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 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL.
 
 In Exchange for a Soul 
 
 :^ liobci 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY LINSKILL 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 BETWEEN THE HEATHER AND THE NORTHERN SEA,' ' HAGAR, 
 ' THE HAVEN UNDER THE HILL,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. L 
 
 Volition 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1887 
 
 [ T/ic right 0/ translation is 7'eserved]
 
 
 6 
 
 i 
 
 J 
 i 
 
 Bebicateb 
 
 HYACINTH E, LADY DALBY. 
 
 4
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER I'AGK 
 
 I. THORHILDA THEYN - - - - 1 
 
 11. A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN - 12 
 
 III. ULYSTAN BIGHT - - - - 24 
 
 lY. SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS 31 
 
 Y. ON THE FORECLIFF- - - - 42 
 
 YI. ' ABOYE THE SOUND OF THE SEA ' - - 48 
 
 YII. THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH - 62 
 
 YIII. AT GARLAFF GRANGE - - - 75 
 
 IX. ' LOYE'S NOBILITY ' - - - - 8:5 
 
 X. ' IN ALL TIME OF OUR WEALTH ' - - 100 
 
 XL CONCERNING HAPPINESS - - - 109 
 
 XIL IN THE YILLAGE STREET - - - 120 
 
 XIII. EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES - - 128 
 
 XIV. THE STORY OF A MISTAKE- - - 136 
 XY. SOME ART CRITICS - - - - 148
 
 yiii COXTENTS. 
 
 CHAJTER rAr;E 
 
 XVI. BARBARA BETRAYS IIKRSELF - - 162 
 
 XVII. A REVELATION - - - - 173 
 
 XVIII. AT ORMSTON MAGNA - - - 188 
 
 XIX. UNDER THE LARCHES - - - 203 
 
 XX. THE CANON AND HIS NIECE - - 21G 
 
 XXI. THAT WAS THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY 
 
 WE MET - - - _ 222 
 
 XXII. IN YARVA WYKE - - - - 237 
 
 XXIIL CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW - 249 
 
 XXIV. 'SWEET THE HELP OF ONE WE HAVE 
 
 helped' - - - - 264 
 
 XXV. DAMIAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY - 277
 
 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THORHILDA THEYN. 
 
 • what a thing is man ! how far from power, 
 From settled peace and rest ! 
 He is some twenty several men at least 
 Each several hour !' 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 ' Happy ! What right hast thou to be happy V 
 This pregnant question, asked once empha- 
 tically by Carlyle, and repeated often by him 
 in modified form, is certainly worthy of atten- 
 tion. Consciously or unconsciously, the need 
 for happiness is a factor in the life of each one 
 of us : and no attempt to deny the need is so 
 successful as we dream. 
 
 Thorhilda Theyn was not greatly given to 
 self-questioning. So far, perhaps, there had 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 seemed to be no special necessity for it in her 
 life — that is, no necessity caused by pressure 
 of outward circumstance, by any of the strong 
 crises that come upon most human lives at one 
 time or another. She was yet young ; she was 
 very beautiful. Life was all before her, and 
 the promise of it exceeding fair. What need 
 for question so far ? 
 
 Yet as she stood there on that blue, breezy 
 May morning, she felt herself decidedly in 
 the grasp of some new spirit of inquiry, born 
 within her apparently of the day and of the 
 hour, strong at its birth, and demanding 
 attention. 
 
 The waters of the North Sea were her grand 
 outlook. They were spread all before her 
 across the bay, rippling from point to point, 
 leaping, darting, dancing. The free, fresh, 
 rustling sound was sweeter to her always than 
 the similar sound of the wind in the woodland 
 trees ; and it was soothing as soft music to 
 watch the wavelets at play, leaping into light, 
 flashing for a gay, glad moment, then dissolv- 
 ing instantly into apparent nothingness. Over 
 and over it was all rejDcated, and the entranc- 
 ingly uncertain certainty was as a spell to
 
 THOR HILDA THEYN. 3 
 
 hold her there by the foot of the tall cliffs of 
 Ulvstan Bight as one held in a dream. 
 
 ' They say that life is like that — the poets, 
 the philosophers/ Thorhilda said to herself, 
 leaning lightly upon the parapet, tall and 
 straight, and still, and beautiful. She was 
 dressed as became her stately style, in a fashion 
 that might have been of that day or of this, 
 so few of its details were borrowed from any 
 extraneous source. Her gown fell gracefully 
 about her feet ; her long cloak almost covered 
 it ; her small hands were crossed lightly, and 
 held her hat, so that the fair face, so sweet and 
 yet so strong, was all unshaded from the morn- 
 ing sun. And it was a face that could well 
 bear the full, clear light ; no thought-line was 
 yet graven upon the wide forehead, on either 
 side of which the dark abundant hair was 
 braided ' Madonna-wise ' ; deep, changeful gray 
 eyes looked out from below the white drooping 
 lids that give to any face a touch of pathos — a 
 touch contradicted at that moment on Thor- 
 hilda's face by an evidently half-unconscious 
 smile, which played fitfully about her mouth. 
 It was a mouth that was almost childlike in 
 the fine roundness of its curves, and yet it was 
 
 1—2
 
 4 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 the lower part of the face that displayed firm- 
 ness, decision. The eyes were all gentleness, 
 all tenderness, in repose. When the lips 
 smiled in conversation the eyes smiled too, 
 and a fascinating piquancy of expression w^ould 
 suddenly light up features that had seemed 
 too grave and gentle ever to be piquant. The 
 effect was apt to be surprising ; but it was 
 always a pleasant surprise, and betrayed the 
 observer to admiration, though no such effect 
 had been expected on the one side, or certainly 
 intended on the other. Thorhilda was inno- 
 cent of the art of producing effects. That such 
 an art existed was a matter of hearsay, and 
 therefore dubious. 
 
 'They say that life is like that!' she had 
 murmured half audibly, ' like 
 
 ' " A momentary ray, 
 Smiling in a winter's day. 
 'Tis a current's rapid stream, 
 'Tis a shadow, 'tis a dream.'' 
 
 So wrote Francis Quarles, over two hundred 
 years ago ; so others have written,' she weut 
 on. ' And yet how different one feels ! I feel 
 this morning as if life were ages long. I have
 
 THOR HILDA THEYN. 
 
 lived but four-and-tvventy years, yet I seem to 
 have centuries in my personal memory.' 
 
 Presently definite thought passed on into 
 indefinite. Dreams came up out of the past, 
 with reminiscence sad and sunny ; and finally 
 came that bright yet questioning mood of 
 which mention has been made already, the 
 disposition to ask herself, not 'What right 
 have I to be happy?' but ' Why am I so 
 happy V 
 
 Once as she leaned by the edge of the sea- 
 wall, watching the gulls float up and down 
 with folded wing and yielding breast upon the 
 gently heaving waters, an answer came sud- 
 denly. "Was it from the heart, or from the 
 brain only ? Though she was alone, she 
 blushed ; the long eyelashes drooped ; and a 
 little instant, negative movement of the head 
 might have been detected had anyone to detect 
 it been there. 
 
 * No, no I It is not that, it is not that f she 
 made haste to assure herself. ' I do not feel 
 that he could make happiness of mine. No, it 
 is not that !' 
 
 It was perhaps significant that she did not 
 long continue to dwell upon the idea of Percival
 
 6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 Meredith. He was a neighbour, the owner 
 of Ormston Magna, a place some three miles 
 nearer to the sea than Yarburgh ; indeed, from 
 its terraced gardens you could look out over 
 the wide expanse of the German Ocean. Per- 
 cival, who was an elderly-looking man, if you 
 considered his thirty-four summers, lived at 
 Ormston with his mother, a lady who might 
 easily have been mistaken for his elder sister. 
 It had been made evident for some time to 
 Canon and Mrs. Godfrey that the Merediths 
 had especial motives for gladly accepting every 
 invitation that was sent to them from the 
 Kectory, and for inviting the inhabitants of 
 the Eectory to Ormston on any and every 
 possible occasion. Of late Thorhilda had her- 
 self discovered the reason of all this ; and she 
 was perplexed, pleased, perturbed by turns. 
 Only at rare moments was she conscious of 
 any true satisfaction in thinking of Percival 
 Meredith and his too evident intentions. 
 
 Yes ; it was certainly significant that at the 
 present moment she made haste to put away 
 all thought of him, and went on thinking, 
 meditating, on the strong, glad sense of her 
 life and its happiness. She was not old enough,
 
 THOR HILDA THEYN. 7 
 
 or tried enough, to know how on such days 
 the mere sense of living is enough for unusual 
 exultation. 
 
 ' Bliss was it ou that mora to be alive, 
 But to be young was very heaven.' 
 
 So wrote Wordsworth ; but he had passed 
 his youth when he wrote this. 
 
 Had anyone in Thorhilda's circle of friends 
 — Gertrude Douglas, for instance, who was 
 considered to be her most intimate friend — 
 been asked to give a reason for Miss Theyn's 
 happiness, Gertrude would have made answer, 
 
 ' How should she not be happy V 
 
 Her home in the house of her uncle, Canon 
 Godfrey, the Eector of Market Yarburgh^ was, 
 admittedly, as happy a home as a woman could 
 have. The Canon's wife, Milicent Godfrey, was 
 the sister of Thorhilda's dead mother ; and, 
 being a childless woman herself, with a pas- 
 sionate love for children, she had done all that 
 might be done to make Thorhilda's life a life 
 full of all sweetness, all light, all good. It was 
 for her niece's sake that the old Kectory had 
 been refurnished, made beautiful with all 
 artistic beauty that fair means could command.
 
 8 IN EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 
 
 Indeed, nothing had been left undone that 
 love could suggest as better to be done. And 
 Thorhilda, having a keen appreciation of the 
 material good of life — too keen, said some of 
 the friendliest of her friends — was neither 
 unconscious nor ungrateful. Therefore what 
 reason for not being happy '? 
 
 Is it true, that old saying, ' Every light has 
 its shadow '? 
 
 Scientifically, it must be true, always ; but 
 surely the analogy will not bear stretching to 
 meet and to fit this human life in every pos- 
 sible phase. We know that it will not, and 
 are happier for the knowledge — happier and 
 better. 
 
 But the bright picture of Thorhilda Theyn's 
 life was not without that enhancing touch of 
 depth in the background of it, which gives 
 both to colour and light their rightful pro- 
 minence and eff*ect. There had been hours, 
 nay days, when that dark background had 
 claimed more of the girl's life than any fore- 
 ground object that could be put before her for 
 her distraction. 
 
 * I must think of these things. Aunt Mili- 
 cent,' she had said. * Garlafi" Grange is my
 
 THORHILDA THEYN. 9 
 
 own home. They are my own people who 
 live there/ 
 
 ' No ; there I cannot agree/ Mrs. Godfrey 
 had replied. ' Your mother gave you to me 
 solemnly, prayerfully, when she was dying. 
 She entreated me to promise that the Eectory 
 should be your home. ... I have tried to keep 
 my promise.' 
 
 The touch of emotion with which these and 
 other sayings w^ere uttered was usually con- 
 clusive. Thorhilda had no heart to go on 
 with arguments presented to her only by an 
 inadequate sense of duty. If people so much 
 older and wiser than herself as Canon Godfrey 
 and her aunt considered that it was her wisdom 
 to sit still, w^hy should she not agree — especi- 
 ally since movement in the direction indicated 
 by conscience was so eminently distasteful ? 
 
 And yet from time to time conscience would 
 have its way. Did she really do all that it 
 was her duty to do in going to the Grange 
 now and then when it was quite convenient to 
 her aunt to drive round that way ; in sending 
 presents on birthdays and Christmas Days ; in 
 calling occasionally to see how her sister Ehoda 
 was, or to inquire after her aunt Averil ? It
 
 JO IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 was not pleasant for her to go there — the 
 reverse of that — and she did not for a moment 
 imagine that she gave any pleasure by going. 
 She was saved from all illusion on that head. 
 So far as she could remember, her father had 
 never once in his life said, ^ I am glad to see 
 you !' — never, even when she was a child, 
 offered her any greeting or parting kiss. Once 
 or twice he had shaken hands ; once or twice 
 he had — not at all ironically — taken off his 
 hat as the Eectory carriage drove away with 
 only Thorhilda in it ; and there had seemed 
 nothino; incong-ruous in his doing so. 
 
 His daughter knew little of him except 
 what she heard from others ; and it was long 
 since she had heard any pleasant thing. For 
 years past everything had been going down at 
 Garlaff Grange, and though repeated efforts 
 had been made by Canon Godfrey and others 
 to stop the descent, no such eflforts had 
 availed, and it was long now since Squire 
 Theyn had permitted anything of what he 
 termed ' interference.' 
 
 ' Ah'll ha' neit mair on't !' he had said to his 
 only son, Hartas, on one occasion. 
 
 Canon Godfrey had been spending an hour
 
 THORHILDA THEYN. ii 
 
 with Squire Theyn — spending it mostly in 
 earnest entreaty ; and he had left the Grange 
 with the Squire's ' words of high disdain ' 
 ringing in his ears painfully. 
 
 ' Ah'll ha' neii mair on't !' repeated the old 
 man ; and Hartas helped greatly to confirm 
 him in this decision. 
 
 The younger man's dislike to anything that 
 could touch his liberty was at least as strong 
 as the same feeling in the elder one. There 
 were some who said that Squire Theyn and 
 his son were not unworthy of each other : and 
 it is possible that the saying had more in it 
 than appeared on the surface. Certainly it 
 was one to bear investigation, had any analy- 
 tically minded person been drawn to interest 
 himself in the matter. And a student bent 
 upon humanity might have travelled far be- 
 fore finding two more unique subjects for his 
 research.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER- MAIDEN. 
 
 ' She was a careless, fearless girl, 
 And made her answer plain, 
 Outspoken she to earl or churl, 
 Kindhearted in the main.' 
 
 Christina Rossetti. 
 
 Why Thorhilcla's thoughts, as she stood there 
 by the margent of the sea, should suddenly 
 be drawn to her brother Hartas, she could 
 hardly have told in that first moment. She 
 had not been thinking of him as she stood, 
 letting the breezes blow upon her forehead, 
 turning from watching the wide, white-flecked 
 sea to note the fisher folk on the beach and on 
 the quays. She knew nothing of any of these 
 save by hearsay, and yet she was aware of 
 something prompting her interest in a group 
 of tall, handsome fisher-girls who were down 
 by the edge of the tide — such girls as you
 
 A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 13 
 
 would hardly see anywhere else in England 
 for strength and straightness, for roundness of 
 form and bright, fresh healthfulness of counte- 
 nance. 
 
 They wore blue flannel petticoats, and 
 rough, dark-blue masculine-looking guernseys 
 of their own knitting. Their heads were 
 either bare, or covered with picturesque hoods 
 of blue cotton — pink, lilac, buff, pale blue. 
 One, the tallest of them, and decidedly the 
 handsomest, had no bonnet at all, and her 
 rich chestnut hair blew about in the breeze in 
 shining rings and curls in a way that attracted 
 Thorhilda's attention, and even her admira- 
 tion, though as a rule she had slight sym- 
 pathy with the ' admired disorder ' school of 
 aesthetics. And as she watched the girl, all 
 at once there darted a new thought across 
 her brain, a new and disturbing conviction. 
 
 ' That is Barbara Burdas !' she said to her- 
 self. Then she smiled a little, and wondered 
 at the force of a feeling that had so far-off a 
 cause. 
 
 Miss Theyn knew very little of Barbara 
 Burdas. Though the reputation of the hand- 
 some fisher-girl was rapidly spreading along
 
 14 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 the coast from Flamborough Head to HikVs 
 Haven, her name had seldom been heard 
 within the walls of the Rectory at Market 
 Yarburgh ; but one day Canon Godfrey had 
 spoken in a somewhat grieving tone to his 
 wife concerning some new rumour which had 
 reached his ear — a story in which both Bar- 
 bara's bravery and the influence of her beauty 
 were brought into prominence. Mrs. Godfrey 
 tried to prevent his sorrow from deepen- 
 ing. 
 
 ' It will do the girl no harm/ she said, with 
 her usual somewhat emphatic vivacity. ' Bar- 
 bara Burdas is as good a woman as I am, and 
 as strong. Think of her life, of all she is 
 doing for her grandfather and the children ! 
 Oh, a little admiration won't harm Barbara ! 
 It may even be some lightness in her life — 
 some relief ; I hope it will. She has not 
 known much pleasure.' 
 
 Thorhilda being present, Canon Godfrey 
 had made no reply at that moment ; but later 
 he had confided to his wife the things that he 
 had heard in the parish concerning Barbara 
 Burdas and her own nephew, Hartas Theyn. 
 Subsequently some guesses had been made
 
 A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 15 
 
 by Thorhilda, but they were little more than 
 guesses, arising out of a word dropped by her 
 aunt in an unguarded moment. 
 
 Now, seeing Barbara there on the beach, a 
 sudden desire to know something of the truth 
 came upon her ; and after a few moments^ 
 consideration she left the promenade, and 
 went down between the nursemaids and the 
 babies, the donkeys and the Bath-chairs, to 
 where the shore was wet and shining, and, for 
 the present, almost untrodden. The wind 
 seemed freer, and the sun brighter there by 
 the chanoinor edo;e of the sea. 
 
 Miss Theyn was not a woman to saunter 
 on aimlessly, to wait for an opportunity of 
 speaking to Bab alone. She went straight 
 across the stretch of brown sea-tangle, going 
 directly to the group of laughing girls, with 
 that fine nerve and presence which comes 
 mostly of good health and right training. 
 The laughter died down as she came nearer ; 
 and with apparent courtesy Bab and her 
 friends half turned and drew together wait- 
 ingly. They were not unused to conversation 
 with curious strangers. 
 
 Thorhilda was the first to speak. She
 
 i6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 looked at Bab as she did so, and there was in- 
 voluntary admiration in her look, which Bab 
 saw, and did not resent. Yet there was an 
 unconscious touch of scorn about the fisher- 
 girl's mouth, a half-disdain in the inquiring 
 glance she fixed upon the lady whose delicate 
 gray silk dress had come in contact with the 
 slimy weed and the coarse, brown sand, and 
 whose small dainty boots were surely being 
 ruined as they sank and slipped among the 
 great drifting fronds that lay heaped upon 
 the shale. Thorhilda understood the dis- 
 dain. 
 
 ' Are you not Barbara Burdas ?' she asked, 
 in her clear yet gentle voice, as she drew quite 
 near. 
 
 Bab hesitated a moment, during which her 
 lips compressed themselves firmly, yet without 
 discharging the scorn from the curves at the 
 corners. Her gaze was still steady and in- 
 quiring. A slight tinge of colour crept under 
 the creamy olive of her cheek. 
 
 She was about to reply ; but it was a 
 moment too late. Her friend, Nan Tyas, a 
 young fishwife, almost as tall, almost as 
 handsome as herself, but in a difi*erent wav,
 
 A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN, ly 
 
 had come to an end of her slight store of 
 patience. 
 
 Looking over Bab's shoulder, her keen dark 
 eyes glittering as she stared straight into Miss 
 Theyn's face, an expression of suspicion on 
 every feature, she asked : 
 
 ' Whea telled ya her neame V 
 
 This was meant to be facetious, and there 
 was esprit de corps enough among the girls to 
 cause it to be received as it was meant. A 
 general titter went round, in the midst of 
 which another voice found courage to remark : 
 
 ' Mebbe she kenned it of her oan sharp- 
 ness.' 
 
 A second laugh was heard, less restrained 
 than before. 
 
 Thorhilda looked on with interest, but not 
 smilingly, still less resentfully. The moment 
 and its experience were new to her. More- 
 over, she discerned that a grave clear look 
 from Bab was quelling the tendency to sar- 
 casm. 
 
 ' Hand yer tongues, ya fools,' Bab said 
 quietly, but with a certain force in the tone 
 of her voice. 
 
 Then she turned to Miss Theyn, the 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 i8 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 lingering displeasure still about her moutlh 
 Speaking with decidedly less of the northern 
 accent and intonation than before, she said : 
 
 ' Yes, Barbara Burdas ; that's what they 
 call ma. Ah'm noan shamed o' my name. . . . 
 Did ya want anything wd' me ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; I wished to speak to you for awhile. 
 1 do not know that I have much of importance 
 to say at present ; but I wished to know you, 
 to ask you one or two questions. I thought 
 that perhaps your friends would permit me to 
 speak to you alone.' 
 
 A certain power in Miss Theyn's glance as 
 she looked round upon the six or seven young 
 women might have as much to do with their 
 compliance as the tone of expectant authority 
 which she involuntarily used. They smiled 
 satirically to each other; and then went gliding 
 away with the strong easy grace of movement 
 w^hich seems their birthright. Thorhilda 
 watched them admiringly for a few moments ; 
 then she turned to walk with Bab in the oppo- 
 site direction ; and for a little while there was 
 silence ; but it w^as not at all an awkward 
 silence. Though the moment was not a facile 
 one, the elements of awkwardness did not exist
 
 . A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 19 
 
 for these two, who walked there side by side, 
 so near, yet so widely separated. 
 
 Again it was -Thorhilda who spoke first. 
 She did so naturally, and without con- 
 straint. 
 
 * Thank you for telling me your name,' she 
 said. ' It is only fair that 1 should tell you 
 mine in return ; it is Thorhilda Theyn.* 
 
 Bab did not quite stay the firm step that 
 was going on over the beach ; but Miss Theyn 
 perceived the partial arresting of movement ; 
 she divined the cause of it ; and she under- 
 stood the presence of mind that gave Bab 
 the power to go on again as if nothing had 
 happened. 
 
 ' Then you'll live at the Grange,' Bab 
 said, speaking as if even curiosity were far 
 from her. 
 
 ' No,' Thorhilda replied. ' I live at Market 
 Yarburgh, at the Eectory ; but the Grange is 
 my real home.' 
 
 ' An' the Squire is yer father V 
 
 ' Yes. . . . And Hartas Theyn is my 
 brother.' 
 
 The sun was still shining down with bril- 
 liancy upon the blue waters of the North Sea, 
 
 2—2
 
 20 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 upon the white wavelets that broke gently but 
 just below where the two girls were sauntering. 
 A couple of sea-gulls were crying softly over- 
 head ; the fishing boats in the offing were 
 ploughing their way northward. A light 
 breeze fluttered the loops of grey ribbon that 
 fastened Thorhilda's dress. Bab's attention 
 seemed drawn in rather a marked way to the 
 ribbon. Her eyes followed its fluttering as 
 she walked on in silence, but it was not of the 
 ribbon that she was thinking. 
 
 Perhaps she was hardly thinking at all in 
 any true sense of the word ; yet she was 
 aware of some new and gentle influence that 
 was stealing upon her swiftly, awakening an 
 admiration that was almost emotion ; sub- 
 duing the natural pride that was in her ; the 
 strong natural independence of her spirit, an 
 independence of which she was as utterly 
 unconscious as she was of the ordinary pulsa- 
 tions of her heart ; but which was yet one of 
 the dominant traits of her nature ; and pro- 
 duced difficulties, perplexities, which she had 
 often found bewildering, but never more be- 
 wildering than at the present moment. Here 
 was one, far above her by birth, by beauty,
 
 A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 21 
 
 by position, by education, yet possessing a 
 something (Bab did not know it to be sym- 
 pathy) that had the power to charm, to extract 
 the bitterness from pain, and the sting from 
 an unacknowledged dread. Bab hesitated some 
 time, sighing as she repressed one impulse 
 after another toward unsuitable speech. The 
 right words would not come. At last came 
 some awkward ones. 
 
 * If ya've anything to saay, Miss Theyn, ya'd 
 better say it,' the girl remarked, decidedly 
 more in the tone of one urging blame than 
 deprecating it. 
 
 * It is evident that you have nothing to 
 fear,' Thorhilda replied, turning to look into 
 the proud yet winning face so near her own. 
 
 * Fear !' exclaimed Bab, a great scorn flash- 
 ing in her eyes and on her lips. * Fear ! what 
 would / ha to fear, think ya ? If ya dream 
 that I'm feared o' yon brother o' yours, or of 
 ony mischief he can bring aboot for me, ya 
 can put away the notion without a second 
 thowt. It's as big a mistake as you've ever 
 made. Fear ! I'm moaan feared of him. . . . 
 Noa I . . . But Ah know what it is, Miss Theyn. 
 I know what's brought you here : you ve feared
 
 22 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 for him — for your brother ! You're feared 
 he's goin' to disgrace hisself, an' you, wi' 
 marryin' a flither*-picker. Don't hev no fear 
 o' that sort, Miss Theyn !' And here even 
 Bab's voice grew fainter as her breathing 
 became overpowered by betraying emotion. 
 * Don't hev no fear o' that sort. I'll . . . well, 
 I'll let ya know when he's i' daanger !' 
 
 It w^as evident that Bab had not intended 
 to end her speech thus ; and other things 
 more important were evident also. Thor- 
 hilda's experience had not been wide, but she 
 had her woman's instiucts to guide her, and 
 her instinct told her plainly that Bab's emotion 
 could only have one cause. This and other 
 new knowledge complicated the feeling which 
 had brought Miss Theyn to saunter there, in 
 the very middle of Ulvstan Bight, with Barbara 
 Burdas. 
 
 Other complications were at hand. Thor- 
 hilda herself hardly knew what drew her to 
 notice that Bab's perturbation had suddenly 
 and greatly increased, but instantly her eyes 
 followed the direction of her companion's eyes, 
 
 '■' Flithers = limpets, used for bait.
 
 A NORTH YORKSHIRE FISHER-MAIDEN. 23 
 
 aud almost to her distress she saw that the 
 figure advancing rapidly toward them over 
 the beach w^as the figure of her brother Hartas. 
 Thorhilda's exclamation of concern did not 
 escape Bab's notice.
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 ULVSTAN BIGHT. 
 
 ' For hast thou not a herald on my cheek, 
 To tell the coming nearer of thy ways. 
 
 And in my veins a stronger blood that flows, 
 A bell that strikes on pulses of my heart, 
 
 Submissive life that proudly comes and goes 
 Through eyes that burn, and speechless lips that part V 
 And hast thou not a hidden life in mine, 
 In thee a soul which none may know for thine ?' 
 
 Mark Andre Raffalovitch, 
 
 Hartas Theyn was coming down the beach 
 slowly, yet with more intentness in his 
 deliberate gait than was usually to be ob- 
 served. He had seen from the road by the 
 Forecliff that the lady who was walking with 
 Barbara Burdas was none other than his elder 
 sister. 
 
 Thorhilda consciously repressed all outward 
 sign as she w^atched his approach ; her face 
 did not betray the sadness she felt as she
 
 ULVSTAN BIGHT. 25- 
 
 noted his slouching air — his shabby, shapeles.s 
 clothing. The very hat he wore, an old gray 
 felt, seemed to betray what manner of man 
 its wearer had come to be ; and as he came 
 nearer, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, 
 a pipe between his lips, a sullen, defiant, yet 
 questioning look in the depths of his dark 
 eyes, a touch of something that was almost 
 dread entered into her feeling. It was but 
 momentary, this strange emotion ; and she 
 offered her greeting without more restraint 
 than was usual between them. 
 
 • You did not expect to see me here, Hartas V 
 she said pleasantly. 
 
 ' No, I didn't,' replied the young man, after 
 half a minute's irritating silence. ' An' if I'm 
 to tell the truth, I don't know 'at I'd any 
 particular wish to see you.' 
 
 And his eyes flashed a little, as if conscious 
 of a certain amount of daring in his speech. 
 
 If this daring were ventured upon for Bab's 
 sake, or because of her presence there, it was a 
 mistake ; but this Hartas had not discernment 
 enough to perceive. Bab was looking on with 
 interest, but she repressed all tendency to 
 smile.
 
 26 IN EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 
 
 Tliorhilda replied instantly and easily : 
 
 ' That is not polite, Hartas,' she said. ' But 
 let it pass. I did not come here to irritate 
 you. And ' 
 
 ' Could you say what you did come for ?' 
 interrupted Hartas, with a certain coarse 
 sharpness in his tone. 
 
 ' Eeadily. I came down to make the ac- 
 quaintance of Barbara Burdas. I wished to 
 know her ; I had wished it for some time. So 
 far, I am glad I did come. Don't try to make 
 me regret it.' 
 
 ^ I don't spend my breath in such eflforts as 
 them, as a rule,' rejoined the young man, taking 
 his pipe from his mouth, and speaking with 
 evident strong effort to restrain himself. ' But 
 have a care ! I don't force myself upon your 
 friends.' 
 
 ' True,' said Thorhilda ; and again, before 
 she could find the word she wished to use, the 
 opportunity was taken from her. 
 
 ' D'ya want yer sister to think she's forced 
 herself upon a friend o' yours V Bab asked, 
 still seeming as if she tried to restrain the 
 sarcastic smile that appeared to play about 
 her lips almost ceaselessly. Hartas Theyn's
 
 ULVSTAN BIGHT. 27 
 
 manner changed instantly in replying to Bab. 
 It was as if the better nature within him 
 asserted itself all at once ; his higher manhood 
 responded to her slightest touch. 
 
 * I don't want no Cjuarrellin'/ he replied, 
 speaking with a mildness and softness so new 
 in him that even his sister discerned it w^ith 
 an infinite surprise. ' I don't want no quar- 
 rellin', an' it's only fair to expect that if J 
 keep away fra ihem^ as I always hev done ' 
 [this with an unmitigated scorn], ' they'll hev 
 the goodness to keep away fra me. Friends 
 o' that sort 's best separated ; so I've heard 
 tell afore to-day.' 
 
 Then, warming with his own eloquence. 
 Hart as turned again to Thorhilda, saying 
 emphatically : 
 
 * I mean no harm ; an' as I said just now, 
 I want no quarrellin' ; but if you want to 
 keep out o' mischief, keep away fra me ; an' 
 from all interference in my affairs. I can 
 manage them for myself, thank ya all the 
 same.' 
 
 Thorilda hesitated a moment, recognising 
 the effort Hartas had made, and also the 
 element of fairness in his words, yet it was
 
 28 IX EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 
 
 inevitable that other thoughts should force 
 themselves upon her. 
 
 ' Hartas, do you remember that you are 
 my brother V she asked after a moment of 
 swift, deep thinking. 
 
 ' An' what o' that ? It's neither your fault 
 nor mine.' 
 
 ' No ; it is no one's fault ; but it is a fact, 
 a fact that means much, and, for me, involves 
 much. If I could forget it I should be — 
 well, something I hope I am not. Fortunately 
 for me I cannot forget it ; more fortunately 
 still, I cannot altogether ignore it. I cannot 
 let you and your life's deepest affairs pass by 
 me as if no tie existed. ... I do not wish to 
 forget or to ignore. Why should you wish 
 it?' 
 
 * Because I'm made of a different sort o' 
 stuff — a commoner sort, if you will; an' be- 
 cause I'm cast in a different mould. Say 
 what you like, it isn't easy for you to look 
 down — fool as I am I can see as much as 
 that. But, take my tvord for it, it isnt any 
 easier for me to look up. An' why should 
 either you or me strive to look up or down 
 against the grain ? Because the world ex-
 
 UL VST AN BIGHT. 29 
 
 pects it I Then let it expect. I'm good at 
 disappointin' expectations o' that sort. We're 
 better apart, a^i you hioiv it P Then turning 
 away, a little excited, a little angry, perturbed 
 by nervous perturbations of various kinds, he 
 lifted his eyes to discern the approach of 
 influences yet more disturbiug to him than 
 any he had encountered that luckless morn- 
 ing. And yet it was only two ladies who 
 were approaching, two elderly aud, more or 
 less, elegautly dressed ladies. Hartas in- 
 stantly divined that they were his aunts in 
 search of Thorhilda. 
 
 ' Heaven help us !' he exclaimed. ' Here's 
 two more of 'em ! Bab, let's fly. There's the 
 cave r 
 
 ^ Me fly !' Bab exclaimed indignantly. ' It 
 will be the first time !' And as she stood 
 watching the two ladies advancing slowly over 
 the slimy, slippery stones and tangle, again 
 the half-satirical smile gathered about her 
 mouth. Hartas watched her face with admira- 
 tion expressed on every feature of his own ; 
 and Thorhilda stood, controlling the fear of a 
 scene that was mingled with her expectancy. 
 Mrs. Godfrey, the Canon's stately and still
 
 30 LV EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 beautiful wife ; Mrs. Kerne, the sister of Squire 
 Hartas, an elderly and rugged-featured woman, 
 the widow of a rich shipowner, had not 
 much irn common ; and therefore, very wisely, 
 seldom sought each other's society. There 
 certainly seemed to be something strange in 
 the fact of their leaving the w4de sea-wall 
 too'ether, and comino- dow-n over the wet 
 unstable beach. Besides, there was that in 
 the expression of one of them that was at least 
 ominous.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SQUIRE THEYN's SISTER, AND SOME OTHERS. 
 
 ' O how this spring of love resembleth 
 
 The uncertain glory of an April day ; 
 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun 
 
 And by-and-by a cloud takes all away.' 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 * Think again, Bab !' Hartas whispered to the 
 only quite self-possessed one of the waiting 
 three. ' Think again ! There's the Pirate s 
 Hole !' 
 
 * Go into it, if you're frightened,' replied 
 Bab curtly. 
 
 Hartas was silenced ; but the unpleasant 
 anticipation of the moment was not done 
 away. He smoked on more vigorously than 
 before. Thorhilda uttered some small nothing 
 to Bab, and then turned to meet the two 
 approaching figures. To her comfort her 
 Aunt Milicent's face was the face it usually
 
 32 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 was — beautiful, kind, smiling ; free from all 
 disfigurement of untoward expression. She 
 was not a woman to mar any influence 
 she might have by uncontrolled feminine 
 petulance. 
 
 'Well!' she said cheerfully to Thorhilda. 
 ' 1 thought you were to wait for me on the 
 promenade, dear ! But how lovely this is ! 
 How breezy ! — And there is Hartas ! I haven't 
 seen him for an age. . . . Hartas — how do 
 you do ? And how are you all at the Grange? 
 We were thinking of driving round that way, 
 but now we needn't. . . . All quite well ? 
 Delightful ! But, of course, that doesn't in- 
 clude your poor Aunt Averil. How I should 
 like to hear for once that she was quite 
 well' 
 
 So Mrs. Godfrey ran on in her easy, woman- 
 of-the- world way ; glancing at Barbara Burdas, 
 understanding, feeling acutely, all the incon- 
 gruity of the elements that made up the 
 surrounding atmosphere ; knowing herself to 
 be ten times less distressed than Mrs. Kerne, 
 who stood by her side, yet not too near — 
 silent, hard, stern, disapproving to the utter- 
 most. And yet Mrs. Godfrey's social nerves
 
 SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER. 33 
 
 should surely have been as keenly sensitive 
 as those of Squire Theyn's sister. All the 
 world knew of the upbringing of the latter in 
 a household where a fox-hunting mother had 
 been the only feminine influence ; and a 
 seldom sober squire, with his like-minded 
 brother, the ruling masculine powers. There 
 had only been one son, the present Squire 
 Theyn ; and only one daughter, the present 
 Mrs. Kerne ; who had attained the height of 
 her ambition in marrying a rich and vulgar 
 man. The rich man was dead ; his widow 
 was a rich woman ; and none the more 
 pleasing because during a dozen years of 
 companionship she had managed to add 
 some of her husband's coarsenesses and vul- 
 garities to her own innate ones. The force 
 of natural assimilation was never more clearly 
 proved. 
 
 Mrs. Godfrey's early recollections were of a 
 diS'erent order. She was one of the five 
 daughters of the Eector of Luneworth, a small 
 village in a midland county — a village where 
 a kindly duke and duchess had reigned 
 supreme, making much of the Rector's pretty 
 children, and afl'ording them many advan- 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 /A' EXCHAXGE tOR A SOUL. 
 
 tagcs as they grow up which could not 
 otherwise have been obtained. As all the 
 neighbourhood knew, the Miss Chalgroves had 
 shared the lessons that masters came down 
 from London to give to the Ladies Hadding- 
 ley. And, later in life, some of the Rector's 
 daughters had made a first social appearance 
 on the same evening, and in the same place, 
 as some of their more favoured friends. And 
 they were truly friends, who had remained 
 friendly — much to Milicent Godfrey's per- 
 manent good, pleasure, and satisfaction — 
 much to her sister Averil's deterioration. 
 Averil had been the eldest of them all — a 
 clever, fretful, nervous woman, who had all 
 her life magnified her slight ailments into 
 illnesses, and who had condescended to share 
 her sister Grace's home when the latter 
 married Squire Theyn, with an inexpres- 
 sible disgust. That her sister Milicent 
 had never offered her a couple of rooms at 
 the Rectory at Market Yarburgh remained 
 a standing cause for bitterness. It w^as 
 not likely to be removed so long as Mrs. 
 Godfrey should care for her husband's peace 
 of mind.
 
 SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER. 35 
 
 It was the quick sight of Mrs. Kerne, the 
 Squire's widowed sister, that had discerned 
 the group upon the beach. She had met 
 Mrs. Godfrey at the turn leading down to 
 the promenade, accepted her invitation to 
 walk with her to meet Thorhilda with an in- 
 difference that was more than merely ungra- 
 ciousness, and when they found that Thorhilda 
 had left the promenade, her instinct led her 
 to express her shallow satisfaction in some- 
 what irritating speech. Peering round above 
 the rim of her gold eye-glass, she exclaimed 
 at last : 
 
 ' There is Miss Theyn ! — there is your 
 niece F — speaking as if she herself were no 
 relation whatever. 'What can have led her 
 to seek the society of fish-wives, I wonder ? 
 . . . Ah, I see ! Master Hartas is there. 
 That accounts. But I did not know that the 
 brother and sister were on such affectionate 
 terms as to induce her to lend her distin- 
 guished countenance to such as Bab Burdas 
 for his sake. Dear me ! What a new de- 
 parture !' 
 
 Mrs. Kerne was a short, stout woman, 
 moving with the ungainly movement natural 
 
 3—2
 
 36 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 to her age and proportions. Her red face 
 grew redder as she descended the narrow, 
 unsavoury road that led to the beach, and 
 her usually unamiable expression did not grow 
 more amiable. By the time she had arrived 
 at the point when it was necessary to shake 
 hands with Thorhilda she had — perhaps un- 
 aware, poor woman ! — acquired a most for- 
 bidding aspect. Thorhilda shrank, as from a 
 coming blow ; but this w^as only for a second, 
 her larger nature conquered, and she stood 
 considerate, courageous. 
 
 The influence of Barbara Burdas alone held 
 Hartas Theyn to the spot of wet, weed-strewn 
 sand on which he stood, his pipe still in his 
 mouth, his big, unkept brown hands still in 
 the pockets of his trousers. The mere sight 
 of him seemed to awaken the ire of Mrs. 
 Kerne. That he should stand there before 
 her, calmly smoking, with Barbara Burdas 
 by his side, w^as too much for the small amount 
 of equanimity at her disposal. No description 
 made by means of pen or pencil could do 
 justice to the expression of her face as she 
 broke the brief silence, sniffing the air as she 
 did so as an ill-tempered horse sniflfs it at the
 
 SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER. yj 
 
 beorinninor of the mischief he has it in his head 
 
 o o 
 
 to bring about. 
 
 ' I can't say that I see exactly why TVe 
 been brought down here,' she remarked, 
 glancing from her niece to her even less 
 favoured nephew. 'What is the meaning of 
 it ? An' why are you standing there, Hartas, 
 looking more like a fool than usual, if that's 
 possible ? . . . I suppose the truth is I've 
 been tricked I brought down here to be in- 
 troduced to your ' 
 
 ' Stop a minute,' Hartas interposed, at last 
 taking the pipe from between his lips, putting 
 it behind him, and letting his dark eyes flash 
 their fullest power upon Mrs. Kerne. ' Stop 
 a minute,' he said. ' If you've been brought 
 down here, it's been by no will o' mine. I 
 haven't seen you this year past, and wouldn't 
 ha' minded if I hadn't seen you for years to 
 come. . . . All the same, say what you've got 
 to say to me, but take my advice for once, 
 leave other folks alone — especially folks 'at's 
 never me'lled wi' you.' 
 
 ' It isn't much I've got to say to you,' Mrs. 
 Kerne replied, the angry colour deepening on 
 her face as she spoke, and a keen light darting
 
 38 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 from her small eyes. ' It isn't much I've got 
 to say ; an' first I may as well just thank you 
 for your plain speaking. I'll not forget it ! 
 You may have cause to remember it yourself, 
 sooner or later. It '11 not be the first time 'at 
 the readiness of your tongue has had to do 
 with the emptiness of your pocket.' 
 
 ' Mebbe not,' interrupted Hartas. ^ I'd as 
 soon my pockets were emjDty as try to fill 'em 
 wi' toadyin' rich relations .... Most things 
 has their price.' 
 
 * I'm glad you've found that out/ replied 
 Mrs. Kerne. ' But you've more to learn yet, 
 if all be true 'at one hears an' sees. However, 
 as you say, perhaps I'd better leave you to go 
 to ruin by your own road. YouVe been 
 travellin' on it a good bit now, by all 
 accounts, an' from the very first I've felt 
 that tryin' to stop you would be like tryin' 
 to stop a thunderbolt.' 
 
 ' Just like that ; an' about as much of a 
 mistake,' said Hartas, with an irritating 
 attempt to seem cool. But the eff'ort was 
 obvious, and Thorhilda, who discerned all too 
 plainly whither these amenities were likely to 
 lead, turning to her brother, said gently :
 
 S(2UIRE THEVN'S SISTER. 39 
 
 ' Hartas, it is my fault that this has 
 happened. I couldn't foresee it, of course. 
 But let us put an end to it. Aunt Katherine 
 will take cold if she remains here on the 
 wet beach any longer ; and we are going 
 home — Aunt Milicent and myself. Hadn't 
 you better go too ? And shall you be at the 
 Grange to-morrow, in the afternoon 1 I want 
 to see you. Don't refuse me, Hartas ; I don't 
 often ask favours of you.' 
 
 It was strange how Thorhilda's voice, speak- 
 ing gently, kindly, quietly, seemed to change 
 the elements of that untoward atmosphere. 
 Mrs. Kerne's countenance relaxed all uncon- 
 sciously ; Mrs. Godfrey smiled, and turned 
 with a pleasant word to Barbara Burdas, 
 who had been standing there during those 
 brief moments, silent, wondering, perplexed, 
 and not a little saddened. Bab knew nothing 
 of Tennyson, but the spirit of one of the 
 poet's verses was rankling in her heart — 
 
 ' If this be high, what is it to be low ?' 
 
 Bab could not put the inquiry in these words, 
 but in her own way, and of her own self, she 
 asked the question ; and later, in her own
 
 40 . JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 
 
 home, it came back upon her with fuller force 
 than ever. Was this the surrounding of the 
 man who had seemed to step down from some 
 higher place, to condescend in speaking to her, 
 to seem as if he stood on the verge of ruin in 
 making known to her his deep and passionate 
 affection ? Bab understood much, more even 
 than she knew that she understood, but 
 naturally, from her social standjDoint, there 
 was a good deal that was confusing to her. 
 Hitherto she had not cared to know of any 
 dividing lines there might be in ranks 
 above her own, and though discernment had 
 seldom failed her in such cases of pretension 
 as she had come across, she yet had no know- 
 ledge of the great gulfs that are fixed between 
 class and class, and are only now and then 
 bridged over by bridges of gold. But 
 ignorant as she might be, she had yet dis- 
 cerned, instantly and instinctively, that Mrs. 
 Godfrey and Miss Theyn were at least as far 
 above Hartas as Hartas was above herself, and 
 that the lines on which Mrs. Kerne's life was 
 laid down were more familiar to him, and, in a 
 certain sense, more consonant, than the lines 
 of the two other lives into which Bab had had
 
 SQUIRE THEYN'S SISTER. 41 
 
 SO mere a glimpse. Yet brief as the insight 
 had been, it had developed an infinitude of 
 suggestive ideas ; and it was significant that 
 Bab's thought was drawn to dwell mainly 
 upon the gentler, the higher phase of the 
 humanity presented to her in those few 
 moments. Naturally, her thinking and w^on- 
 dering was of a vague and inexact order, 
 but it was not wdthout its influence, for she 
 recognised clearly that the hour of her meet- 
 ing with Miss Theyn w^as the most striking 
 landmark of her hitherto uneventful history.
 
 CHAPTEK V. 
 
 ON THE FORECLIFF. 
 
 * Whither away, Delight ? 
 
 Thou earnest but now ; wilt thou so soon depart, 
 And give me up to-night ? 
 For weeks of lingering pain and smart, 
 But one half -hour of comfort for my heart !' 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 ' Yes ; I'm glad to have seen them,' Bab said 
 to herself, as she stood alone at the door of her 
 grandfather's cottage at night. 
 
 The children were all in bed, little Stevie 
 with his grandfather, Jack and Zeb in another 
 bed in the far corner of the attic. Ailsie was 
 in Bab's room, down below, a little square, 
 dark place, with only room for a bed and a 
 chair and the box in which Bab kept her 
 ' Sunday things ' — her own and Ailsie's, and 
 the latter were more than the former. Few 
 things pleased Bab more than to be able to
 
 ON THE FORECLTFF, 43 
 
 buy some bit of bright ribbon for Ailsie's hat, 
 or a kerchief for Ailsie's neck. No child on 
 the Forecliff was more warmly and prettily 
 clad than Ailsie Burdas. 
 
 It was moonlight now, the tide was half 
 high, and the bay was filled from point to 
 point with the sparkling of the silent silver 
 sea. There were a few fishing- cobles in the 
 offing, two or three more were landing, making 
 a picturesque group of dark, moving outlines 
 upon the white margin of the waters. Bab 
 was no artist, no poet, but something of the 
 poet temperament there was in the girl, and 
 that something was heightened at the present 
 moment by the emotion she was contending 
 against, striving to hide its intensity even 
 from her own self. Bab had never acknow- 
 ledged, even in her inmost thought, that there 
 was any possibility of Hartas Theyn winning 
 from her a return of the affection he professed 
 so passionately. Eather was she conscious of 
 that spirit of rebellion which so often dawns 
 with a dawning love, the spirit of fear, of 
 shrinking reluctance. 
 
 Hitherto the thought of becoming the wife 
 of a man whose position in life w^as superior to
 
 44 /A' EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 
 
 lier own had held but little temptation for her. 
 She was not dazzled by the knowledge of 
 Hartas Theyn's higher standing, of his better 
 birth, of his reputed wealth. She would have 
 been o;lad to exchano'e her life for one that 
 offered greater freedom from care, greater ease, 
 more ability to procure for herself and those 
 belonging to her some of the things that were 
 now counted as luxuries not to be thought of ; 
 but she had never been prepared to sacrifice her- 
 self too completely for such advantages as these. 
 She was youno; and strong;, and as willino; to 
 work as she was able. AYhy, then, should she 
 dream of purchasing at a great price the things 
 she did not very greatly desire to have ? 
 
 But now to-night other thoughts came across 
 her as she stood there, other visions filled her 
 brain, vague visions of a gentler and more 
 beautiful life — a life far from all roughness 
 and rudeness — in a word, the life that might 
 be lived by the woman to whom Miss Theyn 
 would say, * My sister 1' 
 
 ' Mij sister P Bab had said the words to 
 herself; then she uttered them half-audibly, 
 with a thrill like that of the lover who first 
 says to himself, 'My wife.'
 
 ON THE FORECLIFF. 45 
 
 Could Tliorliilda Tlieyn have known it all, 
 could she have looked but one moment into 
 Bab's heart and brain as the girl stood there 
 by the cottage door, feeling almost as if her 
 very breathing were restrained by the force of 
 the new vision, the compelling touch of the 
 new affection, surely for very humility Miss 
 Theyn would have been sad at heart. It w^as 
 well for her peace that she might not know. 
 
 Bab had never before come into contact with 
 any woman of such winning grace, such re- 
 fined loveliness ; never before had she been 
 moved by such attractive gentleness. And 
 there was something more than these — a 
 mystic and far-off something that drew the 
 untrained fisher-girl with a strong and strange 
 fascination, a fascination that she could neither 
 understand nor resist. 
 
 ' I'd lay my life down for her,' she said, 
 blushing as she spoke for the warmth of her 
 own word, though no one was by to hear it, or 
 to hold her in contempt for evermore for 
 having used it. The blush was the sign of 
 her heart's inexperience. 
 
 Thinking thus of Miss Theyn, it was not 
 wonderful that softened thoughts of Miss
 
 46 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 Theyn's brother should come ; that his 
 humility of manner to herself should appear 
 in a new and more attractive light ; that the 
 remembrance of his affection should have more 
 force to touch her own ; that his oft-repeated 
 assurance of life-long protection and unfailing 
 devotion should appeal more strongly to her 
 imagination. Ah, what a dream it was ! how 
 bright ! how sweet ! how possible ! but, alas, 
 how very brief ! 
 
 Bab would not look at the ending of the 
 dream : she put it away resolutely. Some 
 day she would be compelled to look at it, 
 but not to-night, not to-night. It was as if 
 she herself were pleading with herself for a 
 little good, a little beauty, a little softness, a 
 little ease. Some day she might have to pay 
 the price for the dream. "Well, let the 
 demand be made, and she would honour it — 
 for Miss Theyn's sake she would honour it, 
 though it cost all that she had, to the last 
 limit. 
 
 ' Yes, IVl do that ; I'd lay down my life if 
 so 'twere to be that she needed it !' Bab re- 
 peated, still standing there, watching the dark, 
 picturesque grouping of the men and boats
 
 ON THE FORECLIFF. 47 
 
 upon the silver of the beach, the swiftly- 
 changing lights and shadows seeming to corre- 
 spond with the changes of her own thought 
 and emotion. 
 
 Presently a voice broke upon the silence, not 
 roughly or rudely, yet with a strangely jarring 
 eftect upon her present mood, an effect that 
 was for the instant almost as the first rising of 
 auger. No intrusion could have been more 
 unwelcome.
 
 CHAPTEK VI. 
 
 * ABOVE THE SOUXD OF THE SEA.' 
 
 ' " Jessie, Jessie Cameron, 
 
 Hear me but this once," quoth he. 
 " Good luck go with you, neighbour's son, 
 But I'm no mate for you,'' quoth she. 
 Day was verging toward the night, 
 
 There beside the moaning sea. 
 Dimness overtook the light. 
 
 There where the breakers be. 
 " Jessie, Jessie Cameron, 
 
 I have loved you long and true." 
 " Good luck go with you, neighbour's son, 
 But Tm no mate for you." ' 
 
 Christina Rossetti. 
 
 The voice was the voice of David Andoe, the 
 brother of Nan Tyas, a brave, strong, young 
 fisherman, with that slow solemnity of speech 
 and movement which seems always to have 
 been won out of the moments of strife with 
 death and danger. David was not surprised 
 to find Bab standing there, though it was
 
 'ABOVE THE SOUND OF THE SEA: 49 
 
 nearly midnight and the world about her 
 was all asleep. Like others of his craft, 
 he was used to the keeping of untimely 
 hours. 
 
 No, he had no surprise ; but an unusual 
 sense of satisfaction came upon him, almost 
 overpowering him for the moment. 
 
 * Waitin' for daaylight, Bab V he asked 
 stopping near the door of the cottage and 
 resting upon the ground the end of an oar 
 which he was carrying homeward for repairs. 
 It looked like a lance as it stood edgewise in 
 the moonlight ; and he who carried it might 
 certainly have passed for a young knight of 
 an older time had his dress been other than 
 the knitted blue guernsey and the slouching 
 sou'wester of the north coast. There was little 
 difference between Bab's guernsey and his 
 own ; his was knitted in a pattern of broad 
 strij^es, hers in a fine ' honey- comb ' — the 
 shape was the same precisely. 
 
 Bab replied to his question with discouraging 
 carelessness. 
 
 ' No,' she said ; ' I'll get a good sleep in yet 
 afore the sun's above the sea. I'm bound to 
 be at the flither-beds afore five o'clock. . . . 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 What hev ya got this tide ? Not much to 
 boast about, Ah reckon.' 
 
 ' No,' David replied, half sadly. ' It strikes 
 me 'at it'll be a good while afore anybody 
 hereabouts has aught to boast on again. If 
 you could put a stop to the trawlers to-night, 
 it 'ud take years to fill the sea as full o' fish 
 as it w^as afore them devil's instriments w^as 
 invented.' 
 
 ' The devil has nought to do wi' them,' said 
 Bab, perhaps taking a wider outlook for 
 contradiction's sake. ' There's more i' the 
 heavens above, and i' the e'th beneath, an' i' 
 the waters under the e'th, than such as you 
 an' me knows on. . . . Let 'em be wi' their 
 trawlers, an' their steam fishin' yawls, an' all 
 the rest of it. D'ya think they can alter the 
 ways of Providence ? Let 'em be !' 
 
 David was silenced for a moment, not feel- 
 ing quite sure in his own mind that this 
 hopeful philosophy was being countenanced 
 by actual circumstance. Yet for him, as for 
 Bab, there would have been immense, almost 
 insuperable difficulty in trying to set aside, or 
 ignore, the old, tried belief in the wisdom of 
 the ways of Providence. In this they were
 
 'ABOVE THE SOUND OF THE SEA: 51 
 
 happy, in having been trained from childhood 
 to at least reA^erence for a creed that held the 
 Fatherhood of God, the Brotherhood of Christ, 
 as facts that none might disbelieve save to his 
 soul's imperilling. Though no intimate spiritual 
 influence had yet been theirs to draw them to 
 attempt any spiritual life of their own, they 
 were yet aware that such a life might be 
 lived ; and David's inner experience had not 
 been so colourless as some of his more fervid 
 mates imagined. 
 
 But, like most of his class, he was not given 
 to wear his heart upon his sleeve. 
 
 His life, generally, had much in it of which 
 the little world about him was only very 
 dimly aware. He w^as one of a rather large 
 family. The father was not a sober man ; 
 the mother was an ill-tempered woman, dirty 
 withal, and intolerably selfish ; caring nothing 
 for the comfort or well-being of her family so 
 that she might sit the long day through upon 
 the doorstep of her cottage, idle, half-clad, and 
 almost repulsive in her personal untidiness. 
 Yet is it strange to confess that David could 
 never rid himself of the old affection for her, 
 the old yearning for her that had so beset him 
 
 4—2 
 
 UN/VFPCITV f^,^ ,
 
 52 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 when lie was a little lad, suffering keenly from 
 her cruel humours, yet suffering silently and 
 always forgivingly ? He had loved his mother 
 and worked for her, and taken thought for her 
 when there was no one else ; but he knew that 
 his mother loved not him. 
 
 Then naturally, almost inevitably, the affec- 
 tionateness of his whole strong affectionate 
 •nature had gathered itself together in another 
 love — a deeper and more yearning and more 
 passionate love ; but, so far, this had seemed 
 to give no sign, save in the keen and ceaseless 
 aching of his heart. No lonely woman ever 
 suffered a lonelier life, or was ever more 
 sensitive to the lightest touch of alleviation. 
 
 At the present moment not even Bab herself 
 knew the tremulous w^ay in which one instinct 
 was fighting against another within him. 
 
 ' Go home now ; leave this pre-occupied and 
 unimpressionable girl till a more favourable 
 moment.' So spoke the instinct of common 
 sense. But another and a stronger instinct 
 was there — too strong to utter itself in words. 
 It was by the depth of its silence that he was 
 influenced ; and he made a mistake, and he 
 stayed ,
 
 'ABOVE THE SOUND OF THE SEA: 53 
 
 ' It's all very well to talk i' that way, Bab,' 
 he said at last, answering her word as if no 
 other thought had intervened. ' But when 
 one thinks o' what Ulvstan Bight was nobbut 
 twenty years agone, an' what it is now, one 
 can't but feel half-maddened. Why there 
 isn't a fifth part o' the fish browt into the bay 
 'at used to be browt in. It isnt there to he 
 catched ; how can it, wi' the spawn lyin' 
 killed at the bottom o' the sea, mashed wi' 
 the trawl-beam as completely as a railway 
 train 'ud mash a basket of eggs V 
 
 ' They tell me, them 'at knows, 'at the 
 spawn doesn't lie at the sea-bottom. It floats 
 on the top.' 
 
 'That's true of a few sorts,' said David, 
 half-glad that the girl should reply to him at 
 all ; yet suspecting an allusion to one whom he 
 hated with a hate proportionate to his love for 
 Bab. ' It's true of a few sorts ; but it isn't 
 true o' the sorts we depend upon for a livin'. 
 I've had proof anufi" o' that ; an' so hes my 
 father. Why, he was sayin' nobbut yesterday 
 'at he'd browt into Ulvstan as many as thir- 
 teen hundred big fish at a single catch. But 
 he'll never do it again — no, nor no other man.'
 
 54 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' The last season warn't such a bad season 
 for herrin's,' said Bab, still speaking in a con- 
 ciliatory, but only half-interested way. David 
 Andoe was roused even more than before. 
 
 ' Herrin's !' he exclaimed. ' There's nowt 
 like the number catched nowadays 'at used to 
 be. Why, I've known mysel' a single boat te 
 take eighteen lasts at a catch ; an' sell 'em for 
 ten pound a last.* An' 'twas a reg'lar thing 
 wiv us, when Ah was a lad, te fetch in four or 
 five lasts of a mornin'. Now you may go till 
 you're grey-headed, an' you'll not do it. An' ' 
 (here David's voice changed and softened, and 
 betrayed him to his own great pain), ' an' it's 
 noan 'at Ah care so much for money, Bab, nut 
 on my oan account. Thou knows that ! 
 Thou knows well anuff why Ah'd be fain to 
 see things as they once was, when every man 
 'at chose to work could live by his work, 
 whether on land or sea. Ah'm naught at 
 landwork mysel', nut havin' been bred to it ; 
 or Ah'd soon try an' see whether Ah couldn't 
 mak' better addlins nor Ah can noo. ... An' 
 
 * A last consists of ten thousand herrings ; but a hundred 
 and twenty-four is counted to each hundred. At Yarmouth 
 they count (or used to do so) one hundred and thirty- two.
 
 'ABOVE THE SOUND OF THE SEA: 55 
 
 it's that keeps ma back ; an' hinders ma fra 
 speakin' when my heart's achin te saiiy a 
 word.' 
 
 ' Then dont say it, David !' protested Bab 
 eagerly ; and the tone of her voice attested to 
 the uttermost her sincerity of appeal. 
 
 * I raun saay it,' David replied passionately. 
 ' The' Ah can't bard the notion 0' askin' thee 
 to leave thy gran'father's home, wi' never 
 another home ready for thee to go to. But 
 I'd try to make one ready, Bab ; I'd try all 
 I could to make thee a better one I For it 
 breaks my heart to see thee workin' an' toilin' 
 like ony slave. Ay, it is bad to bear, when 
 Ah'd work mysel' te skin an bone te save 
 thee. But what can Ah do when neet after 
 neet we toil an' moil, an' come back i' the 
 mornin' wi' barely anuff te pay for the oil i' 
 the lamp, let alone for the bait, or the wear 
 an' tear o' the lines an nets ? What can Ah 
 do ? An' all the while me fearin' 'at some- 
 body else — an' that somebody none so worthy 
 — '11 step in, an' spoil my life for me. . . . 
 Bab, doesn't thee care for me a little 1 An 
 me sa troubled wi' carin' for thee ! It takes 
 the life out o' me ; because there's nought
 
 56 IN EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 
 
 else, no, nought nowlieres. An' what is the 
 good o' life to a man if there's noan to care 
 so as how he lives it ? Noan to see whether 
 the misery on it's more nor he can bear ; 
 noan to help him i' the bearin' ; noan to say 
 '' Well done !" when he's got the victory ; 
 an' noan to speak a word o' comfort when he 
 falls to the ground ? What's the good o' life 
 when one hes te live it like that ?' 
 
 ' You might as well say, '* What's the good 
 o' life at all V if ya put it so/ Bab replied, 
 sadly and gravely. The visions of the past 
 half-hour had not been all illumined by the 
 sun. 
 
 ' I hope I'd never be bold enough i' wicked- 
 ness to saay that f David replied. ' Still, 
 it's often been forced in upon me 'at if folks 
 miss the happiness o' life at the beginning they 
 don't easily o'ertake it after. Ah don't know 
 'at Ah'm so keen set o' hevin' a happy life ; 
 still — Ah may say it to thee, Bab — AKm doled 
 o' misery, the misery 'at sits at a man's fireside, 
 an' dulls the lowe o' the coal, an' taints the 
 tast ov his every bite and sup, no matter how 
 good it be ! Eh, but Ah am doled o' misery 
 o' that sort, Bab ; an' o' some other sorts.
 
 'ABOVE THE SOUND OF THE SEA: 57 
 
 Thee doesn't know the wretchedness of havin* 
 every word — the gentlest ya can utter, 
 replied to wiv a snap o' the tongue, an' a toss 
 o' the head, an' a rasp o' the voice 'at silences 
 ya like a blow frev a hammer, an' makes the 
 heart i' yer body sink as if a stone had been 
 dropped te the middle on't ; an' all the while 
 the soul within ya achin', an' achin', an' achin' 
 for the sound of a kindly word till ya're fit 
 te lay doon yer life wi' the longin. An' it's 
 not for so many days an' weeks ya ha' to 
 bear it — no, nor not for so many months an' 
 years — it's yer life 'cu's goin. . . . But, eh, 
 me, what am Ah saying ? . . . Thou knows 
 nought o' life o' that kind, Bab, an' thou shall 
 never know, so it be that Ah hev my waay. 
 It all depends on thysel' ! . . . Doesn't thee 
 care for me a little, nobbut a little, just anuff 
 to lead thee to promise me to wait a bit ? 
 Things'll be better by-an'-by ; and there'll be 
 two on us to fight instead o' only thyself. 
 Can't thee saay a word V 
 
 Bab had listened quite silently ; but not 
 without strongly-repressed emotion. The emo- 
 tion evident in David Andoe had alone been 
 sufficient to awaken her own ; and there was-
 
 58 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 more behind. Bab's first girlish thought of 
 love and marriage had been bound up with the 
 thought of David. Many a morning he had 
 helped her to fill her flither-basket out on the 
 rocks at the foot of Yarva-Ness ; many a time 
 he had helped her to bring up the lines from 
 her grandfather's boat, or rather the boat in 
 which her grandfather had a single share ; 
 many a time he had helped to shorten her 
 daily task of mussel-scaling. Of late Bab had 
 not accepted his help, but this had not greatly 
 distressed him. The meaninoj of her refusal 
 might not be so untoward as, on the surface 
 of it, it seemed to be. And Bab quite under- 
 stood. Long ago she had discerned the 
 patience in the man, his faithfulness, his power 
 of loving and sufi'ering in silence; and long 
 ago, at least it seemed long to her now, she 
 had desired to say something that should 
 relieve her own soul from the burden of 
 seeming to encourage attentions she might 
 never accept as they were meant to be 
 accepted. 
 
 She knew now that it was not love that was 
 in her heart when she thought of David Andoe, 
 and by consequence his love for her was as a
 
 'ABOVE THE SOUAD OF THE SEA: 59 
 
 weight that she was fain to put away. Hero 
 at last was an opportunity. 
 
 ' Can't thee say a word, Bab V David had 
 pled in the gentle, humble tones of true 
 lovingness. 
 
 ' I'm feared I've nought to say 'at you'd 
 care to hear,' Bab replied quietly, and as 
 she spoke a light, yet chill breeze came up 
 from the sea, making a stir that seemed to 
 cover a little the nakedness of speech. ' I'm 
 noiin thinkin' o' changin' ! nut i' noa waay. 
 I'd never leave the childer, still less could I 
 leave my gran'father. Noa, I'll never change.' 
 
 ' Ah'd niver ask thee to change,' David made 
 haste to reply. * Ah've thowt it all oot lang 
 sen; an' Ah can see no reason why we shouldn't 
 take a place — a bit bigger nor this — such a one 
 as Storrs' 'ud do right well. An' we'd all live 
 together ; an' the most 0' the work 'ud fall on 
 me, an' Ah'd be as happy as the day's long. 
 An' surely there'll be a chaange by-an'-by/ the 
 poor fellow urged, half -forgetful of the pro- 
 phecy he had uttered but five minutes before. 
 ' Either the fish '11 be easier to come by, or the 
 prices '11 be better, or something '11 turn up i' 
 some way. An* even supposin noa great
 
 6o IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 chaange comes at all, why we'd go on easier 
 together nor aj)art. There's nought Ah 
 wouldn't do for thee, Bab — noil, nought i' the 
 world. Ah think, indeed, Ah do think, truly, 
 'at Ah could never live without thee !' 
 
 ' Don't talk i' that w^ay, David,' she replied. 
 * An' try an' forget ivery word 'at you've said. 
 There's half-a-dozen lasses an' more i' Ulvstan 
 Bight as 'd be proud an' glad to know 'at you 
 cared for 'em. An' there's good women among 
 'em ; more nor one 'at would make a better 
 wife nor ever I could do wi' four bairns an' a 
 gran'father to start wi'. No, don't saay no 
 more, David ! It 'ud be noa use. Don't 
 saay no more 1' 
 
 But David was hurt, and his hurt would 
 have words. 
 
 'Ah'll only say this,' he urged, his dark 
 eyes flashing in the moonlight, 'Ah'll only say 
 this — you can't lissen to me, because you've 
 thought of another i' yer mind — another 'at 
 '11 bring ya to misery as sure as you're born ; 
 an' make you bite the dust o' the e'th as you've 
 niver been brought to bite it yet. There is a 
 good bit o' pride in ya, Bab — pride 'at Ah've 
 been proud to see, because it seemed to speak
 
 'ABOVE THE SOUND OF THE SEA: 6r 
 
 o' the high natur 'at was in ya — a natur 'at 
 would never let ya utter no mean word, nor 
 do no mean thing. But yer pride '11 he 
 brought low, an' hell do it ! Mark my word. 
 Ah've got no other word to say.' 
 
 David Andoe turned away, stung, pained 
 beyond endurance. There had been a certain 
 studied impassiveness in Bab's manner, a cold 
 discouragement that had never been there 
 before for him. He knew nothing of the 
 events of the day, nothing of the new elements 
 that had come into Bab's atmosphere ; but he 
 felt the presence of change, and knew it to be 
 full of all adverseness so far as he was con- 
 cerned. The night was a sleepless one, and 
 tinctured deeply with the one great trial of 
 his much-tried life.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE KECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. 
 
 ' I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
 I make a sudden sally, 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
 
 I slide by hazel covers ; 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers.' 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 The river Yarva ceases to bicker before it 
 comes to the old town of Market Yarburgh. 
 It winds slowly along between banks so steep 
 as to be almost cliff-like ; yet it has four 
 miles farther to flow before reaching the 
 more rugged cliff's by the sea. The ruin of 
 the ancient Priory stands on a rock at least 
 two hundred feet above the river level ; and 
 the bridofe which unites the divided town has
 
 THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. 63 
 
 a somewhat perilous look, seeming slender for 
 its great height and length ; but since it has 
 stood the traffic of more prosperous times it is 
 probably equal to anything likely to be de- 
 manded of it in the present. For Market 
 Yarburgh has pre-eminently the air of a town 
 that has ' seen better days.' 
 
 There are quaint coaching inns in the 
 ancient streets ; stately-looking old houses of 
 brick and stone stand in high-walled gardens 
 — gardens sloping to the sun for the most 
 part. But indeed everything stands on a 
 slope in Market Yarburgh. The streets, one 
 and all, W'hether on the east side or on the 
 west, rise at an angle of about forty-five 
 degrees ; one and all are narrow ; one and 
 all are quiet, clean, silent. Women sit on 
 the doorsteps in the main street, with their 
 knitting in their hands, their children about 
 them, just as they would do in the remotest 
 country village. Fowls peck about among 
 the worn, rounded flint-stones ; linen is 
 stretched out across the street to dry. All is 
 slow, dull, primitive, and prosaic. 
 
 The Eectory, a long, low, red-brick build- 
 ing, without one trace of architectural beauty
 
 64 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 natural to it, stood on the hill-top opposite 
 to the ruined Priory. The gardens about it 
 were wide and beautiful, the orchards wide 
 and bountiful. A large fish-pond divided 
 the two ; rustic arbours, ancient and modern, 
 were dotted about the grounds everywhere, 
 with garden chairs and tables under droop- 
 ing trees, placed always where you could have 
 some glimpse of the blue distant beauty of 
 the landscape, or some sweet, bright picture 
 of flowers, or trees, or trailing, blossoming 
 creepers. It was a place to make happiness 
 itself happier ; to turn unrest into perfect 
 calm ; to help to soothe any trouble ; uplift 
 the gloom from any hour of sorrow ; upraise 
 the mind and heart in almost any moment of 
 heaviness, or lowness, or inaptness for plea- 
 sures pure and true. To a man like Canon 
 Godfrey it was a veritable * earthly para- 
 dise,' a place to be grateful for at all times, 
 to look upon with an especial gratitude in 
 hours of discouragement or self-depreciation. 
 And many such hours were known to the 
 Canon, as they are to all souls that are pure 
 and true, and live by aspiration. 
 
 He was a man of influence — an influence
 
 THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. 65 
 
 wliicli had spread beyond his own immediate 
 neighbourhood. Though he was, compara- 
 tively speaking, a young man, that is consider- 
 ing the dignity of the position he had arrived 
 at in the Church, people came to him from 
 afar wdth troubles, difficulties, perplexities, 
 spiritual and temporal, and few went away but 
 went with lighter heart or clearer brain, though 
 now and then one went with heavier conscience 
 than before. Canon Godfrey was a man who 
 had no tenderness for sin, no sympathy with 
 continuance in wrong-doing. Expediency was 
 a word he did not understand. 
 
 You had only to see his face once to per- 
 ceive the bravery written there. The broad, 
 unfurrowed brow had yet a stamp of vigorous 
 resolution ; the mouth, half-hidden by a short 
 moustache, and the square chin, were visibly 
 marked by strength and determination. And 
 yet the face was not hard — the reverse of that. 
 The kind, blue eyes alone would have redeemed 
 it from any suspicion of hardness or harshness. 
 And now and then a singular expression would 
 pass over the handsome countenance, an inde- 
 finable something that seemed not only to win 
 your admiration for the man, but your love, 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 
 
 and even your compassion. Had some great 
 sorrow left its touch there ? or was the passing- 
 claim upon your pathos prophetic of sorrow to 
 come ? 
 
 As it has been said, it was only now and 
 then that this sadder expression was upon his 
 face. His usual look w^as one of extreme 
 openness, of gladness and brightness subdued 
 by the never-failing consciousness that his life 
 was being lived in the presence of that life's 
 Giver. In his merriest and most light-hearted 
 moments — and they were not few — that look 
 was in the thoughtful blue eyes — the look that 
 told of recollectedness. 
 
 The consultation between the Canon and his 
 wife as to whether or no Thorhilda should be 
 allowed to go over to GarlafF Grange on a. 
 mission of remonstrance to her brother Hartas, 
 was a prolonged one, and included side ques- 
 tions of some importance. 
 
 ' What, precisely, does Thorda wish to do ?* 
 the Canon asked. He w^as sitting by the 
 broad windoAv-sill of his study, Jeaning his 
 head upon his hand in thoughtfulness. ^ What 
 is she thinkino^, or fearini^: ?' 
 
 ' She is fearing that one of two things will
 
 THE RECTOR Y AT MARKET YARBURGH. 67 
 
 liappen,' replied Mrs. Godfrey, speaking with 
 graver face and voice than usual. ' Either 
 that Hartas Avill marry Barbara Burdas, or 
 that he will trifle with her — win her affection, 
 and then leave her to her misery. Thorhilda 
 hopes to be able to persuade him to break off 
 
 the well, let us say the acquaintanceship, 
 
 at once.' 
 
 ' Does she think that Hartas reallv cares for 
 the girl ?' 
 
 ' She is persuaded that he cares intensely ; 
 that is the difficulty. All her hope lies in the 
 idea that Barbara does not yet care greatly 
 for him. She means to try to influence them 
 both.' 
 
 Canon Godfrey w^as silent for a wdiile ; but 
 it was an eloquent silence. His wife knew 
 that he was thinking deeply. 
 
 ' I am not sure that I should consider 
 Hartas's marriage to Barbara Burdas such a 
 great calamity,' he said presently. 
 
 ' My dear Hucjli P exclaimed his wife. Her 
 astonishment precluded further speech. 
 
 'Think of it!' said the Canon gravely. 
 ' You would never wish him to remain un- 
 married — that would round his chances of 
 
 5—2
 
 6S IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ruin as few other things would do. And 
 what kind of wife can you expect him to 
 win ? I do not forget that I am speaking of 
 your nephew ; and I speak precisely as I 
 should of any relation of my own — you know 
 that, Milicent ; and therefore I can ask you to 
 think seriously of his utter want of culture, 
 of his idleness, his rough manner ; and last, 
 but not least, of his utter pennilessness. He 
 is Squh^e Theyn's son, I grant you; but w^hat 
 woman, in what the world would call his ow^n 
 rank of life, would marry him? It may seem 
 a hard saying, but, so far as I can j)erceive, it 
 would not be at all a bad thing that he should 
 marry a woman of the working class. His 
 very surroundings would then impel him to 
 work himself ; he would be happier, stronger, 
 and he would be a better and more respectable 
 member of society. . . . But these are extem- 
 pore thoughts, my dear Milicent. Therefore 
 don't let them disturb you.' 
 
 ' You will not mention them to Thorhilda 
 3^et awhile ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not. I shall expect her to do all 
 she can to avert the threatened catastrophe. 
 There are many other things to be said.
 
 THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. 69 
 
 Society is so constituted nowadays that it 
 would not be at all needful for Hartas to make 
 such a violent descent in the social scale. I 
 could name half-a-dozen good girls in the 
 neighbourhood more suitable than Bab Burdas. 
 There are the three daughters of Stephens, at 
 the saw-mills, then there is Annie Prior, and 
 there are Grace and Agnes Young. No ; he 
 need not go to the limpet-rocks for a wife. 
 Still I have, and always have had, a high 
 opinion of Barbara Burdas. There is more in 
 her than meets the eye at the first moment, 
 and beyond all doubt she is attractive, strongly 
 and strikingly attractive. It is in Hartas' s 
 favour that he should be drawn to admire a 
 woman of such force of character.' 
 
 ' Yet you would hardly wish to call her 
 your niece ?' 
 
 The Canon saw that his wife was moved to 
 a greater extent than she wished to betray. 
 Her face was flushed, her lips slightly tremu- 
 lous. The moment was a weighty one to 
 both. 
 
 ' I should not,' the Canon replied ; * but I 
 half- suspect myself in making the admission. 
 I am no Eadical, as you know, but a staunch
 
 70 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 and lo3^al Conservative, with a firm belief in 
 the fact that social differences — differences of 
 wealth, rank, and position — are part of a 
 divinely- ordered plan. It is childish to sup- 
 pose otherwise — childish and unscriptural. The 
 roots of all such differences are innate, and 
 not to be done away by any merely human 
 legislation. The foolish people who suppose 
 that the nationalisation of the land, the dis- 
 persion of capital, the equalization of wealth 
 would change the order of things permanently, 
 must be strangely incapable of looking beyond 
 to-morrow. Put all humanity on one level — 
 so far as the possession of wealth is concerned 
 — this afternoon, and by this day week we 
 should find ourselves more widely separated 
 than ever before. Yet, do not mistake me, do 
 not suppose that I am satisfied Avith things as 
 they are ; do not for one moment imagine 
 that I can look upon, or think upon, the poor 
 of the land, the poor at our very gate, and not 
 be filled with compunction, nay, Avith remorse. 
 I have thoi]o;ht much of these thino-s of late ; 
 I hope to think much more ; and I cannot tell 
 whither I may be led and guided. All my 
 prayer is that I may have strength to obey
 
 THE RECTORY OE MARKET YAR BURGH. y\ 
 
 whatever light may be given me. I feel 
 strongly that I am on the verge of some 
 spiritual and human crisis ; and it is thought 
 of and knowledge of the condition of the poor 
 of England that have led me to this critical 
 verge. I cannot speak now of my thought, of 
 my aim, of my aspiration ; I cannot tell you 
 now how I yearn to be instrumental, were it 
 but ever so slightly, in bringing about a better 
 order of things, a reconcilement of ideas, a 
 union of hopes, an amelioration of the actual 
 present condition of " poor humanity." But 
 you will understand that I cannot look with 
 quite your horror upon the thing you are 
 dreading. I have said that I have no desire 
 to call Barbara Burdas my niece, yet I trust 
 that I should exhibit no unmanly or un- 
 christian pride if I were called upon to 
 acknowledge the relationship. My ideas want 
 readjusting.' 
 
 ' If yours need readjustment, w^hat must 
 other people's need ?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell — I cannot tell! And I am, 
 in a certain sense, responsible for so many 
 people's ideas. The thought is appalling. It 
 comes to me in the night when I wake, and I
 
 72 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 grow hot with the sudden jjressure of con- 
 science ; and then the Aveight of dread chills 
 me and I sleep. Is it typical — the night's 
 programme ? Can it be ? I pray that it 
 may not ! Come what may. I trust that my 
 soul will never sleep, nor words of mine lull 
 any other soul to sleep. ... I am always 
 glad to see that Thorda's conscience is quick 
 enough with regard to her own people.' 
 
 ' Quick enough ! I fear it is only too quick/ 
 replied Mrs. Godfrey with enthusiasm. ' If 
 you had seen her face yesterday morning 
 you would not think it needful to harrow her 
 feelings about such a worthless weed as her 
 brother Hartas.' 
 
 ' Milicent ! That is not like you !' 
 
 ' I know it is not. Forgive me ! But when 
 I think of the way in which he has received 
 your most kindly advice and persuasion — to 
 say nothing of my own — and when I remember 
 his lifelong laziness, his insolence, his utter and 
 wilful ignorance, I feel all that is wicked within 
 me stirred to the last dregs. . . . And, oh me! 
 I fear that Rhoda is but very little better.' 
 
 ' You are not alone in that fear, Milicent. 
 And every now and then there comes across
 
 THE RECTORY AT MARKET YARBURGH. ;'3 
 
 me a sharp pang — have we, after all, striven 
 to the uttermost ? One can never know !' 
 
 ' You can never know, Hugh, dear ; because 
 you are never satisfied with yourself — do what 
 you may. Think of the manner in which 
 you strove with Rhoda for weeks together 
 after the long illness that she had, three years 
 ago ; and when her very life had been despaired 
 of! How you talked to her, and besought her, 
 and prayed with her, and for her, even when 
 she was answering your every word with a 
 sneer. Oh, don't speak of your not having 
 done enough. Surely there is a limit to 
 human effort !' 
 
 ^ Ah ! but who shall dare to ^^ it ? Not 
 any human being. Think of the long-suffer- 
 ance one almost expects from God Himself ! 
 Think of His exclaiming, by the mouth of 
 His prophet Amos, "'Behold^ I am pressed 
 under you as a cart is pressed that is full of 
 sheaves /" What human experience can be 
 named by the side of that ? Oh ! don't let 
 us talk of having done enough ; rather let us 
 begin again at the beginning, and strengthen 
 one's effort as one perceives greater need for 
 effort. Let Thorda go this afternoon by all
 
 74 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 means. Her very calmness, her simple, natural 
 elevation, may do more than words can do. 
 Certainly, let her go ; let her have such satis- 
 faction as may come from the knowledge that 
 " she has done what she could." '
 
 CHAPTER VTII. 
 
 AT GARLAFF GRANGE. 
 
 * A piteous lot it were to flee from man, 
 Yet not rejoice in Nature.' 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 The Grange stood in a deep hollow, surrounded 
 by green folding hills. The sloping fields were 
 each one bordered by hedges of hawthorn, tall 
 straggling hedges with crisp emerald foliage, 
 and scented flowers of creamy white emboss- 
 ing every spray. There were still cattle in the 
 pastures, but they were few and ill-favoured. 
 There were sheep and young lambs, but not of 
 the breed that had once been the pride and 
 boast of Garlaff Grange. In the hill-side 
 paddock at the back of the house, the ancient 
 hack on which the Squire now and then rode 
 to market was grazing at his ease. The 
 garden was shut in by grey stone walls, high
 
 76 'IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 and massive, and of quaint style. Below, a 
 road wound round to half-a-dozen lal30urcrs' 
 cottao'es, which stood at the back of the 
 Grange, half-buried among pear and cherry 
 and apple trees. Sweet-briar bushes, mingled 
 with crisp gooseberries, pushed their way 
 through the dilapidated palings, currants shot 
 upward and waved about with the airy light- 
 ness of spirit common to unproductive men 
 and things everywhere. The stables were 
 near the cottages, the unsavoury refuse heaps 
 stood in front, and made debatable land 
 for fowls and pigs. Down there in the 
 hollow all was so sunny, so warm, so pic- 
 turesque, so luxuriant, that a sense of drowsi- 
 ness seemed the natural and inevitable influence 
 of the place. Thorhilda, stepping from the 
 carriage, seemed certainly as if she stepped 
 into some Lotus Land w^herein it was ' always 
 afternoon.' 
 
 There was an ancient archway in the wall, 
 filled by a big old oaken door, and then a long 
 pathway under meeting lilacs and laburnums. 
 There were some snowy guelder-roses on either 
 hand, and the rosy mauve of rhododendrons. 
 The broad steps up to the house were moss-
 
 AT GARLAFF GRANGE. yj 
 
 grown, the bent and broken railing of wrought 
 iron was half- covered by the young green of 
 climbing rose-trees. A scarlet japonica hung 
 from the wall between the low stone mullioned 
 w^indows, needing sorely a little kindly pruning 
 and training. This air of neglect was upon 
 everything, upon the panes of the leaded 
 windows upon the steep red-tiled roof, under 
 the eaves where long spires of grass waved in 
 the wooden spouting, stopping the flowing of 
 the rain. The nests of familiar swallows 
 clung to the wall, pigeons cooed upon the roof. 
 All was still, and sad, and sweet, and melan- 
 choly. 
 
 Though it was the middle of the afternoon 
 the Squire was there by the fireside of the big 
 untidy dining-room. His long clay pipe was 
 in his hand, his tankard of ale before him. 
 His whole air and appearance was that of a 
 man defiant of all opinion, careless of all 
 regard, hopeless of any good, present or 
 future. 
 
 That he had once been a man with some 
 claim to be considered fine-looking you saw at 
 a g;lance, and indeed there was still something; 
 in the expression of his face, especially when
 
 78 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 the deep grey eyes were lifted to yours 
 suddenly and seriously, that awoke in you a 
 kind of wonder, mingled with compassion. 
 It was an expression that told you that, 
 w^hatever the present, the past had not been 
 wholly bounded by poverty, inner or outer, 
 by mental lowness, by physical carelessness. 
 His dress was characteristic. The black 
 velveteen coat was not new, nor had it 
 been well-preserved, and yet it had an air 
 of its own, an air that neither dust nor dirt 
 could quite destroy ; and the corduroy knee- 
 breeches were not of the kind worn by the 
 Squire's stable-boy. The finishing touch to 
 his costume was given by a low, wide- 
 brimmed, grey felt hat, which he had not 
 removed when he sat down to his one o'clock 
 dinner. Though his dead wife's sister, Miss 
 Averil Chalgrove, and Ehoda, his younger 
 dauorhter, had dined at the same table, their 
 presence had not moved him to any courtesy. 
 Miss Chalgrove had ceased to expect it long 
 ao'o, and Rhoda, never havino- known her 
 father to be guilty of weakness of that kind, 
 would have been surprised to discern any 
 aign of change. She had no wish for such
 
 A T GA RLA FF GRA NGE. 79 
 
 change. Things would be very well as they 
 were if only money were not so scarce at 
 the Grange. Very naturally Ehoda craved 
 for more life, more movement, more pleasure, 
 and it may be that the denial of these and 
 other needs had done more to warp a nature 
 not naturally good or lovable than any about 
 her could perceive. No one professed to 
 understand Squire Theyn's youngest daughter. 
 Ehoda was there in the room and Hart as. 
 Miss Chalgrove had gone ' to lie down,' as 
 her custom was always in the afternoon. How 
 else could she keep that look of youthfulness 
 upon which she prided herself so greatly ? 
 It was haste, and impetuosity, and over- 
 anxiety that destroyed the looks of nine 
 women out of ten, so she averred, with an 
 emphasis unsuited to the theory she was 
 maintaining. And she added always an 
 expression of her opinion that Garlaff Grange 
 was no fitting home for one so sensitive to 
 roughness, to unrefinement, to unorthodox 
 ways of living as herself. It never had been, 
 but no alternative had been open to her. 
 These facts she dwelt upon in a manner that 
 might have done something toward destroy-
 
 8o IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ing the harmony of any other household. 
 At the Grange, unhappily, there was no 
 liarmony to be destroyed. 
 
 They had heard the carriage, this strange 
 trio, and Khoda had gone to the window as 
 quickly as the movements of her ungainly 
 figure would permit. K^ she seated herself 
 again she said in a tone of sullen disappoint- 
 ment : 
 
 ' Nobbut the Princess !' 
 
 No one rose when Thorhilda opened for 
 herself the door of the wide, grey, slovenly- 
 looking room. She was smiling pleasantly, 
 trying to look genial, as she glanced from 
 one unsmiling, irresponsive face to another ; 
 saying in her lightest and cheeriest tone : 
 
 ' Good morning, father ! good morning, all 
 of you ! What a glorious day it is ! Surely 
 Aunt Averil could not make up her mind to 
 go and lie down to-day ! I thought that 
 perhaps she and you would have gone for a 
 little drive, Rhoda, while I am here .... 
 Would you like to go ?' 
 
 ' Naay, — Ah care nowt aboot it,' said 
 Ehoda slowly and sullenly, after a some- 
 what irritating period of hesitation. She
 
 AT GARLAFF GRANGE. 8i 
 
 was not in the habit of speaking broad 
 Yorkshire except to the Rectory party. By. 
 that subtle instinct which such people always 
 seem to possess in perfection, she knew that 
 her use of the dialect in its coarsest form 
 gave annoyance. 
 
 But Thorhilda was not to be easily annoyed 
 to-day. 
 
 * Then I will have the carriage put up, if I 
 may/ she said, as pleasantly as if no refusal 
 of a kind offer had had to be encountered. 
 ' And perhaps you will give me a cup of tea 
 presently. Hartas, will you please tell Wood- 
 ward to come round for me at five? — or no, say 
 half- past ; that will give me a little longer 
 time.' 
 
 Hartas rose slowly, and went out, his pipe 
 still in his mouth, his hands in his pockets ; a 
 look of strange indocile determination upon 
 his unformed features. 
 
 ' Forewarned's forearmed !' he said to him- 
 self half-audibly as he went down under the 
 white and purple lilac trees to the front gate 
 to give the message. The two men on the 
 box of the carriage listened, touched their 
 hats respectfully, and turned away, the older 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 §2 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 man half-sorry for Miss Theyn, whom he had 
 known and liked greatly from her earliest 
 childhood. The younger man was somewhat 
 scornful under his outer respectfulness, and 
 contemptuous of Miss Theyn's brother. 
 
 Hartas was less imperceptive, less indifferent 
 than he appeared to be ; and his perception 
 did not tend to modify the feeling with which 
 he turned to meet his elder sister, who was 
 coming down the steps, smiling kindly, yet 
 half-sadly, and looking into his face with a 
 beseeching, winning look that would have won 
 any other man s favour in spite of himself. 
 
 ' Let us go into the orchard, Hartas,' she 
 said, making a movement as if she would put 
 her hand within his arm, but this he evaded 
 skilfully. It was much that he consented to 
 follow her through the narrow door that was 
 all overhung with white blossom and green 
 waving sprays. He was in no mood to bear 
 expostulation. 
 
 * Might as well have it over though,' he said 
 to himself. ' An' the sooner the better. But 
 they must'n think, none of 'em, 'at they're 
 goin' to come between me an' Barbara Burdas.'
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 'love's nobility/ 
 
 ' Man was made of social earth, 
 Child and brother from his birth, 
 Fettered by the lightest cord 
 Of blood thro' veins of kindness poured. 
 Next his heart the fireside band 
 Of mother, father, children stand ; 
 Names from awful childhood heard, 
 Throbs of a wild religion stirred.' 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 Curiously enough, it was Hartas who o]3ened 
 the conversation, rather to Thorhilda's relief. 
 It was not so easy to her to go straight to the 
 heart of this delicate matter as it had appeared 
 to be beforehand ; and, in the moment of 
 silence that followed their entrance into the 
 orchard, it seemed to Miss Theyn that she had 
 never before so clearly recognised the strange- 
 ness that was between her brother and herself, 
 the absence of all fraternal feeling on his 
 
 6—2
 
 84 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 part, the presence of non-sisterly diffidence 
 and trepidation on her own. But, as was 
 usual with her in such crises, she made a 
 strong mental eflfort to regain her natural stand- 
 point ; and the effort was successful. She 
 listened quite calmly to Hartas's opening 
 speech. 
 
 ' Time's not o' much vally to me/ he began, 
 taking his pipe from his mouth with evident 
 reluctance. ' Therefore I can't say 'at I don't 
 want to waste it. An' as for words, well, I've 
 no special talent i' that direction ; as no doubt 
 you've found out afore to-day. Still, I don't 
 want to spend neither words nor time upon 
 the subject you've come here to talk about. 
 It won't do no good, you see, not the least. 
 If Barbara Burdas would but listen to me, an' 
 the law o' the land allowed, I'd marry her to- 
 night. I'd. not w^ait for to-morrow.' 
 
 Eeal earnestness is always impressive, and 
 is as the * heat which sets our human atoms 
 spinning' in the direction the one in earnest 
 w^ould have us travel. The fervour of a true 
 affection is seldom to be altogether ignored, 
 even by the coldest. 
 
 ' How long have you cared for her so much '?'
 
 ' LOVE'S nobility: 85 
 
 Miss Tlieyn asked in a gentle and sympathetic 
 way. And her very voice, the affectionate 
 unexpected kindness of it, touched Hartas as 
 no remonstrance could have done. All unaware 
 he was already betrayed. 
 
 ' How long ? All my life, or so it seems 
 to me now,' he replied, * or mebbe I'd better 
 say, all her life. Why, it only seems like 
 yesterday 'at she was a little hard-working 
 thing of twelve or fourteen ; bright, an' 
 bonny, an' full o' mischief, yet as disdainful 
 as the highest lady o' the land. An' then 
 somehow, all at once it seemed, she came to be 
 eighteen ; and ' 
 
 ' Eighteen !' interposed Thorhilda in amaze- 
 ment. ' I should have said she was at least 
 eight-and-twenty !' 
 
 * She looks more like that,' Hartas admitted 
 somewhat sadly. * But think of the life she's 
 lived for the last six years ! Mebbe you don't 
 know nought about it; an' couldn't understand 
 if you did ; but / know. I've watched her all 
 along when she little thought of it ; an' many 
 a time the sight's been bad anuff to bear, I can 
 tell you.' 
 
 * What made you think of her first ?' Thor-
 
 86 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 liilda asked, still speaking in a tone that told 
 of more than mere kindly interest. 
 
 'First of all! That I can hardly say/ 
 Hartas replied with softened voice, and a 
 decided increase of confidingness in his 
 manner. ' I remember when she was a little 
 thing. (I'm ten years older than she is — ten 
 all but three months.) An' I always noticed 
 her when I was down at the Bight. She was 
 so different from the rest somehow, so superior, 
 an yet so winnin' ; an' they all seemed to 
 know it ; an' to give in when she was by. . . . 
 An' then that awful storm came ; an' I was 
 down on the cliff-top that mornin'. Oh ! I'll 
 never forget it !' 
 
 ' Was that the day her father was drowned ?' 
 
 * Her father and her mother. . . . But you 
 can't have forgot ! Why the whole land rang 
 wi' the stories o' that gale for weeks after !' 
 
 * There have been so many gales,' replied 
 Thorhilda deprecatingly. 'And I was younger 
 then ; and perhaps less sympathising. But I 
 do remember something of the loss of the 
 North Star. , . . Wasn't that the name of the 
 boat that suffered here V 
 
 ' It was the name o' one of the boats 'at
 
 ' LOVE'S nobility: 87 
 
 was wrecked in Ulvstan Bight that mornin', 
 but it was not the name o' the one 'at belonged 
 mostly to Ephraim Burdas. She was called 
 the Seameiu. An' a fine boat she was, for 
 her size. I remember her well. Old Ephraim 
 had only pointed her out to me about a week 
 before, telling me how she was the fulfilment 
 of all his hopes, the result of all his long life's 
 toil. She'd cost him over four hundred pounds 
 altogether ; an' she was every plank his own 
 save one-eighth part, the single share that Jim 
 Tyas had bought. An' 'twas old Ephraim 'at 
 sailed her; the others never seemed right 
 when the old man wasn't at the helm. An' 
 he'd taken his usual place that night ; never 
 dreamin' o' nought happenin' out 0' the com- 
 mon. All 'at ever he remembered after was 
 'at his son, Bab's father, had seemed out o' 
 spirits ; an' had never spoken to nobody after 
 they went out 0' the Bight till the storm burst 
 upon 'em all of a sudden. 'Twas him 'at first 
 saw it comin', in fact. But you should hear 
 old Ephraim tell the tale.' 
 
 ' I would rather hear it from you ; only 
 make it brief; and not too sad. . . . How 
 many were there in the boat altogether V
 
 88 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 * Only four. As I said, the old man was 
 in the stern ; an they'd shot the lines some 
 nine or ten miles off the land. Then they'd 
 sat down to rest for awhile ; an' to pass the 
 darkest time o' the night. 'Twas a fair sort 
 o' mornin ; fine, an' light, an' calm ; but 
 about four o'clock, as old Ephraim were 
 leanin' again the side o' the boat, his head 
 upon his hand, half- asleep, all of a sudden he 
 heard his son shoutin' : 
 
 ' ^^ By heavn there s a storm upon us! 
 Yonder's a ship flyin' afore the gale, wi' her 
 sails all torn to rao^s an' ribbons !" 
 
 o 
 
 ' The old man couldn't believe it ; but he 
 jumped up, an' looked out seaward ; an' sure 
 anufF, 'twas as young Ephraim had said. There 
 wasn't a second to be lost. They tried to 
 head the boat for the nearest land — it happened 
 to be Yarva Wyke ; but long afore they could 
 reach it the gale broke up the sea ; an' Jim 
 Tyas wasn't at all for landin' there. Jim was 
 a chap 'at was alius desperate feared in a 
 storm, so old Ephraim told me ; an' he said 
 he'd never seen the man so feared as he was 
 that mornin' when the hurricane was fairly 
 upon 'em. They down with the sail afore
 
 'LOVE'S nobility: 89 
 
 they touched the sea-break ; but there seemed 
 no chance for 'em ; an' afore they'd been 
 tossing upon the edge o' the breakers many 
 minutes a great wave struck the boat, an 
 knocked the side completely out of her. It 
 appeared to be all over then. Jim cried out, 
 ''Lord, ha' mercy iqDon my iviched soul this 
 day /" an' as old Ephraim said, it almost 
 seemed as if Providence had heard him, for 
 the strangest thing happened 'at ever the old 
 man had seen in all his long life. The sea 
 broke away right in front of them in the 
 curiousest manner, an' stood up like walls on 
 either hand ; an' they were driven through 
 between as fast as they could go. But the 
 boat was breakin' to bits under 'em every 
 minute ; an' at last they were all four tossin' 
 i' that awful sea. 
 
 ' They could all of 'em swim, better or 
 worse, an' they all reached the rocks, but 
 'twere in a bad place. The cliff's like a 
 house-end just there ; an' though a dozen or 
 more people had gathered on the top of it, 
 they'd neither rope nor ladder ; an' the worst 
 of it was young Ephraim's wife was there, 
 Bab's mother, an' she'd three little children
 
 90 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 clinsin' to her crown : an' a four- weeks old 
 baby at her breast; an' she weren't well — 
 hadn't never been since the child was born. 
 An' when she saw^ the boat's crew just below, 
 clingin' to one another on the narrow ledge 
 under the cliff, the straight wall of rock 
 behind em', an' the rising tide beating upon 
 'em more furiously every moment, 'twere 
 more than she could bear. Breakin' away 
 fra the little ones all of a sudden, she sprang 
 from the top o' the rock wi' her new-born 
 baby in her arms ; an' almost as she struck 
 the water her husband dashed in again after 
 her ; an' folks has told me since 'at it was 
 all they could do to keep Bab from makin' 
 a fourth. Nobody could help the three 'at 
 was strugglin' there. They went down, 
 within half-a-dozen yards o' dry land. An 
 the curiousest part of it all was that little 
 Ailsie washed up, not only alive, but seem- 
 ing none so much the worse. I helped to 
 catch hold of her, and to give her to Bab. 
 An' that's why Bab cares for her so much, 
 an' can hardly bear to let the little thing out 
 of her sight. . . . Bab was only twelve years 
 old when it all happened ; but if she'd been
 
 'LOVE'S nobility: 91 
 
 twice twelve she couldn't have been a better 
 mother to the three small lads an' the little 
 girl. But it's no use talkin'. Such as you 
 can never see the good in such a woman as 
 Barbara Burdas. She can't play the piano. 
 I doubt much whether she's ever either 
 heard one, or seen one. An' pickin' flithers 
 for the fishermen of Ulvstan Bight isn't 
 quite such a refined way o' spendin' time as 
 makin* wax-flowers, or crochy antimacassars. 
 No ; Bab isn't refined wi' what you an' most 
 others such as you would call refinement — 
 not what you'd call a " lady." But no lady 
 'at I've ever seen, or ever can see, would lift 
 me out 0' the mire as Barbara Burdas could 
 do, if she cared to think about me at all ; an' 
 there isn't another woman in the world, 'at I 
 know of, 'at understands what unselfishness 
 means as she understands it ; not another 
 nowhere 'at lives a life so totally self- 
 sacrificin'. An' the best of it is she doesn't 
 never dream 'at she's doin' aught but what 
 she's bound to do. You couldn't open her 
 eyes, if you tried, to the meanin' o' self an* 
 self-interest. . . . But I said I didn't 
 want to waste no time on this subject, an'
 
 92 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 here I am, wastin' a whole quarter of an 
 hour.' 
 
 ' Don't regret it,' Thorhilda replied, using 
 the brevity that comes of over-fulness of new 
 thought. Hartass vividly told story, the 
 graphic touches of it, the intense reality, had 
 impressed his sister greatly. And that in 
 communicating to her his knowledge of Barbara 
 Burdas and her life he should at the same time 
 have betrayed much that was new, and not 
 unfavourable, of himself, was a fact demanding 
 consideration. 
 
 ' I am glad to hear all this from you, Hartas,' 
 she continued. ' I am pleased that you should 
 talk to me about Barbara Burdas.' 
 
 'An' you'll be glad if I'll lissen to what 
 you've got to say in return,' the young man 
 broke in with some impetuosity. ' But re- 
 member what I said at the beginning. I 
 mean to make her my wife if she will but 
 consent — consent on any terms.' 
 
 ' And if she will not ?' 
 
 ' If she won't, I don't care what becomes of 
 me.' 
 
 ' I don't want to preach to you, Hartas,' 
 Thorhilda replied with some natural diffidence,
 
 ' LOVE'S nobility: 93 
 
 ' but is that altogether a manly mood in which 
 to meet one of the greatest crises that can 
 happen in your lifetime ?' 
 
 'Manly? Mebbe not. But I reckon 'at 
 you don't know much o' what such a dis- 
 appointment 'ud mean to me — if it came to 
 that. An' you an' all your set 'ud be re- 
 joicin', as if something good had happened.' 
 
 * Can you put yourself in our place for a 
 moment — in my place, for instance "?' Thor- 
 hilda asked with gentle firmness. ' Can you 
 even try to imagine what such a marriage 
 would be to me, what it would mean to my 
 life, w^ere you, my only brother, to marry a — 
 a bait-gatherer ? 
 
 ' It needn't mean no more to you than the 
 wind that blows !' Hartas replied, with his 
 rough, ready emphasis. ' Why should you 
 think it would ? Why should we ever come 
 near you ? When have I ever come in your 
 way, except when I couldn't help it ? When 
 have I ever asked a favour of you ? When 
 have I ever expected so much as a kind word 
 from you, or a helpful one, when I was par- 
 ticularly needing it ? What have I ever 
 asked, or requested of you at all, save 'at you
 
 94 /-^V EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 should go your way an' leave me to go 
 mine X 
 
 * You have requested nothing — that is true 
 enough/ Thorhilda replied, involuntarily sub- 
 duing her voice to the softest and gentlest 
 contrast possible. ' But, remember, the diflfer- 
 ence between us was never created by me, nor 
 by anyone at the Eectory. You must admit 
 that my aunt and uncle have done what 
 they could. And you must also admit that, 
 though you have repulsed them time after 
 time, they have never ceased to make fresh 
 advances. Be generous, at least in word ; as 
 they have been in deed. . . . But, pardon me, 
 I am saying more than I meant to say. I do 
 not want to irritate you— anything but that. 
 But I felt constrained to say that all the cold- 
 ness and strangeness has been your doing, not 
 mine — not ours. It has pained me ceaselessly 
 and infinitely. It has hurt me, and kept me 
 from my sleep ; it has darkened many a day ; 
 poisoned many a pleasure. . . . Hartas — do 
 you think that I have no affection for you ?' 
 
 It was a singular scene. That a woman of 
 Miss Theyn's stateliness and loveliness, of her 
 extreme refinement, should stand there plead-
 
 ' LOVE'S nobility: 95 
 
 ing for some sign of recognition of the tie that 
 was between herself and the man who seemed 
 as the veriest clod by her side, was surely a 
 touching and pathetic thing. Was Hartas 
 feeling it to be strange % Was he moved in 
 any way ? — impelled to any warmth of re- 
 sponsiveness that he yet had no art or intellect 
 to express % 
 
 ' It's a bad moment to speak o' such a thing 
 now,' he said, having less of his natural harsh- 
 ness and brusqueness of manner than before. 
 ' I don't doubt but that you may feel more 
 like a sister to me than I ever dreamed you 
 did ; an' at another time I might ha' been 
 glad of it. But, as I said, I know what's 
 brought you here this afternoon ; an' I've 
 only one answer to all you have said, or can 
 say. That answer you've had. I won't anger 
 you wi' say in' it again.' 
 
 Thorhilda was silent for awhile. One thing 
 she had to congratulate herself upon — nay, 
 two moved her to a momentary content. She 
 had not irritated her brother ; and she had a 
 hopeful feeling of having opened a way that 
 might some day lead to his heart. 
 
 ' I hope your time has not been quite
 
 96 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 wasted, Hart as/ she replied. ' I should cer- 
 tainly not consider that it has been if we 
 might begin to realize, but ever so faintly, 
 that we each owe something to the other — 
 some help, some sympathy, some affection, or, 
 at least, some friendliness of feeling. . . . Has 
 it ever occurred to you that 1 could feel 
 lonely ? — that / have no brother or sister, 
 except in name T 
 
 Hartas Theyn's face was lifted in most 
 earnest surprise. 
 
 ' You lonely !' he exclaimed. * No ; when 
 I've thought about you at all I've thought 
 that if ever anybody in this world did have 
 all they wanted it was you.' 
 
 ' Then, ah, how you have been mistaken !' 
 Thorhilda replied with some emphasis. ' Don't 
 imagine that I complain. I am much too 
 conscious of the good that is mine to do that ; 
 but my life has not been perfect in its happi- 
 ness — how should it ? You little dream of 
 what I have felt in other people's houses — 
 homes where there may have been a dozen, or 
 half-a-dozen brothers and sisters, all kind, all 
 loving, all happy ! Ah ! how often it has 
 pained me to see it all — to see it from outside.
 
 ' LO VE '5 nobility: 97 
 
 as a wanderer may sit on a doorstep on a 
 winter's nig-ht and see the warmth and light 
 within, which he may not feel or share ! I am 
 not blaming you — I am blaming no one. T 
 am merely telling you how it has been with 
 me — how it is yet. I want you to understand 
 how it is, even now.' 
 
 ' I don't see that I can heljD matters much,' 
 Hartas replied, not sullenly or indifferently, 
 but with the perplexed absence of one absorbed 
 in thought. 
 
 ' I have thought that you might — some 
 day,' Thorhilda said. ' I have so often 
 thought of your marriage, so often dreamed of 
 your wife as one who would be my sister, who 
 would draw us together, who would make me 
 feel that I was your sister in reality. And I 
 have seen her in my mind many a time, a 
 good, loving, understanding woman, with — 
 pardon me for saying it — culture enough to 
 be a friend to me, and love enough to bear 
 with all shortcomings in you. . . . And now, 
 now my dream is ended. . . . What wonder 
 that I should plead with you, entreat you, at 
 least, to consider, to do nothing in haste !' 
 Perhaps it was fortunate that at that 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 moment Ehoda came up under the white 
 orchard trees. Her appearance might have 
 been amusing to anyone in a mood to be 
 amused lightly ; but to Thorhilda all was 
 distressing, from the heavy rolling gait to the 
 untidy tweed dress, unfastened at the throat, 
 yet displaying no finishing touch in the shape 
 of lace or linen collar. Her pretty golden 
 hair was huddled into a shapeless coil at the 
 back of her head ; there was a sullen expres- 
 sion about the large mouth, and in the 
 greenish hazel eyes. Her voice was in keep- 
 ing, being gruff, indistinct, unpleasant. 
 
 ' If ya want that tea, it's ready,' she said, 
 stopping short of her elder sister and brother 
 by some yards. 
 
 Then she turned and rolled back again. 
 Thorhilda sighed and followed her. The visit 
 was over, and it had availed nothing. 
 
 * Nothing at all !' she said to herself 
 sadly. 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing at all !' she repeated to 
 the Canon, who w^as walking thoughtfully up 
 and down under the veranda at the Kectory 
 w^hen she returned, waiting to console her, or 
 to rejoice with her, as occasion might require.
 
 'LOVE '5 nobility: 99 
 
 And now, as always, his consolation was 
 sufficiently effective. 
 
 ' Be patient, Thorda, dear, and don't de- 
 spair,' he said, holding her hand in his warm, 
 fatherly grasp. ' The most far-seeing of us 
 can't see the length of the next hour, or the 
 full meaning of this. . . . And now go and 
 dress quickly and prettily ; there are some of 
 your favourite pale yellow pansies to wear. The 
 Merediths will be here in twenty minutes.' 
 
 7—2
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 'IX ALL TIME OF OUE, WEALTH.' 
 
 ' Dear friend— If I were sure of thee, sure of thy capacity, 
 sure to match my mood with thine, I should never again 
 
 think of trifles in relation to thy comings and goings 
 
 Thou art to me a delicious torment. Thine ever, or never.' 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 The dinner-party at the Eectory was quite a 
 small one. Mrs. Meredith, handsome, correct, 
 more affable than usual, sat at Canon Godfrey's 
 right hand. Her son Percival was next to 
 Miss Theyn. Gertrude Douglas, Thorhilda's 
 friend, had been taken in to dinner by the 
 Eev. Marcus Egerton, the one curate of 
 Market Yarburgh. 
 
 Gossip had been busy about the four last- 
 mentioned names for some time ; but, as 
 usual, the suggestions and hints that had 
 been passed about were at least premature. 
 Miss Theyn, as we have seen, was Ijy no
 
 ' IN ALL TLME OF OUR WEALTH: lor 
 
 means sure even of her own wish and will, 
 and Miss Douglas was not a likely woman to 
 marry a poor curate. She was older than 
 Thorhilda, taller, stronger, and perhaps equally 
 beautiful in the eyes of some, though in quite 
 a different way, and she was certainly more 
 ambitious. Being the daughter of a not too 
 successful country surgeon, she had a very 
 natural dread of small means. 
 
 ' I must marry,' she had said openly to 
 Thorhilda, ' and I must marry a rich man. I 
 have had enough of poverty !' 
 
 ' But you would not marry anyone merely 
 because he was rich ?' Thorhilda had asked in 
 unfeigned surprise. 
 
 ' I fear I should,' Gertrude made answer, 
 speaking half-sadly and tentatively. She had 
 no wish to shock Miss Theyn, though often 
 she came nearer to doing so than she dreamed. 
 ' I fear I should,' she had replied. ' Market 
 Yarburgh is not a place to afford one many 
 chances. I am nearly thirty, and I look older 
 than I am. . . . But don't let us talk of it at 
 present, dear. Let us speak of your chances 
 rather than of mine. There is not another 
 Percival Meredith in the neighbourhood.'
 
 I02 IN EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 
 
 Miss Douglas had perceived without being 
 able quite to comprehend Miss Theyn's flush 
 of mingled annoyance and indignation. Not 
 even a friend so intimate as Gertrude Douglas 
 might speak of a matter so delicate, so im- 
 mature, without ofi*ending her sense of good 
 taste. 
 
 ' My chances !' she exclaimed. ' If you 
 care for me, Gertrude, if you care for my 
 friendship in the least, you will hardly speak 
 so again to me. Indeed, indeed, I thought 
 you had known me better than to speak like 
 that !' 
 
 This had happened some time before. Ger- 
 trude had laughed most musically, most good- 
 naturedly, and had kissed away Thorhilda's 
 offended dignity at once. There was a peculiar 
 fascination about Miss Douglas; she never 
 took ofience, and she was cleverer than Thor- 
 hilda in many ways; she had wider knowledge 
 of the world, keener insight into certain sides 
 of human nature ; her manner was full of 
 charm, and her temperament most cheerful 
 and amiable. If these good qualities had 
 some alloy, Thorhilda was not one to dwell 
 upon the fact. Gertrude Douglas was her
 
 'IN ALL TIME OF OUR WEALTH: 103 
 
 friend, and perfect loyalty requires that even 
 thought itself should be silent now and 
 then. 
 
 Gertrude came often to the Eectory. She 
 appreciated the pleasant little dinner-parties ; 
 not only the varied menu, the delicate cookery, 
 the careful service, but also the beautiful silver, 
 the lovely flowers that decorated the table and 
 the rooms in such profusion, the perfect light- 
 in gf, the g-eneral air of daintiness and finish 
 that was upon everything. Her own narrow 
 home was sadly apt to seem narrower after a 
 few days in the wider rooms in the house on 
 the hill-top ; the very carpets seemed dingier 
 and poorer, the chairs harder, the sofas more 
 uncomfortable ; the meals were hardly worth 
 sittino; down to. As a matter of course she 
 kept silence as to her appreciation ; she had too 
 much tact to speak of such matters, except 
 now and then to Thorhilda alone. For social 
 life she had enough of other and brighter 
 topics, and to-night, as usual, she gave suffi- 
 cient rein to her conversational powers without 
 seeming to display them in any undue manner. 
 No awkward pauses might happen at any table 
 to which Miss Douglas had been invited.
 
 104 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 After dinner, while the two elder ladies sat 
 chatting by the fire in the drawing-room, 
 Thorhilda and Gertrude stood near the window 
 in the dim twilight, the hour' that so often 
 attunes two waiting souls to helpful inter- 
 course ; we owe more, spiritually, than we 
 acknowledge, to the physical alternation of 
 night and day. 
 
 The curtains by that especial west window 
 had been left undrawn, as usual, by Thorhilda's 
 wish. Outside the stars were burning in a 
 clear, dark sky ; a young moon was dropping 
 over the towers of the ruin on the opposite 
 hill-top ; beyond the moon there was a faint, 
 white mist overspreading the distance ; the 
 whole scene was touched by that mystery of 
 mingled light and darkness which makes so 
 much of the poetry of this most poetic world. 
 And yet the poetry is often tinged with 
 sadness ; the sadness of all suggested beauty. 
 It is in music of almost every kind ; it is not 
 absent from any good picture ; but it is in the 
 natural world that one feels its charm most 
 strongly and strangely. The first morning 
 hour when the light as it were breathes upon 
 the east, the last evening hour, when it seems
 
 'IN ALL TLME OF OUR WEALTH: 105 
 
 to sigh itself gently and sadly away, the calm, 
 stirless moonlight, the soft, wondrous glowing 
 of the winter starlight over the wdde expanse 
 of moor or of sea ; all these in their tender 
 disclosures, their mystic reservations, move the 
 soul to ' strange yearnings after we know not 
 what, and awful impressions from we know not 
 whence.' The wise man is he who seeks these 
 finer influences frequently, and having found 
 them, acknowledges with gratitude that it is 
 ' good to be there.' 
 
 The two younger women were still standing 
 silently, but Miss Douglas broke the silence so 
 soon as she felt it. 
 
 ' Thorda, dear, you are not happy to-night !' 
 she said in her round, full, musical voice, a 
 voice difficult to soften at any time. 
 
 Thorhilda smiled, and lifted her face to her 
 friend. 
 
 ' It is odd that you should make that 
 remark,' she replied, in tones that contrasted 
 perfectly with those of Gertrude Douglas. 
 * All day, nay, for quite two days now, I have 
 found myself thinking of happiness at every 
 spare moment, and this by no deliberate wish 
 or will of my own. Is it not strange ?'
 
 io6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' Very. . . . But surely you are liappy 
 enough ? What happiness you haven't yet is 
 coming toward you as fast as it can come. No, 
 don't turn your face away, dear, I won't say 
 another word. I couldn't help sitting opposite 
 to you at dinner, you know ; neither could I 
 help seeing Mr. Meredith's face, or hearing his 
 voice. There — I've done !' 
 
 ' Of that I'm glad. . . . But, Gertrude, you 
 mistake me altogether. It was not only of my 
 own happiness I was thinking, but of that of 
 other people — of the whole human race in fact. 
 We all want to be happy ; we are, many of us, 
 striving for it ; yet surely we none of us know" 
 very exactly what happiness is !' 
 
 While Gertrude was laughing, a long, low, 
 pleasant laugh, the Canon and the two younger 
 men came in, and involuntarily began to smile 
 for very sympathy with the musical sound that 
 w^as coming from the window. 
 
 ' Just at the right moment 1' cried Miss 
 Douglas. ' Do come here, all of you, and tell 
 us what happiness is ! Here is Thorhilda 
 miserable because she can't make out what 
 happiness consists of. Isn't it an idea V 
 
 Miss Douglas had sauntered out from the
 
 ' IN ALL TIME OF OUR WEALTH: 107 
 
 recess by the window as she spoke, coming 
 forth with that half-imperious air of conscious 
 fascination that became her so welL And in 
 the background of her tliought, of which she 
 was also conscious, was a curious query as to 
 whether in the sight of — say Percival Meredith, 
 for instance — she or Thorhilda made the most 
 attractive picture. 
 
 They were nearly alike in height, in a cer- 
 tain cultured air of self-possession, but there, 
 suddenly, all possibility of comparison ended. 
 Their very dress told something of the radical 
 difference of their natures. Miss Douglas's 
 costume of amber satin and black lace, with a 
 profusion of yellow roses, grown under the 
 Eectory glass, was sufficiently aesthetic even 
 for the taste of Mr. Meredith, but it did not 
 charm him as did the soft heliotrope-tinted 
 crape that Thorhilda was wearing, with only a 
 few pale primrose-coloured pansies and some 
 maidenhair by way of ornament. 
 
 He felt a little proud of his superior taste. 
 But in justice to him let it be said that it was 
 not only the outer appearance of the woman 
 he loved that attracted him ; this by no means. 
 He was sufficiently cultured to feel the drawing
 
 io8 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 
 
 of the finer nature, the more finished delicacy. 
 As to whether or not he might find himself in 
 perfect agreement with a deeper soul or more 
 aspiring spirit, was not a question likely to 
 trouble him as yet. So far no doubt of this 
 kind had beset him.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 CONCERNING HAPPINESS. 
 
 ' He could afford to suffer 
 With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came 
 That in our best experience he was rich, 
 And in the wisdom of our daily life.' 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 ' Happiness !' Percival Meredith ejaculated 
 softly, as he drew away toward the window, 
 turning wdth a self-possessed air, as of invita- 
 tion, to Thorhilda. Then lower still and more 
 emphatically he said, ' I know what would 
 make my happiness !' 
 
 But for Miss Douglas it is possible that 
 Thorhilda's eyes had yet been so far closed as 
 to permit of her replying to this remark as it 
 was intended to be replied to, with some 
 ' soft nothing ' that would provide an opening 
 for a stronger and less dubious declaration. 
 As it was, the nothing could not be uttered at
 
 no IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 that moment. Instead, Miss Theyn said 
 aloud : 
 
 ' Uncle Hugh, what is your idea of happi- 
 ness ? You are the happiest man I know.' 
 
 A touch of gravity came over the Canon's 
 face, into the blue, kindly eyes ; the smile faded 
 from about the mouth. 
 
 ' I am happy,' he said, ' and I am glad to 
 acknowledge it ; but it is not an unshaded 
 happiness. How should it be, when I fear 
 that — taking the world about us generally — 
 not one person in a hundred could say the 
 same thing ! ... As to defining happiness — 
 who could give any true and generally accept- 
 able definition of the word ? It is probable 
 that to each human being it means some 
 totally difi'erent thing. Not one of us could 
 legislate for another so far as merely human 
 happiness is concerned.' 
 
 * I should say the best definition is " having 
 all one wants," ' Gertrude Douglas replied with 
 her usual readiness. 
 
 * That seems adequate,' said the Canon. 
 ' And yet if by that you mean the gratification 
 of all material desires, I can only reply that I 
 know men who have not a single desire unful-
 
 CONCERNING HAPPINESS. in 
 
 filled, but who are yet far enough from hap- 
 piness. On the other hand, I know people, 
 ground down under what men term the heel 
 of Fate, poor, lonely, bereaved, neglected, but 
 yet as bright, as cheerful, as hopeful as any 
 human being need wish to be.' 
 
 ' Ah, if they have hope?' said Mr. Egerton, 
 in his usual suggestive way. 
 
 ' You think that is the great secret T the 
 Canon asked. ' And you, Mr. Meredith — 
 where does your opinion lie ?' 
 
 Percival smiled languidly. 
 
 'Upon my word, I don't know that I've 
 ever thought of it, either one way or another,' 
 he said. * Just now, when Miss Douglas was 
 speaking, I felt decidedly inclined to agree 
 with her. But I should fancy there's a good 
 deal to be said for Egerton's idea. Why not 
 combine the two — have everything you want, 
 and something to hope for besides? Then, 
 surely, you would touch something like real 
 felicity 1' 
 
 Canon Godfrey looked at his neighbour 
 with something that was almost curiosity, 
 and for a few seconds he made no reply. 
 His best and most spiritual thoughts on this
 
 112 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 topic seemed hardly suited to the present 
 environment. 
 
 ' It is j)i'obable/ he said at last, ' that a 
 true answer to the question asked in the 
 beginning would draw upon the deepest 
 resources of the nature of each one of us, 
 and it would be no bad theme for an hour's 
 quiet meditation to try to find an answer. 
 The queries need only be three : I. Am I 
 happy? 11. If not, then ivhy ? III. What 
 can I do to bring happiness somewhat 
 nearer '?' 
 
 ' Let us do it now ! and each of us write 
 down our answer !' exclaimed Miss Douglas 
 in her sjDarkling, ready way. 
 
 But Thorhilda protested instantly. 
 
 ' Oh no, no /' she cried. ' I could not do 
 that, not now, I could not make a game of 
 it, 'pouT passer le temps / . . . Forgive me, 
 Gertrude ; but I could not. I could not to- 
 night.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear ; how terribly in earnest we are !' 
 exclaimed Miss Douglas smiling — nay, laugh- 
 ing quite sweetly. ' One never expects to have 
 to take things au serieux after dinner !' 
 
 ' I fear we are some of us talking great
 
 CONCERNING HAPPINESS. 113 
 
 nonsense !' interposed practical little Mrs. 
 Meredith. She was being ignored in a way 
 she was not accustomed to. The very set of 
 her imposing cap npon her most abundant and 
 artistic white hair told you that she was not a 
 person to be overlooked. She was as full of 
 life, of vigour, as she had always been, and 
 the snow-white hair was as surprising as it 
 was picturesque. In spite of it, she did not 
 look more than forty, though her age was 
 fifty-five ; and that her only son should 
 already be giving himself some of the airs of 
 a middle-aged man was not pleasing to her. 
 The surest way for a stranger to reach her 
 heart w^as to make some allusion to ' her 
 brother.' ' I fear we are talking nonsense,' 
 she repeated. ' For my part, I think happi- 
 ness is very much a matter of mental habit. 
 George Eliot admits something like that. 
 Does she not say somewhere that *' unhappi- 
 ness may become a habit of mind"? And 
 doubtless such habits are very hard to break.' 
 
 ' There is truth in that,' replied the Canon. 
 ' But surely, before sorrow can become so 
 habitual as to be more congenial than joy, any 
 human being must have bent to discipline both 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 long and sore, and, in such cases, which of us, 
 not having sounded the same depths, shall 
 dare to judge V 
 
 ' Oh, but we always do judge one another,' 
 the little woman broke in with something 
 that seemed more like hardness than flippancy 
 in her tone. ' We can't help it ; and when 
 w^e see people whose troubles are over, but 
 who yet ivont forget them, you know we 
 can't help thinking they want a little more 
 trouble to bring them to their senses .... 
 Oh, don't pretend, Canon Godfrey, you know 
 you agree with me !' 
 
 ' I certainly won't pretend,' replied the 
 Canon, smiling gravely, and putting away 
 into the background of his mind some stern 
 experiences of which he knew only too much. 
 * No, I w^on't pretend ; instead, I will add to 
 what you have urged. I have a firm belief 
 that a sense of happiness is a thing to be culti- 
 vated, a sense of daily and hourly gratitude 
 for our human w^ell-being, let the drawbacks 
 be what they may. I fear that there are people 
 in whom this sense is so imperfectly developed 
 that it can hardly be said to exist at all ! 
 . . . Don't you think that is true, Egerton V
 
 CONCERNING HA PPINESS. 1 1 5 
 
 * Only too true !' responded Mr. Egerton 
 with his usual quick appreciation, giving you 
 an impression of a human mind all alight 
 because of the warmth of heart not hidden 
 within. ' Indeed, I have often fancied that 
 we might have a new Professor — a Professor 
 of the Art of Happiness — a man with psycho- 
 logical knowledge enough to do for our 
 emotional half what the physiologist is en- 
 deavouring to do for our bodies ; a man who 
 would go on his daily rounds to this house, 
 or to that, as a doctor does ; finding out this 
 woman's reason for habitual sadness, the cause 
 of that man's gloomy despair ; who would 
 analyse our feelings for us, put them into 
 definite shape, and then put before us the 
 unphilosophical view we were taking so 
 strongly and clearly as to change the whole 
 mental atmosphere. It might be done, 
 surely 1' 
 
 It was easv to see that Mr. Eo;erton had 
 only meant to be taken half-seriously. But 
 the Canon, listening, had passed on into 
 earnest. 
 
 ' Are we not trying to do it — some of us ?' 
 he asked. 'Trying to do just that — to 
 
 8—2
 
 ii6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 minister to minds diseased wherever we may 
 find them ? It is not easy ; how should it be 1 
 AVe have high authority for believing that 
 each heart alone knows its own bitterness, 
 that no other heart can know it, or share it, 
 Think of Keble, too : 
 
 ' " Not even the tenderest heart, and next our own, 
 Knows half the leasons why we smile or sigh." 
 
 Of course it doesn't ; how should it ? And 
 the n^ost closely-surrounded heart is lonelier 
 than we know. How, then, must it be with 
 those who, admittedly, have not a single soul 
 to whom they can unburden themselves for 
 an hour? It is cases like these one is glad 
 to find out, to help, not heeding the difficul- 
 ties. If one may not create happiness, one 
 may, at least now and then, alleviate un- 
 happiness. And that is not a little ; no, it is 
 certainly not a little in the sight of Him who 
 said, ''Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the 
 least of these, ye did it unto Me.'' ' 
 
 ' Won't you give us a sermon on happiness 
 some Sunday, Uncle Hugh V Thorhilda asked 
 gravely. 
 
 * Certainly I will, or else a lecture in the 
 schoolroom some Wednesday evening. The
 
 CONCERNING HAPPINESS. 117 
 
 latter will be better ; even on your own show- 
 ing, my dear I It is not so long since you 
 admitted that sermons were difficult things to 
 listen to.' 
 
 * So they are to me /' Miss Theyn admitted, 
 preparatory to asking yet another leading 
 question on the topic just begun. But before 
 the question could be put into suitable and 
 sufficiently earnest words, Gertrude Douglas 
 had changed the subject altogether. It was a 
 way she had. For all her tact she knew little 
 of the decaying art of conversation. 
 
 And for Percival Meredith, too, the evening 
 was spoiled, that is, so far as his one intention 
 w^as concerned. It yet remained to him to ask 
 formally for an interview on the morrow, and 
 though he thought seriously on this, he put 
 the idea away rather impatiently at last. It 
 seemed to belong to a past day ; and Percival 
 was anxious, beyond even his natural years, 
 to keep pace with the present. The fact that 
 he was so much older than Miss Theyn had 
 more than its due weight with him. The 
 diflference would have been as nothing to a man 
 who had not, in some way, passed the ' slow 
 feet ' of the years.
 
 ii8 IN EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 
 
 And yet his mood that night was by no 
 means a sad one. He sat alone in his smoking 
 room for some time, half- wishing that he had 
 asked Mr. Egerton to come over to Ormston 
 for a few days, and half- glad that he had 
 not. 
 
 ' Still,' he said to himself, ' when one is in 
 a state of perplexity, or suspense, solitude is 
 seldom quite welcome.' Then he chose for 
 himself a good cigar, and poked the fire into 
 a blaze, and put up the Berlin slippers which 
 his mother had worked with such extreme 
 care to be thoroughly toasted. ' And yet, 
 why should I be perplexed V he said to him- 
 self when these arrangements for his personal 
 comfort had been made to his satisfaction. 
 ' I know what I wish to do, and what I mean 
 to do ; then why perplexity ? . . . And as 
 for suspense ?' . . . and here Mr. Meredith 
 took his cigar from between his lips and 
 smiled satirically. ' Suspense ! with a lady 
 so dainty and so shy, waiting in her utmost 
 daintiness and shyness for one to throw the 
 handkerchief. Well, it is certainly not — not 
 altogether unpleasant ! One might — at 
 Market Yarburgh — bide one's time, and make
 
 CONCERNING HAPPINESS. 1 1 9 
 
 a successful throw after all ! That is one 
 advantage of a country place. . . . And there 
 are others — several others ! ... At the 
 present moment I am in love with Ormston 
 Magna.'
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 m THE VILLAGE STREET. 
 
 ' Can another be so blessed, and we so pure, that we can 
 offer him tenderness ? When a man becomes dear to me I 
 have touched the goal of fortune.' — Emerson. 
 
 They were roses, lovely fresh roses that filled 
 Miss Theyn's hands. She was alone in the 
 carriage as it drove down one of the narrow 
 streets of Ulvstan — streets where greengrocers 
 lived, and pastry-cooks, and vendors of bath- 
 ing garments. Thorhilda had no purchases to 
 make, and the roses were intended for the 
 matron of the small cottage hospital which 
 the Canon had done so much towards institut- 
 ing, and now maintained almost solely by his 
 own generosity. But the roses never reached 
 Mrs. Nesbitt. A tall figure, bearing a basket 
 covered with seaweed, suddenly turned the 
 corner of the street — a blue worsted-clad
 
 IN THE VILLAGE STREET. 121 
 
 figure,with no bonnet to hide the coils of her 
 beautiful chestnut hair, no hat to shade the 
 finely-cut features upon which the cast of 
 thought was already marked so plainly. Miss 
 Theyn saw the girl, recognised her, and stopped 
 the carriage instantly. A moment's reflection 
 might perhaps have changed her feeling, but 
 that moment was not possible. Thorhilda 
 was acting and speaking out of her first 
 impulse. 
 
 * Barl)ara,' she cried, holding out the big 
 bouquet of lovely roses, red, creamy-white, 
 deep crimson, and palest blush. * Barbara I 
 will you have these '? They are quite fresh. 
 And bow is your grandfather ? My uncle 
 fancied he was not looking quite so well as 
 usual at church on Sunday morning.' 
 
 The tide of rich colour that was pouring- 
 over Bab's face, under her hair, down her 
 neck, attested the confusion to which she was 
 moved by the suddenness of the encounter ; 
 but no muscle of her beautiful, regular fea- 
 tures was tortured to express her emotion. 
 The girl lifted her gray- blue eyes — there was 
 no sauciness in them now, no defiance ; there 
 was nothing but a deep and deferential admi-
 
 122 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ratioQ — nay, it was more, afFection, devotion, 
 as Miss Theyn saw. And the girl stood like 
 a statue for calmness and for dignity, taking 
 the bouquet — such a one as she had never 
 seen before — and, apart from the fact that 
 Miss Theyn had given it to her, the roses 
 were in themselves as precious as any pearls 
 or diamonds Bab's limited experience enabled 
 her to imagine. The blushes continued to 
 grow upon the fine face, but Bab was not 
 speechless. 
 
 ' You mean them for me V she said, using a 
 soft, grave surprise that was as touching as it 
 was welcome. Her eyes were drooping over 
 the flowers, her lips a little tremulous with 
 the weight of pleasure. 
 
 ' How will I thank you. Miss Theyn V she 
 added. ' How will I ever thank you ? An' 
 there's nothing I can do, nothing !' 
 
 ' You hardly need to thank me, not for a 
 few flowers,' Miss Theyn replied ; and it was 
 easy to see that she was receiving almost as 
 much pleasure as she was giving. ' Do you 
 care for them so much ? I am glad of that. 
 I can bring you some often, almost every time 
 we come into Ulvstan.'
 
 IN THE VILLAGE STREET. 123 
 
 ' Oh, don't thiuk of that, Miss Theyn,' Balj 
 replied, her independence taking quick alarm 
 at the idea of a pleasure so spontaneous being 
 converted into a benefit * to be continued.' 
 ' Don't think of that/ she said ; ' I'll never 
 forget as you've given me these.' 
 
 Thorhilda was quick to understand. 
 
 * Very well !' she said, with one of her usual 
 winning smiles. ' I think I know what you 
 feel, and I will respect it. All the same, I 
 may come and see you, I hope ? I have been 
 promising myself that pleasure.' 
 
 The blush on Barbara's face deepened ; and 
 since the words she could have said — words of 
 gratitude for even the hope of some crumbs 
 of afi*ectiou — since these might not be spoken, 
 she had few others, and these were not 
 adequate. 
 
 ' I'd like to see you,' she said, lifting her 
 truthful eyes to Miss Theyn's face ; ' I'd like 
 to see you often — every day of my life if it 
 might be. But ' 
 
 Bab hesitated here, and looked somewhat 
 embarrassed ; and while she was silent a prob- 
 able cause for her sudden hesitation crossed 
 Miss Theyn's mind.
 
 124 /iV EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' You are not afraid that I might try to 
 influence you against your wish, are you, 
 Barbara ?' she asked. ' Are you thinking, for 
 instance, that I may try to persuade you to 
 discountenance my brother ? Is it that ?' 
 
 Barbara lifted her straightforward, unsus- 
 picious face, and some pain was written there, 
 some surprise. 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' I was not thinking o' that, 
 not then. But since you have spoke of it of 
 yoursel', Miss Theyn, would you mind sayin' 
 more — all you think, indeed ?' 
 
 ' All that I think on the matter,' Thorhilda 
 said earnestly ; ' that would be difficult. Still 
 I should like you to know the truth. . . . 
 Let us speak exactly. I went over to the 
 Grange one day on purpose to speak to my 
 brother about you ; it was the day after I had 
 seen you on the beach. I went to talk to him 
 about his intercourse with you, to ask him his 
 wishes and intentions, to beg him to consider 
 seriously what he was doing. But afterward 
 when I came away, and was trying to re- 
 member what I had said, I was surprised to 
 find that I had said so little of all that I had 
 meant to say. . . . Life is seldom cut and
 
 IN THE VILLAGE STREET. 125 
 
 squared to one's anticipations. Some new- 
 experience, giving rise to some new feeling, 
 does away with all the old conclusions, and 
 one is left perplexed.' 
 
 Bab was listening, fully understanding, and 
 Miss Theyn knew .that she understood. Half 
 unaware, an opinion as to Bab's quick and 
 strong intellectual capacity was growing within 
 her with every turn of the conversation. It 
 was not w^hat the girl said, but what the 
 expression of her face said for her. 
 
 * Let us speak exactly, you said just now, 
 Miss Theyn ;' and Bab's repetition of the 
 phrase, her very intonation of it, might have 
 been amusing at another time. ' Let us 
 speak exactly, you say. Well, then, you did 
 wish to persuade your brother from thinkin' 
 o' me. You went to the Grange on purpose ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' Miss Theyn replied, sorry for the 
 sudden sorrow she saw in Barbara's eyes and 
 about the finely-curved, sensitive mouth. 
 Barbara remained quite silent. 
 
 ' I did go on that errand,' Miss Theyn 
 repeated. ' But I must tell you all ; I must 
 tell you that I found my brother's mind so 
 completely made up that no influence of
 
 126 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 mine availed to move him from his purpose 
 for a second. . . . We are a stubborn race, 
 we of Garlaff, and we seldom change.' 
 
 ' Then you failed of your erran' !' Bab asked 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Yes ; utterly.' 
 
 ' An' you were sorry ?' 
 
 ' How shall I reply to that, Barbara ? I 
 wish to tell the truth, and I do not wish to 
 pain you.' 
 
 ' And the truth is ' 
 
 ' The truth is simply this,' interrupted Miss 
 Theyn, not liking to see any longer the sad, 
 heart- hungry look on Bab's face — it was like 
 watching the going down of some emotional 
 thermometer, marking; the des^rees of lowerino- 
 disappointment. ' The truth is this, that I 
 do not at present understand myself, my own 
 feeling in the matter. ... I suppose I had some 
 regret ; I suppose I did feel some annoyance 
 at my brother's strong determination.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Miss Theyn,' Barbara said very 
 calmly. ^ I knew you'd speak plain, an' I'm 
 glad you spoke to-day. . . . An' thank you 
 again for the roses. 'Twas good of you, an' 
 kind, to give them to me.'
 
 IN THE VILLAGE STREET. 127, 
 
 Barbara's face had grown paler as she 
 turned away ; her look was grave to dignity, 
 and her bow graceful enough for any lady in 
 the land. Thorhilda bowed and smiled, then 
 gave a word to the coachman, who was glad 
 that his impatient horses should at last be 
 delivered from that long stay in the village 
 street. ' Home,' Miss Theyn said, throwing 
 herself back among the rugs and cushions, 
 and yielding herself up to feelings of mingled 
 dissatisfaction and self-reproach. In wishing 
 to be perfectly truthful, had she gone beyond 
 the truth ? Had she been quite careful 
 enough of the evidently too-sensitive feelings 
 of another ? Barbara Burdas had touched 
 her, appealed to the yet but half- awakened 
 sense of humanity that was struggling for 
 its existence within her, and she could not 
 put away the appeal. 
 
 ' I wish I had said a word more — but one 
 word !' she exclaimed half-audibly. ' Perhaps 
 I may say it yet — I must. That sad look of 
 Barbara's will certainly haunt me so long as it 
 is unsaid !'
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 ' Well you may, you must, set down to me, 
 Love that was life, — life that was love.' 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 Was it a little unfortunate that Hartas should 
 take it into his head to go down to Ulvstan 
 that same evening ? He had not seen 
 Barbara for some days ; he was feeling lonely 
 and unhappy, and also unhopeful ; and the 
 unexpected darkness and chilliness of the 
 summer night helped his feeling of depression. 
 And he soon discerned that Bab was not 
 likely to put it away that evening. He 
 recognised at once that she was in some 
 highly- wrought mood not to be accounted 
 for by failure or success in gathering her tale 
 of limpets. 
 
 He had been waiting patiently below the
 
 EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES. 129 
 
 little wooden gallery for some time when Bab 
 appeared. He knew her ways. She would 
 come out to the spring by the corner of the 
 house for w^ater, or to close the old green 
 window shutters, or to stand and look at the 
 sky and breathe the fresh sea-air for a few 
 minutes, as was her wont during the indoor 
 evenings she bore so badly. Hartas did not 
 dare, now or ever, to do anything but wait 
 quite silently ; and he had been waiting for 
 more than an hour when at last he heard the 
 click of the wooden latch. Barbara came out, 
 stood at the top of the five little steps, listen- 
 ing, as it were. How was it that she seemed 
 to know so quickly that someone was there, 
 that that someone was Hartas Theyn ? She 
 certainly could not see him in the dim light 
 that was where he stood. 
 
 ' It's late for you to be so far fra Garlaff,' 
 she said, coming to the edge of the little 
 wooden platform and bending over. Hartas 
 could see her now in the light from the 
 window, and he could hear her voice, the 
 unencouraging tone of it, the absence of all 
 welcome in it, of all pleasure. And yet what 
 was the meaning of that slight difficulty that 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 7 30 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 seemed almost like tremulousness for the 
 moment ? Hartas was perplexed. 
 
 ' It's none so late/ he replied, putting much 
 emotion into the quiet emotionless words, and 
 drawing nearer to the gallery as he spoke. 
 ' It's none so late. Why there's lights all 
 over the place yet.' 
 
 * The lights i' the windows o' fashionable 
 folk/ Bab replied, with unaccustomed satire. 
 ^ They're goin' to bed, w^orn out wi' lissenin' to 
 the band all the mornin', an' goin' up the 
 cliff side i' the lift to lunch. An' then they 
 get more tired wi' drivin' aboot i' carriages all 
 the afternoon ; an' they've got to sit two 
 hours at dinner, an' then there's the band 
 again. Oh, it mun be a wearyin' life, that o' 
 theirs. . . . Yet, after all, I'd like to try it for 
 aboot a fortnight.' 
 
 ' A fortnight ! You'd never stajid it that 
 long, Barbara,' Hartas said, speaking in far 
 gentler tones than Bab herself had used. 
 ' But I don't wonder that you should wish 
 for rest, for change of some kind. I often 
 think of you, an' of the way you work, 
 morn, noon, an' night. It would kill most 
 women/
 
 EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES. 131 
 
 Barbara laughed, not a pleasant laugh to 
 the ears of Hartas Theyn. 
 
 ' It 'ud kill some men,' she said, * it might 
 even do 'em harm to hev to think of it. An* 
 Ah don't wonder at you bein' struck wi' the 
 sight 0' work of any kind !' 
 
 Then she stopped, and presently added with 
 even more of bitterness in her tone : 
 
 ' If you've wondered about me, I've wondered 
 about you, an' not a little ! How do you ever 
 get through the days ? I should think every 
 day was like a week ; an' every week like a 
 year. Oh, me 1 I can tell you I hev 
 wondered how you live your life, an' you a 
 man !' 
 
 Hartas was blushing under the cover of the 
 night ; Bab's too sharp and eager words smote 
 upon his own consciousness of the unworthi- 
 ness of his existence so that every sentence 
 hurt him like a blow. And yet there was 
 something to be said in answer. Mastering 
 as well as he could the hot tide of anger that 
 was pouring over him, making him quiver to 
 the very lips, he strove to make reply. 
 
 ' Every word you've said shows how little 
 you know 0' the truth,' he began, using more 
 
 9—2
 
 132 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 impressiveness in his tones than she had ever 
 heard before. ' I've been idle anufF, most 
 o' my life, I admit that, an' not without 
 regret neither ; but there was something to 
 be said for me, if there'd been anybody to say 
 it. I'd no eddication, because when I was 
 a little fellow I didn't want none, an' liked 
 better bein' all day long about the Grange, wi' 
 the men, an' horses, an' cattle. An' instead 
 of anyone forcin' me to go to school, my 
 father was proud o' me, because, bein' so little, 
 I rebelled and wouldn't go. An' they used to 
 set me upon the table, my uncle an' him, an' 
 make me tell folk what I thowt o' the school- 
 master, an' when I said some impident thmg, 
 they'd all burst out i' laughter, as if I was the 
 cleverest child i' the world. 
 
 * An' then by the time I was older, my 
 father had grown indifferent, an' didn't care 
 how things went, nor what I did, nor what 
 nobody did. All he wanted was to be let 
 alone. An' he dreaded when folks like the 
 Canon or Mrs. Kerne came botherin' about 
 me. An' because I was ignorant an' uncul- 
 tured, an' couldn't talk to them as an ecjual, 
 an' felt nought but embarrassment. I grew to
 
 ^ EXTENUATING CIRCIJMSTANCES. 133 
 
 hate the sight 0' them ; an' the hatred was 
 like anger, an' made me insolent. An' all the 
 while I was as miserable as I could be ; for 
 the home's miserable anuff, I can tell you, an* 
 always has been. But 'twas never till I'd 
 seen you, Bab, 'at I knew what shame was. 
 Even when you were a little thing toilin' 
 and moilin' on the scaur all day, I'd ha given 
 the world to ha' come an' helped you a bit, as 
 that David Andoe used to do, as he does yet 
 maybe, for aught I know.' 
 
 ' I'm noan one to need help fra no man,* 
 Barbara said, softened into replying with less 
 of bitterness in her tone. ^ An' if all be true 
 as you say, why mebbe one ought to ha' been 
 more sorry nor vexed wi' you. But it's noan 
 over late i' life, it could never be over late to 
 begin to mend.' 
 
 ' An' that's just what I'm trying to do ; 
 w^hat I've been tryin' to do this year past, 
 ever since I came to know more of you and 
 your life. But there's nobody to see any change 
 in me, or if they do see any it's only some- 
 thing to be sneered at, an' there's nought i' the 
 world so bad to bear as a sneer because your 
 tryin' to get yourself out o' the old groove.'
 
 134 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 Bab did not reply for a moment or two, 
 then she said eagerly : 
 
 ' Does your sister sneer at you, the one that 
 lives at the Eectory ? Does she sneer when she 
 knows you're tryin to make a new beginnin' V 
 
 Hartas felt his answer too deeply to have it 
 on his tongue very readily. 
 
 ' Her sneer !' he said at last ; * her sneer 
 at anything good ! Eh, but the very qiies- 
 tion shows how little you know her. ... I 
 don't know much of her myself, an' mebbe I 
 might say " more's the pity " if I knew all it 
 meant. An' it's not her fault 'at we're little 
 more than strangers. I didn't want to know 
 her, or to see her ; an' for years I took some 
 pains to let her know that I didn't. An' yet 
 she's never resented it i' no way ; mebbe she 
 knows 'at there's things to be said on the 
 other side. They've talked against her at the 
 Grange, and said as liow^ she was '' stuck up ;" 
 an' of all bad things to bear, that's about the 
 worst to me. An' I believed them ; an' when 
 I heard her talk it seemed to me 'at her way 
 o' speakin' was mincin', an' over fine ; an' her 
 w^ays was far o'er fastidious for a rough chap 
 like me. An' at last she was no more to me
 
 EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES. 135 
 
 nor a stranger I'd never heard tell of. . . . But 
 now,' and here Hartas's voice changed and 
 softened — ' now it seems as if she'd been carin' 
 all the while, an' feelin' lonely, an' wishin only 
 as she'd had so much as one real brother or 
 sister i' the world. I'd never dreamed of it, 
 it's all new ; an' — well, if the truth must be 
 told, I'm feeling as if there was nought I 
 wouldn't do to please her. No, there's nougiit 
 but one thing, an' that she'll never ask, no, 
 she'll never ask it, Bab, if you let her know 
 you as / know you. She'd never dream o' 
 wishin' anybody to make such a sacrifice o' 
 their whole life as that.' 
 
 For a little while Barbara was thoughtful 
 and silent. 
 
 ' No, your sister would never ask it,' she 
 said, speaking in a low, fervid way, rather 
 as if she spoke to herself for her own 
 strengthening than as one speaking to an- 
 other. ' She'd noiin do that — not of her 
 own free will ; but what she'd never ask for 
 one might offer her, mebbe. ... Or no, it 
 'ud ha' to be done without words I Anyhow, 
 for her^ one would do it, an' willingly, — ay, 
 more than willingly.'
 
 CHAPTEE XIY. 
 
 THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 
 
 ' And soon we feel the want of one kind heart 
 To love what's well, and to forgive what's ill 
 In us — that heart we play for at all risks.' 
 
 Festus, P. J. Bailey. 
 
 Hartas quite understood ; comprehending not 
 only the roeaning of the woman he loved, but 
 the depth of her strong determination. She 
 was capable of this thing that she was evi- 
 dently revolving in her mind; and the idea 
 thus newly and suddenly presented to him was 
 sufficiently disturbing. 
 
 ' When have you seen my sister last V he 
 asked, after a pause which had given him time 
 to view the situation wdth some dismay. 
 
 'This afternoon,' replied Bab without hesita- 
 tion. ' I'd been over to Danesborough for 
 flithers ; and had come back to Ulvstan by the 
 train . . . Miss Theyn was i' the street, in her
 
 THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 137 
 
 carriage. She'd her hands full 0' roses ; an' 
 she gave 'em to me.' 
 
 'An' you'd sacrifice, not only yourself but 
 me, because 0' that 1' Hartas exclaimed, the 
 hastiness in his tone betraying much that the 
 merciful darkness was hiding. But though 
 Bab could not discern the hot tide of colour 
 that had risen to his face, she felt the change 
 in his accents, and was silent. 
 
 ' Because of a handful o' flowers that never 
 cost her a ha'penny, an' likely anuff was never 
 meant for you, you're willin' to throw me an' 
 all my hopes overboard for ever ! . . . Good 
 heavens, what strange sort o' stuff a woman's 
 made of 1' 
 
 Even as he spoke he remembered the day on 
 the beach, when, for all his natural want of 
 perspicaciousness, he had discovered that his 
 sister had suddenly won more of Bab's favour 
 and aff'ection than he had been able to win by 
 the effort of months, nay, of years. At that 
 moment he had been half-glad, half-proud ; 
 but he saw it all in a new light now ; and the 
 vision exasperated him, though he could hardly 
 have told whether it was his sister or Barbara 
 Burdas against whom his anger was turned.
 
 138 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 He had not been particularly hopeful before ; 
 but this new fear seemed to destroy the hope 
 he had had, and to do this with a complete- 
 ness for which he himself could not have 
 accounted. 
 
 * I didn't come down here to hev no words/ 
 he said, remembering sadly enough the loving, 
 longing feeling that had beset him as he walked 
 down from the Grange ; a longing to pour out 
 all his heart to Bab ; to tell her of his new 
 consciousness of wasted life, of his remorse and 
 repentance, of his only half- comprehended 
 desire for better things. For him, as for most 
 human beings, a true love was proving that it 
 held the key to truer life, to fuller light. He 
 had not attained to anything yet ; but know- 
 ledge was coming to him hourly, that attain- 
 ment was not only desirable, not only possible, 
 but imperative, if he would live at all, if he 
 would not remain in that slough wherein he 
 had lain so long. He put it down to the fact 
 of his ignorance that all seemed so obscure, 
 so undefined, that instead of some clear aim 
 and rule to guide him he had only a more or 
 less vague longing for better things — a long- 
 ing that seemed to be bound up inseparably
 
 THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 139 
 
 with his desire to win the love of Barbara 
 Burdas. 
 
 ' The cygnet finds the water, but the man 
 Is born in ignorance of his element, 
 And feels out blind at first, disorganized 
 By sin i' the blood — his spirit-insight dulled 
 And crossed by his sensations. Presently 
 He feels it quicken in the dark sometimes, 
 When mark, be reverent, be obedient. 
 For such dumb motions of imperfect life 
 Are oracles of vital Deity, 
 Attesting the hereafter.' 
 
 The aspiration which had come to Hartas 
 Theyn did not touch any far-off future ; it 
 was held by strong bonds to the disappointing 
 and cruel-seeming present ; and out of all his 
 thinking, and feeling, and enduring, hardly 
 anything could be put into words. Bab un- 
 derstood how it was with him ; and the long 
 silence did not seem long to her, the torrent 
 of her own thought and emotion was too full 
 and rapid for that, and certainly neither of 
 them dreamed that another was impatient of 
 the pause, that another listened for the next 
 w^ord — listened breathlessly and eagerly. 
 Having hitherto caught only the tones of the 
 speakers, and perceiving that these did not 
 betoken the friendliness of feeling believed on
 
 I40 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 the Forecliff to exist between Barbara Burdas 
 and the Squire's son, it was no w^onder that 
 Nan Tyas should be drawn by an irresistible 
 curiosity to listen. Nan was not at any time 
 what might be called an over-scrupulous 
 woman. Though she had now been married 
 some six months, she was still little more than 
 a girl ; and being David Andoe's sister she 
 had especial reasons for wishing to know the 
 truth. 
 
 She was not a loving; woman. Passion, of 
 various kinds, she might already be acquainted 
 with, but the gentleness of true affection was 
 as strange and unaccustomed to her as to any 
 of her ungentle family. Yet she had some 
 liking for her brother David, a liking made up 
 of regard for his forbearance, of respect for his 
 indomitable high principle, for his unswerving 
 effort after a perfectly patient endurance of 
 trials which she but half understood to be 
 trying at all. She knew, as she could not fail 
 to do, of his unhappy love for Barbara Burdas, 
 and in this matter her sympathy, if indeed 
 ' sympathy ' her fierce and narrow feeling could 
 be called, was all for him. 
 
 To-night accident had led her round by old
 
 THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 141 
 
 Ephraim's cottage, or the ' Sagged Hoose,' * as 
 it was called upon the ForeclifF, from the fact 
 of its having suffered so severely in a landslip 
 as to have lost all claim to perpendicularity. 
 Strangers looked upon it with amazement 
 when they knew that it was inhabited by a 
 family of respectable fisher- folk. But Nan 
 was not thinking of the house, or of its 
 crookedness, as she went rapidly by the path 
 from the Andoes' home to her own, a path that 
 led behind the Sagged House, and away across 
 the waste sea -front of the rock to her own 
 cottage on the southern side. It was late, 
 half-past ten at least ; and though Nan w^as 
 alone she had no expectation of anything 
 happening, least of all anything that would 
 enable her to carry a word of comfort to her 
 brother David. 
 
 Nan was already weary of standing there by 
 the tarred paling that ran along the edge of 
 
 * Sagged (according to Robinson's Yorkshire ' Glossary') 
 means ' bulged out at the side, as a bowing wall.' But the 
 word is used in other ways. For instance, a woman's gown, 
 drawn at the seams, will be said to ' sag.' So, too, Shake- 
 speare in Macbeth v. iii. : — 
 
 ' The heart I bear 
 Shall never sag with doubt.'
 
 142 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 what had once been a stone-quarry, and was 
 just above old Ephraim's cottage. She knew 
 that the Squire's son was still there ; she could 
 discern the outline of his figure as he leaned 
 upon a solitary gate-post, from which the gate 
 had gone long ago. Barbara, being on the little 
 wooden gallery, was out of sight, though not 
 out of hearing. 
 
 ' I didn't come down to hev no words,' 
 Hartas had said at last, speaking with much 
 more of sullen anger in his tone than was in 
 his heart. 
 
 Bab, feeling sorry for him, and being in 
 pain and perplexity for herself, made no 
 reply. 
 
 Naturally the mind of each had wandered 
 far enough from the point touched at that 
 moment ; still Hartas seemed as if he would 
 take up the conversation where it had been 
 left off. 
 
 ' No ; I didn't come down here to quarrel,' 
 he said, in gentler and truer tones. (Nan 
 Tyas could distinguish everry syllable.) ' I 
 came for a purpose very different fra that, 
 Barbara ; an' I can't go no roundabout way to 
 it neither. . . . You know what it is ! If
 
 THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 143 
 
 I've never asked you the same question in 
 plain words before, I've all but done it many 
 a time, when youVe stopped me, either by 
 one means or another ; an' I must ask it now. 
 An' I'll say the truth as to what I believe. I 
 don't think 'at you care so much for me, not 
 yet ; but I do think 'at you'll come to care, if 
 you'll let me hev the chance o' winnin' you. 
 Hev I made a mistake, Bab, i' thinkin' 'at you 
 don't alius look at me so coldly now as you 
 used to do ? I've fancied so sometimes lately ; 
 an' I've been that glad when you seemed to 
 give me a kinder look 'at I've hardly known 
 whether I were walkin' on the ground or on 
 the air. It's none my way to talk wild, as 
 you know ; or I'd say things stronger nor 
 that. Mebbe I may say 'em yet if you give 
 me the answer I want. . . . Bab, you will 
 say it ? You'll be my wife ? I know you 
 will ! You'll never cut a fellow off frev all 
 the hope he hes i' the world % An' you shan't 
 repent ; no, never for a moment so long as 
 you live, if I can help it.' 
 
 Still there was silence. 
 
 Barbara's heart was beating with such wdld- 
 ness as it had perhaps never known before ;
 
 144 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 and the tears would have come but for the 
 strong forcefulness exerted to keep them back. 
 Never yet, never for one moment, had tempta- 
 tion been so strong ; never before had it 
 seemed so light a matter that Miss Theyn 
 should some day blush for her ignorance, that 
 Miss Theyn's kind eyes should droop in sorrow 
 because of her awkwardness, her ill-bred un- 
 graciousness. This was the sole hindrance on 
 the surface of her thought ; but there was 
 more below, much that she only half com- 
 prehended. What was it, that something that 
 spoke of some light to be had, some good to 
 be gained, some platform to be reached, the 
 lower step of which might be reached by even 
 a gatherer from the limpet rocks ? The one 
 thing that was clear to her in this perplexing 
 moment was that she must at least wait, that 
 she must not obey the longing — it was press- 
 ing upon her somewhat heavily to-night — the 
 longing to lay down her life's hard burden, 
 and rest upon the deep and true affection 
 offered to her. Bab did not doubt its truth. 
 
 If she had spoken openly, she would have 
 said : 
 
 ^ I do love you, even now ; and my love for
 
 THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 145 
 
 you is sweet to me; yours for me is comforting 
 — sustaining. Love is more than all I had 
 dreamed or imao-ined. But something^ within 
 me is incredulous of so o;reat a o:ood, and will 
 not let me accept it.' 
 
 It even seemed as if in this strong and 
 strange contest Bab's courage was giving way 
 — the one great quality which had seemed to 
 place her so high above her fellows, leaving 
 her timid and helpless as women are supposed 
 always to be. And inevitably Hartas Theyn 
 discerned the fact. We hide nothing from 
 each other. Dissimulation at its best is never 
 more than a partial success. 
 
 * You've no answer, Bab ?' he asked, with 
 tender surprise in his tone ; but intense feeling 
 was underneath. 
 
 For all his fever of anxiety he could yet be 
 glad that no quick and emphatic denial had 
 swept his hope to the ground. 
 
 At last Barbara spoke. 
 
 ' No,' she said. And Hartas knew, and Nan 
 Tyas knew, that her voice was the voice of 
 one subduing a very passion of sobs and tears. 
 ' No, I've no answer. . . . That's just the 
 truth — I can't make no answer.' 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 In one moment, one misguided moment 
 later, Hartas Theyn was beside her on the 
 little wooden gallery, his arm was round her, 
 her face was raised to his, all unawares and 
 against her will. For one not-to-be-forgotten 
 moment, Barbara Burdas w^as overmastered by 
 the mingled forces of love and strength. 
 
 And Nan Tyas knew it all, stooping there 
 in the darkness, bending forward with her ear 
 turned in the direction of the cottage door, 
 and her face hot with the strain of listening. 
 She knew every thing. 
 
 ' I have no answer,' Bab had said. 
 
 ' Then I'll take an answer 1' Hartas Theyn 
 exclaimed in the first flush of his momentary 
 success. 
 
 But the next moment Barbara had freed 
 herself wdth a single strong eff'ort. Standing 
 apart, alone, conscious to her finger-tips of a 
 new shame, a new and unexpected humilia- 
 tion, speaking louder than before, and far 
 more angrily than she knew : 
 
 ' Take an answer !' she exclaimed. And 
 Hartas Theyn could see the flashing of her 
 eyes in the faint light from the window ; he 
 could discern in her tone the surprise and
 
 THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. 147 
 
 indignation that had come upon her with his 
 ill-judged action. ' You'll take an answer !' 
 she repeated. ' Eh, but it's little you know o' 
 me, if you think I'm one to be treated so ! 
 . . . No, Mr. Theyn, I'll find an answer 
 noo, since you're so eager for one ; an' it's 
 soon said. You asked me to be your wife, 
 an' I say, No, never ! I'd marry no man 'at 
 showed me so plain he'd no more respect for 
 me nor that ! There's my answer ! . . . 
 Good-night.' 
 
 Nan Tyas heard the quick bolting of the 
 cottage door, the sharp rattle of the window- 
 blind as it dropped over the panes. Then she 
 knew that Hartas Theyn walked away with 
 slow and heavy step and frequent pauses, but 
 not pausing near enough or long enough to 
 hear the sound that Nan heard later — the 
 sound of subdued and bitter weeping. 
 
 ' She'll noan wed himl Nan said to herself, 
 as she went homeward. * Her pride '11 never 
 stand such ways as that. There's more nor a 
 chance for David yet ; as he shall know afore 
 he's a day older !' 
 
 10—2
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SOME ART CRITICS. 
 
 ' Humanity is great ; 
 And if I would not rather pore upon 
 An ounce of ugly, common, human dust, 
 An artisan's palm, or a peasant's brow, 
 Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and God, 
 Than track old Nilus to his silver roots, 
 
 Set it down 
 
 As weakness— strength by no means.' 
 
 E, B. Browning. 
 
 All the morning, since the first ebbing of the 
 tide, Damian Aldenmede had been sitting 
 there under the cliffs beyond Yarva Ness, his 
 easel with its broad canvas before him, a white 
 umbrella behind him, a carefully kept and 
 curiously-set palette, with the usual sheaf of 
 brushes in his hand. A noticeable figure he 
 made in that wide stretch of land and sea. 
 Usually the scene was a more or less dreary 
 one, inclining to a melancholy speculativeness,
 
 SOME ART CRITICS. M9 
 
 or to unhopeful acquiescence ; but no such 
 mood might beset any responsive human being 
 on a morning so free, so fresh, so blue, so 
 sunny as this. Damian Alclenmede's tall, thin 
 frame was not the home of a soul that could 
 be called unresponsive. 
 
 After working: with more than his usual 
 rapidity for a couple of hours, putting on 
 canvas, with what truth and poetry of truth 
 were in his power, the great gray nab that 
 ran out from the land, and crossed a consider- 
 able stretch of the sea, he was now resting 
 awhile, surveying the result of that long spell 
 of sea-born inspiration. He was not wholly 
 .satisfied ; what true creator is ever satisfiec' 
 with his own creation % 
 
 In all the Bible is there no more striking 
 and suggestive passage than that one to be 
 read in the Book of Genesis : — ' And it 
 repented the Lord that He had made man 
 on the earth ; and it grieved Him at His 
 heart.' 
 
 This is startling ; but it is entirely con- 
 ceivable ; and a man might find motive-power 
 enough for a change of life, were he to try 
 but for one hour to grasp all that that
 
 ISO IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 strange and awful repentance must have 
 meant. It must have involved and included 
 so much more than we can even dream of 
 here. The repentance of an All-knowing 
 and All-foreseeing God! We imagine it to 
 be contradictory ; and so it is to our finite 
 reasoning and understanding. Our utmost 
 effort can bring about no satisfactory recon- 
 ciliation, and few altogether reverent minds 
 could wdsh to attempt any such reconcilement. 
 The great hereafter, heaven itself, is made 
 more attractive by the thought of all we 
 have to learn; and if to this you join the 
 added power of learning and discerning that 
 ^ve may hope for, we get a brighter and 
 more living glance and grasp of that eternit}' 
 which, being in a large sense vague, may not 
 be entirely unappalling to some, and those 
 not the w^orst, not the most dead to aspi- 
 ration. 
 
 By the ancient Greeks — the worthiest and 
 best of them — the pleasures of the intellect 
 were accounted the highest of all, the plea- 
 sures of learning, of knowing, of thinking, of 
 discovering ; and this pleasure was inherent, 
 not heightened in any w^ay by the display of
 
 SOME ART CRITICS. 151 
 
 knowledge as an accomplislimenc. So far as 
 these authors and thinkers of that olden 
 time knew they were wise and right ; but 
 the pleasures of the still finer, the still higher 
 part of man's nature had not then been made 
 manifest as they were to be made by the 
 development of a new^ dispensation. This 
 hicrher discernino; was reserved for the fol- 
 lowers of One despised, rejected, misunder- 
 stood in His own day, save by a responsive 
 few. We, the inheritors of these few, seeing 
 by their light, discern more clearly the 
 nature of the most perfect felicity possible 
 to man, and therefore have keener appetence 
 for it, keener hope and expectancy. By 
 this hope we live. The miserable man is he 
 whose hope is dulled — dulled by care, by 
 sin, or by neglect of spiritual culture. Does 
 it need the combined effort of the three to 
 destroy the soul meant for far other than 
 destruction ? That they run one into another 
 in ways unexpected, undreamed, we all of 
 us know ; and those who deny most strenu- 
 ously the existence of any tempting personal 
 spirit of evil, must yet admit the existence 
 of some inofenious and most forcible laws of
 
 152 IN EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 
 
 deterioration. . . . These we do not under- 
 stand ; how should we ? But we can at least 
 believe in them sufficiently to dread a time 
 when disbelief may be no longer possible. 
 
 It is not the man who, to use an easy say- 
 ing, is ' born good ' — to whom purity and 
 uprightness are as first instincts ; it is not 
 this man who can enter fully into the life of 
 him whose soul is weighted from the beginning 
 with strong impulses toward evil that beset 
 him, body and mind. And here is the root 
 of much of our harsh judgment. We see the 
 error, but not the strange and peculiar force 
 of circumstance that led the erring man into 
 sin before he was well aware. We see his 
 fall, but not the long and sore strife with over- 
 whelming temptation. 
 
 But while we are thanking God that we 
 are not as this man, it may be that God 
 Himself is stooping from heaven to comfort 
 him with all divine and most efficacious 
 comfort. 
 
 ' Which of My Saints, of the men possessed 
 by the Prayer-spirit, from Abraham to Gordon, 
 was without spot or stain ? Which of them 
 was unblessed by repentance ? Was not the
 
 SOME ART CRITICS. 153 
 
 oft and grievously eiriiig David a man after 
 My own heart ? Did not Magdalen love the 
 more because there was in her so much to be 
 forgiven ? Is it not an echo, and also a proof 
 of the felicitous bliss of My Divine Forgiveness 
 that there is no finer and more perfect human 
 emotion than that between two loving human 
 souls, one of which receives full forgiveness 
 from the other V 
 
 So one might hear, if one listened, with 
 other w^ords more consoling still. Damian 
 Aldenmede had heard. 
 
 ' The upright man is dear to Me,' saith 
 One. ' The man who loves much is dearer 
 yet.' 
 
 And there is even another. ' To him that 
 overcometh will I grant to sit with Me in My 
 Throne.' 
 
 Him that overcometh ! This is the touch- 
 stone. The man whose way is plain, and 
 smooth, and easy ; into whose life no ques- 
 tion as to strife, as to yielding, has ever 
 entered ; this man may not be shut out from 
 the kingdom, since such slight test was given 
 him whereby he might prove himself worthy 
 to enter. But not for him the shout that shall
 
 154 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 go up before the Throne of God as greeting 
 to those who have come out of great tribu- 
 lation. 
 
 * In my Father's house are many man- 
 sions.' 
 
 You had only to look once into the face of 
 Damian Aldenmede to see that he was now, 
 at least in one sense, like the Master whom 
 he would fain follow, were it but afar off. 
 At the first sight you knew^ that you looked 
 upon a man over whose head the waves and 
 storms of life had swept pitilessly. 
 
 It was a calm enough face now — indeed, 
 the most forcible impression you received 
 was one of a human being, strong and tran- 
 quil ; and in the same moment you saw that 
 both the strength and the tranquillity were 
 of the kind that come by long and sore 
 strife. 
 
 Contradictions w^ere not wanting — they 
 seldom arc on the face of man or woman 
 of middle age. The young, who have not 
 entered into the fight, the old, who have 
 fought and won — or lost — these may impress 
 you with unity, w-ith consistency — seldom 
 others.
 
 SOME ART CRITICS. 155 
 
 On this artist's face, for instance, except 
 when in perfect repose, the extreme gravity 
 would be half- betrayed by certain curves 
 that declared hira not incapable of humour ; 
 and the stern, ascetic lines about the mouth 
 were somewhat neutralised by the tender- 
 ness of the deep, sad gray eyes — eyes that 
 were sure to be uplifted to yours, at first 
 with something of inquiry in them, of search- 
 ing, as if once more he were asking the 
 question : 
 
 ' Shall one find human faith on this human 
 earth V 
 
 It is Emerson who says : 
 
 ' I confess to an extreme tenderness of 
 nature on this point. It is almost dangerous 
 to me to " crush the sweet poison of misused 
 wine " of the affections. A new person is 
 to me a great event, and hinders me from 
 sleep.' 
 
 Not less keenly had Damian Aldenmede 
 felt on this matter ; and, need one say it, 
 all his life he had suffered in proportion to 
 the depth and keenness of his feeling. The 
 assurance most present with him now was 
 that they are happiest who expect least.
 
 r.56 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 In one thing at least he was fortunate, in 
 being able to gratify his instinct for move- 
 ment whenever the desire came upon him. 
 If he had not wealth, then poverty did not 
 chain him by the feet. If no ties of human 
 love held him by beseeching hands, still he 
 had freedom and power to secure the solitude 
 he had come to prize so greatly. And he was 
 not incapable of weighing, of duly appreciating 
 the good he had. 
 
 As he sat there on the point of rock by 
 his easel, looking out over the rippling tide, 
 soothed by its murmuring, soothed yet more 
 by the far stretches of blue sky, of bluer 
 distant sea, the extreme gravity of his face 
 seemed to relax a little ; then his head was 
 bent listeningly. By-and-by he smiled, and 
 the austere face became winning, beautiful, 
 pathetic, in the light of one of the most 
 human of human pleasures. 
 
 It was only a song that he listened to, a 
 doleful ballad of an older day, sung by girls' 
 voices, that rose and fell upon the breeze, 
 now seeming near, now floating afar. At last 
 the words became plainly discernible :
 
 SOME ART CRITICS. 157 
 
 * And tell that ladye of my woe, 
 
 And tell her of my love ; 
 And give to her thys golden ring 
 My tender faythe to prove.' 
 
 This was only suDg by one or two voices ; 
 next there came a little chatting and some 
 laughing ; then a chorus came that might 
 have been sung by a dozen voices at least : 
 
 ' Yee fayre dames of merrye Englande, 
 Faste youre teares muste poure ; 
 For manye's the valiante Englishman 
 That yee sail see noe more.' 
 
 All the voices joined in this, with some attempt 
 at part- singing — crude, unscientific, yet with 
 a certain most attra.ctively wild sweetness. 
 This was followed by a single voice, young, 
 clear, fresh, as the wind from the sea. 
 Now and then it seemed to vibrate tremb- 
 lingly, as if to the pathos of the words of the 
 old ballad : 
 
 ' Fayre Alice shea sat her on the grounde. 
 And never a worde shee spake ; 
 But like the pale image dyd shee looke, 
 For her hearte was nighe to breake. 
 
 ' The rose that once soe ting'd her cheeke, 
 Was nowe, alas ! noe more ; 
 But the whiteness of her lillye skin 
 Was fayrer than before.' 
 
 By this time the oirls had come to the
 
 158 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 angle of the rock ; there were seven of them, 
 tall, straight, strong-limbed fisher-girls, each 
 with her basket of limpets on her head ; each 
 dressed in her own half-masculine, wholly 
 picturesque costume. They made a striking 
 group as they came swiftly onward, with 
 swinging gait, and gay, fearless countenance. 
 Damian Aldenmede, comparatively young 
 though he might be, and certainly strong, 
 was yet half-envious of the quick, vivid, 
 energetic life displayed in every movement 
 made by these fisher-girls of Ulvstan Bight. 
 He had discerned them before they were aware 
 of his presence under the tall, blue-black rock. 
 It was the white umbrella, the easel with 
 its wide canvas, that attracted their attention 
 first. Then came a momentary pause in the 
 singing, an echo of faint, surprised laughter ; 
 but almost immediately the singing was heard 
 again. By this time it was the turn of the 
 soloist, who was no other than Barbara 
 Burdas. 
 
 ' And nowe came horsemen to the towne, 
 That the prynce had sent with speede ; 
 With tydings to Alice that he dyd live 
 To ease her of her dreade.
 
 SOME ART CRITICS. , 1 59 
 
 ' But the page hee saw the lovely e Alice 
 In a doepe, deepe grave let downe, 
 And at her heade a greene turfe ylade, 
 And at her f eete a stone.' 
 
 So Barbara sang, in impressive, thrilling 
 tones, that rose and died away with a 
 plaintiveness that seemed to belong not alto- 
 gether to the words, nor yet to the quaint 
 and simple music, but to some special quality 
 in the singer's own nature. She came on- 
 ward, a little in advance of the others, sing- 
 ing as she came, and bearing her burden of 
 limpets — some three stones of them — on her 
 head, with a kind of unconscious conscious- 
 ness of grace, the grace of strength in her 
 bearing. Damian Aldenmede, watching her, 
 seemed to be almost perplexed in his surprise. 
 The possibilities of form, of action, of attitude, 
 w^ere all awakened in him with that new force - 
 fulness of impression which is so much to an 
 artist. It is in such moments that he lives 
 and moves — moves rapidly onwaid. 
 
 Yet nearer the girls came, smiling archly, 
 sino;inor — 
 
 * Yee fayre dames of merrye Englande,' 
 
 lifting coquettish glances to the face of the 
 artist who sat quietly by his easel, a man
 
 i6o IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 too grave, too long and too deeply tried, to 
 be abashed in such a crisis as this. He raised 
 his eyes to meet the eyes of the tall central 
 figure — it was nearer to him than the others — 
 and almost on the instant he became aware 
 that this was not a first meeting. Apparently 
 they were both aware of it. 
 
 But the others did not perceive. They 
 were finishing their chorus in a light, easy 
 way. With the last words they stopped by 
 the easel, looked at the artist with eager, 
 interested, surprised looks ; then they turned 
 to the nab in the distance, glancing from it 
 to the canvas and back again with the glance 
 supposed to be peculiar to practised and com- 
 petent judges. 
 
 ' It's noan sa bad !' said Nan Tyas en- 
 couragingly. 
 
 ' 'Tisn't black anuff"/ Marget Scurr inter- 
 posed. 
 
 ' It's ower far awaay,' remarked Nell Furniss. 
 
 Still the artist sat there with seeming im- 
 passiveness, listening to these untrained, yet 
 perhaps not quite untrue art- critics; but since 
 their remarks were in nowise addressed to him 
 he could hardly make reply. He noticed
 
 SOME ART CRITICS. i6i 
 
 many things as he sat there ; amongst others, 
 that Barbara Burdas had no word to sav, 
 critical or other. She was looking at the 
 sketch with eager eyes, with parted lips, and 
 with an air of intense interest, which naturally 
 increased the artist's interest in her. Mean- 
 time her companions were moving away, im- 
 patient for their noonday cup of tea and 
 freshly-caught herring. 
 
 ' Ya'll be comin' when yer ready, Bab !' 
 Nan Tyas said, looking back with a meaning, 
 mocking glance, which Bab returned with a 
 steady look of warning. Damian Aldenmede 
 saw and understood. This woman was not 
 to be trifled with, even by her own com- 
 panions. Her look, the power in it, the un- 
 conscious demand of self-respect it betrayed, 
 increased his sudden regard for her, and 
 awoke the desire to know more of her that 
 was later to lead to such unexpected results. 
 How frequently in our life does a look have 
 the dynamic force of an event ! No observant 
 human being has lived his life without being 
 aware of the fact that much is said, much 
 done, in which neither word nor action has 
 any part. 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 CHAPTER XYL 
 
 BARBARA BETRAYS HERSELF. 
 
 ' The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is a 
 certain cordial exhilaration. In poetry and in common speech 
 the emotions of benevolence and complacency which are felt 
 towards others are likened to the material effects of fire, so 
 swift, or much more swift, more active, more cheering, are 
 the fine inward irradiations. From the highest degree of 
 passionate love, to the lowest degree of good- will, they make 
 the sweetness of life.' — Emerson. 
 
 Another moment or two they stood in silence, 
 then the artist said, with respectful tone and 
 manner : 
 
 ' Surely I have seen you somewhere before? 
 ... I have not been here for many years; yet 
 I seem to remember you.' 
 
 'Many years!' Barbara replied, looking 
 into the worn, much-enduring face before 
 her, and all unconsciously using a less rude 
 degree of the dialect of her daily life. 
 'Many years! It's just five this herring-
 
 BARBARA BETRA YS HERSELF. 163 
 
 time ... I remember so well. It was the year 
 after the big storm. Mebbe you heard o' that?' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed; and now I remember. You 
 are Barbara Burdas,' he said, with an increase 
 of gravity, and speaking as much to himself as 
 to Bab. ' And many things come back with 
 m}^ remembrance of that same summer. ... 
 Yes, many things.' 
 
 Then he looked into the girl's face again, 
 the face that had been so beautiful, so touching, 
 five years ago, and now was more beautiful, 
 more touching than ever. He could not but 
 continue to look, to question silently, to answer 
 himself silently also. 
 
 ' There is trouble there,' he said, discerning 
 by, the light of the bygone trouble that was 
 dead, but not buried, in his own heart. . . . 
 * There is sorrow, and yearning, and strength, 
 and determination. There is no yielding, 
 there is no joy, there is no hope. . . . Poor 
 child ! for you are but a child in spite of all 
 contrary secerning.' 
 
 All this the artist's eyes said, and Barbara 
 understood in a degree, and her face was 
 slightly averted : she was not used to sym- 
 pathy and understanding. 
 
 11—2
 
 i64 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' I remember your loss,' the artist said. 
 ' Your great loss! And your grandfather — 
 how is he?' 
 
 ' He's hearty, thank ya/ 
 
 ' And the little ones — how many ? I forget 
 the number/ 
 
 ' Four; they are all well, all bonny, all 
 good. Nobbut Jack gives a bit o' bother 
 now an' then; but he's not a bad bairn/ 
 
 ' Only troublesome? You are right, that 
 doesn't mean badness, very seldom. But 
 about yourself — what have you been doing- 
 all these years? Working — that I know; 
 but your life has not been all work, not 
 merely work, that I can see! ... I can see 
 much, some things that make me sad. Will 
 you forgive me if I speak out — if I say just 
 what I am thinkino:? ... I am fearino- that 
 you have suffered, that you have some sorrow 
 now — some sorrow of which you do not speak. 
 Am I mistaken? Am I reading your face 
 wrongly ?' 
 
 Bab blushed deeply and smiled with a very 
 sad sweetness, while the tears that rose to her 
 eyes were dashed away with most impatient 
 gestures.
 
 BARBARA BETRAYS HERSELF. 165 
 
 ' It mim be a queer face, I'm thinkin',' 
 she said, with a touch of inevitable satire. 
 * Or else you mun be one o' the thought- 
 readers 'at one hears tell on i' the news- 
 papers.' 
 
 ' But you don't read the newspapers, 
 Barbara?' 
 
 The girl looked up in surprise. The tone 
 of the interlocutor's voice seemed to her to 
 have reproach in it, which she could not 
 understand, yet she must speak out. 
 
 * Yes,' she said. ' Every week o' my life I 
 read the Ulvstan Mercury — most of it I read 
 aloud to my gran'father — he's despert keen 
 o' the news. I used to be troubled wi' the 
 strange things 'at I didn't understand; an' 
 more especially wi' the strange words 'at I 
 couldn't saay. But now I can guess some- 
 times; an' I've begun to see 'at it's all i' eddi- 
 cation, the difference atween folk. If you'd 
 a thousand pounds i' gold, and had no eddica- 
 tion, you'd be nowhere. But the worst o' the 
 new^spaper is that there's never anuff about 
 nothing to satisfy ya. There's a little ^ bit 
 o' this, an' a little bit o' that, an' ya're left just 
 about as wise as ya were before.'
 
 i66 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 The artist was listening keenly, noting sadly. 
 ' You have no books, then?' be a>ked after a 
 time. 
 
 .'Ob, yes, ever so many!' said Bab, rather 
 proudly. ' We've tbe Bible, an' two prayer- 
 books, an the Methodist Hymn-book. An' 
 then, noan so long ago, Mi.-s Theyn gave me 
 the " Pilgrim's Progress," an' I've read it 
 three times through already. But there's 
 other books I know, a sight o' them, an I 
 reckon they've all got something in 'em 'at 
 one 'ud be the better for knowing. One sees 
 them i' the shop-w^inda's. But then, they're 
 not the sort o' books for such as me — very few 
 o' them. They're meant for scholars — for such 
 as_' 
 
 Barbara did not finish her sentence, nor did 
 she sigh or look despondent as before. In- 
 stead, she merely turned her face and looked 
 out to the sea, out to where the white-sailed 
 ships were gleaming and gliding in the far blue 
 distance. 
 
 'You are thinking of some one?' Damian 
 asked gently. 
 
 I Yes,' Bab replied, with her usual instinct, 
 toward ingenuousness. ' Yes; I w^as think-
 
 BARBARA BETRA YS HERSELF. 167. 
 
 iiig- of her — Miss Theyn. You'll know her 
 maybe?' 
 
 ^No; I do not. I was here a \'^r^ short 
 time, and I did not then desire to know^ 
 anyone. . . . Who is Miss Theyn ? The 
 Hector's daughter?' 
 
 ' No ; the Rector's niece. Old Squire 
 Theyn's her father ; but she lives at the 
 Rectory.' 
 
 ' And she is a scholar?' 
 
 Bab raised her eyes swiftly. 
 
 * I should think she is!' was the emphatic 
 reply. ' Eh ! you should hear her talk — it's 
 beautiful. The words is like — oh, I don't 
 know what it is I would say ! It's just as if 
 one was lissenin' to music' 
 
 ' Is this lady young?' 
 
 'Yes . . . I think so ; but Ah doan't know, 
 for she's sa tall an' sa stately, at times she's 
 even haughty like; but I can't tell hoo it is, 
 ya seem ta love her more for it. Ah'm noan 
 one 'ats given to takkin' nought fra nobody ; 
 but there's been times when I've felt 'at I 
 would sooner take a blow frev her than a 
 good word frev anybody else. ... It is 
 straanofe!'
 
 i68 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 Damian was listening, noting. The girl 
 was rising to eloquence, if not exactly of 
 words, then of tone, of expression. The 
 colour came and went on her face, the fine 
 mouth quivered slightly, the blue eyes sparkled 
 to each fresh thought. 
 
 ' She is beautiful, this lady, I am sure?' the 
 artist said, not with curiosity in his tone, but 
 musingly, as if he confirmed something to 
 himself. 
 
 ' Beautiful !' exclaimed Bab, her own face 
 irradiated to a beauty she herself could not 
 have appreciated, even had she seen it. 
 ' Beautiful ! Eh, me I Ya should see her 
 when she looks at ya, when she turns her 
 head a little i' talkin', so as to look straight 
 into yer eyes ! An' then when she smiles — 
 oh, I could never tell ya ! Ya feel as if 
 there's nought i' the world ya wouldn't do 
 for her, an' ya feel dooncast like, an' ever sa 
 far away, because there's nought ya can do. 
 I've laid awake o' nights many a time thinkin' 
 whether there wasn't nought she'd hev, nought 
 I could do. . . . There's the lobsters: theyVe 
 despert sought after by the better sort o' 
 folk. Ya know the old sayin' aboot Ulvstan
 
 BARBARA BETRAYS HERSELF. 169 
 
 lobsters and Flamboro' crabs? Well, but 
 then, you see, so 'twere to be 'at she needed 
 any such thing, she could buy a pot full, 
 an' never miss the money. So where's the 
 good ?' 
 
 Damian Aldenmede was listening quite 
 gravely, comprehending quite clearly. 
 
 ' No,' he said, without a shadow of a 
 smile. * No, I shouldn't think of the lob- 
 sters. But needlework, now — something of 
 that sort?' 
 
 ' Needlework 1' poor Bab said sadly. ' I've 
 thought of it ; but I'm a despert poor hand. 
 Ah can make a bit o' frock for Ailsie; but 
 it never fits, not rightl}^ Ah'd no help i' 
 learnin', ya see, my mother bein' gone. An' 
 as for fimcy things, such as ya see i' the 
 shops, beautiful silky things, wi' pearls an' 
 velvet, why, a touch o' my hand 'ud drag 
 'em all to pieces, as if ya swept a ling- 
 besom across 'em. No, there's nought Ah 
 can do, not a thing, but stare at her like a 
 fool when Ah see her, an' then go home an' 
 cry fit to burst the heart in my body because 
 Ah can never be nothing to her — nothing at 
 all!'
 
 lyo IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 It would be difficult to describe with any 
 accuracy the impression that Damian was 
 receiving from the fisher-girl's betrayal of the 
 deep affection won by a woman so far above 
 her in all that makes difference in human 
 sight. He would not deliberately have called 
 himself a student of human nature, yet few 
 things deserving notice passed him by un- 
 observed. 
 
 One of the many ideas pressing upon him 
 now was this, that here was a woman, young, 
 eager, capable of some culture, yet held by 
 ignorance as some are held by physical blind- 
 ness. He could see her, as it were, groping 
 for light, patient under the need for it, but 
 with deep sadness lying concealed under 
 the patience. What if he could help a 
 little?' 
 
 Not being quite a young man, having 
 drunk somewhat deeper than most men of 
 the cup of experience, he could not all at 
 once give way to the sudden impulse that 
 beset him — an impulse that would have led 
 him to surround this girl with such books 
 as might be useful, and to help her to suitable 
 teaching. He must think of it. Yet he
 
 BARBARA BETRAYS HERSELF. \li 
 
 would retain, or rather acquire, the acquaint- 
 ance needful to the carrying out of his 
 project, if he should decide to continue his 
 intention. 
 
 For awhile he had been silent, looking 
 down to the stone-strewn beach at his feet, 
 apparently wondering if this or that pebble 
 Avere the celebrated ' plum-pudding stone ' of 
 Ulvstan Bight. But it was another kind of 
 wondering that really occupied his brain. 
 
 It moved him to speech at last. 
 
 * Do you work all the day?' he asked, ' or is 
 there some definite time set to your working? 
 What, for instance, do you usually do in the 
 mornings from ten to one?' 
 
 Bab smiled thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Ah do a deal i' that time, most days,* 
 she replied. ' But the worst's over afore 
 one o'clock. As a rule, we're at the flither- 
 beds by four these light mornin's — that is, 
 when the tide fits.' 
 
 ' And the flither-beds are two miles away?' 
 
 * Nearer three.' 
 
 ' And you come back about this time ?' 
 
 * It's accordin' to the tide. We'll be late 
 this week, an' most o' next.'
 
 172 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' I see! Then if I were to ask you to be 
 kind enough to stand or sit for me, whilst I 
 make a picture, a likeness of you, it could 
 only be in the afternoon ?' 
 
 ' Only i' the afternoon these tides,' said Bab, 
 again blushing deeply. 
 
 ' And you have no objection? You would 
 oblige me by coming, by remaining in the 
 same position here on the rocks for an hour or 
 more at a time? ... I do not, of course, wish 
 you to give me your time without adequate 
 return.' 
 
 Did Bab understand this ' art of putting 
 things'? Damian was not sure. The girl 
 looked into his face half-wonderingly. Then 
 she said, in her simple, straightforward, yet 
 not undignified manner : 
 
 ' I'd like to come. ... I like to lissen to 
 ya when ya speak. . . . Can I come to- 
 morrow? What time will ya want me? Two 
 o'clock, will I saay?'
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A REVELATION. 
 ' Oh what a power hath white simplicity !' 
 
 Almost as a matter of course, Barbara had 
 told her grandfather of her interview with the 
 gentleman down on the rocks by the ness. 
 Old Ephraim listened silently, smoking his 
 pipe, looking up somewhat curiously into Bab's 
 face. 
 
 At last he spoke. 
 
 * Thoo mun mak' a bargain wiv him, Bab!' 
 he said, slowly and emphatically. ' Df an't 
 thoo goa wastin' thy tahme for nowt. They 
 can afford it, them artises. Why, oad Tommy 
 Battensby tell'd me wiv his oan tongue 'at 
 yon man 'at painted sa mony pictures o' t' 
 wathermill up aboon GarlafF had meade a 
 thoosan' pun oot o' that bit o' beck allean — a 
 thoosan' pun i' less nor fower year! Think
 
 174 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 on't ! Think o' that noo, an' dean't thoo be 
 ower eager-like. Haud off a bit, an' he'll come 
 doon — niver fear!' 
 
 Poor Bab! She hardly knew why thi8 
 speech jarred upon her — why everything 
 vseemed to be jarring just now. She said 
 but little in reply to the old man's character- 
 istic warnings and exhortations. He had 
 never before seemed to her to be selfish or 
 grasping. Now, though they were quite 
 alone, the idea of ' making a bargain ' with 
 the kindly and understanding t^tranger caused 
 the colour to rise to her face for very pain. 
 Already she had been thinking in a vague way 
 that if he &^hould ask her to accept money she 
 would not take it. Other girls on the Fore- 
 cliff had taken payment for the same service, 
 she knew; and they had boas- ted of it after- 
 ward ; and Barbara had felt herself to shrink 
 from self- comparison with these. Now she 
 shrank more than ever, since coarse handling- 
 had made her feel as if the transaction 
 itself would have a certain coar>eness in 
 it; and a sting was already in the pleasure 
 that was to have been so pure and so 
 welcome.
 
 A REVELATION 175 
 
 ISTevertheless, she went down to the rocks 
 the next day; and Damian x^ldenmede saw 
 with something that was almost distress that 
 she had brushed her luxuriantly- straying 
 auburn hair until it was as nearly smooth 
 as it could be made to lie, that she had 
 discarded her red shawl and her blue guernsey 
 for a badly-fitting lilac-print gown and a clean 
 white apron. The change was as a complete 
 transfiguration. 
 
 * Who shall say that dress goes for nothing 
 after this ?' he exclaimed inwardly. Out- 
 wardly he was as much at a loss to know 
 what to say as if he had been dealing with a 
 duchess. 
 
 But Bab saw instantly that something was 
 wrong. Was it little Ailsie's presence ? Bab 
 had brought her sister down with her, think- 
 ing that she might cover any awkward 
 moment that might occur; and also because 
 she was never so happy as when the child was 
 by her side. 
 
 She was a winning little thing, as Damian 
 saw at once, despite the Sunday frock and the 
 hideously-shaped hat of white straw, with its 
 grass-green feather. Bab had daringly gone
 
 176 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 to the best milliner's shop in the town to buy 
 the hat, knowing that she would have to pay 
 for her temerity ; but she had not grudged 
 her hard-earned money, since little Ailsie 
 was so pleased and had kissed her so warmly. 
 It had made chatter for a week on the 
 ForeclifF; but nowhere had it created the 
 impression it was creating now. Tbe artist 
 was in despair, for the little one's face grew 
 upon him with every glance he gave. It was 
 so soft, so sweet, so pure, so touching, that 
 he resolved at once to paint the sisters 
 too'ether if he mio^ht. The contrast between 
 Bab's largely-moulded figure, her handsome 
 features, her air of independence, and the 
 gentle, wistful, delicate appearance of the 
 seven years' old child at her feet, was too 
 striking to be foregone. He would make an 
 effort, a desperate effort if need were. 
 
 There had been a moment of awkwardness, 
 of silence, of mutual disappointment, which 
 Barbara did not at all understand. At last 
 the artist spoke : 
 
 ' I ought to have told you,' he began, speak- 
 ing in a kindly regretful way — ' I ought 
 to have said that I wanted you to come just
 
 A REVELATION. I77 
 
 as you were yesterday, without your bonnet, 
 and wearing your work-day dress, as I wear 
 mine,' he added, glancing at his suit of gray 
 tweed. * And the little one — don't be offended 
 with me, but she is lovely ; and if I might 
 paint her too, I should be more grateful to 
 you than I can say just now. . . . You are not 
 angry ?' 
 
 The latter question came because of the 
 chanofe that the artist saw on Bab's face — the 
 tide of hot colour, the quivering of eyelids 
 over eyes, that seemed as if they might fill 
 with tears on ever so little more provocation. 
 
 ' Angry ? No,' she said, restraining her- 
 self by a great effort ; * but when I thought 
 I'd done everything I could to please you, 
 it's ' 
 
 ' It seems a little hard,' said the artist, 
 speaking so gently and sympathetically that 
 Bab could not but perceive that he knew all 
 about it. And as a glimmering of the true 
 state of affairs began to dawn upon her mind, 
 the tendency to tears became a tendency to 
 smile ; and the artist smiled too ; and little 
 Ailsie laughed a soft low laugh that drew all 
 attention to herself. 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' Then what will Ave do ?' said Bab, quite 
 herself again, and having a generous twinkle 
 of humour in her glance, that proved her 
 quickness in passing from one extreme to 
 the other. ' What will we do ? Come down 
 again to-morrow afternoon, me wi' my creel 
 on my head, an' Ailsie wiv a string o' dabs 
 in her hand ? How would that be like suit in' 
 ya?' 
 
 'It would suit me to a T,' replied Damian, 
 entering into Bab's new mood all the more 
 gladly because of the moment of pained con- 
 straint. He could not help adding, * How 
 quick you are to see !' 
 
 ' D'ya think so ? D'ya think that truly ?' 
 Bab asked, with sudden glad earnestness. 
 
 ' Certainly I do, or I should not have said 
 it.' 
 
 Bab did not ask the next question that was 
 trembling on her lips. Instead, she paused, 
 and looked out, as her frequent way was, over 
 the peaceful sea, that seemed so wide, so sug- 
 gestive of things not to be reached or touched, 
 yet always to be desired. 
 
 ' Ya really meant that ?' she said, looking 
 into the grave face before her with a wistful,
 
 A REVELATION. 179 
 
 eager, pathetic look that marked the relation- 
 ship between herself and little Ailsie. ' Ya 
 mean it — that I am not sa stupid ? 
 
 ' You stupid ? By no means !' was the 
 emphatic reply. ' What could make you 
 think that T 
 
 ' Everything'/ said Bab decidedly. ^ I 
 know nothing, not as they know. I can't 
 even speak as they speak. An' if I were 
 even to try down here, there'd be nought but 
 laughin' an' jeerin'. Oh, it's hard — harder 
 than you think !' 
 
 Again the artist was silent, impressed by 
 the fervour of the girl's manner; discerning 
 that there was more below the surface than 
 lie could expect to arrive at all at once. 
 Surely there must be something beyond mere 
 admiration for the Rector's niece underneath 
 all this fervidness, all this strong desire ! 
 And then, quite suddenly, he recollected that 
 he might have known the truth — perhaps 
 more than the truth, if he had not, somewhat 
 peremptorily, closed the lips of his too- 
 loquacious landlady on the previous evening. 
 Xow he had to bear the result of his want of 
 knowledge. 
 
 12—2
 
 i8o IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' I tliink I can understand,' he said present!}' , 
 putting down his brushes and palette, and 
 seating himself upon a big, brown, tangle- 
 covered stone. He had previously offered 
 his camp-stool to Ailsie, who sat perched 
 upon it with the prettiest ease of manner 
 and bearing; her little brown legs crossed, 
 her clumsily- clad feet swaying down below. 
 Overhead the tall cliffs were towering darkly ; 
 the gulls were screaming and chuckling in 
 and out. 
 
 ' I think I can understand,' he went on. ' I 
 can remember the time, though it seems long 
 enough a2:o, when nothino; seemed to me so 
 precious as knowledge. And — don't answer 
 me unless you like — is it that that is troubling 
 you, that 3'ou have not what the world calls 
 education? Is it that you are desiring: so 
 much — for its own sake?' 
 
 He might well ask the question. For the 
 most part, those who do so desire it are the 
 last to dream of external help. They have 
 helped themselves, unknowingly, uncon- 
 sciously, long before they were aware of w^hat 
 they were doing ; and there is no crisis of 
 their life wherein they awaken to demand of
 
 A REVELATION. l8i 
 
 others some aid in taking the first step. But 
 though Barbara Burdas was not of these, her 
 desire was not the less reah 
 
 She hstened to Avhat Damian Aldenmede 
 was saying wonderingly; her face was bent 
 downward, her forehead drawn into lines by 
 the weight of the thought presented to her. 
 
 * For its oan sake,' she murmured presently. 
 Then she lifted her troubled eyes to the 
 artist/s face, and continued, ' Hoo can one 
 tell ? Would I ha' cared if it hadn't been for 
 hhn ? Would I ha' cared at all ?' 
 
 Damian could only look at the girl with 
 inc|uiring looks. She comprehended the in- 
 quiry, and an expression of pain came over 
 her face. 
 
 ' Ya don't know ! How should ya ? Yet 
 I thought ya might have heard, sin' it's all 
 over the place. . . . It's him ; her brother, 
 as I told you of yesterday. . . . But, oh me ! 
 what am I saying ? He's nought to me — no 
 more than the wind that blows. . . . What 
 is it in ya that makes me talk o' things that 
 never was, nor never can be ? . . . What have 
 I said ? There's nought in it — no, nought at 
 all !'
 
 i82 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' You are speaking of the brother of the 
 lady 3'ou mentioned yesterday — Miss Theyn. 
 Do you know him ? Do you know him 
 intimately ?' 
 
 ' I know anuff about him — more nor anuff,' 
 Bab replied. Then, instantly remembering* 
 herself, regretting her words, she said, speak- 
 ing more sadly, ' All I've got to do wiv him 
 now is to forget him — to forget I ever set my 
 eyes on him, or ever opened my lips to speak 
 to him, or ever let my ears listen to a word 
 he'd got to say/ 
 
 Damian Aldenmede was not blind, nor 
 altoo'ether shortsighted. It was but natural 
 that he should construe for himself the words 
 he had heard ; and his own past experience 
 led him to an almost dangerous Yerge of 
 sympathy. 
 
 ' I think I know all you would wish me to 
 know,' he replied ; * and I see that you are dis- 
 trusting yourself — your own wish for something 
 more than the mere production of a daily tale of 
 bricks. Yet whv should vou — especiallv since 
 you are so sure that you have no other Avisli, 
 no other hope? And yet I think I understand 
 you, the doubt you are in ; and, if I may
 
 A REVELATION. 183 
 
 advise you, I should say, put all doubt aside, 
 and trust your higher instinct. I speak to 
 you out of my own past experience when I 
 urge you to set your mind on the attainment 
 of something outside yourself/ 
 
 * Some knowledge, ya mean — some lam- 
 ing? I'm thinkin' on it always, night an' 
 day.' 
 
 ' Then no greater earthly gift could have 
 been given to you than a desire like that. I 
 know^ what I am saying. I have tried to 
 influence others to the same end ; but I have 
 failed for the most part because I could not 
 put into other minds, other hearts, the sprina 
 that moves my own — the mainspring of desire. 
 , , . This great blessing you j^ossess, however 
 you may have come by it, I perceive that j^ou 
 have it ; and to any man who can see as I see, 
 who is looking out over the dreary waste of 
 Imman life as I am looking to discern one 
 human soul like yours, truly hungering and 
 thirsting for something more than mere bread 
 and shelter, is, believe me, to see a sight to 
 encourage one — to make one glad. Nothing 
 could give me greater pleasure than to ])e 
 allowed to help you. It would take the dreari-
 
 i84 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ness from my evenings while I am here as few 
 other things could do. Please say that you 
 consent.' 
 
 Bab was watching him, gravely, wonder- 
 ingly. There was a quiver at the corner of 
 her mouth — a light in her blue earnest 
 eyes. 
 
 ^ Do I take ya rightly ?' she said, speaking 
 as if with difficulty. ' You would be willin' 
 to larn me something yoursel' T 
 
 ' Yes — more than merely willing.' 
 
 ' An ya think I could larn?' 
 
 ' I am quite sure of it : quite sure that you 
 could learn everything that it is necessary for 
 you to know.' 
 
 Bab remained silent, and Damian turned 
 aAvay, searching among the pebbles at his feet 
 for the belemnites so frequently found on the 
 beach at Ulvstan. He would give her time to 
 think of his proposal. 
 
 But by-and-by he was startled by the sound 
 of a sob ; one deep, half- restrained burst of 
 emotion. He turned to where the girl was 
 standing, little Ailsie by her side. The child 
 was clinging to her, lifting a pale beseeching 
 face.
 
 A REVELATION. 185 
 
 * Doiin't cry, Barbie; don't cry! What's he 
 done to ya ? What's he said ?' 
 
 * It's noiin Mm 'at's made me cry, honey,' 
 Bab answered, taking the little one in her 
 arms, kissing her to hide her own emotion. 
 ' It's noiin him! . . . He's kind an' good; an' 
 we mun be kind to him if we can. But we 
 can't; that's the worst of bein' poor. There's 
 nought you can do for nobody to show 'em 
 how ya care.' 
 
 * There are various ways of showing,' said 
 the artist. ' And since you feel that you 
 would be glad to do some good turn for me, 
 please believe I am equally glad to do some- 
 thing for you. But we mustn't stop at words; 
 and since I may not stay here very long, we 
 must waste no time. How much time can you 
 give me? A very clever man once said that 
 an hour a day, regularly given, would enable 
 a student to climb almost any particular 
 mountain of knowledge he might wish to 
 climb. Can you give me that — a whole hour 
 daily?' 
 
 ' Ay, an' more,' replied Bab eagerly, wiping 
 some tears away with the corner of her apron. 
 ^ There's four-an'-twenty hours in a daiiy ;
 
 1 86 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 an' I'm never i' bed more nor live on 'em. 
 . . . But you've yer oitn work to think on,' 
 
 ' So I have ; but I seldom work more than 
 four hours a day. My eyes grow less sensitive 
 to colour after that; and for conscience' sake I 
 desist. So don't think of me. I have idle 
 time enough — time that I shall be glad to 
 spend in a manner that will bring me more 
 gratification than all the art-work I shall 
 accomplish in my lifetime.' 
 
 ' Doesn't yer work give ya no pleasure?' 
 * It doesn't give me the pleasure I long for, 
 the pleasure of being in any sense satisfied 
 with what 1 do.' 
 
 ' Still ya go on trying ?' 
 ' Alwa3^s trying, always hoping.' 
 ' Then mebbe ya'll come to it at last ! . . . 
 I hope ya will, for you've been sa good to 
 me.' 
 
 ' You will let me be good ? You will let 
 me come in the evenings for an hour, shall I 
 say seven to eight? Would that be a suitable 
 time?' 
 
 ' It would be suitable anufi^/ said Bab, again 
 changing colour, and speaking with some in- 
 decision. * But couldn't I spare you the
 
 A REVELATION. 187 
 
 trouble o' comin'? Couldn't I come to Mrs. 
 Featherstone's ?' 
 
 ' 1^0,' the artist replied. ' It would be 
 better that I should come to your grand- 
 father's house. Is he at home in the even- 
 ings ?' 
 
 " Yes : alius. But he'd not be i' the \Yaay. 
 He smokes his pipe, an' dozes till bedtime 
 without much talkin'.' 
 
 ' Then I'll come to-night, if I may. And 
 you will forgive me for the mistake of this 
 morning?' 
 
 Bab smiled, — not the scornful smile she was 
 so apt to use. 
 
 ' Foro'ive !' she said. ' Av, an' for^^et an' 
 all' 
 
 ' A"ou won't forget to come down to the 
 rocks again to-morrow?' 
 
 ' Xo, — an' I'll not forget 'at you like us best 
 i' the every-daay wear. . . . Come, Ailsie! 
 Saay good-bye to the gentleman. We mun be 
 goin' home. Gran'father '11 be wantin' his tea 
 badly!'
 
 CHAPTER XYIIL 
 
 AT OliMSTOX :\rAGXA. 
 
 ' To man propose this test — 
 Thy body at its best, 
 How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ?' 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 It is strange how, in some lives — lives that 
 seem fair, pure, peaceful — any true, and high, 
 and perfectly spiritual aspiration is yet a rare 
 thiniJC. The outside world looks on, seehw a 
 man or woman whose life is without spot or 
 stain; whose name is on every list of names 
 charitable ; whose place in church is never 
 empty ; whose whole demeanour tells of a care- 
 ful walk, with uprightness in every sense of 
 the term. And that outside world is not mis- 
 taken ; it seldom is. Hypocrisy may remain 
 practically undetected ; it never passes alto- 
 gether without suspicion.
 
 A T OR MS TON MA GNA . 1 89 
 
 And yet even that outwardly stainless, and 
 inwardly true human being may be aware of a 
 lowness, a deadness, that is almost as bad to 
 bear as any consciousness of actual sin could 
 be. Thorhilda Theyn was a woman of too 
 high nature to permit of much deadness of 
 spirit without self-protest. Hitherto her inner 
 life had consisted largely of a kind of mild war- 
 fiire, with more of compromise in it than she 
 cared to perceive except on the occasions when 
 she was compelled to be honest with her own 
 soul. And these were perturbed times; for she 
 did not spare herself Any other person, know- 
 ing her whole life, would have set down much 
 to the exao'o'eration natural to an imaoinative 
 
 00 o 
 
 woman. 
 
 The heart knows its own bitterness, and tiie 
 soul knows its own failure; and few could 
 have felt more acutely than did Miss Theyn 
 that her life was below her own highest 
 standard. 
 
 And she had no real excuse — this she 
 knew. 
 
 ' I have no cares,' she had admitted to 
 herself ; ' my mind is not distracted by the 
 need of fighting for bread. I have no doubts ;
 
 190 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 God has mercifully given me a soul, a mind, 
 that can accept His every saying without 
 question. I have no hindrances to bar me 
 from the spiritual life, none but such as are 
 within myself, (jroiciiui, increasing within my- 
 self! 
 
 * T aw, too miicli at ease ! Trouble mio-ht stir 
 
 o 
 
 me; and yet, how I shrink from it, even from 
 the idea of it ! 
 
 ' If I had to live Gertrude's life, for instance, 
 I think I should not care for another year of 
 existence. These surroundings are so much 
 to me ; the ease, the comfort, the never 
 having to move from my sofa or easy-chair, 
 not so much as to write a note unless it is 
 one I wish to write : the warmth and soft- 
 ness of everything, the very fire in my bed- 
 room night and morning for nine months of 
 the year ; the fact of having a carriage at 
 command morn, noon, and night ; the know- 
 ledge that no wish of mine for food or dress, 
 or for any of the little luxuries of daily life, is 
 ever disregarded or forgotten, all these things 
 are as the air I breathe. I have never once 
 thought of them definitely till now; but now 
 I know that I could not exist without them.
 
 A T ORMSrOX MAGNA. 191 
 
 I fear that the smallest deprivation would be 
 intolerable.' 
 
 All these things Miss Theyn had admitted 
 to herself, and not without self-blame, on the 
 evening before the garden-party at Ormston 
 Magna. The party of the year it was to be, 
 so everybody was saying ; and Thorhilda was 
 not without suspicion that it was being given 
 Avith a definite end in view, an end that con- 
 cerned herself. She would be made to perceive 
 more clearly than ever before Percival Mere- 
 dith's ability to gather about him, in his own 
 home, whatever of rank or fashion the neigh- 
 bourhood contained. 
 
 There were several county families within a 
 certain radius of miles. Lord Hermeston, of 
 Herraeston Peel, had accepted the invita- 
 tion. Lady Thelton and her four honourable 
 daughters were coming. Sir Eobert and Lady 
 Sinnington were expected; with squires and 
 dames of all degrees; and people not distin- 
 guished in any particular way had been invited 
 in numbers sufficient to almost fill the terraces 
 and gardens of Ormston. 
 
 Both Canon Godfrey and his wife were of 
 opinion that the day was meant to have a
 
 192 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 special influence upon their niece's decision; 
 and Mrs. Godfrey did not for a moment doubt 
 what that decision would be. From the first 
 she had thrown all the weight of her own con- 
 viction into the scale on the side of the owner 
 of Ormston ; and believed that she had not 
 done so in vain, but her husband had very 
 jLi'reatly questioned as to whether the matter 
 was so entirely a foregone conclusion as Mrs. 
 Godfrey appeared to think. 
 
 It would soon be seen, however. The event- 
 ful day — a day in early August — broke brightly 
 upon the earth. Xot a cloud threatened. The 
 far, still sea was shining, studded with the 
 silvery rippling lights that seem to glitter like 
 stars upon a sapphire floor. 
 
 All the morning Thorhilda walked about the 
 Eectory gardens, an unread book in her hand; 
 cool, sweet-scented airs upon her forehead; per- 
 turbing thoughts in her heart — so perturbing 
 they were that she was glad to see Gertrude 
 Douglas come smiling down between the 
 standard roses, the great blue larkspurs, and 
 the golden lilies. 
 
 Gertrude was beautifully dressed in prim- 
 rose cashmere and purple plush. Even Miss
 
 AT ORMSTON MAGNA. 193 
 
 Theyn did not know that the costume was 
 a present from her Aunt Milicent to Miss 
 Douglas. Mrs. Godfrey was not a woman 
 who liked to do such things as that with 
 ostentation. 
 
 ' Let it be between ourselves, dear/ she 
 had said to Gertrude. * For after all it is a 
 selfish sort of gift. I do so like to see my 
 friends well-dressed. And Thorhilda really 
 cares so very little that I often feel quite 
 troubled.* 
 
 That had all been said a fortnight ago; but 
 Miss Douglas had not forgotten it. She came 
 gliding down to the west arbour, conscious of 
 beauty, of a certain indefinable fascination 
 which was neither of the heart nor of the in- 
 tellect, and yet had force to impress others. 
 There were moments when Thorhilda half- 
 resented an impressiveness which she could 
 not comprehend. 
 
 ' Not dressed yet ! Why, my dear /' Miss 
 Douglas exclaimed in her high-pitched, yet 
 most musical voice, coming forward to bestow 
 an eager kiss as she spoke. * What time do 
 we start? Four! Isn't that late considering 
 the length of the drive? And, why, what's 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 the matter? You look quite doleful! And 
 on this dii}^ of all days of the year ! Well, you 
 do surprise me ! If such a party had been 
 given in my honour, I should have been dressed 
 hours beforehand, and rehearsing my part in a 
 darkened room, so as to concentrate all my 
 faculties.' 
 
 Thorhilda returned her friend's kiss with 
 a certain emphatic quietness ; and not wish- 
 ing to discuss the matter alluded to, she did 
 not disclaim Gertrude's idea as to the intention 
 of the gathering at Ormston Magna. 
 
 'A rehearsal in a darkened room ?' she 
 said, by way of reply. ' That does remind 
 me of poor Aunt Averil, who, for years past, 
 has tried to induce me to give an hour a day 
 to the study of manners. She has a little 
 morocco-bound book, with tinted paper and 
 gilt title, in which she has written an entire 
 code of good manners, with extracts from 
 every book she has ever read bearing at all 
 upon the subject. A fresh acquisition is 
 read out to me each time I go to the Grange. 
 The time before last it was a quotation from 
 '' Lothair," to the effect that repose was of 
 the essence of beauty ; I forget the exact
 
 A T ORMSTON MA GNA. 195 
 
 words. Last time the quotation was from 
 Lord Lytton, and urged the larger duty of 
 trying to enter into other people's views, 
 other people's ways of thinking. It was 
 something like this : 
 
 ' •• Few there were for whom Harley L'Estrange had not 
 appropriate attraction. Distinguished reputation as soldier 
 and scholar for the grave ; whim and pleasantry for the gay ; 
 novelty for the sated ; and for more vulgar natures was he 
 not Lord L'Estrange ?" ' 
 
 ' And your Aunt Averil keeps a hook of 
 that kind ?' said Miss. Douglas, with such 
 regard in her mention as she had never shown 
 toward Miss Chalgrove before. ' I do hope 
 she will leave it to you.' 
 
 Thorhilda could not help the smile that 
 came — a smile of many meanings. In reply, 
 she said : 
 
 ' I told Uncle Hugh of our conversation 
 when I came home. He, too, was amused 
 at first. Then he opened a New Testament 
 that was lying near, and for a little while he 
 seemed to be reading, or thinking. Then it 
 was as if he spoke to himself rather than to 
 me ; his utterance was disjointed, like one 
 speaking in his sleep : 
 
 13—2
 
 196 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' " There is nothing new under the sun," 
 he said, rising from his chair and walking to 
 and fro slowly in the dim light that was at 
 the farther end of the drawing-room ; his 
 hands, still holding the Testament, were 
 crossed behind him, his head was bowed 
 thoughtfully, his voice came sweet and pure 
 and earnest. 
 
 ' " No, there is nothing new," he continued. 
 " The finest refinement of manners cannot go 
 beyond St. Paul — except in one direction 
 only — the manners of his Master. But to 
 remain below these, on the merest human 
 level, has it not all been said, all that your 
 essayists and novelists and poetical critics of 
 life can bring forward as to the essence of 
 the matter ? You are not to think of, you 
 are to sacrifice self? — that was said long ago! 
 You are to be all things to all men ! St. 
 Paul said, ' I made myself a servant unto 
 all!'" 
 
 ' And then he went much further, into 
 greater and finer detail. " Only for a mo- 
 ment," he said — "just for one moment, 
 change St. Paul's word ' charity^' and substi- 
 tute ' fine manners !'
 
 A T ORMSTON MAGNA. 197 
 
 '"Fine manners are kind ; they envy not, 
 they vaunt not ; those who have them are 
 not puffed up. 
 
 ' " Fine manners behave in no unseemly 
 Avay ; the man who is happy enough to 
 possess them does not seek his own. He is 
 not easily provoked. He is not capable of 
 thinking evil. 
 
 ' " He rejoices not in iniquity — no, nor even 
 in hearing of it. His greatest joy is to hear 
 of the good and the true. 
 
 ' " Moreover, the man of fine manners can 
 bear all his sorrows, his trials, in the dignity 
 of silence. If even he should have to bear 
 upon his heart and brain the weight of the 
 Avrong-doing of others, he can yet bear with- 
 out complaint. 
 
 ' '' And the secret of all this is simple 
 in the extreme. ' He believes all things.' 
 Believing, he can endure in calmness, in 
 
 joy. 
 
 ' " And yet another event, his fine manners 
 * never fail.' Other things may fail, and 
 cease, and vanish away ; but the man or 
 woman who shall use as his or her pocket- 
 book of etiquette the thirteenth chapter of
 
 198 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 the First Corinthians shall not be found want- 
 ing. 
 
 ' " The man or woman nurtured, trained 
 on the teaching of the New Testament alone, 
 shall be at a loss in no good society. The 
 rules are there ; the disposition to obey the 
 rules is innate. The lowest saint, the 
 humblest follower of Jesus, shall shine in 
 the highest human society that this or any 
 other land can produce." ' 
 
 So the Canon had spoken one evening, not 
 long before the eventful day to be recorded. 
 And Thorhilda reproduced his words as 
 closel}^ as her memor}- permitted. Becoming 
 aware that her complacent friend was grow- 
 ing restless, she desisted. 
 
 After all the preparations that had been 
 made, it was yet late when the Rectory part}' 
 started — four of them in Mrs. Godfrey's 
 pretty light brougham, the remainder in the 
 waggonette. On arriving they saw at once 
 that the lawns and seaward terraces were 
 tilled with guests. A band was playing in 
 the shadow of the north end of the house ; 
 tennis-courts had been marked ; a long wliite 
 tent sheltered the refreshments that were
 
 A T ORMSTON MA GNA. 199 
 
 being di?^pensed by numerous servants, male 
 and female. In the paddock, on the south- 
 ward side of the house, targets had been set 
 up for archery ; but since the Market Yar- 
 burgh club was of recent date, no one 
 expected much entertainment from the efforts 
 of its members — and, indeed, just now it was 
 too hot for exertion of any kind. Mrs. 
 ]\leredith came forward to greet the Rectory 
 party under the shelter of a rose -pink parasol ; 
 her son Percival was by her side, ready to 
 take Thorhilda's, hand as she stepped from 
 the carriage, and yet not forgetful of Mrs. 
 Godfrey or Miss Douglas. No one could 
 find a flaw in his courtesy, now or ever ; 
 but he at once made it evident to everyone 
 that his especial attention that day was to be 
 devoted to Miss Theyn. He had reason 
 enough for being proud of his position. He 
 remained by her side as she shook hands 
 with this group of distinguished guests, and 
 with that, and his approbation of her graceful, 
 reserved courteousness increased at every step. 
 He noted her perfect ease of manner, her un- 
 conscious dignity, her rare and exquisite 
 loveliness, with all the pride of one antici-
 
 200 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 pating the further pride of possession. x\ll 
 through the afternoon he remained near her, 
 moving with her through the gay crowd, 
 sitting a little apart with her under the shade 
 of the wide beech- trees listening to the band, 
 watching the tennis-players, pointing out to 
 her his rarest and most perfect flowers, wait- 
 ing upon her lightest word, and doing all 
 with the quiet, eager intention that alone 
 might have betrayed how it w^as with him. 
 People looked at each other with the look of 
 half- amused intelligence natural at such times; 
 some whispered, some even ventured on a 
 question to Mrs. Meredith, whose pretty 
 gray silk dress seemed to be shining every- 
 where. 
 
 'Is it all fixed ? Mayn't we know ?' 
 asked Lady Thelton, who was the most 
 intimate of the friends present at Orm- 
 ston. 
 
 But ]\Irs. Meredith put up her little white 
 hand deprecatingly. 
 
 ' Oh, hush!' she said. ' I am superstitious. 
 I never talk of a thing until it is beyond the 
 possibility of failure.' 
 
 ' You superstitious 1' laughed Lady Thelton.
 
 AT O RMS TON MAGNA. 201 
 
 * Oh, my dear, what will you accuse yourself 
 of next ? But I see ; I am to be discreet ! 
 Well, give me time to' thmk of a wedding- 
 present worth sending.' 
 
 Was Thorhilda conscious of all the wonder - 
 ings, the surmisings that were going on about 
 her ? She hardly knew. She seemed to her- 
 self to be more perturbed than happy ; more 
 bewildered than content. And yet as the 
 hours went on, swiftly, dreamily, she knew 
 that she was yielding, yielding half against 
 ]ier wish to the overpowering influence of the 
 emotion that was subduing another so com- 
 pletely that its force, like an electric touch, 
 was communicated to herself. Outwardly as 
 calm, as strong, as dignified as ever, inwardly 
 she felt helpless ; and she could make no 
 protest when she knew that she was being 
 gradually and designedly separated from the 
 crowd — drawn by a glance, or less, to a 
 solitary nook between the hillsides, and 
 beyond the gardens, a copse filled with a 
 tangled undergrowth, through which a little 
 beck went trickling and singing down to the 
 sea. Before she knew it, they were alone — 
 she and Percival Meredith ; alone and silent
 
 202 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 — SO silent that the note of a bird seemed 
 loud and intrusive, and the gurgling of the 
 water some want of deference on nature's 
 jDart. For a long while there was no other 
 sound.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 UNDER THE LARCHES. 
 
 ' A vague unrest 
 And a nameless longing filled her breast — 
 A wish that she hardly dared to own, 
 For something better than she had known.' 
 
 J. G. Whittier. 
 
 Percival Meredith was a man who had 
 sufficient assurance for all the ordinary pur- 
 poses of life, but he was well enough aware 
 that the present moment was in no sense an 
 ordinary one. Yet he wondered a little at 
 the strength of the emotion that was beset- 
 ting him ; it was new and strange. Though 
 he had known love before, or something that 
 he had counted for love, he had never till 
 now felt this almost hesitancy that held him 
 in its grasp. It was not till he had made the 
 effort of recalling the facts that Mrs. Godfrey 
 had o-iven him all the encouraofement that a
 
 204 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 woman in her position could give ; that the 
 Canon had shown him a kindly welcome at 
 all times, whilst Miss Theyn herself had 
 never exhibited the faintest distaste, or seemed 
 other than pleased by his presence — it was 
 not till he had recollected these things Avith 
 some viwur that he beo^an to re^i^ain the 
 standpoint natural to him. Even now it was 
 not easy, and Thorhilda was not making any- 
 thing easier for him. 
 
 She stood leaninf>: a^-ainst the trunk of a 
 young larch-tree, straight and white and 
 still, even a little sad now, if her expression 
 were any true index of her feeling, and yet 
 to Percival Meredith's thinking she had never 
 looked more beautiful. Her white cashmere 
 dress fell into graceful folds, and mingled 
 with soft, creamy lace and loopings and float- 
 ings of ribbon and borderings of plush. The 
 only ornament she wore was a Niphetos rose, 
 which he himself had gathered for her and 
 given to her earlier in the afternoon. 
 
 ' It was good of you to wear my rose,' he 
 said at last, speaking in a low voice, and lift- 
 ing his long dark eyelashes in a certain languid 
 yet effective way j)eculiarly his own. Thor-
 
 UNDER THE LARCHES. 205 
 
 liilda blushed under his gaze, but faintly, and 
 with as much consciousness of disturbance as 
 of pleasure, yet the beautiful soft, sea- shell 
 pink made her seem lovelier than ever in his 
 sight, and, half unconsciously, he drew a little 
 nearer to her side. 
 
 ' But all you do is good and kind,' he con- 
 tinued. ' It is that gives me hope, and that 
 only. Though I have watched you, tried to 
 make myself something to you, some part of 
 your life, these two years past, I must admit 
 that I have yet no assurance. One moment, 
 nay, perhaps for a whole evening, I have felt 
 more or less happy, because I fancied you had 
 given me more or less ground for hoping that 
 you were beginning to care for me. Then, 
 perhaps the very next evening, you have 
 taken the ground from under my feet. Can 
 you wonder that I have often known some- 
 thing like despair? That for a long time past 
 I have felt as if I must know what the end 
 was to be — whether I was to hope for a whole 
 long life of happiness, or for a life of some- 
 thing more nearly like misery than I dared to 
 think .... Lately the suspense has been 
 growing terribly. Can you not imagine it ?
 
 2o6 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 Can you not sympathize with it — at least so far 
 as to say that I may hope that you will soon 
 put an end to it-^the end 1 yearn for ? . . . 
 You can never, never destroy my one earthly 
 hope !' 
 
 While Percival was speaking, natural!}' 
 enough Thorhilda was thinking, thinking- 
 rapid ly, feeling intensely, as people do when 
 the heart and brain are raised to their highest 
 and swiftest power by the rush of the fresh 
 force of life through vein and nerve. And 
 here she found the good of much previous 
 right thought, high desire, and frequent 
 prayer. Ev^en in this impetuous moment she 
 said to herself, ' I cannot have lived under the 
 same roof with my uncle Hugh for nothing, 
 and surely now, if ever, I must strive to see 
 the right. . . . Would that I had openly 
 asked him about this before, talked it over 
 with him ! . . . I must do it, I must do it yet 
 before I give any definite answer. . . . Yes, 
 I must request time for that !' 
 
 Not once did it occur to her — how should 
 it, in her youth, her inexperience of love, life, 
 all things ? — that a perfect affection, perfect 
 within itself, would have needed no outward
 
 UNDER THE LARCHES. 207 
 
 constraint, no external drawing or pressure, 
 no help of any kind. 
 
 But meantime, while she was thinking, 
 Percival Meredith was moved to pouring out 
 a very rhapsody of loving, pleading words, 
 less preconsidered than those he had used 
 before. Thorhilda had not dreamed that he 
 could be so eloquent, so impressive, so fervent ! 
 It was her perception of this latter quality that 
 drew her to be real also. 
 
 ' I did not know, indeed I did not, that you 
 cared for me so much,' Thorhilda replied with 
 timid simplicity, trenibling, blushing, feeling 
 so faint under the weight of new and strong 
 emotion, that she longed to lean upon the 
 strength of the man who seemed so all- 
 sufficient for her support, then and after. 
 What was it restrained her ? She could not 
 do it. Despite her weakness, her almost 
 yearning and tender weakness, she shrank 
 from self-betrayal. ' I cannot answer,' she said 
 at last. ' I cannot give you any answer now I' 
 
 She stopped. Percival took her hand, hold- 
 ing it gently, as one who would quiet the fear 
 betrayed. It was some time before he began 
 to plead again.
 
 2o8 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 
 
 ''Not one icordT he said at last, ^ not one 
 single wordf It is all I ask. . . . And, no, I 
 will not ask even that, if it is to cost you so 
 much. How could I ask anything from you 
 but that you should not forbid me to wait ? 
 I will wait as long as you msh, only do not 
 say that I may not hope. At least, at the 
 very least, say that I may hope that you will 
 be good to me some day ! . . . I wish you 
 knew how I long to be something to you, to be 
 in a position to — to save you from anything 
 that might happen in the future. . . . And — 
 and we none of us know !' 
 
 Thorhilda was only half-aware of the sadden 
 restraint that came over Percival Meredith. 
 Of the reason for it, for the sudden drooping 
 of the eyes, the unexpected failure of the words 
 of the man she was, or seemed to be, on the 
 verge of loving with her whole life's love, she 
 knew nothing. 
 
 How should she know ? There had been 
 whispers abroad of the Canon's unrestrained 
 and unconsidered generosity; of family claims, 
 the claims of younger brothers, with their 
 wives and little ones ; poor, unenterprising, 
 clamorous ; but of all this Thorhilda had
 
 UNDER THE LARCHES. 209 
 
 known nothinof- • and therefore had thouo^ht 
 nothinof. Once or twice it had struck her 
 as a little strange that her Aunt Milicent 
 should seem to be so emphatically on the 
 side of early marriages. ' I might have 
 thought she wished me to leave her,' Thor- 
 hilda had said to herself more than once in 
 moments of perplexity ; but no such un- 
 gracious and ungrateful ideas had remained 
 with her permanently. And no thought of 
 this kind had anv weiofht with her now. She 
 was only conscious of a strong desire to avoid 
 the utterance of anything that should seem to 
 be binding upon her afterward. 
 
 And yet, even in this troubled moment, 
 she felt that she must some time yield. 
 Half she feared that she would do this, and 
 half she hoped that she might be compelled 
 by some circumstance outside herself to do it. 
 
 But even now she did not recognise the fact 
 that no hesitation ought to have been possible 
 to her — no, not for a moment. A true and 
 healthy human love knows no more of hesita- 
 tion as to whether it shall betray itself, than a 
 healthy human life knows of hesitation as to 
 whether it shall go on living. If a test were 
 
 VOL. I. IJ:
 
 2IO IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 wanting, here is one ready-made for most 
 uses. 
 
 But Miss Theyn was fully conscious of her 
 perplexity ; and, as was natural to her upright 
 spirit, she confessed it. 
 
 ' I cannot, I cannot understand it,' Percival 
 Meredith said in reply ; speaking with a new 
 and moving humility, that was yet not un- 
 tempered with self-respect. ' I cannot under- 
 stand. You either care for me, or you do 
 not! . . . Yet forgive me! As I said just 
 now, I am most willing to wait, only, only 
 tell me why I must wait ? Will you not tell 
 me that ?' 
 
 A moment Thorhilda was silent. Then all 
 at once, as it were, her spirit broke from the 
 bewilderment that had held her as in a trance 
 all the afternoon. She lifted her face, raised 
 her beautiful gray eyes, which were deeply 
 charged with all earnestness, all sincerity. 
 
 ' I will answer you plainly,' she said, speak- 
 ing with far less of trepidation in her manner 
 than she felt within herself. ' I will tell you 
 the truth so far as I can. And the first thing 
 I must say is that I have no doubt of your 
 afi*ection for me. . . '
 
 USDER THE LARCHES. 211 
 
 ' Then thank you for that, a thousand times 
 thank you !' Percival broke in with fervidness, 
 and raising Thorhilda's hand to his lips grace- 
 fully as he spoke. ' Again and again I thank 
 you for your faith in me. . . . But having 
 admitted so much, what can hinder you now ? 
 Xot your want of love for me. Once more I 
 say that I will wait for that. I will try to 
 win that ! With all my heart I will try ! . . . 
 And what is there beside ? — nothing, surely 
 nothing.' 
 
 What was there in all this ready protesta- 
 tion that seemed, if not unreal, yet still in 
 some curious way unsatisfactory ? Was it the 
 way of men ? of lovers ? The inquiries that 
 Thorhilda put to herself were utterly childlike 
 in their ignorance, their confusion. She had 
 had no lover before, nor any dream of love. 
 How should she know ? 
 
 Yet she replied gravely, and with an alto- 
 gether womanly dignity. 
 
 ' There is much beside,' she said, and then 
 there was a pause while she made an effort to 
 continue. ' If I am sure of you, or of your 
 affection rather, I am not sure of myself, not 
 in any way. / am fearimj myself ; my own 
 
 14—2
 
 212 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 integrity; and I think that you should know 
 of this!' 
 
 ' Your integrity — yours /' exclaimed Per- 
 cival, feeling at least as much surprised as 
 he seemed. ' AVhat can you mean ? I should 
 as soon doubt the integrity of an angel from 
 heaven.' 
 
 ' I mean this,' Thorhilda said, her breath 
 coming and going heavily, her eyes set Tvith a 
 seeming hardness in the expression of them, as 
 if the effort after a perfect straightforwardness 
 were testino' her streno^th to the utmost limit. 
 ^ I mean this, that I am not sure that I return 
 3'our affection, or that I ever can return it as 
 it should be returned. I fear much that I 
 never can. And, let me speak the truth in all 
 sincerity, I hioiv that I am tempted by your 
 position, by the prospect you have to offer me 
 — the prospect of ease, of wealth, of unlimited 
 luxury for all my future life. I have been used 
 to these things, though they are not mine by 
 birthright ; and now it seems to me that I 
 could not well live without them. . , . And, 
 Tis I fancied you suggested just now, I may not 
 be able to live at the Rectory always. . . . And 
 there is nowhere else— nowhere,'
 
 UNDER THE LARCHES. 213 
 
 The silence, the utter silence that followed, 
 was not one to be forgotten. For some mo- 
 ments Percival Meredith could make no reply; 
 and yet he hardly knew what it was that 
 hindered him so powerfully, so completely. 
 
 In his own heart he had long ago admitted 
 to himself that in all probability worldly con- 
 siderations would have some influence with 
 Miss Theyn, more with her friends ; and the 
 idea had not hurt him grievously. 
 
 Xow he was conscious of pain, of disap- 
 pointment, of disillusionment ; and though he 
 could not analyse his feeling, he was aware 
 that he stood as one watching the visible 
 shattering of some idol he had set up to 
 worship ; and being not greatly given to 
 such worshipping, the loss seemed all the 
 greater. 
 
 Miss Theyn began to perceive in a slight 
 degree. 
 
 ' 1 have grieved you,' she said sorrowfully, 
 gently. ' Forgive me. I thought it better to 
 be honest, quite honest.' 
 
 ' Yes,' Percival replied musingly. ' Yes, 
 perhaps it was. And yet, I wish you had 
 spared me !'
 
 214 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 Ao-ain there was silence. Somewhere be- 
 yond the distant purple of the tree -tops the 
 sun was sinking to the moor ; twilight was 
 stealing into the hollow ; the rippling of the 
 streamlet seemed to sink to a sadder, a less 
 living tone. 
 
 ' Let us forget this,' Percival said at last. 
 ' You have not said that you could not care for 
 me ; and I think 3'ou will learn to care at least 
 for my kindness, my love — the rest will come. 
 I do hope and believe that it will come. 1 
 trust the future.' 
 
 ' The rest !' It had never been so near 
 coming as it was at that moment. Percival 
 Meredith, a little saddened, a little unhopeful, 
 and subdued to a new humility, was very dif- 
 ferent from the self-assured man who had put 
 aside every thought of failure, and had not 
 been able, for all his diplomacy, to quite hide 
 the fact that he had done so. N"ow he had 
 nothing to hide ; and it may have been that 
 one more kindly and earnest appeal would 
 have been answered to his wish. But that 
 appeal was not made ; and it may be admitted 
 that there was reason enough why it should 
 not. He was hurt, and reasonably, and one
 
 UNDER THE LARCHES, 215 
 
 sign of it was the touch of petulance ahout his 
 small, restrained mouth ; another sign was the 
 want of perseverance at the one significant 
 moment. 
 
 * I will go on hoping,' he said, turning to 
 go, and cleaving a way through the briars for 
 Miss Theyn to pass. ' And you will be good 
 to me ; say that you will ?' 
 
 Thorhilda smiled. 
 
 * Haven't I always been good ?' she said, 
 holding out her hand timidly, half reluctantly. 
 
 ^ Yes ; indeed you have !' Percival replied. 
 ' As I said before, that was the only excuse I 
 had for my presumption.'
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE CAXOX AXD HIS XIECE. 
 
 ' To thine own self be true ; 
 And it shall follow, as the night the dav, 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man,' 
 
 Miss Theyn was not quite trappy that eveniDg 
 — how should she be ? She was confused her- 
 self ; circumstance was confusing ; and there 
 seemed no light — no help anywhere. On the 
 way home from Ormston Magna, Gertrude 
 Douglas indulged in a little mild badinage, 
 which was quickly repressed. The Canon was 
 thoughtful, absorbed. When Mrs. Godfrey 
 came to know, from the lips of Percival 
 Meredith himself, that Thorhilda's answer had 
 been vague, and not altogether encouraging, 
 an unusual but most visible flush of ano^er 
 mounted to her forehead, and remained there. 
 Thorhilda saw and understood ; and having 
 hitherto seen so Httle of any unquiet side
 
 THE CANON AND HIS NIECE. 217 
 
 there might be to her aunt's character, the 
 sight added to her perplexity. 
 
 It was some time before the two women 
 spoke to each other of the great event of the 
 day ; and then nothing passed that was helpful 
 in any way. Mrs. Godfrey knew more than 
 Thorhilda knew of the reasons why Percival 
 Meredith's offer should have been graciously 
 accepted, and she was too much a woman of 
 the world not to prize to the uttermost the 
 advantages that Thorda seemed quite willing, 
 and quite unthinkingly, to forego for very in- 
 difference. This Avas how the matter seemed 
 to the Canon's wife ; the Canon himself saw 
 much farther. 
 
 ' Surely you would not force her inclination 
 in any way ?' he had said, after listening to 
 the torrent of words his wife had poured out 
 in his ear while they were dressing for dinner, 
 the door between their rooms being open for 
 this especial purpose; and Mrs. Godfrey's 
 reply was one that he could only meet with a 
 pained silence. Yet he was by no means in- 
 sensible to the worldly advantages offered to 
 his niece — nay, for reasons known in all their 
 seriousness only to himself, he would have
 
 2i8 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 been at least as glad as his wife had been if 
 Thorhilda had chosen to accept without demur 
 the offer of the owner of Ormston Magna. 
 Yet that she should be even by one word 
 persuaded, was repugnant to every notion of 
 honour that he had. 
 
 Later in the evening, seizing a brief oppor- 
 tunity, he could not but speak to the girl, 
 whose white, and lovely, and lonely face 
 seemed to be appealing to all the tenderness, 
 all the manliness he had in his soul. 
 
 ' Tell me about it, Thorda/ he said, laying 
 a gentle kindly hand upon his niece's shoulder 
 as she sat musing sadly by the drawing-room 
 fire. Mrs. Godfrey had retired early, being 
 wearied with the inquietude of her own 
 spirit, and of the day's event. ' Tell me 
 about it,' he said. * I know the outside 
 facts. You could not say " Yes," not con- 
 scientiously.' 
 
 ' No, I could not,' Thorhilda said, letting a 
 single sob escape in spite of all repression. A 
 weaker woman as much perturbed, as much 
 excited, would have answered with a burst of 
 tears. * No ; that is just it. But to tell the 
 truth I can hardly say where the conscien-
 
 THE CANON AND HIS NIECE. 219 
 
 tiousness lies. I am afraid of being dishonest 
 — dishonest toward him or with myself.' 
 
 * You have never at any time felt that 
 your mind was made up at all on this 
 matter?' 
 
 * No ; not for more than ^yq minutes to- 
 gether. ... Shall I tell you the truth, Uncle 
 Hugh — all the truth ? I should like to be 
 mistress of Ormston Magna — I should like it 
 much. In one sense it seems the very place 
 in the w^orld made for me to fill.' 
 
 ' That is just how it has seemed to me,' re- 
 plied the Canon. ' You have every quality 
 that would be required — every grace. . . . 
 And I had hoped long ago that it might come 
 to pass. But my hope has limitations. Now, 
 tell me the rest !' 
 
 ' There is no rest! I like Mr. Meredith, as 
 you know ; but not, I think, wath the liking I 
 ought to have before I can accept the position 
 he wishes me to fill. ... He says that this is 
 but natural ; but just what he expected ; and 
 that all the rest w^ill come. It is here that my 
 trouble lies. As you know, I have hardly 
 known — hardly ever seen anyone else. And 
 at one time I am drawn to him ; at another
 
 220 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 
 
 time almost repelled, without any reason for 
 either. ... I cannot understand !' 
 
 The Canon was watching, listening ; his in- 
 most heart was lifted up for the One light, the 
 One strength, the One guidance that could 
 come to him. 
 
 ' Have you no word for me, Uncle Hugh — 
 no help .^' And as Thorhilda spoke she laid 
 her white, beseeching hand gently upon his 
 arm. ' I am no heroine,' she said. ' I want 
 to do right, but I have not even self-knowledge 
 enough to enable me to know what is right. 
 Can't you help me ? ... I have never needed 
 help so much before.' 
 
 The unintended touch of pathos in her 
 voice moved the Canon greatly. He turned 
 to Thorhilda with all the warmth of one to 
 whom the unrealized idea of fatherhood was 
 inexpressibly dear. 
 
 ' I will help you all I can,' he said sooth- 
 ingly. '• I have been blind myself — at least it 
 seems so to me now. And let me say, whilst 
 I have opportunity, that I have not done all 
 for you that I should have done. I could not. 
 I had other claims, hidden from the world's 
 sight, for the most j^art, but binding to the
 
 THE CANON AND HIS NIECE. 221 
 
 uttermost. Your claim was bindinof also ; 
 I knew that all the while. I am realizino- it 
 rather bitterly now. And it may be too late ; 
 I cannot tell ! And I fear — I fear much that 
 I counted on your making such a marriage as 
 would quiet all my care for you, at once and 
 for ever. Therefore you see how it is that I 
 cannot urge you to think more favourably of 
 Percival Meredith than your own inclination 
 moves you to do. Under other circumstances 
 I might have pointed out to you much that is 
 good in him, and also the possibility of your 
 influence heightening the good qualities he 
 already has. As matters stand I cannot do 
 this — not without suspecting myself And, 
 indeed, at present I can advise nothing but 
 waiting — prayerful waiting. . . . Try that, 
 Thorda, dear — prayer. There is no other 
 help for this human world. And when light 
 comes, he true to it! That is all that I can 
 say. Be true to the light given, wherever 
 it mav lead !'
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THAT WAS THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE 
 MET. 
 
 * The love which soonest responds to love — even what we 
 call " love-at-first-sight " — is the surest love ; and for this 
 reason — that it does not depend upon any one merit or 
 quality, but embraces in its view the whole being. That is 
 the love which is likely to last^ — incomprehensible, indefin- 
 able, unarguable-about.'— SiPt Arthur Helps : Brevia. 
 
 There was no one to counsel, to strengthen 
 Barbara Burdas. If she stood up straight and 
 strong, she stood somewhat apart from those 
 who surrounded her more immediately. And 
 it said as much for their human insight as for 
 her tact that no one seemed to resent her 
 position. If any did a kindly thing for her, 
 the doer knew certainly that in his or her 
 place Bab would have done as much or more. 
 It is so that many of us accept kindnesses 
 which unsupported pride miglit rise up to
 
 THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 223 
 
 reject. We take them as they are meant, 
 knowing that our own meaning would have 
 led us to the same outward expression. ' You 
 shall do this for me if you will, because in 
 your position I should have wished to do the 
 same for you/ So we reply to ourselves when 
 a false dignity with all its suspiciousness would 
 spoil the moment. 
 
 All her life Bab's place among her fellows 
 had been an easy one. She had been admired 
 without jealousy, commended without bitter- 
 ness, respected without undertone of detrac- 
 tion. Even w^hen her pride, her independence 
 offended, her large kindliness of heart made 
 quick atonement. 
 
 So it was that no one resented the fact that 
 she had been chosen by the artist to be the 
 principal figure of his great picture, ' The 
 Resting-place of the Flither-pickers.' Bab 
 was to be in the foregound, just rising up 
 from a brief rest, her basket of limpets on 
 her head, Ailsie clinging by her side, and 
 bearing her little basketful of bait. Half-a- 
 dozen others were to be seated upon the rocks 
 and stones of the mid-distance. 
 
 Miss Theyn had heard of the picture,
 
 224 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 though, as a rule, she heard little of any- 
 thing concerning the fisher-folk of the Bight. 
 She might have known quite as much of their 
 innermost life had she lived at York or at 
 Lancaster. It is the stranger who is curious 
 and interested where the resident is indifferent 
 and supine. 
 
 It was on the morrow after that unsatis- 
 factory hour at Ormston Magna that Miss 
 Theyn went down to Ulvstan to do some 
 shopping for Mrs. Godfrey, and to make one 
 or two calls in her aunt's name on some of 
 the more prominent parishioners. At Mrs. 
 Squire's, the milliner's shop, she had been so 
 unfortunate as to meet her Aunt Katherine, 
 and though this was only for one moment, 
 ^Irs. Kerne had seized the opportunity of 
 making the moment as bitter as might be. 
 Thorhilda bore the small unmerited sneers 
 with outward calmness, but with more of 
 inward irritation than she was accustomed to 
 feel — an irritation that added to the things 
 she was already bearing. When the morning's 
 work was done she dismissed the carrias^e. 
 • Wait for me at the Cross Roads,' she said to 
 Woodward. 'I shall not be lonof.' Then
 
 THE DA V WE LOVED, THE DA V IVE MET 225 
 
 turning clown the steep street that led to the 
 beach and to the ForeclifF, she half-admitted 
 to herself that she was in search of some dis- 
 traction that had no name. 
 
 ' Where am I going, and why?' she asked 
 vaguely, not demanding any answer from 
 herself It seemed as if the blueness of the 
 sapphire sea alone had power to urge her 
 onward, as if the soothing sound of the wave- 
 lets falling and breaking upon the beach alone 
 could impel her to watch, to listen, to pause 
 upon the brink of that river of life upon 
 Avhich she stood. Slie seemed to be filled 
 with a strange hopefulness as she went on- 
 ward over the beach, threading her way 
 daintily among the tangle-covered stones on 
 either hand. As she went onward, the sea- 
 breezes blowing upon her face, the shrill 
 cry of the gulls in her ear, she seemed to 
 lose the tremulous sense of the painfulness of 
 human life that had held her so strongly 
 before. A new warmth grew about her heart, 
 a new psacefulness, which made all the future 
 seem plain and easy. Mere physical move- 
 ment seemed a delightful and pleasant thing. 
 Was it the sunshine that inspired her and 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 allured her? She went slowly by the edge 
 of the wavelets that rounded the sparkling 
 sea, which was retreating for awhile from 
 the Bight of Ulvstan, moving gracefully, as 
 to some rhythm, unheard and unknown. By- 
 and-by it would advance again to the singing 
 of the morning stars, joining its music to 
 theirs, helping to complete the cosmic har- 
 mony. 
 
 Thorhilcla's mood was quiet and sweet, yet - 
 there was yearning in it ; and the smile that 
 was on her face as slie rounded the point of 
 Yarva Ness might certainly have been counted 
 a smile of expectancy. She was looking out 
 dreamily, half unconsciously, as people some- 
 times do who walk alone, and then, quite 
 suddenly, she became aware that she was not 
 alone. There was a large white umbrella, an 
 easel, a wide canvas ; an artist with a big 
 gray felt sombrero was bending over a palette, 
 over a sheaf of brushes, making rapid touches, 
 as he 2:lanced to where Barbara Burdas stood, 
 with little Ailsie beside her, among the weed- 
 hung boulders of the Bight. Beyond were 
 the tall cliffs, half hidden by the yellow 
 sunshiny mist, that made the scene like the
 
 THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 227 
 
 coast-line of some dreamland or wonderland. 
 Miss Theyn saw none of these details defi- 
 nitely as she went onward with a smile 
 toward Barbara, who stood there, tall, beauti- 
 ful, almost as dignified as Miss Theyn herself. 
 For a moment she forgot all about the artist, 
 and lifted her creel from her head, without 
 dreaming that the slight action was one to 
 move him almost to despair. Yet he stood 
 by with grave face and courteous attitude, 
 wondering what his next duty might be. He 
 was not so free from perturbation as he 
 seemed. He had forgotten Bab's description, 
 his own anticipation, yet all at once he knew 
 himself to be possessed by that flash of feeling 
 which arouses most of us when at last we 
 stand in the presence of a long felt-after ideal. 
 Here at last is the beauty we have tried to 
 grasp in visions, here is the goodness, here 
 the grace of soul. Being thus prepared 
 we fall down and worship, and are at once 
 the better for that worship. 
 
 Rudel knew when the pilgrims brought 
 from the East the accounts of the grace, the 
 loveliness, the goodness of the Lady of 
 Tripoli. He listened till he lost himself, lost 
 
 15—2
 
 228 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 himself utterly in the hope to find another. 
 But the story of the troubadour having been 
 told already it may not be repeated here. 
 Browning's brief poem contains the essence of 
 the drama, its most vital human meaning. 
 The man heard and loved, loved so intensely 
 that when the moment came when sight was 
 to be vouchsafed to him his strength was not 
 sufficient for the ordeal ; it had been con- 
 sumed by thought, lit by a supreme imagina- 
 tion. He fell at the feet of the woman 
 whom he had loved unseen, and he died 
 there. Ever since men have sneered at his 
 name, or have grown sadder on hearing 
 it. A few men, a few women, have under- 
 stood. 
 
 Damian Aldenmede had not the poem in 
 remembrance at the moment when he turned 
 to meet the diffident, almost timid glance of 
 the lady of wdiom he had heard so much. 
 Bab, in her own informal yet unembarrassed 
 way, was introducing this new Lady or" 
 Tripoli or of Ulvstan. What's in a name ? 
 The Rudel of the hour stood holding his 
 brushes and palette in one hand, raising his 
 gray felt hat with the other, lifting a grave,
 
 THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 229 
 
 unsmiling, austere face, with far-seeing eyes, 
 that seemed so full of sadness, of some old 
 hopelessness, that Miss Theyn's one impression 
 was that of a man acquainted with sorrow, 
 and with little beside. Later she knew more, 
 and judged far otherwise. 
 
 She was the first to speak. 
 
 ' I fear I have interrupted you,' she said, in 
 sweet, musical, yet most unaffected tones. ' I 
 ought not to have stopped, but I could hardly 
 help it.' 
 
 As she ended her speech she glanced first 
 at the canvas, then at Bab, with undisguised 
 admiration. Bab was listening to her, Avon- 
 (lering how her words, her voice, her grace, 
 her beauty would strike this most perceptive 
 artist, who was now disclaiming all idea of 
 being interrupted. 
 
 • It is good to have a brief rest sometimes/ 
 he was saying. * And I am proud that my 
 picture tempted you to stay and look at it. 
 I only wish that it had been in a more 
 attractive stage.' 
 
 ' To me it is very attractive,' Miss Theyn 
 replied eagerly. ' I have not seen an un- 
 finished picture half-a-dozen times in my
 
 230 IN EXCHAXGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 life. ... I find great charm about a canvas 
 only half-covered.' 
 
 ' Do you paint yourself?' 
 
 ' Xo. I regret to say. I learnt to draw, 
 as people do learn for whom dramng is 
 classed with crewel work. ^ly governess 
 taught me. I did a drawing every month, 
 the usual chalk trees, the usual chalk tigures. 
 with the usual river impeded by large stones. 
 The only variation was in the rains, some- 
 times it was a ruined castle, sometimes a 
 church, sometimes a mill. There was a trick 
 of touch for each.' 
 
 ' And you learnt the receipt by heart ?' 
 
 ' I learnt it thoroughly. When I had 
 done so I laid down my porte- crayon for 
 ever.' 
 
 ' Surely not ? . . . It is not too late to 
 make ud for lost time.' 
 
 Bab, who was listening closely, and with 
 intense interest, was not aware of the quiet 
 smile that was creeping unnoticed over her 
 own face. 
 
 ' Is he always Avantin' to learn somebody 
 something ?' she asked herself. And truth to 
 say she had hit rather cleverly upon one of
 
 THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 231 
 
 the singularities of his character. It was not 
 that he liked teaching in itself, nay, it would 
 hardly be too much to say that he hated it ; 
 yet the pleasure of knowing that he had 
 satisfied another's craving for knowledge, or 
 even for mere information, was one of the 
 most satisfactory pleasures remaining to him 
 in life. 
 
 Xot that he was dreaming of offering 
 lessons in drawing to Miss Theyn ; nor had 
 Thorhilda's vision progressed so far as yet. 
 Still she was silent for a moment, and during 
 that moment she was thinking of the possi- 
 bility of taking up an art that would require 
 time, labour and earnest thought. Then her 
 future, as it had been placed before her only 
 yesterday, rose up all at once, making her 
 feel as one awaking from a pleasant dream 
 to the dull and chill reality of daily life. The 
 smile seemed to die from her lips and from 
 her eyes. Damian Aldenmede, watching her 
 closely, eagerly, saw, and . . . grievously 
 misunderstood. 
 
 ' She thinks I am presuming — this dainty 
 lady. ... I will be mindful ! . . . . She 
 shall think so no more T
 
 232 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUE 
 
 Thorhilda replied at last — speaking in quite 
 another tone. 
 
 ' I am afraid it is too late,' she said, watch- 
 ing the artist as he began to rearrange his 
 brushes, to replenish his palette from the 
 tubes. She discerned the change in him, 
 the increase of gravity, the power of self- 
 effacement ; and above all she saw the loneli- 
 ness, the true heart-loneliness that has out- 
 worn all waiting, all searching, all hoping. 
 Seeing that he was wishful to begin his work 
 again, she said a few more words to Bab, 
 gave a smile and a kiss to Ailsie, and turned 
 to go. 
 
 There was no embarrassment visible in 
 her manner as she bowed to the artist, saying 
 gracefully, but not without an undertone of 
 sadness : 
 
 ' Good-morning, Mr. Aldenmede. Thank 
 you much for letting me see your 23icture. I 
 am sure it will be a very beautiful one.' 
 
 * Will he ask me to come and see it when 
 it is done ?' was the question in her own 
 heart. 
 
 ' Shall I say that I shall be glad if she will 
 come and see it many times before the finithing
 
 THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 233 
 
 touch is given?' was the question asked on the 
 other side. 
 
 Neither interrogation was uttered aloud, 
 though perhajDs the inward thought did not 
 stray so very wildly. Miss Theyn went 
 back over the beach alone, perhaps sadder 
 than before, and with a strange and utterly 
 unaccountable sadness. Yet she felt as if all 
 at once a new restfulness had overshadowed 
 her. 
 
 * How quiet he makes one feel !' she said 
 to herself, speaking as she might have spoken 
 of one whom she had known for years. ' Is 
 it the streno'th in him? the goodness? I am 
 sure he is good; and I am sure that he is 
 strong. . . . There is nothing frivolous there I 
 nothing selfish, nothing idle, nothing that 
 could even tolerate luxuriousness.' . . . Then 
 there was a pause — a graver moment. ' And 
 there is nothing that could savour for one 
 second of secrecy, of duplicity. If he is 
 reserved, it is with the reserve of one who 
 would hide from the world's eyes a sorrow- 
 that the world could never understand. . . . 
 If I had a trouble, I could tell it to him ; he 
 would comprehend, he would alleviate it
 
 234 AV EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 somehow. ... I wish, I wish he had not been 
 — what he is I' 
 
 Even in thought Miss Theyn could not 
 put any words to her vague ideas of this 
 stranger's poverty ; she shrank from her own 
 notion, and felt curiously perj^lexed. That 
 one who had a more true distinction of 
 manner, a more perfect grace of address, a 
 finer reticence in speech and demeanour than 
 she had ever seen before — that such a one 
 should be lodging at Mrs. Featherstone's, a 
 small, tidy cottage at the back of the Fore- 
 cliif ; that he should seem to be dependent 
 upon his brush; that he should have come 
 into the neighbourhood of the east of Xorth 
 Yorkshire without credentials of any kind, 
 was assuredly bewildering. Yet Miss Theyn' s 
 utmost vision did not pass be3^ond his own 
 presentment of himself ' Yet I wish — I wish 
 he had been different,' she repeated half 
 audibly. ' I know no one whom I should be 
 so glad to have as a friend. All my life I 
 shall think of him as the one man between 
 whom and myself there might have been a 
 perfect friendship.' 
 
 Meanwhile the artist had resumed his
 
 THE DAY WE LOVED, THE DAY WE MET. 235 
 
 painting with redoubled vigour — working 
 rapidly, silently, eagerly ; and Bab saw by 
 the compression about his mouth that he 
 was in no mood for conversation. It was 
 not till he had flung down his brushes and 
 palette and patted Ailsie on the cheek, with 
 thanks for being so still, giving her a bright 
 new florin for her very own, that Bab dared 
 to speak. 
 
 There was a toucli of humour in her blue 
 eyes when she raised them. 
 
 'Noo — did Ah tell ya wrong?' she asked, 
 speaking gently and smiling softly. ' Did 
 Ah saiiy a word overmuch? Have ya ever 
 in yer whole life seen a lady half so beautiful ?' 
 
 Aldenmede did not reply for a moment. 
 Then, laying his hand gently on little Ailsie's 
 shoulder, and turning to Bab with his kind- 
 liest voice and accent, he said, using mucli 
 emphasis : 
 
 * Don't misunderstand me, Barbara — in- 
 deed, I feel sure that you will not! . . . 
 But how shall I say it? how shall I exj^ress 
 what I am thinking — that it will be better 
 that . . . better if you do not speak to me of 
 Miss Theyn any more.'
 
 236 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 Bab's only answer was a quick, curious, 
 wondering look. As she went homeward, she 
 smiled to herself, saying : 
 
 ^ He'll speak of her to me afore I'll speak of 
 her to him ! But he'll do that, an* afore long, 
 or my naame's noan Barbara Burdas.'
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 IN YARVA WYKE. 
 
 ' And we entreat Thee, that all men whom Thou 
 Hast gifted with great minds may love Thee well, 
 And praise Thee for their powers, and use them most 
 Humbly and holily, and, lever-like. 
 Act but in lifting up the mass of mind 
 About them.' 
 
 P. J. Bailey : Festun. 
 
 The summer was passing on — a bright beauti- 
 ful summer it was, with now and then a 
 summer storm by w^ay of variation, tossing 
 up the white waves into Ulvstan Bight, 
 scattering the herring-fleet north and south; 
 now and then a sea-fret, chilling yet stifling, 
 defrauding the sight as with a temporary 
 blindness. Yet the actors in the drama of 
 life, as life was displayed on the stage of 
 Ulvstan Bight, went on playing their parts 
 all the same, apparently heedless of storm or 
 shine. Some were bearing patiently, suffer-
 
 238 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ing silently; some now and then flew out 
 into mad street brawls, subsiding afterward 
 to hide their misery, cowering by fires of 
 shipwreck wood, seeming to cease from 
 emotion altogether, and only to cling in a 
 dumb brute-like ay ay to the mere fact of 
 existence. 
 
 Canon Godfrey, going in and out amongst 
 them, was touched afresh each day by the 
 endurance he saw. Misery was accepted as a 
 natural thing, as natural as labour or pain ; 
 and oft he marvelled to see how such as were 
 sufferinof most seemed best to bear the con- 
 trast that was daily increasing before their 
 eyes. 
 
 It was in the early autumn that the richer 
 people came to Ulvstan, the people who 
 brought their own carriages, their own men- 
 servants and maid -servants. The resources 
 of the neighbourhood were taxed to provide 
 for their w^ants, or what were counted as 
 wants ; the little shops grew quite enterprising 
 in their efforts ; the scene on the beach grew 
 daily more and more gay. Ladies on horse- 
 back came galloping up and down by the 
 rippling tide; invalids in chairs and carriages
 
 IN YARVA IVYKE. 239 
 
 were drawn to and fro more slowly; little 
 brown -hoi land children with pails and spades 
 wxnt paddling in and out of pools and sand- 
 castles; crimson parasols burned in the yellow 
 sunshine; pink dresses and blue, white dresses 
 and red, went flitting about among the bathing- 
 machines; and the fisher-folk looked on, and 
 wondered, and did little kindnesses whenever 
 opportunity came in their way with a curious 
 and not unbeautiful acceptance of the in- 
 evitable. 
 
 ^ Good God! that one can bear to see it all, 
 and to think of it !' the Canon said to himself 
 one morning, as he walked with his wife in 
 search of Thorhilda, who had gone toward 
 the ForecliiF with a basket of flowers for 
 Barbara Burdas, and had not returned to the 
 place where they had expected her. 
 
 She had meant to leave them at the Sagged 
 House; but she had found the door locked; 
 and Nan Tyas, passing by at the moment, had 
 stopped to say : 
 
 * Is it Bab ya're wantin' ? She's noan i' 
 the hoose ; she seldom is at this time o' 
 daay.' 
 
 There was a pertness in Xan's manner, as
 
 2^40 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 she leaned over the gate and lifted her bold 
 black eyes, that aroused within the Rector's 
 niece a touch of something that was almost 
 indignation. 
 
 ' Thank you !' Miss Theyn replied. ' Per- 
 haps you know where I may find her?' 
 
 'Perhaps!' Nan admitted, evidently resent- 
 ing the momentary haughtiness her own 
 manner had awakened. ' Perhaps Ah do ! 
 Ah'm noiin boun' te saay, sa far as I under- 
 stand the law o' the land !' 
 
 Thorhilda's first impulse was to pass on- 
 ward, without so much as a civil word of 
 departure ; but she had force enough to 
 recover herself. Turning to Xan, who still 
 stood with her elbow upon the gate-post and 
 an unplea-ant smile upon her lip, she said 
 quietly, and with dignity : 
 
 ' Has it so happened that I have offended 
 you in some way? Have I been so unfor- 
 tunate as to displease you, to cross your 
 will or wish in any direction? Pardon my 
 questions; but you seem to speak as if you 
 had some reason for mshing not to oblige 
 me.' 
 
 Nan stared for a moment into the pale,
 
 IN YARVA WYKE. 241 
 
 gentle, yet resolute face before her. The 
 kindly expression answering her OAvn in- 
 solent one was puzzling. Nan could not 
 resent it. 
 
 ' Ah doan't know as yoitve ever vexed me,' 
 she said, averting her face slightly, partly in 
 embarrassment, partly in shame. ' But if Ah 
 mun tell the truth, you're near anuff akin te 
 them 'at hes.' 
 
 Miss Theyn began to understand; and in 
 spite of effort after self-control the under- 
 standing brought a flush of pain to her 
 cheek. 
 
 ' I am not quite sure that I know what 
 you mean,' she replied, speaking in changed 
 tones, yet still with a kindly and winning 
 courtesy. ' You will know that I cannot 
 speak to you of — of others. ... If you 
 cannot tell me where Barbara is, I will say 
 " Good-morning." ' 
 
 ' Good-morning,' Nan retorted, lifting her- 
 self from the gate-post and moving away. 
 But she turned again quickly. Miss Theyn's 
 word and tone constraining her. ' Ah meant 
 noa offence,' she said, ' an mebbe Ah'd better 
 gie ya a word o' warnin'. They mean mis- 
 
 VOL. I. IG
 
 242 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 chief — some o' Dave's mates. . . . But, there, 
 Ah can saaj no more.' 
 
 'Stay a moment!' Miss Theyn entreated. 
 ' Mischief, you say? To whom? Xot to 
 Barbara — surely not to her?' 
 
 ' To Bab ? !N^oa, niver ! They'll noan 
 harm her! But there's others — there's one 
 ya know, not so far away by kin. Give 
 him a word. If he's not a foo], he'll 
 take it.' 
 
 ' You are meaning my brother?' 
 
 ' Ah niver naamed no naames,' Xan replied, 
 half- tremulously, and again turning to depart. 
 ' It's well anuff known i' the Bight 'at Dave's 
 heart's been set upon her for years past ; an' 
 there's noan but what thinks she'd ha' given 
 in sooner or later if nobody else had come 
 between. An' they know how it is! They 
 can see that his heart's just breakin' ; and hers 
 is noan so much at rest. They can see it 
 all ; an' they've said . . . But, oh me ! What 
 am Ah doin'? They'd murder me — toss me 
 over the clifF-edo^e as soon as look at me if 
 they knew Ah'd betrayed em ! Eh, me, I is 
 a fool! . . . But 3'ou'll noan let on, Miss 
 Theyn?'
 
 IN YARVA WYKE. 243 
 
 ' Can you not trust me?' Thorhilda asked, 
 her face alight with gratitude, with sympathy, 
 with kindness. 
 
 ' Trust you ? Ay, to the death ! But let 
 ma go noo. Ah darn't stay no longer.' 
 
 Miss Theyn was left standing there by the 
 steps of the Sagged House, perplexed, won- 
 dering, irresolute. Then all at once her 
 mind was made up. She would find Bar- 
 bara first, and then go on at once to Garlafi^. 
 Doubtless the fisher-girl would be on the 
 Scaur somewhere — in all probability at the 
 point beyond Yarva Ness where the artist 
 was at work upon his picture. Miss Theyn 
 could see the white umbrella gleaming even 
 from the ForecliiF; and at once she began to 
 make her way thither, though not without 
 some reluctance — a reluctance she herself 
 could hardly understand. 
 
 She had not seen the artist since that day 
 when Bab had, in her own simple and unem- 
 barrassed way, introduced him to her. More 
 than once her uncle had seen him at church, 
 and subsequentl}'- had called upon him at his 
 lodging; and unfortunately the call had been 
 returned one afternoon when the whole of 
 
 16—2
 
 244 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 the Rectory party had gone to Daiiesborough. 
 Naturally, a stranger of such clisthiguished 
 presence and bearing had been discussed at 
 the house on the hill at Yarburgh. 
 
 ' We must see him somehow,' Mrs. Godfrey 
 had said one evening, not thinking how and 
 where they were to meet. 
 
 It was Barbara who was the first to discern 
 Miss Theyn's approach. She was standing in 
 the usual position some two or three yards 
 away from the artist, her creel on her head, 
 little Ailsie by her side. Mr. Aldenmede saw 
 by the sudden change on her face that some 
 one was coming — some one in w^hom his 
 model was interested. 
 
 * Who is it?' he said, smiling. 'Miss 
 TheynP 
 
 Bab looked at him, and only the word 
 ' roguish ' could perfectly describe the mean- 
 ing of her glance. 
 
 ' Ah thought that were a name 'at had 
 been forbidden to be said,' she remarked, 
 her expression saving her speech from all 
 touch of temper. 
 
 The artist looked up with quick apprecia- 
 tion. There was no time for words.. Miss
 
 IN YARVA WYKE. 245 
 
 Theyn's step was upon the gravel behind Mm. 
 He rose and bowed. Bab saw his colour 
 change, and the carnation that 'was on Miss 
 Theyn's face deepened to an almost painful 
 degree. The words of greeting were curiously 
 confused. 
 
 Thorhilda offered the basket of flowers to 
 Barbara — rich and rare roses, heliotrope, 
 stephanotis, sweet verbena, half-buried in 
 daintiest ferns. Bab took them with an 
 emotion that betrayed to each of the on- 
 lookers that her soul's sensitiveness to beauty 
 was not to be measured by any of the out- 
 ward circumstances of her life. She turned 
 away, silent, tremulous, to hide the basket 
 from the sun within the cave close at 
 hand. 
 
 Miss Theyn was looking at the pic- 
 ture ; Damian Aldenmede was explaining 
 his further intention concerning it ; while 
 little Ailsie was resting on his campstool, 
 her small hand clasped in his. The artist 
 knew himself to have already a singular 
 affection for this tiny child of seven, and 
 that she responded to it helped to fill the 
 lonely days with a quite new and felicitous
 
 246 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 warmth. He was glad that she was there 
 while Miss Theyn was speaking. 
 
 ' Have you not been working ^'ery hard ?' 
 she asked, looking at his canvas, upon which 
 the figures were growing — coming to a fuller 
 life, a finer beauty, a truer human expressive- 
 ness. Her question sounded common-place ; 
 ber well-meant grain the veriest chaff ; yet no 
 other word would come. 
 
 The artist smiled in answer. Then he 
 said : 
 
 ' That is true in one sense, yet one never 
 counts the work hard that is done con amove. 
 The hardness would be in being deprived of 
 the opportunity of working. I do not think 
 that in the intellectual life of man there can 
 be a greater trial than to know that you have 
 something to say or do, and to learn by sad 
 and sore experience that the opportunity of 
 uttering your word or doing your deed is to 
 be for ever denied you.' Then the man's 
 voice changed, faltered a little as he continued : 
 ' If there be a true taking up of a bitter cross 
 it is known to the man who must do some 
 lower work while his whole soul is drawn 
 to live and to toil on o-reater heiofhts. And
 
 IN YARVA WYKE. 247 
 
 it is a trial that not one human being in 
 a thousand can comprehend ; therefore the 
 man who suffers it can have no sympathy, 
 hope for none. In the beginning he yearns 
 for it, throwing out feelers here and there, 
 as if searching after response, comprehension ; 
 but by-and-by, borne down by sheer dis- 
 appointment, he ceases to expect these things, 
 and schools himself to a life of silent un- 
 comprehended negation, knowing that he 
 does this to his own loss, perhaps to the 
 world's loss also. Everything has its price.' 
 
 Had the man forgotten himself? All at 
 once he seemed to wake up. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon !' he said emphatically. 
 '• I fear I was not thinking !' 
 
 But he saw that Miss Theyn was thinking 
 as she stood there silent, impressed, beside his 
 picture, looking into it with quite new vision. 
 Bab was coming back from the cool cave 
 where she had left her flowers, something 
 glittering among the petals that was not the 
 morning dew. She was by Ailsie's side 
 again, the little one was lifting her disengaged 
 hand to Bab, Miss Theyn was smiling at 
 the evidence of affection that was between
 
 248 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 the two, when all at once everybody became 
 aware of a figure, leaping, sliding, gliding, 
 making for himself a pathway down the 
 pathless clifi* but just beyond Yarva Ness. 
 
 Involuntarily the artist was drawn to look 
 at Miss Theyn. She was pallid, trembling, 
 distressed. 
 
 ' It is Hartas, my brother,' she said ; then 
 she turned aside. If some madness were 
 moving him to self-destruction she would not 
 look on while the deed was being done.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 
 
 " For worse than being f ool'd 
 Of others, is to fool one's self." 
 
 Tennyson : Gareth and Lymtte. 
 
 It seemed like a miracle that Hartas Theyn 
 should make that perilous descent, and yet 
 touch the beach unhurt. Thorhilda, turning 
 to meet him, saw that he was white and rigid 
 to the very lips. He looked thinner than he 
 had looked before; and his dark eyes, as 
 he looked from one to another of the little 
 group before him, seemed alight with new 
 and strange fires. So impressive his un- 
 expected presence was that no one spoke 
 for a moment. At last Thorhilda broke the 
 silence : 
 
 ' This is my brother, Mr. Aldenmede,' 
 she said, makinof a o^reat effort after self-
 
 250 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 command. Then, turning to Hartas, she 
 exclaimed : 'How could you do such a thing 
 as that ? How could you ? . . . It seemed 
 impossible that you should ever reach the foot 
 of the cliff alive !' 
 
 ' There's more than one here that would 
 have been glad anuff if I never had reached 
 it alive !' he replied wdth ill-controlled emotion. 
 ' But I didn't come down here to talk about 
 myself,' he went on, glancing hurriedly, 
 nervously, to w^here Bab stood, inwardly per- 
 turbed with strange apprehensions, with un- 
 comprehended yearnings, yet outwardly calm, 
 almost dignified. ' I didn't come for that^' 
 Hartas was saying. ' I had another erran' — 
 an erran' I'm not ashamed of!' 
 
 Then he paused for w^ant of power to con- 
 tinue, rather than for want of w^ords, and 
 Damian Aldenmede, seeing this, came forward 
 with intentions of the kindest. 
 
 ' Have you known anyone to make that 
 descent before ?' he asked, speaking as of a 
 mere question of Alpine climbing, or rather 
 descending. ' Pardon me for saying it, but 
 I think you risked too much. The alum-shale 
 hereabout is like .^t^oap — quite as slippery,
 
 CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 251 
 
 quite as much to be distrusted for climbing 
 purposes.' 
 
 ' There's things as is more slippery, more 
 to be distrusted than the alum -shale,' re- 
 turned the young man, still pallid, still 
 tremulous. 
 
 No woman with a w^oman's heart could 
 have failed of pity or of sympathy ; and two 
 women, not of the hardest natures, were 
 beside him there. 
 
 And Damian Aldenmede was watchinof 
 them, seeing on the one face — the face he 
 had turned to note first — a wdiite, perturbed, 
 pathetic sadness ; on the other a burning and 
 increasing sense of pain and anxiety, almost 
 of fear ; and yet it was easy to see that it 
 w^as the fear that is waiting to be cast out by 
 love. He could not but understand, at least 
 up to a certain point ; yet he knew that 
 there was much behind that he could not 
 see. 
 
 Half unknown to himself he was looking 
 at this matter wholly through the eyes of 
 another. However admirable Barbara Burdas 
 might be as a woman of ' the masses,' strong 
 to labour, yet with innate ideas of gentle
 
 252 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 living; having for duty's sake to give her 
 life, her youth, her best energies to earning 
 the bread of others as well as her own, yet 
 cherishing a certain consciousness of the fact 
 that man does not live by bread alone ; con- 
 tent to spend the best of each day in toil 
 that mio^ht even be considered disofustinof ; 
 exposed to every element of an unkindly and 
 hardening clime, vet induloins; ceaseless 
 yearnings after knowledge, after light, after 
 good — yearnings that had to be kept in 
 the straitest silence — however great, almost 
 noble, all this in its way might be, Barbara 
 was yet no fitting sister for the refined and 
 cultured lady standing beside her noAv, 
 making a contrast as complete as humanity 
 could show. 
 
 All this and much more the artist saw; 
 and in that moment it seemed to him that the 
 truest kindness to Bab herself would be to 
 endeavour to deliver her from the thraldom of 
 the love into which she had so unwittingly 
 fallen. He could see no happiness for her in 
 any future that should include a union with 
 this evidently hot-hearted, and perhaps more 
 or less shallow-headed young man.
 
 CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 253 
 
 All unaware his mind was made up, and 
 this with a swiftness, a w^ant of deliberation 
 almost unprecedented in his mental history. 
 Later, he w^ondered over that hour by the sea 
 at Ulvstan. 
 
 Not many seconds had passed since Hartas 
 spoke. The young man w^as standing there, 
 breathing quickly, glancing irately from one 
 to another. As his glance fell upon Alden- 
 mede the latter spoke : 
 
 ' You were mentioning some errand, I 
 think — some motive ?' he began inquiringly, 
 and in placid, respectful tones — the respect a 
 man of good breeding instinctively displays 
 to a stranger, however inferior that stranger 
 may be to himself All unknowingly poor 
 Hartas was moved to a less antagonistic 
 attitude for the moment. 
 
 * Yes ; I did speak of an erran',' he said, 
 his brown face coming to its natural brown - 
 ness, with something over. ' I didn't risk my 
 neck for nothing !' 
 
 'Naturally/ Aldenmede replied with un- 
 affected gravity. He had seen that Miss 
 Theyn was looking toward him pleadingly ; 
 that Bab's face was averted somewhat distress-
 
 2 54 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 fally. ' Xaturally you did not, and your 
 motive must have been a tolerably strong one; 
 and though I, perhaps, may have nothing to 
 do with it . . . .' 
 
 ' I reckon you've more to do with it than 
 you may be wdllin to admit !' Hartas broke in 
 angrily ; ' an' if I were in your place I'd make 
 no pretence o' not knowing.' 
 
 With a sudden gesture of imj)atience Bab 
 turned herself towards the little group; a 
 light flashed to her eyes — the light of remem- 
 brance. She had not seen the Squire's son 
 except in the distance since that unhappy 
 evening, when he had hurt her woman's sense 
 of dignity by his too fervid and too hasty 
 behaviour. For the moment his boldness, his 
 rudeness, his roughness had caused a some- 
 thing that was almost revulsion in her heart. 
 But naturally it was only, so to speak, for the 
 moment, and it had been succeeded by a 
 pathetic yearning for w^hat she thought of in 
 her own mind as a peace-making, or at any 
 rate some understanding that should tend 
 to a feeling of peace; and yet all the while 
 she had precluded the possibility of any 
 such opportunity happening to him ; and
 
 CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 255 
 
 this, though she knew that his yearning was 
 at least as intense as her own. So it is ever 
 with this 
 
 ' Most illogical 
 Irrational nature of our womanhood. 
 That blushes one way, feels another way, 
 And prays, perhaps, another.'* 
 
 And now again he was paining her, awaken- 
 ing within her a mingled sense of anger and 
 heartache. Had she been alone with him, she 
 had not shrunk from putting her pain into 
 words, but as it was she could only restrain 
 herself Arresting the word that was on her 
 lips, she turned away ; but the artist had seen, 
 and had in a measure understood. 
 
 There was yet no anger in Damian Alden- 
 mede's heart ; nothing but that large and 
 generous pity. 
 
 ' I am sorry if I have given you any cause 
 of offence,' he said, speaking calmly. ' May 
 I add that I have done so quite uncon- 
 sciously ?' 
 
 ' All the same, you know what I mean ?' 
 asked Hartas. 
 
 ' I fear I am beginning to suspect.' 
 
 * Mrs. Browning : Aurora Leigh.
 
 256 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 'Til put it into words for you,' said Bar- 
 bara, coming forward and speaking tremu- 
 lously. ' I'll help ya both if I can, since 
 it seems to be me 'at's at the bottom o' the 
 trouble. . . . Here's you ' (turning to the 
 artist), 'a stranger to the place, good an' 
 kind-hearted, an' able to see when a woman's 
 heart's aching for the need of help, of under- 
 standin', able to see^ an' more nor that, willin 
 to give the help he knows to be needed ; 
 willin' to give time, an' trouble, an' pains to 
 try to make that woman's life i' the present, 
 and i' the future, seem brighter, an' pleasanter; 
 better worth the livin'; willin' to give her, 
 not only a word of encouragement, but to put 
 the words into deeds; to come an' sit by the 
 hour at a time in a little smoky fisherman's 
 cottage, wi' the smell o' the oilskins, an' the 
 salt fish, and the herrin's all about, an' never 
 by no word nor sign to show no disgust, not 
 for a moment ; an' all this for the sake o' 
 giving an hour's larnin' to one as had never 
 had noan afore ; but had gone on cravin' for 
 help i' such things as a dumb beast out i' the 
 cold might crave for the shelter it couldn't 
 even pictur' to itself. . . . There ! that's what
 
 CANOX GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 257 
 
 Ifou might say for yourself, if ya would. . . . 
 An' as for you ' (turning to Hartas Theyn, 
 who stood near, witli an air of uneasy 
 sullenness), ' as for you, it's more difficult 
 to say. You've thought to stoop down, to — 
 
 to. /. ; 
 
 AVhat ailed Barbara ? What could ail a 
 woman, young, strong, ignorant of nerves, of 
 fainting, of hysteria ? She had stopped sud- 
 denly: her breathing was coming and going 
 rapidly, painfully ; her whole frame seemed 
 to be heaving with a sudden violence, and it 
 was evident that no more words were possible 
 to her. In trying to describe Hartas Theyn's 
 position, had she attempted a task beyond 
 her power; or \Yas it merely that the emo- 
 tion of the moment was too o^^eat to be 
 borne ? 
 
 Xo one had time to think. 
 
 Before Thorhilda could even attempt to 
 
 comfort or soothe the girl, she perceived that 
 
 two figures were rounding Yarva i^ess ; and 
 
 almost at the same moment Barbara herself 
 
 >saw them. The Canon was helping Mrs. 
 
 Godfrey over the slippery stones. Thorhilda 
 
 went eagerly to meet them, with tearful face 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 and outstretched hands. Here, at any rate, 
 was strength and guidance. 
 
 ' Come !' she exclaimed. ' Come and make 
 peace, Uncle Hugh ! Hartas is here — he 
 came dashing right down the face of the cliff 
 where it is steepest — he had seen Mr. Alden- 
 mede sketching, and had taken some wrong 
 notions into his head. Barbara Burdas was 
 iust tellino; him how wronci: they were. Do 
 
 J 
 
 come and put things right!' 
 
 It was very unusual to see Thorhilda so 
 much excited, and her excitement caused the 
 Canon to wonder how much the strength of 
 any ordinary woman might be exhibited in 
 her power to keep at least an outward show 
 of calmness. 
 
 To Mrs. Godfrey, whose notions of pro- 
 priety were, in a certain sense, rather rigid, it 
 was somewhat annoying to have to be intro- 
 duced to this stranger, of whom she had 
 heard so much^ under such circumstances as 
 these. Nevertheless she smiled sweetly, and 
 shook hands graciously, and did her best to 
 hide her annoyance. Then she turned to Bab 
 and Hartas, as she might have turned to two 
 rather troublesome children in the Sunday-
 
 CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 259 
 
 scliool, tlie beautiful smile still on her lip, a 
 general expression of wondering amiability on 
 her face. 
 
 ' What is it all about, Hartas ?' she asked ; 
 and anyone who had known Mrs. Godfrey 
 well might, for all her amiable look, have 
 detected a certain undertone of vexation. 
 ' What is it ? Ah ! how I wish you Avould 
 take my advice and leave Garlaff for awhile ! 
 It is unwise for a young man to remain 
 ahvays at home, uuAvise to give himself no 
 chance of widening his mind, enlarging his 
 experience, expanding his thoughts by contact 
 with the thoughts and opinions of others. 
 Do you not agree with me, Mr. Aldenmede V 
 she asked, turning quickly; but the artist was 
 talking to her husband, Bab was listening to 
 Thorhilda's pained regrets. 
 
 In the background, under the cliffs, half-a- 
 dozen fishermen were crossing the beach, 
 David Andoe among them, suddenly silenced 
 in the middle of a story he had been repeat- 
 inof. He had recoornised Bab from aflir: he 
 
 CO " 
 
 had seen that Hartas Theyn was one of the 
 
 group; and now he was passing on, saddened, 
 
 depressed with a depression that did not 
 
 17—2
 
 26o IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 escape the notice of liis mates. And for all 
 the singularity they counted him to have, 
 David was vet a favourite amon^' them: and 
 a whispered word was flashed along the little 
 line of men like the lightning that goes before 
 a storm. They understood, or believed that 
 they did, and the new understanding added to 
 the old determination; but the threat that 
 Xan had heard was not repeated in David 
 Andoe's hearing. 
 
 Xo one of the little group near the easel 
 was dreaming of any ill to be. ^Irs. Godfrey, 
 as usual, equal to every occasion, was asking 
 ]\Ir. Aldenmede to dine at the Eectory on the 
 following evening without ceremony. The 
 Canon was talking to Hartas, sauntering on 
 over the beach with him, drawing slowly from 
 tlie youth a confession of a twofold jealousy, 
 and therefore in all probability causeless on 
 either hand. If Barbara were caring for 
 David Andoe, she could certainly not be 
 yielding to any fancy or feeling that might 
 come of intercourse with such a man as 
 Damian Aldenmede. 
 
 ' You perjDlex me altogether,' the Canon 
 said half- sadly, and trying to keep back all
 
 CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 261 
 
 reproach from his tone. ' I can understand, 
 believe nie, I can understand more than you 
 think of your unwise affection for Barbara 
 Burdas; but it seems to me that if you truly 
 cared for her, you would not run the risk of 
 alienating her for ever by such displays of 
 small jealousy as this ! There is nothing 
 small about l>arbara. She will hardly endure 
 behaviour of this kind ; and I confess that 
 you sur23rise me by apparently endeavouring 
 to see how much she will bear. . . . Yet 
 don't mistake me ! I don't mean to be hard 
 or unsympathetic ; and I am sorry to see you 
 suffering like this. But believe a man nearly 
 twenty years older than yourself, and fifty 
 years more experienced in the world's ways; 
 believe me, when I say that you are not going 
 the right way to work to win a large-hearted 
 woman like Barbara Burdas. You are doino; 
 your utmost to repel her best and higliest 
 feeling. Perhaps I ought to be glad of this ; 
 but I cannot, quite honestly, say that I am.' 
 
 ' Why not ?' Hartas asked curtly, and with 
 an evident disposition toward incredulousness. 
 
 'Why? . . . Well, shall I tell you the 
 truth ? Perhaps I had better ! 1 am not
 
 262 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 glad, because I tliinlv I perceive that Barbara 
 has some affection for jou. If she have, it 
 may save you ! . . . There, you have all my 
 reason !' 
 
 Slowly, half- unwillingly, and with a whole 
 shyness, Hartas drew his clumsy brown hand 
 from his pocket, and offered it to the Canon's 
 grasp. 
 
 ' I thank you for sayin' that/ the Squire's 
 son replied. ' An' I trust you — that's more 
 nor I can say for the most o' folks. . . . Yes, 
 I trust you. . . . An' if I can help it, I'll go 
 against you no more. I'll be different from 
 to-day, if I can. I'd like to be different. I've 
 wished it a good bit. Thorhilda told you 
 mebbe.' (How strange it was that it should 
 jar upon the Canon to hear his niece's Chris- 
 tian name used familiarly by her own brother.) 
 ' She'd tell you 'at I'd been tryin' to make a 
 change. But lately I've slipped back, an' I've 
 been aware of it ; but I couldn't help it, bein' 
 so troubled ; havin' no sort of hope nowhere. 
 . . . But since you've told me that^ I'll begin 
 again. . . . I'll begin at once! I can't say 
 no more !' 
 
 'I am glad you've said so much,' the Canon
 
 CANON GODFREY AND HIS NEPHEW. 263 
 
 replied, with un extreme quietude of voice 
 and manner. ' And I am sure you mean it. 
 I won't say any more now — only this : if you 
 want help, help of any kind that I can give, 
 Avill you come to me? I'll make things as 
 easy for you as I can. . . . Promise me that 
 you will come 1' 
 
 ' Ay, I'll promise that,' Hartas said, in 
 tones that made Hugh Godfrey look up with 
 an unintended quickness ; he saw at once that 
 the young fellow's eyes were suspiciously 
 bright, as w^ith tears held back by very 
 force. 
 
 It was Hartas wdio delivered that last 
 silent moment from its awkwardness. 
 
 ' Good-day,' he said suddenly, again holding 
 out his hand ; 'I'll go back to Garlaff by way 
 o' the Howes. It's none so far round from 
 hereabouts.' 
 
 The Canon watclied him a little as he went 
 onward, sending after him a yearning look, a 
 sigh, a prayer. 
 
 ' There's plenty of good in the lad yet,' 
 he said to himself, jxoinof back to tlie ^NTess. 
 • May God defend him from the powers of 
 ill!'
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 'sweet the help of one we have helped.' 
 
 ' Some men are nobly rich, some nohhj poor^ 
 Some the reverse. Rank makes no difference.' 
 
 P. J. Bailey : Festus. 
 
 DA:\[rAX Aldenmede had accepted the invita- 
 tion of the Godfreys to dine at the Rectory. 
 
 ' Come up to-morrow evening, if you can,' 
 Mrs. Godfrey had said. ' There wdll only be 
 ourselves, and perhaps Mr. Egerton ; and the 
 Canon had Avarmly seconded the invitation ; 
 adding, in his usual outspoken and simply 
 cordial way : 
 
 ' One does not too often, in a small place 
 like Yarburgh, have the chance of a chat witli 
 congenially-minded people. I hope you are 
 remaining some thne V 
 
 ' It will depend upon my work,' the artist 
 had said ; and to Thorhilda's half-unconscious
 
 ' THE HELP OF ONE WE HAVE HELPED: 265 
 
 regret, the reply confirmed her impression of 
 his dependence upon his own effort. 
 
 She could not help the sigh that came ; but 
 she might, by means of strong effort, have 
 resisted the making of comparisons that 
 should not have been made, with that tend- 
 ency to concession growing daily in her heart 
 Avhich Percival Meredith w^as daily expecting ; 
 always waiting for it with a finely diplomatic 
 patience. There should be no haste ; and, 
 until the right moment came, no more pres- 
 sure. I 
 
 Owinof to the seclusion in Avhicli he lived, 
 Damian Aldenmede had heard nothing of 
 Miss Theyn's supposed engagement ; though 
 everywhere the matter was now spoken of as 
 if no doubt existed. The artist was not a 
 man to whom people could gossip ; even his 
 landlad}^ was learning this, somewhat to her 
 perplexity. 
 
 All day — that is, all his Avorking day- -he 
 had been painting in Yarva Wyke. Bab and 
 Ailsie had been sitting to him for about an 
 hour ; but Bab's mind had been too full of a 
 recent event to permit of her being quite so 
 perfect a model as she usually Avas.
 
 266 IiY EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 The story was soon told. In the night a 
 screw- steamer had cut her way through the 
 herring-nets belonging to i\\Q Star of tlie KortJi. 
 There had been lights on board the fishing- 
 boat ; every reasonable and usual precaution- 
 had been attended to, yet disaster had over- 
 taken the poor fishermen in the hour of their 
 midnight toil. 
 
 ' It means many a bright pound to us/ 
 Bab admitted, when at last the artist's evi- 
 dent sympathy unloosed her tongue ; though 
 even then she regretted the confession ; and 
 added, ' of course, we share it among us. 
 There's five of us — we'll get over it some- 
 how.' 
 
 The artist hesitated a while, trvino- first to 
 find the exact thought he wanted, then the 
 word. It was not easy to find the latter [on 
 the spur of the moment. 
 
 By way of temporising, he said, * Is the 
 name of the steamer known?' 
 
 ' Yes, they saw it on her stern fair enough 
 as she sheered off. She vras the Oriana^ of 
 Cardiff.* 
 
 ' And can no redress be had — I mean, 
 cannot an action be brought to compel the
 
 * THE HELP OE O.XE WE HA VE HELPED: :l6'j 
 
 owners of the vessel to pay at least some- 
 thino' toward the damao'e done to the 
 nets ?' 
 
 Bab laughed, a sad, sarcastic, understanding 
 little laugh. 
 
 * It is little YOU know,' she replied, not 
 meaning to be unflattering. ' ^Vhy there's 
 never a week i' the herring season but some- 
 body's nets is cut all to bits. An' where d'ya 
 think fisher-folks 'ud get the money to go to 
 law, wi' the Lawyers all on the side o' the rich 
 owners ? It 'ud cost more to pay the law 
 bills than you could get new nets for. Xo, 
 we never think o' seekin' justice. The law 
 isn't for such as us ; an* the owners an' cap- 
 tains o' them screw- steamers know it. They'd 
 be more careful if they'd any fear.' 
 
 Again the artist was silent for a moment. 
 Presently, speaking with a grave considerate - 
 ness, he said : 
 
 '' It seems to me then that there is only one 
 earthly hope for you — the help of friends. 
 For instance, since you have helped me so 
 much — you and Ailsie, given me such help 
 that in all probability my picture will be hung 
 in the Grosvenor Gallery — that is a place in
 
 268 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 London where man}' beautiful pictures are 
 liunfy, and sometimes sold — since you have 
 given me this help, why should I not help 
 you ? Why should I not provide your grand- 
 father's boat, or rather the one he has a share 
 in, with new nets ? . . . I should like to do 
 it ! Will you allow me ?' 
 
 Barbara's face as she listened was certainly 
 a study ; and one worthy of any portrait - 
 painter's best attention. The sadness that 
 was half-amusement, the wonder that was 
 half-pity, would have taxed any ordinary 
 talent to the uttermost. 
 
 * You'll buy new nets for the Star o' tlie 
 North f she said, with an inquiring note in her 
 accent not quite free from something that was 
 almost derision. ' What d'ya suppose they'd 
 cost ? Ninepence a-piece, mebbe ? or it may 
 be you'd think of hevin' to go as far as 
 eighteenpence ! Eh, me! Why, a new set 
 complete \id never cost far sJiort of a hundred 
 poimd^ I Think o' that ! An' you to talk o' 
 (jivhvi 'em, as one 'ud give a tramp 'at asked 
 for a light for his pipe a farden box o' matches ! 
 Eh, but you mun know little o' the valley o' 
 money if that's how you think on it! Xew
 
 ' THE HELP OF ONE WE HA VE HELPED.' 26cj 
 
 nets for a fisliin coble ! It fair stuns one to 
 hear ya talk !' 
 
 The artist had listened quite gravely, sub- 
 dued his amusement to interest quite success- 
 fully. 
 
 ' A hundred pounds, did you sav ?' 
 
 ' Ay ! That's what I said ! . . . Anyhow, 
 buyin' the nets at the very cheapest we'll never 
 get 'em for no less nor ninety.' 
 
 ' That is a large sum, relatively,' the artist 
 replied. . . . ' But — I do not tell you this by 
 way of boasting; quite the reverse — List year 
 I sold a picture for about the same price. It 
 was one that I had j^ainted in a very short 
 time, and haj^pening to have no need of the 
 money, I have not touched it. . I had reasons 
 for wishing not to put it to any of the ordinary 
 uses of Ufe. For one thing, it was the first 
 2)icture I had ever sold; for another ' (and here 
 the artist hesitated, and seemed embarrassed), 
 ' for another reason, something had passed be- 
 tween the buyer of the picture and myself 
 long ago, very long ago, that made me wish 
 to put the money aside for some especial 
 purpose, some emergency happening to some 
 life — not my own. It seems to me that this
 
 270 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 emergency is now before me. I could buy the 
 nets; and so far from missing the money, T 
 should feel that I had, at last, freed myself 
 from a trust.' 
 
 The look of wonder, of 2:>erplexity, was 
 deepening on Barbara's face ; sadness and 
 wistfulness mino^line; with it. 
 
 * There's a lot o' things you could buy for a 
 liundred pounds !' she said presently. 
 
 ' True ! I have told you why I cannot buy 
 them, with that money. Though, please re- 
 member, I told you in confidence. ■ Perhaps I 
 do not need to add that.' 
 
 Barbara looked into his eyes steadfastly. 
 
 ' If I thought you mistrusted me once, 
 you'd have no opportunity o' doin' it again,' 
 she said, adding, ' Eh, but it does take folks 
 a long time to know one another down to the 
 bottom!' 
 
 There was another brief silence before she 
 spoke again. Evidently she had been think- 
 ing of the artist rather than of herself 
 
 ' If ya couldn't buy nought wi' that money, 
 ya might live in better lodgin's. Yen's none 
 a place for you!' 
 
 ' Why not ? But, if it troubles you, I may
 
 ' THE HELP OF O.XE WE HAVE HELPED: 271 
 
 say that I could, if I wished to do so, stay at 
 the hotel. It is not on account of the expense 
 that I prefer the ForecliftV 
 
 * At the " Empress o' India," Bab said, rather 
 to herself than quite aloud. It was only the 
 other day that Mrs. Nossifer at the fish -shop 
 in the Cliff Road at Yarburgh had told her 
 that the o'entlemen who staved at the new 
 hotel at Ulvstan were charged a guinea a day 
 for their food and lodging. Bab had accepted 
 the fact as surprising, but not as one likely 
 ever to concern herself, or even anyone she 
 might know. !N^ow she recalled it in silence. 
 
 ' You have not given me any answer ?' the 
 artist said presently, in a tone of inquir}^ 
 ' Tell me what you are thinking.' 
 
 ' I'm thinking this,' Bab replied with a 
 quite new emphasis, and tremulously con- 
 scious of a certain amount of daring. ' I'm 
 thinkin' 'at }'ou're noiin what you seem. . . . 
 You're noiin one o' them 'at paints pictures 
 for a livin'.' 
 
 * Xo ? What makes you think that ?' 
 
 ' Everything ! You've none the manner, 
 nor the beai'in' o' themx 'at hes to depend on 
 ether folk for the bread thev eat.'
 
 272 LV EXCHAXGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 Aldenmede paused a moment; then he said : 
 
 ' Granted, so far ! For if I am not work- 
 ing solely for my own bread, wh}^ should I 
 not try to help those who must do so ? why, 
 for instance, should you refuse to allow me to 
 help you in a trouble that has unexpectedly 
 come upon you ?' 
 
 Barbara looked at him again; her lips were 
 trembling with the unsaid words, but her 
 thought was not for herself, nor wholly of the 
 artist. She had others in her mind, others 
 to whom this munificence would seem as a 
 miraculous o'ift'of God. 
 
 ' You may help if you will,' she said at last. 
 The words might have been counted ungracious, 
 but her manner, the emotion of it, neutralized 
 all idea of that kind. ' You may if you will,' 
 she repeated. Then, out of the fulness of her 
 heart, rather than by aid of any shadow of 
 impertinence, she added, ' I'd noiin be sur- 
 prised if ya turned out to be a duke.' 
 
 Much laughter was not in iVldenmede's way, 
 yet to his relief and to Bab's he indulged for 
 once. Presently, still smiling, he said : 
 
 ' I suppose, then, that all the surprise would 
 be on m}^ part ! Certainly it would be very
 
 ' THE HELP OF ONE WE HAVE HELPED: 273 
 
 great Believe me, your imagination is 
 
 running away with you !' 
 
 ' But noan sa far ?' 
 
 ' Very far indeed.' 
 
 * You've no title o' no sort ?' 
 
 ' Not a shadow of one. I should like, I 
 should very much like to write E.A. after my 
 name, or even A.E.A., which means some- 
 thing much less. But I am talking idly. 
 Enough of pleasantries of that kind. They 
 
 are not so very pleasant after all And 
 
 now it is all settled ! I may buy the 
 nets ?' 
 
 ' Will 3'a think on it till the mornin' ?' 
 
 ' Xo ; pardon me, I have given more than 
 enouo:h of thousrht to the matter. I have 
 other things to think of 
 
 ' Yes ; so you have,' Barbara replied after a 
 moment of liesitation. ' Things 'at's mebbe 
 even more to you nor that.' . . . Then, with 
 a swift change of tone, she said, ' You're goin' 
 up there to get your dinner to-night — to the 
 Rectory ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Do you like goin' ?' 
 
 ' Yes. I am very glad to go.' 
 
 vcr, I. 18
 
 274 ^^" EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' I don't doubt it Yet I'm noan 
 
 envyin' you.' 
 
 ' No. I should not think that a common 
 enviousness was much in your way.' 
 
 ' You can see that ? . . . AVell, it's true. 
 Still, one can't help thinkin' sometimes ; some- 
 times wishin'. . . . Why is there such differ- 
 ence atween one an' another ?' 
 
 ' Why, indeed ?' 
 
 The fisher-girl had set a problem that the 
 educated gentleman was almost as unable to 
 solve as she herself was, though he was not 
 thinking about it now for the first time. Yet, 
 seeing that the question had been asked in no 
 bitterness of heart or mood, he did his best to 
 m.ake the girl perceive up to the point he him- 
 self perceived. 
 
 ' Why these differences between class and 
 class exist is more than I can say/ he answered. 
 * Perhaps it is more than anyone can say. It 
 is enough for a reverent mind that they were 
 ordained of God. Along the whole line of 
 what we term sacred history there is proof of 
 that from the day when we hear of the herds- 
 men who tended Abram's cattle to this day. 
 But there is proof also that God Himself had
 
 ' THE HELP OF ONE IVE HA VE HELPED: 275 
 
 a special regard for the poor. David perceived 
 that ; and the mere fact of God's own Son 
 choosing a life of poverty should reconcile 
 some of us who are very far from any true 
 reconciliation. Still, it is a mystery. One 
 might think, to read of the pauperism, the 
 suffering of the poor of our own time, that 
 God had forgotten them, or had, at least, for- 
 gotten to be gracious ; but that can never be. 
 Why He permits such suffering I cannot tell ; 
 but this I can tell, that it is the duty of every- 
 one who is not suffering to do something for 
 those who are ; to think of them and for them; 
 to try at least to comfort them in their sorrows ; 
 to help them over their troubles ; in a word, 
 to show them some friendliness, some human 
 lovino'-kindness.' 
 
 ' It's the poor 'at helps the poor, for the 
 most part,' said Bab, speaking almost like one 
 in a dream. ' I could tell ya many a tale o' 
 things 'at's happened at Ulvstan Bight, things 
 'at might surprise ya. It was yesterday ya 
 were speaking o' self-sacrifice, an' I thought o' 
 some 1 know. We're noan such a hard lot as 
 you might think!' 
 
 18—2
 
 276 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' You shall tell me some of the tales before 
 I go away ; that is if you will.' 
 
 ' Before you go away ! . . . . You're noiin 
 
 goin' !' 
 
 The artist smiled not unpleasantly. 
 
 ' You did not think I had come to live in 
 ITlvstan Bight, did you ?' 
 
 ' Mebbe not,' Bab replied. Then more 
 wistfully she asked, ' But ya'll noan go till 
 the picture's done, will ya ?' 
 
 ' I shall not need to stay here to finish it. 
 
 .... But I can do no more to-day 
 
 Will you ask your grandfather to come and 
 have a chat with me to-morrow morning ? I 
 want to know more about those accidents to 
 the fishino:-nets.'
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 DAMIAN ALDENMEDE AT THE EECTORY. 
 
 ' Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
 
 Before rude hands have touched it ? 
 Have you marked but the fall of the snow 
 
 Before the soil has smutched it ? 
 Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 
 
 Or swan's-down ever ? 
 Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar ? 
 
 Or the nard in the fire ? 
 Or have tasted the bag o' the bee ? 
 Oh, so white ! oh, so soft ! oh so sweet is she !' 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 It is strange how some men seem to change 
 with the changing of the society about them ; 
 there might even seem to be hypocrisy in such 
 modifications, or at least weakness of will and 
 character. But in truth these drawbacks are 
 not always existent. A sensitive nature re- 
 sponds to its environment so unconsciously 
 that it is often utterly unaware of its own 
 facility in responding, and the too-friendly
 
 278 AV EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 friend who shall point out the seeming incon- 
 sistency may give a thrust not lightly or easily 
 borne. 
 
 You are in trouble, or you have pain, 
 apprehension, and you write a letter to an 
 old friend who has known your history from 
 first to last. Naturally, almost inevitably, 
 you permit yourself the relief of an utter 
 outpouring. You may know yourself to be 
 even morbidly apprehensive, yet you dare 
 to admit this ; you are aware that you are 
 feeling some pain, mental and physical, with 
 an undue keenness ; yet you can confess it, 
 and this readily, gladly. Or some little bit 
 of unusual joy has come in your way, and 
 in unwonted exuberance of spirit you ask 
 that your friend shall rejoice with you. In 
 a word, you wear your heart, not on your 
 sleeve, but on a sheet or two of note-paper. 
 And, believe it always, the true friend is 
 drawn to be truer ; he would scorn to betray 
 you to even his own soul's censure. 
 
 That letter written, you write another to 
 another correspondent, you date it with the 
 same date, write it in the same hour ; yet this 
 second letter shall be (without your being
 
 DAM IAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY. 279 
 
 wholly aware of it) stiff and cliill and pallid. 
 Not only heart shall be missing, but soul, 
 spirit, even intellect. 
 
 Were these letters read out to you on a 
 later day, in the presence, not of enemies 
 (we none of us have enemies in these suave 
 times), but of friends who are on sufiSciently 
 intimate terms with you to express the mea- 
 sure of their friendliness by the amount of 
 their freedom, you would blush for your own 
 apparent duplicity. It would seem nothing 
 less than that. 
 
 And yet there is no equivocation, no inten- 
 tional or other insincerity. A man's nature 
 is manifold, and can turn this side to the 
 friend who wins his confidence, this to the 
 man whose talent he admires, this to one who 
 needs only a social courtesy ; so it is that he 
 can meet so many other human souls with 
 some human pleasure, some refreshment. It 
 is only the narrow of spirit, the uncultured 
 in social intercourse, who imagine that they 
 discern mendacity in this varied face turned 
 to a varying humanity. 
 
 Naturally enough Damian Aldenmede was 
 unaware that he was a different man to his
 
 2 So IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 host and hostess at the liectory from that 
 he had seemed to be to Barbara Burdas. To 
 the latter he was genial, sympathetic, not 
 caring to hide the fact that he was thought- 
 ful for her present and her future. To the 
 former he was a grave and comparatively 
 silent man — in a certain sense evidently a 
 man of the world, betraying a distinction of 
 manner and aspect that instantly w^on its 
 due regard. And yet the Godfreys, as well 
 as their niece, were conscious of something 
 to which they could put no name. To have 
 used the word ^ mystery ' would have been 
 to suggest something that none of them for 
 a moment intended. 
 
 He did not talk much of himself, this new 
 guest, and no one at the Kectory, save Ger- 
 trude Douglas, made the slightest attempt 
 to induce him to do so. And thous^h it 
 could not be said that he declined to respond 
 to her effort, yet but little real knowledge 
 was elicited. He was an Englishman, he had 
 travelled much abroad, especially in Italy, 
 and had been glad to return to his own 
 country. He gave a decided impression of 
 having; nothino; to hide ; but, on the other
 
 DAM IAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY. 281 
 
 hand, he made it evident that lie did not 
 greatly care to permit himself to become a 
 topic of conversation in his own presence. 
 His host took care that his desire was re- 
 spected. 
 
 The dinner passed off as dinners at the 
 Eectory always did, pleasantly and easily. 
 No display for display's sake was visible ; no 
 neglect or inadequacy tolerated. The Canon 
 was in one of his happiest and most winning 
 moods. Mr. Egerton was, as usual, equal to 
 anything and everything that came in his 
 Avay ; and the conversation sparkled about 
 this topic and about that, as it will when 
 people give themselves, for the lighter social 
 hour, to interchange of the more superficial 
 ideas of life and living. But gradually, 
 almost inevitably, the stream deepened. 
 Before the evening was over the new 
 guest was better comprehended at Yarburgh 
 Eectory. 
 
 It w^as evident that he had intended no 
 betrayal of himself. All unaware he was 
 drawn by the Canon's earnestness to confess 
 his own ; perhaps confessing more than he 
 was well aware of.
 
 282 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 ' You say that it is weighing upon you 
 more than anything else — the present con- 
 dition of the poor of England, of your own 
 parish,' he had replied in answer to a remark 
 the Canon had made. ' I can well believe 
 it. I have often thought that it must be 
 even more terrible for a clergyman than for 
 anyone else.' 
 
 ' So it is ; he stands in such a different 
 position toward the poor. He preaches a 
 gospel of brotherhood, or professes to do so ; 
 but mostly he refrains from details on that 
 head in his sermons ; and perhaps wisely. 
 For what does such brotherhood mean, for 
 even the best of us ? What do we really 
 know of our brother ? What do we really 
 care 1 In the heart of us, what is the depth 
 of our caring ?' 
 
 ' Be moderate !' interrupted Mr. Egerton, 
 his spirituel face lighting up with earnest 
 entreaty. * Don't run the risk of giving 
 a false impression. Mr. Aldenmede is a 
 stranger ; he may take you at your own 
 valuation !' 
 
 ' It would be wise of him to do so. Mr. 
 Aldenmede has seen enough, known enough
 
 DAM IAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY. 283 
 
 of humanity, to know that no man confesses 
 himself a sinner who has not sinned ; not 
 unless he has tendencies more or less morbid, 
 an accusation of which I am not afraid.' 
 
 ' Doesn't it rather depend upon what one 
 calls sin, or even error, or mistake ?' the 
 artist asked. ' With regard to the problem 
 of the suffering poor we have all of us erred, 
 most of us are yet erring ; but one is glad to 
 see everywhere a certain sensitiveness on the 
 subject, oft enough showing itself in irrita- 
 tion, annoyance, sometimes in incredulousness, 
 sometimes in an attempt to prove that each 
 state of life has its own "compensations." 
 What can be the compensation for having no 
 fire, no food, no clothing worth the name ; no 
 decent bed even ; and only the most inhuman 
 shelter ?' 
 
 ' But,' said Mr. Egerton, ' but short of 
 that extreme of want, putting all such ex- 
 tremes aside for the moment, do you not 
 think that even the life of the very poor has 
 alleviations V 
 
 ' Alleviations !' exclaimed Aldenmede. 
 ' Yes, thank Heaven ! One is glad to know 
 that it has, to believe in it to the utter-
 
 284 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 most. I may say that some of the happiest 
 and pleasantest people I have known have 
 been people who were living from week to 
 week. xA^lleviation ! Their life is, in many 
 cases, full of it ! So long as things keep on 
 at the moderate level of possible living they 
 have few cares, anxiety dies down, fear for 
 the future is quiescent. Such people often 
 have the kindliest feelings ; they have known 
 trouble, sickness, loss, pain ; and these things 
 have made them sympathetic, and sympathy 
 brings them nearer to their friends and neigh- 
 bours. Oh, " love in a cottage " is not a dream ! 
 It may be an ideal ; but it might be the most 
 magnificent, most beneficent ideal. It wants 
 raising, however. The man who lives and loves 
 in a cottage wants help for the most part, such 
 help as can only come from those who are 
 somewhat his superiors in culture, in insight. 
 He wants teaching hoio to find delight in 
 books, in music, in art, in all things lovely, 
 and pure, and of good report ; the things 
 that elevate thought, that awaken the begin- 
 nings of aspiration. He needs to be made 
 to perceive that the mere possession of houses, 
 of land, of capital, can do nothing to help his
 
 DAM IAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY. 285 
 
 highest happiness ; to be shown how, in the 
 simplest wayside cottage, life may be lived 
 as its very best, life intellectual, life spiritual 
 — nay, one might almost say the perfect life 
 which has been the ideal of the saints from 
 the first Christian century to this nineteenth. 
 It has never died out, the grand vision. It 
 never can. Perfection ! Well for the man 
 who has not ceased to dream of it, to yearn 
 for it, to work for it ! If the mere yearning 
 exists in any man, that man is to be envied. 
 How^ to implant it where it does not exist 
 should be one of the problems of the modern 
 philanthropist.' 
 
 Thorhilda had been seated at the piano for 
 the last half-hour, now and then playing one 
 of the softer of Mendelssohn's Lieder, now 
 and then stopping to listen, to say a few 
 words to Gertrude Douglas, who was sitting 
 with her embroidery near the table by the 
 piano. It was evident that the evening 
 was proving more or less a disappointing 
 one to Miss Douglas ; and Thorhilda, see- 
 ing that such was the case, left the piano 
 and went to the fireside, where her uncle 
 stood on the rug, the new guest near him.
 
 286 IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL, 
 
 Mrs. Godfrey was seated on the sofa by the 
 fire. 
 
 * Are you not tired of my uncle's paro- 
 chial conversation V Miss Theyn asked, look- 
 ing into Mr. Aldenmede's sad, grave face. 
 ' Uncle Hugh, I know, will never be tired ; 
 but he may weary other people. ... I often 
 wish I were poor — quite poor, like Barbara 
 Burdas, for instance ; then he would care for 
 me 1' 
 
 There was a pause. The artist was watch- 
 ing the piquant humour of the lovely face 
 before him, the changing light in the gray 
 appealing eyes, the tender winning smile with 
 which she turned to her uncle. What sweet- 
 ness such a w^oman was capable of putting 
 into any home-life ! What beauty ! What 
 grace ! Even for one evening to taste of such 
 life, to feel the warmth of it, was like coming 
 under some touch of enchantment. 
 
 The artist had forgotten the reply he 
 intended to make. ' Barbara Burdas !' he 
 said at last. ' What a good woman she is ! 
 Speaking of the poor, of their desert, their 
 endurance, where will you find a braver or a 
 better girl '? Think of all that she has done.
 
 DAMIAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY. 287 
 
 is yet doing, and by her own unaided 
 strength, so far as human help is concerned ! 
 She likes to keep up the fiction that her 
 grandfather helps ; and naturally the old 
 man likes to keep up the same comforting 
 notion. But it is a notion utterly mistaken. 
 She profits somewhat by his share, or part of 
 a share, in the Star of the Norths but last year 
 the sum was less than four pounds ; it did 
 not pay for the rent of the house. And this 
 year, owing to accidents, damage done by the 
 trawlers, and suchlike things, she is afraid it 
 will be even less ; yet she never utters a word 
 of complaint. It is old Ephraim who does the 
 complaining, though he admits that he " wants 
 for nothing." ' 
 
 ' The most striking thing about Barbara 
 is her craving for knowledge, for education, 
 said the Canon, who knew a little of what 
 was being said in the Bight as to the artist's 
 kindness in lending the girl books, helping 
 her to understand them, and teaching her in 
 a general way something of the right use 
 and meaning of her own language. But the 
 Canon made no direct reference to the sub- 
 ject, though he perceived that Miss Douglas
 
 288 JN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL. 
 
 was waiting with suspended needle for details 
 of the matter. 
 
 She was not to be gratified. Aldenniede 
 replied only to what the Canon had said. 
 
 ' That is one striking thing ; another is her 
 hatred of all coarseness or roughness, her 
 desire for refinement ; and being surrounded 
 by things rough and coarse, her duty seeming 
 to lie amongst them, her everyday life must 
 be more or less one of pain to a sensitive 
 nature. Yet I do not believe that she ever 
 dreams of escape of any kind ; that in one 
 sense she can even be said to desire it. That 
 is the touchstone. She does her duty, and 
 more ; and being urged onward and upward 
 by unseen influences she knows no content 
 in so doing. How should she ? Contentment 
 is not for such as Barbara. To be content is 
 too often to know no aspiration for one's self 
 or for others, to know no sympathy, to have 
 no human outlook, no passionate human de- 
 sire for progress, for attainment of any kind. 
 Contentment ! It is for the cattle in the 
 fields, that graze and fatten and die ! No 
 thinking human soul can in these days be 
 contented.'
 
 DA MIAN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY. 289 
 
 Tliorhilda was listening;, thinkinsj, recallino; 
 the speech of another on the same topic, 
 and as she thought her heart-beats came the 
 faster. Was she not deliberately dreamins; 
 of this lower content ? And at what cost ? 
 Never had the price seemed to be what it 
 seemed now with this stranger standing by 
 her uncle's hearth, unveiling his own heart, 
 his own aspiration, all unknowingly. She 
 shrank even from herself as she listened. It 
 was as if some voice were heard drawing her 
 from ease, from wealth, from luxury, entreat- 
 ing her to take some higher way. And, 
 harder still, this higher way was made attrac- 
 tive. She could hardly help fearing that this 
 stranger had read her true character. She 
 seemed to discern his perception in every 
 look, every word. And the more she dis- 
 cerned, the more she was drawn to watch for 
 further signs. Here, if anywhere, was the 
 guide she had longed for, the one true helper, 
 the one adequate friend. Again the feeling 
 that she had first known on that day by the 
 sea came back to her, but with redoubled 
 emotion, and again it w^as followed by the 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 IN EXCHANGE EOR A SOUL. 
 
 remembrance that all such feelings must be 
 put strongly away. 
 
 ' Strongly and surely,' she said to herself 
 that night in her own room as she walked 
 up and down, trying to quiet her unsettled 
 spirit, yet unable to put away from her 
 mental vision that grave yet tender glance, 
 to close her ears to the tones of the most 
 sympathetic, and sad, and kindly voice she 
 had ever heard. Now, for the first time, 
 she realized what it was to be subjugated by 
 a look, coerced by a turn of the head, silenced 
 by another's silence. "What might it mean, 
 this new and peculiar experience ? What- 
 ever it meant it must be put away, and the 
 sooner the better, the better for everyone 
 concerned. ' It is evident he does not 
 know,' Thorhilda continued to herself, ' he 
 has not heard of — of Mr. Meredith, of his 
 friendship for me. He must know soon, 
 very soon ! Then it will be over — this — this 
 unrest, this strain. It will all be over, and 
 I shall be at peace. . . . Will he come again '\ 
 It would be better that he should not — better 
 far. ... Yet it would be pleasant, very 
 pleasant. . . . And I am not a fool. ... In-
 
 D AMI AN ALDENMEDE AT THE RECTORY. 291 
 
 deed, now that 1 think of it, 1 ;should irlsji 
 liim to come to the Eectory again, that I 
 might prove to myself my self-possession. I 
 wish it, certainly I do, and I wish that he may 
 come soon ! The sooner he comes the sooner 
 will this unrest be ended.' 
 
 j:nd of vol. I. 
 
 »;1I,I.IN(; AND hONS, PRINTERS, Gl-'IJ-DKORIJ.
 
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