CfortteU Itttuetaitg ffithrarg 
 
 3t(;ata. Ntm ^arlt 
 
 BOUGHT WrTH THE INCOME OF THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 HENRY W. SAGE 
 
 r89i 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR4262.G51915 
 
 God and the man; a romance; Illustrated by 
 
 3 1924 013 445 659 
 
A Cornell University 
 y Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013445659 
 
' / placed myself belzveen the beast and the fallen 
 
GOD AND THE MAN 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 FRED. BARNARD 
 
 'THE GREAT GOD CASTETH AWAY NO MAN • 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS 
 
 I l''l>A.^,^^. 
 
5>c6icaffcn. 
 
 I. 
 
 TO AN OLD ENEMY. 
 
 I would have match'd a hay leaf from thy brow, 
 Wronging the ehaplet on ojn honoured head; 
 
 In peace and tenderness I bring thee now 
 A lily-flower instead. 
 
 Piire as thy purpose, blameless as thy song, 
 Sweet as thy spirit, may this offering be; 
 
 Forget the bitter blame that did thee wrong, 
 And take the gift from me! 
 
 R.B. 
 
 Ocloter 1831. 
 
 II. 
 
 TO DANTE GABBIEL BOSSETTI. 
 
 Calmly, thy royal robe of Death around thee, 
 
 Tliou sleepest, and weeping Brethren round thee stand- 
 Gently they placed, ere yet Ood^s angel crown'd thee, 
 . My lily in thy hand! 
 
 I never knew thee living, my brother ! 
 
 But on thy breast my lily of love now Uet ; 
 And by that token, vx shall hnow each other, 
 
 When Ood't voice sai^ 'Arise!' 
 
 R.B. 
 
 Augmt 138;S. 
 
*,* This romance is the third work of prose fiction frffir. 
 the writer's 'pen. In each of these works, a sxibject has been 
 taken, which, though poeticai in itself, involved a treatment 
 transcending the exact limits of verse. 'A Child of Nature,' 
 written in 1870, though not published till nine years after, 
 was the first of the series; the 'Shadow of the Sword' was 
 written aiid pxMished in i8T5; the present work, and the 
 ' Martyrdom of Madeline,' were planned together and 
 mitten in close sequence. Each of the last three works has 
 a particular ' idea ' or purpose, and descends to wh^it some 
 critics call the heresy of instruction. The 'Shadow of tlie 
 Sword' is a poetical polemic against public War; ' God and 
 the Man ' is a study of the vanity and folly of indimclual 
 Hate; the 'Martyrdom of Madeline' has for its theme tlf 
 social conspiracy agai'ust WomaiJcind. 
 
 a. iJ. 
 
PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. 
 
 I HATE to thank both the press and the public for their 
 generous reception of this romance, or (as it has been 
 Btyled) tragedy in prose. Despite a title which alarmed 
 the librarians, and a subject which some critics con- 
 sidered transcendental, it was received with the utmosc 
 kindness in almost every quarter. Certain sections of 
 the religions world (by which I mean the world which 
 calls itself ' religious ') may possibly have found it un- 
 interesting ; for it neither supports nor attacks the 
 Church of Rome, it has no bearing whatever on the 
 English or any other Establishment, it has nothing to 
 do with theological or ecclesiastical vested interests, 
 and it has never been blest, or curst, by a Bishop. It is 
 of little consequence, therefore, to the higher contro- 
 versy — ^if that controversy can be called ' higher ' which 
 consists of constant wrangling over religious institutions, 
 theories, forms, and fictions. The author holds that 
 true Christianity is an inheritance belonging to all men 
 alike, whatever may oe the form of their creed ; and 
 that the patience of tl»A world is wasted, and the 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 millenninm of love indefinitely delayed, by an eternal 
 dispute over miserable forms. 
 
 Since this work was first published, the ' Old Enemy * 
 to whom it was dedicated has passed away. Although 
 his name did not appear on the front of the book, as it 
 would certainly have done had I possessed more moral 
 courage, it is a melancholy pleasure to me to reflect that 
 he understood the dedication and accepted it in the 
 spirit in which it was ofiered. That I should ever have 
 underrated his exquisite work, is simply a proof of the 
 incompetency of aU criticism, however honest, which is 
 conceived adversely, hastily, and from an unsympathetic 
 point of view ; but that I should have ranked myself for 
 the time being with the Philistines, and encouraged them 
 to resist an ennobling and refining literary influence (of 
 which they stood, and stand, so mournfully in need), 
 must remain to me a matter of permanent regret. 
 
 EOBEBT BuCHAKAir. 
 LOXDOK : Avgvxt 18, 1888. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 0IUFTS3 
 
 
 
 
 rA«n 
 
 
 Peoem . , . . , r ■ 
 
 , 1 
 
 I. 
 
 A "Winter Night's PaoLOotyE . 
 
 
 
 4, 
 
 n. 
 
 The YKATta koil Back: a Death-i 
 
 JED 
 
 
 . 15 
 
 III. 
 
 Shabotvs at the Pen Paem 
 
 
 
 . 26 
 
 IV. 
 
 SoTniTQ the Black Seed . , 
 
 
 
 . 81 
 
 V. 
 
 Enteb Peisctit,* . . , 
 
 
 
 . 43 
 
 VI. 
 
 Pathee and Dauohteb . 
 
 
 
 52 
 
 vn. 
 
 A DiSAPPECTED SpIEIT , . 
 
 
 
 . 62 
 
 vm. 
 
 CtoiTDS IN THE Set . , , 
 
 
 
 . 70 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Enemt in the Path . 
 
 
 
 . 79 
 
 X. 
 
 Up at 'The Wiiio-ws' . . 
 
 
 
 , 92 
 
 XL 
 
 Another Lotb Scene . , 
 
 
 
 101 
 
 XTT, 
 
 Kate Oebistianson'b Tbottble 
 
 
 
 . HI 
 
 XTTT. 
 
 Kate coues Home . , . 
 
 
 
 119 
 
 XiV. 
 
 The "Widow's Cup is Full . 
 
 
 
 . 125 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Dead "Woman . 
 
 
 
 135 
 
 XVI 
 
 On Boaed the ' Miles Standish ' 
 
 
 
 144 
 
 XV 11. 
 
 OuTWAwD Bound ■ f 
 
 
 
 151 
 
 XVTTT, 
 
 'John Dyson' . . • • 
 
 
 
 15S 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Face to Face again . . 
 
 
 
 166 
 
 XX. 
 
 PSIECILLA MAKES HEB CeOICB . , 
 
 
 
 174 
 
 XXL 
 
 Between Two Elements . . 
 
 
 
 182 
 
 xxn. 
 
 Cast Aw4t . • • « 
 
 
 
 189 
 
m 
 
 coxTsyrs. 
 
 XXIII. loB-DELFT FBOM THE PoLAE SbA . ■ .194 
 
 XXIV. The Stoem 201 
 
 XXV. Beset by the Ice ...•■• 207 
 
 XXVI. -An Eye FOB AN Ens' 217 
 
 XXVII. Here beoins Chbistian Chkistianson's Eecoed, 
 
 ■WEIT DOWN BY HIS OWN HaND . . .219 
 
 XXVIII. The Island of Desolation . . . .226 
 
 XXIX. Chbistian Roofs his House .... 232 
 
 XXX. A New Pebplbxity 236 
 
 XXXI. The Face on the Cliff . , , . .241 
 
 XXXII. The Two Men 244 
 
 XXXIII. In the Shadow of the Cave .... 250 
 
 XXXrV. 'Comb Back with MeI'. . . . .257 
 
 XXXV. The Atieoea 264 
 
 XXXVI. The Bear 268 
 
 XXXVII. Vigil 274 
 
 XXXVIII. Out in the Snow 280 
 
 XXXIX. The Sick Man's Dbeams 284 
 
 XL. 'OubEathbe' 288 
 
 XLI. The Last Look 291 
 
 XLII. 'Snow to Snow' 296 
 
 XLIII. Fbom the Loo of the Whales ' Nautilus ' . 299 
 
 XUV. At the Sailoes' Home 303 
 
 E>!I/0<3U3 Sll 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 'I PLACED MTaTXF BET-WEEN THE BEAST AND THE 
 
 FALLEN MAN' Frontisimcc 
 
 'All men, each one, beneath the sun' 
 
 'Facing the fire sits Chhistian Christianson or 
 
 THE Fen ' 
 
 ' " Help ! " shrieked the eot ' . . . 
 'He lifted his eyes' 
 
 ' " You SHALL not go," CRIED THE GIRL ' . 
 
 'He 8AT and gazed into heb eyes' . . 
 'The cold geet light of dati'N streamed do-wn' 
 'Once alone there, she fell upon hee kkees' 
 "flkibh toue work," hb cribid ' . . . 
 • e»o-w TO Shovt ' . • . • , . 
 
 to face 
 
 p. 1 
 
 ii 
 
 7 
 
 t) 
 
 39 
 
 „ 
 
 63 
 
 ■t 
 
 95 
 
 n 
 
 1C6 
 
 >i 
 
 176 
 
 it 
 
 194 
 
 « 
 
 251 
 
 >» 
 
 297 
 
GOD AND THE MAN 
 
 PROEM. 
 
 • Aii men, each one, beneath the sun, 
 I hate, shall hate, till life is done. 
 
 But of all men one, till my race is run, 
 And nil the rest for the sake of one 1 
 
 • If God stood there, revealed full hare, 
 
 I would laugh to scorn his love or care, — 
 
 Nay, in despair, I would pray a prayer 
 
 Which He needs must grant — if a God He ware \ 
 
 ' And the prayer would be, " Yield up to me 
 This man alone of all men that see ! 
 Give him to me, and to misery I 
 Give me this man, if a God thou be !"' 
 
 Shape on the headland in the night. 
 
 Gaunt, ghastly, kneeling on his Imee, 
 He prays ; his baifled prayers take flight, 
 Like screaming sea-birds, thro' the light 
 That streams across the sleeping seft. 
 From the black depths of man s despair 
 Kose ever so accurst a prayer f 
 His hands clench and his ayebaUs idL 
 H&te'a famine sieksns in hia aoul. 
 
GOD AND THE MAfT, 
 
 Meantime the windless waves intone 
 Their peaceful answer to his moan. 
 The soft clouds one another chase, 
 The moon-rays flash upon his face, 
 The mighty deep is calm ; hut see I 
 This man is as a storm-swept tree. 
 
 And, silrern-sandall'd, still as death, 
 The white moon in her own pure breath 
 Walks yonder. Doth he see her pass 
 Over the glimmering water-glass r 
 Sees he the stars that softly swing 
 Like lamps around her wandering, 
 Sown thick as early snowdrops now 
 In the dark fun-ows of the Plough P 
 Hears he the sad, still, rhythmic throl) 
 
 Of the dark ocean where he stands, — 
 The great strong voice stiU'd to a sob, 
 
 Near darken'd capes and glimmering sands ? 
 Nay, nay ; hut, even as a wight 
 Who on a mirror fixeth sight, 
 And screams at his own face of dread 
 Within the dimness pictured, 
 He useth God's great sleeping sea 
 To image hate and agony. 
 He kneels, he prays, — nay, call it not 
 A prayer, that riseth in his throat ; 
 "Tis but a curse this mortal cries. 
 Like one who curses Qod and dies. 
 
 • Yield up to me, to hate and me, 
 One man alone of all men that see) 
 Give him to me^ and to misery 1 
 Give me this man if • God thou be I 
 
 ' But the cruel heavens all open lie, 
 No God doth reign o'er the sea or sky, 
 The earth is dark and the clouds go by 
 But there is oo God, to hear me cry ! 
 
PROEM, 
 
 ' There is no God, none, to abolish one 
 
 Of the foul things thought and dreamed and don» 1 
 
 Wherefore I hate, till my race is run, 
 
 ay ; 
 the 
 
 All living men beneath the sun 1 ' 
 
 To-night he rose when all was stiD, 
 
 Left like a thief his darkened door. 
 And down the dale, and o'er the bill. 
 
 He flew till here upon the shore 
 Shivering he came ; and here he trod 
 Hour after hour the glooms of God, 
 Nursing his hate in fierce unrest, 
 Like an elfin babe upon the breast t 
 And all his hunger and his thirst 
 Was vengeance on the man he cursed I 
 ' O Lord my God, if a God there be, 
 Give up the man I hate to me 1 
 On his living heart let my vengeance feed. 
 And I shall know Thou art God indeed 1 ' 
 
 Again rings out that bitter cry 
 Between the dark seas and the sky — 
 Then all is hush'd, while qxiivering, 
 With teeth and claws prepared to spring', 
 He crouches beast-like . . . Hark, O ha»k 
 What solemn murmur fills the dark ? 
 What shadows come and go up there, 
 Through the azure voids of the starry air f 
 
 The night is still ; the waters sleep ; the skies 
 Gaze down with bright innumerable eyes ; 
 A voice comes out of heaven and o'er the seas 
 
 ' I AU: ; AWD I WTLL srVE THIS MAN TO IB£B 1 
 
 sa 
 
CHAPTER L 
 
 A WINTER night's PBOLOGUB. 
 
 <5eanddad, granddad ! look up ! — it is Marjorie. Have 
 rou forgotten your niece, Marjorie Wells ? And this 
 IS little Edgar, Marjorie's son ! Speak to him, Edgar, 
 speak to granddad. Alack, this is one of his dark days, 
 and he knoweth no one.' 
 
 In the arm-chair of carven oal", stained black as 
 ebony by the smokes of many years, and placed in the 
 great hall where the ynle log is burning, the old man 
 sits as he has sat every day since last winter ; speech- 
 less, to all seeming sightless ; faintly smiling and 
 nodding from time to time when well shaken into 
 consciousness by some kindly hand, and then relapsing 
 into stupor. He is paralysed from the waist downwards. 
 His deeply wrinkled face is ashen gray and perfectly 
 bloodless, set in its frame of snow-white hair ; hair that 
 has once been curly and light, and still falls in thin 
 white ringlets on the stooping shoulders ; his hands are 
 shrivelled to thinnest bone and parchment ; his eyes, 
 sunken deep beneath the brows, give forth little or no 
 glimmer of the fire of life. 
 
 Ninety years old. The ruin, or wreck, of what has 
 once been a gigantic man. 
 
 The frame is still gigantic, and shows the mighty 
 mould in which the man was made ; the great head, 
 with its broad overhanging brows and square powerful 
 jaw, is like the head of an aged lion of Africa, toothless 
 and gray with time. 
 
 Kick the great log, and as the sparks fly np the 
 chimney thick as bees from out a hive, his eyes open a 
 little, and he seems faintly conscious of the Same, 
 Flash the lamp into his sunken eyea, and aa be mutters 
 
A WINTER NIGHrS PROLOGUE. 5 
 
 curiously to himself, and fambles with thin hands upon 
 his knees, a faint fiash of consciousness comes &om the 
 ■mouldering brand of brain within. 
 
 He is not always so inert as now. This, as the 
 grave matron who is bending over him says, is one of 
 his dark days. Sometimes he will look around and talk 
 feebly to his children's children, and seem to listen as 
 some one reads out of the great family Bible which 
 stands ever near his elbow ; and the gray old face will 
 Bmile gently, and the thin worn hand lie lightly as a 
 leaf on some flaxen head. But to-night, though it is 
 Christmas Eve, and all the kinsfolk of the house are 
 gathered together, he knows no one, and sees and hears 
 nothing. He breathes, and that is all. 
 
 All round the upland hall the snow is lying, but 
 over it, since last night, have fallen, in black tree-like 
 shadows, the trails of the thaw. The woods are bare. 
 The great horse-chestnut on the hill- top has long since 
 shed its sevenfold fans, intermingled with jagged brown 
 bads bursting open to show the glossy nuts within. 
 Bare even is the ash, which keeps a goodly portion of 
 its leaves so long, and stands scarcely half stript, 
 darkening in the chill autumnal wind. All the land- 
 scape round looks dark and ominous ; the shadow of 
 winter is seen visibly upon the shivering world. 
 
 ' Put a drop to his lips — perhaps he'd know us then.' 
 
 The speaker, a tall, handsome widow of fifty, with 
 grim, weather-beaten face, holds by the hand a dark- 
 eyed boy of ten, swarthy as a quadroon. Friends and 
 kinsmen of the family — of both sexes and all ages — ■ 
 gather round. It is a festival, and all are more or less 
 gorgeously clad, bright-ribbon'd caps and gorgeous silk 
 gowns being predominant among the women, and blue 
 swallow-tail'd coats and knee-breeches among the men. 
 Next to the centenarian, the chief centre of interest is 
 the handsome widow and her little boy. She has been 
 long absent from England, having married a West 
 Indian planter, and long ago settled down in Barbadoes. 
 A widow with one child, she has at last returned to the 
 village where she was born, and thotigh she has been 
 some months at home, the novelty of her presence has 
 by no means worn away. 
 
6 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' Pat a drop to his lips,' she repeats, ' and speak ap 
 io grandfather.* 
 
 ' Grandfather ! ' cries the boy, taking one of the cold 
 bony hands. 
 
 No stir — no sign. 
 
 ' It's no use, Marjorie,' observes the good matron 
 with a dolorous shake of the head. 'When he goes like 
 this, he is stone deaf and blind. Some of these days, 
 doctor says, he'll never wake up at all, but go out like 
 a spark, as quiet as you see him now.' 
 
 ' And no wonder,' returns the widow. ' The Book 
 says three score and ten, and he is over a score beyond.' 
 
 ' Four score and ten, and seven weeks,' pipes a thin 
 voice from the background. ' Ah, it be a powerful age.' 
 
 He who speaks is himself an old man, very thin and 
 very feeble, with a senile smile and purblind eyes ; yet, 
 gazing upon the figure in the arm-chair, he assumes an 
 appraranoe of ghastly youth, and feels quite fresh and 
 boylike. 
 
 ' Four score and ten, and seven weeks,' he repeats, 
 • and the master was a man growed before I was bom. 
 He puts me in mind of the great oak by Dingleby Waste, 
 for it stood many a hundred year before it fell, and now, 
 though it be fallen with its roots out o' the ground, its 
 boughs do put out every summer a little patch of green, 
 just to show there be a spark of life i' the old stamp 
 yet.' 
 
 The members of the family group gaze open-mouthed 
 at the speaker, and then, with mouths still wider open, 
 at the tenant of the arm-chair ; one and all with a 
 curious air of belonging to another and less mortal 
 species, and having nothing in common with a thing so 
 fallen and so perishable. And still the old man does 
 not stir. Lying thus, he does indeed seem like some 
 mighty tree of the forest, gnarled and weather-beaten 
 and bare, uprooted and cast down, with scarcely a sign 
 to show that it has once gloried in the splendour of 
 innumerable leaves, and stood erect in its strength 
 against the crimson shafts of sunset and of dawn. 
 
 AU the long winter evening there has been mirth, 
 making around him. The hall is hung with holly, green 
 leaf and red bei'ry ; and from the quaint old lamp that 
 
' Facing the fire, and the great Yule log, sits the old man 
 Christian Christianson, of the Fen. ' 
 
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 7 
 
 swings from the centre beam is pendent a bunch o£ 
 whitest-berried mistletoe. Fiddles and flutes and pipes 
 have been playing, and nimble feet have beaten merry 
 time on the polished oaken floor. And throughout it 
 aU grandfather has kept his silent seat on the ingle, and 
 hardly seemed to hear or see. 
 
 It is a grand old hall, fit to be a portion of some 
 grand manorial abode ; and such indeed it was onoa 
 upon a time, before the old manor house fell into decay, 
 and became the home of the Ohristiausons. Pacing the 
 great ingle is a large double entrance door, studded with 
 great nails and brazen bars like a prison gate ; and 
 whenever this door — or rather one half of it — is swung 
 open, you see the snow whirling outside, and can hear a 
 roar liie the far-off murmur of the sea. The hall is long 
 and broad, and at one end there is a wide staircase of 
 carven oak, leading to a gallery, which in turn com- 
 rannicates with the upper rooms of the house. In the 
 gallery sit the musicians, led by the little old cripple, 
 Myles Middlemass, the parish clerk. Great black beams, 
 like polished ebony, support the ceiling. The fireplace 
 is broad and high, with fixed oaken forms on either 
 side, and projecting thence, two sphynx-like forma of 
 well-burnished brass ; while facing the fire and the great 
 yule log, sits, in his arm-chair of polished oak, the old 
 man, Christian Christiansen, of the Fen. 
 
 The music begins anew, and the folk begin a country 
 dance. Farm maidens and farm labourers lounge in 
 from the kitchen, gathering like sheep at one end of the 
 hall, close to the kitchen door. Then Farmer Thorpe, 
 who is master of the house, which came to him with 
 Mary Christiansen, the old man's daughter, leads off the 
 dance with Mistress Marjorie, his grim kinswoman from 
 Barbadoes. The others follow, young and old, and the 
 oldest as merrily as the youngest. Loud cries and 
 laughter rise ringing to the rafters ; there is struggling 
 ill corners, girlish laughter, patter of light and peal of 
 heavy feet ; and the louder the mirth sounds within, 
 the louder roars the winter wind without. But old 
 Christian sits moveless, with his blank eyes, half- 
 closed, fixed on the fire. Like a fallen tree, did we say P 
 Bather like some gray pillar of granite rising grimly 
 
8 GOD AND THE MAN 
 
 ontof the sea ; ■with the innnmeraWe laughter of ocean 
 around it, and flight of white wings around it, and 
 brightness above it; dead, dead to all the washing of 
 the waves of life, and blind to all the shining of the 
 sun. 
 
 As he sits there, some look at him in awe, and 
 whisper to each other of his past, and shake the head 
 ominously as they think of his strange adventures sail- 
 ing up and down the world. For he has lived much of 
 his life in foreign lands, a wanderer for many years 
 without a place whereon to rest his feet ; he has been a 
 master mariner, and a trader, and an owner of sailing 
 ships ; and far away, long ago, he gathered wealth in 
 some mysterious fashion, and brought it back with him 
 to buy the ancestral acres that his father's father lost. 
 A stormy life and a terrible, say the gossips ; not with- 
 out blood's sin and such crimes as, twice told, lift the 
 hair and shake the soul ; for if they speak sooth, he has 
 sailed under the black flag on the Indian seas, and taken 
 his share in the traffic of human life. Those who are 
 oldest remember dimly the days of his passion and his 
 pride — aays when his hand was against every man, and 
 when Lis very name was a synonym for hate and wrath. 
 The women-folk speak, moreover, of his strength and 
 beauty, when his white locks were golden as a lion's 
 mane, and his gray eyes bright with ihe light of the 
 Viking race from whom he drew his fiery blood. 
 
 WhUe the mirth is loudest, pass out through the hall 
 door into the night. The great door closes with a 
 clang ; the brightness fades into the murmuring dark- 
 ness of the storm. Stand en the lonely upland, and see 
 the white flakes driving tumultuously from the sea ; far 
 across the great marsh with Herndale Mere glistening 
 in its centre like a great shield, and beyond the dark 
 sandhills which stretch yonder like tossing billows for 
 miles and miles beyond, the sea itself is tossing and 
 gleaming, and crashing on the hard and ribbed sand of 
 the lonely shore. The heavens are dark, and neither 
 moon nor star is visible ; but the air is full of a faint 
 mysterious light — like moonshine, like starshine, like 
 the light that is in the filmy falling flakes. In this 
 faint phosphorescence the frozen mere flashes by fit* 
 
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. % 
 
 and the distant sandhills loom dimly in the distance, 
 and on every side gathers the whiteness of the falleu 
 sheets of snow. 
 
 Behind the great farm, with its windows flashing 
 out like bloodshot eyes, and its shadows coming or going 
 on the crimson blinds, stretch the upland fields, deep in 
 drift of mingled snow and sand ; and inland, here and 
 there, glance the lights from clustering homesteads and 
 Bolitary farms. A lamp is burning in every home to- 
 night, for all the folk are awake, and the coming of the 
 Christ is close at hand. 
 
 A long lane, deep with many a waggon rut, and 
 closed on either side by blackthorn hedges, leads from 
 the upland, across fields and meadows, to the highway, 
 only a mile along which is the village, and the quaint 
 old village church. Listen closely, and the faint peal of 
 bells comes to your ear in the very teeth of the wind ! 
 — and look, even as you. listen, lights are creeping up 
 the lane, and soon, shadows of human forms loom bo- 
 hind the lights, and yon see the carol singers, with 
 William Ostler from the Rose and Crown at their head, 
 coming along, lanthorns in hand, to sing at the farm 
 door. 
 
 William Ostler staggers as he comes, and tumbles 
 spravvling into the snow ; whereat there is loud laughter 
 and scuffling of heavy hobnailed feet. Young men in 
 heavy woollen coats, and girls in red cloaks with warm 
 hoods, and little boys and girls following behind, come 
 trooping along the lane. Now they meet the bitter 
 blast upon the upland, and the lanthorns are blown ont, 
 but with the light from the farm windows to guide 
 them, they come stamping along, and, facing the hall 
 door, range themselves in a row. Then William with a 
 tipsy hiccongh, gives out the word, aiid the voices ring 
 ont loud and clear. 
 
 Scarcely has the carol begun, when all sounds cease 
 within the farm ; the dance has ceased, and all are 
 standing still to listen. As the last note dies away, the 
 door swings open, and Farmer Thorpe, with face like a 
 ribstone pippin, and white hair blowing in the wind, 
 stands on the threshold, with shining faces peeping out 
 behind him in a blaze of rosy lighi. 
 
to GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' Come in, come in ! ' he cries, cheerily. ' Woloomo 
 aU ! • 
 
 Stamping the snow from their boots, shaking it from 
 their garments, they troop in and gather together at 
 the kitchen end of the hall, where warm spiced ale ia 
 poured for them, and chucks of home-made cake put 
 into their chilly hands. Left outside in the dark, thg 
 village children pelt each other with snowballs, and run 
 races in the snow, and shout shrilly in through the key- 
 hole, and beat with tiny mittened hands on the mighty 
 door. 
 
 It is close on midnight now. The carol- singers hayfl 
 gone their ways, to make their music elsewhere, and get 
 good entertainment for their pains. The house is full 
 of the pleasant smeU of meat and drink. 
 
 But the great hall is empty ; empty, that is to say, 
 save for the old form sitting before the fire. There 
 he crouches still, conscious of little save the pleasant 
 warmth ; breathing faiutly, otherwise not stirring hand 
 or limb. 
 
 The musicians, the labourers, the farm maidens, are 
 busy feasting in the kitchen ; whence comes, through 
 the half-closed doors, the sound of loud guffaws, of 
 clattering dishes and jingling glasses, of busy, shuffling 
 feet. There is plenty of rough fare, with libations of 
 strong beer and cider and ginger-ale. In the low-roofed 
 dining-room, which opens out up three oaken steps at 
 the other end of the hall, the genteeler portion of the 
 company sit round the supper board, — a snow-white 
 cloth of liuen, piled with roast and boiled meats, fat 
 capons, knuckles of ham and veal, Christmas cakes and 
 puddings, great rosy-cheeked apples, foaming jugs ot 
 ale, flasks of ruby-coloured rum, and black bottles of 
 foreign vintage. Farmer Thorpe heads the table, in his 
 f wallow-tailed coat of botde-green, his long buff waist- 
 coat with snowy cambric at the breast and throat, his 
 great silver chain with dangling charms and seals j and 
 facing him, at the other end, is Mary his good dame, 
 splendid in silk and flowered brocade, with a cap, to 
 crown aU, that is the envy and admiration of every 
 matron in the happy group. On either side are ranged 
 the guests in their degree, — Squire Orchardson of the 
 
A WlffTER mCHTS PROLOGUE. \\ 
 
 Willows, a spare thin-visaged man in deep mourning, 
 having the place of honour at the farmer's right hand, 
 and pretty Mabel Orchardson, the squire's only daugh- 
 ter, blushing not far away, with young Harry Thorpe, a 
 tall yeoman of twenty-one, to ply her with sweet things 
 and sweeter looks, and to whisper tender nothings in 
 her ear. The light of swinging lamps and country- 
 made candles gleams all round upon happy faces, red 
 and bright, with fine shadows behind of oaken furniture 
 and wainscoted walls. The mirth is real, though 
 solemn ; for the wine has not yet had time to tell its 
 tale. The old folks pledge each other in old-fashioned 
 style ; healths go round ; pretty maidens sip out of tha 
 glasses of their cousins and lovers, while fond feet meet, 
 and knees touch, under the table. There is a clatter of 
 dishes and knives and forks, a murmur of voices, which 
 only ceases at intervals, when the wind shakes the 
 house and causes the roof and walls to quake again. 
 
 But all at once, above the crying of the wind and 
 above all the noise of the feast, rises a sound so shrill 
 and terrible that all mirth ceases, and the company 
 listen in terror. It sounds like a human shriek, coming 
 through the half-closed door that leads to the hall — a 
 human shriek, or something superhuman, so strangely 
 does it ring through the merry house. Hark, again ! 
 There can be no doubt now. It is the shriek of a man's 
 voice, sharp, fierce, and terrible. 
 
 The more timid among the company — both men 
 and women — keep their seats, shiver, and look at one 
 another ; the braver spirits, headed by Farmer Thorpe, 
 push through the open door, and gather on the steps 
 leading down into the hall. 
 
 In the middle of the hall stands, ghastly pale now, 
 and terrified, the swarthy boy from Barbadoes, his 
 hands clenched, his eyes staring, every fibre of him 
 trembling with terror. Near to him. is another boy, 
 stronger and bigger, of coarser make and breed ; young 
 Walter Thorpe, the farmer's nephew, whose father 
 lives down at the Warren. A little way off their little 
 cousin, Mary Farringford, crouches dumb with terror, 
 her large blue eyes dilated and misty with timid tears. 
 
 All the three children gaze one way — the dark boj 
 
IS GOD AND THE MAS. 
 
 &8cinated, like a murderer canght in the act, with the 
 mnrderous look of hate and venom found by fear upon 
 his face and frozen there ; young Walter a little fright- 
 ened too, but preserving a certain loutish stolidity; 
 little Mary quivering like a reed. All gaze towards 
 the great fireplace, for there, still fixed in his chair, 
 but with head erect, eyes dilating, and skinny finger 
 pointing, sits the old man, awake at last indeed ! 
 
 His mouth is still open, panting, and it is clear now 
 that the shriek which startled the company came from 
 his throat. His finger points to the dark boy, who 
 recoils in dread; but his eyes are fixed, not on the 
 boy's face, but on a glittering object which lies upon 
 the floor, close to the boy's feet. 
 
 An open clasp-knife, with dagger-like blade and 
 steel spring, the kind of knife that seamen use, too 
 often, upon one another. 
 
 Farmer Thorpe steps into the hall, with the wonder- 
 ing company behind him. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' he exclaims. ' Who was it 
 that screamed out ? ' 
 
 Walter Thorpe, who has recovered his composure^ 
 BhufiBes his feet, grins stupidly, and jerks his thumb at 
 the old man. 
 
 ' Him, ! ' he replies with characteristic indifference to 
 grammar. 
 
 ' And what — what's this ? ' cries the farmer, fol- 
 lowing the old man's eyes and looking at the knife. 
 ' Eh, eh, whose knife is this ? ' 
 
 ' His ! ' replies Walter again, nodding his head at 
 the other boy. 
 
 ' Edgar's ! ' exclaims the voice of the widow Mar- 
 jorie Wells ; and as she speaks she comes forward very 
 pale, and touches her son with an angry hand. ' Edgar, 
 what does it mean ? ' 
 
 He scowls, and makes no answer. 
 
 ' Have you been quarreUing ? ' she continues sternly. 
 ' How dare you quarrel, yon wicked boy ? ' 
 
 ' He swuck me,' pants Edgar, still with the mnn- 
 derous look in his face. 
 
 'No, I didn't,' cries Walter. 
 
 •Tes yon did.' 
 
A WINTER NlGHrs PROLOGUE. 13 
 
 ' 1 didn't — leastways till you pushed me against 
 little Mary and threw her down. Then when I slapt 
 your face, you pulled out that knife, and tried to stick 
 me like a pig ! ' 
 
 A murmur of horror runs through the company. 
 
 ' Ton hear, madam ? ' says Farmer Thorpe, sharply. 
 ' I think your boy's to blame, and if he was my son, I'd 
 give him a sound thrashing. Fancy the young imp 
 carrying a knife like that, and trying to use it too.' 
 
 'Edgar is passionate,' says the widow, haughtily; 
 'but I daresay he was provoked,' 
 
 'He said that I was black,' cries Edgar, looking up 
 at his mother with his great eyes, 'and that when I was 
 a man I ought to mavry a black woman — and cousin 
 Mary laughed — and so I pushed him ; and when he 
 struck me, I pulled out my knife, and I would have 
 Slabbed him, if grandfather had not screeched out.' 
 
 'Fine doings o' Christmastide,' exclaims Farmer 
 Thorpe, shaking his head grimly ; ' and look you now 
 at father,' he continues, passing across to the old man, 
 who still keeps the same position, with eyes staring and 
 finger pointing. ' How goes it, father ? Come, come, 
 what ails you now ? ' 
 
 At the voice of his son, the old man drops his 
 outstretched arm, and begins to mutter quietly to 
 himself. 
 
 'Bh?' says Farmer Thorpe, putting down his ear to 
 listen. ' Speak up, father.' 
 
 The words are faint and feeble exceedingly, but they 
 are just intelligible : 
 
 ' Take — away — the knife ! ' 
 
 At a signal from the farmer, one of the neighbours 
 lifts the knife from the floor, touches the spring, closei 
 it, and hands it over to the farmer, who forthwith con. 
 signs it to the lowest depths of his breeche?' pocket. 
 AU the company look on, breathless, as if upon a 
 veritable miracle — the dead coming back to life. 
 
 There is a pause. Then again the feeble voice cornea 
 from the worn-out frame, 
 
 ' My son John.' 
 
 • Here, father.' 
 
 * Call them ! — call the ohildrea ! ' 
 
14 GOD AND TH& MAN. 
 
 For a moment the farmer is puzzled, but seeing the 
 old man's eyes again wander towards young Edgar 
 Wells, he begins to comprehend. 
 
 ' Come here,' he says sharply ; ' grandfather wants 
 yon.' 
 
 The boy at first shrinks back, then, with nataraJ 
 courage, forces a smile of bravado, and comes boldly 
 forward. As he passes into the crimson firelight, the 
 old man's eyes perceive him, and the wrinkled face 
 lightens. But the next instant the feeble eyes look 
 round disappointed. 
 
 ' Both,' he murmurs — ' both my children.' 
 
 Again the farmer is puzzled, but his good dame, with 
 woman's wit, hits the mark at once. 
 
 ' I think he wants our nephew Walter,' she says 
 Boftly. ' Go to him, Walter.' 
 
 With a sheepish grin, Walter Thorpe steps forward, 
 and so the two boys stand face-to-face close to the old 
 man's knee. As his feeble gaze falls upon them, his lips 
 tremble, and he gazes vacantly from one to the other 
 from beneath his rheumy lids. Then suddenly reaching 
 out one baud, he holds Walter by the jacket-sleeve, and 
 with the other, which trembles like a leaf, tries to clutch 
 at Edgar. But Edgar, startled by the sudden movement, 
 has shrunk back afraid. 
 
 • What doth he mean ? ' whispers a neighbour. 
 
 ' Now, God be praised ! ' says Dame Thorpe, ' I think 
 he means the lads to make friends. See, Marjorie, how 
 he feels out to touch your boy ; and hark, what is ha 
 gaying?' 
 
 They listen closely, and at last they catch the words : 
 
 • The children — put their hands into mine.' 
 
 At a look from the farmer, Walter puts his coarse 
 brown hand between the old man's trembling fingfers, 
 which close over it and clutch it convulsively. But 
 Edgar scowls and hangs aloof, tili bis mother comea 
 forward and touches him. 
 
 ' Put out your hand — at once ! * 
 
 Thus urged, the boy partly stretches out his arm, 
 when the widow takes his hand and places it, like the 
 other's, between the old man's fingers. As the hands of 
 the two boys touch in that sinewy cage, which now holds 
 
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 15 
 
 them firm as iron, their eyes meet with a momentary 
 gleam of defiance, then fall. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' murmurs Dame Thorpe, softly ; and there 
 is a long silence. The old man's lips move, but no sound 
 comes from them. His eyes no longer seek the fiances 
 around him, but are half-closed, as if in prayer. 
 
 Presently tl ere is a faint murmur. The farmer bends 
 down his ear, and catches the words, murmured very 
 feebly, . . . 
 
 'Love one another.' . . . 
 
 Deeper stillness follows, and a solemn awe fills the 
 hearts of all the company. Presently the old man's hands 
 relax, and with a quiet sigh, he leans back smiling in hia 
 chair. His dim eyes open and look round, his lips begin 
 to move quietly again. 
 
 ' When I was a boy . . .' 
 
 They catch no more, for the words die away, and he 
 seems to fall into a doze, perhaps into a dream of the days 
 that once have been. While he thus lies, and while the 
 company return with spirits solemnised to table, let ub 
 stay by him in the lonely hall, and with eyes fixed upou 
 the fire, recall the troubled memories of his life. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE TEARS ROLL BACK : A DEATH-BED. 
 
 A.8 far back as he could remember, — when, though his 
 body was a useless log, and his eyes dim with dust of 
 age, his memory was still green, — the Ohristiansons had 
 hated theOrchardsons, and the Orchardsons had returned 
 the hate with interest. The two families were heat and 
 frost, fire and water, peace and war ; their spirits could 
 never cross each other without pain. Physically, even, 
 they were as unlike as tall stalwart trees of the forest 
 and creeping shrubs of the common : the male Christian, 
 eons, tall, stalwart yeomen of six foot upwards; the 
 Orchardsons narrow-chested, stooping figures, below the 
 middle height. 
 
lA GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 There was, moreover, this great difiference between 
 them : good luck was ever on the one side, while the 
 other seldom throve. A shilling in the pocket of an 
 Orohardson multiplied itself to a pound, and the pound 
 to ten, and the ten to a hundred ; while in the pockets 
 of a Christianson, hundreds melted like withered leaves, 
 Hke the cheating pieces given to foolish folk by the 
 fairies. The Christiansons never could keep money j 
 the Orchardsons never could let it go. For all this, and 
 for a thousand other reasons, they hated each other the 
 more. 
 
 It was such an old hate, such a settled feud, that 
 no one quite knew when or how it began ; indeed, there 
 was a general disposition in the neighbourhood to trace 
 it back to a mythical period, somewhat further back 
 than the Conquest. But certain it was, that even in 
 the times of the great Civil Wars, the two families were 
 on different sides — cavalier Orchardsons hunted down 
 by roundhead Christiansons, and being hunted down in 
 turn when at last, with the Merry Monarch, came time 
 and opportunity. 
 
 Mention a Christianson to an Orchardson, and the 
 latter would look evil, shrug shoulders, and show a 
 certain sort of easy hate tempered with proud contempt. 
 Name an Orchardson to a Christianson, and it was a 
 very different matter ; the blood in his veins would 
 turn to gall, his gorge would rise, and he would feel his 
 strong frame convulsed with wrath, while his hands 
 were clenched for a blow. The Orchardsons were more 
 than shadows on the lives of the Christiansons ; the 
 very thought of them lay like lead upon the breast, 
 choking the wholesome breath. 
 
 As years went on, and milder influences supervened, 
 the fierceness of the vendetta between the two families 
 died away, leaving only a great frpsty chill, in which 
 the families, without any active hostility, fell farther 
 and farther asunder. The Orchardsons remained at the 
 old manor-house, ever increasing their substance both 
 in money and land. The Christiansons kept tight ho'id 
 of their farms down towards Hemdale Mere and the 
 sea, but it was whispered in more than one wise 
 quarter that they were deeply involved, and that when 
 
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. if 
 
 Robert Ohristianson, the reigning head of the house, 
 went the ■way of all flesb, there would be revelations. 
 
 One evening, late in the autumn, as young Tom 
 Rudyard, the doctor's assistant, sat quietly smoking a 
 pipe in the bar parlour of the Rose and Crown, with 
 pretty Nancy Parkinson by his side, and buxom Mrs. 
 Parkinson looking on with a smile, he received an un- 
 expected summons. A tall young lad of about fourteen, 
 clad in a rough yeoman costume, and carrying a riding 
 ■witch, came bolt into the room. 
 
 Tom started up guiltily, for he knew that to enter 
 that bar-parlour was forbidden to Dr. Marshman's 
 assistants (all of whom had in succession ' gone wrong ' 
 through a too great love of festivity), and then, recog- 
 nising the new-comer, grinned, and gave a hoarse 
 laugh. Standing thus erect, the young doctor showed 
 a very long spare body and attenuated legs, clad in a 
 costume rather too loud for that of a regular practitioner, 
 and encroaching indeed on the privileged style of the 
 jaunty veterinary surgeon. 
 
 ' Wbat, Master Christian, is it you ? ' cried Nancy, 
 with a smile ; then, seeing at once by the boy's pale 
 face that something was wrong, she added, ' Is anything 
 the matter r ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the lad with quivering lips. ' The 
 doctor's wanted at once up to the farm. Father's taken 
 bad.' 
 
 One cry of commiseration rose from the two women. 
 
 ' What is it P ' asked Tom, reaching up for big 
 beaver hat, which hung on a hook behind the door. 
 ' Not a fit, I hope ? At his time of life ' 
 
 ' Don't waste time talking,' said the boy, ' but come 
 along. Mother sent for the old doctor, but he's out and 
 away at Deepdale ; so I came to look after you.' 
 
 Although he was only a boy, he spoke with a certain 
 authority, and through bis great height and powerful 
 frame, looked almost a man ; certainly a man in strength, 
 though his form was as yet shapeless and awkward, 
 and his hands and feet too large. That he was greatly 
 troubled and alarmed was shown by his bloodless face 
 and the pale, dry lips, which he moistened every 
 moment with the tip of his tongue. 
 
 
 
l8 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 '.It's a goodish stretch up to tLe farm,' said the 
 young dootor, with a rueful glance at the cosy fire. ' I 
 shall want a horse.' 
 
 < Take my mare,' returned the lad, ' she's standing 
 at the door, and she'll carry you up at a gallop.' 
 
 ' I dare say, and break my neck on the road. I 
 ion't know a yard of the way.' 
 
 ' But the mare does ; give her her head, and she'U 
 go home straight as a shot.' 
 
 Doctor Tom still looked doubtful. 
 
 ' I shall want my instruments, may be.' 
 
 ' Then do you ride on, while I go to the surgery, and 
 bring them after you. I'll take the short cut across the 
 marsh, and be there nigh as soon as you.' 
 
 Walking out to the front door of the inn, they saw 
 tho light from the porch flashing against a great wall 
 of rainy blackness. It was a wild night of wind 
 and rain. The sign was shrieking and tossing like 
 a corpse in chains, and the air was full of a rushing 
 hiss of water. 
 
 In front of the door, just discernible in the darkness, 
 stood a dripping horse, or pony, held by a ragged stable- 
 boy. 
 
 ' Lord, what a night ! ' cried the doctor, -with a 
 shiver, and an inward imprecation on the inconsiderate 
 people who were taken ill in such weather. 
 
 ' Quick ! quick ! ' said young Master Christiansen, 
 impatiently. ' Mount the pony.' 
 
 ' Is he quiet ? ' 
 
 ' As a lamb — only mind to give him his head.' 
 
 Quiet as a lamb he indeed seemed, standing drawn 
 together in the rain, perfectly still ; but no sooner were 
 the young doctor's long legs thrown over him, than he 
 was oflF at a bound. The rider had only just time to 
 clutch the bridle, and to utter a startled yell — then 
 darkness swallowed him up. 
 
 Good Mistress Parkinson stood at the inn door, with 
 her daughter at her side. 
 
 ' Master Christianson,' she cried, as the lad moved 
 away ; adding as he turned his head, ' let me get yon 
 a drop of warm fAa, or a posset. You bo soaking 
 through.' 
 
THE YEARS ROLL BACK : A DEATH-BED. 19 
 
 The lad shook his head, and buttoning his coat tight 
 round his throat, ran swiftly from the inn door, leaviiiig 
 the good woinen full of perplexity and simple pity. For 
 Christian, though a wild and headstrong lad, or rather 
 just because he was headstrong and wild, was a prime 
 favourite in all that neighbourhood. ' The true Chris- 
 tianson breed,' all admitted, with wise shakes of the 
 head and secret admiration — quarrelsome, irritable, 
 fierce and fiery, yet withal forgiving and open-handed ; 
 proud, like his father and mother before him, of the old 
 name and of the typical family strength ; so strong and 
 handsome, that young maids, much his elders, had 
 already been known to cast tender looks at him ; yet 
 so simple and boy-Uke, that he preferred snaring a 
 rabbit or setting a woodcock spring to the brightest 
 pair of eyes in Christendom. 
 
 Swift as a deerhound, he ran up through the village, 
 setting his right shoulder against the slanting rain, 
 until he reached the old doctor's cottage, and knocked 
 sharply at the little low door. An old woman opened, 
 and with scarcely a word to her, he ran into the parlour, 
 or ' surgery,' looking for the doctor's case of instru- 
 ments, and for such simple remedies as might be 
 needed. As he searched, he rapidly explained to the 
 old dame, who knew him well, the state of affairs ; and 
 then, having secured what he -wanted, and buttoned 
 them tight under hie coat, he ran out again into the 
 rain. 
 
 Swiftly stUl he ran along the dark road, not losing 
 breath, though it was rough and steep ; presently, with 
 one bound, he leapt a hedge and alighted in a field of 
 rainy stubble. Though he seemed to bo in pitch 
 darkness, it was clear that he knew every inch of the 
 way, as, crossing a field, he came out upon an open 
 common or waste, covered with dark rainy pools 
 Across the common, and up a miry lane ; then he saw 
 flashing on a hillside before him the lights of a farm. 
 
 When he reached the farm door, he found it standing 
 open, and Doctor Tom, splashed from top to too, on the 
 point of entering, while the little mare, which he had 
 ridden in fear and desperation, was standing with head 
 down, quiet as a lamb. 
 
 « 
 
JO GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' How's father ? ' asked the lad in a whisper, as he 
 followed the doctor into the hall. 
 
 A shock-headed farm-maiden answered something in 
 \ whisper, and Christian led the way upstairs. Passing 
 up a hroad oaken staircase, he reached an open corridor, 
 flut of which opened several doors ; approaching one of 
 which, he knocked softly. 
 
 The door was immediately opened by a young girl, 
 about a year older than himself. She put her finger on 
 her lips, as he was about to speak, and beckoned the 
 doctor, who quietly approached. 
 
 Tn a large old-fashioned bedroom, with a polished 
 flooi* of slippery black oak, and a low ceiling close to 
 the black rafters of the roof, was a large wooden bed- 
 stead, on which lay the figure of a man, a great gaunt 
 yeoman, with iron-grey hair and clean shaven face. 
 Some of his clothes had been hastily thrown off, and by 
 the bedside were his high riding boots ; but he still 
 wore his shirt and waistcoat, the former torn open to 
 free the powerful workings of the throat. His eyes 
 were closed, his face ghastly pale, his whole attitude 
 that of exhaustion and semi-stupor, and his breathing 
 was very heavy and hard. 
 
 By the bedside stood a tall, pale matron, some few 
 years his senior, and close to her, on a chair, was an 
 open Bible. 
 
 Doctor Tom came in on tiptoe, and standing by the 
 bedside, sucked the knob of his stick, and gazed with 
 rather vacant eyes at the man ; then, reaching down his 
 coarse red hand, felt the pulse, and found it very jerky 
 and feeble. 
 
 ' Brandy — have you given him brandy, mistress ? ' 
 he asked, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 The matron nodded her head. 
 
 'Well, give him some more, at once, please ; 'tis the 
 only thing to keep life in him. How did it begin P 
 What doth he complain of most ? ' 
 
 In a low voice, the matron explained that her 
 husband had been seized, while sitting at supper, with 
 a violent pain in the region of the heart. He had coma 
 in very wet and weary from a long ride to the neigh, 
 bonring market town, and he had been fastin); all 
 
THE YEARS ROLt, BACK: A DEATH-BED. tl 
 
 day. He had been a good deal troubled, too, she 
 said, and that made him neglect his food. When 
 he was first iseized with pain, she thought he would 
 die at once, but when he had drank some spirits 
 boiling hot, he got a little relief. Presently another 
 attack of pain came on, and then they got him to 
 bed, and put warm bottles to his feet ; since then 
 he had been easier, and had seemed as if he wer« 
 asleep. 
 
 As the two stood whispering together, the sick man 
 suddenly opened his eyes. 
 
 ' Who's that ? ' he said, feebly. ' Be it the doctor P ' 
 ' Yes,' said his wife, ' young Mr. Tom.' 
 
 • Tell him I don't want no doctor's stuff; I shall be 
 all nght i* the morning.' 
 
 ' How's the pain, master ? ' asked the doctor. 
 
 ' Middling — middling bad,' answered the patient ; 
 then with a groan he put his hand upon his chest. 
 ' There be a weight here like a millstone, right down 
 upoa my heart.' 
 
 ' Doth it pain you when you breathe, master ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, surely ! like a knife a-cutting me in twain. 
 But I don't want no physic — no, no ! ' 
 
 He closed his eyes, moaniog, and seemed to sink 
 into a doze. 
 
 Doctor Tom led the matron aside. 
 
 ' Tour good man's powerful bad, mistress. He'll 
 have to be bled straight away.' 
 
 ' Is he in danger, think yon ? * 
 Maybe yes, maybe no. If the blood flows free, it 
 may ease his heart a bit ; his viscera be gorged with 
 black blood, mistress, and his heart doth not get room 
 to beat.' 
 
 So without more conversation or delay the young 
 leech opened a vein in the farmer's arm. The dark 
 blood came freely but feebly, and as it flowed, he really 
 seemed to breathe with greater ease. When about an 
 ounce of blood had been taken away, and the artery 
 carefully bound up, he seemed to lie in comfortable 
 sleep. 
 
 • He'll do now,' said Dr. Tom. ' We'll look round 
 In the morning, and see how he thrives.' 
 
aa GOD AND TUB MAIT. 
 
 The matron, who had exhibited rare nerve daring 
 the blood-letting, and had herself assisted without a 
 word, now looked wildly up in the doctor's face. 
 
 ' Will my man live r ' 
 
 ' Why not, mistress ? See how easy he do breathe, 
 now ! Ay, he'll live, I hope, for many a long year ! ' 
 
 Down the great stairs slipped Doctor Tom, followed 
 by young Christian. He was well satisfied with him- 
 self, and quite unaware that, in the true spirit of the 
 science (or nescience) of those days, he had finished 
 his man, and drawn fK)m an exhausted arterial system 
 its last chance of recovering its shattered strength. 
 
 ' Will you ride back ? ' asked the boy. 
 
 * On the back of that brimstone mare ? — not I. 
 I'd rather walk barefoot, young master. Good-night.' 
 
 The lad did not offer to escort him beyond the door ; 
 but leaving him to wander home as he might along the 
 dark roads, returned to the room up-stairs, and re- 
 joined his mother and sister. 
 
 That night none of the three retired to rest. The 
 mother sat watching by the bedside, while the girl and 
 lad sat upon the hearth, waiting and listening. Not a 
 sound broke the silence but the monotonous breathing 
 of the sick man, and a faint murmur from the lips of the 
 mother, as, with horn-rimmed spectacles upon her nose, 
 and the old Bible upon her knee, she read softly to 
 herself. 
 
 The room was dimly illumined by the faint rays of 
 a wood fire, and by the light of a small oil-lamp, which 
 was fastened against the wall over the chimney-piece. 
 Seen even thus, the boy and girl seemed made in very 
 difierent moulds : he, strong, herculean, rough, with 
 blue eyes, and curly flaxen hair; she, tall, thin, and 
 delicate, with swarthy skin, dark eyes, and chestnut 
 hair. The boy, in his build and complexion, resembled 
 the figure on the bed. The girl resembled the wan 
 woman who sat reading by the bedside. 
 
 Christian Christianson was scarce fourteen years old ; 
 his sister Kate was rather more than a year older. 
 Their parents had married somewhat late in life, and 
 the two children were the only living issue of the 
 match. 
 
THE VEARS ROtL BACK^ A DEATH-BED. Jj 
 
 Both in name and frame did the rough lad show his 
 Scandinavian origin, his connection with those far-ofi 
 ancestors of his who swept down from the north in the 
 old times, harried the seas and the sea-coasts, and 
 scattered their seed far and wide on those tracts erf 
 territory which pleased them best. Nothing foreign 
 seemed to have entered the light current of his blood. 
 While he lay there, rough and awkward as a lion's cub, 
 he might have been taken for the heir of some old 
 viking, bespattered from his cradle with the salt sea 
 foam. 
 
 But young Christian was heir to little save the sur- 
 name of his father and the monopoly of certain fruitless 
 fends. His father and his father's father had farmed 
 the lands verging on the great sandhills, and within 
 hearing of the sea ; and it was to be supposed that he 
 would farm them also, when his turn carae. His father's 
 father had died in debt, and his father had been more 
 or less in debt when he was born, and the shadow of 
 mysterious obligations had been over the house ever 
 since he could remember. He had been brought up to 
 no profession, and with no particular occupation ; but 
 by looking on and using his wits, as boys can, he had 
 learned a little of farming, and the value of farm stock. 
 His education had been rough-and-ready enough. While 
 his sister could play a little on the harpsichord, and sew 
 a fine sampler, besides being able to read and write 
 fairly, he possessed no accomplishments, save, of course, 
 fchose which he bad acquired by sheer force of physical 
 courage and perseverance. He could sit any horse 
 barebacked, he knew every beast of the field and fowl 
 of the air, he could wrestle and swim, and he was an 
 excellent shot at birds on the wing— this last being a 
 much rarer accomplishment in those days than we, with 
 our modem notions, might imagine. But he had little 
 or no taste for books, and beyond a good ear for a tune, 
 and a good deep voice, which might have made him a 
 fair singer, little capacity for any of the arts. 
 
 As he sat before the fire, his eyes were lifted ever 
 and again to the pallid face of his mother, who read on 
 monotonously to herself. Kate Ohristianson sat with 
 her bands in her lap, gaging at the fire. So hour after 
 
H GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 hour passed, an til it was past midnight ; and then, all 
 at once, the invalid's sleep began to grow disturbed. 
 He tossed upon his pillow, and clntcLed the counterpane 
 with his strong hand, muttering half-articulate sounds. 
 Suddenly his wife started as if stung, for she heard the 
 sound of a hated name. 
 
 ' Five thousand five hundred pounds . . . five per 
 oent. per annum . . . Bichard Orchardson, his heirs and 
 assigns . . . witness . . .' Here his words became in- 
 articulate, until he added, gasping, his own name, 
 ' Robert Christiauson, of the Fen.' 
 
 Young Christian heard, and looked up with a strange 
 darkness on his fair face. 
 
 ' Mother,' he whispered, ' did you hear ? ' 
 
 ' Hnsh ! ' cried the matron with uplifted finger ; for 
 her husband's eyes had opened again, fixing themselves 
 strangely upon hers. They watched for a few moments, 
 then, with a low cry, the man started up and tried to 
 spring out of bed. 
 
 ' Father ! father '. ' cried Mistress Ohristianson, rising 
 and pushing him back. ' What ails you, father ? 
 Christian, come — help to hold him down.' 
 
 The lad sprang up, and patting his strdug arms 
 gently round his father, tried to soothe him ; for it was 
 clear that his wits were wandering. 
 
 « Who's that ? My son Christian P ' 
 
 ' Yes, father.' 
 
 ' Get me my hat and stafi", lad. I be going out.' 
 
 ' Not to-night, father.' 
 
 ' Ay, to-night. Tell thy mother not to sit up, for I 
 shall be late.' 
 
 ' Speak to him, mother ! ' 
 
 ' Father, don't you know me ? ' cried his wife. 
 
 ' Ay, ay, dame, I know thee well enough, but I can- 
 not stay talking. I be going out.' 
 Where are you going ? ' 
 
 ' Down to the Willows. I must see Dick Orchard, 
 son, and tell him my mind.' 
 
 The listeners looked at one another aghast. The 
 very mention of the name of an Orchardson sounded 
 strange on those lips, but to hear one of the hated brood 
 named so glibly, as a being with whom it was D0s.siWe 
 
TBE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BBD, %% 
 
 under any ciroumstanoes to havn human intercourse, 
 was positively startling. 
 
 ' God help him ! ' cried his wife with a cold shiyer. 
 
 Exhausted by his efforts to rise, the farmer sank 
 back upon his pillow. His breathing was now very 
 difficult, and his face was convulsed as if with acute 
 pain. They moistened his lips with brandy, and chafed 
 tus trembling hands. 
 
 ' Father ! ' cried Christian, trembling ; and Kate, 
 standing close to him, echoed his tender cry. 
 
 The farmer opened his eyes again, and looked round. 
 
 ' Who's there ? Is that my boy Christian ? ' 
 
 'Yes, father.' 
 
 ' Come closer, lad, and take my hand. Where's thy 
 mother?' 
 
 ' Here, father,' said Mistress Christianson. ' Oh, 
 Christian, thy father's dying ! ' 
 
 ' No, no, mother,' cried the boy. 
 
 ' Tell Dick Orchardson ' 
 
 So far the farmer spoke, then paused again. Again 
 that hated name. 
 
 There was a long pause. The farmer lay with eyes 
 wide open, looking upward, and muttering to himself. 
 They could make nothing now of his words, and a 
 dreadful awe was upon them, for the shadow of the 
 coming angel was already upon his face. Kate Christian. 
 eon cast herself down by the bedside, hiding her face 
 and sobbing wildly. The mother stood gaunt and pale, 
 her dim eyes on the man who had been her loving com- 
 panion so many long years. The lad, clutching hia 
 father's chilly hand, was trembling like a leaf. 
 
 So they waited, and it seemed, in that solemn 
 moment, that the chamber grew dark. Oh that dread- 
 ful silence of the chamber of death ! The poet speaks 
 of ' darkness visible ; ' ihis is silence heard — a silence 
 ominous and strange, in which the very beating of the 
 heart is audible, and we feel the stirring motion of the 
 nnconscious life within. 
 
 They listened and waited on. At last a few faint 
 words were audible. 
 
 ' Down by the four-acre mere. Is that Dick Orchard- 
 son p Tell him , . . Get me a light, lad, I cannot see 
 
e*> GOD AND TUB MAff. 
 
 the letters, I cannot read ... Ask thy mother, forgive, 
 forgive . . .' 
 
 One last faint cry, and the voice was for ever still. 
 Of what was a living face hnt a few minutes before, 
 only a marble mask remained. All knelt and prayed, 
 for the shadow which follows all men was in the room. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 
 
 Whkn Robert Christianson was dead and buried, there 
 oame at last the revelations that had long been pre- 
 dicted. First of all, it was discovered in a general 
 way that he was far more heavily in debt than any one 
 bad guessed ; that, indeed, his affairs were a ravelled 
 skein which it would take all the ingenuity of the law 
 or all its cruelty to disentangle. Then, when the variona 
 threads of obligation were separated from each other, 
 and the widow and her children thought that the coast 
 was clear, cam.e a letter, like a thunderbolt, announcing 
 that the freehold of the greater part of the iarm lands 
 was under a mortgage, that the interest was long 
 in arrear, and that, to crown all, the holder of the 
 fatal mortgage was their hereditary enemy, Richard 
 Orchardson of the Willows. 
 
 At first it was too horrible for belief. The very 
 thought was an outrage on the beloved dead. The 
 widow sat with stern sceptical face, while the boy 
 Christian was loud in his expression of indignation. 
 But confirmation quickly came. It was made only too 
 clear that the deceased farmer, in the extremity of his 
 distress, had accepted assistance from the enemy of his 
 father and his father's father, and had given as sub- 
 stantial security the mortgage upon the choicest of the 
 farm lands. 
 
 Bitterer even than death itself came the humiliating 
 discovery ; bitterer, because for the moment it kiUed all 
 reverence and respect for the poc dead, and showed 
 
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 27 
 
 him as a man yielding, forgetful, and barren of pride. 
 Better to have starved, thought the widow, than have 
 sought or taken succour from that quarter. Alas ! she 
 little knew how long and terrible had been the farmer's 
 struggle before he did yield, how cruel the pang had 
 been, and how the pain of the secret had preyed upon 
 the poor man's heart, until it broke in shame. 
 
 When all was thought that could be thought, the 
 mother and son spoke out by the fireside, while Kate 
 looked sadly on. 
 
 ' 'Twas a trap for thy poor father,' said the widow, 
 ' be suare of that. Dick Orchardson set it many a long 
 ^ear, and at last thy father, poor man, was caught. 
 Ah, if he had only come home to me and told me of his 
 trouble ! This comes of having secrets out-o'-doors.' 
 
 ' What shall we do, mother ? ' asked Christian. 
 ' Can we pay the money ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, my boy.' 
 
 ' And Lawyer Jeffries hath given notice that we 
 must pay up or yield the land.' 
 
 ' One or other, Christian.' 
 
 The lad clenched his hands and uttered a fierce cry. 
 
 ' They shan't take the land away from thee, mother. 
 Let them try it ! I'll go down to the Willows, and 
 make old Dick Orchardson own it was all a cheat, and 
 if he denieth it ' 
 
 The boy paused, livid with hate and rage. As he 
 did so, his sister Kate, who had been looking on in 
 terror, interposed tearfully. 
 
 ' Nay, who knows,' she said, ' but the squire is more 
 kindly than folk say ? Why did he lend our father the 
 money, and help him out of his trouble, if he hated him 
 so much ? ' 
 
 ' Hear her, mother ! ' cried Christian, ' hear the foolish 
 wench ! And yet she hath heard the preacher say that 
 figs grow not on thistles, and roses spring not from 
 thorns. An Orchardson kindly ! Mother, do you 
 hear? ' 
 
 'Kate is a girl,' returned the widow, grimly, 'she 
 cannot understand. It began long since.' 
 
 ' What began, mother ? ' asked Kate. 
 
 'The trouble between our houses. If there had 
 
28 GOD AND TBE MAN. 
 
 ne'er been any Orcliardsons, we should be rich folk 
 now. They robbed thy father's father, a hundred year* 
 ftgo.' 
 
 ' Bnt, mother ' 
 
 ' 'Tis something in the blood,' cried the widow. ' k 
 fox is a fox, and a kestrel a kestrel, and an Orchardson 
 is an Orchardson, till the world doth end. The wicked 
 breed ! If God would blot it out.' 
 
 ' Amen, mother,' cried Christian ; and Kate, knowing 
 their temper, did not dare to say another word. 
 
 So it remained in their minds as a settled thing that 
 Robert Christianson had, by some kind of devilish 
 malignity, been beguiled into taking help of the 
 Orohardsons, whose sole desire had been to crush the 
 hapless family, and perchance close the mortgage. Thoy 
 waited a little tim.e in great dread and anger ; but no 
 more word came from the lawyers, and their whole lives 
 were poisoned by the suspense. 
 
 That portion of the freehold embraced in the mort- 
 gage included the best and richest part of the farm 
 lands, leaving untouched only some ninety acres and 
 the old farm-house, which latter had fallen into great 
 dilapidation, and stood, quite solitary, over against 
 the sandhills, with its face from the sea, which formed 
 a broad estuary two miles away. Inland before it 
 stretched the farm fields, in a great hollow which had 
 once been a fen, and still bore that name, but sloping 
 gradually to rich pastures and clumps of cheerful wood. 
 Over these pastures and woods peeped the village spire 
 — the glistening of which, in all kinds of weather, was 
 a cheerful and comfortable sight to the inmates of th« 
 farm. 
 
 The very solitude of the situation gave to the 
 owners of the Fen Farm a feeling of possession and 
 mastery. Standing at his own door, a Christianson 
 was monarch of all he surveyed — of the broad and 
 comparatively barren acres of the old fen; of the 
 narrow osier-fringed stream which wound through these 
 acres and then, curving suddenly, ran in among the 
 sand-hills towards the sea ; of the rich slopes beyond, 
 where crops waved green and yellow, or frosty stubble 
 glittered, through the various seasons of the year. 
 
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. Z9 
 
 There was only the spire to remind him of the world 
 of men beyond, of the red-tiled village hidden from hia 
 Bight, and of the heaven above. Then the sandhUla 
 behind the house were his ; and these, though com* 
 paratively worthless and only affording combes of arid 
 pasture for cattle here and there, were large in extent, 
 and gave a lordly sense of territorial sway. And among 
 the sandhills was the rabbit warren, let to a cousin of 
 the family on profitable terms. 
 
 With the ancient freehold of the Fen Farm went, 
 by right immemorial, the privilege of coursing and 
 shooting. Every boy Christianson might run a hound 
 or handle a gun on his own acres. Not only did 
 rabbits swarm in the sandhills, but the sands were the 
 resort, at certain seasons, of the hare, which would seek 
 deserted rabbit-burrows and lie there till discoversil 
 pwdw, and hunted out, by man or dog. 
 
 Small wonder, then, if the Christiansens loved the 
 place, and clung to every inch of the soil. Even the 
 house, though a rambling tenement and scarcely weather- 
 proof, with cheerless rooms and rat-haunted wainscots, 
 was very dear to them for the sake of the generations 
 which had lived and died within. In summer time, 
 with its red front covered with creepers and wild roses, 
 its dove-cot on the red-tiled roof, and the white doves 
 wheeling and settling in the sunlight, it looked quite 
 pretty and bright. There was an ancient orchard, too, 
 with broken-down walls, and trees so old and gnarled 
 they yielded little fruit, and grass as thick and deep aa 
 the grass that grows on graves. 
 
 But if the cruel debt of the mortgage was not paid, 
 what remained ? Only the old house, and the sand 
 pasturages, and the arid acres of the old fen ; only, in 
 other words, a barren stretch of soil, not to be farmed 
 with profit by any but a man of means. The pasturages 
 and combes of the apland slope, which ever filled the 
 eye with a certain sense of prosperity — ^the woods where 
 the nightingale sang in summer and the woodcock was 
 flushed in the frost — the rich fields which grew the best 
 grain — all these would surely go. It was an ugly 
 thought. To stand at the farm door, and know that 
 possession ceased at the stream, and that the cattla 
 
JO GOD AND THE WAN 
 
 grazing on the slopes beyond belonged to another, wonld 
 be almost too much to bear. 
 
 A few days after mother and son had discussed that 
 cruel business of the mortgage, and come to the conclu- 
 sion that devilry had been at work, young Christian 
 was rambling among the sandhills with his greyhound 
 Luke — an English dog, with a cross of the coarser Irish 
 breed. Not far from the farm, he came upon the track 
 of a hare, printed with filigree delicacy in the sand. 
 The marks were confused and mingled, crossing and re- 
 orossing one another, for poor Puss had been obviously 
 ' running races in the mirth ' through the morning dew, 
 out at last the lad hit upon the true trail. It led him a 
 good mile between the sandhills. On the top of each 
 sandhill or mound grew thick coarse cotton grass and 
 grassy weeds, and whenever the track led thither he 
 set the dog's nose to work. Presently, reaching the 
 summit of one of the highest of these sandhills, he came 
 in sight of the long flat stretch of black sand and mud 
 ftinged by the waters of the sea. 
 
 He stood for a time and gazed. The sea was quite 
 calm, in the grey silver light of a still November day, 
 with quiet clouds piled upon the horizon like a range of 
 hills. A lobster-boat, with flapping brown sails, was 
 crawling along by means of sweeps towards the distant 
 fishing beds. On one spot of the sands, close to the 
 sea, was a white swarm of gulls, sitting perfectly move- 
 less, save when now and then a solitary bird would rise 
 with sleepy waft of wing, fly a few yards, and settle 
 again. AH was very still, but from a sea-creek not tar 
 distant he could hear from time to time the cry of the 
 curlew. 
 
 While he stood, he saw sailing towards him, slowly, 
 methodically, hovering always at the same distance from 
 the earth, a large raven, followed at a distance of about 
 fifty yards by another bird, the female. They came 
 slowly, for each in turn, hovering over each sandhill, on 
 the grassy summit of which something edible might 
 hide, searched the grass for prey. Prom time to time 
 the foremost bird uttered a thoughtful croak or chuckle, 
 which the hindmost bird echoed after an interval. 
 Christian knew the two birds wctU. Once, indeed, be 
 
AITADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 31 
 
 had shot at the male bird at very short range, eliciting 
 no other result than a defiant croak and a few falling 
 feathers. Since then he had let the birds alone. They 
 too had a freehold of the place, and had used it for a 
 hunting-ground years before he was born. 
 
 He watched the birds carelessly, till they passed in 
 succession over his head, greeting him with a croak of 
 sublime indifference, and then, poised slanted in the air, 
 glided more rapidly away. Turning his eyes to the sea, 
 he saw that the swarm of gulls had risen and were 
 hovering in the air, their cries, made faint by distance, 
 reaching him where he stood. 
 
 Biiding along the sands, at a trot, was a horseman, 
 whom, in the distance, he did not recognise. 
 
 Idle, and tired of hunting the hare, he sat down and 
 watched the rider till he disappeared behind the sand- 
 hills, and the flock of gulls settled again on the fringe 
 of the sea. Then, after a little time, Christian rose 
 and walked down the side of the sandhill. In the 
 smooth hollows between the mounds, it was impossible 
 to see or be seen for many yards away ; and presently, 
 as he turned round a sandy corner, he came full in view 
 of a gentleman on horseback — doubtless the same he 
 had seen approaching by the side of the sea. 
 
 A man of about forty years of age, dressed in velvet 
 riding-coat, breeches, high boots, and low^crowned beaver 
 hat. He was portly, but somewhat unhealthy-looking, 
 his skin being deeply marked with the small-pox, his 
 eyes being somewhat shrunken and inflamed, and his 
 hair and short-cropt whiskers of deep black. 
 
 He was not alone. By his side, upon a small Welsh 
 pony, rode a boy of about twelve years of age, evidently 
 his son, for he had his father's eyes and complexion 
 without their' disfigurements. At a first glance, he 
 struck one as a disagreeable boy, with a supercilious 
 expression, and a peculiar look of lying-in- wait. As he 
 was riding, he did not exhibit his chief physical de- 
 formity. Though scarcely a cripple, he was lame. One 
 limb had never grown rightly, and though he could 
 walk tolerably ' and comfortably, he could do so witja 
 neither ease nor grace. 
 
 At light of thes» two figures, Christian turned red 
 
S> GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 KB crimson, for lie knew them well. The gentleman 
 was his father's enemy, Squire Orchardson of the 
 Willows ; the boy was Richard Orchardson, the sqnire'a 
 only son. 
 
 To his surprise, the squire rode right up to him 
 along the sands, and then drew rein. 
 
 ' Tou are young Christianson of the Fen ? ' he aske^ 
 in a sharp authoritative voice. 
 
 Christian stood scowling, but made no answer. 
 
 ' Have you no tongue, sirrah ? I was just coming 
 to see your mother.' 
 
 Christian started as if stung, and went from red to 
 pale. Meanwhile his greyhound, seized by a fit of ex- 
 citement, began to bark furiously at the heels of the 
 boy's pony, which pranced and plunged, causing its 
 rider to utter a timid cry. 
 
 ' Call up your dog ! ' cried the squire. ' See you not 
 'tis frightening my son's pony ? ' 
 
 Christian turned towards the dog and called it to 
 him, with such a scowling sneer upon his face as was 
 irritating beyond measure. 
 
 ' Come, Luke,' he said, and turned away. 
 
 ' Stay ! ' cried Mr. Orchardson, involuntarily raising 
 his riding- whip. ' Is your mother at home, boy ? ' 
 
 No reply. 
 
 ' A Christianson all over,' muttered the squire. ' A 
 cub of the old breed. Come, Dick.' 
 
 So saying, he trotted off, with his son following ; 
 the latter, as he urged his pony away, greeting Christian 
 with a mocking grimace. Christian clenched his fists, 
 while, with a shrill contemptuous laugh, the boy dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 His blood boiling with rage. Christian stood for 
 some minutes ; then, remembering the squire's question, 
 he began to hasten homeward. Was it possible that 
 the squire meant to insult his mother by darkening hei 
 door during her affliction. If so, let him take care. 
 He would at least warn his mother. 
 
 Excited beyond measure, he ran among the sand- 
 hills, till, emerging &om them, he came in full view of 
 the farm. 
 
 He was too late. 
 
SHADOWS AT TBE FES T'ARM. 33 
 
 The squire and his son were sitting on horsebadt 
 before the farm door ; the squire was talking and ges- 
 ticulating loudly, and on the threshold, as if pointing 
 them from it, was Mistress Ohristianson, stern, and pale 
 as death. 
 
 Christian strode up to the door and jokied the 
 group, just in time to hear the last few words of their 
 conversation. 
 
 ' I am BoiTy you are so bitter, dame,' the squire was 
 saying ; ' God knoweth, I have no wish to he hard upon 
 you, and I will gladly grant you graoe.' 
 
 ' We want no grace from an Orchardson,' answered 
 the dame ; ' I pray you, sir, quit my door.' 
 
 ' Tes, quit our door ! ' echoed Christian, coming up 
 at this moment. 
 
 ' Like cub, like vixen,' muttered the man to himself; 
 then, turning to his son, who sat smiling upon his pony, 
 he added, ' Come, Dick, we are not wanted here.' 
 
 The boy laughed, and said something in a whisper, 
 which brought a dark smile to his father's cheek. At 
 the whisper and the look. Christian felt sick with 
 mingled hate and rage ; and he made a movement with 
 clenched hands as if to advance upon the pair, when 
 his mother put her hand upon his arm to command him 
 back. 
 
 So the two Orchardsons, father and son, rode slowlj 
 from the door, the boy pausing a moment at the gate tc 
 give a wicked laugh and sneer, before he cantered awaj 
 by his father's side. 
 
 ' Mother, what did they want P ' asked Christian, 
 trembling. 
 
 The dame did not reply ; she was too busy with hei 
 own gloomy thoughts. Turning back into the house, 
 and entering the dai'k wainscoted parlour, she took 
 down the old Bible fi'om its niche, put on her horn 
 spectacles, and began to read, as was invariably her 
 custom when her dark hour was upon her. Rocked 
 upon the dreary billows of her favourite ' Psalms,' she 
 felt with David the terror and the tumult of a wild 
 unrest. In imagination, at least, her enemies were now 
 scattered and smitten hip and thigh, and her soul went 
 "Up in gloomy thankfulness to God. 
 
34 GOD AND THE MAM. 
 
 CHAPTER rV. 
 
 SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 
 
 Emeeqing from hei trance of wrathful prayer, Mistress 
 Christianson gradually led her children to understand 
 the real facts of the interview between herself and 
 Richard Orchardson. The hereditary enemy of her 
 husband and her family had, it appeared, made overtures 
 of a seemingly friendly nature, and had offered, if the 
 dame wished it, to withdraw all pressure for the pay- 
 ment of the mortgage money. He had no wish, he 
 said, to be too hard on a helpless woman, or to visit the 
 husband's foUy and improvidence on the head of his 
 widow. At this first allusion to the dead, she had 
 been unable to restrain her indignation, and in a few 
 fierce words she had launched her life-long hate at her 
 enemy's head, demanding that he should cease to darken 
 her door. 
 
 'Why did he come to the house he hath made 
 desolate ? ' she now cried angrily. ' To lay some other 
 trap, sure, for the folk he hath destroyed. I knew 
 when he rode up, with that fox-smile upon his fece, and 
 the boy grinning by his side, that he meant some hidden 
 mischief; so that, when he spoke of kindness, my soul 
 went sick.' 
 
 ' And mme too,' said Christian, ' when I met them 
 i' the sands.' 
 
 Days passed, and the Christiansens heard no more 
 of the Orchardsons. They waited and waited, in hourly 
 dread and expectation of the fatal missive which should 
 announce to them that the mortgage would be closed, 
 and the money due realised on the land. But the 
 missive did not come ; instead of it, there was an 
 ominous silence. At last, however, some weeks after 
 the interview at the farm -door, came another letter 
 from Lawyer JefiFries, on behalf of Richard Orchardson 
 requesting in formal terms, but polite, the payment of 
 the moneys due. To this the dame replied curtiy, 
 
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 35 
 
 saying that payment was impossible, and that, to make 
 an end, the mortgagee was at liberty to take what 
 course he pleased. This brought over Lawyer Jeffries 
 in person — a little, hard, dry, but good-natnred man of 
 business, who drove down in his gig from the neigh- 
 bouring town, ten miles away. 
 
 He was closeted with the dame for hours, and 
 Christian, listening at the door, could hear high words 
 from his mother, and soft persuasive periods from the 
 visitor. Lawyer Jeffries strongly advised a policy of 
 conciliation. His client, he avowed, had no wish to 
 press hard upon the widow, though she was entirely in 
 his power, and he himself was sure that, if she only 
 asked respectfully for time and consideration, both 
 would be given. It was throwing words away, how- 
 ever. The good dame was obstinately resolved never 
 to ask any favour from the man who, she devoutly 
 believed, had planned her husband's ruin. 
 
 The little lawyer rode away in despair ; but being, 
 as we have said, a good-natured man, and kind-hearted 
 withal, he carried to the squire such a message as 
 seemed conciliatory enough, and Orchardson, who had 
 just then no mind for harsh measures, instructed him 
 to let the ndafcter stand. So weeks passed away, and 
 though the Ohristiansons were still in constant antici- 
 pation of a notice of ejectment from the rich Fen lands, 
 nothing more was said or done. 
 
 The doubtful peace thus attained between the two 
 houses might have lasted long but for one of those 
 events, trifling in themselves but often fatal in their 
 issues, which so often complicate the relations of human 
 beings. 
 
 One day in December, Christian took his gun, and, 
 followed by his sister, strolled out over the Fen lands. 
 Their larder was empty, and he was looking for a hare. 
 Though it was winter, tho weather was almost spring- 
 like. The mist had lifted like a night-cap from the 
 fens, and from the clear patches in the sky the sun sent 
 down revivifying rays, as if to inspire new joy and 
 bring fresh hope to the heart of every man, now 
 Christmas-tide was nigh. It brought cheer at least to 
 young Christian Christianson, who, strolling along over 
 D % 
 
56 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 the fen, with his gun flang across his shoalder, had pro. 
 bably never felt more magnanimous in his life. 
 
 The mingled feelings of stern pride and bitter 
 hatred, which had been handed down to him as the 
 woeful inheritance of his house, and had taken their 
 place only too firmly in his heart, seemed to fade tem- 
 porarily before the beneficent light of the sky. The 
 words which his dying father had uttered came back to 
 him, and resounded again and again in his ears like a 
 wail of admonishment and pain. ' Forgive — ^forgive ! ' 
 — ^Tes, those bad been the last words on the lips of the 
 poor worn-out man, and no one had heard them but the 
 family whose souls, warped with hatred, sick with 
 pain, were only too ready to forget that dying prayer. 
 Christian, at any rate, had not quite forgiven even his 
 father; and as for the Orchardsons, he had met hate 
 with hate, scorn with scorn ; and while standing up, as 
 he thought, in manly defence of his house, he had 
 plunged into the blackest gloom of a mad Inferno 
 But to-day, boy though he was, he asked himself why 
 should these things be ? why not bury the past, as 
 generations of men are buried, and with the help of 
 God look forward to bright and happy days to come ? 
 
 Forgive ? nay, he did not feel even yet he could 
 forgive — that he possessed sufficient strength to reach 
 forth his hand in friendship to human beings who had 
 so often and so cruelly stung him and his. Forgive- 
 nesB such as that would be unnatural, woald demand 
 superhuman strength and kindliness. 
 
 The utmost he could do was what he then resolved 
 to do: bury the Orchardsons deep down amid the ruins 
 of the sad and bitter past ; and with all memory of 
 their existence blotted from his soul, try to live a ne^ 
 life. 
 
 He paused, and turned to his sister Kate, who 
 was walking quietly beside him. 
 
 ' Kate,' he cried, ' think you, when our father lay 
 a-dying, and said, " Forgive — forgive," he meant that 
 de\^'s brood up at the Hall ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, I know not,' answered Kate, timidly, for she 
 feared the theme. 
 
 ' I think rather he meant mother to forgive Am for 
 
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. jy 
 
 ever having taken aid from the enemies of onr hoase. 
 His conscience pricked him sore for that misdeed.' 
 
 ' Poor father 1 ' 
 
 ' But he was to blame. Small wonder his con> 
 (science stung him.' 
 
 ' Alas ! ' 
 
 • How now, Kate ? ' 
 
 ' Perchance Squire Orchardsou meant kindly — ^per- 
 chance he will be kindly still — nay, did he not say as 
 much ? It is mad to cross him ; will you not forget 
 old troubles, and give the Orchardsons your hand, and 
 speak to mother, and then — and then ' 
 
 She paused trembling, for Christian's face was dark 
 with passion. 
 
 Poor Kate was a gentle girl, with more of her 
 father's softness than her mother's determination. 
 
 She was utterly incapable of feeling a life-long 
 hatred for the Orchardsons, not perhaps because she 
 was usually more tender-hearted than her brother, but 
 because her memory was imperfect and her feelings 
 evanescent. She would forget a benefit as easily as an 
 injury, while her brother was capable of keenly re- 
 membering both. And he did remember them as he 
 listened to his sister's words — he remembered also the 
 feelings of gladness and hope which had filled his soul 
 only a few minutes before. He remembered also his 
 father's dying words, and he struggled to say, ' I will 
 forgive,' but his lips would not utter the words. 
 
 ' Kate,' he said, ' I can never forgive, but I'll try, 
 if I can, to forget ! ' 
 
 ' Nay, Christian, say not so,' pleaded Kate, quietly. 
 ' What doth the Bible say ? — why, that we should 
 forgive our enemies, ay, seventy times seven ! ' 
 
 She paused, but her brother did not reply. His 
 eyes were fixed with gloomy distrust upon an object 
 close at hand. She turned, and beheld standing only 
 a few paces ofE young Richard Orchardson of the 
 WiUows. 
 
 He had evidently heard every word of the con- 
 versation, for on his pale, pinched face there was a 
 quiet sneer. If looks of bitterness and hatred could 
 kill, young Christian had at that moment lain dead at 
 
J8 aOD AND TBS STAIT, 
 
 his feet. Kate, seeing with terribly sinking heart the 
 dangerous looks ou the faces of the two lads, endear 
 vonred to become peacemaker. She laid her trembling 
 hand on her brother's arm. 
 
 ' Come, Christian,' she said, eagerly, * we'll get 
 home.' 
 
 The youth, almost frightened at himself, was yielding 
 to her influence, and would have walked silently away 
 but young Orchardson stopped them. 
 
 ' Give me that gun,' he said, ' or you shall answer 
 for carrying it on my father's land ! ' 
 
 Christian flushed up angrily. A hot reply came to 
 his lips, but with an effort he suppressed it. 
 
 ' Nay, not so fast, young sir,' he said. ' The Fen 
 Farm belongs to the Christiansons to-day, if it goeth to 
 the Orchardsons to-morrow. 'Tis you that are a-tros- 
 pasaing, not I ; I be on our own land ! ' 
 
 ' You Ue,' returned the other ; ' the land is ours — ■ 
 my father paid for it to keep you folks from starving. 
 'Tis like a Christianson to hate the hand that fed 
 him!" 
 
 Christian again controlled himself with a mighty 
 efibrt. 
 
 ' Nay, I'll not talk with thee,* he muttered. * Come, 
 Kate.' 
 
 But the boy interposed. 
 
 ' You shall not go,' he cried. ' Give me that gun, 
 or I will take it from you.' 
 
 Christian smiled grimly, amused to see the puny 
 thing stand before him, pale and tremulous with 
 passion, to hear him talk of using force to one who 
 could have bent him like a reed at one touch of a 
 strong hand. 
 
 Kate turned to young Richard with outstretched 
 hands. 
 
 ' Do not provoke my brother. He is strong, and 
 you are so weak ; I know he would not wish to hurt 
 yon, but you say such wicked things.' 
 
 ' My father is too soft,' cried the boy with a sneer. 
 ■ Had I my will, I would rid the fields of such vermin.' 
 Then he cried more angrily, ' Why did you set your 
 uur at my pony's heels yesterday ? It is a foul brute, 
 
' " Help !" shrieked the boy, writhing in the other's powerful grasp.' 
 
SOWING THE PLACK SEED. 39 
 
 and Aaron Hart saith it has been seen poaching on 
 our land. Tes, had I my will. I would serve the 
 master like his dog ! ' 
 
 Christian was silent ; for at this moment hii 
 attention was drawn from the speaker by an incident 
 more terrible to him than any that had yet happened 
 in his life. The dog Luke, which had been gambolling 
 freely all the morning about the Fen, now crawled 
 nlowly up to its master's feet. Every muscle in its poor 
 body was contracted with intense pain, its eyes, wild 
 and bloodshot, seemed to be starting from their 
 sockets, its mouth was covered with foam, and with low 
 piteous moans it tried to lick and touch its master. 
 
 With a sharp cry Christian fell on his knees beside 
 the poor agonised creature, while Kate, trembling with 
 fear, pity, and anguish, burst into passionate tears. The 
 dog, after expeiiencing a minute or two of intense 
 Bgony, seemed suddenly to become bereft of its senses, 
 and with one or two wild cries, and a terrible gnashing 
 of teeth, fell back upon the fen land, dead. 
 
 A minute later, when Christian raised his head, h^ 
 looked straight into the cruel eyes of his enemy. 
 
 For the moment young Orchardson seemed fright- 
 ened ; his cheeks were ghastly pale, and he tried to 
 turn away. 
 
 ' Devil ! ' cried Christian, gripping him. ' Tpu have 
 poisoned my dog.' 
 
 ' 'Tis false ! ' cried Richard, with a guilty shiver. 
 ' I^I did not touch him.' 
 
 ' There he lieth dead. To your knees — confess it- 
 er e I strangle yon ! ' 
 
 ' Help ! ' shrieked the boy, writhing in the other's 
 powerful grasp ; and Kate, tempted beyond measure, 
 cried ' Help ! ' too. Beside himself with rage. Chris- 
 tian swung the boy round and flung him from him with 
 one wild push and blow. He staggered, screaming, and 
 then fell prone upon the ground. There he lay as if 
 Be>jBeless, while Christian, affrighted at his own vio- 
 lence, stood paralysed, gazing down upon him. 
 
 ' Oh, you have killed him ! ' cried Kate, bending 
 mbove him, and chafing his hand. 
 
 As she spoke the boy lifted his head, and showed his 
 
40 GOD AND THS MAN. 
 
 forehead bloody where it had struck upon a stone. 
 With the blood trickling down his face, he staggered to 
 his feet ; then, seeing the blood on his hands, ne began 
 to cry piteonsly. 
 
 ' Stop ! ' cried Christian, as he turned to go. ' Tell 
 me you did not harm the poor hound, and I will ask 
 your pao-don.' 
 
 Young Orohardson made no reply, but, sobbing 
 still, oast one look at the dead dog, and made a move- 
 ment as if to spurn it with his foot ; then, with a 
 blood-stained face, rushed rapidly up the hill. 
 
 Kate, still sobbing, wrung her bands. 'We are un- 
 done, we are undone ! ' she moaned. ' What v/ill Squire 
 Orchardson say when he hears that you struck his 
 son ? ' 
 
 But this time her brother did not heed her, or 
 scarcely seemed to hear. No furious flame of anger 
 now burnt in his heart, but on his face there was a fixed 
 look of horrible pity and pain. In weai'y sorrow he 
 raised his eyes to the still smiling sky. 
 
 ' Forgive ! ' he murmured ; ' nay, father, I can never 
 forgive nm». Since there is a God above us, why doth 
 He let such things be ? ' 
 
 He raised the poor stiffening body of his dog, and 
 carried it tenderly homewards in his arms, choking 
 down his tears as he went. 
 
 As he passed the house door his mother came out to 
 question him, and he told her what had passed. She 
 went very pale, but said little ; she did not even chide 
 Ler sou for his violence. 
 
 Christian laid the poor hound tenderly in the porch, 
 »nd then all went into the house together. 
 
 An hour later, there came a great rapping at the door. 
 Anticipating evil, they went and threw the door open, 
 and there stood Squire Orchardson, mounted on his 
 black horse, and shaking his heavy whip at them all. 
 He was livid with passion, and the moment he saw 
 Christian, shrieked aloud, 
 
 ' Where is he that struck my boy ? Where is the 
 coward that smote a poor lame lad ? Come out, you 
 dog ! come out ! that I may punish you as you 
 deserve I ' 
 
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 41 
 
 Christian was about to leap oat and face the speaker, 
 when his mother, grim as death, ordered him to keep 
 back. Accustomed to obey her, he paused. 
 
 ' My son did not strike your son,' answered the dame 
 coldly ; ' he fell, and so was hurt.' 
 
 ' 'Tia a lie J ' cried the squire. ' He struck him ' 
 My boy never lies, and he hath told me all.' 
 
 ' Your son is the liarj sir,' said Christian, ' if he saith 
 I struck him. I gave him a push in anger, and he fell 
 upon a stone. But he poisoned my dog ! ' 
 
 ' And if he did, what is the life of your wretched cur 
 to a scratch upon my son ? Tour dog poached upon our 
 preserves, and had I seen it, I would have shot it with 
 ray own hand. My boy did well. Had he poisoned the 
 whole of your wicked brood he would have done better 
 still.' 
 
 ' Yon are a brave man,' returned the widow, with a 
 cold smile, ' to talk thus to a lonely woman. Had my 
 man been living, he would have reckoned with the 
 father as his son did reckon with the son.' 
 
 ' Enough, woman I ' cried the squire, madly, ' If 
 there is law or justice in the land, you shall all moan 
 for this. Beggars that you are ! I will be even with 
 you now. No more mercy — no, no ! I'll grind you 
 down to dust ! ' 
 
 'Begone, sir ! yon darken our door.' 
 
 And without another word, she closed the heavy 
 door in his face. Listening within, they heard him 
 muttering and cursing aloud, and striking on the door 
 with his whip ; then, with a loud threatening oath, ho 
 galloped away. 
 
 They had not to wait long for the issue of that sad 
 dispute. The very next day came the legal intimation 
 tliat the mortgage money was to be realised to the last 
 penny, and that if they could not pay up both principal 
 and interest, they must yield the well-loved land. 
 
 Thus the thunderbolt feU not quite unexpectedly, 
 «nd they looked at one another with stupefied faces. 
 
 Kate was the first to speak, and her words were 
 characteristic. 
 
 ' Mother, mother I do not let us be undone. Let m» 
 go to Mr. Richard. Let me tell him that we beg his 
 
4» GOD AND THE MA». 
 
 pardon, let me sue for pity. I know lie will listen- to 
 me, if T plead humbly enough.' 
 
 ' Silence ! ' cried OhriBtian. ' How dare you think 
 of it ? Tour father's blood flows between you and ' 
 
 He paused, for Kate was kneeling on the floor and 
 sobbing, and the dame was standing over her like a 
 ghost, pointing at her with a lean forefinger, and 
 trembling as a leaf. 
 
 ' Christian ! ' cried the girl. ' Speak for me ! 
 Mother ! ' 
 
 Christian put his hand upon his mother's arm. For 
 a moment the dame did not speak ; her lips moved, but 
 she was too troubled to find words. It was terrible to 
 see her white stony face, with its wrathful eyes. At 
 last she gasped, pointing to the great Bible which stood 
 open upon the sideboard, 
 
 ' Give me the Book ! ' 
 
 Christian placed it upon the table neai her. 
 
 Stooping, she seized Kate's cold hand and placed it 
 among the leaves. Poor Kate shivered and moaned, 
 and tried to draw her hand away, as if she feared the 
 touch might do her harm. 
 
 ' Now, swear! ' said the mother. 
 
 Kate only sobbed aloud. 
 
 ' Swear on the Book, that you will never again wil- 
 lingly exchange words with any of that name or that 
 blood ; Bwear that in sickness and in health, as long as 
 life lasts, you will never take the hand of an Orchardson 
 or knowingly worship under the same roof with any of 
 that blood or name ; swear that your prayers shall riao 
 nightly against them, wherever you may be.' 
 
 Kate seemed overcome with terror. 
 
 ' I promise, mother — do not aak me to swear ! ' 
 
 * Swear on the Book ! ' 
 
 Thus urged, Kate Christiansen took the oath. 
 
 The dame turned suddenly to her son. 
 
 ' Tou shall swear too ! ' she said sharply. 
 
 The boy swore right eagerly. Then he stooped and 
 caught his sister in his arms, just (is she was swooning 
 
<» 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ENTER PEISCILLA. 
 
 Bo it came to pass, through the issn© of ill-blood 
 between mere children, aud between men and women 
 who were as children in their foolish passions, that the 
 breach between the two houses widened into a gulf as 
 deep as hell. On the one side of this gulf of hate and 
 darkness, sat the Orchardsons, rich, prosperous, in the 
 full sunshine of fat meadow aud plenteous vineyard. 
 On the other side crouched the Christiansens, a beg- 
 gared famUy, bitter at heart, ever waiting for the evil 
 hour which might bring vengeance. The mortgage was 
 closed. The fat Fen lands passed into the hands of 
 their hereditary foes ; and all remaining to them now 
 were the old house, fast falling into decay, and the 
 barren hills and burrows of sea-lying sand. 
 
 Well, there are compensations even in the deepest 
 shadows of trouble. It was something at least to have 
 the old house, and not to be turned out by the bailiflFs, 
 like conies by the ferret, into the open cold ; something 
 more, to possess the ancestral sandhills, barren and 
 desolate as they were. At a pinch, they could at least 
 exist, though no human soul but themselves knew how 
 sore at times the pinch became. 
 
 Fortunately, they had never been free livers, and 
 even in their days of prosperity had known little but 
 homely fare. With keen thrift, now, they contrived 
 to preserve a decent appearance before the world. 
 
 Widow and daughter kept their needles busy, and 
 their spinning-wheels as well ; so that Christian, who 
 had a rough boy's knack of destroying apparel, never 
 went otherwise tlian neatly clad. And the boy, who 
 was the idol of both, had his luxuries too. Many a 
 time the two lonely women went without common 
 necessaries themselves in order that the head and hope 
 of the house might have gentlefolk's fare. 
 
 Id this sad season of poverty and social disgrac-e, it 
 
44 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 is hard to say what would have become of young 
 Christian Ohristianson if he had not relieved his angry 
 moods by that free physical exercise of which he had ever 
 been, so fond. The women had their Bible, their con- 
 stant means of communication with some strange &r-ofi[ 
 Divine sympathy; his, on the contrary, was not a 
 religious nature, and in more respects than one he 
 belied his name. 
 
 For weeks and months the shame and outrage of 
 that cruel legal revenge dwelt within him, poisoning 
 every thought and feeling, distorting every hope and 
 dream. At first, but for the piteous pleading of his 
 sister and the sad command of his mother, he would 
 certainly have gone off and committed murder. Foi 
 weeks afterwards he was in the mood, had either father 
 or son crossed his path, to have shot him dead, or to 
 have sprung upon him and tried to tear him limb from 
 limb. 
 
 Fortunately, his mad rage was suffered to consume 
 itself, and to die away, without receiving any fresh fuel 
 from without. 
 
 So the boy went and came, somewhat more dark 
 and sullen than before, but to all outward seeming, 
 little changed. 
 
 Tears passed on, and the bitterness of seeing others 
 in possession of the ancestral land, which stretched 
 rich and plenteous before the very door, had begun to 
 wear away. Poverty was so familiar that it no longer 
 seemed very unfriendly or quite unkind. The widow 
 had accepted her cross patiently, and by dint of strict 
 parsimony, had saved a trifle. At all events, affairs 
 could grow no worse, — unless the very roof fell in upon 
 their heads, a not altogether unlikely contingency, taking 
 into consideration the state of the farm-repairs. 
 
 It is to be feared that, in one particular respect, 
 Christian had suffered severely. His education had 
 been unduly neglected. It is doubtful, however, if 
 much more attention would have been given to his 
 training, even had the family not fallen on evil days. 
 In those times, many a wealthy farmer was too illiterate 
 even to write his own name, and book-learning was 
 generally regarded as so much vanity, not to be in- 
 
ENTER PRISCILLA. 45 
 
 dnlged in by sensible folk whose lives were occupied in 
 tilling the land and accumulating gold. 
 
 What he lacked in knowledge, Christian Christianson 
 gained in manly strength and beauty. At twenty years 
 of age, he might have sat to a painter for a youthfal 
 Thor. 
 
 His short clustering ringlets, his firmly-chiselled 
 face with its grave blue eyes and splendid chin, his 
 strong yet shapely neck, his perfectly-moulded arms 
 and limbs, were all in keeping. Though of great height, 
 he had none of the unwieldiness of giants. His only 
 defect was a peculiar stoop in the shoulders, a not 
 unusual characteristic, I have noticed, of brooding and 
 determined men. 
 
 For the rest, his disposition, it is to be feared, waa 
 sullen and stern. He had strong and stirring passions, 
 as we have seen, but they had been subdued to a gloomy 
 sense of wrong. Brave, honest, incapable of meanness 
 or treachery, he yet conveyed in his manner a certain 
 feeling of dangerous repression. His bitterness against 
 the world had been fostered by constant loneliness ; for 
 the family had now few friends. 
 
 It was his twentieth birthday, and the day, a clear 
 June day of unusual brightness, broke with warmth and 
 splendour over the sandhills and the sea. He had risen 
 early, and gone down to the sea for a swim. Emerging 
 from the water, light and glistening as a naked god, 
 and happy for the time in the glowing consciousness 
 of life, he cast on his clothes, and turning inland, ha 
 threw himself on one of the hot sandhills, to bask in 
 the sun. 
 
 All was perfectly still — the clear heaven, the calm 
 throbbing ocean, the long flat sands still wet from the 
 receding tide : not a sound broke the summer silence. 
 All at once, however, the stillness was broken by the 
 Bound of a voice, singing. 
 
 So suddenly did it rise, and so near at hand, that he 
 was quite startled. Half-rising he listened. Tes, there 
 could be no doubt whatever; some one was singing 
 close by. 
 
 A clear silvery voice, like that of a woman. Stranget 
 still, the words seemed merry and foreign, belonging to 
 
46 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 some language he did not understand. It seemed like 
 witchcraft, and Christian, who was not without his 
 superstitions, felt a trembling thrill run through his 
 frame. This lasted only for a minute ; then, rising to 
 his feet, he moved over the sandhills in the direction of 
 the voice. 
 
 A few quick strides brought him within sight of the 
 Binger. 
 
 Down beneath him, in a green space between the 
 sandhills, sprinkled with canna-grass and yellow flowers, 
 a young girl was walking, singing clearly to herself as 
 she moved and sang in the summer sunshine. 
 
 She was dressed in black, without one trace of any 
 ornament. Even her bonnet was black, which she had 
 taken off and was swinging by the strings. The con- 
 trast between her gloomy dress and her bright face set 
 in golden hair was sufficiently startling ; but equally aa 
 great was the contrast between that dress and the clear 
 gay trill- of her girlish voice. 
 
 Christian stood looking on in wonder. He was used 
 to country maidens, but this apparition seemed some- 
 thing quite difierent. She wore dainty boots and 
 gauntlet gloves, and her attire, though so sombre in 
 colour, was of fine material and elegant in form. 
 
 As he gazed she ceased to sing, and stooping down 
 gathered one or two of the yellow flowers ; these she 
 fastened to her bosom, and as she did so, gave a silvery 
 laugh. 
 
 Christian was fascinated. He had never seen a 
 human being so completely at ease with herself and 
 with the world. In h3r complete contentedness with 
 her own company and thoughts, she realised Words- 
 worth's lines : — 
 
 Solitude to her 
 Is sweet society, who fills the air 
 With gladness and involuntary song. 
 
 He looked on in wonder. 
 
 Presently the girl resumed hei" walk, and her voice 
 rose again. This time the tune was even gayer, though 
 the words were still foreign and strange. Then, 
 finishing a verse, she laughed again, out of sheer delight 
 cf hcait. 
 
ENTER FRISCILLA. 4; 
 
 It seemed hardly fkir and honest to play the Bpy in 
 that fashion, without letting the young lady know that 
 she was not unobserved; so Christian, though he felt 
 bashful for the first time in his life, gave a cough to 
 attract her attention. 
 
 She looked up at once, and, to his ustonishmenf^ 
 smiled and beckoned. 
 
 Scarcely knowing what he did, he walked down 
 towards her, and soon encountered the full fire of a 
 pair of blue eyes, directed right into his own. 
 Then came a point-blank question. 
 ' How long have you been listening, if you please P ' 
 Christian stammered, blushed, and looked confused. 
 Before he could find an answer, came another question. 
 ' Do you belong to this place ? ' 
 ' Tes,' he said. 
 
 ' Then perhaps you can help me. I have lost my 
 way.' 
 
 ' Lost your way,' said the young man, looking 
 
 puzzled. ' Why ' 
 
 He was about to aiSk the question which she at 
 once, without hearing him, answered offhand. 
 
 ' I was wandering along the sea-shore, and I turned 
 off among the sandhills ; and each is so like the other 
 that I got lost among them.' 
 ' Yovl. did not seem to mind.' 
 
 ' Nay, but I was singing to keep my courage up. 
 Yoa heard me ? ' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Did you think I was singing a hymn ? ' 
 Christian stared, and involuntarily shook his head. 
 * Since it was in French, perchance you could not 
 tell,' she added, smiling, seeing the shadow of a 
 smile on Christian's face. ' Well, perchance it was 
 not a hymn at all, but a chanson I learned over in 
 France.' 
 
 There was something so frank and artless in the 
 girl's manner, something so utterly different from the 
 self-conscious timidity and blushing stupidity of counti'y 
 maidens, that Christian was perfectly bewildered. To 
 be addressed so fearlessly and carelessly by a complete 
 stranger was in itself a novelty. He felt for the time 
 
(8 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 lik» an awkward lout, tackled for the first time by a 
 fairy of the wood or Bea. 
 
 ' Do yon — live here ? Nay, in the neighbourhood, 
 T mean ? ' 
 
 ' I am staying with my father, over in Brightling> 
 head.' 
 
 Brightlinghead was a small fishing village, sitoated 
 some miles away, upon the sea-shore. 
 
 ' And you ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' I live at the Fen Farm, in yonder.' 
 
 ' What is your name ? ' 
 
 ' Christian Christianson.' 
 
 She looked at him from top to toe, with the franlt 
 yet modest look that was peculiar to her. 
 
 ' Ton must be a good Christian, in sooth, if you are 
 like your name.' 
 
 Christian coloured up, and said awkwardly, 
 
 ' What is your father ? Not of these parts ? ' 
 
 ' Nay,' she replied, ' he is a stranger. He hath come 
 down hither to preach God's Word.' 
 
 Christian wondered again ; to his simple sense, there 
 seemed something most inconsistent between gospel- 
 preaching and a vision so bright and sweet. 
 
 ' Your father is a parson, then ? ' 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 ' Nay, he is not in holy orders, though he hath had 
 a call. Since he heard good Mr. Wesley preach, the 
 Spirit hath moved him to discourse for poor folks' 
 conversion.' 
 
 Another change. She spoke now with a quite 
 different intonation, recalling the prim phrases of the 
 dissenting chapel. Her eyelids drooped demurely, and 
 the edges of her pretty mouth were just turned down — 
 like a roseleaf folding. 
 
 While speaking, they had moved on quietly towards 
 an opening in the sandhills, and they were now within 
 view of the open sea sands. 
 
 'I shall know my way now,' she said, quietly. 
 • Good day, friend.' 
 
 But Christian, with the fascination of her presence 
 strong upon him, was not to be parted with so easily. 
 He kept by her side saying ; 
 
ENTER PRISCILLA. 49 
 
 ' If you will sufiFer me, I can show yon a short out 
 back to your village. 'Tis but going round yonder by 
 the skirts of the water-meadow, instead of winding 
 along the curves of the sea.' 
 
 • Point me the path, prithee, and I will take it.' 
 
 ' Nay, I will go with yon a piece of the way.' 
 
 The girl smiled, and looked at him again with her 
 bright eyes. 
 
 ' A good Christian, as I said ! Come, then, good 
 Christian ! ' 
 
 And she tript along with happy unconcern, he 
 following. 
 
 As they went, he had a better opportunity of 
 observing her, and the more he looked, the more his 
 wonder grew. She could not have been more than 
 seventeen or eighteen, and yet her manner had the 
 perfect repose of a mature woman. Her complexion 
 was very pale, yet clear, her eyes matchlessly bright, 
 her eyebrows dark, yet her hair the lightest of gold. 
 He noted, too, that she had tiny hands and feet. Her 
 figure was slight yet very graceful, and she walked with 
 a light elastic tread. 
 
 By this time she had put on her bent bonnet, a 
 structure of the then fashionable coal-scuttle shape, yet 
 wondrously becoming to a plump and pretty face. 
 
 Christian had seen few women save his own mother 
 and sister, and such rustic beauties as he knew were of 
 the red- cheeked, not to say red-elbowed, order. Of 
 ladies proper he knew little or nothing. There was the 
 vicar's wife, who might have once been comely, but was 
 now sedately grim ; and her daughters — young ladief 
 with shrill voices and high waists. Lawyer Jefiries' 
 daughter was a bold-looking, handsome girl, and so 
 were many of the farmers' daughters round about. 
 But the one invariable characteristic of all these persons, 
 plain or fair, was that they had two distinct manners — 
 the 'stand off' manner and the 'come on ' manner — 
 whenever they were in company with a person of the 
 other sex. In one word, they were either flirts or 
 prudes ; in either case ridiculously consoioua of the 
 Bexnal distinction. 
 
 Now, the curious charm about this pretty strange? 
 « 
 
50 
 
 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 was ier complete tmconsciousness of anything of the 
 sort. 
 
 She spoke to Christian as frankly as one young man 
 might talk to another, with perfect modesty, perfect 
 nnconsciousness, and perfect ease. She took him at 
 once, as it were, into her confidence, as a human bring, 
 and yet, all the time, she preserved a certain pretty 
 virginal dignity, which warned him that it would be a 
 dangerous thing to encroach. 
 
 So he followed her as a dog might follow its mistress, 
 happy, yet conscious of the command of a superior epirit. 
 They passed along the sea-shore, along the border 
 of lie water-meadow, and then, crossing a field, found 
 themselves in a dusty country road deeply furrowed witii 
 old cant-ruts, yet thjckly sprinkled with growing grass. 
 The hedges were high, and the grass all under them 
 was thickly sprinkled with speedwells and dog-violets. 
 The thick hedge shut out the distant sea, and it seemed 
 like walking in a wood. 
 
 Presently the maiden paused. 
 
 ' Ton must not come any further — I am quite right 
 now.' 
 
 ' 'Tis but a short step further,' returned Christian, 
 ' and I will not leave you yet. Perchance before I go,' 
 he said, ' you will tell me yonr name.' 
 
 ' Did I not tell you, friend ? It is Priscilla.' 
 
 ' Mistress Priscilla ' 
 
 ' PrisoUla Sefton, at your service,' she cried, smiling 
 and dropping a little curtsey ; ' and now, since you have 
 proved yourself good Samaritan as well as good Christian, 
 I prithee come no further.' 
 
 The young man tingled and blushed each time she 
 played upon his name. 
 
 ' I have naught to occupy me, and I nm going your 
 way,' he replied. 
 
 ' Naught to occupy you ? ' she cried, with a smile. 
 'Know you not the rhyme, "Satan doth find some 
 mischief still, for idle hands to do " ? But there, since 
 you are so willing, come along.' 
 
 So they went side by side. Presently they came to 
 a little bridge, arched like a maiden's foot, spanning s 
 bright brook, that went leaping doxMi to the sea. < 
 
ENTER PRISCILLA. 51 
 
 PrisciDa paused, and leant over, looking at the 
 iparkling water. Just below the bridge, it made a 
 pool, fringed deep with sedge and reeds, and in among 
 the reeds white water-lilies were just unfolding, each 
 with a pinch of gold in its heart, and on the banks hung 
 wild rose-bushes, with pink flowers fluttering open to 
 see their images in the water beneath. Just then, a 
 bright little bird, in gorgeous summer clothing of red, 
 blue, and gold, darted through the arch of the bridge, 
 paused as if to alight on an outreaching twig of the 
 rose-bushes, and then, seeing Priscilla, flew on rapidly 
 with a sharp cry, keeping very close to the water, and 
 following with rapid precision every winding of the 
 brook. 
 
 ' What a beautiful bird ! ' cried the girl. ' Do yoa 
 know its name ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis a kingfisher,' 
 
 ' And look — there is another ! ' 
 
 On a stone in the middle of the pool was a little bird 
 with a snow-white breast, dip-dipping in rapid motion 
 as it stood, with its head cocked on one side, and its 
 sharp eye so intent on the water that it did not see the 
 human forms above it. 
 
 As Priscilla spoke, it quietly alipt into the water and 
 disappeared from sight. 
 
 ' That is a water-ouzel,' exclaimed Christian. 
 
 The little bird re-emerged, stood on the stone again 
 dip-dipping, and then, startled, flew ofi' after the king, 
 fisher, down the stream. 
 
 'How nice to be a country lad,' said Priscilla, 'and 
 to know all the pretty birds and flowers. 'Tis almost 
 my first visit to the green fields. I have lived all my 
 life in smoky towns.' 
 
 ' London born, perchance ? ' queried Christian. 
 
 ' Tes ; but since I was twelve years old, I have dwelt 
 with my good Aunt Dorcas in Liege. It waa pleasant 
 Uiere, but I love our England best.' 
 
 a a 
 
'i2 SOD AlfD THE MAN. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 FATHEE AND DAUGHTEE. 
 
 As they lingered there, leaning over the keystone of 
 the little bridge, they formed a fine contrast; he, so 
 mightily and grandly made, with his snnbumt cheeks 
 and air of Arcadian simplicity ; she, so delicate and 
 fairy-like, in her tight-fitting dress of black, with her 
 little gloved hands and fairy feet. Down below them 
 in the shadows the gnats swarmed, and the minnows 
 sparkled, and the trout leapt ; birds were singing on 
 every side ; in heaven, there was full sunshine ; on 
 earth, perfect fruition of the summer tide. Delicious 
 was the birds' song, delicious the cool trickling sound 
 of the running brook. Like a child delighted, Priscilla 
 listened, and her pure face reflected the joy of all the 
 happy things around her. 
 
 Toung Christian looked and gladdened. He did not 
 know it yet, for he was a boy, but the divine hour had 
 come : the hour which does not come to all (for to some 
 men capable of infinite afEection it never comes at 
 all), but which, when it does come, means transfigura. 
 tion. This delicate being, bringing with her the per. 
 fume and the beauty of some unknown world, thia 
 dainty stranger, who talked with him already as frankly 
 as if he were an old friend, held him spell-bound. Yet, 
 strange to say, he was not tongue-tied ; to his own 
 astonishment, he found himself catching the contagion 
 of her frankness, and talking with a freedom unusual to 
 him. 
 
 'This isThornley Beck,' he said; 'down yonder, % 
 mile away, it runneth into the sea. I have seen the 
 white trout trying to climb it in autumn floods, but 
 they cannot pass the bridge, and there are no pools, so 
 they cannot stay. Down close to the sands, there be 
 silver mullet in hundreds, and the fishermen take them 
 in the net.' 
 
 Christian spoke as a country lad, loving sport better 
 than sentiment. To him, the fishing possibilities of 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 55 
 
 the beacli were of infinitely more Consequence than its 
 natural beauties, for the artistic sense had never been 
 bom within him. 
 
 ' Had I my will,' said Prisoilla, thoughtfully, • nona 
 should snare the pretty fish. 'Tis a sin to slay what the 
 good God made.' 
 
 The lad stared, for such talk was to bim incompre* 
 hensible. 
 
 ' God made the fish for food,' he answered, ' and the 
 beasts, and the birds of the air. Our Lord Himself did 
 go a-fishing once.' 
 
 'Nay, 'twas a miracle,' answered the maiden, 'and 
 these things are hard to understand. God meant it foi 
 a merry world, but our sin hath transformed it. Had 
 yon seen what I have seen, in the wicked city, you 
 would be sad.' 
 
 ' What have you seen ? ' 
 
 • Human folk dwelling in places dark and foul ; men 
 and women pining away for lack of the sweet air ; little 
 babes starving at the breast ; and I have heard cursing 
 and gnashing of teeth, such as the good pilgrim your 
 namesake heard when he lay him down in a den.' 
 
 ' What took you into such evil places ? ' asked 
 Christian in surprise. 
 
 ' I went with my father, to save souls.' 
 
 ' How ? ' 
 
 ' By reading to them out of the Blessed Book, and 
 by telling them of Him that loved them and laid down 
 His life for their sakes. I have stood by and sung sweet 
 hymns to them, while they smiled and died.' 
 
 The lad's wonder deepened. The girl's words were 
 so sad and terrible, and yet her face remained so bright 
 and simple. Here and there in her intonation he seemed 
 to catch the twang of the preacher, but the manner was 
 80 difierent, so calm and innocently assured. 
 
 A sudden question occurred to him, and he uttered 
 it at once. 
 
 ' You wear black, — ^you are in mourning perchance ? ' 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 ' My mother died long ago, when I was a babe ; but 
 my father doth not think light colours seemly, nor do 
 aoj of our folk.' 
 
U GOD Afro THR MAS. 
 
 •Tour folk?' 
 
 • We are of good Master Wesley's flock, and he him 
 self hath sent my father hither.' 
 
 Now Christian had heard of the great preacher, as of 
 one maHgnant in all respects, disaffected to Ohnroh and 
 State and King ; and he had heard of his people, as of 
 people to be avoided and distmsted by all good subjects. 
 Nay, in his own district there were sprinkled a few 
 infected individuals, who were at war with the parson 
 and exiled from Society in general. Notably, there was 
 one Elijah Marvel, a shoemaker of grim and forbidding 
 aspect, who would bandy words with the vicar himself, 
 and had in consequence lost all custom, fallen on evil 
 days, and alas ! taken to strong ale — fortified by which, 
 he became even more malignant than before. His mother, 
 he knew, often spoke of Mr. Wesley with a certain re- 
 spect, but she had never openly fallen away from the 
 Church, and had sent her children to church and Sunday, 
 school, and had a stately welcome for the pastor of the 
 parish whenever he paid her an oflBcial visit. Altogether, 
 Christian shared to the full the popular prejudice against 
 dissenters of all kinds ; for he had not learned to think 
 for himself on religious subjects, and took his religion as 
 it came to him, with the other traditions of his race and 
 blood. 
 
 Prisoilla noticed his astonishment, and looked at him 
 with grftve thoughtfulness. 
 
 'You are not of my father's persuasion}" 
 
 ' Nay,' cried Christian, quickly, ' I am for the 
 King.' 
 
 Priscilla's face blossomed into an amused smile. 
 
 ' And so are we aU ! ' 
 
 'Nay, I thought ' 
 
 'Well, good Christian P' 
 
 ' — That Master Wesley was a Pretender's man, and 
 an enemy to all good subjects.' 
 
 ' Master Wesley is for the Lord Jesus, the King of 
 kings,' she replied simply, ' and I fear you have heard 
 him belied like his Master before him. I would you ccnld 
 hear him preach : he is so terrible, yet he can be so genUe 
 when he lists. His voice is as the sounding of trumpets, 
 jret his smile is kindly as the sunshine upon the sssk 
 
FATHER AM) DAUGHTER, 5; 
 
 rhongh he oometh to call sinners to repentance, he is 
 sorest of all upon himself.' 
 
 So speaking, in her natural tones, as if she were utter- 
 ing mere matter-of-fact, she walked on. The language of 
 the conventicle had grown so familiar to her, that it came 
 to her lips as naturally as girlish laughter. She seemed 
 Eb strange contradiction ; so bright and fearless, and yet 
 so full of grave discourse ; so sweet in her manner, yet in 
 her matter so solemn and even sad ; so pious-minded, yet 
 so happy. Now, Christian knew, evcTj in his little ex- 
 perience, that the Methodist people inclined more to the 
 dark than to the sunny view of hunian affairs. Cobbler 
 Marvel bad once roundly rated the vicar himself for 
 cooking hot dinners on the Sabbath, and for over-finery 
 of personal attire. His talk was much of Armageddon, 
 and of brimstone, and of the pit. Moreover, once or twice 
 Christian had got a peep at certain forbidden gatherings 
 in the open air, where common men gathered -^jgethei 
 and spake as the Spirit moved them ; and he had thought 
 their discourse the very reverse of cheerful, nay, gloomy 
 and dull exceedingly. Such, in his simple eyes, were 
 Methodists — fate-haunted and distracted men. Yet here 
 was something so different, under the same name : a sun- 
 beam of a maiden, happy in a sinful world. Her piety 
 was like her black dress ; it only showed her brightness 
 to more advantage. He had read few books, but one of 
 them was the ' Pilgrim's Progress ; ' and already he felt 
 that Priscilla was like one of those shiningly-vestured 
 beings, who talked to that other Christian and encouraged 
 him upon his way. 
 
 And now, leaving the brook behind them, they passed 
 along the hot lane, and coming to the brow of a hill, saw 
 again the sea glittering before them ; and between them 
 and the sea was the fishing- village of Brightlinghead, 
 clustering with red-tiled houses, and brown sails, and 
 drying nets upon the sea-beach. 
 
 Priscilla led the way, followed by her new acquaint. 
 ance, and paused near a tiny cottage, with a narrow 
 patch of front garden, upon the roadside. Inside the 
 garden gate stood two men, seemingly in angry conver- 
 Ration. 
 
 Oae was a short, squat, buUet-huaded man in black, 
 
S6 GOD AND TBE MAN. 
 
 who wore a clerical hat and carried a cane, and who 
 was obviously in holy orders. The other was a tall, 
 thin man, with a countenance of ghastly pallor, and 
 large blue eyes full of a somewhat wandering light. 
 He did not seem more than fifty years of age, but hie 
 hair was as white as snow. 
 
 'Now mark me,' said the clergyman, shaking his cane, 
 ' I will have no malignant and disaflfected wanderers — 
 whom no man knows, and have no authority from God or 
 man — meddling with my people. 'Tis my care to look 
 lifter the souls of this parish, and I want no meddlers. I 
 warn you, therefore, to quit the place, or to let mj 
 people be.' 
 
 The person whom he addressed answered him, with 
 a curious far-off look in his eyes, 
 
 ' Nevertheless, I must do my Master's bidding.' 
 
 ' At your peril ! I have but to give the word, and 
 they would duck you in the horsepond, or stone you from 
 the town.' 
 
 ' For what? ' gently said the white-haired man. ' For 
 telling simple folk the way to God's mercy ? For warn- 
 ing them to save their souls alive, ere yet they fall to the 
 place where the worm never dieth ? ' 
 
 The clergyman, a very hot-tempered little man, gave 
 a grunt of complete disgust. 
 
 ' I know the canting jargon, Master Methodist, but it 
 won't do down here. My people have been taught that 
 the best way to save their souls is to do as I bid them, to 
 work hard for daily bread, not to meddle with themes 
 they cannot understand, and to honour the King and the 
 clergy. There, go to! You have come to the wrong 
 place, that is all, and the sooner you depart as you came 
 the better we shall all be pleased.' 
 
 With these words the indignant clergyman bustled 
 through the garden gate, cast one sharp look at Priscilla, 
 who v\ras entering in, and walked rapidly away. 
 
 Approaching the white-haired man with an anzioaa 
 look, the maiden touched him on the arm. Strange to 
 Bay, he did not turn his eyes upon her, but still preserved 
 in them the curious far-off look we have already do- 
 Bcribed. 
 
 • Priscilla r 
 
FATHER A/<fD DAUGHTER. SI 
 
 *■ Yes, father, it is I. What hath been the matter P ' 
 
 ' The good pastor of the parish is angry that I haye 
 been preaching to his flock. I am grieved in sooth to 
 hare oSended him, but I cannot serve two masters, and 
 the good seed mnst be sown.' 
 
 ' Verily, father ; bnt come, some one wants to speak 
 with you. To-day I have lost my way, and found a 
 friend.' 
 
 So saying, she took the old man's hand and drew him 
 towards the gate, where Christian still stood wondering. 
 When they were quite close, she beckoned to him with a 
 imile. 
 
 • Will you speak to my father P ' she said. ' Father, 
 this is a young man who showed me the way home. His 
 name is Christian Ohristianson.' 
 
 ' A good name, at all events,' said the man, with the 
 glint of a smile upon his wan cheeks, ' and I trust a fitting 
 one. Young man, you are very welcome.' 
 
 As he spoke he reached out a thin white hand, and 
 Christian now perceived for the first time that he was 
 blind — stricken by the species of disease of which Milton 
 so pathetically yet patiently complained. The gutta 
 terena, or ' thick drop serene,' had invaded both orbs, 
 and left him in perpetual night. 
 
 Christian shrank back, but both father and daughter 
 invited him to enter the cottage, and though bashfnlness 
 had now fallen upon him like an uncomfortable garment, 
 curiosity made him assent. He followed the strange pair 
 into a low-roofed parlour, with black rafters and white- 
 washed walls. The only furniture was a plain deal table 
 and some chairs. The floor was of deal, with no carpet. 
 All would have seemed squalid indeed, but upon the table 
 there was a plate of water, with fresh-culled pansies from 
 the garden, close to an open Bible, very stained and old. 
 
 The man sat down, and Priscilla motioned their guest 
 to do likewise. 
 
 'Nay, I cannot linger,' he murmured, flushing; 'I 
 will depart now, and ' 
 
 * Stay a short space,' said the blind man. ' Priscilla, 
 get Mr. Christian some refreshment. Perchance, when 
 he hath broken bread with us he will remain and oSet 
 ap thanks with as to the Giver of all mercies.' 
 
$S GOD AND THE MAIf. 
 
 A sweet look from the maiden's eye8 did more tn 
 persuade the lad to remain than any prospect of praise or 
 thanksgiving. So he kept his seat, and tripping forth 
 to the kitchen, she brought him plain brown bread and 
 new milk, which he made pretence, for courtesy's sake, 
 to taste. 
 
 Meantime, his eyes sought the face and figure of 
 the blind man ; and he was surprised to find in one bo 
 afflicted so complete a calm. Looking closer, he noticed 
 that, though the man's dress was plain, it was of excel- 
 lent material, that he wore wondrously fine linen, that 
 his hands were white and delicate, and had never been 
 used in any manual labour. This puzzled him more ; 
 for all the Wesleyans whom he had seen, or of whom he 
 had heard, were common handicraftsmen or labourers in 
 the fields. There was, moreover, in the man's manner a 
 curious stateliness and grandeur. He spoke with an 
 accent of extreme refinement, which even Christian, 
 though country-born, could not fail to perceive. 
 
 As they sat, there was a tap at tl.e door, and a grim- 
 looking man, clad in fisherman's style, quietly slouched 
 in. He was followed almost immediately by another 
 younger man, then by an elderly woman leading a child, 
 and lastly by a good-humoured-looking blacksmith, fresh 
 from the forge, in hia leather apron. Some of these 
 people were evidently expected ; for at the sound of 
 their entrance the blind man rose to his feet and gave 
 them welcome. 
 
 ' Good even, master,' said the blacksmith, cheerily. 
 ' I hear thou'st had a visit from t' parson. Well, nevei 
 heed Iwm,, for he be an old wife.' 
 
 'What is your name, friend? ' asked the blind man. 
 
 ' Seth Smith, master,' was the reply. 
 
 ' Have you come of your own will to join our circle 
 m prayer ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, if you please, and I will tell you why. Because 
 parson he did dare me to come and pray wi' Wesleyans. 
 "Mind thy own soul," said I, "and I'll mind mine," 
 and off I came— for I'll pray in what company I please.' 
 
 ' Be seated, friend,' said the blind man, quietly. 
 
 ' And I'll tell thee more, master,' cried the smith, 
 who was both garrulous and aggressive, ' They saj 
 
FATHER AN-D DAUGHTER. J9 
 
 tbon'rfc one o' the right sort — a rich man who hai 
 divided all his riches among poor folk. Now, t' parson 
 he gives nought, but is a swaggerer in gentry's com- 
 pany, and cares only for 's tithes. So I be come to 
 listen, and if I like thy ways I'll come again ; and if I 
 like not thy ways, I'll stay at home.' 
 
 This at least was frank, and the stout smith took 
 his seat like a man who did not mean to be imposed 
 upon, but was determined to criticise, boldly yet 
 honestly, the proceedings which were to follow. 
 
 Christian rose to depart, but at an eager sign from 
 Priscilla, he remained. Then he beheld, and indeed 
 took a part in, the simple ceremonies of his new 
 acquaintances. 
 
 The proceedings were opened with a short prayer by 
 the blind man, whose face as he prayed shone with a 
 soft beatified light. Then Priscilla, who was seated by 
 ]ai8 side, gave out the words of a simple hymn ; and 
 afterwards, in a clear beautiful voice, led the singing. 
 How sweet yet solemn seemed the tones ! Could this 
 be the same voice that he had heard, but a little time 
 before, trilling out the gay cadence of that incompre- 
 hensible French song ? Yes, it was the same, but the 
 effect was so different, so holy and so grave. He raised 
 his eyes and peeped at her face. A deep shadow lay 
 upon it, and though the eyes were still clear, they 
 seemed full of the sadness of recent tears. 
 
 Then the blind man began a short discourse, taking 
 for his text the terrible words, ' I am he that liveth, and 
 was dead ; and, behold, I am alive for evermore. Amen ; 
 and have the keys of hell and of death.' Commencing 
 in a low and somewhat feeble voice, the blind man 
 spoke of Christ's life on earth, its pains and tribulations, 
 its temptations — which come likewise to every man j 
 then of His terrible death, rendered necessary by the 
 iniquities of the world He came to save. A deep awe 
 fell upon those who listened ; with dark imagination, 
 the speaker reproduced for them the picture of that 
 night of Calvary, which was only a colossal likeness, he 
 said, of the crisis which must occur in miniature to 
 every soul before it can be saved. Raising his voice, 
 he passed on to speak of the ever-living God, to whom 
 
to GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 tlio keys of hell and of deatli belong. His hearers 
 trembled, for it seemed as if the very spirit of earth- 
 quake shook beneath them The conntry woman moaned 
 and clutched her child; and on the smith's hard- 
 hammered face the perspiration stood in great beads, 
 while his breath came and went like the sound of the 
 forge bellows. 
 
 Christian, not unmoved himself, looked again at 
 Priscilla. She seemed listening, but none of the trouble 
 seemed to touch her. To what can we compare her 'i 
 To a sunbeam on a graveyard ; to a white dove floating 
 over stormy waters. Her eye was fixed on vacancy, 
 and her face was quite bright. Perhaps, after all, her 
 thoughts were far away. 
 
 Suddenly the smith gave a great groan and threw 
 ftp his hands, crying, ' Lord, what a miserable sinner I 
 be ! Lord, Lord, have mercy upon me ! ' And the 
 others fervently cried 'Amen!' At this moment 
 Christian became conscious of an ugly face, surmounted 
 with a head of shock hair, gazing in through the lat- 
 ticed vrindow. 
 
 ' Yaw ! Methody ! Methody ! ' shrieked a voice ; and 
 immediately came a loud howling and hooting from 
 many voices around. But the blind man made no sign, 
 and continued his discourse as if he heard nothing. 
 Then some one outside mimicked the howling of a dog, 
 and there was loud applause. 
 
 Ceasing solemnly, the blind man made a sign to 
 Priscilla, and again she gave forth the words of a simple 
 hymn, and herself led the singing as before. At the 
 uound of the music, the noise without increased tenfold 
 ^howls and catcalls and savage laughter arose — and 
 finally, a heavy stone, hurled by some cowardly hand, 
 struck the window and broke several of the diamond- 
 shaped panes. 
 
 Notwithstanding this interruption, no one stirred ; 
 it seemed as if all were prepared for such interference. 
 Priscilla finished the hymn with perfect calm and 
 gravity, and after another short prayer, the service con- 
 cluded. 
 
 The smith strode over to the blind man, and reached 
 out his hand. 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 6i 
 
 ' Give me thy hand, master I Thee hast made me 
 see what a poor lost ■wretch I be ! I like thee, and I'U 
 oome ag^alu ; and if any man molests thee, I'll take thy 
 pai't.' 
 
 Then he shook hands with Priscilla and patted her 
 kindly on the head, for he had a daughter of his own, 
 he said. 
 
 Christian followed suit, and said good-bye to father 
 and daughter. The latter seemed almost to have for- 
 gotten his presence, for now the service was done, she 
 was talking anxiously to her father ; but she gave him 
 her hand civilly, and he thrilled at the touch. 
 
 Passing out to the road, he found a gathering of 
 some twelve or fifteen men and boys, blocking up the 
 way, some scowling, some grinning. The smith went 
 first, with little ceremony, and they cleared the way for 
 him quickly enough ; but at sight of Christian, they 
 murmured loudly. 
 
 ' Yaw ! Methody ! ' cried the same voice he had 
 heard before. 
 
 Christian smiled, rather amused than otherwise. 
 This they took as a sign that they might encroach, and 
 gathered round him ; but a closer look at his square 
 jaw and powerful frame kept them from laying hands 
 upon him. 
 
 He walked through them, and away from them. 
 There was a wild yell, but he did not turn. 
 
 Suddenly a stone whizzed past his ear, and another 
 fell at his feet. He turned quickly, and saw, in advance 
 of the rest, the thrower — a great hulking fellow of 
 four- or five-and-twenty, ostler at one of the inns. 
 
 Christian strode back, and before the other could 
 stir they were face to face. 
 
 ' Did you throw that stone ? ' 
 
 The fellow grinned savagely, and made no reply; 
 but the others hooted. 
 
 ' Answer me,' cried Christian, ' or I'll wring your 
 ngly neck ! ' 
 
 ' Best try ! ' snarled the other ; then he uttered a 
 terrified yeU, for Christian had him by the throat. 
 There was a quick struggle, a cry of voices, and in 
 another minate the ostler lay like a log on the road. 
 
ba GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 with bruised body and bleeding nose. Christian stood 
 panting, and faced the shrieking group. 
 
 At this moment, the group parted, and there appeared 
 the same clergyman whom Christian had seen before in 
 conversation with the blind man. 
 
 ' What's this ? what's this ? How dare you strike 
 one of my people ? ' 
 
 'He stoned me first,' answered Christian, 'and he 
 hath only got what he deserves.' 
 
 ' Who are you, boy ? What's your name ? ' demanded 
 the clergyman, sharply. 
 
 ' My name is Christian Christianson, and I dwell 
 away yonder at the Fen Farm.' 
 
 ' I have heard of you ; and to no good, I promise 
 you. Squire Orchardson of the Willows knoweth yon 
 and yours only too well.' 
 
 ' As the thief knoweth those he hath robbed ! ' 
 retorted Christian, turning fiercely on his heel- 
 As he did so, he saw, standinff at the cottage door, 
 the figure of Priscilla Sefton. She was looking at him, 
 with a face fall of admiring sympathy and terror. He 
 amiled and waved his hand to her ; then he walked 
 away along the road, with all his young spirit troubled, 
 his body flushed with victory, and his heart trembling 
 (though he scarcely knew it) with the new-born flam« 
 of love. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 L DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 
 
 A FEW days after the first meeting of Christian 
 Christianson and Priscilla Sefton, Cobbler Marvel stood 
 leaning over his garden gate, and looking moodily at 
 vacancy. His hymn-book was in his hand, his red 
 cotton nightcap was on his head, and he was in his 
 shirt-sleeves. Nevertheless, the church bells were ring, 
 ing, and it was Sunday. Cobbler Marvel's only recog- 
 nition of the day was BJgnificant, though peculiarly 
 •imple : he had washed his face. 
 

 C 
 
 
 ' He lifted his eyes, and encountered the vision of a fresh young face. ' 
 
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 63 
 
 lie was a gaunt, grim-looking man of about sixty, 
 with gi-ej hair and beard, a copper-coloured nose, and 
 i. weather-beaten complexion. His long legs were cased 
 in rusty brown small-clothes and torn stockings ; his 
 shirt was of red wool; his waistcoat, which he wore 
 unbuttoned, for coolness, of brown cloth. His night. 
 cap was cocked somewhat fiercely over the only eye he 
 had — the right one — and he had altogether the appear- 
 iince of a person who would stand no nonsense. 
 
 It was a golden summer morning, and the sound of 
 the bells fell sweetly on the Sabbath air, but Cobbler 
 Marvel was the very reverse of amiable. 
 
 ' You may ring, and you may ring,' he muttered to 
 himself, as he listened ; but I've heerd as fine music as 
 that played on Satan's fiddle ; and parson may pray and 
 preach sarmon, but I'd as lief hear the howling of the 
 Beast. And he'll gang home to 's roast and boiled and 
 fine company, and drink his port wine wi' Old Nick at 
 his elbow, and a wail of weeping and gnashing of teeth 
 all round. Well, the Lord's above, and hell's below, and 
 
 Adam'8 fall 
 Doth doom us all 
 Until the Judgment Day.' 
 
 It was a gloomy view of the world to take for one 
 who, despite his appearance, was a not entirely un- 
 prosperous person. For Cobbler Marvel stood in his 
 own garden, or orchard, a full acre in size ; in one 
 corner of it there were bee-hives, with gold-thighed 
 Bwarms hovering near them ; and amid the trees stood 
 the little red-brick cottage — small, but weather- worthy, 
 with a bench of stone in front for the cobbler to cobble 
 upon in fine weather, when be was tired of gardening 
 and keeping his bees in order. But Cobbler Marvel 
 was misanthropical by nature, and what was worse, a 
 woman-hater to boot, although a married man. As the 
 country people passed, dressed gaily in their Sabbath 
 best, he paused, frowning and sniffing, more especially 
 at the women. He had not forgiven the fair sex its 
 original participation in the collapse of human nature. 
 
 The church bells ceased, the country people dis- 
 Appeared, and Cobbler Marvel was still scowling at the 
 coafitzj, when a voice startled him. He lifted his ejeE, 
 
64 GOP AND TUB MAN, 
 
 nnd encountered the vision of a fresh young face, gazing 
 ftt him -with frank and peaceful eyes. 
 
 ' Good-morrow, friend,' said the voice, with a ring 
 as sweet and clear as that of the bells. 
 
 The cobbler screwed up his eye, looked the speaker 
 from head to foot, and then, failing to recognise in her 
 any of his acquaintances or foes in the village, grunted 
 •ieliantly, 
 
 ' And why good-morrow, young mistress ? why good- 
 morrow, eh r ' he demanded. 
 
 ' Because it is fair weather, and the sun shines, and 
 it is the Lord's Day,' was the quiet reply. ' So it it 
 good-morrow indeed.' 
 
 This time Cobbler Marvel did not deign to respond, 
 but hunching up his shoulders scowled again at vacancy, 
 waiting to be left alone. 
 
 Bat Priscilla — for it was no other than she — per- 
 sisted. 
 
 ' What may be your name, good man ? ' 
 
 ' What be that to thee ? ' answered the misogynist, 
 still averting his one eye, muttering to himself, in the 
 words of an obscure but pious poet, 
 
 ' And Etc she came a-questioning, 
 And caused our father's fall.' 
 
 Priscilla smiled, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, 
 a trick she had learned across Channel. 
 
 ' Be not afraid, good man,' she cried ; ' I am only a 
 iimple maiden, and a stranger — and you need not fear 
 me.' 
 
 ' I fear no man,' growled the cobbler ; ' nor no 
 woman.' 
 
 ' Then you mislike them, which is next to fear, and 
 that, good man, is wicked, and unseemly for a true 
 Christian — which I hope you are.' 
 
 Something in the calm, cool, matter-of-fact tone 
 startled Marvel, and he turned his head round to glare 
 at Priscilla. Then he looked the pretty figure from 
 head to foot again. He was not in the habit of being 
 tackled so quietly. Most of the neighbours avoided him 
 and feared his tongue, and even with his inveterate 
 adversary the parson, he was able to hold his own. 
 
 ' And who may you be that talks so pert ? No good. 
 
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 
 
 6S 
 
 mayhap ! Get thee out o' the way, I be thinking on 
 Bolemn things ! ' 
 
 • I have heard Master Wesley say- 
 
 ' Eh P ' interposed the cobbler, with a start at the 
 name. 
 
 ' —That none was so solemn as Tom Fool, and that 
 Tom Fool, with himself for company, was as good as 
 two fools in a show.' 
 
 Elijah Marvel started and gasped. The words were 
 aot spoken rudely, but with the quiet precision of one 
 making a true but apposite quotation. 
 
 Before he could speak again, the girl proceeded, 
 
 ' I think I can tell your name now, good man. It is 
 Elijah Marvel.' 
 
 ' How learned you that ? ' said the other sharply. 
 
 'I was bidden to seek the surliest man in the village, 
 and, by that token, you are he.' 
 
 The cobbler uttered an exclamation which, on less 
 profane lips, would have sounded like an oath. The 
 sweat stood on his forehead, and the light in his eye 
 grew positively baleful. But something in the sweet 
 superiority of the maiden awed even him. As he stood 
 panting and hesitating, Priscilla came nearer. 
 
 ' What a pretty garden you have ! ' (A grunt from 
 Marvel.) 'And what fine trees, full of fair fruit.' 
 (Another grunt.) 'And you keep bees to make you 
 honey — I see the yellow hives, and I can hear the busy 
 insects humming all about.' (Another grunt.) ' I must 
 bring my father to hear your bees, good man, for he 
 loves the sound ; and, like good Master Wesley, holds 
 the simple bees a pattern set by God for human folk.' 
 
 Cobbler Marvel had started again at the mention of 
 the preacher's name. He took off his nightcap, and 
 mopped his brow. His manner momently grew more 
 and more respectful. 
 
 ' And who may your father be, young mistress ? ' ha 
 inquired, in a subdued voice. 
 
 ' He is Master Sefton.' 
 
 ' From London ? ' 
 
 ' Yes." 
 
 In a moment the man's manner changed. Sis gritn 
 featTu-es broke into the semblance of a sixule. 
 
66 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' Lord, lord, wJiat a goose I be ! I might ha' known 
 you were from none o' these parts, you do speak so bold. 
 And you be Master Sef ton's daughter from London ? I 
 heerd he were coming to these parts, for to spread the 
 good tidings, and save folks' souls alive from flaming fire.' 
 
 ' Tes ; and he has come.' 
 
 ' Praised be the Lord ! There be plenty of brands 
 here for to pluck from hell's burning, for the parson, he 
 be a Pope's man, and his flock be like the flock o' swine 
 that were drowndead through entering of devils. Where 
 be thy father staying ? ' 
 
 ' Over at Brightlinghead,' answered Prisoilla, ' but 
 we have walked over to-day, and he is resting at the 
 foot of the hill.' 
 
 ' Nay, then, I'll come to him at once,' cried the 
 cobbler. 
 
 Priscilla looked at him quietly, and smiled. 
 
 ' Pirst get thy coat, good man ; my father does not 
 commend vanity of attire, but he loves neatness and 
 seemliness, most of all on the Lord's Day.' 
 
 Cobbler Marvel went very red, and, for the first time 
 in his life, felt ashamed of his defiant deshabille. 
 
 ' I've heerd tell as Master Sefton is blind,' ha 
 muttered irritably, ' and if so be ' 
 
 ' Nay, good man,' cried Priscilla, ' what the sun can 
 Bee, God can see, and a good Christian should be seemly 
 clad.' 
 
 The cobbler grunted disapproval, and muttered 
 something about the vanity of personal adornment, and 
 the necessity of every man despising vanity for the sake 
 of his precious soul. But the grace and ease of Priscilla 
 had quite mastered him, and after a moment's hesita. 
 tion he stalked into his cottage, and in a few minutes 
 re-emerged, looking, for him, exceedingly spick-and- 
 span. Then Priscilla tripfc down the road, and the 
 cobbler stalked after her ; and on a stile leading into a 
 green field just on the skirts of the village they found 
 the blind gentleman sitting, murmuring quietly to him- 
 Belf, with the sunshine on his snow-white hair. 
 
 The cobbler looked upon him with no little respect, 
 and when introduced to him by name, saluted him with 
 great reverence. Per even over the aggressive mind of 
 
4 DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 6? 
 
 Oolbbler Marvel the serene self-possession and refine™ 
 nient of Seffcon exercised an immediately subduing in- 
 fluence. After a little conversation on general subjects, 
 Sefton said, 
 
 ' And where do our people meet to-day ? ' 
 
 'In my poor cottage, master,' was the reply; 'and 
 'tis nigh upon the hour. Will you join us, master ? or 
 if BO be you be too weary, I'll fetch them along, and 
 we'll worship out in the open air.' 
 
 The blind man rose, and smiled as he answered, 
 
 ' I am never weary when about my Master's work. 
 Lead the way, and we wiU come to your house. Prisoilla.j 
 let me lean upon your arm.' 
 
 ' Nay, master, lean on mine,' cried the cobbler, ' I be 
 the stronger.' 
 
 Sefton thanked him, and took his arm, and they 
 walked slowly up the hill. Priscilla followed quietly. 
 As they went it seemed as if all the shadow went with 
 them — ^with the grim old tatterdemalion and the afflicted 
 gentleman, while all the sunshine remained behind with 
 the girl. She moved on lightly, with a full enjoyment 
 of the fair prospect, the golden weather, the azure sky. 
 Of these wonderful revelations of an Almighty Love 
 the men saw nothing — the one because he was physi- 
 cally, the other because he was mentally, blind ; but the 
 maiden, in her sweet unconsciousness and content, was 
 ikt one with Nature. Her somewhat gloomy creed, like 
 her demure dress, could not touch the brilliancy and 
 purity of her young life. Indeed, she scarcely realised 
 its gloom, though, from early habit, she was so familial- 
 with its vocabulary. 
 
 In a few minutes they were again close to the 
 cobbler's garden gate, which they entered, and passing 
 through the rows of heavily-laden fruit-trees, approachec 
 the cottage door. Here they encountered an inter- 
 ruption, which made the moody cobbler look exceedingly 
 uncomfortable for the time being. On the threshold 
 stood a middle-aged and rather good-looking woman, 
 dressed in a Sunday bonnet and bright-coloured gown, 
 and gazing at the cobbler, and from the cobbler to hfa 
 companions, with impatience and irritatioB depicted ia 
 every lineament of her face. 
 V 2 
 
ee GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 This, if tte sad trnth must be admitted, ws» 
 Marvel's wife, the only person in the village who waa 
 in any sense of the word a match for him. Much of 
 his hatred for the female sffs might be traced, possibly, 
 to the discomforts and incompatibilities of his wedded 
 lot. The woman was many years his junior, and a 
 sturdy opponent of all innovations in Church, State, or 
 domestic institutions. She attended the parish church 
 i«gularly, and in matters of doctrine was in close leagno 
 with the parson against her husband. 
 
 On seeing the strangers, she drew back with a 
 bound and disappeared into some mysterious part of 
 the cottage. With a low groan, expressive of com- 
 miseration for her or his own forlorn condition, the 
 colMer led the way across the threshold. 
 
 Entering the parlour, which was quite empiy, the 
 cobbler assisted Sefton to a chair, while Priscilla walked 
 tip to the window, where sweet-smelling musk plants 
 were flowering in great profusion, and fixed her large 
 eyes longingly on the sunny garden. All was so dark 
 arid quiet one could hear distinctly the buzzing of the 
 flies amidst the musk plants — the monotonous drone of 
 the bees in the tea-tree outside. But presently a rap 
 on the front door announced visitors; and Cobbler 
 Ms^rvel, trotting off, soon ushered the new-comers into 
 the room. 
 
 They consisted of three or four very weather-beaten 
 figures in wide-awake hats and rough suits, half rustic, 
 half nautical. They entered in single file, hat in hand, 
 and looked around them with the vacant look peculiar 
 to persons entering church or chapel. 
 
 In a few minutes all the men were on their knees, 
 and Cobbler Marvel delivered an extempore prayer of 
 no little length and with one chief fault, that it touched 
 rather on the gloom than the cheerfulness of the life 
 of man, and dealt somewhat unmercifully with sin and 
 sinners. Then the men stood up, and one of them 
 began a hymn, in which all the others grufiSy joined. 
 
 After this Mr. Sefton rose, and in a few touching 
 words, contrasting favourably in matter and manner 
 with those of the local leader, touched on ,«omo points 
 in his oTTii simple spiritual experience, After a few 
 
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. Sg 
 
 words of a similar kind from a conntry cliaraeter with 
 a very rnbicnnd face and a very faint far-away voice, 
 and another hymn, the proceedings terminated. 
 
 No sooner had the company departed than the 
 kitchen door opened violently, and Mrs. Marvel, still in 
 her Sunday finery, sailed into the parlour. 
 
 ' It don't become thee, Elijah Marvel,' she cried, ' to 
 turn my house into a meeting-house, and set all the 
 neighbours scorning us, and ha' parson preaching agin' 
 us out o' pulpit, driving away thy custom and breaking 
 thy dame's heart! If thou must pray, pray like a 
 decent man among decent folk, and live cleanly. They 
 do say you be plotting wicked things agin' Church and 
 King, and soon or late thou wUt come to be hung on 
 gallows-tree.' 
 
 ' Nay, dame,' interposed the blind man gently, ' you 
 speak of things you do not understand. Thy good man 
 is no plotter, nor are we who are to-day his guests. 
 We are only grievous sinners like yourself, seeking to 
 save our souls.' 
 
 ' And who may you be, kind sir ? ' asked the house- 
 wife, with some asperity; adding as she turned to 
 Priscilla, ' and you, young madam ? ' 
 
 ' The gentleman is my father,' replied Priscilla ; 
 ' and we are strangers. But come, father, it is time 
 to go.' 
 
 Appeased and subdued by the appearance and 
 manner of the speaker. Dame Marvel gave a courtesy, 
 and became apologetical. 
 
 ' Tour pardon if I ha' spoken sharp, young madam, 
 but Cobbler Marvel he would fret a saint. Since you 
 be gentlefolk, as indeed we may plainly see, you are 
 kindly welcome. Maybe you'U rest a bit, and taste a 
 glass of my cowslip wine ? ' 
 
 'Nay, dame, we must depart,' said Mr. Sefton, 
 • though I thank you all the same.' 
 
 Leaning on his daughter's arm, he moved to the 
 door, while the dame, with another great courtesy, 
 made way for him to pass. Cobbler Marvel hobbled 
 after them, with a fierce scowl at his wife, who answered 
 him with a defiant toss of the head. So they crossed 
 (he garden, and after bidding the moody cobbler fare- 
 
TO GOD AND TRE StAN. 
 
 well, and bidding him join ttem at their gathering* 
 in the neighbouring village, passed qaietly across the 
 green fields towards Brightlinghead. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CLOUDS IN THE SKT. 
 
 Seveeal weeks had passed away since Christian 
 Christiansen and Priscilla Seftoa had met accidentally on 
 the sands, and since that day the two had scarcely been 
 alone in each other's company. Trne, they had met ; 
 for was not Christian now a constant attendant at the 
 religious services held in the cottage at Brightlinghead ? 
 Indeed, so absorbed had be become in rehgious fervour 
 that he completely forgot to watch how affairs were 
 going on at home. It seemed to him now that he was 
 continually silting in the little cottage listening to tha 
 beautiful voice of the girl as she sang the quaint new 
 hymns, or watching her beautiful bowed head as she 
 joined her father in prayer. 
 
 Then when the service was over, he, longing yet 
 dreading to stay, walked out with his brother wor- 
 shippers and strode moody and dissatisfied towards his 
 home. 
 
 But one night, when he rose as usual to take 
 his departure, Priscilla motioned to him to stay, and 
 having bowed a sweet good-night to her father's 
 fellow-worshippers, passed with Christian out into the 
 garden. 
 
 It was one of those calm, stiU summer nights, 
 which are rendered even more beautiful by their pro- 
 mise of a golden morrow. On emerging from the 
 house, Priscilla looked round her with a sigh of 
 pleasure ; then she turned to Christian. He had been 
 looking full at her ; as soon as their eyes met his 
 dropped, and he turned his head away. 
 
 ' If ay, friend, you have no need to turn away,' said 
 the girl, laying her slender hand upon his sleeve, ' Do 
 
CLOUDS IN Tim SKY. yi 
 
 fou know, good Christian, of -what I was thinking 
 when I looked at yon. to-night ? ' 
 
 At these words Christian felt his whole frame 
 tremble, and an unaccountable feeling of joy fill his 
 heart, but he answered quietly enough, 
 
 ' Nay, Mistress PriscUla.' 
 
 ' This — you will become the best Christian in Bright- 
 linghead ! ' 
 
 The young man started, looked into the eyes that 
 were gazing so fearlessly up at him, and answered 
 lonfnsedly enough, 
 
 'Nay, Mistress Priscilla.' 
 
 'But I say yea, good Christian Christiansen; for 
 you are good, I aver, because, although you have youth 
 and manly strength, and plenty of carnal temptations, 
 you withstand them all, and while improving yourself 
 Bet a good example to others.' 
 
 ' Verily, Mistress Priscilla,' returned Christian 
 aghast, ' how do you guess all this ? ' 
 
 ' I do not guess it, I know it,' returned the girl, 
 quietly ; ' why else shoild you come so often to the 
 cottage to the old blind man and his daughter ? Ah ! 
 do not think, because I have not spoken, I have not 
 watched you well. I have, and approved you ; there- 
 fore I have come out to-night to shake hands with 
 you in a brave new light of hope.' 
 
 So speaking, with more than her usual quaintness 
 of phraseology, she held out her small white hand ; 
 Christian took it, but he did not speak a word. Some- 
 how the girl's laudatory words did not bring with them 
 that degree of pleasure which he felt they should have 
 done. He knew that most of what she had said was 
 true ; he knew that he had braved the elements and 
 renounced many daily pleasures merely for the sake of 
 attending the religious meetings at Brightlinghead ; 
 bat he was not so sure that the fervent preaching of 
 the aged missionary had been such a lodestone as the 
 face of his beautiful daughter. What would those 
 meetings have been to him without Priscilla ? Alas ! 
 the world without the sun. 
 
 For a time they stood at the gate in silence ; again 
 Priscilla was the first to speak. 
 
72 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' Good-night, Christian,' she said, quietly. ' Yon 
 have a mother, yon say ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and a sister.' 
 
 ' Happy mother, and happy sister ! ' returned the 
 girl quietly. ' Well, I have a father for my share. I 
 must not linger longer here, so again good-night ! ' 
 
 This time she returned to the house, and Christian 
 strode homewards. 
 
 For full seven days from that night Christian 
 Christiansen did not attend the religious meetings at 
 Brightlinghead. Not that he was over busy at home, 
 but an uncomfortable sense of shame made him shrink 
 again from meeting Priscilla. Yet he longed to meet 
 her, daily and hourly he thought of her ; the whole air 
 seemed to be ringing with the echo of her name. His 
 disposition was undergoing a transformation which he 
 himself could hardly understand. Priscilla had come ; 
 and as a flower unfolds its petals before the sunshine, 
 his whole nature was expanding under the mysterious 
 light of a woman's eyes. 
 
 His temper grew fretful and strange, but every morn- 
 ing the world, in his eyes, grew brighter ; it seemed to 
 him that he had never lived before that day when he 
 met the sweet figure on the sands ; the past with all its 
 Borrow seemed to fade from his mind, like the blackest 
 night before the brightening of dawn. 
 
 And Priscilla ? Was her day dawning — Jier night 
 fading away ? He thought of her face when they Lad 
 first met on the sands ; thought of it as he had seen it 
 night after night during the hours of prayer ; thought 
 of it as he had seen it that night at the garden gate, 
 smilingly upraised to his. And as he did so he dared to 
 hope that this little pale, prim girl had come to be to 
 him what the sun is to the earth, the moon to the sea. 
 
 ' Yes,' he thought, ' her rare sweet love would make 
 amends for half a century of sorrow. Sure 'tis such 
 good fortune as that which makes this life worth living. 
 I will try to deserve all that she thinks of me : with 
 the help of God I will live a brave life and become 
 a Christian man ! * 
 
 During all this time, as we have said, he kept away 
 from the cottage, because he felt that in going thither 
 
CLOUDS Ilf TffE SKY. 73 
 
 he was playing a double part. He longed to meet 
 Priscilla again alone. 
 
 At the end of the weary week he did so. 
 He came upon her again walking on the sands by 
 the sea ; she was singing very cheerfully to herself, but 
 as soon as she saw Christian she ceased, and hurried 
 forward with outstretched hand. 
 
 ' I am fortunate to-day,' she said, looking steadily 
 into the young man's face. * I came to seek you and 1 
 have found you ! ' 
 
 ' You came to seek me ! ' was all that Christian 
 could reply, for there was something in Prisoilla's blunt 
 speech which completely puzzled and confounded him. 
 
 ' Yes,' returned the girl, quietly smiling, ' I came to 
 seek thee, friend Christian ! You know the heathen 
 story of Mahomet and the mountain ? ' she added, with 
 a still brighter smile ; ' well, my good Christian has of 
 late become the mountain, and to-day I am Mahomet ! ' 
 This time Christian did not reply ; indeed he hardly 
 seemed to hear. He was conscious of standing upon a 
 sheet of golden sand ; he knew that the glorious golden 
 sun-rays were falling all around him, that the sea was 
 murmuring musically in his ears, that a slender figure 
 clad in black was standing before him, with a face like 
 that of an angel turned smilingly to his ! ' 
 
 How long he stood thus he did not know ; his 
 slumbering senses were aroused by the sound of the 
 voice which ever thrilled him to the soul. 
 
 ' What hath come to you, good friend ? you are 
 changing ; tell me, then, what is the matter ? ' 
 
 Here was a chance for Christian Christiansen to 
 speak. In a moment a burning desire possessed him to 
 take the girl's hand in his and say, ' Yes, Priscilla, I am 
 changed, for you have changed me. I love you — say 
 that you love me too ! ' 
 
 He turned towards her, he half stretched forth his 
 hand, he looked down into her eyes, but before he could 
 open his lips to speak, Priscilla had turned away, 
 
 ' I did not come with the intention of idling away 
 the day,' said Priscilla, quietly. 'My father is in iU 
 cheer to-day, and would gladly see you. Will you 
 come, good Christian ? ' 
 
74 OOD AND TUB MAJ!T. 
 
 To all outward perception Priscilla's manner wns the 
 same as it had ever been ; nevertheless, there was 
 Bomething in the tone of her sweet voice which com- 
 pletely dispelled the young man's dream, and brought 
 him back to himself again. 
 
 Once more, for the second time in his life, he was 
 walking along the road towards Brightlinghead, PrisciUa 
 Sefton by his side — with the sunlight falling all around 
 them and the sky smiling its brightest above. They 
 walked along in silence, and Christian was again falling 
 into that delicious trance which had mesmerised his 
 senses on the sands, when he was again aroused by the 
 sound of his companion's voice. 
 
 ' You have lived here all your life, have you not ? * 
 it said. 
 
 ' Yes, I and my folk for generations back, I was 
 born at the Pen Farm yonder, and 'tis there I hope 
 to die!' 
 
 ' In truth,' cried the girl, with a smile, and regain- 
 ing something of her former ease of manner ; ' I trust 
 there is yet time for you to find a place to die in ! But 
 since you have dwelt here so long you know all the 
 country-folk around, perchance ? ' 
 
 ' Most all.' 
 
 ' And among them young Squire Orchardson of the 
 Willows ? A fair young man, of a goodly disposition ! ' 
 
 The girl had spoken innocently enough, with no 
 thought or wish to wound or anger her companion : yet 
 the young man's face turned from white to red in very 
 rapid transitions, a dangerous light kindled in his eyes, 
 Lis powerful hand clenched firmly as if for a blow. For 
 a time he stood speechless ; vyhen he did speak it was 
 to answer her question by another. 
 
 ' What know you of young Squire Orchardson of the 
 Willows ? ' 
 
 PriscOla looked up quickly, the change in his voice 
 was so marked that it startled her. And how his face 
 had changed ! The frank, open, manly look had gone ; 
 there was an ugly light in his eyes which she had never 
 seen before. 
 
 ' What know you of young Squire Orchardson ? ' he 
 ftsked again, this time almost roughly. 
 
CLOUDS IN THE SKY, yj 
 
 Priscilla grew reserved. 
 
 ' In sooth, good friend,' said she, * I know as Hltlo 
 of Squire Orchardson as I know of you. Up till a few 
 wee]^ ago you were both strangers to me, but he, like 
 you, has been good Christian enough to come to Bright- 
 linghead of an evening and join our circle in prayer ! ' 
 
 ' He has come ; and you — you have welcomed him 
 
 ' la verity,' said Priscilla, coldly ; ' when we open 
 our doors to do the work of the Lord we make all 
 •welcome ! ' 
 
 Precisely in the same way Priscilla had spoken to 
 him before, and had made his heart leap up for joy. 
 ' Come, good Christian,' she had said, ' when we open 
 the doors in the name of the Lord we make all welcome ! ' 
 How blissful those words had sounded to him then ; 
 they seemed to say, You are welcome to come as often 
 as you please and gladden in the sunshine of my pre- 
 sence ; but how different it all seemed now ! With 
 those self-same words she had given a welcome to his 
 bitterest foe. 
 
 The two walked on in silence till they came to the 
 bridge which spanned the narrow part of Thornley 
 Beck. Here Christian paused, and held out his hand. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Priscilla,' he said. 
 
 The girl looked surprised. 
 
 ' Good-bye ? and wherefore good-bye ? ' she said ; 
 ' did I not ask you to come to Brightlinghead ? and yon 
 said yes ! ' 
 
 ' I am iu no mood to meet Master Sef ton to-night ! ' 
 
 ' Then your mood has changed since we started 
 from the sands ! ' 
 
 ' It hath ! ' 
 
 The young man turned away, leaned over the para- 
 pet of the bridge, and looked gloomily down into the 
 water. The girl watched him for a moment ; then she 
 approached him quietly and laid her gentle hand upon 
 his arm. 
 
 ' Christian ! ' 
 
 'WeU?' 
 
 ' What ails you ? Have I done aught that angers 
 yon ? if BO, speak freely, friend ! ' 
 
y6 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Christian turned, took both her hands and looked 
 into her eyes. Again here was his chance to nttei 
 everything ! but the tongue clove to the roof of hia 
 month, and ere he could recover himself, the girl 
 spoke again. 
 
 ' Hath anything occurred between you and young 
 Mr. Orchardson ? ' she said. 
 
 A groan from Christian. The hands were dropped, 
 and again he turned away. 
 
 By this time the girl had grown quite interested : 
 again she approached the young man and laid her hand 
 gently upon his arm. 
 
 'What is it?' she said. 
 
 ' Why do you ask ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Because it may be in my power to help you — ^nay, 
 do not shake your head ; tell me your grievance, and 
 the burden may be lighter for you to bear ! ' 
 
 Thus urged, Christian told her all : of the many 
 bitter wrongs endured by him and his, of his imdying 
 hatred, and long-cherished hope of revenge ; and to all 
 his passionate outburst the gii-1 listened quietly with 
 that calm serene look in her eyes. 
 
 ' Now tell me,' he said, as she turned away, ' have I 
 not good cause to hate this man, and every one of his 
 name ? ' 
 
 She shook her head firmly. 
 
 ' If you are a good Christian, you have no cause to 
 hate him, or any man alive. Our Lord tells us to 
 forgive our enemies, even seventy times seven ! ' 
 
 ' Priscilla, it is not possible for a mere man to walk 
 in the footsteps of our Lord ! ' 
 
 ' If he doth not try to do so, he should not profess to 
 be one of our Lord's followers ! ' 
 
 ' I have tried — God knows I have.' 
 
 • And because you have found difficulties, yon have 
 never hoped to surmount them.' 
 
 He looked at her with a certain savage passion and 
 laughed. 
 
 ' What would you wish me to do ? Go to young 
 Orchardson, perchance, and stretch forth my hand P ' 
 
 He spoke bitterly, but Priscilla answered quietly 
 and composedly enough : 
 
CLOUDS IN THE SKT. 7> 
 
 ' Ay, my good friend, that is iust what I would have 
 thee do ! ' 
 
 ' Then I tell you I would sooner my hand should 
 rot from my arm, than be clasped with his in loving 
 kindness ! ' 
 
 Priscilla turned quietly away. 
 
 ' In good sooth, I had thought better of you,' she 
 eaid. ' Good-night.* 
 
 And she walked away, leaving him on the bridge 
 alone. He did not attempt to follow her, his heart was 
 too bitter, and he stood leaning moodily on the bridge, 
 watching the slim black figure as it faded slowly away. 
 
 His hatred towards the Orchardsons was stronger at 
 that moment than it had ever been before. Priscilla 
 had praised them ; she had hinted that they might be 
 right while fte was wrong ; and the thought of this 
 turned the one drop of human kindness in his heart to 
 gall. Were these people, who for generations had been 
 like black shadows upon the lives of him and his, 
 destined now to cast from his lips the only cup of hap- 
 piness which he had dared to raise ? 
 
 ' O God ! ' he cried, ' it cannot be. What have I got 
 in all the world but Priscilla ? What happiness did I 
 ever know until she came ? Sooner than he should 
 come between us, I would kill him with my own hand ! ' 
 
 He remained for a time on the bridge, wrapped in bia 
 own gloomy thoughts ; then he turned towards his home. 
 
 It was growing late ; daylight was fading fast. 
 
 After a while Christian left the high-road and took 
 a shorter route across the fields. It was very quiet 
 here, no one seemed abroad, and Christian walked 
 silently along, still thinking of his interview with 
 Priscilla. Presently he paused, gave one quick glance 
 around; then stood as if listening ; a man passed by on 
 the other side of the hedge, and disappeared ; then a 
 woman came hurriedly from the same spot, paused 
 within a few yards of where Christian stood, and on 
 looking into hia face, uttered a half-terrified cry. 
 
 ' Kate ! ' 
 
 ' Christian ! ' 
 
 Then the two paused in embarrassed amazement. 
 Christian's face darkened teryibly. He recalled the mau 
 
ja GOD AND TfIB MAIf. 
 
 wtoin he had seen moving stealthily from the spot 
 whence his sister had issued. He turned upon her with 
 a murderous look in his eyes. 
 
 ' Ton have been talking with young Richard Orchard* 
 Bon ! ' he said. 
 
 Kate did not reply, but she turned away her head 
 and burst into tears, while her brother, still smarting 
 under the wounds inflicted by Priscilla, still mad with 
 his own bitter wrongs, poured upon her head a torrent 
 of passionate upbraidings. 
 
 ' 'Tis the women, the cursed women, who bring 
 bitterness to every house ! What will thy mother say, 
 I wonder, when she knows you have spoken with an 
 Orohardson, and met him secretly in the Fen Fields at 
 sunset ? ' 
 
 ' Christian, for the love of God, do not tell my 
 mother ! ' 
 
 ' Not tell her ? ' 
 
 ' She would hate me. She would never forgive 
 mo, — she would turn me from her door ! ' 
 
 ' Tou knew all this before.' 
 
 ' Oh forgive me, brother, forgive me ! I meant no 
 harm. I cannot hate as you, — all this bitter feud doth 
 almost break my heart ! ' 
 
 And Kate cried so sorely and pleaded so hard, that 
 out of pity her brother at last granted her prayer. 
 
 When they reached home Kate went immediately to 
 her room. Having got there she fell on her knees in 
 passionate tears. 
 
 ' If he knew ! if he knew ! ' she cried. ' O Jesus, 
 help me, I am a woeful woman ! ' 
 
 For several days Christian scarcely stirred abroad, 
 but at length, solitude becoming too much for him, he 
 resolved to go to Brightlinghead and make his peace 
 with Priscilla. This resolution put him in a better 
 frame of mind ; when he entered the cottage garden it 
 (vas with the full determination to confess his love for 
 her and ask for hers in return. 
 
 The cottage door stood open, he tapped gently, and 
 receiving no answer walked in. Two people sat alona 
 in the parlour, Priscilla Sefton and young Richard 
 Orchardson of the Willows. 
 
TWR ENEMY IS THE PATff. 79 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 
 
 CilErsriAH started Iback as if stung, and in a moment his 
 face turned from crimson to deadly white. 
 
 ' Come in, Christian,' cried Priscilla, quite uncon- 
 cerned at liis appearance, and not rising from her seat ; 
 while Richard Orohardson, now a pale, thoughtful, 
 looking young man, plainly but richly drest, looked 
 quietly up, with the supercilious smile that Christian 
 knew so well, and hated so much. 
 
 They were seated filose to each other in the recess of 
 the old-fashioned cottage window, which, although wide 
 open, was completely smofiered in creepers and red and 
 white roses. The room was shadowy and cool, but the 
 humming of bees came with a pleasant sense of sultri- 
 ness from without. 
 
 Christian's head swam, and he turned away. Stag- 
 gering out of the door he reached the garden, and was 
 moving away, when he felt a touch upon his arm. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' asked Priscilla, who had 
 risen and followed him. ' Why are you going away ? ' 
 
 He looked at her as if stupefied, but made no reply. 
 It seemed like witchcraft, and for the moment ho 
 resisted, with all the force of his soul, her tender spell 
 upon him. Just then, to complete his confusion, the 
 figure of Richard Orchardson appeared on the threshold. 
 Standing up, young Richard appeared to much less ad- 
 vantage than when sitting down ; for one leg was much 
 shrunken from the old lameness, and by reason of the 
 contraction in the limb, the body was somewhat bent. 
 But no one, looking at the young man, could doubt his 
 gentle breed. It appeared in the small white Lands and 
 neatly-turned foot, no less than in the pallid, haudsomo 
 face. 
 
 Sick and shaking, Christian walked on to the galei 
 Priscilla followed. 
 
 • Why are you angry, friend ? ' she demanded. 
 
 •^I am not angry.* 
 
So GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' That is not true,' sHe returned simply. 
 
 •And if I am angry ? ' 
 
 ' Then you are to blame,' she said. • "Wherein haTC 
 I given you offence ? ' 
 
 Trembling from head to foot, and scarcely able to 
 articulate from excitement, Christian pointed at young 
 Richard, who still stood just out of hearing. The girl's 
 gentle forehead contracted, and she looked distressed. 
 
 'I remember now what you said,' she said; 'and 
 indeed Mr. Richard himself has told me something of 
 the feud between your families. Tet he freely forgives 
 you the wrong you once did him.' 
 
 ' The wrong I did him ! ' gasped Christian. 
 
 ' Yes. Tou struck him a cruel blow when you were 
 boya. He was weak and you were strong, and you 
 were to blame.' 
 
 Christian grew livid. On this subject, of all others 
 in the world, he could not speak with ordinary gentle- 
 ness even to her; nay, he could not discuss it or entertain 
 it at all, so terribly did it disturb his soul. The dark 
 passion covered his face like a cloud, and shocked her. 
 
 ' Then alas ! what he said was true,' she cried, 
 looking at him with angry grief. ' I am sorry for it.' 
 
 She turned with a sigh, but he touched her and 
 detained her. 
 
 ' What did he say ? What did he dare to say ? ' 
 
 ' That you were cruel and unbending, — more like a 
 wUd beast than a Christian man.' 
 
 Christian uttered a harsh laugh. In his present 
 temper he was not displeased with his enemy's estimate 
 and description of him ; for he felt like a wild beast, 
 and he wished his enemy to believe that his hate was as 
 unreasoning and complete. 
 
 ' For his own part,' continued the maiden, ' Master 
 Richard is content to let bygones be bygones. He 
 forgives the wrong you did him long ago, and is ready 
 to take your hand. Come to him, — ^let me be peace- 
 maker ! ' 
 
 As she spoke she placed her little hand lightly on 
 his shoulder, and looked up into his face with a smile 
 BO sad, BO winning, that it would have melted any heart 
 save one where jealousy and hate were contending 
 
THE ENEMY /If THE PATH. 8t 
 
 Tes, jealousy ; thongh he scarcely knew it. Hia cup of 
 hate had been full before, but it lacked until that day 
 the poisonous wormwood of the most miserable of all 
 the passions. Half-unconsciously he glanced towards 
 the cottage door. There his enemy stUl remained, with 
 an expression upon his face which seemed more like 
 insolent contempt than Christian forgiveness. 
 
 ' Come and take his hand,' cried Priscilla im- 
 ploringly. 
 
 His only answer was a look of frightful agony. 
 Without uttering another syllable, he flung himseli 
 through the gate, and walked wildly and rapidly away. 
 
 Priscilla stood gazing after him, lost in sorrowful 
 thought. When his figure had quite disappeared in. the 
 direction of the sea, she heard a voice at her elbow. 
 
 ' Did I not tell you so ? ' said young Richard in his 
 blandest tones. ' The young cub is like the old she-wolf; 
 he woxdd like to have his fangs in my throat.' 
 
 She did not reply immediately ; and he stood gazing 
 at her in unmistakable admiration. Standing thus, 
 his slight form would have offered a strange contrast to 
 the yeoman-like proportions of his enemy. His face was 
 very handsome and clear-cut, though its expression was 
 irritating and at times mystifying ; his form and limbs, 
 but for the deformity of the one foot and the stoop 
 occasioned by it, were elegant and shapely ; while hia 
 whole manner bespoke the gentleman of luxury and 
 education. He was clad in a rich dress of velvet, with 
 front and cuffs of the finest cambric, and on his white 
 fingers he wore rings. 
 
 ' I asked him to shake hands with you,' said Priscilla 
 after a pause. ' I wished to make peace between you.' 
 
 ' And he refused ? ' asked Richard, with an airy 
 shrug of the shoulders. ' Did I not say that you would 
 waste your time ? ' 
 
 ' It is terrible to see such wicked hate between 
 Christian folk. Ah ! had you seen his face ! ' 
 
 ' I know the Christianson expression,* returned 
 Richard contemptuously ; ' something between the look 
 of a trapt weasel and the glare of an otter at bay.' 
 
 • He hates yon so much ! And you ? ' 
 
 • And I despise him infinitely.' 
 
 (J 
 
82 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' To despise is almost as wicked as to hate,' replied 
 Prisoilla, looking steadfastly at Ricliard. 
 
 ' How then shall I express it ? ' exclaimed the yonng 
 man, with the ease peculiar to him. ' I am, I hope, a 
 fair Christian — at least, with your good counsel, I am 
 in a fair way of becoming one — and I have almost 
 succeeded in forgetting that yonder clumsy fellow once 
 Btruek me ; that is to say, I have not forgotten, since 
 my looking-glass reminds me every morning that he 
 has marked me for life.' 
 
 Here he pointed to his fair forehead, where indeed 
 the trace of his early injury was still to be seen, in one 
 faint but ineiTaceable mark. ' But what is done is done, 
 and, after all, we were boys. I therefore bear no 
 malice, and would take the fellow's hand ; only Heaven 
 keep me from being long in his company, for he is a 
 clown. I shall never go out of my way to do him any 
 harm ; should he attempt to injure me, I shall crush 
 him, if possible, just as I would crush an adder that 
 tried to sting me, or a venomous insect that settled on 
 my hand. You look shocked, Miss Prisoilla. Well, 
 instruct me where I am wrong, and I will promise to 
 obey your counsel.' 
 
 'Tou are wrong to despise one of your fellow- 
 creatures.' 
 
 * How can I help it ? ' said Richard, with a smile. 
 'Frankly, though, such a fellow would be amusing if 
 he were not so monotonously dull.' 
 
 ' Why did he strike you ? ' demanded Priscilla, 
 quickly. ' Tou must have provoked him sorely.' 
 
 Richard coloured violently, and for the moment, 
 under her clear gaze, lost his usual self-possession. 
 
 ' A boy's quarrel, as I told you,' he answered ; ' I 
 forget how it began, but how it ended I know full well, 
 for I was tho weaker, and down I went. For the rest, 
 the feud between our houses is traditional ; there never 
 was a time when our folk were on speaking terms with 
 these yeomen of the Fen. 'Tis all very tiresome and 
 very stupid, I grant you, and for my own part I can't 
 afford to have an enemy, since 'tis only a source of 
 irritation. Only in one event should I think it my duty 
 to assert myself and become the aggressor.' 
 
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 83 
 
 ' What event ? ' said Priscilla, startled by the peculiar 
 emphasis in the speaker's last words, no less than by 
 the peculiar look of warmth that accompanied them. 
 
 ' In the event of his crossing my purpose in one of 
 those aflairs which determine a man's happiness on 
 earth, and perchance his qualification for Heaven.' 
 
 His look was unmistakable, and she at once under- 
 stood him ; but without a blush, without the slightest 
 sign of self-consciousness, she frankly met his eyes. 
 This frankness and fearlessness embarrassed him not a 
 little. Had she coquetted or blushed, or drooped her 
 eyes in bashful fear, then and there would his bold lips 
 have made a confession of love ; but Richard Orchard- 
 son, despite his slight physical deformity, had no little 
 knowledge of the fair sex, and he knew that the time 
 was not ripe. 
 
 ' But come,' he cried, ' let us change the theme. 
 When yonder fellow entered, you were speaking to me 
 of your father's plans for the future. Can you not 
 persuade him to forsake this vagrant life — so unsuited 
 to one of his gentle breeding ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, sir ; nor would I attempt it.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Is it not a blessed thing to go about on the Lord's 
 work ? ' 
 
 ' Doubtless ; and your father, I grant you, is as 
 noble as one of tlio apostles of old. But alas ! he has 
 fallen on adverse times. Everyone who disregards the 
 supreme authority of the Church is baited by the 
 parsons as either an infidel, or, what is worse, a poli- 
 tical malignant ; and for proselytes you have, in most 
 villages, only the same. Where you strive to do most 
 good, you succeed often in only setting folk by the ears. 
 Look not angry — have I not proved myself your friend ? 
 But I cannot help bethinking me of a homely proverb 
 of my father's — " Would you lead a life of peace and 
 heart's content, keep friends with the parson of the 
 parish ! " ' 
 
 ' Alas ! the parsons chide us sorely, wherever we go.* 
 
 ' Because you meddle with the work they are paid 
 to do. They would fain drive their sheep to Heaven 
 through the Church door, and when they find you 
 
 Q S 
 
g4 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 urging tliem in another direction, they are natarally 
 ftngiy. In sooth, most folk are so foolish and old- 
 fashioned that they can be saved on no other conditions, 
 and in no newer way, than were their fathers before 
 them ; and snob are the folk in these villages. For my 
 own part, I should deem most of the louts scarce worth 
 saving at all, were I not instructed to the contrary by 
 the creed yoa teach so well.' 
 
 ' There is no human being,' answered Priscilla 
 quietly, ' but is worthy to be plucked from the burning. 
 So my father saith.' 
 
 ' Even at the risk of burning one's own members ! 
 Ah, but your father is superhumanly good, as I always 
 tell you. Well, to return to what I was saying. You 
 cannot live this wandering life for ever ? ' 
 
 ' For ever ? ' 
 
 ' I mean that your martyrdom will end some day, 
 and perchance you will — ^marry ? ' 
 
 He watched her closely, but her face did not change. 
 She moved over to a rose-bush, plucked a rose, and 
 divided it thoughfuUy, petal by petal. Then she spoke, 
 as if discussing a subject of the simplest interest, 
 
 ' I do not think I shall marry. I shall remain with 
 my father all my life.' 
 
 ' But he is old, and — nay, do not think I speak out 
 of little feeling — in the nature of things will pass away 
 long before yourself. Then you will be alone.' 
 
 She shook her head, and looked quietly upward, 
 
 ' I shall never be alone,' she said. 
 
 The young man looked at her in deepening wonder 
 and admiration. Though there was something in her 
 perfect purity and simplicity of character far beyond 
 his comprehension, he could at least feel the spell of her 
 beauty and the charm of her heavenly disposition. At 
 that moment he did not dare to speak of love ; he was 
 too certain that her feelings towards him, and possibly 
 towards all other men, were perfectly passionless ; but 
 his eye burned and his face flashed, with a baser and 
 less spiritual emotion. A physiognomist, observing 
 him, would have traced in his fine face the taint of an 
 underlying sensuality, which indeed was inseparable 
 from his nature. 
 
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. % 
 
 ' It 13 an ill world,' he persisted, ' and you may one 
 day feel its cruelty. Even in your father's company, 
 yon are frequently exposed to danger. Tester night, 
 had I not been of your company, the folk here would 
 have used you both roughly — and wherever you go, you 
 meet with enemies who are very pitiless. It pains me 
 sorely to see one so fair amidst such sorry scenes. You 
 should be a lady, leading a lady's life — not a homeless 
 wanderer from place to place.' 
 
 ' Tou would have me idle,* answered Priscilla, ' or 
 playing pretty tunes on the harpsichord, or doing foolish 
 embroidery, or dancing in fine raiment. Such vanities 
 are not for me, good friend ; I am happier as I am.' 
 
 So saying, she walked back to the cottage door, 
 where, after a few minutes, Richard Orohardson bade 
 her farewell. 
 
 How the young man became so familiar a guest in 
 the cottage, is easily told. He had the keenest of senses 
 for a pretty face, and one day, as he rode by, he had 
 seen Priscilla standing at the gate, in all her youthful 
 prettiness and seemliness. A few inquiries at the 
 nearest house of entertainment informed him who she 
 was ; and soon, with characteristic assurance, he joined 
 the little gatherings over which her father presided. 
 All formalities being dispensed with by these simple 
 people, he soon found himself on terms of easy intimacy ; 
 and under the pretence of being moved by a spirit of 
 pious repentance, he had endless opportunities of com- 
 muning with the object of his admiration. 
 
 Quitting the cottage, he walked down to the village 
 inn, where his horse (fnr owing to bis infirmity he 
 seldom walked far) awaited him, and he was soon upon 
 the road towards the WUlows. He did not ride straight 
 homeward, however. Leaving the country road on 
 which Christian and Priscilla had lingered that bright 
 morning when they first met, he rode down to the sea- 
 sands ; and seeking the very edge of the water, where 
 the sands are ever hardest and firmest, put spur to his 
 horse and galloped. After a good mile's gallop, he 
 drew rein, and walked his steed in deep thought. His 
 
 Eale cheek was flushed with exercise, and his eye burned 
 rightly. 
 
86 GOD AND TffB MAN. 
 
 At last, he turned his horse's head np towards the 
 sandhills, taking much the same way that his father 
 and he had taken, many years ago, when they en- 
 countered young Christian among the knolls. He had 
 left the sea-sands, and was proceeding slowly along the 
 arid fields which stretched just above them, when he 
 saw, almost blocking his path, the figure of Christian 
 Christiansen. 
 
 Christian had been seated in dark thought on a 
 great stone when the approach of Richard disturbed 
 him. He sprang up, and for the instant the other 
 thought he contemplated personal mischief. So Richard 
 went very pale, and with a sharp pull at the rein drew 
 his horse on one side, and passed. Christian glared at 
 him, and their eyes met. The horseman nervously 
 clutched his riding whip, in expectation of an attack ; 
 for indeed the face of Christian looked ominous, in its 
 mad expression of frenzied dislike. But he was suffered 
 to pass untouched, and had no sooner done so than he 
 quickened his horse's pace into a trot. Not until he 
 was several hundred yards away did he draw rein, and 
 look round. Christian stood on the same spot, almost 
 in the same attitude, like a shape of stone. 
 
 That day, perhaps for the first time, Christian 
 Christiansou knew his heart. He was realising in its 
 full intensity the horror of that terrible line of tha 
 religious poet, Young : — 
 
 Tlie jealous are the damned. 
 
 And by the measure of his black jealousy he was able 
 to mete his love. The shock of seeing Priscilla in the 
 company of his hereditary enemy, of the being whose 
 merest breath had the power to poison the sweet air 
 and make life hideous and unbearable, had revealed to 
 him the full intensity of his personal passion. He felt 
 now that to see her talking confidentially with any 
 other youthful man would cause a sickening sense o£ 
 envy and dislike ; but to have seen her so close with 
 what he most abhorred, was stupefying and over- 
 whelming. 
 
 He had rushed down to the sea-sands, and had his 
 
THE ENEMY IN TffE PATH. Sy 
 
 dark hour alone. He had spoken out his mad thought 
 to the sea, as so many a poor soul has done, in default 
 of a better listener. He had raged and stormed, with 
 no living thing to heed him, and still his spirit -vras 
 overburdened. 
 
 Grown a little calmer, he had taken his staff, and 
 in a kind of dream, had written with it on the sands, in 
 large round characters, her name,— 
 
 " Peiscilla.' 
 
 Then, taken by a sudden fancy, he had added another 
 to it— 
 
 ' Priscilla Cheistianson.' 
 
 Again and again he wrote it, hurriedly blotting it out 
 afterwards with his foot, for fear it might be read by 
 eyes profane. 
 
 But the last time he wrote it thus, defiance held 
 him, and he let th"?; iJold words stand. Yes, he oared 
 not who read them — if they were read by her, by all 
 the world ! He loved her, he would possess her, he 
 would make her his wife ! She should be Priscilla 
 Christiansen in good deed. 
 
 And yet, how hopeless it all seemed ! He felt tliat, 
 even as he toyed with the sweet thought of possession. 
 She was so far above him. He was so common, she 
 BO pure and fair. He hated his rude strength, his 
 strong hands, his coarse breeding. Oh, why had he 
 not been bom gentle, like — like Eichard Orchardson, 
 his foe ! 
 
 Well, happen what might, no Orchardson should 
 possess her — that he swore to himself over and over 
 again; and as he did so the murd-erous devil which 
 filled the heart of Cain crept into his. His thought 
 travelled back to the sad morning, long before, when 
 the boy Richard lay bleeding on the ground before 
 him ; and oh ! he thought to himself, if his enemy had 
 never risen again to cross his path ! 
 
 He walked wildly away, leaving the name, ' Priscilla 
 Christiansen,' written large on the sands. A little 
 later Richard Orchardson rode over that very spot, and 
 had he looked down might have read the words. 
 
88 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 As ho passed they were ohliterated by his horse's 
 hoofs. 
 
 That night, and the day which followed it, were 
 hours of fierce torture for Christian ; the fiercer because 
 he dared not, or rather would not, show it to either 
 mother or sister. His mother was now very infirm, 
 and seldom left her chair, an ancient piece of furniture 
 of black oak, with high straight back, like that of a 
 prie-Dieu. Much sorrow and deep suppressed passion 
 had told terribly upon her senses, which were fast 
 beginning to fail ; but her Bible was ever at her right 
 hand as of old. As for gentle Kate, she also had 
 greatly changed, constantly avoiding her brother's 
 presence, and when within his gaze, seeming highly 
 nervous and distraught. 
 
 On the morning of the second day, as Christian 
 stood at the door preparing to go forth, a vision came 
 before his eyes. Priscilla herself was tripping up to 
 the gloomy house, with her brightest look upon her. 
 
 Directly she saw him she waved her hand, and cried, 
 
 ' May I enter, good Christian ? ' 
 
 He ran forward, and took her little hand in both 
 of his. 
 
 ' And welcome ! ' he said, trembling. ' Why did you 
 come ? ' 
 
 ' To see your good mother,' 
 
 * My mother ! ' 
 
 ' Yes. I have heard that she is sick and ailing, and 
 perhaps I may bring her a little cheer. Tour pretty 
 sister, too — I wish to see her.' 
 
 'Come in,' said Christian, scarcely knowing what 
 he said. 
 
 He led her gently into the dark parlour, where the 
 old dame sat erect, with the film of years upon hei 
 eyes. She did not see them till they came quite near 
 and spoke her name. Then Christian told her who the 
 stranger was, and why she had come. 
 
 ' She is welcome,' said the dame, gloomily. 
 
 With the sweetness peculiar to her, Priscilla took 
 her place by the dame's side, and soon beguiled her 
 into conversation; so that presently she brightened a 
 little, and relaxed her look of gloom. Then the maiden 
 
THE ENEMV IN THE FATB. 89 
 
 Opened the Bible, and read a chapter in her musical 
 voice, to which the dame listened well content, though 
 the chapter chosen contained little of the thunder in 
 which she delighted. Finally, at Christian's request, 
 Bhe sang a simple hymn, so sweetly and so simply that 
 Christian, though he knew her gift of song so well, was 
 spell-bound. 
 
 As she ended, Kate Ghristianson came in, and fixed 
 her great sad eyes upon her with timid wonder. The 
 contrast was strange between Kate's soft, wistful, 
 scared-looking face, and the perfectly peaceful linea- 
 ments of Priscilla. 
 
 ' Tour sister,' said Priscilla, and kissed her. Then 
 she fixed upon her one of her steadfast, truthful, 
 questioning looks ; for something in Kate's expression 
 touched her to the heart. 
 
 A little later, when she rose to go, having left 
 sunshine in every part of the house she had entered, 
 Christian followed her. They walked out of the old 
 house together. 
 
 ' Your sister seems sorrowful,' said Priscilla. ' Hath 
 she had any trouble ? ' 
 
 ' All our folk have had trouble,' answered Christian. 
 
 • Bat any great trouble ? She looks like one whose 
 heart failed her, and who sought a friend.' 
 
 ♦A friend?' 
 
 'Yes, — to speak her sorrows to, and be relieved.' 
 
 ' She has my mother.' 
 
 'Ah, that is different,' returned PrisoUla, thought- 
 fully ; and she walked along in silence. 
 
 She had a message up to the villsige, she said, and 
 she was going there straightway. Might he walk with 
 her a portion of the way ? She assented with a smile, 
 and he remained by her side. 
 
 Por the time being he had almost forgotten the 
 existence of Richard Orchardson, or of any possible rival 
 or opponent. He was too happy in her mere presence, 
 in the light of her face, in the sound of her voice. He 
 felt, as before, like the men who walked with angels 
 towards some shining Land. 
 
 At last she paused and held out her hand. 
 
 ' You must come no farther,' she said, smiling. 
 
90 GOD AND THE MAIT. 
 
 ' "Wherefore not P ' 
 
 ' I do not wisli it, that is all.' 
 
 Christian bent his head in immediate assent, for ha 
 loved, in his strength, to feel her mastery over him, 
 
 ' That is enough. What you wish, I shall do.' 
 
 ' Everything ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, everything ; except ' 
 
 He paused reddening, for he remembered how she had 
 besought him to take Richard Orchardson by the hand. 
 
 ' Except forgive your enemy,' she said sadly, finish^ 
 ing tha sentence for him. ' Ah well, the day may 
 come when you will not refuse me even that ! ' 
 
 He turned back, leaving her to proceed upon her 
 way. Scarcely had he done so, than the evil spirit 
 which is ever at the ear of the jealous began to ask, 
 ' Why hath she dismissed me ? To whom is she telling 
 her message ? ' Sick with the fear which these 
 questions awakened, he followed her at a distance, 
 keeping well from view. 
 
 She passed through the village, nodding to Cobbler 
 Marvel, who stood in his usual deshabille at his garden 
 gate ; she passed the church, the village school ; then 
 reaching the further side of the village, she came to a 
 green lane. 
 
 All was very quiet and lonely here, though human 
 habitations were so close. Entering the lane she 
 walked more slowly, loitered and waited, and once oi 
 twice looked round. 
 
 Then Christian slunk back behind a friendly hedge 
 And waited. 
 
 Presently she hastened her steps ; and looking out, 
 Christian saw a figure approaching along the lane. 
 She stood and waved her handkerchief; the figure 
 waved in return. It was the figure of a man. 
 
 Christian's head swam — he could scarcely see. 
 
 The two figures met, and as they did so. Christian 
 recognised in PriscUla's companion the man ho moat 
 hated to behold. 
 
 Christian stood rooted to the ground, watching the 
 meeting of the two figures. Anyone seeing his livid, 
 distorted face just then would have been startled by 
 its terrible expression. If, as Swedenborg and other 
 
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 91 
 
 gnprcmo mystics have laboriously proved, tlie face is tho 
 index of the soul, and by the face alone an ' angel ' or 
 a ' devil ' (according to the Swedenborgian termin- 
 ology, with its occult meanings) may be recognised, 
 then surely, at that moment, Christian stood in the 
 category of evil spirits. All the forward-looking light- 
 ness, all the dreamy hope and fear, of early and noble 
 manhood, had faded from his countenance, leaving only 
 in their place the black shadow of ignoble passion. 
 Such a look, indeed, might Cain have worn, when ha 
 saw his beautiful altar overthrown, and the lightning of 
 heaven playing scornfully upon his sacrifice. 
 
 After a minute of rapid conversation, the two 
 figures moved slowly on side by side, along the green 
 lane. Slipping from his shelter, and keeping as well 
 83 possible from view, he followed, with his eyes fixed 
 apon them, watching their slightest movement. When 
 they paused, as they did from time to time, he paused 
 too, slipping into the shadow of the green hedge. But 
 they did not once look back. That their talk was 
 animated every gesture proved ; and that it was 
 pleasant talk he also knew, for once or twice she laughed 
 merrily, and turned a bright face upon the face of her 
 companion. Never before in his life had he felt such a 
 sickening sense of moral meanness. To play the spy as 
 he was doing was foreign to his nature ; he hated them, 
 he hated and despised himself; yet the dark spirit of 
 jealousy had him by the hair, and he felt powerless to 
 resist its cruel hold. So he watched and followed, look 
 by look, and step by step. 
 
 The lane passed under a canopy of boughs, made by 
 tall ash-trees intermingling their branches overhead ; 
 at its further end stood the gate of a little old-fashioned 
 lodge, untenanted and fellen into decay. This Christian 
 knew well ; it was one of the lodge entrances to the 
 many-gabled ancestral dwelling where his enemies 
 dwelt — the Willows. 
 
 He saw Richard Orchardson swing the gate open, 
 while she passed in. Something merry passed between 
 them, and he saw their faces turn again to each other 
 La the sunshine ; then they passed into the shadow of 
 trees beyond and disappeared. 
 
93 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 He felt that he could follow no further. Duped 
 and baffled, like the evil spirit in the play when he saw 
 the sign of the pentagram on Faust's threshold, he 
 Bhrank back, and turned his weary footsteps home. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 UP AT ' THE WILLOWS.' 
 
 RiCHAED Oechaedson and Priscilla walked on side by 
 side beneath the trees, a straggling colonnade of ash, 
 planted many a long year before ; and emerging thence, 
 came out upon an open space of green, in the centre of 
 which was a large tarn or pond, surrounded on every 
 Bide by water- willows, with silver tresses dangling and 
 dipping upon the water's brim. Fronting the tarn was 
 the house, a quaint Elizabethan structure of red brick, 
 with a terrace, where once upon a time (if traditions 
 were true) Queen Bess herself had walked and mused, 
 one night when she had rested, a stately guest, beneath 
 that roof. It was a quaint and lonely habitation, only 
 partly tenable, for the Orchardsons were ever a small 
 family, and used few of its many rooms. 
 
 Approaching the terrace, they ascended to it by a 
 broad flight of crumbling steps, and came upon a semi- 
 circular space, in the centre of which was a sun-dial 
 surrounded by flowers, and not far from the dial a 
 rustic seat. 
 
 ' How beautiful ! ' exclaimed the maiden ; and sh* 
 added, looking at the dial, ' And what is this ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis our sun-dial,' answered Richard smilingly. 
 
 « To tell the hour by ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, when there is sufficient sunshine.' 
 
 ' I have heard of such pretty devices ; and see, here 
 are the hours graven letter by letter. Teach me to read 
 it now.' 
 
 ' Look where the shadow lalls, slanting from the 
 index. It is past twelve o' the clock, or rather o' the 
 dial, as you may see.' 
 
 ' 'Tis 80 indeed,' cried Priacilla, watching the 
 
UP AT ' THE willows: 93 
 
 moveless shadow ■witli earnest eyes. ' But when there 
 Is no snn, how do you reckon then ? ' 
 
 ' Then we go within, ai A look at the clock ! ' 
 ' See the flowers, how they climb around, as if they 
 would cover the dial's shining face. 'Tis a sweet 
 thought, to measure our days by the sunlight, among 
 leaves and flowers. I have heard my father say that 
 in old times they reckoned time with dripping water, as 
 they do still with slipping sand in the hour-glass.' 
 
 ' Yes ; they had the water-clock, invented by one 
 of their wise men. But sit here, I prithee, and look at 
 the prospect ; is it not fair ? And look on what side 
 you wiU, far as you please, the land is ours.' 
 
 PriscUla sat upon the garden- seat, and looked around 
 as he desired. On all sides stretched flowery walks, 
 green plantations, meadows, and fields of grain. Even 
 as she gazed, a thought came to her, troubling her 
 bright expression ; she lifted her eyes to his, and said 
 quietly and slowly, 
 
 ' Since you had so much, why did you seek more ? * 
 * I do not understand,' he exclaimed, smiling down 
 upon her. 
 
 ' Christian has told me,' she said simply. ' Tour 
 &ther coveted his land, and took it from his father.' 
 
 Biichard's face blackened ; the very name of his foe 
 came like a sting. But he conquered his annoyance in 
 a moment, and replied with well-assumed quiet and 
 indifference : 
 
 •If Master Christian has told you that old tale, I 
 hope he hath told it truly. My father loaned to his 
 father large sums of money, and even when these sums 
 were not returned, nor the fair interest paid, my father 
 in pity forbore his lawful claim. 'Twas not till the 
 Christiansons were wickedly ungrateful, till they did us 
 grievous injury passing patience, that we seized our 
 own.' 
 
 As he spoke, Eichard saw his father approaching — a 
 tall, stooping figure, with something of his own delicacy 
 of feature, but a harsher and less refined expression. 
 The squire expressed no surprise either in word or look 
 on seeing his son's companion, but coming up, took oflf 
 his hat with an old-fashioned bow. 
 
94 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' This is young Mistress Sefton,' said Richard, ' of 
 whom I have spoken to you.' 
 
 Priscilla rose and curtsied ; tho squire bowed again. 
 
 ' The young lady is right welcome ... I havo 
 heard of your father from others, and my son, as ho 
 saith, has spoken to me much of you.' 
 
 The squire did not add that he had heard of 
 Mr. Sefton as a half-crazy fanatic, with most pre- 
 posterous notions concerning religion. Under ordinary 
 circumstances, Mr. Orchardson, who was a staunch 
 Churchman, more from political than spiritual motives, 
 would certainly not have received a person of ' malig- 
 nant ' connections with so much urbanity ; but in this 
 case he had particular reasons (which he had not ex- 
 plained even to his son, but which wUl presently be 
 apparent) for being civil to his pretty visitor. Urged 
 by the same reasons, he had interposed no objection, 
 uttered no admonition, when he had first heard of his 
 son's acquaintance with the Seftons, but had, on the 
 contrary, quietly encouraged a friendship which, com- 
 mon experience told him, might readily ripen into love. 
 
 After some minutes' desultory conversation, through- 
 out which he continued to treat Priscilla with a courtli- 
 ness unusual to him, he led the way into the house, 
 passing through an open glass folding-door into a great 
 chilly drawing-room, the old-fashioned furniture of 
 which ■vras carefully mummied up in hoUand cloth. 
 Here he summoned his housekeeper, and ordered tea, 
 which was served very strong, in tiny cups of the rarest 
 china. 
 
 ' And how fares your father ? ' he demanded kindly, 
 as PriscUla sat and sipt the pleasant beverage. ' He is 
 a frail man to wander from place to place alone.' 
 
 ' Not alone,' answered Priscilla, * since we go every- 
 where together.' 
 
 ' Nay, bat pardon me, you yourself are but a child. 
 It concerns me to think that you and he, who might bo 
 dwelling in comfort like the gentlefolk you are, should 
 be as houseless wanderers upon the earth. 'Tis a 
 strange life, for both.' 
 
 ' So we are often told,' said Priscilla quietly, ' and 
 BO were the apostles told, long ago.' 
 

 ' " You shall not go,''' cried the girl tuildly, holding him with 
 trembling hands. ^ 
 
UP AT ' Tim WILLOWS. gj 
 
 Richard glanced at liis father, deprecatiug any con- 
 fcroversy, and the squire, with a smile and a nod, tnrned 
 the talk into other channels ; showed the maiden his 
 pictures, and his few books ; told her carelessly some of 
 the old legends of the house, which were many; and 
 altogether proved himself so agreeable and charming a 
 host that even his son was astonished. 
 
 An hoar later, Richard accompanied PrisciUa back 
 to the village, where her father was staying that night 
 nnder the roof of Cobbler Marvel. Returning thence, 
 after a pleasant parting and a warm hand-shake, he 
 entered the lodge gate and walked slowly up tho 
 ehadowy avenue, — his eyes still full of Priscilla's loveli- 
 ness, his heart beating high with the dream of possible 
 possession. 
 
 Suddenly he started and stood still, as a figure 
 emerged from the shadow of the trees and stood before 
 him : the figure of a woman cloaked and hooded. 
 
 ' Richard ! ' 
 
 'Kate!' 
 
 The hood fell back, and showed, in the dim light, 
 the pallid face of Kate Ohristianson. 
 
 ' I have been waiting for you,' cried Kate quickly ; 
 ' thank God you're come at last ! ' 
 
 ' What do you seek with me ? ' returned the other 
 irritably. ' You came upon me like a ghost, and — well, 
 well, what is it ? ' 
 
 She gazed at him with great tearful eyes, and with* 
 out replying, began to sob bitterly, and wring her hands. 
 
 He uttered an angry exclamation, and tnrned on his 
 heel. 
 
 * Go home ; we shall be seen.' 
 
 ' Nay, if we are, I heed not. Things have gone too 
 far between us to let us part so, and I care not now if 
 the whole world know how cruel you have been to me. 
 Richard ! for the love of God, be not so hard ; speak 
 kindly, Richard, and I will try to forgive you still.' 
 
 'You are talking folly,' answered the young man. 
 ' What have you to forgive ? Good Kate, I prithee lei 
 OS talk some other time ; to-night I am in haste.' 
 
 'You shall not go,' cried the girl wildly, holding 
 bim with trembling hands. ' No, not yet I ' 
 
GOD AND THE MAB. 
 
 ' Are you mad ? Kate, as yon love me 
 
 'God help me, methinks 'tis more like hate than 
 love thai fills my poor heart. Who is she you have 
 been walking with so long ? ' 
 
 He looked at her, and smiled without replying. 
 
 ' Will you not answer me ? Nay, you need not, for I 
 know her. She is the blind preacher's daughter from 
 Brightlinghead, and you have gone a-courting her aa 
 you did come a-courting me ; and I have watched you, 
 Richard, and seen you smile upon her as yon used to 
 smile on me ; bat take heed, for more than one has been 
 a- watching, and if I spoke the word * 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' he cried sharply, shaking ofE 
 her hold upon him, and seizing her arm in his turn. 
 
 ' Never mind,' she answered, meeting his eyes with, 
 a carious look. 
 
 'Hark yon, Eate Christian son, I am getting tired of 
 your weary words and peevish ways. Ton used to be 
 pleasant company, but now ' 
 
 ' But now, since you are tired of my company, yon 
 seek another's.' 
 
 ' And if I do, who can prevent me ? ' 
 
 She uttered a low cry, and raised her hand 
 threateningly. 
 
 ' I can ! Nay, Richard, you need not laugh. I can ; 
 and I will ! ' 
 
 'Your 
 
 * I have but to speak one word ' 
 
 * Speak ! — to whom, prithee ? ' 
 'To Christian, my brother.' 
 
 He flung her arm from him with a gesture of com- 
 plete contempt, but for all that he trembled, for he 
 knew well that the threat was not altogether a vain one, 
 and the memory of that never-forgotten day, when he 
 lay bleeding upon the ground, and Christian stood frown- 
 ing over him, passed darkly across his soul. 
 
 ' I care neither for him nor you. If he dares to 
 cross my path, I will crush him as I would crush a 
 toad. So threaten no more, but let me go.' 
 
 ' Richard, for God's sake listen ! ' cried the girl, 
 suddenly changing her angry tone to one of despairiug 
 entreaty. ' I did not mean to threaten — in good deed 
 
UP AT ' THS, WILLOWS.' gj 
 
 f did not ; but yon are so cold, so cruel — you do make 
 me mad. 'Twas for your sake I came hither to-night— 
 to warn you against my brother," 
 
 ' What ! ' 
 
 ' He hath been watching too.' 
 
 ' Watching ? ' 
 
 * He followed the preacher maiden until she met you, 
 and then he followed again till you entered the lodge 
 gate in her company.' 
 
 'And what then?' 
 
 ' He loves her, Richard, and if you come betwosu 
 him and her ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' He will WZ yon, Richard ! ' 
 
 Richard grew very pale, but instantly recovering 
 his self-possession covered his real trepidation with an 
 educated sneer. 
 
 ' 'Tis like your brother's impudence to raise his eyes 
 to yonder maiden, who is a lady bom. Do you know, 
 good Kate, your brother is a boor, and is better placed 
 at the ploughtail than at a gentlewoman's elbow ? I do 
 not think you can be seiious when you speak of his 
 loving Mistress Sefton.' 
 
 Now, poor Kate loved her brother, and though she 
 was naturally of a weak and timid nature, she loved 
 him too well to hear him slighted of; moreover, in this 
 tender question she had double interest at stake, for if 
 Christian was Richard's rival, Priscilla was, by the 
 same token, hers. So she replied bravely, without the 
 least hesitation, 
 
 ' My brother is as good a man as you, and fit for 
 any lady in the land.' 
 
 ' Bah ! your brother is a clown.' 
 
 ' If he were nigh, you would not dare to say so, 
 responded Kate, while Richard's face grew paler still, 
 and his lip quivered. ' If I were to go to him this 
 night, and tell him what hath past between us, do yon 
 think he would spare you ?— And he suspects, remember 
 that ! ' 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' cried Richard eagerly. 
 
 ' He witnessed our parting one night near the foui:- 
 (icre mere, and he taxed me fiercely with meeting aa 
 
98 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Orciardson. Alack ! had lie guessed how often we had 
 met, how I had given my heart to the enemy of our 
 house, what would he have said ? I dread his wrath 
 and my m.other's ; she would curse me, for I have 
 broken my oath upon the Book. And they rimst know 
 full soon ! Listen, Richard — there is something more I 
 came to tell you — it is terrible, but 'tis time that you 
 should know. 
 
 She put her lips to his ear, and whispered ; he 
 started as if he had been stung by some venomous 
 Bnake, and uttered an oath. 
 
 'No!' 
 
 ' God help me, it is true.' 
 
 ' I tell yon it is impossible, — yon are a fool, and yon 
 are deceiving yourself. No, I'll not believe it.' 
 
 ' Alas ! the day is nigh when you vrmst believe it, 
 and all the world too. But I shall not live to see that 
 day — no, for my heart will be broken, and I shall 
 die.' 
 
 She hid her face in her hands, crying bitterly, while 
 he stood gazing at her in gloomy dislike and irritation 
 Night had now fallen, but the skies above were full of a 
 faint palpitating starlight, like the ghost of day. 
 
 At last Kate looked up and dried her tearful eyes. 
 
 ' Richard,' she said, ' I have thought it all over, and 
 there is only one way. When we are married ' 
 
 As she spoke the word, he started, and frowned 
 darkly. 
 
 ' When we are married, we will go to my brother 
 and ask his forgiveness. He will be angry at first per- 
 chance, but seeing 'tis too late, he will work round in 
 time. Dear Richard, let us speak to the parson, and 
 when we are wedded man and woman before God, per- 
 chance we may be forgiven.' 
 
 The young man looked at her in growing dislike 
 and dread, and after a brief silence replied : 
 
 ' Listen, Kate ! — Let there be an end to this folly 
 between us twain. I am ia no mood to marry, and if I 
 were, I could never marry one of your house. Nay ! ' 
 he continued, as she wrung her hands with a low wail, 
 ' 'tia no use to cry and plead. Be a wise w^oman, Kate. 
 Keep oar secret, and when you marrj some honest 
 
UP AT ' THE WILLOWS.' 
 
 99 
 
 fooman, as you may, I will take care you shall not lack 
 for dower.' 
 
 ' Ob, Richard, speak not so ! You will keep your 
 promise ! 
 
 ' What promise ? ' 
 
 ' To make me your wedded wife.' 
 
 ' I never promised, and if I did I repent me. Our 
 two houses can never be united ; but what we know, no 
 other living soul need know, if you are wise.' 
 
 ' No, no ! I will speak to my brother ! I will tell him.' 
 
 ' Ton will tell him nothing, good Kato ; you love 
 your honest name too well. And if you did, what then ? 
 Do you think I fear him ? Now, kiss me, and be sure 
 that I remain your friend.' 
 
 ' Do not touch mo ! Oh, Richard, you have broken 
 my heart ! ' 
 
 ' Not I ! — Give me your hand, and swear.' 
 
 ' I will drown myself this night ! ' 
 
 ' Tou will do no such foolish thing.' 
 
 * What have I left to live for ? My brother's hate, 
 my mother's curse. 'Twas an evil day when I was 
 born ; most evil day of all, when I trusted an Orchard- 
 son. Let me go ! 'Tis all over now for ever and ever ! * 
 
 He tried to hold her in his arms, but she tore her- 
 self free with a wild cry, and ran from him into the 
 darkness. For a moment he seemed about to follow 
 her, but refrained, and stood listening to her retreating 
 footsteps. In good truth, he placed little value upon 
 her threats and passionate words, for he was used to 
 such scenes. Again and again, of late, her manner and 
 language had been violent to desperation ; again and 
 again she had threatened to let the world know of the 
 relations between them ; but nothing had come of it 
 hitherto, and he did not seriously believe that anything 
 would come of it now. At the same time, he could not 
 help reflecting, with a nervous shudder, on the dangerous 
 character of his hereditary foe, who, if seriously pro- 
 voked, would certainly not hesitate before taking some 
 desperate revenge. 
 
 ' The fellow is a wild beast in my path,' he reflected, 
 as he walked slowly towards the Willows ; ' as long as 
 he breathes the same air, I shall never be quite safe. 
 
MO GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Can it be possible that tbe wencb was right, and that 
 he presames to raise his eyes to Priscilla ? — ^And Pris- 
 cilla ? She is so tender of heart, and she would smilo 
 upon the meanest thing in her path ; bnt her smiles 
 mean nothing — she wonld never cast her thoughts so 
 low. Well, be that as it may, I wish the clown were 
 buried in the churchyard, or lying twenty fathoms deep 
 in the salt sea.' 
 
 So musing, and muttering to himself, Richard 
 Orchardson returned to the house, and found his father 
 awaiting him in the largo apartment, half parlour, half 
 lamber-room, which was known as the gun chamber. 
 The walls were hung with sporting pictures, fowling- 
 pieces and pistols, and trophies of the chase. 
 
 The squire was reading an old book on hunting, bat 
 looked up with a smile. 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 'Well, father?' 
 
 ' Did you see her to her home ? A pretty maiden, 
 and gently reared. I am glad you brought her to me, 
 and I hope she wUl come again. Did you see the 
 afflicted man, her father ? ' 
 
 ' Not to-night. We parted at Cobbler Marvel's door.' 
 
 ' What a place to shelter one so fair ! ' 
 
 ' All roofs are alike to them — the richest or the 
 meanest.' 
 
 The squire rose and stood facing his son, with a 
 curious expression upon his face. 
 
 ' And yet, Richard, this blind preacher, who goes 
 about almost as a beggar, and who has scarcely a roof 
 to cover his head, is a richer man than I, your father, 
 and might if he chose be holding up his head among 
 the grandest folk in London.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' cried Richard, in no little surprise. 
 
 ' It is certain,' said Mr. Orchardson ; ' and if he were 
 to die suddenly to-morrow, yonder pretty maiden would 
 be an heiress.' 
 
 ' I thought he had given away his substance 
 in charity, and lived only upon a pittance reserved to 
 him.' 
 
 ' 'Tis not quite so bad as that,' answered the squire, 
 still smiling. ' The poor fool hath squandered much iu 
 
OF AT ' THE WILLOWS.' loi 
 
 BO-called alms-giving and missionary work, bnt the bulk 
 remains, and much of that he cannot even touch — which 
 is a mercy, for the sake of the young dame, whom he 
 might beggar.' 
 
 ' How learned you this, father ? ' 
 
 ' Prom one in London, who knows him well, and 
 whose knowledge has never yet played me false. The 
 pretty maiden herself knows not of her good fortune, or 
 only dimly guesses it ; for her father enacts every day 
 and hour the comedy of being apostolically poor. So 
 now, son Richard, that yon see which way the hare is 
 running, and know where her cover lies, will you gallop 
 Btm?' 
 
 ' What do you mean, father ? ' 
 
 The squire laughed, and placed his hand on his 
 son's shoulder. 
 
 'Do you think I know not, lad, when young folk 
 favour one another ? Well, win her ; I tell you she is 
 worth the winning. Think you I would have suffered 
 you to go a-psalm-singing so long, in such company, 
 had I not been warned that all was well ? ' 
 
 There was a long silence. Richard sat in a chair, 
 gazing thoughtfully down, while his father kept his 
 keen eyes fixed upon his flushed face, well pleased. 
 
 At last the young man looked up. 
 
 ' Father, I shall do my best, for indeed I love the 
 girl ; but one stands in my way.' 
 
 ' Who, lad, who ? ' 
 
 Richard pointed to his forehead, with a venomoua 
 snule. 
 
 ' He who marked me for life. Christian Christianson.' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ASOTHEE LOVE SCENE. 
 
 Meantime Christian was once more having his dark hotiT 
 alone ; wandering seaward with mad jealousy in his heart, 
 and the shadow of mortal hate upon his face ; raging, 
 fretting, planning ; darkly, desolately, driven by the wind 
 of his own passion, like a cloud iu the wind of its own 
 
IC2 GOD AND THE MAIT. 
 
 Epeed. Had ho known the fall truth that day, had Kate 
 found him then and told him of the evil wrought by her 
 own feebleness, and the baseness of his rival, he would 
 have flown like a wild beast to avenge his house's in. 
 
 i'ury, and expend his own dark desire ; and the hours of 
 lis enemy would surely have been numbered. But he 
 felt as yet in his own heart, despite his jealous fury, 
 that he had no righteous cause for violence. The woman 
 he loved had her right, as well as he, and if she chose 
 to seek Richard Orchardson's company, he had no claim 
 to control her liberty of choosing. Nothing had passed 
 between them that would justify his interference ; and 
 although he felt mad with her for her pertinacity and 
 her indifference to his personal dislikes and hates, ha 
 was in no sense master of her life. 
 
 It seemed to him, indeed, at that time, that all was 
 ended between them. She had come like a beautiful 
 spirit on his Kfe, stirring its deepest fountains with a 
 new revivifying light ; but now it was over. As calmly 
 and as freely as she came to him — nay, as it seemed, 
 with a kinder touch, and a tenderer smile — she had 
 gone, would daily go, to the man he hated most. He 
 had no power to control her. Bitter as it was to hear, 
 he knew it was hopeless to protest, unless she herself 
 should change of her own free will. With one so pure, 
 so passionless, violent entreaty was of no avail. She 
 was the stronger spirit still, his mistress and his superior 
 — ^that he felt most keenly ; and his bafiBed anger kept 
 liim in despair. 
 
 Was it true, then, that she loved Richard Orchard- 
 son ? Was it fated that, even in love itself, his enemy 
 should wreck his life and darken his dreams ? Yes, it 
 was possible. Even amidst the storm of his unreasoning 
 hate, he felt the superiority of Richard Orchardson in 
 all those gifts which are dear to women-folk : in delicacy 
 of nurture, in gentleness of breeding and education, in 
 fairness of feature and courtliness of mien. Priscilla, 
 herself, was a town lady, while he was country bred. 
 In his own sight he was coarse, clumsy, ungainly, 
 while she was delicacy itself. Could so rough a hand 
 as his be suffered to pluck so pretty a blossom ? No, 
 he folt that he was fated to lose her, and his anguish 
 
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. i«J 
 
 was, that what he lost, the enemy of hia house might 
 gain. 
 
 Had Christian been able to see deeper into the heart 
 of Priscilla Sefton, ho might have been a happier and a 
 calmer man. In her eyes, his very wildness and strength 
 had a fascination. Though she rebuked his violent 
 passions, observing them and rising above them with her 
 characteristic serenity, she did not dislike him for them, — 
 any more than she disliked the sea for being turbulent, 
 or the clouds for breaking into sullen thunder. Rather, 
 it was a charm to her to encounter such a nature for 
 the first time, as it was a charm to stand under the 
 clouds and to look upon the sea. Nor could one with 
 eyes so susceptible to natural impressions be blind to 
 Christian's striking physical beauty. He was pre- 
 eminently a handsome man, though his handsomeness 
 was that of a Heracles, perfect in strength and manhood ; 
 and his face had the splendour of perfect sincerity and 
 truthfulness, even when shadowed by unreasoning 
 passion. That her Heracles was submissive to her 
 slightest wish or whim, and would at her bidding have 
 cheerfully sat down to the distaff, like Heracles of old, 
 was still no disparagement in her eyes ; for his obedience 
 was that of a strong will voluntarily bending to a charm, 
 rather than that of a weak will to be conquered by the 
 nobler and the stronger. 
 
 Fortunately for Christian's peace of mind, thej 
 met again by accident that very afternoon. As he 
 walked in his favourite haunt among the sandhills, 
 he saw her passing below him towards the sea. She 
 looked up and saw him, and beckoned, smiling. He 
 Walked down to her rapidly, scarcely knowing what he 
 did. 
 
 ' I am going down to the shore,' she said, ' to gather 
 green sea-moss for my father's eyes. Will you come 
 with me ? ' 
 
 He gazed at her as if in a dream, and made no 
 reply ; but as she moved on he followed close behind 
 her. 
 
 She talked on, with her happy unconsciousness of 
 manner. 
 
 'Dame Marvel tells ms that the sea-moss, boiled 
 
I04 GOD AKD THE MAN. 
 
 till it makes a jelly, is good for healing soreness of sight, 
 vnd my father's eyes are very tender. Will you tell me 
 where to find it P ' 
 
 'Tes,' said Christian, in a low voice ; ' but the mos3 
 you seek grows on the shiny pebbles below high tide 
 mark, and yon cannot gather it now. Ton will see it 
 in great patches like stains upon the sand ; the gray 
 plover feed upon it in winter, and the black brent geese 
 swim in to seek it, from the open sea.' 
 
 He hardly knew what he was saying, but he spoke 
 out of the fulness of his country knowledge, and the 
 words came. She looked at him curiously, with a 
 certain admiration. 
 
 ' Tou know everything, good Christian,* she cried, 
 smiling ; ' all the flowers that grow, and all the fowl of 
 the air, and even the virtues of the herbs of the sea. 
 Will you gather some for me to-morrow, and bring it to 
 rae, or shall I come again ? ' 
 
 ' I will bring it to you, if you please.' 
 
 ' We sleep to-night at Cobbler Marvel's. Bring it 
 there.' 
 
 She turned as if about to leave him, but he reached 
 out his hands to detain her. Surprised at the touch, 
 and even more by his sudden change of manner, she 
 flushed a little, and her smile faded. 
 
 ' Do not go yet,' he exclaimed. 
 
 She raised her eyes to his face, and saw it burning. 
 For the first time during their acquaintance she trem- 
 bled, and partly lost her self-possession. 
 
 ' Well, good Christian ? ' she said, forcing another 
 smile. 
 
 ' When we parted to-day, I followed you ; yes, 1 
 suspected something, and 1 followed to watch — and 1 
 saw you meet with him,. Tou met him, and you walked 
 with him upon his father's lands, perchance into his 
 father's house. Nay, do not deny it, for I saw It with 
 mine own eyes ! I watched you, till I could watch no 
 more, and came away. ' 
 
 The words came rapidly without premeditation, and 
 before he knew it he found himself arrogating a power 
 over her which he knew she must resent. But he was 
 desperate. He scarcely cared what he said, or what 
 
AKOTHER LOVR SCENE. 105 
 
 night be the consequences of his words. He felt a 
 wild desire to come to open qnarrel with her, and so 
 ease his choking thoughts — even if he should afterwards 
 have to fall upon his knees and crave her pardon. 
 
 She looked at him in surprise and pain ; when ho 
 ceased, she looked at him still, but kept silence. Then 
 he went on : 
 
 ' "When I first knew you, I thought you were kind 
 and good, too good and kind to give me pain ; those 
 first days were the happiest of my life ; I worshipped 
 you — nay, the very ground you trod on, for I thought 
 you something so far above me. But since he hath 
 come between us, you have been different. You have not 
 seemed to care, and when I have warned you, you have 
 seemed to think better of him than me. Let there 
 bo an end to it all this day. Tell me with your own 
 lips that you love him, and I will never trouble you 
 again.' 
 
 The words were strange, coming from one who had 
 never, save in the most far-off hints and looks, revealed 
 his heart before. She seemed greatly surprised, nor 
 was her surprise without a certain tinge of indignation. 
 
 ' "What do you mean ? ' she said. ' liove him ? — 
 love whom P ' 
 
 ' ISim — the very name chokes me : the man you 
 kept tryst with to-day.' 
 
 ' Mr. Orchardson ? ' 
 
 ' Tes. Is it true ? Speak ! ' 
 
 ' Ton are asking a foolish question. If I loved any 
 man — even if it were true, I mean — do you think I 
 should reply ? ' 
 
 ' Then you do not deny it ? ' 
 
 ' Tou have no right to ask me.' 
 
 He leaned his face close to hers, and she felt his 
 breath upon her cheek. 
 
 ' I have this right, PrisciUa — that I am mad with 
 love for you myself; that my love is torturing me, 
 killing me ; that I would die if I knew for certain that 
 you loved that man.' 
 
 ' Tou know not what you say,' she cried quickly. 
 ' Ton are a boy, and you talk without thinking. If I 
 did not think that, I a^oald be angry.' 
 
I0£ GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Before she could say another word, or move away, 
 he was on his knees before her, holding her by both 
 hands. 
 
 ' For God's sake, pity me. I love yon, Priscilla ! ' 
 
 A warm flush suffused her cheek, but she retained 
 her self-possession. She tried to release herself, but 
 finding herself helpless in his strong hold, struggled no 
 more. Gazing intently into his upturned face, and 
 meeting his ardent and reckless gaze, she said firmly, 
 
 ' Tou must not speak to me like that. No man has 
 ever done so before, and I will not suffer it.' 
 
 ' Then you hate me, and you love him ? ' 
 
 ' I do neither.' 
 
 * Tell me the truth — I can bear it ! ' 
 
 ' I will tell you nothing. Release me, sir ! ' 
 
 But he had gone too far now to retreat. Having 
 once broken the ice, he persisted in passionate con- 
 fession. In a torrent of burning speech, he spoke of 
 his wild adoration. Despair made him eloquent, and, 
 though usually reticent, he found no lack of words. 
 
 ' I am so sorry,' she cried, when he paused in agita. 
 tion. ' I thought you a true friend, and now, it is aU 
 different. Why do you speak of such things ? We are 
 both too young.' 
 
 He sprang to hi» feet, with trembling outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 ' I am a better man than he,' he said. * Put us face 
 to face, and let the bravest win : unless — ^unless you are 
 like all the rest, and choose him who has the most of 
 land and gold.' 
 
 ' I choose no one. I shall never marry, and if I 
 did ' 
 
 ' Tou cannot always abide alone. I will work for 
 you, slave and toil for you. Tell me that I may per- 
 chance win you if I prove myself worthy, and I shall ba 
 content. Promise me.' 
 
 ' I will promise nothing. It is wicked to vex me so. 
 Let us be friends. Be my good Christian still, and I 
 will try to forget that you have spoken what it ia 
 unmaidenly to hear.' 
 
 ' Tou can listen cheerfully enough when "he speaks.' 
 
 ' He has never spoken as you speak,' she replied 
 
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE, 107 
 
 Borrowfully ; ' he is geutle, and would not bo distress 
 mo.' 
 
 * Bnt you know ho loves you.' 
 
 'Nay, I do not know it.' 
 
 ' He loves you, Priscilla, and who would not ? But 
 bethink yourself — he will never feel for you as I feel, 
 never ! Tou are more to me than the light of the sun, 
 than the breath of my nostrils, than my immortal soul. 
 Without you I cannot live ; with you, I should bo a 
 happy man — the happiest in all God's world ! ' 
 
 It was not in Prisoilla's gentle nature to be unmoved 
 by such an appeal, spoken with so intense and spirit- 
 stirring a sincerity. As she listened on, she sighed 
 deeply, and finally, reaching out her little hand, she said 
 in a voice broken by quiet tears : 
 
 ' Good Master Christian, how can I answer you ? 
 1 am sure you speak out of your heart, and would not 
 willingly give me offence ; but what can I say now, 
 further than I have said ? Only this, that I would you 
 cared for some better and worthier woman — one who 
 would make you a fitting wife and helpmate, and love 
 you as you deserve. For myself, what am I but a 
 simple maiden, neither thinking nor dreaming yet of 
 wedlock ? My place is with my father ; where he goes, I 
 follow ; and soon, perchance, we shall be far from here.' 
 
 ' Tou are not going away ! ' cried Christian, with a 
 sickening sense of dread. 
 
 'I cannot tell,' was the reply. 'My fatter hath 
 done all he can do in these parts, and he hath many 
 calls to other places.' 
 
 ' And if you go, what will become of me ? Priscilla, 
 I cannot live without you.' 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 ' We are like two ships in the sea ; we have spoken 
 with each other, that is all, and the world is wide. 
 When I am gone, you will be as you were before I came. 
 Bethink you, it is only a few short weeks since first w6 
 met. Tou were well content before I came, and when I 
 go ' 
 
 ' No, no ! ' exclaimed Christian. ' All ia changed 
 for me ; I myself am changed. I am another man^ ia 
 l&nother world. I cannot live without you.' 
 
loS GOD AND TBE MAN. 
 
 ' Nay, we have both -work to do,' answered Priscilla 
 ' you in your place, I in mine. I shall always remem* 
 ber you, and this fair country place ; and I think, 
 good Christian, you will remember me. Shake hands 
 upon it ! ' 
 
 He took her hand, and, pressing it to his lips, kissed 
 it passionately. 
 
 ' I wUl follow you to the world's end ! ' he cried. 
 ' Ton will do better,' said the maiden, withdrawing 
 her hand gently. ' Tou will try to become a better man, 
 for my poor sake.' 
 ' A better man ! ' 
 
 ' Tes, Christian. Since you have said so much, may 
 I bo frank with you in turn ? Even if it could be, 
 even if I willed to marry, I should fear your violent 
 disposition.' 
 ' Priscilla ! ' 
 
 ' Nay, hear me out. Tour love and your hate are 
 both so mad, so wild. Tou cherish such strange ani- 
 mosities.' 
 
 ' Only against one man in all the world.' 
 ' And to hate one man is hate enough,' said Priscilla, 
 firmly. ' Sometimes, when I have listened to you, when 
 I have heard your stormy words, I have been in terror 
 lest some day you should do some dreadful deed.' 
 
 ' God help me, and so I might if my love were cast 
 away. Tou can save me from that, you can make mu 
 worthy in God's sight.' 
 
 ' Nay, Christian, only your heart can do so much. 
 Tou must learn to chasten it ; you must learn that all 
 hate is evil ; and when you have learned that, you will 
 be able to bear your cross, as our Lord did, as any soul 
 on earth may do.' 
 
 She turned away and walked a few paces from him ; 
 then pausing, reached out her hand again, with her old 
 smile. 
 
 'Let us part now for to-day,' she said. ' To- 
 
 morrow ' 
 
 ' To-morrow I will bring you the moss for your 
 father's eyes ! ' 
 
 ' And so you shall,' she cried j and still smiling, she 
 walked away. 
 
ANOTHER LOyTS SCENE. log 
 
 She left him happy. Something peaceful came upon 
 liim, out of her gentle looks and words. He watched 
 her with adoring eyes till she passed from sight ; then 
 with a low cry, he hid his face in his hands, and sohbed. 
 
 Not in sorrow now. The tears came welling np from 
 his overburthened heart ; for he felt she pitied him, and 
 knowing her heavenly pity, he did not feel wholly cast 
 away. There was a comfort, too, in the fact that he had 
 spoken ; that thenceforth, whatever might happen, she 
 could not fail to understand him. So he looked round 
 on the earth, and on the sea, and up to the peaceful 
 heaven ; and he blessed, in the name of all these, the 
 maiden who had come to make them clearer, to put new 
 light and colour into their ever-changefal hues, as well 
 as into the tangled thread of life. 
 
 When the sun had set, he wandered home, and 
 entering the house found his mother sitting alone in the 
 dark room. 
 
 ' Where is Kate ? ' she asked. ' I have called for 
 her, but she does not come.' 
 
 Christian called his sister's name aloud, and then, aa 
 she did not answer, he went to seek her. He passed 
 from room to room, but could not find her. This seemed 
 strange, for Kate was a home-loving girl, and seldom 
 absent from the house. He returned to his mother, 
 bearing a light with him for the room. 
 
 ' I cannot find her,' he said. 'Belike she has gone 
 on some errand up to the village, and will soon return.' 
 
 The dame looked pale and astonished ; after a pause 
 she said : 
 
 ' When did you see her last, my son ? ' 
 
 ' Not since before noontide. I left her then in the 
 house.' 
 
 ' She went forth soon after thyself, promising to ba 
 back within an hour. Have you searched in her room ? ' 
 
 'Yes, mother.' 
 
 ' Then go forth and look for her. 'Tis time she was 
 come home.' 
 
 Accustomed by habit to obey Ids mother's slightest 
 wish. Christian did not hesitate a moment, but ran 
 forth ; searched all the outbuildings, looked up and down 
 
no GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 fche farm-fields ; shouted his sister's name aloud wUhoat 
 eliciting any reply. It was now quite dark, and he 
 began to be seriously alarmed; for Kate, as we have 
 said, was home- loving, and little likely to gad about 
 after nightfall. Returning into the house, he told his 
 mother the state of affairs, and was at once bidden to go 
 up to the village and make inquiries. This he did, but 
 to little avail. Kate was nowhere in the village. 
 
 Things now looked ominous. No one had seen the 
 girl since early in the afternoon ; and the person who had 
 met her last, an old labourer, had seen her hastening 
 homeward, by the path which wound along the side of 
 the four-acre mere. Could any accident have happened 
 to the girl ? When the moon rose, Christian stood by 
 the mere side, and looked at the black palpitating water 
 with a fearful heart. Could his poor sister be lying 
 there ? 
 
 As he gazed and gazed, a vision rose before him of 
 the girl's pale face, as he had often seen it lately. Ho 
 had been too much absorbed in his own new dreams to 
 take much heed of it at the time ; but he remembered 
 now, with a twinge of pain, how changed she had been 
 Then came across his brain the memory of her encounter 
 that night with Richard Orohardson. Was it possible 
 that they had encountered at other times, or that Or- 
 chardson was in any way, however remotely, connected 
 ivith the fact of her disappearance ? No, he could 
 scarcely believe it. He would not wrong his sister so 
 much as even to entertain the suspicion for a moment. 
 She had sworn her oath upon the Book, and she could 
 never have broken it so desperately. 
 
 That night, Kate Christiansen did not return home ; 
 nor the next, nor the next again. Though Christian 
 searched high and low, he could gain no clue to the 
 cause of her disappearance. On the third day thoy 
 dragged the four- acre mere, but found nothing there. 
 
 Pale and terrible in grief, the mother kept her eyes 
 on her Bible, as if the end of the search was to be found 
 within it. 
 
 But Kate did not come, and a shadow worse than 
 dsath ronmiued in the lonely bouse. 
 
KAIE CURISTIANSOtrS TROUBLB. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 KATE CHEISTIANSOn's TEOUBLB. 
 
 The stream of our narrative now turns aside, to follow 
 Kate Christiansen. On parting from Richard Orchard- 
 son, she moved rapidly away through the surrounding 
 shrubberies, following a footpath that she knew well, 
 and which led her to the loneliest part of Squire 
 Orchardson's demesne. As she went she kept up a 
 low moaning, like one in pain, and looked neither to 
 right nor left; indeed, she seemed, for the time being, 
 deaf and blind to the objects around her. At last she 
 paused, in the shadow of a small plantation, not far 
 from the highway, and sitting down upon a bank, hid 
 her face in her hands and rocked herself to and fro. 
 
 She waited thus for hours, as if half stupefied. 
 The place was solitary, and no one beheld her, or heard 
 the low moaning which still came from her mouth. 
 The setting sun touched her with a finger of crimson 
 fire, but she did not see or feel it. Not till it was 
 nearly dark did she rise to her feet and move away. 
 
 Her mind seemed now made up. She returned to 
 the highway ; concealing her face with her cloak, and 
 shrinking from every form she met, she hastened home- 
 ward ; passed rapidly through the village, and took the 
 lane leading down to the waste mere. That some 
 desperate purpose animated her was evident from her 
 gestures ; for ever and anon she threw her arms in tho 
 air, and uttered a cry to God. 
 
 Quitting the lane, she ran across a water-meadow, 
 and came upon the side of the mere. The sun had 
 just disappeared, but a faint reflected light still hung 
 over the scene, and in that light the dark water looked 
 more than ever sombre and forbidding. She looked at 
 the black shallows, she looked at the sad chill sky. 
 Shuddering, she shrank back, and began to sob. The 
 hot tears came, and saved her from self-murder. No, 
 she could not die — not at least that way. 
 
113 GOD AND THE MAtT. 
 
 •OGod!' she cried. 'What stall I do P what 
 shall I do ? ' 
 
 Then, in her despair and fear, she thought she 
 would return home. She was not yet missed, and it 
 was not too late to return and take her place in the 
 house. And even if the worst came to the worst, she 
 would fall upon her knees, tell the truth — part of it, 
 not all — no, no, not all — and perhaps they might forgive 
 her. Even if they killed her, what then ? She wished 
 to die, though she lacked the courage to go flying up 
 and falling at God's feet, a suicide. 
 
 Even as she turned her face towards the farm, 
 something stirred within her, like the quickening of 
 another life within her own. A new horror passed 
 through her. Then, as if she had been pursued, and 
 flying in mortal terror, she fled away — not homeward, 
 but across the darkened fields. 
 
 A thick white vapour was rising from the cold 
 earth; she passed through it like a ghost, from meadow 
 to meadow, from field to field, instinctively familiar 
 with every step of the way, though sight was useless 
 to guide her. Before long, she was out upon the open 
 road, and walking rapidly away from her native village. 
 
 Her mind was now made up. She would leave her 
 home, and seek shelter as far away from pursuit as 
 possible ; for she knew now that if she lingered even 
 a single day, her shame would in all probability be 
 discovered. With a sickening horror in her heart, and 
 her brain stupefied with a nameless dread, she fled on 
 and on. 
 
 Poor Kate was country-bred, and in youth had 
 learned the free use of her Umbs in all manner of rustic 
 exercise ; so although her mind was crushed down and 
 darkened, her body still retained a certain strength. 
 She walked on with little or no consciousness of fatigue 
 until two hours before midnight ; by that time she had 
 left her home ten long miles behind her. She found 
 herself on a solitary highway, crossing level flats, with 
 a clear view of the open nioonUt sea. 
 
 By this time she had partially recovered her self- 
 possession, and with the instinct of a hunted thing, 
 when the first flash of fear has passed, began lo plan 
 
KATE CHRISTl ANSON'S TROUBLS, 113 
 
 her movements with a certain cunning. Not many 
 miles away, she knew, was a small seaport town, from 
 which ships sometimes sailed to distant parts — even as 
 far as London, she had heard. She would reach the 
 town and go on shipboard, first sending a message to / 
 those at home and entreating their forgiveness. After 
 that, she cared not what became of her. She would 
 creep to some lonely corner of the world, and bury 
 herself past all search, all remembrance. 
 
 On the road before her she saw lights burning, and 
 pressing on, she found that they came from a little 
 roadside inn. The door was closed, and there seemed 
 no compgjiy indoors ; but she went up and knocked 
 timidly. 
 
 Some chains were loosened and a bolt drawn; a 
 shock-haired head looked out upon her, that of a man 
 holding a rushlight. He glared at her with true country 
 suspicion. 
 
 ' Who be there ? ' he growled. ' A woman ! What 
 d'ye want at this hour o' night ? ' 
 
 'How far away, good man, to Norton-by-the-Sea ? ' 
 
 The man looked at her suspiciously for a few 
 moments before he replied. 
 
 ' To Norton ? Why, five mile and more. Be you 
 going there to-night ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 Reassured by her obvious timidity of manner, the 
 man threw open the door, and came out upon the 
 threshold. 
 
 ' Let me have a look at thee,' he cried, holding the 
 light to her face. ' Where do you come from, that call 
 so late P Ton be a stranger, mistress ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, that I be ! Good-night, and thank you 
 kindly.' 
 
 ' Stop ! ' cried the man. 'If you be s, stranger, 
 and come o' decent folk, you can ha' a bed here for 
 payment, a clean bed and supper too, if you will. 'Tia 
 time all honest folk should be a-bed, and there be bad 
 chaps about these roads.' 
 
 But Kate would not rest yet. She thanked the 
 man, and turned away. 
 
 ' Good-night,' she said again. 
 I 
 
114 GOD AND THE MAtT. 
 
 ' Good-night,' growled the man, and closed the door 
 upon her. 
 
 She walked on for another hour ; then she saw, far 
 away before her, the lights of the town she sought. 
 The sight gave her new strength, and she hastened 
 towards it. 
 
 By midnight, she was on the skirts of the town. 
 All was very still ; no one stirring. She went on, 
 looking for some place where she might knock for 
 shelter. As she did so, she felt the same sickening 
 and terrifying sensation that she had felt by the mere 
 side. In a moment she became dizzy, tottered to a 
 doorstep, and without a sound, fainted away. 
 
 When Eate Christiansen opened her eyes she found 
 herself in a strange room lying upon a truckle bed. 
 She started up with a cry, and gazed with a terrified 
 look around her. 
 
 The next moment she sank back moaning upon the 
 bed. She was alone; the room, a wretched garret, 
 was strange to her ; it was evidently night, for a 
 guttering rushlight burnt dimly on the table, and all 
 the house was hushed. 
 
 What had happened ? She could not tell, but 
 something terrible must have taken place, for her brain 
 was throbbing, her lips and eyes burning feverishly, 
 and her hand, which looked so white and thin, was 
 clammy and cold, as if with the chilly touch of death. 
 
 For a time she lay with her burning eyelids closed, 
 and her poor weary over-wrought brain trying to recall 
 the past ; then some movement attracted her attention, 
 she opened her eyes and looked around again. This 
 time she saw that she was not alone. On a wicker 
 arm-chair beside a smouldering fire, a woman was 
 seated. 
 
 She had evidently been sleeping, but her face 
 was now turned somewhat anxiously towards the bed. 
 Their eyes met; she came over and took the girl's 
 wasted hand kindly in her own. 
 
 ' Where am I ? ' said Kate, faintly ; then overcome 
 by hei own weakness, she burst into tears. 
 
 It was some time before ehe could calm herself 
 
XArE ClIRISTIANSON'S TROUBLE. 115 
 
 again; but while she sobbed tto ■woman patted her 
 hand, and did her best to soothe her again to sleep. 
 
 But Kate was too excited to rest; question after 
 question came eagerly from her feverish lips, until at 
 length she knew all. Yes, thus she learned that two days 
 before the master of the garret had lifted her senseless 
 form from the ground, had borne her to his room, and 
 committed her to the care of his wife ; that a few hours 
 after a child had been born prematurely, and that 
 since that hour the mother, stricken with fever, had 
 lain almost at the point of death. 
 
 ' The child, the child ? ' gasped the agonised girl. 
 The woman, mistaking her agonised cry, said softly, 
 
 ' Don't grieve, poor wench : the poor little ba'rn 
 is dead.' 
 
 For one moment the girl's parched, feverish lipa 
 opened to breathe a word of thankfulness to God ; then, 
 overcome by her own misery, she uttered a heart- 
 breaking cry, and burst again into weary sobs and 
 tears. 
 
 Kate learned little more that night, for the woman, 
 alarmed at her excessive grief, refused to speak again ; 
 she returned to her seat by the fire, and left Kate to 
 lie and think over all that had taken place. "What a 
 night she passed ! As every weary hour dragged by, 
 the fever which had seized her seemed to increase. 
 
 In the morning, the woman, going to the bedside, 
 found that the fever had reached its height, and the 
 poor patient was raving in wild delirium. 
 
 And for several days more Kate Christiansen was 
 as one gone mad, she raved in the height of fever; 
 then her feverishness abated, and her senses returned 
 to her. Her child had been buried, and the people, 
 grown weary of the mystery, were anxiously inquiring 
 who the unfortunate mother might be. 
 
 ' What is your name, wench ? tell me, and I'll write 
 to your friends,' asked the woman for the twentieth 
 iime one day. 
 
 ' I have no friends,' said Kate wearily. ' I want 
 to die ! ' 
 
 Then she thought of her mother, of her brother, of 
 the man who had brought aU this sorrow upon hor, 
 I 2 
 
Jrt GOD AND TJffJS man: 
 
 and prayed again to die. But her prayers were vain, — ■ 
 God had deserted her ; she still lived, and her troubles 
 grew. 
 
 What could she do ? To stay there was impossible, 
 to return to her mother was impossible : she resolved 
 to seek the father of her cliild, and cast herself on his 
 protection. To do this, she must escape alone; to 
 reveal her plans would be to reveal her identity, to 
 bring all her terrible secret to light, and call down 
 shame and sorrow upon those she loved. 
 
 She would tell no one of her wild desire ; she would 
 creep from the house at dead of night, and fade like 
 an evil shadow from the place. Daylight died, and 
 night came on : the invalid seemed better and inclined 
 for sleep, and the poor woman who had attended her 
 80 kindly retired to get tbat rest of which she was 
 herself in need. 
 
 ' Tou shall write to my friends in the morning,' 
 Kate had said. ' Prithee let me pass this night in 
 peace ! ' 
 
 ' In peace ; nay, in this world there is no peace for 
 me ! ' she murmured a few hours later, as she rose from 
 her sick-bed and tremblingly drew on her clothes. 
 
 It was several hours past midnight; every sound 
 was hushed, all within the house were sleeping peace- 
 fully, as the sick girl, dragging her trembling limbs 
 along the floor, descended the stairs and passed quietly 
 from the house. 
 
 There was a bolt to the door ; with trembling hands 
 she slid it back, and then, at the sound, stood shivering 
 and listened. No one stirred. She opened the door 
 stealthily, slipt out, and drew it to behind her. She 
 stood in the empty street of the sleeping town, 
 hesitating, bewildered, not knowing what to do. 
 
 It was the dark hour that precedes the dawn, but 
 the silvern moonlight was lingering in placid places of 
 the heavens. The air was very cold, for during the 
 night there had been rain, and some was still falling 
 in a thin imperceptible mist. 
 
 Kate looked wildly round her. The cool air camo 
 sweetly upon her fevered brow, the damp dew fell 
 apou her loosensd hair. All seemed so still, so peacefal. 
 
/TATE CimiSTIA ARSON'S TROUBLE. jiy 
 
 Ab she paused in hesitation, all her past life came upon 
 hep as in a dream. Her eyes filled with tears. With 
 trembling feet, she turned her face towards home. 
 
 Tes, she would go back. In the place where she 
 had been hidden no one knew her, no one could follow. 
 If she hastened, she might reach her native village 
 before the world was well astir. And even if the 
 news of her shame should follow her, what then ? She 
 would lie down and die in the old place, and they 
 would place her in the little green churchyard, by her 
 poor father's side. 
 
 In the light of a golden summer morning, pleasant 
 and peaceful after a night of rain, Priscilla Sefton rose, 
 and looked out of the little attic window of the cottage 
 at Brightlinghead. The garden lay beneath, newly 
 baptised in morning dew; and across green slopes 
 beyond, sparkled the innumerable laughter of the sea. 
 She opened the casement; the scent of flowers crept 
 sweetly in. She listened ; and heard birds singing, aa 
 if it were the world's first day. 
 
 Coming down into the little parlour, she found her 
 father already up, and awaiting her. They knelt down 
 in loving prayer together, as their custom was, and then 
 began their simple morning meal. After breakfast, 
 Priscilla walked out into the garden, leaving the blind 
 man seated in his chair, in those holy meditations which 
 were necessary to him as the very breath of life. 
 
 As she moved in the sunshine, plucking a flower 
 here and there, the garden gate opened, and Richard 
 Orchardson appeared. He was booted and spurred, 
 and ca.rried in his hand a nosegay and a basket ol 
 choice firiit from the manor garden. 
 
 ' I am an early visitor,' he said smiling. ' My father 
 hath sent me over with these nectarines for Mr. Sefton, 
 and some rare flowers for yourself. I was bidden also 
 to ask yon to become onr guests for a few days up at 
 the Willows.' 
 
 'My father is within,' returned Priscilla with a cer- 
 tain coldness. ' Will you come and speak to him ? ' 
 
 'Presently,' said Richard, lingering by her side, 
 ' What a £Mr monjing ! ' 
 
n8 GOD AND THE MAN, 
 
 ' Yes: 
 
 Her manner seemed unusually thoughtful and ro- 
 Berved, and the young man at once noticed the change. 
 Instead of looking him in the face as was her wont, she 
 kept her gaze averted, and moved slowly towards the 
 cottage. 
 
 ' Do not go in yet,' said Richard quickly. ' I wish 
 to speak to yon.' 
 
 Without speaking, she turned, and for the first time 
 looked him in the face. She saw something there 
 which caused a shadow to fall upon her own. 
 
 ' My father is waiting for me,' she said, embarrassed, 
 but not agitated, as she had been when she saw the 
 same expression in the face of Christian Ohristianson, 
 
 ' Pray listen a moment,' persisted Richard. ' I have 
 ridden over on purpose to see you. I must speak to 
 you; alone.' 
 
 Seeing now that it was inevitable, she paused, but 
 the shadow remained upon her. 
 
 ' Dear Priscilla — nay, suifer me to call you so — when 
 you know what hath brought me, perchance you will 
 pity me ; without your pity, surely I am a lost man. 
 Since you came hither to BrightUnghead, there hath 
 been but one thought in my soul — how I might make 
 myself worthy in your eyes. I have spoken with my 
 father, and he approves what I am about to say to you. 
 PriscUla, will you become my wife ? ' 
 
 Even now, her colour did not change, though she 
 looked nervously upon the ground. Encouraged by her 
 silence, which he misconstrued, he took her hand, and 
 proceeded in a strain of greater confidence and gallantry. 
 
 ' Sweetheart, I am sure you could not have miscon- 
 ceived me. The face is a teU-tale, and sure mine hath 
 betrayed me from the first. Nay, did I not hint the 
 truth before, though my sweet was too roguish to under- 
 stand ! Let me speak to your father straight, and teH 
 him that I have won your heart.' 
 
 ' Nay,' returned Priscilla, ' for it is not true.' 
 Richard still kept her hand. 
 
 ' You will not refuse me, Priscilla. I am the squire's 
 son, and though I say it, shall be a rich man. I know 
 f ou are poor in the world's goods' (here he watched 
 
XATE CHRlSTIAfrSON'S TROUBLE. 119 
 
 her keenly, to see the effect of his words), * but in you 
 I shall have a treasure far surpassing gold. And you 
 shall be a great lady ! There shall ever bo maids at 
 your elbow, horses for you to ride, a grand house for 
 great company, and troops of gentle friends.' 
 
 ' Such things are not for me,' said Priscilla simply, 
 ' Prithee speak of it no more.' 
 
 ' Perchance you will chide me because I am so bold 
 — but it is your heavenly beauty that leads mo on. 
 Sweetheart, I love you ! — ay, more than all the world ! ' 
 
 As he spoke, Priscilla started and uttered a half- 
 terrified cry. Surprised, he turned and followed the 
 direction of her eyes. At the same moment he heard a 
 low voice, the sound of which chilled the blood in his 
 veins. 
 
 'Richard!' 
 
 On the garden-path before them stood a woman, 
 wild-eyed, ghastly pale, woe-begone^ her raiment soaked 
 with the night's rain, her hair falling loose upon her 
 shoulders. As she uttered his name, wild tears ran 
 down her cheeks, and she fell moaning upon her knees, 
 and stretching out her arms to him in wild entreaty. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 KATE COMES nOMB. 
 
 The young couple stood petrified, but the woman, after 
 uttering that terrible cry, fell prostrate upon the ground. 
 
 Priscilla rushed forward, raised her gently, gave one 
 look into the pale, sorrow-stricken face, and then turned 
 to Richard Orchardson. 
 
 ' Who is she ? ' she asked ; ' she named your name, 
 and seemed to know you. And I-;-I seem to have seen 
 her face before. Tou know her, friend ? ' 
 
 He was standing upon the spot where Priscilla had 
 stood two minutes before, but he had almost turned his 
 back upon the two girls ; he stood so. as he answered 
 PrisciUa's question. 
 
126 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' Yes, I know her well,' lie said ; ' we Lave known 
 each other since we were children. Her name is Kate 
 Ohriatianson ; she is a danghter of Dame Christianson 
 of the Fen Farm.' 
 
 ' E!ate Christianson ! — ^his sister Kate — ah, I re- 
 member.' 
 
 Richard Orchardson turned now — turned and looked 
 at PrisoUla with quite a new light in his eyes, and the 
 terror which a few moments before had filled his heari 
 was replaced by a feeling of bitter irritation. The tone 
 in which Priscilla had uttered those few words had told 
 him something. She had been deaf to his proposal 
 because, foorsooth, her heart had been turned towards 
 another man, and that man was his bitterest foe ! 
 
 PrisciUa, meanwhile, for the time unconscious of the 
 presence of her would-be lover, was still bending over 
 the form of the unconscious girl, chafing her hands, 
 BmoothLug back her hair, and allowing the sun to shine 
 upon her face. 
 
 Then, as there were still no signs of returning 
 consciousness, she turned to Richard again. 
 
 ' Will you help me to bear her into the house ? ' she 
 said. ' I thank the Lord who did direct her footsteps 
 to our door.' 
 
 For a time the man remained silent, utterly at a loss 
 what to say or do. He was like one tossed hither and 
 thither on conflicting tides, each one of which seemed 
 likely to engulf him. Of the strange turn of events 
 which had brought Kate Christianson to her present 
 pitiable state he knew almost nothing, neither could 
 he guess the motive which had led the girl to Priscilla 
 Sefton's door. But of this he felt certain, that should 
 she be carried into the house, and there recover her 
 consciousness, his cause with Priscilla would be lost. 
 What to do ? how to avoid the catastrophe ? His heart 
 sickened within him, and he inwardly prayed that every 
 breath which the unconscious woman drew might be 
 her last. 
 
 But Priscilla awaiting his answer, presently ha 
 spoke. 
 
 ' Sweetheart,' he said, ' your kind disposition doth 
 jrou wrong. Such women as that are best outside your 
 
KATE COMES HOMB. i«i 
 
 door. Take my advice, send Her to the Pen Farm, and 
 when she passeth beyond the sunshine of this spot 
 think of her no more.' 
 
 'Why do you speak so ? ' asked Priscilla. 
 
 ' Because I know 'tis sacrilege for one roof to cover 
 you two.' 
 
 ' Sacrilege ! nay, then, I tell you 'tis my duty to 
 attend to such sore trouble as this — a Christian's help 
 is given where it is needed ; the prosperous and the 
 happy do not call us, but we listen for the voices of 
 those in distress. What saith the Lord ? — " Come unto 
 me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will 
 give you rest." Therefore, good Master Richard, I 
 prithee call my father, who will give me what help 
 I need ! ' 
 
 But Orchardson did not seem inclined to do that. 
 
 ' Forgive me, Priscilla,' he said ; ' I was wrong and 
 you have put me right. Tou will always keep me 
 right, sweetheart, and I would do anything to please 
 you ! ' 
 
 So saying, he lifted the unconscious Kate in his 
 arms and carried her into the house ; when he had 
 placed her upon the bed he turned again to Priscilla. 
 
 ' Sweetheart,' he said, softly, ' can I do more for 
 thee ? In sooth, though I have no cause to love the 
 name of Christiansen, I feel grieved for the poor wench, 
 and would gladly serve her. 'Tis a sad story, now I 
 remember. The maiden disappeared from her home 
 several days ago, and all at the Fen Farm believe 
 her dead.' 
 
 Priscilla did not reply ; she was bending over the 
 sick girl, trying to find some glimmer of returning 
 consciousness ; but none came. She lay like one stone 
 dead. 
 
 Priscilla raised her head. 
 
 ' You have your horse at the gate, good friend P ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Then you will gallop away with two letters from 
 me — one for the doctor, one for Christian Christiansen ? ' 
 
 The young squire's face reddened ; he was about 
 to give a hasty refusal, when be suddenly checked 
 himself, and said, 
 
123 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 * WhatsoeTer you wish, I will do.' 
 Prisoilla immediately proceeded to scribble oflF two 
 notes. The one to Christian ran as follows : — 
 
 'Mt dear Friend, — ^Tour sister lieth under this 
 roof, grievously sick. An hour ago, as I stood at the 
 gate giving good morning to young Squire Orchardaon, 
 a weary woman staggered up and fell at my feet. The 
 young squire, recognising her sooner than I, told me 
 her name; he carried her into the house for me, and 
 is now waiting to be the bearer of two letters, one to 
 the doctor, and this one to yourself. You will come-, 
 good friend, as soon as you receive this ; and in the 
 meantime I shall do all in my power for the poor sicl? 
 maid. 
 
 ' Your faithful friend, 
 
 ' Pkiscilla Sefton.' 
 
 Priscilla, while sealing this letter, felt that she had 
 phrased it well. The wish had of late become strong 
 within her to be the peacemaker between these two 
 men, for to her gentle nature the hatred which they 
 bore to one another was terrible beyond endurance. 
 So in despatching this missive Priscilla thought that 
 by judiciously mentioning the service of young Or- 
 chardson, she would at least gain for him his enemy's 
 thanks. 
 
 As Orohardson took the lines, he was gratified at 
 receiving a sweet word of thanks from Priscilla, and 
 an earnestly expressed hope that she would soon see 
 him again. 
 
 ' For of course,' she added, quickly, suddenly remem- 
 bering their conversation of a few hours before, ' you 
 will be curious to hear how the poor maid goeth on. 
 
 ' I shall be very curious,' returned Orohardson, as 
 bending over her hands he pressed them afi'eotionately, 
 then took his leave. 
 
 He delivered the doctor's note himself — the other 
 he gave to a boy; for much as he wished to serve 
 Priscilla, he could not bring himself to ride up as a 
 messenger to the Fen Farm. 
 
 Having done his work he rode leisurely homewards. 
 
ICATE COMES HOME. Ui3 
 
 He was in anything but a comfortable frame of 
 mind, though he had decided what must bo his own 
 course of action. So tar, he had been fortunate, the 
 girl had remained senseless; but sooner or later she 
 must recover, and then, perhaps, Priscilla might learn 
 all. At first he had thought of communicating with 
 Kate, and trying to ensure her silence ; but now he 
 had decided upon a better plan. She had no witnesses ; 
 if she accused he could deny ; nay, more, he could 
 put this forth as another evidence of the wish of the 
 Christiansens to disgrace him and drag him down. 
 
 On reaching home he found his father about to 
 sally forth ; at sight of his son's face the old man 
 turned and re-entered the house. 
 
 ' Well, lad ? ' he questioned, laying his hand 
 affectionately on Richard's shoulder, 'how sped thy 
 wooing P ' 
 
 ' I am baulked again by a Christianson.' 
 
 * Curse them, — curse the whole breed ! ' 
 
 ' So say I, father ; Priscilla was gentle as a lamb 
 until his runaway sister staggered up and fell at her 
 feet. Then her heart melted, and she forgot me ; bade 
 me help the girl into her house, and then despatched 
 a message for her brother. My suit will never thrive 
 with Priscilla till the Ohristiansons are away.' 
 
 For three days young Orchardson nursed his wrath 
 against the Christiansens, but mostly against Kate ; and 
 during the whole of that time he was in a state of terror 
 as to how matters would end between Priscilla and him- 
 self. On his own course of action he had, as we have 
 said, fully decided, but for a time he shrank from the 
 idea of meeting the girl, and commencing the false tales 
 which he knew he should have to tell. 
 
 But gradually he grew accustomed to the thought of 
 them, and on the evening of the fourth day he had con- 
 quered himself sufficiently to walk down to the cottage 
 Bt Brightlinghead, ostensibly with the intention of in- 
 quiring how the poor outcast fared, but really to discover 
 how much of her sad story had been told to Priscilla. 
 
 It was long past sunset, the evening prayer-meeting 
 ftt the cottage was over, the small congregation had dis- 
 persed, and Priscilla herself, a light shawl thrown over 
 
tss4 GOD A/fD THE MA:^. 
 
 her liead, was walking up and down the road in the last- 
 gathering twilight. 
 
 She was much paler and more pensive-looking than 
 osnal, but when her eyes fell upon the young man her 
 face brightened with a strange smile. 
 
 He saw at once that he was safe. ' Good Mr. Richard, 
 you are welcome,' she said, ' I was thinking of thee ! ' 
 
 The young man's heart grew light. He kissed the 
 hand which she gave him, then held forth a posy of hia 
 father's choicest flowers. 
 
 ' I have come to inquire for your patient,' he said 
 quietly, ' and my father hath sent these flowers to cheer 
 thee in the sick-room.' 
 
 ' Tour father is too good. When you return, thank 
 him for me.' 
 
 And she took the flowers, and held them to her sweei 
 face. 
 
 For the moment he felt impelled to give an affection- 
 ate reply, but remembering that to be too precipitate 
 might mean the loss of aU, he contented himself with 
 watching Priscilla's beautiful pale face as it bent above 
 the nosegay to inhale the posy's fragrant breath. 
 
 ' They are very sweet,' said PriscOla, softly, ' but in- 
 deed I have no sick-room to put them into now. Our 
 poor little maid hath gone away.' 
 
 ' Gone away ? ' echoed Orohardson, and for a moment 
 there arose within him a wild hope that Kate Christian- 
 eon might be dead. 
 
 But Priscilla quietly replied, 
 
 ' Yes, so soon as she was strong enough to move her 
 brother took her home.' 
 
 After that they both remained silent. Orchardson 
 longed yet dreaded to hear more, and Priscilla knew not 
 what to say . Her scheme of becoming peacemaker between 
 these two strange men had completely fallen through. 
 But since she could not make peace, she would try not 
 to create a stronger hatred. She would never mention 
 to Orchardson how Christian, on hearing that the mar. 
 had dared to touch his sister even in kindness, had 
 shown ungovernable wrath, and had in his frenzy even 
 accused IViscilla of wishing to humiliate him before 
 his foe. 
 
XATS COMES MOMS. zss 
 
 He had succeeded in arousing the gentle maiden's 
 wratli at last. But the anguish which had followed her 
 wrath told her only too plainly the state of her heart, 
 
 ' I will go away,' she had said to herself. ' We have 
 no longer any mission here. It requires a stronger will 
 than mine to lead these men from the errors into which 
 they are falling. God is far-seeing, and He may choose 
 some other means of bringing them right at last.' 
 
 ' Will you come in ? ' asked the girl, quietly ; but 
 Orchardson shook his head. 
 
 ' Not to-night, Priscilla. If I may, I will come again. 
 Good-night, and may God bless you ! ' 
 
 He uttered the benediction with strange earnestness, 
 then he bent again and kissed her hands. For that 
 night at least he spoke no word of love, but walked 
 away with a strange look of relief, like one reprieved 
 from death. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE widow's cup IS FULU 
 
 RiCHAED Obchabdson might breathe in peace. Kate 
 Christiansen, in recovering from her swoon, said nothing 
 to incriminate him or herself, but answered all questions 
 with vague words and moans. Then Christian Ohris- 
 tianson had indeed taken his poor sister home, and the 
 shock of the removal had again overpowered her, and 
 for many hours she lay like one stricken unto death. 
 
 The mother and brother watched her ; each looking, 
 wondering, bat saying nothing. Not even to each other 
 in the silence of the night had they spoken of the terrible 
 fear which was heavy upon the hearts of both. 
 
 For a time they thought that the girl would die, and 
 the mother in her anguish and suspicion guessed at times 
 that it might be better so ; but God willed it otherwise ; 
 Kate gradually recovered — arose from bed, the mere 
 ghost of what she once had been, and again resumed her 
 place in the house. This was a hard time for Kate,_ for 
 now that her delirium had passed away, Dame OhristioB- 
 
126 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Bon, unable longer to restrain her anxiety, began to 
 question her danghter as to the past. 
 
 But Kate had the tenacity and reticence of some 
 otherwise feeble natures. She would say nothing. She 
 gazed into her mother's stern, cold face with pitiful 
 pleading, and when pressed closely, fell into violent 
 paroxysms, and in her anguish wildly prayed that she 
 might die. 
 
 So it came to pass one evening that Dame Christian- 
 son, sitting by the fire with the old Bible upon her knee, 
 looked at the trembling, cowering figure before her, and 
 resolutely steeled her heart. 
 
 ' Thou wilt not speak, thou wilt tell me naught,' she 
 said, ' but for all that I fear that thou art not fit to share 
 this roof with righteous folk. If it cometh to pass that 
 thou hast brought shame upon our name, I will turn 
 thee like a dog from our door ! ' 
 
 ' Mother, mother ! ' cried the trembling girl. 
 
 But the stern old woman held up her hands. 
 
 ' Call me not mother till I hear thy tale. Perchance 
 thy sin is not so great as I deem it, but since thou triest 
 to break my heart, do not name my name. Here in thy 
 father's house is food and shelter, but while thou hidest 
 RUght from me, thou art no child of mine ! ' 
 
 So Kate sobbed and cried, and rocked herself in her 
 agony of grief ; the mother read the Bible, looking up 
 now and again to watch the tear-stained face of her 
 daughter — but neither spoke. 
 
 When Christian came in from his work in the fields, 
 she quietly did what work was required of her, then, like 
 a stricken hound, she crept up to her room. As she was 
 leaving the chamber for the night, Christian called her 
 back. 
 
 ' Good-night, Katie,' he said. 
 The sound of the old childish name, spoken so fondly 
 by her stern brother, was too much for poor Kate to 
 bear. Pausing, she held up her sunken cheek for her 
 brother's kiss, then, with one last look into her mother's 
 stern face, she crept upstairs, and having gained her 
 room sank on the floor in passionate tears. 
 
 When she was gone and the door was closed, the 
 mother and sou spake no word. Christian, whose heart 
 
TBB WIDOW'S CVP IS FULL. raj 
 
 had melted for a moment at sight of his sister'a silent 
 pain, had far different thoughts to occupy his brain. 
 Only two hours before he had met Priscilla on the sands, 
 and receiTed her last farewell. 
 
 Yes, Priscilla was gone from Brightlinghead ; she 
 had come like a spirit of light and love, to bring glad- 
 ness to the hearts of many, but now the Divine Hand 
 which ruled her life pointed onwards, and again she fol- 
 lowed her blind father forth into the wilderness of the 
 world. 
 
 Well, it was some comfort to Christian that she had 
 wished to say ' good-bye ' — that she had given him a few 
 words of counsel, and expressed a hope that they might 
 some day meet again. 
 
 ' We have both our work to do,* she said, sweetly, 
 ' yon as well as I. God give you strength to do it man- 
 fully and well, dear Christian.' 
 
 ' Priscilla ! ' he cried, wildly, ' before you go, hearken 
 again ! ' 
 
 But Priscilla put np her hand. 
 
 ' Nay, we have both said o'ermuch already. Good- 
 bye, and may God bless you, dear friend.' 
 
 ' God's blessing comes to me through you only ; 
 when you are gone it will be to me as if I had been 
 plunged into the darkest depths of hell ! ' 
 
 'Alas ! say not so.' 
 
 ' But I say so, in good sooth. Give me some hope, 
 Priscilla ! Leave me not to waste and die. With yous 
 help, I might become a better man.' 
 
 The girl shook her head, sadly. 
 
 'I have tried,' she murmured, faintly; ' and I havo 
 failed. My place is with my father, and even if I were 
 free, I should fear your disposition. Good-bye, dear 
 Christian! Perchance we may meet again some day. 
 Boon, and till then, remember me ! ' 
 
 With such words upon her lips, and a calm, placid 
 smile upon her face, she had faded from his sight. 
 
 The memory of that interview was ever in his mind, 
 the light of that sweet smile ever before his eyes, making 
 the world seem brighter to him, and softening his heart 
 to all mankind. 
 
 To-night, particularly, Priscilla's influonce was strong 
 
w8 GCD AND THE MAlf. 
 
 upon, him, as he sat looking at his mother's, Btern, oolA 
 face, and thinking of his heart-broken sister. 
 
 ' Perchance she is too hard, he thought ; ' perchanca 
 we are both too hard. Poor Kate ! if she hath sinned, 
 she suffers sorely.' 
 
 A little later, when he went upstairs, he looked into 
 his sister's room. Kate's passionate pain had passed 
 away ; pale and exhausted she sat now upon the bedside. 
 
 ' Kate, my lass,' said Christian, going up to her, and 
 lifting one of her wasted hands, ' the mother's heart ia 
 sore because she loveth you — remember that ; maybe, 
 the soreness will pass away, and she'll come right again. 
 She hath bad overmuch trouble, Kate, and it makes her 
 hard sometimes ; but she loves you ; nay, we all love 
 you.' 
 
 The girl said nothing; with the docility and timidity 
 of a poor dumb animal, she pressed her cold, trembling 
 lips to her brother's hand, and sank back again upon the 
 bed. 
 
 But when he was gone, and she was alone again, 
 alone with her load of sorrow, which was surely break- 
 ing her heart, she moaned aloud in anguish : — 
 
 ' If he knew, if he only knew ! would he not curse 
 me as my mother would curse me ? would he not drive 
 me forth as she would drive me forth ? Yea, even 
 although it sent me to my death. What shall I do ? 
 Dear God, what shall I do ? I cannot live like this, I 
 cannot go out into the world. If only I oould die ! ' 
 
 She wiped away her tears, tried to calm her ever 
 beating heart, and sat down to think. What coiHd she 
 do ? Nothing, nothing ! Confess to her mother that 
 she had grievously sinned, and that Richard Orchardson, 
 the mortal enemy of their house, had won her love, and 
 afterwards brought her to shame ? Nay, for then with 
 a mother's curse she would be driven forth to become a 
 hopeless outcast on the pitiless street. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of her blackest despair, came 
 a ray of hope, a ray so bright that for the moment the 
 dead light in the girl's eye kindled into something of its 
 old brightness. She thought of Priscilla Sefton, the 
 blind missionary's daughter ; she was known to be good 
 »ud kind, she mas^ bare guessed part of the pitiful 
 
THE WIDOW'S CUP IS FULL. t»9 
 
 story,— she should leam the rest, and perhaps her good 
 counsel might bring the poor sufferer some peace. Tes, 
 Kate resolved to seek Priscilla on the morrow ; and with 
 that thought to comfort her, she sank to rest, little 
 dreaming what new trials the morrow was to bring 
 forth. 
 
 After a troubled night, Kate Christiansen arose, 
 weary and unrefreshed. Though it was still early, yet 
 the grey light of dawn was stealing into the house. 
 Christian was already afield, but the dame was still in 
 her room. Dressing herself with somewhat more than 
 ordinary care, Kate crept downstairs, and set herself to 
 perform her few household duties. Having finished 
 these, she hastily drew on her bonnet and shawl and 
 left the house. 
 
 She was obliged to go thus early, for in five minutes 
 more her mother would be down, and would be sure to 
 ply her with a series of questions as to her going forth. 
 But now that she was free and fairly on her road her 
 heart turned sick within her. 'Tvvas such a sorry 
 errand ! Well, it was part of her punishment, and as 
 such it must be bravely borne. 
 
 Nevertheless she lingered on her road, choosing the 
 quiet, unfrequented paths, and withdrawing aside when- 
 ever a human soul came by, so that when she arrived at 
 Brighth'nghead the day was well broken. What was 
 Kate's surprise, however, to find the cottage door closed, 
 the blinds all drawn, and no sign of life about it any- 
 where ! 
 
 She walked resolutely up to the door and knocked. 
 No answer. She knocked again : the sound of her 
 knuckles on the door reverberated through the house, 
 but brought no sign of life. At this moment an old 
 coastguardsman happened to pass by. 
 
 ' What be you wanting there, mistress ? ' he asked 
 gruffly ; and Kate meekly replied, 
 
 ' I came to seek the preacher's daughter.' 
 
 ' Mistress Sefton ? She be gone away.' 
 
 ' Gone ! ' 
 
 'Ay; travelled away with her father. They are 
 wanderers always, it seems, and never bide in on© 
 place long.' 
 
130 GOD AND IHE MAN. 
 
 ' Then they are not coming back ? ' 
 ' Nay ; leastways not for many a day ! ' 
 
 Trembling, and more sick at heart than ever, Kate 
 moved from the door, and began to retrace her steps 
 along the road. 
 
 What to do now ? There was only one plan left, 
 and that was to seek out Richard Orchardson. That 
 he had ceased to care for her, Kate knew only too well ; 
 her only hope was that her sorry state might at least 
 arouse his pity. But how to find him, how to speak 
 with him ? She might wait all day and never see hira, 
 and she dared not go to the Willows. Dared not ? — 
 nay but she would ! Trouble had made her desperate. 
 If she sent to him he would avoid her — of that she felt 
 sure ; the only way was to bring him right before her 
 face. Full of this new determination, yet shrinking 
 fearfully from the task she had to perform, Kate drew 
 her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, and looked 
 around with a shiver. The day was well advanced, but 
 it was cold and dark and sunless. She walked on and 
 on till she was some distance from the Willows, but she 
 knew there was life there, for she could see the smoke 
 issuing from the chimneys, and she could hear the 
 echoing bark of the mastiffs which were always chained 
 in the yard. With flushed cheek and wildly palpitating 
 heart, Kate walked on, never once pausing to think 
 antil she came to the lodge gate. 
 
 Then good fortune attended her ; for she met one 
 of the grooms coming out of the gate. 
 
 'Will you tell me,' she asked, in a low trembling 
 voice, ' if Master Eichard is at home ? ' 
 
 ' Master Richard ? Nay ! ' 
 
 • Where is he ? ' 
 
 ' Don't 'ee know he's gone away to London P ' 
 
 ' Gone away ! ' 
 
 ' Ay, went away a week ago, and he bean't likely to 
 be back here again tiU winter- tide.' 
 
 The man passed on, and left Kate standing cold, 
 irembling, and speechless. 
 
 As Kate Christianson returned towards the Fen 
 Farm faiut and despairing, — for she felt now that 
 
THE WIDOW'S CUP IS FULL. rsi 
 
 Richaid had abandoned her for ever, and that there was 
 no hope for her in this world, — she saw before her the 
 fignre of a man. 
 
 He was walking slowly towards the farm, on the 
 road which led to the sea ; and though he was too far 
 from her to be distinctly recognised, she knew that he 
 was a stranger. Now and then he paused and looked 
 around him, with the perplexed air of one to whom the 
 snrronnding scene was unfamiliar. 
 
 Not wishing to come face to face with any person, 
 she held back upon the road, suffering him to pass on 
 out of sight. Listlessly and sadly she wandered dovim 
 to the mere side, and looked at the dark water wearily, 
 as she had looked upon it that black night before her 
 child was born. Very still and peaceful it looked, in 
 the grey light of the windless, sunless day. Over the 
 shore where she stood several sea-gulls were flying and 
 uttering shriU cries. She stood listening in a dream. 
 
 Presently she turned from the water side and 
 walked towards the farm. Aa she did so, she saw 
 approaching her, with rapid strides, the same man she 
 had previously seen before her on the road. 
 
 It was impossible to avoid him now ; so she pushed 
 on past him, averting her face as she came near. 
 
 As she came up, he looked at her keenly, and made 
 a sign of recognition ; but she noted nothing of this, 
 and was passing rapidly by, when his voice arrested 
 her: 
 
 ' Stop, mistress ! ' 
 
 She turned trembling, and looked at him. He was 
 a middle-aged countrified fellow, dressed like a small 
 farmer, in coat and knee-breeches ; and his feet and 
 legs were dirty, as if with a long tramp on the highway. 
 
 ' Don't 'ee know me, mistress ? ' he continued, with 
 ft forbidding smile. ' Well, some folk lia' short memories. 
 But I know iliee, and by the same token I ha' found 
 thee. My name's Joe Prittlewell, and I come fro' 
 Harringford, where thy poor ba'rn was born.' 
 
 Poor Kate uttered a terrified cry, and clutched him 
 by the arm. 
 
 ' speak low ! speak low I If they should hear I ' 
 
 ' Nay,' said the man sternly, ' it be too late to speak 
 
IJi GOD AlfTD THE MAN. 
 
 low now, for the mischief's cut. I ha' spoken wi' tlij 
 mother and wi' thy brother, up yonder at the farm.' 
 
 ' Ton have not told them ! No, no ! ' 
 
 'Bide a bit, and listen. When you did slip away 
 from my dame's care, with ne'er so much as a " Thank 
 you, dame," or a parting gift, we was sore puzzled, and 
 angry enou' at thy ingratitude ; for there was all thy 
 keep to pay for, and the lying-in, and the buryin' beside, 
 for the pariah would not help us a groat. " Never 
 mind, dame," says I: "I'll soon find the wench's 
 friends, an' I had only a bit of a clue." Well, searching 
 in thy chamber, I finds a ring, a leetle gold keepsake 
 ring, and inside that ring was printed thy mother's name. 
 So we worked it out together, my dame and I ; and I 
 vowed the first free day I had to come along and speak 
 wi' thy folk ; and so I come.' 
 
 Dazed and terrified beyond measure, Kate looked at 
 the man, scarcely hearing the words that he spoke. 
 Her secret was out then, once and for ever; and by 
 that time, perchance, her mother's door was abeady 
 closed against her. 
 
 ' Did you say you had spoken with my mother ? ' 
 she cried at last. 
 
 ' Ay, marry ; and ha' given her back her gold ring.* 
 
 ' And you told her — nay, nay, you did not teU her — 
 you would not be so cruel — ^you ' 
 
 ' I told the dame o' thy lying-in at our house, and 
 or tne buryin', and that we were poor folk, and could 
 not stand to lose thy keep and thy lodging. Thei> thy 
 good brother gave me four silver crowns, and pushed 
 me fro' the door. " Keep this all to thyself," says he, 
 " and one day soon I'll ride o'er and talk wi' the dame 
 at home." " Nay, never fear," says I, " I can keep my 
 mouth shut ; " and I corned away.' 
 
 Kate stood moaning and wringing her hands ; then, 
 with a sudden impulse, she turned, and began waUiing 
 rapidly away from the farm. 
 
 The man kept at her side. 
 
 ' Don't 'ee take on so, my poor wench,' he said 
 gruffly. ' Thou'rt not the first nor the last as has made 
 a fool o' thysen' wi' no help fro' parson ; bless 'ee, they 
 thinks no more o' that in ow good town than they 
 
TBS H^WOtV'S CUP IS FULL. 133 
 
 floes np in Lunnon. Thy folk will forgive thoe, never 
 fear!' 
 
 ' Never, never ! ' cried Kate. 
 
 ' Who's thy ba'm's feyther, tell me that ! Won't he 
 Btand by thee ? He will, if it be true, as I ha' heerd, 
 he be a gentleman born.' 
 
 Kate started, with a wild glance at the man. 
 
 ' Who told thee he was a gentleman ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' No man, mistress ; but my good dame did gather 
 it fro' thy wild talk, when thou wast lying-in. Nay, I 
 can tell thee thy gallant's name — 'twas " Richard," 
 " Richard," ever on thy tongue ; and there were another 
 name, too, a long name, beginning with a round "O " ; 
 and I knows who owns it, though I be a stranger 
 hereabout.' 
 
 As the man spoke, Kate heard footsteps behind her, 
 and turning quickly, she saw her brother running 
 rapidly. Directly her eyes fell upon his face she saw 
 that he knew, or guessed, everything. His eyes looked 
 terrible, and his teeth were set together. 
 
 As he came up panting, she shrank back, and lifted 
 np her hands, as if expecting a blow. 
 
 'Christian! ' she cried imploringly. 'Brother dear! ' 
 
 'Nay,' answered Cbristian, in a low voice, 'you have 
 no brother now. Ton have chosen between us and 
 shame, and we have done with you for ever. I come 
 to yon from my mother — to tell you never to darken 
 her door again.' 
 
 Kate answered with a moan, hanging her head in 
 hopeless acquiescence. 
 
 ' God knows our lot was heavy enough,' proceeded 
 Christian. ' God knows our mother's cup of grief was 
 full enough, without this last sorrow. But there — I 
 waste words, 'tis too late for words now. All I want 
 now from you, Kate Christiansen, is the villain's name.' 
 
 ' Oh, Christian, I cannot speak it ! Do not ask 
 me!' 
 
 He fixed his eyes terribly upon her, and took her 
 by the wrist. She did not shrink or cry; he might 
 have killed her just then, for all she cared. 
 
 ' No need to speak,' he said ; ' I knew it — and yet, 
 I would htvve it from yonr own lips. Richard Orchard- 
 
134 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Bon is tte fatter of thy dead child ? Answer — ^yea or 
 nayP' 
 
 She did not answer in words, but her face spoke 
 plainly enough. Christian threw her from him, and 
 turned away. 
 
 ' That is all I sought to know. I am content.' 
 
 ' Oh, Christian, yon will not harm him ! I — I lore 
 him ! Perchance he will make amends.' 
 
 He might have struck her now, so much did her 
 last words madden him, had not the man interposed. 
 
 ' Nay, master, keep thy temper ! Perchance, as the 
 poor wench saith, the gentleman will make amends.' 
 
 Christian looked at the speaker for a moment with 
 the ferocity of a wild beast ; then, shaking him off con- 
 temptnously, again approached his sister. 
 
 ' You shall not starve. No sister of mine shall 
 starve. Go with this man, and he will shelter you, till 
 I have settled with our mother what to do. But yon 
 must not come back — remember that ! Ton have no 
 home now.' 
 
 'Yes, Christian,' said poor Kate, faintly; and 
 without another word Christian walked rapidly away. 
 
 They stood on the road watching his figure until it 
 disappeared. Then \h& man turned to Kate, who was 
 sobbing bitterly, and said, 
 
 ' Take comfort, wench. Thy folk will forgive thee 
 sure enow, an yon gi'e them time ; for after all, 'twas 
 human nature. Come home along o' me.' 
 
 Sad and sick at heart. Christian returned homeward. 
 The events of that morning had come like a thunder. 
 3lap, leaving him no time to think or plan. Had he 
 yielded to his own natural impulse, he would have led 
 his penitent sister back, for he loved her dearly ; but all 
 pity, all compunction, all natural affection, was crushed 
 beneath the terrible, unbearable weight of one thought 
 — ^that his sister's betrayer was Richard Orchardson. 
 
 It was almost too much to bear. By what cruel 
 fatality could it be that the Orchardsons were destined, 
 at every important turn of his days, to shadow and 
 blacken his being ? First, there were the old tradi. 
 tional wrongs, bred in the wild past and abiding is 
 
THE WIDOW'S CUP TS FULL. ijj 
 
 Iho blood ; then, there was his father's death, caused, 
 directly or indirectly, by an Orchardson ; again, the 
 family rnin and his mother's despair ; and last of all, 
 horrible beyond measure, and in all humanity unbear- 
 able, this betrayal of his too foolish, feeble, and Wing 
 sister. Tes, the cup was indeed fall to overflowing', 
 ftnd all his soul now was set on some desperate revenge. 
 
 To add to his mad misery, he knew that Richard 
 Orchardson was just then far beyond his reach, pouring 
 his poisoned words, possibly, into the pure ears of 
 PrisciUa Sefton. This last thought was wildest of all. 
 Unable to bear its horrible suggestions, he hurried 
 across the marsh, and approached the Fen Farm. 
 
 The hall door stood wide open, and the house was 
 quite silent. He entered quickly, and passing into the 
 sitting-room, saw his mother sitting quietly there, in 
 her old attitude, the Bible by her side. 
 
 ' Well, mother, I have seen her,' he cried, entering 
 the room, ' and, alas ! she hath confessed.' 
 
 There was no reply. The widow sat nerveless in 
 her chair, with her eyes fixed on vacancy, and one out- 
 fitretched hand on the open Bible. The faint light came 
 through the heavily-curtained window, and touched her 
 pale face and snow-white hair. 
 
 Christian approached quickly, stooped down before 
 her, and uttered a terrified cry. 
 
 She was dead in her chair. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE DEAD WOMAN. 
 
 So Christian fell at once into that great blackness where 
 the atheist lies, with eyes averted from heaven and his 
 forehead pressed into the hard earth. By no intellectual 
 process, by no succession of bitter doubts and ruthless 
 syllogism, but simply through the utterness of moral 
 despair, there was forced upon his soul the consciousness 
 that the world is without God, and that those who 
 doubted God's very existence were in the right. If 
 
^6 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 there were a God indeed, if the gentle Providence of 
 the preacher were a fact or a possibility, such thinga 
 coTild never have been ; that at least seemed clear. Or 
 if God existed, he must be on the side of evil ; cruel, 
 pitiless, incomprehensible, unblessing and unblest. All 
 was blind fate ; anarchy subsisting in the very shadow 
 of death. 
 
 Peeling this, in all the tumult of his wild grief, he 
 Bat and looked in the eyes of the dead woman, not yet 
 closed reverently, but fixed in horrible contemplation of 
 some sight of terror which only dead eyes see ; sat 
 and gazed into her eyes and held her clay-cold hand till 
 Lis own fingers felt like ice, and the chill of the grave 
 was in his heart. Hours passed thus. Night and 
 death were in the house, with no sound, no stir. 
 
 At last he rose, lifted the lamp, and held it close to 
 his mother's marble face. Ah ! what a record of hate 
 and pain was written there ! The face was fixed in 
 pallor, the eyes were blank, but the weary lines and 
 furrows still remained, and the brows were knitted, and 
 the poor thin hair, parted neatly over the blue-veined 
 temples, kept its snow. 
 
 ' Mother ! mother ! ' he moaned ; but no tears came. 
 
 Then his eye fell upon the old Bible, still standing 
 open by the corpse's side. 
 
 With trembling hand he took it up, and turning to 
 the flyleaf, read his father's name writ there, and his 
 mother's name, and poor Kate's, and last his own ; all 
 their names, and the date of his father's and mother's 
 wedding, and the birthdays of the children, himself and 
 the poor sister whom sorrow had untimely tried. Of 
 all that little household only one now remained — alone 
 in all the world. The rest had faded from him, like 
 dreams that had scarcely been. 
 
 His mind went back to the beginning of it all ; to 
 the dark feuds between the two houses, begun in blood 
 before he came. 
 
 He saw before him, as in a vision, the Orchard sons 
 and Ohristiansons of tradition, flitting to and fro amid 
 the shadows of civil war and political change, armed, 
 angry, always with their hands against each other. He 
 fpmembered how o»e wild deed had avenged another. 
 
' He sat and gazed into her eyes. '' 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN: \yj 
 
 how blow had met blow, how hate had met hate, until 
 the men of both houses were more like devils than 
 human beings. Then he bethought him of his father's 
 death-bed, and the black knavery, for so it seemed, 
 which had hastened the poor man's end; of the hour 
 when, as a boy, he struck his enemy's son, and saw him 
 bleeding at his feet ; of the lawsuit which followed and 
 beggared the household already poor. Last and saddest 
 of all came the thought of his sister's shame and his 
 old mother's broken heart ; these, too, due to an 
 Orchardson, the wickedest of the race. 
 
 Amidst these confused images and memories, one 
 form moved like a celestial vision. At every confused 
 vista of his mad recollection there came up .before him 
 the image of PriscUla Sefton, with a look of beautiful 
 admonition. She, too, had vanished from him ; she 
 who might have made amends for all, and turned his 
 desolation into some abiding peace. Ah ! what would 
 he not have given just then if she could have suddenly 
 appeared before him to touch the rock of his hate with 
 the wand of her Divine compassion, and strike its stone 
 to tears ! 
 
 As he thought and thought, the silence became too 
 much for him to bear, and passing from his mother's 
 side, he went to the hall door and threw it open. 
 
 It was a fine moonlight night of high wind ; white 
 clouds were scudding over the moon's face ; and the air 
 was full of luminous phosphorescence. The fields and 
 marshes lay so distinct before him, that he could trace 
 the black lines of the ditches and hedges, and the 
 patches of wood, as clearly as if it had been day. The 
 wind was coming from seaward, and, listening intently, 
 he could hear a sound which seemed like the moaning 
 of the sea. 
 
 Leaving the door open behind him, he passed out, 
 and hastened across the fields to a neighbouring cottage, 
 where dwelt an aged couple who often did rough work 
 about the farm. He knocked loudly, and the door was 
 opened immediately by an old woman. 
 
 • My mother is dead,' he cried quickly, * Haste to 
 tha house and watch by her till I return. I am going 
 np to the village,' 
 
138 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 The woman uttered a wail ; but before she could 
 dssail Mm with any questions, he was gone. 
 
 A strange and sudden thought came over him, and 
 with the fury of a man possessed by a demon, he rushed 
 across the moonlit fields. In a very short time he 
 reached the village ; but he did not stop there. Hasten- 
 ing on, he entered the long avenue leading to the 
 "Willows, gained the terrace, and pausing there, stood 
 for some minutes panting for breath. 
 
 The great house was in darkness ; but at last ho 
 discovered light in one window, a window opening to 
 the ground. Without hesitating a moment, for his wild 
 thought still possessed him, he pushed the window open, 
 and entered. There was a startled cry, a tall figure 
 sprung up, and he found himself standing face to face 
 with Squire Orchardson. 
 
 ' Help ! ' cried the squire in terror. ' Who's there ? ' 
 
 ' It is I, Christian Christianson.' 
 
 His voice was clear and distinct as he replied, and 
 but for his death- white face, and close- set lips, he would 
 have seemed free of all agitation. Tears after that 
 night he remembered his coolness and self-command, 
 and wondered at them. He looked steadily in the 
 squire's face and waited. 
 
 For a time the old man seemed overpowered by 
 surprise, glanced nervously towards the bell-rope and 
 at the door. 
 
 ' What seek you here ? ' he said at last. ' At this 
 hour ' 
 
 ' I have come to speak with your son.' 
 
 ' My son is far away,' answered the squire quickly, 
 ' What do you want with him ? ' 
 
 'Nay,' said Christian, 'the father will do as well. 
 I have come to you from — from my mother.' 
 
 His voice faltered a little at the name, but his eye 
 still looked calmly in the other's face. 
 
 ' Tour mother wishes to see me ? ' cried Orchardson 
 in complete astonishment. 
 
 Christian answered with a curious inclination of the 
 head. 
 
 ' If this is indeed so,' said the squire nervously, ' if 
 your mother has any word to say to me that may calm 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN. 139 
 
 fll blood, God forbid that I should ttwart her. 1 have 
 heard of her trouble, not without compassion. Tell her 
 I will come to her to-morrow.' 
 
 'No, to-night! to-night!' cried Christian in the 
 same low voice ; and he made a stop as if to place hia 
 hand upon the old man's arm. 
 
 ' To-night ? Impossible ! ' 
 
 ' I tell you I have come to you from her. Will you 
 follow me ? or are you afraid ? ' 
 
 The old man drew himself up with a nervous shrug 
 of the shoulders. 
 
 ' Nay, I am not frightened so easily ; and, indeed, 
 what should I fear ? But the request is so sudden, ea 
 anreasonable.' 
 
 ' Come and see her,' persisted Christian, ' that is all 
 I ask.' 
 
 ' Nay, if the dame is ill ' 
 
 ' Ay, sick unto death,' was the answer. ' She ia 
 waiting for you : come ! ' 
 
 The squire looked at his visitor again, and then, 
 after a moment's hesitation, concluded to obey the 
 strange summons. It did not seem altogether extra, 
 ordinary that Dame Ohristianson, being possibly at the 
 point of death, might have some last request to make, 
 or some final confession. With all his faults, and they 
 were numerous, Orchardson had his human feelings ; 
 and he would have been rather relieved than otherwise 
 at a death-bed reconciliation with the woman who had 
 Buffered so much from his animosity. 
 
 ' Wait here a moment,' he said ; ' I will go with you.' 
 
 So saying, he withdrew from the room ; in a few 
 minutes he returned, cloaked, and staff in hand. 
 
 Could he have seen the strangely ominous smile 
 which crossed Christian's face as they passed out into 
 the night, he would doubtless have hesitated before 
 leaving his own door. 
 
 Even as it was, he kept the young man well before 
 him as they went, and held his hand underneath hia 
 cloak, gripping a weapon. For he, better than most 
 men, knew the stuff of which his hereditary adversaries 
 were made, and which rendered them capable of almost 
 any deed of violence. 
 
tjo &0D AND THE MAN. 
 
 Christian led the way so rapidly that the old man 
 had some difficulty in keeping np with him. Once or 
 twice the latter paused for breath, or to put further 
 questions, to all of which Christian answered in mono- 
 syllables. They passed through the slumbering village, 
 along the brink of the mere, and at last they came in 
 sight of the Fen Farm. 
 
 Not far from the door, Orchardson again paused. 
 
 ' If your mother is very sick,' he said, ' would it not 
 be better to seek holy aid ? I should be glad to see 
 some man of God by her bedside.' 
 
 Without replying. Christian strode on to the farm 
 door, pointed his companion in, and followed. But the 
 room where he had left his mother lying was empty, 
 and the chair was vacant. He turned and led the way 
 upstairs. On the landing above he encountered the old 
 man and woman his neighbours, and spoke to them in a 
 ^Yhisper. Then he pushed open a bedroom door, and 
 entered ; Orchardson followed close behind. 
 
 The room was dimly lit by an oil lamp, and on the 
 bed, stretched out in white, lay the corpse of Dame 
 Christiansen, stiff and cold. 
 
 At sight of the bed and its ghastly occupant, the 
 squire recoiled and uttered a cry. In a moment 
 Christian's powerful hand clutched his arm like a vice. 
 
 ' Look ! ' said Christian. 
 
 ' Merciful heaven ! she is dead ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, she is dead. I have brought you here to look 
 upon your work ; yours, and your son's. Tou killed 
 her. Tou killed my father first, then her. Nay, you 
 Bhall not stir.' 
 
 Pale as death, and trembling violently, Orchardson 
 tried to shake himself free and leave the room. 
 
 ' She died to-night,' said Christian, ' before I camo 
 to you ; and she died cursing you. Tou did not hear 
 her curse, but you shall hear mine. But first, where ia 
 Richard your son ? Tell me where he is, that I may 
 follow him, and avenge my mother and sister.' 
 
 ' What do you mean r Ton talk like a madmao. 
 Jjet me leave this place.' 
 
 ' Not till yon tell me where to find your son.' 
 
 ' He is far awaj.' 
 
TffS DEAD WOMAN. t4l 
 
 'WhefeP' 
 
 'I do not know. Release your hold, young man. 
 Yon are profaning your mother's death-chamber.' 
 
 He had struck the right note at last. With a wild 
 look at the dead figure on the bed, and a half-smothered 
 eob, Christian led the old man from the room, and down- 
 stairs into the hall ; thence into the gloomy chamber, 
 still lighted by a lamp, where his mother had died. 
 
 By this time Mr. Orchardson had recovered his self- 
 command. Looking keenly at Christian, and throwing 
 into his manner a certain sympathy of superiority, he 
 said with decision, 
 
 ' Ton have brought me here on a fool's errand, but 
 I am sorry for you. God knows I never wished any ill 
 to your mother. I would have been lenient to you all, 
 had you not driven me to desperation. Well, what 
 more have yon to say to me ? ' 
 
 ' Only this,' answered Christian : ' if you were not 
 an old man, yon should not leave this house to-night 
 alive. But you may go. My reckoning shall be with 
 your son.' 
 
 Mr. Orchardson walked towards the door ; then, as 
 if impelled by a sudden thought, he turned quickly, and 
 fixed his keen eyes on Christian's face. 
 
 *My son hath no reason to love you,' he said, 
 quietly ; ' but what evil hath he done you, that you 
 should hate him so ? ' 
 
 Christian did not reply, but met the old man's eye 
 with a look of terrible meaning. 
 
 ' My son is a gentleman,' continued Mr. Orchardson. 
 ' If you are thinking of the lying tales concerning him 
 and your unhappy sister, let me tell you that he is 
 innocent in that matter; nay, I have it from his own 
 lips that he is innocent. And even were he guilty as 
 you believe, 'tis but a boy's folly, and he would make 
 amends.' 
 
 With the swiftness and ferocity of a wild animal, 
 Christian crossed the room towards Mr. Orchardson, 
 who shrank back as if apprehending personal violence. 
 But though his clenched hands were raised trembling 
 in the air, he struck no blow. 
 
 'Your BOH hath betrayed my sister, and killed my 
 
1«3 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 motlier, who lieth yonder. No matter whero he k 
 hiding, I shall find him. No matter how long I maj 
 have to -wait, I shall kill him ; and I should Irill yovi, this 
 night for the wrong you did my father, if I did not 
 wish you to live to see my vengeance on your son— to 
 Bee him lying dead before you, killed by my hand.' 
 
 The old man. shrank back in horror, less at tho 
 words than at the expression on the speaker's face. 
 
 ' Wretch I ' he gasped, ' I will swear the peace 
 against you. The law ' 
 
 ' No law will save your son from me. It will be life 
 for life, and may God's curse blind me if I do not as I 
 have sworn. Now begone ! ' 
 
 Christian pointed to the door. With an exclamation, 
 half-angry, half-fearful, Mr. Orchardson shrank away 
 before the outstretched hand, and tottered out into the 
 night, closing the hall door with a crash behind him. 
 Reaching the gate beyond, he paused a moment, and 
 saw the dim light coming from the upper chamber 
 where the woman was lying dead. Then shocked and 
 shaken by what he had heard and seen, he made hia 
 way slowly back to the Willows. 
 
 Left to himself in the lower room, Christian fell into 
 a chair, and hid his face in his hands. For nearly 
 an hour he remained thus, a prey to his own wild 
 thoughts ; then he rose and walked back to the death- 
 chamber, and knelt down by his mother's side. 
 
 Early the next morning, after a night of little sleep, 
 Mr. Orchardson rose, and sitting down to hia desk, 
 wrote a long letter to his son. The letter contained, 
 much general matter; among it all, these warning 
 words : — 
 
 'AU this is as I have told you. As you love me, 
 keep away from the Willows yet awhile ; for the fool 
 is dangerous, and you can scarce guess the hate which 
 breedeth in his simple heart. He layeth his sister's 
 flight and his mother's death at our door. Look to 
 yourself, my dear Dick, should you meet; but nay, you 
 must not meet. And so, with many fond wishes that 
 your suit may thrive, farewell.' 
 
 To make aU safe and sure, Mr, Orchai-dson himself 
 
THE DEAD WOMAN. 14J 
 
 rode over to the neighbouring town with the letter con- 
 taining the above warning, and sent it by coach with hia 
 own hand. 
 
 The next few days were a dreary blank to Christian 
 Christianson. Like one in a dream he heard folk 
 coming and going ; saw the wooden coffin borne in at 
 the door ; went up afterwards and saw the waxen face 
 lying at peace within it ; sat for hours in the solemn 
 room ; finally, one sad day, heard the bell tolling, as he 
 followed the hand-bearers with their black burthen np 
 the hillside, through the village, to the green church- 
 yard. 
 
 In a dream still, he stood in his black cloak, bare- 
 beaded, by the open grave, and heard the loose mould 
 drip heavily on the coiEn wood. ' Ashes to ashes, dust 
 to dust ; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to 
 eternal life.' But no sweet pity, no thought of Divine 
 resurrection, filled his soul. All his thoughts were 
 turned one way — ^how to avenge his mother, how to set 
 right his sister's wrong by some sudden and desperate 
 deed. Then he too might die — the sooner the better. 
 
 His plans were all matured. To remain longer in 
 the place of his birth was poison to him. He had an 
 idea that all avoided him, that the story of his sister's 
 disgrace and the family dishonour turned every heart 
 against him ; whereas, if the truth must be told, his own 
 sullen suspicion and gloomy reticence were the causes 
 which prevented the neighbours from volunteering help 
 or sympathy. He hated the place, the familiar faces, 
 the common air and sunshine. He would go away, 
 never perhaps to return. 
 
 Meantime, while preparing to depart, he inquired 
 high and low, secretly but persistently, the whereabouts 
 of Richard Orchardson ; but no one could help him 
 Some said that the young man was upon the Continent ; 
 others that he was somewhere in the great city, of 
 London. Nor could he gain any tidings whatever of 
 PrisciUa and her father ; they too had vanished, with- 
 out leaving any trace. 
 
 In those days, when the daily newspaper was not 
 thought of, and when the electric telegraph was not 
 
tu GOV AND THE MAN. 
 
 even a dream, folk had not to wander far away if they 
 wished to leave their old lives entirely behind them. 
 Fifty mHes was as far away, to all intents and purposes, 
 as five times fifty is now. Tidings of those he sought 
 were not likely to be brought to Christian's ears. If 
 he wished to find them, he must follow them out into 
 the world, and trace them step by step. 
 
 This indeed he resolved to do, being too fiercely im- 
 patient to wait until his enemy might return home. He 
 scarcely knew his own heart yet — it was so clouded and 
 tortured by passion ; but in reality it was possessed by 
 two spirits — one of hate and the other of love. Come 
 what might, he had resolved to avenge the family, and 
 to have it out with Richard Orchardson, even to the 
 death ; but he was no less firmly bent on finding 
 Priscilla Sefton, the only vision of beauty and goodness 
 he had ever had on this dark earth. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 OH EOAED THE 'MILES STANDISH.' 
 
 In the autumn of the year of which we are writing, 
 there lay in the harbour basin of Southampton the good 
 ship Miles Stamdish, a barque of eight hundred tons 
 burden, laden with goods for the American market, 
 and having, moreover, accommodation for several cabin 
 passengers, besides a large party of emigrants bound to 
 New Eingland The skipper, Ezekiel Moses Higgin- 
 botham, of Salem, Massachusetts, was a shrewd New 
 Bnglander, of pious bearings ; and it was with no small 
 satisfaction that he reflected that the emigrant party 
 under his care were for the most part religiously dis- 
 posed agricultural labourers and farm servants, destined 
 to join a settlement of hard-working Moravians far in 
 the heart of the colony. 
 
 It was the evening before the day fixed for the 
 sailing of the vessel, and the sun was just setting in 
 golden splendour, after a day of unusual brightness and 
 
ON BOARD THE 'MILES STANDISH.' 145 
 
 magnificence. Under an awning stretched from stern 
 rail to companion of the vessel, sat two figures — one a 
 tall grey-headed man dressed somewhat like a clergy- 
 man, the other a girl in pensive black. They were the 
 Wesleyan preacher, Richard Sefton, and Priscilla his 
 daughter. 
 
 As they sat in the shadow, the old man looking 
 down, the girl gazing with hopeful eyes on the sunlit 
 light that covered the sparkling water, the numerous 
 shipping, and the rose-tinted town, there came from the 
 fore part of the ship the sound of an evening hymn, 
 sung by male and female voices to a quaint old tune. 
 Mr. Sefton listened well-pleased, while Priscilla, not 
 raising her voice, sang low in accompaniment, with a 
 happy BmUe. 
 
 When the song ceased, there came straddling to 
 them a long shambling figure, smoking a great cigar. 
 One eyelid was wide open, the other completely shut 
 owing to some injury to the nerve ; so that he was one- 
 eyed like Polyphemus ; but his countenance, brown aa 
 mahogany and tough as leather, was sufiBciently good- 
 humoured. 
 
 ' G-ood even, captain,' said Priscilla, smiling. 'Shall 
 we set sail early to-morrow ? ' 
 
 Captain E. M. Higginbotham answered with a nod. 
 
 * If so be the wind blows fair as it dew to-night, I 
 calculate we shall be out of sight of these shores afore 
 sunset; leastways if we can git a couple more hands 
 aboard, for two of our white men have bolted, and we 
 air short-handed as it is.' 
 
 As the skipper spoke, a boat shot alongside, and a 
 voice was heard hailing the vessel. In another minute 
 a light figure leapt on board, and approached the little 
 group near the companion. 
 
 With a cry, Priscilla recognised Eichard Orchardson, 
 clad in a dark suit of semi- nautical cut, and wearing a 
 broad-brimmed sailor's hat. He approached smiling. 
 
 'Father! it is young Mr. Orchardson. He hath 
 kept his promise, and come to bid us farewell.' 
 
 By this time Richard's hand was clasped in hers ; 
 and as the blind man rose to greet him, he exclaimed 
 eagerly, 
 
 I. 
 
■46 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' Nay, not farewell ! ' 
 
 • But we sail to-morrow,* said Priscilla. 
 
 'And, God willing, I will sail in your company, oa 
 you once besought me to do.' 
 
 Priscilla looked at him in astonishment. More than 
 once, indeed, when they had first discussed their plans 
 for accompanying the little colony to the States, it had 
 been hinted, more in jest than earnest, that young 
 Orchardson's help and company would be welcome ; but 
 Priscilla herself had never seriously thought of the 
 possibility. She knew the young man's love for her, 
 yet never calculated that it might lead him so great a 
 length. Not entirely vrith pleasure now did she look 
 into his eager face. 
 
 But Mr. Sefton reached out both hands, and took 
 those of Richard warmly. The young man knew his 
 foibles, and had humoured them so well that he was a 
 prime favourite. 
 
 ' Tou are welcome,' he said, ' and I think you have 
 decided wisely. But what saith your worthy father ? ' 
 
 ' He hath given me free leave to roam for a year,' 
 replied Richard. ' If you can show me how to help 
 the good cause, how to make myself helpful to the poor 
 folk under your care, I shall be heartily glad ; for, in- 
 deed, I am sick of an idle life, and would fain be of 
 some use in the world.' 
 
 Mr. Sefton nodded approvingly; and it was soon 
 settled, by a reference to the skipper, who stood looking 
 on phlegmatically, that Richard should take passage in 
 the Miles Standish. So the seamen hoisted up his 
 luggage from the boat, which still floated alongside, 
 and descending to the skipper's private cabin, he paid 
 his passage-money and reoeiyed an acknowledgment in 
 writing about as legible as a cuneiform inscription. 
 
 Returning to the deck, Richard found Priscilla 
 leaning over the vessel's side, and looking shoreward. 
 Her face was shadowed, and she scarcely turned her 
 eyes towards him as he approached. 
 
 ' Are you angry that I came ? ' he asked in a low 
 voice. 
 
 'Why should I be angry P ' 
 
 *I had thought you might be pleased. For miue 
 
ON BOARD THE ' MILES STANDISH.' 147 
 
 own part, I could not dwell content in the land when 
 you were gone.' 
 
 She turned her face to his, with a searching look. 
 ' You are not frank with my father,' she said. ' You 
 make him believe that you would serve God, and good 
 Master Wesley's cause, but you care for neither.' 
 
 He answered, with a peculiar smile, ' Sweetheart, I 
 csare for both — ^for your dear sake.' 
 
 She stamped her little foot upon the deck, in positive 
 anger. 
 
 'Go back to your father,' she cried; 'your place 
 is with him, and with your English kinsmen. Why 
 should you follow us? We shall never perchance 
 return to England, and you only waste your time. It is 
 I whom you follow, not my father ; and I shall be better 
 content 3 you do not come.' 
 
 So she spoke, with cheek half averted from him ; 
 and never had she looked more winsome and fair. The 
 dying light of day lingered upon her cheek and on her 
 hair, while Richard, with dark eyes fixed upon her, 
 leaned upon the bulwark, smiling to himself at her petu- 
 lance, and feeling certain that it would soon pass away. 
 There was a pause. Finding she did not speak 
 again, he said quietly, 
 
 * If it be A sin to forsake father, country, kinsmen, 
 for the sake of one dearer than all, then in sooth I am 
 to blame. To be near you, Priscilla, I would wander to 
 the world's end. But do not think that I will fret you 
 with my society. Unless you wish it, I will never come 
 near your presence. I shall be content to sail in. the 
 same ship, under the same sky, with one so dear ; and if 
 God should BO will it, — which God Himself forbid ! — to 
 sink with you to the same deep rest.' 
 
 Priscilla trembled as she listened. Could it be 
 Richard Orchardson who was speaking ? The words 
 seemed so unlike any she had heard from him, — 
 more earnest, solemn, and truthful, less flippant and 
 self-confident. Had Christian Christiansen been the 
 speaker, she could have understood ; for he had often 
 used such language, or language as deeply earnest. 
 Bat, indeed, Richard Orchardson was for the time in 
 earnest too. Had she Jsnown more of the world, she 
 L S 
 
litS GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 would have been aware that even light men have their 
 solemn moods ; and that, given time, place, and occasion, 
 even a hypocrite or a self-lover may be honestly and 
 unselfishly moved. Just then, Richard Orchardson, 
 despite his characteristic self-pride and heartlessness, 
 felt indeed a lover, who had sacrificed the world for his 
 mistress' sake, and was ready to follow her in all the 
 chivalry of fearless manhood. The girl's beantiful 
 presence, the dreamy scene, the deepening twilight, the 
 soft voices of the sea, had all their temporary spell upon 
 him. It is idle to think that such things have witchery 
 for only good men ; they influence the bad and ignoble 
 also ; nay, even brute beasts feel them, blindly feeling 
 upward to speech and soul. 
 
 What could Priscilla say? She could scarcely 
 blame the man for loving her so much ; and there was 
 something in his devotion which touched her heart. 
 She made one last appeal to him not to leave England. 
 ' Ask anything but that,' he said ; and she yielded per- 
 force, frankly teUing him, however, that if he hoped to 
 win her love, he hoped in vain, 
 
 ' Because you love another,' he cried eagerly, think- 
 ing of his enemy. 
 
 ' Because I love no man,' she answered simply ; and 
 with that answer his vanity was quite content. 
 
 The Seftons, we may explain at this point, were not 
 leaving England with the view of never returning. 
 They were simply accompanying the emigrants, who 
 were mainly Moravian converts, to the colony, to ex- 
 EUnine the ground there, and see how much more good 
 might be done by sending out further emigrants in the 
 future. It was a scheme in which the great Mr. Wesley 
 was himself interested ; and Mr. Sef ton had contributed 
 largely to the necessary funds. So the blind man and 
 his daughter were sent, in a quasi-ofl&cial way, to be the 
 shepherd and shepherdess of the outgoing flock ; and 
 then, when the work was done, to return for similar 
 work elsewhere. 
 
 That evening, the skipper of the Mile* Standish 
 towed ashore, and, accompanied by his chief mate, a 
 
OJV BOARD THB 'MILES STAND/SB.' 149 
 
 little hard-grained Tankee, began beating the slums of 
 Southampton, m the hope of making up his cre-w. Bat 
 good men were scarce, and even bad ones were not to 
 be had for the mere asking. 
 
 ' I reckon we shall have to sail short-handed after 
 all,' cried Cap'lain Higginbotham, scratching his head. 
 
 He was standing at the door of a dingy public-house 
 on the waterside, surveyed at a respectful distance by 
 divers landsharks and waterside characters, who took 
 no little delight in his dilemma. In company with his 
 mate, he had beaten up every possible lodging-house 
 and drinking den in the town, without any definite 
 result whatever. 
 
 As he spoke, there stood before him a tall muscular 
 figure, dressed in a slop seaman's suit, very like those 
 which were dangling for sale over the doors of nearly 
 all the low outfitting shops in the town. On his head 
 he wore a rough seaman's cap, round his throat a 
 rough muffler was loosely thrown. He had a loose 
 shambling gait, characteristic of the waterside loafer, 
 and when he spoke, he shuffled with his feet, and 
 looked upon the ground. 
 
 ' Waal, where do you hail from ? ' growled the 
 skipper, looking at him contemptuously. 
 
 ' I've heard as how you're short-handed,' said the 
 man, with a strong country accent, ' and I thought ' 
 
 ' Waal, what might you happen to think ? ' asked 
 khe captain. 
 
 ' I thought as how I might serve.' 
 
 The captain surveyed the speaker leisurely, be- 
 ginning with his feet, and lifting his gaze slowly, inch 
 by inch, till it met a pair of deep-set eyes, intensely 
 bright and keen. Then he shook his head. 
 
 ' Don't try it on with me, stranger,' he said. ' You 
 won't suit.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 ' 'Cause I guess you're no more a salt-water sailor 
 than that theer pump-handle.' 
 
 ' How do you know that ? ' asked the man, with tha 
 ghost of a smile on his cheek. 
 
 ' By the voice of yon, by the rigs of yon, and by 
 the cut of your precious jib. Let's fed of your hands ! 
 
ijo con AI^D THE MAN. 
 
 Theer ! Call tiat a sailor's paw ! Why, you're a land- 
 lubber, and never smelb green water.' 
 
 ' And if BO be I am,' persisted the man, ' why 
 shouldn't I smell it now P Lookee, skipper ! I'm strong 
 and I'm young, I can row and sail a boat, and I'm 
 willing to work my way out for my keep, if so be you'll 
 take me.' 
 
 The skipper was about to give another grim negative, 
 when the mate caught him by the sleeve and whispered 
 in his ear. The two talked in a low voice together for 
 Home minutes, then the captain turned sharply to the 
 volunteer, and fixed him with his one eye. 
 
 ' Tou mean it, stranger ? ' 
 
 ' Tes, I want to get out to the colony.' 
 
 ' Wheer might you be raised, and what's your name ?' 
 
 ' I was born and christened in Essex county, and 
 
 my name ' here the man hesitated a moment, but 
 
 continued boldly, ' my name's John Dyson.' 
 
 ' We sail to-morrow morning, first tide.' 
 
 ' Soon as you like, skipper.' 
 
 ' Then I'm your man, John Dyson. I'll hev you, and 
 chaw my head off if I don't make a sailor on you, some- 
 how. Dew you say done ? ' 
 
 'Done.' 
 
 ' Done it is,' said the captain, aud held out his homy 
 hand. 
 
 Late that evening, when the town was asleep, the 
 captain, well-primed with liquor and tolerably well con- 
 tented, entered his gig, followed by the new seaman, 
 carrying a small canvas bag of necessaries. As they 
 rowed out through the dark basin, with its twinkling 
 lights, the stranger volunteered a question. 
 
 ' Skipper ? ' 
 
 ' Waal ? ' 
 
 ' I've heerd there's a blind man aboard your ship, — 
 $k blind man and his daughter.' 
 
 ' And if there is, you lubber, what then ? ' 
 
 ' Nought ; it is no affair of mine, only I thought ' 
 
 ' Hold your jaw,' growled the captaiu. ' Guess wa 
 don't ship you to think, but to pull ropes. Never yot 
 mind my passengers ; your job's afore the mast, and 
 you'll hev to look alive aboard any ship of mine.' 
 
ON BOARD THE ' MtLES STANDISIV 151 
 
 A few minutes afterwards the new hand stepped oa 
 board, and was roughly ordered off to the forecastle. 
 
 As he stood on the fore part of the vessel alone in 
 the darkness, his manner changed, and casting off for 
 the moment his awkward attitude, he stood erect and 
 listened ; while from the distant cabin there came the 
 sound of a woman's voice singing. 
 
 'I was right after all,' he muttered to himself; 
 'she is here — he hath followed her: I have only to 
 watch and wait.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 OUTWAED BOUND. 
 
 Early the next day, the good ship Miles Standiah, with 
 free sheets and all sail set, was slipping with a fair wind 
 down the English Channel, with her bowsprit pointing 
 almost due westward, and the low- lying shores of England 
 lying dark and dim on the starboard side. The breeze 
 was light, yet firm, the smooth billows just darkened by 
 a pleasant ripple, the skies overhead blue and light, 
 and the air sunny. 
 
 She was not a brilliant sailer, the Miles Standish, 
 and was without splendid accomplishments or beauty 
 of any kind ; but she did her work in a sober, settled, 
 business-like fashion, that showed she could be de- 
 pended upon in all kinds of weather. Though she was 
 well laden, she carried her cargo easily, and there, in the 
 open ocean highway, where vessels of all sorts and sizes 
 were going and coming, she held her own, running with 
 many clippers of her own tonnage, and would have 
 proved a laggard only in the event of a long beat to 
 windward. 
 
 Priscilla Sefton stood on deck, and looked with 
 pleased eyes on the radiant scene around her : ponderous 
 merchantmen, beating clumsily homeward towards the 
 silvery mouth of the Thames ; fishing-boats and coasting 
 cutters, darting to and fro like happy wildfowl ; here 
 
I5S GOD J.ND TITB MAN. 
 
 and there a snowy-sailed gunboat or formidable man. 
 of-war's man, with closed portholes like clenched teeth ; 
 and sail of all degrees and sizes, running with the Milea 
 Stcmdish along the smooth watery highway to the west. 
 It was her first real experience of the beauties of the 
 sea ; for though she had more than once crossed the 
 narrow Channel in a sailing packet, it had generally been 
 at night, or in snch weather as made clear-headed ob- 
 servation impracticable, not to say impossible. So she 
 was like a happy child. She had no such tender ties 
 in England as conld make her sad or homesick, and if 
 she thought now of Christian Christiansen, it was as of 
 a pleasant friend, whom she might or might not meet 
 again, but whose life in any case was complete without 
 any new contact with her own. 
 
 Alas ! how little did she know that the blind Sisters 
 were weaving their tangled thread to confuse her pretty 
 dreams and plans ! How little did she guess that on 
 board that very ship were lurking the two elements of 
 love and hate, by which her fate was destined to bo 
 determined for joy or sorrow ! 
 
 ' Are you sorry to leave England ? ' asked Eichard 
 Orrhardson, coming near her as she leant over the bul- 
 warks and looked landward. ' For my part, I should 
 not care if it sank for ever beneath the sea, so that I 
 had the green water to look on, this good ship to sail 
 in, and you to keep me company till the end of time.' 
 
 ' And your father ? ' said Priscilla, smiling. ' Ton 
 forget that he abides in the land and would sink with it.' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid ! ' cried Richard quickly. ' I did 
 indeed forget the dear old man ! But as for dreary 
 England, for the place where I was bom, never did I 
 hate it so much as now.' 
 
 ' And I love it ! ' returned Priscilla, looking with 
 dreamy eyes at the faint line of the English shore. ' \ 
 love England, and English folk. I shonld not like to 
 die afar. I think my ghost would rise, and speed across 
 the seas to the dear old land.' 
 
 ' Nay, but all lands are alike, when those we hold 
 dear are with ns.' 
 
 ' I do not think that,' answered Priscilla simply, no* 
 heeding the tender tone or noting the WE^rm look with 
 
OUTWARD BOUND. ijj 
 
 which fcho words had been accompanied. ' A good man 
 loves hia dear ones first, and then his home, how poor 
 soever it be, and then his country ; and he who loves 
 the last best, doth often love the others most.' 
 
 Richard flushed nervously, for something in the 
 little speech sounded like a reproach. In Priscilla's 
 presence, deeply as he enjoyed its charm, he was never 
 quite free from the irritation a somewhat ignoble dis-. 
 position must ever experience beneath the spell of an 
 ingenuous nature. This irritation, instead of gene- 
 rating a noble shame, vented itself in the dark workings 
 of the strong personal passion which filled the young 
 man's soul. 
 
 That day passed, and when night came, the weather 
 was still exquisitely calm. The shores of England had 
 faded away into the sea, leaving in their stead, on the 
 dark sea-line, clusters of splendid stars ; and all around, 
 and overhead, the arches of heaven were hung with 
 luminous lamps, and in the west the moon was large and 
 round as a shield, strewing the glassy swell with pal. 
 pitating beams. 
 
 Richard Orchardson had chosen hia opportunity 
 well. By joining PriscUla on board ship, by becoming 
 of necessity her constant companion and fellow-pas- 
 senger, he was likely to find ample means of reaching 
 her heart. And now, on this first night of the voyage, 
 when the very breaking of the sea seemed full of un- 
 satisfied yearning, and the glowing heavens bright with 
 love, Pinscilla and he were again alone together. If 
 with the very elements as accomphces he could not 
 gain her sympathetic attention, then surely his suit was 
 hopeless. 
 
 Hopeless indeed it seemed. Directly he touched 
 npon the theme of love, Priscilla drew her hand away 
 from, his (he had taken it in the fervour of some fond 
 protesting speech) and said, ' Good-night.' 
 
 ' Good-night ! ' he repeated. 
 
 ' Yes ; now you begin again to talk foolishly, I will 
 not stay. I was right, after all. Tou would have dong 
 better to have remained in England.' 
 
 ' Nay, but hearken ! ' 
 
 ' Tou have broken yottr promise.' 
 
IS4 COD AND THE MAN. 
 
 'HowP' 
 
 ' Not to fret me with speaking ag no otter man hath 
 dared to speak. Well, I was right. Yon had better 
 have remained at home.' 
 
 So saying, she left him and went below. 
 
 Scarcely had she left the deck, when a figure flitted 
 past Richard's side, and disappeared in the direction of 
 the forecastle. 
 
 The green hand, John Dyson, found himself among 
 a rough lot forward. The forecastle itself wag a foul, ill- 
 smelling hole, dark as a tomb, and impure as a charnel- 
 house, and itg occupants were for the most part old 
 sea-dogs, with scarcely an idea in the world beyond 
 seamanship and rum. 
 
 At first these choice spirits seemed to resent the 
 intrusion of a green band among them, evincing their 
 humour by a series of jokes more practical than pro- 
 found, and in every way the reverse of delicate. On 
 discovering, however, that John Dyson, ;lihough a quiet, 
 retiring person, was inclined to resent such liberties, or 
 to retaliate in the same humorous spirit by knocking 
 one or two of the jokers' heads together, the choice 
 spirits thought better of it. They perceived that John 
 Dyson was a very harmless shipmate if let alone, but 
 that he was very far from harmless when strangers en- 
 croached too far. In point of physical strength, he was 
 a match for any two men in the ship ; in point of 
 determination and courage he was equal in an emer- 
 gency to the whole crew. 
 
 His work lay before the mast, and he seemed to 
 prefer that it shonld be there. Natnrally qnick and 
 energetic, he was soon able to hold his own with the 
 other seamen, and his great physical strength gave him 
 an additional advantage. So that the worthy captain 
 and his mate were not long before they congratulated 
 each other on having shipped John Dyson. 
 
 One peculiarity of the new hand they could not fail 
 to remark ; he was careless to indifference of his life, 
 and whenever there was any dangerous duty to be per- 
 formed below, or aloft, he was the first to undertake it. 
 
 Four days after the ship left port, she was tossing ia 
 
OUTWARD BOUND, 155 
 
 an ocean black as ink, and tliere was heard on every 
 side the ominous sound of rising wind and water. An 
 order was given to double reef topsails, and among 
 those who ran up the rigging like wild cats, John Dyson 
 was foremost. 
 
 As he hung out on the extreme edge of the fore- 
 topmast yard, with the sail belching and bellowing and 
 thundering around him, and the wild canvas struggling 
 like a living thing in the clutch of his hand, he saw far 
 below him on the deck the form of Priscilla Sefton, 
 Branding near to the companion. The vessel gave a 
 great lurch, and he saw her stagger on the dock, 
 but before she could fall or leave her place, Eichard 
 Orohardson had sprung forward and caught her in hia 
 arms. 
 
 The next minute there was a loud cry forward, ' A 
 man overboard ! ' 
 
 John Dyson heard the cry, as the wild water, with a 
 thunderous roar, surged up around him, stunned him, 
 and sucked him down. In the eagerness of his gaze 
 downward, he had relaxed his hold and fallen — prone 
 into the sea. 
 
 For a moment he seemed to lose consciousness. 
 Then he found himself straggling and choking on the 
 summit of a great wave, looking after the ship, which 
 seemed to stand stationary like a cloud, while he was 
 swept away before the waves. 
 
 He heard the cry — he saw the faces clustering at the 
 side ; among them he recognised, or seemed to recog- 
 nise, her face, white and fearful ; then he sank down 
 into the trough of the sea, and saw nothing but flying 
 foam and roaring water. 
 
 Fortunately, he was a strong swimmer. Instinctively 
 he struck out for life. Rising like a cork on the crest of 
 the next wave, he saw the schooner's sails telling out 
 before the wind, and saw her sweeping round. Then 
 the waters sucked him down into the trough again, and 
 he was washed on. 
 
 Strangely enough, his head was quite clear. He 
 felt hia danger,. but was more or less indifferent to it, 
 though the mere instinct of self-preservation made him 
 Hse what skill he possessed in keeping afloat, 
 
I5« GOD AND TBB MAN. 
 
 Presently, after he had almost given np the hope of 
 Bucconr, he saw the schooner bearing down towards him 
 under the lightest of canvas. As she came nearer, 
 passing within a ship's length of him, he saw again the 
 faces thronging against her side. A shout rose in the 
 air — faint and far-off It seemed, like a voice from a 
 mountain-top, and he knew that he was seen. 
 
 The vessel sped past, and then, having done so, was 
 brought up to the wind to leeward of him. Every wash 
 of the waters now swept him nearer and nearer to it, but 
 he struck out firmly, and partly impelled by his own 
 strength, partly driven by the surging waves, swam for 
 life. 
 
 The rest seemed darkness and confusion. He heard 
 the waters roaring, saw the vessel looming above him, 
 (vhile human voices sounded faintly from its decks ; 
 then, blinded by the salt surge and choking spray, he 
 clutched a rope which was flung to him and over him — 
 and in another minute was drawn on deck, dripping like 
 a rough-coated water-dog. 
 
 Priscilla had been an eyewitness of everything, from 
 the moment that the alarm was raised to the moment 
 when the man was drawn back on deck. She had 
 watched the water wildly, scarcely distinguishing the 
 living shape upon it, until, as the rope was thrown, she 
 had caught the glimpse of a wild wave-washed form, a 
 gasping upturned face, and waving arms. As for the 
 face, it was only dimly perceptible, covered with tangled 
 hair, foam.hespattered, and changed almost beyond 
 recognition. 
 
 But when they had drawn the man on board, she 
 would have stepped forward to Icok at him, and perhaps 
 speak to him, had not Richard interposed. 
 
 ' You had better stop here,' he said, 'they are a rough 
 lot before the mast.' 
 
 ' Nay, but the poor man may need succour yet. If 
 I may not go to him, do you go in my place, and tell 
 him ' 
 
 Just at that moment the skipper came aft, after 
 having made his inspection of the rescued man. Pris- 
 cilla questioned him at once, and received from his own 
 
OUTIVASD BOUND, 157 
 
 lips the asBnranoe that there was no canae for further 
 alarm. 
 
 ' The man's all right, I calculate,' said the skipper, 
 phlegmatioally. ' Ton see he's a land- lubber, and I 
 guess it's his first salt-water bath, but he can swim like 
 a fish, and he's none the worse. Don't yon fret yourself 
 about him ! ' 
 
 So Priscilla did not go forward. Had she done so 
 she would have seen John Dyson standing near the fore« 
 castle hntch, wet and bewildered, but otherwise much 
 the same as before he fell into the sea. In one particular 
 only was he changed. The men noted it, whispered 
 abont it among themselves, and laughed in a puzzled 
 sort of way. 
 
 Before he had fallen into the sea, he had worn a 
 beard. Now, curiously enough, no sign of a beard was 
 to be seen. 
 
 The sea had washed it away ! 
 
 It was a noticeable fact that after that day John 
 Dyson grew suUener and stranger than ever. When he 
 came on deck next morning, his face was strangely dis- 
 figured ; one of his eyes was terribly blackened, and 
 there was an ugly bruise upon his mouth, obliterating 
 the natural expression entirely. 
 
 The mate cocked his eye at him, but made no 
 remark — the marks seemed the natural consequence of 
 the accident ; but the men shook their heads, and 
 winked significantly at one another. 
 
 Later on in the day the boatswain accosted the mate. 
 
 ' Queer customer, this green hand. Have yon ob- 
 served his figurehead ? ' 
 
 The mate nodded, and the boatswain continued : 
 
 ' Well, a fall into the sea don't mark like that. He's 
 niude those marks hisself.' 
 
 ' What the thunder do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Wore a false beard when he went overboard, and 
 came back clean shaven. Put those cuts and bruises on 
 with his own hand, I guess.' 
 
 The mate cogitated for a moment, then gave a hoarse 
 chuckle. 
 
 • What d'ye make of it P ' he asked. 
 
158 eOD AND THE MAS. 
 
 ' Some one wants him, I s'pose, and he's feared u' 
 being known.' 
 
 ' Well, it's no consarn of ours. We've shipped him, 
 and he does his work like a sailor. But keep your eyo 
 on him, for all that.' 
 
 That very night, as Captain Higginbotham issned 
 from below, he saw a figure crouching on the deck, and 
 gazing eagerly down through the skylight — ^into the 
 cabin where Priscilla, her father, and Bichard Orchard- 
 son were seated at the evening meal. 
 
 ' Who's there ? ' cried the skipper. 
 
 Without answering the figure began to move towards 
 the fore part of the ship. 
 
 ' Who's there — d'ye hear ? ' repeated the skipper, 
 striding forward and gripping the figure by the shonlder, 
 ' What, John Dyson ! What d'ye mean by skulking 
 about aft ? ' 
 
 John Dyson made no reply. 
 
 ' Jest you go forward, and mind this — your place ia 
 before the mast.' 
 
 Still silent, John Dyson glided back to his place 
 among the men, while the captain, with a suspicious 
 sh&ke of the head^ watched him disappear. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 'JOHH DYSON.' 
 
 Halp-wat across the Atlantic, the Milet 8tcmd4,sh en- 
 countered the storm-winds of the autumnal equinox, 
 and for several days and nights captain and crew had 
 all their work before them in keeping the little vessel 
 snug. The small party of Wesleyan emigrants lay sick 
 amidships, Mr. Sefton kept his berth, and Priscilla 
 scarcely left her cabin. During this period, Richard 
 was assiduous in his attentions on both father and 
 daughter. 
 
 On the third morning of the storm, Richard went 
 on deck, and found the ship lying-to with just enough 
 canvas set to keep her steady, on a sea as white aa 
 
*yOBN DYSOS.' S99 
 
 sno'wdrift, and under skies as black as ink. Dawn was 
 just breaking, witb wild wind and rain. 
 
 Clinging to the companion, with the spray breaking 
 over him, Richard looked along the decks and saw tho 
 watch gathered forward, fresh from talcing in more sail. 
 Apart from them stood a powerful figure, clinging to 
 the forerigging, and looking to windward. 
 
 Biichard started. He could not see the man's face, 
 bnt something in the figure seemed curiously familiar. 
 He only knew one man in the world so powerfully 
 &<shioned, and that man was Christian Christianson. 
 
 The man turned, and their eyes met, 
 
 Richard was troubled anew ; for the face, save that 
 it was greatly disfigured and distorted, bore a certain 
 resemblance to that of his old enemy. The eyes espe- 
 cially, with their deep determined light, were strangely 
 like those of Christianson. 
 
 After a momentary gaze, the man turned his head 
 away, and looked again at the sea. Richard smiled 
 at his own fears. Doubtless there was a strong physical 
 resemblance between the strange sailor and Christian- 
 son ; but the latter was in England, safe and far away. 
 He cast another scrutinising look at the wild, rudely- 
 dressed figure, then he turned to the captain, who stood 
 by the man at the wheel. 
 
 ' Can you tell me that man's name ? ' he inquired 
 carelessly. 'The tall man with the bruises upon his 
 face ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. That's one of our extra hands, John Dyson.' 
 
 • An Englishman ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and a good sailor he is, though a green hand. 
 Seems to interest you, I guess ? ' 
 
 Richard glanced forward, and saw that the man, 
 though seemingly occupied at some of the ropes, was 
 still looking stealthily in his direction. 
 
 ' He is very like some one I used to know, that's all.* 
 
 ' Waal,' said the skipper phlegmatically, ' I calculate 
 he ain't much good. My mate tells me queer tales 
 about him, and I reckon he must be some gaol-bird 
 that has flown out of the stone cage. But that's no 
 business of mine ; I shipped him, and he does Iiis work 
 like a man.' 
 
1(50 GOD ATfD Tim MAN. 
 
 Richard cast another nervous look at the sailor, who 
 still stood in the same position, obviously watchful. Was 
 it possible ? Could it indeed be Christian Christianson, 
 masquerading for some dark purpose of his own ? The 
 idea seemed preposterous, and Richard soon dismissed 
 it. Nevertheless, the resemblance troubled him, and 
 gave rise to a certain watchful uneasiness. 
 
 His first strong impulse was to speak to Priscilla, 
 and direct her attention to the person calling himself 
 John Dyson. 
 
 On reflection, however, he felt that it might be 
 unwise, for the sake of a very foolish suspicion, to 
 recall to her the memory of one who had been a 
 dangerous rival. For all he knew, that rival was alto- 
 gether forgotten, and the longer he remained so the 
 more likely was his own passionate suit to thrive. 
 
 At last the equinoctial storm abated, and was suc- 
 ceeded, as is so often the case, by an interval of sunny 
 weather. The troubled sea became smooth as glass 
 and bright as gold, the wind died gradually away, the 
 ekies grew cloudless and clear. 
 
 Then Priscilla came on deck again, adding sunshine 
 to the sunshine. 
 
 No sooner did she do so, than Richard looked for 
 the strange sailor. He was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 Nor did Richard fail to remark afterward that 
 whenever Priscilla was on deck John Dyson was 
 invisible. Whether by set design or accident, he in- 
 variably happened to be out of the way. 
 ' Sweet is sunshine after stotm.' 
 Those were pleasant days, those now spent upon the 
 sea : pleasant, that is, to Priscilla Sefton. She was 
 able to sit constantly on the deck, look at the sparkling 
 blue water, and dream. 
 
 Now for the first time her thoughts scanned the 
 past, and tried to unravel the pleasant mystery of the 
 future. It was the past which troubled her most, 
 however; it was to those many and stormy episodes 
 in the valley of Brightlinghead that her thoughts most 
 persistently returned ; and as she did so the face of 
 Christian Christianson, almost forgotten for a space, 
 tionstantly flashed before her dreamy eyes. 
 
• JOHN DYSOlf: t6l 
 
 While she had been with him Priscilla had caught 
 too much of the whirlwind of his passion to be able to 
 analyse her own feelings regarding him — she only knew 
 that for his faults she seemed ever ready to make 
 excuses. Then his strange passion had alarmed her, 
 and she had fled, -with a quiet prayer upon her lips, 
 that under brighter and happier circumstances the 
 two might some day meet again. Would that prayer 
 ever be answered? would it ever again be her lot to 
 stand as she had stood upon the silent sea-shore — feel 
 his strong hand grasping her own, and hear his voice, 
 saying, ' PriscUla, I love you ! ' 
 
 Love her ! ah yes, he did love her very much, she 
 was sure of that ; and now she acknowledged to herself, 
 what she had never dared acknowledge to him, that hia 
 love had been, in a measure, returned. 
 
 One night, during the fine weather, a curious cir- 
 cumstance happened, one which for the time completely 
 shattered Priscilla's dream, and made her even more 
 uneasy as to what might be going on far away. 
 
 Evening prayer was over, most of the emigrants had 
 retired for the night, when PrisciUa, feeling restless 
 and singularly waieful, went up on deck to enjoy the 
 fresh air and muse for a few minutes alone. 
 
 She walked for a time up and down the deck ; 
 then she paused, and, leaning on the bulwarks, looked 
 down into the sea. The night was well advanced, 
 but she could see the glimmering of the waves, deep 
 down, by the light of the moon and a brilliantly starlit 
 sky. 
 
 She stood for a time looking down, then her dreami- 
 ness passed away ; she raised her head, and was about 
 to turn and contiaue her walk, when a shiver ran 
 through her frame, her hand grasped nervously at the 
 woodwork at her side, and her eyes gazed full into the 
 eyes of an apparition ! 
 
 Standing a few paces away, with his melancholy 
 eyes fixed on hers, his face deathly pale, was Christian 
 Christianson. 
 
 Was it dream or reality ? Priscilla could not teU. 
 The shock was so sudden that she completely lost hei 
 habitual self-control, and uttered a terrified scream. 
 
 u 
 
1&3 COD AND THE MAN, 
 
 The next moment the face and form which the 
 moonlight had revealed to her with such terrible dis- 
 tinctness were nowhere to be seen. 
 
 But her scream brought assistance: in a moment 
 she was surrounded with eager inquiries. The captain 
 bent his one eye upon her, and roughly but kindly 
 patted her cold, trembling hand; Richard Orchardson 
 stood by, eager to offer more substantial comfort : but 
 to none of these would Prisoilla give a detailed explana- 
 tion of what had taken place. 
 
 ' Perchance it was only a fancy,' she said. * Me- 
 thought I saw the spirit of one who is far away. But 
 I will go down to my father, and I will not disturb you 
 with my foolish fancies again.' 
 
 The captain, who was inclined to make allowances 
 for the hysterical tendencies of women, accepted this 
 explanation and thought of the matter no more ; but 
 Richard Orchardson was of a more inquiring mind, and 
 consequently was not so easily satisfied. Long after 
 Priscilla had bidden all a sweet good-night, and shot 
 herself in her cabin, he walked the deck trying to un- 
 ravel the mystery. 
 
 In vain ; without Priscilla's aid he could never know 
 what had taken place that night. 
 
 All that night, sleep was a stranger to Prisoilla 
 Sefton's pillow ; now, more than ever, her thoughts 
 wandered back to the village from which she was 
 flying ; and her brain conjured up the picture of the 
 pale sad face which she had seen so vividly in vision. 
 How very pale and sad it had looked : how reproach- 
 fully the eyes had gazed at her. Even now, as she looked 
 and listened, she seemed to hear his voice calling to 
 her across the sea, and her tender heart was full of self- 
 reproach. * It was cowardly cruel of me to leave him,' 
 she said ; * if I had stayed, with God's help I might 
 have saved him ; but now — nay, the Lord only knows 
 what he may become ! ' 
 
 Though the memory of the strange apparition 
 haunted her, she resolved to speak of it to no one : and 
 for a time she kept her resolve ; at length, however, 
 the terror of it — the harassing thoughts of what it 
 might portend, grew so strong upon her, that ehe felt 
 
^ JOHN DYSON.' 163 
 
 she ootdd keep silent no longer, and she spoke of it to 
 Erichard Orchardson. 
 
 The two were seated together during the twilight 
 on a secluded part of the deck. Priscilla had an open 
 book upon her lap. Richard was finishing the perusal 
 of an old letter, which he had received from home just 
 before sailing. Having read it slowly through, he 
 folded up the closely-written sheet, and put it into 
 his pocket. Then bending forward he looked into tha 
 g^irl's pale thoughtful face. 
 
 'I must crave your forgiveness,' he said, quietly; 
 ' my father sent many messages to you, and until this 
 day I have forgot to deliver them.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' answered Priscilla, quietly ; ' he was al- 
 ways good and kind to me, and I thank him from my 
 heart. I hope that when he wrote he was well and 
 happy.' 
 
 'Yes, he was well, and seeing that he was alone, 
 tolerably happy.' 
 
 'He should not be alone,' answered Priscilla, 
 gravely. ' He had only you, you should hav^tayed 
 with him like a good son — since you had no serious 
 business or holy errand to take you away.' 
 
 For a time the two were silent ; then the young 
 man spoke again. 
 
 'Priscilla, would you like to hear what my good 
 father said ? ' 
 
 ' Assuredly, if it is well for me to hear it.' 
 
 ' Then listen : " I am dull, dear Dick — ^very dull 
 and sad ; but I would bear it all right gleefully if I 
 could but look forward to the day when you would 
 come back to me, with PrisciUa Sefton for my daughter 
 and your wife ! " ' 
 
 ' He did not say that ! ' 
 
 ' Assuredly, he did.' 
 
 ' Then you should not have told me. Nay, do not 
 speak of it ; if you do, I shall keep my word and never 
 tnist you again.' 
 
 ' Then I will speak of it no more.' 
 
 Again they were silent ; this time Priscilla was the 
 first to speak. 
 
 'Did your father give you no news?' she asked 
 21 2 
 
f64 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 quietly ; ' hath he not spoken in that letter of any one 
 I know P' 
 
 'He has mentioned many; of whom were you 
 thinking most particularly, Mistress Priscilla ?' 
 
 She paused a moment, then replied, 
 
 ' Of the Christiansons, of Fen Farm ! ' 
 
 How dark the man's face grew ! for a moment he 
 almost hated the Uttle demure figure at his side. 
 
 ' Why do you ask for fh&m ? ' 
 
 'Because I am interested in them, and because 1 
 fear that since I left the village some harm hath surety 
 come to them.' 
 
 ' Why do you think that, Priscilla ? ' 
 
 ' I will tell you. Tou heard me cry out the other 
 night — ^and I am sure you have since wondered where- 
 fore. Well, you shall know now. 'Twas because I did 
 suddenly see the face of poor Christian Christiansen, 
 as plainly as I see yours now ! ' 
 
 ' His face ! where P ' 
 
 ' On this vessel. The moonlight was strong and 
 bright, it fell full upon the face. It made it so strange 
 and clear, that had I been on land I should have sworn 
 that I had seen the living man.' 
 
 ' A foolish fancy ! Good heavens, you cannot think 
 it more ! ' 
 
 Priscilla smiled quietly. 
 
 ' That is a strange question,' she said. ' How could 
 it be aught else, when we both know poor Christian to 
 be hundreds of miles away ? But the memory of that 
 strange vision troubles me, and makes me think that 
 something terrible may have happened since I came 
 here ! ' 
 
 'Priscilla!' 
 
 ' Well, my friend.' 
 
 ' Be advised by me — try to forget BrightUnghead — 
 and, above all, think of Christian Christiansen — no 
 more! ' 
 
 ' Why do you tell me to forget my friends ? ' 
 
 'Because I have your welfare at heart — because I 
 wish to shield you from harm.' 
 
 ' Which might come to me through Christian 
 Ohristianson ? ' 
 
'yOHN DYSON.' i6j 
 
 'Which will come to yon, to ns both, through him, 
 tf we ever cross his path again. He hateth both me and 
 mine with bitter, nndying hatred — as meaningless as it 
 is strong. Ever since my boyhood he has made himself 
 terrible to me. He knew he was the stronger of the 
 two, and he nsed all his strength against me. He 
 persecuted me continually, and to this day I bear the 
 mark of his brute hand. I bore it all because I pitied 
 him, but now all is changed : since we both knew you, 
 he hath known the power of hurting me in a way I 
 cannot bear ! ' 
 
 He paused, and looked into her face — it was very 
 pale; and her hands were clenched convulsively toge- 
 ther. It was better than he had anticipated ; she was 
 passive, if not pleased ; so he went on. 
 
 ' Priscilla, will you forgive me if I speak ? ' 
 
 ' Ifay, there is one theme on which I have besought 
 you never to speak to me ! ' 
 
 'And after this day I will try to obey you; but 
 hear me now. Priscilla, Christian Christiansen knew 
 I loved you. He knew that by tearing you from me 
 bfi could blight my life and make me a miserable man. 
 He knew that by poisoning your soul against me, he 
 could hurt me more keenly than ever he had been able 
 to do, and it was thus he tried to strike me. He wooed 
 you from me, and he chilled your heart against me — 
 not that he loved you, but that he hated me ! So, God 
 knows, I have cause to hate him in turn ; but I would 
 forgive him all he ever did to me, if you would promise 
 me never, God willing, to cross his path again ! ' 
 
 Priscilla did not answer him. Her head was whirl, 
 ing round : her soul was stirred by a wild tumult which 
 she could not quell. 
 
 Richard Orchardson watched her. So intent was he 
 that he had not noticed a black figure crawl stealthily 
 along the deck and crouch like a snake behind th«m. 
 
 He looked at Priscilla ; she was still silent : he bent 
 forward and took her hand. 
 
 ' Priscilla,' he said, ' it will be a pitiful day for you 
 if ever you take that man's hand ia friendship again. 
 He belongs to an evil race. The father was a beggar 
 aiid a borrower of my father's bounty. The fister 19 
 
iSS aOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 an outcast, as you know, despised by all good women. 
 For himself, he hath all the taint of the breed, withotit 
 one redeeming virtue — his father's dishonesty, his 
 mother's stubborn ingratitude, his sister's infirmity 
 of disposition. If I told you all I know of him, you 
 would despise him freely, and banish him for ever from 
 your heart.' 
 
 He stopped suddenly — the crouching figure rose, 
 sprang forward, and a hand of iron gripped the 
 slanderer by the throat. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FACE TO FACE AGAIN. 
 
 Richard looked up in horror, while PrisciUa uttered a 
 terrified cry. 
 
 * Liar ! ' repeated the man, still gripping Bichard by 
 the throat. 
 
 There was no more mystery now. It was Christian 
 Christianson in the fl^esh who stood before tliem, his 
 face livid and terrible, his eyes burning, his strong frame, 
 ^wrapt in its sailor's rags, trembling with passion. 
 
 ' Help ! ' shrieked Richard ; and the next moment 
 the two men were struggling and clinging together in a 
 murderous embrace. 
 
 There was a hurried tramp of feet, a quick msh of 
 figures across the deck, and then, at the captain's sud- 
 den word of command, the men fell as one man upon the 
 pair, and tore ofi" Christian by sheer force. 
 
 Pale as death, half strangled, and terrified to the 
 Boul, Richard stood clinging to the bulwarks, and trem- 
 bling violently. 
 
 ' What's all this ? ' cried the skipper, cocking his one 
 eye fiercely at Christian, who still struggled like a wild 
 beast in the grasp of the crew. ' A sailor assaulting 
 one of my passengers ! Keep quiet, will you, John 
 Dyson, or I'll hev you knocked on the head with a 
 nxarUng-spike ! What's it all about ? ' 
 
FACE TO FACE AGAm. 1O7 
 
 * For God's salre secure that man,' gasped Richard. 
 * He — he has tried to murder me ! ' 
 
 The skipper turned savagely on Christian, but before 
 he could say another word, Priscilla had stept forward 
 «nd was looking into the prisoner's face. 
 
 ' Christian 1 is it possible ? Nay, I can scarce be- 
 lieve mine own eyes. Alas ! what brought you here ? ' 
 
 Christian gazed down at her wildly, but did not 
 answer ; his fatal homicidal passion still mastered him, 
 and he made another frantic stmggle to be free. 
 
 ' What, yon know this man ? ' cried the skipper, in 
 nnafEeoted astonishment, to Priscilla. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Priscilla, ' I know him well.' 
 
 ' And I know him,' exclaimed Richard, tremulously 
 grasping the captain's arm, ' and I warn you that my 
 life is in danger unless he is safely secured. He hath 
 followed me on board this vessel to kill me, and I 
 demand protection.' 
 
 Ghdm as death now, the skipper walked up to Chris- 
 tian, and looked him sternly in the face. 
 
 • Speak j/oM, John Dyson ! or whatever the 'tarnal 
 your name is. Hev you anything to say for yourself P ' 
 
 Christian answered between his set teeth, 
 
 ' Nothing — that man has spoken the truth.' 
 
 ' What P • 
 
 •I came to kill him, and I shall kill him, be sure of 
 that.' 
 
 An ngly look came into the worthy skipper's face, a 
 balefnl light into his one eye. 
 
 ' So killing's your game, is it ? ' he said dryly. ' Waal, 
 I'll teach you to try it on board mnj ship. Take him 
 below, and put him in irons at once.' 
 
 Before Priscilla could interfere, Christian was 
 dragged forward. He had ceased to struggle now, and 
 walked away quite quietly, but the expression on his 
 firm-set face had not changed. 
 
 No sooner had he disappeared, than Priscilla fell 
 swooning upon the deck. 
 
 The skipper raised her gently in his arms, while 
 Richard sprinkled water on her face and tried to restore 
 her. When she came to, she looked wildly around her, 
 g8 if seeking a familiar face. 
 
l6S GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' Is it tliou, Christian ? ' 
 
 Eichard's white face grew positively livid as he 
 heard the hated name. 
 
 Then recollection came to her, in one vivid electri- 
 fying flash, and she covered her face with her hands 
 and began to weep hysterically. 
 
 The skipper's eye watered, for Higginbotham, des. 
 pite his Cyclopean physiognomy, was a tender-hearted 
 man when the ladies were in question, and could not 
 bear to see a lovely woman in trouble. 
 
 ' There's more in this than I thought,' he reflected. 
 ' John Dyson, I calculate, is more than a common 
 Bailor, and my name isn't E. M. Higginbotham if 
 missie's pretty face hasn't brought him arter it across 
 the sea.' 
 
 Then he said aloud, 
 
 ' Now look'ee, young mistress ! Though your friend 
 John Dyson's in irons, he's all safe and squar', and no 
 harm will come to him as long as he keeps quiet. "When 
 he passes his word to carry on like a sensible critter, 
 and not like a raging sea-sarpint, I pass rmj word that 
 we'll knock ofE them irons and set him free,' 
 
 Inspired by a new thought, Priscilla raised hei 
 pretty pleading face, with the tears still sparkling in her 
 eyes, and stretched out her trembling hand. 
 
 ' Oh, sir, may I speak to him ? He hath a good 
 heart, and I think he will listen to me ! ' 
 
 ' Speak to him, and welcome,' answered the skipper, 
 kindly. 
 
 But Richard interposed quickly. 
 
 ' On no account ! I tell you the man is a dangerous 
 maniac. Nay ! you shall not go to him.' 
 
 But Priscilla was determined. Her heart was very 
 full, -and she yearned to find out what wild and des- 
 perate thought had brought Christian there ; to speak 
 to him some words of comfort, and perhaps of gentle 
 rebuke and entreaty ; to cast out, aa far as might be, 
 and as she had done more than once before, the evil 
 demon that possessed him. 
 
 So in spite of Richard's renewed protestations she 
 went forward with the captain, and descended, with 
 the help of rough but friendly hands, to the dark 
 
PACE TO FACE AGAIN. 169 
 
 forecastle den, where Christian sat a prisoner, hand- 
 cuffed and heavily ironed. 
 
 He looked up as she appeared before him, but did 
 not utter a word. 
 
 Priscilla looked at him for several minutes before 
 he made any sign of recognition, although he turned his 
 head and looked at her, but he still kept silent. 
 
 ' Christian, listen to me ! ' 
 
 'Well, PriscUla?" 
 
 ' I have got the good captain's leave to speak with 
 thee ; and I have come to see if you have aught to say ? ' 
 
 She spoke demurely, almost timidly ; Christian 
 listened darkly, but moving his head restlessly from 
 side to side, like a beast in physical pain. The thirst 
 for vengeance had at that moment almost supplanted love. 
 Looking at Priscilla, he knew that she had just come 
 from the side of his enemy, and glancing fiercely down 
 at the irons which secured him, he fretted more wildly 
 to be free. As for Priscilla, she was thinking little at 
 that moment of Richard Orchardson, her mind was so 
 Borrowfully sad at the sight before her. She longed to be 
 tender, and that very longing made her maimer stranger 
 and colder than it had ever been before. 
 
 ' Will you not speak to me ? ' she asked at length, 
 ' Have you nothing to say ? ' 
 
 ' Ifothing.' 
 
 ' What hath made you leave your home, your mother, 
 your sister, and come here upon the sea ? ' 
 
 The man uttered a laugh which was painful to hear. 
 
 ' Home P ' he said, ' nay, I have no home. My mother 
 lies in the graveyard, my sister is an outcast, broken. 
 hearted, and I am here with one thought only, — to hunt 
 down the devil who has been the cause of all our woe ! ' 
 Priscilla shrank back in terror. 
 • Christian, talk not so. It is blasphemous.' 
 ' And it is not blasphemous to break an aged 
 woman's heart; to ruin an innocent maid, and bring 
 beggary and destruction on a happy home ! Look you, 
 mistress, I am not fit company for you. You had best 
 go back to bim who is your choice.' 
 
 ' It is not like you to talk so — yon were not wont to 
 pain me.' 
 
IJ» GOD AND THE MAtT. 
 
 ' God alone knows what I was wont to do. The past 
 IS dead to me ; 'tis with the future I have to do uow. 
 My work is cut out before me. I mean to finish it be- 
 fore I die.* 
 
 He tnrned his head as if he wished the conversation 
 to end, but Prisoilla did not move away. Once already 
 she had fled from him, and her regret had been so 
 keen as to hold her firm now. She moved a few steps 
 towards him, and laid her hand tenderly upon his 
 arm. 
 
 ' Good Christian,' she said quietly, * if I were to 
 listen to the voice of pride within me, I should walk 
 straight back to my cabin yonder, and never seek your 
 presence here again. But I know you better than you 
 know yourself. Come, do not treat me as an enemy or 
 a false friend, for you know well I am neither; but 
 tell me what has brought you here ? ' 
 
 ' I have told you already, mistress ; I mean to have 
 my just revenge.' 
 
 ' Upon Mr. Orchardson ? ' 
 
 ' Ay,' answered Christian, in a voice so terrible that 
 she shrank back again. 
 
 ' Alas ! you are bitterly to blame. Why are you so 
 bent upon hunting a feUow-creature down ? ' 
 
 ' Why ?— because he and his have been the scath 
 and scourge of me and mine ; because I lay at Ms dooz 
 the sorrow of my sister, whom he betrayed to shame, 
 the broken heart of my mother, and the Aiiserable shat. 
 tering of all our lives ! ' 
 
 ' No, no ! ' cried Prisoilla, ' you are madly wrong. 
 Tour poor sister ' 
 
 ' Se betrayed her — with her own lips she told me 
 that he betrayed her.' 
 
 ' It is not possible ! ' 
 
 ' It is certain,' cried Christian. ' But there, talk not 
 of her ; hath he not told you that her name is unfit to 
 pass your lips ? and perchance he spoke the truth ; but 
 before God I swear to you, as I swore before, that for 
 every bitter tear she hath shed I wiU have a drop of 
 his heart's blood ! ' 
 
 His passion was so overmastering that she stood 
 appalled. She saw that words were useless, that they 
 
FACE TO FACE AGAIN. Vfi 
 
 fell like drops of dew upon a flaming brand. So 
 she stood wringing her hands, and weeping for very 
 fear. 
 
 Then she cried through her tears : 
 
 ' Christian ! once — not so long ago — you said you 
 loved me — and you swore for my sake to be a good man. 
 Listen to me, in God's name ! It would be better to 
 die, better to be lying in your grave, than nurse such 
 terrible thoughts ! It is true that you have suffered ; 
 but alas ! to suffer is our lot ; and as God forgives us 
 our trespasses, so should we forgive those that trespass 
 against us. Forgive Bichard Orchardson ! Tou must ! 
 you wiU ! ' 
 
 She paused, but Christian did not answer her. Em- 
 boldened by his sUence, she went on : 
 
 ' If I could induce you to forget and forgive, to leave 
 all these heartbreaking troubles behind you, and begin 
 a new Ufe, all might yet be well, and with God's 
 blessing ' 
 
 ' Do not talk of it — I seek not God's blessing ; all I 
 seek is to have vengeance upon my enemy ; for that I'll 
 watch and wait, and though I wait for fifty years the 
 time will come.' 
 
 Tor some little space yet, Priscilla remained and 
 continued her gentle pleading; but at every word 
 Christian grew more morose, and at last he would 
 answer nothing. At length, with a weary disappointed 
 sigh she left him, saying to him that she would come 
 back again, and vowing in her heart that she would 
 leave no device untried to turn him from the wicked 
 purpose upon which he had set his heart. 
 
 For she said to herself, ' It seems to me that sorrow 
 has turned his brain. God help him — and may God 
 help m& to bring some solace to his soul.' 
 
 On the after-deck she met Richard Orchardson ; he 
 paused to speak to her, but Priscilla, with a strange 
 shrinking at her heart, passed silently by, and quickly 
 gained her cabin. 
 
 There she sat down to think. She reviewed the 
 story which Christian had unfolded in broken hints, and 
 as she did so her heart was filled with a bitterness 
 Almost as strong as that which filled the heart of the 
 
iy« GOD AND TBE MAN. 
 
 injured man, -while the thought of Richard Orehardaon 
 made her sick with shame. So Richard was the girl'a 
 betrayer, and yet he had looked on unmoved when she 
 lay almost dying at Priscilla's feet. Priscilla's eyes 
 were opened now. She frankly acknowledged to herself 
 that Christian had bitter cause for hatred, and the pity 
 in her soul strengthened the love which he had already 
 awakened there. 
 
 As the night wore on, she felt she could not rest 
 below. StiU shocked and agitated beyond measure, she 
 went again on deck. 
 
 Close to the cabin companion, she encountered the 
 worthy captain. 
 
 ' Waal, he said, with a kindly smile, ' how hev yon 
 left John Dyson now ? Hev you brought that young 
 man to his senses ? ' 
 
 Tears stood in the girl's eyes as she replied, just 
 touching the lappet of the skipper's coat with her littla 
 hand. 
 
 ' captain dear, you have a kind heart, and I am sure 
 you will pity him, for he hath had much, much trouble. 
 His name is not John Dyson, but Christian Christianson, 
 and great sorrows have made him mad.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I knew from the fust he were no common 
 sailor, his hands were too soft and white, his tongue too 
 civil and free. But I daren't set him loose till he dew 
 come to his senses and promises to behave hisseK all 
 squar'. Can I take his word, think you, if he promises 
 that ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Priscilla. ' Whatever he saitb, he will 
 fulfil.' 
 
 The skipper nodded good-humouredly, and strolled 
 forward. Priscilla was about to follow him, when 
 Richard emerged from the companion, and greeted her 
 with a joyful exclamation. To his renewed surprise, 
 she turned her head away, and tried to pass by without 
 a word. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' he cried, reaching out his 
 hand to detain her. 
 
 She shook off the touch with a shiver of horror, and 
 made another attempt to pass. But he persisted. 
 
 'I see,' he said, turning white with agitation; 'it ia 
 
FACM TO PACB AGAtK. t)% 
 
 as I feared. That villain hath been poisoning your 
 thonghts against me.' 
 
 ' He is no villain,' answered Priscilla -with snddeii 
 intensity ; ' if he hath spoken truth, yov, are the villain, 
 not he ! ' 
 
 Richard's face went whiter ; he trembled from head 
 to foot with a new and sickening fear. 
 
 ' What hath he said ? ' 
 
 ' He hath justified himself against you — that is 
 enough.' 
 
 ' By more lies and calumnies,' cried Richard, while 
 his face became full of anger and despair. * And you 
 have listened to him ! Fom .' Then God help me, for 
 I am wronged indeed.' 
 
 ' Tou are not wronged — ^he and his have been wronged 
 from the beginning.' 
 
 ' It is false, Priscilla, though you say it.' 
 
 ' It is true.' 
 
 ' Tell me what he hath said. At least, let me defend 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Ton cannot,' answered Priscilla. 
 
 • Let me try ! ' 
 
 Thus urged, PriscUla told him what she had heard 
 concerning himself and poor Kate Christianson. At 
 the first breath of the accusation, Richard shrank like a 
 guilty thing, while his face went from pale to red, from 
 red to pale, and his whole frame shook with agitation. 
 But as she proceeded, scarcely looking in his eyes, for 
 her sense of the shameful tale made her own cheeks 
 crimson, he had time to recover his self-possession. 
 
 When she ceased, he smiled sadly, and heaved a 
 heavy sigh. 
 
 ' It is as I thought,' he said. ' Well, so be it. Ton 
 have judged me unheard, and I must submit.' 
 
 ' I have not judged you,' she returned with a certain 
 hesitation, ' it is for God to judge you — but is it true or 
 false?' 
 
 ' False, every word ! ' cried Richard fervently. 
 
 She started, and looked him in the face. There was 
 nothing to betray him there — only a deep sorrow, and a 
 Bullen sense of cruel injury. 
 
 'Christian would not lie,' she' said. 
 
m GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 'He would do worse than lie, to injure me in yoni 
 esteem. To poison your soul against me he would in- 
 vent — as he hath invented — calumnies as black as hell. 
 Well, since he can do so much, let him do more. Go, 
 set him free. Let him take my wretched life. I do 
 not care now.' 
 ~-~ And he turned away as if to hide his face and weep 
 
 At this cunning piece of acting, her certainty was 
 shaken, and her gentle heart was touched. Could it be 
 possible, she thought, that Christian, ever headstrong 
 and prone to err, had been misled ? Then she suddenly 
 remembered that the accusation had come, not from 
 idle hearsay, but from Kate Christiansen's own lips. 
 
 ' His sister hath told him,' she said ; ' she accused 
 you. Oh it is terrible ! God must punish such cruel 
 deeds ! His mother lies dead in her grave, of a broken 
 heart.' 
 
 Then, with a heavy sob, able no longer to speak oi 
 listen, she descended to her cabin, and sank upon hes 
 knees in prayer. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 PEISCILLA MAKES HEE CHOICE. 
 
 RiCHAED Obohaedsqn stood on the lonely deck, and 
 looked np wildly to the stars of the night, which were 
 thickly clustering over the quiet sea. Despair and rage 
 were in his soul ; for he saw too plainly that Heaven 
 and the girl's heart were against him, and that the last 
 chance was lost, unless he could prove himself innocent 
 in Priscilla's eyes. 
 
 And as he looked upward, with many a muttered curse 
 upon his enemy's head, he was troubled by no qualms of 
 conscience for any past misdeed, but rather experienced 
 a gloomy feeling of oppression, a sullen sense of wrong. 
 
 No man's soul is unmixed evil ; indeed, such a soul 
 would be monstrous, not human ; and Richard Orchard- 
 oon felt that night that he was among the most injured 
 of men. He sincerely loved Friscilla i he had followed 
 
PRISCtLLA MAKES HER CHOICE. lyj 
 
 her over the Hgli seas with a feeling very like devotion ; 
 he felt, moreover, that from day to day her influence 
 wakened and kept alive what was best and noblest in 
 his nature ; he had almost forgotten alike the animosities 
 and the follies of his early life ; he was, in a word, in 
 the position of the culprit who honestly desires to re- 
 form, and who (to quote the moralist) is ' going to turn 
 over a new leaf,' Tet Providence itself seemed against 
 him. Just as the prize of virtue was in his grasp, just 
 as he was growing happy with the dreamy hope of sweet 
 possession, all was changed as by a miracle, and between 
 himself and felicity rose again the human being he hated 
 most. 
 
 Yes, it was enough to make a man blaspheme and 
 curse his stars ! Why had not a kindly Providence 
 kept this man away, buried him mountain deep under 
 the earth, or sunk him to the bottom of the sea ? Why 
 did he live, to darken the sunshine ? 
 
 There was danger, too. So long as Christian lived, 
 Richard Orchardson knew that his own life might at 
 any moment pay the forfeit. As the thought crossed 
 his mind, he shivered with a sickening sense of dread. 
 
 While Orchardson was nervously pacing the after 
 deck, furious with his own thoughts, yet timidly starting 
 at every sound, Captain Higginbotham was below, 
 questioning the prisoner. 
 
 Seated on a bunk, face to face with Christian, whose 
 face he saw dimly by the light of a swinging lamp, the 
 skipper tried his hand at cross-examination. 
 
 ' Waal, how dew you feel now, John Dyson, or what- 
 ever else the 'tarnal your name is ? Dew you feel like 
 fighting, or dew you feel like giving in ? I calculate 
 you're come to your senses by this time ; for there's 
 nothing like sitting in ship's irons for cooling a man's 
 idees.' 
 
 'Ton are mistaken, captain,' answered Christian, 
 quietly ; ' I am of the same mind still.' 
 
 ' Then you won't pass your word to keep afore the 
 mast, and dew your work like a man, and let that young 
 randydandy alone ? ' 
 
 ♦No.' 
 
 •You're a bold hand, John Dyaon I do oaloulat©. 
 
176 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 What's it all about ? Come, tell me slick and squar*. 
 About a gel ? About young missie there in the cabin P 
 Waal, she's too good for either of yon, she is, and that's 
 a fact ; but theer, young randydandy's a gentleman, and 
 you're only a common man.' 
 
 ' Nay, I am as gently bom as he,' said Christian 
 'and by the same token of older blood. But that ia 
 neither here nor there. I have sworn to kill him, and 
 kiU him I shall.' 
 
 ' Not aboard my ship,' cried the skipper, more and 
 more astonished by the man's quiet determination yet 
 subdued demeanour. ' If you try it on aboard the MUea 
 Standish, you'll swing from the yardarm as sure as your 
 name's John Dyson. But that ain't your name neither,' 
 he added reflectively ; young mistress calls you Christian'; 
 and a precious Christian you air, to be trying to take 
 the life of a fellow-critter ! Waal, Dyson or no Dyson, 
 Christian or no Christian, you'll wake and sleep in them 
 irons till you change your mind.' 
 
 So saying, the skipper withdrew, and made his way 
 on deck. 
 
 All that night Christian sat silent in his place, and 
 never closed his eyes. Thoughts wild and terrible, 
 stormy and sad, possessed him, and kept soul and body 
 wide awake ; besides, the physical irritation caused by 
 the fettering irons was growing keen enough to drive 
 away all sleep. So he sat moodily resigned as to the 
 present, and tried to plan his conduct for the days that 
 were to come. 
 
 But the more he thought, the more moody and 
 despairing he grew ; for it seemed in this, as in every- 
 thing else, that the hand of God was against him. He 
 was sorry now that he had revealed himself ; that one. 
 mad act had rendered him helpless. If he could only 
 get free ; if he could but stand for one day only, and 
 hold within his hand the life of his enemy, he would 
 Bsk no more 1 
 
 The hours dragged wearily on ; night passed away, 
 and the cold, grey light of dawn streamed down from 
 the troubled sky, and found the man more pitifully sick 
 at heart thac eyer. 
 
' The cold, grey light of dawn streamed down from the troubled sky , and 
 found him more pitifully sick at heart than ever. ' 
 
PRISCtLLA MAKES HER CHOICE. tyy 
 
 That day the wind freshened; most of the handa 
 were busy on deck, and Christian was left alone. When 
 the day was nearly spent, a figure crept quietly into 
 the forecastle, and a tender, trembling hand was laid 
 upon his arm. Turning quickly, he looked straight 
 into the eyes of Priscilla. 
 
 The sight of her face startled him. She looked so 
 pale, so careworn, so different from the happy, pensive 
 little maiden whom he had known, loved, and dreamed 
 of. Was it Priscilla — was he dreaming or waking ? for 
 the figure which he saw crept up to his side like a 
 docile child, kissed his hand, and moistened it with 
 tears. 
 
 'Priscilla?' 
 
 ' Yes, Christian, it is I. I have been waiting for 
 hours to come to you, but could not get leave ; and I 
 dared not brave the good captain's orders for fear of 
 bringing you to still greater harm ; but he consents to 
 the meeting now, and I have come.' 
 
 ' Priscilla, dear Priscilla ! ' cried Christian, deeply 
 moved, ' what ails you that you are so pale, so strange ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, 'tis nothing,' said the girl, wearily passing 
 her hand across her eyes ; ' do not speak of me, it is of 
 you I wish to talk. Oh, Christian, Christian, it ia 
 breaking my heart ! ' 
 
 ' Breaking your heart ? ' 
 
 'The thought of you, the sight of you, with these 
 cruel chains about yon — I cannot sleep at night, and I 
 cannot rest all day. Christian, I shall never know a 
 moment's peace till the man I love is free ! ' 
 
 Was he awake or dreaming ? Was it all true or 
 possible ? Could it be Priscilla who spoke, who uttered 
 the very words which he knew it was life to him to 
 hear P Tes, she had spoken at last, she loved him, and 
 for a moment the terrible darkness which oppressed his 
 Boul seemed to pass away. 
 
 * My darling ! ' he murmured ; and Priscilla, gazing 
 np at him through her tears, asked quietly, 
 
 ' Christian, am I right ? your heart is not changed— 
 you care for me still ? ' 
 
 ' Care for you ! merciful God, what a question ! ' 
 
 < Ah, then it is true, and I am glad, Christian, dear, 
 R 
 
tj8 GOD AND THE MAM. 
 
 dear Christian, as you love me, save yourself for me ; 
 give one promise to the captain, and he will take off 
 these cruel irons ; and when we reach land, we will 
 depart in peace ! ' 
 
 She paused, but he was silent. He knew now what 
 she would have ; and though his love for her was strong 
 — ay, stronger a thousandfold than it had ever been— 
 vengeance arose and gained the mastery. 
 
 ' Christian, answer me. I do not ask you to forgive 
 him, I only ask you to save yourself, and— -yes, I will 
 Bay it — ^to keep my heart from breaking.' 
 
 ' God knows, PriscUla, I would give my life to spare 
 you pain. As well ask me to give up my life, Prisoilla, 
 as to let that man go free.' 
 
 ' Oh do not say so ! God does not suffer such sins 
 BS his to go unpunished ; but it. is His work, not thine, 
 Christian. Promise me, make me happy for this night 
 at least, and all will yet be well.' 
 
 She bent above his hand and kissed it again; then, 
 with a sudden impulse, she cast her arms about hia 
 neck, and hid her face upon his bosom. 
 
 ' My darling ! ' he murmured ; ' Priscilla, don't weep ; 
 whatever comes to me, I know that you. will be secure 
 from harm.' 
 
 ' But you will give me your promise ? ' 
 
 ' Ask me not to-night, Prisoilla ; come to me again, 
 my darling ; but first before you go, answer me one 
 thing.' 
 
 ' If I promise to let this man live, to forget all our 
 house's wrongs, what then — what of yourself, Priscilla P ' 
 , 'Of myself?' 
 
 ' Will you become my wife ? ' 
 
 She was silent, looking down and trembb'ng. Pre- 
 sently she answered, 
 ~%^ 'At least I will promise this: To marry no other 
 
 living man.' 
 
 ' You will — you swear it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' My darling, my own brave girl ! Now go, Priscilla, 
 for you are weary ; but you will come to me agwu P ' 
 
 • Oh yes, I will come.' 
 
PRISCILLA MAKES HER CHOICE. lyj) 
 
 She laid her gentle head upon his bosom, and suf- 
 fered him to kiss her cheek. Then, her bosom heaving 
 with a strange new sense of mingled sorrow and joy, 
 she crept qaietly from the forecastle and left him there 
 alone. 
 
 Priscilla slept soundly that night ; and her sleep 
 was attended by pleasant dreams. She arose in the 
 morning looking better and prettier than she had done 
 for days, and asked for an early interview with the 
 captain. 
 
 This she had little difficulty in obtaining ; Poly- 
 pheme, always taken by a pretty face, was unusually 
 partial to Priscilla. 
 
 He received her in his own cabin, and bent his one 
 eye upon her with a more benign look than ever. How 
 pretty she looked in her grey gown, with the new-born 
 light of love in her eyes ! She had come to plead her 
 lover's cause ; and the excitement of this, coupled with 
 a strange bashfulness caused by the memory of the 
 interview of the preceding night, suffased her cheeks 
 with colour, and put a tremulous smile upon her lips. 
 
 But she spoke so earnestly, and pleaded so well, that 
 the captain, who at first seemed obdurate, listened with 
 some attention, and promised at length to go and speak 
 with Christian again, and so ascertain if it would be 
 possible for him to grant Priscilla's request. 
 
 ' All I ask of you,' she said, ' is to set him free. 
 'Tis cruel to keep him bound and a prisoner, when he 
 hath committed no oifence.' 
 
 The captain, who guessed the reason of her plead, 
 ing, smiled grimly. 
 
 ' What may be his name, did you say, mistress ? ' 
 
 ' Christian Christiansen.' 
 
 ' A good name for one that's slick and squar' ; but 
 I tell you he ain't slick and squar' ! He's about as bold 
 a hand as ever come aboard the Miles Standish. He coma 
 aboard as a common sailor, and now I calculate he's a 
 gentleman who's working his way to the gallows ! ' 
 
 'He was mad with trouble and shanae, and knew 
 not what he did. Be kind to him, captain dear; re- 
 member with what measure you mete it shall be meted 
 to you again ! ' 
 
 K 2 
 
»&i GOD AND TBE MAN. 
 
 The captain rubbed his homy hand over his weatheR 
 beaten brow, and sat in sore perplexity. 
 
 ' 'Tain't fair for you to tackle me. I ought to do my 
 duty, missie ; and my duty is to keep the man in irons.' 
 
 ' No, no.' 
 
 ' But yes. I don't say I mean to do it, but I tell 
 you it's my duty ; and never afore to-day has Ezekiel 
 M. Higginbotham known what 'tis to turn away from 
 duty. Look you here, my dear, if you come here with 
 your pretty face and pleading ways, you'll be the ruin 
 o' me. But say no more. I know what I know. 
 Guess them irons hurt you more a precious sight than 
 they hurt the chap that wears them. He's a tough 
 'un ; I take no account of him ; but for you, my dear 
 — there, go right away, or Captain Higginbotham won't 
 know the meaning of duty soon.' 
 
 So Priseilla, feeling that just at present nothing 
 more was to be done, imprinted a grateful kiss upon 
 the captain's hand and left him. 
 
 No sooner had she disappeared than another figure 
 entered without ceremony into the captain's cabin. 
 This was Richard Orchardson. His face was very pale, 
 his brow lowering, his hand twitching nervously ; he 
 closed the door before he spoke. 
 
 ' Captain Higginbotham,' he said, 'do you mean to 
 do what the girl has asked you .f do you mean to 
 release the rufBan who is m irons for assaulting me ? ' 
 
 The first surprise of the meeting over, the captain 
 glared upon his visitor with anything but a pleasant 
 light in his eye. 
 
 'Eavesdropping^' he muttered. 'Young man, I 
 calculate you'd be better employed in keeping your 
 own berth, than placing your darn'd ear at the keyhole 
 of my cabin door. As for what I do, and what I don't 
 do, it ain't no consarn of yours ! ' 
 
 ' 'Tis my concern this far. That wretch threatened 
 my life and you heard him. You put him in irons, 
 because you knew it was the only means of keeping me 
 from harm. Let him free, and what is the result ? I 
 am on board ship, in ?nid ocean, and unable to defend 
 myself ; my enemy, set free by you, will carry out hia 
 devilieh purpose, and murder me.' 
 
fRISCILLA MAKES HER CHOICE. i8l 
 
 If the expression on tlie captain's face might be 
 trusted, Polypheme evidently thought that the deed 
 would be well done. He was a rough-and-ready old 
 Bailor, but he had knocked about a good deal, and so 
 had gained no little insight into human nature. The 
 little drama which was being enacted about him, he 
 understood by this time tolerably well. He had seen 
 into the hearts of his three passengers : he adored 
 Priscilla ; and of the two men he certainly gave the 
 preference to John Dyson. Though at first he had 
 been much irritated at the deception which had been 
 used, the man's rough openness of manner appealed to 
 him infinitely more than did the more polished conduct 
 of his enemy and rival. Still, with all his prejudices, he 
 was obliged to acknowledge the truth ; and the truth 
 was, that if he released Christian Christiansen to please 
 Priscilla, he certainly rendered himself liable for what- 
 ever evil consequences might ensue. 
 
 This reflection by no means improved the captain's 
 temper. He turned roughly upon his companion, 
 
 ' Waal, young man, have you done ? * 
 
 ' Tes ; I've warned you, and that is enough for me. 
 Whatever you do, you must answer for before man and 
 God, remember that ! ' 
 
 ' Tes, I guess I will remember it, my friend,' mut- 
 tered the captain to himself as Orchardson moved 
 away ; ' I guess I'll remember every darn'd word you've 
 uttered, for I like the cut of your jib less than ever. 
 Waal, the little girl had some sense anyhow, when she 
 made sail from such as you ! ' 
 
 Utterly beside himself with passion, Orchardson 
 strode angrily to the after cabin ; he had played his 
 trump card ; if that failed, what could he do ? That 
 the captain, in utter defiance of his wish, would da,re to 
 set Christian free he could not for a moment believe ; 
 but although he could force him to keep Christian in 
 irons for some little time, he could not force him to 
 forbid Priscilla those stolen interviews to which he had 
 already been a witness. Tes, he had seen her throw 
 her arms around the man's neck, kiss his hand, and 
 wet it with her tears. Here was the' gall which was 
 working 80 bitterly io hie soul. He determined, at all 
 
IBs GOD AfTD THE MAJT. 
 
 hazard, to put an end to this uncertainty. If she wonld 
 not marry him, she should not marry his enemy ; nay, 
 sooner than that, he himself would take the initiative, 
 and kUl the man, or take her into his arms and leap 
 with her into the sea. 
 
 He sought an interview with Priscilla ; and at 
 length he obtained it ; hut it left him more distraught 
 and agitated than ever. It was clear to him that, so 
 long as Christian lived, there was no room for anothei 
 in Priscilla's heart. 
 
 Then, between jealousy, despair, and fear, the man's 
 nature grew diabolic. A thousand desperate dreams 
 and schemes flitted through his brain ; until at last he 
 was ready to draw destruction upon his own head, so 
 long as his enemy's destruction and discomfiture were 
 ensured at the same time. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 BETWEEN TWO ELEMENTS. 
 
 In the dead of the calm autumn night, when all on 
 board the vessel except the watch were sound asleep, 
 and when the captain himself was snoring comfortably 
 in his cabin, there suddenly arose a loud cry of alarm 
 forward, followed by a rush of feet across the decks. 
 
 The next minute the mate rushed into the captain's 
 cabin. 
 
 ' What's the matter ? ' asked Higginbotham, leisurely 
 opening his one eye. 
 
 ' Something wrong forrard — ^for God's sake come, it 
 looks like fire ! ' 
 
 In an instant the captain, who was only partially 
 undressed, was on his feet. Of all alarms that can 
 startle a Ijrave sailor's heart on the high seas, that of 
 fire is surely the most terrible ; and the captain, though 
 he was bold as a lion, shook life a leaf. 
 
 ' I'm coming ! ' he said, beneath his breath. ' Don't 
 ixlarm the passengers ; and, above all, keep it quiet 
 ,*rom the women.' 
 
 The night was dark and still, the wind strong but 
 
BMTWESN TWO ELEMENTS. 183 
 
 gentle and fair, the ship, under all her wealth of snowy 
 canvas, gliding smoothly along from billow to billow. 
 On the forward deck the crew were collected in a 
 crowd, some half-dressed, as if newly startled from 
 sleep, all, pale and panic-stricken as frightened sheep, 
 gazing down. The scnttle of the forecastle was off, and 
 from the dark hold a thick black smoke was rising, 
 with a heavy suffocating smell. 
 
 ' Man the buckets ! ' cried the skipper. ' Rig the 
 head pump and get ready the hose.' 
 
 The men rushed to and fro obeying the order ; and 
 soon a steady stream of water was pouring down tha 
 ecuttle. The main pump was kept going, and buckets 
 of sea water were passed from hand to hand and poured 
 down ; but the water seemed only to feed and thicken 
 the smoke which grew momently more sulphurous and 
 black. 
 
 ' Where's the fire ? ' gasped the captain. ' How 
 did it begin ? ' 
 
 Ko one knew. All the watch on deck could tell 
 was that their attention had suddenly been awakened 
 by a burning smell, and the sight of smoke coming from 
 below ; and that they had given the alarm and brought 
 their comrades from their berths. 
 
 With wild shouts and cries the men continued 
 labouring to get the fire under ; but it was obvious 
 by this time that it was unmanageable : the dreadful 
 smoke came thick as lava from the mouth of a volcano, 
 blinding and suffocating the lookers-on. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of the tumult, the captain 
 saw a white figure standing near to him, and heard a 
 clear voice calling his name. He turned and recognised 
 Priscilla. 
 
 ' Don't be alarmed, missie ! ' he said. ' Please God, 
 we'll get it under ! ' 
 
 But with a quick cry of terror she put her hands 
 upon his arm. 
 
 ' But Christian — is he safe ? Oh captain, he was 
 down fk&re ! ' 
 
 The skipper staggered as if struck by a bullet. In 
 the terror and agony of the alarm, he had entirely 
 forgotten the prisoner. 
 
l84 GCD AND THE MAN. 
 
 'Where's John Dyson?' he cried in a voice of thunder. 
 
 No man answered; the men looked wildly at one 
 another; the skipper groaned and waved his arms 
 madly in the air. 
 
 ' My God, he's below ; and with them irons on, he 
 can't escape ! ' 
 
 Then pressing forward in defiance of the smoke, he 
 shrieked down the scuttle, 
 
 ' Dyson ! John Dyson ! ' 
 
 No answer came in words ; but at that moment a 
 tongue of sharp flame shot up through the scuttle, in 
 the very heart of the darkness. 
 
 Priscilla screamed, and fell upon her knees. Yes, 
 Christian was there, helpless to save himself, stifling, 
 suffocating, perhaps already dead. 
 
 ' Save him ! save him ! ' she cried. 
 
 The skipper hesitated, for he had a wife and little 
 ones ashore ; but in a moment his mind was made up ; 
 throwing off coat and waistcoat, he stood in his shirt- 
 sleeves, facing the black columns of smoke. 
 
 ' If there's a man among ye, let him foller me ! ' ho 
 cried, and plunged into the forecastle. 
 
 The seamen stood in terror, shrinking back. All at 
 once a black form, naked to the waist, leapt forward 
 and followed. He was a gigantic negro who had once 
 been a plantation slave, and now occupied a subordinate 
 position in the cook's galley. 
 
 Blacker and blacker rose the reek ; fiercer and more 
 frequent grew the jets of fire, hissing and moaning 
 under the streams of green water that still poured 
 steadily down. 
 
 'Don't stop pum.ping,' cried the mate; it's the only 
 chance ! ' 
 
 A hushed and horrified silence fell upon the groups 
 of men ; they moved to and fro silently, and but for the 
 renewed urging of the mate, would have stood paralysed 
 with fear. 
 
 At that moment Priscilla saw, standing close to her, 
 the figure of Richard Orchardson. He was leaning 
 against the foremast, as if faint and terror-stricken. 
 
 ' Where is the captain ? ' he cried to the mate, wh^l 
 stood by. 
 
BETWEEN TWO ELEMENTS. i8j 
 
 ' Down below, looking after one of the hands.' 
 
 ' You should not have suffered hiro 1 It will cost 
 him his life.' 
 
 As Richard spoke, one wild cheer arose from the 
 crew. Through the forecastle scuttle, amidst the 
 blinding blackness, appeared the skipper; behind him 
 came the negro ; and between them, supported in their 
 powerful arms, was seen the insensible form of Christian 
 Christiansen. 
 
 At this moment the flame belched upward, bright as 
 crimson lightning. Scorched and blinded, the negro 
 let go his hold ; but with a wild cheer, mate and crew 
 rushed forward, and dragged the three figures out upon 
 the dripprng deck. 
 
 The negro fell forward on his knees, charred and 
 wounded by the fire, which had licked round his limbs 
 from below ; the body of Christian fell like a log close 
 to the spot where Priscilla was kneeling; while the little 
 skipper, breathless and choking, but otherwise uninjured, 
 began shrieking out his orders to the crew. 
 
 The fire now shot up in steady streams, and caught 
 the foresail, which, in a moment, became a sheet of 
 flame, while a crackling roar ascended from below, with 
 wilder bursts of crimson. 
 
 It was clear now that the ship was really doomed, 
 and that in a few minutes she would be on fire from 
 stem to stern. 
 
 ' Lower the boats ! ' cried Captain Higginbothara. 
 ' Call the passengers ! ' 
 
 There was no need to call them. They were 
 gathered together in a terrified throng at the waist, 
 looking forward in horror ; but among them stood the 
 tall form of the blind preacher, the crimson light falling 
 on his sightless orbs, his lips moving in solemn prayer. 
 
 The boats were lowered, and floated safely, with the 
 rowers in their places, in the smooth sea on the port 
 side ; water kegs and provisions, rapidly gathered to- 
 gether, were placed m each ; the ladders were placed, 
 and the captain stood above them, guarding the 
 passage. 
 
 ' The women first ! ' he cried ; and one by one the 
 womea were handed down — some to the long-boat, some 
 
|8« GOD AND THS MAN. 
 
 CO the captain's gig. Then the mate ran aft with Pri«» 
 cilia in his arms; he had found her, half swooning, 
 bending over Christian's insensible form. 
 
 She was handed gently down ; her father followed ; 
 then Richard and the rest. 
 
 ' Bring along John Dyson ! ' said the skipper ; and 
 at the word Christian was carried aft, and placed in the 
 gig at Richard's very feet. 
 
 He did not stir, but he was breathing and alive. 
 
 What followed was like a frightful dream to aU who 
 had their senses in that dreadful hour. Almost before 
 the boats could be cast free, the flames seized the entire 
 vessel, played like fiery snakes around mast and rigging, 
 caught the sails, which shrivelled up like paper, shrieked 
 and roared and flashed with scorching bloodshot beams 
 and horrible sulphurous fume. The skies above, and 
 the seas below, were crimson with the flame ; the air was 
 bright as with the red light of dawn, and the terrified 
 people in the boats could see each other's faces. 
 
 The boats pushed o£E from the vessel's side, 
 Captain Higginbotham standing erect in the stern ol 
 the gig, and looking back. Only those who know how 
 a sailor loves his ship can understand what sorrow filled 
 the stout skipper's heart as he looked his last at the 
 Wiles Standish. He had sailed her for years ; he knew 
 every seam and stitch upon her as well as a lover 
 knows the beauty-spots in his mistress's face ; and he 
 had, moreover, a large pecuniary share in her owner- 
 ship. Therefore, something like a tear glittered in his 
 eye as he saw her drifting away between the two ele- 
 ments, one consuming and destroying her above, the 
 other waiting for her below. 
 
 In the boat with the captain were Mr. Sefton and 
 Priscilla, Richard Orchardson, Christian, and a number 
 of the emigrants. In the other boat, commanded by 
 the mate, were the remainder of the emigrants and 
 ship's company. 
 
 As the gig pushed off. Christian opened his eyes, 
 and saw above him, in the red light, two familiar faces 
 — those of Priscilla and Richard Orchardson. The 
 girl's eyes were fixed on him, watching eagerly for a 
 
BETWEEN TWO ELEMENTS. i8> 
 
 sign of retnrnmg life ; the moment he stirred, she 
 uttered a joyful exclamation. 
 
 But Richard Orchardson leant over, saying in a low 
 voice to the captain, 
 
 ' Put that man in the other boat, I beseech you ! ' 
 
 ' Nay, nay, let him stay here ! ' said Prisoilla ; * or if 
 he goes, let me go too.' 
 
 The skipper made no sign. He was still too busy 
 looking at the ship. Like a fiery portent, she was 
 drifting away before the wind ; and they were already 
 far enough away to lean on their oars and watch her in 
 safety. 
 
 Richard repeated his request. Higginbotham turned 
 at last. 
 
 ' Silence, and keep your place, young man ! ' he said, 
 sternly. ' This ain't no time for foolish quarrels, now 
 we're all together in the hands o' God.' 
 
 And he added, pointing to Christian, 
 
 ' Take off them irons ! ' 
 
 Two of the crew leant over at the word of command, 
 and, setting Christian free, raised him to a sitting 
 posture, with his body in the bottom of the boat, and 
 his head resting against the gunwale. He was breath, 
 ing freely now, but was still dizzy and faint. 
 
 ' How are you now, John Dyson ? ' 
 
 Christian turned his head, and murmured something 
 nnintelligible. Then he suddenly became conscious ot 
 his enemy's white face gazing down upon him, and he 
 staggered to his knees, and tried to spring towards him. 
 
 ' Keep back,' cried the skipper, ' or, by thunder, 
 over you go into the sea. Listen to me, John Dyson ! 
 I took you out of them flames, and I saved your life, but 
 if you lift a finger agin any soul on board this boat, to 
 the bottom of the sea you go.' 
 
 A general murmur from the boat's crew showed that 
 this was no mere empty threat. Several strong hands 
 held Christian back ; but, struggling and panting, he 
 pointed at Orchardson, and cried, 
 
 ' Then speak to him ! Ask him who set your ship 
 on fire ! ' 
 
 ' "What d'ye mean ? ' said Higginbotham, startled at 
 the words. 
 
ISS GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' I mean that he did it ! Look at him. — ^he cannot 
 deny it.' 
 
 Pale and trembling, E<ichard shrank back from 
 Christian's accusing finger. 
 
 ' The man is mad,' he gasped. 
 
 But with a deep, threatening groan, the sailors 
 paused on their oars, and glared at Richard Orchard- 
 son, -while the skipper cried in a terrible voice, 
 
 ' Speak, you ! If that man speaks truth, he's spoken 
 your death-sentence — he has, by the Etamal ! ' 
 
 ' It is false, false ! ' cried Bichard, wildly. - Yoa 
 mnst be mad as he to listen to such an accusation. Ton 
 know he is my mortal enemy — you know he did seek 
 my life ; if anyone be guilty, it is he, not I ! ' 
 
 The boats were now close together, rocking on tha 
 dark biUows of the sea. 
 
 A mile away the ship burned brightly, consumed 
 and charred almost to the water's edge. 
 
 Suddenly there was a rush of flame heavenward, a 
 heavy, thnnderons roar; then darkness. The remains 
 of the ship had sunk like a cinder to the bottom of the 
 sea. 
 
 For a moment all eyes were turned that way, and 
 everything was forgotten in the piteous sight. With 
 the last glimpse of the vessel that had borne them so 
 safely and so long, came a horrible sense of desolation. 
 
 They were alone in a frail boat, not on the gentle 
 Pacific, where calm like that which surrounded them 
 might last for days and days, but on the Atlantic Ocean 
 of constant storms, where, if the tempest arose, no boat 
 could hope to live. 
 
 ' Keep your places, all ! ' said the captain. ' We'll 
 hev all this out soon ; and if so be that ship was fired 
 by any living man aboard these boats, the hand of the 
 Lord will point him out to us, never fear ! But now we 
 must shape our course, and try for to fall in with some 
 passing ship — guess it's our last chance out here oq 
 God idmighty's ocean.' 
 
OHAPTBE XXn, 
 
 OAST AWAY. 
 
 A.8 tie captain uttered the words, the solemn voice ol 
 the blind preacher arose as if in response, and all eyes 
 were turned to the tall figure, sitting with uplifted arms 
 in the midst of the little lines of emigrants gathered 
 together in the boat. 
 
 'We are in God's hands, my brethren. Let na 
 pray ! ' 
 
 Instantly the captain uncovered his bead ; the other 
 men in the boat followed his example, while, in a per- 
 fectly calm voice, Mr. Sefton, who throughout all that 
 night had never for a moment lost his serenity, poured 
 out an extempore prayer for help and guidance. When 
 it was ended, the captain stood up in the stern, and in a 
 loud voice gave his commands to the mate, who was 
 steering the companion boat. 
 
 It was arranged that the two boats should keep each 
 other in sight as well as possible ; but that, should any 
 unforeseen circumstance come to separate them, attempt 
 should still be made in either case to keep in the line of 
 passing ships. To make for any laud was impossible ; 
 they were almost in mid-ocean. The only hope was 
 that, before a tempest arose, they might be sighted from 
 the deck of some vessel, and saved. 
 
 Only he who has been shipwrecked, and cast away 
 on the great ocean in an open boat, can realise the 
 hopelessness and weariness of the situation ; but the tale 
 is one ' twice told ; ' the circumstances too familiar and 
 common for detailed recapitulation. 
 
 It had been about midnight when the first alarm of 
 ' fire * was given ; and now, within less than one short 
 hour, the ship had vanished in the consuming flame, 
 and they were all homeless wanderers on the deep. The 
 night was dark and chill. It needed a keen look-out to 
 keep the other boat in view; but ever and anon the 
 crew of one shouted to the crew of the other ; and the 
 (roices had a strange, supernatural sound. 
 
 Dawn broke at last, with chilly gleams of wind &ad 
 
190 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 rain. The sun came out of the sea like an oiaoge 
 globe, and the light crept from ripple to ripple with 
 faint prismatic rays, till the whole stretch of ocean was 
 dimly lit. Then they saw on every side of them, 
 whichever way they turned, the darkly heaving horizon 
 line ; but no sail. 
 
 The light came on haggard faces, worn with wait- 
 ing and watching. At the tiller sat the captain, quiet 
 and resolute, with a tender eye for the women, and a 
 cheery word, when it was needed, for the men. Near 
 to him was Priscilla and her father ; the latter with his 
 eyes closed and his hands clasped, as if praying in 
 sleep ; the former very wan and sad, with her eyes ever 
 turned towards Christian, who sat watching her with 
 bloodshot eyes from the bottom of the boat. PriscilJa 
 saw now with horror that his face was blackened as 
 with smoke and fire, that his dress was smoke-covered 
 and ragged, and one of his arms, which was bare to the 
 elbow, badly burnt. 
 
 Since the captain had spoken in stern reproach, 
 while ordering the prisoner's irons to be knocked off, 
 Christian had scarcely stirred ; and, as if to keep his 
 spirit under sweet control, looked only at Priscilla, and 
 never once tnrned his eyes again towards his enemy. 
 Richard Orchardson sat deathly pale opposite to Pris- 
 cilla, separated from Christian by several men and 
 women. In the agony of those terrible hours, ho 
 seemed to have grown years older ; so pinched and 
 grey were his features, so lifeless and dead his mien. 
 
 All that day the boats sailed on quietly together ; 
 nothing happened of any consequence to break the dark 
 monotony of the situation. 
 
 Towards nightfall the wind rose slightly ; and as the 
 boat became awkward to run in the rough sea, a small 
 sail was set forward, to give her comfortable steering 
 way and keep her trim. She was heavily laden with 
 her hiTman freight, and needed careful management, to 
 avoid foundering in the rough ' jumble' that now began 
 to rise. 
 
 Darkness fell ; and in its midst the sound of the 
 wind and the surging of the sea became doubly 
 di'cadfol. Cries and moans began to rise from the 
 
CAST AWAY. ggi 
 
 women ; and even the men tittered terrified exclamationH 
 from time to time. 
 
 But -when tlie terror was highest, the voice of the 
 blind preacher was heard again, enjoining prayer and 
 trust in the Lord who made the sea. This man's 
 courage and trust were so absolute, the moral influence 
 of his presence was so great, that the brave skipper, 
 who was brave as a lion, but less serenely pious, looked 
 at him in growing admiration. Nor did he less admire 
 the daughter, who emulated her father's resignation, 
 and at bis command led the voices of their people in a 
 tender evening hymn. 
 
 And still Christian Christianson kept silent in his 
 place, subdued by the solemnity of the situation, and 
 tranquillised for the time being by the serene presence 
 of her he so passionately loved. 
 
 On the morning of the second day, which broke 
 calm and cold, with gusts of fitful wind on a short 
 chopping sea, the look-out man in the captain's boat 
 suddenly pointed to the horizon, and cried, ' A sail ! ' 
 Almost simultaneously, they heard a cry from the 
 companion boat, which was rising and falling a quarter 
 of a mile away, and saw a man standing erect in the 
 bow, straining his eyes towards the same point in the 
 horizon. 
 
 And sure enough, all eyes, turning one way, beheld 
 afar off", half lost in flying foam and vapour, now seen, 
 now almost blurred from vision, a dark spot against 
 the background of a grey daylight, — a silhouette, like 
 the sail of a small boat, which, being scrutinised by 
 experienced men, resolved itself presently into the black 
 topsail of a ship. 
 
 A wUd cry went up from the poor shipwrecked 
 folk, and all, as with one accord, turned to look at 
 the captain. 
 
 His eye was fixed on the distant object, and hia 
 face was baleful and unexpressive even to _ stoniness ; 
 but his big heart was beating fast, and it was net 
 without an effort that he concealed his agitation. 
 
 Friscilla was the first to break the silence. 
 
 * Captain dear, is it a ship i* ' 
 
iga GOD AND THE MA if. 
 
 He knew that all were watcMng and waiting for 
 his answer, but he kept his eye still fixed on the distant 
 object, and replied withont turning his head, 
 
 ' Give me time, missie, give me time ! Yes, 'tis a 
 ship sure enough ! ' and then, as another wild cry went 
 np from the boat, he added in a deep clear voice, 
 ' Tes, 'tis a ship, but what of that ? Wait a bit, 
 forrard there ! It's one thing for to see a ship, and 
 another thing to be seen hy a ship ; and even once 
 seen 'tis another thing to be 'picked up by a ship. Don't 
 holler yet, but wait and watch ! ' 
 
 They waited patiently enough, because every moment 
 brought the gladsome apparition nearer. 
 
 Daylight flamed behind it, while, black and por- 
 tentous, sail after sail arose, and finally, the black hull 
 itself. Then, as the light increased, and the wind came 
 out of the light, and gladdening ripples danced every, 
 where upon the morning sea, they saw a goodly brig 
 in full sail, bearing down towards them as fast as she 
 could fly — sailing westward, with windward light be- 
 hind her. She was coming so straight for them, 
 though doubtless they were as yet nnseen, that there 
 was no need to make any signal, save the little shred 
 of sail, or to give any other sign of distress. They 
 must and should be seen, that was certain. 
 
 With that certainty, came another deepening terror. 
 
 What could the barque be, and what human hearts 
 did it contain ? Perhaps it would pass cruelly by, 
 withont lending a succouring hand ; for in those days, 
 more than these, there were many devils afloat on the 
 high seas. Perhaps those who manned her were wild 
 and desperate men of some foreign nation, who might 
 carry them away to untold sorrows, or nameless tortures 
 of captivity. 
 
 'What dew you make of her, William Long?' cried 
 the captain, addressing the look-out in the bow, an 
 old sailor of mighty experience. ' la she a Yankee or 
 a Britisher p a merchantman or a pi'ivateer ? ' 
 
 William Long's opinion was that she lacked too 
 small for a merchantman, and too squat for a priva. 
 teer ; that she was not a Yankee nor yet a Britisher, and 
 was, if anything, a petty trader from some foreign port 
 
CAST AmiT. 193 
 
 Hand over hand, the brig approached them ; and 
 at last they could plainly perceive, from the commotion 
 on her decks, that they were seen. Suddenly there 
 was a pnff of smoke at her side, followed by a sharp 
 report ; she had fired a gun. 
 
 _ ' Ready there ! ' cried the captain, while his face 
 brightened. ' She's going to pick us up.' 
 
 Down she came, with dark faces crowding at her 
 side. Then, to the huge joy of all these shipwrecked 
 wayfarers, she squared her yards, came round on the 
 wind, and waited for the boats to run alongside. 
 
 ' A Dutchman, by the Etarnal ! ' cried the skipper 
 delighted. ' Boys, give her a cheer ! ' 
 
 Straightway sailors and passengers cheered together, 
 and the cheer was echoed instantly from the other boat. 
 In a few minutes more the captain had run his bosS 
 alongside, and one by one the wayfarers sprang on 
 deck. 
 
 Facing them, on the deck of the brig, was a squat 
 figure in a red cotton nightcap, smoking an enormous 
 wooden pipe, and surrounded by a crew of squat 
 pigmies, in red cotton nightcaps too. His face was 
 broad, weather-beaten, and good-humoured, and he 
 gave a friendly grunt as Higginbotham approached, 
 and seized him by the hand. 
 
 An excited colloquy ensued, but as neither skipper 
 understood a word of the language of the other, it led 
 to no very definite result; until one of the Dutch 
 seamen, stepping forward at a nod from his skipper, 
 offered his services as interpreter. It then turned out 
 that the barque was the Anna of Rotterdam, commanded 
 by Jan Brock of the same city, and outward bound 
 for Halifax, Nova Scotia. The accommodation on 
 board was limited, especially in the after portions of 
 the vessel, but such as it was, the wayfarers were 
 welcome to share it — as well as the rough fare of the 
 ship's crew, of which the piece de resistance was (as 
 after experience proved) the hardest of Dutch cheese. 
 
 But Captain Higginbotham was enraptured. Again 
 and again he wrung his brother skipper's hand, and 
 then, turning to his own passengers and crew, all of 
 whom were now on the Amia's deck, he loudly con« 
 
 
 
194 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 gratnlated them on having fallen into the hands of a 
 man and a brother. 
 
 The rescued people were distributed over the ship, 
 the crew of the Miles Standish, including Christian, 
 going forward to the forecastle, the emigrants finding 
 tolerable quarters amidships, while cramped accommo- 
 dation was found in the captain's quarters aft for 
 Priscilla and her father, Richard Orchardson, and 
 Captain Higginbotham. Priscilla had a little cabin in 
 the poop all to herself; it was very tiny, and smelt 
 horribly of bilge water and tobacco; but once alone 
 there, she fell upon her knees, and thanked God for 
 His great mercies, and for her fortunate escape. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ICE-DBIPT FEOM THE POLAR SEA. 
 
 Captain Higginbotham, surveying his new friends 
 leisurely with an eye of profound experience, soon 
 discovered that good seamanship was by no means the 
 characteristic of either skipper or crew ; that the f ormei 
 spent a good deal of his time in his berth, pipe in 
 mouth, under the influence of the Indian narcotic and 
 his national liquor, and that the latter sailed the ship 
 pretty much as sweet fancy taught them. Fortunately, 
 the wind was light and fair, the ship a tough and tight 
 one ; and for tiie rest, everybody was grimy, greasy, 
 and very good-humoured. 
 
 During the evening following their rescue, while 
 the ship was slipping along quietly before the same 
 eteady easterly wind, Higginbotham strolled forward, 
 and saw Christian sitting alone on a coil of rope, with 
 his head resting against the rail. 
 
 ' Waal, John Dyson ? ' 
 
 Christian looked up without replying. He had 
 washed away the traces of smoke and blood, and his 
 £ace looked white and strange. 
 
 'Hev you come to jqtix cool senses, John Dyson/ 
 
' Once alone thei-e^ she fell npon her knees, and thanked God for His 
 £reat merciesJ' 
 
ICEDRIFT FROM THE POLAR SKA. 195 
 
 (soutinued the skipper after a pause, ' or air you still 
 a-hatching mischief? I want to talk to you a bit. 
 Out theer in the boat you said some one set my poor 
 old ship afire ? ' 
 
 ' I said it, and I knew it.' 
 
 ' Speak out your mind. 'Tain't for what I lost iu 
 her, though I had my share in hor timber and her 
 cargo, but Lord knows I loved the old ship, and a 
 bit of my heart went down in her when she sunk like 
 a cinder into the sea. Speak out then, John Dyson ! 
 Dew you think she had foul play ? ' 
 
 ' I said it, and I think it.' 
 
 * "Waal, now, your reasons, — come ? ' 
 
 'I will tell you what happened before the alarm 
 was given. I had fallen asleep, sitting almost as you 
 see mo now. Suddenly I wakened, and saw, close to 
 me, something like a man's shape. It was dark, but 
 light enough to see ihat. Then, before I could stir, 
 or cry, or even think, I smelt the stench o' fire, and 
 saw black fumes of smoke rising all around. I tried 
 to spring up, but my irons held me fast from flying, 
 yet I shrieked to them sleeping around me, and they 
 gave the alarm.' 
 
 ' Is that all, John Dyson ? ' 
 
 ' Ib it not enough ? Tour good ship perished by 
 fire, and Ae kindled it. The moment I saw his face 
 in the boat, the moment I met his eyes, I knew 'twas 
 he and no other. May hell consume him ! May he 
 answer for it in tenfold flame, when God judgeth quick 
 and dead ! ' 
 
 The captain's face was black as a thunder. cloud, 
 BS he listened. He said nothing more, but stood in 
 gloomy meditation; then, muttering to himself omi- 
 nously, he went aft, and gazed darkly over the vessel's 
 Bide. 
 
 But the more he thought, the less method he could 
 find in Christian's mad accusation. He knew the 
 hatred between the two men, and he knew likewise 
 how one would spare no pains to heap confusion upon 
 the other. StiU doubting and wondering, he sought 
 out Richard Orchardson, and openly taxed him with 
 the infernal deed — ^prepared, if be confessed his guilt, 
 o 2 
 
(S6 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 to hand tim over to the swiffc vengeance of the 
 shipwrecked crew. 
 
 To his surprise, Richard assumed a high tone of 
 indignant protestation ; loudly proclaimed his inno- 
 cence, and demanded to be brought face to face with 
 his accuser; and finally stormed and wept so like an 
 innocent man foully taxed and troubled, that the captain 
 was completely thrown upon his beam-ends. 
 
 ' In the name of God,' cried Richard at last, 'what 
 end could I serve by such devilry ? The man did 
 threaten my life, and you had him in irons ; nay, you 
 yourself could see that he was mad for blood as any 
 wild beast. Do you think, man, that I was as mad 
 as he ? Did I hold my life so cheap, and care so little 
 for the beloved companions of my voyage, that I sought 
 to compass my own death, and theirs, by an act worthy 
 of yonder madman, not of me ? I am a gentleman a£ 
 good birth, law-loving and law-abiding. How dare 
 you blacken me so with your base suspicion ! How 
 dare you blight my good fame, at the whisper of a 
 gaol-bird, an outcast without a name ! ' 
 
 This bluster overcame the good captain, who indeed 
 saw no tittle of rational evidence to connect the speaker 
 with the loss of his ship. On the very face of it, it 
 seemed utterly improbable and inscrutable. Of all men 
 living, Richard Orchardson seemed least likely to 
 imperil his own life so insanely. 
 
 So Higginbotham walked forward, and found 
 Christian sitting as he had left him, like the very 
 image of despair. 
 
 ' Ton air a liar, John Dyson ! ' he said, between 
 his set teeth, and turned savagely away. 
 
 Meantime, a strange tumult was going on in 
 Christian's soul. Though his body was possessed by 
 a kind of brooding torpor, which caused him to remain 
 for hours in the same position, like a shape of stone, 
 his thoughts were tempestuous enough, but confused 
 and broken, like cloud-phantoms reflected in a mere. 
 
 His sister's shame, his mother's death, his own wild 
 flight from home, his life on shipboard, his interview 
 with PrisoDla, his attack upon his enemy, the fire by 
 night, the sudden shipwreck, — all seemed like a troubled 
 
ICE-DRIFT FROM THE POLAR SEA. igj 
 
 dream ; and lo ! there he sat, baffled, disregarded, no 
 nearer to vengeance than before. 
 
 For despite the holy influence of his love for Pria- 
 cilia, the thought of vengeance remained. To forget 
 that, under any temptation, would have been to forget 
 his father and his mother, all the sufferings of their 
 house, and above all, his sister's wrong. Not even 
 Priscilla, not even the prospect of her love and divine 
 compassion, could or should obliterate those memories. 
 He had sworn an oath, and he meant to keep it. 
 fliehard Orchardson should die. 
 
 If his conscience needed stronger justification, it was 
 found in his firm belief that Orchardson had fired the 
 ship. He had no doubt whatever that this was so, 
 though he had no proof that would satisfy any unpreju- 
 diced individual. Yes, Orchardson was guilty ; another 
 black record in the calendar of his hateful life. 
 
 And Christian, though he seemed tamed and unre- 
 solved for the time being, was merely accumulating 
 venom and watching till the time came to strike. He 
 saw little or nothing of his enemy ; for Captain Higgin- 
 botham had contrived to make his brother captain 
 understand that ' John Dyson ' was a dangerous lunatic, 
 to be strictly watched, and above all, never suflfered to 
 come aft on any pretence whatever. 
 
 On first receiving this warning, the Dutch captain 
 was for clapping him into irons immediately, but at 
 Priscilla's intercession he refrained, and merely gave his 
 crew orders to knock the madman on the head, if neces- 
 sary. So Christian found himself avoided like a leper, 
 as ' dangerous,' by the crew of both vessels. The only 
 friendly face among them was that of the gigantic 
 negro who had assisted to rescue him from the fire. 
 This poor black had taken a fancy to him from the first, 
 and still showed his sympathy to the best of his power. 
 
 To Christian, nursing his wrath and sorrow before 
 the mast, Priscilla came once and again. One of their 
 conversations may be taken as a sample of several. 
 
 ' Oh, Christian, God is good. Let us pray to Him 
 together.' 
 
 ' Nay, I am not one of the praying kind.' 
 
 ' But think of His great goodness and mercy. He 
 
198 GOD ANn THE MAN. 
 
 held lis in the hollow of His hand, and yet He spared 03 j 
 think of that.' 
 
 ' I think rather that He suffered ns to he cast away, 
 through the device of a devil.' 
 
 ' Alas ! therein do you show the madness of your 
 hate. Ton should be just even to your enemy. Mr. 
 Orchardson is innocent as I of the evil you cruelly lay 
 at his door.' 
 
 Christian looked up with a strange expression. 
 
 ' Then the devil hath been again at your ear ! 
 Priscilla, it will ever be so, until he is silent for ever.' 
 
 ' That threat again, and that look which hath made 
 me heart- sick so often ! Oh, Christian, I fear you. He 
 is right — you are mad indeed.' 
 
 ' An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, saith the 
 Lord ! ' 
 
 ' But we may not take the Lord's vengeance into 
 our own wicked hands. Christian, promise me to forego 
 your vengeance, or ' 
 
 'Goon.' . 
 
 ' Or I shall never again call you friend of mine.* 
 
 That gentle warning did not move him now, for all 
 the sullen evil in Ms nature was awake. So he answered 
 in a low voice, 
 
 ' Even tJiat will not change me. My mother cannot 
 sleep in her grave, my sister cannot look in the face of 
 men, till they are avenged.' 
 
 So she left him, returning sad and tearful to her 
 cabin. 
 
 Now, in her pretty anxiety to bring those two 
 warring hearts together, she deepened the hate of both ; 
 since Richard Orchardson was watching her interviews 
 with his rival, and Christian ia his turn knew that she 
 turned back from them to the other's counsel. Know- 
 ing Christian's violent disposition, and his readiness to 
 think all evil against his enemy, she did not for a 
 moment entertain his terrible accusation of arson ; 
 indeed, the fact that he had made it, to some extent 
 hardened her heart against him — ^it seemed of a malignity 
 so diaboUo. 
 
 And during those days after the rescue, Richard 
 Orchardson was so martyr-like and bo sad ; saying so 
 
rCE-DRIFT FROM THE POLAR SEA. 199 
 
 little in reproach, looking so mucli ; that more than once 
 meeting his eyes she sighed, and spoke to him gently, 
 till some gentle answer came. In her heart she said, 
 * Both these men love me, and one methought I loved ; 
 but I would trust my fate to neither ; for the one I could 
 have chosen is dangerous and jealous to madness, and 
 the other is too weak and full of suspicion.' Often iu 
 her heart she wished she were free of both. 
 
 But our tale must not linger with the thoughts of 
 Priscilla Sefton, nor with the hopes and fears, the 
 jealousy and hate, of the two men who had followed her 
 across these waters. Strange events were to happen, 
 to perplex stiU further the relations of all three ; and 
 these events were to be determined by the fortunes and 
 misfortunes of the ship that was bearing them westward, 
 to some undiscovered fate. 
 
 For several days the fair wind lasted. Then the 
 vessel passed into a great sea-mist, covering troubled 
 tracks of windless calm. 
 
 The moment this mist was reached, it became inten sely 
 cold ; the sails and cordage became stiff with frost, the 
 decks slippery with ice. Looking over the side, they 
 saw small fragments of broken ice floating upon the sea. 
 Then it became dark ; so dark that all day long the 
 ship's lights were kept burning, and the fog-horn loudly 
 blowing. 
 
 At midday, the look-out man sang out that he could 
 hear something like the sound of waters sxirging, and 
 could see the gleams of breakers. The Dutch skipper 
 rushed forward, and inmiediately shouted out to the 
 helmsman an order to ' keep away.' The order was 
 obeyed only just in time ; and as the vessel swept round 
 before the faint wind, all saw distinctly the surges 
 thundering round a gigantic iceberg, which rose like a 
 mountain in the midst of the sea. The next minute it 
 was swallowed up in black fog. 
 
 It was now evident that they were in a position of 
 some peril. In anticipation of north-west winds, which 
 often prevailed at that season of the year, they had 
 steered too northerly a course, and had consequently 
 fallen in with drifting ice. To what extent they were 
 
BOO GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Burronnded, it was as yet impossible to tell. Shorten- 
 ing sail, and keeping a sharp look-ont, they crept on 
 through the darkness, waiting for the mist to clear. 
 
 All at once the wind began to rise, blowing in. fitful 
 squalls from the south-east, but almost simultaneously 
 the mist rose. Then they saw, by the light of a sullen 
 sunset, with great bars of orange and red, like the skin 
 of some wild beast, the sea on every side of them 
 covered with loose bergs of all sizes, driftiag southward ; 
 some sparldiag with all the colours of the rainbow, 
 others dark and shadowy as floating blocks of cloud. 
 
 PrisciUa stood on deck, and gazed wonderingly on 
 the strange sight, thinking only of its loveliness and 
 novelty. 
 
 But Captain Higginbotham, who stood near her, 
 was otherwise moved ; for he saw in the neighbourhood 
 of drifting ice, and in the rapidly rising wind, a new 
 danger — not easily to be avoided by the Dutch skipper, 
 for whose seamanship he had by this time acquired a 
 supreme contempt. 
 
 ' Look, captain dear ! ' cried Priscilla. ' Are they 
 not beautiful ? That one is like a great church, with 
 blue vaults beneath, and a figure like an angel on the 
 threshold ; and that other like a fair ship, with sails of 
 crystal and masts cf marble, crowded with folk in 
 shining robes, singing " Holy, Holy ! " like the hosts in 
 the Pilgrim's tale.' 
 
 ' They're pretty enough to look at, missie,' returned 
 the captain, ' but nasty customers to come agin when a 
 ship's making nine knots an hour. I'd rather hev their 
 room than their company, anyhow.' 
 
 So saying, he turned and joined his brother skipper, 
 who was standing pipe in mouth on the poop, and 
 regarding the bergs with a grin of total stupidity and 
 nnconcern. Conversation with him was impossible, 
 and Higginbotham, after in vain trying to discover 
 what course he meant to steer, left him, with an ezcla- 
 mation expressive of supreme disgust. 
 
 Night f eU, but fortunately there was a moon, show- 
 ing itself from time to time through drifts of flying 
 cloud, and shedding even when itself unseen a faint 
 Bftmospheric light. As the wind was still high, it was 
 
ICE-DRIFT FROM THE POLAR SEA. 301 
 
 ■oon necessary to shorten more and more sail, until at 
 last the ship was almost bare. At last it was deter- 
 mined to heave-to, which she did for the greater part 
 of the night, with her head to the east and her main- 
 topsail to the mast. 
 
 All the night the icebergs loomed on every side, 
 sometimes coming so unpleasantly close that a man 
 might almost have leapt upon them from the slippery 
 decks. The sea all round, far as eye could behold, was 
 black with their shadows. 
 
 It was soon obvious, however, that they were not a 
 portion of any large pack, but merely a fleet of loose 
 floes broken off and cast adrift by some storm or other 
 convulsion of nature. As the night advanced they grew 
 less numerous, and before daybreak the nearest was 
 several miles away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE STOEM. 
 
 But with daybreak came a new alarm. 
 
 The virind died almost completely away, but a tre- 
 mendous swell was setting from the south-east, and in 
 the same direction the gates of dawn were blocked by 
 huge masses of black and purple cloud, layer on layer, 
 flattened one upon another, while out of the dense mass 
 rose a black vapour, like smoke from a funnel. 
 
 The Yankee skipper stood amidships, with William 
 Long and several other of his own seamen, looking to 
 the eastward. 
 
 'What dew you make of them clouds, William 
 Long ? ' 
 
 The sage addressed stuck his quid into the comer of 
 his cheek, spat leisurely over the vessel's side, drew his 
 Bhirt cuff across his mouth, and then replied, 
 
 ' Gale o' wind from the sou'-east.' 
 
 • Eight you air, William Long. It's been brewing 
 hell and thunder in that theer witch's caldron ever 
 
«oa GOD AND TRb MAIT. 
 
 Eince last night, and now, thougli it ought to be bright 
 Uay, there ain't enough light to read a compass by ; 
 and d'ye hear that ? ' 
 
 As he spoke, there came from the heaving swell a 
 heavy roar like thunder — the voice of the sea itself, 
 ominously moaning. It was curiously dark ; a troubled 
 sense was in the air, 
 
 • Like that strange sUence which preoedeB the stonn, 
 And shakes the forest leaves without a breath.' 
 
 And now far away, between the layers of cloud, strange 
 streaks of light were running like quicksilver. Whether 
 4hey were day-beams trying to break through the dark- 
 ness, or flashes of sheet-lightning, it was difficult to 
 tell. 
 
 Meantime the brig was rolling and tossing on the 
 black billows like a thing in pain ; her cordage creaking, 
 her sails flapping with artillery-peals, her decks opening 
 and shutting with the strain. 
 
 The waves came up smooth and unbroken, like 
 black mountains rolling down to engulf the vessel, 
 which was still hove to under the lightest of sail. 
 
 Just then the Dutch skipper appeared on deck, and 
 in a loud voice gave his orders. As the crew flew to 
 obey them, Higginbotham turned to his own men with 
 ft look of horror. 
 
 ' Look at that ! ' he exclaimed. ' If the 'tarnal 
 Dutch lubber isn't going to clap on canvas ! ' 
 
 Such was indeed the case. Springing up the masta 
 and into the rigging, the Dutchmen were already busy 
 preparing to set sail. 
 
 Higginbotham rushed aft, confronted the skipper, 
 and pointed eagerly to windward. The skipper smil«d 
 and nodded, and discharging a thick volume of smoke 
 from his throat, gave an approving grunt. As he did 
 so, the air was filled with an ancient and horrible smell, 
 composed of rank tobacco and Schiedam. 
 
 Pale with rage, Higginbotham secured the services 
 of the sailor who had previously acted as interpreter, 
 and with his aid expressed an opinion that no one but 
 a madman would unfurl a yard of canvas in the f^oe of 
 snch weather-signs as confronted them. 
 
THE STOBM. aoj 
 
 Thus warned, tho Dutch skipper smiled again, bni 
 more disagreeably. Then he said (through the inter- 
 preter) that he knew his own business. There was no 
 danger ; only a nice little fair wind coming out of the 
 morning red. He knew how to sail a ship better than 
 any 'Englander,' and he was afraid of nothing. Finally, 
 he expressed a request, which the interpreter did not 
 translate, that Higginbotham would go below — either 
 in a narrow sense into the ship's cabin, or in the broad 
 sense to a place that may be nameless, very far below 
 indeed. 
 
 Scarcely had the Dutch skipper finished his speech, 
 when a gigantic wave, lifting up the vessel like a cork 
 into the air, swept him off his legs and rolled him into 
 the lee scuppers. There he remained, without attempt- 
 ing to rise, either because the drink had mastered him, 
 or because the shock had stunned him. 
 
 Almost simultaneously, the clouds to eastward 
 opened, a flash like sulphurous lightning lit up the 
 dark heavens, and the ocean, a league to windward, 
 appeared as white as milk. 
 
 In a moment, Higginbotham sprang on the poop, 
 and shrieked to his own men, 
 
 ' All hands to shorten sail. If the Dutchmen inter- 
 fere, chuck 'em into the sea ! Quick, for your lives ! ' 
 
 Obeying the order as one man, the crew of the Milm 
 Standish sprang up into the rigging. One glance to 
 windward showed even the Dutch sailors that it was a 
 matter of life and death. The storm was almost upon 
 them, in all its fury. 
 
 Scarcely were the chief sails roughly stowed, than, 
 with a shriek and a roar, the wind struck the vessel, 
 while the water beneath and around her foamed to 
 boiling white. The bare masts bent like reeds, while 
 the topsail, not being quite secured, burst loose, flapped, 
 and was torn to ribbons in a moment and blown away. 
 For a time the vessel hung broadside, with her lee bul- 
 warks under, and the sea almost up to the main hatch. 
 
 Without a word Higginbotham sprang to the tiller, 
 ropes, hurled the helmsman aside, took the tiller, and 
 jammed the helm hard over. After a long struggle, the 
 Brig began to pay off; then, like a canoo shooting the 
 
904 GOP AND THE MAN. 
 
 rapids of some mighty river, she swept away before ths 
 blast. 
 
 Behind them, a black rift, opening as the mouth of 
 some gigantic caldron, belched forth fire and water ; 
 ^re and water of the surcharged thunder clouds, piled 
 mass after mass upon each other ; while in one portion 
 of the night-black east, the vapours rolled open and 
 showed the bloodshot sun, glaring like a rayless eye 
 upon the desolation. The rain covered the deck in 
 torrents, and on the slippery waters, black from above 
 and green from below, the lightning played in blinding 
 beams. 
 
 Meantime the ship, blown bodily as if in the aii 
 between wind and water, smothered, choking, struggling, 
 shrieking, like a living thing, the black clouds looming 
 down upon her, the terrific seas surging up to destroy 
 her, flew before the blast. 
 
 In the fury of this first onset, several men were 
 washed overboard, and the Dutch skipper, who had 
 risen to his feet, frenziedly gesticulating, would have 
 followed their example, had he not been blown against 
 the backstays, and flapped there like a limp and dripping 
 rag. 
 
 ' The sea is rising ! ' cried Higginbotham. ' There, 
 forward ! reef the foresail and set it ! ' 
 
 Assisted by the Dutch crew, his men obeyed him. 
 The sea was rising indeed, and threatening to drown 
 the vessel outright; but thanks to the foresail, they 
 managed to heave her to for a little time, and rising 
 and sinking in the tremendous sea, and lying over 
 again almost to the main hatch, the brig fronted tha 
 tempest. 
 
 Below, Priscilla was on her knees by the side of her 
 blind father ; and in the midst of the frightened people, 
 Bichard Orchardson stood clinging to his berth, as 
 white as death. 
 
 Suddenly there was a blinding flash, a thunderona 
 roar. The vessel was covered in flying foam and fire, 
 like flame and smoke. Then they saw the foresail 
 shrivelling up like a shred of cotton, and blowing away 
 into the darkness; while the vessel, with a wild lorcb, 
 osme broadside to the sea. 
 
THE STORM. aoj 
 
 For a minute it seemed as if all was over. She 
 sank like a log into tlie trough of the sea, and one huge 
 billow swept her from stem to stern, carrying away 
 half-a-dozen shrieking lives. But again Higginbothara, 
 though the water drenched him from head to foot, 
 jammed the helm hard over, and again, with a shock 
 like an earthquake running through her wooden frame, 
 she paid off, and rushed away with the rushing waves 
 before the blast. 
 
 There was now nothing for it but to let her run, and 
 trust to chance. 
 
 Fortunately there was a ragged piece of foresail still 
 remaining, and this served to keep her from broach- 
 ing to. Higginbotham clung to the tiller with set 
 teeth, though again and again the water, washing over 
 the stern, smothered him and tried to drag him from 
 his post. 
 
 Two long days and nights that gale lasted, blowing 
 the ship they knew not whither, but sweeping her still 
 in a northerly direction. Even after the first day's 
 storm ceased, and the great masses of cloud behind them 
 began to move and come up slowly, like serried legions 
 of some stormy host, the wind increased in violence, the 
 seas still rose, and no sun was seen. 
 
 But on the morning of the second day, after they 
 had flown at lightning speed hundreds upon hundreds 
 of miles, the sun burst out through flying billows of 
 cloud, and poured a faint yellow sulphurous spume upon 
 the tossing sea. 
 
 The clouds now passed overhead swifter than the 
 ship flew, and by that sign they knew that the force of 
 the gale was broken. 
 
 A new foresail was now bent on, and the vessel was 
 able to ' heave-to ' comfortably, and wait for the storm 
 to subside. 
 
 ' It's about time it did break ! ' muttered Captain 
 Higginbotham to himself, as ho glared with Cyclopean 
 eye eastward. ' If we hed kep' on running a day and a 
 night longer, guess we should hev come right jam smash 
 »gin the North Pole ! ' 
 
 Now that the danger seemed over, the Dutch skipper 
 
206 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 was at first inclined to be quarrelsome, and to put his 
 brother skipper in irons for having mutinously taken 
 possession of the management of the ship, but on re- 
 flection, after moistening his anger with a bottle of 
 Schiedam, he thought it better to swear eternal friend- 
 ship — which he did, with many hand- shakes and wild 
 gesticulations. 
 
 While things were at this pass, Priscilla and her 
 father tried to come on deck, accompanied by Bichard 
 Orchardson. During the fury of the gale, none of the 
 passengers had been allowed to leave their quarters 
 below; and now, at Higginbotham's solicitation, they 
 did not como beyond the cabin companion. 
 
 Peeping from thence, Priscilla saw a knot of sailors 
 gathered forward, and among them the powerful form 
 of Christian. 
 
 During the tempest he had worked hard with the 
 rest, never shrinking from any post of danger, and 
 again and again putting his -life in peril. In the wild 
 tumult of the elements, he seemed for a time to forget 
 his mad purpose, — and indeed he did 80, for to think at 
 all was difficult at such a season ; all a man could do was 
 struggle with all his bodily strength against overpower, 
 ing odds, oblivious of all save the fierce, almost mechani- 
 cal fight for life. 
 
 The light brightened from yellow to pale pink, and 
 the seas came along with slowly surceasing force. Be- 
 fore midday, the gale died away into a strong breeze, 
 and it was possible to set easy sail. 
 
 The vessel, still dripping and struggling like a 
 winged bird, had bowled along swiftly for several hours, 
 when a cry arose forward of ' Land ahead ! ' 
 
 And sure enough, far away on the port bow, they 
 saw the first loom of something black, like a low-lying 
 bank of cloud. 
 
 An order was immediately given to take soxmdings, 
 but no bottom was got with two hundred fathoms of line. 
 
 ' Sure enough it looks like land,' said Captain Hig- 
 ginbotham, while the order was given to stand off, as 
 close to the wind as possible. 
 
 Presently, when the sun began to sink in the 
 77eBteiA heavens, its light flamed red on what had ai 
 
THE STORM. a^ 
 
 first been taken for land, and showed what looked like a 
 mountainous island, forty or fifty miles away. At that 
 moment the old sailor, William Long, strolled aft. 
 
 ' Waal, William Long, what dew you make of that 
 land ? ' 
 
 William Long clung to the backstay, and went through 
 the usual formality of clearing his mouth of tobacco juice 
 before he spoke. 
 
 ' I makes this of it, captain. It's no more land than 
 this here brig is land. It's an iceberg, captain ! and 
 look'ee yonder ! ' — (as he spoke he lifted his right hand 
 and swept the horizon to the north). ' If that ain't the 
 iceblink, I've never been in these latitoodes afore.' 
 
 Far away along the northern horizon line there was 
 a long strip of glimmering white, with occasional patches 
 of dull yellow and quivering blue. William Long was 
 an old whaler, and recognised the phenomenon in a 
 moment. 
 
 Scarcely had he spoken, when there came, in corro- 
 boration of his words, a sudden crash, as if the vessel 
 had struck upon some sunken rock. The brig trembled 
 through all her timbers ; and looking over the side, the 
 seamen saw large fragments of broken ice bobbing up 
 to the surface on each quarter. They had struck against 
 a portion of submerged ice, and shivered it to frag, 
 ments. 
 
 There could be no doubt now that they were in 
 dangerous waters. If any further proof were wanting, 
 they could have told the close proximity of icefields by 
 the rapidly falling temperature. 
 
 The sheets were stiffening, and flakes of frost, thio 
 m gossamer, were forming on the sails. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 BESET BT THE ICE, 
 
 Sapidlt taken observations showed them that they were 
 somewhere in latitude 60°, longitude 55°, and that oaB- 
 Roaoently the iron-bound coast of Labrador could not 
 
icS GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 be far away. Tempestuous weather and Dutch seaman- 
 Bhip had carried them out of their course many hundred 
 miles. 
 
 Fortunately the wind now changed into the lightest 
 of breezes, and they were able to steer a more southerly 
 course ; but again and again, after nightfall, they passed 
 masses of floating ice, and several times struck with 
 wild concussion against drifting fragments, but without 
 serious damage to the Anna's oaken frame. 
 
 All hands of both crews were now on the alert ; 
 two men stood at the helm, extra hands were on the 
 look-out, and the Dutch captain directed the ship's 
 movements from the forecastle deck, passing the word 
 aft to ' port ' or ' starboard ' the helm as occasion rose, 
 and thus avoiding fatal collisions. Despite all these 
 precautions, the night was so dark, and the weather 
 now so thick, that they were more than once in extreme 
 danger. 
 
 When day broke again, they found themselves sur- 
 rounded on every side by floating bergs and fields, with 
 one green passage, about two miles broad, of compara- 
 tively open water. But right ahead to the westward 
 was a frowning battlement of blackness which looked 
 like land. 
 
 Meantime, the passengers below were faring but 
 badly. Mr. Sefton was prostrate in his berth with 
 symptoms much resembling those of low fever, and 
 Priscilla, worn with sickness and anxiety, looked the 
 merest ghost of herself. 
 
 The foul air of the cabin, the coarse food, and the 
 incessant vibration, bad all told upon her delicate frame. 
 Richard Orchardson was unceasing in his attentions to 
 both father and daughter, but he too seemed succumbing 
 to the hard and perilous life aboard ship. 
 
 To them presently came the Tankee captain, and at 
 his solicitation Priscilla went on deck. Scarcely had 
 she left the cabin, however, and come out into the chilly 
 morning air, than she fainted away. Richard caught hor 
 in his arms, and gently carried her back to the cabin. 
 
 Scarcely had they disappeared, than the tall form 
 of Ohristian, ragged, haggard, and wild, crept from 
 
BESEr BY THE ICE. ao9 
 
 beWnd tlie mainmast, and seemed about to follow, when 
 Captain Higginbotham interposed. 
 
 ' Waal, John Dyson ? ' he cried sternly. ' What 
 dew you want here ? ' 
 
 ' She is dying,' answered Christian. ' He hath killed 
 her. Tes, it is his doing.' 
 
 ' Keep back, John Dyson. I have told you often, 
 and I tell you now, your place is afore the mast.' 
 
 ' And I tell you that we are lost, and that we are 
 lost through him. He fired your ship — why do you let 
 him live ? ' 
 
 As he spoke his eyes were fuU of a light like that ol 
 madness ; so at least it seemed to the good captain, who 
 stubbornly shook his head. 
 
 ' Neow you jest take a friend's advice, John Dyson. 
 Go back to your work like a man, and don't think of 
 nought but helping me to get this ship safe to land. As 
 for that young miss, remember she's aboard, and you'll 
 have to answer to Almighty God for her life. Show 
 you're a man, I say, and not a roaring he-b'ar.' 
 
 At that moment William Long's voice sounded from 
 the forecastle : 
 
 ' Land ahead ! ' 
 
 Without another word, the captain took Christian by 
 the arm, and drew him gently to the fore part of the 
 vessel ; he made no resistance, but obeyed as if stupefied 
 and dazed. 
 
 Clear and distinct, right ahead, the land was now 
 seen — a frowning line of crags and mountains, with 
 black and purple shadows, looming distinct against the 
 background of a pale grey sky. So cold and clear was 
 the air, that this sombre coast seemed quite near, though 
 it could not have been less than fifty or sixty miles 
 away. 
 
 Land ahead ; on the one side of the vessel fields of 
 ice ever closing in ; and on the other — what ? More ice, 
 in seemingly impenetrable lines of gigantic bergs rising 
 beyond the drift ice and stretching far as eye could see. 
 
 There was a Babel of voices, as the Dutch and 
 English-speaking crew clustered together and looked 
 around. The Dutch skipper stood smoking hie eternal 
 pipe, with a look of stupid consternation. 
 
 p 
 
»I0 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Soundings were again taken. This time thoy reached 
 the bottom, at a depth of one hundred and fifty fathoms. 
 
 Slowly and cautiously the ship worked along the 
 edge of the line of bergs, looking for a lead to the 
 southward. Once or twice she entered the ice, but only 
 to retreat in time to avoid being cracked like a walnut- 
 shell between bergs in motion. So she crept out again 
 into the open water, and hung about like a bewildered 
 bird. 
 
 Then it was suggested that she should put about and 
 work back along the open passage by which she had 
 entered the ice — a kind of huge trap, from which, as 
 they soon found, there was no safe return. For no 
 Booner had she turned, and sailed a few miles along the 
 open water, than she found that enormous bergs, like 
 things of life, had drifted down and blocked the passage, 
 waiting with yawning jaws for her to enter among them 
 and be crushed. 
 
 Like a duck in the funnel of a decoy, the brig 
 fluttered this way and that way, but found no practi- 
 cable outlet. 
 
 More than once she was in mortal peril. 
 
 As she approached one huge berg, a very mountain 
 of shining whiteness, solid as marble, a portion of its 
 side shifted and broke away — when, with a crash like 
 thunder, the mighty mass toppled over, within a hun- 
 dred yards of the shuddering ship, deluging her with 
 flying foam. 
 
 Night found her thus — a chilly, foggy night, in 
 which the stiffened sails became hard as boards, showers 
 of icicles fell from the frozen rigging at every change of 
 position, and the decks became slippery with frost. 
 
 Turning again in the darkness, she ran along the 
 edge of the ice ; and now, as night advanced, there was 
 a murmur in the air of rising wind — blowing this time 
 from the northward, and coming so cold from the pole 
 that it cut the cheek like a lash of steel and drew 
 blood. 
 
 At daybreak, it was blowing half a gale. 
 
 ' What dew you think o' this, William Long P ' 
 asked Captain Higginbotham of that grizzled maritime 
 authority. 
 
BESBT BY THE ICE. £ii 
 
 ' I think as how we're in a trap, captain ; aud if ro 
 be as winter's a-setting in early, there's little chance for 
 that theer ice to clear. Unless we can bore a way 
 through the loose ice yonder, we'll hev to go to bed 
 like the snakes and wait for summer.' 
 
 But to attempt to bore southward just then was out 
 of the question, for the northerly gale was still rising. 
 By midday it blew with such fury that it was found 
 necessary to run right in under shelter of the ice, and 
 fix a couple of anchors to a solid berg. 
 
 This was done, with no little trouble and peril ; and 
 thus anchored to solid masses which seemed drifting to 
 windward, they saw smaller bergs and loose floes sweep- 
 ing past Uke ships before the shrieking wind. On one 
 of these loose fragments stood a huge she-bear, shrieking 
 in terror or anger as she floated by. 
 
 Creeping again on deck from the solitude of the 
 cabin, Priscilla saw the ship beset, while the ice-fields 
 on every side were dyed crimson by the sun, which, 
 pausing on the level horizon line, hung like a huge drop 
 of liquid blood. Not far distant, to the westward, lay 
 the land they had previously sighted, with thunderous 
 surges breaking on its rocks, while higher up its lurid 
 mountain-heights flashed back the sunset's bloodshot 
 beams. Innumerable terns and kittiwake gulls were 
 hovering over the vessel, many quite fearlessly alighting 
 on its yards, as tame as doves ; and in. the open water 
 close by, flocks of seals were disporting. 
 
 There was a roar in the air above of shrieking 
 wind, and a sound all round of surge and crashing 
 ice, but down on the deck there was compai'ative 
 shelter from the fury of the gale. Priscilla crept to 
 the Yankee skipper's side, and reaching out her hand, 
 softly touched his arm. She said nothing, but looked 
 Bround with a strange awe and wonder, mixed with 
 maidenly fear. 
 
 Then she shivered, for the air was icy cold. 
 
 'You'd best keep below, missie,' said the kindly 
 skipper. ' This air ain't fit for tender lungs to breathe. 
 I've seen the north wind bring blood from a man's chest 
 afore now.' 
 
 • Why are we staying here V ' 
 
BI3 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' I'll tell yon, missie. We're beset by the ice, and 
 what's more, there's a northerly gale blowing. If them 
 anchors slipt, we should drive down on the bergs to 
 lee'ard, and this ship's shell ain't tough enough to stand 
 that, 1 reckon.' 
 
 At this moment Richard came np, and a sharp gust 
 sweeping the deck, Priscilla clung to him. He put hia 
 arm around her waist to support her, and in her anxiety 
 uhe did not attempt to free herself from his hold. 
 
 So for a space they stood, while a pair of jealous 
 eyes, gazing from the forecastle, watched them with 
 a new and aching despair. 
 
 Then Christian thought, ' She loves him ! He hath 
 poisoned her heart against me, and she loves him ! '-^ 
 and he could have killed them both. 
 
 ' Do you think there is danger ? ' asked Kichard 
 wistfally, still supporting her. 
 
 The skipper did not answer. He was never the 
 man to lie, and he did not care to awaken useless fears, 
 especially in the heart of his favourite. He thrust his 
 hands deep into the pockets of his sailor's jacket, and 
 glared with his one eye at the sunset, as if in gloomy 
 speculation. 
 
 Then he turned away, and going forward, saw 
 Christian watching, like a wild beast preparing to 
 spring. So the wary skipper placed himself in a con- 
 venient attitude, ready to interfere with brute force if 
 the man meant mischief, as he feared. 
 
 Now, something in their common danger brought 
 the hearts of the young man and maid together, as they 
 stood there on the chilly deck. 
 
 ' Ton are cold,' said Richard softly. ' Let me fetch 
 you something warm to cover you.' 
 
 ' Nay, I am not cold,' she answered ; then she 
 added, with tears in her voice, ' O Richard, I fear 
 for my father ! He is so old, and he seems so ill. If 
 he should die ' 
 
 She paused, for the tears choked her. 
 
 'He will not die,' returned Richard cheerfully. 
 *We shall soon escape from this terrible place, and 
 Und a haven. 
 
 ' Pray God it may be so ! — ^but if evil shonld oome 
 
BESET BY THE ICE. ai3 
 
 to him, I should die too. Now my dear mother is dead, 
 ho is my only friend and protector.' 
 
 ' Say not so. You have one other.' 
 
 ' None that I love so much, none to content me if 
 he were gone.' 
 
 He held her more closely, and under the inspiration 
 of the moment, whispered eagerly, 
 
 ' Tou have one who loves you more than all the world 
 —one who would protect you with his life, one who for 
 your sake has forsaken father and fatherland, is with 
 you now, and will be with you till the end.' 
 
 Trembling now, she tried to release herself, but he 
 held her fast. 
 
 ' Do not hold me ! ' she cried. ' Let me go back to 
 him ! ' 
 
 ' Am I not forgiven ? ' 
 
 ' Forgiven — what ? Prithee let me go ! ' 
 
 ' Stay a little yet,' said Richard ; then in a voice of 
 solemn earnestness he continued, ' Sweetheart, we may 
 never leave these cruel shores alive. This ice may be 
 our tomb. Nay, tremble not ; for if it were, I for one 
 should die peacefully, if I were certain of your sweet 
 love. Without that, life is nothing; with it, death 
 would be divine.' 
 
 She looked at him in wonder. His pale face was 
 shining, his eyes full of overmastering passion. 
 
 ' This is no time to talk of such things. Rather 
 pray to God, Who holds us in the hollow of His hand ;' 
 and again she tried to disengage herself from hia 
 circling arm. 
 
 ' I have prayed — I pray — to God, for one thing only 
 — ^yourself, Priscilla ! ' 
 
 At last she released herself, but pausing, looked 
 again into his face. 
 
 ' I shall never marry. If God in His mercy spares 
 ws, my place will still be with my father. Do not speak 
 of it again.' 
 
 The words were decided enough, but the tone was so 
 gentle, the look so kind, that Richard might well smile 
 to himself as the delicate figure flitted away. Flushed 
 and wild with passion, he hung over the ship's Bide, 
 and looked at the wintry scene around him. 
 
214 <iOD ANB THE MAIf. 
 
 He did not believe that there was imminent danger, 
 but he had not lied when, in the fervour of passionate 
 feeling, he had sworn that he could face death in Pris. 
 cilia's company. Still, his dream now was of sunshine 
 and a fair haven, with the maiden's love as his ex- 
 cellent reward. 
 
 And all this time the other's eyes were watching, 
 with a feverish desire. Christian did not stir, though 
 the impulse to do so was strong upon him ; but his face 
 was set in terrible resolve. In his heart of hearts, he 
 too was praying to God. 
 
 ' He has robbed me of everything, even her love. 
 His life, God — give me his life ! It is forfeit to me 
 already. God of justice, if there be God indeed, give 
 me his life ! ' 
 
 Night fell ; and with night came, borne down in the 
 lap of the gale, whirlwinds of blinding snow, snow so 
 thick that it smothered mast and rigging, drifted in 
 great heaps upon the deck and against the bulwarks, 
 and clothed the shivering seamen with garments of 
 whiteness. And now the wind came in blasts so ter- 
 rible that again and again the vessel was in danger of 
 being torn away from the shelter of the solid ice, which 
 groaned and crashed around her like mountains up- 
 heaved by earthquake. 
 
 But as soon as an anchor dragged, the men sprang 
 out, and at peril of their lives made it fast again, dig- 
 ging holes for the fluke with their hatchets, in the 
 firmest portions of the berg. As they worked thus, the 
 snow drifted over and almost smothered them, and two 
 men disappeared into chasms of the ice, never to appear 
 again. 
 
 At last the snow ceased, after having fallen for 
 hours, and there came a faint starlight, in which the 
 ship loomed strange and phantomic, shrouded in silver, 
 with half-frozen snow hanging like bearded icicles to its 
 masts and rigging, and its decks spread with a thick 
 carpet of whiteness. Above, the cold heaven glittered 
 as with innumerable points of bluish steel ; while the 
 ice all around assumed fantastic shapes, with yast 
 shadows and flying gleams of silver and azure. 
 
BESET Sy THE ICE. grj 
 
 But though there was not a cloud in the aenitli, tbo 
 blast blew from the Cold Clime with never-ceasing force. 
 
 At midnight, there came other perils, in which all 
 others were forgotten. 
 
 All at once, as if at some concerted signal, the 
 whole framework of the solid floe began to move and 
 close in upon the ship. 
 
 Sharp reports like those of artillery, but infinitely 
 deeper and more terrible, resounded on every side, 
 while here and there, with a force like that of earth- 
 quake, the ice was torn into mighty fissares, up which 
 the blue water spouted and flowed. 
 
 Between wind and water the tumult was stupefying. 
 
 Then the ice closed in with slow and pitiless strength, 
 till it held the ship as in a vice. 
 
 A cry went up from the terrified sailors, for the 
 solid ribs of oak began to crack and yield like the shell 
 of a breaking egg. 
 
 Fortunately the pinch came very slowly, and the 
 ship's timber was unusually tough and strong; while, 
 thanks to large portions of yielding floating ice which 
 surrounded her on every side, and acted as a sort of 
 fender, she did not actually come in contact with the 
 main body of the floe. 
 
 Preparations were at once made for the worst. 
 Orders were given to get the boats out upon the ice, 
 and to land such provisions as might be necessary in 
 the event of the ship's destruction. Barrels of meal 
 and salt junk, kegs of spirits, bags of biscuits, were 
 passed from hand to hand and thrown out upon the ice. 
 Men shouted, women screamed, but all voices were 
 drowned in the elemental tumult. 
 
 Pale as death, Richard Orchardson accosted Captain 
 Higginbotham, who stood directing the movements of 
 his own crew, moving about like shrieking ghosts in 
 the dim light. 
 
 ' Is the ship doomed ? ' he cried. ' Must we take. to 
 
 the ice ? ' , , . 
 
 'We're in the Lord's hands,' replied the skipper. 
 ' This ain't no time for talking. If you're a man, lend 
 B hand ! ' 
 
 Thus urged, Richard clambered over the ship's sid^ 
 
tl6 GOD AND THE MAN, 
 
 and joined the busy crowd who were passing things 
 from hand to hand across the loose ice. Despair and 
 terror gave him strength ; he leapt eagerly to a place, 
 and was soon as busily employed as the rough crew. 
 
 Upon them as they were thus busily engaged burst 
 another storm of blinding snow, so thick and heavy, 
 that it became pitch dark, and they could not see 
 each other or even the outline of the ship. The men 
 shrieked to each other in terror, some threw themselves 
 upon their faces to avoid being swept away, others 
 clung wildly to each other. 
 
 "With a sharp cry of fear, Richard struggled back 
 towards the ship, but as he moved, the solid ice seemed 
 to crumble beneath him, and he heard the roar of 
 surging water. 
 
 At this moment he dimly saw standing close to him 
 a white shape, like the shape of a man. In the ex- 
 tremity of his fear, he tottered to it and clutched it 
 wildly. 
 
 ' Help ! ' he gasped. 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered the cry, when he felt him- 
 self lifted as if by superhuman strength and carried 
 rapidly across the ice. His head swam, a new and 
 nameless horror possessed him, but he stUI clung 
 frantically to the shape which carried him. 
 
 Through the blinding drift he was swiftly hurried. 
 As a lioness might carry off a child, or as a mighty 
 polar bear might carry off a small seal, the shape 
 carried him away. 
 
 He looked wildly round for the ship, but could see 
 nothing but blinding whiteness. Then he struggled to 
 release himself, but was held in a clutch like that of 
 iron. 
 
 ' Help ! ' he shrieked again. 
 
 It seemed like some hideous dream. The shape still 
 ran with him across the solid ice, in the teeth of the 
 flying drift, the biting blast . 
 
 Then, sick with terror, he swooned away. 
 
 When he opened his eyes, he was lying prone. The 
 snow had ceased, and the starlight again shone faintly 
 down. He looked up, and saw standing before him, 
 wrapt from head to foot in bbow, a tall human shape. 
 
BESET BY THE ICE. 217 
 
 Then a white face was pressed down close to his, 
 &nd while a hot breath touched his cheek, a voice 
 hissed these words : 
 
 • At last I ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 'an eye fok an eye.' 
 
 In a moment he had recognised his m.ortal enemy. 
 With a wild cry he leapt to his feet, and looked round 
 for the ship. But no ship was visible : only on every 
 side gigantic hummocks of ice and snow. 
 
 He turned and would have flown; but Christian 
 gript him by the throat. 
 
 ' Stand and listen ! I could have slain you in your 
 swoon, but that would have been too merciful. Look 
 in my face ! quick ! do you know me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' 
 
 ' Remember my broken-hearted father ! remember 
 my betrayed sister ! remember my murdered mother ! — 
 remember all these, and remember her whose heart you 
 have turned against me, before I kill you.' 
 
 ' Help ! you will not murder me ! ' 
 
 ' Cry, but no one can hear you. The ship lies 
 yonder, a mile away. I have brought you hither to 
 make expiation. You hear ? ' 
 
 ' For the love of God ' 
 
 ' He has given you into my hands.' 
 
 'No, no! — do not harm me! I will do whatever 
 you wish — I will abandon my pursuit of Miss Seftou — • 
 yes, I will make amends.' 
 
 ' Can you bring back the dead to life ? Can you 
 heal the hearts you and yours have broken ? Devil ! ' 
 
 As he spoke, he compressed his grip upon the other's 
 throat, so that he could not speak. 
 
 Answer me one thing, before I kill you. Did you 
 not fire the ship ? Answer ! ' 
 
 He released his grip, and the answer came in a wild 
 negative, while Richard fell crying upon his knees 
 
SfS GOD AND THE MAS. 
 
 ' No, no I ' 
 
 ' Before God P ' 
 
 ' Before God.' 
 
 Using a fierce oath, Christian strack him in the faco 
 with his open hand. He fell back shrieking. 
 
 'Another lie to help sink your soul to the pit of 
 hell ! ' 
 
 As Christian spoke, there came from the distance 
 the faint report of a gun ; after a moment's interval, it 
 was followed by a second report, and by a third. 
 
 ' Ton hear ? ' he cried with a terrible laugh. ' They 
 miss yon already, but they cannot saye you. Nothing 
 can save you now.' 
 
 But the sound of the gun, and the knowledge that 
 ielp was not far away, seemed to give Richard strength 
 and speed. He leapt to his feet, and before the other 
 could touch him, fled in the direction of the sound. 
 
 It was a race for life, for Christian followed close 
 behind him, and almost struck him as he ran. Under 
 ordinary circumstances, he was the fleeter, and terror 
 lent him wings. He increased the distance between 
 them at every step. 
 
 Over the slippery ice, between the frowning hum- 
 mocks, twisting, turning, he fled for life. Once he heard 
 his pursuer stumble and fall, but he heard him spring 
 up again in a moment, and follow like a bloodhound. 
 
 Another gun from the ship. He rushed wildly on. 
 
 Suddenly, as he fled, he saw before him a long blue 
 line of gleaming water — a fissure like a narrow stream, 
 in the very heart of the ice. There was no tinie to 
 turn, so he rushed on towards it ; and as he came near, 
 he saw to his despair that it was too broad to leap. 
 
 But Christian was close behind. Richard flew to 
 the very edge, and pausing there in horror, threw up 
 his hands and turned his face toward his enemy. 
 
 As he did so, the loose ice crumbled under his feet, 
 and with a shriek he disappeared. 
 
 Christian paused in time, and gazed with wild eyes 
 towards the water. Then, in the dim light, he dis- 
 tinctly saw the head of Richard re-emerge, while hia 
 hands with dying strength clung to the slippery io&, 
 and a last wild cry for help rose into the air. 
 
' AN EYE FOR AK EVS.' 319 
 
 Ho answered witli a horrible laugh, and leaving his 
 enemy to die passed away in the direction of the ship. 
 
 As he went, another black cloud came up behind the 
 fields of ice, and another storm of "Snow came sweeping 
 out of it. But still ho groped his way in the right 
 direction ; and at last, as the shower thinned, and the 
 dim light came out again, discerned the vessel in her 
 old position, a quarter of a mile away. 
 
 Scarcely had his eyes fallen upon her, when a shock 
 like earthquake ran through the whole body of ice oii 
 which he was standing, and simultaneously he saw the 
 portion of the floe to which the ship was fastened 
 detach itself and crumble lilce a heap of sand. 
 
 Nothing was to be seen but blinding ice-smoke. 
 
 When it cleared, Christian saw that the ship had 
 broken loose, and was sweeping, amid the flotsam and 
 jetsam of shattered ice, right out into the open water — 
 drifting broadside, without a rag of sail, and careening 
 frightfully to leeward under the pressure of the wind. 
 
 He rushed on towards the edge of the ice. 
 
 Before he reached it, another cloud came up, with 
 another storm of snow. 
 
 He stood blinded, waiting for the fall to cease. 
 When it did so, he gazed with wild eyes out on the 
 open water. 
 
 The bergs were flashing and the surge was sounding, 
 but the ship had disappeared. 
 
 He was left alone upon the fields of ice I 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 HEEE BEGINS CHEISTIAN CHEISTIANSON'S EECOED, WEIT BOWS 
 BY HIS OWN HAND. 
 
 AiTHOTiaH I am no scholar, and am, moreover, greatly 
 lacking in those secret spiritual gifts which make certain 
 rude men write and speak as if inspired, I have under- 
 taken, at the request of my dear friend and master, 
 Mr. John Wesley — a good and great man, whom late in 
 
910 GOD ASD THR MAN. 
 
 life (yet, thank God, not iao late) I have learned to 
 understand — at his request, I say, I have undertaken 
 to set down certain strange things which occurred to 
 me during what I may term, in all humility, the period 
 of my conversion. 
 
 But first, before I begin to tax my brain for these 
 half-vanished memories, and to set forth how mar- 
 vellously the Lord hath dealt with me, let me avow that 
 I was never one of those who care to make pubHo 
 inquisition of their own souls for the astonishment 
 and edification of foolish creatures agape for spiritual 
 miracles. I was ever, like all men of my race, one 
 caring little for the sympathy of strange folk ; dumb in 
 trouble, loving solitude, dwelling, often sullenly, with 
 my own thoughts ; so that when my heart bled, it bled 
 inwardly, and when I was broken on the wheel of 
 despair I wore a brave front to the world, and when I 
 prayed to God I prayed in a secret place 
 
 For a long time, therefore, I have debated within 
 myself whether these things should be written down at 
 all, savouring as they may of foolish vanity, and magni- 
 fying unduly God's dealings with myself, the least of 
 His creatures. For though I would speak of events to 
 me miraculous, as evincing His special and providential 
 care for my poor personal salvation, is not this same 
 miraculous intervention taking place also in the lives of 
 innumerable other men ? Is there one poor creature of 
 all the human race — nay, one poor sparrow of the air — 
 of whom He takes not equal heed ? 
 
 Blnowing well mine own insignificance, and feeling 
 duly the mercies which have been vouchsafed to me, I 
 could have been well content to keep these things to 
 myself, as sacred between my Lord and me. 
 
 But having spoken in these strains to Mr. Wesley, 
 who alone of all men knows how God hath dealt with 
 me, he was strongly of opinion that I should write all 
 down : holding, firstly, that God deals in precisely the 
 same measure with no two human souls ; secondly, that 
 the true record of any conversion is a kind of divine 
 testimony ; and, lastly, that there are certain points in 
 my poor experience which may just now, when the 
 world is 60 filled with the sound of vainglorious battle^ 
 
CHRISTIAN CHRISTIANSON'S RECORD. aai 
 
 the fume of unbrotheriy controversy, be of especial 
 value to foolish men. He reminded me, furthermore, 
 of the many spoken and written testimonies of wrathful 
 men made peaceful, and foul men made clean, all through 
 Bome special and heavenly dispensation, and he held 
 that these testimonies, thongh so infinitely less precious 
 than those of the martyrs, could not well have been 
 spared. 
 
 Reasoning of this sort, coming from so learned a 
 month, presently convinced me, the more so as growing 
 older I perchance grow more garrulous, and have long 
 had it in my mind to tell something of the marvels I 
 have known. For few men, if any, have dwelt where I 
 have dwelt, seen what I have seen, in the realm of the 
 lonely snow. 
 
 Thereupon, having decided to obey his bidding, I 
 received from Mr. "Wesley a promise that he himself 
 would take this record under his learned care, with a 
 view either to its suppression or publication, as he should 
 think fit; and that in the latter event^ — namely, of 
 publication — ^he will with his own hand correct those 
 lapses of language, faults of verbiage, and general vices 
 of expression, into which an unlettered man, little used 
 to composition, is likely to fall. This promise comforts 
 me, as I begin my task ; for of all men living I hold 
 my dear master best and wisest, not only in those things 
 which affect our heavenly salvation, but in those others 
 which pertain to our right living and dying, as reason- 
 able creatures, here below. 
 
 [Following the above preamble, in Christian Chriatian- 
 Bon's narration, comes the long account of the writer's 
 birth and other family matters, the great feud between 
 the Ohristiansons and the Orchardsons, the coming of 
 PriseiQa Sefton, the sailing of the Miles Standish, the 
 shipwreck in mid-ocean, the rescue by the Dutch vessel, 
 the great storm, and the trouble among the ice ; — with 
 all of which events the reader is familiar. On the mar- 
 gin of the manuscript are divers notes in Mr. Wesley's 
 handwriting, made at a time when that holy man in- 
 tended to publish the whole story, for the benefit of the 
 faithful. For reasons which were doubtless well weighed 
 
2Z3 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 that intention was never carried out, and on Mr. Wesley's 
 decease the manuscript came back into the possession 
 of the Christiansen family. 
 
 Passing over those matters which have already been 
 explained and pictured, we come to that part oi Christian, 
 son's narrative which describes him alone, and cast 
 away, with his wild eyes searching the desolate sea, and 
 finding no trace of the ice-beleaguered ship.] 
 
 Standing alone on the edge of the great floe, and 
 knowing now certainly that the ship was driven away 
 and perchance destroyed, I did not at first realise the 
 extremity of my situation ; for I was still bewildered by 
 the excess of mine own murderous passion, and was in a 
 measure bereft of reason; yet I searched the wild sea 
 instinctively, looking in vain on every side for a glimpse 
 of a sail ; then finding none, I gazed up at the lonely sky, 
 with a strange sense of mingled terror and exultation. 
 
 For I thought : 
 
 ' Come what come may, I care not now, since the 
 purpose of my life is fulfilled. If it be God's will that 
 I must die, and never see again my love's face or the 
 green hills of my native land, I am still content ; for I 
 have drunk the full sweetness of my just revenge.' 
 
 Then arose before me, sweet and terrible, the face of 
 Priscilla — faint and far away as that of an angel. Had 
 I lost her ? Had I, by my own dark deed, parted my- 
 self from her for ever ? Even the cold despair of this 
 fear did not quite chill my fiery exultation. 
 
 I looked again seaward. 
 
 Southward, under a low canopy of mist, stretched 
 drifting ice ; and nearer, the open space of water was 
 tumbling and whitening. I strained my eyes in all 
 directions : I gazed hither and thither, but saw no ship. 
 
 More than once, some fragment of ice or cloud in 
 the far distance seemed to. assume the shape of the 
 beleaguered vessel, but only to disappoint the sight on 
 closer scrutiny. Tes, the ship was gone ! 
 
 Could she have foundered in the white squall? 
 Could she have sunk to the bottom, taking with her tho 
 gentle creature who had been sent — and sent, alaa ! in 
 vain — ^to sweeten my life ? As the thought camo t-o 
 
CHRISTIAlv CHR/STIANSON'S RECORD. zn 
 
 me, I threw my arms into the aii-, and prayed the Lord 
 to spare my darling — to bear her safe back to the sunny 
 land. 
 
 How long I remained gazing I cannot tell ; it must, 1 
 think, have been for hours, during which space I ran rest- 
 lessly up and down the edge of the ice, seeking some 
 new point of vantage for sight of the vanished ship. At 
 last I turned away, fearful that I was utterly abandoned. 
 
 The fierce squalls of wind and snow still continued, 
 but they came now less fitfully and at longer intervals ; 
 and in the pauses between their coming a bright frosty 
 radiance filled the air, making even distant things 
 distinct as if it were day. Still, the eye could not 
 penetrate far, or distinguish with certainty one shape 
 from another; so that I still hoped, when daylight 
 came, to discover the ship. 
 
 Before daybreak the wind fell, the skies became 
 cloudless and crystalline. Then suddenly, as if by 
 miracle, the fields of ice were flooded with crimson 
 light. 
 
 Shall I ever forget the dawning of that day ? Such 
 a dawn, methinks, found Cain standing by his over- 
 thrown altar, looking on his own red hands. 
 
 It seemed, all at once, as if the world brightened 
 like blood; the far north shot up crimson beams, the 
 fields of ice turned to ruby and vermilion hues, the 
 sea a deep purple, the heavens above like the strange 
 amethyst stone. There was no cloud in the sky, no 
 ripple on the sea. In the dim south, the glory was 
 reflected on flake- white clouds, broken with pink and 
 vermilion bars. 
 
 But how shall such a hand as mine describe these 
 things ? What can I say, save that the terrible peace- 
 fulness and loveliness of that new morning found me 
 standing like a guilty thing — as indeed I was — nay, 
 like Cain himself? As the red light flooded the sea, 
 and played upon my face and form, I felt as if I too 
 could hear the voice of God, crying, ' Cain, where is 
 thy brother ? ' while I replied, not like Cain, but with 
 ■hamefnller defiance, ' TAom hast slain him, God , 
 and it is just.' 
 
 Flooded with that new brightness, the scene around 
 
■34 GOD AND THE MAX. 
 
 looked strangely fair, the fairer for its utter desolation \ 
 for now it was possible to define the prospect clearly, 
 and distinguish objects in the far distance. 
 
 Then I perceived for the first time that the great 
 floe on which I stood was merely a kind of bank, or 
 outer-work, lying against a rooky line of coast some 
 miles away ; drifting thither by tempest, it had 
 grounded, and then clung with frosty talons to the 
 shore. Looting northward, I saw where ice ended 
 and water began ; whereas I had conceived that the 
 ocean was frozen as far as the horizon. 
 
 Southward was the great open water where our 
 ship had been beset ; but the mass of ice beyond was 
 not solid, but floating, consisting of bergs of all hues 
 and sizes, drifting slowly to the south. So it was 
 possible, after all, that the ship was saved. 
 
 Again and again I searched the sea for a glimpse 
 of her ; and so clear was the atmosphere that I could 
 have plainly discerned even a small sailing boat many 
 leagues away ; but there was no sign of what I sought, 
 and seeing that no hope lay in that direction, I again 
 gazed towards the neighbouring line of land. 
 
 The coast was rocky and craggy, with wild clifis, 
 as it seemed, of basalt, rising to dark slopes and suUen 
 low-lying hiUs ; and here and there were spots of 
 sombre greenness, and nowhere was any sign of snow. 
 
 At this sight my heart took courage. What land 
 it was I knew not, but perchance it might contain 
 human creatures ? So I hastened thither across the ice. 
 
 I had to pick my way warily, for there were dan- 
 gerous fissures in the floe, and in some places the ice 
 was so rotten and thin that it crumbled underfoot. 
 Here and there were open pools, some many furlongs 
 wide, others like tiny tarns of pellucid and emerald 
 greenness ; and these I skirted carefully, with ever- 
 cautious footsteps. At last it seemed that cruel Fate 
 was against me ; for when I was nigh half-way to the 
 coast, I found myself facing a great water, or green 
 arm of the ocean, which seemed to interpose a hopeless 
 barrier between me and the strange haven beyond. 
 
 In this green water, numerous seals were disporting, 
 while others sat on the edge of the ice, sunning them- 
 
CHRISTIAN CHRISTIANSON'S RECORD. aaj 
 
 selves in the morning rays; and bo tame were these 
 last, that they suffered me to come within a few yards 
 before they leapt into the sea ; and having dived down, 
 they rose again, and floated quite near, watching me 
 with eyes as soft as those of little children or young 
 maids._ Right_ out in the midst of the water, which 
 was nigh a mile across, a narwhal was spouting ; and 
 hovering over this monster of the deep, flew, with 
 sharp cries, innumerable sea-gulls and terns. 
 
 Wide as the water was, I might readily have got 
 across, being from youth a skilled swimmer, but the 
 water was bitter cold, and had I stript I should 
 have frozen. So I wandered wearily along the bank, 
 antU finally I found, to my great joy, that the water 
 ended and gave place again to ice ; whereon, walking 
 cautiously, and oftentimes in peril of my life, I at last 
 yeached the land. 
 
 This steel-bound coast grew the more strange and 
 sinister to sight as I came nearer ; for the crags were 
 of black basalt, with great caves hung with stalactites 
 and icicles, and the crumbling shingle on every side 
 was of a foul brown, like iron-sand. Over my head, 
 as I stood np-gazing and seeking a footpath whereby 
 to climb, hovered a great bird like an eagle, wheeling 
 in circles, as the raven doth when haunting our own 
 English cliffs. 
 
 There was no way for it but to climb ; so I choae 
 a place where the ascent seemed easiest, and began to 
 scramble upward. Not without peril did I reach the 
 top ; more than once my foot slipt, and I Lad to cling 
 with hands and knees to the jagged rock ; but it was 
 not God's will that I should die that way, and at last 
 I came upon the summit, and pausing there, stood 
 panting for my breath. 
 
 Then I beheld that the hills which I had seen from 
 the distance were almost wholly fashioned of black 
 and barren stone, and that the green stains I had 
 seen thereon were not sweet growing grass, but a kind 
 of foul moss, very thin and spongy to the tread. 
 Beyond this moss there seemed no other sign of vege- 
 tation; not a tree or bush, however bare; no flower, 
 not even the weedlings of the rock. All was so barren 
 
E2fi GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 and ominous that my heart sank within me, and J 
 felt for the first time the grievous shadow of my own 
 sin. 
 
 Ay me ! as the years roll back, like dark vapours, 
 how vividly do I behold that dreary place ! While all 
 around seemed so white and fair, in the light of the 
 chiU morning, the land alone seemed sinister and 
 forbidding — fit abode, fit grave, for one so stained with 
 sin and sorrow as myself. 
 
 I wandered on until I gained the highest elevation 
 I could discover, trusting to spy from thence a fairer 
 prospect inland, and perchance the sign of some savage 
 habitation. Standing thereon, I saw, to my despair, 
 not land at all, but open water, stretching far away into 
 the west. 
 
 Then indeed my soul sank in despair, for I knew 
 that God had forsaken me, and cast me away, lik« 
 Crusoe, upon a desolate ocean isle.* 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE ISLAND OP DESOLATIOlf. 
 
 I SHOULD grow wearisome and over-garrulous if I tried 
 to set down all the strange distempered thoughts that 
 filled my soul that first day of my desolation ; for despair 
 is a tedious companion, and at last I despaired indeed ; 
 seeing no hope, no haven, no escape, beyond the lonely 
 sea on one hand, and the lonely field of ice, with more 
 sea beyond, upon the other. 
 
 This much, however, let me tell : that, although aa 
 yet I repented in no measure of the evil I had wrought 
 by my own hand, it was some comfort to remember 
 
 ' Here on the margin of the old manuscript is a note in Mr. Wesley's 
 handwriting : ' Donbtless this is a mere figure of speech. No man knew 
 better than the writer that God " forsakes " no man, since, by the 
 measure of His grace, not of our deserving, we are saved. Ofteo 
 those whom He seems to " cast away '" are nearest to His hand | 
 but in all manners and at all seasons He works darkly, for issnes th*i 
 we canoot comprehend. — J, W.' 
 
THE ISLAND OF DESOLATION. 2sy 
 
 that mine enemy had not died directly by my violence, 
 thongh indirectly his death had come about through 
 my sinful passion. Standing there lonely in the sight 
 of Heaven, I vindicated myself against the voice which 
 BtiU cried in my ear, ' Cain, where is thy brother ? ' 
 Although I rejoiced in his death, J had not slain liim ; 
 nay, had not God Himself taken the task out of my 
 hands ? 
 
 Nevertheless, despite my rejoicing, I was cruelly 
 haunted by the remembrance of his dying face, as it 
 flashed before me on the edge of the ice, while his wild 
 hands clutched the crumbling brink, and his shriek for 
 help rang out on the air. 
 
 I might have saved him, then, by reaching out a 
 finger ; yet I had left him to die ! 
 
 But my chief thoughts now were not of him, or of 
 any that I hated or loved in this world, but of mine 
 miserable body — how to preserve it safe in so terrible a 
 place. I had not cared much for life before, when life 
 seemed sure ; but now that the chance of escape was 
 so small, my rude spirit rose in a despairing dream of 
 preservation. Perchance rescue would come in some 
 unheard-of way ; and then, if Priscilla lived, I should 
 see her face again, and be forgiven. 
 
 The day was now far advanced, and the pinch of 
 hunger within me warned me that I had not eaten 
 food since the previous day. With this sudden sense 
 of hunger came a new and sickening thrill of dread ; 
 BO that I shivered to the bone, and gnashed my teeth, 
 with cruel tears. For now I seemed to see the full 
 extremity of my doom. I had no morsel of food with 
 me, and the isle was barren ; so that, unless succour 
 came soon, I must starve to death. 
 
 In the pockets of the rude seaman's clothes I wore, 
 I found only a clasp-knife (such as saUors use), some 
 twine, a cotton handkerchief, a wooden pipe, and a 
 piece of coarse tobacco in a tin tobacco box. For- 
 tunately, ere I left the ship, I had put on my thick 
 seaman's jacket and boots, so that 1 was well clad 
 against the cold ; but alas ! my danger now threatened 
 not from without but from within, where the worm of 
 famine already began to gnaw. 
 
as GOD AND TUB MAIf. 
 
 But God's mercy is infinite, and it was not written 
 that I should die a dog's death by the slow torture of 
 starvation. 
 
 As I walked along the summit of the island, search- 
 ing the seas and the ice-fields on every side, I saw, 
 miles away (the air of that region being marvellously 
 fine and clear) divers black objects scattered upon the 
 ice ; and"! immediately bethought me of our labour the 
 previous night, when the ship was threatened and we 
 had been casting out provisions to prepare for the 
 event of the vessel's utter destruction. Hope now gave 
 me wings, and, descending the crags again, I hastened 
 across the ice. 
 
 The way returning, like the way coming, was long 
 and tedious, nor was it easy to keep the right direction, 
 winding among so many great hummocks and skirting 
 so many pools and lakes ; but at last I gained the 
 place I sought, the very spot where our ship had 
 anchored the previous night, before the force of the 
 tempest drove her away. 
 
 Scattered there upon the water's edge I beheld a 
 portion of the goods the seamen had been landing amid 
 the storm. Part of the ice had broken ofi", carrying 
 with it doubtless much of the loose store, but there 
 remained several small barrels of flour, a sack containing 
 ship's biscuits, some loaves of rye bread, two great 
 Dutch cheeses, and a smaU keg of rum ; and besides 
 these creature comforts, a small hatchet, a large roll of 
 blankets, some loose planks from the carpenter's room, 
 and a deal box containing fiint and steel, some dry 
 tinder, and a tin flask of lamp oil. 
 
 It is needless to teU how greatly my heart rejoiced 
 at the sight of these treasures, which seemed sent for 
 my preservation ; but I threw up my arms to the still 
 Bky, and, with tears oozing from my sad eyes, I thanked 
 the Sender. 
 
 It was now afternoon, and I dreaded lest night 
 should come on, or the calm weather become broken, 
 before I had borne these stores, or a portion of them, 
 to some place of safety on the land ; so without more 
 *do I shouldered as much as I could carry, namely, 
 vne sack of ship's biscuits and one barrel of flour, and 
 
THE ISLAND OF DESOLATION. 239 
 
 gripping in my left hand the deal box and the hatchot, 
 I hastened towards the shore. 
 
 Laden as I was, I found it a tedious journey, hut 
 my natural strength was ever great, and now I was 
 fortified by despair. Again and again, however, I had 
 tx) sit and rest. 
 
 When at last I reached the coast, and threw down 
 my burthen on the shingle, I was so worn out that I 
 could not even break my fast. 
 
 Presently, however, I recovered strength, and 
 breaking up some ship's biscuits in my hand, ate 
 eagerly. 
 
 But my work was only just begun, for I was 
 resolved to secure all that chance bad left me of the 
 ship's goods; so, without resting long, I toiled back 
 over mine own footprints, to seek another load. 
 
 This time I carried with me the roll of blankets, 
 which I balanced with one hand upon my head, a great 
 cheese, which I held firmly under mine arm, and the 
 small keg of rum, which I gript in mine hand by a 
 strap of hemp encircling it. My progress this time was 
 slower and wearier than before, for my strength was 
 less. At last, however, I came to land; and by this 
 time, though it was still early in the afternoon, the 
 sun was already beginning to disappear. 
 
 This set me thinking where I should pass the night ; 
 80 I searched along the shore until I found in the crags 
 a hollow, well screened from the wind, and there I 
 spread some of my blanjtets to make a couch. Scarcely 
 had I done this when darkness came upon me. 
 
 It was not so dark, however, that I could not carry 
 up to the rock the goods I had saved from the ice, 
 and pile them near my sleeping-place; having done 
 which, I supped freely on ship's biscuit and some rum 
 from the keg, and wrapping myself up in my blankets 
 fell sound asleep. 
 
 Though the air that came from the ice-floes was 
 keen and chill, the night was not cold, for it was not 
 yet winter-tide in that region. 
 
 My sleep was heavy, but it was broken by wild 
 dreams. 
 
 Methought, as I lay, that Richard Orchardson, clad 
 
B30 COD AND THE MAN. 
 
 all in whiLe, as in his slaroud, came and bent over me, 
 and tliat when I opened my eyes he screamed and fled ; 
 and I, rising, sped after him over great fields of ice lit 
 up hy the moon, he still shrieking as he went; but 
 Buddenly he turned with shrill laughter and faced 
 me, his hands ontreaching, and his face like a head of 
 Death, with no flesh thereon, but flame in the sockets 
 of the eyes. Then he cried in a terrible voice, ' Gain, 
 Cain ! where is thy brother ? ' and before I knew it he 
 had me by the throat. In vain I struggled — nay, 1 
 could not struggle, for my hands were turned to stone, 
 my feet to lead; and ever his lean fingers strangled 
 my throat, so that my hour seemed come. Then, as I 
 tried to free myself with a scream, mine eyes opened, 
 and I woke : to see the starry heavens glittering above 
 my head, and feel all around me the deep breathing of 
 the night. 
 
 As I lay thus waking, I heard from the distance a 
 strange sound like the bellowing of beasts ; it seemed 
 to come from the neighbouring ice, and was accom- 
 panied by another sound, like the splashing of waves. 
 So I reached out my hand and gript the hatchet, which 
 lay close by me ; but after listening for some time, and 
 still gripping the hatchet firmly, I fell to sleep again. 
 
 With the first gleam of daylight I awakened, and 
 rose from my bed. 
 
 My limbs felt numb and stifiT, and I was shivering 
 slightly, but after running to and fro for some minutes 
 upon the strand, I felt quite warm and strong. 
 
 Then I drew forth my wooden pipe, and filled it 
 with tobacco, and having taken out the flint and tinder, 
 managed to procure a light. I had never been a great 
 smoker, and now for the first time I felt the true 
 blessing of the Indian weed. Seated on a great stone, 
 pipe in mouth, I sadly reviewed my condition, while 
 the red ball of the sun rolled up out of the ocean, and 
 daylight spread like the slow flame of a newly-kindled 
 fire. 
 
 Sleep had partly calmed my troubled pulses, and 
 the tobacco fumes completed what sleep had begun. 
 
 I saw now with stolid certainty what I had wildly 
 perceived before : that I was n lost man, unless I could 
 
THE ISLAND OF DESOLA.TI0B. 231 
 
 live on upon that place of deBolation until some kind of 
 Bucconr came ; and I saw, moreover, that in all human 
 probability succour would never come at all. 
 
 All men cling to life, even those for whom it has 
 most sorrows ; and for mine own part I clung to life 
 etill. So I bethoaght me of other men who had been 
 cast away, and who by their own unaided strength had 
 preserved themselves sound and safe under dire distress, 
 while all the elements were leagued against them. 
 What they had done I perchance might do, since by 
 God's mercy I was at least preserved against famine. 
 My strength had ever been as the strength of ten ; and 
 I determined to use it all for my preservation before 
 I yielded to my miserable fate. 
 
 After breakfasting on ship's biscuit, I again made 
 my way across the ice ; and in the course of three 
 more journeys afoot, I carried safely to land all the 
 rest of the loose stores left by the ship — nor did I leave 
 behind even the carpenter's planks, which I guessed 
 might yet serve me in my need. 
 
 When this work was completed, the sun was in 
 mid-heaven. 
 
 I now remember how many a man in similar ex- 
 tremity had saved himself from utter despair, and even 
 from madness, by the hard durance of toil; and I 
 determined to think as little as might be of the 
 wretchedness of my condition, but to lull my troubled 
 Boul with whatever rough labour I might devise for 
 the body's gain. 
 
 My first care was how to store the ship's goods in 
 some safe spot where no harm might come to them 
 from either wild beasts or foul weather. So I searched 
 the island up and down, seeking some spot already 
 fitted by nature to be a place of refuge. 
 
 My first search was along the seashore. 
 
 Everywhere on the sea level I found basaltic caves, 
 some vast as the great halls of our old manor-houses, 
 and hung with slimy weeds and glittering stalactites ; 
 and in many of these, as I entered them, I heard the 
 motion of seals and other great beasts of the sea. In 
 all of them the atmosphere was foul and clammy, and 
 the air bitterly cold. 
 
«3» GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 So I left the shore, and, climbing the crags again, 
 Bought the upland slopes. 
 
 At last I fonnd, high up on the island, but well 
 ■jheltered from the ruthless wind, the place I sought — 
 a fissure in the solid hillside, broad enough to hold two 
 or three men standing abreast, some ten feet long and 
 seven feet deep. Its bottom and sides were of bare 
 rock, and all that it lacked, to form a kind of earth 
 cabin ready-made, was a roof against the storm. 
 
 Returning towards the eastern shore, I searched 
 along the crags for some place of easy descent and 
 ascent, up which I might succeed in carrying my stores ; 
 and after a long search, I found a place where the cliffs 
 had been rent bodily asunder by some convulsion of 
 nature, leaving between them a jagged natural path, 
 perilous in places, but fit for my purpose. Descending 
 here, I walked round to the rocks where I had first 
 slept. 
 
 Determined to lose no time, I began at once to 
 transport vcq goods, and succeeded so well that before 
 nightfall I had carried everything to the top of the 
 island, where I ranged them in a heap within a hun- 
 dred yards of the spot I had chosen for a habitation. 
 Then, taking my roll of blankets, I spread them deep 
 down in the fissure of the rock, and there, with the clear 
 skies above me, I lay and slept. 
 
 Thus passed my second night upon that island of 
 desolation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 CHRISTIAN BOOPS HIS HOITSB. 
 
 I WAS awakened by the sound of rushing hail, and by 
 the hard hailstones beating upon my face. Arising and 
 climbing the side of the rock, I saw that it was day- 
 break, and blusterous weather. The wind was blowing 
 from the nor'west, and bringing up at intervals clouds 
 of hail and sleet. 
 
CHRISTIAN ROOFS HIS HOUSE. ajj 
 
 Ab I stood, I heard from overhead a shrill clangour 
 RS of voices high up in the air ; and gazing upward I 
 saw a great flight of birds winging southwards, and 
 calling faintly to each other. They flew in a string like 
 wild geese, with a leader in the centre, and the rest 
 forming the two sides of a wedge ; and although, from 
 time to time, as the wild gusts blew them about, they 
 changed places with each other, they preserved the 
 wedge-like shape of their flight until they disappeared. 
 
 Scarce had these passed, when I heard another 
 lound like the whirr of wings ; and gazing upward 
 again, I saw the air clouded with great flights of duck, 
 flying southward too. 
 
 Then I knew, partly from old experience, and partly 
 from what I had read in books of travel, that these 
 birds, wiser in their generation than foolish men, wera 
 hastening to summer climes, before the approach of 
 winter weather. 
 
 As I watched them, my eyes grew dim with tears, 
 and I wept that I lacked wings to fly with them from 
 that dreary clime. And now my heart sank indeed, for 
 I was certain that I could never leave that place alive. 
 
 The very extremity of my despair decided me to 
 quick action; for I saw that if heavy snows should 
 come I must certainly be a lost man. So I determined, 
 without delay, to make myself some rude shelter from 
 the storms ; and with that view I ran at once to the 
 place where I had left my stores. 
 
 Coming to the place, I saw something which filled 
 my heart with fear and consternation. 
 
 Although the stores were still there, they were not 
 as I had left them overnight, for the bag of ship's 
 biscuits had been torn open, as if by claws or teeth, and 
 a portion of its contents carried away, as I thought, by 
 some wUd beast ; and one of the barrels of flour had 
 been rudely broken open, and part of the contents 
 scattered upon the ground. 
 
 Only a human being, or some formidable animal, 
 could have done so much; and since the island was 
 uninhabited, and wholly desolate, I at once set the deed 
 down as that of some midnight prowling beast. Thei-e- 
 fore I clutched my axe, and looked round on every side, 
 
S34 COD AND THE MAN. 
 
 half expecting tie monster to spring fortb ; but it made 
 no sign, and at last, warily and watchfxdly, I began the 
 work I had come to do. 
 
 Lifting the loose ship's planks one by one in my two 
 arms, I carried them to the side of the fissure of the 
 rock ; and then, having measured them with finger and 
 thumb, began to divide them crossways in twain. It 
 was slow work, as I had no saw, but only my knife and 
 hatchet ; and dividing these three planks took me the 
 better part of that day. 
 
 Now, half of one of the planks thus cut in twain 
 would just stretch breadthways across the opening of 
 that natural cavern ; and by ranging the six half-planks 
 parallel to each other, and leaving between each a foot 
 of open space, I had a foundation for the roof I wished 
 to buUd. Then I took two coarse blankets from be- 
 neath, and spread them out upon the planks, separately 
 from each other; placing upon them great stones, which 
 were plentiful thereabout, to keep them from beiag 
 blown away by the wind. 
 
 All day, as I wrought at this task, I saw more birds 
 passing overhead, all flying to the south ; and more than 
 once my heart failed me, and I cried to myself, ' Of what 
 avail to labour, since I must perish in the end ? ' But 
 the stubborn spirit of my race prevailed, and in the 
 very strength of despair I laboured on. 
 
 That day I had partially roofed my dwelling in the 
 rock. Stones and fragments of rock were thickly piled 
 upon the planks and blankets I had spread beneath; 
 and underneath was a dark recess or cave, with only 
 one entrance, just wide enough to admit a man at the 
 lower end. This entrance I devised to protect, later on, 
 with some kind of trap-door or rocky barrier, as a safe- 
 guard against the attacks of prowling beasts. 
 
 Now, while busy at this work, I made a discovery 
 which was destined in a great measure to lead to my 
 body's preservation. On the western side of the island, 
 where I searched for stones, I found the green ground 
 broken up, and full of rotten vegetation, like the moss- 
 turf to be found in some parts of England. Then 
 remembering that such turf makes excellent fuel, I, 
 with my clasp-knife, cut out squares as large as I could 
 
CHRISTIAN ROOFS HIS HOUSE. 233 
 
 manage, and heaped tliem ready to carry away. For 
 hours I laboured, and before sanset had gathered a 
 goodly pile ; this I arranged stackwise, as I had seen 
 done at home, so that neither snow nor rain could reach 
 the dry portions below. 
 
 Not content with these, I cut more squares, and 
 carried them in armfuls into the cave ; and I found 
 them so dry after the drought of summer, that they 
 burned almost too quickly. 
 
 Then I made in the centre of the cave a small circle 
 of stones, and in the centre I put the fire. I had no 
 chimney, and for a time I was nigh choked with tho 
 fuel smoke ; but I knew that it was wholesome, and 
 would drive away the clinging damp. 
 
 Before resting that night I carried into my cave all 
 ihe rest of my stores, and ranged them carefully along 
 the bottom of the solid rock ; leaving myself just room 
 to stretch my body and limbs at fuU length. 
 
 Taking stock of what God's mercy had left me, I 
 found that I had now remaining, as my security against 
 famine, and for personal uses, the things that follow, 
 viz.: 
 
 Two small barrels of flour. 
 
 Five loaves of rye bread. 
 
 Two Dutch cheeses. 
 
 A sack of ship's biscuits. 
 
 A small keg of rum, containing about two gallons of 
 the raw spirit. 
 
 Four blankets (counting not the twain I had spared 
 to roof my cave). 
 
 Mint and steel, with dry tinder. 
 
 A flask of lamp oil. 
 
 A clasp-knife. 
 
 Some coarse twine. 
 
 A pipe of wood, and about a quarter of a pound of 
 negro-head tobacco. 
 
 Added to these, I wore upon my body as garments : 
 a thick jacket and trousers of woollen woof, a sailor's 
 woven guernsey, a flannel shirt and drawers, thick yam 
 stockings, strong knee boots with nails, and a seaman's 
 Bou' -wester made of oilskin cloth. 
 
336 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 In the middle of that third night I was wakened by 
 a noise above my head. 
 
 I started np and listened, afraid. At first all I 
 heard was the low moaning of the wind, and the pat- 
 tering of hail ; but suddenly there came another sound, 
 like the heavy tramp of feet. 
 
 The sound ceased ; then I distinctly heard some- 
 thing breathing heavily, close to the roof of my cave. 
 
 I knew it could be no human thing which troubled 
 my rest in such a place, and, unarmed as I was, I did 
 not at first care to face any monster or wild beast ; but, 
 at last, summoning courage, I clutched my hatchet, 
 which lay close to my hand, and thrust my head out 
 into the night. 
 
 It was pitch dark, and I could see nothing. The 
 thing, whatever it was, had disappeared. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 k NEW PBEPLEXITT. 
 
 The next dawn was dark and cold, with more storms 
 of hail. As I emerged into the dim light, and gazed 
 np at the zenith, I saw five wild swans sailing swiftly 
 overhead. 
 
 I watched them with a heavy heart tiU they dis- 
 appeared against the southern sky. 
 
 After breaking my fast with bread and biscuit, and 
 drinking at a tiny fountain which I had discovered 
 triokUng from the solid rock, I wandered down to the 
 western side of the island, carrying the hatchet in my 
 hand, and for many hours I laboured cutting more 
 moss-fnel and setting it in dry stacks. When I could 
 work no more, I wandered down towards the sea. 
 
 The western side was quite free of drift ice, and 
 looked on clear and open sea. For several miles out 
 from shore it was thickly sown with reefs, many of 
 them visible even at high tide, and frequented by large 
 numbers of cormorants, of a kind larger than any I had 
 
A NEW PERPLZXITY. ay) 
 
 seen on oni' own shores. But wliat pleased my sight 
 more, and indeed brought the tears to my foolish eyes, 
 was the sight of a little familiar bird, which I saw in 
 one of the creeks as I approached. 
 
 It was so tame that it only flew away a few yards, 
 whistling prettily, and then alighted again and stoppeu 
 to look at me qnite fearlessly as it ran along the sand. 
 It was a small red-legged sandpiper, like those that are 
 BO plentiful on the shores below the Fen Farm ; and 
 looking upon it, and listening to its thin sweet call, I 
 was straightway transported in fancy across the sea, to 
 the strands where I was born ! 
 
 All alone it seemed, with no others of its kind, and 
 doubtless, when winter weather came, it would fly 
 away southward like the rest — perchance to the far-off 
 English shores, perchance to the sandy creeks I had bo 
 often haunted as a boy ! 
 
 As I stood watching it, my spirit turned back sadly 
 to those happy days ! I saw again the familiar sand- 
 hills, the low-lying shores, and beyond all the green 
 slopes, the woods, and the red-tiled roof of the Fen 
 Farm; and I thought of my dead mother in her 
 grave, and of my lost sister, and of all the vanished 
 days ; so that my force was broken, and sitting down 
 upon a rock, I hid my face in my hands and wept most 
 bitter tears. 
 
 Presently I arose, and wandering along the shore 
 saw many seals, both swimming in the sea and basking 
 on the edges of the rocks. Then I bethought me of 
 what certain shipwrecked mariners had written con- 
 cerning the flesh of this animal and its precious oils, 
 and I determined, though I had no gun, to slay a seal 
 if possible. 
 
 But though the beasts were tame, they were wary, 
 and after many attempts to creep upon them unseen 
 and unheard, I desisted hopelessly ; when, just as I had 
 given up, I saw one of the beasts lying high and dry on 
 the shore above me. 
 
 The moment it beheld me it tried to make for the 
 water, but I intercepted it ; seeing which, it flapped 
 wildly with its fins and barked like a dog, and when T 
 approached nearer it gathered up stones in its fins and 
 
ajU GOD AND THE MAS. 
 
 emote them fiercely in my direction. Then I went to 
 it, uplifting the hatchet, and it showed its teeth savagely, 
 but tried to escape me. Now these poor beasts, though 
 BO swift in the water, are made by nature quite helpless 
 on land, having no legs to run, but only great heavy 
 bodies (surcharged with oU) and fins and tails ; so 
 that this one was at my mercy. When I lifted up 
 the axe to strike it, it growled, and would have bit me ; 
 but I slipt behind it, and struck it with all my force 
 upon the head, so that the hatchet was buried in its 
 skull. 
 
 And now my heart misgave me, and it seemed that 
 I was cruelly murdering some innocent human thing ; 
 for the poor beast was not yet slain, but cried piteously ; 
 and when I struck it again, it turned its great soft eyes 
 up to mine, weeping like a human creature — ^yea, 
 weeping, for I could see the great salt drops of rheum. 
 Yet, willing to put it out of pain, I struck it once more 
 with aU my strength, and the third time I struck it 
 upon the snout (where only, as I afterwards learned, 
 these animals are truly vulnerable), and it rolled over 
 on its beUy, dead. 
 
 Now, many an one would smile to hear that, when 
 I had succeeded in killing the seal, I stood over it Kke 
 a guilty thing, and hated myself for having taken its 
 life; and, indeed, I know that these poor beasts are 
 made only for man's convenience, and look neithei 
 before nor after, but pass like other soulless things. 
 And yet, methinks, he does great wrong, and mostly 
 to his own disposition, who uses them nngently; for 
 they love their lives, and enjoy greatly the sweet air 
 and sunshine, even as men and women do ; nay, have 
 they not, like men and women, great love for one 
 another and for their young? Have I not seen one 
 of these same sea-beasts, a female, thrust up its own 
 body to take the blow aimed at its suckling offspring, 
 and die cheerfully — kiadlier in this instance than many 
 mortal mothers, who cast their babes away to die ? 
 
 These things I write now, being old ; when I was 
 young, I cared little for the creatures below me. Yet 
 many of these might read sinful men a lesson, if they 
 would only heed. Man, in bis pride and vainglory. 
 
A NEW PERPLEXITY. gig 
 
 Taunts himself the fairest and best of things that live,* 
 yet he, too, is only a creature, though he has a seeing 
 Boul. Woe to him, if God should so use him as He 
 often uses the other children of God ! 
 
 My sense of guilt did not last long. Presently I 
 tried to lift the seal upon my back, but finding it heavy, 
 and slippery as ice, I determined to cut it up upon the 
 spot. This I did with my clasp-knife; skinning the 
 beast rapjdly, then dividing its flesh into several por- 
 tions, and casting away only the head and entrails. 
 
 "While I was thus engaged, there hovered over me, 
 loudly screaming, large numbers of gulls, many of 
 which were so bold that they swooped down from time 
 to time and snatched loose pieces of flesh and blubber 
 from my very feet. 
 
 By the time that my task was done, 1 was bespattered 
 from head to foot with blood and oil ; so that had 
 human eyes beheld me, I must have been a sorry sight 
 to see. Then I sheathed my knife, and wrapping the 
 choicest portions of the carcase in the seal's own skin, 
 proceeded to bear them to my cave. 
 
 Reaching the place after no little toil, I came to the 
 cave mouth, and threw down my burthen and the 
 hatchet. I then discovered that by some mischance I 
 had dropped my knife, so, without a moment's delay, 
 not stopping to lift even the hatchet, I ran back to the 
 sea- shore. 
 
 After a brief search I found the knife, lying near 
 the spot where I had slain the seal, and gripping it 
 joyfully (for to one in my forlorn condition it was of 
 priceless value) I returned as I had come. 
 
 And now a thing happened which filled my soul 
 with nameless amazement, a thing quite unforeseen and 
 inconceivable, and so strange that to my foolish mind it 
 looked like deviUsh magic. 
 
 For coming to the mouth of my house or cave, I 
 saw the seal's skin and flesh lying where I had thrown 
 
 • ' And ao he is, by high prerogatire of grace ; but a man without 
 this is infinitely lesser than the beasts that die, for these fulfil their uses, 
 ■while he fulfils no use at all. That grace cornea to all men who are 
 willing to make choice of it, I hare ever held, in the face of much 
 unchristian opposition. To argue the contrary is to argue that God ii 
 unjust— a manifest contradiction, bordering on blasphemy.'— J. W. 
 
no GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 fhem, but the hatchet, which 1 coald have sworn I left 
 beside them, had disappeared I — and though I searched 
 all round the spot, I found no trace of the thing I 
 sought ! 
 
 Then, in my perplexity, thinking perchance that I 
 had been mistaken, and must have carried the weapon 
 into the interior of the cave, I made search there, with 
 the same result as before. Emerging again into the 
 light, I stood like a man dazed and drunken, uncertain 
 what to think or do. 
 
 Presently, growing more and more confused by a 
 thing so unaccountable, and wondering if I had deceived 
 myself after all, and had never brought the hatchet to 
 the place where I sought it, I returned to the sea-shore, 
 searching everywhere as I walked. 
 
 But I came back as I went, amazed and terrified. 
 
 Then I searched along the rooky ground, looking 
 for any sign of footprints ; for I questioned myself, was 
 it possible that some beast, coming to the place in my 
 absence, had borne the thing away in its mouth ? Yet 
 this seemed inconceivable ; and for the rest, the ground 
 was so hard and stony that even mine own feet left no 
 print perceptible to the eye. 
 
 By this time I was truly terrified, and ran up and 
 down like a mad man, searching still. 
 
 Then there came into my mind a new but foolish 
 thought, at which I brightened. Was it possible that 
 some boat had landed on the island, and that the 
 hatchet had been found and taken away by some human 
 hand? 
 
 To make sure if this were possible, I walked round 
 the island, examining the seas on every side, and every 
 creek and cranny of the shores around. I might as 
 well have rested stiU. There was no sig"!! of boat or 
 men. 
 
 I was now in utter despair, and I sat down at the 
 door of my dwelling, wondering what strange chance 
 would happen next. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE PACE ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 By this time it was afternoon, and yery windy and 
 dark. 
 
 To distract my thouglits, I entered my lionse and 
 lit my fire ; then I brought out the train oil I had 
 saved from the ship, and devised how I should make 
 myself a lamp, both for light in the darkness of the 
 cave and for warmth also if snow and frost should 
 come. So I took the twine that I had carried in my 
 pouch, and pouring some of the oil into my tobacco 
 pouch, soaked the twine therein ; and afterwards, 
 plaiting two pieces of twine together for stiffness, and 
 mixing with the oil a portion of the soft oily fat of the 
 seal, I made a kind of coarse taper, like the rude rush- 
 lights our fishermen fashion in the fens out of dry reeds 
 and tallow. This I carried within, and striking a flame 
 with flint and tinder, tried to make the taper burn ; 
 which it did not readily, for I had soaked the twine too 
 thick in oil ; but essaying again, I made another of the 
 like, which gave a feeble light and burned even too 
 rapidly. 
 
 When I had made a number of these rude lights, I 
 fixed one against the side of the rock, plastering it in its 
 place with seal blubber ; and truly I have seen a worse 
 rushlight in country cabins among the Fens, where also 
 such things are home-made. 
 
 Having done this, and feeling very hungry, I took a 
 portion of the seal's flesh and heated it over the flame, 
 drawing thence just enough warmth to take off the 
 edge of rawness. This flesh I ate, and found it savoury 
 enough; and with that and some crumbled biscuit, 
 and a palm full of rum to wash them down and quench 
 the taste of oiliness upon the lips, I made a good meal. 
 
 Yet all this while I never ceased to perplex my 
 brain as to what had become of the missing hatchet; 
 whether it had been taken from me by wild beasts, or 
 by some devilish agency, or whether, my wita somehow 
 
 B 
 
343 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 failing me (how I knew not), I had throngh sheer tolly 
 mislaid, or lost, or oast it away ? Think over it as I 
 might, the thing was wholly unaccountable. All my 
 ignorance could do was to devise a long and still more 
 careful search for the morrow, when perchance better 
 memory might come to me, or the thing be recovered by 
 some new chance. 
 
 Darkness came early upon me; for now^ each day 
 was growing shorter and each night darker. 
 
 It was many hours before I could sleep, for I was 
 sorely troubled. 
 
 I was awakened by a horrible vision — to comprehend 
 which rightly, he who reads must picture to himself 
 clearly the abode in which I lay. 
 
 The rocky cavity which I Sad roofed over for my 
 house, and which was of the length, breadth, and depth 
 I have already written down, was shapen like a huge 
 kist or cofSn, large enough to hold several men side by 
 side, and with some little space to spare at the feet. 
 Above the narrow end was the entrance, which I now 
 covered at night with a flat piece of loose rock, nearly 
 large enough to fill the opening well, when I gript it 
 from below and pulled it over. 
 
 Now, on this night of which I speak, I had fixed 
 against the wall another of my newly -fashioned lights ; 
 and while the dim flame was flickeriug on the walls of 
 my house (I had almost written my sepulchre, for such 
 it seemed) and my fire dimly burning, I fell asleep. 
 
 I wakened suddenly, in strange terror, as men some- 
 times awake from nightmare, with the cold sweat 
 standing on my forehead, and mine eyes staring wide ; 
 and t'ien I saw, by the light of the taper which was just 
 flickering out, and by the red ray of the fire, a face 
 gazing wildly into mine. 
 
 It appeared in the aperture at the lower end of 
 the cave, looking down, and even in that dim light \ 
 recognised it 
 
 The face of Richard Orchardson, horrible, and white 
 as death ! 
 
 For a space I could not speak. The blood froze in 
 my veins, my heart stood stUl, and then I think I must 
 have partly swooned, and closed miafi eyes. 
 
THE FACE ON THE CUFF. 343 
 
 When I opened them again, the face was gone. 
 
 I sprang up with a cry. At that moment the lio-hfc 
 went out, and I was left in darkness. 
 
 With no small difficulty, and many unsuccessful 
 attempts, for I was shaking like a reed, I succeeded in 
 procuring flame and igniting another rushlight ; and all 
 this time I was shivering and shrinking, dreading to 
 feel some ghostly touch upon my shoulder. Again and 
 again I shrank in dread, fancying I saw the face again. 
 
 I went to the aperture, and found it closed, with the 
 rook there as I left it overnight ; and I said to myself, 
 * It waa his spirit ! He has come to haunt me, and he 
 will haunt me till I die ! ' 
 
 Ah ! the horror of those dark hours ! The vision 
 had been so real, so vivid, that I could not set it down 
 as only a dream ; nay, I was certain that the man's 
 ghost was walking the watches of the night ! 
 
 In my terror I prayed, kneeling on my bed with 
 clasped hands. 
 
 With the first peep of day I left the cave. 
 
 It was a strange, blood-red dawn. Great clouds 
 were piled up northward and westward, and through a 
 hollow in their centre, round like the mouth of a cannon, 
 poured fames and blood-red flame. 
 
 The seas all round the island were dark, save for 
 one smooth crimson track, like a red road through 
 Hell's blackness, leading up to that great hollow. 
 There was a chill wind, with a strange moaning high 
 in the air. 
 
 I stood gazing at the dawn. 
 
 Presently, as the light increased, I climbed to the 
 highest ascent of the island, and thence, as was my wont 
 many times a day, searched the ocean on every side for 
 asaU. 
 
 No sail ; no sign ; no hope, was there ! 
 
 The vision of the night had left me sick with terror, 
 and I cried to myself : 
 
 ' It is better that I should die. Of what avail to 
 linger on, when there is no hope this side of death; 
 when to live on is weariness and despair by day, and 
 horror by night; when, if I live, I shall go mad and 
 
 E 2 
 
B44 '^OD AMD THE MAN. 
 
 haunted, and end like a -wild beast of the field, with no 
 glimmer of light, or hope, or sweet memory, in the 
 brain ? Tea, better to die ! ' 
 
 So I thought I might die swiftly and easily if I 
 chose one of the high crags and leapt therefrom to the 
 rocks beneath. 
 
 Full of this thought, I ran thither, not wishing to 
 think, or pause, or even pray, till it was done. 
 
 But as I descended the hillside, and hastened 
 towards the high crags, which were rather more than 
 a rnile away, I saw something which made me pause in 
 Wonder and in fear. 
 
 On the edge of the tallest crag a form was visible, 
 with its back to me, looking downward ! 
 
 At first I thought it was a great stone, but as I 
 gazed it moved, and I saw that it lived. What could 
 it be ? A beast of the sea, come thither to sun itself, or 
 some huge bird, or some unknown monster of the land ? 
 
 I ran nearer and looked again. Then again my 
 heart gave a leap, and I staggered like one sunstruok— 
 for I saw plainly that the shape was human. 
 
 Strange and savage it seemed, with ragged raiment^ 
 wild dishevelled locks, and bare head. 
 
 Scarce knowing now what I did, I ran on and came 
 close upon the shape, and at last I clearly discerned it 
 to be the shape of a man. 
 
 Suddenly he heard me, looked round, and saw me ; 
 then, as I kept rushing towards him, he leapt to his feet 
 with a startled scream. 
 
 Then I recognised him indeed ! 
 
 It was Richard Orohardson, living, and brandishing 
 my lost hatchet in his hand, as if to keep me at bay. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THB TWO MEN. 
 
 I SHBANK back in horror, thinking at first that I looked 
 upon a ghost ; while he, with a faint cry, brandished the 
 hatchet, &nd strack feebly at the $iir. 
 
THE TWO MEH. 34S 
 
 Methinks I see him now as I saw him then— his face 
 ghastly and foul, his cheeks sunken, his hair and beard 
 wild and unclean, his raiment torn, and his whole form 
 stained with rain and the moisture of weedy caves. 
 Spectral he seemed, and hideous, like one risen from 
 the dead. 
 
 But I saw quickly that he was no dead man, but 
 flichard Orchardson himself, saved by some miracle 
 from a watery death ; and straightway I understood 
 clearly that the face I had seen in the loneliness of 
 night was no vision, but the face of the very man. 
 
 At the mere sight of what I had hated so much, all 
 my old hate returned, and therewith a wicked loathing 
 Buch as we feel for unclean things. These thoughts 
 must have flashed up like fire into my face, for I saw 
 him shrink and tremble, looking round which way 
 to fly. 
 
 I sprang towards him, and he brandished the hatchet 
 to strike me back ; but I closed with him, and found 
 him feeble as a reed in my fierce grasp. 
 
 I wrenched the hatchet from his feeble grip; he 
 shrieked and fell prone upon the ground. Then I 
 stood over him, with the hatchet raised, and with 
 hands uplifted to shield him from the blow, he shrieked 
 again. 
 
 ' Mercy ! ' he cried. * Do not kill me ! ' 
 
 There was murder in my heart, and I was mad to 
 see him living, but something stayed my hand. My 
 God, I thank Thee ! It was Thy touch that made me 
 afraid! 
 
 ' Speak ! ' I said. ' How came you here ? ' 
 
 He murmured some broken words in answer, and 
 pointed wildly out to sea. Then he cried again for me 
 to spare his life. 
 
 Twice was the weapon raised to strike, and twice 
 did my arm pause and my hand fall. I dared not slay 
 
 hi™- , . < T • t 
 
 ' Do not kill me ! ' he moaned again. 1 am perish- 
 ing for lack of food and shelter. The hand of death 
 is on me already, as you may see ! ' 
 
 What ho said was piteous truth. He had n<j 
 strength left, being spent with cold and famine. 
 
846 GOD AKD THE MAN. 
 
 Seeing me hesitate, he clung around me, dnmbly 
 beseeehing pity ; but I Bhuddered at his touch, and 
 Bpumed him from me with a crael, mocking laugh. For 
 I saw that there was no need of violence, and that, 
 ■without putting the sin upon my soul, my vengeance 
 was still sure. 
 
 ' Take off your hands ! ' I cried. ' Take them off, 
 
 And aa with an oath I raised the hatchet, he obeyed. 
 Then, without another word, another look, I turned 
 fi?om him, and left him lying helpless on the ground. 
 
 My wit is too rude, my skill too small, to record 
 rightly the emotions that filled my soul that day ; for 
 my soul was a wild chaos of wonder and hate, pain and 
 loathing, surprise and fear — all strangely blended in a 
 confusion of troubled thought. 
 
 And yet, amid all this mental tumult, this stormy 
 darkness of the disposition, there came, as a thin ray of 
 light creeping among stormy cloud, a certain curious 
 comfort — ^that I was not alone in my desolation. 
 
 As I went to the high places of the island, and 
 looked around me, thinking as usual to see some glimpse 
 of a sail, the place seemed somewhat less solitary — I 
 knew not why. 
 
 I glanced back for assurance that I had not been 
 dreaming, and there the man was where I had left him ; 
 but he had risen to his feet, and was gazing up my way. 
 Then my hate took me, and I cursed him ; but he was 
 far away, and could not hear. I turned a comer of the 
 rocks, and shut him from my sight. 
 
 Then I paused, trying to think it all over ; but 
 dreams came instead of thoughts. I dreamed of all the 
 old feud — of my father's death-bed, of my dead mother, 
 of all the sorrow and all the shame ; I remembered my 
 oath to kill the enemy of our house ; and how I had 
 followed him from land to sea, as a wolf follows a goat, 
 seeking for his life. 
 
 Thus dreaming, I sprang again to my feet, 
 
 ' I was a fool ! ' I cried to myself. ' I prayed to 
 God to give him into my hands, and Qt>d hath answered 
 my prayer.* I will go back, and end it all I ' 
 
THR TWO MEN. 247 
 
 But I went not back. The -wild murderous mood 
 passed away again, as quickly as it had come; and 
 like a man troubled and confased, having seen some 
 Bupematnral and inconceivable thing, I wandered to my 
 pave in the rocks. 
 
 Sitting at the mouth of my cave, with the cold 
 heaven above my head, and nothing but the sad rocks 
 and the distant sea before mine eyes, I pondered again 
 over what had taken place ; and the more I pondered 
 the more strange and inconceivable it all grew. All 
 that seemed certain was that Richard Orchardson had 
 survived, and that, thus far, my deep scheme of ven- 
 geance had been in vain. There did we both lie outcast, 
 in a lonely land, with small chance of ever seeing green 
 England again ; while, far away from both, Priscilla 
 was perchance sailing upon a sunny sea, or stepping on 
 some flowery strand. 
 
 For I could not think but the ship was saved, know- 
 ing now that there was no solid ice, but only floating 
 bergs, in the path she had taken. By which I am 
 reminded to tell a thing I have not yet told, viz., that 
 on that very morning, looking southward, I saw that all 
 the great bergs had disappeared below the horizon, and 
 that the sea southward was quite open and free. 
 
 So what had I done ? In the mad fury of my hate 
 I had parted from that sweet face which was my heaven 
 on earth (and which now, God help me ! is my heaven 
 up yonder), and had cast myself away incontinent, for 
 revenge's sake, and had gained nothing but trouble, 
 deep shame, and unutterable despair. I had left mine 
 enemy to die ; and lo ! he had risen, as it were, out of 
 the very grave. We had been face to face, and I had not 
 slain him ; so I was no nearer my revenge than I had 
 been of old. 
 
 It was not that I hated him less that I fell sick oi 
 mine own revenge, and loathed the earth I looked on, 
 and the heaven overhead. All had been poisoned to mo, 
 all made unprofitable, by the existence of this man ; 
 and yet, though his existenc& was a poison to me still, 
 I felt that I dared not lay violent hands upon him again. 
 
 Then I remembered, with sudden exultation, how, 
 
848 GOD AND THE MAN, 
 
 in that lonely island, there was no morsel of humais 
 food save that which I had stored for mine own pre- 
 servation ; and this being so, and no help nigh, the man 
 was certainly doomed to a wretched death. If hunger 
 did not slay him from within, cold must slay him from 
 without ; for he had no place to shelter his evil head 
 when tempest and coldness came. 
 
 ' God is just, after all,' I thought ; ' and though He 
 has spared this man, it is for slower torture and more 
 dreadful death ; ' and I laughed to myself, seeing how, 
 after all, my righteous vengeance must come about. 
 
 As I sat musing, I saw more swans and geese 
 passing overhead, and several large birds, winged like 
 the albatross, but jet black, flying low over the island 
 This reminded me again of the dark days coming ; but 
 I no longer oared or feared. So long as my vengeance 
 was completed, I heeded not myself. God might then 
 deal with me as He pleased. 
 
 This made me hasten to prepare more fuel from the 
 rocka, which I carried in armfuls into my cave, and 
 stacked against the walls. 
 
 That afternoon there was a thin fall of snow, 
 covering all the island with a thin carpet-like fleecy 
 lawn. At nightfall the flakes grew large as fragments of 
 wool, and fell unceasingly ; and when I entered my cave, 
 and drew the rook down over me, they were still falling. 
 
 I slept little that night, for my soul was too greatly 
 troubled. 
 
 Again and again I rose, looked out, and saw snow 
 still falling, so that the whiteness was piled thick upon 
 my rude roof ; falling in among the crannies of the 
 stones, the flakes froze there, and became as a firm 
 mortar to hold the stones together. 
 
 It was bitter cold without; yet the narrow space 
 within, being closely sealed against the weather, was 
 warmed with the smoke from the fire, and with my 
 breath, and with the heat of my body. Tet I was glad 
 to have the thick blankets to wrap around me, and twice 
 to drink a little spirit from the keg — which sent through 
 my frame a warmth like liquid fire. 
 
 Then I thought : ' He is well-nigh spent already, 
 
THR TWO MEN. 249 
 
 and if he lives through this night I shall be amazed. 
 Well, our places are changed; he is the weak, I the 
 strong ; he homeless and hungry, I sheltered and well 
 nourished. God is just.' 
 
 Tet even with this thought to cheer me I could not 
 sleep ; for I could not cease from wondering what might 
 become of him, where he was taking shelter, whether he 
 was perishing from cold ? So I shifted uneasily upon 
 my bed, and ofttimes looked out again through the 
 falling snow, thinking I might espy him. 
 
 But I saw only blankness, and the dark snow shin- 
 ing with a strange silent motion, like a shroud shaken 
 before the eyes. 
 
 ]!f ow, so strangely and foolishly are we men fashioned, 
 that we comprehend little or nothing by our imagina- 
 tion, but everything by the habit of the sense. Speak 
 to a man of twenty thousand folk just buried by earfch- 
 qaake, or of hundreds shipwrecked cruelly at sea, and 
 he is little moved ; but show that same man one single 
 creature crushed beneath a fallen wall, or drowning in 
 a swift river, and he will weep for pity. Now, by the 
 same token, I who had devised mine enemy all manner 
 of suffering and cruel tortures, was secretly troubled to 
 think of him that night shivering, perchance dying, in 
 the wintry snow. Not that I would have stretched out 
 a hand to save him, even in direst extremity ; not that 
 I forgot my hate, and turned my heart to pity ; not that 
 I doubted the justice of his punishment, the righteous- 
 ness of his doom ; nay, it was not that, but this : that 
 we two men were all alone on the island, and that one 
 of us was doomed to die. 
 
 In the world, where human beings throng, we hear 
 with composure of death and sorrow ; and if one comes 
 to us saying, ' Such and such a man, who shamefully 
 wronged you, is suffering, or sick, or dead,' we are well 
 content, realising little of the event in detail, but feeling 
 a certain sense of God's universal justice. 
 
 Had there been on that island one hundred men oast 
 g.'^ay — ^nay, had there been twenty, or even ten — be- 
 sides the man nxj enemy, I should not have vexed my 
 heart for him, or cast one thought towards him, or 
 pictured to myself his dying face. But God had so 
 
ejo GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 BDSwefed my prayer for vengeance thafc He had g^ven 
 the man to me utterly; made that lonely isle our world, 
 with only our two souls upon it, until the end should 
 come. 
 
 ' Give me this man ! ' I had prayed. He was given 
 me. ' Pat his life into my hand, let my mercy be the 
 measure of his woe ! ' This too God had done. Could 
 my vengeance be completer ? Could I doubt my God 
 again ? 
 
 I dA9, doubt Him, 
 
 Why had not the man died ? Why had he risen up 
 like a ghost from the grave ? Why was I haunted by 
 the thought of him, listening for his footsteps, dreading 
 to hear his voice ? It was surely just for God to punish 
 him, but could He not have done His torture cunningly, 
 without vexing me with the sight ? 
 
 But the world had receded from us like a sea, leaving 
 ns alone as upon a solitary shore, with no life near us, 
 and nothing watching us but the open Eye of God. 
 
 What was to happen ? I knew not ; but all that 
 night I saw the Eye above me, waiting the event. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII, 
 
 IN THE SHADOW OF THE CAVE. 
 
 The next dawn was dim and dark ; the heavens werft 
 blotted with grey cloud, and the snow still fell. When 
 I thrust back the rock, the drift fell in and almost 
 smothered me ; but I clambered out, and saw that the 
 island was smothered in the snowy whiteness. 
 
 Then I thought I would go down to the shore and 
 slay another seal ; but in this I was deceiving myself, 
 for my true bent was to discover what fate had over- 
 taken Richard Orchardson during the night. So I took 
 my hatchet, and walked through the snow towards the 
 place where I had last beheld him — over against the 
 western shore. 
 
 I looked everywhere, but saw no sign of him, nor 
 
' " Finish your work," he cried, " Kill me, I say, and finish your work." ' 
 
IN THE SHADOW OF THE CAVE. ajl 
 
 ftny trace of footprints. Then I passed down to the 
 sea-shore, and making believe to be on some other 
 errand (lest his eye shonld discover me, and I be caught 
 seeking what I most despised), I looked high and low. 
 
 Presently I heard a cry, and saw, tottering out of a 
 great weed-hnng cave, the very man I sought. Behold, 
 ing him, I turned away, as if he were the last thing I 
 dreamed to find, or cared to seek ; and I would have 
 hastened thence. 
 
 But he came staggering after me, reaching out his 
 thin hands ; and I saw that he was shivering and half- 
 frozen, and that his eyes were wild. 
 
 ' Christian ! ' he cried, ' Christian Christiansen ! ' 
 
 I started to hear my name, and my heart leapt that 
 he of all men should dare to speak it. While I stood 
 aghast, he came up, and tottering, clutched me to keep 
 himself from falling. 
 
 ' Let me go ! ' I said, trying to shake him off. • Let 
 me go, or ' 
 
 And I raised the hatchet, as I had done the previous 
 day. 
 
 But his hold only became the tighter. 
 
 ' Tea, kill me ! ' he gasped, thrusting up his thin face 
 to mine, so that I could feel his hot breath. ' I am 
 dymg, but it is so slow ! I do not wish to live ; I shall 
 never quit this place alive. For God's sake, kill me ! ' 
 
 'Loose your hold,' I said, 'and promise never to 
 cross my path again ! ' 
 
 But he still held me, and though his touch sickened 
 me, my strength was paralysed, and I could not do him 
 harm. 
 
 His teeth chattered in his head, and his face was full 
 of a desperate and frenzied desire. 
 
 •Finish your work ! ' he cried. 'Tou brought me 
 here ; yes, you I Kill me, I say, and finish your work ! ' 
 
 ' Tou lie ! I did not bring you here.' 
 
 ' Tou did— God curse you for it ! Tou were ever a 
 thorn in my side, a shadow in my path, and now you 
 have brought me here to die ! 
 
 As he spoke, he moaned despairingly, and fell upon 
 his knees as if half swooning. Then did I bend over 
 him, and cry, gazing fiercely into his eyes : 
 
BS« GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 ' Remember Kate Ohristianson ! Remember my 
 mother, who died broken-hearted ! Remember my 
 father, -whom your father betrayed ! ' 
 
 Even as I spake, he fainted at my feet. 
 
 I left him lying where he fell, and took the path 
 which led to the crags. I did not wish to look back, 
 bnt when I gained the height something held and drew 
 me, and I gazed down. 
 
 He lay there still, even as one dead. 
 
 Straightway I would have departed, bnt I could not 
 for vaj life. I stood watching and waiting, sick at the 
 sight I saw, sick at myself, sick of earth and heaven. 
 
 At last I saw him stir. 
 
 Presently he rose to his knees, and then I think he 
 must have been praying ; for his hands were clasped, 
 and his face was raised to the cold sky. 
 
 I looked no more, bnt passed across the island to 
 the western shore, and there fortune befriended me, for 
 among the rocks I fell upon another seal, which I slew 
 with one blow upon the snout. It was smaller than the 
 one I had slain before, and I could lift it easily upon my 
 shoulders. This I did, and carrying it up the heights 
 threw it down beside my cave. 
 
 Then, eager to forget myself in any kind of toil, I 
 set to work, skinning the beast, and cutting up its flesh 
 as before. While I sat thus employed, the snow fell 
 lightly, covering me like a garment, but I paid no heed. 
 
 Presently I saw a shape coming towards me. He 
 came up close, and stood gazing. I kept my eyes fixed 
 down upon my knife. 
 
 At last I looked up. 
 
 ' Did I not bid you never cross my path ? ' I said be- 
 tween my set teeth. 
 
 ' I am starving,' he replied. 
 
 At this I laughed to myself, with my heart full of 
 hate and exultation ; but even yet I did not look him in 
 the face. 
 
 ' I am starving,* he repeated. ' Since you would not 
 kill me, give me food.' 
 
 I langhed again. There was a brief silence ; he kept 
 his place, and I knew that his eyes were fixed upon my 
 feoe. 
 
tN THE SHADOn OF THE CAVE. jJJ 
 
 Presently he spoke again. 
 
 ' Why should you hate me so much ? I would have 
 Qsed you well, but you had ever a stubborn heart. We 
 shall never quit this place alive. Give me food, and God 
 wDl requite you.' 
 
 His voice was so faint and weak that I hardly knew 
 it ; none the less I pitied him not, no more than I might 
 have pitied a starving hound. Nay, to the hound I 
 would have cast some shred of help, some fragment of 
 my store ; but my heart was shut to him. 
 
 ' It was your turn once,' I said quietly — ' it is my 
 turn now.' 
 
 As I spoke he moved past me, to the entrance of my 
 cave. 
 
 ' Since you will not give me food, I will take it ! ' he 
 murmured, half to himself, half to me. 
 
 Then I rose, still bloody with the work I had been 
 doing, and gripping my knife : 
 
 ' Keep back ! ' I said, fixing my eyes for the first 
 time upon his white face. ' There is nothing here for 
 you ! ' 
 
 'It is mine as much as yours,' he answered feebly. 
 • I tell you I am starving ! ' 
 
 ' Starve ! ' 
 
 ' Give me but one morsel of bread I ' 
 
 ' Not one.' 
 
 • I am frozen — ^let me shelter from the snow.' 
 
 'NotAere.' 
 
 Uttering a despairing cry, he flung himself upon me, 
 and struck at me with his feeble hands ; but with one 
 hand I held him, feeling him like a straw in my strong 
 grasp, and shook him as an eagle shakes a lamb. 
 
 Then I said : 
 
 ' Let there be an end to this between us. Tou get 
 no help from me. What I have is mine, and rather than 
 share one fragment with such as you I would cast all 
 into the sea. Tou hear ? And do you wonder, man, 
 why I have not kiUed you ? This is why — you are not 
 worth killing — I leave you to a dog's death, such as yon 
 deserve.' 
 
 So saying, I threw him off, and he sank moamng on 
 ft fragment of rook ; then he hid his face in his hands, 
 
SS4 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 and I saw the tears streaming tbrongh Ms cold fingeiu 
 This made me hate him none the less, but despise him 
 the more. But suddenly, as he lingered thus, he stretched 
 out his arms to the empty air, and cried, as if crying to 
 one who stood in the flesh before him, this one word 
 twice repeated : 
 
 « Priscilla ! Priscilla ! ' 
 
 I started and looked round, half dreaming indeed tc 
 see her standing between us ; but I was a fool for my 
 pains, and saw nothing. Then I strode over to him, and 
 strnck him on the shoulder with my clenched hand. 
 
 ' Why do you call on 'her ? How dare you name her 
 name ? Do you think she can help you ? Do you think 
 that she would help you if she could ? * 
 
 His answer came fearlessly, though his voice was so 
 weak. 
 
 ' I think she is an angel, and you are a devil ! ' 
 
 ' How dare you think of her at all ? Think rather 
 of your grave ! Listen, Richard Orohardson. You will 
 die here, but I shall live — I shall be saved. I shall bide 
 safe till succour comes, for I have a place to shelter me 
 and food to eat. Then I shall go back into the world and 
 find Priscilla, and tell her how I had my revenge. And 
 then ' 
 
 ' And then,' he interposed, looking up at me, ' what 
 will she say to yon ? ' 
 
 ' She will say, as she hpis said before, " I love yon,*" 
 and I shall make her my wife. You hear ? — ^my vnfe ! * 
 
 He still kept his dim eyes fixed upon my face as he 
 Bald: 
 
 ' You will loll her that you left me to die ? ' 
 
 •Yes.' 
 
 ' That though you had plenty, you denied mo a 
 morsel of bread ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Then she will say as I say — that you are a devil ! ' 
 
 Maddened by his defiance, I struck him in the face 
 with my open hand. No sooner had I done so than I 
 hated myself for the deed. He uttered no word, but 
 rising feebly to his feet with a faint moan, began to 
 totter away. Then suddenly, as I beheld him going, 
 watched the fe«ble forzoi the ragged, trembling limbs, 
 
W THE SHADOW OF THE CA VE. 255 
 
 the bowed and tempest-beaten head, my hard rocky 
 heart felt a strange pang of pain, and in that moment 
 was distilled one drop of the heavenly dew, which men 
 name Mercy. 
 
 I would have called him back, but I was ashamed. 
 
 Suddenly, as I watched him, he stumbled and fell 
 forward upon his face. I waited for him to rise, but he 
 lay still ; and at last, eager to see if he were living, I 
 went over and raised him up. 
 
 But when I beheld him living, and his eyes wide 
 open gazing strangely into mine, I released my hold 
 and was ashamed, scarce knowing what to say. 
 
 ' Get up ! ' I cried fiercely, though there was no 
 fierceness left in my heart. * Why are you lying 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' Begone,' he answered faintly. ' Leave me to die.' 
 
 And he turned over on his face again. 
 
 Much troubled, angry with him and with myself, 
 hating myself for a kind of feverish pity which I could 
 not quite subdue, I walked back to the mouth of the 
 cave ; and there I stood thinking. Should I leave him 
 to die indeed ? Should I, having plenty, see him, even 
 my enemy, perish of cruel starvation ? 
 
 Then I thought of her, whose dear name he had 
 uttered in a pleading tone of prayer. Was the man 
 right ? and would she, whose holy approval I cherished 
 secretly more than all else in earth or heaven, deem me 
 a devil indeed ? I remembered how often she had tried 
 to play the peacemaker ; how she had chid my violent 
 passion, scorned my unreasoning hate — how sweetly, 
 with innocent maidejoly rebuke, she had touched the 
 hard rock of my hate, in hopes to bring from thence 
 the living waters of charity and love. 
 
 Then I looked around me, on the cold heaven and 
 on the frosty sea. If that island of desolation were to 
 be my grave (as indeed seemed probable), could I die in 
 peace, or in any heavenly hope, if I had denied to any 
 poor starving creature a little morsel of bread ? 
 
 My mind being at last made up, I returned to tha 
 
 Elace where the man still lay, and standing ovei against 
 im said : 
 
 ' Get up — and listen.' 
 
»S,6 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 He did not stir, but by a low moaning sound gaT« 
 sign that he heard. 
 
 ' Tou shall not say that I took everything, and left 
 you nothing ; but remember, what you take is no gift 
 of mine, and that I hate you none the less though I 
 Buffer you to take it. Gk> to my cave yonder, and select 
 what you need — God knows I care not if you take all ; 
 '6ut having taken it, find a place for yourself; cross not 
 my path, but choose your own dwelling and your own 
 grave — no matter where, if they are far from mine.' 
 
 Without waiting to hear his answer, I walked away, 
 and passing over the stony heights sought the loneliest 
 shores of the island. There I remained for hours, 
 wondering and pondering. God could surely not blame 
 me now ? I had left aU I possessed in the world to the 
 man I hated ; and I was indifEerent (as I had said) had 
 he used it. All I asked was to be spared the sight of 
 him, the horrible torture of his near neighbourhood. 
 Surely God would now spare me fhoA ? 
 
 It was not to be. I had prayed to the Maker to 
 place the man in my power, wholly, unreservedly, to do 
 with as I willed; to give him up to me for torture, for 
 sorrow, and for death. My prayer was answered, but 
 not to the full measure. The rest was yet to come. 
 
 At last I returned across the island. Returning to 
 the mouth of my cave, and looking in, the first sight 
 I saw was Richard Orchardson, lying with his head 
 against the rocky wall, in a heavy sleep ! In his hand 
 he held a piece of hard rye bread, which he had been 
 gnawing, and a portion of dried seal's flesh lay by his 
 side, also partly consumed ; but what sickened me as I 
 bent over him was a sickly stench of rum. 
 
 Close to him was the keg of raw spirit, and the 
 piece of hollow stone which I had used for a cup ; and 
 some of the rum was spilt upon the ground, and upon 
 the sleeper's ragged clothes. 
 
 I shook him, but he did not waken ; when I shook 
 him yet more violently, he opened his glazed eyes, saw 
 me, and grinned like an ape — ^then, muttering to 
 himself, tumbled ofE again to slumber. 
 
 Then I knew, by the signs around him, by his frail 
 OO^idition, and by his stinking bretth, that he had made 
 
W THE SHADOW OF THE CAVS. ajj 
 
 himself drunken ■with the raw spirit; and seeing this, 
 all my rage of hate returned, and I pushed his body 
 fiercely ■with my feet, bidding him arise and depart. 
 Bat he was dragged and stupefied, and paid no heed. 
 
 Thereon I would have raised him in my arms and 
 cast him forth, but looking up I saw the snow again 
 beginning to fall, and I knew that if I cast him forth 
 he would perish of cold. So after trying again to 
 arouse him from his stupor, I let him sleep on. 
 
 Presently he began to murmur in his sleep, and 1 
 knew by his words that he was dreaming wild dreams. 
 Anon he threw up his arms as if to shield himsel£ from 
 a blow. 
 
 ' Sweetheart, keep him away ! ... he is coming to 
 kiU me. Look, look at the axe ! . . . Ah, devil, devil ! ' 
 
 And he clutched at the air, as if struggling with 
 some foe unseen. Suddenly with a cry he awakened, 
 and opening his eyes, saw me sitting over against him 
 in the shadow of the cave. 
 
 OHAPTEK XXXIV. 
 
 * COMB BACK WITH MB ! ' 
 
 Now, the fumes of the fierce spirit not having faded 
 from his brain, and his whole mind being clouded and 
 fevered from sleep, he gazed at me wildly, yet with 
 no sign of fear ; then, to my amaze, began to laugh 
 feebly, and point at me with a skinny forefinger. 
 
 ' Priscilla, come ! ' he whispered, as if to some one 
 at his side. 'They have put him in irons, and ho 
 cannot stir. Give me your hand, sweetheart — c^uick.' 
 quick ! the ship's afire ! ' 
 
 Then, though I saw that his wits were wandering, 
 his words brought back the memory of that wild t:ight 
 when the ship went down, and remembering my 
 suspicion that his hand bad fired the vessel, I loathed 
 him the more. Presently his words grew wilder, and 
 T 8»w that he was going over in his thought all the 
 
 s 
 
258 GOD AND THE MAS. 
 
 horrors of our shipwreck; and ever, as he fancied, 
 Priscilla was at bis side, he comforting her with loving 
 words. 
 
 Sick to hear him rave, yet still without tho heart 
 to cast him forth, I rose to leave the cave. As I passed 
 him, he clutched at me feebly, yet hardly seemed to 
 know me when I turned and shook off his hold. 
 
 So I went forth, and found the snow still falling, 
 Mnd the sun just sunken behind the sea. 
 
 Wildly troubled, I walked along through the drift, 
 which in places was knee-deep, and tried to think it all 
 o'er; and the more I thought, the more my trouble 
 grew ; and when it was quite dark, I sat bareheaded on 
 a rock, bewildered in the misty perplexity of mine own 
 thought. Tor it seemed strange beyond measure, and 
 beyond measure cruel and unbearable, that this man I 
 loathed most should haunt me like a ghost, and mock 
 me with the memory of my life-long, unreasoning hate ; 
 that the same fate should pursue us both, until the 
 same roof sheltered us and the same death awaited us 
 not far away ; that all my dream of vengeance should 
 have come to naught but foolish piteousness and a 
 dreary sense of unutterable despair. 
 
 Then I thought to myself, that, since fate had willed 
 all this for my confusion, I would at least escape the 
 man's presence, and avoid the place till he was dead ; 
 or if I should perish first, and be buried beneath tho 
 snow, so much the better, since I began to loathe my 
 Hfe. 
 
 Presently it grew so bitterly cold that if I had 
 remained still I should have frozen; and lacking 
 courage to die that way, I ran to and fro to keep myself 
 warm. And now a great wind began to rise, howling 
 and shrieking from the north, and thick snow, falling 
 and driven, covered me, so that I could hardly breathe. 
 
 Then I laughed at mine own folly in yielding up my 
 warm shelter to another, and such another; and without 
 more ado, casting all my late resolves to the winds, I 
 ran back to the cave, leapt down, and groping my way 
 over the man's body (for the place was black dark), 
 felt about till I found my smouldering fire, and pro- 
 cored a light. 
 
*C0Mn BACK wna mei< 259 
 
 Wlieii I had lit one of my rushlights and fixed it 
 against the rock, I saw Richard Orchardson lying where 
 I bad left him, sleeping fast with his eyes wide open ; 
 and indeed I should have deemed him dead had I not 
 heard his troubled stertorous breath. 
 
 Twice or thrice the wind rushed in and extinguished 
 my light ; so I went to the aperture, and carefully drew 
 down upon it the rock I used for a door ; and after 
 that I put fuel on the fire, though the place remained 
 bitter cold. 
 
 Thus it befell, after all, that I lay under the same 
 roof with my enemy — an event that, but a little while 
 before, I should have deemed impossible and laughed to 
 scorn. His life had been in ray hands, and I had not 
 taken, it ; he had asked me for food and shelter, and I 
 had denied him neither : and there, almost touching me, 
 he lay and lived. Looking upon him as he slept, I 
 despised myself for my weakness, since I had spared 
 him, not out of loving- kindness, but from feebleness and 
 fear. 
 
 Ah, well ! hate is easy, God knoweth, out in the 
 world where men battle with one another ; but it is 
 hard, as I have proven, when two men are all alone 
 withi Grod. 
 
 All night the wind wailed terribly, with violent 
 gusts, but Richard Orchardson slept sound. For 
 myself, I scarcely rested at all, but whenever I dozed 
 would wake suddenly, with a nameless terror in my 
 heart. 
 
 No ray of light from without penetrated our place 
 of shelter; the fumes of the moss-fuel rose up in red 
 clouds and filled the cave with dimness ; and in that 
 dimness I lay restless, till the cold day came. 
 
 From time to time I lifted the rock and looked out, 
 and at last, after many weary hours, I saw the dim rays 
 of wintry dawn. 
 
 Then I threw back the rock, and the blast blew in, 
 with heavy drifts of loosened snow ; whereon I saw him 
 waken, with eyes of terror gazing up at me. His face 
 was ghastly, his cheeks sunken, ond ho shivered like 
 one with an ague, chattering his teeth. 
 B 3 
 
860 GOD AND TffJS MAlt. 
 
 I stood erect, with my face averted from his, while 
 I said : 
 
 ' Listen, man ! Are you listening P ' 
 After a pause I heard him answer. 
 
 •Tou were drunken last night, and I let you lie 
 where yon fell ; but this place is mine. Tour presence 
 poisons it; you have no right here. Find yourself 
 another shelter.* 
 
 He rose, shivering, as I spoke, and prepared to leave 
 the cavern. 
 
 Then I continued : 
 
 ' Tou shall not say that I left you to starve. Take 
 what I offered you yesterday — a portion of what I saved 
 from the ship •, take it, and go ; all I wish is never to 
 see your face again.' 
 
 So saying, I leapt out into the snow, and without 
 Qnce turning to look back, walked rapidly ftw^iy. 
 
 And now, as T. went through the deep snow, and 
 sought my point of vantage on the highest part of the 
 island (whence it was my daily custom to search the 
 seas for a sail), I saw that winter had come indeed ; 
 for not only was the island itself one mass of white- 
 ness, from the highest land down to the very brink 
 of the sea, but the great floe to the eastward was 
 smothered in drifts of snow, and far away northward, 
 where the dawn was burning duskily, like a sullen brand, 
 there was the blink of innumerable anchored bergs. 
 Southward and eastward only the seas were clear, save for 
 one or two loose icebergs drifting towards the horizon ; 
 and one of these was so like a ship with all sails set 
 that my heart leaped into my mouth, and I uttered a 
 joyful cry. Aias ! I soon discovered that what I saw 
 was a floating iceberg only, and no ship at all. 
 
 Descending the crags on the westward side of the 
 island, I roamed along the shore ; and here the breath 
 of the sea was so fresh and warm that it seemed mora 
 like summer than winter-tide. But save only a few 
 gulls and terns, and some seals swimming among tha 
 creeks, there was no sign of life. The little friendly 
 bird which had so reminded me of my home, and which 
 1 had noticed nigh eveiy day chirping about the sands, 
 
*COME BACK WITH ME I' *6l 
 
 was nowhere to be seen ; and even the flooka of green 
 cormorants had left their roosts upon the outlying 
 reefs. 
 
 So I wandered along the lonely shore, listening to 
 the sad surging sound of the sea. 
 
 I noted that day that the sun, which was constantly 
 obscured by black clouds, kept low down upon the 
 horizon, circling westward, but never rising up into the 
 open heaven; so that the day was very brief, and, 
 almost before I knew it, it was afternoon. For hours 
 I struggled with the pangs of hunger, not having yet 
 broken my fast ; but at last, finding the gnawing within 
 too much to bear any longer, I returned to the cavern 
 in the heights. 
 
 As I approached, I saw Richard Orohardson stand- 
 ing at the cavern's mouth ; and any heart but mine 
 would have pitied him — so haggard did he look, and 
 woe-begone, so gray and old. 
 
 Now, the moment he saw me coming, he began to 
 move away ; but I came up to him, and called to him to 
 stand. 
 
 So he paused, gazing at me sadly, with an expres- 
 sion of utter despair. 
 
 ' Have you taken your share of the ship's goods ? ' 
 I asked sternly. 
 
 ' I have taken nothing,' he replied, in a faint 
 Toice. 
 
 ' I gave you leave to take food and find yourself 
 another shelter. I did this, not because you deserve 
 succour, but that you might not come begging to me 
 again. Since you have let the chance slip, begone ! ' 
 
 ' I am going,' he replied. 
 
 ' Remember that I warned you,' I continued via- 
 lently. ' My soul sickens at the sight of you, but I 
 would not stain my hands with your miserable blood. 
 By right your life belongs to me. If you cross me 
 again I shall take it, though I have spared it hitherto.' 
 
 As I ceased, he turned his great sunken eyes upon 
 me, and I no longer saw in them any sign of fear. 
 Despair will give courage even to timorous men and to 
 beasts that startle at their own shadows.^ 
 
 ' Ton have done your worst,' he said, in the same 
 
26a GOD AND TVS MAN. 
 
 faint, hollow voice. ' Why did you not kill me, as 1 
 prayed ? ' 
 
 ' Did I not tell you ? Because you are not worth 
 killing. Because you cannot escape from this place, 
 and must die without any touch of mine.' 
 
 He looked around on the snow-clad island, and on 
 the desolate sky and sea ; his eyes grew dim and wet, 
 though no tears fell ; and dropping his head like a 
 death- struck beast, as he turned away he uttered his 
 whole sad soul in one faint, despairing cry, 
 
 ' God ! my God ! ' 
 
 Now, had the man fallen upon his knees and 
 asked piteously for mercy, or had he fled from me in 
 guilty fear, I know my heart would have hardened 
 against him as it had done before ; but seeing him so 
 desolately resigned, and feeling how little he cared for 
 life, I was moved to a secret compassion. His agonised 
 cry to heaven rang through my heart ; it was so hope- 
 less and so sad. 
 
 ' Stay,' I said, ' I have not done with you yet ! ' 
 
 He turned again, and gazed upon me. 
 
 ' Answer me one question before we part. Did you 
 fire the ship ? ' 
 
 I saw his face change, while his lips were set 
 convulsively. 
 
 ' No,' he said, fixing his eyes full on mine. 
 
 ' Tou swear it ? ' 
 
 ' Of what avail would it be to swear ? I tell vou 
 -no.' 
 
 ' Are you lying to me ? Tes, I see it in your face. 
 Tou are lying ! Do you think I am fool enough to 
 believe you ? ' 
 
 ' I care not what you believe. Now let me go.* 
 
 ' No, you shall stay ! ' 
 
 And reaching out my hands, I held his arm in the 
 vice of my strong grip. Why I did this I knew not, 
 only I was angry with my own compassion, and tried 
 to lash myself into a fury I did not feel. 
 
 ' What do you want with me ? ' he cried, helpless in 
 my grasp as a sick child. 
 
 And I knew not how to answer him. My whole 
 mind was clouded with doubt, and I was fearful lest 
 
'COME SACK WITH MEl' 263 
 
 he should guess my weakness of purpose. Only I felt 
 that I could not let him depart desolate, to die in some 
 secret place. 
 
 ' If I let you go, will you promise neyer to 
 return ? ' 
 
 ' I will promise.' 
 
 ' Never to come my way, to beg sustenance from 
 me, to let me see your face ? ' 
 
 ' You need not be afraid,' he replied : ' I shall not 
 trouble you again.' 
 
 ' What wiU you do ? ' 
 
 ' God knows. Die — the sooner the better.' 
 
 ' Tou wish to die ? ' 
 
 I looked at him fixedly for some moments, as if to 
 read his very heart, before I spoke again. 
 
 ' Then you shall live. You shall not have your 
 wish. Come back with me ! ' 
 
 So saying, I forced rather than led him towards the 
 cave. He seemed enraged at first, but afterwards, 
 seeing his helplessness, he made no resistance, but 
 walked feebly with me the way I led him ; his head 
 dropping heavily forward on his breast, and his limbs 
 trembling beneath him. 
 
 When we came to the cave, I bade him enter. 
 After a moment's hesitation, he obeyed, and sank 
 shivering on the spot where he had lain the previous 
 night. 
 
 Then I entered the place also, and feeling again the 
 pinch of hunger, cut ofi" with my clasp-knife a portion 
 of dried seal's flesh, and with that and some crumbled 
 biscuits began to break my fast. I ate ravenously, 
 until my hunger was appeased; then, looking up, I 
 saw him, with his head resting against the rock, and 
 his eyes half closed. 
 
 I took some seal's flesh and a biscuit, and threw 
 them to him, as I might have thrown them to a dog. 
 
 ' There is food,' I said. ' Eat ! ' 
 
 He did not stir, but opened his eyes quietly, as he 
 replied : 
 
 ' I am not hungry.' 
 
 ' Eat, I tell you l"* 
 
164 GO^ ^^^ "^H^ ^■^^• 
 
 And with an oath that shall not be ■written here, I 
 brandished the knife before his eyes. 
 
 I do not think he was afraid ; perchance he by this 
 time knew my heart better than I knew it myself; bnt 
 be that as it may, he reached out his thin white 
 hands, and taking what I had so roughly giyen him, 
 put a morsel to his lips. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE ATJEOEA. 
 
 I WAS ever a simple man, little given to book-reading 
 or analysing (as wise men love to do) their own 
 thoughts; and when I led Richard Orchardson back 
 to my cave, and gave him food to eat, I knew no 
 more what spirit moved me than I know why the 
 winds blow divers ways, and why stars ofttimes shoot 
 from yonder sky. This only I remember, that my 
 mood was so mingled and confused, that while I threw 
 him food with one hand I could have struck him fiercely 
 with the other. 
 
 This too was very strange to me then, though I 
 understand it better now: that in proportion to the 
 man's helplessness grew his mastery over me. In hia 
 very weakness lay his strength against me. When he 
 sank down powerless before me, careless how I used 
 him, indifferent alike to my wrath and to my com- 
 passion, I seemed to hear a voice crying in mine ear, 
 *Ah! coward! coward!' — but at every cry of this 
 voice I steeled my heart the more. 
 
 Then I tried to persuade myself that what I did 
 was done in cruelty, not in feebleness ; that I had 
 brought him there and forced him to eat, not because 
 I cared whether he lived or died, but because I took 
 pleasure in his extremity, and could leisurely feast mine 
 eyes upon his pain. It was something, after all, to 
 hold his life in my hand — to watch him as a wild beast 
 or bird watches its prey — to feel that he was utterly, 
 hopelessly, fatally, within my power. Tes, that made 
 amends. I had dragged him out of the sunshine of the 
 
THE AURORA. 365 
 
 world; I teld Lim down as In an open grave, and 
 whenever I pleased the earth wonld cover him. Surely 
 I had accomplished my revenge. 
 
 Night came again ; and found us lying close to one 
 another, in the darkness of the cave. 
 
 I slept heavily for some hours ; and then, full of 
 restlessness, I rose and looked out. Then I saw that 
 the wind had fallen, and that the sky above was 
 beautifully clear. 
 
 I glanced down at him, and saw him lying still, 
 with his head against the rook ; sleeping, as I thought, 
 for I could hear his heavy breathing. 
 
 In my fevered watchfulness I loathed to remain in 
 the place poisoned to me (as it seemed) by his breath ; 
 BO I left the cave, and wandered out into the night. 
 
 Then I beheld for the first time a wonder which 
 many and many a time afterwards filled my soul with 
 awe, and which even now, as I sit in this land of 
 dark skies and greyness, seems like the memory of a 
 beautiful dream. As I came out upon the height, and 
 looked around me, I saw the heavens to the northward 
 sparkling, as through a veQ of the thinnest lawn, with 
 innumerable constellations. All was stiU as death : 
 the snow-clad island, the darkly glimmering sea on 
 every side. 
 
 Then suddenly, as I gazed northward, there appeared 
 spanning the heavens a great broad bow of phosphores- 
 cent light; out of this bow began to fall sparkling 
 streams of clearest blood-red fire; and in an instant, 
 shooting up from the horizon, rose flames of all the 
 rainbow's hues, but infinitely brighter, darting up with 
 quivering tongues to meet the flames of the bow — till 
 all the heavens seemed afire. 
 
 Then, a great awe fell upon me, beholding so 
 wonderful a thing. 
 
 As I gazed, shapes like living forms, nay, like 
 angels in their overpowering brightness, seemed coming 
 and going among the flames ; which rushing presently 
 together, as if by enchantment, fashioned themselves 
 into a glorious cupola of splendour, filling the whole 
 heaven, and overflowing like a fountain in streams of 
 Fari-ooloured light, amber yellow at the top (where 
 
266 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 fclie funnialn feathers itself and turns to fall), brighi 
 emerald and amethystine lower down, and blood-crimson 
 closer to the horizon ; and all these hues so flashing 
 and changing, so sparkling and intermingling one with 
 another, that the eyes were dazzled, and the soul seemed 
 gazing on the tremulous fabric of a dream. 
 
 Now, had the heavens opened, and the very face 
 of Grod appeared in the midst of that supernatural 
 brightness, I could not have wondered more ; for Divine 
 the vision seemed, and of more than earthly glory, 
 like the glory of the celestial City of God. 
 
 Underneath the many-coloured heaven, the sea now 
 lay black as ink, and the snow-fields assumed a ghastly 
 whiteness, like the cerements of the dead ; for it seemed 
 a splendour in which the dark earth had no share, and 
 for which the sea had no reflection ; a thing, indeed, 
 wholly Divine, supernatural, and unaccountable. 
 
 I know not how long the vision lasted, but it must 
 have been for hours, and while it shone and changed 
 I did not cease to watch. But at last it began to die 
 away out of the heavens ; and soon, like a picture 
 fading from the eye, it was almost gone, all that re- 
 mained being a few straggling beams (like the little 
 blue flames that run along burning spirit) low down 
 upon the horizon. 
 
 I did not know then that this beautiful phenomenon 
 of the aurora is in no sense extraordinary in thia 
 region, but common, and wholly in the way of Nature. 
 A^fterwards I learned to become familiar with it, and to 
 marvel less. And yet, what am I saying? What is 
 this same Nature that surrounds us but a perpetual 
 miracle and matter for marvel ? Should the coming 
 and going of the sun, the motions of the celestial 
 bodies, the changeful seasons, with all their mysterious 
 changes, awaken our wonder less because they are 
 familiar as the fields where we were born ?* 
 
 • ' Our writer here, good man, gets out of his depth, and flounders 
 into mysticism, a mode of thought ever to be distrusted. Nothing can 
 be more simple and methodical than the machinery of Nature — nothing 
 clearer than its lessons of punctual duty j and the Creator cares far 
 lees that we should marvel at His Gloiy than that we should com- 
 prehend plainly His teachings, as a law for life. Our Liord, by that 
 token, was the plainest and least visionaiy of men.' — J. W. 
 
THE AURORA. 267 
 
 Nay, indeed, but yihsA, simple fools are men ? Those 
 who scarce heed the miracles of sunrise and sunset 
 will gape with awe at a rick on fire. Folk who take 
 no heed how the kingfisher huUds his nest, or how the 
 ouckoo rears her callow young, will find endless delight 
 in a screaming parroquet, brought home by some sailor 
 in a cage. 
 
 'Tis the unfamiliar that charms the fool; whereas 
 to the wise man the nearest thing is oft the most 
 Divine. 
 
 Be that as it may, my stormy spirit was by this 
 manifestation of superhuman power and loveliness 
 sensibly subdued and softened. I walked back to my 
 cave like one that has seen a spirit passing before his 
 face ; nay, rather, for a closer similitude, like Moses 
 when he beheld the presence of God in the midst of 
 the Burning Bush. 
 
 The man still lay as I had left him, but as I entered 
 he started, and cried out in terror. 
 
 Then I said : 
 
 ' Are you awake ? I wish to speak with you, for 
 the last time.' 
 
 He said nothing, but I knew that he was listening, 
 Emd I continued : 
 
 ' I have thought it all over, and I shall leave God 
 to deal with you as you deserve. We are cast away 
 together, and in all human likelihood we shall perish 
 on this island. Well, if you leave this place, you will 
 cast your death at my door; and you shall not have 
 that consolation. Now, attend.' 
 
 ' Go on,' he replied. 
 
 * Since there is no other shelter on the island, you 
 may remain ; and since there is no other sustenance 
 but the ship's stores, you shall share them; but on 
 these conditions : During the daytime, if I come here, 
 you will go forth, and when I go forth, you may 
 return. During the night-time, when to go forth is 
 impossible, you will keep your place, I mine. But if 
 at any time you utter one word, if you attempt in any 
 way to break the eternal silence of hate that should 
 exist between us, our compact is broken : I shall kill 
 you, or drive you forth, never to return.' 
 
368 GOD AND THS MAM. 
 
 I paused again, and Ms voice murmured ia the 
 
 ' As you will.' 
 
 'Understand me well,' I continued. 'This ia my 
 last word to you, Richard Orchardson. There must 
 be no communion between us by speech or look. I 
 shall avoid you, and take heed that you avoid me. 
 Henceforth I shall be no more conscious of your pre- 
 sence than of a stone or a piece of rock-weed. I shall 
 blot you for ever from my sight, from my thought, from 
 my memory — from this night forth. You will be to me 
 as a thing dead. Tou understand ? ' 
 
 •Yes.' 
 
 ' You swear to keep these conditions ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 So it was sworn ; and from that moment darkness 
 and silence like death came between ns, though we 
 were alone together in all the world. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE BEAE. 
 
 Thus it befell that we two abode together in the same 
 dwelling, if I may call that a dwelling which, with 
 Nature helping me, I fashioned with my rude hands : 
 so near to each other that we could hear each other 
 breathing, yet so far from each other that we never 
 exchanged look or word. As far as might be, I averted 
 my soul as a man averts his face — avoiding him in the 
 daytime, forgetting him in the silence of the night; 
 yet all in vain ; for I was conscious of him unceasingly, 
 and his shadow darkened my most secret thoughts. 
 
 I have read somewhere, in some old book or news- 
 paper, of two poor sisters who, full of an unnatural 
 hate, dwelt together like this in the same room in a 
 great town ; being too poor to take separate lodgings, 
 they divided their wretched room by a line made with 
 chalk across the floor; and so, with that chalk line 
 only between them, abode in silence for a score of 
 
TSB BEAR. S^ 
 
 weary years ; until one was carried out feet foremost 
 and the other, still cruel and unforgiving, was left 
 alone. Of such hard BtufiT, I know, some hearts are 
 made ; of rook instead of flesh, and hard as the upper 
 and nether millstone. Yet these foolish women had 
 busy sounds of life all round to cheer them — the tramp 
 of feet, voices, and all the motion of a great city ; while 
 we, whose hearts wore no less hard, and whose condition 
 was surely as sorry in the sight of God, had orlu the 
 naked heavens, and the troubled sea, and the punctual 
 changes of darkness and of light. 
 
 Stubborn and unforgiving, grudging the mercy I 
 had shown (which was no true mercy, but feebleness 
 and fear), I came and went. The days were now 
 briefer than ever, and the nights very long and dreary ; 
 but though winter had surely set in, the temperature 
 was not yet too cold to bear with patience, and even 
 with comfort. For the soft swell of the southern ocean, 
 which is ever warm like living breath, greatly subdues 
 the violence of the climate of the islands in that region ; 
 so that neither man nor beast need perish, as they must 
 needs do under like conditions a few degrees nearer to 
 the north. 
 
 Kevertheless, the cold was sharp and keen, the life 
 beyond measure unseasonable and hard to bear. The 
 island was draped in whiteness, and far away to the 
 north stretched the vast fields of silent ice; while to 
 southward and westward, where the seas thundered 
 onfrozen, great chill mists, like steam from a caldron, 
 were constantly arising. Nowhere was any sign of life ; 
 nay, not even a withered tree, a leafless bush, to mimio 
 summer greenery with leaves and flowers of hueless ice. 
 No sign, no similitude, of that green world which I had 
 lost, never, perchance, to find again ! 
 
 There was but one way to defy the loneliness of 
 Nature and the sad monotony of the elements, and that 
 was to discover some vigorous occupation to fatigue 
 the frame whUo light lasted. This occupation I found 
 in chasing and killing the poor seals of the sea ; and 
 although I was without firearms or any kind of pro- 
 jectile, I contrived by cunning and stratagem to slay 
 tall many of them, as I had slain the first. 
 
ayo GOD AND THR MAN. 
 
 'Twas a wM beast's life, but it kept me from 
 perisbing. From morn to night I woiild prowl and 
 crawl and watcb, or swiftly run, as the simple quarry 
 led me ; crafty, cruel-eyed, swift, stealthy, as any pre- 
 datory beast. 
 
 The foolish seals, which swarmed in the creeks and 
 caves of those lonely shores, were of divers breeds ; 
 some large as sheep that graze on our downs, others 
 small as the otters of our rivers. I saw none of the 
 great-tusked species which some mariners tell of; great 
 as bulls, and as savage when assailed. Some had coars* 
 rough skins, which would have been worthless even in 
 the hands of a skilful tanner ; others had hair as long 
 and coarse as wool; and others, again, were smooth, 
 red, and silken, glistening like oil in the sun. 
 
 My best sport was out upon the ice, where I was 
 wont, by watchfulness and strategy, to intercept the 
 beasts when they came from the water holes to bask in 
 the sun. Being asleep, they are easily surprised by one 
 who is careful to seek them up the wind ; for their 
 hearing is dull in proportion to the keenness of their 
 scent, as I have very frequently proved. 
 
 Besides these animals, and now and then a shoal of 
 white whales out in the sea southward, there were few 
 signs of life. Most of the seabirds had disappeared," 
 with the exception of some solitary gulls, and from time 
 to time a lonely gannet, or sea goose, driven northward 
 by some ocean storm. 
 
 The flesh and oil of the seals I thus slew kept mo 
 well supplied with fresh food and light ; and presently, 
 to beguile the weariness of the long nights, I set to 
 work and fashioned myself a rude covering, or overcoat, 
 of the skins ; which covering I would wear when the 
 wind blew cold, or when much snow fell. I also wove 
 several coverlets of warm skia to draw over me at night. 
 
 Meantime, how fared the companion of my cave ? 
 
 Well, he kept the conditions, and spake not, neither 
 looked my way ; while I, with face averted, toiled close 
 by. And ever in the daytime, when I entered he would 
 creep out, and crawl like a forlorn thing about the 
 island. But he made no efibrt to hunt for. himself 
 Boeming altogether too feeble and faint of heart. 
 
THE BEAR. 4^1 
 
 Now one night, when the cold was strangely keer, 
 even within the cave, I heard him breathing hard and 
 phivering ; and after a sharp struggle within of shame 
 and pity, I took several of my warm skins, roughly 
 sewn together, and threw them unto him. 
 
 Ho started and looked up, so that our eyes met. 
 Then, without speaking, I made a sign to him to take 
 the skins, which he forthwith drew over him, and 
 presently fell to sleep. 
 
 I had taken no strict count of the flight of days, 
 and had no kind of reckoner or guide in that dreary 
 place ; but, so far as I could guess, we were now mid- 
 way in the month of December. For it was early in 
 November when the Dutch ship was beset among the 
 ice, and several long weeks had passed since then. 
 
 To me, thus miserably cast away, one day was so 
 like another that I almost failed to distinguish each 
 from each; nor did I discern the six days from the 
 seventh, but laboured without a Sabbath — the gracious 
 day which to weary and heavy-hearted men is so full of 
 rest and blessing. 
 
 And yet, being ever a profane man, little given to 
 prayer and church-going, I missed not that consecration 
 of one day out of seven ; nor did my thoughts any day 
 turn heavenward, either for strength or consolation. 
 
 But now I am about to record a thing which at the 
 time moved me strangely ; and of which I cannot think 
 even now without a curious stirring of the heart. 
 
 One day, which might have been a Sabbath-day 
 indeed, so still and sweet were earth and heaven and 
 sea, I wandered forth as usual. Not a breath stirred, 
 the air was full of a pleasant and balmy chillness, and 
 the sun circled along the horizon with mild and gentle 
 beams. 
 
 Seeing it so fair, I paused at the mouth of the cave, 
 and drawing off my sealskin overcoat, threw it back 
 upon my bed; then I took my hatchet, which I used 
 Jver as a weapon, and wandered away. 
 
 First I roamed along the western cliffs, searching 
 the creeks for anything alive ; but all I saw was swarms 
 of seal swimming out at sea, and basking upon the 
 
f!3 GOD AND THE, MAKT. 
 
 distant reefs. Far off, in a patch of violet calm, a 
 whale was spoating ; and so still was the air, that I 
 could hear the roar of his blow-hole from where I stood. 
 
 Then I clambered down to the western shore, and 
 found nothing there. 
 
 Returning over the island, I made straight for the 
 fields of ice; for although from the heights I could 
 discern no sign of life upon them, I knew that the 
 water-holes and the ice in their close vicinity wore 
 favourite haunts of the beasts I Bought. 
 
 I rambled aboat the ice for hours, and although, as 
 I had expected, I saw many seals, none were foolish 
 enough to let me come nigh; till at last, as I was 
 returning dissatisfied, I fell upon one of the small silken- 
 coated species, fast asleep upon the floe. Coming round 
 A great hummock, I was close upon it ere I knew, and 
 ere it could reach the neighbouring water I killed it 
 with a dexterous blow. 
 
 Now the beast was so light and small that I threw 
 it bodily upon my shoulder, and carried it easily 
 away ; when, as I approached the gloomy shore, I was 
 startled by a wild shriek as of a human being in mortal 
 fear. 
 
 The next moment I saw, running swiftly towards 
 me, the wild figure of a man, no other indeed than 
 Richard Orchardson ; and well might he shriek in 
 terror, for behind him at a gallop was a huge white 
 bear — the first i beast of the kind I had seen in these 
 regions. 
 
 These animals are indeed fatal to man, having the 
 lion's swiftness, the fierceness of the wild cat, and the 
 sinuousness of the snake ; and this that I beheld was 
 a true monster of the breed, with huge shaggy pawsg 
 mighty talons, and horrible crimson jaws. 
 
 Even as I gazed, the man sped towards me, but 
 before he could reach me, as was clearly hia intent, 
 slipped, and fell upon his face. 
 
 The bear, which was some thirty yards hehind, 
 paused a moment, seeing him fall, and beholding me 
 for the first time ; then, without hesitation, it came 
 bounding on — with just the same wavy sinuous motion, 
 just the same cruel swiftneas, though it was so great • 
 
TSE BEAR. 1^3 
 
 monster, as hath the lissom weazel of our English 
 woods and fieldu. 
 
 Then my heart leapt in my mouth, for I saw that 
 the man was lost. 
 
 As I write, it all comes back to me — ^the lonely field 
 of ice, the fallen man, the horrible hungry beast 
 approaching with open mouth ; and I see tho man now, 
 as I saw him then, turn up his white face with one wild 
 look of horror and despair. 
 
 I had no time to think, to pause ; in another minute 
 the beast's fangs would have been at his throat, its 
 tongue lapping his blood. Before I knew what I was 
 doing, I had thrown down the dead seal, and, bounding 
 forward, placed myself between the beast and the fallen 
 man. 
 
 There, hatchet in hand, with set teeth, I stood, half- 
 a-dozen yards from the bear. 
 
 Now, before such a mighty animal as that, an 
 unarmed man is helpless ; and I had only my hatchet, 
 which, in such a struggle, would have been useless as 
 a straw. But, as God willed it, something in my erect 
 and defiant attitude made the beast pause in his career. 
 
 He paused, looked at me, snified with his nostrils, 
 and uttered an ominous growl. 
 
 For one moment my fate hung in the balance, and 
 surely, had I now retreated a step, or shown any sign of 
 fear, I should have perished ; but instead of retreating 
 I advanced steadily, my eyes fixed firmly on those of 
 the bear, the hatchet raised as if to strike, and out of 
 my very desperation I uttered a savage cry ! 
 
 As I advanced, the bear retreated sideways, still 
 growling terribly ; and at last, to my great joy, began 
 to creep rapidly away. 
 
 Bnnning in a circle, it avoided me. Thrice it 
 turned, hesitated, and thrice I advanced as if to the 
 attack. Then, to my astonishment, I saw it rise on its 
 hind legs, sniffing the air ; then, with its nose close to 
 the ice, it galloped round to the spot where I had left 
 the dead seal. 
 
 As it did so, Richard Orchardson, who had been 
 looking on in wonder, ran towards me, and again put 
 jny body between him and the bear ; which now, seizing 
 
 s 
 
»74 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 the seal with teeth and talons, tore it piecemeal and 
 devoured its flesh eagerly, only pausing now and then to 
 throw up its head and utter fierce growls of gluttonous 
 delight. 
 
 I saw that we were saved, and for the first time felt 
 a sense of overmastering terror, feeling what manner 
 of horrible death I had escaped ; so without more delay 
 I hastened away to the shore, leaving the savage beast 
 to the meal I had procured for it. 
 
 As I went, Richard Orohardson followed me, so near 
 that he might have touched me with his hand. 
 
 It was not till some hours afterwards that I clearly 
 realised what I had done ; nay, perhaps if the truth 
 were told, I did not wholly realise it till after many 
 years. 
 
 But be that as it may, the thing was done. I had 
 
 f reserved, at the risk of my own life, the life of the man 
 hated most iq all the world. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 viaiL. 
 
 I BEACHED the shore, and climbed the cliff nntil I 
 gained the snow-clad height. Pausing there, I turned 
 and saw Richard Orchardson standing close by me, with 
 his eyes on mine. 
 
 Then a foolish kind of anger seized me, for I 
 Joathed myself for having done what I had done ; and 
 without remembering our pact, I broke the silence that 
 had dwelt so long between us. 
 
 ' Why do you follow me ? ' I cried. ' Did I not 
 warn you ? ' 
 
 He gazed at me sadly, as he replied, in another 
 question : 
 
 ' Why did you save my life ? ' 
 
 I cordd have struck him in the face. I turned from 
 him with a gesture of loathing and dislike. 
 
 ' Why did yon save my life ? ' he repeated, following 
 me. ' I did not wish to live.' 
 
VIGIL. S7J 
 
 I tnrudd aud faced him. 
 
 • Do not think I saved yon out of pity. I saw you 
 were a coward, and I thought to myself, " He shall not 
 die yet " ; that was all. Now, p;o — keep yonr miserable 
 life, and let us part here.' 
 
 I would have left him, but he still persisted. His 
 manner was so desolate, so despairing, his voice so 
 hollow and sad, that I listened in spite of myself. 
 
 ' Why can there not be peace between us ? I have 
 as much cause for hate as you, and yet I am willing to 
 forget the past. Since we shall never leave this place 
 alive, why need we quarrel still ? Ton must have a 
 hard heart, to hate so bitterly and so long.' 
 
 ' Begone ! ' I said, between my set teeth. ' I will 
 not be judged by you. I shall never forget, or forgive.' 
 
 'As you will,' he answered bitterly, 'but methinks, 
 bate is foolish, seeing we are so utterly cast away. 
 And your acts belie your words. Had you not given 
 me food and shelter, I should have been a dead man 
 long ere this. Had you not interposed, I should have 
 died by the bear.' 
 
 I knew not what to reply, for his words were true 
 enough, and although I was ashamed of my own bene- 
 factions (which sprang not out of true compassion, but 
 a feebleness and infirmity of will), I had indeed saved 
 him again and again from death. 
 
 Seeing me hesitate, and misconceiving perchance the 
 emotions of mingled shame and rage which then pos- 
 sessed me, he reached out his thin hands and touched 
 me. I shuddered as if I had been stung. 
 
 ' Since I owe my life to you,' he said, 'let me owe 
 you something more. It has long been upon my mind 
 to utter the request which I am now about to speak. I 
 think I shall die here, but you are strong, and help 
 may come. Well, when I die, do not let the wild 
 beasts devour me, but bury me in the ground, like u 
 Christian man.' 
 
 ' Ask nothing from me,' I said, repulsing him. 
 
 ' Ah ! but promise ! ' he cried, his eyes full of feeble 
 
 teaxa. ' And promise one thing more ! If you are 
 
 saved, if you retnrn to England, as indeed may be, go 
 
 to my poor father, and tell him how I died ; yet break 
 
 T 3 
 
*J6 GOD AND THE MA». 
 
 it to him gently, for the old man loves me, and he ia the 
 only living soul to monrn me when I am gone.' 
 
 I gazed at him in wonder, for I conld scarce believe 
 mine ears. Did he think I was made of wax, that I 
 had no bitterness of memory, no fortitude of hate, when 
 he asked such charity from me ? Did he think I would 
 spare an Orchardson one drop of pain, one pang of the 
 Borrow he had given to me and mine ? 
 
 ' Will you promise ? ' he pleaded. ' Then I can die 
 in peace.' 
 
 And he sobbed like a child, hiding his face in his 
 hands. 
 
 I did not answer him, but with one fierce look, into 
 which I sought to concentrate all my long life of 
 loathing, I left him to his tears. 
 
 Night came, and I lay alone in the cave. 
 
 Several hours had passed since I had left Richard 
 Orchardson on the cliff, and when at sunset I had re- 
 turned to my place of shelter, he had not returned. 
 After making up my fire, I busied myself making candles 
 of dry seal-fat and rough twine. 
 
 But when darkness fell, 1 could not help wondering 
 why the man did not return. Could any fresh evil have 
 overtaken him ? Although I was angry with myself 
 for the solicitude, and although I was persuaded myself 
 that I was cruelly indifferent, I could not help listening 
 from time to time for the sound of his coming. Tet he 
 came not, and suddenly, so perverse is our human dis- 
 position, I began reproaching myself for having left him 
 Bo cruelly. 
 
 I had risen to my feet, and was moving towards the 
 entrance of the cave, thinking to look out in search of 
 him, when I heard a strange sound above me, and the 
 next instant he sprang down, wild with terror, and 
 covered with snow. 
 
 ' Help ! ' he shrieked, and pointed to the opening by 
 which he had entered. 'It has followed me again. 
 Look!' 
 
 And he fell upon his knees, clinging with his armii 
 Uround me. 
 
 Then, gazing towards the ap ertorft above as (whioh^ 
 
VWIL, 277 
 
 fts I have elsewhere explained, was just large enough to 
 admit the body of a man), 1 saw two fierce glittering 
 lights, which I knew to be the eyes of the bear. 
 
 The monster was standing over against our cave, 
 and, surprised at the strange brilliance within, was 
 gazing curiously down. By the dim ray which issued 
 forth from the fire and the lights fixed against the wall, 
 I could dimly see the great shaggy head and the savage 
 month. 
 
 For a moment terror seized me ; but speedily re- 
 Jovering my courage, I snatched down from the wall 
 one of the burning lights, and holding it in my hand, 
 approached the aperture. For I remembered having 
 read that certain wild beasts have a terror of fire, and 
 that even fierce wolves of the forest, swarming to destroy 
 some hapless voyager, had been scattered by the waving 
 of a burning brand. 
 
 I shouted aloud, and thrust out the light fuU at the 
 fece of the bear. To mine own amaze the stratagem 
 answered, and the great beast, startled and blinded by 
 the flame, suddenly withdrew. 
 
 Then I reached up my hand, and drew down the 
 stone, closing the opening to the cave. 
 
 Turning to Richard Orchardson, I saw him still on 
 his knees, as if praying. The moment he met mine 
 eyes, he spake. 
 
 ' I was returning hither across the height,' he said, 
 ' when I heard the bear behind me, and I fled, for fear.' 
 
 I answered him straightway, nsiiig the mocking 
 thonght that came uppermost : 
 
 ' And yet you craved to die ?' 
 
 * Not that way ! not that way !' 
 
 As he spake, I heard above us the sound of the 
 bear passing hither and thither, and scraping in the 
 snow. The sound continued for some minutes, during 
 which I hearkened intently ; then it ceased and all was 
 BtiU. 
 
 The night passed, and the monster did not return ; 
 even had he done so, he could not readily have reached 
 ns to do us injury, protected as we were by the stony 
 covering of the cave, which was now hard-welded 
 together by frost and snow. But I guessed, no doubt 
 
^S GOD AND THE MAS. 
 
 riglitly, that tho beast, being glutted with flesh of the 
 seal, had followed Orchardson, not from savage hunger, 
 but from foolish curiosity, never perchance having seen 
 a man before that day ; so that when the flame was 
 flashed into his brute face, he withdrew fearfully, 
 puzzled by a thing unmatched and unaccountable in his 
 cold experience. 
 
 Be that as it may, he returned not, and methinks he 
 wandered far away northward, for next day I tracked 
 his great footprints over the island, across the shore, 
 and thence back among the fields of ice. Doubtless he 
 was a straggler from the chillier regions to the north, 
 for during the whole time I remained upon the island 
 of desolation I never saw another beast of that mon- 
 strous breed. 
 
 I know not how it happened, but despite all my 
 cruel antipathy for my companion, the experience of 
 that day and night insensibly loosened the hard barrier 
 of bitterness between us. Once or twice we exchanged 
 speech, though roughly and sullenly, and, as before, I 
 let him share my food and shelter ; so that presently it 
 seemed quite natural that he should partake equally of 
 my cruel fortune, and my daily hope and fear. 
 
 Every day I searched the seas for a sail, the ice for 
 some sign of living folk ; and every day when I returned, 
 his pale face questioned mine fot some sign to soften 
 his despair, But surely it wag now hoping against 
 hope ; for winter had set in fixedly, and the days were 
 brief and dim, and the breath of the Cold Clime waa 
 coming southward like an exhalation, wrapping the 
 island in a constant shroud of frost and fog. 
 
 We had thus much in common, despite our life-long 
 hate : that we were equally cast away and abandoned, 
 that we had each the same hope and the same despair, 
 that we had both the same dark thoughts for company, 
 the same sad cause for fear. Thus alike were our con- 
 ditions, save that I was the stronger, having in my 
 youth been tempered Kke iron by exposure to cold 
 and storm. Thanks to raj fierce yeoman blood, I 
 throve where he failed, even ia that intemperate and 
 fatal air 
 
VIGIL. t-m 
 
 Now, before many^ days had passed, I saw the face 
 af my companion, which I watched furtively from time 
 to time, grow thinner and paler, whUe great veins har- 
 dened on hia delicate brow, and his breath came heavy 
 and slow, as if from a painful chest. I noted, moreover 
 that he ate little, and that with a sore effort, ever sighing 
 heavily between the mouthfuls, and moving his head 
 from side to side. 
 
 Every day he left the cave, and moved feebly about 
 the heights, but presently he scarcely moved at all, 
 but would sit, with my coat of skins wrapped round 
 him, upon a stone, looking wearily at the sea; then 
 when the cold seized him, and the teeth chattered in hia 
 head, he would creep back again to the cheerless warmth 
 within. 
 
 Meantime the rayless sun circled slowly along the 
 horizon, never rising into the dim zenith of the heaven ; 
 and sometimes for days together it was like a pure ball 
 of blood, with neither heat nor rays. Then sheeted 
 shapes of white mist and cold fog would float across the 
 ice, and cover the forlorn island, while the skies above 
 were sadly veiled. 
 
 It was brightest at night-time, in the silence of the 
 night ; for often, out of the very heart of the darkness, 
 which was truly ' darkness visible,' the wonderful 
 aurora would arise, till the melancholy heavens Eeeme(i 
 afire; and looking fearfully from that cold cave, I 
 would see the phosphorescent boreal iris gleam and 
 sparkle, dripping all colours of the prism,, till metho'ught 
 that I beheld the miraculous splendours of the far-off 
 Gates of God. 
 
 I should grow wearisome to dulness if I sought to 
 write down all the record of that long and painful 
 vigil, of that daily life without change, without event, 
 of that dull mechanical round of unbroken, desolate 
 despair. 
 
 We watched and waited, hoped and prayed ; but no 
 
 succour camo. 
 
 Then, feeling the terrible desolation of that silent 
 and ghastly companionship with one a stranger and an 
 enemy, I knew that, without such companioaship, I 
 
*8o GOD AlfD TME MAN. 
 
 should have sickened or gone mad. It was somettiDg, 
 at least, not to be utterly alone. It was something, in 
 the infinite dreariness of the long nights, to awaken, 
 listen, and hear a heavy breathing close at hand. It 
 was something to feel that, so near to me, another man 
 might be dreaming, as I had just dreamed, of brightness, 
 of the green fields of dear England, of a home in the far- 
 off happy Fens. 
 
 God of Mysteries, Fashioner of all wonders under 
 the illimitable heaven, whose will made all creatures, 
 and made of all creatures most pitiful Thy servant 
 Man! Thou hadst taken us into the hollow of Thy 
 hand ! Thou hadst lifted us out of the shadows of this 
 low life, into the air that angels breathe ! 
 
 My spirit swoons, my band trembles, as I try to 
 record what is yet to come. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVllI. 
 
 OUT IN THE SNOW. 
 
 Atii one night, every time I did awaken, I heard hm 
 moaning in his sleep, and moving uneasily upon his 
 hard bed. 
 
 His mind was wandering, and again and again I 
 heard him murmur familiar names; aoid once indeed 
 he called my name aloud, in a tone so shrill and pitifu] 
 that my heart leapt into my mouth, and I felt a&aid. 
 
 But when the dark morning came, and I looked 
 over to his sleeping-place, he was not there ! 
 
 Looking up, I saw that the cave was open, and 
 through the narrow aperture a sullen redness was 
 creeping in. 
 
 I waited for some time, thinking he would return ; 
 but when he came not, I cast my skins around me (for 
 it was bitter cold) and crept out into the air. 
 
 A cold fog covered the island, faintly tinged by the 
 sinister redness of the morning sun ; and so thick was 
 the vapour all around, I that I could only distinguish 
 
OUT IN THE SfrOVC. gSi 
 
 things that were quite near, and even these looked 
 large and phantasmal, being magnified by the clinging 
 mist. 
 
 All -was still as death, save for the strange thunder 
 of the calm sea, which came upon the sense like a low- 
 reverberation within the ears, and deepened the stillness 
 with its mysterious and ominous chime. 
 
 As one wakens in the dead of night, suddenly 
 conscious of some supernatural visitation, and waits 
 shiveringly for something that is about to happen, 
 while tha pulses shut sharp upon the beating heart, and 
 the clammy sweat-drops hang upon the pallid brow — 
 80 did I waken and listen. A curious terror possessed 
 me, I knew not wherefoi-e, a sickening sense of dreadful 
 anticipation. 
 
 Leaving the cave, I crept o-at among the chUl and 
 sheeted mists. 
 
 Suddenly, as I walked, I started in wonder ; for I 
 saw quite close to me, poised over the snow-clad island, 
 a dull red ball like an eye watching me ; and so near 
 did it seem, that it seemed partly resting on the crags 
 close at hand. This ball was no other than the round 
 disc of the sun itself, made startling and phenomenal by 
 some curious effect of the intervening fog ; yet even 
 when I knew its nearness to be only a delusion of the 
 sense, the appearance troubled me, and I shrank like 
 one who sees a supernatural vision. 
 
 I was now perplexed beyond measure to account for 
 Richard Orohardson's disappearance. For days past he 
 had scarcely left the cave, and even when he ventured 
 forth, he had remained close at hand, walking feebly, 
 or sitting in a dream. So it seemed strange that he 
 should have left his couch so early, and in weather so 
 dangerous, since the heights were full of dangerous 
 cavities and precipices, and one false step might take 
 him to his death. Nor could I conceive what errand 
 could have taken him forth. 
 
 I searched this way and that, but found no trace of 
 him; and at last, casting off all shame in my new 
 wonder, I shouted aloud. There came strange ghostly 
 echoes out of the fog, and murmurs from the distant 
 sea, but no reply of any human voice. 
 
gSi GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Then, half alarmed, half wroth with myself foi 
 heeding what might become of him, I returned to the 
 cave and broke my fast ; then busied myself in putting 
 my fire in order, whistling for the sake of forgetfulness, 
 and trying not to think at all. An hour passed thus ; 
 and .presently, looking forth, I saw that the fogs had 
 cleared a little, and that the heights were not so dark. 
 
 Then, reasoning with myself, I reproached myself 
 for the uneasiness which possessed me, reminding my 
 soul of its righteous hate, and of the broad river of 
 blackness between my life and his. If he was dead, 
 why, it was well ; his punishment had come. 
 
 But this mood did not last long. As the day ad- 
 vanced, I grew more uneasy, and by-and-by forth I 
 went again, picking my way carefully from place to 
 place, from mist to mist. More than once I lost my 
 way, and came near to death on the edges of the 
 slippery crags, on the brink of which the sun still 
 rolled, like a thin and rayless ball. 
 
 At last I found him. 
 
 I had turned my face from the cliffs, and was 
 ascending the stony hillside, when I stumbled against a 
 body stretched prone on the ground, and looking down 
 in terror, I saw him stretched upon his face, ragged, 
 half-naked, and to all appearance, dead. 
 
 Why he had come thei^e I know not till this hour \ 
 but he inust haVe wandered thithet, awakte or asleep, 
 Bad stumbling over the irocky ground, fainted where 
 be fell. 
 
 Then I thought, ' He is dead at last,' and straight, 
 way a great awe fell upon me, so that I could scarce 
 breathe or move ; and the thought of all my hardness 
 came back upon me, and I hated myself more bitterly 
 than ever I had hated him. 
 
 Recovering from this first terror, and forgetting all 
 my threats and all my vows, I knelt down by his side, 
 and turned his face upward ; when greater awe fell upon 
 me, for the eyes were fixed and glazed, and the features 
 white as marble, with one stain of red blood npon the 
 lips. 
 
 I see him now as I saw him then ; so white and 
 trora and thin, his cheeks deep sunken, his hair, which 
 
OUT m THE SNOIV. 183 
 
 Lad g^own long and unkempt since his sojourn upoa 
 the island, flowing grey upon his shoulders ; his mouth 
 wide open, his eyes staring, his throat thin and shrunken 
 like an old man's. Like an old man indeed he seemed, 
 worn out with years ; he who was once so young and 
 bright ! 
 
 As a murderer looks on the man that he hath slain, 
 I looked upon him, while a voice cried in mine ear that 
 by a little more charity, a little more tenderness, a few 
 kind words, I might have saved him. And there he 
 lay ! all the light and health gone that make a living 
 man, leaving only instead silence and a face of stone. 
 
 And yet, even then, with swift thoughts I jastified 
 myself. I had helped him beyond his deserving, I had 
 spared and sheltered him ; all- 1 had denied to him was 
 Irindliness and gentle words. What was he to me that 
 I should pity him ; I who owed him such a life-long 
 grudge of hate ? 
 
 I bent down my head, and listened for his breath ; 
 no breath came. Then I opened his garment and put 
 my hand upon his heart ; but I could feel no beat. As 
 I touched him so, a shiver ran through my frame, and 
 my head went round. 
 
 Then I took his hands in mine and chafed them, for 
 they were cold as stone. As I did so, methought I felt 
 him stir. 
 
 I felt for his heart again, and for the first time I 
 seemed to detect a faint warmth, a tremulous beat, 
 feeble as the flutter of the tiniest leaf. 
 
 Then a thought came to 'me, and I ran swiftly away 
 m the direction of the cave ; for the air was clearer 
 now, and I could just see my way. Leaping down, I 
 found the keg of raw spirit, which was as yet half full, 
 and by its side my cup of hollow stone ; this I quickly 
 filled, and then, creeping forth carefully, not to spill the 
 spirit on the ground, hastened back to the man's side. 
 
 I found him lying as I had left him, face upward. 
 
 Bending by him, I took his head upon my knee, and 
 dipping in the spirit with my finger gently wet his lips { 
 and presently, to my surprise and joy, he stirred feebly, 
 while a faint sound came from his mouth. 
 
 Then I knew that if he remained there he would be 
 
eSf GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 frozen — the ground being covered with snow, and tha 
 air being so bitter cold ; and when I saw at last that he 
 might live, I took him up gently in my two arms (alas ! 
 he was so thin and light that I felt his weight no more 
 than that of a little sickly chUd), and carried him 
 towards my cave. 
 
 As I went, he moaned, and I felt his body tremble 
 against me, which made me hasten the more quickly, 
 not looking down into his face, lest he should open his 
 eyes and behold me. The air was so dim and fog- 
 enwrapped, and the snow so deep under-foot, that my 
 passage was slow ; but at last I reached the cave, set 
 him down at its mouth, and entering first, drew him 
 softly in. 
 
 By this time he was breathing heavily, with full 
 signs of life, though his sight seemed still glazed and 
 dark, and his face set in pain. 
 
 I laid him down full length upon mine own bed of 
 blankets and skins, and pillowed up his head, with his 
 feet to the fire ; then I felt his hands, and finding them 
 still very cold, rubbed them gently with mine own. 
 
 All these things I did like one in a dream, not rightly 
 comprehending what I did ; my dread now being that 
 the man might die, leaving me alone with God in that 
 desolate place. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE SICK MAa'S DREAMS. 
 
 Before night came, the superficial chill of hands and 
 body passed away, and the fiery fiush of fever, which 
 had been burning all the while within, broke out upon 
 his face ; and the film fading from his eyes, was suc- 
 ceeded by a gaze of strange wUdness, with neither true 
 consciousness nor recognition. 
 
 Then I saw him struggling for his breath, moaning 
 inarticulately, tossing from side to side, in the diw 
 extremity of a mortal sicknesa> 
 
THE SICK MAN'S DREAMS. tgj 
 
 It was well, I thiuk, that lie was more or less un- 
 coasoions, for methinks I could not hare borne, at first, 
 his knowledge of my tenderness ; but finding him thus 
 helpless, and as it were sightless, I continued to minister 
 to him, using all my poor care and skill. 
 
 I fetched cold water in my cup, and set it ready by 
 his side to cool his lips, and now and then, when he 
 seemed very faint, I moistened his lips with water and 
 spirit mixed together. 
 
 Then, having no kerchief, I took the neck-cloth from 
 taj throat, and tearing it into several pieces, moistened 
 one piece, and laid it upon his brow for coolness, 
 changing it from time to time. 
 
 Presently, fearing that he might sink from lack of 
 food, I crumbled a biscuit in water, and when I had 
 softened it to a sop, put some to his mouth ; but he 
 would not swallow, and spat the fragments forth. 
 
 Then, having closed the mouth of the cave, and 
 fixed two of my lights against the wall, I took my coat 
 of skins and threw: over him, because a sharp shivering 
 seized him from time to time. 
 
 This done, I could do no more, but sat in the shadow, 
 and watched, as a nurse watches her sick charge. 
 
 That night I slept not, but remained ever ready to 
 minister to his wants when he started and cried. 
 
 See, now, how strangely God had dealt with me ! 
 My great fear now was lest this man should perish, and 
 leave me without a living soul, without one sign of 
 humanity, in that place. With him for neighbour, 
 though without any sweetness of companionship, I had 
 been able to bear my desolation. 
 
 But all night long I thought with terror on what 
 would be my lot if he should die, and I be left utterly 
 alone. The cruel sky, the lonely sea, the changeless 
 ice and snow, would then become too terrible to bear. 
 
 I have often in my rude way wondered how mortals 
 would fare if death were no common burthen (as it 
 is, through God's blessing), but only the lot of a 
 certain portion of men that live; if, I would say, not 
 all creatures, but only some, were fated to die like the 
 beasts. Out of this inequality of evil, what bitterness 
 would come, what revilmgs and cursings of an nn- 
 
i86 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 generous Providence ! But since all must die alike, 
 we are resigned. "What all must bear, many can bear 
 rigbt cheerfully, knowing the hour of each must surely 
 come. 
 
 By the same token, suffering becomes easier when it 
 is shared by any other living soul; nay, I can well 
 believe that even a poor dumb hound, patiently enduring 
 some pang with its master, may, by speechless com- 
 munity of sorrow, lighten that master's load. And I, 
 with even my mortal enemy for company, had been 
 saved from utter extremity of weariness ; for while he, 
 too, felt the pinch of cold, the pang of hunger, and the 
 shadow of a common loneliness, I could not hold myself 
 quite solitary in suffering or in despair. 
 
 As I sat and watched that night by the sick man, I 
 thought much of Priscilla, much of that sweet counsel 
 which she had been wont to give me in the days when 
 we were loving friends ; and methought, from time to 
 time, that I saw her very presence before me, as the 
 shining of an angel in white robes. Tears rose in mine 
 eyes as I reflected how cruelly, yet how strangely, God 
 had dealt with me, and how perchance I should never 
 behold that gentle maid again. 
 
 Then, looking at Richard Orchardson, so white and 
 wan, so worn with the suffering I had brought him, I 
 said to myself: 'He, too, loved her, and he too hath 
 lost her ; ' and straightway the very memory of our 
 common love softened me to him the more, and awoke 
 in my heart an inconceivable tenderness and pity. Yes, 
 it was surely a new bond between us, in the sad sur- 
 cease of hate, that we had both lifted eyes of yearning 
 to that gentle maiden, who with all holy arts had sought 
 to bring us toj;ether. 
 
 We had both lost her; both lost the world. We 
 were alone with God. What remained but to wait 
 patiently, to taste the cup of pain in common, and then 
 to die? 
 
 With thoughts like these, so new, so pitiful, I 
 watched him through the nigit. 
 
 The next day he remained in the same condition. 
 Towards night-time he began to rave. 
 
TBR SICK MAN'S DREAMS. 287 
 
 I saw that the fever, or whatever disease it was that 
 possessed him, was at its height ; for his face grew 
 crimson, his eyes filmy and moist, while blood and foam 
 began oozing from his mouth. Then I noted that his 
 breath was foul, as with scurvy ; that the skin upon his 
 hands was scaly, and loosened at a touch ; and that 
 there were foul sores bursting upon his neck. 
 
 So I moistened pieces of cloth in water and laid 
 them npon the sores, and with fresh water I rinsed his 
 lips and gums ; doing for the sick man, moreover, other 
 offices that may be nameless here. 
 
 Presently, seeing his head greatly oppressed by its 
 long thick locks, and remembering how they do in 
 hospitals with folk in fever, I took my sailor's knife, 
 and cut off a large portion of his hair, as close as might 
 be to the head ; after which he seemed easier, and rested 
 better upon his pillow. 
 
 But all this time I tried in vain to get him to swal- 
 low a few moist crumbs of food ; he would take nothing 
 save a little weak spirit and water, which I forced him 
 to swallow now and again ; so that every hour he grew 
 manifestly weaker, till his poor remains of strength 
 were well-nigh spent. 
 
 Meantime, he did not cease to rave ; and listening 
 to him I distinguished many a well-known name, and 
 oftentimes mine own ; but the name that was uppermost 
 npon his lips was, as before, that of Priscilla. Some- 
 times his thoughts were among the green fens of 
 England, at others they were sailing on the great sea ; 
 but Priscilla seemed ever with them, wheresoe'er they 
 went. 
 
 I pitied him none the less when he prattled of Pris- 
 cilla, for I knew ho had no hope of her this side of 
 death's darkness ; but when he murmured another name 
 dear to me, the shadow of my old hate came back. 
 
 ' Kate ! Kate ! ' he whispered suddenly, as I 
 moistened his brow with the wet rag; and 1 shrank 
 back as if I had been stung. 
 
 Then suddenly opening his eyes and gazing vacently 
 upon me, he moaned again : 
 
 ' Kate ! Kate Christianson I " 
 
 I left his side and withdrew to the further aide of 
 
i88 GOD AITD THE MAN 
 
 the cave ; there I Bat sullenly brooding over the memory 
 his words had awakened, and for a long space I neither 
 looked at him nor offered him any aid. 
 
 Presently he called for water, and at first I hesi- 
 tated, cursing him in my heart ; but my conscience 
 stinging me, I arose and gave him a draught, which he 
 drank with feverish eagerness, as if he were all afire 
 within. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 'OUE FATHEE.' 
 
 It waa on the evening of the third day, while I sat 
 watching him as he lay in a heavy sleep, that he sud- 
 denly opened his eyes and looked at me ; and I saw to my 
 surprise that the vacant film had left his gaze, and that 
 there came into the face a quiet light of recognition. 
 
 ' Is it ihov,. Christian Christiansen ? ' he said, so 
 faintly that I could scarcely hear. 
 
 I could not answer, for a great lump rose in my 
 throat, but half-averting my face I inclined my head. 
 
 I knew that his eyes were stiil watching me, and 
 presently I heard him say : 
 
 ' What hath happened ? Why am I lying here ? ' 
 
 I answered him, in a low voice : 
 
 ' I found you lying in the snow, and I carried yon 
 back into the cave.' 
 
 A sharp moan came from his lips. 
 
 ' Then it is all true, and we are not saved, as I was 
 dreaming. Methought we were on shipboard, sailing 
 back to England.' 
 
 There was a long silence. I turned my face and 
 gazed at him ; he was lying with his eyes closed, feebly 
 breathing; but while I looked at him he opened his eyes 
 and spoke again. 
 
 ' After all, it doth not matter, since I am so nearly 
 spent.' 
 
 I could not answer him at first, but taking the hot 
 rag from his forehead, I moistened it with fresh water, 
 and returned it to its place. As I did so he looked up, 
 and our eyes met. 
 
'OUX PATHER.' 289 
 
 'Thank yon,' he said; adding softly, 'I shall not 
 tronble you long.' 
 
 And the thin furrows of his cheeks grew moist with 
 tears. 
 
 A little while after this he rambled again, but not so 
 wildly, and now his fancy seemed in sunny places ; so 
 that when he came to himself his look was more 
 peaceful. 
 
 I went to his side, and tried, dumbly, to make him 
 eat a portion of the sop I had prepared ; but he pushed 
 it gently away. 
 
 ' Bat,' I said, ' or you will die ! ' 
 
 He gazed at me with a strange, long, searching look. 
 
 'I am a dead man,' he answered wearily; 'nothing 
 can saTe me.' 
 
 Then sinking his head back upon his pillow, he 
 continued : 
 
 ' Save for your care, I should ne'er have lived so 
 long. Why do you keep me alive P Is it because you 
 love to see me suffer pain P ' 
 
 The question went through my heart like a knife, 
 but how could I reply P He little knew the pity stirring 
 in my heart's core. 
 
 ' If you have any mercy,' he said presently, ' promise 
 to give me Christian burial. Do not leave my poor 
 body to the ravenous beasts ? ' 
 
 I remembered how he had craved this promise 
 before, and how I had not answered. I answered now, 
 eager to give him comfort. 
 
 ' If I survive you, I wiU do as you wish.' 
 
 ' Will you swear it ? ' he said. 
 
 ' I swear it,' I replied. 
 
 He closed his eyes as if relieved, and presently began 
 to sleep again. Alter a little time he lay so silent that 
 I could riot hear him breathe, and I thought with a cold 
 shudder that he might be dead ; but bending over him, 
 I perceived that he was still alive, though his breathing 
 made no sound. 
 
 Yet indeed, as he lay stretched there, he seemed as 
 one fallen into his last sleep ; and the sacredness of death 
 seemed upon him, on his worn sad face, his forehead 
 pencilled with blue veins, his closed eyelids, his lips just 
 
 D 
 
ago GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 flecked with foam. One thin hand lay beneath hifl 
 cheek, the other hung like wax upon the sealskin cover- 
 let, and over him brooded a solemn sileiice, like the 
 silence of the cold grave. 
 
 I lifted his hand, and it was icy cold. I touched him 
 on the shoulder, and spoke to him, but he did not hear. 
 
 Then, fearing that his time was come, and that he 
 would never speak again, I grew more than ever terri- 
 fied ; and at last, in the fulness of my fear and Heif-pity, 
 I sank upon my knees by his side. 
 
 Holding his cold hand, I prayed aloud to God that 
 he might live ; that I should not be left wholly desolate 
 and forlorn. 
 
 ' Spare him, God ! ' I prayed. ' Of all living things, 
 he is the sole creature that remains to me, and if he 
 goeth, where shall I look for the light of a human face, 
 the touch of a human hand ? He has shared my shelter, 
 eaten my substance, and his sorrow has been harder to 
 bear than mine. Spare him, God ! Leave me not 
 utterly alone.' 
 
 Now, even as I prayed, his strength revived again, 
 like the rising of a weak ocean- wave ; and as I knelt 
 with head bowed, I heard the faint sound of his voice. 
 
 ' Christian Christiansen ! ' 
 
 I started and looked up wildly at the sound of my 
 name. His chill hand fluttered like a leaf in mine, as 
 be murmured : 
 
 ' I have your promise ? ' 
 
 I pressed his hand for answer, for I could not speak. 
 
 ' And you will bear the news to my dear father ? 
 Tell him I died blessing him, and remembering how 
 much he loved me. Tell him, moreover, that I died in 
 tlie hope of the blessed resurrection, through Jesus 
 Christ our Lord.' 
 
 As he spake, he drew his hand softly from mine, 
 and putting both hands feebly together on his breast, 
 murmured the first words of the Lord's Prayer : 
 
 ' Our Father which art in Heaven . . . hallowed be 
 Thy name . . . Thy kingdom come.' 
 
 Then he paused suddenly, for, still keeping on my 
 knees, I was sobbing audibly, choked and stifled with 
 tears which would not flow. 
 
* OUR FATHER.' 291 
 
 He reached out his liand, and touched me. 
 
 ' Shake hands,' he said. 
 
 I took hia hand in both of mine, and touched it 
 with my trembling lips. 
 
 ' Pray for me again,' he -whispered. ' Pray for me, 
 and I shall know that we part in peace.' 
 
 God help me. I knew no prayer but that which he 
 had just begun ; but this I well remembered, having 
 tieen taught by my mother to say it night and morn ; so 
 straightway I said ' Our Father ' in as clear a voice 
 aa I could command, and gazing reverently upwards ; 
 and as T prayed my force was broken, and my warm, 
 tears flowed as from the living rook, bedewing the hand 
 I clasped within mine own. I had no shame now ; it 
 had left me for ever, with my bitter hate ; and as I knelt 
 there, it seemed as if the heavens were opened above 
 me, and T could hear the singing of angels from some 
 heavenly clime. 
 
 When the prayer was ended, and I still knelt weep- 
 ing, he turned his face to me and said : 
 
 ' Before I die, there is yet another thing upon my 
 mind that I must speak.' 
 
 ' Speak, then,' I whispered. 
 
 He turned his eyes full on mine, like one sadly 
 seeking forgiveness. 
 
 • 'Twas I that fired the ship ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE LAST LOOK. 
 
 Now, although I had known this thing from the first, 
 having never in mine own mind doubted that his hand 
 had done that deed of darkness, though he had bo 
 constantly denied it, I shrank from him in horror, and 
 would have dropt his hand. 
 
 But his cold fingers held me, while his wild eyes 
 
 read my face. , , t j-j /? t 
 
 « God help me, I knew not what I did, for I was 
 mad! I saw her heart was yours, and I thought to 
 1 2 
 
292 COD AND THE MAN. 
 
 stifle you where you were chained. But God has 
 punished me, as you see.' 
 
 I was silent, with a cold chUl and shrinking upon 
 me ; and presently he moaned, still clutching my fingers 
 in his : 
 
 ' Have you nothing to say to me ? Can you forgive 
 me now ? ' 
 
 Then the cloud of my old hate passed from me for 
 ever, as I replied : 
 
 ' May God forgive us both ! He hath dealt with us 
 as we deserved.' 
 
 Though all that time the shadow of Death was in the 
 cave, Richard Orchardson lived through that long night, 
 and far into the morrow morn. 
 
 Now that the fatal barrier of pride was cast down 
 from between us, now that our eyes could meet in the 
 sorrow of that last farewell, my heart seemed strangely 
 lightened of its load ; and though I still looked forward 
 with an overmastering dread to the moment when I 
 must be left alone, I could pray now aa never in my 
 lifetime I had prayed before. 
 
 Sitting by the side of my dying companion, in 
 the long intervals of piteous speech and more piteous 
 silence, my thoughts again, like homeward wavering 
 birds, went back across the years; and as I called to 
 mind the bitter ancestral feud, the bloody lifelong strife, 
 there came back to me my poor father's dying words 
 of gentleness and forgiveness. He, poor man, had 
 Buffered more than I, and yet he had been patient and 
 gentle to the last ! 
 
 Then I thought, ' We are nurtured in evil and bitter 
 blame ; we sit and feed our sense of wrong apart, when 
 Mi^ith a gentle word we might make all well ; and know* 
 ing not our brother's heart, we think it cruel and 
 abominable, at the very moment when the dews of 
 Inercy and human kindness are making it sweet.' For 
 I remembered the time just after my father's death, 
 when Squire Orchardson had ridden over to our house 
 door on a peaceful errand ; and our hearts had shut 
 against him, though he surely meant us well. How 
 muoh evil had been spared us aU had my mother listened 
 
THE LAST LOOK. 39J 
 
 that day ! But afterwards, througli evil blood between 
 two mere children, who knew not what they did, what 
 calamity had come ! 
 
 As I sat thus musing, and looking at Richard 
 Orchardson, the cave faded away, the years rolled back, 
 and I was standing on the Fen Farm with clenched 
 hands, looking at a pale boy stretched bleeding at my 
 feet ; while in mine ears rang the cry of little Kate — 
 ' O Christian, what have you done ? ' And little Kate, 
 where was she ? Dead, perchance ; or still, a weary 
 woman, wandering about the world. After all, she had 
 loved this man, and had she not out of fear of ns kept 
 her love a secret, happiness might have come to her 
 even through him. I had closed my hard heart sternly 
 against her pleading, and had driven her forth cruelly, 
 when she might have been saved, perchance, by one 
 gentle word. 
 
 And so the end had come ; and the end was the same 
 as the beginning, yet how different ! 
 
 There lay Richard Orchardson, helpless, grey, and 
 old before his time ; and I was still the stronger, as I 
 had been in that struggle when we were boys. There 
 lay he whose being I had embittered, and who had em- 
 bittered mine ; whose death I had prayed for ; whose 
 life I had sought to take with murderous hands. We 
 had struck each other with all our might, and he . . . 
 he had fallen; yet now I would have given away the 
 world if I could have raised him up, saying ' Live, and be 
 forgiven ' ; if I could have seen him again walking erect 
 and happy in the sun ; nay, if I could have kept him 
 with me a little while, to lighten my desolate despair. 
 
 It was not to be. 
 
 God was to fill my cup full measure, even to the 
 very running o'er. I had prayed for this man's life ; it 
 was to be given me. Alas ! when God answers our 
 passionate pleading, even to the fruition of our wickedest 
 desire, He is inexorable to the end. 
 
 He had been restless all the night, but towards the 
 morning he slept soundly, almost peacefully ; but about 
 the middle of the day he woke and (to my amazement) 
 asked for food. 
 
294 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 I looked at him in wonder. He had sat up on his 
 conch, -with a strange flush upon his face, and smiled. 
 
 ' I am hungry,' he said. ' Prithee let me eat.' 
 Alas ! I knew not what to give him. I had only the 
 Beal's flesh (which was too rank for the stomach of a 
 sick man), some loose flour, and coarse biscuit. But I 
 brought him a little spirit and water, while I soaked 
 some biscuit, as I had done before ; and my hand shook 
 for joy, since I saw him so brightly changed. 
 
 He ate some of the sop eagerly, and with an evident 
 relish. 
 
 ' You are better to-day,' I said gently. 
 
 ' Tes, much better,' he replied, smiKng still. ' Nay, 
 I feel quite strong.' 
 
 Had God answered my prayer ? Had the disease 
 departed, and would the companion of my loneliness be 
 spared to me after all ? Alas ! I had little skill in 
 nursing or in leech-craft ; or I would have known, as 
 I know now, how dying men often rally a little space, 
 while the last gleam of life shoots up shiningly, like to 
 the laafc flash upon the blackening brand. 
 
 When he had eaten he lay back upon his pillow and 
 closed his eyes, and in a moment was sound asleep ; 
 but this time his sleep was troubled, and he tossed 
 feverishly from side to side. 
 
 An hour later he awoke suddenly, and sprang up in 
 bed. 
 
 ' Look ! ' he cried, pointing eagerly ; then he added 
 in a loud voice, ' Mother ! mother f ' 
 
 I knelt by his side, and took his head upon my 
 shoulder, but he still kept his eyes wide open, as if he 
 gazed upon a vision. 
 
 ' Mother, who is that by your side ? Is it Priscilla ? 
 ► . . Why are you crying ? Nay, tell my father to 
 be comforted, for I am coming home. Hark, what's 
 that P Do you hear, sweetheart ? 'Tis our wedding 
 hells ? ' 
 
 Alas ! those bells were ringkig not on earth, but far 
 away in heaven. Even as he spake a strange shiver 
 ran through his frame, the coldness of death stole from 
 his heart to i2iiiie, and, with one last moan, his spirit 
 passed away. 
 
THE LAST LOOK. S^J 
 
 At first I could not believe that he was deaci, 
 
 I placed his head gently back upon his pillow, and 
 gazed upon him ^ and there was no change. He seemed 
 just resting wearily, as he had rested so many days. 
 
 But even as I looked tipon his poor wasted face, and 
 listened for his living breath, there stole upon my soul 
 that sacredness and mysterious stillness which never 
 come till the shadow of Death is present ; and over the 
 form I watched fell the chilly consecration of the dust. 
 It was as if some pale angel stood there, stooping 
 darkly, touching brow and cheeks and hands in turn 
 with a frosty finger, till they changed into the whiteness 
 of the lily, then into the chillness of icy stone ; till of 
 the thing that was a living creature a few minutes 
 before, only a marble mask remained. 
 
 There lay Richard Orchardson, or what had once 
 been he ; his feeble frame, his wasted flesh, his haggard 
 face, all changed — no longer old nor young, but beautiful 
 even to terror ; covered with peace as with a garment, 
 clothed with the loveliness of Death. For Death crowns 
 all alike. There is no creature so frail, so wretched- — 
 nay, there is not even a little child — to whom he denies 
 this royalty of the last repose. We enter the last 
 sleeping-place of a dead beggar, and his rags have 
 become regal, and we stand before him in reverence, 
 like subjects in the presence of a King. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 * SNOW TO SNOW ! ' 
 
 "When I knew that he was dead indeed, I bent over Mm 
 reverently, placed his arms down by his side, and seeing 
 his eyes wide open, drew down the waxen lids over the 
 sightless orbs. Then I held a little water in the palm 
 of my hand and cleansed the dead face ; afterwards with 
 careful fingers arranging his hair and beard. 
 
 Lastly, I took one of my rude lights, and set it at 
 tlie corpse's head, like the death-lights we bum round 
 dead folk in the Fens. 
 
 All this I did mechanically, not yet feeling the full 
 
896 GOD AND THE MAH. 
 
 horror of my desolation ; fcut wten there was no more 
 to do, wlien I had ordered all in Christian cleanliness 
 and reverence, I sat and gazed upon mine enemy, as if 
 mine own hour had also come. 
 
 What followed seems now, as it was then, like a dream 
 within a dream. 
 
 After the first stony sense of loss, during which 1 
 remained strangely stem and cold, I think I must have 
 begun to wander in my mind ; for I have a dim memory 
 of sitting there in the cave, with the dead man before 
 me, and talking wildly to myself ; then of passing forth 
 and wandering up and down the island, through the 
 drifted snow, like a witless man ; of creeping back, and 
 peering in, as into a tomb, and seeing him still there, 
 with the corpse-lights at his head ; so that I was afraid 
 to enter, till the bitter cold drave me in. 
 
 But God was merciful, and even in those dark hours 
 of loneliness and fear He kept me from going wholly 
 mad. Though my mind wandered for a time, my reason 
 was not quite shattered; amid the darkness of my 
 despair, when all the winds of terror rushed upon me, 
 that light within which makes a living soul, though it 
 trembled in the blast, was not blown out for ever. 
 
 And methinks one thing helped me ; and this was 
 the promise I had made the man before he died. 
 
 I had sworn that he should have Christian burial, 
 and that oath I now determined to fulfil. 
 
 I ];ept him with me in the cave for several nights 
 and days, until the change in him became so dreaofol 
 that I shuddered to look upon his face. 
 
 Then knowing that the time had come, I chose a 
 place not far off, where there was a hollow in the rocky 
 ground, filled up with snow ; and here, out of a hard 
 drift, I scooped a shallow grave. 
 
 To bury him in that hard ground was impossible ; 
 yet I did the best for his poor dust that my wild 
 thoughts could devise. 
 
 I had no coffin for him, and no shroud. He lay in 
 the garments that he had died in, completely clad ; but 
 instead of cerements, I wrapt the sealsHn coverlet 
 around him, leaving only his face bare. 
 
Snow to snow! 
 
• snrow TO SNow> 997 
 
 Then, one still morn, wheii the air was brigW: for 
 the place and time of year, I lifted in my arms and 
 Oftrried him slowly forth, across the snow. 
 
 I had the mde grave all ready, and now I laid him 
 down within it, with his white face to the sky. As I 
 stood above him, and took my last look of him, more 
 enow began to fall. 
 
 Lightly, thinly, delicately, fell the soft flakes on the 
 cold body and on the white, cold, marble face. It 
 seemed as if the Lord Himself were stretching out His 
 hand, and gently covering up the dead ! 
 
 Then, standing bareheaded, eager still to keep my 
 pledge to him, I repeated, as far as I could remember, 
 the words of the old sweet Burial Service out of our 
 EngUsh Book of Prayer ; and when I could remember no 
 more, I stretched out my arms in blessing, commending 
 my enemy's soul to God. 
 
 Before I had ended, his face had faded away in the 
 falling whiteness ; and seeing it vanish utterly, I sobbed 
 like a little chUd. 
 
 ' Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His 
 great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of my dear 
 brother here departed, I therefore commit his body to 
 the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 
 in sure and certain hope of the Eesurrection to eternal 
 life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.' 
 
 Nay, not ashes to ashes, or dust to dust ; but snow 
 to snow ! 
 
 As the sexton of the graveyard draws down the 
 loosened mould, pressing it firm upon the coffin lid, so 
 did I with the drift, till it lay thick and firm above him 
 as any earth; and over and above all I worked the snow 
 into a barrow of the dead, not green, but white ; and 
 when all was done as I had promised, I turned away. 
 
 And now for the first time I felt the full extremity 
 of my desolation. 
 
 Eor when I entered the cave, there was no face, not 
 even that of my poor dead enemy, to meet me ; and the 
 place was forlorn beyond measure. Even in the dead body 
 there had been companionship, so long as it remained. 
 
 I sat down in my empty dweUing and wept. 
 
 But presently, filled with a new thought of blessed 
 
«9S GOD AND THE MAS. 
 
 tenderness, I took two pieces of wood, and tied them 
 together in the shape of a cross ; and all that afternoon 
 I wrought upon the cross with my clasp-knife, till I had 
 rudely carved upon it these words : — 
 
 ' Heee lieth Richard Oechakdson. 
 ' May he rise again ! ' 
 
 Night had fallen when my task was done. But 
 passing forth, I found the new-made grave, and set the 
 cross upon it, as my last token of forgiveness and 
 goodwill. 
 
 As I stood gazing down, the crimson flame of the 
 aurora arose suddenly out of the northern sky, and all 
 the heavens were miraculously illumined. Was it my 
 sad fancy only, that the glory of that vision had never 
 been so strangely bright ? Higher and higher towards 
 the zenith rose the prismatic cupola of splendour, fairer 
 and infinitely brighter than any rainbow of promise, 
 with flames of inconceivable brightness, and a glory as 
 of summer dawn, lighting heaven and earth and sea ! 
 
 At last the wonder faded ; deep darkness followed ; 
 and I was alone in all the world. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 FEOM THB tOa OF THE WHALER ' NAUTILTJ8.' 
 
 In the late hairst of 17 — , I, Captain John. Macintosh, 
 commanding the Nautilus brig, of 150 tons, and one of 
 the whaling fleet from Dundee, sprang a leak during an 
 easterly gale while on my way southward, was driven 
 far away to the west, and, putting into Clarence Harbour, 
 ten leagues to the west of Cape Chidley, for repairs, 
 was there beleaguered by the ice, and compelled to pass 
 the winter months in that uncannie clime. 
 
 Fortunately, we were well prepared for such an emer- 
 gency, and being sheltered in a safe creek, we roofed 
 the ship with canvas against the snow ; and so, with 
 land on every side of us, plenty of moss fuel ashore, a 
 good stock of provisions, and firearms for hunting, we 
 
LOG OF THE WBALER 'NAUTILUS.' 355 
 
 tholed our trouble, and passed tte snell season without 
 the loss of a single soul aboard. 
 
 Of our troubles and privations, our sports on ice and 
 land, and our many grand devices to pass avfay the 
 eerie time, I have told at large in my log, which I kept 
 carefully from Sabbath to Sabbath, scarce missing a 
 single day; for when I was a- bed one week with a 
 touch of scurvy, my mate, Robert Johnstone, a good 
 scholar, and like myself a native of Bucklyvie, Fife, 
 Bet all things fairly down. 
 
 At last the winter broke, the sun rose up into the 
 lift, and to our great joy wo saw the ice splitting and 
 loosening, with gleams like fire-flaught, and shocks like 
 thunder reverberating far out to sea. Having first 
 ca,nnily overhauled our ship's bottom, which our car- 
 penters reached easily, as she was lifted clean out of 
 the water by the ice, and having made all snug and 
 taut aboard, we prepared to get her afloat : a task 
 we achieved with no little difficulty, having to cut a 
 pathway for her with our hatchets for a distance of 
 nearly two Scots miles, before we could reach the open 
 water of Clarence Harbour. 
 
 When this was done, and the Nautilus was once 
 more afloat in the deep sea, we shouted like daft men, 
 and prepared at once to set sail. The lift was growing 
 clearer and clearer every hour, and though there was 
 thick damp reek, caused by the evaporation from the 
 surface of the ice, floating about the sea, we determined 
 to linger no longer, so eager were we to reach bonnia 
 Scotland again, and to see those that loved us — ^parents, 
 sweethearts, wives, or bairns. 
 
 Out of the middle of Clarence Harbour ran a chan- 
 nel of salt sea, two miles wide, and shut in on each side 
 by impenetrable ice ; this channel, though deep, was 
 discoloured like a great river with melting snow, and 
 sprinkled everywhere by small pieces of broken ice, 
 which floated along like flotsam and jetsam on a river 
 in full spate. There was only just enough wind to steer 
 by, but we drifted along fast enough, with the ice 
 rattling against the old ship's timbers like fragments of 
 broken glass, and the water the colour of oatmeal 
 porridge on every side. 
 
30O COD AND TSE MAW. 
 
 Aft we went the channel widened, until we had 
 plenty of sailing room, bat finding no lead out to the 
 open sea, on acconnt of the Bolid floes that closed us in 
 to larboard, we drifted past Cape Ohidley in a south- 
 westerly direction, with the drift of the main thaw, or 
 current. 
 
 Before long, we had our work cut out for us, for 
 before a day had passed we got among drift ice, freshly 
 loosened from the solid floes. Many a sharp rap did 
 the old ship get as she snooved along, with the great 
 blue bergs towering on every side of her, and land foga 
 making the daytime as mirk as midnight. 
 
 Four days and nights we played at this game among 
 the bergs, but at last we reached open water — a clear 
 calm lead to the southward, with never a blink of ice in. 
 sight. 
 
 On the evening of the fifth day there blew such a 
 spring gale from the north-east as I never wish to see 
 again ; as Rob Johnstone said, it was the De'il of the 
 Pole giving us his last cuff on the lugs before he let us 
 go for good ; and with the gale came snow, and sleet, 
 and hail, blinding and smothering the ship. 
 
 We lay to under a rag of canvas all that night. 
 
 At break of day the wind changed, and just in time ; 
 for hard under our lee lay the loom of black land, set 
 round with ice as sharp and ugly as sharks' teeth, the 
 edge of which was scarce a mile away. 
 
 But the breeze changing into a mild puff from the 
 west, with just a gentle pussie-claw on the deep green 
 water, we prepared to set all sail ; when suddenly some 
 of the men, who stood looking over the side towards 
 the land, uttered a cry, and began to blether among 
 themselves. 
 
 ' What's the matter, lads ? ' I said, going up to 
 them. 
 
 Then old KoU Sanderson, our chief harpooner, and 
 a Shetland man, replied : 
 
 ' They're saying they see something oot yonner on 
 the ice.' 
 
 ' What is it, lads ? ' I asked. 
 
 * Saints preserve us a' ! ' said a young hand from 
 Leith. ' It leuks like a mon ! ' 
 
LOG OP THE WHALER * NAUTILUS,' ya 
 
 A man on tlto ioe in that desolate region t I smiled 
 to myself at tlie notion ; but when they cried again, I 
 went to the side and looked, and sure enough I saw, 
 far away, a black shape running on the ocean's edge. 
 
 ' Give me the glass ! ' I cried, and Rob Johnstone, 
 who had the telescope under his oxter, handed it to me. 
 
 No longer had I clapt it to my eye than I started, 
 and felt a thread go through my heart. The figure 
 was a man's, no doubt, and he was waving his arms 
 in the air, and making signs to us aboard the ship. 
 
 ' Lower a boat ! ' I said. ' It's a living ca-eature, 
 though the Lord kens what brought him there.'' 
 
 "When the boat was lowered and manned, I stepped 
 into the stern, and leaving Johnstone in command on 
 board, took the tiller. The lads were as curious and 
 eager as myself, and they rowed with a will ; and soon 
 I could see plainly with my own een, without the aid of 
 a glass, a great lean figure like a wraith, stretching out 
 his arms to us, and dancing about like a daft body on 
 the edge of the ice ! 
 
 But, Lord ! such a sight as the poor soul presented 
 I never saw before, and hope never to see again ! Ho 
 was wrapt all round with dirty skins, and on his lega 
 were a pair of broken seaman's boots, his frame was 
 like a skeleton's, his hair hung down to his shoulders 
 and over his forehead, while his beard was a foot long, 
 and matted like tow. But the face of him, the looks 
 of him! He looked like Death himself, with sunken 
 cheeks and hoUow een, and his jaw hanging like the 
 jaw of an idiot man. 
 
 When he saw us coming near, he fell upon his 
 knees as if praying ; and kneeling so, waited till the 
 boat touched the ice. 
 
 Then, whUe the men looked on in wonder, I sprang 
 out and approached him. At that, he sprang to his 
 feet, and though I am myself a tall man, six feet in my 
 boots, he was taller. 
 
 When I questioned him he did not seem to under. 
 Btand. His eyes looked vacantly, and he murmured 
 Bomething to himself, but seemed to have lost the use 
 of speech. 
 
 Theu he began to wave his arms again, laughing 
 
3M GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 and greeting in the same breatli, so ttat I ttongM to 
 myself that some great trouble had made him daft 
 indeed. 
 
 I pointed to the boat, and made signs for him to go 
 aboard the ship. He tinderstood that right well, I'm 
 thinking, but instead of leaping into the boat, he began 
 running towards the land,, making signs for us to 
 follow. 
 
 While I stood perplexed, he pointed up to the clifEs, 
 ■which lay about a mile away across the ice, and I saw by 
 his beckoning that he wished us to follow him up yonder. 
 
 At first I hesitated, till it flashed across my mind 
 that maybe he was not alone, and that there were 
 others not far away, cast away like himself, and in 
 some dire trouble. So I took with me two of the men, 
 namely, William Forsyth and Wattie Hetherinp'ton, and 
 leaving the other two in the boat, followed him across 
 the ice. 
 
 Though he was so worn and thin, and looked like a 
 wraith, he ran so swiftly that it took us all oar breath 
 to follow ; and whenever we paused, he stopped and 
 beckoned again. 
 
 At last we reached the land — a black line of rugged 
 cliffs, whitened with great patches of ice and snow, and 
 with clear falling streams of melting thaw glittering in 
 the sun. 
 
 Passing along the shore, the strange man at last 
 came to a rocky ascent, up which he swiftly ran ; and 
 we following, came out upon the braes of a snowy 
 island, as bare of all vegetation as the palm of my hand. 
 
 At last he paused, looking down. 
 
 Then, coming up and standing by his side, we 
 beheld to our amaze a mound of hard snow shapen like 
 a grave, and on this mound a rude wooden cross, on 
 which was carven these words that follow : — 
 
 ' Heee lieth Eichaed Oechaedson. 
 ' May he rise agam ! ' 
 
 Even as we gazed, the man knelt upon the snow 
 as if praying dumbly to himself; then, rising quieWy, 
 looked down again upon the grave, and wept. 
 
 I'pnt my hand upon his shonldor. 
 
LOG OF THE WHALER 'NAUTILUS.' 303 
 
 * Answer me now,' I said. ' Are there any more 
 folk on the island ? ' 
 
 He understood me, and now for the first time 
 answered, in the English tongue. 
 
 ' No more ; no more ! ' he cried, in a hollow voice. 
 
 Then I asked him if he wished to sail away with ua 
 from that dreary place. 
 
 ' Take me away,' he answered in tho same strange 
 tone ; ' take me away ! ' 
 
 I wondered in my own mind why he had brought 
 ns np here only to stand by a dead man's grave, and I 
 wonder still — for I know not to this hour what spirit 
 moved him. 
 
 He stood looking at the cross like one in a dream. 
 
 ' Come, my man,' I said, touching him again. 
 
 He started, and followed ns quietly. So we went 
 down again to the shore, and crossing the ice, enteied 
 the boat. I placed him beside me in the stern. Ha 
 did not speak, bnt sat like one bewildered, with Lis 
 face ever turned backward to the land we had left 
 behind. 
 
 Three weeks after that tho Nautilus, with the man 
 on board, was in sight of the shores of Scotland, sailing 
 with a fair wind for the port of Dundee. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 AT THE sailors' HOME. 
 
 A FEW miles from the great city of Newcastle-upon- 
 Tyne stands the town of Tynemouth : which, over a 
 hundred years ago, was little more than a small sea- 
 ehore village, inhabited by fishermen, river-pilots, and 
 other rough hard-labouring men and women who get 
 their bread by the sea. 
 
 In an open space near the sea-shore of Tynemouth 
 stood (and perchance stands) a small two-storied 
 building of red brick, in front of which was a flagstaff 
 tlying the Union Jack. Every piece of timber used in 
 the erection of this building was made of drift-wood 
 
304 GOD AND 7HE MAN. 
 
 cast up by tlie sea ; the pathway leading to the dnor 
 was laid with sand and shells ; at the door itself was a 
 wooden seat, made out of the stempost of a wrecked 
 vessel ; and along the window-siUs were coloured pieces 
 of stone and large shells, all gathered on the neighbour- 
 ing shore. 
 
 Fifty years before, an old sea captain, bom and bred 
 in the place, had returned to Tynemouth a wealthy 
 man, and having plenty of raoney to spare, had built 
 this house for a mere whim ; afterwards, finding it too 
 large for his own occupation, he had let it out to a 
 captain of the coastguard ; but finally, having quarrelled 
 with the executive on some question of smuggling or 
 free trade, he had turned the place into a sort of sailors' 
 home for unfortunate wayfarers, endowing it with a 
 small sum of money per annum, terminable at his 
 death, to be supplemented by small weekly payments 
 from such inmates as could afford to pay a trifle for 
 bed and board. From that day forth till the day of 
 his death, the old gentleman, who had a little cottage 
 close by, might have been seen almost daily in front of 
 the Home, in conversation with certain weatherbeaten 
 veterans, who were enjoying their siesta in the sun, 
 and repaying their benefactor by retailing to him their 
 experiences, their grievances, and their adventures, 
 afloat and ashore. 
 
 This son of Neptune, dying suddenly, in the very act 
 of enjoying a sailor's yarn of more than usual length 
 and breadth, left all his little property to a degeneraie 
 nephew, who hated salt water, and kept a small hosiery 
 establishment in Newcastle. The Home was about to 
 be put up to the hammer, when a benevolent gentleman 
 interfered, and bought it in for a small sum. Now, 
 the gentleman was a friend and disciple of the famous 
 Mr. Wesley, and it occurred to him as a happy thought 
 that the establishment, instead of being delivered to the 
 secular arm, should remain a Sailors' Home still, but 
 more particularly a Home for pious sailors of the Metho- 
 dist persuasion. By his endeavours a liberal sum was 
 Boon collected, one of the most liberal contributora 
 being a certain Mr. Sefton, of London ; and presently a 
 new wing was added, to be used as a Convalescent 
 
THE SAILOKS' gOME. 30J 
 
 Bespital, where food, physic, medical attendance, and 
 seasonahle prayer were liberally provided for marinora 
 and fishermen in bad health. 
 
 On the wooden bench in front of the Home sat, one 
 sunny autumn day, a gaunt tall man in rough sailor's 
 clothes. He might have been old and he might have 
 been young ; for none could tell whether Time had 
 made him so woe-begone, or merely Sorrow. He had 
 not long left his sick bed, and as he sat he leant heavily 
 apon an oaken staff. 
 
 Standing before him was a plump, motherly -looking 
 woman, in cotton gown and widow's cap ; nurse and 
 cook at the Home, and wife to the old ex- coastguards- 
 man, who was its of&cial custodian. 
 
 ' How do you feel now, good man ? ' she was saying. 
 'Better, surely. Nay, this brave weather will soon 
 make yon strong again, and fit to travel home.' 
 
 The man raised his head wearily, and looked her in 
 the face. 
 
 ' Home ! ' he repeated, vacantly. 
 
 ' Ay, indeed ; for sure, now, you have a home, and 
 mayhap a wife and bairns ? ' 
 
 He looked at her again, sighed heavily, and shook 
 his head. 
 
 ' Then you have kinsmen at least ? ' continued the 
 woman, with the curiosity of her sex. ' Do they bide 
 far away ? Belike you have friends somewhere to whom 
 you can go ? ' 
 
 ' No kinsmen. No friends.' 
 
 ' That is bad,' said the woman. ' Poor man ! what 
 will you do ? Go again to sea ? ' 
 
 The man did not reply. His eyes were fixed drearily 
 on the quiet ocean, which sparkled beyond the green 
 n liff whereon he sat. Presently, without turning his 
 fiuje from that fixed object of contemplation, he demanded : 
 
 ' How came I here ? ' 
 
 ' To the Mariners' Haven, mean you ? Ah, dear, 
 don't you remember ? They found you in the streets 
 of Newcastle, all in rags, with a kind of fever upon 
 you, and since doctor said 'twas not catching, the 
 good Methodists sent you down here. I've nursed 
 yon, good man, three long months ; and sometimes I 
 
3o6 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 thought your wits were gone, for you did talk such 
 strange things; but praise be to God, we've brought 
 you round.' 
 
 She added, as he did not reply ! 
 
 'And no one knows your name, or where you come 
 from, though you've been here so long.' 
 
 ' My name is Christian Ohristianson,' said the man. 
 
 ' A right good name for a Christian man, as I pray 
 you are ! ' 
 
 Something in the words, like a fiery spark, seemed 
 to fall upon the man and rouse him from his lethargy. 
 New light came into his eyes, his Hps trembledj Ms 
 frame shook. 
 
 ' Her words,' he murmured, ' 'he.r words, long ago.' 
 
 ' Tour wife, good man ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, I have no wife.' 
 
 ' Then your sweetheart, belike ? ' 
 
 ' Maybe,' he answered, nodding his head ; and he 
 added sadly, ' Tes, her very words. " A good name for 
 a Christian man." ' 
 
 ' Is she living still, good man ? ' 
 
 ' Alas ! I know not,' said Christian. ' We parted 
 long ago, out upon the sea, and though I have sought I 
 have not found het" ; perchance I shall never find her, 
 this side the grave.' 
 
 Even as he spoke there came from a room withiu the 
 sound of rough voices singing a hymn ; suddenly, from 
 the very midst of those voices, there shot up another 
 and a sweeter voice, clear as a bell, with soft and silver 
 tones of plaintive tenderness. 
 
 As he listened Christian started, trembling; the 
 staff fell from his hand, his face went ghastly pale, and 
 he trembled as with a palsy. 
 
 ' My God ! ' he cried. _ ' What sound is that ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis the mariners singing their morning hymn^ 
 said the woman. 
 
 ' But that voice ! that voice ! I know it, I know it { 
 God, can it be ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis the young lady-missionary from London. She 
 came yestereven to Tynemouth. She is stopping with 
 good Mr. Lincoln, the hosier, at the sign of the Silver 
 Stocking in Newoe^itle.' 
 
THE SAILORS' HOME. 307 
 
 ' Lot mo see lier ! let me speak to her ! ' cried 
 Chvistian, staggering to his feet. 
 
 Just tlien the hymn ceased. 
 
 'Bide a bit,' said the ntirse ; 'she will come forth 
 directly, and then you may speak to her, if you will. 
 She has a kind heart, and loves poor mariners.' 
 
 Exhausted with his agitation, Christian sank upon 
 his seat, with his head against the wall of the portico. 
 Bitting thus, he looked so gaunt, so weatherworn and 
 Bad, that you would have taken him for an old man. 
 
 A sound of light feet in the lobby within, the mur- 
 mur of a sweet voice ; then out into the sunshine 
 tript a fair shape clad in deep black, holding a hymn- 
 book in her hand. 
 
 The edge of her dress touched Christian as she 
 passed by, but he did not stir ; he lay back with his 
 eyes closed. Scarcely looking at him, the young mis- 
 sionary passed on. 
 
 But the nurse interposed with a respectful curtsey. 
 
 ' Bide a moment, if you please, unless your ladyship 
 is in haste. This poor man ' 
 
 As she spoke she bent over Christian and touched 
 him on the arm. 
 
 ' Now, master, here be the young lady waiting to 
 speak to you.' Then seeing his condition, she added 
 quickly, * Poor soul, he has fainted away ! ' 
 
 So it was indeed. But as the young lady and the 
 nurse bent over him, he began to stir. 
 
 ' He has just risen from his sick bed,' explained the 
 nurse ; ' and he was sitting here in the sun when he 
 heard your hymn and began to weep. He is some poor 
 castaway, without a friend.' 
 
 The lady's face was lit with divine compassion, but 
 no recognition, as she softly touched Christian's wasted 
 hand with her own. The touch was electric ; he opened 
 his eyes wildly, and looked into her face. 
 
 ' Prisoilla ! ' he cried. 
 
 She started in amaze, 
 
 ' Do yon not know vafi, Priscilla P I am Christian 
 Chris tianson,' 
 
3o8 GOD AND THB MAN. 
 
 It was as if the grave had opened, and given up ita 
 dead. 
 
 Prisoilla stood paralysed, and for the moment seemed 
 about to swoon. Recovering herself, she gazed at the 
 wasted shape before her in wonder, sorrow, and even fear. 
 
 ' Tes, it is I,' he continued faintly. ' I have only 
 stayed for this — to see you, to know you live. Now I 
 can die in peace.' 
 
 The words stirred the fountain of love and pity in 
 her heart ; so that her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' Christian,' she cried, ' I can scarce believe that 
 'tis your living self. I thought — alas ! I thought you 
 dead ! But is it yov, ? How strange, how strange ! ' 
 
 And she continued to look upon him, reading every 
 line and lineament of his form and face. He was 
 changed indeed, but the powerful outliae of the Chris- 
 tiansen race remained. 
 
 ' And you ? ' he asked after a pause. ' How did you 
 escape ? ' 
 
 ' God was good,' she replied ; ' we drave away south- 
 ward, and as if by miracle the ice opened to let us go. 
 I would have had them return to search for you ; I 
 begged them on my knees to do so, but even Captain 
 Higginbotham said that it was impossible. Then we 
 came to Boston harbour, where we landed, I heart- 
 broken, as you may guess. I went up with my father 
 to the Moravian village, and scarce had we settled there 
 when — when. ' 
 
 She paused, the tears streaming down her face ; then 
 she added with a great sob : 
 
 ' Christian, he is gone ! ' 
 
 'Tour father?' 
 
 ' My dear, dear father ! God has taken him.' 
 
 She turned her face away in the fulness of her 
 sorrow. He reached out his hand and took hers, press- 
 ing it tenderly. 
 
 ' He died blessing me,' she continued, fa a broken 
 voice. ' " I am going to my dear Master," he said 
 smiling, " where I shall see, at last." ' 
 
 ' Then you came back ? ' 
 
 ' Some good friends brought me home to my country ; 
 and now I try to be worthy of him through helping the 
 
THE SArLORS' HOMB. gog 
 
 poor he loved ; for I know that our parting is not for 
 ever, but only for a little while.' 
 
 So speaking, she raised her eyes to heaven, and 
 looked like an angel already, in the sweet intent gaze of 
 her perfect faith. 
 
 Silence followed. Both hearts were very full. The 
 nurse, seeing so strange a meeting, had withdrawn re- 
 spectfully into the house, and they were alone together. 
 
 At last Christian raised his head, which he had bent 
 forward, with his eyes upon the ground. 
 
 'PrisciUa!' 
 
 'Yes, Christian.' 
 
 ' Tou have not asked for Mm ? ' 
 
 She started, trembling, and their eyes met. Pale as 
 death, she regarded him, in a new and nameless dread. 
 
 ' Of him who was also cast away ? ' 
 
 ' Tes ; Richard Orchardson.' 
 
 ' It was in my heart to speak of him, but I was 
 afraid, remembering the bitterness between you. Oh, 
 Christian, is he saved, too ? You were together — you 
 must know.' 
 
 It was now Christian's turn to look upward, which 
 he did reverently, as he replied : 
 
 ' He is up yonder with your father, among the angels 
 of God ! ' 
 
 'Alas! is he dead?' 
 
 ' His body lies buried in the snow. Yes, he is dead.' 
 
 The terror did not leave her face, for as yet she 
 dimly understood. With a quick, appealing gesture, 
 and a look of increasing suspicion, she exclaimed : 
 
 ' Not through you ? Christian, tell me, it was not 
 through y(m f ' 
 
 ' Not through me.' 
 ' You — you did not — kill him ? ' 
 ' I did not ; and yet . . . what am I saying ? . . . 
 he perished through my hate. That guilt is on me. 
 Had I not borne him from the ship, he might have been 
 living now.' 
 'Alas!' 
 
 ' Do not weep. It has all come about as you prayed. 
 We were with each other to the end, we forgave each 
 other, and ere be died God Joined our hands,' 
 
310 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 Presently he told Lor all — the weary vigil, the long 
 Buffering, the final reconciliation ; and as , she listened 
 she wept, for pity, not for sorrow, still with her little 
 hand in his. 
 
 When all was told, he pressed her hand, softly, 
 Baying : 
 
 ' He forgave me. Can you forgive me, too ? ' 
 
 ' Porgive you ? ' she answered, looking at him 
 through her tears. ' Alas ! what have I to forgive ? ' 
 
 ' I came but as a shadow on your life. Better had 
 you never known me, for I brought you much sorrow. 
 And yet ... I loved you, Priscilla ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, Christian,' she said, simply, looking down. 
 
 ' See what God has made of me — a poor waif, who 
 was once a strong man ; a weary sinner, who was once 
 puffed out with pride. Ton did not know me ; no man 
 would know me — I am the ghost of my old self.' 
 
 Hopeless and desolate beyond measure was the ring 
 of his voice. She drew nearer to him, and with a 
 perfect grace and modesty rested her hand upon his 
 hair. 
 
 ' Tou will soon be yourself again, dear Christian,' she 
 Baid. 
 
 'Never, never.' 
 
 She drew a little nearer still. 
 
 ' Not if I nurse you ? Not if I bid you be your old 
 dear self, for Priscilla's sake ? ' 
 
 He looked up wildly, and reached out his hand& 
 
 ' Priscilla, 'can it be ? Tou — ^you ' 
 
 She crept into his outstretched arms, crying to her- 
 self, and stiU smoothing his hair tenderly with her 
 trembling fingers, as she said : 
 
 'I have no one left but you. Let us remain to- 
 gether till the end.' 
 
 ' Tou love me, Priscilla ? ' 
 
 ' I have loved you since the hour we first met I ' 
 
 The hush of a great joy fell upon them ; the air grew 
 golden, all the world was changed and glorified, as it 
 ever is in those divine moments when loving souls are 
 blent together. 
 
 Presently, she stirred from his arms, where she had 
 
THE SAILORS' HOME. 311 
 
 heen nestling in the shadow of the porch, and said, 
 fimiling : 
 
 ' Are you happy now ? ' 
 
 ' Quite happy.' 
 
 'And you have no anger in your heart for any 
 creature alive ? ' 
 
 'None, dearest.' 
 
 ' Ton are quite, quite sure ? ' 
 
 «Tes.' 
 
 ' Then I wiU give you some good news that I have 
 lately learned. Tour poor sister Kate ' 
 
 He started eagerly. 
 
 'Tour poor sister Kate is alive and well; she is 
 waiting for you in the old Fen Farm.' 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 The bells of Yuletide were ringing joyfuUy, the upland 
 slopes were white with snow, and the mere was frozen 
 an inch thick, when Christian Ohristianson was wedded 
 to Priscilla Sefton ; and their hands were joined together 
 by no less a person than the great Mr. Wesley himself, 
 who came post-haste from London to bless the wedding 
 of a maiden he loved fuU well. 
 
 They were married at Brightlinghead : Kate Chris- 
 tiansen was there, looking prettier though sadder than 
 in former happier days ; and when all was done, they 
 drove quietly home to the door of the Fen Farm. 
 
 Sitting up at the Hall, the old squire heard the bells, 
 and looking out upon terrace and lawn, all white and 
 cold, thought sadly of his dear son, who was lying so 
 far away, asleep under the snow. For Christian had 
 kept his word, and had entered the lonely house, 
 Btanding before the squire bareheaded, and had told his 
 tale. When he had done, his heart ached within him, 
 for the old man sat and looked at him, pale as death, 
 but without a tear ; and Irom that day forth he had 
 icarcely spOKen, but sat desolate in the ^eat house, 
 waiting for his time to coum. 
 
318 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 
 For many a day the weiglit of a dark experience, a 
 Borrowful awe, dwelt upon the soul of Christian Chris- 
 tianson. He looked old far beyond his years, and 
 seldom smiled ; but went about his daily work with a 
 grave gentleness, like a man who is thinking of another 
 world. But peace had surely come to him, and he was 
 happy beyond measure in his Priscilla's love. And in 
 due season, when time had softened the memory of his 
 trial, and when the sound of children was heard in the 
 old dwelling, he became a prosperous man, famed for his 
 blameless life and his good deeds for many miles 
 around. 
 
 So it happened in the end that out of evil came 
 good, the old feud was forgotten, the spirit of the dead 
 man brought blessing to all that remembered him, and 
 chiefly to him that had hated him most ; and presently 
 it came about, after all, that a Christianson wedded an 
 Orchardson, so that the two housef, became happily 
 united, by blood that is thicker than water, and love 
 that is stronger than death. 
 
 Thus was the heart of Christian Christianson made 
 whole, and the lives of him and his generation made 
 peaceful, through faith iu Divine Love. Yet what 
 were such faith worth if this low earth were all, if the 
 tangled threads of our strange human experience were 
 not to be gathered up again, after death's asundering, 
 by the God that made man in His likeness, yea, im- 
 mortal like Himself? Without that certainty of a 
 divine explanation, without that last hope of heavenly 
 meeting and eternal reconciliation, the life we live 
 would be profitless — as a book left unfinished, as a song 
 half unsung, ae a tale just begun. 
 
 THE BITD. 
 
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