ; and though she had heard so little, that little had always been of a nature to lead her to conclude that her mother's friend would be likely to be the friend of anyone in real trouble. So it was that in that hour of desperation her mind had been drawn to dwell with some hope upon the possibility of finding a refuge in the small house in Strafford Park where Mrs. Thurstone lived ; and drawn so strongly that no other alternative seemed to present itself. She had not regretted. Rather had the thought forced itself upon her mind that even in this hour of apparent rebellion a Guiding Hand had been over her. Certainly she had prayed for guidance, but it was with her as with most of us . we are aston- ished, somewhat appalled, when a prayer is directly and visibly answered. Some hoars had now passed since that twilight hour when Thor- hilda had presented herself at Mrs. Thurstone's door, pale, chilled, silent, yet with a look of supplication so evident on her beautiful face, that even Defore she had made herself known she had been made to feel most warmly welcome. 'Do sit down here, by the fire, please I' the hostess had urged in a kind, homely way. Tlie cabman had been dismissed, tea ordered. U4 N EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. th« lamp tuined to its fullest htight, th« Art itirred to ita brightMt blaM, and all before the gtranger's name was asked. It was hardly needful to ask it, so strong was tht rtsemblanoe between Thorhilda Theyn and her dead mother. Mrs. Thurstone felt no eurpriso, showed none, nor vet any curiosity. * Yon shall tell me all when you hare had Rome tea. Forgive me for saying that I know you have 8om»>)^<'ig to tell me — some trouble. Well, whatever it is, my life ha en one long prepara- tion for it, and without doubt He Who ; prepared me has led you here.' And now, at early midnight, all was told — told from the very beginning. The first weeks of doubt, of irresolution, the first dawning of trouble, the strong temptation, the almost overwhelm- ing pressure, the dread alternative — all was laid bare ; made so clear that the girl felt as if she had never seen her dwn position, her own place in the pitiful drama, before. Yet she was far from Eityinj? herself ; that was reserved for ]\Irs. Thurstone to do. All er own feeling was of the nature of blame. And after this came the history of the way in which light had come at last ; at least light enough to prevent the consummation of such a disaster as had doubtless led to a wreck even more terrible than this stranding on a strange rock in raid-ocean. As a matter of course Daraian Aldenmede's name was mentioned, and this with such effort, such betrayal, such evident suffering, aa was suffioiently convincing. Margaret Thurstone did not hear the artist's name for the first time, as she hastened to say, hating all concealments, all semblance of mystery, and useless suppression of simple fact. ' I know Mr. Aldenmede,' she said at once. ' I have known him many years.' ' Did you know that he was at Ulvstan Bight ?' 'Yes ; 1 helped in recommending him to go there — or at least to the north coast. He needed bracing, time for recruiting after the work he had done in the east of London.' ' I thought he had been much abroad ?' ' So he had ; but that was earlier in his life — I mean it was before his East-End wo.k. . . It was just after his sorrow— his most crushing sorrow.' There was silence in the little room for a time. Mrs. Thurstone, silenced by reminiscences, sat looking into the fire, her patient, thoughtful, beautiful face the more beautiful for its expression of rapt musing. The face opposite to hers, though, perhaps, strictly speaking, the lovelier of the two, and by far the younger, was yet at the present moment the less attractive to look upon. Keen, overpowering, remorseful sorrow is seldom altogether winning. ♦ Could you tell me of Mr. Aldenmede's trouble ?' Thorhilda asked at last, speaking with a strange timidity. Magaret "Thurstone paused a moment before answering. II LET ME WEMF: iN iim fore lost * Tlieic is BO valid reason, non« at all, why I ibonld not UH yo* all I know,' she replied presently. * But I think it would not b« very wise to tell you to-night.' Thorhilda had no strength left wherewith to beseech for the knowledge she so earnestly desired to have. Personal grief will impair the strongest curiosity, and there is nothing like sorrow for softening the tone of even the most argumentative. Very skilfully Mrs. Thurstonu turned the conversation back to Thorhilda's own trouble. It was not a difficult thing to do. ' And you had no plan in coming here, dear ?' she said kindly. ' No especial idea about your future ?* ' Nothing very clear,' the girl replied, forcing the hot tears back. * I knew that you were working amongst the poor. I thought that perhaps I i?';,nt help you ; but then ' (this came with extreme difficulty) ' but then, how shall I live ? . . I have no money, no talent, . . .. What can I do ?' In Mrs. Thurstone's own mind there was the certainty that Miss Theyn would very soon go back to the Rectory at Yarburgh ; but she had too much tactful sympathy to say so at present. One thing, however, she must say. ' I think I understood that you had not left your address, or any clue to your present whereabouts, at Yarburgh ?' she asked in a studiously matter-of-fact tone. But Thorhilda's conscience heard reproach where none was. ' I could not — no, I could not ! Besides, for thtir sakes — for the sake of my uncle and aunt — I thought it better not, far better .... Believe me !' the girl besought earnestly. ' Believe me, I weighed the matter all round, thought of things on the one side and on the other ; and, knowing that blame could fall upon me alone, I judged it better to do what I have done. Had I left an address, it would but have seemed like an invitation to — to them to follow me, to persuade me — to persude me to do what I had solemnly promised to do, and that after weeks, months — nay, I may almost say years of indecision.' ' Forgive me for interrupting you ; but that all points to a too narrow environment. A month in a wider social atmosphere would have shown you your own mind.' ' Perhaps so,' Thorhilda replied ; ' but all the same, I ought to have known my own mind as matters stood — or at any rate / should have more clearly recognised the fact that I did not know it.' There was another pause. The fire was yet burning with a subdued glow of cheerfulness ; the sleet now and then dashed upon the window-panes ; the wind was moaning sadly in the casement. Above its passing moan came the words, uttered slowly, firmly, solemnly : * He that followeth Me walketh nut in darkness.^ ' I believe that — I believe it with all my heart, with all my soul,* Thorhilda answered, while the hot tears dropped on her cheek. . . 15 i25 IN EXCHANGE tOR A SOUL, ' Yet— y«t it seems hard to follow when th« leading points only to pain — only to suffering.' ' To what $eem» pain. . . . Can you not trust ? Can you not ««« that all such sorrow is certainly turned into joy, as He promised it should be ? While the other way— the wider way— with all its flowers and all its joys, quite as certainly leads on to darkness, and to pain, and to bitterness and to misery. ... Oh ! when — tchm will human beings believe that Christ brought light upon their human path, that He came to bring it f . . . Oh, what — what is it in us — we hnow, we see, we believe, and we turn away, always meaning to come back to the nanower way some time. Meanwhile, path leads to path, flowers lead on to flowers. Then suddenly we awake — and all is thorns and darkness.' * Not suddenly — no, not suddenly,' Thorhilda interposed ; ' we see it coming — the darkness. We feel the touch of the thorns that are to wound so deeply .... and we turn away. To the last we turn — to the last the flowery way amuses us, distracts us, though all the while we see the end ' * Yet it is something — nay, much, that we do see it ? Are you not glad that yon see with open eyes at the present moment ?' * Glad ? . gladness for me ? . . . sight for me ?' Thorhilda exclaimed in surprise. . . . ' There is only one light — it is upon the past. ... Is that enough for me? Is it enough for any human being V ' It is as much as the most of ns get — and more than that : it is as much as the wisest people hope for. Believe me, the happiest state of all is a state of perfect trust — strong, hopeful trust that all will yet be well. That may seem like a platitude ; but happy are the people whose lives can be best expressed by a succession of platitudes.' * How you repeat the word " happy "I To me, now, it is the deadest word of a dead language. . . . And yet, ah me I I remember one morning, not so long ago — it was but last spring, in fact — when I stood by the sea, a blue, bright, sparkling sea, with a blue, bright, shining sky overhead, and spent luy forenoon in wondering why I was so happy. ... Is it possible that morning was not a year ago ?' * And your mind dwelt all on happiness ?' * All on happiness — in perfect gratitude — because I was so very happy. . . . And yet I did not understand it ; and afterward I began to question it — then to place the unhappiness of others in a sort of balance, to weigh their patient, struggling, unselfish life against my own selfish and self-seeking one.' * And the result?' * The result was simply dissatisfaction.' * It should have gone deeper than that.' * It has gone deeper now— too late /' * Too late ? And you not yet twenty-three V * Age has little to do with it. A vessel shipwrecked on its first Toyage or the last — where is the difference to the drowned crew — ' WHEN HOPE LIES DEAD: 227 ihfc hull uptnrnc;] upon the barren rock ? Shipwreck is shipwreck, when the vessel is wrecked utterly. And the analogy holds good — a human life wrecked at twenty or at sixty, what matters ! The few years are nothing !' ' Pardon me ! They are everything, as you will yet see. But I will not speak of that now. I want to help you more closely, more surely ; and to do that I must see what your present wishes are. And let me say, once for all, how glad I am, how grateful, that you should have had such trust in me as to come here and lit me help you as best I may — it is even flattering, though I know you do not mean it for that. Let that idea go with some others. It is late now ; but even before I sleep I would like to have some idea of what I can do for you. . . . First, in the early morning, I must send a telegram to Canon Godfrey.' ' You must do that ?' ' Yes, certainly. Think of him — the torture of uncertainty he is undergoing !' But when Mrs. Thurstone looked up. Miss Theyne was not think- ing. She was lying back in hei easy-chair, white, pallid, unconscious. * How thoughtless I have been — how very thoughtless !' Mrs. Thurstone said, reproaching herself. ' I forgot her sleepless night, her long journey, her terrible anxiety. learn to be human V Oh me, when will one CHAPTER LI. 'WHKN HOPE LIES DEAD.' ' friend, I know not which way I must look For comfort, being as I am, opprest." WOBDSWORTU. The snow was still falling, the wind still wailing up the narrow suburban street. Indoors, lamps were being lighted and cui'tains drawn, though it was yet but thi*ee in the afternoon. People were glad to make believe that the night had come, oc rather the evening — the long, bright, warm, English winter's evening — not the least favourable time for discovering and enjoying the peculiar happiness of English home-life — a life that has a flavour all its own, and only to be discovered after acquaintance with life as it is lived elsewhere. It is not to be wondered over that happy English people should return to the scene of their happiness a little vain, a little super cilious perhaps— and as a rule, very well contented ; the latter is not the least of the good effects produced by change of scene. Canon Godfrey had known what it was to spend a winter abroad, to shiver in the marble corridors of Florentine palaces, to linger on the sunny side of the street so long as there was a warm ray to tempt him, then to go indoors to a carpetless room— -to walls glitter- ing with mirrors, and gilding, and faded frescoes. Somewhero there would be a big white china stove — very handsome, perhaps — 15—2 228 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. but being so very unfamiliar, wo Id certainly also be unattractive, and lc88 equal to the task of persuading bim of its use than of its architectural beauty. The Canon was a man suflBciently sensitive to such things ; and being given — far more than the world about him at Yarbiirgh knew — to testing himself, his strength of soul, by various self-denials and asceticisms, he had come to know bow very keen was his ap- preciation of what people call domestic comfort. A man who had simply gone on taking life as it came, enjoying all his meals with no more tb^ ^he ordinary restraint prescribed by social usage, who had irluig-. -n the luxuries of fire and warm clothing whenever these might ;ieem to be needed, who had accepted all the services and attentions common to his position without question — such a one would have known far less of himself, of his own weakness, than the Canon knew ; would have suffered far less from strife before his fall*:?, , ? what he counted such, and from compunction afterward • > .. '■'-ii\tever may be said for or agrinst the view he took, and tne ^Vr,; -Hon^e and suffered in consequence of that view, this at least \t certi »., he kept his inner life most certainly alive, his soul's life was at least vi 'i^id a» his outer life. Witb vLia dt ;.b)e existt. • 'be reason — or one reason, why ais life was beiug live^i so p' ^J y He did not know how rrr»ir ■ i. was going. Suspicion had passed away with the momentary aense cf physical failure that gave it birth. Yet now and again suspicion returned — never causelessly. This afternoon, travelling between London and Peterborough, he knew that there had been a time of oblivion — * the oblivion of sleep,' some might have suggested ; but though ordinary sleep may undoubtedly cause a man's pulse to beat more faintly, it does not so impair the action of his heart that the pulse ceases altogether, and only resumes its working after a very convulsion of the forces of nerve and brain. The Canon, coming to himself after such a moment, recognised once more all that had happened — and the recognition was made with most reverential wonder. * How many times will it be thus ?' he asked himself. * How much of nerve-force is there in me, to enable me to fight with death thus and overcome ?' * It is not my doing — this returning. ... In my powerless brain there is no effort— no desire. . . . Life strives with death ; and so long as God wills life will overcome. . . . Some day — it may be soon — there will come the moment when God will decree that the strife shall end otherwise. . . . And I . . . I do not murmur. I do not dread that moment — not with more than the ordinary human and natural dread of the unknown ! Were it not for others, I should be even glad to go.' He did not, even to himself, admit the fact that it was these same ' others ' who had so largely taken the joy, the strength, from WHEN HOPE LIES DEAD: 229 bis past life, who were so certainly helping; to make him weary of the present. Naturally his thought turned almost at once to the niece of whom he had been thinkin" all day — nay, for many days. Not once bad a reproach darkened his desire to meet her again — to console her. It may be that he alone knew the depth of her great need for con- solation. Others might blame — doubtless were blaming, even then ; but even upon this blame of others Hugh Godfrey was not drawn to dwell. Love itself does not always enable people to understand, to exonerate the one beloved. Tlieremust be something beyond — and that something is the divine love which is named charity. * It is charity that bearetb all things ; hopeth all things ; and charity never faileth.' * I will be gentle .... and passing gentle, the fierce Sir Balin resolved within himself at a moment of some- what fierce temptation. And because his word is so simple and natural we know it will be kept. Hugh Godfrey's resolve was of a different nature. It was a holy thought brought to his memory by the sudden sight of a cup embossed with a simple spiritual scene, that enabled the knight in the poem to overcome. It was a holy thought, brought CO his mind by a book carried always in his pocket, that enabled Canon Godfrey to confront a weighty moment with the strength and calmness he desired. The chapter in the little book was entitled 'Op Familiar Friendship with Jesus.' And the first words of the chapter were these : ' When Jesus is present, all is well, and nothing seems difBcult ; bat when Jesus is absent, everything becomes bard.' ' When Jesus is present,^ Canon Godfrey repeated to himself at the moment when most he needed the strength of the idea. So that afterward the hour seemed far from having been one of supreme difficulty. Mrs. Thurstone's little room was bright and cheerful. She her- self was quieter than usual in her manner — this by reason of the force of her stronq: sympathy, 'j'horhilda rose to her feet with a little cry that had in it as mucb of pleasure as of pain. The Canon's kiss on her forehead, calm and tender and full of all for- giveness, was wiiat she expected, not what she deserved. Margaret Thurstone could not help some wonder, perhaps even some slight touch of enviousness. Her own life was so lone ; it had been lonely so long. Yet it was not of herself that she was consciously thinking. The Canon's face, the pain written there, the long- suffering, could not be hidden from one who had hei'self suffered so deeply. Ah ! how could anyone cause fresh sorrow, fresh wound- ing to a man so good, so generous as this man seemed to be ? And all too snrely this new event must be a terrible thing in his sight. For awhile she left the uncle and niece alone ; and the first i%W 23© IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. momonts were pas ei in ^ilJnce, save for tho sound of subdued wcepingf. ' I will let her cry for awhile,' he had said to himself as he sat there by his niece, holding her hot, tremulous hand in his own. Then, all unawares, his own tcirs began to fall ; and Thorhilda, seping this, knew misery more bitter than any she had known yet. '■ Uncle Hugh ! Uncle Hugh !' she cried passionately, falling at his feet as she spoke ; ' I cannot bear this — I cannot.' * No, my child,' he replied ; ' I do not wonder that you cannot, since these are probably the first tears you have caused anyone to shed since you were born. . . . Forgive them ; and believe this — they are tears of gladness quite as much as of sorrow. And the forrow is as much for you as for myself — nay, more. All day 1 have been thinking of what you must have suffered in secret before — before you took such a step as this. . . . Thorda, Thorda, how was it that you could not confide in me ? How was it ? Could you think for one moment that even undue persuasion would be used ? Could you think that, in a matter so important as your marriage, we should wish to influence you in the least degree in any direction to which your own inclination was opposed ? I cannot understand — no, even yet I cannot understand !' There was no reproach in his tone, but the pain was unmistakable, and it was some time before any answer could be made. ' I cannot understand myself, Uncle Hugh,' the girl said, with sobs and tears. ' I cannot comprehend now how I could be tempted by mere external things so far. But I was tempted — tempted to sell my soul — it was nothing less than that, that I might be the mistress of Ormston Magna. That was my dream. Of myself, as Mr. Meredith's wife, I would not and could not think — not until it was too late. Then it was forced upon me. The letters of con- gratulation, the sayings that dropped from people's lips — nay, the very books and newspajjcrs that I read, there was a time when everything seemed to force upon me all that manied life, without lore, really meant. But all too late. T looked about for some way of escape. I thought of it night an(^ day fill my brain would think no more. ... I did not think at lasf . . , ^ It seemed to be someone else who was listening to your sermon, soaatone else within me, yet not in sympathy with me — with what I was about to do — who said : " These words are for you : it is you who are exchanging your soul, selling it for the mess of pottage that is offered to you in the guise of wealth, and ease, and luxury. Take it, and it shall be dust and nshes in your mouth, and you shall find no place of repentance — no, not though you seek it carefully with tears." ' Another time of silence passed, but it was suflSciently eloquent silence. The girl felt all the forgiveness, all the comprehension, all the compassion she so greatly needed. Yet there was weight and heart-ache and dread behind. ^t was she who spoke first. s( I ' '^'^J^^ WJ^J- UES DEAD' you quite forgi^, .ue ?'" ' ' ^ '■'' ^« ^ ^ope to be forgiven n confess oncrfor^aI^''i?^*7"'''^' for worse thin *ho* Meredith that T i* ^ ^^ '''"^^'^ *^*»t you Shf^^*' "/ * ^^^t me from care 'in a dv """^ *^ '^« ^oa there i?n 'f' ^''^ ^^'-civaJ upon n,e%Tr ; sTo r T. "^4^ --"-i to^"^*^;,,^^. f-e privateJy.' ^ ^"^^ also that you could nnf » ; Youilt that 9' ' ^'"^ ^"'^ '^^^ Jntimately, . a„j . of what is to be. ' * ^f ""^^^^gain, let me ask von in iU- , lessL, intense!,; And no^r^ttt L'"''"-^^^'" htt "^S^ It 18 quite clear to me ' * ""^ ^^^ ^^ clear.' ^ '''^'^■ rhorhilda's face ihl jj bef1.^;:.'" fere was a i„„g" ^Jjt'rfZ^lT^-"'"r--' ' You have th„„,ht of « , . ' '™'""'"' ""» Wghtvi3i„aX'£ ""'^-''^d, the inetntc'odt^rl'T" But instinct st °® C'^fT """'■' " °°irf> ^y™ wm "a "P"'''! ""P»'atable truth, • If «« Hvvay tiom tu6 acen« of 33'» IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. your fall. It would be presuming upon power that you har* not to return at the present moment.' Thus convinced herself— though all against her desire — it was impossible but that this erring and sull'ering woman's language should be all-convincing. Canon Godfrey could only bow his head in token of his sorrowful yielding. * I will come back again, Uncle Hugh ; do not fear but that T shall come back— but not now ; it cannot be now. And when I do, we must be prepared. My coming back will have much pain in it — double pain for me, because I must bear yours as well as my own. Even yet I do not comprehend all that I must suffer. The heart- searching, the repentance that must come before myself can be restored to myself, will alone show me the strife of the days to be. And much of that suffering must be in enduring the judgment of others ; righteous judgment, doubtless, but not the less difficult to bear. Yet it must be borne , even I, with all my inex|>erience, know that. Look at the greater biographies of our own literature. Does Shelley's splendid poetry cover his cruelty to Harriet West- brook ? Is Carlyle's domestic misery quite lost sight of — as it ought to be — when we look at the shelves groiftiing under the work of a long, and suffering, and resolute life ? No, Uncle Hugh. Once, long ago, you preached a sermon on retribution, and in that sermon you quoted these words : *' As every body hath its shadow, so every sin hath its punishment." The words struck rae then, when no very definite sin had cast its shadow over my soul. Now they seem as if they might have been written for me, and for me only.' The Canon listened, with sorrow enough, but also with compre- hension. ' Tell me,' he said at last — * tell me the details of your plan. I suppose you are intending to help Mrs. Thurstone in some work of hers ?• * Yes ; Mrs. Thurstone is willing to teach me, if it be possible for me to remain with her, or rather in the Infirmary where she spends n^o much of her life. . . I have everything to learn.' The Canon understood. Here was a chance for him to make it impossible ; but his soul was not low enough of stature to enable him to pa-s by ways like this. He could only silently watch his niece for awhile. ' Everything to learn !' Did she know all that her own word included ? Did she, who had never known what it was to be called in the morning before her own bell rang, who had been accustomed to retire at any hour in the evening when she might feel fatigued — did she even dream of what it might be to sit all night, night after night, in the ward of a hospital ? Had she any save the most vague idea of what the life of a professional nurse must be ? Had she taken Bceount of the weariness, the dis|jrust, the painful rights and soundi^ • WHEN MOPE LIES DEAD: 333 to whicb she muat become accustomed, before she could b« of th« smallest use ? He knew that she had not — that she had no data to go upon which would enable her to arrive at the conclusions that were dis- turbing his own vision of her chosen future. Chosen ? — no, as he knew too well, it was a future from which every nerve was recoil- ing with a dread little short of anguish. His affection, never greater than now, his intimate knowledge of the girl, so wrought upon and within him, that his anguish was no less than hers. Atid all the while his heart was crying out against the idea of his lonely return, of the loneliness of the days to bo. His wife was there at Yarburgb, awaiting him — true. And her loneliness, her unhappiness, would be added to the weight of his own. You cannot take a dog or bird to your heart, keep it there for years, and then lose it, but you shall find an aching gap. How much keener the aching when yon wake to miss a sympathetic human being, one who has loved you, trusted to you for everything, rested upon your thought, your energy, your providence, for every- thing that you were glad to give, and that other heart was glad to receive ! Such wrenohings asunder are amongst the bitterest and most abiding pains humanity can know. The words of the wisest consoler are fewest in the presence of such sorrow as this. So Mrs. Thurstone felt when the moment of parting came. She stood by, yet a little apart, till the last. Then she came forward. * Will you leave your niece to me, Canon Godfrey ? Will yon trust me, believing that I will do my best for her ?' The words were uttered in that peculiar voice, every intonation of which tells of the long chastening of sorrow ; and beside that, there was the gentle charm of the gentlest womanhood. ' Can I trust you ?' he asked, in a broken way,, full of all effort. * The question is, can I thank you ? I feel that I cannot.' Mrs. Thurstone smiled. * You know how little one needs to be thanked,* she said. is it that words ar« so inadequate— that — that other things much ?' * Ah !' the Canon replied ; * how is it, indeed ? We know nothing yet, nothing of each other, nothing of the language we employ, nothing of the significance of every look, every glance, every gesture. We know all about the internal economy of every bee- hive in the land, every ant's nest, every fish's pebble-and-weed con- structed bridal-bower. Of ourselves we know nothing— nothing but this, that one day we thall know.' Was it the li';;ht of that other day that was in his eyes as he went out ? The look nn his face was calm, resolute, as if he had de- termined that ail sa Iness should be subdued. "There were no last words ; the final parting was biief, silent. Miss Theyn went to her own room to shed her tears in silence, and they wer« very bitter. Did shs yet comprehend all that she had done ? *How are so 234 J A EXLilAiXiJE FOR A 6UUU CHAPTER LIT. •shall \VK ;3KK to it, I AND YOU?* ' IFc lookf'd at )<r>r as a lover can ; S!ie looked at him as one who awakes ; The' past was a sleep, and her life hcf^nn.' lloni;uT BnnwMNO, It oftoTi hanppTis in this bli-ak north country of onra that we have a glorious foretaste of sprini^ some time in the month of February. Soft rains fall, the grans lo(^k8 greener, the skies look bluer, the air all at once grows soft and Av.iim as any air of June. And how one rejoices in it while it lasts, coming, as it usually does, between two severe winters ! The winter to come, as we know too well, will be almost as long as the winter gone, and certainly as chilL Invalids venture out into sunny valleys, the tonderest infants are iiken abroad ; young and old seem to rejoice as if something had hap- pened of a nature' peculiarly pleasurable. And all this because the R'.ju shines and the air is warm. Do we even now clearly recognise how certainly cold and dulness are of the nature of pain ? The lanes between Yarburgh and Ormston Magna are very much like certain Devonshire lanes. They are narrow, uneven, and they lie between deep hcdgrows that in summer are all luxuriant. Though they be brown and bare in winter, they have still a charm of their own, a charm not wanting in either form or colour. The last year's bramble-leaves turn crimson in the pale sun, or show touches of amber and russet, of gold • and green ; late grasses quiver ; the hemlock seeds spread gray-white discs in the upper hedgerow, giving you a sky-line of wonderful picturesqueness. Then, too, the bare trees, in all their beauty of branching and curving, seem to claim new attention because of the sun-bright blue behind and above ; and no patch of green, or gray, or cream- coloured lichen loses force for the need of light. It is on such days as tbepe that we begin to recognise all that light must mean in the lands where liyht is a perpetual and natural thing. And such light ! Only the eyes that have wakened to the glory and intensity of the rays of southern suns can know all that we owe to the beneficence of light. Yet a February day in England, such a day as we have spoken of, is not a time to be passed without enjoyment. 'It is simply glorious !' Miss Donglas was saying, in her clear, loud, yet most musical voice, to a gentleman she had met saunter- ing along Langrick Lane in the middle of a February afternoon. It may be that her voice was more musical than usual, the sparkle of her eyes brighter, the colour on her lip and cheek deeper and lovelier because the gentleman was Mr. Percival Meredith. It had so happened that these two had not met since what was spoken of in certain circles as * the catastrophe.' Perhaps it was not altogether so unsuitable a word as it might SHALL WE SEE TO IT, I AND YOU f 335 soem at fifHt glance to a scholar to be. Without doubt, Miss Theyn's flight from home was of the nature of * an overthrow,' of ' a ffreat cahunity,' of 'a violent convulsion ' in humanity if not in nature. As a matter of course, by one name or by another, the occur- rence had been the great topic of convei^-ation in the neighbour- hood of Yarburgb ever since the fatal-Htcming day on which it happened. And equally, as a mutter of course, different people took different views of the affair. It was sad to note how few judged charitably. Perhaps it might be sadder still to note how few suspended their judgment, how few refused to pronounce any final verdict at all. And it was significfint that in nineteen cases out of twenty the blame was thrown solely upon Miss Theyn. It seemed as if it were impossible that a man still young in a certain sense, undoubtedly handsome — 'handsomer than ever,' so close observers were saying— and undoubtedly rich, it was im- possible that any blame whatever should lie with one so favoured on every side. This may seem a crude way of stating the truth ; but not Virgil himself, with his dainty ten lines a day, could add to the truthfulness. Inevitably Miss Douglas understood ; she had mderstood all along the line of this strange and painful matter. And she knew Percival Meredith almost better than she knew herself. She had much in her favour. 'It is simply glorious!' she said, meeting Mr. Meredith in Langrick Lane, and swiii<j;ing her crimson 'avasol with its deep border of cream-coloured lace behind her 1 m' so that only the softest reflection of the soft February sun should lie upon her face. She was looking well, as she knew — a source of strength, even of genius, to the plainest woman in the world. Once be assured that you are looking your own best, and you have nothing to fear from the handsomest woman in your neighbourhood. So much lies in consciousness — nay, much more than this. It is only when you get beyond being conscious at all that you can afford to forget, to ignore. By that time you have got beyond much else, much that can never trouble }ou, oi: gladden you again. Gertrude Douglas was still in the time of gladness, of hoj>e, of perturbation ; her manner betrayed all three. Percival Meredith was not slow to understand. Something he had understood before to-day. He replied to the rather gushing greeting of Miss Douglas with the air of well-bred calm she had so long admired. His dark eyes looked darker and more inscrutable than ever ; his fine figure seemed taller, more compact. He had the demeanour of a man unembarrassed, disengaged, thoroughly master of himself. ' Yes, it is perfect weather for Englant he said, and Miss Douglas made quick reply. 236 /N EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, ' But I understood that you were not going to spend your spring in England. We were told that you were going to Rome.' * Ah, so I have heard before ! . , Why Rome, I wonder. I have been there so often !' * Then you have not thought of it ?' * Not for a moment.' * You had not intended to leave home ?' * Not at present ; certainly not. . . . Wh) bhould I ?' * Why Biiould you ?' Miss Douglas asked, shrugging her shoulders in a way that would have been pretty had her shoulders been slighter. * Why should you, indeed ? but that everybody expected it of you. It was the only decent thing to be done.' Percival Meredith was not quite unaccustomed to what is termed *chaflf ' ; nay, it said much for his education in that direction that he bore Miss Douglas's insinuations not only without wincing, but with a certain amount of enjoyment. ' I begin to comprehend,' he said, speaking with an affectation of faintness, exhaustion ; yet this suggested, rather than overdone. ' You begin to comprehend ! What have you been doing all this while ?' 'What have I been doiiv'? . . . Oh, well, various things ! . . . I have had my portrait taken.' 'You have? . . . at this juncture? . . . What a confession I , . . For the next ^a?irc(j, I suppose?' * Yos, for the next,' Mr. JMeredith replied, still with the air of one striving against extreme over-fatigue. 'The next, or the one after that,' he added. ' Who can say ?' Miss Douglas laughed— a long, low, cheery, pleasant laugh — and Percival Meredith listened with suiuething more than amusement. Long ago he had noted, for his own private remembrance, how pleasant a laugh that of Gertrude Doaglas would be for a man to have at his fireside whenever he should care to hear it I At this moment it seemed picasanter thfin ever. When Miss Douglas spoke again there was a decided change ia the tone of her voice ; it was gentler, more serious ; her large, dark, beautiful eyes were dilated with a new interest, a new compassion in the expression of them. Never before had she been so winning. Percival Meredith felt his heart beating with a new emotion as he listened. * I am glad. I am »o glad you are taking it all so beautifully ;' and there was genuine sympathy in her ev^ry accent. *Do forgive me,' she continued. ' I have thought so much of you, wondered how you would btar, how you would really bear ; not how you would be seeming to keep up before the world : of that I had no fear ; but of how you were enduring what I knew must be such sorrow ! . . . Oh, I must say it— Thoria was my friend, i» my friend, but she wan cruttl 1' For a moment, one silent uudocidwl moment, Mr. Meredith's faoo wors a shado of sadness. SHALL WE SEE TO IT, 1 AND YOUf 237 * You are right ; it was cruel,' he admitted. * And it was gratuitous cruelty. Even then, at that last moment, Miss Theyn might have gained her freedom, if that was what she wanted, by steps less painful to me. . ^lut there ! you have betrayed me into breaking my resolve, my ,u«.oc strong resolve. I had not wished to mention that name to anyone,' ' How good of you , and how wise ! . . . But — but I am not " anyone," surely ?' * I believe that though you are Mi?s Theyn's friend. Miss Douglas, you yet have some feeling of friendship for me. I trust I may take so much consolation to myself.' This was said so impressively, with so much meaning behind, that the rosy glow on Miss Douglas's face deepened to a sudden blush. ' If you will let me be your friend, really your friend, well, I can only say that my life will be ha})pier than it has been for a long while. . . It has not been too happy of late.' Mr. Meredith paused, not startled, not amused, but wondering once more whither things were tending. ' Then it is a compact,' he said presently, meeting Miss Douglas'.* lather anxious but still beautiful eyes as he spoke. ' It is a com- pact. If I need a friend, or rather friendship, I am to look to you. And on your side, will you say the same ?' ' Indeed, I will, and gladly ! . . There is more I could say, but 1 .. ill not now.' * No ? Havo I been thoughtless ? Have I kept you standing here too long ? Pardon mo.' * Has it beeu long ? Surely not ? , . . But I will say " good- bye."' * Say, rather, au revoir. I must see you again soon — very soon,' 'vi So they parted, there in the white sunny lane, Gertrude Douglas was so happy, so hopeful, so excited in her hopeful happiness that, meeting Mrs. Kerne a quarter of an hour latoi, even that lady's curt ungraciousness had no really subduing effect. ' Tell me about dear Thorda ?' she had begged in a manner even more effusive than usual. * Do tell me all about her ; do tell me she is happy.' * You know as much of " dear Thorda " as I do ; and in all like- lihood a great deal more,', was IMrs. Kerne's brusque reply. It was not Miss Douglas's \vay to take offence at anybody or anything. With more true Kkiiiulness than she might havo been supposed to possess, she smoothed down the too-obvious angles of the other's mood, and contrived to extract some information that she had really de.sired to have ; for the two letters she had received from Thorhilda had both of them been too brief , too reticently gad, to be quit': satisfying to one who had so keen a love of detail as Gertrude Douglas, Besides, if she had a genuine affection for 238 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. anyone, that person was Thorhilda Theyn ; and unquestionably her love had been strr.ined of late. Of course she still went to the Rectory, but less frequently than before. The Canon was still the same courteous and thoughtful host, but chans^e had passed upon hitn. He was older-looking, Badder, more silent, and though be did not wish to betray that the presence of his niece's most intimate friend was a pain to him, he could not quite hide the fact. Mrs. Godfrey made small pretence of hiding her feeling, her suffering. At first she had burst into tears every time Miss Douglas entered the house, and still she would sit quietly weeping over her embroidery, making no effort to check her abundant tears. Miss Douglas could bear much, but even for her the Rectory was not now attractive. But after that February day her thought was leas drawn to the Bectory. Disappointment had not taught her the unwisdom of hoping, of darting thought and hope far into the unknown future. Ah, well, life is not all disappointment ; and as the Italian proverb has it, ' The world is for him that has patience.' CHAPTER LIII. * LOVE, HOPE, FEAR, FAITH, THESE MAKE HUMANITY.' . * I dwell alone— I dwell alone, alone, Whilst full, my river flows down to the sea, Gilded with flashing boats That bring no friend to nie : O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats, O love-pangs, let me be.' Christina Rossetti. That spring was not a easy or a happy time for Barbara Burdas, yet the girl had never been more brave, more bright. She hardly knew herself how much of the brightness was due to the presence of ' Nan Tyas's baby,' as some people called it, others speaking of it as ' Bab's Ildy,' which perhaps pleased her better. Bab was a true child-lover, and to feel the little one's anus clinging about her neck, to watch the big blue eyes that looked into hers so wonderingly, so gravely, to note the growing intelligence of the frequent smile — all this was as new inspiration in Bab's life, and caused her to double efforts that had certainly been sufficiently strenuous before. But, then, effort had not been so greatly needed. Barbara was not now in the darkness she had once been in. She read all such books and papers and magazines as came in her way ; and as we all know, when once the appetite for reading is established, it seems as if, by some miracle, aliment more or less is provided, enough for the keeping up of the appetite, if not enough for its satisfaction. The post brought to Barbara such parcels as oft enough gave her happi- ness for a whole week or moie — pure, untainted, sterling happiness. And now it was beginning to be more than this. She was already *LOVE, HOPE, FEAR, FAJTW 239 able to perceive that the world, or a sufficient portion of it, was awake to the fact that the British fisheries were decreasing ; were threatened by injury in the way of trawling ; by hurt in the way of fishing at harmful seasons, in unsuitable grounds. If writers were thus writing of these things, if members of Parliament were thus speaking of them, then surely down even in such poor little homes as her own the results would be seen. 'Ay, so Ihey may,' said old Ephraim, taking his pipe from his mouth, and knocking out the ashes with the slow deliberation he had used for so njany, many years, performing the act always as if a little regret attached to it, a little solemnity. *So we may see the good on it — an' yet, rio, not t.«, not vie for sartain ; and mebby not even you, Bab ; no, nor Jack, nor Steve even ; whoa can saay ; they're that slow, them Parlyment foiiks. They don't do nothin', so Ah've heard said, till they're fairly forced, an' then it's agin the graain, so as it's not done hearty, nor rightly, after all. Ah well I poor folks mon't complain ; 'tisn't right as they should. Ah've heerd mah greet-gran'father saay, him as died afore this centherry was born — Ah've heerd him saay as 'twere a bad sign when poor folks began wi' complainin'. An' so Ah think, Bab ; so Ah think I Ah never holds wi' no complainin' I' And Barbara smiled, and set her grandfather's supper of boiled milk and bread on a little coarse creamy damask cloth, and raked the ashes of the coal fire together, and then threw in a little log of wood, so that he might go to bed in all the comfort of warmth and satisfaction. 'I like to hear you say that, gran'father,' she said cheerfully, sitting down beside him, and taking her own supper; 'I like to bear you speak so ; not as you did this morning. Why, you almost broke my heart I* The old man, hearing his granddaughter's words, was visibly affected. He put down his spoon, turned a little in his chair, and rested his poor old head upon his hand, as if a sudden aching had rendered it insupportable. Unhappily, Barbara understood it all, understood his wishing to be cheery and bright. And yet she had touched upon a point better avoided. It is those who seldom make mistakes of this kind who suffer most when sudden indiscretion betrays them. ' An' there/ I've done it again,' she cried, kneeling down upon the brick floor, and putting her uplifted hands upon the old man's knees. 'I've been foolish an' though'^less again. But I never meant it, gran'father ; I never did. I thought as how you'd only been depressed this morning when you talked of going to sea again; of leaving the place where you've stayed now this thirty years an' never dreaming of leavin' it no more. I know yon haven't ; an' therefore, oft enough when I've been straitened for the rent — or worse still, for the rate — I've never let you know for fear it might unsettle you. These are terrible times, I know ; though I've done my best that noan under this roof save myself should know quite 340 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. how terrible they were. If milk's been scarce, and butter scarcer yet, why we've never known the need of a loaf of bi ead ; an' if the tea's been weak at times, why we've always had a bit left in the caddy. And all round us there's been folks so much worse off than we are ; nay, I doubt if some of them's touched the bottom yet. I know more than I caie to say, gran father, an' I don't wish to say no more. No ! I'll go on doin' the very best I can, only so as you'll go on too ; just putting up with things ; taking the soup when it isn't much to speak of, an' not mindin' when the butter won't go on to the end of the week — just bein' patient, as you've alius been. Say you will, gran'father ? My heart's ached all day with the few words you let drop this morning. . . You didn't mean them, did you V The old man was trembling, a tear or two dropped over his poor withered cheeks, but he tried to put away Bab's fears as well as he could without making any definite promise. ' We'll see, honey ; we'll see !' he replied, turning to the table again, and pretending to care greatly for his supper. Barbara was not deceived. The next few days were passed as people pass the time in a house when one is threatened with some fatal illness. No word was spoken willingly that might even lead to the dreaded topic. Natur- ally this made a kind of strain, only discernible by the increased gentleness of deed and word ; the continued and sensitive con- sciousness of the love that existed, and seemed to be growing — tenderly and sadly growing because of fear and pain. What would the end be ? All Barbara's other troubles seemed to sink under this for the time being. It was a long while now since she had seen Hartas Theyn. One evening, sauntering to the cliff-top in the twilight, with little Ildy in her arms, she had met him suddenly in the cleft between the rocks where the beck came tumbling down to the sea over the rough boulders. He was looking very pale for ^ man who was now, as Barbara knew, literally working on a farm from mom till nighfr. Canon Godfrey had told her of how he had offered to help the Squire's son to begin life afresh in some other direction, •But he is wise, very wise,' the Canon said, speaking with a warmth and emphasis that had been conspicuously absent from his words and ways of late. ' Hartas is doing the best thing he could do in devoting himself heart and soul to the only kind of work he knows anything about. And he is not sparing himself. It is true that he has every incentive. . .* Then the Canon stopped suddenly. In speaking of incentives he had in his mind the encumbered condition of the Squire's estate ; the possibility that hard work and carefulness, with some know- ledge, some forethought, might do much to bring again some of the old prosperous state of things upon which the owners of Garlaff had presumed so long. But then another idea made him pause, and then add, with meaning ; V ^LOVE, HOPE, FEAR, FAITH: 241 'Every inducement but one : that one would perhaps hare Tbeen the strongest of all ! . . . I am proud of him that he is trying to live as if it were his 1' Barbara understood, as the Canon isaw, but she was not the happier for that brief interview. Perhaps the fact that during absence, during silence, during much loneliness, with pain of many kinds, Barbara's love had gone on growing, her regard deepening, perhaps this very fact prevented her views from changing, as she knew that Hartas was waiting f <Jf them to change. Did he know, did he dream, did anyone dream of the terrible hours of terrible temptation through which the girl had to pass ? Yet she had not wavered, and Hartas was quick to see that she had not. He seemed very calm outwardly ; still the surprise of seeing Barbara had naturally caused him some perturbation. Instinctively he raised his hat, and might even have passed on, but that Bab was blushing and stopping, as if expecting that she must stay to speak all against her will. It was like a meeting between strangers, so great was the change, so marked and certain the growth on either side. It is not always that love will stand such alterations. •No change, no change ! Not but time's added grace May blend and harmonize with its compeers. * * • * * Bat 'tis a change, and I detest all change. And most a change in aught I loved long since.* So Paracelsus spoke, nay speaks (that is the best of the friends that live between the covers of the books on our shelves ; they do not cease to speak save* when we cease to Isiten) ; so said the suffer- ing man to whom even the most natural changes in the life of his woman-friend were intolerable. So we say, many of us ; and as we speak we know the love is dead, the friendship cold. But if there be a root to the matter, a true root planted rather in the rock of eternal verity than in the shifting psnd of passing emotion, then no change can hurt the love so growing ; for change must mean advance, and such advance must meau an ever-increasing attractiveness. There is no security for huion'i affection like to that which is planted in Divine love. If men and women who are of the earth earthy be drawn to such as show that some small ray of the light that never was on sea or land has penetrated into their soul, hov .-^hali it be with such as are praying always that the same light may be vouchsafed to them- selves ? Only a few words were exchanged, and tlie?e quite common- place ; yet the meeting was not without its effect upon the future. * I will go on waiting,' Hartas said to himself as he went home- ward to the Grange. And Bab, returning with heavier step to the Forecliff, said : * Mor* than •ver I see I was right. How he's changed 1 It's It mm. 243 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. iiardly himself ! . . . a man such as he is now to marry a bait- gatherer !' Then on that painful string the fad iniisic of her thought paused awhile. And the next variations had each one a refrain, and it was this : ' Yet, after all, will anyone ever love him more ? will anyone ever be to him all that I might have been ? ... Oh me ! How I could have loved him /' And ever and again through alTlhe strain of poverty and fear of want, and dread of parting, for ever came that cry, ' How I could have loved him / Naturally enough no one dreamed how it was with Barbara. The painful episode in the history of the Rector's niece had drawn all attention, all speculation to itself. Fow cared to remember that once upon a time the Squire's son had fallen in love with a ' flither- picker,' had suffered spmethinsf that was almost death because of her ; and, finally, bad owed his life to her. That was the end j and it had happened months ago. mai past CHAPTER LIV. OLD EPHRAIM. ' Weepeth he ? Borne sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound.' •Are ya' tired, honey? — are ya' more tired nor ushal?' the old man asked, as Bab came up the slope of the Forecliff, her baby in one arm asleep and smiling, and a skf pful of braah*^ in the other. Bab looked up a little wonderingly as she answered that she was not particularly weary. Words of endearment had always come from her grandfather s lips so rarely, so unreadily, that she hardly ever heard them "without suspicion ; and there was something more this evening — a gentleness in his intonation, a tremulousness in his voice not to be noted without alarm. It was a May evening, somewhat chilly, as the evenings of that month are apt to be in the north of ' Merry England.' There was a cold, blue look up(.ii sea and sky, almost a threatening look ; but since the fishing-fleet of the neighbourhood was in safe shelter there was no special need for anxiety on account of the men and boys of the place who were not at home. Perhaps even a deeper anxiety mi; lit be caused by the recollection of such as had been left behind to await the news of success from those who had gone out in search of it. Not even old Ephraim could remember any year when the strain of living had been so great at Ulvstan Bight as it was now. The affectionate word,:, that Barbara had just heard from the old * Prasb, a local name for the tiny morsals of coal and drift-wood that fringe the waves along ibe Leach near to the months of riv«r8 or y>f<'Vti. OLD EPHRAIM. 243 man's lips awoke the cord that had been reverberating through the past days. As gently and deftly as might be she gave the children theii supper of bread and milk-and-water, gave each one a careful bath in the little back-kitchen, listened to each one's evening prayer, and gave to each one a last loving kiss. Then she came outside again to the stone seat where old Ephraim was still smoking in thf chill, dark-blue evening light. ' You'll not have your supper out of doors this chilly night, gran'father ?' she asked, sitting down beside him for a moment — not a usual thing for her to do. In those stern northern regions the deepest love seldom shows the slightest sign of love's most natural-seeming familiarity. ' Ah think Ah will, Barbaric — Ah think I will to-night.' And again came that shiver of fear, of dread to the girl at his side. 'Just as you like, gran'father, just as you fancy,' she replied, with seeming light-beartedness ; and in a few minutes the little table was in front of him, the steaming soup send.^g out a gratef ui odour. For a time the old man enjoyed his meal in silence — no, not quite that ; the art of silent feeding was one he had not heard of. Since Barbara had heard it alluded to once she had become sensi- tive ; but her sensitiveness was not hurt this evening. ' It's good, Barbara ; it's good broth, this is ! Won't ya hev a drop on it ?' ' No, gran'father, thank you.' Old Ephraim paused awhile — then, with most unwonted effusion, he laid his hand upon the girl's arm, and said brokenly : * Ah know why, Jioney — Ah know it all ! I hevn't watched thee all these years athoot seein' 'at thee never thinks for thysel' — no, not for a minnit— it's alius me, or the bairns, or Nan's little Ildy ; or if it isn't none of us, it's somebody outside — onyhoo, it's never thyself, as a bairn might see, lookin' at thy thin white feace. . . . An' Ah mun saiiy it some time, an' that soon ; so Ah'll say it noo, Ah can't bear to watch thee noa longer. Ah've kept it all back tell the varry last ; an' Ah've done that for my oiin sake. Ah couldn't bard noa talkin' . . . An' Ah's noan an oiid man yit — not me ; why, Ah's nobbut i' my seventies ! An' there was oad Jake Moss as went to the Greenlan' Seat, in his nineties ! An' as for me, why Ah's nobbut just going doon by t' edge o' t' coast an' up again ! An' that just i' th' spring o' th' year, when all's as quiet as can be. . . Te tell the treuth, Barbie, Ah's despert set o' going — despert set on it ! Ah never thowt 'at Ah sud be, but I is. . . Naay, Ah was kind o' feard on't, an' had a kind o' dread o' facin' the saut water again. 'Twas rether stia..age, wasn't it noo ? An' then all at once Ah turn'd back o' irysel', and seemed, so to saay, craazed o' gom I think on ! queer, noo, Why nowt would stop ma noo ! — noa, nowt 'at Ah can Ah's fair impatient for the morro' mornin'. . . . It Vt idu't it ?' 16-2 244 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 'The morrow morning !' Barbara repeated quietly. Tlie old man did not koo how pale she grew, how her lips whitened suddenly, how full of deep pain was the look that 8he fixed upon the far sea-horizon. ' Ay, to-morro' mornin', honey ; an' better so ! Thee can't ha' no time to fret !' Then the old roan laughed a long, low laugh, meant to be easy and quite unafFected, but not altogether puccessful. •Frettin' 1' he exclaimed presently. ' Te talk o' frettin' aboot an and salt like me goin' fra Ilild.shiiven to the Thames an' back again at midsummer ! GoodncBs gracious me ! what may one live te come to ?' There was another pause — a pause that meant for Barbara a strong and stern strife. She knew — recognised most certainly — that any effort to stay the old man mHst end in failure. As he said, there was no danger to be dreaded ; that is, none save such as must attend every man who joins the brave army of those who go down to the sea in ships. And all such dangers he had braved long ago — bra\ing such extreme moments as few had passed through with sufficient energy to enable them to describe their experience in detail. As Damian Aldenmede had often said, Ephraim Burdas's life, truly written, would have been a life to rank with the most thrilling biographies of the English language. Unfortunately there was no one at hand to write it. Barbara Burdas, his granddaughter, the recipient of his every experience, might «c« the book — see it in her mind's eye from the first page to the last — but, happily for her, the mysteries of pen and ink were yet most elaborately mysterious. That one should simply sit down to a desk and write some words which should afterwards be translated into print, the printed sheets be transformed into bound books, was enlightenment of the most startling kind. ' Was ilmt how books were made ?' But she was not thinking of these things on this blue, bleak May evening. Her thought was drawn to the idea of parting from her grandfather, the nominal head of the house, the nominal mainstay. After all, was it imperative that he should go V So wondering, so hoping, so fearing, Barbara went to bed, leaving her grandfather to enjoy the rising moon, the silvery sea, the peace — the precious peace of that life in Ulv8ti»a Bight. By-and-by the old man went indoors; and by-and-byhe too slept. The moon sailed above the Forecliif, above the sea, above a realm of quiet that seemed as if it might never be broken. And the gray dawn was qu.ot too — quiet and sombre and tristful. But presently there came the sound of human intrusion upon the peace of nature. Yet it was a thoroughly characteristic sound, and in keeping with the scene. * Ephraim Burdas, old man ! where be ya ? Tht Land d tht Ltal is off o' Danesbro' waitiu' for ya ; so if ya mean to sajl wir OLD EPURAIM, 245 her as ya i«aid — if ya've nojin changed yare mini, come along Bliiirp ! . . .* Ji.trbani hiul heard, fcoliiK^' afresh the chill shivering of the previous evening as she did ho ; and as she dressed in haste, her every thought was a prayer. In a few niirmtcs she whs outside the cottage niakiiig inquiries of Peter ({raiii^^er as to tlie details of the voyage, and the probable length of it. She had not asked any of these questions before. As she had discovered only the previous evening, and to her great pain, her grandfather's beluti-^'ings were all ready. If is haraniock and blanket had been packed while she was out beyond the Bight at the lira pet-beds— nay, she knew that for weeks past he must have been secretly and silently making his preparations. He had left no worrying or tiresome detail to irritate the hist moment. Her first instinct was to rush indoors aL^-iin urn! dre.'s the children ; the two elder boys con!d dress themselves, and Ailsie could assist the smallest of the brothers. The baby took all the time Bab had to give. 'I'hey were all outside the cottage at the last moment. Jack and Stevio were almost hilarious at th(! idea of their grandfather going to sea again ; but little Ailsie would not respond, and hid her face in Barbara's gown and wept sorely. ' He'll noan come back, grandfather won't,' the child sobbed in whispers, not to be heard by any save Bab herself. ' He'll noan come back— no. never! I'll have to go to him I . • , He'll noan no, nuver I* come back here again CHAPTER LV. K LETTER FROM TIIIO LAKE OF THE FOUR CANT0N8, ' Take buck tho hoiio you Rave — I claiiu Only a meuioiy of the same.' ROBFUT JillOWNINO. 'How dreary life must be at the Rectory just now!' a lady parishioner exclaimed one day to Gertrude Douglas. Miss Douglas liked to have such remarks made to her ; she was a little vain that it should be known how completely she was in tho confidence of everyone in the house on the hill-top. And no one could say that she had ever betrayed the confidence reposed in her. If not altogether a wise woman, she was by no means to be classed with the foolish. And her saving grace was tliat she was free from all taint of malice, or evil will, or bitter recollection. She hardly knew what it was to remember an unfortunate remark. Her temperament seemed always charged to overflowing with kindliness and pleasantness ; and she had what ccrtam people called a 'gift for seeing everything couleur de rose* The gift is a valuable one, as well for the neighbour of the possessor as for the possessor himself. 'Dreary!' she replied to the inquiring lady in her most liquid 346 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. and mnnical tone. " Well, no ; do yon Icikmv. ?.f for all it is hm vlly that They are not dreary people, either tlio C;inon or M13. God- frey.' ' Oh, well,' the lady replied, ' a shade or two in tlie ip.enninT of a word is not usually of much iniportanco in couvctsation. You know what I meant. It must be a time of sadness compared with times past. Think of the life there a year a^jo — only last spring — the garden-parties, the tennis, the people {,'athered there alway.s, some to meet the Merediths — popular pconlo always— some to try to make out that perplexing artist — what was his name ? 1 forget.' ' Aldeumede — Dnniian Aldoninoiie. . . . There are people who pet down the whole catastrophr- to his account.' 'So they do. ... I never did.' ' Didn't you ?' Miss Douprlas asiced with a vrry clever note of in- diflFerence in her accent. ' Yet there must have been a cause ; don't you think so ?' 'Undoubtedly,* said the lady, hiding an inconvenibnt smile. ' And that a cause not far to soik. The malch hclwoon Mr. Mere- dith and Miss Theyn was never a likely one ; the merest onlooker could see that !' 'Do you think so? Well, you do surprise me!' Geitrude ex- claimed. And thei e is no doubt but that her surprise was genuine. 'We — that is, all of ua at the Rectory— all of us who venlly knew them both well, considered the engagement a most desirable one ; desirable in every sense.' 'Desirable, yes; but suitable, not was the emphatic reply, * And the event was proof enough that Miss Theyn saw as I saw. as others saw i . . . I have only sorrow for her — and yet no, some- thing more than sorrow — I have admiration, hope. She ivill live to beffimfr With this half-dubious wox'd. Miss Douglas's interlocutor went her way, and Gertrude proceeded to the Rectory, where Mrs. God- frey was only now engi.^jed in the saddening task of r' turning om; bv one the whole of the numerous wedding presents sent to her niece. When Gertrude entered the drawin;,' room, Mrs. Godfrey was already in tears ; for the very weariness, the very dcadness and flat- ness of the future, she could not help tlic tears. * I could forget the past,' she said, the hot drops streaming through her beautiful white hands. ' I could forget it all if I had hope for the future. But to think of her thus, my own child, most delicately cared for from her birth ; " spoiled," people said, who could not see that what they called spoiling was the very condition of her life. People talk, the newspapers write, the doctofs lecture, on what is called "Infant Mortality," on the frightful " waste of human life." Does anyone who has ever brought up an infa.nt from the birth ever cease to wonder that that "waste" is not tenfold greater than it is ? It may be that it is better, in a certain sense, that it is so. If the little ones die, they cease to suffer. I have rROM THE LAKE OF THE FOUR CANTONS, 147 thought thus ever since I had the care of Thorda. She was so diiTereiit from other children, and as a girl she was unlike any girl I ever knew. You will understand lue, Gurlrude, where others would deride me, when I say she was so superior — that is not the ivord I want, but it will do. She was always so reserved, so dainty, had Buch a dread of things common, and rough, and coarse. . . . And to think of her now, a servant of servants, helping to dress the most loathsome wounds ; brought face to face with the most im- possibly offensive aiyhts and sounds— oh, I cannot bear to think of it I Even her uncle, who takes what I may almost call the opposite view of the whole matter, even he has sorrow for her, though he will not admit it — not easily. Yet be cannot hide the fact that he is grieving — how should he ? Having no daughter of our own, Thorda was more than a daughter to us. She was a blessing sent to fill the place of a blessing denied, and therefore a double bless- ing. And until — until that unhappy hour, she never caused us one moment's heartache. While the hours of happine<>s she brought to us, who shall describe them ? . . . I cannot. I cannot believe that it is all over ; no, I cannot. Surely one mistake cannot ruin a lite — nay, more lives than one in this instance 1 Surely it canr.ct be!' Miss Douglas was not wantin;?. Her ready flow of sympathetic words, the musical tone in which they were uttered, were all moat helpful at the moment ; and when by-and-by she offered her graceful, if not very helpful or adequate services, in aid of the work of the day, or rather of the week, her presence was certainly felt to be — as usual — altogether desirable. As package after package was wrapped up, sealed, addressed, each with its own painfully ap- propriate note, Mrs. Godfrey grew more and more grateful for the help afforded her. * It is BO good of you, dear,' she said, as another parcel — a fine gold bracelet set with diamonds — was being sealed by Gertrude. * It is so very good of you. I could not ask my maid to help me in a task like this : she is too callous ; she would have driven me half wild. On the other hand, there was only my husband, who could not have helped me for the life of hiiu. He would have broken down while sealing the first package.' * Do you think so ? Do you really think that he would ?' Miss Donglas asked, not wishing to show superior discernment, but more clearly alive to the Canon's strength of will than might have been supposed. Perhaps it was fortunate that at that point an interruption should occur. Ellerton entered the room with a letter on a tray — a foreign letter, as Mrs. Godfrey saw at a glance. She broke the seal vrith some trepidation. ' How strange !' she exc'aimed, unfolding the thin paper. 'How very strange that this should come now ! It is from Mr. Aldcu- mede.' ' From Mr. Aldenraode !' Gertrndfi exclained. * Oh. do tell me «4t IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. about him 1 Wh«r« ii h« ? Th« PyramidB ? Th« Boolcj Moto. taini ?' ' You •hall know all prcB^^ntly, doar. Th« letter \% dated from th« H6tel Unterwalden, Lu.'erne. . . . Ah, how well I know it! how well I can see it ;ill ! The blue brijfht lake, the blue sky, the yreen trees, the hotel itself glowing from top to bottnm with ita dazzling crimson-aud-whito yiritvnnpfi. . . . And then the scenery beyond, and all around, everywhere ! . . . But wo shall see what Mr. Aldenmedo says of it. He must be happy tliero !' And truth to say the letter had touches of healing in it : the healing that comes of intercourse with Nature — Nature at her greatest and grandest. ' I have boon to the Riviera,' Mr. Aldenmedo wrote, *and intend going to the North Italian lakes in a few days. I am hoping to be able to paint a picture— a lovely piece of scenery at the lower end of the Lago di Garda. My hotel will be the Cavazzola, Desenzano. If you should be moved to write, be assured that I should be most grateful to receive a letter. These May evenings are long, and lovely, and lonely. The mornings are beautiful beyond all desciip- tion. Those who have only seen Mont Pilatus in " the season," when the snow has gone, and the purple shadows lie deep upon the mountains all day, can < :i-ily uuduistand Avhy it should usually be spoken of as "Gloomy Pilatus." But oh, that the world could see it as I see it now ! Bettor still as I saw it this morning at four o'clock ! It would need the i»en of a iluskin to do any sort of justice to it ! There had been rain at Lucerne and in the neigh- bourhood for an entire week — the cold rain that means snow even on the lowest mountain heights. Even last night all was gray, and dead, and lowering. Judge, then, what I felt this morning when, on awaKcning at four, I saw instantly that the world about me was flnoded with sunshine. And nuch sunshine I Before your head leaves the pillow you are dazzled, exhilarated. ' I feel paralyzed when I think of trying, by means of mere pen and paper, lo give you any idea of the glorious scene that burst upon me when I stood by my window side. ... I am not ashamed to say that I saw it first through tears. * One hardly knew which way to look first, whether down the Lake of Lucerne, with mountains on every side, blue, snow-white, or rose-red, according to whether you happened to look left or right, to sunlight or to shade. And as for the lake itself — its intensi glowing blue in the fore-front of the scene, the sparkle ' diamonds in every tiny ripple ; the shore scenery, picture interesting where it was near, picturesque and mystic wh( w a ^ far off — how shall anyone give any idea of it in a letter ! A i even as I looked there began to rise from the lower end of the lake such strange, white, snowy, mysterious clouds, spreading in long lance like lines from bay to bay, rising from peak to peak, that though I was aware of some strong attraction drawing me away to some other scene, I yet could not turn. FROM THE LAKE OF THE FOUR CANTONS, §49 I *To watoh tbo«« long, white clonds, gli8t«nin^and shining abov«, sn(l«r-8hot with tbo pcailiestof hlue-gray tints below — to tet tbo^« mistg emb')died, go to speiik, to watch them rising against the grxnd peaks of thu Alpine range, dissolving as they rose, turning now to pink, now to white, and then the next moment not visible at all, certainly this was a lesson in the formation of clouds. I cannot ever ai;ain look upon the sky with such ignorance as I have suffered from hitherto. This mornint; on Lake Lucerne was a dividing lino in my life. A wall fell, and I saw beyond. * But not even yet have I tried to describe the on© surpassing moment. Of set purpose I have refrained, ' And yet I knew it was there, Mont Pilatiis in all its glory, such plory as I um told it does not display throe liuics iu thice years. 80 you see, I am uonicdmei foitunate. 'Perhaps you will even discern that I am writing this letter before breukl'ust, under the stroii'; iinpulso of the exhilaration of this glorious mountain air and scouoty. Thou-^'h I am by no means new to foreign travel, this raoim iit has hitherto boon unsurpassed. 'How shall I tell yon of the siyht that burst upon mo as I turned to the mountain on ray right ? '• Gloomy Pihitus !' ' From the lowest plateau, tho lowest gorge on its magnificent side to the pointed rose-red, shining crown, shining far up in tho wliite, glowing sky, Pilatus was there, every outhno delinod ; in the highest parts deGncd in the sofest, most ethereal, shining rose- pink, against the shining white of the sunlit clouds beyond ; lower down the pine-trees, covered with snow, were outlined iu pearly- gr ly tints upon the depth of snow behind. ' There was snow everywhere, colour everywhere, shining, rising mist, almost everywhere. . . . But what amazed me was the fact that nowhere did there seem to be any cold. • Early though it was, between foui- and five in the morning, the people were thronging to church. The bells were ringing softly, the softer for the nearness of the water, which seems always to " liquidise " the sound; the iishing boats were gliding across the lake ; people were sauntering under the chestnuts of the Schwei- zerhof Quai. Ah, how calm it all was, how full of peace 1 'And even yet it is peaceful. Fancy having merely to turn one's head to see Pilatus on one side, and the Rigi Kulm on the of' -r ! And then all the snowy Alpine range between, point be i point, rising to the clouds, nay, piercing beyond them ! Below snow the dark firs come ; they are everywhere, lending such a th of ])urple to the distance, such soft, deep, ehanL,'eful mystic I [lie, as no palette could give you ; and below the firs the calm, still sapphire lake reflecting all. I cannot help writing it once more ; everywhere there is calm, and to a soul needing this healing as mine does, the sensation fills one with gratitude, the holiest gratitude. do not know that ever in my life before I felt so perfectly al lat might be included in the words, " Peace oa earth, good will + en." 3$0 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. ' And DOW thai I have said all this abcnt myself, do you not feel moTed to be generous, to tell me all about yourself, and how the world seems to you, now that the world's happiest spot, your home fireside, is no longer brightened by the presence of your niece. You must congratulate yourself very sincerely on the fact that her home and yours are so near toijether. Will you give my kind re- membrance to Mr. and Mrs. Meredith, and also to Mrs. Meredith senior.' This latter part of the letter Mrs. Godfrey had not read aloud ; and now she was glad that she had not. For a few moments she tried to shade her tearful eyes with her band ; but Miss Douglas saw by the quivering lips, heard by the half-suppressed high, that pain was being endured ; and well she knew the kind of pain. Fortunately she had no impulse toward attempting to relieve it. A little later Mrs. Godfrey read aloud to her husband and to Miss Douglas some parts of the conclusion of the letter. ' If you should at any time be moved to write to me, please tell me all that you know of Barbara Burdas and her household. I have written to her, more than once, and have received one very welcome letter in reply. What a noble girl she is ! Her natural instincts are so great, so unselfish ; and every now and then she finds how they have been crossed by hereditary strain, how they had been injured on this hand by training, or the infl^uence that goes for training, on the other by neglect , and all this she takes to herself for her own failing ! Yet that n* her age and in her posi- tion she should be alive to it all, is a most astonishing thing to me! And it is even more astonishing that she should go on gathering bait, mending nets, washing, cooking, serving by day, and yet should have the intellectual appetite to sit down and read Ruskin or Carlyle, Shakespeare or Tennyson, by night. And then her love for the children, her especial love for her little sister Ailsie, and for her friend's motherless baby : does it not show how completely her character is womanly all round ? * Yet I am - ot quite happy about her. How should I be ? All the while-, from the first day of my seeing her, I had wished to do something to alleviate her position a little ; yet I dreaded with a very natural dread to interfere with what seemed to me the arrangement of a higher Power. Now, however, I have fears, and it may be tiue that I should step in and do what I can. Will you help me ? Will you bring your finer feminine tact to bear upon a most difficult feminine problem ? As to the pecuniary part, with- out being needlessly explicit, I may say that I can, that I shall be happy to, do whatever you may think wise. ' I need hardly say that we must work together with discretion, seeming to bestow our attention upon the children, or the grand- father. Barbara's pride is seldom in a very quiescent state. That is one of her shortcomings. She has hardly anived at the per- ception of the fact that to receive. a benefit from a friend grace- do.' FROM THE LAKE OF THE FOUR CANTONS. 251 fully is to have reached a high point of human training. . . We must help her tiaiuinir on this head, you and I, that is if you will kindly co-operate with me. And I feel sure yon will. I have written all this without once questioning yonr kindrcss.' That was nearly the end of the letter. The Cnnon asked to see it after dinner, and read it through again from beginning to end, but he read it in silence. Miss Douglas was at the piano, playing some of Thorda's music, now and then singing one of her forigs. . . . Perhaps it might only be in these minor matters that her intuition failed. * This is pleasant, Milicent dear,* Yi\v/\\ Godfrey said, leaning over the sofa on which his wife was restiug in the dim lamp-light. ' This letter is very pleasant — for the most part — and opens up some charming ideas of life — ideas we had half forgotten. It is so long since we were abroad — so long since we saw a snow-crowned Alp I Can't we manage it — you and I ?' ' And tak , Thorda with ns ? We must do that ; that we must do.' ' And have it said that you had taken her abroad to meet Damian Aldenmede !' Miss Douglas interpo.'^ed, leaving the music-stool. She hau lost no word of all that had beoi said. Well accustomed as Mr. and Mrs. Govlfrey were to Miss Douf^as and her peculiarities, much as they appreciated her manifold good qualities, there were yet moments when she occasioned them at least surprise. Her suggestion was met with silence — a perfect but not painless silence. With true large-heartedness the Canon turned from a difficult, topic to one that at least promised easier continuance. 'Wo must tlii!ik over what Mr. Aldenmede says of Barbara Burdas,' the Canon remai'ked. ' How good he is ! How few men would have remembered an Ulvstan iisher-girl and have written of her thus, while among the most perfect scenery of the Swiss Alps !' * But how few fishcr-girls would strike the chords of remem- brance as Barbara does ! You wouldn't speak of her in the same breath as Kirsty Verrill or Martha Thixen ?' The Canon only smiled his reply. ' You will go down to the Bight soon, dear ?' he asked. It will be an additional grace in Aldenmcde's eyes if you send him a few words at once.' ' We will go to-morrow, in the forenoon if you can, Hugh dear. You must come with me.' * Gladly, if it be fine. But I am doubtful about the whether.' * The glass has been going down all day, so my father said,' Miss Douglas remarked. 'And even now it looks threatening,' she added. * Perhaps I had better go at once.' 'No, Gertrude dear. If it looks threatening — and I think it does -that is sufficient reason for your staying. Tnere is your old 353 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, room. And they will not expect you at borne when they see these clouds !' Gertrude laughed. * They never do rxppct me,' she said carelessly. * If I am wi home by ten, well and good ; if not, the doors are locked. My father is very rigid.' CHAPTER LVI. AT THE OLD HOUSE ON THE FORECLIFP. . , • Break, break, break, Oa thy cold, gray stones, O sea ! . " v - Aud I wonld that my tongue coukl utter ', The thoughts that arise in me.' Tenkyson. As the party at the Rectory had anticipated, there was a change of weather during the night, but it was, on the whole, a less severe change than the signs had seemed to predict. At dawn the boisterous wind went down, and with its fall the sea fell from its midnight wildness. By noonday there was nothii; .j to prevent the most ' weather-fended ' person from going out oi.' doors, and consequently, at luncheon, Mrs. Godfrey announced her intention of going down to the Forecliff. ' I am going in obedience to the request of Mr. Aldenmede,* she said with her usual light pleasantness of manner. ' Gertrude, you will come with me ?' * 1 1 oh no !' Miss Douglas exclaimed, uttering the words with such musical vehemence, with such pretty gestures of surprise, that neither of the two who watched her were moved to trace her objection to its source. However, there was no umlcrthought in her own mind to prevent her from disclosing the thought that was uppermost. ' How you do such things, dear Mrs. Godfrey, I don't know !' she excUaraed, with that brightness of emphasis which was one of her most prominent social attractions. ' It is all very well to care for the poor,' she went on, quite seriously now. Miss Douglas was an artist in the lights and shades of vocal expression ; and many a struggling histrionic aspirant, struggling with a strongly-artistio inward impetus overbalanced by ignorance of all the requisite oat- ward culture — many such might have envied Gertrude Douglas her instinct of intonation. It was strange that nil inward illumination should be wanting, all spiritual inspiration denied. ' It is all very well for one to care for the poor,' she said quite gravely, ' but to care for them is one thing, to endure . . . the — shall I say, for politeness' sake the odour of their dwellings, is another. We are all bound to care for the common people ; whother we are bound to oiidure the . .' Miss Douglas did not finish her remarks. Her phrase, the 'com- AT THE OLD HOUSE ON THE FORECUFF, ajj mon people,' had eo roused one of her interlocutors that he did not permit her to finish. He repeated the phrase, in tones of indignation he was sorry afterward to h&ve used to a guest. * Common people ! Why do we use that phrase ?' he asked, ' or rather, why do we use it speaking only of the poor ? It is so senseless I If we mean "vulgar," either in the old sense or the new, let us say so. . . . Common ! I fancy we might find two un- common characters among the very poor for one among the classes above them in possessions, in culture. Besides, there is such a terrible ring of would-be superiority in the way we use the words nowadays.' It was characteristic that Miss Douglas only laughed pleasantly as the Canon concluded, and even while she laughed she darted most charming glancesof understanding, first to Mrs. Godfrey, then toward the head of the table where the Canon sat, already half ashamed of his vehemence. * Gertrude, you are the best-tempered girl in the world,' he said, in own generous straightforward way. ' You never take offence ! * Take offence at you !' she replied, her bright eyes just a little moistened with a tear not meant to fall. The little episode was all forgotten long before Mrs. Godfrey left her at her father's door. * Come again soon, dear ; to-morrow, if you can,' Mrs. Godfrey exclaimed, kissing her hand to the doctor's daughter as the carriage drove away. Then she sank back among her cushions, silent and lonely. She was apt to admit that her own thoughts were never very good company. The Rectory carriage had ceased to make much sensation on the Forecliff. A neighbour or two ran out to watch the progress of the vehicle up the narrow street, the rough little lane bordered with dusty coltsfoot. Two little lads — they were Jack and Zebulon— stood at the top of the lane, and went running into the Sagged House as the carriage came ; but alas for all Mrs. God- frey's amiable intention, it was only old Hagar who came out. ' Eh, my laady,' she exclaimed, dropping an unwonted curtsey, a rare thing on the Forecliff. * Eh, madam, but Bab's not here. It'll be her yer wantin' for sure ?' ' Yes, I was wishing to see Barbara,' Mrs. Godfrey exclaimed, leaving the carriage and going toward the door of the house. ' May I come in ?' she asked with an amiable smile, and passing on in hef grand, stately way. No wonder poor old Hagar was over- powered, and hardly knew what she said or did. The cottage fire was low and gray ; the fireside, which had always been {^o bright and clean, was heaped with dust and ashes. Wooden washing-tubs filled w.th dirty clothing and dirty water stood in muddy pools upon the brick floor, upon chairs, upon stools ; the remains of the dinner stood in unsavoury untidiness upon the table by the window. The two boys, unkempt, uncared- for in every way, stood by the old oak bureau, looking as if they 854 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, £id not understand this new order of things. Hagar was drying a ■loppy chair with her apron for Mrs. Go&rey to sit npon, talking Tolubly all the while ; and in each evidently heartfelt aooents of regret that she was already forgiven. In her own heart Mrs. God- frey was less hard upon dirt and disorder than some who are fain to profess a greater tolerance. ' Eh, but I is sorry, I is despert sorry/ the old woman was sayinff. *Bab'll never forgie ma, niver. She tell'd me so surely 'at ^ wasn't to meddle wi' no washin' ; there was clean things anuff an' te spare tell she came back. So there would ha' been, but when Suze Andoe came in yesterday, an' saw as A'd nowt to do, she offered ma ninepence ef A'd wesh a few things oot for her , an' so Ah started this mornin' ; an' then Suzy came in wiv her pipe an' sat an' talked, an' smocked, so as Ah couldn't get on a bit. An' here I is 1 Eh, what would Barbarie saay if she could see yon 1' sike a muddle as this !' It was some time before Mrs. Godfrey could make herself heard. Old Edgar's hearing was less quick than her tongue. In answer to the inquiry of the Rector's wife as to where Barbara Burdas might have gone, a very flood of words was poured out, explaining things past, present, and to come. First came a history of the poverty that was universal on the coast about Ulvstan, its cause, its duration, with many details quite irrelevant. Next, evidently coming somewhat nearer to the point, old Ephraim Burdas's biography was given from Hagar's first recollection to the last. ' An' when I heerd tell o' the old man's wantin' te goa to sea again, wantin' so terribly as they saay he did, why Ah'd nobbut one thowt. Ah've heered tell on it afore, my laady, that despert loDgin' 'at comes upon a seafarin' man — a longin' just U god one more voyage — that's hoo they put it, or rayther boo it's put te thtna. An' when they can't but goa, when noa reason '11 touch 'em, noa beggin' nor prayin' move 'em, why then folks begin to, see; an' they saay " good-bye," knowin' 'at all's overed. ... It was so i' this case, my laady, in was indeed ; an' Bab knowed it. An' when the old man had fairly gone, she broke doon, an' cried as Ah'd niver seen her cry afore — noa, nut even when both father an' mother were drooned afore her eyes. She were that sure 'at she'd never set her eyes on the old man again.' ' But you say that she has gone to him, to Hild's Haven '{' Mrs. Godfrey inquired, recalling to the old woman's mind an admission she had made at first. ' Ay, so she hes ; an' glad anuif she were to goa.' * How long is it now since she went V ' How long ? Weel, let ma see ! It's a week noo, more cr less, sen' the letter com' — a letter fra the master, Ghristifer Baildon. He's part owner o' the schooner, a trader she is, tradin' atween Hild's Haven an' London. He was wantin' a extry hand this sum* mur, OS Ephraim had heerd tell, an' so they agreed ; an' Ephraim •»ve Nan's Ddv^ 'hS S'tl^ ?<> *^o««ht o^tafaV n •'** "'^^ ^«°*, at that brokkenZir*^ ** *^* ^a«t minit littS a i"*"^? ° *^e bairas tnrned m» w^;*! "^Kan te cry just i' ♦k- t^^^- An' hearin' then. ''AhTJ take 'em iS? '''" .^'^^^^^n' an' dreS ;?^? "P^^e* daared not «dnmv ? ^^®' **»em two" .h« »I / '"^*«t i«8t weshin'.' ""' •'•^^ «»»d 2eb; but Ah's dliri *° ** ^* " 'at Mn». Godfrey hiul i- * . ^ "^^ »^«"t the '^li is haT """' "^"^^^^^^^^^^i^::^ ^ »>««SiXr?he*!Jf y *^/* *^« Hector's wife M, : u of doom, a verv iJn?*? •* *'°'7 ®^ the goinir forth «/. ' " *' "h® S^i^rt^uc^^^Jn^-^^^^^^ And it was L Crl nS"" •''°- ''^^^"lous on any ««e from tYe aie InSV^'^'^^^^^eW^*^ Shi w^ ''^J**'" '^^^J ;k: M «<■■ 2$6 TN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUt, Mrs. Godfrey had taken her seat in the carriage, the coachmAtt was prepared to start, ivhen all at once the postman came up, handed a letter to old Hagar, which the old woman took with a dropping at the corners of her month that touched the Rector's wife piteously. ' Stay a moment, Woodward !' she exclaimed ; then, turning to Hagar, she said gently, * Can you read the letter ? Is it from Bar- bara ? If it is, I should so much like to know what she says.' It was from Barbara, as the old woman knew it must be. And it was so long since she had received any letter that she shook with dread, as she took it in her brown withered hands. There was nothing dreadful about this epistle. It was clearly and carefully written. In writing it, Bab had wondered much into whose hands it must fall before Hagar could be made to under- stand its purport. It was dated from Hild's Haven, from a small honse near the quay, where old Ephraim had been received on his landing. ' He had been very ill,' Barbara wrote, ' and when I came he was not much better. Now he is quite well in health, yet not like him- self, not at all. Though he is not unhappy, he has not the spirit he nsed to have. Often, in days gone by, I have wished he was a little bit more qniet and gentle ; now I would give anything to hear him fly and snap at one in the old way. But he does not ; and I think he never will again. I am so glad I brought the little ones, because he seems never tired of seeing them ; and with trying to amuse them he amuses himself. * The people here are very good. Still it is expensive, and costs mote than I have to pay with, as the Captain knows. He is very kind, and to save railway fare he is going to let me and the children come back in the schooner all the way to the Balderstone. He could have put us ashore a lot easier at Danesborough, as I pointed out to him, but being so kind, he said it wouldn't make much difference to him if he left us, so to speak, on our own doorstep. I shall never forget him for being so good to Ildy and Ailsie ; and I do believe he'll be even kinder to grandfather than he was before. ' I expect we'll be at home two days from this. That will be Friday ; but whether it will be the fore part of the day or the latter part, I can't tell, We shouldn't have had this chance, but just now the Laivd o* the Leal wanted some slight repairs, which is being done here. ' Give the little lads a kiss apiece, and tell them how it comforts me to feel so sure that they are behaving well, and especially being good to you. ' May God bless all of you — that is the prayer made many times both by night iTnd by day by 'Your friend, 'Barbara Burdas.* • GO AND PR A Y—THE NIGHT DRAINS NEAR* 257 Mrs. Godfrey read the letter aloud to old Hagar, who liitenedi atill tremulons, but inclined to be tearful. ' 0' Fridaay, laady — you aaay she comin' o' Friday ! Well, nuT the Lord be thanked, for I've had such dread o' my mind — snch straange dread ! . . . An' you saay old Ephraim's better, an' theVre comin' back 1 They're all comin' o' Fridaay I Well, well I Bat it is straange !' CHAPTER LVII. *G0 AND PRAY — THE NIGHT DRAWS NEAR.' * A shadoTV on the moonlight fell, ' ' '- And mnrmaring wind and wave became A ▼Dice whose bordeu was her name.' J. O. WaiTTIBB. That bo much of all that is hidden from the wise and prudent should be revealed unto those who are verily babes in this world's wisdom is undoubtedly a striking thing, and not easily intelligible To become intimately acquainted with a poor and uneducated man or woman who has passed, or, better still, is at present passing, through the deeper seas of spiritual experience, is to feel the scales falling from one's eyes — the scales of ignorance, of misconception. If one can pass, as it were, behind the phraseology, which to some people may be so banal, so commonplace, i.,s to be utterly un- meaning — nay, almost revolting — if one can do this — and it is not always difficult — then it is that one finds one's self face to face with that wonder, that mercy for which our Master uttered the words, ' I thank Thee, Father !' The inner life of David Andoe had for a long period of time been a life of struggle, of hours, nay, days of darkness, of heavi* ness, of almost despair. Is it not of itself a strange thing that a man so ignorant, so utterly uncultured, unintellectual in almost every sense of the word — is it not matter for wonder that such a one should still be convinced in his own mind that somewhere, somehow to be obtained even by him, there is a state of peace, of mental and spiritual quiet ; a state into which no dread of the vast unknown future can enter — the future that lies beyond the day of death — a state over which but little disquiet as to the present — this sad, troubled, wearying, worrying present — can ever prevail ? Is not this assur* ance a strange tiling, we repeat ? All the while David Andoe had had this conviction. He had even held it through one of the two most terrible tests that can come to any human being — the test of a strong, overpowering affection, broken or bereaved. He had had but little help from without. The Zion Chapel people had not understood him altogether ; and of late they had not even made pretence of jreatly sympathising with him. That ^ — 17 jsajM** tsft m EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL # man who had been prayed with and for during a space of oTef two years should not yet have 'found salvation' was an almost onheard-of thing, and the cause of much doubtful speculation. The result of all this was to throw the man more and more upon himself ; and his very loneness grew more and more a tembU thing. One thing he had for which he could be greatly thankful — he eonld pray. And now so long he had prayed amongst the rocks and weed-grown bonlders of Ulvstan Bight that it seemed as if the place must for ever be a holy place to him. Though he did not actually put off his shoes as he approached, he yet drew near the spot in that attitude of mind symbolized by the act of uncovering the feet or head. It is for ever true that for each one of us our holy ground must be the place we have made holy by our own praver — our own prayerful suffering. There are other grounds holy to us, consecrated to us by th« holiness, the suffering of other lives. So it is that • The whole ronnd earth is every way ^» Bound by gold cbaius about the Feet of Qod.* ' That night was a memorable night in the history of David Andoe. Already he had passed through an hour that he knew to be a crisis in his life — one of those hours that lie enshrined in the memonr of most people who have any inner life at all. He had begun by feeling an unusual sense of darkness, of depression. His life was a failure ; his sins were deep and dark beyond the possi- bility of forgiveness. His very prayers were unanswered ; and so, doubtless, unheard. For years he had waited for a sign ; and yet no shadow of a sign had been given. Bnt to-night, less than an hour ago, a great change had passed upon the man. While he prayed the cloud was lifted, the cloud that had rested npon all his later life. He could not have described the hour, or his experience of it, with any detiniteness. He only knew that where all had been misery and heaviness, now there was a sense of happiness. Where darkness had been, now light reigned. The hopelessness that had crushed him to the earth was turned to a sudden lightness and buoyancy, to the feeling that enables a human being to meet on equal terms any other arbiter of the changes and chances of human life. In one way or another, are we not each of us the determining quality of the truth or untruth of the life of some other one ? The Divine Love, moving within us like all other love that is pnrc and true, is for ever unselfisb. Its first thought is not ' Am I my brother's koej er ?' but rather this^ * Where is my brother? Let me find him, that this mj • GO AND PRAY — THE NIGHT DRAWS NEAR* 259 happiness may overflow upon him ; that I may have the increased happiness of feeling that his sympathy is deepening the channels of my own.' Not consciously, not articulately do these thoughts come ; nor do they bring surprise. They are part of the natural sequence of the supernatural life. It was growing late now ; and David was turning to go home when he discerned among the rocks and stones of the beach another figure, the figure of a wanderer lonely as himself. Some tiii e |)as8ed before he knew that the wanderer was no other than Hartas Theyn. It is <}uite probable that neither of these men recognised each other with perfect calmness. David was the first to speak. ' Ah'd no thought to meet you here to-night, sir I' he said with unembarrassed simplicity. But even as he spoke it struck him why it was that he had this unusual opportunity. He had not been without a touch of fear himself. The past week had been a week of most variable weather. The wind had repeatedly risen to a gale with appalling suddenness, and then as suddenly sunk to a dead calm. This is the weather the fisherman dreads most of all. and with good reason. More than once during tiie past five days the fishing-boats had Lad to fiy with all the speed they were capable of to the nearest safe shelter. It was thus that it happened that David Andoe was at home on % comparatively favourable, night. Neither he nor his mates had trusted to the promise of the earlier evening. 'Ah'd no thought to meet you here, sir T' David began. Then presently he added, ' Yet Ah may almost say as how Ah feared it was you.' * Feared !' Hartas Theyn exclaimed wonderingly. * Ay, that was how Ah put it, sir!' was the reply. 'An' Ah think as mebbe ye know hoo Ah meant it— not i' noa awk'ard waa^ — far fra that ! . . . Naay, to tell the trewth, it was the fear 1' nysei' as was the ground o' my fearin' it was you. If one hes abit neasiness that oueasiness grows when ya know other folks is feeiiu' the same.' * Then you know nothing ?' Hartas asked, with deadly sinking about his heart. *Nothin', sir. We looked for the passin* o* the Land & the Leal last night. . . . An' she's never passed.' * And you have no news ?' David hesitated a moment before replying. ' Noan to speak on, sir,' he said at last. * The schooner left Hild's Haven.' « You know that ?' * Yes : we know that.* •# * And— and old Ephraim Burdns was on board ?' ','• *01d Ephraim, an' Barbarie, au thi; three little childcr.* 17—2 I' s6o /2V EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. Again there was ailence, prolonged, painful, pregnant. * And you say there has been no tidings at all ?' Hartas inquired •gain, aa if incredulous. 'Noan, sir — nofi tidin's.* Something in the fisherman's reply, pome touch of insouciance mingled with sadness, awoke a feeling that was as a momentary ray of hope. * Then what are people thinking— what are thoy hoping ? Hartas asked, with just a slight infusion of impatience. It was well sub* dued ; and the quiet moonlight resting upon the wan worn features of a man yet so young betrayed how deep was the emotion at the root of the momentary absence of control. David quite understood ; and since to understand is usually to sympathise, he hastened to- disclose his own view to its last outline. * It's so, sir. They'd leave Hild's Haven last night — there's noa doobt o' that 1 An' then, as it's reckoned, about three hours or so ef ter they left the harbour mouth a squall swept up, an' two fishin' boats as was enterin' Hild's Haven was both upset on the bar, an' one man was droonded— only one oot o' seven, but he'd a wife an' five little childer at home, an' another expected. That other was born at midnight, so I've just been told, an' half an hour later the dead body o' the father was carried into the same room ; they'd nobbut one, so they could do no other. . . , Ah'd just been thinkin' o' that woman, sir, she's under thirty yet — a young woman — so te saay ; and five bairns aboot her bed, a new-born bairn in her arms, an' the dead body of as fine a fellow — as fine, an' tall, an' stoot a fellow as ya ever saw — he mun be lyin' close by the bed somewhere. Yes, I was thinkin' on it all, sir, an boor agone, an' — I'vd no shame i' con- fessin' it — I wa^ prayiu' us God would help her — help her specially, so to speak, durin' the two or three daays to come. ... I was strangely drawn to dwell upon the moment when they'll bear thai man's body away f ra the woman's sight an' side. . . . Good Heaven Hoo will she bear it ?' All the while Hartas Tbeyn stood, his pale face uplifted in the moonlight, and silence, a desire for silence, written in his every feature. . He spoke at last. * And you say that squall came on after the Land o' the Leal bad left Hild's iFfaven ?' * Yes, a good bit efter, maybe a couple o' hours. But Ah'd not argue the worst fra that ; noa, nor a good bit off the worst. The schooner was — she is a tidy little thing, a real Hild's Haven bottom, an' well set up wi' gear . She'd meet the squall ; I'm feared there's noan much room toi uoubt 'at she would meet it, but it 'ud be as nowt, Itloss ya, as nowt at all to a trim little craft like that wi' two such men on board as Christifer Baildon an' Peter Grainger. An' they've been blown oot o' their waay, there's little doubt o' that. My idee is this, they've gone further oot to sea than they reckoned o' goin', that is just when the squall was on, an' sofi they've been blown past — I mean to saay past the Eight o' Ulvstan, * GO AND PRA Y^THE NIGHT DRA WS NEAR.' 261 r«^?if«*rf?! '"^*'"' *« «*«P ^o' » few minates 10 m to land Barbari* Sv m W LTIi • •, • ^'^ *^ you aee 8ir, there's no need to fear^t any ill has befallen 'em. Noan at all I Why Ah dofin't feel a bit downVi mysel' an' they sav i' the Bight that Ah's one o' tSt sort at • quicker to see trouble nor hawnness Well, mebbe iUs 808^ happiness being so scarce in a man's life V Haicas Theyn had never been without human understanding of tr^bl«L^''i'*K ^ ^""*^. ^"'- Now his one fierce anticfpation of :^f *^E"*' ^^ ^^ yet concerned for the trouble, past and pre- sent, of this soul so near his own, yet so far away «..; ♦Ti?*'^ u™® ^^^ T*'® *^ P"' **»« °»a"er clearly it would be ^«!S,f ""^ ^°T ^^f^ ''*'*°8*'» *^® «"«i«» i^* David Andoe's soul 1^1/ K* 7;? '""^ **'! f ''^ *** *^« °»" ^»»o i'ad been what the world about them counted * a rival' -J« **>» J»our they were as brothers-brothers newly acquainted, hand* and glad to see the touches of relationship oi eitW -JE?®"*w ^^ «"8^?°fir; 'ew words of any kind attested th« emotion that was swaying the heart cf each. David Andoe's last word touched Hartas to the core of his souL It was not a word of complaint, still less of reproach, but it wlllf^K^ *^® "*°* ^t}?"^^ ^^"'SKle with loneliness, with misery, with hopelessness. Rebuke was not present, either in wordSi tone, and it may be that for this very reason self-reproach struck word, would at one time have aroused to the uttermost the antaao- nistic spint so strong within him ; but though even that word wm now unuttered his conscience was not quiet nnlr« i*»?®>!!^,V° 'P®*^ °* *^^® ^^'^^g^'' ^® ««^. "Sting his hand wet with the receding tide. The smell of the salt weed was about them everywhere ; the moonlight poured its silvery tide over the Bight ; there was a npphng, quivering stream of light stretching out across the waters of the German Jcean, and here and then»thS h^^lT,^''^, nTP/°» **^P reflections into the pools that were milTf o ^ i!" ^*'^. ™*f ^' ^^ ^*"«^ ^•o*'^'- Here, if anywhere, might a man be moved to deliver himself of any painful or berilous aggregation lying deep under the surface of his soul. ^ It is difficult. It would be as painful to you as to me. if I were m^J iU ^""^^ ^"5 ^. '^y/ ^"**« Theyn had'be^n. An" Jn,^ri^ ?'*%?'°^'"?^^ ?® "Sns of effort, the pallid face, the quivering hp, the quick, short-coming breath. It isnt easy to say all one would Uke to say,' the Squire's son nfZf n? f?^y *^^^*^'^ ,-^^^'« '^* '«"^^- • I'^e thought of yoS often of late, and specially when I've had trouble of my own. . ?nf„J^W>,''°^-^«^'°' ^ **^?^,?' «*^«' ^ol^»'*o wonder if on;*; injure-l them m any way. An' I've not been without fear, not by no means. . . Still, let me say thi. for myself, I never m^nt to -^KiialW**'"' 363 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. iojnre no man. When I first knew I caved for bar — for Barbara Bnrdas— she was a little child, a hardworking, thono^htful, winning ohild— you couldn't look at her as she lifted her basket of bait up the rough steps of the rocks, but you were drawn to look at her again ; maybe to smile because she was such a littlu tbini;, so small, so gentle, and had set herself to such big efforts. But she usually did all sne had marked out for herself to do ; nnd any chance as^itttunce was not acknowledged too graciously. The very root of her nature is independence. . . . But I am wandering away from what I meant to be the point— my one fear lest you should think I had done something to turn her affection away from you. . . . Will you believe. . . .' * Stop, sir t' David Andoe interposed solemnly, and as he spoke a great gray cloud swept up over the moon ; the waters seemed to quiver more coldly under the shadow. The moment was dark, and chill, and heavy with unaccustomed heaviness. * Will you stop, sir ?' David begged. * An' let me say a word, first of all a word o' confession. Ab've not been without feelings o' bitterness toward you, naay, mebbe o' worse nor that ; but Ah've generally prayed aguin' all such till they've been a bit softened. . . . An' now all such is done awaiiy — ay, done awaay for iver ! . . . Ah can see it all so plain. Bab's never cared for me, not i' that way ; an' Ah do firmly believe., sir, aa $he never would. So you mcl accordin' to my oan showin' Ah've no cause o' bitterness toward you. An' Ah'm glad, right down glad to hev a chance o' sayin' go ; an' somehow, Ah can hardly tell why, Ah'm glad at that chance has come to-night.' Hartas held out his hand ; the fisherman grasped it warmly, ailently. There was no need of words of assurance. So they parted that night, not knowing bow they were to meet agidn. CHAPTER LVm *UPON THE WAVE-EDOED SAND.' . • 'What is to-day that we should fear to-day? A morrow cometb which shall sweep away Thee and thy realm of change and death and pain.* Christina Bobsetti. It is strange to note how sometimes a rumour will creep, and grow, and spread, passing so slowly as to lose all zest in the passing. While another rumour, perhaps not more startling and important, will all at once spring to its position as an absorbing and over- whelming topic. The latter was the way in which fear as to safety of the Land o' the Leal spread through Ulvstan Bight and the neighbourhood. All at once, so it seemed, the very darkest viewt were taken. And nothing came to relieve the darkness. * UPON THE WAVE-EDGED SAND* 263 David Anclo« had firmly and fnllj beliered in the theory he had pnt before Uartas Theyn as to the Rohooner's possible chance of safety. No, one else believed in it much. The general impression, the one that had started into life ■o suddenly on the morning following the meeting of the two men on the soanr, was one of fear so strong and overpowering that it amounted to certainty. Accnstomed as the people of Ulvstan Bight were to storm and wreck and every kind of sea- wrought disaster, there was yet a new and appalling element in the impression caused by the loss of the Land o' the Leal. It was not new that a woman should suffer shipwreck, that children nhonld suffer with her ; the annals of Ulvstan Bight were saddened by many records of whole families going down together, the mothev with the babe in her arms ; the father clasping his infant son; but that a girl not yet twenty, a girl known and admired as Barbara Burdas had been, should perish with the child of her adoption, her own little brother and sister suffering at the same time and in the same almost mysterious way, was harrowing to a degree not surpassed by any catastrophe that had occurred within living memorv. From the moment when rumour first began to stir, it darkened the daily life of the place ; and conviction pnt as it were a drag to the wheels of existence. During those hours if a man neglected his work it was considered a sufficient excuse if he declared that he could not occupy himself as usual with sach % deadly certain uncertainty hanging over the place. Once let the smallest sign be given, were it but washing up of the name-board of the Land o' the Leal, or anything known surely to have belonged to the schooner, then anxiety would be at an end, emotion would die sadly and slowly down. But no sign was given. Another morning broke, the day was gray and cold upon land and sea — no storm awoke the echoes that slept in the caves of the dark cliffs. The sea stretched from point to point, not calm, but with a sad, restless stirring ; the waves broke upon the land in a hopeless monotone, falling, spreading, sinking slowly back. At nightfall, when the gray changed to deeper gray, the wind rose a little, wailed along the beach with a hollow sigh that now and then sounded like a moan ; but as the darkness deepened the night wind dropped again, yielding place to a deep and strange silence, broken only by the plashing of the far faint wavelets. It ^9» difficult for anyone watching them not to feel as if here at least Nature's sympathy were his. If there were no understanding anywhere else, at least there was understanding here ; there was no mockery in the wind's sigh, no incredulousness of pain in the ceaseless adagio of the breaking and falling waves. During a portion of this time David Andoe was with the fishing- boats to the north of Danesborough. He made no inrjuiries of any- one as to the fate of the Larul 0' the Leal — there was no need for any ; the disappearance of the little vessel was talked of every- a64 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, where. If he could haVe forgotten, if his aching heart might hxf% ceased for awhile from its aching, there was no opportunity. And his mates knew how it was with him ; they understood why at nightfall he sat looking out froiu the bow of the clumsily-built little fishing craft, gazing with all intensity across the wioe sea- waste before him. What was ho looking for? What did he expect to see ? It was well known that the missing schooner had not carried even the smallest boat. Often he thought of, often too he prayed, for another watcher. Eren there out at sea, he had heard from a little fisher-lad of nivstan Bight how the Squire's son had nerer left the edge of the cliff, but walked there, watching and wandering precisely in the same manner as others, less than a year ago, bad watched wearily for him. They had never spoken of that time, the father and son, but each had it in recollection ; and it was a i^^emorable fact that since then not once had any word of bitterness or anger diatnrbed their intercourse. The change in Hartas was great ; but the change in the Squire was perhaps the more striking if rightly understood ; the old acerbity seemed dead within him — where he could not agree, he was silent ; where he could not admire or aanction, '^> would not see. The most curious change of all was in his attitude to his younger daughter ; yet this had hardly been noticeable till after the ' catas- trophe * at the Rectory. The Squire heard of his elder daughter's flight in silence, with much perplexity. He had never understood her, never seemed to wish to do so ; but Miss Chalgrove had always held a private opinion that his indifference to his elder daughter, if not exactly feigned, was yet not a real thing, and her opinion was strongly confirmed by the manner in which the Squire bore the tidings that came to Garlaff that snowy day. He apoke no word concerning them ; and when at last he spoke of other things there was a marked alteration in his voice and accent — it wad as if some life had gone out of him, as if some cherished idea had suddenly died in his heart. And it was from that hour that he had seemed to draw his youngest child nearer to him, that he began to betray signs of uneasiness if at any time she were out of his sight for a longer while than usual. It was to Bhoda alone that he spoke of the trouble that hud fallen upon HartAs, of the way in which the young man was delivering himself ever to a iiseless-seemi^ g and most weary wandering to and fro on the cliffs by the sea. ' Let him alone,' the Squire said, in answer to Rhoda's wish that her father would try the effect of persuasion. ' Let him alone. I know what it is. He's better there watchin' so long as there's a ray of hope alive in him ; he'll see when there's no more use i' hojpin'.' ^ He'll be out of his mind by that time,' said the brusque Rhoda. * Not he,' was the father's reply. * There never was a mad Thcyn yet : the firat won't be Hartas.' * UPON THE WAVE-EDGED SAND.^ 265 fio it came to pass that Hartas was left alone to wander to and fro from Saxby Heud to Penstone Point, a range of some twelve or fourteen miles of inigged coastline. Now he slept for a few hours in 8 cottage here, or stayed for a meal at some roadside inn there, or rested for a brief time by the fireside of some stray fai'mhouse perched apon the edge of the barren cliff. Peoy>le began to know bim, to question each other, and by-and-by the true reason of his wandering spread. Many of the people who listened had heard the story of his own escape, and were interested in seeing him on that account alone. Others were more drawn by the idea of his present hopeless search ; for hopeless it was acknowledged to be now, since so long a time had gone by since the little schooner should have passed by Ulvstan Bight, leaving her ' passengers ' at the extreme point of Ihe Balderstone. As a matter of course poor old Hagar and the two little lads were not left alone with their fear and their sorrow in the Sagged House. The Rector and his wife went there frequently, seldom tinding^the old woman alone. All the Forccliff would have been glad to help in Euch a case as this. More than once Hartas had called as he passed, drawing the boys to his hide, offering them his knife as a present, letting them look inside his watch as an enjoyment, but doing all this with hands that trembled •before the children, for were they not Barbara's brothers, her own especial care ? Had she not lavished upon them such love as he had been glad to know, aye, even the shadow of such great love ? The little fellows were commonplace enough, stupid rather than rough, inanimate rather than rude ; but the younger of the two had a decided resemblance to Barbara — a resemblance to be found mainly in the deep blue-gray eyes, which ha(' in them a certain promise for the future. The lad would never oe a clever man in any sense of the term ; and to his life's end it would be an easy matter for the veriest fool to impose upon him. Yet there was* capability of a kind, capacity for being mildly good, quietly inoffen- sive. Hartas was drawn to this small brother of Barbara's. If . . . if the worst should be, he would be a father to the little lad. * If ' the worst should be ! There was not another soul now in Ulvstan Bight or the neighbourhood but did not consider the worst t foregone conclusion. And still Hartas walked there. The days had no names for him — no dates. He only knew that now it was light — now dark ; and that always the great gray sea was void to him, having on its surface no trace of the sign he watched to see. What did he dream of seeing ' He did not know, not any more than David Andoo knew. These men were each of them too well acquainted with the ocean and its disasters to dre.im that now 'he Lai\d o' the L"U might come in sight, her sails set, her colour!* flying, sigualling to any who might be watching for her return, ' I have been blown out to sea !' This, so easily brought to pass in a work of fiolion, could, even aa 366 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. an idea, only have raised a smile on the lips of anyone living by tht shores of Ulvstan Bight. Yet they continaed to vatch— some fitfully and at intervals ; one, only one, quite ceaselessly. He would remain till some sign came to him, telling him that his watch was ended. He knew now that it was nightfall again — and he knew that his heart was beating more faintly, his hope sinking till it might as truthfully have been called despair ! The sun had sunk into the sea, a faint pale gold orb of light into a rippling expanse of pale gold water. There was not a sail in sight, not the thinnest line of smoke to darken the gold and gray of the sky. Though the evening was so clear, so transparent, yet not to Hartas Theyn alone, but even to others, there was the touch of sad- ness upon it. It was as the eve that comes before some day of trouble, of deep pain. And as the darkness grew, the deathlike stillness seemed to grow also. It was a solitude that brought no peace to the solitary man who yet went to and fro upon the cliff-top ; nay, rather did it seem as if the trouble at his heart was stirred to a fresh pain — a keener sense of agony ! ' To think of all ending ihui f he said to himself — again and again he said it. 'To think of all ending so — in darkness, in mystery, in ignorance, in suspense. Was there ever such suspense before ? Was there ever ? Every hour is a lifetime — a lifetime of agony !' ' Is there no hope — none, nowhere V Then thought failed him while imagination dwelt once more. jX tried to dwell, upon some last dread possible scene ; the scene mat might have happened, nay, that muat have happened, as he now saw, on that night when the schooner encountered the squall not more than an hour or two after leaving Hild's Haven. The most hopeful people had admitted long ago that the end had come then. All the while the light was fading, the waves gently rising and falling ; and, as he had done before, Hartas went down to the beach to walk by the water's edge. There, if anywhere, would be foun " some tckfau — a plank of wood, a portion of a rudder, a strip of sail, or— or some other thing ! Hartas hardly dared to dwell upon the possibilities that thrust themselves before his mind's eye. He wm now searching for all b ^readed most to find. He went down the v. i^ by a narrr»w but little-used and difficult path ; indeed, it only led to a faraihouse in the hollow by Balders bank. There was just light enough for him to discern the steps cut in the clay, a bit of rude railing here and there in dangerous parts. At one turn, to his surprise, he came upon a little lad, a child of not much more than five or six summers, who was laboriously climbing the steep step?, a big lump of brown tangle in one hand, a scarlet something trailing from the other arm. UPON THE WAVE'EDG^D SAND* 367 ' Late for you to be down here, young man, isn't it ?' asked Hartas of the little fellow, who looked op in silent stupidity, making no effort to answer. Then there was a pause — a shock — an effort. ' What have you got there f What ia it V Hartas Theyn asked at last, touching (as one touches the cover that is upon the bed where someone is taking a last rest) the scarlet shawl that the child carried. It was a very noticeable shawl — being made of crochet-work, and having a wide white border, with some black at the extrem* edge of that. The little fellow began to whimper. *T fund it — I did. 'Twere lyin' on the sands,* be said almost tearfully. * An' there weren't nobody there — no, not nobody,' •Tell me whereabouts you found it,' Hartas asked, resiing a reassuring hand upon the child's shoulder. 'Where have yoa been?' * Doon there — aside the watber.* * And this was lying upon the sands T * Ay, sir. . . . 'Twere nobbut just oot o* tbe wather's edge.' Hartas Theyn felt himself growing suddenly weak, as one stricken by illness. Only by determined effort could he keep sufficient power to wiU and to do. Not so long ago, wandering one night abont the Foreciifr, he had seen Barbara Burdas standing at the cottage door, the red shawl thrown carelessly round her, her strong sweet face uplifted as she stood watching the silver clouds that were flying past a wan moon. That was the lasc that he had seen of the shawl that was in his hand now, still wet with the salt sea-water, still smelling of the salt sea-wrack. *6o home, my little man, go home,' Hartas said, speaking more gently and tenderly than he knew. Then, moving as one in a dream, he went rapidly down to the beach, expecting (if indeed he expected anything at all) only to be .nocked by the exceeding nothingness to be found there. The child had pointed to a spot a little to the northward, and at once Hartas set his face that way. The daylight was gone from the land, yet out over tbe sea there was a soft silvery afterglow, and there, against the silver light, was a dark outline, the outline of a lai^e mas? of something that was lying upon the beach. With beating heart and brain he still went onward. He could never aftorrards recall that moment when he first recognised that the darkly-outlined ridge was the upturned hull of a wrecked vessel. Quite black, quite lone, quite still, the hrll rested upon the f.cauv to the north of tl.e Balderstone, the dark line of the keel cr»ssing a bar of silver in the s'cy. Still nerving himself, he went on. He would assure himself of the truth — of the worst that might be true — before he yielded to the imaging that was overcoming him — the longing to care no more. 268 IN EXCrfANGE FOR A SOUL. to Btrive no more, to suffer no more, to lie down and die apon tit* wrack-strewn scaur. Then for awhile the afterglow that was in the heavens seemed to increase in intensity. Hartas Theyn was nearer now to the wreck of the schooner, and in the dim light it loomed as the remains of some large ship had done. The stern of the vessel was toward the sea ; and Hartas went round among the slippery pools and the weed hung stones among which the white-edged wavelets were lashing sadly. Quite near he came— his eyes seeming to throb and burn in his head, his heart to beat as if it must burst within him ; for by this time the tide had turned and the water was rising rapidly. If there bad been anyone iu danger before, that danger was increasing with every second. It was, as he had known all the while, the schooner in which Barbara and the little ones had sailed — the white letters on the blaclr name-board attesting the fact. The inscription was, of course, upside down, but he did not need to read the words letter by letter. The Land o' the Leal : HiWt Haven, This was what he saw ; and then for awhile he saw oo moro. The temporary oblivion was most mercif nL CHAPTER LIX. ANOTHER SEA-STORY. * They know not that its sails are filled By pity's teuder breath ; * - ' Nor p<>e the angel at the helm Wao steers the Ship c f Death.* J. O. Whittxkb. If any member of tbe Psychological Society were desiring new ground for his interesting researches, it is probable that he could not do better than betake himself to the remote corners of the North Riding of Yorkshire. There are nooks in the dale country, there are fishing villages yet uncontaminated by railways, where investigations might be made, perhaps with results surpnsing to the most vividly expectant. Legends and traiitions not only linger there, but are held with a vitality that is most instructive to the true student of humanity ; and as a field for the study of com- parative folk-lore it is probable that this remote corner or the earth might be found to repay real research far better than others that are far more known. Not altogether * idle tales,' not altogether ' old wives' fables,' are these brief dramas that pass from lip to lip. from age to age. There are those who assert that Homer himself was but a singer of soncrs ANOTHER SEA'S '1 OR V. m Inspired by the traditions of his own day. Do we take the lets account of him for that ? Yes, it is'intensely interesting to know that one song, one story, one heroic tale, has gone the round of the whole wide earth like some gossamer circle, binding race to race here, throwing light upon the customs and beliefs of other races there. This is no place to enter upon the fascinating theme ; yet it was impossible to avoid it alt(^ether, since during those days of anxiety in Ulvstan Bight it was asserted everywhere that the spectre-ship had been seen crossing the Bight, not only once or twice, but assuredly the third fatal time. And after that, who should doubt ? Who should dare to doubt ? That a ship — a tall, phantom-ship, with white, wide-spread sails —should pass thrice across the Bight before any especial disaster, was a superstition believed in by all the older people of Ulvstan ; and the younger ones seldom expressed any open disbelief. When old Hagar Furniss spoke of her vision of the night to the Rector of Market Yarburgh, she was met with neither rebuke nor ridicule. ' I saw it, sir, the Death-ship ; I saw it wi' my oan eyes !' the old woman dediired. * An* 'twas noa dream. I'd been asleep — ay, I'd slept for hours, so that it must ha' been near midnight. An' when I wakkened there was a straange leet at the winda — a straange breet leet ; an' I sprung oot o' bed an' went to the winda side. An' there it were, sir, the Deatk-ahip, sailin' past wiv all her sails set. an' eveiy sail like a sheet o' spun glass. An' on she went, glidin by as never no ship went yet upon the saut-sea watter. . . . An' then Ah knew 'at all were overed ; 'at old Ephraim were tossin' doon i' the dark sea-tangle ; 'at Barbarie an' her three little bairns were where they couldn't look upon the light o* daay. . . . And 'twere all past in a minnit or two. There were nought left save the sea an' sky, an' a dismal wind wailin' i' the winda where the leet had been. . . , 'Twere a)\ overed then, an' then I knew.' • And this was last night — Monday night ?' * 'Twere last night, sir,' the old woman replied sadly and seriously. * I'd not much hope before — I've noiin noo.' Canon Godfrey stood thiuking. lie recalled to his mind the life- long influence in such matters that must have given strong colour* ing to Hagar's expectation. The legend of the spectral ship was, as he was well aware, cherished in almost every quarter of the globe. And remembering the poor old creature's intense and affectionate anxiety dui'ing the past few days, ho felt as if he him- self, in her place, might also have persuaded himself that he had seen the vision. Not for one moipent did he accuse her of deceitfulness, of mis- representation. Some ship or ships she had seen, some white-sailed vessel gliding from mist to mist across the summer night ; and her mind, apprehensive by reason of her dread, had doubtless construe<l the impressive and unusual natural into the dread supernatural. 370 !N EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, He could no6 reason with Hagar ; instead, he tried to comfort her. 'There are no tidings,' he said. ' Bat you must not forget what strange things have happened, even of late. It is not so long since the Swallow was blow quite across to Norway, and no news came for over a week. More recently still, the two fishing-boats belong* ing to the Graingers were lost in a squall ; one came floating into the Bight half filled with water. Two days later the nine men, who were being mourned for so passionately, arrived by a late train. As you know, they had been picked up far out of their way by a passing steamer. . . - What should hinder but that some such deliverance should have been wrought now ?' The poor old woman could only stand silent, shaking her head negatively ; deep in her heart was the conviction that ner sorrow was that of those who sorrow for the dead. And she did not err. It was on that same night, but a few hours later, that Hartas Theyn, recovering from a temporary oblivion, found himself lean- ing upon the sea-wet side of an upturned ship. There were tears on ais face ; in his agony he had wept aloud ; but to his astonish- ment — nay, to his appalling — there came an answer to his weeping. It was an answer that smote him to a strange and sudden coldness. As he leaned upon the hull he heard a distant and passionate, yet faint, knocking within, on the cabin end of the hull. He listened, unbelieving, yet again the knocking came. In answer to it he cried — he cried aloud. But he ccnld not be sure that he was heard. He listened, he went round the vessel and cried again, and listened again, yet he could hear no answer. But again the knocking came — twice, thrice repeated in the same feebly impassioned manner ; and Hartas Theyn took up a stone and beat a loud and long reply upon the blackened side of the little ship. Good God ! was it possible that any human being could be alive there — i ie a ship tiiat had been tossing upside down by night 8 1(1 by uii upon that stormy waste of waters ? If otu were alive it was a h .uge, a miraculous thing I Hartas Theyn was not a seafaring man, and he did not all at once realize his position. He hoped to do something, to accomplish some rescue, some deliverance immediately. Not one glance or two at that stoutly-built schooner, upturned there on the rocky shore of the North Sea, showed him all his helplessness. And moment by moment that far, faint., entreating sound went on. It was as if someone were crying in low, despairing tones, wnring : ' There is one here dying, dying 1 . . . Will you make no efcort — none .«' Again Hartas Theyn beat out his reply, again he cried his willing- ness, his intense desire. And a sound came from within that was as the sound of a human voice, but whether of man, of woman, or of child he could not tell. And even as he stood there the leaping of the white water about his feet awoke him to a fresh horror. The tide was rising. Witbin An oa hu ANOTHER SEA 'STORY. VJ\ an honr or two this wrecked hull would be floated off again : floated oat to sea with its burJen of haman life — despairing, appealing haman life. He had no precedent to gaide him in such a case as this. Wrecked ■hips had washed ashore, upturned and not upturned ; drowned men had washed up, and men exhausted, yet not drowned ; but that a hulk should come to land, turned upside down, and so every entrance to its interior closiea while yet there was life inside, was an occurrence of unexampled horror. What might be done ?' ^ I can do nothing alone/' he cried, putting his mouth to a plank that he fancied had ' started ' a little, and so might afford some ingress for the sound of his voice. ^ I can do nothing alone. . , . There is no time to be lost ! . . . The tide is coming up. ... I will go and get help — a man or two who will help me to cut a hole in the hull I . . . Keep quiet ! . . . Have courage ! I won't be a second longer than I can help !' So Hartas Tbeyn shouted, sentence by sentence, and at the last there was a pause. ' Knock again, if you can !' he begged. * Give three knocks !' And the three knocks came — low, full of effort, eloquent of pain. A strange thrill shot through Hartas Theyn as he heard them. He could not think — he dared not. One more word of encourage- ment he sent back, hoping only that it mi j;ht be heard ; then with swiftest footsteps he wt^ut back to the Bight. He was breathless when he reached the little town. It was mid- night ; not a light in a window was there to guide him. Yet he found the house where David Andoe lived ; and, to his extreme satisfaction, he found that David had come over from Danesborough to spend the night. He often did su, more for the sake of being present at the prayer-meeting in Zion Chapel than for any other reason. Whatever the cause to-night, he was glad to be there to answer Hartas Theyn's sudden and impetuous demand. He had opened the door of the cottage at once, and stood there dressing himself hastily in the starlight as be listened to the strange story that Hartas had to tell. David was quite quiet and very pale, yet he did not lose a secord. ' I'll get Fossgate and Joe Ganton, carpenters, both o' them, wi* their tools ready i' the skep. . . Come on, sir ; ivery few minutes means a few inches more o' watter !' It might be a quarter of an hour later when some six or seven men surrounded the hull of the La7id o' the Leal. There was now no more fear that all human help that could be of avail would not be given. Yet those who best understood had most dread. The tide had risen inevitably, and to a fearful-seeming extent. By the time the little band of men came to the upt turned vessel, it was already floating. David Andoe, making a desperate dash at a moment while the waves were receding, managed to reach the hull, t(» hold on co it, and to offer some slight assistance to Harta'- Theyn, who had instantly followed him. ^71 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, As the next wave went back three more men, each with lom* powerful or nsefol tool in his hand, managed to reach the wreck ; ftnd as they clung there, trying to make some arrangement among themselves as to the best method of proceeding, again the knocking was heard — that far, faint pleading sound that struck upon the ear of each one who listened as only sounds from inside some vanlt or grave could have dor'^ There was for these men much the same surprise, much the same horror, as they had felt on hearing some cry from below the churchyard sod. Yet they thanked God audibly that the sound could still be heard. ' While there's life there's hope of life,* David Andoe concluded ; and no more time was wasted in words. The men set to work, one and all, hacking, hewing, with passionate vigour. Besides their knowledge of the construction of the vessel, of the position of the one cabin where alone anyone might be and liv e, they had also the oft-repeated but fainter-growing sounds to direct them. This told them that they were not really far from the hand that was making that pitiful and most beseeching appeal. Tet for all their effort they were ^lot too sanguine. To those who know nothing of the building of even the smallest ship, it must seem as if it should have been an exceedingly simple and easy thing to make entrance through the side of a little coast* ing schooner. The boring of a worm can cause a leak to spring in the hull of a huge West-Indiaman. A sudden touch upon a rock will make opening wide enough for the entrance of water sufificient to sink the largest vessel afloat. How strange it seems that half a dozen men must bend their utmost effort for some time to cut a space wide enough for the egress of a living man or woman. Some man or woman ! To the last moment Hartas Theyn would not let himself think. To think would, inevitably, be to hope. A liope only born to die is one of the bitterest hopes the human heart can bold. It seemed to him that he already felt the touch of the bitterness to be. ominl Pal men Btrenj were tougl botto^ year bnilt CHAPTER LX. IN THAT SAD NIGHT. ' Yet it maj be that (katb Bhall give my name a power to win such tears As would have made life precious.' Still they wrought there, making efforts more and more passion- ately earnest with each minute that went by. Only now and then that low knocking came, just to guide them, as it were, to where that terrible suffering was being endured. Very terrible it must be, as they knew, whether the sufferer were man, woman or child. They did not talk much, these desperate men. The rising tide, rising rapidly, caused a perpetual rush and swish of water. All the while it was advancing, receding, advancing yet farther. And the IN THAT SAD NIGHT 373 wind wu increasing a little, wailing among the dark rocks, adding to the ripple that was upon Uie water, lendincr a certain sadness and wildness to an hour that was sufficiently Bad. No man there had known an hour so strange before. It was past two o'clock when the clouds swept away from the waning moon. It gave but little light, being shrouded from time to time with the gray scud that was flying over the heavens. When it was freest a broad amber halo was seen to surround it, always an ominous sight to the fishmen of the north. Pallid as was this light, it was welcome — most welcome to the men there on the upturned hull, riving, striving, rending most Btrennonsly among the close-grained planks. They knew what they were encountering. They had not now to learn the strength and toughness of ' a Hild's Haven bottom,' ' the best and stoutest bottoms used in England,' so Dibdin had declared many a long vear before. And more than one story of the tenacity of ships bnilt at Hild's Haven passed through the minds of these men who were spending themselve nthat work of deliverance. Can it be realized that <me hours had passed before any open- ing had been made that could be called an entrance? All this while Hartas Tbeyn and David Andoe had wrought side by side. * And all the time I was feeling as if every stroke of my hatchet was striking down what was left of the barrier that had existed between him and me,' Hartas Theyn confesp^'l after. ' I couldn't understand it. It wasn't my doing. . . . There was something about him, a sort of gentleness, a sort of tender-hearted kindness and hnmblc-mindedne^s, as if he were wishing, all the while, to do something for me. He watched me every time I moved, saved me when I slipped, helped me when I climbed, and, as I recognised later, tried to make the night easier for me than it was for any- body else. When I remonstrated, he reminded me of what I had gone through myself, and not so long before. ' An' you're not as we are, sir/ he added. * We're used to the night, an' the sea, an' the wind, an' to hardship o' every sort. It's nought to us — that is, the exposure's nought. But I reckon we've noan on us knowed nought of a piece o' work like this — noa, nought like this. . . . God grant they may roan of 'em know nought like it again.' And all the while, as the men wrought desperately there, the waning moon went sailing to the land ; all the while the wind was rising, all the while the waves were advancing and falling and toss- ing. At last the fears that had been growing in the hearts of the men at work there took on expression. * What were we thinking on — what could we be thinkin' on never to bring a boat, never to fetch noa boat !' It was David Andoe who asked the question ; and the time was somewhere about three in the morning. Tlie same question had been in the minds of the other men ; they had needed courage to 18 V4 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. put it into words. More and more thej had needed it u the necessity for asking it became evident. ' The hall had been floating some time— now it was drifting oat to sea ; drifting with all its burden of life ; its two-fold baraen— within and witnout. ' I've knowed it all along/ Joe Ganton said calmly. ' I'Te seen how it would be.' * But you can swim, can't you, Joe ?' David Andoe asked. * Ay — if Ah seed any good 'i swimmin'.' * Then you're waitin' to be asked ? This isn't the time for it. Swim ashore as quick as you can, an' fetch the first boat to be had for love or money, never mind which.' This was not a difficult matter, but it took time, a longer time than had been foreseen. And it was time passed in pain of varions kinds ; for faster and faster the ship was drifting out to sea, still upturned, still bearing its burden of life. But a new strain was added to the tension of the hour. There was no longer any response from the interior of the hull, and finding this there was no heart there but sank to a lower depth than it had known before. Hartas Theyn felt that the tools in his hand were now all but nseless, and even David Andoe knew that he was becoming un- nerved. Yet they ptrove on ; and to good purpose. * Work away, mates,' David Andoe begged. ' In another quarter of an hour we'll be able to enter the hull, some of us.' ' Joe'U be here wi' Arklam's boat i' less nor that,' was the reply of Will Hewitt. But both men were mistaken in the matter of time. The moon was forty minutes farther on her way when at last an entrance was effected into the cabin of the Land o th« Leal. Few words were spoken. ' Go you in,' David Andoe had said to Hartas, when at last it was possible for anyone to enter. And as he spoke David struck a match and lighted a tiny lantern that had hung at his belt. ' Go yon in. If she be liviu' she'll be glad to see you.' Hartas Theyn, white, nay pallid, between the light of the dim lantern and the waning moon, looked into David's face for one hesitant moment. A thousand thoughts passed through his OYer> strained brain. The task was not without difficulty — not without danger — this he knew ; and this it was decided him to accept the offer made in all generosity. David Andoe would have been glad to go down into that dark depth himself, and he had done it with greater facility than could be claimed by the man who went. He went with a prayer on his lips. The hull was beginning to toss a little wildly and awkwardly in that dark sea. And he knew there were no means of guiding or steadying it in the slightest degree. And there was yet no sign of the much-wished-f or boat. Hartas turned to look out acroas the dark surging water as he took the lantf ohipJ IN THAT SAD NIGHT. 2:S kntem In one hand, iteadying himself by grasping the newly- obipped edges of the planks with the other. *Put yer|foot there/ David Andoe urged, *an' lean to the left - to the lefty sir! Then forrard — a bit more forrard. . . . Hold tbu lanthorn up I Ay, hold it so ; an' press forrards !' It was just at the moment that Hartas Tbeyn was descending through the aperture made in the bottom of the little schooner, that suddenly, though perhaps not altogether unexpectedly, the hull lurched terribly to one siae. All happened, so to speak, in a moment. Hartas had entered the tiny cabin ; he had discovered at a glance that it already seemed filled with water. But there, over on one side, was a sight to tax the manhood within him to the uctermost. lie looked, he shrank. he compelled himself to look again, and from his white lips a cry burst — a cry of bitterest anguish : ' Barbara, Barbara ! for Qod's sake speak to me — speak one word 1 Say you are alive I* The word might have been said, for Barbara Burdas was still living ; but it was at that moment that the unmanageable Lull of the wrecked schooner gave a tremendous roll to the lee* w&xd side. The girl was there in the cabin ; she had been there with the water up to her waist — nay, higher — for many hours ; and there, beside her, their little plump white hands clinging in her strong, beautiful hair, were the three little children. Hartas Theyn did not know then that two of these little ones were dead. He did not know then that the small white fingers entwined in the broad red plaits had been entwined in the death- agony that had ended hours agone. Barbara knew. She had uown it all, lived through it all, and was living yet. She turned her face to Hartas as he entered — a white, rigid, agonized face. . . . She could not speak. The dim lantern threw but a &int light. Hartas saw the look turned upon him — that appaline, bewildered look — and he saw the other faces behind — one lying white and cold upon Barbara's neck, but yet living. The others he had no time to see. No time at all was his, for hardly had he entered the cabin — already three-parts filled with water — when another terrible roll turned the wrtscked hull completely on tho other side. The water rose even as he looked — rose till it encircled the throat of the girl, and only by her utmost effort could she uplift the one child yet living above the lifeless forms of the two not alive. Hartas rushed toward her, seized the child — it was the baby Ildy — and with his disengaged arm he tried to reach Barbara herself ; but she drew back. ' Save the little oue,* she said in a faint whisper, only just to be heard above the gurgling, and rushing, and washing of the water — ' save Ddy ; she's the only one left to be saved.' Save her ! But how ? The child's fingers were not easily dis- entangled from the girl's long wet hair ; the other little dead white 18-2 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I Hi 1 2^ 12.5 •^ 1^ III :• lis liiio 12.: 1.8 1.25 |U 1.6 < *" — ► V] /a ^v A w ^ o / Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WfST MAIN STREET WEBSTER. N.Y. U5S0 (716) S72-4503 \ V 4 •sj ^v V ;\ %$ ^ <\ v-c^ 974 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOVL, hands, rigicL cold, must be left for some one else to unolost. 13» would do what he could for those left living. * Can you follow me— can yon mi^e any effort to follow me T Hartas asked of the exhausted girl. But i^e only shook her head, and held out to him her two poor hands. One mav not here use the words others used freely in de^ribing those hanaa They had been used in knocking upon the rough inner side of the ship's hull so Ions, and with such agonising effort, that not even the water that reacned to the topmost beam might wash away that which is the sign and mark of the extreme of suffering everywhere. In a few minutes more the living child was safe in the strong arm of one of the men outside ; the two children not living were Uf ted tenderly and gently out from the water-filled cabin. Then, just as David Andoe and Hartas Theyn were helping Barbara, taking her from out of that dread and terrible prison-house wherein she had suffered so long and so unspeakably, ]ust at that moment the boat was seen coming swiftly over the dark, gray, restless waters. The waning moon had dropped behind the land, large and low, and having, as it were, a presage of ill yet to be in its weird aspect ; bat only one of these rescuers noted the strange light, the still stranger shadows. The boat came onward. It was received with a subdued ehont of welcome ; and as the rowers turned the comer of the stern of the swaying hull and pulled up to the side on which Barbara Burdas was lying pale, exhausted, at least one strong man felt the unaccue':r>med burning of hot tears on his faee. * God be thanked !' David Andoe said reverently, as he caught the delivering boat hy one of the rowlocks. Hartas Theyn and another man were helping Barbara to rise from the wet, dark planks of the wrecked hull. ' God be thanked 1' he repeated ; and no one remembered any other word of his. CHAPTER IXL 'AMD AFTBB MY LONG YOTAGB I SHALL BEST.* ' Here is one who loves yon as of old, With more exceeding passion than of old.* As Barbara Burdas was lifted carefully, tenderly, by strong and tender arms into the fishing-coble (the Lucy Ann, of Ulvstan Bight), she heard a voice spelling low at her side : * Your grandfather — where is he ? Not in the cabin ?* Barbara hesitated, a sob escaped her lips, then she said with much effort : < No ; he's not there — there's no one there i' She could say no more. She knew that the one living child — th* child of her dead friend — was yet alive ; that it was safe in th* arms of the fisherman who had seated himself in the stem of the coble that was as an ark of safety ; and it seemed to her, in ^ AFTER MY LONG VOYAGE 1 SHALL REST.' 377 h«r dread ezhaaatioa, that there was little else she oared to know just then. Nature demanded a time of oblivion — a time of forgetf olnen of all thftt she had gone through— of all that she had been delivered from. To know that she might now not only cease from suffering, from endnring, from dreading, from hoping, from praying, bnt also from living, was knowledge to be grateful for. She sank down between the planks of the boat, near to the man who was holding the child so carefully, and then, closing her eyes, she knew no more for awhile. It was weU that she did not. It was not a long while ; but it was long enough for that to hap{ en which was to cause her and others many a long hour of bitter ptin —iAf keen regret. They were all seated in the coble, the rescuers and the rescued ; her bow was tamed to the Bight. The rowers had set themselves to work with a will. The Lucy Ann was a well-built craft, and, free of fish or nets, would have carried sixteen or eighteen men without being over- laden ; bnt the Lucy Ann had no fair chance that dins, (^ray morn- ing. It was really morning now. At first a gi'ay dawn spread slowly across the sky ; then, as the sun uprose, a few faint pink and silver dor is shot pink and silvery rays across the sea. The Lucy Ann had her crew and passengers all on board. The rowers, four of them, were at the oars ; but the craft was not, as was soon perceived, laden with due balance. The boat dipped deeply on one side. ' Wad ya mind changin* yer seat, sir V Joe Ganton asked, looking to Hartas Theyn, who was on the starboard side of the coble, which was dipping almost into the rippling water. Hartas rose at once, weak with emotion, nnstoady with ex- haustion ; and before anyone knew what had happened he had overbalanced himself, and was struggling in the white waves at the side of the fishing-coble. He could not swim ; and David Andoe^ unfortunately for himself, knew that he could not. David uttered no word ; he waited one second till the Squire's son rose to the surface at the stern of the Luqf Ann^ then he leapt I overboard. And everyone in the fishing -coble was glad, for Hartas I Theyn was saved. It was only the work of a minute or two to bring the boat round, to draw the two men on board. It was not till long afterward that they knew that one living man had been I drawn out of the sea, and one man who was dead. Why David Andoe had died in that perilous moment was more I than even Dr. Douglas could say ; but the doctor was Christian enough not to insist upon knowing — upon investigating what loientists would term the exact cause. What did it matter whether a vein in the man*s brain had burst ; whether valve in the heart had ceased to act — of what value to anyone could such merely technical information be ? He had laid down bis life ; and stS JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. <nilT the man for whom h« had done this knew how tnrely Datid Andoe himself wonld hare said ' for a friend.' By the time the Lucy Ann touched the shore of UlTstan Bight^ it seemed as if the whole village must be there. It was nesrlf daylight now. A cool, soft breeze was upon land and sea ; the tiM was at its height. The coble had to be rowed quite close np to the quay on which the stmggliag crowds were standing, eaeh one anxious to see, to learn if there could be truth in the strange story that had sped from lip to lip with ':he rising of the snn. No one spoke as Barbara was lifted oat ; it seemed aa if no one had courage to ask if she were liviog or not. A few saw her pallid face as she was borne away ; it looked very rigid, very death-like. A mnrmur swayed through the crowd aa of mingled awe and compassion. The next to be brought ashore was little Ildy ; and the child sat np in the arms of the fisherman who carried her, and smiled as she passed. More than one wept to see the smile^ it was so wan, so weak. There was much weeping in tJlvstan Bight that mornine. As for Ailsie, the old fishwives said one to another : ' She were thrown back fra the sea, and the sea was sure to claim her again.' Still they shed tears for her, for the little one had been loved and loving. It was not until Hartas Theyn had been assisted to land that the real truth with regard to David Andoe became known. Hartas himself did not know it. Ue had been sittine quite close to the dead fisherman : he had noticed not onlv the silence, the pallor, but that strange and inexplicable change that comes over the features when the ' fever called living * is over for ever. These things he had seen, and a great dread had come down upon him^an over- whelming dread. Was not the tale of disaster complete before ? Coming in over the ^ray waves in the morning light, listening all unconsciously to the dip of the oars, watching the growing beauty of the dead face, not knowing surely that it was death he looked upon, the remembrance of that meeting on the Scaur at midnight came over him with force ; yet it was not a painful remembrance. He could feel again the touch — the warm clasp of the fisherman's hand when they parted. That hand was quite close to him now, but for very reverence he refrained from layins; upon it his own. And now — now he stood upon the crowded sUp-way ^ and others helped to raise David Andoe, thinking that he must have fainted j from exhaustion. They spoke to him as they raised him from his seat in the boat,] but he did not answer. One, more clear-sighted than the rest, covered him with s piece of sail-cloth : he did not resist. Unfortunately for herself, poor old Susan Andoe met the small procession as it began to wind up the way to the Forecliff. Herj cry rings yet in the ear of some who heard it. * Davy, my Davy !' she cried passionatelv. * Let ma speak toj him ! Will ya ? He's my oan — let ma speak to him !' BARBARA'S STORY, m fStM would hare flnng heraelf npon the rongbly-shro.nded figure bat for those who were near to prevent her. A 1 the way up the difF Rhe followed, and cried with tremulona lips and soDbing breath : ' Davy, my Dary t If ya will but speak I Ahll be a better mother to ya, my lad — eh. Ah will 1 Ahll be a better mother nor ever Ah'Te been before I Kobbnt speak to ma 2' CHAPTEB LXIL babbara'8 btort. * Hii was the fate to saffer grievoni woa^ And mine to mourn without forgetfulness. ' Wobsuct's Odya»e$, 'Deab Unclb Hugh,' Thorhilda had written late one night in haste, 'I have just seen yesterday's newspaper. What is this terrible story about a ship being found floating bottom upward, filled with water, and some Ulvstan Bight fisher-folk still alive in the cabin ? Can it be true ? Please tell me all particulars Tery soon. Are they, any of them, people I know ?' There was more than this in the letter— much more. Some things there were that made the Canon glad, and some that made him sad. The mere sight of his niece's handwriting always now made his heart acha Over a week had elapsed between the disaster and the day when Canon Godfrey listened to the details as Barbara Burdas alone could tell them. Inevitably it had been a week of pain, but Barbara wondered at herself that the pain was not deeper. She had stood in the church- vajd by the open graves on that day when David Andoe was laid by the side of his sister, when her little Ailsie and Stevie bad been laid to rest in the grave of their own mother, and through it all she had shed no tear. Hartas Theyn, standing opposite to her, watching the white set face of the woman he lov^, would rather have seen her weep. He had enough insight into her true character to know all that her apparent self-control meant. Some there were there who con- aiaered her calmness to be apathy ; others wondered if it were possible that the terrible experience she had gone through should have left some cloud on her brain, some dulness, some incapacity ; and iu truth these did not altogether mistake, as Canon Qodf rey perceived. * All that Barbara wutd tell she told me very calmly,' he said, in writinff to Miss Theyn. ' She told me how the storm came on ■addemv in a few hours after they left Hild's Haven — how the oaptidnhad insisted upon her and the three children being fastened down in the cabin. * ** And he wanted my grandfather to stay in the cabin with na," 98o JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL Barbara said. '* And I begged him to stay myself, for I knew it was but little use he'd be on deck if a gale came on : but he wouldn't listen — no, not for a moment, and Captain Baildon had no time to waste lust then. I could hear that preparations for the worst were being made. After we were made safe — safe as they thought, I heard strange noises on deck, as if the sea were sweep- ing over the schooner, and by-and-by, sometime during that first night, a mast fell ; I judged it to be the mainmast ; but the children slept on through it all, all three of them — Ildy on my knee^ and Steve and Ailsie in the captain's berth. * ** It must have been some hours afterward when the second mast went by the board. I heard the captain shouting to Peter Grainger, and I listened for some reply, but none ever came. And all the while the schooner was driying on, rolling, rockin([, tossing. I judged it was quite unmanageable. And aU the while I was hearkening for my grandfather's voice, but I never heard it, no, not once after we were shut into the cabin. . . . I've thought since that perhaps he went soon on in the storm, and that was why the captain never come anear the cabin-door ; no, not so much as to tell me how the night was going, or to ssk me if I wanted anight for the children. 'Twas not Tike him to keep away in that manner, and there was plenty of opportunities, for, as I said afore, twere more like a succession of severe squalls nor like a reg'lar gale ; and every now and then there was something that was almost like a calm, so that anybody might have brought us a word of comfort, if there was any to bring, or anyone to bring it. I've thought since that there might not be, especially after that time when the captain cried so loud to Peter. It's strong in my mind tl ,t when the second mast went overboard, Peter Grainger went with it, and that after that the captain would be there at the helm all alone — all alose on the storm-swept deck of that bare huU. I could see him, so to speak. ... I can see him now." * AU this Barbara told me quite quietly. She seemed to be living through the dread and terror over again, and to have the same calm rtrepffth that had helped her and supported her then. * There was a pause in her story after she had seemed to see the captain standing before her. When she began again she seemed a little confused, as if not able easily to find words for all that came after. Hitherto she had spoken just as I have written, with an easy flow of words— simple English words —but evidently now and then echoing some phrase of some rather archaic book. Her voice is lower and sweeter than ever ; her sad, simple manner is most touching ; and naturally these new sorrows have lent a new eleva- tion. X0n<— nay, that is not the word at all. It will not depart. ' When she took up her story again, she was like one awakening from a dreadful sleep. ' " It must have been a long time,** she said, " a very long time that we were tossing there, but I'd no means of knowing how long. I only remember that Ildy wakened now and then ; and I gave her BARBARA'S STORY. ftSi ft littla milk so long aa there was any in the bottle ; and when there was no more she fretted a bit ; bat she always fell asleep again. The others slept strangely ; and I vxu glad. * ** Now and then there' was a time of comparative calm. I heard the roar of the water and of the wind, bnt not near so bad as during the sauallsj and there was very little noise overhead. A chain rattlea as the hnll rocked np and down ^ now and then some part of the dismantled ship |[ave a creak or a groan, and there was some- thing that I thought might be a water-cask rolling to and fro on dedc with the lurching of the vessel ; but there was no footstep, no, n<Hie at all ; and there was no voice. Once I thought I'd nse to my feet, and knock and ask Captain Baildon if he knew where we were ; but somehow I'd no strength to do it. And yet, no, twas not strength I wanted, but — but courage. * " The things I was beginning to fear were such terrible things tiiat I dreaded the moment when I must find that they were more than fears. '" ril never know— I think it never can be known — whether or no through all these hours the captain was at the helm or no. As Fve said, I heard no voice, no footstep ; no, not though I held mj Tery breath to listen. . ' " I can't s^ how long that time that was almost a time of calm had lasted. I fancied at times that there was a ray of faint light in a chink overhead, but I couldn't be sure. And then, as I listened, I began to be aware that another squall was coming on ; not quite so sudden as some of them had come, but I liked the sound of it none the better for that. * " The wind deepened and hoarsened, and now it was like a long, low wail, and now it was like a wild shriek, and the hull strainM and groaned, and it rolled and tossed, and I knew that the sea must be maldng worse than ever before. * " Did I pray ? you ask me, sir. I'd been praying at intervals all the while—not kneeling down much, for which I was sorry ; but the child was on my knee, and I dreaded to wake her for fear of awakening the others. I prayed that they might go on sleeping ; and their sleep was beautiful to me. I could not see them, but I could hear their soft, reg'lar breathing. And once Ailsie spoke in knew me the Ghristmas-cards, and touched them all so gentle with her gentle bands. And she's going up a hill— such a high green hill t and she can't get up ; no, she can't. Oh, Barbara, go an' help her ; she's slippin' back at every step an' hardly getting any further at all. An' she does so want to get to the top I I can see why ! I can see it all now. There's a beautiful city over the hilL an' she wants to go there, but she can't get up that green hillside. Oh, lohy can't she? Wb^? Will nobody help her ?'" * This is just what Barbara told me, Thorda dear. Can you pat ..i •fo IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL a mMBiog to it ? I wish the dream had gone a little farther ; that Ailiie hiM teen the help coming! Isn't that childish of me? I am coming with the help myself one of these snmmer daya. *"It waa soon after Ailsie had done talking in her dream," Barbara went od, " that the schooner began to heave and toas more fearfully than eve before. It seemed to be plunging through the wavea as a wild least might plunge through a forest We were driven on and on, and now one side of the cabin waa uppermost and now the other, and the roar of wind and wave was oeaCening by this time. * " It was just fheq that a strange kind of terror came over me. It was not — I do think it was not the terror of death, for I had given up my soul, with all its sins and all its shortcomings, just u it was, into the hands of God. And as for the little ones-rwell, I prayed for them too, and I'd no fear. * " From time to time I'd been saying a verse of that hymn, Juti <u I am, without one plea^ and it had been as comforting aa Bible words themselves, for of course, they are Bible words just put into verse ; that'a why thejr comfort one so. ' " There was one verse especially that seemed to come of itself ; over and over it rang in my ears when I wasn't thinging of saying itb la waa this : * ** * Just as I am, and waiting not To deanse my aool of one dark blot, To Thee, Whose blood can cleanse each BpoC» O La^b of Ood, I come.' ' '*Fd just been sajring that, or no, Fd better say listening to it, when — when. . . . Oh, Mr. Oodfrev, how will I ever speak of that moment ? I've never spoke of it yet, never to no one. . . . But I uHint to speak of it. It will be better if I can. . . . Then, maybe, I'll not suffer so. For I do suffer. All night long that moment is before me. I live through it again with such teirible vividness that it has even seemed to me that I might die of the vision of things I lived through in reality. * "How will I tell you of what happened ? ... As I said, the dismasted hull of the schooner had been plnnging onward, driven hither and thither for some time. . . . And a kind of terror had thrilled through me once, just once. Then that verse came, and I was growing quieter, toheB all at once I knew that the achooner wa» tinking, * ** I felt it going down sideways. There was change in the sounds all about, not a lull in the sounds' intensity, but a dread and awful change. * " I wakened the children, hardly knowing what I was doing, but somehow I didn't wish them to bo drowned— to die — in their sleep. Heaven only knows how I repented of that deed af terwarda. ~~It would have been so easy for them, so painless. As it was, their iuffering waa very great, and every pang I had to witness smote me Kkeaiiii. BARBARA'S STORY. t83 "*I wu telling joa of the moment when the ship nok. She went OTer on her side, slowly. The water rushed into the oabin. ... I tried to oalm the children. My little Stephen wss terribly •larmed ; and I had to ^^ive more attention to him. ' ** There was a table in the cabin ; and, unlike most cabin tablea, it was not a fixture. Seeing that it floated, I placed the children on it, and tried to keep it in one comer, but I could noi The hull was swaying up and down on its iide; and the cabin was half filled with water. * " Ailsie was very white, but she was very still. Seeins that the water was up to my waist, she kissed me, and said, * l^u*ll take oold. Barbie, do come up here on the table.' And to comfort her I did lean OTer, holding on by the beam just aboTC. Fortunately there waa a sort of iron holdfast driven into the beam, and I took off my apron and twined it round, so that the children might have sometning to cling to. But this was not for lonff. I cannot say how long. I had got Stevie quiet again. I told him of Christ walking on the water, and said that I believed He wasn't verjr far awav from us. Then he put his arm round my neck, and twined his hands in my hair, which had all fallen loose in the tossing to and fro. After a little while Ailsie kissed me again, and laid her head on my other shoulder ; and her hands got tangled in my hair as well. Ildy was still asleep. She slept stransely all through the worst of everything. For some time, it might be an hour, it might be more, I stood there by the table. The water rose and fell with the rising and falling of the hull ; it was very cold, and chilled us to the marrow ; but we seemed to get used to that. **' Once or twice Stevie slept awhile ; and once or twice I sang, just little snatches of hymns the children liked. It seemeci to c|uiet them when they grew frightened. But they were strangely little frighted : they didn't know that all was overed ; and I could not tell them. * " No, I don't know how Ions it was before, at last, the hull turned completely bottom upward. It gave a lurch, the water rose all at once, it rose to my very throat, for a minute or two. I held Ildy up above it with one hand, and Ailsie with the other. Stevie was still holding by my hair, and that kept him up. ' " I knew now that the vessel was quite upside down, and that it was floatiaff on over the sea, tossed to and fro in the storm. And I also knew that we four were the only living beings on the hull. No man on the deck could have outlived the capsizing of the schooner. It was very strange ; I'd no wish to live ; and yet it didn't seem right to die till I was forced. Besides, I knew that I must outlive the last of the children. That was nearly all I prayed for. * " 'Twas a desperate time and long. . . . O Lord, how long I They saw now it was only a day and a night from the upturning of the schooner ; but then I can't think they know. / knew I Standing there with the cold SM-water up to my throat, and thro* MO***^-'] a«4 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, ohildren dinging to my hair, / knew. . . . O God, 111 know alw^yil I'll feel tboee bands in my hair till I die I I can tell yon no mora^ ■ir ; my itren|fth fails when I think of it. ' " I don't nghtly remember when I knew that Stevie was dead. He died first, which vou wouldn't have thought, him being so anch stronger than Ailsie. But he died first. Yet his hands nerer left my hair. He was dinging to that when — when they fonnd us. And little Ailsie's bands were twining close to his. so they said. I had known that she was djad. ... Oh yes, I had known that for days. < " And I remember so wdl the last word she said. The water was swaying and tossing about the dark cabin rather wildly just then ; and she was swayed and tossed with it, and the little one that was dead was tossing too. I think that pained me even more than the other. And I knew by Ailsie's yoioe that she was getting near the end. * " ' Can ya kiss me, Barbie V she b^ged. * Can ya kiss me just once?' ' " So I tried to turn my head, and I felt a little cold wet hand pressing my cold face. . . . And somehow the kiss was given. Then the little one drifted further from me, keeping one hand in my hair always. And the last I heard was a word of prayer. ' " ' Lift me out of the water, good Jesus ; lift me away, for Vm tired— despert tired. Lift me away oat o' this dark water.' ' " I did not Imow when she went. . . . For many hours I knew nothing. < " You know the rest, Canon Godfrey, how we were saved — the ehild and me. It is a miracle— more and more as I am able to think, I see that the saving of us two was a miraculous thinff. Who took care of the little one, and kept the life in her, when life was all but gone from myself ? *"Do you know I have a strong and strange feeling that her being saved was for some strong and strange desiffu. . . . Will you think of that, sir — will you remember it? Will vou write it down that I have said that I believe that Ilda, the coild of Anna Tj'as, was strangelv saved from a strange death that her life might be of some especial use ; perhaps lived to some especial purpose ? I cannot see, not yet; but I think that I shall see.' ' ' And God grant that yon may,' replied the Rector of Yarburgh, rising from his seat in Barbara's cottage. It was hers only now. Presently by way of parting words, he said : ' You have asked me to note the child's life. ... I shall not be here to note it. . . , But I will leave the words that you have said in writing for those who come after me.' ' You will not he here P Barbara asked, with lips whiter than they had been before. ' No,' the Canon replied calmly ; but seeing the girl's distress, h« added a word of comfort. ' I shall not be here,' he said, ' but I trust that I shall be with those who thank God because they are at ^AND NOW THE DA Y IS NEARL Y DONE: 385 rfii . . . T«t, at retit . . . Ton, yoanelf, mast know what it ii to be weary ; to orave for rest when weariness is a burden too heary im. be borne, . . . Think so of me, when yon think at all, as of one only too gla^ to reach the haven where he has lonffed to be. . . . Bat I am anticipating/ he said, with a sweet sudden smile as ho lamed away. * The end is not yet' CHAPTER LXIIL *AMD MOW THE DAY IS NEARLT DONE.' * When the unfit Contnurioui mooda of men recoil awsy, And isolate pore roirits, and permit A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death hoar rounding ii* ' £. B. Bbownino i Sonnet$/rom the Fortugue$e, * A DULL little place,* say some visitors from London, promenading slowly up and. down the quay at Ulvstan Bight. Once more it is summer; once more the skies make a deep blue background, against which the white wings of the sea-gulls may flit and circle ; ouce more the fishing-fleet lies ofE the land on still eveninffs, swaying slowly too and fro in the sunny yellow mist. On the moor, far up above the Bight, the heather is bursting into bloom ; the foxgloves rise above the green bracken ; by the stony waysides the little blue harebell stirs and quivers to the light evening breeze. Late as it is a lark is singing overhead, and by-and-by a robin Eerched on a stunted hawthorn-bush chirps out a vesper song of is own. * " A dull little place !'* they say,' Gai]^ Godfrey repeated half audibly, and with a smile not free from pity on his face. He was so glad to be * dull ' — in other words, to have a time of perfect quiet, made more perfect by the exceeding beauty of the place and of the hour. How long he had been up there on the moorland height, drinking in the fresh, free air, the welcome stillness, feeling lus very soul within him soothed and healed as he stood or walked, and listened andj^zed, he hardly knew. : * One such hoar is worth days of troubled living,' he said to him- ■dlf. * It is good to be here.' ^*^thxi his enjoyment of solitude was almost at an end. Garriage- w^ls were heard grinding slowly up the stony hill, and inevitably a momentary sense of annoyance came upon him. But this de- parted as suddenly as it came. When Mrs. Meredith stopped her carriage to speak to him, he W9S able to lift a quite unclouded face. Yet. as she saw, it was a vc^y weary face ; almost she felt a shock as she looked into it. Onlv the kind blue eyes were unchanged. She had something to tell to Canon Godfrey. She had meant to i*f*-' 986 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, annonnoe it, but being softened by the sight of him, her mood wu mach modified. ' Will you drive with me a little way ?' she asked. ' All the way, if vou can. Won't the first prrouse of the year tempt ^oa T 'The first grouse !' Hugh Godfrey repeated, in a quiet and medi- tative way. ' How cruel of you to mention it I You know that Milicent is waiting for me ; and though not exactly a henpecked husband ' « Oh, hush I Won't I tell your wife !' * Very well ; only come and tell her soon. Will yon come to luncheon to-morrow ? I am afraid I can't promise grouse — not yet awhile.' Mrs. Meredith hesitated a moment ; and Canon Godfrey could hardly holp watching her, wondering in much perplexity what might be tho meauinff of this great and sadden change of attitude. From that winter's day with its dread disaster till now, she had never relaxed from her first severity of mood and manner. Cer- tainly there must be some reason for the change. * No, I won't come to-morrow,* Mrs. Meredith replied. She was one of those people who can be most graciously ungracious without giving offence. ' Not to-morrow,' she repeated. ' I have sometbir >* to tell you. I will tell you now ; and then I will accept the fit Si^ invitation that comes from the Rectory afterward. . . . Not that I have anything to fear— of course not !' she added, with a short little laugh of superiority. ' It is quite the other way. You should be glad of my news ; for every reason you should be glad. . . . Percival is going to be married.' The Canon looked into Mrs. Meredith's face with a quick, glad, half-surprised look on his own. Then he held out his hand, which was taken warmly. * You are congratulating me without knowing the lady !' she ex- claimed. ' Don't I know her ? Am I mistaken ? surely not ! It is Gertrude ?' * Now that is good of you,' Mrs. Meredith replied. ' And it is so like you, to divine it all— to spare me the moment ; yes, it is quite characteristic. And now tell me honestly what you think— as if you were my brother.' 'Well, then, honestly, I am wondering which of them is the most to be congratulated.* Of course, one knows what the world will say— this tiresome, worrying little world all about us. It will be said everywhere that Gerti-ude is the fortunate person — and fe*oly .she is fortunate, from a certain point of view — which she will be able to appreciate ; rtwat fortunate. But there is a good deal to be said on the other side. I can offer very sincere congratulations to Percival. Miss Douglas is not only a beautiful woman : I consider her to have an absolutely perfect temper — no light matter in mar- ried life. . . . Yes, certainly I can congratulate him ; I congratulate you nou;— on the spot. I can hardly imagine any station in life tl 'AND NOW THE DA Y tS NEARL Y DONE.' 387 that would Aot be gmed by the presence of the woman your hod M -'T^'jt^^^^^^^'^^f^^^^P'^^'^"- • • • I <an 8ay no more/ -,iil,% 7 ** '^^ not often emotional ; but she could not reply wTtfth^« n "'*''• ^h •^^J'^handB once more, and more warml/ with the Canon, and drove off, saying : •»»«*/. • I ahall expect that invitation to luncheon ; add a irraoe to it bv sending It soon . Life has not been the same skce I wm banished from the Rectory.' ^" t\i^^}fl ^°" '' **** ^*°^° exclaimed, his hat in his hand as tiie carnage drove away. And long afterwards Mrs. Meredith smiled as she leaned back in Cham, the fascination that was about all that Canon Godfrey said ^u^i^^ylr^^^ *" ^^"^^' • *^^« ^^"^^ ^<>^«i-« ^^^ J^}^^' ^ i'"^®, ^*'®*'' ^^^"^ '*»® distance was wider, the upland aid hS**-L^'5S^^^ P^fP^"' \^" «""»™«' «^«"i"« breez; more chill and sad, she added yet another word. Forgive— forgive Aim / Good God I I say it in all reverence I say, good God, forgive u,, who do not kno J him-who cannot an^oK? L^V^' ^^J the reflection of his soul that one sees-oS?y Jisbn "^ \^^^^^r^, and darkened, yet most beaudfiJ seSd«n^inr "l"" ???*''-* ""^"^ "°««'fi«^ ^°n^a°. and more self-denying. . . . And there is more than that. What is it ? VVhat IS the atmosphei* that is all about him, that impreLe? oL molphei. ^/TaT^r *^^^ "^** '' ^^-^ ^^^ ^-^-i^- the at- • One takes knowledge of him, thai he ha$ been with Jesu».' ***♦#»' t.5^n*? ^*J *^aV;°'"®'* °^?^*/ shepherd was returning from the town of Yarburgh to a moorland farm. It was a very bright night frSmTh^ J"^ ^;^^y "i '^r ^[""' «°^ '^0^^ out clea? and cloudlet hnZtf * ♦r °! ^*^P ^*i^ *'^""- T^« «<^" ^ere numerous and bnllant as the stars on a deep and frosty night in midwinter. All the way over the narrow, stony moorland road the man went whisthng not from cowardice, but for very pleasure The S was so still, so bright, so warm, and so indinpuUtbly beautiful *^ fmm nn!. 7k'''' ***!' ^o supcrstition ; and when he heard suddenly from under the stunted hawthorn-tree by the moorland wall a cry out'i^f/ ^"^«*f°d g?°«« appeal for help, he turned aside with-' out dread. He stooped over the figure lying there : then with a sudden shock as of pain, Reuben L^ge drew himself no hiiSy It s never you, sir ?—te8 never Canon Godfrey /' ' oihlrl^ '* JS'. »«".»>«^ ... Can you help me ? Can yon get other help ? . . . There is a dog-cart at the Leas-isn't there ? But "1 1 2^ m nxcuAi^Gn for a s:ovl. there is no need for great haste, much less for alarm. : • . tt Wi A cold night — and it's not in tide least damp.' No ; there was no need for haste. A couple of honrs later the Canon was in his own study, lying on the sofa, and Dr. Douglas was there, speaking rough-and-ready truth as usual. ' I've seen it coming ; months ago I told you what that under- action of the heart would mean if yon didn't take care. And what care have you taken T The doctor's tone was a little harsh, a little brusque ; but it may be that Canon Godfrey defined the source of the brusqueness. His reply was in marked contrast. * Don't scold me, Douglas,' he begged gently, putting out a be- seeching hand, which the doctor would not see. Instead, he walked off to the window and looked out, saying, by- 4nd-by, in a strange and unusual voice : ' Scold you ! It's too lato ! . . . Would to God it wnsn't !' ' You mean that I shall not recover ? . . . Well, I had not ex- pected it, and may I be forgiven for saying I had not desired it.' *■ No, that I believe — that I have seen long ago ; but without being able for one moment to understand. . , . Why, what would you have ? What is there in life worth having that you haven't got?' , • The Canon smiled ; then presently he said . ' Don't think me ungrateful, or even unperceptive. I have had much that many have envied me. I had cv^mparative success early in iife, and ever since I have tasted the frai t of that success. But one doesn't wear one's heart on one's sleeve — not if one is w;ise — still less does one publish one's whole affairs to the world. I have not done so. And now at this late hour I may say that I have hidden cares and anxieties, caused by no fault of my own, but grave enough to have killed many men.' ' Doubtless — since they have killed you,' the doctor interposed with even more than his usual abruptness. ' Ah, well !' the Canon returned ; * it is evident that yon are in no mood to hear my confidences to-night. You must give me another opportunity when you are in a better frame of mind. . , . But one word more ; shall I send for Thorhilda ?' ' By all means. Shall I write for you ?' ' Thank you, yes ; but don't say a word to alarm her. She will come without that.' CHAPTER LXIV. •in to-day already walks to-morrow.* ' The ipirit of man is an instrumeut which cannot give oat its fle cpwi b finest tones, except under the immediate hand of the Divine Harmonist.' — PboFBBBOB SHAUtP. The Canon had been disappointed. It was not his niece's step that he had heard in the hall, but that of Lady Diana Haddingley, a */-V TO-DAV ALREADY WALKS TO-MORROW: 2S9 person who was almost a stranger to him, and therefore in his present state of mind and body a person to be almost dreaded. Portonately, however, ten minntes of Lady Di's sooiety had bui- ished all the dread. She was not now a vonng womnn, far from it ; and her latest peculiar fancy was to dress so that she might be mistaken for a widow. Almost inevitably, since she had dressed to the character, she had come to believe in a sort of widowhood, and not only to believe in it, but to act and speak out of her belief. Yet there was no deliberate hypocrisy in her histrionic display. She knew that others knew how it all was, and remained content to know. Still she clung to the simulated 'weeds' — the white cap, the black bonnet, ^e long veil that was neither crape nor gauze. Where, her friends asked, did she get such ambiguously lovely materials ? All her study, her research, was thrown away upon Canon God- frey. He did not even remember whether she had ever been mar- ried or no. Expectinff, with a beating heart, that his niece might have arrived an hour or two before her time, and so have missed her aunt, who had gone to the station to meet her, he sank back into his chair with a new paleness on his faae when the stranger was ushered into the room. But let it be said again, ten minntes of the stranger's presence insured her welcome for as many months, if the Canon should live so long. For once there was a little sigh, remembering that ha might not count so many days. Lady Diana Haddingley was one of those rare sympathetic women who can lend themselves — and this successfully— to any hour, any mood, any circumstance, and almost any person. She had not been a quarter of an hour in the drawing-room at Tarburgh Bectory before she was in touch with all that had happened there during the past two years. And it may be that in one particular her insight went even further than that of Canon Godfrey himself. A light seemed to flash across her mind suddenly when the name of Damian Aldenmede was mentioned. She remembered a letter that she herself had written only a few months before, just about the time fixed for Miss Theyn's marriage ; and she also remembered Mrs. Godfrey's reply — a letter disclosing*^ much more than the Canon's wife had meant to disclose. In fact, it had been so worded as to convey meanings of which Mrs. Godfrey herself was ignorant. Yet, curiously enough, these hidden meanings held the very core of the truth of all that bad happened at the Bectory. * Ah f yes. I remember Mr. Aldenmede was here ; he was here ever so long. I told your wife all the gossip I had heard from Sarah Ghanning. I don't oelieve in it much, though. Sarah always gets hold of the wrong end of a story. ... I dare say you know about it all. There was a fish- wife as heroine— the mother of half a dosen little fisher-folk ' * Oh, hush I pray say no more I' the Canon begged, not too cou;- 19 i$o IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, teously. ' I will tell you after about the things that roust bare giren rise to such terrible gossip as that. It is worse than merely untrue. But, pardon me for asking it, can you tell me something of Mr. Aldenmede — anything that may be told openly and honourably ? Wo saw so much of him, we know so little of hira. But let me say that all we did know added to our admiration.' ' That was inevitable. But do you mean to say that yon never heard of his great trouble — the thing that drove him from his country and ms home, drove him to wander over the earth for years ?' * No, we knew nothing ; we know nothing yet. But don't betray any secret to gratify curiosity of mine.' * Secret I It was known all over Gloucestershire.' ' Is that his county ?' Lady Di smiled. 'You spoke of your curiosity just now,* she said. *It seems Son have not had enough to induce you to look into a certain ook to be found in most houses. Don't you know that your artist-friend is the nephew of old Sic Ralph Aldenmede of King's Alden ?' * No. ... I did not know. . . . But tell me something more in- interesting than that.' * Interesting ! You might call for i^nsation and not be disap- pointed in the present instance.' ' You are dreadfully trying, Lady Diana.' ' Because I won't come to the point ? . . . Well, I won't be try- ing any more. I will give you the history in the fewest words possible. * First of all, then, to go back about fifteen years— to the time when Damian Aldenmede was a youth of one-and-twenty ; a very boyish youth for his years, but clever enough, and high-minded enough ; indeed, " Don Quixote " was the name we gave to him in those days. I needly hardly say that he was popular — singularly popular for a man who was not likely ever to be very rich ; for Sir Ralph had two sons living then, Charles and Alfred ; and Damian's mother, a widow of five-and-fifty, though well-to-do, was not counted a wealthy woman. I should say a couple of thousands a year was the extent of her income, and Damian's sole prospect was the reversion of that. But, as we always said, a couple of hundreds would have been enough for him ; indeed, I do not suppose that he is spending much more than that upon himself even now. Still, his inappetence for spending money on himself did not injure his popu- larity — quite the reverse. He made friends everywhere, his especial friend being a certain Julian Haverfield, the son of a Lincoln- shire clergyman. Mr. Haverfield spent most of his vacations at Massingham, Mrs. Aldenmede's little place in Gloucestershire, and we all knew him, and liked him. He was very fascinating. * Now comes the beginning of the tragedy. Damian Aldenmede fell in love— deeply, passionately in love — with a governess, the M ^IN TODAY ALREADY WALKS TO-MORROW! 29I orphan daughter of a provincial lawyer, and one of the most beaati- ful girls I have ever aeen in my life. Her features were small, refined, and most exquisitely cut ; to look at her profile was like looking at a cameo ; and her colouring was simply the cream and carnation of Millais* baby-girls. We were all in love with her ; and she knew it, expected it, for the girl had no more brain than a butterfly. How such a man as Damian Aldenmede could ever have cared for her for three consecutive days puzzled everybody who oould not see that a man who is also an artist is open to temptation on a side not vulnerable in ordinary men. It was the artist that was attracted first ; the man was subjugated later. There must, of course, have been something more than mei-e beauty in Miss Florence Underhay— some gentleness, some womanliness, some indefinable fascination, or Damian Aldenmede had never contrived to make wreck of hia life in the complete way he contrived to do. * The tragedy might never have been so complete if his mother had not been as proud as she was shallow. When she came to know that Damain was engaged— actually engaged to the governess of her late grocer (now retired, and hving in a beautiful, villa at Clifton) — her anger knew no bounds. * There must have been some terrible scenes, for Damian's love and regard for his mother had always been noticeable. However, in the end, she disinherited him as far as she had power to do. She had a new will made, and left the greater part of her possessions to a niece, the daughter of a favourite sister. • At last comes the most dramatic part of the story. Miss Florence Underhay came to know of the new will, and from that day she changed to the man who was to have been her husband, who had lavished the love of a strong heart and brain upon her to an extent she had only found wearisome. ♦ The end came quickly. One fine morning Damian received a double letter, two sheets in two different hand-writings in one enve- lope. The first he read was from his friend Julian Haverfield, a man he had loved as his own soul The letter announced the approaching marriage of Mr. Haverfield and Miss Florence Underhay. -The second letter was from Miss Underhay herself. It was almost brutally candid. ' She had not deceived Mr. Aldenmede, she said. She had loved him, she had meant to marry him ; but learning what would be the pecuniary result of such a marringe, she had not hesitated in her decision to break off the engagement at once. Almost at the same moment, Mr. Haverfield, to whom she had spoken of her resolution had made her an offer. Being a richer man than Damian Alden- mede had ever hoped to be, she had, of course, accepted him. She added that she had had enough of poverty, of all that was meant by narrow means. • In conclusion, she said, "I ask you to forgive me, and to foiget me. I am persuaded that there will come a day when you will be iJ--2 M 393 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, gUd that I have acted thus. I was no fit wife for yon. For along time past it has been a strain to me to live up to your expectations. You required too much." * Imagine the blow to a man like Aldenmede I His mother told me that she believed the broken friendship was at least as much as the broken love. He has never been himself since — not tiie self he was before. ' As a matter of course, Mrs. Aldenmede again changed her inten- tions as to the disposal of her property, much to the dismay of her niece, Clara Toung, who was already beginning to be looked upoi as ,tXi heiress, and had refused more than one eligible offer because she comsidered that such a fortune as the one she was expecting ought at least to secure for her a title, Damian has been very good to her since his mother's death, and very helpful to her husband ; indeed, he is ^ooA to everybody.' So Lady Di ended her story. She had told it in a very bald and crude fashion, as she knew, and the Canon knew that too, but all the Fame his heart ached as he listened. Now he knew, why the artist had worn always that sad face ; why be had, in a certain sense, striven to hide his real position from such as did not know it. Poubtless, the man was hoping to win some love for himself alone, untainted by appreciation of aught that he might possess. . Had thier also been a mistake ? Had it even led to a new undoing ? There was silence in the room for awhile. In the heart of each of the two people there the same idea was pressing, and this with all the force of prophecy. ' They must meet again f the Canon said to himself ; and then in the quiet that followed he felt the spirit within him grow calm and sure. ' It will be well, it will all be well,' so it seemed that some voice was saying. And just then came the sound of carriage-wheels, the opening and shutting of doors, the words of welcome uttered by his wife. For a moment he felt overcome, but be strove and was vic- torious. A minute later Thorda was kneeling by bis sofa, and her eyes were wet, her voice broker by emotion. * Say you forgive me. Uncle Hugh — say that once again !' she cried. And, indeed, the agony of her mind was very great. Till her sorrow had come she had never known how she had loved this man who lav there dyiug. nor had she till then dreamt of what his love for her had been. The past few months had shown her all with a most vigorously bitter showing. No day or hour had passed but she had missed his care, his tran- quil, mindful affection. That other love, stifled half -successfully in her heart, had caused her less constant misery than this. To be there in the old room, to kneel beside him, to bold hih hand, to look into his face, was an emotion that for the time uaorbed all others. She did not know when Lady Dinna and her ^3 THE UNEXPECTED, aunt went oat ; she only knew that at last she and her nnole alone. It was an hoar she had longed for, waited for, dreamt of an- oeasingly. There had been no misnnderstanding between them ; bnt since that sad crisis in her life there had not been opportuaity for the perfect understanding, the oneness of mind and heart ^he so yearned for. Now it might be — that perfect unity ; if only for a little while. She did not yet dream how short the interval was to be. It is better not to know, but it is well to remember all that know- ledge might mean. The next word we utter might be gentler and tenderer if we knew it would be spoken to one over whom the wings of Acrael were already silently spreading ; silent with the silence of the land beyond. CHAPTER LXV. ' THE UNEXPECTED. k Still onward winds the dreary way ; I with it, for I long to prove No Isyse of moons can conquer love, Whatever fickle tongaes may say.' In Memoriam, Those were glorious autumn days. Now and then, when Canon Godfrey was well enough, he and his niece walked out over the moor beyond the Rectory, sauntering up the stony hillside pathways with leagues upon leagues of crimson heather on either side. The warm yellow sunlight heightened the tone of things near and far, the blue sea stretched quietly from point to point. While-winged gulls sailed lazily overhead on the one hand ; startled grouse whirred tremulously on the other. No other sounds disturbed the enchant- ing stillnesa On one of these days — it was early in September — the Canon was in a brighter mood than usual He seemed stronger, able to walk better and faster. ' Ah, what it is to feel strong again, young again 1' he said, turn- ing aside so that he might sit down to rest awhile on the top of Barugh Houe, an ancient British cairn at the top of Yarburgh Moor. It was a favourite spot. There was the sea he had always loved so passionately in the distance ; the moors he had loved with a love almost equally strong were all about him, glowing in their richest beauty, the crown of the year lying upon each moorland brow. And the free fresh air was as wine to the man whose wine of youth and strength had beui drained prematurely to the lees. To-day he rejoi^ again with a new rejoicing. * It is almost worth while to have felt faint and weak and worth* less, to know the joy of renewed strength,' he went on. ' Life would be worth living if only to have a day now and then like this. I can mm m m EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, hardly believe now that once, and not so long ago, life was liTed always on snch terms as these I That I slept at night a painless and refreshing sleep, that I awoke always as a child awakes, glad of the new day ; my brain busy with new thought ; my heart warm with new and expectant emotion. Yes. ... I think I was a happy man, very hafppy. . . . There were hidden troubles ; but I bore them — I think I may say that, by the grace of God, I bore them well ; hut I was not ttrong enough to go on hearing them; and I fear now that it was because I had not sufficient spiritual strength. We know nothing of ourselves, not yet. We know nothing of the way the sonl's strength acta upon the strength of the body. The strong soul is at peace. Peace means opportunity for growth, development for all that is hindered by tumult, by anger, by distress. Give the soul an atmosphere of calm, and all will be wel). . . And I am calm to-day, very calm. ... But how egotistic I am growing I Thorda dear, how is it with you ?' Miss Theyn was sitting among the crimson heather at her uncle's feet ; a woman older by ten years than she had seemed ten months ago. It was a topic of conversation everywhere that her good looks were gone ; and for once gossip was not mistaken^ She was quite aware of her loss — what true woman would not have been ? She knew that she was thin and pale ; that her eyes had lost both colour and brightness ; in a word, that she was faded and passSe to an extent her years by no means excused. Yet the change did not distress her. She had passed beyond the possibility of distresses of that kind. ' How is it with me ?' she repeated. ' Well, I could almost echo your own words. I, too, have peace. Not perfect peace — it is not always with me. There are breaks in it at times ' " When I think of what I am, and what I might have been." ' * But as I told you the other day, Thorda dear, I am very sure it is not a wise thing to live too much in an unhappy or mistaken past.' ' I agree with you completely. " Not too much ;*' but, on the other nand, if one could forget it altogether, would it be wise to do so ? Is there not a sort of safety in i emembering past falls?' • Yes ; if one doesn't remember them to the point of depression in the present. I have seen a human b^ing so borne down by the sense of past sin as to have neither hope nor energy left for even making an effort to rise again. It is not so with you, I know. 1 would only warn you, because I know your tendency to brood over the past. . Let it go, dear. It is possible *•* To be as if yon had not been till now i „• And now were simply lohat yon choose to be.' There was silence while Miss Theyn drank in the beauty, the strength, of this most strengthening thought. THE UNEXPECTED, 295 lit m * Not quit* what one chooses to be, Uncle Hugh,' she said pre* sently. ' The past must always have its influence on the present.* * And the present on the future. That is the immense value of the present hour ; it must in a measure dominate the hours to be. Yet there is truth in the poet's word. One strong efl'ort may save a soul on the brink of destruction. Think of ZacchaBus, of the splendid picture painted of him by St. Luke. He had been drawn by mere rumour to wish to see Jesus. He knew himself to be a sinner, an ungodly man, rapacious, nruel ; yet the germ of good, the ideal, was in him as it is in most men. Ho wished to see Jesus, he saw Him, and more than that, was seen of Him ; requested to come down from the tree into which be had climbed ; and then (what rm%i his astonishment have been ?) tVe Master said, '' I wish to come to your house to abide there." • " And he made haste, and came down, and re cnved him joyfully." Joyfully, ah, yes indeed, think of his jo;s I ' There is often something touching, of t<. n something noble, even in the hated thing we call condescension. A man of high rank may condescend to one of lower rank, even the lowest, and gain an added grace in the act. Suspicion may be there on the one side and on the other ; but if there be nothing to be suspected, the presence of suspicion can do no real or permanent harm. ' But the greatest condescension of all — the truest, the most noble, the most touching— is when one who has worn the white flower of a blameless life condescends to one whose lilies of purity were dragged in the dust long ago. That is the one condescension worthy of note. ' A rich man speaking to a poor man can have no human or spiritual aversion to make his speaking an act of self-sacrifice. A lady with an ancient and honourable title cannot really feel that the pure and high-minded woman in whose society she 6nds herself is really her inferior because of the absence of the outward distinctive sign of social rank. But it is diflFerent when you come to deal with spiritual rank. * " Know that there is in mm a qnite Indestmctible revei;ence for whatso- ever holds of heaven, or even plausibly countorfeits such holdiug. Show the dullest clodpole, show the haughtiest featlurluad, tlmt a soul higher than himseU is actually here ; were his knees stiffened into brass, he must down and worship." * Yes ; he must down and worship. On his knees he must con- trast the purity, the nobility, the peace, the happiness of this man's life with his own. Then follows the thought, the aspiration, " Can I become what this man is ? Can I rise to his pure height ? Can I find enjoyment in the things he enjoys ? Can my life be as his life ?" So the questions come. Next, suddenly and strongly, comes the resolve. In the case of Zacchieus there was no hesitation. Too often hesitation is fatal, " Behold, Lord !" he said instantly, 11 296 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. " the half of my goods I give to the poor ; and if I have taken vof* thing from an^ man by false aconsation, I restore fourfold." ' And all this because of the sight of a pure spiritual face, the sound of a gentle beseeching voice. ' Gonrersion this is called, and rightly ; but the word has been so misused as to be no longer rightly useful. The repentance in the heart and soul of Zacchaeus must have been more or less rapid. Tet was it perfectly complete, entirely effectual. The Master ilimself declared at once that, because of this sudden penitence, salvation had that day come to the house of the rich publican. Doubtless, of course, that hour was but the beginning of the new life— new and beautiful, full of peace, of happiness, yet neither untried nor unshaded. So it is with you, Thoraa dear. Tour peace — the peace you have won out of tribulation — is not unbroken, you say. How should it be in this world ? Have you even the wi^h for unbroken peace ? Surely that would mean stagnation.' Again there was silence for a time— not an unhappy silence on either side. The Canon had recognised the change that had passed upon his niece's character ; how the channels df her soul seemed deeper and wider for the tide of sorrow and remorse that had poured through them, washing away even the very stains of the sel- fishness that had so marred her life before. The change showed in every act of her life — nav, in her every speech, and dress, and attitude. If less brightly beautiful than of old, she was even more graceful and tender, and her gentle consideration for others never failed her. The Canon could not help the thoaght that came. ' Ah, if he could see her now !' And with the thought came the longing, ' Let me see them before I die ; let me hear them speak to each other I I shall ktaow ; I shall understand !' It was not strange that Miss Theyn's thought should be of the same person. All about them were things to recall the few brief bright months during which she had known Damian Aldenmede. The blue tax-oft sea seemed to whisper of him ; the purple heather rustling in the breeze had a wistf ulness in its tone ; and as the sun sank to the moor the voices all about seemed to grow sadder, to deepen the sense of her heart's real loneliness. Long ago there had been an hour of awakening — an hour during whidi Miss Theyn had been wholly true to herself. ' It was love for Am, though I knew it not ; it was love for Damian Aldenmede that led me to do a deed that must for ever have destroyed the regard he had for me. . . Regard ? Was it not more than that I saw in his face on that day when he said " Good- bye " in the garden at Tarburgh ? I deceived myself then, or tried to do so ; bu^ why try self-deception notot ' He loved me, he saw that I loved him ; and he knew that I trampled on my love because of his poverty, or seeming poverty. He saw that I did. that ; that I encouraged another who loved OM. and who had wealth, but for whom I had no loo THE UNEXPECTED. 997 H« mast hare seen all that ; / know that he did. Surely, then, it hardly needtd that Ust soieidal act to destroy whatever of lore he had for me 1 * I lored him from the first, from the arst day I saw him. I had seen no one else like him ; no one so tme, so calm, so great ! I hare seen no one like him since, nor shall I. * No, it is over—my life, or rather my hope of happiness in life. Bat I may help to makei others happy.' So Miss Thevn was masing ; yet shall it be confessed that the oonolnsion, the last result of her thought, was less supremely satis- fying than it should have been. But in extenuation let it be remembered that she had only just entered upon her twenty-fifth year. At twentv-five one's opinions should be all settled ; one should be decided in politics, social science, and above all in matters theological That one should then, at that age, have anything left to learn, much less to discover, argues ill for the completeness of one's education. Thorhilda Theyn's education was yet incomplete ; but sorrow and pain had helped forward the process most satisfactorily of late. Tet that she should not be. able to find perfect rest in the idea of perfect renunciation was a fact that told its own tale. Life was itill strong within her, with love of all that life means. Desire for sympathy, for deep affection, still held their natural sway in her heart. She might be strong to control the yearning, strong to con- ceal it ; bat the power to destroy it was not yet hers; it might never be. Perhaps she hardly wished for the power. . Do we any of us wish it ? We live, and are denied, and suffer. -And when at last even the power of suffering is dead within us, what are we ? What are we then, when all human and lovable <)aaUtie8 have been so crushed within ns, because there is no one near to feel our love, to care for it, much less to try by tender human wiles to cherish it ? What are we then ? • • Some of OS who so suffer are simply what our friends make of as. We accept a frigid acquaintanceship— accept it with many smiles and much amiability — and go on living a life that is a very death. Others resent the entire state of things, and grow bitter, and meet with only bitternea*^ in return. In how many such might one find a ■%. hole world of genuine,and generous sweetness, only wanting the one daring touch of that daring thing — a pure human love ? Again there are some, perhaps but a ^w, who are so ready, so brigfatj so light, so unconscious, or aj^rently unconscious of self, that pity or compassion seems the last thing they can need. They think of others so perpetually that no one thinks of them. If we do think of them at all, we think how happy they are, how well-to-do, how free from care, and we give a little sigh of envy ; and while we give that careless sigh the soul we breathe it upon may be sobbing out the last convu&on of a very passion of loneli- ness, of unfriendedness. They wandered back over the moor— the Canon and his niece ; : ■■' I 398 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. aud almost inevitably the latter was sadder than she had been when she set ont. And it seemed as if her nncle !i somewhat unusual brightness made her sadder still. Almost it pained her — this new enjoyment of an apparently newly-tecovered strength. It was as if some new life had oeen given him— new mental and emotional life rather than merelv physical ; and vet there was some element present not entirely satisfactory. Almost it was fear that Miss Theyn felt— unknown, not understood fear. ' My bosom's lord sits lightly on its throne.* These words came to her mind all undesired , and even out of her own limited experience she could recall instances wherein this lighter sway of reason had but been the forerunner of tragic event. She was not superstitious, she was in the habit of laughing at pre- sentiments ; yet this evening, walking homeward over the moor, she felt herself to be more tenderly drawn to this her second and true father than ever before. She watched his lightest action, hung upon his briefest word, felt his smallest request as a binding plea. And Hugh Godfrey, if unaware, was not irresponsive. Thero was a small fir copse to be passed through between the moorland and the Rectory. The wind was singing gently in the tops of the pine-trees, sighing and singing with a kind of low-toned organ note. Between the boles of the trees could be seen the far- off silver light upon the sea ; a light that seemed not of heaven or of earth, but inherent in that wide world of water. Here and there a star was shining in the deep blue ether — shining silently, so far as human discerning conld know. All was silent save for the sighing of the breeze. Not a bird- note broke upon the ear ; if the wavelets plashing down upon the beach made any sound, it was the sound of a murmur so subdued as to make the stillness more noticeable. It was the time, the place, to cause an aching heart to ache with a more piercings loneliness. Wh^^ever trouble the soul might have, there was an atmoephere in which such trouble must seem to grow, to deepen, to weigh with a heavier pressure than before. > Why is it so ? Why does the extreme of beauty everywhere touch upon the extreme of pain ? Canon Godfrey was resting, leaning his arm upon the low stone wall that bounded the fir copse at the w^tern sioe. The gate was close at hand — the gate that led into Yarburgh Lane and down to the Rectory garden. ' Wait awhile, dear,' he said, when he first stayed his steps by the old lichen-covered gate. ' Let us rest a minute or two.* « ' You are tired. Uncle Hugh 1' * I think I am ; tired all at once. . . It was so glorious oat on the moor ; it is so glorious here !' Miss Theyn saw how it was. The beauty— the unusual beauty — together with the exhilaration of the moorland air, had been together too strongly stimulating for the man whose strength h^ gone so utterly before. THE VNEXPECYED. 299 • It M glorious. Still I think you will aee tho glory of it ah from the Rectory. Will you not come now, Uncle Hugh^? It is grow- ing late !' ' Lattl Yts, it is very late, and I am very glad. The evening has been so long.' Not knowing why, Miss Theyn felt that her heart was beginning to beat somewhat rapidly, wildly. There was nothing to cause her apprehension, yet she knew herself to be growing apprthensive. The Canon did not move. He was still loaning upon the old wall close to the gate. • Hasn't it been a long evening— very long ?' he said prencntly, speaking in a strange, dreamy way, quite new to him. And though no words could have been less alarming, the sense of alarm grew m Miss Theyn, heart and soul. She turned so that she could look into the Canon's face. A crimson flush was deepening there, where fdr weeks, nay, months past, only the pallid hue of illness had been ; the kind blue eyes were burning with a strange intense brilliancy. Suddenly the Canon held out his hand, looking into his niece's face with a pleading, pathetic look. He spoke with extreme difficulty. ' Take my hand, Thorda ! Take it in yours ! It pricks I It stings I Can't you feel that it stings ? Don't you feel it too ?' Miss Theyn was trying to hold the outstretched hand in hers, doing her utmost to overcome the terror that held her in no unconscious grasp. She had seen too much of late to be altogether unaware of the dread signiHcance of the blow she had now to meet. Yet that first moment was overwhelming. She knew how help- less she was up there on the lonely moor, with no habitation nearer than the Rectory. In her distress she turned to see if any human help might by chance be approaching ; and it seemed no strange coincidence that a dark figure should be coming somewhat rapidly over the stony pathway. Looking into the Canon's face again, she met no answering look. The eyes were still unnaturally bright, but all meaning was dying rapidly out of them, and the tired bead was drooping helplessly to one side ; the right arm still rested en the stone] wall. • Keep up a little longer, Uncle Hugh, just a little. Someone is coming— a gentleman,' Thorda urged tremblingly. She knew that the gentleman must hear her, he was so close now, and he was coming toward the gate. But Hugh Godfrey did not hear her. His head was sinking lower and lower. In a very passion of terror, Thorbilda put one arm round him and stretched out the other toward the stranger. What did it matter that he was not a stranger ? that her hand was laid compellingly upon the arm of Damian Aldenmed© ? What could such things matter in that dread moment ? Ml- 300 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, There wm no word of recognition ; nor wm any needed. Dami*n anderatood all in that first glance. He returned the preware of Min They n's hand, not lookina into her face at all, bat only into the face of the unseeing friend oef ore him. * Do your best to support Mr. Godfrey for a few minatee,' he begged. ' I will have help here immediately.' CHAPTER LXVL A8 A TALE THAT 18 TOLD. • ' One cannot judge ' Of what hA8 been the ill or well of life The day that one is dying— Borrows change Into not altogether sorrow like. I do not see sadness ; but scarce misery, Now it is over, and no danger more. ' TuS night following that evening npon the moorland hills was a strange but not unl^autiful time at Yarburgh Rectory. All night three persons bad keep watch in a quiet room. The dying man's wife had borne the ordeal well ; and his niece had endured not leas worthily, considering the extreme of her suffering. Each of these women knew that they had been strengthened by the presence of a man whose experience of suffering had been long and varied. When the morning came it seemed to Miss Theyn that Damian Aldenmede had been by her side for weeks or months. Every look of his was understood, every gesture. In the brain of each there was a kind of dumb surprise that the anticipations of months shoold all have been overruled by the event of one single moment. The meeting (inevitably each of them had felt assured that they must meet some day) had been rehearsed on either side, with details and circumstances now hopeful, and now most unhopeful, according to the mood of the dreamer. Not one event had come to pass in accordance with any dream. It was a careless word in a careless letter that had brought Damian Aldenmede to England. He had expected to find l^ss Theyn in the home of her friend Mrs. Thurstone, and had anfved there on the very day on which the telegram had been received stating that the Canon was less well than usual. He had followed Miss Theyn as far as Danesborough, and there he had stayed making earnest inquiries day by day. So it was that he had appeared at a moment when he was most needed, least expected.,' * Certainly Fate is kind to one sometimes,' he said to Miss Theyn, as they stood together by the fire in the Canon's room, at midnight. * Fate ?' she said inquiringly, lifting a calm white face to his grave countenance, benVdown a little to hers. i , * You know how I meant the word. We do not need to discuss AS A TALE THAT IS TOLD. 301 thai, yon and I. No day of my life is lived but I am impressed the mor« with belief in a personal Providence—- the Providence of % God who has given me that day, and will reqoire an aoconnt ofii* Miss Theyn was silent for awhile, and a little sad. ' Is not the thought almost too impressive for everprday ose for every one of ns V she said at last. * M^e can bear it just now, beoanse we stand in the presence of one who has never lost the thought, and is Koing to his rest now willingly, gladly, because he has not. I speak of common days, of more ordinary hours. Is not the thought too heavy ?' *Not, surely, if we take it rightly. To be impressed is not rueestarily to be depressed. Nay, for me the darkest hours and the lightest, the brightest, may mingle their diverse elements with no incongruity. Is not this such an hour for both of us ? Will yoa not let it be such ?' Damian Aldenmede paused then, watching the face of the woman he loved, seeing its expression change in the firelight from deepest oalm to almost painful confusion. The change distressed him. ' You have suffered enough,' he said, takin^r Tborhilda's hand in his, and holding it tenderly. 'And I can well understand that this hour ia one that must have yet more of suffering in it. ' Yet the joy, the extreme of happiness, may be all the deeper, the keener, for this sublimation of pain. May it not be so ? We are here, by the side of one who has lived, and loved, and suffered, and whom we both love ; and he is going from us — going into that silent land whither we must one day follow him. Will you not let him have the happiness of knowing of our happiness before he leaves us ? Indeed, I have fancied he was waiting for the knowledge, hoping for it ! You will let me speak of it to him ?' Thorhilda was pale and tremulous, yet she looked op an if she would search the face that was watching hers. * Yon can ask this — you can wish it— knowing all ?* He would not affect to misunderstand her. ' Yes, knowing all ; and partly because of my knowledge,* he repliocl. 'And not forgetting that I myself was to blame for much of your suffering. Is it vanity to think that if I had told you, or given you to understand at the very first that my love was yours — yours from the first hour I met you~is it vanity to think that all would have been different? Do not answer me if an answer would be pain. I have other things to confess ; and it may be that my confession will be in some sense an extenuation. If I had not suffered, if the remembrance of my suffering had not been strontr upon me, I had not refrained ttom trying to win your affection. And that another should be trying to win it was a possibility I could not face. The news came upon me like a shock —a far more terrible shock, let me say itj than I received on hearing that you had at last thought and acted for your better eelf. For- give me if I speak too plainly — ^it is better. Let all be fair between SM IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOt/t as, all quite open. There is much in my past that is painfu!-* nothing that I cannot tell you. And as for yoa, there is nothing that you need say—not a word. I know it all.' A^in there was effort on Miss Theyn's part. * Yes, you must know,' she said presently. 'And I am glad that it is so. I have not strength just now to lay bare all my past weakness, my past ignorance, as I should wish to da Such 8tiv<)ngth onlv comes by moments at a time.* * Then wait for the time, dear I' * Yes, I must. I must some day tell you how, when I began to feel your affection, I yet would not let myself yield to the spell of it, and all because I dreaded poverty — simply that — the dread of the effort, and self-denial of poor livinpf.' * And now you dread that no longer ?' The question was asked in all sincerity. Damian Aldenmede had ascertained how much of the actual state of his circumstances had been communicated to Miss Theyn by Mrs. Thurstone, how much by Lady Diana Haddingley. Each of these ladies had said nearly all she knev ' neither bad known the truth. So it was that when Thorhilda Theyn gave her word of promise to uhe artist who had won her love, she knew but little more than that he Wb,s a man of good birth, but of somewhat fallen fortune. Later she knew his whole life-story, not as told by Lady Di Haddingley or another. He told her all himself. But that night she was content to know nothing save that her life's one love was returned, and that nothing now stood in the way of her future happinesss. Her future happiness ! It was a happiness that domi- nated even the present hour of pain. A little later, as she stood by Canon Godfrey's bed-side, Damian Aldenmede at her right hand, the Canon sau how it Was with them, and the smile on Ida wan, white face expressed all his satisfaction. • * I have wished for this : I have wished to know,' he said, speak- ing with effort. 'Dear Thorda, this atones for all— for au my weakness, my cowardice 1' * Hush, Uncle Hugh f The weakness was mine, only mine ! It was yon who saved me. But for you I had exchanged my soul, my very soul, for a mess of pottage — the pottage of an easy competence.' ' And how many lives are wrecked on that same rock I* the Canon replied. He was lying back on the white pillows that propped him to a half -sitting posture. The thin, golden-brown hair streaked with white curled upon his wet forehead. The blue eyes shone brightly, intensely, as with deepest fervour of living, with keenest fervour of suffering. .*Ah, yes, how many lives are wrecked there! It is a rock the poor, the very poor, are saved from as certainly as the rich. They, God help them, are content to live from day tolday, happy so that they do not suffer actual starvation. It is the cla^s, or rather the AS A TALE THAT TS TOLD. 303 dasses, next above that suffer really. They cannot beg, they can Beldom borrow, they can do little out sufTer in silence. So it is that (hey are tempted. ... If you can, Thorda dear, help those — those who do not complain, who do not ask, who do not come before societies — yes, always help such as put a brave face on thuir poverty.' ' There I can give yon some little comfort, Uncle Hugh. I think I may say that 1 have learned to look below the surface. So you see that your life has not been lived in vain, so far as I am concerned. There are others, many others, who will say the same. , , . Will any say it so truly, so sadly as I do ?' » Sadly, Thorda dear ?' * Yet, very sadly, for much of the light yon gave me I refused to follow — yvis, I refused till the very last. That was my sin. It has bad its {suni^hment, as all wilful sin most have — sin committed a^^iinst li^ht, in the midst of light.' ' lint that is over now, dear.' ^ • No, it is not, Uncle Hugh. It never can be. I would not wish that it should. All my life must be sadder, the less bright and beautiful for the shadow of that remembered sin. I believe it to be a sin forgiven, but I would not even wish it forgotten. It will keep me low, when temptation to spiritual pride would lift me higher than it would be safe for me to go. . . . No, I can never for- get ; I would not if I could. . . . But now for a while let us forget onrselves— our present selves. . , .^I have been thinking of Hartas. Would you not wish to see him. Uncle Hugh? , . . I know he will be wishing intensely to see you.* The Canon smiled and clasped his niece's hand ; then he drew from underneath his pillow an envelope addressed to his nephew, Hartas Theyn. It enclosed a letter written with much difficulty, and during keen bodily anguish. The Canon passed it to Damian Aldenmede. ' Will you take ^this to Hartas ?' he said. ' Will yon take ,ow f It is a request that he will come and see me, and that if it seem good to him and to Barbara Burdas they will come together. You can understand.* I m , CHAPTER LXVII. \ AT DA W N OP DAY. •Weep not ; O friends, we should not weep 1 Our friend of friends lies full of rest, No sorrow rankles in bis breast ' The sun had risen above the eastern sea with a soft, gray, gentle, radiance, lighting all the far faint waters with a silvery glow that seemed tenderer and more poetic by far than the more dazzling and aggressive tints of rose and daffodil that often mark the risinc of the 8UQ alove the northern ocean. S04 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL There is far less Tariation than might be deemed in this olond scenery. For that one whole summer a certain purple bar of cloud edged with amber rested athwart the eastern horizon from sunset to almost sunrise. Evening after evening the orb went down into the sea to the north-west, glowing under that heavy slanting bar, and morning by morning, but some two or three hours later, the sun uprose under the shadow of the same cloud, which had moved slowly to the north-east, and now was edged with- rose-pink, now with golden- yellow, now with palest silvery gray. It was of this faint silver tone that morning when Canon Go&rey asked that his narrow iron bedstead might be wheeled to the side of the open window. And even as he lay there with clasped hands, uplifted eyes, and fervid, prayerful lips, his name was being urged pleadingly by another. * Gome with me, Barbara,' Hartas Theyn was saying. He had come over from the Grange before daylight, holding in his hand the letter that Damian Aldenmede had brought to him. ' Gome with me,' Hartas repeated. ' Look at this letter ; it is my Uucle Hugh's. He knows all. He speaks of his faith in yon ; he alludes to his hope for me. . . . But even now, be yourself, Barbara. Don't let your regard for him lead yon to be untrue to yourself.' Barbara listened, white, pallid, yet strong in her own pore con- sciousness of purest intention. Since that terrible time when she had been rescued from suffer- ing, if not from death, partly 6y the effort of Hartas Theyn, she ha^ been more than ever sure of her feeling toward him. But in her inmost heart she admitted that not that night, nor another, had been needed for the couquest of her affection. ' It is no use— no use at all attempting to conceal it from myself. I love him— I have loved him always, and all the more because there was no one elt^e to love him truly, to see the good in him — the good that only needed trial and trouble to bring it out. . . . Now all the woi-ld — that is, the little world about us — sees how good he is, bow brave, how strong !' All these thoughts, and many others, passed through the heart and brain of Barbara as she stood there by the little gate at the top of the steps in the growing dawn-light. * I will be ready in a minute or two,' she said presently. * I must ask old Hagar to come in and look after Ildy and Jack. Then I will go with you. ... Be patient for a little while !' She smiled, rather sadly, as she spoke ; the need for patience was evidently so strong in Hartas Theyn. To this day the need is' his. If he waits while his wifeladdresses a letter he walks up and down the room, chafing as a man might chafe who awaited a warrant ordering' all his future fate. You might imagine that every line contained a decretal, ' To be or not to be,' affecting the^ continu- ance of his future life. The sun was yet only fairly risen abovs^ the top of the eastern i V AT DAWN OF DAY. 305 diffg when Barbara and Hartas Theyn entered the Rectory gates. Bab had put on her monming dress, a plain black gown and a simple black bonnet, almost innocent of trimming, and lamentably far from the fashion of the hoar. But of this she was not aware ; nor was anyone who saw her aware. Canon Godfrey, looking npon her as (ihe entered his room, as she came and stood by the bed where he lay dying, held out his hand with the warmth, the respect he had shown to the noblest woman of his acquaintance. If the question had been asked of him, he would in all probability have said, 'I know no greater, nobler woman thain Barbara Burdas.' She qnite understood why it was that the Canon had wished to see her in these, the last moments of his life. From the begin- ning she had understood his wish ; been glad, proud of his appreci- ation. In the darkest hours of her life the belief that he believed in her had been as a strong spiritual stimulant. The sun was shining across the room by this time, throwing a halo of light all abont the pillow of the dying man. The shadow of the trees but just outside flickered and danced upon the wall ; npon the ivory-white hangings that were all about the bed ; and the light was of that fresh inspiring kind that marks certainly the beginning of the day. No true nature-lover can. ever be deceived as to the difference between the vivid brightness of the rising sun, and the subdued keenness of the snn that is setting. There is not even* similitude. * I Khew you would come,' the Canon said, lifting his still blue and kindly eyes to Barbara's face. There was a smile on his lip, the old warm, winning smile ; but Barbara had much ado to pre- vent responsive tears. * I knew you would come — you and Hartas. It seemed so necessary that I should see you again ; that I should know before I go how it is to be with you. Hartas ! Barbara i ... Is the wokI said — the one word that is to decide all ? . . . If it is not, can you tell me why ? Is there anything I can say to make that word easier to either of you ?' It was a strange hour. It seemed as if it were only yesterday that he had astonished his wife by saying, * I am not sure that I should consider Hartas's marriage to Barbara Burdas such a great calamity 1' And how much had happened since then I And mostly the events had justified his saying. The change in Barbara herself was not greater than the change in the Squire's son, and every- where people were attributing these changes to their rightful source. Yes^ it was a strange hour, and never to be forgotten. It was Barbara who replied to the Canon's question. At that moment she was the stronger of the two, and seeing Hartas's white face by the foot ot the bed, his dark eyes lifted pleadingly to hers, his mute white lips almost tremulous, she smiled, and spoke for him as for hers ;lf. *No, the W'jrd has never been said — the word that you ask 20 ♦ji 3o6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, abont. How shonld it have been said ? For from the time that it was possible, that is to say, the time when yoar nephew helped to save me and mine from a terrible death, he has given me no chance to say it. . . . Is not that trne, Mr. Thevn ?' The pale face at the lower end of the bed flushed with a tremulous pain. ' If the question hasn't been put into words, I think yon have known why* the young man said, speaking awkwardly enough, yet not without pathos in his accent and appeal. Barbara could only blush the more deeply, and look down in silence. * Say it's true, Barbara I— that you've never given me the chance to speak— not a fair chance — since you must have known I couldn't presume after that night out in the roads. ^ 'Twas for you to give wa^ a little then — to make some opening. I've waited for it, I've waited all along, and no one can say I haven't waited patiently !' * It's just as I thought I' the Canon said. ' It is all just as I imagined it to be. . . . But, oh, how foolish you have been I Life is very short ; it is very full of pain, of suffering, of <^]1 that calls for human fortitude and endurance. Therefore it is that it seems to me that no crumb of happiness, of true happiness, should ever be permitted to fall to the ground. And yon are wasting yours — both of you. Was it needful that I should die? th'^t I should lie here in a brief waiting space, waiting for the friend "I travel to meet"? Was this to be before I could' see you together, urge you not to waste one more day of possible happiness ? . . . Ah, how strange it is !' The Canon was not impatient. The truth was written on each of the two true faces beside him ; and it was the very truth that he had longed to see, to know. ■;.. In the silence that followed, Hartas came round to the side of the bed where Barbara had hitherto stood alone, quite near to the Canon. In the nervous awkwardness but natural to her she had refused to sit down. Hartas held out his hand, a strong, brown hand, and he looked into her face as he offered it. Perhaps it was better that he did not speak. Barbara saw the palpitating tremor — it was almost fear— as if he knew that that one moment must decide everything. It was a strong and deep silence that followed. The Canon looked from the one face to the other, then he smiled, and holding out his own hand, he clasped the two hands that had already met, binding them there in his own warm, almost convulsive clasp. *It IS d "ided then?' he said. 'You are one? . . I go with this knowledge ?' Hartas placed his other hand upon the one that Barbara had left in the Canon's grasp. * Tou will yield at last f* he said, looking into the strong, suffering * ' Roads,' a coiumou term (or the sheltered waters 00 a Bea{>ort or ibaUow bay. AT DAIVN OF DAV, 30> face of the girl. * Say that you will ! You shall not repent, Bar- bara. Every hour of all my f ature life shall be set to maice your life in this world happy — both our lives happy in the world to be 1 . . . Say a word, only one ; you have it in your power to make — well, I was going to say hell or heaven of the days to come. But that would be going beyond the truth ; and there is no need for that The simple truth lies deep enough between us two. . . . Yon yield at last V The final word had been uttered with extreme difficulty, as Bar- bara saw and heard, and with equal difficulty she replied to it. * I will be your wife,' she said, almost sobbing out the words, yet controlling herself with all the strength left to her. And, as each one then felt, the betrothal was almost as a sacrament, being solemn and holy and binding. A light word, a careless smile, had jarred upon the sense of anyone assembled in that room as the passing of some evil thought had jarred upon the soul. * It is decided, then ?' the Canon said presently. ' You will make each other happy ?' * I will do my best,* Hartas replied, speaking with evident effort. Barbara only smiled gravely. She had no more words at her command just then. * I believe that you will — that you will do the very beat it is in your power to do, Canon Godfrey replied, turning to Hartas. ' And I do not think that words of mine are needed now to show you what that best means. . . . After all, life is very simple for the most part, and when it is complex the simplest heart and mind sees its way most clearly. ... I have not strength to say much more ; but let me impress two things upon you. The first is this : hold fast by prayer. If you are well and happy, and all is goins smoothly, thank God in prayer. Jf you are fearful, and doubtful and tremulous for the future, take all your doubt and fear to One who alone can understand. Take it there, and leave it there — nay, remain there yourself. ' " Safe on the steps of Jesn's throne, Be tranquil, and be blest.' ' What a picture that is in two brief lines for a soul worn, wearied, suffering ! But it is not given to us to stay there long —at the foot of the Great White Throne. We have to come down from such mountain heights as these to face the fight in the valley below, the valley of every-day life, every-day endurauce, every-day suffering and self-denial. . . . And that brings me to the second thing I have to say — the force and the power that is to be bought by the mere denial to one's self of things lawful in themselves. * I have not strength left to say all I would wish to say on this head, but let me urge at least this, that you will make trial of {'udicious self-restraint even in common things. It may be that you lave done much, it is joy to me to believe that you have, yet to all of us there remain heights not yet attempted. And when we have gained them, the last of them in sight at starting, we find that there CO—'-' 3o8 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUU are yet others beyond ; so it is that the alluremenii of the spiritual life lead us ou from the world that now is to the world that is to be. And how grateful we should be for such gradual drawinff I . . . Only let us always try to respond to the least and faintest oul from the spirit-world which is but just outside ; let as never fail to b« responsive. ' We are more than we seem ; the worst, the lowest, the weakest human soul among us is more than we deem it to be. * " Onr birth is bat a sleep and a forgetting, The soul that rises with as,— our life's star. Hath had elsewhere its setting, And Cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfalness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing xlouds of glory do we come From God, who ia our home." ' CHAPTER LXVIII. *LET US ARISE, AND GO.* * Is it deep sleep, or is it rather death f Best anyhow it is, and sweet is rest.' One day, not many weeks before, the Ganou had asked to have a curious little fancy gratified. In the room that had been Thor- hilda's schoolroom there was an old piano which had belonged to his mother. It had not been much used of late ; it might not be in tune ; yet its notes had a lingering, old-fashioned sweetness of their own. *■ Have it brought downstairs for me, Milicent dear,' he had begged. ' I should like it to stand just outside my room, in that recess on the landing.' « As a matter of course his wish had been gratified, and now and then he had played a little wandering music on it himself ; now and then, too, his wife had played ; but more frequently he had asked his niece to play the things he loved best : simple, plaintive pieces of music they were for the most part, demanding more expression than execution. One especial favourite was a 'Pre- ghiera,' from the Zampa of Herold, a prayer that seemed more like a quiet yielding up of all that^was left to offer than like beseech- ing or yearning. He had never ceased to weary of this. And now, this autumn morning, he asked once -more for the piano to be opened ; he made the request so simply, so naturally, that T)»orh?lda felt no sense of incongruity. >' uj it cnce again, dear, the prayer !' he asked, holding out his ! (p.r ij V ../ii his niece took and held in hers for a moment or two. 'lIs sunlight was lower now, lower upon the white coverlet of Jae b* 1 The shadow of the ash-tree leaves still danced to and fro ; xhfi '••>,; vas still flooded with the light of the morning sun, and he who lay there wished to have it so. They were all there, those whom he loved best. His wife sat *LET US ARISTH, AND GO' 309 beride him, restraining her tears with all the strength of self- control she had. Hartas Theyn and Damian Aldenmede stood side bv side at a little distance. Barbara Bardas was by the window. She would hare left the room, but the dying man had wished her to remain, thinking in his own heart that her calm strength would hdp to strengthen others. It mi^ht have seemed strange to some that anyone should wish fo' iUSic in that last dread hour of life ; but there was no strange- ness in the request for anyone who had known Hugh Godfrey intimately. Tborhilda understood, and complied at once ; and even for herself it was well that she did. The notes came softly, gently — ah ! that one might reproduce them here with all their oeautif ul yielding and renunciation — sad beauty it is, yet even the sadness is pure and unearthly. There was a smile on the face of the dying man, a look of quiet and perfect happiness, as he lay and listened. When the last note had been played, he looked up for his niece's return to his bedside. ' Thank you, Thorda,' he said, speaking with not much apparent effort. * And now I am going to sleep. . Let me say good-bye. . . . And let me say something else I have not had the courage to say as yet. It is this. I say it to one and all. I say it with all the strength left to me. Do not sorrow for me when I am gone / « ■ ■ I entreat yon not to sorrow. ' Yon remember the words heard of him to whom the vision was Touchsaf ed in the Isle of Patmos — words uttered by a voice from Heaven, saying : * " Write ; Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord from hence- forth : Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours.^* ' That thay may rest ! . . I have not talked much of my weari- ness, have Ij Milicent dear f But I have been very tired. . . . Life is a very tinng thing. ... I have an opinion— I have held it long —that human life will not alwa^'s be so tiring. . I think people will see, will have their eyes opened to discern when their friends, their neighbours, are breaking down, dying for very tiredness. And then they will help each other. . . They will not wait to show their sympathy by sending a beautiful wreath of white flowers to the grave-side. . . . No, they will see a little before ; and help will be given ; and people will rest. They will know what it is to rest in life — not in death only. . . . And there are other changes coming — greater than these. I shall see them, but not now. I shall behold them, but not nigh. . . . But I have no wish to wait to see — no, none at all. • • . I am too weary — so very weary that I am glad to go. * Glad — yes, but not glad as those are who enter into life singing. Ko ; I must enter sighing, if, indeed, I enter at all — sighing for things done, for things left undone. ' K there be any singing, it will be the song of those who make joy in the presence of the Angels of God over each sinner that repents * Those \Hio make joy in tho presence of the Angels ! . . . Who 310 iN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, are they ? . . . Surely they must be of those who know of the sins, the sufferings of the human beings who repent ? . . . Know- ledge they must have of us who sin — yes, knowledge and sympathy —deep and keen sympathy with every houI acquainted with spiritual failure And which of us is not acquainted with such failure? . . . * We have dreams — nay, more than dreams, more than visions, more than ideals — we have a well-deSned model of life set before us in closest detail, minutest detail. . . . And we will not see it. If we are now and then compelled to see, we refuse to follow. * We refuse. . . . Now that I lie here, dying, I see that I myself have refused to live up to the standard of life demanded of me. * Aldcnmede. I could.' Thorda. Live the life I would now live if EPILOGUE Two years have passed by — years of change, of joy, of sorrow to almost everyone of those whose life-story has been told or touched upon in this brief history. As a matter of course, there is a new Bector at Yarburgh Rectory — a young, strong, energetic man, who has had his own way to fight, and has fought somewhat bravely. If some new story- teller were to tell his tale, and to tell it truly, it would be worth reading. But, indeed, I think he could tell it best hiin-elf. If his story should perchance be as lively as his sermons, one might con- sider that a new departure in autobingiaphy had been taken. The old way of ending a story to the music of the canrch bells that ring out the old solo of single life, ring in the beautiful new duet of the life to be, is not at all a way to be decried. It is commonplace, you say ; so is the fact it represents. But the art to tell the true story of the marriage that took places at Yarburgh awhile ago is not mine. People said it was a very beautiful wedding — that the two people principally concerned, that is to say, Thoihilda Theyn and Damian Aldenmede, looked, eacli of them, so grand, so great, that the onlookers felt as if they had never seen either of them with any true upprooia'aou before. And it was not the dress — even Mrs. Kerne, the Vide's aunt, made haste to say that. No, it was not the dress — for even Miss Theyn's dress, though it was white, and light, and suggestive of all maiden purity, was yet not a costly or studiously impressive costume. The Danes- borough Gazette desci'ibed it in detail ; describing also the dress of the two bridesmaids, one of whom was the bride's sister. Miss Rhoda Theyn, and the other the Honourable Sarah Thelton. Other details were added, among the rest, that Mr. and Mrs. Aldenmede had started on their wedding tour a few hours after the ceremony. They had decided upon the small and quaintly attractive hotel in the Finstermiin.z Pass as a place in which to live for awhile in perfect beaui;y, in perfect quiet. IIow perfect the beauty was cr.n bnrr'ly EPILOGUE. 3" be told in words. The snow was white upon the Alpine heights ; the mountain torrents rushed rapidly down the scarred rocks, among the dark pines. All day long the sun shone brilliantly into the ravine — shining with such force, such glad exhilaration as made of life a new and keen pleasure. ' Every morning, as soon as I am fairly awake, I feel new made,' Mrs. Aldenmede declared. ' I believe that if I might live here I should never grow old. . . . And you, Damian, you look ten years younger than you did. on the day on which I first saw you I' * You remember that day ?' 'Remember it? Am I likely to forget? . . . Wh^t I would forget, if I could, is the blindness that came after.' * And l^nj; ago I commanded you to put all recollection of that away. . . .)ear, we cannot afford to look too much into the past. We can nonv) of us afford that. Where is the man or woman whose past is not spoiled or marred in one way or another ? All we have to do is to repent, to confess when we have erred, and then set out, brightly, strongly, on a new and better way. And there is much for us to do. Our life will not be empty of work, of thought, of much care for others. ... I want to prepare yon for that, dear ; for work rather than leisure ; for thought rather than ease. ... I expect that there will be no grain of the knowledge, the experience you have learned while with Mrs. Thm'stone but will not be of use to you now— of use to others.' ' And are you fearing that I shall not be glad to be of use ?' * You ask that question too lightly for me to give any formal answer. If you were truly afraid of my opinion it would be different. . . . No ; . . . I expect that I Bhall only have to exert my influence in the way of restraint.' There was another pause, broken by Mrs. Aldenmede. They were sitting on one of the rustic seats near the lower part of the garden — if indeed so vrild and uncultivated a spot could be called a garden at all. A light wind was whispering in the pines, catch- ing the tops of the tall campanulas ; a perfect chorus of crickets were chirping loudly in the grass. '• I hope you have been impressed by one thing,' Thorda said at last. ' I have been your wife now seven weeks, and I have not asked you seven questions concerning your future home — yours and mine.' Damian smiled. ' 1 have been greatly impressed,' he replied ; ' but I think I have understood. ... It was a little penance, was it not ?' 'Not a little one. I have wanted to know so much.* ' It is somewhat strange that you should have kept your silence unbroken until to-day.' ' Is it ? . . Why ? ... Is to-day more than any other day ? ' In one sense it is. . . . You saw what a packet of letters I had this morning ?' ' Yes ; and I saw that one or two absorbed you, and that you 3t* IN EXCffAmS FOR A SOVL gathered them up, and took them away, and never spoke of them to me at all.' * And yet von ask no question 1 Tou are a dear, patient wife. ... It consoles me to think that reward may come.' ' It hat come ; I know it ; I know that something has happened 1 Tell me what !' Damian Aldenmede roae up from his seat and walked up and down the road for awhile. The expression on his face was very grave. ' I ought not to keep you in suspense ' he said at last. ' My uncle is dead ; he died suddenly nearly tour days ago. The telegram that was sent has never reached us. It is too late for us to dream of going to King's Alden for the funeral ... I am very sorry ; and I think— I fear we must go soon.' Mrs. Aldenmede received the news in silence. Though she did not unde.^tand all, she knew much ; at any rate, she knew that the two sons of Sir Ralph Aldenmede had been dead for some years. King's Alden— a place of which she had heard from others — would now belong to her husband ; and the title would be his — and hers. But she recollected that, in all probability, no great wealth would come with the title, while assuredly great responsibility would come. This was what her husband had tried to prepare her for. Presently she joined him as he walked up and down, placing her arm in his, and walking silently for a while. * King's Alden is a pretty place, is it not ?* she asked by-and-by. ' Pretty ? No, dear, I should not call it pretty. I do not suppose it could ever be made so. . . . Still, we will do what we can, and we need not live there more than you like.' o o e o o • It was not much more than a month later when one evening e. carriage drove in at the gates of the avenue of chestnuts that lined the way to King's Alden. It was early twilight. The tall trees almost shut out the sky. The broad white road gleamed straight aU the way before them , here and there a marble vase held some rare late-flowering plant ; here and there a fountain was playing in the midst of a bed of gay flowers. Thei'e were lights in the windows all along the front of the house; a stately house it was, built by Yanbingh, and frequently men- tioned as one of the architect's master- works, though rather for its beauty of proportion than for its size or grandeur. It was built of the red granite of the neighbourhood ; yet it had in the daylight a curiously cold and hard look. Damian Aldenmede, who had seen it in his youth, had had a strong fear that the present mistress of King's Alden might be rather repelled than attracted by the first sight of it. He was glad that the gray twilight lent so much soft mystery to it, and to its surroundings — glad too that their late arrival necessitated the lighting of many lamps and candles. All seemed bright enotigh now. There were some dozen of the old servants of the- pint e gathered to greet them ; flowers and plants had been plao^ in • I I ] y ii • tl h< in in si( w< if ea th( nei fel at el8( rec ma at dre EPILOGUE, V3 .\.nniiftnce • and above, on every sida of the four-Kquare hall, tbe por- t«i?8 Smer^^^^^^^ looked do>vn, not all of them Mdenmede-^ *™The placThaS changed ^ands more than once B,nc^ 8.^^ John VanburKh had received his final cheque from the first o^^ej- /iui 7he place had been long enongh in the hands of the ancestors of Sir leTafrLnd^hisVfXmt^^ tJt bad been sent to melt them "escorted her up the wide g«y steps into the stately at SiU mmre time to make us known to each other ; but no W a real home, a Christian home, God granting that it be so ... "xti q»"u°«,ttl Lmentary enthusiasm failed, or rather ■ •^'{l^TMa'Sd Himself had rained down npon one'" head the o<STf C, the vengeance of an ext,-eme and tender lovmg- MM You see it aU, Damian, do you not ? B^member now i ■«41 314 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, ever opened to me, even in thoaght tefore. And now, now 1 feel go amall, so mean, so unworthy. It is as if some one had cast a splendid gift at me with words of scorn. And yet this is no right mood, and no, I do no rightly express my true mood, not all of it. I am grateful, I am very grateful, and I am happy in the midst of all my regretful sorrow, I am very happy ! . . We can do so much now, can we not, Damian ? There must be something to be done in a neighbourhood like this i' ' Something ! I fear that everything waits to be done. So far as I know, the entire district about Sling's Alden has been neglected, and this for generations. It will require our time, our money, our Erayers, our patience, and the utmost of our help and strength. . . . >o not be afraid, dear, do not dread an unbroken felicity.' * It is better so.* 'It is much b-^tter. ... It seems like a paradox, but I am happier far in knowing that my happiness is not likely to be nn- shaaed, that the shadow of the crosses that fall upon other lives may cast the blessing of that shadow over my own, over both our own. ... So we ne^ not fear.' * No. . . . Yet is it not strange how an element of fear seems almost always to be mingled with any sudden or great felicity ?' ' Yes, it is strange ; but I for one would not wish it otherwise. And since it seems almost universal, there is doubtless some truth hidden underneath to be discovered at a later date. Often it seems to me that the world is yet but in its infancy. We know so little ; we discern that there is so much yet to be known.' ' So it has seemed to me,' Thorda replied ; 'yet I fancy that each one of us by our human life (if truly lived) may advance the science of human living somewhat.' ' Ah I there yon touch ppon an immense truth. Our life if truly lived ! We can none of us grasp all that that means in a single moment. Only the surface ideas occur to us. We know that we should be patient, be temperate, self •denying ; that we should have compassion for the sorrows of others, nay, that we should seek out such sorrows, set ourselves to avert sorrows that are only on the way to others ; but there is much beyond that we do not recognise. Which of us has a truly tender dread of the ills that mar the inner life of the people about us ? Nay, do we not start aside and leave suspected suffering to cure itself, or develop itself, as may be in the nature of it ? Dreading the evil of interference, we strike upon the rock of neglectful indifference.' * And how shall any human being perceive the right medium ?' * Only by being lovingly human. The true lover of humanity can hardly make grievous mistakes. If he should, his very loving- ness would cause his mistakes to be forgiven. *■ Charity beareth all things, believe th all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. . . . Charity never f aileth.' >t> * )» * 41 In the spring of the year that followed, Sir Damian and Lady EPILOGUE, 3tJ Aiaenmede went once again to Ulvstan Bight. Mrs. Godfrey went with them—indeed, she went with them everywhere, as acheriiihed and valued companion, one who helped to nmko their hooie life richer and fuller, and graced it with much knowledge and experience. Ihe meeting between those who came from King's Alden and those who came from Garlaff Grange was as interesting as it was affectionate. Mr and Mrs. Hartas Theyn were foremSst in the group ot people who entered the drawing-room at the new Alex- St.«^hS.^*'lK?! ®^"'" *f^ ^^^'^^ ^^^ purposely lingered a little behind, but it was easy to see that no ill-feeling tM inspired w«*^;i. J* dinner passed oflE lightly and pleasantly, Wl undue warmth of emotion being decorously kept in the background for that evening. " *r s » j.wi It was next morning on the cliflP-top that Sir Damian Alden- mede, meeting Mrs. Hartas Theyn, was enabled to say a fittine word—a word that seemed to close a certain chapter of the familv history. And Barbara replied with a dignity, a gentlencbs. a winningness all her own. ^ w«uob», a ♦kII!'"^^^* ^*''? "P??. t^t* ^^^ ^^'^^ ' ™®* yo« «n the scaur as the beginning of my life's happiness,' she said. 'The beginning ol aU true search after truth ; of all that has been good and helpful to me Before you had spoken to me of anything but the common speech of the day I had wished to do something f or you-to rise^S ''^t^^ll ^}'^^\ T'c''' *? y*'""' ^®^«^- You awoke something in me that had slept before, but could never sleep again And then you showed all your true generosity and helped me in every way ; "Tl t'St '*'^?,?^'^^.*,' ^^«^" **> *»«!? ^^ too ; and how I loved you both and felt as if my love were aU one ! It is so natural now, to be able to think of you together. Indeed, I think I have never thought of you apart And oh! I am happy, very happy ! To think of my teing even related to you-to the very people I ioyeson^uchl Yes, I never thought to be so happy !' ^ ^ ..vt i T'' ^"■?^''^ ''*'''• ""^ i^aPPiness ?' Damian Aldenmede asked. Barbara looked up quickly. ♦ You are meaning with regard to my husband ? He has only one fault-an undue humility. I shall never cure him of it But I am not sure that I wish to do so. . . . If he has another fault it is Z^f^T «^"T\*^- The money he gives away, the people he asks to come and stay with us, would be beyond belief if I were to tell you of It al in detail. But, somehow, we do not reajly seem LmK'' ^°' '*•••• \°^ '^ ^« ^^^^' I^«lie^« that w^ should still be happy-even very happy ; he is so gentle, and so thoughtful, tol nT^ ^" f me and mine. You know th^t he has sent Jack fathP^r^ school at Danesborough ; and if he were little Ilda's own f« nw +. ? T*Trr\H^ °'°^®- ^"^ tJ^o ch'W's love tor him IS most touching I If I had any ealousy in me it would certain^ be awakened when I see her rushing tJ the door with herffi arms outspread to meet him, and his Outstretched to clasp her Ah I yes ; I am a very happy woman V ' ' 3»6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL Damian Al^Qnmede went away from the top of the cliff in a mood not easy to describle — the elements being so very various. Gratitude stirred in him, and wonder, and reverence ; and last, but not least, repentance for the want of faith and hope that had darkened so many of his days, and darkened them so unreasonably. 'Why do we not iruit more ?' he asked of himself. ' Surely the want of trust means defect in one's self ! To live nobly, rightly, humanly, would be to store up a reserve for the days to be — even though the days should be few and eviL *■ " Few and evil " we deem them, these days of ours — but that is when they are overpast.' 'In the beginning all is lightness and brightness — and all we have, all we desire, is flooded in the light of hope. Then dis- appointment follows, with perhaps despair \ and the utmost we can do is to hold on for awhile, as people cling to a Avreck in the dark- ness and the storm. 'And after the storm comes caki, with daybreak, and the sun shining over the tops of the dark mountains of grief that had surrounded us on every side. So we come to understand the ordering of this human life of ours, that it is but as a travelling from the cradle to the grave — leading us, now by fair valleys, clothed with the olive and the vine, now by barren Alpine heights, where o^ily snow and hail and mist lend variation to the scene. Again we descend, perhaps to the dreary shore of some dead sea of life, where we may wander on unhopef uUy, nay, even unwishfully. We would lie down and die if we could do so sinlessly ; and we wonder that lun should be in the wish. ' But by-and-by the sun rises once more — the sun of faith, of hope, of belief in all that makes life worth the living. Then it is that we rise no full consciousness of all that lies m the tender, yearning, loving saying : ' " Ye will not come vnfo Me, that ye might have life." ' Then it is that at last we awaken to full perception of that great, grand truth, there is no life but that — the life hid in Christ Jesus. ^^'lam the Life, the Truth, the Way /" ' There is no other life, no other truth, no other way. All else is pain and darkness, and ignorance, and death. ' There is no other way but the way of the cross, the way of daily, hourly self-denial, of perpetual watchfulness ; the way of unceasijig prayer. * " Pray without ceasing* * That is life's last secret. ' The man or woman who is acquaintea with that secret will be in no danger of exchanging his or her soul for any mess of pottage to be offered by this world of ours — this seductive, tempting, disr a;>j^ointing world.' THE END. \