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 ■M 
 
WHAT THE PEOPLE SAY ABOUT 
 Electro-G^ratiVe Belts. 
 
 To A. NoBMAN, M.E. : Paudash, Ont. 
 
 DcAB Sir, — Please find enclosed 60 cents, for which I want a Teething 
 Necklaoe. 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 
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 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 
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 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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 TUB HILL," " HACAR," BTC. 
 
 {Entored according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada in the Office of the 
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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. 
 
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 L 1 
 
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 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 
 
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 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- 
 
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 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
11 
 
 
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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 
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 ! I've 
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 [bat can 
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 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. 
 
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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( 
 
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 Theyn asli 
 
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\ 
 
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 *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 
 
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 Hi 1 2^ 12.5 
 
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 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. 
 
 \