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T
■M
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W'
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
CHAPTER I.
TIIORHILDA THEYN.
' what a thin;; ia man I bow far from power
From settled peace ami rest I
He is some twenty several men at least
Each several hour 1'
Georoe Herbf.rt.
• Happy ! What right hast thou to be happy ?'
This prej?uant question, asked once emphatically by Carlyle, and
repeated often by him in modified form, is certainly worthy of
attention. Consciously or unconsciously, the need for happiness
is a factor in the life of each one of us : and no attempt to deny
the need is so successful as we dream.
Thorhilda Theyn was not greatly given to self -questioning. So
far, perhaps, there had seemed to be no special necessity for it in
her life — that is, no necessity caused by pressure of outward cir-
cumstance, by any of the strong crises that come upon most human
iives at one time or another. She was yet young ; she was very
beautiful. Life was all before her, and the promise of it exceeding
fair. "What need for question so far ?
Yet as she stood there on that blue, breezy May morning, she
felt herself decidedly in the grasp of some new spirit of inquiry,
born within her apparently of the day and of the hour, strong at
its birth, and demanding attention.
The waters of the North Sea were her grand outlook. They
were spread all before her across the bay, rippling from point to
point, leaping, darting, dancing. The free, fresh, rustling sound
was sweeter to her always than the similar sound of the wind in
the woodland trees ; and it was soothing as soft music to watch
the wavelets at play, leaping into light, flashing for a gay, glad
moment, then dissolving instantly into apparent nothingness. Over
and over it was all repeated, and the entrancingly uncertain cer-
1
JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL
tainty was as a spell to bold her there by the foot of the tall cliffs
of Umtan Bight as one held in a dream.
'They say that life is like that— the poets, the philosophers,'
Thorhilda said to herself, leaning lightly upon the uarapet, tall and
•traight, and still, and beautiful. She was dresseu as became her
■tately style, in a fashion that might have been of that day or of
this, io few of its details were borrowed from any extraneous source.
Her gown fell gracefully about her feet : her long cloak almost
ooYored it ; her small hands were crossed lightly, and held her hat,
80 that the fair face, so sweet and yet so strong, was all unshaded
from the morning sun. And it was a face that could well bear the
full, clear light ; no thought-line was yet graven upon the wide
forehead, on either side of which the dark abundant hair was
braided ' Madonna-wise ' ; deep, changeful gray eyes looked out
from below the white drooping lids that give to any face a touch
of pathos — a touch contradicted at that moment on Thorhilda's
face by an evidently half- unconscious smile, which played fitfully
about ner mouth. It was a mouth that was almost childlike in the
fine roundness of its curves, and yet it was the lower part of tha
face that displayed firmness, decision. The eyes were all gentle-
ness, all tenderness, in repose. When the lips smiled in convei'sation
the eves smiled too; and a fascinating piquancy of expression
would suddenly light up features that had seemed too grave and
gentle ever to be piquant. The effect was apt to be surprising ;
but it was always a pleasant surprise, and betrayed the observer to
admiration, though no such effect had been expected on the one
side, or certainly intended on the other. Thorhilda was innocent
of the art of producing effects. That such an art existed was a
matter of hearsay, and therefore dubious.
' They say that life is like that I' she had murmured half audibly,
'like
,« •" A momentary ray,
Smiling in a winter's day.
■ 'Tis a current's rapid stream,
'Tis a shadow, 'tis a dream.' "
So wrote Francis Quarles, over two hundred years ago ; so others
have written,' she went on. ' And yet how different one feels ! I
feel this morning as if life were ages long. I have lived but four-
and-twenty years, yet I seem to have centuries in my personal
memory.'
Presently definite thought passed on into indefinite. Dreams
came up out of the past, with reminiscence sad and sunny ; and
finally came that bright yet questioning mood of which mention
has been made already, the disposition to ask herself, not * What
right have I to be hat>py ?' but ' Why am I so happy ?'
Once as she leaned by the edge of the sea-wall, watching the
gulls float up and down with folded wing and yielding breast upon
the gently heaving waters, an answer came suddenly. Was it from
THOK HILDA THEYN.
of tho tall cliffs
ed half audibly,
rhich mention
tho heart, or from the braiu only? Though she wim alone, she
bluHhed, the long eyelashes drooped ; and a little inst^int, negative
movement of the head might have been detected had anyone to
detect it been there.
' No, no / It is not that, it is not that /' she made haste to assure
herself. *I do nut feel that he could make happiness of mine.
No, it is not that !'
It was perhaps significant that she did not long continue to dwell
upon the idea of Percival Meredith. He was a neighbour, the
owner of Ormston Magna, a place some three miles nearer to the
sea than Yarburgh ; indeed, from its terraced gardens you could
look out over the wide expanse of the German Ocean. Percival,
who was an elderly-looking man if you considered his thirty-four
summers, lived at Ormston with his mother, a lady who might
easily have been mistaken for his elder sister. It had been made
evident for some time to Canon and Mrs. Godfrey that the
Merediths had especial motives for gladly accepting every invitation
that was sent to them from the Rectory, and for inviting the in-
habitants of the Rectory to Ormston on any and every possible
occasion. Of late Thorhilda had herself discovered the reason of
all this ; and she was perplexed, pleased, perturbed by turns. Only
at rare moments was she conscious of any true satisfaction in
thinking of Percival Meredith and his too evident intentions.
Yes ; it was certainly significant that at the present moment she
made haste to put away all thought of him, and went on thinking,
meditating, on the strong, glad sense of her life and its happiness.
She was not old enough, or tried enough, to know how on such
days the mere sense of living is enough for unusual exultation.
' lilisH was it on that morn to be alive,
. But to be youiiy was very heaven.'
So wrote Wordsworth ; but he had passed his youth when he
wrote this.
Had anyone in Thorhilda's circle of friends — Gertrude Douglas,
for instance, who was considered to be her most intimate friend,
been asked to give a reason for Miss Theyn's happiness, Gertrude
would have made answer, ' How should she not be happy ?'
Her home in the house of her uncle. Canon Godfrey, the Rector
of Market Yarburgh, was, admittedly, as happy a home as a woman
could have. The Canon's wife, Milicent Godfrey, was the sister of
Thorhilda's dead mother; and, being a childless woman herself,
with a passionate love for children, she had done all that might be
done to make Thorhilda's life a life full of all sweetness, all light,
all good. It was for her niece's sake that the old Rectory had been
refurnished, made beautiful with all artistic beauty that fair means
could command. Indeed, nothing had been left undone that love
could suggest as better to be done. And Thorhilda, having a keen
appreciation of the material good of life — too keen, said some of
1-2
i
I I !
4 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
the friendlieHt of her friendH — wan neither unconociouB nor un-
grateful. Therefore what rciiHon for not hoing happy ?
Is it true, that old saying, ' Every light han its shadow' ?
Scientifically, it must be true, always ; but surely the analogy
will not bear stretching to meet and to tit this human life in every
tossible phase. We know that it will not, and are happier for the
nowledge— happier and better.
But the bnght picture of Thorhilda Th^yn's life was not without
that enhancing touch of dt^pth in the background of it, which gives
both to colour and light their rightful prominence and effect.
There had been hours, nay days, when that dark background had
claimed more of the girl's life r.hiin any foreground object that
could be put before her for her distraction.
'I must think of thene things, Aunt Milicent,' she had said.
♦Qarlaflf Grange is my own home. They are my own people who
live there.'
*No; there I cannot agree,' Mrs. Godfrey had replied. 'Your
mother gave you to me solemnly, prayerfully, when she was dying.
She entreated me to promise that the lleotury should be your home.
... I have tried to Keep my promise.'
The touch of emotion with which tlieso and other sayings wei >
uttered was usually conclusive. Thorhilda had no heart to go on
with arguments presented to her only by an inade({n;ite sense of
duty. If people so much older and wiser than herself as Canon
Godfrey and her aunt considered that it was her wisdom to sit
still, why should she not agree — especially since movement in the
direction indicated by conscience was so eminently distasteful?
And yet from time to time conscience would have its way. Did
she really do all that it was her duty to do in going to the Grange
now and then when it was quite convenient to her aunt to drive
round that way; in sending presents on birthdays and Christiius
Days ; in calling occasionally to see how her sister llhoda was, or
to inquire after her Aunt Averil ? It was not pleasant for her to
go there — the reverse of that — and she did not for a moment
imagine that she gave any pleasure by going. She was saved from all
illusion on that head. So far as she could remember, her father
had never once in his life said, ' I am glad to see you !' never, even
when she was a child, offered her any greeting or parting kiss.
Once or twice he had shaken hands ; once or twice he had — not at
all ironically — taken off his hat as the Rectory carriage drove away
with only Thorhilda in it ; and there bad seemed nothing incon-
gruous in his doing so.
His daughter knew little of him except what she heard from
others ; and it was long since she had heard any pleasant thing.
For years past everything had been going down at GarlafF Grange ;
and though repeated efforts had been made by Canon Godfrey and
others to stop tho descent, no such efforts had availed, and it was
long now since Squire Theyn had permitted anything of what he
termed ' interference.'
THOR HILDA THEYN. %
* Ahll ha' neii nmir on't !' he had said to his only son, ITartaB, on
one occaHion.
Canon (iotlfioy had l)een Hpending an hour with Sqaire Theyn
— spending it mostly in farnest entreaty; and he had left the
(rrange with the Sqiiiru'M ' words of high disdain' ringing in his
ears painfully.
'Ah'U ha' neii nmir on't!' repented the old man; and Hartas
helped greatly to contlnu hitu in this decision.
The younger man's dislike to anythinf? that could touch his
liberty was at least as strong as the same feeling in the elder one.
There were some who said that Squire Theyn and his son were not
unworthy of each other ; and it is possible that the saying had
more in it than appciirud on the surface. Certainly it waa one to
bear investigation, had any uniilytically minded person been drawn
to interest himself in tlie mutter. And a student bent upon
humanity might have travelled fur before finding two more unique
subjects for his reseurch.
CHAPTER II.
▲ NORTH YOKKSMIKK FISIIBK-.MAIDEN.
' Sho was a ciiri'l«3ss, fearless nitl,
And inadu her uiiswer plHiii,
Outspoken she to earl or <-linrl,
Kiudheurted in the main.'
CuUiSTINA ROSSETTT.
WirY Thorhilda's thou<,'hts, as slio stood there by the margent of
the sea, sliotild suddenly he dniwn to hiT lir-otlier Hartas she could
hardly have told in that first moment. Sb(i had not been thinWing
of him as she stood, letting the breez(;s blow upon her forehead,
turning from watching the wide, white tlecked sea to note the
fisher folk on the beach and on the (juays. She knew nothing of
any of these save by hearsay, and yet she was aware of something
prompting her interest in a group of tall, handsome fisher-girls
who were down by the edge of the tide — such girls as you
would hardly see anywhere else in England for strength and
straightness, for roundness of foim and bright, fresh healthfulness
of countenance.
They wore blue flannel petticoats, and rough, dark-blue masculine-
looking guernseys of their own knitting. Their heads were either
bare, or covered with picturesque hoods of cotton — blue, pink, lilac,
buff, pale blue. One, the tallest of them, and decidedly the
handsomest, had no bonnet at all, and her rich chestnut hair blew
about in the breeze in shining rings and curls in a way that attracted
Thorhilda's attention, and even her admiration, though as a rule
■he 1. id slight sympathy with the 'admired disorder' school of
aesthetics. And as she watched the girl, all at once there darted a
new thought across her brain, a new and disturbing conviction.
i i I
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
/
1. \
' That is Barbara Burdas !' alio said to herself. Then fihe amileil
a liMlo. and wondered at the force of a feeling that had so far-off
a cause.
Miss Theyn knew vei-y little of Barbara Bnrdas. Though the
reputation of the handsome fisber-girl was rapidly spreading along
the coast from Flamborough Head to Hild's Haven, her name had
seldom been heard within the walls of the Rectory at Market
Yarburgh ; but one day Canon Godfrey had spoken in a somewhat
grieving tone to his wife concerning some new rumour which had
reached his ear — a story in which both Barbara's bravery and the
influence of her beauty were brought into prominence. Mrs.
Godfrey tried to prevent liis sonow from deepening.
*It will do the girl no harm,' she said, with her usual somewhat
emphatic vivacity. ' Barbara Burdas is as good a woman as I am,
and as strong. Think of her life, of all she is doing for her grand-
father and the children ! Oh, a little admiration won't harm
Barbara ! It may even be some lightness in her life — some relief ;
I hope it will. She has not known much pleasure.'
Thorhilda being present, Canon Godfrey had made no reply at
that moment ; but later he had confided to his wife the things that
he had heard in the parish concerning Barbara Burdas and her own
nephew, Hartas Theyn. Subsequently some guesses had been made
by Thorhilda, but they were little more than guesses, arising out
of a word dropped by her aunt in an unguarded moment.
Now, seeing Barbara there on the beach, a sudden desire to know
something of the truth came upon her ; and after a few moments'
consideration she left the promeuaae, and went down between the
nursemaids and the babies, the donkeys and the Bath-chairs, to
where the shore was wet and shining, and, for the present, almost
untrodden. The wind seemed freer, and the sun brighter there by
the changing edge of the sea.
Miss "Theyn was not a woman to saunter on aimlessly, to wait for
.in opportunity of speaking to Bab alone. She went straight across
ihe stretch of brown sea-tangle, going directly to the group of
laughing girls, with that firm nerve and presence which comes
mostly of good health and right training. The laughter died down
an she came nearer ; and with apparent courtesy Bab and her
iiiende half turned and drew togutlier waitingly. They were not
aMused to conversation with curious strangers.
Thorhilda was the first to speak. She looked at Bab as she did
so, and there was involuntary admiration in her look, which Bab
saw, and did not resent. Yet there was an unconscious touch of
scorn about the fisher-girl's mouth, a half-disdain in the inquiring
glance she fixed upon the lady whose delicate gray silk dress had
come in contact with tlie slimy weed and the coarse, brown sand,
and whose small dainty Loots were surely being ruined as they sank
and slipped among the great drifting fronds that lay h«ap«d upon
th« thai*. Thorhilda understood th« disdain.
OUL.
If. Then Hhe smilcii
g that had so far-off
inrdas. Though the
idly spreading along
laven, her name had
Rectory at Market
token in a somewhat
' rumour which had
ra's bravery and the
prominence. Mrs.
ening,
her usual somewhat
d a woman as I am,
Joing for her grand-
ration won't harm
r life — some relief :
ire.
d made no reply at
wife the things that
Burdas and her own
jsses had been made
guesses, arising out
I moment.
Iden desire to know
ter a few moments'
down between the
he Bath-chairs, to
he present, almost
brighter there by
ulossly, to wait for
cnt straight acrosa
to the group of
nee which comes
tughter died down
esy Bab and her
They were not
at Bab as she did
look, which Bab
n scions touch of
in the inquiring
ay silk dress had
irse, brown sand,
;ned as they sank
lay litap«d upon
A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN, 7
* Are you not Barbara Burdas ?' she asked, in her clear yet gentle
Toice, as she drew quite near.
Bab hesitated a moment, during which her lips compressed them-
selves firmly, yet without discharging the scorn from the curves at
he corners. Her gaze was still steady and inquiring. A slight
inge of colour crept under the creamy olive of her cheek.
She was about to reply ; but it was a moment too late. Her
friend. Nan Tyas, a young fish-wife, almost as tall, almost as hand-
some as herself, but in a different way, had come to an end of her
slight store of patience.
Looking over Bab's shoulder, her keen dark eyes glittering as she
tared straight into Miss Theyn's face, an expression of suspicion
n every feature, she asked :
•Whca telled ya her neame ?'
This was meant to be facetious, and there was esprit de corps
enough among the girls to cause it to be received as it was meant.
A general titter wont round, in the midst of which another voice
found courage to remark :
* Mebbe she kenned it of her o/in sharpness.'
A second laugh was heard, less restrained than before.
Thorhilda looked on with interest, but not smilingly, still less
resentfully. The moment and its experience were new to her.
Moreover, she discerned that a grave clear look from Bab was
quelling the tendency to sarcasm.
' Hand yer tongues, ya fools,' Bab said quietly, but with a certain
force in the tone of her voice.
Then she turned to Miss Theyn, the lingering displeasure still
about her mouth. Speaking with decidedly less of the northern
accent and intonation than before, she said :
' Yes, Barbara Burdas ; that's what they call ma. Ah'm noan
shamed o' my name. . . . Did ya want anything wi' me ?'
' Yes ; I wished to speak to you for awhile. I do not know that
I have much of importance to say at present ; but I wished to
know you. to ask you one or two questions. I thought that perhaps
your friends would permit me to speak to you alone.'
A certain power in Miss Theyns glance as she looked round upon
the six or seven young women might have as much to do with their
compliance as the tone of expectant authority which she in-
voluntarily used. They smiled satirically to each other ; and then
went gliding away with the strong easy grace of movement which
seems their birthright. Thorhilda watched them admiringly for a
few moments ; then she turned to walk with Bab in the opposite
direction ; and for a little while there was silence ; but it was not
at all an awkward silence. Though the moment was not a facile
one, the elements of awkwardness did not exist for these two, who
walked there side by side, so near, yet so widely separated.
Again it was Thorhilda who spoke first. She did bo naturally,
and without constraint.
i
8
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
* Thank you for telling me your name,' she said. ' It is only fair
that I should tell you mine in return ; it is Thorhilda Theyn.'
Bab did not quite stay the firm ste]i that was going on over the
beach ; but Miss Theyn perceived the partial arresting of move-l
ment ; she divined the cause of it ; and she understood the presence!
of mind that gave Bab the power to go on again as if nothing had]
happened.
'Then you'll live at the Grange,' Bab said, speaking as if even|
cariosity were far from her.
'No,' Thorhilda replied. 'I live at Market Yarburgh, at the'
Rectory ; but the Grange is my real home.'
An' the Squire is yer father ?'
' Yes. . . . And Hartas Theyn is my biother.'
The sun was still shining down with brilliancy upon the blue
waters of the North Sea, ui)on the white wavelets that broke gently
but just below where the two girls were sauntering. A couple of
sea-gulls were crying softly overhead ; the fishing boats in the
offing were ploughing their way northward. A light breeze
fluttered the loops of gray ribbon that fastened Thorhilda's dress.
Bab's attention seemed drawn in rather a marked way to the ribbon.
Her eyes followed its fluttering as she walked on in silence, but it
was not of the ribbon that she was thinking.
Perhaps she was hardly thinking at all in any true sense of the
word ; yet she was .aware of some new and gentle influence that
was stealing upon her swiftly, awakening an admiration that was
almost emotion ; subduing the natural pride that was in her ; the
strong natural independence of her spirit, an independence of which
she was as utterly unconscious as she was of the ordinary pulsations
of her heart ; but which was yet one of the dominant traits of her
nature ; and produced difficulties, perplexities, which she had often
found bewildering, but never more bewildering than at the present
moment. Here was one, far above her by birth, by beauty, by
position, by education, yet possessing a something (Bab did not
know it to be sympathy) that had the power to charm, to extract
the bitterness from pain, and the sting from an unacknowledged
dread. Bab hesitated some time, sighing as she repressed one
impulse after another toward unsuitable speech. The right words
would not come. At last came some awkward ones.
'If ya've anything to saiiy, Miss Theyn. ya'd better say it,* the
girl remarked, decidedly more in the tone of one urging blame than
deprecating it.
' It is evident that you ha^e nothing to fear,' Thorliilda replied,
turning to look into the proirl yet winning face so near her own.
'Fear !' exclaimed Bab, a great scorn flashing in lier eyes and on
her lips. ' Fear ! what would / ha' to fear, think ya ? If ya dream
that I'm feared o' yon brother o' yours, or of ony mischief he can
bring aboot for me, ya can put away the notion without a second
thowt. It's as big a mistake as you've ever made. Fearl I'm
1
iOUL.
horhiJda Theyn.'
t^as going on over the
il arreating of move-
derstood the presence
iin as if nothing had
, speaking as if even
et Yaiburgh, at the
iancy upon the blue
ets that broke gently
jering. A couple of
ashing boats in the
d. A light breeze
d Thorhilda's dress,
id way to the ribbon,
on in silence, but it
y true sense of the
mtle influence that
dmiration that was
at was in her ; the
ependence of which
ordinary pulsations
linant traits of her
k'hich she had often
than at the present
■th, by beaury, by
ling (Bab did not
charm, to extract
u unacknowledged
she repressed one
The right words
les.
better say it,* the
urging blame than
riiorhilda replied,
> Jioar her own.
1 lier eyes and on
'a? If ya dream
^ mischief he can
iv'ithout a second
do. Fear I I'm
A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 9
noan feared of him. . . . Noa ! ... But Ah know what it is,
Miss Theyn. I know what's brought you here ; you'we feared for
him—foT your brother ! You've feared he's goin' to disgrace
hisself, an' you, wi' marryin' a flither*- picker. Don't hev no fear
o' that sort, Miss Theyn !' And here even Bab's voice grew fainter
as her breathing became overpowered by betraying emotion. * Don't
hev no fear o' that sort. I'll , . . well, I'll let ya know when he's
i' daanger !'
It was evident that Bab had not intended to end her speech
thus ; and other things more important were evident also. Thor-
hilda's experience ha'^ not been wide, but she had her woman's
instincts to guide her, and her instinct told her plainly that Bab's
emotion could only have one cause. This and other new knowledge
complicated the feeling which had brought Miss Theyn to saunter
there, in the very middle of Ulvstan Bight, with Barbara Burdas.
Other complications were at hand. Thorhilda herself hardly
knew what drew her to notice that Bab's perturbation had suddenly
and greatly increased, but instantly her eyes followed the direction
of her companion's eyes, and almost to her distress she saw that the
figure advancing rapidly toward them oa er the beach was the figure
of her brother Hartas. Thorhilda's exclamation of concern did not
escape Bab's notice.
CHAPTER III.
ULVSTAN BIGHT.
• For hftst tbou not a herald on my cheek,
To ti'U the coming nearer of thy ways,
And in !ny veins a stronger blood tliat flows,
A bell that strikes on pulses of my heart,
Submissive life that proudly comes and Roea
Through eyes that burn, and speechless lips that part?
And hast thou not a hidden life in mine,
In thee a fioul which none may know for thine?'
Mauk ANDitfi Raffalovitch.
Hartas Tiievn was coming down the beach slowly, yet with more
intentness in his deliberate gait than wa-^ usually to be observed.
He had seen fiom the road by the Forecliff that the lady who was
walking with Barbara Burdas was none other than his elder sister.
Thoihilda consciously repressed all outward sign as she watched
lus approach ; her face did not betray tlie sadness she felt as she
noted his slouching air— his shabby, shapeless clothing. The very
hut he wore, an old gray felt, seemed to betray what manner of
man its wearer had come to be ; and as he came nearer, his bauds
in the pockets of his trousers, a pipe between his lips, a sullen,
defiant, yet questioning look in the depths of his dark eyes, a tou^-h
of something that was almost dread entered into her feeling. It
* Flither8 = limrt■t^. used for bait.
1 !
lO
/A' EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL,
was bnt momentary, this stranjjft emotion ; and Bhe offered her
greeting without more restraint than was usual between them.
* You did not expect to see me here, llartas ?' she said pleasantly.
* No, I didn't,' replied the youni; man, after half a minute's
irritating silence. ' An' if I'm to tell the truth, 1 don't know ';it
I'd any particular wish to see yo'\'
And his eyes flashed a little, as if conscious of a certain amount
of daring in his speech.
If this daring were ventured upon for Bab's sake, or because of
her presence there, it was. a mistake ; but this llartas had not dis-
cernment enough to perceive. Bab was looking on with interest,
jut she repressed all tendency to smile.
Thorhilda replied instantly and easily.
* That is not polite, Hartas,' she said. ♦ But let it pass. I did
not come here to irritate you. And '
* Could you say what you did come for ?' interrupted Hartas,
with a certain coarse sharpness in his tone.
' Readily. I came down to make the acquaintance of Barbara
Burdas. I wished to know her ; I had wished it for some time.
So far, I am glad I did come. Don't try to make me regret it.'
* I don't spend my breath in such efforts as them, as a rule,' re-
joined the young man. t?'iing his pipe from his mouth, and speaking
with evident strong effort to restrain himself. ' But have a care !
I don't force myself upon your friends.'
' True,' said Thorhilda ; and again, before she could find the
word she wished to use, the opportunity was taken from her.
' D'ya want yer sister to think she's forced herself upon a friend
o' yours?* Bab asked, still seeming as if she tried to restrain the
sarcastic smile that appeared to play about her lips almost cease-
lessly. Hartas Theyn's manner changed instantly in replying to
Bab. It was as if the better nature within him asserted itself all
at once ; his higher manhood responded to her slightest touch.
* I don't want no quarrellin',* he replied, speaking with a mildness
and softness so new to him that even his sister discerned it with
an infinite surprise. ' I don't want no quarrellin', an' it's only fair
to expect that if I keep away f ra them, as I always hev done ' [this
with an unmitigated scorn], 'they'll hev the goodness to keep away
fra me. Friends o' that sori 's best separated ; so I've heard tell
afore to-day.'
Then, warming with his own eloquence, Hartas turned again to
Thorhilda, saying emphatically :
* I mean no harm ; an' as I said just now, I want no quarrellin ;
but if you want to keep out o' mischief, keep away fra me an
from all interference in my affairs. I can manage them for myself
thank ya all the same.'
Thorhilda hesitated a moment, recognising the effort Hartas had
made, and also the element of fairness in his words, yet it was
intvitabl* that other thoughts should force themselves upon her.
UL,
nd Bhe oflFered her
between them,
she said pleasantly.
Br half a minute's
ih, 1 don't know 'nt
f a certain amount
sake, or because of
liutas had not dis-
J on with interest.
let it pass. I did
iterrupted Hartas,
ntance of Barbara
it for some time,
e me regret it.'
hem, as a rule,' re-
outh, and speaking
* But have a care !
he could find the
en from her.
self upon a friend
ed to restrain the
lips almost cease-
ly in replying to
asserted itself all
ghtest touch.
ng with a mildness
discerned it with
, an' it's only fair
^8 hev done ' [this
ness to keep away
80 I've heard tell
IS turned again to
at no quarrellin ;
away fra me an
them for myself
jffort Hartas had
^ords, yet it was
jlves upon her.
ULVSTAN BIGHT,
%t
* Hartas, do yon remember that you are my brother ?' she asked
after a moment of swift, deep thinking.
* An' what o' that ? It's neither your fault nor mine.'
* Ko ; it is no one's fault ; but it is a fact, a fact that means much,
and, for me, involves much. If I could forget it I should be — well,
something I hope I am not. Fortunately for me I cannot forget
it ; more fortunately still, I cannot altogether ignore it. I cannot
let you and your life's deepest affairs pass by me as if no tie existed.
... I do not wish to forget or to ignore. Why should you
wish it ?'
' Because I'm made of a different sort n' stuff — a commoner sort,
if you will ; an' because I'm cast in a different mould. Say what
you like, it isn't easy for you to look down — fool as I am I can see
as much as that. But, take viy word for it^ it i$nt any easier for me
to look up. An' wliy should either you or me strive to look up or
down against the grain ? Because the world expects it ! Then
let it expect, I'm good at disappointin' expectations o' that sort.
We're better apart, an' you know it /' Then turning away, a little
excited, a little angry, disquieted by nervous perturbations of
various kinds, he lifted his eyes to discern the approach of influences
J ret more disturbing to him than any he had encountered that
uckless morning. And yet it was only two ladies who were
approaching, two elderly and, more or less, elegantly dressed ladies.
Hartas instantly divined that they were his aunts in search of
Thorhilda.
' Heaven help us !' he exclaimed. * Here's two more of 'em !
Bab, let's fly. There's the cave !'
* Me fly !' Bab exclaimed indignantly. ' It will be thte first time !*
And as she stood watching the two ladies advancing slowly over the
slimy, slippery stones and tangle, again the half-satirical smile
gathered about her mouth. Hartas watched her face with admira-
tion expressed on every feature of his own ; and Thorhilda stood,
controlling the fear of a scene that wa& mingled with her ex-
pectancy. Mrs. Godfrey, the Canon's stalely and still beautiful
wife ; Mrs. Kerne, the sister of Squire Theyne, an elderly and
rugged-featured woman, the widow o^ a rich shipowner, had not
much in common ; and therefore, very wisely, seldom sought each
other's society. There certainly seemed to be something strange
ir the fact of their leaving the wide sea-wall together, aud coming
down over the wet unstable beach. Besides, there was that in the
expression of one of them that was at lea^*^ oniinous.
iTT-
I i
1
11
!i
la IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL,
CHAPTER IV.
SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS.
' O how this i^pring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an Ai)ril day ;
Which now shows all the beauty of tue son
And by-and'by a cloud takes all away.'
Shakespeabb.
'Think again, Bab,' Hartas whispered to the only quite self-
poHsessed one of the waiting three. ' Think again ! There's the
Pirate's Hole !'
* Go into it, if you're frightened,' replied Bab curtly.
Hartas was silenced ; but the unpleasant anticipation of the
moment was not done away. He smoked on more vigorously than
before. Thorhilda utterea some small nothing to Bab, and then
turned to meet the two approaching figures. To her comfort her
Aunt Miliccnt's face was tne face it usually was— beautiful, kind,
smiling ; free from all disfigurement of untoward exi)rea8ion.
She was not a woman to mar any influence she might have by un-
controlled feminine petulance.
* Well !' she said cheerfully to Thorhilda. * I thought you were
to wait for me on the promenade, dear ! But how lovely this ia I
How breezy ! — And there is Hartas ! I haven't seem him for an
age. . . . Hartas — how do you do ? And how are you all at the
Grange ? We were thinking of driving round that way, but now
we needn't. . . . All quite well ? Delightful ! But, of course,
that doesn't include your poor Aunt Averil. How I should like to
hear for once that she was quite well !'
So Mrs. Godfrey ran on in her easy, woman-of-the-world way ;
glancing at Barbara Burdas, understanding, feeling acutely, all the
incongruity of the elements that made np the surrounding
atmosphere ; knowing herself to be ten time'j less distressed than
Mrs. Kerne, who stood by her side, yet not too near — silent, hard,
stern, disapproving to the uttermost. And yet Mrs. Godfrey's
social nerves should surely have been as Iceenly sensitive as those
of Squire Theyn's sister. All the world knew of the upbringing
of the latter in a household where a fox-hunting mother had been
the only feminine influence ; and a seldom sober squire, with his
like-minded brother, the ruling masculine powers. There had
only been one son, the present Squire Theyn ; and only one
daughter, the present Mrs. Kerne ; who bad attained the height of
her ambition in marrying a rich and vulgar man. The rich man
was dead ; his widow was a rich woman ; and none the more
pleasing because durint; a dozen years of companionship she bad
managed to add some of her husband's coarsenesses and vulgarities
to her own innate ones. The force of natural assimilation was never
more clearly proved.
OUL.
3 0THER3.
I
V
oe son
my."
Shakespeabb.
;he only quite self-
again ! There's the
b curtly.
anticipation of the
lore vigorously than
ig to Bab, and then
To her comfort her
'^as— beautiful, kind,
1 to ward expression.
I might have by un-
I thought you were
how lovely this ia I
[t seem him for an
k are you all at the
that way, but now
But, of course,
ow I should like to
of-the-world way ;
ing acutely, all the
the surrounding
ess distressed than
near— silent, hard,
Mrs. Godfrey's
sensitive as those
of the upbringing
mother had been
squire, with his
peers. There had
and only one
ned the height of
The rich man
I none the more
nionship she bad
es and vulgarities
lilation was never
SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS. 13
Mrs. Godfrey's early recollections were of a different order. She
[was one of the five daughters of the Rector of Luneworth, a small
Ivillage in a midland county— a village where a kindly duke and
Iduchess had reigned supreme, making much of the Rector's pretty
children, and affording thera many advantages as they grew up
Iwhich could not otherwise have been obtained. As all the neigh-
jurhood knew, the Miss Chalgroves had shared the lessons that
jasters came down from London to give to the Ladies Haddiugley.
I And, later in life, some of the Rector's daughters had made a first
social appearance on the same evening, and in the same place, as
some of their more favoured friends. And they were truly friends,
[who had remained friendly — much to Milicent Godfrey's permanent
jood, pleasure, and satisfaction— much to her Mister Avcril's
leterioration. Averil had been the eldest of them all— a clever,
fretful, nervous woman, who had all her life magnified her slight
[ailments into illnesses, and who had condescended to share her
[sister Grace's home when the latter married Squire Theyn, with an
inexpressible disgust. That her sister Milicent had never offered
\ her a couple of rooms at the Rectory at Market Yarburgh remained
j a standing cause for bitterness. It was not likely to be removed
so long as Mrs. Godfrey should care for her husband's peace of
mind.
It was the quick sight of Mrs. Kerne, the Squire's widowed sister,
I that had discerned the group upon the beach. She had met Mrs.
i Godfrey at the turn leading down to the promenade, accepted her
' invitation to walk with her to meet Thorhilda with an indifference
that was more than merely ungraciousness, and when they found
that Thorhilda had left the promenade, her instinct led her to
express her shallow satisfaction in somewhat irritating speech.
Peering round above the rim of her gold eye-glass, she exclaimed
at last :
' There is Miss Theyn ! — there is your niece !' — speaking as if she
herself were no relation whatever. ' What can have ied hor to
seek the society of fish-wives, I wonder ? . . . Ah, I see ! Master
Hartas is there. That accounts. But I did not know that the
brother and sister were on such affectionate terras as to induce her
to lend her distinguished countenance to such as Bab ^iurdas for
his sake. Dear me 1 What a new departure !'
Mrs. Kerne was a short, stout woman, moving with the ungainly
movement natural to her age and proportions. Her red face grew
redder as she descended the narrow, unsavoury road that led to
the beach, and her usually unamiable expression did not grow more
amiable. By the time sh(5 had arrived at the point when it was
necessary to shake hands with Thorhilda she had — perhaps unaware,
poor woman ! — acquired a most forbidding aspect. Thorhilda
shrank, as from a coming blow ; but this was only for a second ;
her larger nature conquered, and she stood considei-ate, courageous.
The influence of Barbara Burdas alone held Hartas Theyn to
i/
14
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
the spot of wet, wecd-strcwn sand on which he stood, his pipe stilll
in his mouth, his big, unlcept brown hands still in the pockets ofl
bis trousers. The mere sight of him .seemed to awaken the ire ofl
Mrs. Kerne. That he should stand there before her, calmljl
smoking, with Barbara Burdas by his side, was too much for the I
small amount of equanimity at her disposal. No description madal
by means of pen or pencil could do justice to the expression of her
face as she broke the brief silence, sniffing the air as she did so as
an ill-tempered horse sniffs it at the beginning of the mischief he
has it in his head to bring about. |
* I can't saj that I see exactly why I've been brought down here,' |
she remarked, glancing from her niece to her even less favoured
nephew. ' What is the meaning of it ? An' why are you standing
there, Hartas, looking more like a fool than usual, if that's
possible ? . . . 1 suppose the truth is I've been tricked ! brought
down here to be introduced to your '
* Stop a minute,' Hartas interposed, at last taking the pipe from
between his lips, putting it behind him, and letting his dark eyes
flash their fullest power upon Mrs. Kerne. ' Stop a minute,' he
said. ' If you've been brought down here, it's been by no will o'
mine. I haven't seen you this year past, and wouldn't ha' minded
if I hadn't seen you for years to come. . . . All the same, say what
you've got to say to me, but take my advice for once, leave other
folks alone — especially folks 'at's never me'lled wi' you.'
' It isn't much I've got to say to you,' Mrs. Kerne replied, the
angry colour deepening on her face as she spoke, and a keen light
darting from her small eyes. ' It isn't much I've got to say ; an'
first I may as well just thank you for your plain speaking. I'll not
forget it 1 You may have cause to remember it yourseli', sooner or
later. It 'ill not be the first time 'at the readiness of your tongue
has had to do with the emptiness of your pocket.'
' Mebbe not,' interrupted Hartas. ' I'd as soon my pockets were
empty as try to fill 'em wi' toadyin' rich relations .... Most
things has their price.'
* I'm glad you've found that out,' replied Mrs. Kerne. * But
you've more to learn yet, if all be true 'at one hears an* sees.
However, as you say, perhaps I'd better leave you to go to ruin by
your own road. You've been travellin' on it a good bit now, by all
accounts, an' from the very first I've felt that tryin' to stop you
would be like tryin' to stop a thunderbolt.*
'Just like that ; an' about as much of a mistake,' said Hartas,
with an irritating attempt to seem cool. But the effort was
obvious, and Thorhilda, who discerned all too plainly whither
these amenities were likely to lead, turning to her brother, said
gently :
* Hartas, it is my fault that this has happened. I couldn't foresee
it, of course. But let us put an end to it. Aunt E^therine will
take cold if she remains bore on the wet beaoh any longer ; and we
SOUL
ho stowl, his pipo stjuj
Htill in the pockets of i
I to awaken the ire of ;
8 before her, calmly;
was too much for the
No description made
the expression of her
le air as she did so as
ig of the m:8chief he
I brought down here,'
5r even less favoured
«vhy are you standing
ihan usual, if that's
sen tricked I brought
:aking the pipe from
letting his dark eyes
' Stop a minute,' he
8 been by no will o'
wouldn't ha' minded
II the same, say what
'or once, leave other
wi' you.'
Kerne replied, the
^e, and a keen light
I've got to say ; an'
n speaking. I'll not
t yourseli', sooner or
uess of your tongue
on my pockets were
lations .... Most
VIrs. Kerne. 'But
one hears an' sees,
'ou to go to ruin by
rood bit now, by all
tryin' to stop you
stake,' said Hartas,
ut the effort -was
>o plainly whither
) her brother, said
I couldn't foresee
int Katherine will
ny longer ; and we
\quire theyn's sister, and some others. 15
going home — Annt Milicent and myself. Hadn't you better go
? And shall you be at the Grange to-iiiorrow, in the afternoon ?
Iwant to see you. Don't refuse me, Hartas ; I don't often ask
rours of you.'
[It was strange how Thorhilda's voice, speaking gently, kindly,
jietly, seemed to change the elements of that untoward atmo>
►here. Mrs. Kerne's countenance relaxed all unconsciouisly ; Mrs.
Ifrey smiled, and turned with a pleasant word to Barbara
irdas, who had been standing there during those brief moments,
[ent, wondering, perplexed, and not a little saddened. Bab knew
>thing of Tennyson, but the spirit of one of the poet's verses was
ikling in her heart— _
* If this be high, wliat is it to be low ?*
lb could not put the inquiry in these words, but in her own way,
id of her own self, she asked the question ; and later, in her own
)me, it came back upon her with fuller force than ever. Was
lis the surrounding of the man who had seemed to step down
rom some higher place, to condescend in speaking to her, to seem
if he stood on the verge of ruin in making known to her his deep
id passionate affection ? Bab understood much, more even than
le knew that she understood, but naturally, from her social stand-
)int, there was a good deal that was confusing to her. Hitherto
10 had not cared to know of any dividing lines there might be in
inks above her own, and though discernment had seldom failed
ier in such cases of pretension as she had come across, she yet had
10 knowledge of the great gulfs that are fixed between class and
^lass, and are only now and then bridged over by bridges of gold.
"^ut ignorant as she might be, she had yet discerned, instantly and
[nstinctively, that Mrs. Godfrey and Miss Theyn were at least as
Ear above Hartas as Hartas was above herself, and that the lines
in which Mrs. Kerne's life was laid down were more familiar to
lim, and, in a certain sense, more consonant, than the lines of the
two other lives into which Bab had had so mere a glimpse. Yet
Srief aa the insight had been, it had developed an infinitude of
suggestive ideas ; and it was significant that Bab's thought was
Irawn to dwell mainly upon the gentler, the higher phase of the
[humanity presented to he" in those few moments. Naturally, her
jthinking and wondering was of a vague and inexact order, but it
jwas not without its influence, for she recognised clearly that the
[hour of her meeting with Miss Theyn was the most striking land-
jmark of her hitherto uneventful history.
i6
/A' EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
\\
Mi;
ill
ii i.
CHAPTER V.
ON THE FORECLIFF.
• Whither away, Delight 7
Thon earnest but now ; wilt thou so sooQ depart^
And give me up to-nifjht?
For weeks of liugeriug pain and sjnnrt,
But one bolf-hour of comfort for my luart !'
GeOROE BKRbEAT.
' Yes ; I'm glad to have seen them,' P>ab said to herself, as she
stood alone at the door of her grandfather's cottage at night.
The children were all in bed, litllp Stevie with his grandfather,
Jack and Zeb in another bed in the far corner of the attic. Ailsie
was in Bab's room, down below, a little square, dark place, with
only room for a bed and a chair and the box in which Bab kept her
' Sunday things ' — her own and Ailsie's, and the latter were more
than the former. Few thin<;s pleased Bab more than to be able to
bnv some bit of bright ribbon for Ailsio's hat, or a kerchief for
Ailsie's neck. No child on the Foreclilf was more warmly and
prettily clad than Ailsie Burdas.
It was moonlijjht now, the tide was half high, and the bay was
filled from point to point with the sparkling of the silent silver sea.
There were a few fishing-cobles in the offing, two or three more
were lan3ing, making a picturesque group of dark, moving outlines
upon the white margin of the waters. Bab was no artist, no pcot,
but something of the poet temperament there was in the girl, and
that something was heightened at the present moment by the
emotion she was contending against, striving to hide its intensity
even from her own self. Bab had never acknowledged, even in her
inmost thonqht, that there was any possibility of Uartas Theyn
winning f r> m bor a return of the affection he professed so passion-
ately. Bather was she conscious of that spirit of rebellion which
so often dawns with a dawning love, the spirit of fear, of shrinking
reluctance.
Hitherto the thought of becoming the wife of a man whose posi-
tion in life was superior to her own had held but little temptation
for her. She was not dazzled by the knowledge of Hartas Thevn's
higher standing, of his better birth, of hia reputed wealth. She
would have been glad to exchange her life for one that offered
greater freedom from care, greater ease, more ability to procure
for herself and those belonging to her some of the things that were
now counted as luxuries not to be thought of ; but she had never
been prepared to sacrifice herself too completely for such advan-
tages as these. She was young and stroni;, and as willing to work
as she was able. Why, then, should she dream of purchasing at a
great price the things she did not very greatly desire to have ?
But now to-night other thoughts came across her as she stood
ON THE FORECUFF.
• 7
there, other visions filled her bmin, vntrne visions of a gentler and
more Iteautifiil life — ft life far from all roughness and rudiMieMg — in
a word, the life that might he lived by the woman to whom Misa
Theyn would say, ' My sister !'
' My ni«tcr /' Uib had said the words to herself ; then she uttered
them half audibly, with a thrill like that of the lover who first says
to himself, ' My wife'
Could Thorhilda Theyn have known it all, could she have looked
but one moment into liab's heart and brain as the girl stood there
by the cottag* door, feeling almost as if her very breathing were
restrained by the force of the new vision, the compelling touch of the
new affection, surely for very humility Miss Theyn would have been
sad at heart. It was well for her peace that she might not know.
Bab had 'lever before come into contact with any woman of such
winning grace, such refined loveliness ; never before had she been
moved by such attractive gentleness. And there was something
more than these — a mystic and far-off something that drew the
untrained fisher-girl with a strong and strange fascination, a fasci-
nation that she could m ither understand nor resist.
' I'd lay my life down for her,' she said, blushing as she spoke
for the warmth of her own word, though no one was by to hear it,
or to hold her in contempt for evermore for having used it. The
blush was the sign of her heart's inexj»erionce.
Thinking thus of Miss Theyn, it was not wonderful that softened
thoughts of JMiss I'hoyn's brother should come ; that his humility
of manner to heiself should appear in a new and more attractive
light ; that the remembrance of his affection should have more
force to touch her own ; that his oft-repeated assurance of life-long
])rotection and unfailing devotion should appeal more strongly to
ijer imagination. Ah, what a dream it was ! how bright ! how
sweet ! how possible ! but, alas, how very brief !
Bab would not look at the ending of the dream : she put it away
resolutely. Some day she would be compelled to look at it, but
not to-night, not to-night. It was as if she herself were pleading;
with herself for a little good, a little beauty, a little softness, a
little ease. Some day she might have to pay the price for the
dream. Well, let the demand be made, and she would honour it —
for Miss Tlieyn's sake she wouM honour it, though it cost all that
she liad, to the last limit.
' Yes, I'd do that ; I'd lay down my life if so 'twere to be that
she needed it !' Bab repeated, still standing there, watching the
dark, picturesque grouping of the men and boats ujjon the silver of
the beach, the swiftly-changing lights and shadows seeming to
correspond with the changes of her own thought and emotion.
Presently a voice broke upon the silence, not roughly or rudely,
yet with a strangely jarring effect upon her present mood, an effect
that was for thi' iusiant almost as the first rising of anger. No
intrusion could have been more unwelcome.
o
i8
IN EXCHASGE FOR A SOUL,
CHAPTER VI.
*AnOVE THK SOUND OF THE SEA.'
* *
•^ • " JcHsii', JcRHJo rnincron. •
Hcur me but tbis once," qiiotli he.
" Oood luck no witli jou, nrij,'blionr's Hon,
But I'm 110 mato for jon," qtiotb Hbe.
Day was TerKin^ towanl the iii({bt,
There beside the moaniii({ uea,
DitnnesB overtook the litfbt, ,
There where the breakers be.
"O Jessie, Jessie Cameron.
I have loved yon long nnd tme,"
••Good luck no with you, neighbour's son,
But I'm no mate for yor.
Christina Rosbeti'I.
The voice was the voice of Davi't Aurioe, the brother of Nan
Tyas, a brave, strong,', youni^ fislierrnan, with that slow solemnity of
speech and movement which secinH always to have been won out of
the moments of strife witii death and danger. David was not
surprised to find Hah standiiii^ there, though it was nearly mid-
night and the world about her was all asleep. Like others of his
craft, he was used to the keeping of untimely hours.
No, he had no surprise ; but an unusual sense of satisfaction came
upon him, almost overpowering him for the moment.
* Waitin'for daaylight, Bab ?' ho asked, stopping near the door of
the cottage and resting upc^ the ground the end of an oar which he
was carrying homeward for rr pairs. It looked like a lance as it
stood edgewise in. the moonlight; and he who carried it might
certainly have passed for a young knight of an older time had his
dress been other than the knitted blue guernsey and the slouching
sou'wester of the north coast. There was little difference between
BaVs guernsey and his own ; his was knitted in a pattern of broad
stripes, hers in a fine 'honey-comb' — the shape was the same
precisely.
Bab replied to his question \\ ith discouraging carelessness.
* No,' 5he said ; I'll get a good sleep in yet afore the sun's above
the sea. Im bound to be at the fiither-beds afore five o'clock. . .
What bev ya got this tide? Not much to boast about, Ah
reckon.'
*No,' David replied, half sadly. *It strikes me 'at it'll be a good
while afore anybody he rabouts has aught to boast on again. If
you could put a stop to ^/he trawlers to-night, it 'ud take years to
fill the sea as full o' fish as it was afore them devil's instriments
was invented.'
* The devil has nongbt to do wi' tuom,' said Bab, perhaps taking
a wider outlook for contradiction's sake. 'There's more i' the
heaven's above, and i* the e't! beneath, an' i' the waters under the
e'tb, than such as you an' me knows on. . . . Let em be wi' their
li
It:
'ABOVE THE SOUXD OF THE SEA*
19
ISTINA RossEni.
trawlers, an' thoir Htt;:im fiHhin' yawls, an' all tlio re^t of it. D'ya
think thoy can niter tho ways of Providonco ? Let 'em IVi !'
David was nilenced for a inotn(Mit, not fueling qiiitt; Hiire in hin
own mind that this hopeful philosophy was being countenanced by
actual ciroii instance. Yet for him, as for Bab, there would have
been imtnenhe, almost insuperable difliculty in trying to set aside,
or ignore, the old, tried belief in tho wisdom of the ways of Provi-
dence. In this thoy were happy, in having been trained from
childhood to at least reveience for a creed that hold the Fatherhood
of God, the Brotherhood of Christ, as facts that none might dis-
believe save to his soul's imperilling. Though no intimate spiritual
influence had yet been theirs to draw them toattemptany spiritual
life of their own. they were yet aware that such a life might be
lived ; and David's inner experience had not been so colourless as
some of his more fervid mates imagined
But, like most of his class, he was uot given to wear his heart
upon his sleeve.
His life, generally, had much in it o' which the little world about
him was only very dimly aware. H.e was one of a rather large
family. The father was not a sober man ; the mother was an ill-
tempered woman, dirty withal, and intolerably selfish ; caring
nothing for the comfort or well-being of her family so that she
might sit tho long day through upou the doorstop of her oottag<»,
idle, half-clad, and almosc repulsive in her personal untidiness.
Yet is it strange to confess that David could never rid himself of
the old affection for her, the old yearning for her that had so beset
him when ho was a little lad, suffering keenly from her cruel
humours, yet ."uflering silently and always forgivingly ? He had
loved his mother and worked for hur, ai.'d taktm thought for her
when there was no one else ; but he knew that his mother loved
not him.
Then naturally, almost inevitably, the aflFectionateness of his
whole strong affectionate nature had gathered itself together in
another love — a deeper and more yearning and more passionate
love ; but, so far, this had seemed to give no sign, save in the keen
and ceaseless aching of his heart. No lonely woman ever suffered a
lonelier life, or was ever more sensitive to the lightest touch of
alleviation.
At the present moment not even Bab herself knew the tremulous
way in which one instinct waS lighting against another within him.
'Go home now; leave this preoccupied and unimpressionable
girl till a more favourable moment.' So spoke the instinct of
common sense. But another and a stronger instinct was there —
too strong to utter itself in words. It was by the depth of its
silence that he was influenced ; and he made a mistake, nnd he
stayed.
'It's all very well to talk i' that way, Bab,' he said at last,
answering her word as if uo other thought had intervened. ' Bat
2—2
! I
I' Hi
■■., I
20
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
when one thinks o' what Ulvstan Bi<,'ht was nobbut twenty years
agone, an' what it is now. one can't but feel half maddened. Why,
there isn't a fifth jiart o' the fish browt into the bay 'at used to be
browt in. It isn^t there to be catchrd ; how can it, wi' the spawn
lyin' killed at the bottom o' the sea, mashed wi' the trav»i-boam as
completely as a railway train 'ud mash a basket of eggs ?'
* They tell me, them 'at knows, 'at the spawn doesn't lie at the
sea-bottom. It floats on the top.'
'That's true of a few sorts,' said David, half glad that the girl
should reply to him at all ; yet suspecting an allusion to one whom
he hated with a hate proportionate to his love for Bab, ' It's true
of a few sorts ; but it isn't true o' the sorts we depend upon for a
livin'. I've had proof anuff o' that ; an' so hcs my father. Why,
he was sayin' nobbut yesterday 'at he'd browt into Ulvstan as many
as thirteen hundred big fish at a single catch. But he'll never do it
again — no, nor no other man,'
* The lasi (Reason warn't such a bad season for herrin's,' said Bab,
still speaking in a conciliatory, but only half -interested way.
David Andoe was roused even more than before.
' Herrin's !' he exclaimed. ' There's nowt like the number
catched nowadays 'at used to be. Why, I've known mysel' a single
boat to take eighteen lasts at a catch ; an' sell 'em for ten pound a
last.* An' 'twas a reg'lar thing wiv us, when Ah was a lad, te
fetch in four or five lasts of a mornin'. Now you may go till
you're grayhcaded, an' you'll not do it. An' ' (here David's voice
changed and softened, and betrayed him to his own great pain),
* an' it's moan 'at Ah care so much for money, Bab, nut on my oiin
account. Thou knows that ! Thou knows well anuff why Ah'd be
fain to see things as they once was, when every man 'at chose to
work could live by his work, whether on land or sea. Ah'm naught
at landwork mysel', nut havin' been bred to it ; or Ah'd soon try
an' see whether Ah couldn't mak' better addlins nor Ah can noo. .
. . An' it's that keeps ma back ; an' hinders ma fra speakin' when
my heart's achin to saiiy a word.'
* Then ilonH say it, David !' protested Bab eagerly ; and the tone
of her voice attested to the uttermost her sincerity of appeal.
'I mun saJiy it,' David replied passionately. 'Tho' Ah can't bard
the notion o' askin' to leave thy gran'father's home, wi' never
another home ready for thee to go to. But I'd try to mak' one
ready, Bab ; I'd try all I could to mak' thee a better one ! For it
breaks my heart to see thee workin' an' toilin' like ony slave. Ay,
it is bad to bear, when Ah'd work mysel' te skin an' bone te save
thee. But what can Ah do when neet after neet we toil an' moil,
an' come back i' the moruin' wi' barely anuff te pay for the oil i'
the lamp, let alone for the bait, or the wear an' tear o' the lines an*
* A last consists of ten thotisaiKl liemngs ; but a hundred and twenty-four
is counted to each hundred. A* YaniKjuth they count (or used to do so) ou«
hundred and thirty-two.
iili
ABOVE THE SOUND OF TuE SEA:
21
)ut twenty years
laddeiied. Why,
ly 'at used to be
it, wi' the spawn
be trav»i-boam as
eggs ?'
doesn't lie at the
lad that the girl
ion to one whom
■ Bab. ' It's true
pend upon for a
ly father. Why,
Ulvstan as many
t he'll never do it
jrrin's,' said Bab,
-interested way.
ke the number
'n mysel' a single
for ten pound a
A.h was a lad, te
you may go till
2re David's voice
)wn great pain),
), nut on my oJin
luff why Ah'd be
man 'at chose to
Ah'm naught
r Ah'd soon try
or Ah can noo. .
a speakin' when
y
and the tone
of appeal,
o' Ah can't bard
liome, wi' never
;ry to mak' one
ter one ! For it
ony slave. Ay,
an' bone te save
we toil an' moil,
ly for the oil i'
o' the lines an'
3cl and twenty-four
ised to do bo) ouu
nets? What can Ah do? An' all the while me foariii' 'at some-
body else— an' that somebody none so worthy — '11 stop in, an' spoil
my life for me. . . . Bab, doesn't thee cave for me a little? An'
me sa troubled wi' carin' for thee ! It takes the life out o' me ;
because there's nought else, no, nou-^ht iiowheres. An' what is the
good o' life to a man if there's no;in to care so as how he lives it ?
Xni'iu to see whether the misery on it's more nor he cm bear ; rman
to hel]> him i' the beariii' ; noiiu to say "Well done!' wiicu he's got
the victory ; an' no;in to speak a word o' comfort when ho falls to the
i,'r()iiiid? What's the good o' life when one hes te live it like that ?'
' You might as Wiill say, " Whal's the good o' life at all V" if ya
])ut it so,' Bab replied, sadly and gravely. The visions of the past
isMlf-hoiir had not been all illumined by the sun.
' I hope I'd never be bold enough i' the wickedness to saay that /'
David replied. ' Still it's of ton been forced in upon rae 'at if folks
miss the happiness o'life at the beginning they don't easily o'ertake
it after. Ah don't know 'at Ah'm so keen set o' hevin' a happy
life ; still — Ah may say it to thee, Bab — A/i'm doled o' mkery, the
misery 'at sits at a man's fireside, an' dulls the lowe o' the coal, an'
taints the tast ov his every bite and sup, no matter how good it be !
Eh, but Ah am doled o' misery o' that sort, Bab ; an' o' some other
sorts. Thee doesn't know the wretchedness of havin' every word —
the gentlest ya can utter, re;>liod to wiv a snap o' the tongue, an' a
toss o' the head, an' a rasp o' the voice 'at sileucos ya like a blow
frev a hammer, an' makes the heart i' ycr body sink as if a stone
had been dropped te tlie middle on't ; an' all th<; while the soul
within ya achin', an' achin', an' aeliin' for the sound of a kindly
word till ya're fit to lay doon yer life wi' the longiii'. An' it's; not
for so many days an' weeks ya ha' to bear it — no, nor not for so
many months an' years— i/'.s- yt-r life 'c/Z's goin'. . . . But, eh, me,
what an Ah saying ? Thou knows nought o' life o' (hut kind, Bab,
an' thou shall never know, so it be that Ah hev my wa/iy. It all
depends on thysel' ! . . . Doesn't thee care for me a little, nobbut
a little, just anufi; to lead thee to promise me to wait a bit ?
Things'll be better by-an'-by ; and there'll be two on us to fight
instead o' only thyself. Can't thee sa;iy a word ?
Bab had listened quite silently ; but not without strongly-
repressed emotion. The emotion evident in David Andoe had
alone been sufficient to awaken her own ; and theie was more
behind. Bab's first girlish though of love aud marriage had been
bound up with the thought of David. IMany a morning ho had
helped her to fill her flither-basket out of the rocks at the foot of
Yarva-Ness ; many a time he had helped her to bring up the lines
from her grandfather's boat, or rather the boat in which her
grandfather had a single share ; many a time he had helped to
shorten her daily task of mussel-scaling. Of late Bab had not
accepted his help, but this had not greatly distressed him. The
meaning of her refusal might not be so untoward as, on the surface
«
y
22
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
ill
! I
11
ill
lili!
of it, it seemed to be. And Bab quite understood. Long ago she
had discerned the patience in the man, his faithfulness, his power
of loving and suffering in silence ; and long ago, at least it seemed
long to her now, she had desired to say something that should
relieve her own soul from the burden of seeming to encourage
attentions she might never accept as they were meant to be
accepted.
She knew now that it was not love that was in her heart when
she thought of David Andoe, and by consequence his love for her
was as a weight that she was fain to put away. Hero at last was
an opportunity.
' Can't thee say a word, Bab ? David had pled in the gentle,
humble tones of true lovingness.
' I'm feared I've nought to say 'at you'd care to hear,' Bab replied
quietly, and as she spoke a light yet chill bret/j' came up from the
sea, making a stir that seemed to cover a little the nakedness of
speech. 'I'm noan thinkin' o' changin' ! nut i' noa waaj'. I'd
never leave the childer, still less could I leave my gran'father.
Noa, I'll never change.'
*Ah'd niver ask thee to change,' David made haste to reply.
* Ah've thowt it all oot lang sen ; an' Ah can see no reason why we
shouldn't take a place— a bit biggt-r nor this — such a one as Storrs'
'ud do right well. An' we'd all live together ; an' the most o' the
work 'ud fall on me, an' Ah'd be as happy as the day's long. An'
surely there'll be a chaiinge by-an'-by,' the poor fellow urged, half-
forgetful of the prophecy he had uttered but five minutes before.
'Either the fish '11 be easier to come by, or the prices '11 be better,
or something '11 turn up i' some way. An' even supposin' noa great
chaange comes at all, why we'd go on easier together nor apart.
There's nought Ah wouldn't do for thee, Bab — noa, nought i' the
world. Ah think, indeed, Ah do think, truly, 'at Ah could never
live without thee !'
' Don't talk i' that way. David,' she replied, 'An' try an' forget
ivery word 'at you've said. There's half a dozen lasses an' more i'
Ulvstan Bight as 'd be proud an' glad to know 'at you cared for 'em.
An' there's good women among 'em ; more nor one 'at would make
a better wife nor ever I could do wi' four bairns an' a gran'father
to start wi'. No, don't saay no more, David ! It 'ud be noJi use.
Don't saay no more !'
But David was hurt, and his hurt would have words.
' Ah'll only say this,' he urged, his dark eyes flashing in the mor- .
light, * Ah'll only say this — you can't lissen to me, because you've
thought of another i' yer mind— another 'at '11 bring ya to misery as
sure as you're born ; an' make you bite the dust o' the e'th as you've
niver been brought to bite it yet. There is a good bit o' pride in
ya, Bab — pride 'at Ah've been proud to see, because it seemed to
speak o' the high natur' 'at was in ya — a natur' 'at would never let
ya ntter no mean word, nor do no mean thing. But yer pride '11
lUL.
;ood. Lon 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.'
iires(iue, so luxuriant,
ral and inevitable in-
ti the carriage, aeemeriullen 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\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 (/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! -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 ar 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 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
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 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
•aro' 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.
)ant 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
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I
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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
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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' ''
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filliiiiiil-ll
mill !
JMm\
!
ill
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iiiiiill ilii'
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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;isfactory? 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
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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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1'
I'l:
■
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In)
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m
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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
fsmm
BSPS^
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ilHlllijlii
II III
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lill
I i
82
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
Was it the sunshine that inspired her and allured her
went slowly by the edge of the wavelets that rounded the spi
sea, which was retreating for awhile from the Bight of U
moving gracefully, as to »ome rhythm, unheard and unknowi
and-by it would advance again to the singing of the na
stars, joining its music to theirs, helping to complete the
harmony.
Thorhilda's mood was quiet and sweet, yet there was yean
it ; and the smile that was on her face as she rounded the p(
Yarva Ness might certainly have been counted a smile of
tancy. She was looking out dreamily, half unconsciously, as
sometimes do who walk alone, and then, quite suddenly, she I
aware that she was not alone. There was a largo white urr
an easel, a wide canvas ; an artist with a big gray felt soi
was bending over a palette, over a sheaf of brushes, making
touches, as he glanced to vv)iere Barbara Burdas stood, witl
Ailsie beside her, among the weed-hung boulders of the
Beyond were the tall cliffs, half hidden by the yellow su
mist, that made the scene like the coast-line of some dreaml
wonderland. Miss Theyn saw none of these details defini
she went onward with a smile toward Barbara, who stood
tall, beautiful, almost as dignified as Miss Theyn herself,
moment she forgot all about the artist, and lifted her cree
her head, without dreaming that the slight action was one tc
him almost to despair. Yet he stood by with grave fa(
courteous attitude, wondering what his next duty might bi
was not so free from pertuibation as he seemed. He had for
Bab's description, his own anticipation, yet all at once he
himself to be possessed by that flash of feeling which arouse
of B" when at last we stand in the presence of a long fel
ideal. Here at last is the beauty we have tried to grasp in \
here ■ the goodness, here the grace of soul. Being thus pr
we fall down and worship, and are at once the better fc
worship.
Rudel knew when the pilgrims brought from the Ea
accounts of the grace, the loveliness, the goodness of the L
Tripoli. He lisU iied till he lost himself, lost huuself utt
the hope to find another. But the story of the troubadour
been told already it may not be repeated here. Browning'
poem contains the essence of the drama, its most vital
meaning. The man heard and loved, loved so intcD^ely tha
the moment came when sight was to be vouchsafed to h
strength was not suHicient for the ordeal ; it had been con
by thonf 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 wilindnoss. 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
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Photographic
Sciences
Corporation
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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-
^%
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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 lanlv, 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
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. 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
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 fiher-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//':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"-
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'pokc of the
' weather and the crops-,' ' Shakespeare and the musical glasses,' with
such perfect equaniniity ? The Rector's wife was even a little
impatient at time^^. Being so full of life, and of all life's minor
enthusiasms, herself, it chafed her ^o watch the unmoved bearing
of two people who should have boon — so to speak — electric with
'LATE, LATE, SO LATE P
175
and it
tioii as
mse of
anding
1 stood
anches
light, a
painful
B from
^o have
for the
:'s very
lid lose
ry baud
)d with
thing is
-that a
inery of
time to
this the
he irre-
but. It
ntain-
inone
mge in
gown,
itter to
or tra-
illowed
never
. He
ectory
, wait-
Isire of
rd, or
I lovers
i the
' with
little
[minor
leaving
with
iympathy, with emotion ; who should have rarified the very
atmosphere about them with the ferviduess, the intensity of their
affection.
* Well,' she said one day to Gertrude Douglas, who was full of
understanding as to this perplexing state of things, ' Well, I sup-
pose we are not made alike ; but when I remeinbcr the last few
weeks before my own marriage, and then look at Thorda, I am all
bewilderment. Looking back upon myself, upon the state of exalta-
tion I was in, and then turning to watch her — her perfect self-con-
trol, her unbroken quietness, her uneager manner, her unfervid
glance — I cannot, I ccamot but dread that all this means indifference.
. . . Why should she be so hard to move ? She is not cold-hearted
—anything but that. Indeed I have always felt that somewhere in
her nature there must be a most passionate intensity of loving-
ness, I had hoped to see it come to the surface now ; I felt sure of
it. Yet day by day I wait and watch, and the day ends in disap-
pointment.'
* Yet she isn't reserved with one,' Miss Douglas said musingly.
' Reserved ! No, not exactly that ; nor exactly open. The reserve
is somehow thrown upon one's self. I do not — 1 do not dure to
speak the siTr4)ie truth ; I do not dare to question her, to remon-
strate with her. What is there that one could take hold of ? She
receives Percival with all kindness, all politeness ! If she would
but once be a little rude, a little brusque, one would dare to
speak.'
' But that she will never be,' said Gertrude Douglas, who fell
again into that unusual mood of absent-mindedness ; and was not
again to be roused out of it during the whole of the afternoon.
What new and forcible idea had taken possession of her, who
should say ?
CHAPTER XLII.
SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT.*
• Tlie crown and cf)iufort of my life, your favour,
I do give lost, for I cio feel it gone."
SlIAKEPPKARE.
Outwardly Barbara's life was going on much as it had always
done ; but the changes of which she never spoke were not small,
not unimportant.
It was no light matter to have an infant to care for in addition
to the four children she had cared and toiled for before. True, the
KL.'ahbours were good, and any fishwife en the Foreclift' would take
' Bab'' Ildy ' for a few hours while Barbara went, as of old, to the
flither-beds, or eat at the herring-house ' scaling mussels,' or 'bait-
ing lines,' or mending nets, or doing any of the hundred and one
things by which the wives and daughte s of the fishermen e-irn a
little money to help in the providing of the household needs. There
-"•(i
176
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
was no other house on the Forecliff where the burden of providing
for a family fell upon a girl not yet twenty,
Bab had never before suflPered much from the narrowness of her
narrow means. She had never known anything else. Economy of
the closest had been familiar to her from her very childhood. To
have a dinner — and that a scanty one — of animal food once a week,
on a Sunday usually, was all that she had ever dreamed of.
And Bab had had no lessons in cooking ; she had never seen a
scientific scale of diet ; she knew nothing of the various values of
various foods. That albumen should not be hardened ; that osma-
zome should be retained ; that ' body- warmers,' and ' flesh-formei s '
should be given in about equal quantities — alas! all this, was un-
known to Barbara Burdas ; yet she did her best, obeying instinct,
which goes for something, and tradition, which is worth less, but
yet is binding when no other light or law is known.
The wonder of it was that Bab herself had always had such
splendid health ; her complexion was bright and clear, the carmine
tints of it full and vivid ; her deep-blue eyes were as lustrous and
as beautiful as if her diet had been regulated by a whole college of
physicians. And it was the same with the little ones. The three
lads, rude, robust, seemed likely to suffer far more from plethora
than from inanition ; and if little Ailsie's more delicate frame
caused greater fear, greater perplexity, this was not shared by any
who knew the sacrifice that Bab was even now making.
Over and over, a few pence at a time, she had saved enough to buy
this book or that, usually one lent to her by Damian Aldenmede,
but which in her natural independence she had declined to keep.
' I ^ '^e kept so many,' she said one evening. * Why, there's
over Uv nty on the shelf upstairs ; an' your shelves, in your own
room, 1' k as !:are as can be. It fairly made my heart ache to see
thera.'
' It need not,* Aldenmede replied '|uite carelessly. * I have some
other shelves at homo, not badly filled.'
Again Bab had looked into his face with that questioning look he
knew so well, and wliich amused him so deeply. Some time he
would satisfy her questions by an answer he liked to think of.
Meanwhile he found a rather cruel amusement in raising hrr
wonder, her interest, and then watching how she forbore to ask a
single question in words that could betray curiosity. Already he
was proud of Bab.
But yet how little, how very little, he knew of her real life ! He
had acquaintance enough with the interior arrangements of the
cottage on the Forecliff' not to intrude when th« mid-day meal was
on the table. How he mi^ht have shivered to see six people enjoy-
ing a dish made of the boiled udder of a cow ; of a gaunt and spare
salted cod's head ; and yet the dishes were, in their way, nourish-
ing ; witness the boys^ whose hardy, rosy cheeks might have made
many a richer mother envious ! And almost ea jh evening came a
supper that might be more nourishing still. Bao seldom failed to
* SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT: 177
lave some
prepare a big kettle of rice boiled in the quart of skim milk which
she could purchase for three-ha'pence ; or to fill the big frying-pan
with potatoes and onions, and a scrap of good salted fish if she could
get it. It is certain that there were children on the Forecliff worse
fed than those brought up by poor, ignorant Bab Burdaa.
But it was for little Ailsie, and Nan's baby, that time after time
her hoard of money, one shilling or two, had to be taken to buy
better food — now a tin of costly-seeming fariiaceous food for little
Ildy (named Thorhilda in the register of the parish church at Yar-
burgh, but never again till a recent event in her girl-life demanded
it). And now the shilling or the sixpence was taken to buy a real
mutton-chop ; or a few ounces of real port wine for her little sister
who was always so quiet, so pale, yet so bright, so good, so full of
small childish sympathies.
It was only by watching, by slowly and silently watching, that
David Andoe came to discern what it really meant to Bab to have
the charge of his sister's child ; and his instinct led him to perceive
that no offer of help on his })art would be welcome. Once or twice
iie had called to see Nan's baby ; he had bent over the cradle where
the little one lay sleeping ; not only in quietness and cleanliness,
but with some attempt at daintiness all about her. Barbara told him
that Miss Theyn had sent the swing-cot, with all its pretty chintz
draperies, its loops and bows of rose-red ribbon. A small white
counterpane covered the warm blanket. Th^; little Ildy lay smiling
upon the soft pillow ; happy, comfortable as the veriest princess of
a baby might have been. Bab's pride was touching to see.
David smiled and sighed both in a breath as he watched the
child. How did Barbara manage to do all her own work, and
yet make possible such home-life as this ? The Sagged House
was but very little better furnished than his own home ; yet, ah,
the diflPerence !
Here the brick floor was clean and whohsome — at home it was so
foul that no one might say whether it was brick or stone. Here
the old oaken dresser with its blue plates, its suspended cups and
jugs, was a pleasant thing to contemplate ; at home hardly a piece
of crockery-ware was to be found that was not dirty, or cracked, or
actually broken. And then under the dresser Barbara had ranged
her copper tea-kettle, her bright brass pans, her brass candlesticks
— heirlooms these for the most part, and seldom to be used in the
common daily life. That Bab was a little proud of them was
known all over the Forecliff, and helped in some vague way to
add to the impression that she was not quite as the other fisher-
folk were. David Andoe saw it all again, and again it saddened
him to a degree of .sadness lower than before. The contrast was
too pointed.
There was no pile of ill-smelling nets or lines cumbering the
floor hero ; no dishes of potato-peeling standing about the floor for
elderly and ragged -look ing fowls to come in and peck at at their
pleasure. Even old Ephraim's sou'wester hung in the tiny pas-
12"^
178
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
',1
sage, and his sea-boots stood within the door of the coal-shed
outside. Barbara was as sensitive to strong odours as any lady of
her land.
David did not enter into any details as he sat there. All that he
knew, or rather felt, was that he sat by a home fireside where
there was warmth, and order, and peace, and the certain security
that comes of the presence of but one human being whose
character is strong, and stable, and pure. This was rest ; this was
soothing! Had hope been there, it had been happiness of the
finest.
He could not help speaking out of his full lueart. His training
had not been such as to lead him on to the finer and more perfect
restraints.
' It's like bein' in heaven, Barberie, this is !' the poor fellow said,
in somewhat pathetic tones, as he drew near to the blazing fire.
Old Ephraira was nodding in his chair on the other side of the fire ;
the children were all in bed and asleep. A lamp burnt clearly and
brightly on the table ; Barbara sat by the little cot, her knitting in
her hand, the needle plying fast, yet not claiming all her attention.
Every moment or two she glanced at the little Ildy, touching the
cradle to a light rocking movement if the baby seemed restless,
leaving it alone if she slept in y.^ace. Bab had had no training in
such matters, but her instincts being kindly — nay, loving — reason
served her for the rest.
' It is like heaven,' David said in a low, touching voice. Barbara
quite understood ; and almost trembled in her understanding.
But for awhile, suspending her knitting-needles, she tried to think
calmly,
' I don't know about this bein' much like heaven,* she said at
last. ' But, eh, it does seem to me that people needn't make their
lives so much like — like the other place, as they so often do 1 It w
a mystery.'
' Ay, so it is — but they do do that.'
' It's the wart of understanding,' Barbara replied, looking into
the fire thouglilf ully. ' It's nothing but that — they don't under-
stand. And how siiould they ? There's been none to teach them
— none that could see the sort of teaching that poor people wanted.
They looked down from above, and comprehended nothing that
they saw. They didn't know wlnj ])oor folk's houses was dirty, nor
why their bit of food was badly cooked ; 'repulsive ' they would call
it, an' so it is to them. But they couldn't trace all this to its
beginning — how should they ? All they could do was to blame, and
blame, and never see to the root of things. . . . But, eh, me ! I've
hope enough 1 I see signs on evei'y side. Why, the very books one
reads gives one hope 'at they're beginning to see — them that can
help. Oh, yes, believe me, David, tiiere's hope on every side !'
' Hope for some, maybe, not for me,' the poor fellow replied, with
sadness in his tone. ' Hope for some. May God grant as you'll be
one o' them T
al-shed
lady of
that he
where
ecurity
whose
his was
of the
training
perfect
3W said,
ing fire,
ihe fire ;
irly and
itting in
itention.
ling the
restless,
ining in
—reason
Barbara
landing.
o think
said at
Ike their
! It is
fng into
under-
Ich them
Iwanted.
Ing that
]irty, nor
)u Id call
to its
[me, and
! I've
)oks one
[bat can
el'
ed, with
lou'U be
'SOMEWHERE THERE MUST BE LIGHT! 179
Then he rose to go, standing for another moment or two by the
cheery fire, lingering another by the diiinty little cot where t!ie !i!iby
lay smiling on its soft white pillow. It wa:-! hard to go, and Jlirbura,
with compassionate soul and warm heart, fully understood, i';ir too
fully for her own peace of mind.
'Don't be downcast. David,' she said, speaking kindly, sadly.
' There's many a one that has more reason to be downcast than you
have.'
Was she meaning herself ? Was that ])ossil)le, conoid iii'.;^ .'ill tliat
had happened of late ? David did not know, he felt bewildered,
and by-and-by he went away, leaving Barbara Burdas far more un-
settled, more saddened, more perplexed than ho himself was. After
a difficult quarter of an hour, Barbara was glad to hear the familiar
click of the latch that betol- ned the coming of old Hagar Furniss.
It was not only that she n. A distraction ; some impelling instinct
within her required more than that.
' Come in, Hagar ; come to the fire,' Bab said warmly. - It's
cold anuff outside ; but, thank God, we're able to keep a fire
going.'
The old woman began to shed quiet, feeble, inefltectual tears, the
tear? of age, that have in them no piission, no vehemence, nothing
to touch any heart not the most sensitive.
' It's well for you, honey,' she said, sobbing gently, speaking
gently. ' It's well for you 'at hes a bit o' coal at the hooso end
an' a bite bread i' the cupboard ! 'Tisn't iverybody can saay as
much.'
* Why, you don't mean to say 'at you^re wantin', Hagnr ?' Bab
asked, surprised out 01 her own troubles. But she did not express
her true feeling in words. In a very few minutes there was a com-
fortable meal spread on the table : tea, and toasted bread and butter,
and a boiled egg. Poor old Hagar began to eat at once, in that
painful, eager, tremulous fashion that lotrays long hunger, long
faintness, and need. Bab, her own troubles regaining their domi-
nance, only waited to see the old v/oman fairly comfortable, fairly
satisfied ; then, obeying an instinct that was strong within her, she
rose to her feet and took out her shawl from the oaken press
at the further end of the room, and prepared to go out of
doors.
' You won't mind, Hagar — you won't mind my going out for a
while. I've not been out since the early morning, and I'm keenly
set upon walkin' over the fields for a bit. Can you stay ?'
' Can Ah staiiy, honey ? . . . Why if Ah mun tell the truth Ah
were wantin' to ask ya if Ah mud sleep here, on the mat by the
fire ? Ah've seen neither bite nor sup to-da;iy, nor a bit o' coal —
noa, niver the lowe of a coal fire till Ah come in here to-neet. an'
Ah'd niver ha' done that but Ah were fairly starvin' ! . . . Let ma
staiiy Bab, honey — let ma sleep here on the mat ! Ah'll do owt Ah
can for ya i' the mornin'. Ah d he ri^'ht glad to do a bit o' washia'
— an' ya'mum hev a lot o' that wiv a young bairn to do for !'
10 o
i8o
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
■rjli^l:c
m
.(■■>;■
■•'j:
w
Bab's only reply was to bring a spare rug and a pillow from her
own bed, and to make the old woman quite cozy on the ' settle ' by
the fire.
* Now lie there till I como back,' she said, ' An' if ya hear any
of the little ones stirring, go an' see what they want. There's
Ildy's milk by the fire, an' none o' them else wants nothing till the
morning, Gran'father '11 go to bed at eight o'clock. Don't wake
him before !'
So Bab went out into the cool dark December night. There was
no moon — the tiny silver crescent had gone down behind the hills
long before ; but the stars shone at their best and brightest, and the
world seemed quieter, holier for their far-off shining ; and the sea
seemed subdued to a gentler movement ; the land was wrapt as in
a peaceful dream. Everywhere there was peace, save in Barbara's
own soul ,
She had seemed to herself to be quiet enough till David Andoe,
with all his subdued and unsubdued emotion, had awakened the
echoes of that love which she had hoped was dying — yet, oh ! so
hardly, so very hardly in her own heart. Now she was all unstrung
Btgain. The battle had to be fought once more. Once more ! How
many times more ? Was her life to be spent in this need of
love?
Ah! how many lives are spent— spent exactly thus — in needing
love, in craving for it, in trying everywhere to search it out ? And
one shall find it, and presently lose it again ; and another shall find
it, and know no good, no beauty in it. How few have life and love,
continuance of love — love remaining always for blessing and up-
raising !
Was Barbara Burdas going to pass her life thus — in hoping, in
finding the end of hope ? She thought of it in a vague passing
way as she flew onward through the lanes beyond the Bight. There
was a flagged pathway through the fields, a descMit into a fir copse, a
hill to be climbed on the other side ; and that the top of the hill
was a long three miles from the Forecliff, Barbara was very well
aware : yet she did not sto]) to think of the distance ; she was
thinking of nothing save a dream that was growing gradually in
her own brain — a vision of Yarburgh Rectory, with the windows
all alight with splendid lamps and glowing fires. So Thomasin
Furniss had described it to her once, when some halibut had had to
be taken to the Rectory even while the guests were assembled to
p^t it. Bab had never forgotten the description of all that
Thomasin had seen that evening.
This was no dinner-party, not so far as Barbara knew ; and
certainly she did not care. She had no desire, uo dream, except
that but for a moment she might be near to Miss Theyn. That
was the one cry that she would allow her heart to make. All the
rest could be stifled, it must be stifled ; but this might be allowed,
sxirely this ! And it "would not happen often, perhaps never again ;
but surely it might be permitted to her for once, just for once, to
*SOMFAVIlRRE THERE MUST BE LIGHT: i8l
)maain
I had to
)led to
II that
and
{except
That
ill the
[lowed,
lagain ;
ice, to
walk outside the house where Miss Theyn lived — perhaps even in
the garden, if the gates were not shut ! And she might see the
window of Misa Theyn's room ; perhaps oven know, from the
shadow on the blind, that she was dressing for dinner. Bab had
learnt much of late.
And all this detail of vision notwithstanding, there was nothing
small at the root of Barl)ara's ideals. The one motive was the
drawing to be for a little while near to one she loved.
Forgive her, if even in this mere drawing there was yet a laint
of materialism. It is only the very finest natures of all who can
live in love, knowing that this love is growing, strengthening,
though actual nearness be not attained for weeks, for months, nay,
even for years. The test of time is not only the strongest, it is the
most beautiful test of all.
This Barbara had yet to learn in all its truth, all its fulness.
She only knew to-night that she was moved to pass over miles of
lane and field as if she were but passing over a few yards. Her
imagination saw only the quaint gray old house upon the hill-top
at Market Yarburgh.
She stood upon the lawn at last. She had found no bolts or bars
to prevent her, and she had made her way up the wide avenue aa
one not dreaming of any right or title to be there. Instantly she
found her way to the front of the house, not knowing it to be the
front. There was only a light here and there in the u])per
windows, but on the lower :itory there was what seemed to Barbara
a very illumination from three of the windows, each of which
reached to the ground, and, being uncurtained, disclosed the room
within. Bab stood staring awhile, not dazzled so much by the
light, not by the stmnge wonderful beauty, as by the silence, the
emptiness of it all. She had not meant to be curious, still less to
be a spy upon aught to be seen of the Rectory from without ; yet
she stood as if spell-bound when once she had discerned that in all
this wide magnificence of light, of colour, of beauty, there was no
human soul to enjoy. For a time Barbara was bewildered.
At last, as she stood there she saw a door open, far away at the
end of the room, and then two ladies entered slowly, gracefully,
richly dressed. They came in together, arm-in-arm ; the elder lady
was bending down toward the younger one, and as they reached the
glow of the fire the younger one lifted her face for a kiss — a warm,
lovingly-given kiss. Then Bab did not know any more for awhile ;
but under the evergreen oak opposite to the drawing-room window
there was the sound of sobbing, much subdued, yet painful enough
had any been there to listen. Barbara was but too sure that no
listener was there. All her grief lay in her louliness.
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23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580
(716) 872-4503
l83
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL,
CHAPTER XLIII.
IP MUSIC BE THE FOOD OP LOVE, PLAY ON.*
• Tnifit mp, no more skill of subtle power.
No more practi(!e of n rtext'rons hand,
Will suffice without a hidden spirit,
That we may or may not andentand.'
A. A. Ibocteb.
Bardaka's tears had been stayed some time, yet she knelt theie
under the shadow of the tree, quiet, wondering at herself, yet
thinking mainly of others. It was a still, clear night ; the stars
shone and glittered, the outlines of the trees and of the house were
distinct against the deep indigo of the sky. For a time hardly a
round brolce the silence, save the hooting of a melancholy owl in a
tree at the bottom of the garden. Presently even this ceased,
leaving a perfect stillness upon the land everywhere. Not a twig
was stirred, not a blade of glass quivered, not a bird moved in its
nest with any audible movement. It was a moment when silence
itself is a strong impression.
Then all at once that beautiful silence was broken, but broken by
a sound so thrilling, bo SAveet, and to Barbara so strange, that she
rose to her feet and stood with clasped hands and uplifted face, as
one entranced might have done. What could it be, this beautiful,
this ineffably beautiful music ?
It may seem strange in these days that Barbara should never
have heard the tones of a piano ; but so it was. And now
that this iirst experience should come under circumstances so
unusual was sufficient to stamp the impression on her mind
for ever. She remained standing there for some time; one of the
windows of the drawing-room was open ; the light from the room
was streaming out over the terrace, over the shrubs, over the leaf-
less trees. And somehow the music seemed jiart of the light, part
of all the beauty within and without. Bab had no idea of what the
music might be. It seemed like a prayer, like pleading, and con-
fessing, and beseeching. And now there was agitation in the cry,
an excitement that seemed to stir the very air. It ^was as if
she was watching a shipwreck, listening to the cry of drowning
women, of children left to perish. Half unconsciously she drew
nearer to the window ; she could see Miss Theyn sitting by the
piano, her white hands moving up and down, now slowly and
gracefully, now in a quick, impassioned way. Only her profile was
visible from where Barbara stood, and Bab could see that she
looked pale and sad — sad as the music she was making, which now
by degrees was growing sadder than ever, more plaintive, more
deeply charged with pain and regret, with loss and trembling and
fear. Bab hardly knew that the tears were running down her own
face — tears of sympathy, of longing ; and when at last a sob broke
from her, a passionate, overwhelming sob that was half a cry, she
■».' (■■■
ni
'If music be the food of LOl^E, PLA Y ON.' 183
was startled at least as much as ^liss Tbeyn was, whose fingc*-a
stopped suddenly upon the keys in the middle of a soft, sad
passajje in a Nocturne by Cho))in. Pab saw that she had hoard, she
Haw the uplifted, surprised face ; yet she could not move ; she had
no wi-ih to move.
' Go on playing, Thorda dear,' said a sleepy voice from among the
sofa cnsbioHM behind the screen.
*I will bejjin again presently, Aunt Milicent,* Thorhilda replied
calmly as she came near to the window.
She was not altogether unalarmed, yet she wonld not betray her
alarm yet awhile. Opening the window a little wider she looked
out, and saw the dark figure upon the terrace, quite close.
' Is it auyoae I know ?' she asked in a tone so as not to disturb
her aunt.
And instantly the answer came :
* Yes, Miss Tbeyn, its me, Barbara BurdAS. Will you forgive
me ? I never meant to disturb you.'
Thorhilda, discerning the sound of tears in Barbara's voice, would
not ask her to enter the drawing-room.
• Wait there awhile, will you ? I want to see you,' she replied.
Then she turned and said a few words to her aunt, who was too
elcepy to take a very lively interest in her niece's movements at that
moment.
A few seconii later Thorhilda was by Barbara's side, holding her
hand, entreating her to come into the house, to her own room ; but
Barbara was not easily persuaded to this. At last, however, fear-
ing that Miss Theyn might take cold there on the terrace, she
yielded. It was a somewhat memorable moment. For the first
time Miss Theyn was conscious of a feeling — was it gratitude for
devotion ? was it affection ? was it 8ymi)athy ? She hardly knew
herself ; but the sense of being drawn to Barbara was certainly
there, and the simple, truthful way in which she said, ' I am glad to
see you, Barbara,' as she took the girl's hand again, and led her to
her own easy-chair by the fireside, was sufficient to make poor Bab's
heart rise and swell for very gladness. No words could have told
it all.
' I never thought of this— not for a moment,' Bab said, in Eng-
Ush almost as pure as ^liss Theyn's own.
The very accent was changed, softened, purified ; now and then
some inflection stirred Thorhilda strangely, as if it were a disturb-
ing memory. At last she detected the cause of this ; it was the
echo of Damian Aldenmede's way of speaking that she heard, and
the detection caused the hot colour to flow over her face and neck in
a way that was perplexing to Barbara. Had she said aught that had
been taken amiss ?
It was a curious hour. Barbara felt the warmth, the softness, the
delicate beauty of the room almost as she had felt the music. Did
people live thus always ? Was this no rare occasion ? Was the
house always thus— filled with light, and warmth, and lovelineaa
i '}
■ ' if
i84
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL,
UF
r
everywhere ? The walU of even the laiidingfl and staircases seemed
almost crowded with pictures ; bookciises filled with books seemed
to occupy every recess. Lamps hung from the ceiling ; white
muslin and lace looped back with rose-pink ribbons floated about
the windows of Miss Theyn's room ; the toilet-table, with all its
belongings, seemed a very miracle of artistic arrangement. Was it
kept so always ? That was the mystery. A thing might be done
for once, but to keep up all this refinement of surrounding seemed
almost impossible. Yet Bab did not consciously dwell upon these
ideas — they came later. Now she was troubled, and glad, and half
ashamed, and half enchanted. Was it possible that Miss Thejm was
' glad to see her '?
*I never thought of this,' she repeated, sitting in Thorhilda's
little chair, her rich red-gold hair gleaming in the light of lamp and
fire, her deep sad blue eyes shining with a new and happy light.
Miss Theyn, sitting opposite to her, watching her wonderful
beauty — really wonderful now in the new softness, the new gentle-
ness, the new refinement that had come upon it — watching her
thus, she could not but be amazed ; and to listen to the words that
fell from the fisher-girl's lips was more amazing still. ' Could love,
mere love, do so much ?'
' Tell me what you did intend ?' Miss Theyn said gently. ' I hope
you intended to come and see me. Long ago I asked you.'
* So you did ; but I never meant to come— not then. No— nor
not now in this way. . . . How shall I tell you the truth ? I was
tired, tired and lonely, and old Hagar came in so that I could
leave the little ones, and all at once I felt as if I muit come here —
as if I must but just look at your house — the home you lived in
always, but just outside of it ! I had no thought of the distance —
none. I wanted to come, to stand for a few minutes, and then go
back. But when I heard the music I couldn't go— no, I could not.
. . . Do you know, I've never heard music like that before — no,
nor never dreamed of none like it. Is it a piano ?'
• Yes. . . . You have never heard one ?'
' No. . . . There's none on the Forecliff. And I've never been
much in the way of goin' to the town. . . . I've heard the band,
though — them that has twc fiddles and the harp at Danesborough.
That is beautiful— but not— not like this. . . . How did you ever
learn to play so splendid ?'
' I do not play well— not very well. I have a friend — Miss
Douglas— who can play much better.'
' Oh ; is that so ? Because I heard him say - Mr. Aldenmede, I
mean — I heard him say one day to the Canon — it was when he was
paintin' on the Scaur — I heard him say as he'd never heard no
playin' like yours — no, none to come near it for — for expression — that
was what he said. I remember, because I wondered so much what
he meant. And the Canon looked pleased, and said he thought so
too.'
Thorhilda knew only too well that the crimson glow on her face
was f
heart
muse]
•H
her el
'Y«
four I
And, (
of tea
he hai
nothia
much
notice
all thei
ones. .
so muc
Ther
At last
•You
that hii
Bight ?'
♦Not
uncertai
And in
other Wi
Thorl
cambric
had seen
'Iha^
said at U
She CO
her, •Ih
have exp
but day 1
■paring n
Thorhi
nise that
sorrow, b
silent, as
•I thou
' Perhaps
it ; that I
late. I n(
It's ever 8(
no heart f(
* Do you
Theyn asli
♦Yes . .
cJiught up
\
in
>no.
iver
cace
*JF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE, PLA Y ON* 185
was going on deepening and dce])CDiDg, that the agitation of her
heart and mind was visible on every feature ot her face, in every
muscle of her figure.
' Have you seen Mr. Aldenmede lately ?' she said, trying with all
her effort to seem calm and self-possessed.
' Yes ; I saw him last night, and on Monday nic;ht. I see him
four nights of every week. Isn't that kind of him, and good?
And, oh ! how could I ever tell you of all he does and says by way
of teaching rae, and helping me ? You couldn't think of the wav
he has of reminding me when I don't sound the h's. But that s
nothing, he says, to dropping the g's ; that hurts his ear ever ao
much worse, and I'd never known that there was any g's, not to
notice them in speaking. But every now and then I forget. Yet
all these are little things, not to be named by the side of the greater
ones. . . . Oh, how can I ever be grateful enough to one that s done
so much for me?'
There was a moment's silence — a painful silence on the one ddo.
At last Miss Theyn si>oke, evidently with effort :
* You speak of what Mr. Aldenmede has done. Does that mean
that his kindness to you is at an end ? ... Is he leaving Ulvstan
Bight?'
* Not just yet — at least, I hope not. But he has seemed very
uncertain of late, as if he didn't know what he was going to do. . . .
And in other ways — I don't know whether you have noticed it — in
other ways he seems changed. Don't you think so Miss Theyn ?'
Thorhilda sat looking into the fire, smoothing out the hem of her
cambric handkerchief, seeming now as calm and cold as before she
had seemed agitated.
' I have not seen Mr. Aldenmede, not for some time past,' she
said at length, speaking with an almost exaggerated quietness.
She could not say more to Barbara Burdas ; she could not say to
her, 'I have not seen him since my engagement. Day by day I
have expected to see him, to have to listen to his congratulations,
but day by day he has spared me ; and now, now I know what such
sparing means !'
Thorhilda could say nothing of all this, nor did she qnite recog-
nise that ehe was speaking to one whose eyes had been opened by
sorrow, by pain — the pain of loving and losini;. Barbara was as
silent, as thoughtful as Miss Theyn herself for awhile.
*I thought you had been seeing him often,' she said at last.
* Perhaps it was that I hoped you had. I think that must have been
it ; that I hoped you'd seen him — seen how much he'd changed of
late. I never knew no one turn so despuratily sad all of a sudden.
It's ever so long now since he touched his picture ; he seems to have
no heart for pamtin' — there / painting, I meant to say.'
' Do you always think of Mr. Aldenmede when you speak ?' Miss
Theyn asked, with a wan, faint smile brealdng about her mouth.
' Yes . . . how can I help it, when nearly every word has been
caught up by him and set right? . . . There's a few. words yet
i\
i86
IN EXCHAXGE FOR A SOUL,
that's fearfully difficult I think I'll never know how to use them
properly.'
The conv(;r8ation seemed triflinf^ enouRh, but wfthin tbs heart of
each speaker some painful emotion was being cru«l)ed and hidden.
Thorhilda knew ,*»^ore of Barbara's suffering than Barbara dreamed
of hers ; and now Miss Theyn's sympathy was more open to defect
the depth of emotion and pain, her thought more drawn to dwell
upon it Already she was beginning to learn the lessons that
•orrow alone can teach.
There had been another long pausp, during which Miss Theyn's
thought had travelled rapidly, as thought always does travel when
it is charged by the finer emotions.
' And now tell me of yourself, Barbara,' she said, speaking gently,
and bending forward in the soft firelii.'ht till she seemed quite close
to the pale, tired girl beside her. 'Tell me of yourself. 1'oh hove
told me nothing, and Ilartas has told rac nothinp. He said he bad
nothing to tell — nothing but disappointment and pain« , , . Can
you not tell me how it is ?'
Barbara was silent for awhile ; then she lifted her wide blue eyes
— eyes full of an inexpief-sible astoni?htnent, an unspeakable
sorrow. Did Miss Theyn yet understand no more than this ?
In her perturbation, Barbam rose to her feot, feeling as if she
must be away from this close and narrow atmosphere of misunder-
standing. She could not go over all the old ground again now with
Miss Theyn. Miss Theyn should not have required it — so it
seemed.
'I told your brother how it was,' she said, with dignity '//a
understands, if anyone does. I am beginning to think no one can —
that no one ever does enter into a life not their own no, not even
to a life lived closest to theirs. But I must go home now; it's late
enough. . . .'
' Stay a moment,' Miss Theyn interrupted, leaving the room as
she spoke.
Presently she came back with some food on a small tray, which
she carried herself, and she insisted that Barbara should eat of it.
Then, to Bab's distress, she heard the sound of carriage-wheels ;
and Miss Theyn went with her to the door ; and the Canon was
there ; and he was glad — truly glad that his niece should have been
so thoughtful.
But while Barbara was being driven rapidly down to the Fore-
cliff, Thorhilda Theyn was thinking more rapidly, more seriously
than she had ever thought in her life before.
' Was a true, all that Barbara had said, or rather intimated ;
could it be really true that another — one who had occupied so much
of her thought — was really caring, really sorrowing /or her, for her
loss 1 Alas, that it did not seem impossible ! Alas, that she should
be drawn to dwell again and again upon the sweetness of another's
sorrow 1
I. ■^'; '<
« FAJ^F WELL r
187
CHAPTER XLIV.
*B0 FAREWELL THOU WHOM I HAVE KNOWN TOO LATE.*
' If tbns to look behind is all in vnin,
And all in vain to look to left or right,
• * Why face we not our future once apiin,
Launching with hardier hearts across the main,
Strauiing dim eyes to catch the inviHihie sight,
And strong to bear ourselves in patient pain ?'
GufilHTINA BOSSETTI.
It was not much more than a week after Barbara's yisit to the
Rectory. The afternoon was cold and gray and wintry. The
Canon bad gone to the Bight, saying that he bad some forty sick
people on his list, and would therefore probably not return till late.
Mrs. Godfrey, having a headache, had gone to lie down, and her
niece, being all alone, tried various ways of passing the afternoon
endurably. She found, however, that she was in no mood for prac-
tising, none for writing letters, though there were many that she
ought to have written. Within the past three days nearly twenty
more wedding presents had arrived — to Mrs. Godfrey's distress no
fewer than eight carriage-clocks among them. In a humorous
mood the Canon had wound them all, set them agoing, placed them
in a row on the top of a cabinet in the drawing-room, where they
stood chiming — one sweeter and more silvery in tone than another ;
yet Thorhilda could not bear to hear them, nor did the idea of
stopping them commend itself to her taste. She remembered that
one of them had been sent by Lady Diana Haddingley — her Aunt's
friend rather than her own — and with the clock had come a long
and kindly letter. At the end there was a postcript, meant mainly
for Mrs. Godfrey.
Thorhilda bad seated herself by the writing-table in the drawing-
room ; her intentions were of the best. One after another the
clocks had chimed the hour of three. There was time enough to
write a dozen letters before the post went out at five ; but, unfor-
tunately, the topmost letter was Lady Di Haddingley's, and the
postscript arrested all Miss Theyn's attention.
' I hear that an old acquaintance of ours — Damian Aldenmede —
is somewhere in your neighbourhood,' Lady Di had written. * A
friend — you will remember her — Lady Sarah Channing, declares
that he has fallen in love with a fishwife, the mother of four or
five children. The Channings have been staying for nearly a week
at Danesborongh, and Sarah wrote to ask me for your address. . . .
Do, if you know anything of Mr. Aldenmede, tell me about him.
He was a man I always had the highest admiration for, though I
never felt that I understood him, though, perhaps, that was not his
fault altogether. It is only like that can understand like, and there
is no likeness between him and me. Perhaps I needn't point that
out if you have met him. What a fancy it is on his part to ^ake to
i88
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL,
painting in that yigorouB way ! Bnt thea he never did things by
halTeR. Sarah says the iutimacy between him and the fishwoman
began by his painting her, 80 I suppose she must be pretty. All the
same, I hope there's no truth in tne rumour. Sarah was always a
terrible gossip. Still there is no saying what a man like that will
do who has gone through such seas of trouble. And I can easily
imagine, now that his first youth has passed, that it is very probable
that he may be caught bv genuine sympathy, whoever may offer it
to him. All the same, I shall be glad to know that I have been
misinformed.'
Mrs. Godfrey had read this aloud at breakfast-time, when the
letters came in. Thorhilda had listened with burning checks, not
daring to raise her eyes to her uncle's face, How much he saw,
how zar he understood, who shall say T Perhaps he could hardly
have said all himself. It may be that his thought went the deeper
that his prayer became the more earnest. It is certain that the
trifling episode did not pass over him lightly.
Now that Thorhilda was alone, that she might read this gossiping
postscript in silence, it seemed to have a thon^iand meanings for her,
and some of them were meanings that she did not dare to look into
—not closely, not truly. She could not answer Lady Di's letter
now ; and presently she became aware of the fact that she could
answer no other letter. Leaving the room in a very tumult of per-
turbation, she took the garden-hat that always hung in the hall and
went out of doors. It was cooler there, and freer, and fresher.
She seemed able to think more truly, more clearly, out i,here among
the leafless trees, that hung sadly and swayed softly, and lent an
intensity of impressiveness to the always impressive scene.
For some time Miss Theyn walked there, now quiet and hopeful,
now roused and excited, then suddenly depressed. She had almost
forgotten the peacefulness that had been hers— not so long ago.
For some time she had walked up and down the garden paths, pass-
ing from one mood to another ; then at last the big iron gates at the
bottom of the avenue swung open ; she could hear the sharp metallic
click of them, and instinctively she recoiled. Percival Meredith
had been at the Rectory more than half of the day before. Had
he the deficient taste, the imperfect tact, to come again to-day ?
Miss Theyn knew of no other visitor to be expected.
Her surprise was at least as great as her emotion was deep when
she discovered Mr. Aldenmede coming up the avenue, slowly, and
with the gait and movement of a man to whom all things were
indifferent.
When he saw Miss Theyn he came forward more quickly, raising
his hat with an almost eager courtesy. In his worst moments
instinct stood for something.
Yet the meeting was not an easy one— how should it be ? Tet
neither of them dreamed how difficult the parting was to prove.
It was evident to Thorhilda from the first that Damian Alden-
mede was not in an ordinary mood. His face was paler, thinner
yon.
*So
voice _
8ndden<
some ti
'Ide
•Oh I
not qui
she will
'Thai
E>e her
len gla
These
how the;
offer his
the top
hardly hi
Thorh
effort she
•Perha
leaving £
'Ileav
indeed wl
Again
been the <
beautiful
the hidde
that Barl
betraying
' She's 1
Her eyes i
the future
at times, j
hope, at 84
about her
It was j
just the k
lost.
' FAREWELL r
189
than araal ; Us gray eyes seemed more deeply set ; the lines aboal
his month were sterner, colder.
'Is Oanon Godfrey at home?* he asked, without mach appear*
anoe of interest in the answer. ' I will not disturb him for long.
I hsTe merely called to say " good-bye." '
Thorhilda understood all, the colduess, the depth of intensity
behind this stiffness and rigidity of manner.
' I am sorry ' she replied, using all effort to neem calm, and sno-
ceeding beyond her own hope. 'I am sorry, but my uncle is not at
home. He will regret much when he knows that he has missed
yon. ... Do you leave Ulrstan soon ?'
*I go to-morrow.*
* So early !' Thorhilda exclaimed, still endeayonring to keep her
▼oice free from tremor, her manner from all agitation. ' Is it
sndden — your determination — or have you been thinking of it for
some time ?'
' I decided last evening.'
'Oh 1 . . . Will you come into the drawing-room ? My aunt is
not quite well, but if I tell her that it is a farewell visit, I as; sure
she will wish to see you.'
' Thank you ; I would not disturb her on any account. Please
E've her my kind regards, and tell her of my regret. I should have
ten glad to see her.'
These stiff civilities should have ended the interview ; but some-
how they did not. Thorhilda did not turn away ; Damian did not
offer his hand. For a strange moment or two they stood there by
the top of the avenue, not looking at each other, not speaking ;
hardly breathing.
Thorhilda broke the silence, saying in tones that betrayed the
effort she used :
' Perhaps your absence may not be for long. . . . Ton are not
leaving England ?'
• I leave England for Italy to-morrow night. . . . When I return, or
indeed whether or no I return at all, must remain with the future.*
Again for awhile there was silence ; a silence that would have
been the end of the meeting if Damian had not raised his eyes to the
beautiful face before him, discerning there much of the hidden pain,
the hidden suffering. And as he looked he remembered the words
that Barbara Burdas had said to him only the evening before,
betraying much more than she knew that she betrayed.
' She's none happy,' Bab had said, ' not happy as she ought to be.
Her eyes are full of dread and fear, as if she didn't dare look into
the future. And all about her mouth there's the strangest trembling
at times, just as if she'd be glad to lay down all her life, all her
hope, at somebody's feet, and die there. ... Oh, don't talk to me
about her no more ; she's none happy !'
It was just as Barbara had said in her expressive way. This was
just the look he saw on the face of the woman he loved, and bad
lost.
y
i9^
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
raising her
his. There
No, htt ooold not turn away ; not yet, not thus. The past da^
and nights of suffering seemed to be pouring all their painful
•nergy into the present moment. Strong man though he was, his
heart was beating wildly, his brain tiirobbinff fiercely. Was it over
— was it possible that it could be over, all the new sweet promise
that had seemed to be sent as a kind of aftermath ; a blessing upon
the later life of one whose earlier years had been sil nnblessM save
for the benediction of sorrow ? Was it not rather a dream, a
delusion, all that he had heard of her engagement, her intended
marriage ? Had he indeed heard of these things from any authentic
source at all? The very question seemed perplexing, almost
stupefying.
It was the first word, the first question, that was difficult
' Is it true — ^is it aU quite true ?' he said, speaking with such
evident effort, taking a tone so different to any he had used to her
before that she could not but understand.
She endeavoured to reply quietly ; and even in this painful
moment the extreme graciousness of her manner, the unaffected
truth of her soul, strudc him afresh with fresh pain.
*You are speaking of my engagement?* she said,
grave, gray eyes with all their burden of sadness to
was no pretence, no subterfuge.
' Yes,'^ was the brief reply.
•It is true.' . ,.
' You are going to marry Mr. Meredith Y
* Yes. ... I have promised to do so.'
There was no mistaking her tone— the sadness of it, the weari-
ness; He understood as well as if she had knelt at his feet and
there poured out all the tale of her confession.
For awhile there was silence. Damian Aldenmede would not
wrong himself, his own soul, by so much as one word of congratu-
lation, or anything that could be taken for such. Thorhilda under-
stood. She understood also that no small or mean jealousy was at
the root of his silence, his reticence.
A man like that to be jealous of such a one as Percival Meredith !
The mere irony of her own soul as the idea crossed her brain showed
her more tiuin she had seen before. Never till now had the wide
disparity between the two men been so apparent to her. The hour
was full of disclosures.
^ And it is done/* she said to herself, an aura passing over her
like to that which passes over a human being when he is told that
he must presently die from some secret ailment he had barely
suspected. Jt i» done ; it cannot be undone* _' , .
And Damian Aldenmede also uuderatood.
The pallid lips and cheeks, the pleading look about the wild, sad
•yes, the new gentleness where all had been gentle before — all these
things told him that she was conscious of mistake, of error.
Now he knew, as he had never dreamed to know, that he himself
vtas not guiltless of her misery.
' FAREWELL f
Ifl
*t did it for the be«t— altogether for the bent,' he nid to himtelf
M he stood there, etaring intently into the depths of a white-edged
holly-tree that stood npon the lawn, |[reen, bright, gloesr in iU
wintrv beauty. Sparrows were darting in and out, a bold biaokbird
peered from an upper bough, starlings were whirring all aboat, from
the ffarden-bods to the unused chimneys.
* I did it all for the best . . . But I did wrong— a wrong I oan-
not undo. No ; not by so much as a word, a look, may I now, or
ever, attempt any undoing. It is with the smallest error as with
the deepest sin — it may be repented of. it may be condoned, it
may be forgiven —forgiven by God and by man — it cannot be un-
done. And it is no alleviation of my suffering to know that I do
not suffer alone— nay, it is an aggravation rather. . . . What can I
hope— that she will forget, that she will be happ^ ?
* Happy! This woman happy with a man like Percival Mera>
deth I Good heavens I What must her ignorance, her innocence
be, since she can even have dreamt of it ? And they, her guardians,
her natural protectors — they must be as ignorant of evil as herself ,
of all that betrays evil, or they could never have done what I am
persuaded they must have done — influenced her towards Uiii
marriage.'
They were sauntering about now, from path to P&th, silently, or
all but silently. The remark as to the beauty of this evergreen,
the failure of that, was not conversation ; something had to be said
by way of escape from the awkwardness of perfect silence.
More than once a time of perfect silence came. They were
passing quite close by the drawing-room windows at one snch
moment. Two of the windows were open wide ; a sudden
simultaneous sound of chiming came with a silvery, musical burst.
At the first moment Damian storted, fancying he heard some distant
peal of bells ; but when peal followed peal, he turned to Thorhilda
with a question on his every feature. To his surprise, she was not
only blushing with a deep scarlet blush, but her eves were suffused
with tears that insisted upon falling. She could not hide them ;
she could not explain them.
* I must say good-bye,' she said, sobbing painfully, and holding
out a tremulous hand. ' Do not come in ! 1 will tell Aunt Milicent
— I will say all you could wish. • . , Good-bye — and — and my best
wishes.'
She was still weeping, weeping bitterly, unrestrainedly ; and
when Mr. Aldenmede took her hand in his, and held it warmly, she
let it rest there for a moment or two. Nature had her way for that
brief while.
It seemed very brief to Damian Aldenmede. All at once some
secret spring of strength gave Miss Theyn power to recover herself
for the moment Recollection, sadden shame — but a foretaste of
that shame that was to overpower her afterward — these and other
things became momentarily helpful.
' &iy good-bye/ she urged. ' If yon cannot congratulate me, yoa
19ft
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
can at least winh me well— you can at least hope for me that when
fe meet again I shall be— be somewhat Htronger; that I shall
disgi'aoe the dignity of my womanhood K m than I have done to>
day.'
Mr. Aldenmede replied after a pause.
' I know what you are antioipatinff,' he said kindly ; ' you oan see
already the hours of anguish, of self-reproach, that will follow this
brief moment of weakness. I, too, know something of such hours.
Every thinking human being has to know them, to suifer from
them. It is only the utterly callous who pass through life able to
put aside every pang that comes from the oonsciouKuess of error,
of mistake. . . . But, believe me, all this will pass — it may be late
—I fear it will — yet eventually it will pass, and leave you wonder-
ing — not that you were moved so deeply, but that you should have
been rioved at all !'
* la that how the future seems to yon ?'
' It 'a how I should wish it to appear in yonr sight.*
Thorhilda bowed her head meekly, sadly, heavily. Life seemed
over — all save endurance of living.
It was then, in that moment, that there flashed across her mind
the thought of one who. thousands of years before, had sold his
birthright ; and a few seconds later the words of the truest of our
Ohristian poets passed across her thought :
* We barter life for pottage, sell true blisi
For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown ;
Thus, Esan-like, oar Father s blessing miss.
Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.*
Could it be possible that she had done this — bartered her life,
her soul, at four-and-twenty years of age ? And for what ? ' Oood
Ood I for what V she asked in all reverence, as she stood there.
' If I had the strength of sonl, the daring of spirit, I would at
this moment tell all to Damian Aldenmede,' she continued in the
depth of her thought. * But I have not— how should I have, with
the attention of a very world of people fixed upon my marriage —
my marriage to Percival Meredith, and that within a month ? How
could I dare to speak out all that is in me ?'
Thought passes swiftly. Only a few seconds had passed since
Damian spoke his last kindly word. He was still standing before
her, pale, quiet, self-repressed.
' I suppose we mutt part,' he said at last, looking into her eyes
once more.
' But we shall meet again,' Thorhilda said, trying to smile, but
failing rather miserably. There was something in her face, her
expression, that Damian Aldenmede could not bear to see jnst
then.
■\ We njay meet again, we may not ; at any rate, we must part
ww^ he said, raising his hat and turning away. *■ Ood bless you !'
wa9 the. last word that Miss Theyn heard from beyond the white-
«di
114
priv
ups
* UNSEEN I'JMUERS ON THE HALL*
i93
•dffod hoUy-tree Farther
' llay God oleu you !'
off it wan repeated more ferrtatly
Tbe marriage-day waa fixed ; it wai to be on Tueiday, January
11th.
That Ghri8troa8 waa naturally a busy time. ' Busy, and ob, ao
happy up at the Rectory !' Miss Douglas declared to frienda who
were not so fortunate as to be able to come and go at the Rectory
when they chose. Miss Douglas was quite able to appreciate her
Erivileges, and ail appertaining to them. Moreover, whatever her
pa might say, her eyes were not blinded.
Yea; certainly it was a busy time. Postmen and railway
porters thronged the way at times ; so many letters came, so many
parcels, that more tables had to be brought down from the upper
rooms to hold the still accumulating presents.
Thorhilda did not dare to say that each one was an added pang ;
how could she, when almost every day Mrs. Meredith came with
her son, each of them kissing the blushing, shrinking bride-eleot on
either cheek, each of them glad for the many tokens that betrayed
such a deep and widespread regard ?
Only one eye saw the true cause of the shrinking ; only one heart
understood the meaning of the hot, painful blush. Only one man,
comprehending all, feared, and suffered, and prayed in silence.
And his prayer was answered ; but not as he had dreamt and
thought it might be.
In this very*answer there was to be 8uch a sting, such an agony,
as Canon Godfrey had never in his life known.
CHAPTER XLV.
•unseen fingers on the wall.*
' With aching handi and bleeding fe«t
We dig and heap, lay stone on stona,
We bear the burden and the heat
. Of the long day, and wish 'twere done.
Not till the hoars of light retnni,
Ail we have built do we discern.'
Matthew Abnold.
Though the times were bad, ' very bad indeed,' the fisher-folk of
Ulvstan Bight said, yet some curious and not infrequent allevia-
tions came in their way about Christmas-time. It was only natural
that the Canon should interest himself largely in the matters of
soup and Christmas beef, of blankets and coals ; it was only to be
expected that Mrs. Godfrey and her niece should drive down to the
Forecliff almost every day with flannel petticoats, with knitted
8tockings-<-there were at least some half-dozen old women in th«
neighbourhood who were kept in full work from January to
December of each year executing Mrs. Godfrey's rrders for stock-
13
t94
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL,
ingt and sockR. And then, too, there were the lifile frockfl, mad*
of snch ill-smelling brown winsey that the carriage window had to
be kept open.
* Au hour in the sea-breeze of the Bight will blow all that awiy/
Mrs. Godfrey said, noticing her niece's absiolnte f aintness and pallor ;
and then, by way of diversion, drawing her attention to theseemli-
ness of the little garments, which had most of them been made by
a clever tiny woman, whom nobody ever called a ' dwarf ' because
of her perfect proportion.
Miss Birkin had done her best for the children this cold
Christmas-time. The little frocks were biight witli scarlet braid
and blue ; the little jackets were warm with red flannel linings ; the
capo, the comforters, the mnfiFateea, the mittens, the gloves,ah,how
bnght they all looked I and what pleasure they gave !
The Oanon'b wife and his niece, driving back
to
baskets
Yai
and
T,-.
rgh
bags,
Rectory, the carriage half-filled with empty
should hardly have been silent or depressed.
There was no mystery about all this. But when some large
SBoldnK-cases began to arrive at Ulvstan, for the moat part ad-
ressedon the outside to Mr. David Andoe, and found to contain
many smaller packages otherwise addressed within, a sense of
wonder was developed very rapidly ; this largely because, so far,
there was no clue to the sender.
Ann Stamper, the landlady of the inn, a poor, ailing, worn-out
old woman, who had a little packing-case of comforts especially
directed to her, declared that nobody cculd have sept it save Lord
Hermeston, of Hermeston Peel, who had taken shelter in her house
one showery day, and had been so affable, so simple, as to win all
the old woman's warmest regard for him. But Ann Stamper was
not the only one to whom the anonymous preheats gave cause for
mistake.
Old Hagar Fumiss found a waterproof basket at her door one
morning, containing tea, and biscuits, and tinned meats of various
kinds, with a b;g round plum-cake of &uch quality that Hagar
declared, with tears in her eyes, that no bride-cake could ever have
surpassed it. But this was not all : warm scarlet flannel .was there
in sufficient quantity to last the old woman her lifetime, with a
large eider-down connterpone, a thick iiig for her fireside, some
soft, warm brown woollen serge for a gowu, and finally such a big
plaided woollen shawl that the poor old creiiture declared she could
never know what it was to be co)d any riore.
'Don't tell me,' the old fishwife said, her head trembling more
than naual in the depth of this new emotion. ' Don't tell me. It's
Aim — it's the Rector. Don't say it isn't— for there's nobody else,
nobody living, as 'ud know so exactly what an old woman like me
ad want an' crave for, an' sit an' dream of when the fire's dying
out of a night, an' ya daren't put a bit more coal on to keep ya fra
starvin' for the dread o' the next night seeing ye without an ounce
o' coal i' the house S . . . Xn. finn't tell me ; 'twas him, an' nobody
• UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALL*
19$
lid
•Ise. An' may the good God reward him, for I can't ; no, I can't so
mach as say what it all mcanp to me, leave alone thankin' him. . . .
Mebbe God '11 thank him 8ome day. There's something like that i'
St. Mattha'. It's the Laxt Daiiy, the Judgment Daily, an' the King
says : " Acanse ya did unto them," meaniu' the poor, such as me,
" Ah reckon Ah'll take it as if ya'd done it unto Me Mysel."'
Here and there, all over Ibo Bight, there were these pleasant
touches of mystery ; and yet, helpful as they were, they could not
altogether put a stop to the growing hardness of things — the in-
creasing anxietv. Even in such hoiuos as that of old Ephraim
Burdas, that Christmas was a time of dread, of strain, of hand-to-
hand fight with each sixpence that had to be sent out for food or
•fire eldin.'
As a matter of course, Barbara had not been forgotten. Miss
Theyn herself had come down one day with a closely packed bag,
which had seemed to the children standing round as if it were never
going to be emptied. Toys were there ; chocolates (less tempting,
because less known), sweets, paper baj^s full of toffee — made in the
Rectory kitchen ; and then below came the w.arm, comfortable little
articles of dress. But this was not all. Outside a hamper had been
left, which Woodward had been told to unfasten, and then to leave
it standing under the little porch. Bab saw it there when she went
to the door with Miss Theyn,
She had not seen it at the rtrst moment. Ailsie had called her
elder sister back entreatingly, ouly to whisper, in a curiously
agitated way for so mere a clnld :
'Ask her tg come again, Barbio, will yon ? Do ask her to come
again ! . . . It's not the goodies. . . . Ah can't eat 'era ; Stevie can
— an' Zeb, an' Jack — but Ah noiin care for 'em. But will you ask
her to come again ? . . . She smiles so — doesn't she. Barbie ? . . .
An' she looks at ya so ! An' her bonny white hands, and the way
she has o' touching things, oh, Ah do like to see her ! Ask her to
•^ome again. Barbie !'
But whilst Barbara was putting the child's request into vrords,
her eye fell upon the hamper, as 5liss Theyn saw, enabling her to
speak of it in a careless, incidental way.
* That is something from the llictory,' she said, * I believe it is
my aunt's present to your grajiJt'atlier,'
But Thorhilda perceived the nionuntary flush of pain that passed
over the girl's face, Barbara had always been so equal to the house-
hold needs, that she could not bear iliat the truth should be sus-
pected now ; nor was it, — no, nor anything near the ti'uth.
If anyone had approximate dreams, it must have been the sender
of the mysterious parcel that Bab found on the doorstep one morn-
ing in Cnristmas-week — not that it was mysterious to her ; and all
at once she saw to the bottom of the other mysteries that were
happening ali about.
Yet, if he chose to do good by stealth, he should not be put to
the blush of finding it fame by any word of her«. Doubtless .Mr.
13—2
'»Mi!<:'
'1
196
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL,
j^d«nmed« had sufiBcient reasons for wishing to seem a compara-
tively poor man ; but no man so poor as he chose to appear to be
coald afford to scatter gifts over a whole village in this prodigal way.
' No ; I'll not speak of it — not even to her' Barbara said, with
tears in her eyes, as she stood contemplating the dozen new and
tempting books that had been packed so carefolly at the bottom of
the case, and the pile of bright scarlet merino, evidently meant for
Ailsie.
How well she remembered his saying that he always felt grateful
to any child who came tripping across his out-door vision in a scarlet
frock or a scarlet cloak ! Ailsie should have both before he came
again.
Then thought itself seemed to pause. Would Mr. Aldenmede
ever come to Ulvstan Bight any more ? With a sigh, Bab admitted
to herself that it seemed impossible he should.
He had not been happy for a long time before he went away —
not even as happy, as equable as when he first came — and he had
seemed a man of sufficiently saddened soul then. And Barbara
knew all about the cause of his more recent unhappiness — how could
she help but know ?
And each time she saw Miss Theyn she saw more certainly than
before that happiness was not there— not the happiness that should
have been at such a time as this.
Barbara saw no future ; how should she ?
*I suppose they were engaged before — Mr. Meredith and her.
And then Mr. Aldenmede came, and she saw the difference — ay,
me I how could she help ? Why, yon man at Ormston minds me
of a peacock most of all ; he shines so, and he struts so, with his
beautiful white shirtfront standing out in a bow before him — and
him turning round in that slow, stiff way, as if he'd got to move
altogether or not at all ; eh me, how cnuld one like her ever demean
herself to one like him ? an' his hair turning gray ; and a big bald
patch on the top of his crown already ! Eh, how could she ?'
Jiut Barbara was just, and had to remember that Damiaa Alden-
mt'de's hair had at least a grayer look than Mr. Meredith's had.
' He looks as old, Mr. Aldenmede does, mebbe older — but it's none
the same sort of ayiiig, not at all. Why, when he laughs, he laughs
like a boy — an' the other smiles as if he were ashamed o' demeaning
himself so far.'
Was it strange that just now Barbara Burdas should be drawn to
dwell upon Miss Theyn so much ? Does it not often happen, all
unknowingly, all unconsciously, that our thoughts, our very dreams,
are drawn to those (near to us either by sympathy, or by relation-
ship) who are passing through crises of which we are altogether un-
aware, or have but the merest suspicion ?
This fisher-girl of the Forecliff could really know nothing of the
strife that was deepening day by day in the soul of Thorhilda
Theyn.
' Xct I cannot forget her ; no, not for an hour I It is strange
pres
beei
• UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALU
197
len-
lone
ighs
ling
In to
all
imH,
lion-
lun-
the
lilda
Inge
how I am always finding myself thinking of her 1 I wondtr bM
she got any thought of me ?'
Inevitably Miss Theyn had thought of Barbara Burdas, ' many %
time and oft.' How should it not be so ?
' She loves Hartas — I know she docs. I believe his love ii
precious to her ; yet she will not marry him, lest she should even
seem to be self-seeking — lest she should even seem to desire to raise
herself to a different social level ; to desire to tind ease, and rest,
and comfort, and what would perhaps even appear to her as luxury !
Barbara Burdas, fisber-girl as she is, will not even have it thought
that she coul^^ sell her soul for a mess of pottage. And I . . .
I . . . ? Good God ! what have I done ?'
There was no irreverence in Miss Theyn's cry. She covered her
face with her hands, and knelt by her bed in all the agony of know-
ledge of error and mistake — irrevocable mistake.
Every swiftly-passing day and hour increased the irrevocableness.
Once there had been a chance. Until others knew, and added the
pressure of their knowledge, their congratulations, there had surely
been a way of escape. Now there was none ; and day by day the
yearning grew — the longing to escape by any means. With each
fresh wedding present, each new congratulation, each allusion to
the coming event, she felt afresh the weight, the dread, it might
almost be said the repulsion.
It could not be that things should be thus with his niece and
Canon Godfrey have no knowledge. It seemed to him now that
he had had suspicion from the first.
He could not ask her of her own feeling. It is strange how
sometimes the fact of a deep affection, with all the sympathy, all
the nearness that such affection means, will yet act as a barrier be-
tween sensitive souls. There are things that it is easier to say to a
comparative stranger than to a mother reverenced and beloved.
Canon Godfrey's eyes once fairly opened, he began to see much
that he had been blind to before ; and for a brief time ho withdrew
himself, and lived as much apart from his household as was possible
to him. He had a great determination to make.
At last, one Wednesday afternoon — it was the Wednesday in the
week before the marriage, which was to take place on the Tuesday
following — he asked his niece to go with him for a drive. It was a
mild day for January. A gray mist was on all the land, rolling
over the brown barren fields, over the leafless hedges, over the
sparsely -scattered trees.
' Where would you like to go T the Canon said, taking his seat
beside her in the open carriage.
*■ Oh, to the Grange !' Thorhilda replied. ' Aunt Averil isn't
well, and Rhoda has a cold. Wejmust go and see after them.'
This was not what the Canon had wished, but he yielded ; and
his yielding was a little fatal from his own point of view. He had
no chance of driving along the moorland road above Ormston
Magna, of looking down upon the house, the gardens, the wide
I9ft
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
Iftwns, the small but beautiful pnrk, of Iculiiifj the conversation
from these to their owner, and from tlicii owner to the future —
his and hers. If the Canon had but known how hi» niece was de-
siring it I How she was yearning for help, for strength, for light !
That was the worst — all seemed so dark now, so hopeless.
The visit to the Grange was pleananter than usual. Miss Averil
Chalgrove was in her own room, and Thorhilda went up to see her.
It was the one pretty room in the house — the only one where there
was any true feminine daintiness ; and Thorhilda was glad to see
even that.
' I wonder Rhoda is not influenced by your pretty roon, Aunt
Averil,' she said, glancing at the elegantly-decorated toilet-table,
the silver-mounted pots and bottles, the ivory- backed brushes, the
mother-o'-pearl glove-boxes, etc., etc.
It was not easy to see them all, the light being so exceedingly
dim. Sunny as the afternoon was, the rose-red blinds were half
drawn ; the lace curtains closed utterly. It was a most becoming
light, however, as Miss Chalgrove knew. She was lying upon a
sofa, with a pale-blue dressing-gown, elaborately trimmed with lace
and ribbon, robing her from head to foot. A tiny table, with an
exquisite little set of cups and saucers, was by her side ; and a vase
with the loveliest wb '.te and yellow roses in it. Roses ! yes, and
even orange-blossom, as Miss Theyn perceived to her agitation.
* The room is moderately pretty,' Miss Chalgrove admitted with
a sigh ; ' but yon know how it comes to be so. Half my small pos-
sessions, nay, far more than half, are birthday or Christmas presents
from the Haddingleys. They never forget me. I hear they have
not forgotten you. What have they sent you, Thorhilda ?'
* Don't speak of wedding presents, Aunt Averil, dovit ; I can't
bear it I' the girl exclaimed passionately. ' I came here this after-
noon to be free from it all for a while. . . . Please talk of some-
thing else — anything. What is Hartas doing ?'
Miss Chalgrove was so overcome by her niece's most unusual
and most unexpected vehemence that she had to use both vinaigrette
and fan before she could recover strength enough to reply.
* You were always a strange girl,' she said at last in faint tones.
*I often think that you have had just a little too much prosperity,
that life has come to you just a little too easily. . . . Ah me 1 if —
if only some others might taste of such happiness as yours !'
Thorhilda was silent for a moment. Miss Chalgrove could not
see in that dim rose-coloured light how pale, how rigid her niece
had grown. But presently she felt her hand grasped warmly in a
younger and stronger one, yet the grasp was tremulous.
* Don't speak to me of happiness just now. Aunt Averil ; do not
speak to me of myself at all. Tell me how things are going on
here. Uncle Hugh fancied there was improvement.'
* Improvement, my dear ! If you said revolution you would
almost be within the mark. Why, only to-day your father and
Hartas have gone to Danesboruugb, to a sale of cattle and farming
• UNSEEN FINGERS ON THE WALU.
199
things. They hftve gone together, and for hnsiness purposes. Do
yon know all that that means ? I suppose yoa do not,' Miss
Chalgrove concluded, with tears in her eyes.
'And things are really going better ?'
* They are promising to go better ; that is everything. Hartas is
just one of those people who can do nothing by halves ; yet I never
thought he had in him such a power of work, and of ability to or-
ganize work, as he has displayed of late. Of course, I only hear of
it all throngh your father and Rhoda ; but they seem as if they
could not make enough of him now. ... It is very strange !
Think of a crisis in a man's life making such a change !'
' Bat remember what a crisis it was !'
* I dare not remember ; I cannot, even yet. . . . Why, for nights
and nights afterward I awoke screaming, and Bhoda had to come
and sit beside me for hours together. Once your father came ; and
immediately, as soon as he saw me, he sent Burdon off for Dr.
Douglas. And all tliat came of my suffering because of his suffering
— Hartas's. I had dwelt upon it so, imagined it all so vividly in my
own brain, that I never s7ept without being instantly introduced to
scenes of sea-suffering. It was terrible, oh ! it was very terrible ; but
the curious part of it is that ever since that time Hartas has been so
much more to me than he was before. I am not myself to-day, be-
cause he is not here. I like to know that he is not far away from
the Grange ; I like hiri to come to my room and sit for an hour or
two at a time ; and you would not wonder if you saw him here
by my fireside in the twilight. There is such a change I It is not
only that he looks paler, thinner, more refined, that he has sentler
ways, quieter manners ; there is something beyond all that.
Thorhilda mused for awhile, then she said :
* Don't you think that " something " may be love, Aunt Averil ?*
Miss Chalgrove knew what Thorhilda was meaning ; but she did
not reply in her usual light and crude manner. Even to Miss
Chalgrove there was a change in the atmosphere — a change for the
better ; how much for the better who shall say ?
* A little leaven leaveneth the whole.'
'I know of what, or rather of whom you are thinkina,' Miss
Chalgrove said at last, evidently speaking with some difSculty, and
then pausing for a considerable time.
At last, roused by the subject, she spoke with some vehemence.
* It pained me terribly at first,' !Mis8 Chalgrove said. *How
should it not pain me, to think of my n<^phew, my only nephew,
marrying a fisher-girl, a bait-gatherer ! The mere idea was repul-
sive in the extreme.'
* Have you ever seen Barbara Burdas ?'
' No ; nor do I wish to see her. . . « I am told you have quite
taken what people cp.'i a " fancy " to her.'
' That is hardly ceuiLct. I have been slow, extremely slow, to
perceive that she is one of the best, one of the purest, one of th»
most high-miu'lcil wonun it has ever been my privilege to meet,'
200
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
* Beally ! . . . And very pretty, I Buppose ?'
' Not pretty at all ; at any rate not now. Six months aso she
had a sort of pink-and-cream freshness, and certainly her hright
bine eyes were very attractive. All that has eone. She is thinner,
and she looks faded ; and the light has gone from her eyes, except
just when some emotion brings it back for a moment. . . . No ;
of mere prettiness Barbara has little left, I am sorry enough to
say it.'
*Bnt all the while yon are meaning that she has some stronger and
deeper attraction ?'
* Yes ; that is just what I am thinking, but I cannot explain it.
. . . Anyhow, I do not now wonder that one like Hartas should
have been drawn to her. ... I have only seen it lately, but she is
his superior in every way 1'
* In every way ? But that is exaggeration surely Think of it,
Thorda dear !'
' I have thought of it often. The girl has naturally the " air " of
her class. For all her fine independence of spirit, she is yet want-
ing in self-sufficiency, especially when anyone is present that she
cares for ; but of this, of all this, one thinks nothing in her pre-
sence. She stands there, dignified with a certain moral dignity —
my uncle Hugh would say spiritual — and one is even conscious of a
kind of inferiority, as if she were the superior. It is difficult to
explain how, on the one hand, she seems wanting —just a little ;
how, on the other, she surprises you with an almost overpowering
sort of supremacy. You would never dare to utter a silly joke if
Barbara Burdas were within bearing.'
* I don't know that I am given to uttering " silly jokee " under
any circumstances,' Miss Chalgrove said, evidently, with her usual
amusinff egotism, having taken part of Miss Theyn's remark in a
personal way. ' Yet what you say interests me. I do not doubt
out that it is partly her influence that has wrought such a change in
Hartas. And what a change it is ! He is not the same in any sense
of the word. From being the most absoluto idler on the face of the
earth, he has become one of the most hard- working men I have ever
known. And he must have some strong piurpose in his brain to
induce him to go on working thus. I cannot tell what it is. He
has said that he has no hope of inducinr^ the girl to change her
mind. One cannot but be glad, very glad ; yet the matter is not
without interest.'
* No, it is not without interest,' Thorhilda replied, with a certain
dreaminess of manner which altogether belied the emotion in her
heart.
It seemed as if everywhere the strong, pure influence of a pure
love was having a good effect upon others — upon all whom it
touched save herself. And what was it meaning to her ? She asked
the question with apparent sincerity. Yet she dared not look upon
the anawer.
FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURE. 2Jl
' I mnst make answer sometime,' she said, as they went homer_
ward, her uncle silent, absorbed, by her side. *
He, too, had seen much in the changes that were happening to
make him thoughtful, yet far from unhopeful. Nay, it almost
seemed as if his brightest outlook were here. The few moments^
that Thorhilda had passed upstairs with her valetudinarian aunt the
Canon had spent with Rhoda; and he could not but discern
the change that had passed over the household. It was visible in
the aspect of the room, in Rhoda's look and manner, and speech and
appearance.
' Sweet are the nses of adversity.
Which like the toad, uglj and venomous, , y
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.' . ^
Such were the words that struck Canon n^odfrey as he went home
to his comfortable- seeming Rectory at Yarbur<^h ; a home thuji
seemed to outsiders as if no cloud might ever overshadow it, no
thorn come near any rose within its walls.
All the way the Canon was silent ; all the way his niece was won-
dering if she might make one more effort, one more attempt to con-
fess her mistake, her misery, her dread. Then she remembered tha£
it was Wednesday.
' Uncle Hugh will be thinking over his lecture for this evening.*
she said to herself. ' That is why he is so silent, so absorbed, t
mnst not disturb him.'
CHAPTER XLVI. '
SOME WORDS FROM A WEDNESDAY EVENING LECTURB,
' For this I say is death, and the sole death,
When a man's loss comes to him from his gain.'
ROBKRT BrOWNINO.
It was not by any means a studied informality that marked the
Wednesday evening services at St. Margaret's, yet the Canon had,
with some care, decided upon the lines he wished to occupy.
This pre-consideration notwithstanding, he found that experience
considerably modified the rules he had laid down. To feel himself
face to face with some dozen fishermen and their wives in the dim
light of the nave of the old church on a winter's evening was a
moment sufficiently realistic to call forth new effort, new sensitive-
ness to the need of effort. In such hours as these Canon Godfrey
felt always that the nttermost was demanded of him — the very best
that he was prepared to give.
And, conscientious as ne was, often he knew that his preparation
had not enabled him to meet the moment and its demand. Again
and Again he had to kneel at night, crying, ' My God, my God, why
hast Thon forsaken me ?'
So it is that the saints of God are trained to their saintliness by
IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
ill* seiiM of fftilnre, of inadequacy. It is not the man who makti
th« fair and truthful statement :
' Lo theae many years do I serre Thee, neither transgressed I at
ftny time Thy commandments.'
It is not this man whose career is held out for the encouragement
of erring humanity. It is his younger brother, who could only cry,
in the agony of conscious abasement :
' Father, I have sinned igainst Heaven, and before Thee ; ''^"
' And am no more worthy to be called Thy son . make me as on*
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
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)^<'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 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 swiiie, 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 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
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
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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.
*
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 ^«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
•
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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 oo 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.
\