THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 .2 -
 
 FEET OF CLAY 
 
 BY 
 
 AMELIA E. BARR 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JAN VEDDER S WIFE, " THE BOW OF ORANGE 
 RIBBON," "REMEMBER THE ALAMO," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1889, 
 
 BY 
 DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. 
 
 All right reserved.
 
 PS 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. BELLA CLUCAS, i 
 
 CHAPTER II. WANTED, A THOUSAND POUNDS, 23 
 
 CHAPTER III. THE COTTAGE IN GLEN MELLISH, 41 
 
 CHAPTER IV. BELLA S OPINION, - 63 
 
 CHAPTER V. SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS, - 83 
 
 CHAPTER VI. FEET OF CLAY, - 102 
 
 CHAPTER VII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR, - 125 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. ONE KIND OF DEATH, - - 142 
 
 CHAPTER IX. DRIFTING, - - - - 158 
 
 CHAPTER X. THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS, - 180 
 
 CHAPTER XI. MRS. PENNINGTON S PERPLEXITY, 204 
 
 CHAPTER XII. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES, - 225 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. LOVE AND DEATH, - - - 246 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. YOUTH ON THE PROW, 275 
 
 CHAPTER XV. " LIKE AS A FATHER," - - 301 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED, - 324 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. SUNRISE, ----- 349
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BELLA C LUCAS. 
 
 " Where the wide heath in purple pride extends, 
 And scattered gorse its golden lustre lends, 
 Closed in a green recess, unenvied lot, 
 The blue smoke rises from the turf-built cot. 
 
 " Point me out a place, 
 Wherever man has made himself a home, 
 And there I find the story of our race : 
 What matters the degree? the kind I trace." 
 
 most beautiful feature of a Manx 
 X landscape is the lovely glen which runs 
 inland from the rocky beaches. In all coun 
 tries one may dream of such valleys ; in the 
 Isle of Man it is permitted that mortals shall 
 find in reality the intensely green verdure, the 
 wonderful flowers, the clear air, the charmed 
 stillness of their visions ; a stillness only 
 intensified by the everlasting murmur of the
 
 4 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 ocean, which vibrates through them like the 
 pulse of life. 
 
 Nearly half a century ago in one of these 
 lovely, lonely places stood the cottage of 
 Rutliie Clucas. Like all Manx cottages it 
 was built of unhewn stones roughly mortared 
 together, and whitewashed. But the scarlet 
 fuchsia clambered all over the walls, and 
 hedged in a pretty garden, where the delicate 
 veronica grew to luxuriant bushes, and the 
 lily-like amaryllis and the white odorous ever 
 lastings and the fragrant rosemary poured 
 lavishly their delightful incense. 
 
 The interior of the cottage was that of the 
 Manx fisher-farmer. On the wide hearth there 
 was a fire of peats, and up the chimney a huge 
 chain with hooks on which to hang the pans 
 above the low fire. The deal tables and 
 chairs and the three-legged stools were 
 scrubbed white as ivory. The equally white 
 dresser was gay with cups, and jugs, and basins 
 in bewildering quantity and of the gaudiest 
 colors. Bits of patchwork and pots of gera 
 nium and a clean white curtain at the win 
 dow gave freshness to the room. The wide 
 mantel-shelf was filled with ocean treasures,
 
 SELL A CLUCAS. 3 
 
 marvellous things brought up in the nets from 
 the deep-sea fishing, or from strange countries 
 by adventurous sailors. On the walls were 
 hung some good trout lines, and the wool- 
 carders, and a miniature ship full-rigged in a 
 glass case. In one corner there was a small 
 round table,and upon it a Holy Bible and the 
 Book of Common Prayer. In another corner 
 the spinning wheel, and above it a little shelf 
 holding Ruthie s almanacs, and his rarely used 
 spectacles. 
 
 At the open door Ruthie s only daughter 
 Bella stood watching the sun set behind the 
 rugged masses of Spanish Head. Her face 
 had a dreamy and pensive expression, but 
 then who with a soul ever watched the daily 
 sun going down over the sea without a feeling 
 of melancholy ? The glory from the horizon 
 enveloped her in its rose and violet haze. It 
 turned her blue flannel skirt into something 
 royal, and her reddish-brown hair into an aure 
 ola of gold red radiance. 
 
 Few people thought her face beautiful, but 
 it was neither vulgar nor commonplace; for 
 she had a forehead which caught the light 
 and threw it back, and large blue eyes glinting
 
 4 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 and intense. Besides, there was around her 
 the charm of youth and of perfect health, and 
 her tall, supple figure embodied the idea of 
 womanly strength and courage. She looked 
 like a flower which had been hid away in some 
 sweet secret place, which the wind had not 
 blown nor the sun parched. 
 
 Yet this was hardly the case. Bella knew 
 the stress of seasons when the take had 
 been small and her father was gloomy and her 
 mother irritable or anxious. She had felt 
 keenly the small disappointments flowing from 
 such circumstances. One of her brothers had 
 been wild and brought anger and weeping 
 to the hearthstone many a time. She had 
 seen death come twice by way of the sea. 
 The little domestic frets, the daily inabilities 
 that make so much of a household unhap- 
 piness dropped their bitterness and cast their 
 shadows in her lonely home. Its humble un 
 hewn walls had seen everything that makes 
 up life ; the striving, the doing, the suffering, 
 the rejoicing of humanity. 
 
 But she had the dew of her youth. Trouble 
 had been like the shadow of a bird s wing. 
 It was there, it was gone. When she turned
 
 &ELLA CLUCAS. $ 
 
 her face to the setting sun it was the face of a 
 girl who trusted all her own hopes, and ex 
 pected happiness from day to day. 
 
 When she re-entered the cottage her mother 
 was sitting by the window knitting a stocking. 
 She was a pleasant-looking woman of fifty 
 years, with ruddy cheeks and bright piercing 
 eyes, and black curly hair put back neatly 
 under a white linen cap. Her home-spun 
 dress, her little shoulder-shawl, her clean 
 checked apron, her fingers busy with the glint 
 ing, clicking needles made her an agreeable and 
 homelike picture, as she lifted her eyes to 
 meet her daughter s smile. 
 
 " Bella, ma chree ! Why aren t you to The 
 House these two days?" 
 
 " I was waiting for Miss Harriet to be corn- 
 in here. Were you not knowin, mother, that 
 Mr. George is home again? What for would 
 I be intrudin then, and me not knowin if I 
 would be welcome, or not welcome ? " 
 
 ." I heard the lady axin you." 
 
 " Just jokin like." 
 
 " I wouldn wonder! But before Mr. George 
 went away it was great friends you were, and 
 nobody suitin him like you."
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " Mayve ! I was thirteen years old then 
 a girl and no more. Things are different 
 when one is eighteen, I think." 
 
 " Of coorse, of coorse ! I was forgettin 
 entirely. He ll be changed too : I never 
 thought much of him. A poor heart he had, 
 and the selfish he was ! The selfish and ob 
 stinate aw, astonishin ! " 
 
 " Mayve you didn know him, mother." 
 
 " Mayve I don t know my right hand from 
 my left hand. Mayve it s hard to know them 
 that never thinks a straight thought, or takes 
 a straight road. Didn know him ! And him 
 comin here day after day, and chattin and 
 chattin , and me that taken with his smooth 
 tongue in spite of myself, and the sense I have." 
 
 " It s five years since, mother." 
 
 " Of coorse ! He ll be five years better, or 
 worse. That s the abslit truth. But what for 
 will you be taking him into your count ? Put 
 him neither here nor there in your life, Bella. 
 He s no more to you than a new chair or table 
 in his mother s house. Miss Harriet is dif- 
 feren , a poor girl can take love from a rich 
 woman, when love from a rich man might 
 mean destruction and damnation to her."
 
 BELLA CLUCAS. ^ 
 
 " Mother, what are you talking with the 
 like of them words for?" 
 
 " When it s a warnin it s the plainest words 
 a mother can find that she s wanting. It is 
 all on the look and the feel you have been the 
 last two days, Bella. Aw, a mother isn blind. 
 And it s too much you re makin of the comin 
 back of him that s nothing to you. The still 
 you were, and the sweet, and all your body Itst- 
 enin for the steps and the voice that didn come. 
 And bless my soul ! Why should they come ? " 
 
 " What are you wanting me to do, mother?" 
 
 " Chut ! Do what you would have done 
 if Mr. George was still in Anglan. There are 
 the plover s eggs that the young ladies think 
 diamonds of. Three days since the wet, nor 
 the far, nor this nor the other, would have 
 stayed you with them. The sun has set, but 
 there is two hours before the dim ; take the eggs 
 and go to The House, and be no more mindin 
 the young gentleman than if he wasn there. 
 And lay high if he speaks to you. I know him ! 
 The nice he ll be, and the polite too, and are 
 you mindin of this, Bella, and hav you for 
 gotten the other, and carryin on that pleasin ; 
 but all as one, the divil in his heart and
 
 8 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 words. I know this kind of the quality ; the 
 like is at them! " 
 
 " You re foolish, mother, though. Do you 
 think I ll be listenin to what I shouldn hear? 
 Do you think, then, that Miss Harriet will be 
 lettin me listen?" 
 
 " Aw, my lass, you might be took on the 
 sudden. But you ll be safe now, for you re 
 warned afore, and the guard set, that is, if 
 you ll be mindin the words I have said in your 
 ear, and the words that you ll hear in your 
 own breast." 
 
 Bella had been longing to go to The House 
 for two days, and she was glad when her 
 mother s advice fitted so completely with her 
 own inclination. That it was hampered by 
 her restrictions and darkened by her evil fore 
 bodings did not not trouble her very much. 
 She wished George had not been so much mis 
 understood ; she felt sure that now he had be 
 come a man his maturer virtues would bury 
 his youthful faults. She told herself that no 
 one knew him as she did ; for girls of thirteen 
 have usually a great opinion of their own wis 
 dom and penetration, and Bella at eighteen 
 clung to her ideal lover of five years ago.
 
 BELLA CLUCAS. 9 
 
 She would have liked to have put on her 
 muslin frock and best bonnet, but her mother s 
 face and directions to hurry convinced her 
 that any attempt to make herself more at 
 tractive than usual would be useless. But 
 there is a wonderful satisfaction in youth, 
 and as she walked rapidly forward she soon 
 regained all her ordinary composure. The 
 valley narrowed as she ascended it, and finally 
 by a mere foot-path emerged upon the hill 
 top. 
 
 The country here was bleak and open. 
 There were no trees, and The House stood 
 about half a mile from the cliff boldly facing 
 the sea, and in a great measure buffeted by 
 every wind which blew. It was surrounded, 
 however, by a spacious enclosure, and within 
 it the laburnums were dropping flowers of 
 gold, and the fuchsia hedges were a glorious 
 wonder of scarlet and purple bells. The subtle 
 woody smell of wall-flowers enthralled the 
 senses, white lilies lighted up the pansy beds, 
 and honeysuckle, ivy, and clematis clambered 
 over the gray stone walls of the dwelling, It 
 was a large, square house of the Georgian pe 
 riod with large square rooms and a wide cen-
 
 10 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 tral hall. About it there was nothing dim or 
 romantic or mysterious. It might have been 
 built by a man of the most mathematical mind, 
 whose highest rule of life was that two and two 
 make four. 
 
 Bella had been used to go directly through 
 the garden to Miss Harriet s room, and she fol 
 lowed her usual course. In spite of the long, 
 long twilight of the island it was getting a 
 little dusky among the shrubbery, and in the 
 lower rooms of the house, and Miss Harriet s 
 parlor was one of them. But very often at 
 that hour she was with her mother in the more 
 public room, and when so, Bella s approach was 
 always seen, and she was met by one of the 
 ladies. They were both fond of her, and 
 Bella s visits brought to them a slight change, 
 a sense of human fellowship which was very 
 welcome. 
 
 This night the garden was deserted. Neither 
 presence nor sound stirred its solitude. Bella 
 was disappointed. She felt as if Mr. George 
 would certainly be smoking in its sweet alleys. 
 She had hoped to see him first of all alone. If 
 he had forgotten her the shock would be more 
 easily borne ; if he had not forgotten, the
 
 BELLA CLUCAS. It 
 
 joy would be sweeter if it were entirely 
 her own. 
 
 Her heart fell as she entered the silent hall. 
 The butler, a very aged man, was shuffling 
 through it, and he answered her good-night 
 with that apathy to youth and beauty which 
 dull old men feel. " My mistress is sick," he 
 said querulously, " and Miss Harriet is in 
 her own sitting-room. What have you got ? 
 Plover s eggs? Aw dear ! They re as unlucky 
 as can be ! And the ladies set on eatin them. 
 Women! Curious folk ! Yes." 
 
 " I never heard that plover s eggs were un 
 lucky, John Quayle." 
 
 "You are young and iggrint. Unlucky! 
 mortal unlucky to steal plover s eggs." 
 
 The incident trifling as it was affected her 
 unpleasantly. Why hadn t John Quayle told 
 her so before ? He had taken plover s eggs 
 frequently from her. Why? Who can tell? 
 How often all of us carry words in our hearts 
 for years, and then, in some moment when we 
 are scarce responsible for the act, fling them 
 like a fate at the consciousness of some one 
 whom we have hardly considered, and who 
 seems to have no connection with them.
 
 1 2 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Bella placed the unlucky gift on a table, and 
 then went empty-handed to Miss Harriet s 
 room. Her light tap on the door did not bring 
 the ready " Come in, Bella," which was its usual 
 result. There was a minute s pause and the 
 sound of hurried, earnest speaking before the 
 lady uttered the customary permission. Bella 
 too made a little pause. That also was un 
 usual, and she entered suffused with that veiy 
 consciousness which she had been striving all 
 the way to suppress. 
 
 Captain Pennington stood by the window 
 absorbed in the abstraction of a cigar from its 
 case of leather and silver. He wore one of the 
 handsomest of cavalry uniforms, and he looked 
 in it, ah ! Bella thought he looked in it the 
 most beautiful and heroic of human beings ! 
 He did not speak a word to her. He did not 
 look at her at all. " I am going out to smoke, 
 Harriet," he said, and with the words he saun 
 tered out of the room. 
 
 The two girls stood a moment facing each 
 other. Then Miss Pennington with a swift 
 movement took Bella s hands in her own, and 
 said almost angrily : " Why did you come, 
 Bella ? Why did you come ? Don t you see
 
 BELLA CLUCAS. 13 
 
 that you have taken the first step ? It is easy 
 now for him to take the second." 
 
 " The why ? There was the plover s eggs 
 that Mrs. Pennington likes." 
 
 " Chut ! You wanted to see George, you 
 know you did. It was not right nor kind of 
 you, Bella. I was coming to see you to-morrow 
 about George. You might have waited, you 
 might have trusted me." 
 
 " My mother was sayin to me, Take the 
 eggs and I said, what for would I take 
 them?" 
 
 " The eggs ! the eggs ! A poor excuse, 
 Bella. You came because you wanted to 
 come." 
 
 " What for would I go to tell you lies ? My 
 mother was saying take the eggs, and never be 
 mindin if Mr. George is at home or in Anglan. 
 What is Mr. George to the like of you ? " 
 
 " Oh ! she thought you should face temp 
 tation and make believe it was not there. 
 Women can t do that, Bella ; it is better for 
 them to keep out of sight and hearing of 
 danger." 
 
 "The cross you are to-night, and the proud, 
 Miss Harriet ! But I ll go home, of course,
 
 14 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 and it s no more I ll be comin here, till you 
 be sendin for me." 
 
 " I am not cross and proud, Bella, but there 
 are troubles and reasons in all families that 
 are not to be told out of them. My mother is 
 sick with sorrow, and my own heart is aching. 
 If I should see wrong coming to you through 
 George Pennington, I should find it hard to 
 bear. We have been like sisters, have we not, 
 Bella?" 
 
 " Middlin like, Miss Harriet ; but there s a 
 deal of differ between you and me. Of coorse, 
 you ve been gracious to me, very gracious, 
 and what you tell me to do, the same I ll do 
 if I can." 
 
 * It isn t can, it is must, Bella. You must 
 do it, or sin may come of it, and sorrow may 
 come of it, and God only knows what follow 
 ing ! Hear what I say. My brother George 
 will tread upon the heart of any woman who 
 loves him, whether she be mother, sister, or 
 wife. Do you think I would say this to you 
 if I had not your interest in view? Oh, 
 Bella, we played together when we were 
 children, we have been firm friends ever 
 since we could say each other s name. Does.
 
 BELLA CLUCAS. i$ 
 
 it matter if I am rich and you are poor ? No, 
 indeed ! But because I am rich and you are 
 poor, I will not see you injured. I will not 
 see you in danger and not try to save you." 
 
 " Be content, Miss Harriet. If there be 
 danger near, there is the love to shield me, 
 and the good home for shelter, and the father 
 and brother that would fight for me, and 
 the mother that would lay her life down for 
 mine ; and I m not fearin with all them, and 
 God above me." 
 
 " And I love you also. Don t put me out 
 of your counting." 
 
 "No, surely, of coorse, but you re not trustin 
 me much, I think." 
 
 " Because I would not trust myself under 
 the same circumstances ; because, Bella, I am 
 myself in love, and I know what the heart of 
 a woman in love is." 
 
 The girls were about the same height, their 
 hands were clasped, their eyes met tenderly, 
 then they kissed each other. Harriet felt as 
 if the kiss promised her all she asked. Bella 
 had been a little offended, and she meant it as 
 the sign of reconciliation and renewed affec 
 tion,
 
 1 6 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " Come this way, Bella. George is waiting 
 for you in the garden ; I know he is. You 
 will be forced to see him, but not to-night, 
 not to-night, dear. I want you first to tell 
 your mother what I have said to you, and I 
 want also to talk to George. One should 
 always do everything to prevent evil, that is 
 our part, only God can cure evil that has 
 really happened." 
 
 Holding Bella s hand, she was talking thus 
 to her as they went through a long passage 
 and a flagged court-yard to a rear door, which 
 led directly on to the gaery or uncultivated 
 land beyond. 
 
 There was a sense of hurry in all Miss Pen- 
 nington s ways and words, and Bella felt com 
 pletely over-ruled by it. But as she went 
 rapidly across the dusky gaery her eyes were 
 dim with tears, and her heart heavy with her 
 new experience. 
 
 " She was cross to me, and unjust ; desperat 
 unjust, thinkin wrong too, and me givin her 
 no rayson. Aw, scandalous! I ll go yandhar 
 no more ; I m intarmined on that! " 
 
 The sense of injustice filled her warm heart; 
 she walked rapidly, almost unconscious of her
 
 BELLA CLUCAS. 17 
 
 footsteps. As she got further and further 
 away, she began to talk aloud, with little sobs 
 and short pauses between her words : 
 
 " She might hav waited, till the warnin 
 was needed. I m a poor girl, iggrint and 
 poor, and of coorse, of coorse the worst 
 is to be put to me." 
 
 When she reached the edge of the cliff she 
 turned and looked back at the house. In the 
 dim it had almost a spectral aspect, standing 
 up so white amid the dark foliage surrounding 
 it. Houses have their atmosphere as well as 
 individuals. In the stillness and solemnity of 
 the night they reveal something of their inte 
 rior spirit. Bella had turned and looked at it 
 hundreds of times before, and then dropped 
 into the little valley with the feeling of that 
 look in her heart. Hitherto it had been one 
 of lonely peace. This night it gave her a 
 thrill of restlessness and anxiety. She felt 
 that sorrowful women were walking about its 
 rooms, and gazing from its windows. 
 
 The first descent into the valley was steep, 
 and there were great boulders on either hand, 
 lichen-covered and half-hid in brackens. 
 Captain Pennington was leaning against one
 
 1 8 PEET OF CLAY. 
 
 of them, smoking a cigar. She could hot 
 avoid him without turning back. Should she 
 do so ? She asked herself the question, and 
 resolutely answered : 
 
 " It s straight on I ll go. It s my way, and 
 the right way, and I ll be turnin* out of it for 
 nobody." 
 
 " Bella ! Bella ! " He flung his cigar away 
 and came towards her with outstretched 
 hands. 
 
 She trembled, she stood still, she was 
 speechless in her joy and fear and great sur 
 prise. For, though she had been sobbing to 
 her complaints of Harriet s injustice, it had not 
 been Harriet s injustice which had wounded 
 her most. Deeper than any sense of her 
 friend s suspicions was the pain of George s 
 silence and apparent neglect. It was well that 
 she had made no positive promise, for at that 
 moment she would have broken it. 
 
 "Bella! Bella! Have you forgotten me?" 
 He took her hand, and did precisely as Bella s 
 mother had foretold. And in a few minutes 
 Bella was quite at her ease with the handsome 
 soldier, who kept reminding her of the days 
 when they had gone trout-fishing together, and
 
 BELLA CLUCAS. 1 9 
 
 the mornings on Scarlett rocks, and the even 
 ings out on the moonlit sea. " Do you remem 
 ber, Bella, the little cove where we let the boat 
 drift, and bade each other good-by for five 
 long years ? What a pretty girl you were ! 
 And though I suppose you have forgot it, do 
 you know that you really kissed me, and 
 promised to be my wife when I grew up to be 
 a man?" 
 
 Bella lifted a face all alight with joy and love 
 to the dark, handsome one at her side. It drew 
 her like a magnet. The kiss almost asked for 
 trembled into the space between them, and 
 made it sweetly sensitive. All warnings were 
 forgotten. The valley was an enchanted val 
 ley ; right or wrong, she was happy beyond her 
 hope or dreaming. 
 
 To be young and beautiful, and to find her 
 self in the sweet hazy twilight of a summer 
 night, beloved by a being fascinating by nature 
 and endowed by her imagination with every 
 heroic and lovable quality, what hope was 
 there that Bella would or could listen to warn 
 ings or advices? Nay, the warnings and ad 
 vices had even in some measure prepared her 
 to resist them.
 
 20 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 She had a nature self-contained and self- 
 reliant. She was conscious of her own physical 
 strength and courage, and in her untrained 
 mind physical capability stood for mental 
 temper and resolution. Harriet Pennington s 
 words had not only wounded her pride, they 
 had roused in her an active antagonism : a de 
 sire to do the very thing she had been forbid 
 den to do, and in the doing declare her ability 
 to guide with wisdom her own destiny. 
 
 A strange tumult was in her heart, but it 
 was a happy tumult ; and Captain Pennington 
 was satisfied with the result of his interview. 
 He strolled home in a mood of sweet anticipa 
 tion, and the thought of Harriet s opposition 
 was an element piquant and provocative. 
 
 And at this stage Bella was too excited to 
 affect indifference or to contemplate deception. 
 Her mother was sitting on the step of the cot 
 tage. The day had nothing more to demand 
 of her; she had put away even her knitting, 
 and was idly gazing at the herring-boats lying 
 at rest on the horizon. Her husband and son 
 were with the fleet, but she was not anxious 
 about them, nor at that moment was she 
 troubling herself even about Bella.
 
 JS ELLA CLUCAS. 21 
 
 But the girl s face startled her. " Sit down 
 Bella, ma chree ! " she said, " I wouldn trust but 
 you ve been worried a bit by the way you 
 look." 
 
 ! "Miss Harriet was cross ; uncommon cross, 
 you d hardly credit the unjust she was, and 
 the suspicious ; aw, scandalous ! " 
 
 " Is it thrue you re tellin ? " 
 
 "And warnin me about the Captain and the 
 like, and runnin him into the garden, and me 
 out by the back door on to the gaery for fear 
 I d be spakin with him at all." 
 
 " Ladies airs and faddin ! Hav no regardin 
 for such. Captain Pennington isn t gold and 
 diamonds if all words are thrue words that are 
 spoke of him. There s odds of gentlemen, and 
 the best kind goin will do for you to leave 
 alone. Aw, yes, middlin bad, the most of 
 them !" 
 
 "Mother, I ll tell you the truth. At the 
 top of the glen Captain Pennington was waitin 
 for me, and that pleased and friendly ; and out 
 with both hands, and was I forgettin him, 
 and the good days behind us, and carryin on, 
 like that." 
 
 " Of coorse, of coorse ! Sweet as honey he d
 
 22 FEET OF 
 
 be desperat sweet ; and it s as much as you ll 
 do to keep clear of him, but aw, ma chree ! 
 shut your eyes to the like of him, and don t 
 mind what he says ; the soul of a foolish girl 
 dwells in her ear; aw, yes, and she may be led 
 away with a whisper." 
 
 "Let us go to bed, mother. You was allis 
 hard upon Captain Pennington." 
 
 " Aw, my dear, and you was allis too soft. 
 But bed is the best, and sleep, and mayve good 
 dreams to make the simple wise. Good-night, 
 ma chree ! Sleep and I ll wake for you. It s 
 a mother s prayer that brings the angels round, 
 and the holy thoughts, and the paysible. 
 She s gone God bless the girl ! "
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WANTED A THOUSAND POUNDS. 
 
 " Those who kindle a fire, must put up with the smoke." 
 
 " There are no windows in a man s breast to publish 
 what he does within doors, unless his own rash folly 
 blab it." 
 
 (t A ND he really wants mother to give 
 _[\ him a thousand pounds to pay his 
 debts?" Harriet Pennington felt obliged to 
 utter the words aloud ; she could not believe 
 her own thought, unless she made it audible. 
 A thousand pounds seemed a great deal of 
 money to her. How it appeared to her 
 mother, how it would affect their own daily 
 life, she could not tell. Mrs. Pennington had 
 always been reserved as to her resources. 
 They had lived in good style, and the cash for 
 their domestic wants had come without care 
 and without petty restrictions and delays. 
 But yet Harriet understood that her brother s 
 demand had brought sorrow and anxiety. 
 The private interview between mother and 
 23
 
 *4 FEET OF 
 
 son had been a prolonged and painful one ; 
 and the mother had certainly been made ill 
 by its revelations. 
 
 She loved her brother, but she was not blind 
 to his faults. During her childhood she had 
 often suffered for them. Whatever others 
 thought of George Pennington, she knew him 
 to be selfish and overbearing. " His fine ap 
 pearance! His fine manners ! " she said scorn 
 fully, "what are they worth? He never does 
 a really noble or any kind action. His love 
 has never conferred happiness on any living 
 creature, because he has never sacrificed his 
 smallest personal desire to those whom he pro 
 fessed to love : and I saw his face last night, 
 as he watched Bella coming through the gar 
 den. Will he respect her, because she has 
 been the playmate and companion of my child 
 hood, because I still love her, and care for 
 her future ? I would not believe him, if he 
 swore to it ! I saw his face last night." 
 
 It is not usual in these days for young girls 
 to soliloquize ; because now the majority live 
 in crowds, they travel, they have continual so 
 ciety. But children and girls reared in seclu 
 sion, with few companions and no confidants,
 
 WANTED A THOUSAND POUNDS. 25 
 
 are almost certain to talk to their own hearts. 
 But for this resource, Harriet would often 
 have felt very lonely. She had grown familiar 
 with it. If she were happy, she told herself so ; 
 if any annoyance came into her life, she was 
 certain to discuss it sotto voce in her solitude. 
 
 She stood at the open window as she spoke 
 her thoughts, letting the breeze from the sea 
 blow upon her, and stir into exquisite motion 
 the tendrils of her dark hair and the white 
 muslin of her gown. Her face was beautiful, 
 and her blue-gray eyes clear as truth itself. 
 She had a tall figure, moulded to perfection, 
 and the finest complexion imaginable, white 
 as the petal of a white rose, but reddening like 
 the morning to a noble feeling or a pleasant 
 thought. There was a great bowl of Derby 
 china on a little stand before her ; it was full of 
 freshly gathered red roses, and when she had 
 finished her soliloquy she stooped, and laid her 
 face against their fragrant, dewy leaves. 
 
 "I wonder if you too know what sorrow 
 is ? " she whispered to them. " Are your hearts 
 aching because you have been taken from your 
 companions? Perhaps the little roses and the 
 half-opened buds were your children ! Do you
 
 26 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 miss them, and the butterflies, and the warm 
 sun ? Did the other flowers send you per 
 fumed messages when you were on your tree, 
 and will they forget you now ? You are only 
 roses but you are far more beautiful than I am. 
 Oh ! if you should have a sensitive life of your 
 own, and were breathing away your sweet 
 souls in mournful memories and unavailing re 
 grets ! " She kissed them, one, and then the 
 other, and thought with a kind of anger of 
 the gardener s sharp shears. " I will tell Ker- 
 win to let them live out their few days where 
 God set them. I wonder I never saw before 
 the reproachful sadness of flowers cut off from 
 all they love, and then bound together in a 
 bowl or a vase!" 
 
 " Harriet, I want you." 
 
 " I am here, George." 
 
 " But I want you to walk to Castleton with 
 me." 
 
 " Not this morning. I am expecting a friend." 
 
 " A friend ! I am your brother, and my 
 claim is first. I think all friends ought to step 
 aside for me, especially when I see you so 
 seldom. Come, Harry, I have important 
 things to talk of,"
 
 WANTEDA THOUSAND POUNDS. 27 
 
 " Then let us go to the beach." 
 
 " I want to go into Castleton." 
 
 " George dear, I would rather not go there 
 this morning." 
 
 " Then take your own way. To please 
 themselves ! that is all women think of ; 
 Selfish, aw, scandalous selfish, as Quayle 
 would say." 
 
 " George, I do not want to go out at all, 
 and if I go to the beach, it will be to please 
 you and not myself." 
 
 " Very well, Harry ; any way you like to put 
 it. Only do not waste my time. I will give 
 you ten minutes to put your bonnet on." 
 
 But Harriet was a girl of deliberate and ex 
 quisitely neat methods, and the Captain s ten 
 minutes was much lengthened. He made no 
 special complaint, it was his interest at this 
 hour to please his sister ; and he began the 
 process as soon as Quayle had closed the 
 door behind them. 
 
 " What a lovely garden you have made, 
 Harry ! Such noble trees ! Such lovely 
 flowers ! " 
 
 " Yes," she said ; " they really look as if 
 they enjoyed themselves here. I hope they do,"
 
 28 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 The remark was the only one George 
 thought it necessary to make. Having sac 
 rificed so much to his sister s prejudices, his 
 own desires became paramount. He was 
 never inclined to approach them in pleasant 
 or unobtrusive ways, and a kindly diplomacy, 
 when it was only his sister, seemed to him 
 a ridiculous piece of politeness. 
 
 " Harry, has mother told you about the 
 thousand pounds I need?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then say something about it." 
 
 " You might not like to hear what I have to 
 say. A thousand pounds seems to me a large 
 sum of money." 
 
 " Women are always unreasonable about 
 money. They simply have no just ideas on 
 the subject. Mother and you are living in 
 extravagance ; yes, in dreadful extravagance. 
 Three men-servants, and three women-ser 
 vants, to wait upon two single women. A 
 pair of ponies for mother s phaeton, a saddle- 
 horse for yourself, everything your hearts 
 can desire, and I am driven out of my wits 
 nearly, to make buckle and tongue meet." 
 
 " Everything our hearts desire does not
 
 WANTED A THOUSAND POUNDS. 2$ 
 
 include gambling, racing, and other sinful and 
 wasteful methods of throwing money away. 
 And you must be a heartless son to count up 
 against mother such a thing so necessary to 
 her comfort as her ponies ! Besides, what 
 right have you to make any remarks about 
 mother s expenditure? Her money is not 
 yours." 
 
 " Harriet, keep your temper, and hear me 
 out. How do you know that it is not mine ? 
 I suppose our father is dead ! I suppose, from 
 all appearances, that he left money. Being 
 the only son, I suppose my interest in it 
 would begin when I was of age. Mother has 
 never explained my position to me, and I 
 must say she has acted in a very singular 
 manner, and I have been uncommonly pa 
 tient ; yes, by Jove, uncommonly patient ! " 
 
 "Why are you complaining to me now? If 
 you think so shamefully of mother, go to her 
 with your supposed wrongs. I have thought 
 hardly of you many times, George, but never 
 so badly as at this moment. Your ingrati 
 tude is something shocking.* 
 
 " Come now, Harriet, you have no right to 
 prejudge me. You accept things just as they
 
 30 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 are, because things are exceedingly comfort 
 able for you ; and as the lawyers say, you have 
 no interest to move the question. But put 
 yourself in my place, and the case is different. 
 Only the day before I left my company, I was 
 introduced to a fellow, who, on hearing my 
 name, said at once, Pennington ! The Cum 
 berland Penningtons, I suppose. The ques 
 tion put me all out. I don t even know my 
 own family ; and in a crack regiment that is 
 not a subject where ignorance is desirable. 
 You and mother sit days and months and 
 years together; has she never told you any 
 thing? " 
 
 " If you mean, has she never told me any 
 thing about our family, I answer, no ! I never 
 asked her. If you want me to ask her, I must 
 say, in advance, that I will not do it. If there 
 is any mystery about us, be sure that her reti 
 cence is the greatest kindness. There is 
 always sorrow in any mystery, perhaps even 
 sin. We ought to be thankful to have no 
 knowledge of that kind. And I do not be 
 lieve that there is any mystery. Mother does 
 not look like a woman with a secret. She is 
 cheerful, energetic, full of every-day business,
 
 WANTED A THOUSAND POUNDS. 31 
 
 and not at all given to brooding or looking 
 behind her. I never saw her frightened in my 
 life. She never watches for letters, and she 
 very seldom writes them. It is all nonsense ! 
 You want money from mother, and as you 
 have no shadow of proof that she has done 
 wrong to you, you would like to excuse your 
 self upon the likelihood of her having done you 
 a wrong. Such a suspicion is in itself an act 
 of wickedness." 
 
 As they spoke they had reached the top of 
 the cliff. There was a large, flat boulder near 
 by, and they sat down upon it. Harriet was 
 trembling with indignation, but, for all that, 
 she was under the influence of her brother. 
 His commanding figure, his striking face, his 
 graceful undress uniform, his authoritative 
 manner, affected her as such things naturally 
 affect women ; though if she had been able to 
 analyze her submission to his will, she would 
 both have resisted and resented the power 
 that controlled her. 
 
 " I do not want to sit down, George," she 
 said, " and there is no use in our prolonging 
 this discussion "; but yet she obeyed the mag 
 netism of his eyes, and the touch of his hand.
 
 32 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 It struck her, as she did so, how irresistible he 
 must be to a woman in love with him, and her 
 thoughts went, laden with pity and fear, to the 
 little cottage where Bella Clucas was at that 
 moment dreaming the sweetest and the most 
 unlikely of romances. 
 
 But though Harriet sat down in obedience 
 to her brother s glance and touch, she endeav 
 ored to change the subject of conversation. 
 She pointed out the tremulous, volitant motion 
 of the breeze upon the waves, and the two or 
 three solitary crafts skimming them. " The 
 herring fleet is in harbor," she said. " Those 
 are private boats. The one to the east 
 ward is Colonel Porter s pleasure skiff, that 
 one lying on the horizon belongs to the 
 Kellys " 
 
 " Harriet, never mind the boats. I care 
 nothing about them. They may go to the 
 bottom, if the winds and the waves are agree 
 able. You say, that mother at no time told 
 you anything about our family ? " 
 
 " Not one word, at any time." 
 
 "You suppose yourself to have been born 
 here?" 
 
 " I remember no other home."
 
 Jj 
 
 11 But Idol 1 was five years old when I 
 Came here. I remember a house, that in my 
 memory was ten times as large as the one we 
 are living in now. It had staircases as wide as 
 our dining-room ; silent, dark staircases, with 
 soft-footed men in a yellowish livery, going up 
 and down them. I remember peeping through 
 the balusters once, and seeing an endless room 
 all alight, and filled with ladies and gentlemen, 
 and hearing wonderful music. The house was 
 in a wood or park. I used to ride about it, 
 and think it was all the world, and a very big 
 world too." 
 
 " You dreamt the whole story, George. 
 Bella, and the peasants, and the fishermen 
 and women, every one of them, tell me some 
 thing similar. They say they have been with 
 the fairies." 
 
 " You need not try to insult my intelligence, 
 Harriet. I dreamt nothing that I have told 
 you. I remember it. As for the fairies " 
 
 " Do not abuse the fairies, George. Every 
 one has seen them on this island. Hal Cork- 
 hill told me last Tuesday, that they kept him 
 in Ballasalla glen all Monday night." 
 
 " The man was drunk, of course. But it is
 
 34 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 singular that both you and mother have taken 
 up the same cry." 
 
 " Have you spoken to mother about these 
 remembrances, as you call them ? " 
 
 " When I was a boy about nine years old, I 
 told her one night as we were walking in the 
 garden, about that other garden. I described 
 both it and the conservatory, and the long 
 glass house full of great clusters of white and 
 purple grapes." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " She said as you have just said George, 
 you have been dreaming. Her voice was so 
 cold and stern I durst say no more, and indeed 
 she took me into the house and called Curran, 
 you remember Curran, and said, Curran, I 
 particularly request you to tell Master George 
 no more about the fairies. He is beginning 
 to forget where real life ends and fairy-land 
 begins. 
 
 " Have you never spoken since ? " 
 
 " When I went to Rugby, I spoke again. 
 She listened then more patiently. I reminded 
 her of one dark, windy night, when I went to 
 bed in my clothes, and woke up in a carnage. 
 There was no light but the gleaming of the
 
 WANTED A THOUSAND POUNDS. 35 
 
 carriage lamps, and I was in the arms of a gen 
 tleman, who spoke kindly to me, and told me 
 to go to sleep again. Mother also spoke to 
 me, and I saw you upon her knee. You were 
 a little babe, and you cried a great deal. 
 That is my first remembrance of you, Harriet." 
 
 "Well, then?" 
 
 "Only, that when I woke next, I was in a 
 ship. There a man with a long beard carried 
 me about a great deal. I am sure he was a 
 sailor, but the man who held me in the car. 
 riage was a gentleman. I cannot say how, 
 being such a little fellow, I could make this 
 distinction, but I know that I am correct." 
 
 "And you told mother all this?" 
 
 " I did. I was fourteen years old then, and 
 not to be chid, and snubbed, and put to bed, 
 but the result came to about the same thing. 
 She smiled incredulously, and said, I must 
 have had a singular and forcible dream when I 
 was very young. Perhaps it is a prophetic 
 one, she added. You may have seen the 
 home of your manhood ; indeed I hope great 
 things from you, George, and so on, and so 
 on, anything to change the subject, and give 
 it an air of fancy and unsubstantially."
 
 " Suppose all this is true, George, what 
 it amount to? That the probability is, we 
 were born in an affluence which has been lost. 
 That loss implies, as I have said, either sorrow 
 or something worse than sorrow. Perhaps the 
 death of our father made us poor. But what 
 would have been poverty in England is wealth 
 on the Island. I think it very likely moth 
 er retired here, in order to save enough to give 
 you your education and commission. She is 
 precisely the woman to make a grand sacrifice, 
 and say nothing about it." 
 
 " I wonder where the sacrifice comes in ? 
 She has always had a beautiful house, and 
 plenty of servants, and all that a woman could 
 desire." 
 
 " Mother is still handsome. When she 
 came here, she must have been younger than 
 you are to-day. If there is any truth in your 
 dream, she had likely been born to a high 
 social position. Is it no sacrifice for a woman 
 of twenty-three to live in absolute seclu 
 sion and give up her whole life to her chil 
 dren?" 
 
 " Mother always seemed to enjoy herself. 
 Of course women like lovers and admiration ,
 
 b ritwbd. ft 
 
 and I dare say she could have had plenty of 
 both ; the officers from the garrison would 
 have liked to come to our house, but I never 
 heard of mother; did you?" 
 
 " I will not sit here and discuss so scandal 
 ous an insinuation." 
 
 "Then we will return home. I meant no 
 harm, not the slightest disrespect, I assure you. 
 But, Harriet, you have a bad habit of looking 
 for unpleasant motives." 
 
 She rose as he spoke, and for some mo 
 ments they walked on silently. The salt savor 
 of the sea wind was crossed by a waft of hay- 
 fields and meadow-sweet ; and Harriet could 
 not resist the influence. " How delightful it 
 is!" she said. 
 
 "What is delightful?" 
 
 "The air, the sea, the land, the azure 
 above us." 
 
 "Oh! I was thinking of that thousand 
 pounds. Harriet, I must have it. I cannot 
 go back to my regiment without it. If there 
 is no other way, then I will sell out. Any 
 how, a beggar like me has no business among 
 gentlemen.* 
 
 " You are not a beggar, George. Major De
 
 38 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Luny lives in good style, upon half your in 
 come, and he has a large family." 
 
 "Pshaw! There is no reasoning with 
 women. A statement is all that they compre 
 hend. I must have a thousand pounds. Will 
 you help me to get it? I am your only broth 
 er, and you act as if you disliked to put a fin 
 ger out to aid me in my trouble." 
 
 " If you are in real trouble I will do all that 
 I possibly can to help you, George. " 
 
 "I am in real trouble. If I do not get the 
 money, I shall be ruined and disgraced." 
 
 "Have you told mother this?" 
 
 " Well, yes, in a measure." 
 
 " Tell her as plainly as you tell me." 
 
 " You might say the words for me. When 
 I spoke about a thousand pounds, she stood 
 up and looked at me so steadily, that I did 
 not know what I was saying, or doing, and I 
 blundered into an excuse, which just made 
 everything worse." 
 
 " What was that? Surely you did not dare 
 to question mother about money, or what you 
 call your rights?" 
 
 " No. I told her about a bit of paper, 
 between young Penrith and me ; and the
 
 WANTED A THOUSAND POUNDS. 39 
 
 moment I mentioned his name she turned as 
 white as a ghost, and then fell down in a faint. 
 I thought she was dead for a few minutes, 
 and suffered more than she did, I am sure. It 
 knocked me all up. I was ill for hours, and I 
 could not bear to go through a scene like it 
 again." 
 
 " I should think you would not like mother 
 to go through another scene like it." 
 
 " You know how to manage mother, Har 
 riet. Speak to her. Tell her I must have the 
 money. Say you think I ought to have it. 
 Show her how you might economize a little, 
 you know what to say, anything likely to 
 bring the guineas." 
 
 " George, if I do this for you, will you 
 promise me not to trouble Bella Clucas ? I love 
 Bella. I do not want her to suffer for your 
 pleasure. Promise me not to make love to 
 her; you cannot do so without deeply wrong 
 ing her." 
 
 " Did I not obey you last night ? What you 
 told me to do I did." 
 
 " I spoke in the hurry of the moment, and 
 not very wisely, I fear, George. For consider 
 ing your former intimacy with Bella, it was
 
 only riatural that you should have recognized 
 her. And Mrs. Clucas and Ruthie will expect 
 a call, and I was foolish to put you in a false 
 position. I ought to have allowed you to 
 speak kindly and naturally to Bella last night, 
 and then no importance would have been 
 given to a few words, either here or there. 
 George, promise me not to use your power 
 over Bella." 
 
 " Get me the thousand pounds and you may 
 dictate to me every word that I am to say in 
 that quarter. Bella is a dear girl, and a hand 
 some girl, and I should enjoy making her 
 desperately in love with me ; but I am not 
 above being bought out, if you want a monop 
 oly of Bella s affection." 
 
 This declaration closed the conversation. 
 Harriet did not reply to it. She was dazed 
 and pained with the revelations made to her. 
 Once she glanced into her brother s face. She 
 wondered if there might not be on it some 
 smile or glance which would undo the totally 
 selfish impression of his words. No ! It was 
 handsome, cool, and intelligent ; but it was a 
 face without a heart.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE COTTAGE IN GLEN-MELLISH. 
 
 " Passions, like seas, will have their ebbs and flows." 
 
 To-morrow I will live, the fool doth say ; 
 To-day itself s too late ; the wise lived yesterday." 
 
 " Fate ne er strikes deep, but when unkindness joins ; 
 But there s a fate in kindness, 
 Still to be least returned where most tis given." 
 
 THE cottage of Ruthie Clucas stood in the 
 little valley called Glen-Mellish Mel- 
 lish, honey, probably because its sides were 
 covered with wild thyme, and the bees, busy 
 and pleased, were in the season always making 
 honey there. As George and Harriet Pen- 
 nington walked through it the following morn 
 ing, their ancient murmur was all around, and 
 as they approached the cottage they saw some 
 rude shelves upon the hillside, filled with the 
 same straw skeps whose shape was familiar 
 two thousand years ago to " sweet Hymettus 
 Hill." 
 
 " Behold," said George, " the citizens of 
 41
 
 42 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 every community. I never was anywhere, 
 Harriet, where the peasants were too poor to 
 own this winged stock. In the languid lotus 
 lands of Africa, I saw them busy all day. In 
 Egypt, they robbed the orange-flowers of the 
 Said, and the roses of Facium, and the treas 
 ures of the Arabian jasmine, from dawn till 
 dark. In Persia and India, they worked among 
 gardens of spice. In Syria and Palestine, the 
 very rocks brought forth honey." 
 
 Harriet looked at him with admiration. 
 " How much you know, George ! How far 
 you have travelled ! You love learning. You 
 are no empty-headed fop. How then can you 
 bear to throw away your time among horse 
 jockeys, and your money among gamblers, 
 men without ideas and without feelings ! " 
 
 " How ? How can any one do what is 
 foolish and unworthy of them ? I lean to 
 jockeys and gamblers ; Fairfax to wine and 
 women. Derby is ruining himself with dab 
 bling in bricks and mortar, and another fel 
 low I know, by yachting. I am sure I wish 
 ten ounces of wisdom came with every ounce 
 of gold. I can tell you, that I never had one 
 hour s real pleasure out of that thousand
 
 THE COTTAGE IN GLEN-MELLISH. 43 
 
 pounds. However it went, it went with an 
 noyance, and was followed by anxiety. I did 
 not even have the sense of spending royally. 
 Some one else at my side spent thousands 
 where I spent hundreds, and I felt just as mean 
 as if I had kept my guineas in my pocket." 
 
 " A great deal meaner, I should say. George, 
 I had a long talk with mother last night, and 
 she is quite inclined to let you sell out. In 
 deed, she thinks you ought to." 
 
 "You mean that she will not let me have 
 the money." 
 
 " I think she cannot. She told me that she 
 had not been responsible for your education, 
 nor for your commission, nor for the income 
 given you to support it. She said she had 
 disapproved of the way in which you had been 
 educated, and regretted, in stronger words 
 than I ever heard mother use before, that you 
 had not been sent to school in the Island, and 
 articled to Daniel Teare afterwards, for a 
 lawyer. She thinks it is not too late for you 
 yet to begin the study of law ; and I can see 
 that she intends you to pay the debt you have 
 contracted, out of such resources as you 
 possess."
 
 44 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 He took the information with an indiffer 
 ence which amazed his sister. " If it comes to 
 that, Harriet, all right ! I know the worst, 
 and it isn t bad. I do not believe I like the 
 army. If I had ten thousand a year, the uni 
 form is becoming, and it might be worth a 
 trifle of duty to have the right to wear it. 
 But a cavalry officer on five hundred pounds a 
 year is in a mess all the time. I will not 
 trouble mother any more. Jacques can ar 
 range everything, and I will run down to Lon 
 don, and bring away my books and the valu 
 able things I gathered when I was travelling. 
 They will make a kind of museum for you, 
 and are better here than anywhere else." 
 
 "George, do not take such an important 
 change so recklessly." 
 
 " How do you want me to take it ? Am I 
 to stamp, and rave, and tear my- locks out ? I 
 have my own philosophy, Harriet, and it never 
 permits me to regret the inevitable." 
 
 "Yesterday you were very anxious. I do 
 not understand you." 
 
 " As long as it seemed to be my duty to 
 worry about that thousand pounds, I think I 
 worried very conscientiously. Mother has
 
 THE COTTAGE IN GLEX-MELLISff. 45 
 
 now decided the question of my future. I 
 accept her decision as the voice of destiny. I 
 have nothing now to do but acquiesce. The 
 result will come to me, and, in the mean time, 
 I shall improve my acquaintance with natural 
 history and pretty Bella Clucas." 
 
 " George, if you " 
 
 " Harry, you have run yourself out of threats. 
 You have not one left, I fear. That thousand 
 pounds failure sets me free. I think I am glad 
 I have lost it." Then his face darkened, and 
 he said through tightly shut teeth : " I wish I 
 knew who paid for my education and com 
 mission. I do not thank mother for making 
 me take any one s charity. Why didn t the 
 fellow give me his name with his gold? I 
 hate anonymous gifts ! " 
 
 They were at the cottage door as he spoke, 
 and as soon as he noticed the fact, his face 
 cleared instantaneously. It seemed to cost 
 him no effort to put disagreeable thoughts out 
 of his consciousness, to clothe his counte 
 nance in careless good-humor, and to enter 
 the humble door with an irresistibly delight 
 ful manner. 
 
 Bella stood at the long table kneading bar-
 
 46 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 ley cakes. Her arms were bare, and her hands 
 covered with dough. She held them up with 
 a pretty, deprecating smile, and dropped a 
 courtesy to her visitors. In the bright sun 
 shine she looked incredibly lovely. George 
 gazed at her radiant face, set in its frame of 
 radiant hair, and told Bella his admiration in 
 one swift glance, that said more than could 
 have been said in an hour s flattering words. 
 
 Harriet seated herself upon one of the 
 white, three-legged stools, but George leaned 
 against the lintel of the door. He knew in 
 what positions he looked the handsomest, 
 and he was not disposed to place his fine fig 
 ure in any posture where it did not show to 
 the best advantage. 
 
 Mary Clucas heard the little stir of their 
 arrival, and came hastily in from the fish-shed 
 behind the house. The young soldier doffed 
 his cap, and began at once " the chittin , and 
 chattin , and ways that pleasin ," which Mary 
 had admitted to her daughter were irresistible. 
 She was " throwin the joke back at him," 
 before she thought of the dangerous license 
 this joking permitted. Ruthie simply had no 
 thought of danger. He would as soon have
 
 THE COTTAGE IN GLEN-MELLISH. 47 
 
 expected that his handsome son, Gale Clucas, 
 should go courting the Deemster s pretty 
 daughter, as that Captain Pennington should 
 be casting love-glances at his own Bella. For 
 he had known the Captain many a year, and 
 had taken him with him in his fishing-boat in 
 all kinds of weather. Also, he had seen him 
 about the cottage constantly, and thought it 
 nothing wrong for Bella, a barefooted lassie, 
 to carry his creel and bait, and go with him 
 to the hills, "just to break the lonesome- 
 ness." 
 
 He followed his wife with that slowness of 
 step which became the dignity of a Manx 
 husband a personage who always considers 
 himself a great man in his own household, and 
 who assumes a very lordly tone with his 
 "woman" and the children. Ruthie was 
 large and fresh-looking, with eyes that re 
 minded one of the sea ; white, even teeth, 
 and a full, black beard, streaked with gray. 
 
 He took the Captain s gloved hand in his 
 huge clasp, and welcomed him with a cordial 
 ity none the less sincere for its touch of shy> 
 ness. Then stroking his hair, and coughing a 
 little nervously, he sat down in the chair
 
 48 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 which was his of right, and began to talk of 
 the night s fishing. 
 
 " A grand night it was," he said ; " aw, yes, 
 and a grand take, and God blessing the nets ! 
 Fish thallure ! and fine ones ! aw, wonderful 
 fine! And I ll be sending Gale with a basket 
 full to The House ; though, mayve, the like is 
 at them ? " 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Clucas, but why take the 
 trouble ? I think Jemmy Cleator is bringing 
 them every morning now." 
 
 "I wouldn t wonder! He s a pushin fel 
 low uncommon pushin . I m knowin direct 
 ly the like of him." 
 
 " And he might feel hurt, if we did not buy 
 them." 
 
 "Bless my heart! let him cure himself 
 then. Aw, yes, a pushin fellow ; but no 
 matter, no matter. Captain, here is a soldier 
 for you "; and he set forward a basket contain 
 ing a tremendous lobster; "brought him up 
 this mornin . Look at him ; the big he is, and 
 the strong, and the wise! No drill needed for 
 him, Captain ! He was born terrible ; aw, 
 and wicked enough whatever else, and ready 
 armed ! "
 
 THE C6TTA6E LV GLEN-MELLISti. 49 
 
 Captain Pennington stooped and examined 
 the creature with interest. " You are right, 
 Ruthie," he said. " If Her Majesty could 
 only arm her soldiers as nature has armed this 
 fellow, what fighters she would have ! What 
 terrible claws ! And his eyes see before and 
 behind, and his antennae have the organ of 
 touch at their extremities, and of smelling and 
 hearing at their base ! " 
 
 "Is it thrue you re tellin , Captain?" 
 
 " He is parading his learning, Mr. Clucas. 
 Do not believe him." 
 
 " It is true nevertheless, Harriet." 
 
 " Perhaps so, but mortals would rather not 
 smell with all their fingers, George. Lobsters 
 are not to be envied, are they, Mary? " 
 
 " Fish here, and fish there, smokin and 
 dryin what would I do with more noses than 
 one, Miss Harriet ? The bad, the bad, it 
 would be for fisher-folk." 
 
 " I wonder you ve got the face, Mollie ! If 
 I didn know nothin , I d take aise " ; then 
 going to the door open towards the back of 
 the house, Ruthie vociferated Manx at Gale, 
 until the young fisher came with a string of 
 herring so fresh and firm and brilliant, that
 
 |6 PERT OF CLAY. 
 
 the daintiest lady need not have hesitated to 
 touch them. 
 
 Gale blushed when he saw the company, but 
 he touched his forehead with his vacant hand, 
 and sharply told Bella to put the fish in a 
 clean towel, and carry them to The House. 
 To command his sister was one of Gale s nat 
 ural privileges, and he did not dream that he 
 was making Captain Pennington s blood tingle 
 with his authoritative tone. 
 
 But perhaps Harriet noticed the unspoken 
 championship, for she said : " I will take them, 
 Bella. Put them in a basket, ma chree. Come, 
 there is no more to be said. I have made up 
 my mind." 
 
 " Of coorse, of coorse ! The quality has 
 their own way, Gale. Don t be lookin black, 
 lad, and are you seein the captain ? Bless 
 you ! a puffic gentleman grown. What ca 
 pers you two were at, colloguin like, years 
 ago ; hard to forget, is them ! " 
 
 Gale touched his forehead again, but he 
 made no further advances upon the capers of 
 past years. And Captain Pennington s polite 
 questions did not seem to encourage a renewal 
 of them. Gale felt this, and the hot flush
 
 THE COTTAGE IN GLEtt-MELLlStt. 51 
 
 mounted to his face, as he stood embarrassed 
 at the open door. The soldier and the fisher, 
 scanning each other with a vague admiration 
 and hostility, made a remarkable contrast. 
 For Gale Clucas was, after his own fashion, 
 quite as handsome a man as George Penning- 
 ton, though Gale s fashion was of a more prim 
 itive kind. For he was simply a young blond 
 giant, dressed in blue flannel, and spangled to 
 the waist with the moonlight glimmer of the 
 herring scales. 
 
 He was glad enough to excuse himself from 
 any further compliments and questions, and 
 indeed every one was sensible of the strained 
 and restless feeling peculiar to first visits, 
 when long broken threads are to be lifted, and 
 a past association examined in the light of 
 new circumstances and changed feelings and 
 ideas. 
 
 During the visit Bella had scarcely lifted 
 her eyes from the cakes she was patting and 
 rolling, and George had not appeared to pay 
 much attention to her, yet no movement of 
 her graceful head or body had escaped him. 
 The thousand pounds and all of life it repre 
 sented, duties, discipline, and social claims and
 
 i PZKT dp cUV. 
 
 advantages, he cast them behind him. It was 
 the new, the present moment, the tangible 
 gratification, that had value to George Pen- 
 nington. Besides, other and fresh thoughts 
 came into his mind as he walked silently up 
 Glen-Mellish with his sister, and being fresh, 
 they possessed a paramount interest. 
 
 " It was not a very pleasant visit, George," 
 
 "I don t know why we made it. Old Clucas 
 and his wife are vulgar. How is it that in 
 youth one tolerates, and even likes, such 
 people?" 
 
 "Perhaps youth is naturally vulgar: to 
 row, to cast the nets, to fling a trout line, 
 to run, to jump, to swim, it seems to me 
 these are the ideals of youth. They are mere 
 animal accomplishments, some of them are 
 performed better by animals than by men ; 
 but when books and travel have refined the 
 nature, the old ideals lose their place. I think 
 you disappointed Ruthie and Mary, and per 
 haps Gale more than any one. You were not 
 like yourself, George." 
 
 " I could not put down a singular line of 
 thought. I wish I knew the man who has 
 spent so much money on me. Why did he do
 
 TtJE COTTAGE IN GLEK-MELLISH. SJ 
 
 it? Is he my father? Don t you see, Harriet, 
 where such reflections may lead to?" 
 
 " If they lead to any unkind suspicions, 
 don t follow them a moment, George." 
 
 "Oh, but, you know, I must follow them. 
 If it was that man s interest or pleasure to put 
 me through the best schools in England, to 
 give me two years travel, and then buy me a 
 commission in a cavalry regiment, he ought to 
 have done more, or not have done so much. 
 I hope my leaving the regiment will be a great 
 disappointment to him. I would not have the 
 thousand pounds now; no, not for ten thousand." 
 
 " I am amazed at your folly, George." 
 
 " Why should you be amazed ? Is folly un 
 usual? Are fools a rarity? On the contrary, 
 you will find that fools are the daily work of 
 nature, her vocation, if she makes a man, 
 she loses by it." 
 
 " To be as petted as a school-boy, as 
 unreasonable as a spoiled child, to affect an 
 indifference you do not feel, to treat the turn 
 ing-point of your life as if you were deciding 
 a game of cricket, is wicked, I think. And I 
 know that you have parts and cultivation ; 
 you are not an ignorant fop."
 
 54 FET OF CLAY. 
 
 " My dear Harriet, have you not followed 
 out my observation ? Let me tell you, that 
 genuine folly is only attained by studious 
 search. A natural fool is a poor speci 
 men. To be really eminent in that r61e, it 
 is necessary to be a man of parts and cultiva 
 tion." 
 
 " I will not keep up a useless and heartless 
 badinage with you. You pain me very much, 
 George ; and if any one else should say that 
 you were an eminent fool, how angry you 
 would be ! " 
 
 He answered with a light, mocking laugh, 
 and the rest of the walk was finished in silence. 
 In the hall they parted ; Harriet went upstairs, 
 and George into the parlor. His mother was 
 sitting in a large chair by the window. He 
 had not expected to see her there, and her 
 presence gave his mood a slight shock. He 
 had been thinking hard thoughts, and her 
 calm, open face meeting his was like a sharp 
 denial of them. 
 
 She was small and slight, with white hair 
 carefully arranged around a delicate face. Her 
 color was lovely, her mouth sensitive and ex 
 pressive, her eyes dark and tender. She was
 
 COTTAGE IN GLEN-MELUS!!. $$ 
 
 richly dressed, and her whole appearance gave 
 the idea of refinement and repose. 
 
 " My dear George." 
 
 " Good-morning, mother. I am glad to see 
 you here." He kissed her, and then added: 
 " I walked with Harriet down Glen-Mellish. 
 We went as far as the cottage of Ruthie 
 Clucas." 
 
 " Did you see him ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and Mary, and Gale, and 
 Bella. Gale is very handsome." 
 
 " And Bella also. Her face is not of the or 
 dinary Manx type, and many do not admire its 
 irregularity and fleeting color ; but I think her 
 beautiful." 
 
 " I dare say she is : she scarcely lifted her 
 eyes. I believe she was making bread of some 
 kind. Mother, I am not thinking of Bella 
 Clucas at present. If you are quite able, I 
 should like to get my own affairs settled. I 
 never enjoy myself in an atmosphere of un 
 certainty." 
 
 " I am quite willing to discuss your affairs, 
 George. Have you anything fresh to tell 
 me ? " 
 
 " No, I made a clean breast on Monday
 
 night. That paper of Penrith s is the worst 
 thing I ever did. But Penrith is safe and hon 
 orable. He loved me, too. Poor fellow ! I 
 feel sorry when I think how cut up he was." 
 
 " I would not name that transaction un 
 necessarily, George. Though I am not Pen 
 rith, I can assure you I have been cut up, as 
 you call it, also. And I think I love you, 
 George, in a way that no other human being 
 does, or can." 
 
 " I know it, mother. If I had not known 
 it, should I have come with all my faults and 
 troubles to you ? Harriet says you think I 
 should sell out, and pay my debts. I think so, 
 too. I will write to Jacques this afternoon to 
 attend to the matter at once. I have a lot of 
 Turkish and Persian rugs, they can go, too ; 
 the vases and coins I bought in Rome I 
 should like to keep, and my books I cannot 
 part with." 
 
 " There is no need to part with any of your 
 personal treasures. I do not want to make 
 your punishment harder than is necessary, 
 George." 
 
 " I do not think it any particular punishment 
 to leave the regiment. It is too fine a place
 
 THE COTTAGE IN GLEN-MELLISH. 57 
 
 for a beggar like me. A young man is to be 
 pitied who is pitched into its style with empty 
 pockets." 
 
 " Stop, George. You had a handsome allow 
 ance. There are officers in the same regi 
 ment with much less. I ascertained that, 
 before I fixed the amount I thought suffi 
 cient." 
 
 " Oh ! You fixed it ! I understood from 
 Harriet that you had not paid either for my 
 education or my commission." 
 
 " Harriet told you I said that ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I wish she had not. I must have been very 
 troubled to have spoken to her about money 
 matters at all." 
 
 " Will you tell me who paid my bills ?" 
 
 " No. I shall never tell you that." 
 
 " There it is ! " he cried. " If I did not owe 
 a penny, I would not go back to my company ! 
 How do you think it feels for a fellow not to 
 know who he is? There are the Cumberland 
 Penningtons, and the Yorkshire Penningtons, 
 and the Penningtons who are nobodies in par 
 ticular. Every week I am asked about some 
 of the lot. I don t know what to say."
 
 5 8 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " Tell the truth. Say your branch of the 
 family is in the Isle of Man." 
 
 " My branch ! Two women and myself." 
 
 " As this conversation has been forced upon 
 me, I will tell you now what I shall tell you if 
 it recurs a thousand times. Ask for no in 
 formation but what is freely given you. Be 
 thankful that others are willing to suffer what 
 you must else have endured." 
 
 " Mother ! Have I any right to the name I 
 bear, or is it an assumed one? This much I 
 ought to know, at any rate." 
 
 Mrs. Pennington flushed scarlet, and rising 
 hastily said, " Wait here a few minutes." 
 
 It was evident she was going to leave the 
 room, and he offered her his arm. She waved 
 him away with a haughty and peremptory 
 movement. There was not the shadow of 
 tears in her eyes, not the faintest expression, 
 of injury, not the most fleeting air of reproach 
 in her face, or manner, or voice : but George 
 Pennington felt, in a moment, an overwhelming 
 pity for his mother, and an overwhelming 
 contempt for himself. 
 
 " It was a brutal question to ask," he mut 
 tered ; " and yet it is as well asked as
 
 THE COTTAGE IN GLEN-MELLISH. 59 
 
 thought." Still, when his mother re-entered 
 the room, he could scarcely meet her eyes. 
 She had a couple of papers in her hand, and 
 she offered them to him. 
 
 " George, here is my marriage contract, and 
 the certificate of your baptism. Satisfy your 
 own eyes, since you do not credit my words." 
 
 " I will not look at them. Forgive me, 
 mother. Forgive me if you can. I shall 
 never forgive myself." 
 
 She laid the papers down upon the table, 
 looking at them with aversion and fear. But 
 in a few moments she controlled all signs of 
 emotion, and turned them over with an indif 
 ference that was evidently the result of a domi 
 nant will. 
 
 " The date is more than twenty-five years 
 ago ; you see, George " and then she read 
 aloud, slowly pointing out the words with her 
 finger: Ante-Nuptial Contract between Al 
 fred Saville Pennington and Mabel Broug 
 ham Brougham is my family name, George." 
 
 "I desire no further explanation, mother. I 
 hope you will forgive me for the question." 
 
 " Perhaps it was natural, on this subject, to 
 want more proof than my word. I do not wish
 
 60 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 to think more unkindly of you than you de 
 serve. George, many years ago, I suffered a 
 great, I will say, wrong. Nothing can ever 
 put the wrong right ; nothing, there is no 
 possible atonement, or restitution ; all that re 
 mains is silence. The more perfect the si 
 lence, the deeper the oblivion, the better it is 
 for you, and Harriet, and myself. I was 
 always averse to your leaving this retreat. 
 Others thought differently. The experiment 
 has been a failure, as I expected it would be. 
 Take a summer s holiday, and let Jacques ar 
 range your debts. Then begin the study of 
 the law with Daniel Teare." 
 
 " I have often thought of going to Aus 
 tralia." 
 
 " It would kill me if you went there." 
 
 "To the United States, then?" 
 
 " Why do you wish to expatriate yourself ? 
 There is no reason for it, none whatever ; and 
 there are many reasons why you should remain 
 in England." 
 
 " I know of none." 
 
 " Harriet, myself, and other possibilities 
 which I am not at liberty to name. Cannot 
 you take me on trust, George? "
 
 THE COTTAGE IN GLEN-MELLISH. 6 1 
 
 " Of course I can, mother. I am not, as a 
 general thing, inclined to go a motive-hunting; 
 and as for the future, it is an unknown coun 
 try ; perhaps an enemy s country. I have 
 had no orders yet to invade it. The present is 
 sufficient and when the autumn comes 
 
 " You will go to Teare s office ? " 
 
 " The autumn is days and weeks away. This 
 summer I will take short views of life, and 
 pleasant ones. I wish, mother, I could do 
 something in extenuation of my folly." 
 
 " God asks nothing but sorrow for our sin, 
 shall I ask more than heaven ? If you are 
 sorry, George, I have forgiven, and will forget. 
 Try and be happy in the sinless pleasures 
 around you. 
 
 The Sisyphus is he whom noise and strife 
 Seduce from all these soft retreats of life. " 
 
 " I will be no Sisyphus, mother. I will find on 
 the sea, and among the fishers, plenty of pleas 
 ure ; if my anticipations are not dashed, as they 
 generally are, by some left-handed god ; 
 don t look so horrified ; I was only quoting the 
 Oedipus, mother." 
 
 He kissed her hands and looked so bright
 
 62 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 and handsome, that her heart grew light with 
 renewed hope ; and she bade fear keep outside 
 her dwelling. 
 
 Oh, blessed Hope ! Amid the never-fulfilled 
 desires, the vain strivings, the unspeakable 
 blunders of life, what should we do without 
 thee ? Perhaps indeed thou art a flatterer ! 
 But at least thou art a pleasant and honest 
 one, for Hope, and only Hope, flatters the 
 poor and the miserable.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 BELLA S OPINION. 
 
 Tis our own wisdom moulds our state, 
 Our faults and virtues make our fate." 
 
 In whatever character the Book of Fate is writ, 
 Tis well we understand not it ; 
 We should grow mad with too much learning there. 
 
 " The fate of Love is such, 
 That still it sees too little, or too much." 
 
 M 
 
 RS. PENNINGTON was scarcely 
 pleased at her son s ready acceptance of 
 the destiny which he had called unto himself. 
 There is a kind of making the best of things, 
 which is really making the worst of them, and 
 she was conscious that George s easy satisfac 
 tion with her plans for his future came from 
 thoughtless indifference, and a wish to shirk 
 all responsibility for the consequences of his 
 previous conduct. 
 
 Indeed Captain Pennington longed to be rid 
 of the past. He had mismanaged all his ad 
 vantages. He was aware that an undefinable 
 63
 
 64 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 suspicion had touched his name. His com 
 rades in some way chilled the air around him. 
 He knew that he had fallen in their estimation, 
 though no one had told him so. And without 
 taking the trouble to reason on the matter, he 
 frankly admitted to himself that this social fall, 
 however intangible it might be, was generally, 
 within a certain circumference, a final one. 
 He was aware that if a man loses caste in his 
 regiment only some military miracle, only a 
 deed done with life in the hand, can retrieve 
 what has been forfeited; and George Penning- 
 ton had no heroic longings. If a great oppor 
 tunity had found him out, he would have 
 made a hasty excuse, and slipped behind it in 
 some way or other. 
 
 And though life in the little Island of Man 
 did not promise much, he looked at its possi 
 bilities with the hopefulness of his twenty-five 
 years, and with that faith in fortune which is 
 the complaisant habit of youth. There was, to 
 begin with, a handsome and well-ordered 
 house in which he promised himself to reign 
 paramount. His mother s affection for him 
 would bear such assumption he did not doubt, 
 and Harriet was only a girl,, girls naturally
 
 BELLA S OPINION. 65 
 
 submitted to their brothers. Of course Har 
 riet had usurped many privileges during his 
 absence, but if he and Harriet had for the 
 future to dwell together, he must resume his 
 prerogatives and insist upon being regarded as 
 the eldest son and the eldest brother. And he 
 did not dislike the prospect of this struggle 
 for supremacy with the women of the house, 
 it was a kind of warfare for which his weapons 
 were always ready. 
 
 Then there was a good regiment stationed 
 at Castletown. The officers would be gentle 
 men. He could doubtless join their mess 
 occasionally, and however loyally they served 
 Her Majesty, they were also likely to be good 
 subjects of those four paper kings whose 
 authority is lost in Oriental myth. Besides 
 these two sources of amusement, he had his 
 books ; and he could write verses and practise 
 Weber s overtures. 
 
 Then there was the sea. He was very fond 
 of the sea when it was calm, and he could 
 drift out with the tide, and in with the tide, 
 and smoke and dream sonnets to the lazy 
 whish and lap of the ocean. He felt that to 
 thoroughly enjoy this kind of sailing he must
 
 66 FEE T OF CLA Y. 
 
 find a fisher-boy to hold the oars, and he re 
 membered Gale Clucas, but not with approba 
 tion. Gale had not pleased him during his 
 morning visit to the Clucas cottage. He had 
 caught a look which really seemed to be 
 equally made up of suspicion and dislike. 
 
 "But I cannot allow myself to quarrel with 
 Gale Clucas," he said in a soft voice; "for 
 there is Bella! Sweet Bella! Beautiful 
 Bella ! " 
 
 Then he knew that Bella was the first and 
 the last of his motives. However many he 
 might put before her, however much he might 
 magnify others, Bella Clucas was the first and 
 the last of all his intentions. He made no ef 
 fort to put the temptation from him. He told 
 himself frankly that his pursuit of her would 
 be unjustifiable, in every respect, and would be 
 resisted upon every side. Harriet had warned 
 him of her opposition, he felt that Gale would 
 be unmanageable, and as for old Ruthie, if he 
 should once become suspicious, he would be 
 come dangerous. Captain Pennington ad 
 mitted these facts, and, while admitting them, 
 smiled scornfully at the position. It appeared, 
 after all, a little ridiculous to find a fisherman s
 
 BELLA S OPINION. 67 
 
 daughter so hard to approach. But then he 
 reflected, " Bella is on my side, and we two 
 against all odds." 
 
 He was walking slowly about his room to 
 these thoughts, and in the course of this 
 exercise he stopped at one of the windows 
 overlooking the orchard side of the garden. 
 There were two people under the cherry-trees. 
 One of them was his sister Harriet. She had a 
 pale blue dress on, a dress of the exquisite 
 color of the forget-me-not. Her long brown 
 curls were pushed behind her ears, a gold 
 ornament gleamed upon her neck, and gold 
 bracelets glinted with every movement of her 
 hands. Her face was rosy and love-lit, reflect 
 ing the eager happiness it found in that of her 
 companion. 
 
 He was a soldier, and wore a very becoming 
 uniform. And he was strong and tall, with 
 short, curling brown hair, and a face bronzed 
 by exposure, and a smile of the kindest good 
 nature. 
 
 " That is Colonel Sutcliffe, I suppose. Both 
 mother and Harriet wrote me something about 
 him. I have forgotten what it was ; and no 
 wonder, I was so bothered about my own
 
 68 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 affairs at the time. But there is no need of 
 explanations, a look at the two, as they stand 
 there, is enough to tell the tale. Well, as the 
 head of the family he will have to apply to me, 
 and if he does not make himself very agree 
 able indeed, he will be sony for it." 
 
 The thought gave him a new sense of power. 
 He understood that Sutcliffe, being so evi 
 dently in love with his sister, would be likely 
 to favor all his plans and advances, and he 
 immediately began to calculate in what man 
 ner he could best use affection so innocent and 
 so sincere. For to George Pennington men and 
 women had all a positive value ; they were to 
 profit his finances, or to gratify his senses, or 
 to add something to his importance. And he 
 gave no one credit for any nobler or more 
 unselfish motive; his own nature being so low, 
 he necessarily lacked the standard by which to 
 measure higher souls. 
 
 Colonel Sutcliffe was, however, disposed to 
 like the brother of his intended wife. His 
 beauty, his gracious manners, and that fine 
 polish which had been unconsciously acquired 
 among companions who lived on the highest 
 social peaks, always made at first a pleasant
 
 BELLA S OPINION. 69 
 
 impression. And at this time Captain Pen- 
 nington was desirous of making a pleasant im 
 pression. He gave to the dinner-table a tone 
 of festivity, and was so delightful a host, that 
 Harriet, though proud of her brother, felt a 
 vague fear for her lover. His simple, honest 
 nature responded so heartily to the new influ 
 ence, and if it should prove to be less simple 
 and honest than its appearance, she could feel 
 that in some way it would be dangerous. 
 
 But she put the dumb fear down, and de 
 lighted herself in the cordiality which was so 
 evident. "Why should I be suspicious until I 
 have a reason ? " Such a question is always 
 more easily asked than answered, and it re 
 turned again and again for satisfaction until 
 Harriet was irritated by its persistence. Usu 
 ally after dinner Harriet and her lover seated 
 themselves by the piano, and under cover of 
 some soft accompaniment or adagio move 
 ment had delightful bits of conversation or 
 equally delightful pauses. Then the still air 
 seemed to absorb the tender syllables, and as 
 the gloaming deepened, the music became 
 slower and softer and the whole room sensi 
 tive. This was the hour their souls drew
 
 ?d_ PEE T OF CLAV. 
 
 closest to each other, the hour both loved best 
 of all ; but George Pennington was incapable of 
 divining its tender mystery, and with a gay 
 laugh and a merry quotation he boldly inter 
 rupted it, and carried Sutcliffe away with him 
 for a walk. 
 
 Harriet from the garden gate watched them 
 down the Castletown road. "Why should I 
 be suspicious? " she asked herself again; and 
 still the answer was uncertain and unsatisfac 
 tory. She turned towards the house with a 
 slow and irresolute step, and her eyes, attracted 
 probably by other eyes watching her, perceived 
 among the standards of raspberry-bushes a 
 woman gathering fruit. She went with some 
 haste and some annoyance to her. 
 
 "You here, Bella?" 
 
 " Here for all, Miss Harriet. My mother 
 was sending me. It s sick she is, and needin 
 the fruit as if it was meat and drink." 
 
 " Shall I help you to gather it ? " 
 
 " I said to mother, Miss Harriet isn t wantin 
 me to come near at all. Likin or not likin 
 me, it s as much as her love will bear." 
 
 " A word is a word, Bella, and I gave you 
 one about staying away while my brother is at
 
 BELLA S OPINION-. 7! 
 
 home. It is for your good, and as for your 
 seeing me, I would come to the cottage, you 
 know, and it is for your good, Bella." 
 
 "I wouldn trust but it is, Miss; or you 
 think so any way, but a girl is knowin for her 
 self. Never fear! And that is natural and 
 scusable too." 
 
 " Bella, have I not always been your friend ?" 
 
 "A friend shouldn be mistrustin me no 
 way ; but there s no accountin , though." 
 
 " When a handsome man steps between two 
 women there is no accounting, Bella. And 
 mind this, I will take it very ill, ma chree, if 
 you turn me over for George. Give me one 
 word of promise, Bella, that you will not listen 
 to his beguiling words, and I will believe you 
 for ever." 
 
 "Idikkilis, Miss Harriet! What are you 
 freckened for? I m fit to cry at the way 
 you re talking. You shouldn be judgin the 
 why and the for that s not in your own heart. 
 How can you be knowin them ? Suspicions! 
 I wouldn have them, Miss Harriet." 
 
 " I see that you will not make me a promise. 
 I will not ask you any more. Captain Penning- 
 ton has gone to Castletown with a friend. He
 
 72 F&ET OF CLAY . 
 
 will not probably be back until late. Gather 
 the berries and go home, for the glen is lonely 
 and gypsies about, I am told." 
 
 " What do you mane, Miss Harriet? You re 
 hardly knowin , I think. Aw dear, but I m 
 sorry, terbil sorry, you re so unraysonable, 
 and shalterin your ill thoughts behind the 
 kind past too." 
 
 " Good-night, Bella. I see you are deter 
 mined to have your own way, and I suspect 
 that George s way is your way." 
 
 " I m intarmined to do right, allis right, Miss 
 Harriet. And as for suspectin chut ! It s 
 middlin bad work, middlin bad. When you 
 know the wrong, traa thallure time enough." 
 
 Both girls were angry, for both were sensi 
 ble of something more than they admitted. 
 Harriet was indeed anxious to prevent her 
 brother bringing trouble or danger to Bella, 
 but with this acknowledged feeling there was 
 one unacknowledged, a sensitive jealousy 
 which resented any outside appropriation of 
 his affections or companionship, especially by 
 a girl whom she regarded as in every way be 
 low his condition. And Bella was conscious 
 that she had already merited suspicion, but
 
 BELLA S OPINION. 73 
 
 she did not feel inclined either to excuse what 
 had transpired, or to make any promises for 
 her future conduct. 
 
 " Promises ! Indade no ! " she muttered. 
 "What for? There s things I wouldn do to 
 save my life, but it s not me that will make a 
 promise about them. And to her, chut ! 
 She s a girl all as one as I am a girl. Havin 
 1 seen that handsome officer, and the bend of 
 his head, and the love shinin in her face ? 
 Quality indade! The like is at them. When 
 it s love we are all middlin aequal, God 
 knows it ! " 
 
 The small basket of berries was over her 
 arm, and she was stepping briskly to her 
 thoughts across the dim gaery. When she 
 entered the glen she was still under their in 
 fluence. Suddenly she arrested herself and 
 stood motionless. A little below her a figure 
 was slowly walking about a few yards of 
 grassy level that broke the rapid descent. His 
 back was to her, but she knew it was George 
 Pennington, and she knew also that he 
 was waiting for her. She could yet retreat. 
 She had the impulse to do so, but she 
 was not a girl who acted upon impulse,
 
 74 FEET OF CLAY, 
 
 and her whole nature resisted the idea of 
 flight. 
 
 " What will I run for ! Danger, is it ; bless 
 my heart, he is in more danger than I am ! 
 And if I m runnin to-night what will I be 
 doin to-morrow ? Every day that is dawnin 
 will be as one. And what s dangerous ? The 
 smile on his handsome face and the fine words 
 he ll be sayin, I m knowin them, Sweet 
 Bella, and it s my heart that is breakin for a 
 sight of you. Folly ! I m not regardin such ; 
 warned afore and mindin of it, and able to 
 hold my own, I wouldn wonder, Captain Pen- 
 nington and all." 
 
 She was saying these words as Captain Pen- 
 nington came eagerly to meet her. Bella 
 stood still and looked with a curious tender 
 ness at him. This was the man who, she was 
 assured, meant to do her some great injury. A 
 smiling, handsome man, with a figure so slight 
 that she could not help an involuntary com- 
 .parison with her own splendid proportions. 
 Physically she felt equal to him, morally she 
 knew herself to be his superior. " Lovin is 
 understandin, " she thought ; " and I am 
 knowiu the man, and the good and the bad
 
 BELLA S OPINION. 75 
 
 that s in him, all of it." The thought, rapid as 
 it was, gave a confident pose to her head, an 
 easy self-reliance to her manner, that George 
 Pennington felt and admired. She had the 
 influence over him that essentially strong 
 natures have over essentially weak ones. 
 
 And in the soft gray light she looked 
 exceedingly noble and beautiful. At that 
 moment he surrendered everything else to 
 the one determination to win her for his own. 
 It was the present and therefore the vital 
 interest of his life, and he gave himself to the 
 purpose with that wilful and unreasonable 
 persistence which may be seen in spoiled 
 children determined to have their own way. 
 
 Bella was surprised by the impetuosity and 
 sincerity of his wooing. She had suspected 
 its genuineness before, but she found herself 
 yielding as she became convinced of the truth 
 of his affection. But she did not allow him to 
 perceive the advantage he had gained ; a chill 
 barrier of maidenly reserve kept him, though 
 at her side, far apart from her. She made him 
 feel without a word that even the support of 
 his arm would not be taken, and that the 
 embrace he had hoped for need not be at-
 
 7 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 tempted. As for the firm, rosy lips, he under 
 stood that they were guarded from his touch 
 by a sentiment of chastity that was inviolable, 
 and a will which he had no power against. So 
 no princess could have walked with him more 
 secure in herself, more respected in his admi 
 ration. 
 
 When they came to the Clucas cottage 
 Mary Clucas was sitting on the raised stone 
 step at the open door. Her face was turned 
 to the glen, and had the look of one waiting 
 and listening. Indeed she had been watching 
 for her daughter s return, and rightly suspi 
 cious as to the reason of her delay. When she 
 saw Captain Pennington with her, she rose and 
 would have gone into the house without a 
 word, had he not pointedly addressed her : 
 
 "You see, Mrs. Clucas, I have brought Bella 
 safely home. There are gypsies in the glen, I 
 hear." 
 
 "Aw, yes, and I wouldn trust but worse 
 folk than gypsies there." 
 
 " You are not meaning me, surely, Mrs. 
 Clucas? " and Captain Pennington laughed, 
 but not as if the laughter was pleasant to him. 
 
 " The dark it s gettin , sir, and the late, and
 
 BELLA S OPINION. 77 
 
 poor women havin to be early at work with 
 the herrin comin in by thousands, thank 
 God ! so you ll be excusin us ; and go into 
 the house, Bella." 
 
 They went in together, and Captain Pen- 
 nington walked up the glen with a fight in his 
 heart. The cold anger of the fisher s wife was 
 something beyond his experience. And Bella 
 had not said a word to atone for it. To what 
 purpose had he been so honorable with her? 
 "Any other man in my position, "he muttered, 
 and then he struck the gorse viciously with his 
 walking-cane. He did not say what any other 
 man would have done, for there came suddenly 
 to his remembrance the self-contained serenity 
 of Bella, and though he did not recognize it 
 as the armor of chaste womanhood, he felt it 
 to be a majesty which no man in any position 
 could defy. 
 
 Mrs. Clucas was silent for a few moments, 
 and Bella was equally so. She closed the 
 house door and drew the wooden bolt across 
 it ; then she turned to the hearth and put on 
 what peats were necessary to cover and pre 
 serve the fire. 
 
 " Here are the berries, mother, and Mrs.
 
 78 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Pennington glad to send them, and askin this 
 and that about you. It s feverish you are, 
 she says, and she s sendin you some Jesuit s 
 bark." 
 
 " Berries, indeed, and what not ! I ll touch 
 neither. I wouldn have my very life if I had 
 to send some one into temptation and sin to 
 get it. It s thrue! It s thrue ! " 
 
 " Do you mean me, mother? " 
 
 " Of coorse, of coorse I do." 
 
 Aw, then a saint may be goin into tempta 
 tion and no sin with it ; and if it s Captain 
 Pennington you are manin by temptation " 
 
 " Of coorse, who else ? who else? " 
 
 " Mayve then the temptation isn beyand 
 me. Anyway, I m tired of the warnings I m 
 getting about him ; tired to death. When I 
 was pullin the berries, Miss Harriet comes in a 
 tantrum, takin me quite on the sudden, and 
 all she can say is, Promise me not to speak to 
 George. You know how she is, the thought 
 in her heart and then out with it all." 
 
 " Miss Harriet has been kind, allis kind, and 
 Mrs. Pennington allis kind too." 
 
 "Aw, yes, of coorse! The quality must 
 have their notions, and I was the fit of theirs,
 
 BELLA S OPINION. 79 
 
 a pretty lass for the young lady to play 
 with, and quick at the uptake and doin them 
 credit for all, and bringin them news and the 
 like, just a break and a change in their days, 
 and welcome for it, and nobody suitin them 
 as well Aw dear! I m knowin azackly now 
 how much love there is." 
 
 " Chut ! Woman s love for woman is just a 
 fancy. Pretty and green, it is like Kewin s 
 moss, and no bottom to it ; and a man 
 between them, and it s gone like the shadow 
 of a flying bird. Miss Harriet has her lover 
 now, and where would you be? Of coorse, he 
 is all she s carin for. Why should you be 
 more to her than the doll she liked before 
 you ? Chut ! You re foolish if you look 
 for it." 
 
 "And the demandin she was to-night. 
 Her head up, and her proud ways, and the 
 fine dress on her, high uncommon, and as 
 cross as a cat, too. And all about her brother. 
 Mother, I m knowin how to take care of 
 myself. Keep that thought in your heart." 
 
 " But the talk there will be, Bella, think of 
 that. Kitty Gale and Jenny Callow were 
 speakin already."
 
 So FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 "Aw, my dear, they ll all talk while their 
 tongues last. I m not mindin* them." 
 
 Mindin or not mindin , there s them that 
 will make you take notice. Gale has a black 
 frown on his face already if the name he hates 
 is mentioned ; and who is to manage your 
 father if he gets the notion into his head that 
 wrong is comin to you from yandher way? 
 He was never really likin them, strangers 
 and all ; and it s often he would be sayin , 
 Kindness ! Nonsense ! We re wantin no 
 kindness but the hand of God and the 
 blessin that s in it ; and then that no 
 Clucas was ever seekin* favor from rich or 
 poor. And once, bein in a temper, he was 
 tellin the lady so, and she answerin* back, 
 Mutual kindness, Mr. Clucas ; we are all 
 dependent on one another in some way. 
 And he let it go at that, but not content for 
 all, nor ever was. And some one will be. 
 droppin a word in his ear about you and Cap 
 tain Pennington, and then the high words, and 
 the suspicions that will come. And, aw dear, 
 when Ruthie Clucas lets his temper get from 
 under his foot, God knows what ! Bella, my 
 lass, if you brew trouble you ll have it to sup,
 
 BELLA S OPLVJQtf. 8l 
 
 and the ebb and flow of it must go through 
 your own heart. I m not spakin of others, 
 but surely you ll be mindin them, Gale and 
 your father, and the mother that loves you ! " 
 
 " Aw, mother, do you think I d be bringin 
 one tear to your eyes ? " and Bella kissed her 
 with such fervent tenderness that she went 
 quickly to sleep with a smile upon her face. 
 For women generally either trust in all points, 
 or suspect in all, and Mary Clucas was thank 
 ful to rest herself in the complete satisfaction 
 her daughter s assurance gave her. 
 
 But Bella lay awake until the dawning. 
 She suspected all the motives of her friends, 
 and the more she suspected them the more 
 angry she was at herself. 
 
 " The consaited I ve been ! The fool to 
 think they were carin for me ; amusin them 
 selves they were, tryin to make a lady out of 
 a fisher-girl, and laughin together, no doubt, 
 at the notions I had. Sarves me right, of 
 coorse, of coorse, but aw, the shame of it ! " 
 
 To such thoughts nights wear slowly away. 
 The vacant places left by those whom we 
 loved or trusted, and whom we believe to have 
 deserted or wronged us, are the dreariest
 
 82 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 places in life. When the soul wanders in 
 them, it comes back to duty with the shadow 
 of loss around it, and Bella met her mother in 
 the morning, wan and weary from such useless 
 going to-and-fro through the past.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 
 
 " The wise and active conquer difficulties 
 By daring to attempt them. Sloth and folly 
 Shiver and shrink at sight of toil and hazard, 
 And make the impossibility they fear." 
 
 " Ever note, Lucilius, 
 When love begins to slacken and decay 
 It uses an enforced ceremony ; 
 There are no tricks in plain and simple faith." 
 
 AFTER Miss Pennington left Bella among 
 the raspberries she was exceedingly un 
 happy. She was sensible that she had made 
 Bella in some measure a relief for miserable 
 suspicions which did not really originate with 
 her. But Harriet had been keenly disap 
 pointed. She had looked forward to a few 
 hours of delightful intercourse with her lover, 
 and her lover had left her without any excuse, 
 simply to gratify a caprice of George Penning- 
 ton s regarding a horse some officer wished 
 to sell. 
 
 83
 
 84 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 She was angry with her brother for not 
 remembering her right to Colonel Sutcliffe s 
 company; she was deeply hurt at her lover 
 falling so easily under the influence of qualities 
 which she knew to be so superficial and un 
 trustworthy. " One happy evening that I 
 ought to have had, stolen from life altogether," 
 she murmured. " It can never be made up to 
 me. Surely George might have left my lover 
 alone; but he thinks that everything is in exis 
 tence only for his use and pleasure." 
 
 There was the truth of her own experience 
 in this complaint. She could not remember 
 any time when George had not interfered with 
 the arrangements and peace of the house. 
 Even when he was from home his letters gave 
 the tone of its atmosphere. Her wardrobe 
 had been curtailed by his unreasonable ex 
 penses. Summer trips, winter visiting, the 
 number of their guests and of their new books, 
 had always been regulated by the amount of 
 money George wanted. His had been " the 
 withdrawing hand " in all her pleasures. And 
 on the very first night of his introduction 
 to her lover he had carried him away from 
 her.
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 85 
 
 She had in her heart a burning sense of in 
 justice, and Bella, happening to come first in 
 her way, had received more than her share of 
 the complaint she could not restrain. Then, 
 as a natural consequence, instead of blaming 
 her own restless temper, she endeavored to 
 justify the words she had said : " Bella was 
 imprudent, yes, indeed, almost unmaidenly. 
 George would be excusable in addressing any 
 girl who so visibly put herself in his way." 
 Poor Bella had that night to bear not only the 
 disapproval which belonged to herself, but also 
 that which ought to have been visited on 
 Colonel Sutcliffe. 
 
 Until nine o clock she indulged a hope that 
 he would release himself as quickly as possible 
 and return to her. She wandered about and 
 passed from one thing to another, like a key 
 that will not fit, but the step for which she 
 listened did not come. When all hope of it 
 was over, she went to her mother s room. She 
 was sure of sympathy, or at least of com>- 
 panionship there. And sleep was not in her 
 mind, she was too busy with her vague resent 
 ment, too wide-awake with all sorts of threat 
 ening suspicions, to submit to its calm forget-
 
 86 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 fulness. She did not even desire that it should 
 lock up her senses from their care. 
 
 She opened her mother s door so gently that 
 Mrs. Pennington was unaware of her entrance. 
 Indeed she seemed to be either asleep or pre 
 occupied with her thoughts. A table was 
 drawn to her side, and it was covered with 
 papers. Her head was thrown backward 
 against her chair, her eyes shut and her hands 
 tightly clasped together. But a glance at her 
 face told Harriet that she was not only awake 
 but awake to sorrow. She stepped softly to 
 her side, and was touched with pity at the 
 anguish on her face. 
 
 " Dearest mother, are you in trouble?" 
 
 " My child, I am always in trouble." She 
 covered her face with her hands, and sobbed 
 \vith that piteous restraint that long experi 
 ence of unshared sorrow gives. 
 
 " Tell me, mother." 
 
 "You cannot help me, dear. No one can 
 help me. Forget what you have seen and 
 heard. To-night I am not well. These hours 
 of depression come very often before I have a 
 headache." 
 
 " The depression brings the headache,
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 87 
 
 mother. The mental suffering brings the 
 physical suffering. Let me share your grief, 
 whatever it is. I am a woman now." 
 
 " Ah, child, sorrow comes early enough, you 
 need not ask for it ! And you cannot help 
 me, Harriet. The cup I mingled I must drink. 
 Oh, my dear, be careful of your actions, for the 
 cup of consequences is sure to be given you. 
 Not even the Son of God, though accepting 
 it for others, was permitted to put it aside." 
 
 " I am in trouble also, mother. May I sit 
 with you ? I cannot bear to be alone, and 
 sleep seems ages away." 
 
 " If you are in trouble remain here, child. 
 Turn the key in the door, and light the can 
 dles ; then come and sit by me. What is 
 grieving you ? Surely not Colonel Sutcliffe ? " 
 
 " George is grieving me, and Bella, and 
 Colonel Sutcliffe also. It seems to me as if 
 everything in life was wrong. Nothing has 
 gone pleasantly since George came home. 
 You would say that he was the most delight 
 ful and the most generous of men, and yet 
 somehow he manages to take every one s 
 happiness to increase his own." 
 
 " George is your brother, my dear."
 
 88 fEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " I know that, I feel it continually. But 
 George is not my mother, and my lover, 
 and my friend also. To-night he has taken 
 away Colonel Sutcliffe, he has made me quarrel 
 with Bella, and I feel sure that only George is 
 giving you a heartache now, and preparing a 
 headache for you to-morrow. Mother, can it 
 be right to let George exert such a pernicious 
 power? You have authority and influence 
 over him, and " 
 
 " Harriet, I have neither. Look at those 
 papers. They are bills which must be met. 
 Hundreds of pounds flung away upon articles 
 of folly and worthlessness ! Either he does 
 not believe what I have told him about my 
 resources, or he is perfectly indifferent to the 
 humiliating restrictions you and I must prac 
 tise, in order to gratify his whims." 
 
 " Mother, is it right that we should suffer fof 
 George s whims ? " 
 
 " Right or wrong, we must do it. That it 
 touches you is my great sorrow. I am afraid, 
 Harriet, you will have to put off your marriage. 
 I cannot give you all I promised, and also 
 pay these claims." 
 
 Harriet lifted the bills and looked at them.
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 89 
 
 They were for jewelry and feasts which had 
 been given to singers and dancers, for car 
 nages and expensive wines, for endless coats 
 and boots and hats, for rare book-bindings, for 
 pictures and for fine pottery, and other articles 
 of luxury. 
 
 " A thousand pounds will not pay these 
 bills, mother." 
 
 " Nor two thousand. I told George this 
 morning that I would pay nothing, unless I 
 paid the whole. I found these bills upon my 
 table when I came up from dinner besides 
 which, there is another of ;8oo." 
 
 " For what ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you." 
 
 " Oh, mother, why not ? " 
 
 " I should not have named the ;8oo at all, 
 only that I wish you to understand how im 
 possible it is for me to have your marriage 
 spoken of, for at least two or three years." 
 
 "It is very hard." 
 
 " It is indeed, Harriet." 
 
 "And Colonel Sutcliffe may be ordered 
 away at any time. If he goes, our marriage 
 may never take place. To-night he left me to 
 go with George about a hunting-horse. I did
 
 9 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 not think he would have left me for any 
 thing." 
 
 " If he is so easily persuaded, perhaps it is 
 well to give him a longer trial. It may be a 
 good thing to put off the marriage." 
 
 " Oh, mother, it is so easy for you to find 
 good in the evil George brings us. I love 
 Harry Sutcliffe. He loves me. I have prom 
 ised to marry him next Christmas. You told 
 me I might. Can I not keep my word ? " 
 
 " Harriet, dear, do not make my trouble 
 greater than it is. Colonel Sutcliffe must 
 wait. A love that cannot wait is worth little. 
 Why did you quarrel with Bella ? " 
 
 " Bella has behaved badly. George is bent 
 upon amusing himself with making love to 
 her, and though I gave her all the warning 
 that one girl can give to another, I can see 
 that it is useless. Bella has been twice to the 
 house since he came home. I told her not to 
 come at all. I feel that there is going to be 
 trouble about Bella Clucas, mother." 
 
 " I hope not." 
 
 " Don t be so indifferent to what I say. I 
 can assure you that if George tries to make a 
 plaything of the daughter of Ruthie Clucas,
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 91 
 
 he must calculate upon both Ruthie and Gale 
 taking a share in the game." 
 
 " I fear so. These Manx men are very 
 proud." 
 
 " Proud ! Yes, and they have a sense of 
 morality which a breath will stain. If wrong 
 of any kind comes between George and Bella 
 Clucas, Ruthie would think little of his 
 daughter s life if her good name was gone ; 
 and I would not give a pin s fee for George s 
 life, if he had to settle with Bella s father or 
 brother. Surely, mother, you can see how 
 dangerous meetings must be between a hand 
 some girl like Bella and an idle man like 
 George, especially when there is that old boy 
 and girl fancy to build upon. I can remember 
 how you disliked it before George went away." 
 
 " That was different. I was afraid of George 
 taking a foolish step then which would be ir 
 revocable. He knows the world now, and is 
 not likely to throw away all his social chances 
 by a foolish marriage." 
 
 " Mother, George would throw his eternal 
 hopes away for some present gratification. 
 Do not deceive yourself in this matter. I can 
 see that Bella is in love with George, and
 
 92 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 George, having nothing particular to do, will 
 thoroughly enjoy a love affair which every one 
 must do their best to prevent." 
 
 " I have been in such trouble about his 
 debts, that I have not thought of Bella Clucas. 
 I declare one ought never to do a kindness. 
 Hands full of trouble is its reward. It is only 
 six mouths since Lace Corrin was at the 
 House every day going to run off to Amer 
 ica going to drown himself, and all for love 
 of Bella Clucas ! And the worry I had with 
 the man, and the talking to the girl, and the 
 mother coming and the father coming, and no 
 end to Bella s contradictions and sulks. It 
 was a proper match for her, and she ought to 
 have married Lace Corrin, as every one ad 
 vised her." 
 
 " She was thinking of George. She knew 
 he was coming home." 
 
 " Harriet Pennington ! The idea is absurd." 
 
 " Not so much so as you think. I have 
 seen far more of these Manx fishers than you 
 have. The pure-blooded ones like Ruthie 
 Clucas are proud as Lucifer. The sea-kings, 
 whose children they are, were not prouder. 
 They think all strangers, no matter how
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 93 
 
 wealthy they are, their inferiors. They call 
 no man Master ; they are fishers and farmers, 
 and take their living from the sea and the 
 land. Ruthie is as proud of his descent as an 
 earl, and as independent as if the sea was his 
 own landed estate. As for the 150 acres he 
 owns, he has shown me his title-deeds. They 
 were given by the Cistertian monks of Rushen 
 Abbey in 1 106 to Ingebrock Clucas, a noted 
 sea-rover of his day. Can you, or any one, 
 show a lineage more ancient and honorable? " 
 
 Some singular answer was on Mrs. Penning- 
 ton s lips. She lifted her head proudly, but 
 almost instantly restrained whatever impulse 
 swayed her. Harriet looked at her with an 
 anxious curiosity. She was sure her mother 
 was going to say something very wonderful 
 and unexpected, but the momentary emotion, 
 whatever it arose from, died away ; and the 
 conversation returned to Bella Clucas. 
 
 " I will see the girl myself, Harriet, if I 
 can find time, and any liking for the duty. 
 But it will do no good. Love is not in our 
 choice, but in our fate." 
 
 " Oh no, mother, our faults and our virtues 
 jnake our fate. Besides, do you think George
 
 94 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 capable of a real affection ? I do not. Mother, 
 is it quite determined that he is to remain at 
 home?" 
 
 "Look at those bills, Harriet, and tell me if 
 he is fit to go away from home ? " 
 
 " Do you hope to keep him economical or 
 make him prudent by overseeing his life ? He 
 will gamble here, he will spend money here, 
 he will repeat on a smaller scale his past life ; 
 repeat it in a circle which is narrow enough to 
 insure decided public opinion and as far as 
 regards want of honesty with women is con 
 cerned, certain retribution. Do not bind him 
 to Daniel Teare until you have considered 
 these things." 
 
 " He is my son, he is your brother ; whether 
 he bring us shame or honor we must do the 
 best we can for him. Sending him from home 
 to misbehave himself, will not relieve us from 
 responsibility." 
 
 " At least, if his allowance is continued, he 
 ought to resign the larger part of it towards 
 his debts." 
 
 " I think he will ; but I do not know that it 
 will be continued. I am afraid he has lost a 
 good and powerful friend. I can say no more
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 95 
 
 now. Harriet, I am very, anxious and miser 
 able." 
 
 " Poor mother." 
 
 "And your affairs too " 
 
 "We will not even speak of them, while you 
 are so troubled about other things." 
 
 Mrs. Pennington seemed much relieved by 
 this decision. She talked until the dawning 
 with her daughter, and then sent her away with 
 a grateful kiss and an advice to try and sleep 
 a few hours. But Harriet was too excited to 
 sleep. For the first time it struck her, that 
 life is quite as serious a thing as death. And 
 the voluntary act of renunciation she had just 
 accomplished had left her at an unusual ten 
 sion. 
 
 For she knew that there are no small events 
 with the heart, and the delay of her marriage 
 might mean the entire revolution of her des 
 tiny. " No one knows what changes may come, 
 what accidents may happen," then she sud 
 denly checked herself, and said with a certain 
 bravery of voice : " Nothing under the sun is 
 accidental, and I will expect good from the 
 hand of God, and not evil." 
 
 She opened the window with the words and
 
 9<> FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 looked out over the sea. It was sapphire blue, 
 soft airs breathed lightly on its surface and the 
 herring-boats were coming swiftly and silently 
 into harbor. She stood before the great pict 
 ure as before a sovereign, waiting to see if it 
 had anything to say to her ; and in this gentle 
 mood some wind of heaven brought her the 
 words of help she needed : 
 
 " Be not o er exquisite 
 To cast the fashion of uncertain evils ; 
 For grant they be so, while they rest unknown 
 What need a man forestall his day of grief, 
 And run to meet what he would most avoid ? " 
 
 In the strength of this message Harriet went 
 cheerfully many days. 
 
 For delay is in domestic troubles one of 
 the most trying elements. Neither lawyers 
 nor tradesmen would hurry for the impatient 
 anxiety of women. And yet the delay had its 
 advantages. They grew familiar with their 
 trouble, and began to look at it from its most 
 hopeful aspect. 
 
 Watching for letters was abandoned ; they 
 found the day which brought them sufficient 
 for their consideration. Of course this relin- 
 quishment of a mutual worry involved some
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 97 
 
 self-denial, but also it brought its reward, for 
 both gathered into their hearts in these inter 
 vals the strength which comes from quiet en 
 durance and the repose which is the gift of 
 silence. 
 
 In the mean time George Pennington took 
 his life with an almost provoking amiability. 
 He speedily made friends among the officers 
 of the garrison. The Kellys, and Christians, 
 and other aristocratic families of the purest 
 Manx lineage, began to inquire about the ele 
 gant young man seen so often with Colonel 
 Sutcliffe; .and one morning while riding 
 George met the great beauty, Miss Kate Din- 
 woodie, and was so fortunate as to forestall her 
 groom in opening a gate which crossed her path. 
 
 She gave him a bewildering smile and a few 
 words of thanks, and Captain George raved 
 about her black eyes and musical voice, until 
 Harriet began to suspect his sincerity. " He 
 wants me to infer that he has forgot Bella, but 
 I do not believe it," she thought. And Har 
 riet was right, for the heart is a diviner and 
 always perceives the truth, serving us with a 
 special fidelity in this way when we are judging 
 others and not ourselves.
 
 9 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 George had by no means forgotten Bella. 
 The very fact that he found it so difficult to 
 see her, kept the girl constantly in his thoughts. 
 He was always laying plans to get a sight of 
 her face, a touch of her hand, or, best of all, a 
 few words with her. But in the morning 
 Ruthie and Gale were always about the cot 
 tage. And he had utterly failed in winning 
 their confidence, though he had tried hard to 
 do so. To them specially he paid his visits. 
 He wanted to hire a boat, he wanted a boat 
 built, he begged to be allowed to go to the 
 herring-ground with them once more, and re 
 minded them of the days when he had helped 
 to draw the nets. He exerted himself in these 
 requests to be so entertaining, that Ruthie in 
 spite of himself often gave way to a grim smile. 
 But he gained nothing from the men. No 
 favor that he asked was "just convaynient." 
 Every time he called there was more ceremony, 
 and less conversation. Generally Bella was 
 sent with a message to some neighbor s house, 
 and Mary Clucas was so painfully civil and so 
 painfully nervous, that a man must have been 
 absolutely stupid with self-conceit not to have 
 understood that his presence was offensive to
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 99 
 
 one part of the family, and extremely trying 
 to the other. 
 
 Only one advantage was gained by these 
 humiliating visits, but it was an advantage 
 Captain Pennington calculated upon. The 
 open hostility of Ruthie and Gale, and their 
 marked want of courtesy, aroused the sympathy 
 of the women. Every time he went to the 
 cottage he felt that if he lost on one side, he 
 was gaining on the other. Mary was annoyed 
 at every inhospitable act and word, Bella red 
 dened with anger at the slight implied by 
 sending her out of his presence. 
 
 A few such visits prepared the way for a call 
 when the men were at sea. Mary had gone to 
 a neighbor s house with a bowl of curds, and 
 Bella was sitting alone in the cottage carding 
 wool. He made the most of his opportunity. 
 He wooed the girl with that charming eagerness 
 so persuasive to her warm, straightforward 
 nature. He said in the plainest words, that 
 " he loved her above all women " ; he said 
 it over and over, and each time with such de 
 lightful asseverations that Bella could not but 
 choose to believe him. 
 
 She made no apology for her father s and
 
 ioo FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 brother s rude receptions ; that would have 
 been an act dishonorable and disobedient in 
 her eyes, but she endeavored to atone for it 
 by the kindness of her own manner. And 
 George purposely remained with her until the 
 return of Mrs. Clucas. Then he complained to 
 her of the unworthy doubts which banished him 
 from Bella and herself. He asked if he had 
 ever done, or said anything, which merited the 
 treatment which he received ; and Mary was 
 compelled to acknowledge, that he " had allis 
 been a puffic gentleman." 
 
 " Then why have Ruthie and Gale turned 
 against me, Mary ? " 
 
 "Aw then, Miss Harriet was spakin to 
 Ruthie and to me ; and I m knowin that you 
 were spakin to Bella on the sly like and her 
 father was sprung a bit at the very time, and 
 mad at the all of you. He s havin a danger s 
 temper, is Ruthie ; and Gale the marrow of 
 him, but sulkier with it." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Harriet was interfering ! " 
 
 " She was saying kind words, kind and sensi 
 ble for all ; but Ruthie is proud as kings, and 
 thinkin nobody better than Ruthie Clucas,
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. IOI 
 
 and Bella is the apple of his right eye, and his 
 very heart beating her name." 
 
 And to these words George Pennington 
 made no answer, for he had noticed an angry 
 flush on Bella s face at the mention of Harriet s 
 interference : and when she lifted her eyes 
 they met his eyes in a sympathetic understand 
 ing. At that moment Mary rose to light a 
 candle, and George Pennington stooped for 
 ward and whispered, " I will be at the lady s 
 well to-morrow from sunset to dark ; do not 
 disappoint me, Bella." 
 
 She answered not a word, but he said 
 Good-night with a light heart, and went up 
 the glen whistling softly, " My love is like a 
 red, red rose."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " Be patient, my soul, thou hast at another time suf 
 fered something still worse than this." 
 
 " It is character more than talent that ensures esteem. 
 No one can be really great who has a low moral nature." 
 BLACKIE. 
 
 THE day and the night and life goes on. 
 But the day and the night are only the 
 cups which hold our measure of life s wine or 
 water. To each the measure of the cup is the 
 same, but the mingling thereof has an eternal 
 and illimitable variety. Who can say that they 
 have had two days precisely alike ? And yet 
 Mrs. Pennington felt as if the slow weeks of 
 August were made up of a dreary sameness of 
 waiting and anxiety. 
 
 Toward the end of it, however, George s af 
 fairs were so far settled that the writing of a 
 certain letter became a necessary duty. No 
 one knew when she wrote it, but all could see 
 that she was watching the mail with an in-
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 103 
 
 tensely painful expectation. For three days 
 she had suspense and disappointment. Har 
 riet saw that her distress was so great that she 
 could not swallow. She heard her soft foot 
 falls overhead in a monotonously restless walk. 
 She perceived that she had passed the hour in 
 which society is endurable, and was watching 
 and waiting in a solitude which enabled her to 
 give her soul some release from the restraints 
 imposed upon it, even by the company of her 
 son and daughter. 
 
 On the evening of the third day she was for 
 tunately alone in the house. Harriet had 
 gone to an entertainment with her lover. 
 George was wandering in Hellish Glen with 
 Bella Clucas. In the midst of the sorrowful 
 thoughts which possessed her Mrs. Pennington 
 suspected this, but it was only as one respon 
 sibility is remembered among a great many 
 others. 
 
 When the house grew dark in the early 
 gloaming, she went into the garden. It was 
 ablaze with dahlias and full of the intoxi 
 cating perfume of August lilies. A sleepy, 
 old-world air pervaded it ; in the gray twilight 
 it seemed like a very haunt of ancient peace.
 
 104 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 But the solitary side of our nature loves, the 
 sea, and Martha Pennington turned her face 
 towards it. Its everlasting murmur answered 
 the restless beating of her own heart. The 
 silence and seclusion, the pale radiance of the 
 new moon, the ebb of the tide serenely drawn 
 away, insensibly calmed and comforted her. A 
 deep, peaceful sadness hushed the tumult of 
 the past anxious days ; she spoke to God softly 
 and pleadingly as a child may speak to a father, 
 and He answered her. 
 
 It was in this peaceful mood she heard a 
 firm, deliberate step approaching; not the step 
 of any of her household, and yet its echo vi 
 brated dully on some chord of memory. She 
 turned slowly and with a certain fear to meet 
 it. A man was coming toward her, a tall, 
 rather stout man in the prime of life. She 
 whispered his name, though she had not seen 
 him for twenty years. In another moment he 
 was holding her hand, and gazing with won 
 dering pity into her face. 
 
 " My dear Martha ! " 
 
 " My dear Robert ! I am in trouble, Rob 
 ert, and there is no one but you. I wrote a 
 letter"
 
 FEET OF CLAY. IO$ 
 
 " I am here in answer to it. Where are the 
 children?" 
 
 " They are visiting, a little dance at the 
 Deemster s, that is all. Come into the house. 
 You must want some refreshment." 
 
 " No. I had my dinner at the hotel. My 
 valet and baggage are there. Until I know 
 all about this nephew of mine, it is best to pre 
 serve my incognito. I am your lawyer, your 
 adviser, tell him nothing more. I must be left 
 quite free in this matter, Martha." 
 
 " Certainly. Have you any news for me ? " 
 
 " Not a word." 
 
 " You are making every effort ? " 
 
 " Every possible effort." 
 
 Then there was a painful silence until the 
 house was reached. A very ghost of a smile 
 flitted over her face at the door. She bade him 
 welcome, and then led him to a small parlor. 
 In response to her bell Quayle came trailing 
 in with candles, and pottered awhile over the 
 window-blinds and the fireplace. There was a 
 wood fire dying on the hearth, and he btought 
 in more wood and swept the marble stone free 
 of ashes. 
 
 In the mean time Mrs. Pennington went up
 
 106 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 stairs. She returned with her hands full of 
 papers, and, when Quayle had left the parlor, 
 pushed them silently across the table to her 
 companion. They were the bills which Har 
 riet had once examined with so much indigna 
 tion, the record of George s folly and extrava 
 gance. Mrs. Pennington watched the face of 
 the man who was looking them over, with a 
 sickening anxiety. It was a noble face, with 
 that strange, elusive likeness to George, which 
 we call family resemblance. And yet to those 
 unfamiliar with the family there would not 
 have been the slightest suggestion of kinship. 
 George was strikingly handsome, his uncle had 
 no claim whatever to beauty. George was 
 slight and elegant in form, his uncle tall and 
 massive. Both were noticeably particular 
 about their dress, but George affected the 
 utmost splendor and fashion, his uncle s cloth 
 ing was distinguished by a studied simplicity. 
 
 He was evidently a man of the world, and 
 accustomed to look at things from a very dif 
 ferent standpoint from his sister-in-law. The 
 bills which had kept Martha Pennington and 
 her daughter Harriet sleepless and miserable, 
 which had shadowed their lives for many
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 107 
 
 weeks, he regarded, not indeed with indiffer 
 ence, but without anger and without any 
 intimation that he thought them a final evi 
 dence of George s utter failure in life. He 
 glanced at the contents of each, and jotted 
 down their amounts as he proceeded with his 
 task. Sometimes a contemptuous smile drew 
 his kindly mouth a trifle downward, but in the 
 main the expression was that of grave annoy 
 ance, such an expression, indeed, as a physi 
 cian might wear who was diagnosing the case 
 of a man who had wilfully brought on himself 
 a dangerous attack of sickness. 
 
 Once or twice he glanced at the anxious 
 mother. His heart gave him a sharp pain 
 when he did so. The dark shadow under her 
 drooped eyes, the pallor of her wasted face 
 were the evidences to him of a terror and sor 
 row which the world suspected not, but which 
 he knew, a sorrow which came streaming up 
 from years long since dead, but which had still 
 power to darken the sunshine of the present. 
 
 When he had gone through the papers to the 
 last scrap he laid them tidily together, and then 
 turned his chair away from the table. 
 
 " Martha," he said, " they make a bad list, but
 
 lo8 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 not a hopeless one. He has been led into the 
 greater part of his extravagance by the mere 
 force of companionship and imitation. He 
 has been in temptation, and been too weak 
 to withstand it; more s the pity! But I 
 think it was wrong to let him sell his commis 
 sion." 
 
 " Oh no ! Oh no ! I am sure it was better 
 for him to come home. When a man is too 
 weak to withstand temptation he must not be 
 sent into it. Lead us not into temptation 
 that is the prayer that George, like so many 
 of us, needs most of all." 
 
 " But he cannot remain always at home. 
 And there is temptation of some kind or other 
 in all places and conditions. Cards and dice 
 are everywhere. Wine and women are every 
 where. Even convents and monasteries have 
 their peculiar vices, and a man could be a vil 
 lain if he lived entirely alone. Do you hope, 
 Martha, that if he fails to learn the lesson of 
 life here, he will learn it in another life ? No, 
 no, he must conquer his faults now." 
 
 " Robert, I know my son. I dare not trust 
 him in the world again. He must remain here, 
 and he can occupy his time in the study of the
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 109 
 
 law. Our best and greatest men here are 
 lawyers. Any position is open to them." 
 
 " Martha, have you the power of forecasting 
 George s destiny ? You see that I have never 
 married. I am never likely to do so. From 
 the saddle of a cavalry officer a man may take 
 any position without embarrassment." 
 
 " A lawyer too, Robert " 
 
 " For God s sake, Martha, let us keep from 
 the law. The sight of a lawyer makes me 
 tremble ; and if George is really so weak as 
 you seem to think, I would not trust him with 
 its facilities. Morally weak men have no more 
 business with the law than a moth has with a 
 flame." 
 
 A silence sensitive with the uncle s irritation 
 and the mother s opposition followed. Rob 
 ert Pennington broke it with an impetuous 
 question caused by a suspicion as certain as it 
 was sudden : 
 
 " Martha, are you quite sure that you have 
 told me all? All, mind. I must know every 
 thing. Less than everything would be a 
 wrong to me, and a dishonor to yourself." 
 
 She was white as death ; she trembled from 
 head to foot, and laced and unlaced her ner-
 
 no FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 vous hands with a piteous despair. She tried 
 to speak, but could not. 
 
 "There is more then?" 
 
 A movement of her head, a dumb entreaty 
 from eyes full of fear, answered him. 
 
 "There is more I see, and worse?" He 
 rose with the question and went to the side 
 board. A caraffe of water stood upon it, and 
 he filled a glass and brought it to her. Then 
 he also drank with an almost greedy haste, 
 and after standing motionless a few minutes 
 returned to his chair. 
 
 " Martha, dear, it is best to have all con 
 fessed and understood. Try and tell me." 
 
 " There was a debt to Lord Penrith. I have 
 paid it." 
 
 "To Arthur Penrith?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh, but that is shameful! Intolerable!" 
 
 " You must remember that George knows 
 nothing." 
 
 " True. But oh, what cruel fate brought 
 those two together?" 
 
 "I never asked, a social accident, I suppose. 
 Arthur Penrith had a strong affection for 
 George,"
 
 FEET OF CLAY. Ill 
 
 "Impossible! How could it be? Why did 
 you not put a stop to the acquaintance?" 
 
 " I did not know of it. How should I ? 
 George had many friends and acquaintances. 
 I knew none of their names. Penrith was one 
 among them. He had been very kind, won 
 derfully kind to George, so devoted to him 
 that George being in a great strait 
 one day 
 
 "Goon!" 
 
 "I cannot." 
 
 "Go on, Martha." 
 
 "George not knowing what to do 
 for 800 " 
 
 " Go on. For God s sake, don t keep me in 
 such suspense." 
 
 She covered her face. with her hands and 
 remained silent. 
 
 "You mean that George FORGED Lord 
 Penrith s name?" 
 
 " Yes. Oh, be merciful, Robert ! " 
 
 He sat staring before him with a gloomy 
 anger, an anger that was almost despair. The 
 room was so still that the dropping of wood- 
 ash upon the marble hearth made a distinct 
 vibration. And when Robert Pennington
 
 112 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 spoke again, it was in the voice of one to 
 whom speech was a fatigue. Yet the slow 
 words were full of pity, and so soft and gentle 
 that they required Martha Pennington to 
 make a mental effort in order to catch their 
 meaning and apply it. 
 
 " Why did you not send for me as soon as 
 this crime was known to you?" 
 
 " Because, because I did not want you to 
 know. Penrith behaved like a brother. 
 George confessed the wrong to him, and he 
 paid the note without a word. He wept like 
 a child, he had so loved and trusted George." 
 
 "George Pennington is a scoundrel." 
 
 " Be merciful, Robert. George wept, too. 
 I am sure he was bitterly sorry. Penrith for 
 gave him, but has never spoken to him since." 
 
 " What a horror of shame ! Is Penrith paid 
 yet?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. As soon as George told me, I 
 got the money. I got it on my pearls." 
 
 "You threw them away, I dare say." 
 
 " Let them go ; sorrowful gems they have 
 been to me." 
 
 "Why was I not sent for then?" 
 
 " I thought I could save you this shame. I
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 113 
 
 thought then that a thousand pounds would 
 put George right. I felt that he must sell out 
 and get away from temptation, and then after 
 all I found myself unable to manage his 
 debts. They kept coming in, he said. I sup 
 pose he did not really know how much he 
 owed. Oh, Robert, Robert, be merciful to him ! 
 We cannot tell how much is really his fault." 
 
 " You must go to bed, now, Martha ; you are 
 more dead than alive. Poor mother! Bear 
 it as well as you are able. I am here, dear, to 
 lift all of the burden I can from your heart." 
 
 " Oh, Robert ! I wish I had sent for you 
 before ! I wish I had trusted you before ! I 
 have suffered ; oh, how much I have suf 
 fered ! " 
 
 " And George is dancing and making love, 
 I suppose ! What imperishable faith and love 
 there must be in women s hearts ? How else 
 would they dare to become mothers ? " 
 
 " Ah, Robert, there are so many good chil 
 dren, so many sweet and loving children ; and 
 as for those who tear our hearts to pieces, God 
 so loved them, dear, that he sent his only 
 begotten Son to be their salvation ; shall a 
 mortal mother be less merciful ? "
 
 114 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 
 " God bless you, Martha ! I am going now, 
 
 dear. I must have time to think before I see 
 George Pennington. Remember I am Robert 
 Luce to him. I am not sure whether I shall 
 ever know him under any other name." 
 
 But before the week was over Robert Pen 
 nington had begun to think it very likely that 
 he might reveal his relationship to his nephew. 
 He had begun to really like him. In fact 
 George suspected, from the first moment of 
 their meeting, that the presumed man of bus 
 iness was the identical person who had carried 
 him in his arms during that midnight journey 
 from the splendid home of his earliest memory. 
 And although the strictest formality was 
 observed in public between Mrs. Pennington 
 and her brother-in-law, George s senses, being 
 on the alert, discovered an ease of manner, an 
 understood equality, which satisfied him that 
 the reputed Mr. Robert Luce was connected 
 to them by nearer ties than those of business. 
 
 He carefully concealed this suspicion. He 
 took his uncle precisely at what his uncle 
 asserted himself to be ; but at the same time 
 he paid him the most respectful and undemon 
 strative attentions. The elder man was natur-
 
 FEET OF CLAY. US 
 
 ally kind and unsuspicious, he was predis 
 posed to like one for whom he had done so 
 much, and whose very personality was linked 
 to his own by memories full of affection and 
 sorrow. 
 
 For a day or two he watched George curi 
 ously ; then he fell, as people generally did fall, 
 under the charm of his beauty and gracious 
 manners. And for him George thought it 
 worth while to exert his fine mental abilities. 
 He drew from every source and from every 
 literature apt illustrations, witty aphorisms, 
 bits of quaint and curious knowledge. He as 
 tonished his mother and sister even more than 
 his uncle, by the fresh and original views 
 which he took of the daily topics of their 
 conversation. 
 
 Harriet began to think that there was, after 
 all, some justice in the claim George made for 
 their submission to his masculine intellect and 
 will. She supposed men talked to each other 
 in this way, considering it to be beyond the 
 capacity and cultivation of women. She was 
 in a state of rebellion on this subject before 
 her uncle s visit was over, continually ask 
 ing herself the questions about the higher
 
 Il6 FEE T OF CLAY. 
 
 education of women, which women had asked 
 uselessly for many a century, until the present 
 civilization brought them the long-delayed 
 justice, the larger opportunities, the grander 
 hopes, the loftier duties which were theirs of 
 right. 
 
 In reality Harriet did not impress her uncle 
 as favorably as her brother did. No suspicion 
 as to his relationship influenced her manners. 
 She gave him the gentle courtesy which she 
 thought his position as her mother s adviser 
 demanded, beyond that she was not inter 
 ested in Mr. Luce. Colonel Sutcliffe monop 
 olized all her time and attentions. Her pretty 
 dresses, her songs, and smiles, and concilia 
 tions were all for him. "A nice girl," her 
 uncle thought ; " but without a particle of her 
 mother s strength of character, or of her broth 
 er s intellect." 
 
 Robert Pennington forgot, or perhaps was 
 ignorant of the fact, that a woman is never so 
 generally uninteresting, so almost repulsive to 
 all the world but her lover, as when her per 
 sonality is absorbed in the supreme egotism of 
 her affection for that one individual. To her 
 uncle Harriet Pennington seemed to have a
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 1 17 
 
 weak will, small intellect, and very little indi 
 viduality of character, simply because she had 
 merged her will, her intellect, and her charac 
 ter for the time being, into the paramount de 
 sire of pleasing Colonel Sutcliffe. For her 
 womanly instinct had taught her that between 
 lovers the sweetest concord is obtained by the 
 subjection of the feminine character to the 
 masculine, and that such a condition is the 
 only happy atmosphere for courtship. Matri 
 mony indeed is a different climate, and has an 
 illimitable condition of circumstances, many 
 of which necessitate the reversion of this or 
 der, but they are generally circumstances 
 bringing with them sorrows and cares that 
 happy wives ought never to know. 
 
 So Harriet was supremely blessed in the 
 sweet subjection of these pleasant autumn 
 days. Her mother seemed to grow constantly 
 more cheerful. It was evident both from her 
 manner and George s light-heartedness that 
 the debts which had appeared so overwhelm 
 ing were being managed better than two simple 
 women had dared to anticipate. She threw 
 off the care of them, and enjoyed with all her 
 heart days so full of love, so free from care.
 
 Il8 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Such exquisite days! It seemed to her as if 
 they had been created specially for this de 
 light, days filled with sunshine and enthrall 
 ing scents of the rich autumn. Such exquis 
 ite nights, set in the soft radiance of the har 
 vest moon ! 
 
 " This is the Island of Avalon The Isle of 
 the Blest, not far from the terrestrial side of 
 Paradise!" When Robert Pennington made 
 this remark he was standing with his nephew 
 on the high cliff s of Scarlett, looking at the 
 calm sea and the calm earth. A peace beyond 
 expression was over both. A mortal must 
 have been without a soul not to have felt it. 
 
 "Yes," answered George thoughtfully. 
 " One feels the insane folly of gas-lit gambling 
 hells and crowded, roaring race-courses, and 
 even of brilliant ball-rooms, here." 
 
 " Permit, not me, but my years and my ex 
 perience, to say a few words to you, Captain. 
 I am going away in the morning." 
 
 " Sir, my own conscience has said far more 
 to me than your kind heart would venture 
 upon. I am quite aware of my faults. I re 
 gret them exceedingly, especially for my moth 
 er s sake, and for the sake of a friend who,
 
 FEET OF CLAY. Up 
 
 though unknown to me, has been generous 
 and forbearing. If you know who he is, sir, 
 convey to him my sorrow and my gratitude." 
 
 The young man standing in that enchanting 
 light, with the ocean before him and the calm, 
 exquisite heavens above him, looked so hand 
 some, so regretful, so lovable, that Robert Pen- 
 nington could not resist the affectionate im 
 pulse of his nature. 
 
 "George," he said softly, "I am your un 
 known friend. I am your uncle, Robert Luce 
 Pennington. I had the right to do all that 
 has been done. I felt the right to be a pleas 
 ure. My dear nephew, in the future we will 
 try and avoid all mistakes." He faced the 
 young man with eyes mistily tender, and put 
 out both hands. George clasped them with 
 an equal emotion. Then he offered his uncle 
 his arm, and they turned homeward together. 
 
 Soon the younger man began to talk more 
 freely, to express his sorrow, and to inquire 
 about his future. 
 
 "All your debts are paid, George; the 
 future unhampered by the past is before you. 
 I am against your leaving the army. I dislike 
 the law. I would rather see you wear a cap-
 
 120 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 tain s uniform all your life, than the Lord 
 High Chancellor s robes." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I am of your opinion." 
 
 " Very well, then, what two are agreed upon 
 takes effect. What if I could get you a com 
 mission in a regiment going to India ? There 
 is always lively work in the Hill Stations." 
 
 " Uncle, that is precisely what I would like. 
 I hate to trail a sword over pavements and 
 carpets, but to flash it against an enemy 
 worthy of its edge is a different thing." 
 
 " Good ! Suppose you join Sir John Gough. 
 Those mountaineers he is fighting are well- 
 matched even with Englishmen." 
 
 George was all enthusiasm. He delighted 
 his uncle, and they parted with an affection 
 very sincere on the elder man s side, and not 
 altogether simulated on the younger s. Indeed 
 he felt grateful for the fresh direction given to 
 his life. India suggested so many agreeable 
 things; beautiful begums clothed in jewelled 
 silks, marvellous old cities, gold, silver, spices 
 and ivory, tiger hunts, harems and houris, a 
 hundred delights, all so possible in the imagina 
 tion, all so impossible in the reality. 
 
 And very soon another thought blended with
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 121 
 
 these strange Oriental desires, the thought 
 of the Manx fisherman s fair daughter. Where 
 was her place to be among these Indian pleas 
 ures ? For he would not give up Bella. Im 
 possible ! So he went to sleep picturing the 
 bungalow surrounded by spice and tamarind 
 trees in which he would hide away his northern 
 Peri. She was to dwell among the treasures of 
 ivory, and sandalwood, and cloth of gold, and 
 silver. She was to be dressed in Dacca muslins 
 and gleaming tissues, and the thin lustrous silks 
 of China, and to quite forget under Asian suns 
 and moons the little stone cottage in Glen 
 Hellish and the showery, sunny, flowery isle of 
 her birth. And below all the sensuous glory 
 of these musings, one strong, self-complacent 
 reflection added a keener zest to his anticipa 
 tions it was this : I suspected all the time 
 who he was, and I played my cards pretty well. 
 I have seen his whole hand, I think ! 
 
 After his nephew had left him, Robert Pen- 
 nington was not so full of satisfaction. He 
 had that feeling which at times has made us 
 all uncomfortable, the feeling that we have 
 allowed our emotions to get the better of our 
 reason. For when the magnetism of George s
 
 122 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 personal presence was removed, uncertainty 
 and doubt rushed in like a cold wind. He 
 went to his sister hoping to be reassured by her 
 confiding love, and with some shame confessed 
 that he had, in a moment of sympathy and trust 
 induced by George s confession of his faults, 
 revealed not only his personal identity to 
 him, but also his intentions regarding his 
 future. 
 
 The mother cheered him with her approval. 
 She thought he had done right. A sentiment 
 of affection would ennoble the sentiment of 
 obligation. George had a noble disposition, he 
 would not abuse his confidence. "You have 
 been with him constantly for a week, Robert," 
 she said ; " have you not been struck with his 
 many personal and mental excellences ? Are 
 you really not a little proud of your nephew? " 
 
 " I confess that it is very easy to love George, 
 he has so many evident good points ; but oh, 
 my dear Martha, it would be a sin in both of us 
 to forget the moral weakness which in a man 
 ner debases all his other excellences." 
 
 " I know what you allude to. The wretched 
 bit of paper is ever before me ; but he is so 
 sorry, dear."
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 123 
 
 " But he is weak, essentially weak, because 
 he is essentially selfish." 
 
 "Oh, Robert!" 
 
 " He is extraordinarily selfish. His selfish 
 ness impairs all his moral perceptions. What 
 he wants he is determined to have ; rightly if 
 he can get it rightly, if he cannot get it 
 rightly, he is still determined to have it. Do 
 you understand? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He reminds me of the image the Baby 
 lonish king saw. It was of gold, and silver, 
 and brass, and iron, and its brightness was 
 excellent but its feet were of clay its feet 
 were of clay, Martha ; and neither the gold 
 nor the iron could save it. George has beauty, 
 intellect, delightful manners, and a nature re 
 sponsive to affection, but he will gratify himself 
 though he should break every obligation to do 
 it, and remember this Indulgence is the twin- 
 sister of Guilt." 
 
 tf If George has one great fault, he has many 
 good qualities." 
 
 " His brightness, like that of the image, 
 is excellent ; but oh, Martha ! feet of clay, I 
 fear, feet of clay."
 
 124 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " But there is surely help for this weakness, 
 Robert?" 
 
 " The patience of earthly love, the strength 
 of heavenly love, nothing else, Martha, and 
 nothing less."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 
 
 " When on a windless sea life s vessel swims, 
 Becalmed, afraid, our God, to Thee we cry." 
 
 " To quell the waves such task Thou didst not set her ; 
 To toil on them and trust, for her is better ; 
 And in her perils Thou wilt not forget her." 
 k 
 
 " She weeps, and bitter are her tears, 
 And urgent as the sudden fears 
 Which even love refused to face." 
 
 SOME people pay visits and leave behind 
 them a spirit of unrest which it takes 
 weeks to exorcise. They were strung too high 
 or too low for the domestic atmosphere in 
 which they temporarily found themselves ; for 
 we can but guess at one another darkly, and 
 are like players, 
 
 " knowing not the powers 
 Nor compass of the instruments we vex ; 
 And by our rash unskilful hands perplex 
 To straining discords : " 
 
 But Robert Pennington cheered and bright 
 ened the household into which he came. He 
 125
 
 126 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 had found it under a cloud, he left it in the 
 sunshine. There was not a servant in it who 
 did not divine that some danger had been 
 turned away or some care lifted. 
 
 The Captain s light-heartedness had been in 
 a great measure affected before ; no one could 
 now mistake the reality of his reckless joyous- 
 ness. Harriet had an intoxicating sense of 
 freedom, her steps were like dancing, her 
 voice sweet as singing, her mood gay and 
 bright as a spring morning. She was a fresh 
 revelation to her lover, and their wooing 
 seemed to have caught a livelier rapture and 
 a fairer hope. 
 
 No one noticed that Mrs. Pennington was 
 still on the watch, that her eyes were anxious, 
 that she had the air of one that is listening, 
 that her letters were scanned with increasing 
 eagerness every morning. For both Harriet 
 and George were fathoms deep in their own 
 love affairs, and full of hopes and plans so 
 entirely personal that there was little conver 
 sation between them. Indeed, Harriet could 
 not talk with George about Bella. She was 
 deeply offended with the girl, and Bella was 
 just as deeply offended with her. And George
 
 AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 127 
 
 was not anxious that the rupture should be 
 healed. He did not want his sister to have 
 Bella s confidence, he did not want Bella to 
 come under his sister s influence. And where 
 there is a disposition to drift apart very little 
 aids it, the shake of the head, the lifted 
 shoulder, the implication that is scarcely made 
 audible, is more than sufficient. 
 
 So the last days of autumn went gayly away. 
 Each heart was singing its own song, and 
 everything around echoed its spirit and mel 
 ody. The sea was wonderfully still, and the 
 young people were much upon it. One morn 
 ing they left early and took provisions for the 
 day with them, and did not return until they 
 could drift slowly in with the evening tide 
 after sunset. 
 
 They were weary with pleasure, and came 
 across the gaery and through the garden. 
 George had left them on the beach. " He is 
 going to meet that girl," Harriet said a little 
 bitterly to her lover; and Colonel Sutcliffe, 
 having seen "that girl," did not express him 
 self with any great acrimony. Perhaps he 
 could understand her charm better than Har 
 riet could. But his lack of interest in her
 
 128 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 annoyance caused a slight shadow between 
 them, conversation flagged, or rather it was 
 turned by Sutcliffe upon the beauty of the 
 night, a subject which did not at that hour 
 interest Harriet half so much as George s im 
 prudence and Bella s perverseness. 
 
 " Have you noticed, love," he said, " that if 
 ever you want the interpretation of any of 
 nature s moods, you will get it in Words 
 worth ? " 
 
 " No, I have not noticed. For instance," 
 she asked, with a very faint assumption of 
 ^nterest. 
 
 " Look around, and listen, and then acknowl 
 edge how this verse fits the present hour : 
 
 The sun has long been set, 
 
 The stars are out by two and threes, 
 
 The little birds are piping yet 
 Among the bushes and the trees. 
 
 There s a cuckoo and one or two thrushes, 
 
 And a far-off wind that rushes, 
 
 And a sound of water that gushes, 
 
 And the cuckoo s sovereign cry 
 
 Fills all the hollow of the sky. " 
 
 " I think little of the cuckoo s sovereign ciy. 
 You should hear George put him in his proper
 
 AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 129 
 
 place. He is a detestable bird, without ordi 
 nary affections, and too lazy to rear his own 
 young. Wordsworth indeed ! Milton knew 
 him better, and ranks him with birds unclean. 
 George repeated the lines to me. I have for 
 gotten them all, but I know that Milton repre 
 sents himself as preaching liberty to the people, 
 
 When straight a barbarous noise environed him, 
 Of owls, and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs. 
 
 George said also that both in Leviticus and 
 Deuteronomy the Jew is forbidden to eat him. 
 I dare say that he can give you chapter and 
 verse." 
 
 " I will take your word for the bird s bad 
 character, Harriet. But you have spoiled the 
 cuckoo s note for me forever. Is not that a 
 pity?" 
 
 There was a tone of regret in his voice, and 
 Harriet was sorry to have caused it. Silence 
 fell between them, and they came up the gar 
 den way with the air of tired children, and 
 were met at the door by Mrs. Pennington. 
 
 She looked like a woman who had been 
 keeping a miserable vigil. Her eyes were red 
 with weeping, her smiles had no reality of
 
 13 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 heart-sunshine in them, her pleasant words 
 lacked all spontaneous warmth. Harriet felt 
 hurt at this attitude. It seemed almost a per 
 sonal injustice to her. She believed that all 
 cause for worry was over, and she did feel as 
 if it was unkind to darken, either by retrospec 
 tive or anticipated anxieties, these last happy 
 days of her girlhood. 
 
 " I shall be married soon and have doubtless 
 my full share of woman s sorrows. I think 
 mother should try to be cheerful, for she knows 
 that such a look as is in her eyes to-night 
 takes all the pleasure out of my anticipa 
 tions." 
 
 This was the thought in her heart as she 
 parted with her lover. She imagined he had 
 been a little too ready to go, for women are 
 terribly exacting and cannot understand that 
 a day may be too full, even of love and hap 
 piness. " No wonder he wanted to get away," 
 she continued fretfully ; " there is a most un 
 comfortable atmosphere in the house, it feels 
 as if some one had been crying all through it, 
 and Harry is so sensitive to such influences. 
 I wish mother would stop worrying. I am 
 sure George does not worry, and both of them
 
 AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 131 
 
 admit everything is well settled. It is not 
 fair! it is not kind!" So love misjudges 
 love. 
 
 Mrs. Pennington had in reality endeavored 
 to be all that Harriet wished ; she was not 
 even conscious that she had failed ; for she 
 had been brought that day face to face with a 
 great shame and calamity, and compelled to 
 look at it in a variety of new and perplexing 
 aspects. The letter she had been watching 
 for had arrived just as her children left the 
 house ; if they had not been so occupied with 
 each other, they might have seen Quayle put 
 it into her hands. 
 
 As soon as they had closed the garden gate 
 she fled with it to her own room. It was from 
 Robert Pennington, and read thus: 
 
 MY DEAR MARTHA : Any further search is 
 useless. The grave has shut up that sorrow 
 forever. I feel so sure of it that I have dis 
 missed all the men employed. I advise you 
 to forget, and permit me to say, my dear 
 sister, that the best way to forget wrongs is 
 to forgive them. 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 ROBERT PENNINGTON.
 
 13 2 PERT OP CLAY. 
 
 This message, according to all human ideas, 
 ought to have filled Martha Pennington s 
 heart with gratitude and rest. But instead, it 
 tore the veil of years from her terror, and 
 made her look with clear eyes at the future. 
 In the first place she did not believe its assur 
 ance. She had a presentiment that her brother 
 was wrong. Bodings unsanctioned by her will 
 turned her sick and faint. And the injunction 
 to forgive almost angered her. If the man 
 were indeed dead ! If she were sure that he 
 could never injure her and hers any more, 
 then she would cease to fear him and might 
 pardon. But who can forgive the haunting 
 fear that turns their daily life into bitterness? 
 She had been longing and praying for an 
 assurance of her deliverance, and nothing had 
 come to her but her brother s private belief. 
 
 She thought little of it. She was a woman 
 who lived much on the boundaries of the 
 other world. The division that sunders spirits 
 and shadow-casting men, an insurmountable 
 wall to Robert Pennington, was to her but a 
 veil, that in some brighter moments was often 
 partially drawn aside. She had frequently 
 put her impressions and visions against his
 
 AN Vti WELCOME VlstrdR. 133 
 
 most practical knowledge, and found herself 
 correct. She had indeed that wondrous gift 
 of insight which enabled her to stand upon the 
 isthmus connecting here and there, and com 
 mand the counsels of both worlds ; and unwel 
 come as its denial of Robert Pennington s 
 letter was, she felt that the spiritual message 
 was the true one. 
 
 " The man lives ! I know he is not dead ! " 
 she cried in those passionate undertones which 
 concealment of sorrow had taught her. " I 
 know he is not dead ; thus far I feel the 
 movements of his soul, almost the beating of 
 his heart." 
 
 She was glad when the day was over ; glad 
 when the effort of welcoming Harriet back 
 was fulfilled, thankful to hear Quayle stumb 
 ling upstairs to bed. For as no one waited 
 for George, he was always the last to go, and 
 she had at length that sense of solitude so 
 grateful to the weary-hearted. She put on 
 her dressing-gown and slippers, she unbound 
 her hair, and sat down before the fire. 
 
 Perhaps she slept a little, for it was with a 
 start she awakened, and an impression that 
 some one was either at the door or the win-
 
 134 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 dow. Her heart beat wildly, she had a 
 moment s genuine terror. But she controlled 
 it immediately ; " George, of course," she said, 
 as she went softly to the door and opened it. 
 No one was there. 
 
 " He has thought I was asleep and gone." 
 Somehow this explanation did not satisfy her. 
 She threw wood and turf upon the fire, and 
 sat down again, conscious of a singular intent- 
 ness of attitude. Her thoughts drifted into 
 unhappy channels. She lifted her Bible and 
 opened it at the psalms for the day. But 
 their promises slipped past her consciousness, 
 and she could not make personal their com-, 
 forting words. 
 
 "I will go to rest," she whispered; "perhaps 
 sleep may give me the assurance which Rob 
 ert s letter utterly fails to do." She cast a 
 glance at her bed and half-rose from her chair. 
 Something arrested her, and she kept her eyes 
 fixed upon the heavy moreen curtains which 
 were drawn between it and the outer wall. 
 They certainly moved, and the movement 
 went like a shiver from the head to the foot of 
 the insensible couch. She felt that some liv 
 ing presence was there. She was gliding
 
 AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 135 
 
 lapidly to the door when a man came out 
 from the shadowy curtains and confronted her. 
 
 One glance at him was sufficient. She 
 appeared to turn to stone. A quick, deep 
 gasp was the only effort she made to speak, or 
 to arrest the numb horror stealing over her. 
 The sound of roaring waters was in her ears, 
 a thick darkness was enveloping her. She was 
 losing all control over herself, she was faint 
 ing, dying perhaps. But the man made a 
 step towards her, and a dreadful thought 
 thrilled her from head to foot, he will touch 
 me. A supreme effort of will enabled her to 
 force back the oblivion and recall her senses to 
 their posts, her soul to its miserable pre 
 eminence of endurance. For she was sure 
 that the sharpest consciousness of mental 
 agony would be more tolerable than the touch 
 of his hand. 
 
 She tottered back to her chair, and leaning 
 upon it for support, turned her face full upon 
 the intruder. Its expression of terror and 
 loathing was all the more terrible because it 
 was an intelligent terror and loathing. She 
 knew whom she was face to face with. 
 
 He was a man who might be any age
 
 of CLAV. 
 
 between fifty and sixty, a man stamped with 
 the image of sin and shame and misery, a 
 hellish mintage which no one can mistake. 
 He had decent clothes on, but there is a point 
 at which decent clothing fails to impart re 
 spectability, and this man had reached it. 
 His garments hung on him as if ashamed of 
 their office, as if they refused to become a part 
 of the personality of him who claimed them. 
 His countenance had still traces of great beauty, 
 but it was marred and disfigured by exposure 
 to weather, by wearing passions, by sickness 
 and neglect, by every element that batters and 
 defaces and deforms humanity. There was 
 not a single thing about the man which could 
 inspire favor, unless you looked steadily into 
 his eyes. They who either of intention or 
 accident essayed this test were likely to 
 experience a wretched uncertainty which 
 would not be shaken off. 
 
 For this outcast still had a soul, and it 
 looked through them. From its miserable 
 prison-house, belied, degraded by every other 
 sense, it still entreated through the deep-set, 
 dark, troubled eyes, a pity and forbearance 
 which it seemed unreasonable to give.
 
 AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 137 
 
 But Martha Pennington, though she knew 
 the man, did not consciously look at him. 
 She was not thinking of him, but of those 
 to whom his presence meant an unbearable 
 shame and ruin. As this result became more 
 and more clear to her, anger conquered all 
 other feelings. Her face was suffused with 
 blood hot as fire, her eyes flashed, her attitude 
 was that of a spirit watchful and defiant. 
 
 He saw the change, and perhaps mistook 
 the cause, for he advanced a few steps, hold 
 ing out his hands palms downward, their dep 
 recating gesture strangely sympathetic with 
 his bowed head and dropped eyes. 
 
 " Martha ! " He spoke very softly, but his 
 voice troubled the air, and beat like a hammer 
 upon the heart and ears of the woman whose 
 name he called. 
 
 " Martha ! say one kind word to me, after 
 so many silent, awful years ! " and he took 
 another step towards her. 
 
 But she retreated with an unmistakable air 
 of anger and fear, saying : 
 
 " Do not touch me, do not speak to me ! 
 Oh, why did you come here?" 
 
 " I wanted to see you and the children.
 
 I3 8 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Martha, let me touch the hem of your 
 dress." 
 
 " Not one step nearer. Your presence here 
 is an infamy, all the more terrible because you 
 know you have calculated on the fact that I 
 would suffer much, ere I would reveal it. 
 How did you come ? Has any human being 
 seen you ? " 
 
 "No one. I found out your room. The 
 window was open. I climbed up by the vine, 
 and waited behind the curtains until I thought 
 every one was asleep." 
 
 " For God s sake, go. You will kill me if 
 you stay a moment longer. I must have time 
 to think to pray " 
 
 " Martha ! I am I was your " 
 
 " Say another word and I will call the whole 
 house. I am at the last moment of endur 
 ance. Go ! " 
 
 " Talk of women being forgiving Lies ! 
 They are the most cruel of created things, 
 they are as cruel as devils. They have no 
 pity, even on the wretch they have once 
 loved, for you did love me, once." 
 
 " God knows it, I do pity you. But what 
 of my children ? Will you ruin their lives as
 
 AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 139 
 
 you ruined mine ? And what pity is in your 
 heart? I shall go mad with anguish if you 
 stay here, and yet you stay." 
 
 " I will go, Martha. God help me ! How, 
 and when, will you see me to-morrow ? " 
 
 "Come to the front door at eleven o clock." 
 " Not one word of kindness, Martha? " 
 She sank into her chair, and with closed 
 eyes shook her head positively. For a 
 moment he watched the wretched woman, 
 then softly raising the window he went down 
 the vine as lightly as a bird, and disappeared 
 among the shrubbery. Ten minutes after 
 wards he met George Pennington on the 
 geary. The young man was humming a gay 
 song, and when he asked, " What s the hour, 
 sir ? " George struck a match, and with per 
 fect good-humor answered, "A quarter to 
 twelve, and good-night, sir!" The eyes 
 of the two men met. George felt a sud 
 den pity and liking, and after he had gone 
 a few steps, he stopped and hailed the 
 stranger. 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " Don t go too far ahead without minding 
 your feet. It is a dangerous road at night,
 
 140 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 and you might be over the cliffs before you 
 knew it." 
 
 " Thank you, it would not make much 
 matter." 
 
 " Oh, yes, it would ; so take care." 
 
 There was no reply, and George went on 
 without further words. But he did not sing 
 any more, and he thought to himself : " That 
 was a strange thing to say. The poor fellow 
 is in trouble, money or women, I dare say." 
 
 As for Martha Pennington, she sat with a 
 stupid weight upon her senses, a dismal, 
 almost sullen stillness, all through that bitter, 
 lonely night. But when the cold sweetness of 
 the dawn touched the shadows, she remem 
 bered Him who had trodden the wine-press 
 alone, and to whom all the dim heights of woe 
 were mysteriously familiar. And she prayed 
 as souls pray in extremity, not for herself, but 
 for those whom she loved more tenderly than 
 herself. She was alone, and in the dark upon 
 the sea of sorrow, and all its waves and bil 
 lows were going over her; but still her en 
 treaty was, " Save, Master, the souls that sail 
 with me ! " 
 
 When she rose from her knees the first rays
 
 AN UNWELCOME VISITOR. 14* 
 
 of sunshine fell like a finger of light across an 
 open page, and she knew it was her answer : 
 
 " Go in peace this day to the Haven wide ; 
 Thou shalt see His face and be satisfied : 
 Thou shalt know His heart and rest in Him, 
 With a peace that passeth thy knowledge dim ; 
 Not for thyself alone, but for all 
 Thy heart has yearned for, great and small. 
 
 " And some shall enter the Haven wide, 
 Full sail on the breast of a glorious tide : 
 
 And some shall come, 
 Sore battered and spent from an angry sea ; 
 But thine heart shall count them one by one, 
 Till God has gathered them all to thee."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ONE KIND OF DEATH. 
 
 " When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze 
 After their life sailed by, and hold their breath 
 Ah ! who shall dare to search through what sad maze 
 Thenceforth their incommunicable ways 
 Follow the desultory feet of Death ? " 
 
 " Stand still, fond fettered wretch, while Memory s art 
 Parades the Past before thy face, and lures 
 Thy spirit to her passionate portraitures ; 
 Till the tempestuous tide-gates flung apart 
 Flood with wild will the hollows of thy heart, 
 And thy heart rends thee, and thy body endures." 
 
 WHEN we consider what a difference there 
 often is between the pitch of one human 
 heart and the pitch of others surrounding it, 
 we may understand easily the discords that 
 perplex daily life. Mrs. Pennington came to 
 the breakfast-table in a mood which could 
 only be represented in music by the deep sad 
 ness and pathetic lament of a minor adagio. 
 The tempers of George and Harriet resembled 
 the rapid lights and easily grasped phrases of 
 dance music ; quick harmonies returning fre- 
 142
 
 ONE KIND OF DEATH. 143 
 
 quently to their key-note, and expressing 
 easily reached, every-day happiness. In fact, 
 Harriet was going immediately after breakfast 
 into Castletown. She was first to visit her 
 dressmaker, and then she had an engagement 
 to lunch with the Dinwoodies, where Colonel 
 Sutcliffe was to join her. 
 
 George also had a pleasant day in prospect. 
 Bella was going on a visit to her brother s wife 
 at Ballabeg, and George expected to meet her 
 there. They were to take a boat and spend 
 the day in drifting about the pretty coves and 
 inlets of the rocky coast. 
 
 Harriet frankly detailed her plans. The suc 
 cess of George s depended upon his secrecy, 
 and he spoke of a canter with young Kelly to 
 Kirk-Santon, and the possibility of his joining 
 the Dinwoodie lunch party. But he entrusted 
 Harriet with some pretty excuses if he found 
 himself unable to be back. And it is fair to 
 say, that Harriet did not believe either in the 
 canter to Kirk-Santon or in his half-promise to 
 meet her at the Dinwoodies . 
 
 When Mrs. Pennington had left the table 
 she said, " I do not expect to see you until 
 evening, George."
 
 144 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " I said I might come to the lunch party." 
 
 " You might, but you won t. Shall I tell 
 you the reason why you won t ? Bella Clu- 
 cas." 
 
 George bowed politely. " It is useless to 
 contradict you, Harriet. A woman always 
 convicts those whom she has once accused." 
 
 " George, just for to-day try to be agreeable. 
 Kitty is expecting you. After lunch, if the 
 weather keeps fair, we are all going to the 
 loveliest bit of sand and water." 
 
 " All ? How many are going ? " 
 
 "There will be about twenty, the nicest 
 young people Kitty knows, and Kitty takes 
 her guitar, and Major Hamilton his violin, and 
 as the tide comes in we shall float home with 
 it, singing." 
 
 "Thanks, Harriet. You have quite decided 
 me. I shall not join you." 
 
 " I thought you loved the sea." 
 
 " I do love the sea. It is the one place 
 where nature has her own way. But I won t 
 join any mob of pleasure-seekers upon it. In 
 fact, I hate parties of pleasure either on sea or 
 land, they damage everything, like flies in 
 summer."
 
 KIND OF DEA Tit. 14$ 
 
 " In fact, no one s company is comparable to 
 your own, and to that fisher-girl s." 
 
 " I will not contradict you. A woman has a 
 suspicion in the morning, by night she has 
 clothed it in absolute truth. She is then ready 
 to assert it, to swear to it, if need be." 
 
 "I say you are going to spend the day with 
 Bella Clucas, somewhere or other." 
 
 " You are an oracle, of course. Have you 
 any message for Bella?" 
 
 " Have I ! " 
 
 "You used to be very fond of Bella." 
 
 " I loved Bella very dearly once, as long as 
 the girl behaved herself." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, Harriet ! The girl has done 
 nothing wrong. I don t believe you ever 
 loved Bella. The love of women for their own 
 sex is a mere negation, a kind of cessation 
 of hostilities. There are no Davids and Jona 
 thans among them." 
 
 " So you imagine men have a monopoly of 
 friendship ? " 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "You are mistaken. I did love Bella, until 
 Bella behaved in a way I thought was not 
 right."
 
 i4^ EET OP CLAY. 
 
 " Men do not limit their liking by such a 
 narrow rule. What if Penrith had?" He 
 spoke sternly, his face clouded, and he turned 
 abruptly away. 
 
 " If I were you I would not name Penrith." 
 
 " I feel differently, Harriet. I force myself 
 to name him very often. I do not wish to for 
 get the kindness he showed me. He has never 
 uttered a word of reproach ; for that reason, I 
 reproach myself. Poor Bella s sole offence is, 
 that she disobeyed your orders. Had you any 
 right to give her an order ? You have known 
 her all yourlife, and yet you cannot forgive her." 
 
 " Bella goes on disobeying. I would forgive 
 her if she would never speak to you again." 
 
 " Precisely. It is as I say. A women loves 
 a women until she offends her, but she loves a 
 man in spite of his offence, that is, if she loves 
 him at all. She will forgive and forgive and 
 forgive, and go on loving him even though he 
 go on offending her." 
 
 " There may be such women, George." 
 
 " There are such women. They are beyond 
 numbering, God bless them ! And it is well 
 for poor fellows like me that they do exist. 
 There s mother, for instance "
 
 KIND OP DEATtt. U7 
 
 " Oh I shall talk no more with you. It is 
 quite useless, and I have to be at the dress 
 maker s at ten o clock." 
 
 " Shall I go to Castletown with you ? Do 
 you walk? " 
 
 " I have no time for walking now. Laxey 
 will have to drive me. Good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye. Say as many pretty things to 
 Miss Kitty as you can remember for me." 
 
 " No, sir, I will not." 
 
 " All right. I will say them myself some 
 day." 
 
 Mrs. Pennington, pacing restlessly to and fro 
 on the garden-walk, heard this chatter with 
 extreme anxiety. She was so wishful for both 
 George and Harriet to be from home when 
 her visitor called, and every moment s delay 
 seemed interminable. Then, after Harriet had 
 gone, George perversely wandered about the 
 garden with his cigar, until, feeling his longer 
 presence intolerable, she bade him a faint adieu 
 and went into the house. George had been 
 waiting for this very event. With a slow and 
 studied nonchalance he then passed through 
 the gate, and as he did so he perceived a man 
 sitting upon a great rock which jutted out pf
 
 148 PEST OF 
 
 the unplanted place between the house and 
 the sea. 
 
 " I believe that is the very same person who 
 asked me the time. I wonder if he has been 
 there all night ? " As George passed, the man 
 rose and looked towards him, and though the 
 distance between them could well have ex 
 cused recognition even from acquaintances, 
 George bowed politely, and the stranger re 
 turned the compliment. 
 
 " He is in trouble, I am sure. Very likely 
 hiding from his creditors. I have a fellow- 
 feeling for a man in that fix, every one hasn t 
 a mother, and friends. I wouldn t care much 
 what kind of a mess he was in, I d help him. 
 My sympathies go naturally to the weaker 
 side, the debtor side." He walked slowly 
 away to such thoughts, and the man who was 
 their prompter turned so as to keep him in 
 sight as long as possible. 
 
 It was then about ten o clock. In another 
 hour she would have to drink the cup she had 
 prayed might not be put to her lips, the cup 
 she had mingled for herself in the intoxication 
 of youthful love and wilfulness. But the 
 terror and suffering of the night hours had
 
 ONE KIND OP DEATH. i4$ 
 
 reduced her to a state of passive endurance. 
 She could no longer think or plan, no longer 
 struggle against the calamity which had be- 
 fallen her. She was in the condition of the 
 combatant who has ceased to count the blows 
 he receives, who has no strength left with 
 which to return them. 
 
 And yet through all this inert suffering she 
 was conscious that her soul was gathering 
 strength. Whatever might arise, it would 
 doubtless be ready to meet the occasion, and 
 make the best terms possible. She stood at 
 an upper window watching the garden gate. 
 If possible she would not let her servants see 
 her strange visitor. In case of any emergency 
 their sympathy was sure, but she was not a 
 woman who had ever voluntarily sought sym 
 pathy. It had been rather her habit to sup 
 press her feelings, to habitually turn her heart 
 into a sanctuary, and therein take refuge. 
 
 This habit, which was the result of a natur 
 ally timid disposition, had perhaps made her 
 attach an overwhelming significance to a cir 
 cumstance which was really of gravity and 
 importance. She was not in the highest sense 
 of the term an educated woman, and she was
 
 i56 FEET OF CLA. 
 
 therefore subject to those all-absorbing pas 
 sions which tyrannize minds revolving in small 
 orbits. And her secluded life had gradually 
 turned her apprehensions and her opinions into 
 fixed ideas. She had suffered herself to dwell 
 in an atmosphere of foreboding, and the thing 
 she had feared had happened to her. Perhaps 
 indeed her anticipation of evil had called to 
 her the evil. The soul has marvellous powers 
 of attraction. In the body and out of the 
 body, sleeping or dreaming, its fears and its 
 longings find out their object and act upon it. 
 
 Even as she stood at the window letting her 
 thoughts drift in angry tumult, uncontrolled, 
 unreasoning, the man sitting on the rock out 
 side her garden was influenced by them. He 
 moved uneasily, he looked at his watch, he 
 stood up and looked at the house, he began 
 slowly to make his way to it. Something of 
 her mood had touched him, pressed upon him, 
 stirred in his soul a responsive restlessness and 
 anger. 
 
 She saw him coming, and even in that su 
 preme moment an unconscious womanly feel 
 ing made her pause before her mirror. She 
 had dressed herself purposely for this inter*
 
 ONE KIND OF DtiATff. l^i 
 
 view, and she looked with a sad and cold face 
 at her reflection. The white collar worn at 
 the breakfast table had been removed, nothing 
 relieved the sombre blackness of her garments. 
 A nervous movement of her left hand, and a 
 rapid glance at it, was accounted for by 
 the absence of the plain gold ring which 
 she usually wore. If he looked to find it 
 there, he would understand what he might 
 perhaps be pitiful enough to spare her say 
 ing. 
 
 She met him on the threshold, he had no 
 necessity to knock for admittance ; and she 
 silently led him to the large parlor, a room 
 seldom used except for purposes of entertain 
 ment. The door was closed, and they stood 
 face to face, only the blank surface of a table 
 between them. The man had possibly been 
 on the geary all night ; he looked like it. 
 Martha s first thought regarded his neglected 
 toilet. Its disorder typified to her his awful 
 fall, for he seemed unconscious of its short 
 comings, and indifferent to them. All his 
 soul was in his eyes. The rest of his face was 
 but a battered oval of weatherbeaten and 
 passion-beaten human clay. But oh, the
 
 OF CLAY. 
 
 misery, oh, the longing, oh, the imploration 
 in those two soul-lit eyes ! 
 
 Martha felt their gaze, and would not en 
 counter it. She knew the power of old, and 
 by a tremendous effort of will compelled her 
 self to withstand its influence. She was the 
 first to speak, and her words were slow and 
 heavy like those uttered by a sleeper. 
 
 " You want money, of course ? I could give 
 you a little " 
 
 " I do not want money. I could give you a 
 great deal, if you would have it, honest 
 money, earned with hard, honest work." 
 
 Her face flushed angrily, and she made a 
 movement with her head and hands which 
 there was no mistaking. 
 
 " Very well. I do not offer it." 
 
 " If you do not need money why did you 
 come? How cruel, how cruel of you to 
 do so !" 
 
 " I came, as I said last night, to see you 
 and the " 
 
 "For God s sake, listen to me. George is a 
 soldier, will you brand him with infamy and 
 drive him out of all respectable society ? 
 Harriet is betrothed to a gentleman of stain-
 
 ONE KIND OF DEATH. 153 
 
 less name and good estate. Your existence is 
 unknown to them. You ruined my life. If 
 there is anything in heaven or earth you rev 
 erence, for its sake spare my children ? " 
 
 From her dropped lids the heavy tears fell 
 like rain upon the table between them. She 
 had involuntarily clasped her hands. Her 
 attitude was at the moment touchingly noble 
 in its extremity. 
 
 He drew his lips together, his breath came 
 heavily, he touched her left hand and said in a 
 thick whisper : 
 
 " You have removed our ring. It was there 
 last night." 
 
 " The plain ring I wore last night I bought 
 myself to prevent remark. Our ring was brok 
 en in two by your own act." 
 
 " Dear God, need you tell me that ? Can 
 not love mend it ?" 
 
 " There is no love left. I did not see you 
 to discuss that subject. It is for my children s 
 sake I speak to you." 
 
 " What do you want me to do ? " 
 
 " To efface yourself, to be dead to them, 
 to go where those who knew you once can 
 never meet ycu."
 
 154 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " If I do this, when the children need you 
 no longer, will you remember me ? You are 
 my wife, yes, I will say the words, they are 
 true words." 
 
 "They are not true, and I am not your 
 wife. Your cruelty set me free, your crime 
 set me free, the law of my country set me 
 free." 
 
 " Nothing can free you, nothing ! You 
 have a conscience, ask it." 
 
 She sank into a chair and covered her face 
 with her hands. The stillness, the pathos of 
 her whole figure touched him beyond tears or 
 words. Pure and good and delicate as she 
 was, this degraded husband of her youth 
 dared to love her. At that moment she was 
 far dearer to him than she had been on her 
 bridal morn. He would have given the resi 
 due of his life to have taken her in his arms, to 
 have comforted her beyond the power of earth 
 to trouble. 
 
 " Martha ! " 
 
 She had forgotten for a moment. She lifted 
 her head, and his eyes, misty with tears and 
 shining with love, caught her upward glance. 
 They troubled her heart, went down into its
 
 ONE KIND OF DEATH. 155 
 
 depths and troubled its sweetest and saddest 
 memories. The angel might be good or evil, 
 but it had the power. 
 
 " Martha ! " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I will do all you require. I will never re 
 veal myself to the children, without your 
 permission. If you desire it, you shall see 
 me no more on earth, if you will grant me 
 one favor." 
 
 "What do you wish?" 
 
 " Call me once by my own name, by my 
 Christian name. Let me touch your hand. 
 Speak kindly to me just once, and I will 
 
 trouble you no more." 
 j " 
 
 " Do not say you cannot. Oh, remember 
 the days we went hand-in-hand through Low- 
 ther woods, the days we sailed on Winder- 
 mere, and rode together over Keswick fells. 
 I have been punished beyond my deserts, de 
 graded and tortured, condemned for one wrong 
 to suffer a life-long retribution. When justice 
 is satisfied surely mercy may say one word of 
 pity. Martha, will you say it? " 
 
 She rose, and he looked at her steadily.
 
 156 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 She was trying to conquer her repugnance, 
 and she whispered her children s names to 
 strengthen herself for the effort. He waited 
 patiently. If he gained so much from her, 
 time might give him more. The absence of 
 speech, the very attitude of waiting was in his 
 favor. Her thoughts moved rapidly to their 
 end. The thing required of her was a per 
 sonal humiliation. It would save her dear 
 ones a far more bitter experience. If she 
 drank the cup it might pass them by, and for 
 their sake she could drink it to the dregs. 
 
 Her decision made, she was exactly the 
 woman to fulfill its obligation with a noble 
 generosity. He had calculated upon this 
 magnanimity, and he watched with a beat 
 ing heart its gathering influence. He did not 
 hurry her by a word or movement, but as 
 he watched her changing face, he inhaled 
 deep draughts of the atmosphere of hope and 
 happiness. 
 
 When she moved a step towards him he 
 trembled with joy, but when she said in soft, 
 sad inflections, " Arthur, I ask your pity for 
 the children and myself," and put her hand 
 upon his arm, a great sob answered her.
 
 ONE KIND OF DEATH. 157 
 
 She did not at once remove it, and he found 
 courage to take it in his own, to touch it with 
 his lips, a kiss as reverent as that which the 
 sinner leaves at the foot of the Cross. 
 
 " Farewell ! " His eyes looked down into 
 hers, and their despair and love pierced her 
 like a sword. She tried to speak, but could 
 find no words that were at once cold and pite 
 ous enough, and then he was gone. 
 
 " Gone ! " There was a sudden, sharp pain 
 at her heart. She felt as if she was choking. 
 She rushed from the room and fell senseless 
 in the wide hall, through which her husband s 
 steps had just passed. 
 
 * v
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 " Apt to be foolish ? That s allowed ; 
 But aisy, aisy, the both of them proud, 
 Proud of each other, and very plaised 
 The love was at them ; 
 
 Aw, that s the style. 
 For love is straight like a little child : 
 You loves me, and I loves you ; 
 So what are you wantin us to do ? 
 Spake to the father ? Certainly not ! 
 
 Time enough for that, thinks they ; 
 Or never didn think nothin about it ; 
 Never axed, and never doubted 
 Some way some day. The world is wide, 
 And driftin , driftin with the tide." 
 
 T. E. BROWN, " The Doctor" 
 
 ON the morning of the day so eventful to 
 Martha and Arthur Pennington, Bella Clu- 
 cas rose early. She rose singing, as people in 
 fine health ought to do. And there was nothing 
 Ruthie liked better than to hear his daughter s 
 voice in the soft cadences of Brown William, 
 158
 
 DRIFTING. 159 
 
 or Mollie Charrane, or some other old Manx 
 melody. As he lay between waking and 
 sleeping, enjoying his last delicious half-hour 
 of conscious rest, it soothed him as a lullaby 
 soothes a drowsy babe. 
 
 He was often cross and unreasonable early in 
 the morning, but it was rarely that this mascu 
 line failing affected Bella. Her bright beauty, 
 her bright smile, her caressing words and ways 
 were omnipotent with the domestic tyrant. 
 For her sake he forgave the stubborn facts 
 which compelled him to face daily duty, and 
 even the domestic exigencies which required 
 him to speak, before he had smoked at least 
 a couple of pipes. 
 
 This morning her singing set him thinking, 
 and not very pleasantly. At "the Fishers 
 Luck," the previous evening, Michael Morne 
 had said a word or two "jokin like " which 
 had angered him at the moment, and which 
 angered him more every time he remembered 
 them. He lay tossing and muttering to him 
 self, until the grumble gathered volume enough 
 to be distinctly heard by Mary, as she stood 
 by the breakfast-table skimming the milk. 
 
 " My Bella marry one of the quality ! Aw,
 
 160 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 divil the lot of them, a humbugging crowd ! 
 My Bella marry yandher fool of a captain ! 
 That s a big lie, and they may put it down at 
 once. I happen to know that. Happen to 
 know it partikkiler. Aw bless me ! My Bella 
 marry a stranger! The shame it would be, 
 and the wrong, and me to be standin by, and 
 seein it all ! Is it a fool or worse they re 
 thinkin me ? Too mad to curse I was last 
 night, but I ll be owing Michael nothin at all if 
 we meet again ; nothin at all, God bless me ! " 
 
 He pulled his blue flannel clothing on with 
 a viciousness that the invocation did not agree 
 with, and came to the fireside with a face de 
 fiant to his entire small world, except Bella. 
 When she stooped over, and put his boiled 
 herring before him, and peeped into his face, 
 his eyes brightened to her glance, and a half- 
 reluctant smile puckered the corners of his 
 grim mouth. 
 
 She affected her brother Gale in much the 
 same way, only Gale was too proud to show it. 
 A young Manxman does not permit his wo 
 men to see their power over him. He has his 
 domestic dignity to keep intact. Gale s father 
 had arrived at an age when his authority was
 
 DRIFTING. 161 
 
 as settled as that of Queen Victoria, and of 
 course he could be more tolerant and more 
 demonstrative. Yet, equally with his father, 
 Gale felt the influence of Bella s bright face, 
 and when she gave him his fish with a smile, 
 his heart responded to it, although he received 
 her attentions with an almost boorish indif 
 ference. 
 
 When the state of the fishing business per 
 mitted Ruthie and Gale to breakfast at home, 
 it was a meal usually eaten in stately silence. 
 The men were supposed to be pre-occupied 
 with the business of the day, a subject not to 
 be lightly discussed with women, and Mary 
 and Bella did not feel themselves at liberty to 
 break the masculine reserve which the lords of 
 the household affected. 
 
 A little flutter of flattering attention then 
 Avaited for Ruthie when he pushed his plate 
 aside and said ; " Bella, I want to talk to you. 
 There was words said with your name last 
 night I m not likin , nor Gale likin , and more 
 of the same kind will be makin it rather dan 
 ger s for somebody. Aw yes ! " 
 
 " What words, father? And you shouldn let 
 anybody be talkin of me, it s not like you."
 
 162 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 "Aw then, is it lies they re tellin ? Say so, 
 and I ll make them tired to death of the dirty 
 job they re at. It s Captain Pcnnington, the 
 young rapprebate, they re puttin with you. 
 Are you meetin him on the sly like, or are 
 you not ? " 
 
 Bella had a moment s temptation to equivo 
 cate, but the rough honesty and courage of her 
 father had been strained through her mother s 
 milk into her own nature, and she looked him 
 squarely in the face and answered : 
 
 "Sly like! Nonsense! Lies! I m not 
 axin the town to be watchin the walks I m 
 takin ; nor am I hidin either my road or my 
 company. Captain Pennington was with 
 me in the Glen, and on the beach ; more 
 than once he was with me, and may ill luck 
 come to the hearts that could think wrong 
 where no wrong was." 
 
 " Listen, Bella, my lass ! You ll be givin no 
 encouragement to the like of Captain Penning 
 ton, a poor scamp he is. I m thinkin" little of 
 him, spite of his nice ways ; bad at the core, 
 and fond of sin and takin his fill of it, and 
 nothin at all in him for you to be trustin to, 
 and a stranger, and nobody knowin anything
 
 DRIFTING. 163 
 
 of the men afore him, and not religious, nor 
 even the make-believe of it, aw, a bad lot, and 
 plannin and schemin and never straight on 
 all sides." 
 
 " Aw then, who is straight on all sides, fa 
 ther?" 
 
 " I am plumb straight ; and so is your bro 
 ther Gale, allis savin the thing we mane, 
 and doin the thing that s right." 
 
 " Chut, father ! I m never seein the man yet 
 v/ho hadn a fault, 
 
 ould David s son 
 
 The wise he was, and put in the Bible 
 For the wise he was, but unfortnit li ble 
 To women, and that s the way it is, 
 There isn one of us hasn t a list 
 To port or starboard. 
 
 Aw, bless me, faults enough in all of us ! " 
 
 " Not your place to be lookin for them in 
 your own men ; all right where you are ; and 
 if a drop too much or a hot word and a blow, 
 we are Manx fishermen, and the like is at 
 them all, and natheral as natheral ! " 
 
 " As I was sayin , the list in all men, gentle 
 men and fishers, and Captain Pennington not 
 worse than the rest."
 
 1 64 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " He s the divil himself and all his works to 
 the like of you ; and if I hear tell of spakin 
 to him, or walkin* with him, I ll I ll make 
 you sorry for it ! " and he struck the table a 
 blow which caused every dish to tremble, and 
 one gay basin which stood at his side to fall 
 upon the floor. 
 
 Bella gathered up the broken pieces and 
 stood with them in her hand. Gale was fin 
 ishing his last mouthfuls with an air of stolid 
 approval of all his father s words. Mary had 
 risen, and was going about the kitchen grum 
 bling sotto voce concerning the destruction of 
 her crockery and the tempers of men. 
 
 " Now then, Bella, what are the words you ll 
 be givin me? " 
 
 " I m not knowin ." 
 
 "Well then, I m knowin ; knowin them all, 
 and should be. Of coorse, you ll be done with 
 the captain, him and his ; a proud lot, be off 
 with them ! Bone to bone, and flesh to flesh, 
 and stand by your own people. Isn Lace 
 Corrin lovin you as if you were the one, just 
 the one woman, and no other? And sayin 
 so, and axin me about you, for honest love is 
 like a little child, you loves me and I loves
 
 DRIFTING. 165 
 
 you, and no hidin in the Glen and among the 
 rocks. Do it again, do it once again with 
 that Anglishman, and I ll ! " He lifted his 
 hand and brought it down this time at the 
 expense of a plate and a cup. Then he mo 
 tioned to Gale to rise, and taking his cap and 
 stick prepared to leave the cottage. 
 
 Bella flung the bits of broken crockery 
 which were in her hands upon the floor, and 
 touched her father on the arm : 
 
 "Father?" 
 
 Talkin back, is it ? Aw, scandalous ! Go 
 to your work." 
 
 " I want to say a word." 
 
 " Idikkilis ! I m wanting no words. Do 
 what I tell you, or it will be the worse for 
 him." 
 
 "A good deal the worse for him," added 
 Gale with a significant look at his sister, and 
 muttering to themselves the two men left the 
 cottage together. 
 
 Bella turned to her mother, for she was 
 burning with a sense of angry injustice, and 
 quite as ready to express it as her father or 
 brother. 
 
 " Mother, I m wonderin at you not spakin*
 
 1 66 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 for me when I wasn let spake for myself ; 
 wantin no words, my father said, and do 
 what I tell you/ and the threat for all, or it 
 will be the worse for him. 
 
 " Aw, then, I wish it was in Anglan he d 
 kept himself! Nothin but worry with him, 
 look at the good crockery broke to his name 
 this mornin , and your father and Gale away 
 with the thunder-cloud in their hearts, and like 
 to burst any time, and then trouble thallure 
 for every one ! " 
 
 " They re tryin to frecken me ! Folly ! 
 There s no fear in my heart." 
 
 " Of coorse not ; and the fear in your 
 father s heart nothin* to you. You re not to 
 be freckened ! Chut ! When the men speak 
 out you know what it will be, every word hot 
 from your father s lips and the blow with it, 
 and as for Gale, not many words to say, but 
 saying them hearty." 
 
 " You are hard to know, mother. One day 
 likin the captain and axin him in, and bringin 
 the cup of milk for him, and the next it s 
 much if you ll pass the time of day with him." 
 
 " Bless my soul, easy to know ! Easy ! For- 
 gettin myself I was for a minute or two, and
 
 DRIFTING. 167 
 
 then the divil had his chance, and when so, 
 spakin up for his own quick and ready. For 
 it s a waverin heart I ve had between you and 
 your father ; winkin at your meetin the man 
 on Monday, and prayin God to forgive the 
 winkin on Tuesday. Then when you was up 
 the Glen Wednesday, purtendin to think you 
 was with Jinny Clague, and Thursday frettin 
 the heart out of me for the weakness in it. 
 Friday forgettin a minute and bewitched again 
 with the sweet ways of the man, and axin him 
 to the very hearthstone, and then Saturday 
 callin myself hard names every hour of the day 
 for my folly. Sunday itself watchin him and 
 you in the church, when I should be readin 
 the prayers, God forgive me, and thus and so, 
 till I wouldn say, if I was on my knees, 
 whether I was doin* right or wrong. But 
 knowin for all, a way couldn be a right way 
 that was so confusin , for the right road is a 
 straight one, no matter how hard and steep, 
 and no fear of your losin yourself on it." 
 
 " Threatenin , allis threatenin ! Miss Har 
 riet warnin me ; let her take her warnin to 
 herself ; and father warnin me, and Gale. 
 What for? George is lovin* me and sayin so,
 
 168 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 and axin me to be his wife, and where s the 
 wrong?" 
 
 " Has he asked your father for you, Bella ! " 
 
 " Father wouldn listen to him. I m knowin 
 directly how it would be, No, sir, and niver be 
 spakin to my daughter again. 
 
 " Aw then, why will you be wantin him ? 
 Not like you, nor ever will be. The differ is 
 from the start and can t be altered." 
 
 " There s no differ, mother. Love aequals 
 all." 
 
 " Folly, talk for nothin ! Put your cloak 
 and bonnet on, and carry Mona the stockin s 
 I ve been knittin for the children ; the sea 
 breeze will be calmin you, and takin the trem 
 ble out of your heart." 
 
 "You re not thinkin , mother. I might be 
 meetin him. He knew I was goin to Mona s 
 to-day." 
 
 " Aw then, say the last words, and tell him 
 to lay off Gale and your father, Gale specially. 
 Ax him to go away, to go to Anglan till your 
 both forgettin . If you don t there will be 
 more sorrow than a few sweet words can cure." 
 
 "Threats again, I m not mindin them out 
 of every mouth, and you are spakin as easy
 
 DRIFTING. 169 
 
 as if you were sayin , Tell Mona there is but 
 ter thallure in the house and send no more. 
 You speak like love was nothin but sweet 
 words, and forgettin easy to do as sleepin . 
 It s very hard on me, mother." 
 
 " Bella, ma chree, the same for me. Them s 
 common words. One way or another, all 
 women are sayin them. Men have the brunt 
 of life, and we have its heartache. That s 
 God s will, and you won t be contendin with 
 it surely ! " 
 
 Bella did not answer, but the contendin 
 was in her face and in her every action. She 
 was rebelling against the apparent injustice of 
 the situation, and the rebellion gave a kind 
 of majesty to her person. She snapped the 
 latches of her shoes, and flung her blue cloak 
 over her shoulders with an impetuous authority. 
 A man dressing for a duel might have shown 
 the same indignant haste. Her cheeks were 
 flaming, her eyes flashing, the heavy coil of her 
 bright hair seemed alive with the same spirit. 
 It would not be restrained. The pins tumbled 
 out and the rippling mass fell to her waist, 
 each individual hair alive with an impetuous 
 sympathy.
 
 17 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 She walked with a speed which soon brought 
 her to her sister-in-law s cottage. There she 
 was compelled in some measure to control 
 her feelings. She was not inclined to make a 
 confidant of Mona, she thought it sufficient to 
 say " there had been words with father," and 
 Ruthie s temper was an admitted household 
 defect. His women-folk were not expected 
 to make more complaint of it than they would 
 have made of a wind that blew the smoke 
 down the chimney. After a short rest she 
 took the elder children to the beach. While 
 they were playing and catching crabs, she in 
 tended to consider her position, and decide 
 upon her future relationship with her lover. 
 
 Mona s cottage was in a rocky inlet, and 
 there was no other near it. Bella was grateful 
 for its loneliness and for the long, solemn mur 
 mur of the breaking waves. There was a cer 
 tain harmony between their restless roll and 
 the restless beating of her heart. Their move 
 ments seemed analogous. She felt that the 
 tide was not the only pulsation of the mighty 
 sea. The shouting children were as much out 
 side her trouble as were the long files of sea 
 gulls, fluttering above the waters, and cawing
 
 DRIFTING. 171 
 
 about their own perplexities. The air had the 
 first chill of the winter in it, but Bella was 
 glad of its freshness and strength. She took 
 off her bonnet and let it blow through her 
 loosened hair, and fill her with its own cheerful 
 vitality. 
 
 Far off in the sapphire streak beyond the 
 verge of the gray coast headlands, she saw the 
 skiff of her lover. He was waiting for her 
 signal, but she was not ready to give it. For 
 very, very low down in her heart, there was a 
 voice she had constantly silenced. She was 
 going now to let it speak, to listen to all that 
 it had to say. It was a mournful thing that 
 interview with her slighted conscience. And 
 how it accused her ! The reproofs of her 
 father and mother had only been a fret, com 
 pared with its stern truths. 
 
 " You know that there has been a reservation 
 in all your lover s promises." 
 
 " You know that when asked to speak to 
 your father he has always made an excuse." 
 
 " You know he has not deceived you, so 
 much as you have willingly deceived your 
 self." 
 
 "You know that he has not treated you pre-
 
 172 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 cisely as he would have treated a lady in his 
 own rank." 
 
 " You know that there is no excuse for the 
 difference. If he means ever to make you his 
 wife, it is as easy to tell the world so to-day as 
 it will be a year hence." 
 
 To these and many other truths she permit 
 ted a long-delayed audience. Little slights, 
 thoughtless words, thoughtless silences, small 
 sympathies looked for and not received, lapses 
 of love s duty that seemed to be mere nega 
 tions, which she would not have liked to have 
 put into words ; she now compelled herself to 
 examine, to listen to her heart s complaint of 
 them. She knew then that she was more 
 deeply wounded than she had understood. 
 She was ashamed for the words she had not 
 spoken, she felt that she had been guilty of 
 tolerations which in that hour sorely wounded 
 her self-respect. 
 
 And when a woman can honestly bring in 
 such a bill of offences, it behooves her to make 
 her lover walk in the sight of the world, and 
 fulfil to the letter the world s demands. If he 
 still prefer a byway to a highway, then she 
 should leave him to pursue it alone, for the
 
 DRIFTING. 173 
 
 end thereof is in the house of sorrow, or per 
 haps in the still darker homes of sin, and 
 shame, and death. 
 
 Bella blinked none of these conclusions. She 
 was not afraid of being too hard with George, 
 her heart swayed her quite sufficiently in his 
 favor. But it is rarely people can come to a 
 wise decision until the moment for it arrives. 
 Bella felt that it was not alone, but at the side 
 of her lover, that all her permanent resolutions 
 must be made ; and she sent the children home 
 and then answered his signal. 
 
 In twenty minutes she was at a rocky pro 
 jection which made a natural pier and allowed 
 her to step into the boat. " You have kept me 
 waiting a long time, Bella," he said fretfully. 
 Then he gave her his hand with that calm con 
 fidence which is the marital privilege, and 
 which it is an assurance for a lover to feel. 
 And she remembered that he had once loved 
 to lift her across the narrow rift. 
 
 Then suddenly there came into her mind a 
 determination to be happy for at least two 
 hours. "And the end of it, the end of it?" 
 She put the question angrily down. " In two 
 hours I ll tell the end of it. Two hours isn t
 
 174 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 much to be owin fate, and I ll be riskin it 
 anyway." For in the girl s heart there was an 
 unacknowledged doubt, a fear of her lover. 
 She was taking the two hours to strengthen 
 her influence over him, before she put it to the 
 test. 
 
 As she made the determination her face 
 cleared, it broke up into smiles and sunshine, 
 it became luminous with the light of love be 
 hind it. George instantly answered its reflec 
 tion. He had an almost childish capacity for 
 taking the pleasure of the moment. He 
 thought it the greatest folly to spoil the hap 
 piness of what is, with the thought of what 
 may be. 
 
 The little boat drifted on a smooth sea under 
 Scarlett. In the great, gray clouds of the 
 Stack, speckled clouds of gulls were resting. 
 On the horizon a twenty-ton cutter was lazily 
 lifted by the heaving sweep that broke on the 
 buttresses of the Calf of Man. There was not 
 a sound but the ripple around the boat, the 
 distant booming of the muffled sea, or the 
 warning cry of some motherly guillemot. 
 
 They drifted close in to the land. The 
 water was clear to the bottom. Lovely bits
 
 DRIFTING. 175 
 
 of seaweed pushed their fronds to the surface, 
 and Bella let her hand drop and ripple the 
 water around them. The sea was ringed with 
 azure, the land veiled in a purplish haze show 
 ing through it the dark masses of South Bar- 
 rule, and the limestone cliffs of Castletown 
 shore. All the enchantments of the North were 
 over the island, and the pensive charm of 
 autumn, its subdued lights and adorable air of 
 mystery and silence. 
 
 The impetuous and angry mood which had 
 dominated Bella when she left home had ex 
 pressed itself in the careless independence of 
 her dress. She had made a pretty garment 
 for this very day, but she scorned to wear it. 
 However, the most refined taste has discovered 
 since Bella proudly wore her blue flannel dress, 
 that it is one of beauty s most becoming cos 
 tumes. George Pennington had already dis 
 covered its possibilities. He knew that it 
 formed a telling background for the milk and 
 roses of her fair skin, that it matched the blue, 
 wandering veins, and contrasted as nothing else 
 could the glory of her red-brown hair. He 
 thought also that the large blue flannel cloak 
 wrapped her noble figure like a royal mantle.
 
 176 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 But he threw its hood backward. He liked 
 to see the wind blowing in her hair and the 
 sunshine turning it into strands of gold. It 
 was yet instinct with contradiction and in 
 clined to the most picturesque disorder. Never 
 had Bella looked so altogether lovely and de 
 sirable. He spoke to her in those low, pas 
 sionate tones which convince women in defi 
 ance of their will and their judgment. He 
 gave to the sweet platitudes and trivialities of 
 love infinite freshness and interest. For, one 
 hour at least, the blown, wet face of the sea 
 caught the reflection of two faces perfectly 
 beautiful and perfectly happy. 
 
 The delightful dream was broken by a voice 
 as imperative as that of love, the voice of 
 hunger. Then George lifted a basket and 
 placed it between them, and they ate from its 
 dainties with the freedom and keen enjoy 
 ment of two children. 
 
 " Oh, the sea, the sea ! " cried George, as 
 he sat smoking afterwards ; smoking, and 
 holding Bella s right hand in his left. " Oh, 
 the sea, and the pulse of its tide, and its 
 quiver and beat, and the freshness of its 
 wind, and the salt of its foam on the lips !
 
 DRIFTING. 177 
 
 Bella, the great mother of the world is the 
 sea ! " 
 
 "Aw, then, a cruel mother; fed with the 
 lives of the good men doin their daily duty ; 
 pleasant at times like the now, but allis 
 slantin off into storm and trouble. If the 
 wind would rise a trifle, and come down as it 
 can from the north, you d find it very 
 bewild rin , near as we are to the land." 
 
 " Chut ! It would only need a shoulder and 
 wrist and hand. I like a taste of fierce, fresh 
 weather, when the gunwale dips and rakes, 
 Bella, and the pennant flies straight, and the 
 rain is in the face, and the face in the teeth of 
 the wind." 
 
 " You didn know what you was afther when 
 you made yourself a soldier. It is the sea you 
 should be on. The fond you are of it, amaz 
 ing, the fond. My father and Gale are fishers, 
 but not lovin the sea as you do." 
 
 " They do not even think of it as I think of 
 it. What it may do to them, and how they 
 may get even with it ; what they can make 
 out of it, and how sails and ropes may baffle 
 its anger, or make it serve their ends ; they 
 know all that. But they would not go to sea
 
 1 78 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 for pleasure. They would not care to drift 
 idly about with wind or tide as we are doing; 
 drifting, drifting, drifting, with no object but 
 to be alone and happy." 
 
 One word startled her, " drifting." 
 " Driftin , driftin , and God knows where !" 
 she muttered. " Slow or fast, the end must 
 come, and has come, God help me ! " 
 " What are you talking about, Bella? " 
 Then she told him all that her father and 
 mother had said, and she warned him of their 
 anger, " Not wantin trouble for any one," 
 she added sadly, " and father and Gale are 
 danger s. Father may talk his anger down, 
 but Gale s quiet, and it s the still men that 
 use the knives they carry." 
 
 George listened with all his mind. He was 
 thinking rapidly while Bella was speaking, and 
 he was in earnest, for all his senses were very 
 much so. He must give her up or take her 
 entirely to himself. It had come to that 
 point, for he saw plainly that she would not 
 again disobey the positive command given her. 
 For Bella s fears as well as her conscience were 
 aroused. Whatever her father might do, Gale 
 made no idle threats. Any meeting now
 
 DRIFTING. 179 
 
 would be shadowed by fear, and very likely 
 followed by tragedy. 
 
 This, then, was to be either the end of their 
 love or its beginning under fresh circum 
 stances. A crisis had come which George had 
 often contemplated. He was now to test the 
 strength of his influence over Bella ; to find 
 out how far her love for him would carry her. 
 He was going to make an unrestrained and 
 unrecoverable claim upon it, and he looked at 
 her with an uneasy scrutiny: "Would she 
 meet it ? "
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 
 
 " I can forgive a foe 
 But not a lover and a friend. 
 Treason is there in its most horrid shape 
 Where trust is greatest ; and the soul resigned 
 Is stabbed by her own guards." 
 
 " Where when the gods would be cruel 
 
 Do they go for a torture ? where 
 Plant thorns ? set pain like a jewel ! 
 Ah, not in the flesh ! not there. 
 
 The racks of earth and the rods, 
 
 Are weak as foam on the sands ; 
 In the heart is the prey of the gods, 
 
 Who crucify hearts, not hands." 
 
 BELLA S narrative had been delayed by 
 questions and remarks longer than either 
 dreamed of. When she ceased speaking 
 George saw by the light on the water that the 
 afternoon was advancing. His eyes were full 
 of speculation, but not so full but that he per 
 ceived a suspicious-looking little yacht in 
 their wake. Bella saw it at the same moment, 
 180
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. II 
 
 " Look to the aesthard," she said : " are you 
 knowin the boat ? " 
 
 " It is DinwoodtVs, I feel sure." Then in 
 obedience to that instinct which makes us talk 
 of trivial and irrelevant things when the mind 
 is burdened with some weighty or sorrowful 
 subject, he added : " He says he carried that 
 yacht in his head for twenty years. It would 
 have been a mercy if he had kept her there." 
 
 " Will she pass us ? She can if she wishes." 
 
 " I was thinking of that. There is the little 
 inlet around that point and the pretty bit of 
 sand, or the gorge for a walk. We can reach 
 it in ten minutes, and we can talk better there 
 than at sea. I have something very serious to 
 say to you, Bella." 
 
 "At sea one is out of sight and hearin , 
 and the yacht may know the inlet ; she looks 
 as if she did." 
 
 " Perhaps she does, but Dinwoodie hates 
 what he calls going into holes ; Castletown 
 Bay is too small for his cockle-shell, his idea 
 of an anchorage for it is Leith Roads, or the 
 basin of the Mersey. He wouldn t dream of 
 Vorg inlet." 
 
 They had been sittkig face to face, George
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 resting npon his oars, letting the boat rise and 
 fall to the gentle set of the outgoing tide. 
 But Bella now took the tiller, and George sent 
 the little craft spinning through the smooth 
 water at a speed which brought them quickly 
 to the Vorg inlet. And as it had been used 
 by smugglers there were several conveniences 
 there for fastening boats. Like the majority 
 of such little bays, it not only spread out in a 
 pretty expanse of land-locked sand, it also 
 wound inland by many a turn, so devious that 
 every tiny level seemed to be the end of it, 
 until some half-hidden footpath was discov 
 ered, which led around the rocks or through 
 the gorse to another secluded reach. 
 
 It seemed to George that no place on earth 
 could be more suitable for putting the ques 
 tion to Bella which he was now determined to 
 risk. He gave her his hand and led her with 
 many a sweet or merry word, and many a lov 
 ing glance, to the second reach. Here they 
 could not even see the ocean. 
 
 They were in a rocky cup the sides of which 
 were lovely with ferns and bluebells and Our 
 Lady s fingers. There was the scent of rose 
 mary in it, and the delicate fragrance of dying
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 183 
 
 herbs. The turf was soft to their feet, the 
 ocean murmur haunted the silent place like a 
 spirit voice. 
 
 The road to it was a little steep and the day 
 warm for the season, so Bella had taken off 
 her cloak. George looked at the flush in her 
 face, the light in her blue eyes, the radiance 
 that seemed to emanate from her bright hair, 
 and felt the enthralment of her physical 
 beauty as he had never done before. But this 
 was not all her charm ; she complemented his 
 nature fully in other respects. For, though 
 George was clever, it was merely acquired 
 cleverness. He had bought his knowledge as 
 he had bought his clothes ; mentally he had 
 less originality than Bella. And though he 
 did not recognize or acknowledge the fact, 
 Bella s strength of will, and the noble key to 
 which her whole life was set, filled him with 
 that vague admiration which the weak always 
 feel for the strong. 
 
 There was a moss-covered stone in the bot 
 tom of the cup, and they sat down upon it. 
 " Do you know that we are really in fairy 
 land?" asked Bella a little solemnly. "Danny 
 Fell and his sister Onca saw the little people
 
 1 84 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 here no further gone than last March. The 
 children, God bless them, were comin for 
 the first violets, and delayed, they were playin 
 a bit, and huntin the flowers a bit, and so on 
 till the twilight. And up there among the 
 alders Onca came upon a washin of fairy linen 
 spread out to dry ! It s thrue I m tellin , and 
 saw two little people turnin* the things that 
 were no bigger than doll clothes, and finer 
 than spider-webs for all." 
 
 So far George had suffered her to proceed 
 without remark. He was dreaming his own 
 fairy tale and wondering how to tell it best. 
 But he soon grew impatient. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " he interrupted. " There are 
 no fairies." 
 
 " The innercent children were sayin so, and 
 I was seein them myself when I was a little 
 one, not now, of coorse ! Eyes that have 
 looked on sin and sorrow grow dim. It s none 
 but the pure in heart can be seein the good 
 little people." 
 
 " Bella, there is a world fairer than fairy 
 world, full of splendors and pleasures you 
 have never dreamt of. I spoke to you once or 
 twice about India "
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 185 
 
 " I wasn regardin much, knowin it far 
 away, but a dream like ! The gold and the 
 jewels, and the grand ould cities, and allis sun 
 shine and flowers and fine scents ! And the 
 house we were to have in the shady garden, 
 and the fine dressin , and all a pufHc fairy 
 life, but never for the like of me." 
 
 He took his text from her disclaimer, and 
 insisted upon the reality of the prospect. He 
 was vitally interested on this subject, and he 
 spoke with the passionate eloquence of a lover 
 whose hopes and aims, and feelings and intel 
 lect, have all set themselves to the accomplish 
 ment of one end. Into the cool freshness of 
 that green glen he brought the sensuous, lan 
 guorous atmosphere of Indian spice gardens, 
 the splendors of Indian courts, the excite 
 ment of Indian garrison life, the enchant 
 ments of a flower-hid home into which only 
 the fondest love was to enter. 
 
 Bella s interest gradually kindled until it 
 answered his own. Her sympathy made him 
 really eloquent. She was at last as enthusi 
 astic as he could desire, and when he said, " It 
 is high time, Bella, that we were getting ready 
 for our journey/ she looked at him with a face
 
 1 86 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 in which there was nothing left of doubt or 
 regret. 
 
 " We must go first to London. There are 
 people in London whose business it is to fur 
 nish precisely the kind of clothing requisite 
 for the Indian climate. They will make you 
 the most exquisite linen and gowns, white 
 gowns, Bella, fine and flimsy as the fairy linen 
 which Dan and Onca saw, white, with bows 
 of pale pink and blue satin ribbons. You will 
 have lovely laces, and gypsy bonnets trimmed 
 with violets, and hosiery of Lisle open-work, 
 and shoes with soles as thin as your finger 
 nail. And how beautiful on your round milk- 
 white throat will be the gold chain I shall buy 
 you, and the bracelets for your arms, and the 
 rings for your fingers, sapphire rings to match 
 your eyes, ruby rings to match your lips, pearl 
 rings to match your firm white teeth. I think, 
 indeed, when I see you dressed as you ought 
 to be dressed, I shall fall down and worship 
 you. Oh, Bella, my girl of gold, my treasure 
 of maidens, what a life of joy we shall lead ! 
 
 Bella did not conceal her delight. " I have 
 wanted beautiful things," she said, "wanted 
 to look lovely for your sake."
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 187 
 
 " It is Thursday afternoon ; the boat sails 
 from Douglas to Liverpool on Saturday. 
 Bella, it will be easy for you to make a little 
 trouble at home to-night, and then in conse 
 quence of it go to Douglas to-morrow. Leave 
 a note saying you intend to stay with your 
 aunt a week ; till the trouble gets over. I will 
 take care your father and mother see me late 
 on Friday, and then after midnight I will ride 
 into Douglas and be on the Liverpool boat to 
 meet you when you come on board. Here is 
 my purse, darling, you know you must have 
 money, and all that I have is yours." 
 
 It was a purse of silk, and the sovereigns 
 glinted through it as he put it in her hand. 
 She let it fall through her fingers as if it 
 burned them, and it lay on the sod at their 
 feet. 
 
 " You must have money, Bella ; my money 
 is yours, and you will take it, dear? " 
 
 " The need ? My father will be givin me 
 money if I want it, till I am your wife." 
 
 " But your father will not let me marry you 
 if he knows it." 
 
 "Be axin him plain out. Tell him about 
 India, and the way you are wantin me to go.
 
 1 88 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 The right it is, and the raysonable, and what 
 every father s expectin , of coorse ! " 
 
 "Bella, this is one thing you must trust in 
 me ; can t you trust me, darling? I happen to 
 know that your father and Gale have both 
 vowed that you shall not marry me.V 
 
 "Aw then, who was tellin you? Ask my 
 father, it is your putting him by that is 
 angerin him. That was the word he was 
 throwin in my face allis, that you were feared 
 to ask him." 
 
 " Nothing will come of asking him but 
 trouble. We must get married, and then he 
 will forgive us." 
 
 "A girl is likin to be marriet among her 
 people." 
 
 "But think, Bella, what trouble we may pre 
 vent. Your father and Gale will be setting 
 every fisher on his head. You will have no 
 peace night or day. Harriet and mother will 
 be equally as unreasonable. Harriet will be 
 down at the cottage to scold you " 
 
 "Aw then, I needn lizzen to her." 
 
 " And mother will send for you to the House, 
 and cry and plead." 
 
 " I needn go to the House."
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 189 
 
 " And between you and them all, what a 
 time I shall have ! Now if we go away quietly, 
 when the thing is done it is done, and what 
 can they say about it ? " 
 
 " You mean when we are married ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then when and where shall we be mar 
 ried ? " She looked into his eyes as she asked 
 the question, and George was troubled by the 
 clear, straight look. 
 
 " Well, it depends." 
 
 " What time does the boat sail from 
 Douglas?" 
 
 "At ten o clock." 
 
 "Then we could be married at Douglas?" 
 
 " No, that would be impossible. As we 
 have not been called in church for three Sun 
 days, we must have a license from the Bishop 
 or the Governor." 
 
 "You were sayin the Governor was your 
 friend, ask him for a license." 
 
 " The very worst person to ask ; he would 
 go at once to my mother." 
 
 She was watching him with- an almost 
 startling scrutiny; but he was gazing in 
 tently on the ground as if deeply .exercised
 
 190 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 with the possibilities and difficulties of the 
 situation. 
 
 " In Liverpool, how can you manage any 
 better?" 
 
 " We shall be in the same predicament there. 
 In fact we cannot safely remain in Liverpool. 
 Your father and Gale are almost certain to 
 follow us there. Until we reach London we 
 cannot rest. There we shall be perfectly safe." 
 
 " The far will be nothin to Gale if he is in- 
 tarmined to find us. And what will I do in 
 London without my mother or my kin to 
 shalter me? People would be thinkin ill of 
 me, and I deservin it. The questions they d 
 ask and the way they d look ! Oh, I m know- 
 in it all." 
 
 " But I should be with you, Bella. Do you 
 think I should leave you for a moment? I 
 know exactly where to take you, a quiet old 
 house looking into gardens, and a nice old 
 lady who will be as respectful to you as if you 
 were the queen herself. I shall tell her that 
 you are my wife, as indeed you are in the sight 
 of God, and- as for the form of the thing, we 
 will have that attended to as soon and as 
 quietly as possible."
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 19 
 
 As he spoke she withdrew her hand from 
 his, but he did not notice the action. He was 
 still looking intently upon the turf, or perhaps 
 at the purse lying upon it, and which he did 
 not lift because he still hoped that Bella would 
 need and accept it. This acceptance of his 
 money would mean her submission to his will ; 
 it was good policy, therefore, to give the sig 
 nificant symbol as little importance as pos 
 sible. 
 
 He felt that he was in a position where a 
 word too far, an action too precipitate, would 
 be fatal to his desires. He knew Bella s quick 
 temper and its ready modes of expression ; he 
 was therefore pleased and surprised at her 
 calm and reasonable discussion of his propo 
 sal. The withdrawal of her hand meant noth 
 ing to him. He was so occupied with noting 
 every inflection of her voice, that this expres 
 sive gesture escaped his notice. 
 
 But he was conscious of a change when she 
 spoke next : 
 
 "Are you manin that I would be takin 
 your name, before God and man gave it to 
 me? " 
 
 " I give it to you, Bella."
 
 192 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " That s beyand your power. I ll be kapin 
 my own name, of coorse, till I ve the right to 
 yours." 
 
 " But listen, Bella. I can only take you to 
 my home in London as my wife. To be with 
 me under your own name would cause scan 
 dal, and I must preserve my wife from even a 
 suspicion of wrong." 
 
 " To be with you, and me not marriet to 
 you. Of coorse scandal, and couldn miss 
 it, and didn ought to." 
 
 41 Bella, don t be absurd, a girl of your sense. 
 You are my wife now, God and I have heard 
 your promise. A few words and a ring, how 
 can they make you more so ? " 
 
 He spoke irritably. He was really angry at 
 Bella making objections after all his patience 
 and his eloquence. He felt as if in some way 
 she had deceived him. And ere he had fin 
 ished speaking he became aware that Bella 
 also was angry. 
 
 She had risen from his side, and when he 
 lifted his eyes to her he saw what frightened 
 him. All Bella s blood had fled to her heart, 
 her face was white as milk and stern as gran 
 ite. And yet her angry soul imparted to it a
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLVCAS. 193 
 
 strangely luminous aspect. She stood before 
 him in a white cold light, just as he had often 
 seen her in one of tender rose, or golden 
 radiance. 
 
 " What is the matter now, Bella ? " 
 
 " You are not axin me to be your wife, 
 George Pennington, and I m just findin you 
 out, sir." 
 
 " Upon my honor ! " 
 
 " A poor oath. The name of the Lord on 
 your lips is lies ! I m not regardin it." 
 
 "Bella!" 
 
 " My name is soiled if you speak it. Say it 
 no more. Do not touch my hand. No, I will 
 not listen to you." 
 
 " Bella, I was just trying you. I ll marry 
 you at St. Mary s, in Castletown, before all 
 the world. Don t go, Bella." 
 
 " You were tryin me, that is, you were 
 doubtin me. If I was wicked as Jezebel, I 
 am too good for you. And why wouldn you 
 marry me before the world? What God 
 sees, the world may well be seein . But I 
 wouldn marry you, not if you sought me till 
 your hair was gray. The insult you ve put 
 between us ! It s a deep gulf, desperate
 
 194 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 deep ! You ll never cross it, never, never, 
 never! " 
 
 " Oh remember, Bella, what we have been 
 to each other ! " 
 
 " I ll remember nothin* but them last words. 
 Up or down, young or old, I ll never forget 
 them." 
 
 The majesty of outraged love and virtue 
 gave to her person, her voice, her unconscious 
 dramatic poise, an authority not to be de 
 scribed. She was positively splendid. From 
 the arch of her scornful eyes she sent him a 
 look which he was not able to endure. He 
 sat cowering on the rock at her feet, with his 
 head in his hands. But he could not let her 
 go with this hopelessness for the future ring 
 ing in his ears. He forced himself to confront 
 the angry girl; he said penitently: 
 
 "Forgive me, Bella! It was a mistake, a 
 moment s mistake." 
 
 " No, no, no ! If the devil had took you on 
 the sudden, unknownced like, mayve I might, 
 the Lord knows ; but it s weeks back you ve 
 been plannin and plottin , gradjal , gradjal , 
 climbin inch by inch as the devil bid you to 
 the sin wanted. Thinkin to lift me off my
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 195 
 
 feet with your fine words and promises, and 
 then, God help me, I was to trip and fall : 
 fall lower than yourself, fall to the bottomless 
 pit. My father was tellin me allis, that you 
 were a villain ; you are worse than he priced 
 you at. The wicked you are, the cruel, the 
 cowardly, to try and slay a girl s honor with 
 her love. Aw, scandalous ! " 
 
 She lifted her cloak and turned from him, 
 but in a moment her steps were arrested. 
 Colonel Sutcliffe and Harriet Pennington 
 were standing a few yards away, Miss Din- 
 woodie and Lieutenant Greyson just com 
 ing into sight. Others were doubtless be 
 hind. Colonel Sutcliffe advanced rapidly, 
 saying : 
 
 " Miss Clucas, George, we have I fear in 
 truded, unintentionally, however." 
 
 " Bella ! You here ! Alone with Captain 
 Pennington ! I am astonished at you ! " 
 
 And Miss Pennington looked astonished, 
 and angry also. But when one is under the 
 surgeon s knife the prick of a pin matters little. 
 Bella was hardly aware of the reproof, and she 
 did not answer it. A momentary glance at 
 the intruders, a glance at once appealing and
 
 196 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 defiant, was the only evidence that she con 
 sciously acknowledged their presence. 
 
 Lieutenant Greyson had gone back to the 
 rest of the party. Kitty and Harriet stood 
 together ; Colonel Sutcliffe was speaking in a 
 low voice to George. Bella felt for all her sur 
 roundings the most supreme indifference. She 
 was possessed by her own sorrowful and indig 
 nant spirit, and it gave her the privilege of 
 supremacy. Such trifles as class distinctions 
 or the opinion of the smiling, curious crowd 
 around her sank far below the tide of her cal 
 culation. She looked beyond George, and he 
 did not look at her, but Colonel Sutcliffe s 
 kind eyes were full of pity for the beautiful girl. 
 He even forgot her beauty, he saw only that 
 her flesh and blood was for the moment spirit 
 ualized, that it radiated at every invisible point 
 an atmosphere of anguish and indignation. 
 
 She did not hesitate more than a minute as 
 to her course, but the uncomfortable tension 
 made it appear more. The way up the hill 
 was the longer way, but it was lonely and she 
 resolved to take it. The momentary tempta 
 tion to brave the slant looks and low laughter 
 which might accompany her to the boat, she
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. Ip7 
 
 put down with the thought. It was but a 
 spurious bravery, one possible to the lowest 
 nature ; it had Bella s contempt as soon as it 
 presented itself. 
 
 Solitude, solitude, space and silence to 
 wring her hands and sob aloud, that was the 
 imperious cry of her wounded heart, and she 
 listened to it. With rapid steps she crossed 
 the small inclosure and passed behind the wall 
 of gorse which hid the upward road. In her 
 direct path lay the purse of sovereigns which 
 she had refused to hold in her hands. With a 
 conscious indignation she put her foot firmly 
 upon it, and even at the moment she heard 
 her soul whisper sweetly, " How much better 
 under your foot than in your hand ! " And 
 she walked proudly onward to the comforting 
 whisper; it was like the stir of music to the 
 marching soldier. 
 
 "Thank heaven, the girl is gone ! After all 
 we have done for her! What base ingrati 
 tude ! What" 
 
 " Be quiet, Harriet. Bella did as much for 
 mother and you, as you did for her." George 
 spoke with a dull anger, like a man scarcely 
 conscious of his words.
 
 198 FEE T OP CLAY. 
 
 At this moment Miss Dinwoodie perceived 
 the purse, and she offered it to George. " I 
 am sure it is yours," she said pleasantly. "To 
 lose your purse, and quarrel with your sweet 
 heart in the same hour, is a trouble too 
 many. Peeple often quarrel with their sweet 
 hearts ; it always ends right. You have 
 recovered your purse, take it for a good 
 omen." 
 
 "How kind you are, Kitty! You don t 
 know how kind you are." 
 
 " Come, George, you have kept every one 
 waiting long enough." 
 
 " They need not wait for me, Harriet, I am 
 not going home with them." 
 
 And from this position George would not 
 be moved. The rest of the party were sitting 
 on the turf, or rocks, at the entrance of the 
 dell, amid forced laughter and badinage wait 
 ing the end of the drama. Kitty and Harriet 
 joined them. Colonel Sutcliffe only delayed 
 long enough to say : 
 
 " George, why don t you follow her ? Make 
 haste. You can surely overtake her on the 
 Shergy." 
 
 " Thank you. I will. I had forgotten ;
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 199 
 
 get the girls away. I hardly know what I am 
 doing." 
 
 In a few moments he was alone, and then he 
 followed Bella, with fleet footsteps. But a 
 woman walking to some vehement feeling is 
 difficult to keep step with, much less to over 
 take. George did not see her until he stepped 
 upon the Shergy, and then only very far off, 
 a swiftly moving figure deaf to his calls and 
 beyond his reach. 
 
 Indeed she was not only obeying the imper 
 ative need of her restless heart by her rapid 
 walking, she was also anxious to reach her 
 home and bespeak her mother s sympathy, 
 before the return of her father and Gale. But 
 in this desire she was disappointed. When 
 she entered the cottage she found them 
 already there. Her mother was spreading the 
 cloth for the evening meal, and Ruthie sat in 
 his big chair on the hearthstone, examining 
 his almanac and humming snatches of an old 
 Manx ballad concerning the fight between 
 Ivor and Roderikk. Gale was studying the 
 lines on paper of a new boat which he in 
 tended to build.
 
 2oo FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " I like the lines," said Gale, " she ll be won 
 derful weatherly aw wonderful ! 
 
 They re makin me laugh, 
 
 Them chaps with their yachts, the onaisy they are, 
 And the delicate, and the particular ! 
 Chut ! the trim is in the boat. 
 Ballast away ! but the trim s in the float, 
 In the very make of her. That s the trimmin ! 
 And by gough, it s the same with men and women. * 
 
 Bella, bless my soul ! what is the matter with 
 you ? " 
 
 " I m sick, Gale, and havin a turn. I ll be 
 spakin in a minute or two." 
 
 She went into a little shed where there was 
 always cold water and splashed it over her 
 face and throat and arms, and then drank a 
 deep draught. Her mother watched her with 
 pitiful eyes. " You ve had a trouble, Bella. 
 Oh, ma chree, you ve had a trouble ! " 
 
 "A bitter cup to drink, mother, and when 
 I ve spoke to father and Gale send me to my 
 bed. It s alone, alone, I want to be, needin 
 peace more than food or drink, or even the 
 kind word." 
 
 " Alone you shall be, Bella, alone till you re 
 * The Doctor.
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 2OI 
 
 wantin your mother, ma chree, and then there s 
 my heart to bury your sorrow in, and my 
 tongue to spake for you." 
 
 Bella laid her cheek against her mother s 
 cheek, and holding her hand they went to 
 gether to the sitting-room. 
 
 " Father." 
 
 Ruthie put down his almanac and took off 
 his spectacles, and looked into his daughter s 
 white face with a curious anxiety. 
 
 " My lass, what is it ? " 
 
 " Father, I want to tell you, and Gale, and 
 mother," she turned to Gale as she named him, 
 and held tighter her mother s hand, " I want to 
 tell you all a true word. You bade me never 
 speak to Captain Pennington again. I spoke 
 to him to-day, but I promise you never more, 
 never while the tide swells or the moon 
 shines." 
 
 " My lass ! My lass ! I ve been afeard of 
 him, mortal. But if you ll stand to that, the 
 happy you ll make me, you can t tell the 
 happy ! " 
 
 " I ll stand to it." 
 
 " The for ? " asked Gale, laying down his 
 papers and going to Bella s side. " The for ?
 
 202 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 What has he done to you ? What has he 
 said ? " 
 
 " He s done nothin", Gale, and what he said 
 I answered. There isn t one word owin . But 
 I feel as if I had paid him with my life-blood. 
 I must go away never name him in my 
 hearin , I don t know him. Mirrieu ! Mir- 
 rieu ! Dead ! dead ! " She put her head on 
 her mother s breast and shuddered from head 
 to foot. 
 
 Ruthie stood up and kissed her. He took 
 her in his arms and kissed her again, looking 
 into his wife s face with an understanding sym 
 pathy. Then Mary went with her daughter to 
 the small room which was her own. She loos 
 ened her clothing, unshod her feet, and helped 
 her, as if she had been a little child, to rest. 
 And rough as the men were, they understood 
 that there was a great sorrow in the house, and 
 they were capable of saluting it. They spoke 
 in whispers, they set their cups down gently, 
 and moved about the room as quietly as if 
 Bella s life depended upon their silence. And 
 by and by they went to bed and fell to musing 
 and sleeping and dreaming each after his own 
 fashion. But the mother sat watching over
 
 THE HEART OF BELLA CLUCAS. 203 
 
 the smouldering peats, watching, and keeping 
 the vigil of sorrow with her suffering child. 
 
 For Bella was suffering as only such splen 
 did vitality can suffer. Every pulse was an 
 agony, her heart felt as if it had been really 
 crushed and rended, she had the physical pang 
 of heartache. With hands tightly clasped and 
 eyes wide open she lay enduring, while her 
 soul went sadly through all the dim, vast rooms 
 of memory, making broken moans as it went, 
 in pity for herself. 
 
 Alas! Alas! The bitter hours of such soul 
 wandering within hopeless sight of hope ! It 
 was a lifelong night. She was so weary with 
 thought that she would fain have steeped her 
 soul deep in sleep. And she bore it alone. 
 She would have no human comforter, and in 
 that extremity God seemed to have forgotten 
 her. She whispered a few formal words from 
 the evening service, but the use and wont of 
 supplication availed her nothing at this hour. 
 She knew in her soul that this vain prayer 
 would fall from out her prayers. She was 
 learning the lesson most mortals have to learn, 
 that some way, some day, God, for reasons in 
 finitely kind, sows the path of love with thorns.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 MRS. PENNINGTON S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 " We also have sometimes lain asleep 
 In the blessed Chamber of Peace ; 
 Too weary to wrestle, or watch, or weep, 
 For a while the struggle must cease. 
 
 We give thanks for the weakness that makes us lie 
 
 So helpless and calm for a while ; 
 The roar of the battle goes hoarsely by, 
 
 And we hear it in dreams with a smile." 
 
 FINDING it impossible either to gain 
 Bella s attention or arrest her steps, 
 George Pennington turned back to the spot 
 at which the miserable interview had taken 
 place. He was altogether in too great a 
 tumult of feeling to come to any mental esti 
 mate regarding his conduct. But the power 
 within him had already given its strict verdict, 
 even by his own lips. For his very footsteps 
 kept time to the slow or impetuous utterance 
 of the only words which he could say, " Fool ! 
 fool ! fool ! " 
 
 204
 
 MRS. PENNINGTON S PERPLEXITY. 205 
 
 Now that Bella was lost, she appeared to 
 him the supremely desirable thing in life. 
 Her little gaucheries, her doric patois, the 
 simplicity of her dress, things that had often 
 given him a passing annoyance, became but 
 part and parcel of a humanity exceeding 
 sweet and beautiful. He could get no com 
 fort from any attempt to depreciate the treas 
 ure he had so wickedly and cruelly flung away. 
 
 She had told him a thing also which he 
 could not deny. However scandalous and 
 wicked the act, it was quite true that he had 
 tried to slay her honor with her love. He 
 knew that he had been guilty of an infamy 
 that ought to make him hateful in the sight 
 of every gentle and honorable man. 
 
 He recalled, with a kind of wonder at his 
 own stupidity, the expression on her face at 
 the beginning of that shameful interview, the 
 set, stern expression of her knitted brows, the 
 look of moral measurement in her eyes which 
 he had felt, but not at the time comprehended. 
 It was clear to him now, that when the purse 
 dropped from her fingers she had become sus 
 picious of his intentions, and jealous and 
 watchful of her own honor.
 
 206 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 In the irritation of his self-accusing, it was 
 some comfort to have Harriet and the whole 
 " giggling, blundering crowd " to vent his 
 wrath upon. He felt sure that Harriet had 
 recognized Bella and himself, and seeing them 
 land at Vorg Inlet had persuaded the party to 
 visit the fairy dell. He remembered then that 
 it had a certain reputation among young peo 
 ple for a wishing-well, which bubbled up 
 among the ferns and rocks, and had for lovers 
 some magical quality. Harriet had doubtless 
 used this pretext to lure the company, and to 
 carry out an ill-natured plan for making 
 trouble between Bella and himself. And it is 
 so decidedly unpleasant to be angry with 
 one s own conduct, that there is no wonder 
 George nursed this idea until he shifted all 
 blame for the miserable situation to his sister. 
 
 " If she had not come, Bella would not have 
 hurried away. He would have found out 
 arguments to pacify her. He would have 
 held her feet with his entreaties. He would 
 have kissed his pardon from her lips." And 
 he would not think that he had committed an 
 unpardonable offence. He told himself that 
 it was in the very nature of women to believe
 
 MRS. PENNINGTON S PERPLEXITY. 207 
 
 in men whom they had detected, and continue 
 to love those whom they had seen to be un 
 worthy of love. 
 
 He still called himself fool, but with less 
 passionate conviction, for he was now certain 
 that, if other people had not interfered, he 
 would have gained his uttermost desires. 
 His heart was so naturally weak that he was 
 incapable of believing in a woman s power to 
 resist a temptation which appealed so power 
 fully to his own senses. He dared to imagine 
 a moment when Bella, having satisfied her 
 self-respect by an indignant opposition, would 
 satisfy her love by a half-reluctant, but alto 
 gether implicit, submission to his wishes. 
 
 The possibility remained. He roused him 
 self to the hope it inspired, and went rapidly 
 to his boat. The fresh wind from the open 
 sea blew away his mental disquiet. The 
 delicious saline scent of the sea-weeds gave 
 him a singular sense of strength. It acted 
 upon his unstrung nerves as pungent salts act 
 upon a faint, hysterical woman. He seized 
 the oars, and with rapid sweeps pulled for 
 Castletovvn Pier. The sun was just setting, 
 and there was quite a company of officers an4
 
 2o8 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 pretty girls walking on the narrow sea-wall, or 
 the military parade. None of them had, at 
 that hour, power to win more than a passing 
 salute from him. His sister Harriet was the 
 one woman he wished to see. 
 
 She met him at the door. " George," she 
 said, " step softly. Mother has been ill and is 
 asleep. Doctor Grageen has just gone. She 
 would not allow me to be sent for, and so he 
 remained in the house until I returned." 
 
 " Any one might have seen that mother was 
 ill this morning. I wonder you left her ! " 
 
 " And you ? " 
 
 " Women are supposed to know each other s 
 troubles; a mother naturally looks for phys 
 ical sympathy from her daughter." 
 
 " Mother has been sick ever since you came 
 home. She never before had these attacks 
 of fainting. You are to blame for them, in 
 some way, I am sure." 
 
 His trenchant aspect irritated her. She 
 moved the tea-cups impatiently, and began to 
 pour out the fragrant stimulating draught. 
 He drank it with eager haste, and then, 
 without deigning to answer her accusation, 
 askecl:
 
 MRS. PENtttffGotf s PERPLEXITY, 209 
 
 i 
 
 "What made you bring that babbling crowd 
 after me this afternoon ? " 
 
 " I did not bring them. You are my broth 
 er, do you think I took any pleasure in your 
 humiliation ? " 
 
 " Humiliation?" 
 
 " Certainly. Even if we had not heard 
 Bella s last words, her attitude was eloquent 
 enough. You have made a town s talk of 
 yourself." 
 
 " I can t help women talking." 
 
 "To be refused, socrnfully refused, by that 
 fisher-girl ! George Pennington, what did you 
 say to her? She was in a most unlady-like 
 temper." 
 
 " Were there any remarks made in the boat 
 as you returned ? " 
 
 " Remarks! Kitty Dinwoodie behaved 
 shamefully to me. I shall not ask her to 
 be my bridesmaid now." 
 
 " Unfortunate Kitty." 
 
 " Of course I made some remarks ! How 
 could I pass such a scene by? I had to re- 
 mark that you had been in love with Bella 
 Clucas ever since you were a boy." 
 
 " All right. That is perfectly correct."
 
 2 id FEET OP CLAY. 
 
 " I had to explain how much mother and I 
 disapproved of your attachment, and then 
 Kitty flamed up like gunpowder, and said " 
 
 " What did she say ! Tell me the truth, 
 Harriet." 
 
 " She said that every officer in the barracks 
 and every sailor in the boats, and every young 
 man in the town that had an ounce of sense, 
 was in love with Bella Clucas. I reminded 
 her of your position in life, and she answered 
 quite sharply that Bella was good enough fora 
 better man. And as for being a fisher-girl, 
 perhaps I did not know that her father had 
 married a fisher-girl, Nora Clukish of Cregy- 
 y-neesh. Then she fell most absurdly into 
 dialect, and added, A poor gel of coorse, but 
 havin a pedigree longer than any king in 
 Europe, for all. And the good she is, and the 
 sweet, and the glory my father is takin in her, 
 and the love in my heart! Aw wonderful! " 
 
 "Kitty Dinwoodie is a treasure, the noblest 
 girl in the island, except Bella." 
 
 " The idea of Major Dinwoodie going into 
 the fishing-cottages for a wife. Kitty had no 
 right to tell a thing like that about her father 
 and mother. Such imprudences come of tern-
 
 MRS. PENNINGTON*S PERPLEXITY. Hi 
 
 per. There was a most uncomfortable feeling, 
 I assure you, for though all the men pretended 
 to applaud Kitty s independence, it was a 
 most trying situation for every girl present, 
 and Harr Sutcliffe, who always will attempt 
 to make things agreeable, really went too far. 
 I felt hurt at the attention he paid to Kitty. 
 I have made up my mind to treat her with 
 more ceremony for the future." 
 
 " Very well. Do you feel as if it would be 
 kind to see how mother is?" 
 
 "You need not remind me of my duty, 
 George. I suppose you want to go out 
 again?" 
 
 " If mother wishes to see me, she is before 
 every one and everything; if not, I will go 
 and take a short walk, and a cigar." 
 
 "You will go to Glen Mellish. You think 
 Bella is miserable, and will meet you there, 
 as usual." 
 
 "Are you judging Bella by yourself?" 
 
 " George Pennington ! " 
 
 " Harriet Pennington ! " 
 
 The flinging of their personal cognomen at 
 each other was usually the Parthian shot in all 
 their disputes. It meant no serious ill-will,
 
 212 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 for family ties bear a tremendous strain before 
 the tug weakens them. George loved his 
 sister with a very solid, satisfactory affection ; 
 and Harriet not only returned it fully, she also 
 felt for her brother s beauty and accomplish 
 ments a most sincere admiration. She rated 
 him to his face much lower than she rated 
 him when he was not present, she often spoke 
 slightingly to him, but she would not have 
 permitted any other human being to speak 
 slightingly of him. 
 
 But though man may control his domestic 
 arrangements, he cannot enter into any cove 
 nant with nature. When George was ready 
 to seek the trysting-place in Glen Hellish, he 
 found that the weather had changed. A tor 
 rent of slant rain was falling, and the wind 
 rolled with strange sounds down the cold in 
 lets and went moaning across the bay. The 
 sky was like iron, and in the darkness nothing 
 could be seen but the flash of the white horses 
 as they trampled and reared far out at sea. 
 
 Besides George was heart-confident that 
 Bella would not be in Glen-Hellish even if the 
 atmosphere were a blue transparency ablaze 
 with stars. He knew her too well to hope
 
 MRS. PENNINGTON S PERPLEXITY. 213 
 
 that she had already forgiven him, he knew 
 that the real decision of his clearest judgment 
 was, that she never would forgive him. But 
 as the days went monotonously on, soaked 
 with rain and gray with driving fogs, the 
 young man became unable to endure the sus 
 pense. 
 
 He wrote a letter to Bella, and a fisher-lad 
 brought it back to him unopened. And in 
 those days letters kept their secrets, they did 
 not permit an offended person to at once 
 gratify their curiosity and their pride. George 
 knew that his folded message closed with wax, 
 and stamped with his private seal, had said 
 nothing to Bella either secretly or authorita 
 tively. However, after a few more miserable 
 days, which he spent in exploring his affec 
 tions, in counting his wounds, in telling him 
 self that all was over, that his happiness was 
 wrecked and his love slain, he wrote once 
 more. It was a beautiful and touching effu 
 sion. He felt sure that if Bella read it she 
 would not be able to resist his entreaties for 
 another interview. 
 
 But Bella did not read it. When brought 
 to her bedside she regarded it with that
 
 2 14 PEET OF CLAY. 
 
 apathy which exhaustion from physical suffer 
 ing induces. " Tis a letter from Captain Pen- 
 nington ; will I be reading it to you, ma 
 chree?" Bella shut her eyes, and with her 
 wasted hand made a faint motion to indicate 
 her reluctance and dislike. So the letter was 
 returned, as its predecessor had been. 
 
 It was some relief to the sombre unhappi- 
 ness of those days, that Mrs. Pennington with 
 her gradual recovery became possessed by one 
 idea, that of Harriet s marriage. The poor 
 lady knew that in this last attack she had 
 received her death-warrant. As she lay mo 
 tionless and speechless on her bed, her heart 
 and her conscience were arguing out some 
 terrible questions : 
 
 "Ought she to tell Colonel Sutcliffe that the 
 girl he loved was the daughter of a felon ? 
 
 " If she did so, how would a man so sensi 
 tively honorable take the revelation ? 
 
 " Would he not say to her, When I asked 
 for your daughter s hand, why was I not made 
 acquainted with this dreadful fact ? 
 
 "Would he desert Harriet? If so, what 
 shame, what scandals, what endless suppositions 
 they must endure ! Colonel Sutcliffe would
 
 MRS. PEtfNWG TON S PERPLEXITY. 2i 
 
 certainly say nothing, but might not they be 
 compelled to tell the truth in order to prevent 
 suspicions even more disgraceful ? 
 
 "If he deserted Harriet, how were they to 
 face the circumstance ? Should they go away, 
 or bear the brunt of the social storm and trust 
 to time to efface the shame ? 
 
 " How would Harriet personally endure the 
 horror of the revelation and the cruel disap 
 pointment ? Would it make her ill ? 
 
 "Would she herself be able to bear the 
 anguish long enough to sustain her child 
 through the first pangs of her calamity? 
 
 " Even if Colonel Sutcliffe behaved with a 
 chivalric kindness and honor they had no right 
 to expect, how would it influence her daugh 
 ter s married life ? Would not the noblest 
 nature in the long run grow irritated by the 
 whisper which nothing would constantly sup 
 press : My wife is the child of a felon, and my 
 children Such thoughts could not be pre 
 vented, they would leave in the heart the 
 leaven of their own miserable shame, they 
 would eventually corrode the sweetest affection, 
 the brightest nature." 
 
 One by one these hard facts resolved them-
 
 216 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 selves into problems, the solution of which 
 destroyed her last illusions and drove her into 
 the necessity of some irrecoverable decision. 
 At first she only considered the case as it re 
 garded Harriet, but the claims of others also 
 demanded a hearing, and would not be put 
 aside. And the poor mother shuddered when 
 she tried to imagine what might be the result 
 of this infamous secret upon her son. 
 
 She had the usual superstition that the 
 honor of men is something more precious and 
 more sensitive than that of women. Harriet 
 might shut herself away from the world, 
 George must face its cruellest scorn. And 
 much as she loved her son, she appraised very 
 fairly his moral courage. " He will go all 
 wrong together, he will sink to the level 
 society will pitilessly assign him. I cannot, I 
 cannot, place him in such frightful circum 
 stances ! " 
 
 With this thought always came another : 
 " Robert Pennington above all others must be 
 kept in ignorance." She knew quite well what 
 course her brother-in-law would take. He 
 would have no hesitation about telling the 
 whole truth without reservations or excuses to
 
 MA S. PENtfJNGTQ& S PERPLEXITY. 217 
 
 Colonel Sutcliffe. He would say, " We believed 
 this man to be dead. We believed it to be 
 out of his power to bring shame upon his inno 
 cent children. We find that he is alive. His 
 future conduct is uncertain, and we will not 
 permit him the opportunity to disgrace another 
 honorable family." She knew that on this 
 ground he would oppose the marriage of his 
 niece, and she was quite aware that in the end 
 they would be compelled to surrender their 
 will to his, "and it would be right, and just, 
 and honorable, as men look at such things," 
 the tortured dying woman whispered. 
 
 But there are born mothers, as there are 
 born artists, or born poets, or born scientists. 
 Martha Pennington, without being foolishly 
 demonstrative, had the motherly instinct in 
 a superlative degree. She permitted these 
 thoughts and many others to pass through her 
 mind, but the end of all her solitary arguments 
 was the same : " My children are not held by 
 the good God responsible for their father s sin, 
 I will not make them responsible to the world. 
 I will not speak to Robert Pennington or 
 Colonel Sutcliffe about my trouble ; it is to 
 the Father in Heaven I will open my heart. I
 
 2l8 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 will tell Him everything. He will understand 
 me." 
 
 When she had definitely reached this con 
 clusion, she had an uncontrollable desire to 
 consummate as quickly as possible her plans. 
 Her precarious health was a sufficient excuse 
 for hurrying forward the marriage, but as it 
 happened no excuse was needed. Colonel 
 Sutcliffe s father was also in ill health and was 
 anxiously urging his son to resign his commis 
 sion and assume the charge of the estate, so 
 that a final arrangement for the ceremony on 
 the twentieth of December gave general satis 
 faction. Immediately after it the young 
 couple were to go to Sutcliffe Manor in York 
 shire, to spend the Christmas holidays. 
 
 Everything then in the house tended to 
 ward this event. Harriet, delightfully hurried 
 on every hand, found the dull days bright days, 
 and the long hours far too short for all her en 
 gagements. The house was always pleasantly 
 full of young ladies. Harriet had a queer 
 kind of authority, she was a temporary queen 
 entitled to their homage and their service. 
 But Kitty Dinwoodie was not among them. 
 She had not quite forgiven Harriet for tempt-
 
 MRS. PENNINGTON S PERPLEXITY. 219 
 
 ing her into such an unconventional defence of 
 Captain Pennington s love-affair, and she fan 
 cied that Captain Pennington was a little pre 
 suming upon her favor in consequence. 
 
 Kitty s defection, however, did not much 
 trouble Harriet, for she was at this time in a 
 charitable mood with all the world. Two days 
 before her marriage she went one afternoon 
 through the home which she was soon to leave 
 forever, and her heart softened and glowed 
 within her. All around were tokens of love, 
 gems, and laces, and lustrous silks, and em 
 broidered crapes, which had come from out the 
 scented depths of her mother s cabinet. They 
 filled the room with Oriental airs of sandal 
 wood and cedar, calamus and nard and myrrh. 
 Her uncle s splendid gifts were upon her dress 
 ing-table. Her bridal robes were lying in 
 their white cases. There were a hundred 
 pretty tokens of affection beneath her eyes. 
 
 Yet as she looked at them with pride and 
 pleasure, it suddenly struck her that one was 
 wanting. Bella had sent her no gift, and no 
 message of congratulation. The thought was 
 a sudden chill to her. " Perhaps I have been 
 too proud and cross. Bella was fond of me.
 
 220 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 How often we talked of my wedding and of 
 her share in it ! I think I ought to write to her." 
 She knew indeed that she had promised Bella 
 the dignity of being one of the bridal maids. 
 She had even pleased herself with the thought 
 of the girl s magnificent beauty robed in diaph 
 anous white, and pink rosebuds. She did not 
 wish to go as far as that now, she naturally dis 
 liked the old-fashioned form of keeping her 
 word : to be able to forget, that is one of the 
 privileges of the rich and happy. But she 
 could write. It would be pleasant to see Bella 
 once more, pleasant to part friends with her, 
 very pleasant to show her all the beautiful 
 garments and delightful presents she had re 
 ceived. 
 
 Now it really does happen, that the things 
 which alter our lives and give us our strongest 
 emotions, appeal for our decision in the most 
 commonplace manner and at times the very 
 reverse of picturesque. Bella was washing the 
 breakfast dishes when Harriet s letter was put 
 into her hand. She knew at once from whom 
 it had come, she divined its purport, she felt 
 the answer to it might give the bias to her 
 future fortune. For she suspected that it had
 
 MRS. PENNINGTON S PERPLEXITY. 221 
 
 been written at the solicitation of George, and 
 that therefore a favorable one would be taken 
 as the first step towards a reconciliation. 
 
 Her mother watched her anxiously, but she 
 did not offer either a word of advice or of 
 warning. The girl must be left to decide 
 for herself ; at the last, it would come to that. 
 Bella sat down, and let the letter, with its 
 dainty pale-blue seal, lie unopened in her hand. 
 
 The weeks which had passed since that 
 miserable interview in Vorg Inlet had written 
 their sad history on the girl s face and form. 
 Most of them had been spent in the semi- 
 delirium of fever, and she had risen from her 
 bed of suffering shorn of the glory of her 
 youth. Her fine hair had been cut short, her 
 radiant color was gone, she had wasted fright 
 fully, and was still so weak and nervous that 
 Harriet s letter trembled in her clasp, as if it 
 was shaken by a wind. 
 
 "Shall I read it, mother? It is from Miss 
 Harriet." 
 
 " I would, Bella. If there s temptation in it, 
 face it ; that s the way, ma chree." 
 
 It was a very kind letter ; that is, the words 
 were kind words, and the reflections were at
 
 222 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 least not harder on Bella than on others. But 
 it carried with it an atmosphere of vaunting, 
 egotistical happiness which Harriet could not 
 repress, and which Bella s sad and wounded 
 soul shrank from. None of its specious pleasant 
 words deceived her. People in soul-sickness 
 often attain to a kind of prescience which does 
 not altogether desert them for many days, and 
 Bella, still in this abnormal state of intelligence, 
 put every word in its proper place, and esti 
 mated every profession at its proper value. 
 
 When she had read it to the last letter of its 
 neat signature she looked up with kindling 
 eyes and flushing face. "She s wantin me to 
 go to the House, and promised she says, and 
 all to that : seemin kind, but, but I m not 
 takin it so." 
 
 " Allis she was sayin that you were to stand 
 at her side when she would be marriet." 
 
 " Aw then, it is Frances Kelly and Christina 
 Caine, and the rest of the quality now. Well, 
 she s used of the like, and the quality stands 
 by the quality whether or not, you ll give in 
 to that, and me only a common pessin." 
 
 " You re every taste as good as she is, I tell 
 ye, and you should be havin more sense than
 
 MRS. PENNINGTON S PERPLEXITY. 223 
 
 to be pullin down yourself, for it s pullin 
 down all with you and afore you ; middlin 
 bad, Bella, is that." 
 
 " We know nothin about them aifore us." 
 
 "Aw then, if I didn know nothin about 
 nothin I leave it so. Bless me, it isn raison- 
 able not to do that, eh ? " 
 
 " I m not going to the House, not I ! It s to 
 look at her fine clothes and her fine presents 
 she s callin me. Aw you better believe it is! 
 The cup she s drinkin isn sweet enough till 
 she s seem my tears in it ; and her joy not 
 puffic wantin the sight of my misery. I m 
 understandin it all, mayve better than she 
 does herself." 
 
 "A fine weddin though, Bella, aisy to know 
 that." 
 
 " Aw yes ; a mortal show, never fear ! And 
 the whole parish there, but Bella Clucas ! 
 No ! Tis a poor letter, mother, I m not 
 mindin it. I know the lot : proud ! aw scan 
 dalous ! and selfish I tell ye, selfish thallure ! " 
 
 A crisis is the occasion for a predominating 
 influence to declare itself, and Mary Clucas re 
 garded any overture from the Penningtons as 
 a crisis in her daughter s life. If she accepted
 
 224 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 it, she knew that George would regain his 
 influence over her ; if not, she would believe 
 that Bella s humiliation and suffering had not 
 been in vain. " Tis a poor letter, mother, I m 
 not mindin it "; how comforting were the 
 words, and the decision implied by them. 
 For though the mother did not think of ex 
 pressing the feeling, she knew in her heart 
 that a hard experience either makes us better 
 or worse and that if Bella in feeding on the 
 bread of bitterness had come to her full moral 
 stature, and found out her moral strength, 
 comfort would certainly follow sorrow, and 
 peace grow out of strife. 
 
 Generally great renunciations are accom 
 plished without words. The two women 
 looked at each other. The mother s eyes were 
 full of tears. Bella answered them with ca 
 resses, that beautiful language for those whose 
 hearts are too full for words. There was now 
 an intimate content between them, and Bella, 
 who had never complained much, after this 
 did not complain at all. Thus do the eternal 
 verities grow from out the wrongs and disap 
 pointments of time, and women whose feet are 
 in the dust breathe the airs of immortality.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 
 We make our lives as we sew stitch by stitch. 
 
 " Each man has some one object of pursuit 
 And lavishes his thoughts delightedly 
 On the dear idol." 
 
 " Trouble knows no rest, 
 But rolls from breast to breast its vagrant tide." 
 
 IF people will only recall the personalities 
 and circumstances which make up their 
 knowledge of the world, they will be amazed 
 at the persistency with which evident happi 
 ness is associated with some hidden tragedy. 
 To the general observer Harriet Pennington s 
 life appeared to be altogether in the sunshine. 
 But one pale, sad woman saw the shadow of 
 shame and sorrow following hard after her, 
 and she watched it with an almost breathless 
 tension of agonizing interest. 
 
 All Mrs. Pennington s hopes and fears were 
 
 fixed upon one event. If only Harriet were 
 
 married ! She sat in these last days almost 
 
 motionless by her window. Her eyes were 
 
 225
 
 keeping watch, her ears were abnormally sensi 
 tive. If that step were to approach she knew 
 that she would feel it, even when it was be 
 yond her own boundaries. And yet she 
 scarcely thought her wretched husband would 
 intrude upon his daughter s marriage feast ; 
 there would be nothing to gain by such an act 
 of cruelty, and she assured herself continually 
 that Arthur Pennington had not a naturally 
 malignant nature. 
 
 But if he came near at all, if she were 
 aware of his presence, if she saw him, it 
 would be sufficient to snap asunder her thread 
 of life, already frayed and worn to its last 
 thin strand. Such an event, though antici 
 pated, would delay the marriage for at least a 
 year. Who could tell what revelations might 
 be made in a year! The dying lady, though 
 these thoughts gnawed at the very threshold 
 of life, forbade herself to listen to them. She 
 closed with her cold, trembling hands every 
 avenue to feeling, and sat almost breathless in 
 the presence of God, praying, constantly pray 
 ing, that He would send an angel to guard her 
 gates lest " one that troubleth " should pass 
 through them.
 
 &W6X& 6P 
 
 The physician who watched over her won 
 dered at her endurance. He gave her a larger 
 dose of his favorite drug, and remarked com 
 placently on its potency. He would have 
 been offended if she had told him her 
 thought, " The drug is powerless to help me ; 
 only by the supernatural is the soul made 
 strong to suffer and endure." 
 
 At last the morning so eagerly watched for 
 arrived ; a bright, clear morning with a crisp 
 feeling in the air and lovely patches of blue in 
 the sky. Harriet was exquisitely dressed, and 
 when the last flower and gem had been put in 
 place she knelt at her mother s knee and 
 received her kiss and blessing. The beautiful 
 ceremony was performed under exceptionally 
 picturesque conditions, the women in their 
 splendid dresses being thrown into the finest 
 relief by the environment of the military ele 
 ment, and the outer background of bronzed 
 natives with their dark blue garments and 
 unmistakable air and look of the sea. 
 
 Mrs. Pennington imagined it all, and when 
 Harriet came back to her with that new joy 
 on her face which is the first reflection of 
 happy wifehood, she let her hands fall apart, a
 
 T OF CLAY. 
 
 faint color crept to her cheeks, and she sighed 
 deeply as those sigh who are suddenly relieved 
 from some intolerable burden. But even yet 
 her soul was on the alert. She did not dare 
 to relax its watchfulness. For weeks it had 
 been going to and fro around the lives of 
 those she loved, guarding every avenue against 
 evil, a combat without truce. 
 
 For this poor, weak woman believed with all 
 her soul in the omnipotence of prayer. God 
 had said, " Ask all, I will give all," and she 
 obeyed Him. She thought it impossible that 
 He should deceive her. She believed God 
 heard the cry of her disquieted heart amid 
 the harmonies of the universe, and His com 
 mand to " pray without ceasing," a command 
 which terrifies the souls at ease, gave her the 
 only sense of safety and peace she trusted in. 
 She could not speak to her children or friends, 
 but to God what could she not say? And it 
 was not to such prayers repetitions were for 
 bidden. Hers was the widow s importunity 
 which elicited the " do likewise." She told all, 
 she asked all, and she made her request con 
 tinually. What else is prayer than this ?
 
 TftE SWORD Of DAMOCLES. $2$ 
 
 If there had been any suspicion in the 
 household of latent trouble, her restless, curi 
 ous questions about those present in the 
 church might have aroused it. She was 
 scarcely to be satisfied. " Was there no one 
 else there? Did you see any strangers? 
 There must have been some strangers ! " 
 Over and over she endeavored to find out by 
 such remarks if all the spectators had been 
 well-known people. The answers from every 
 one were satisfactory. 
 
 When the day was quite over, when Colonel 
 Sutcliffe and his bride were on their way to 
 Yorkshire, when the guests were all gone, and 
 only Robert Pennington sat with his nephew 
 over the parlor fire* talking of the day s event, 
 then at last she felt that she might say : " Re 
 turn unto thy rest, O my soul ! " Then she 
 lay down, and like a little child waited for the 
 healing mystery of sleep, still as the grave, 
 kind as heaven. 
 
 " He has gone quite away," she whispered, 
 "and my heart was unjust to him." In reality 
 her heart had been a true diviner. From be 
 hind the outermost row of spectators the fa 
 ther of the bride had watched her. As she
 
 passed out on the arm of her husband he feit 
 the rose scent from her garments, and their 
 rustle stirred his heart into a tumult. He saw 
 the blush upon her cheek, the joy in her eyes, 
 the smile that lingered around her pretty 
 mouth. He could have touched her hand. 
 His son and brother passed him equally close. 
 But his form was hidden behind that of the 
 sexton, his hat shielded the upper part of his 
 face, his handkerchief the lower. He had se 
 lected his position with care, and secured it 
 with a generous fee. And his presence was a 
 matter of no importance to the general public ; 
 to his nearest and dearest he was a dead 
 man. After all, it was a cruel ordeal. He had 
 never before realized the death in life to which 
 his crime had doomed him. He went from 
 the church to the sea-shore and wept bitterly, 
 wept such tears as the lost angels may weep 
 when they pass the gates of Paradise. 
 
 Robert Pennington had arrived two days 
 before the marriage. Indeed it was his splen 
 did gifts which had so enlarged and softened 
 Harriet s heart that she felt desirous to in 
 clude Bella in her general amnesty with the 
 world. Almost his first words to his sister-
 
 OP D 
 
 in-law referred to the man whose memory 
 haunted every thought she had. " Martha," 
 he said, " I bring you good news. I have had a 
 letter from one of the three men who outlived 
 that terrible journey in which Arthur perished. 
 There is no doubt he died in the bush. Forty 
 of them did so. The Governor has pushed in 
 quiry even beyond probability. There is 
 nothing contrary to this discovered. Indeed 
 this letter from one who survived declares that 
 Arthur fell down at his side. My dear, let us 
 bury our sorrow forever." 
 
 " I loved him, Robert once." 
 
 " I loved him also. May God be merciful 
 to him ! To-day let us forgive the sorrow and 
 shame he brought us." 
 
 To have shared her secret with this sympa 
 thetic friend would have been a comfort be 
 yond words to Martha Pennington, but then 
 the result could not be contemplated. So she 
 accepted what was told her, and Robert Pen 
 nington wondered at the queer perversity of 
 women. He had thought she would have at 
 least uttered a fervent "Thank God !" that she 
 might perhaps have asked some questions, or 
 wished to read the letter which described her
 
 *3* PEET of CLAY. 
 
 husband s death. But she had taken the news 
 of her release without any signs of gratitude. 
 There had been even a tone of reproach in the 
 unlooked-for assertion, " I loved him, Robert 
 once." Surely, he thought, a woman under 
 any circumstances is an unknown quantity. 
 
 This thought of woman s uncertainty and in 
 scrutability forced itself on his consciousness 
 again as he sat with his nephew on the night 
 of the marriage day. The pained tension of 
 Mrs. Pennington s face during its early hours 
 had alarmed him. He had feared every mo 
 ment that Death would come to the marriage 
 feast, and he dreaded the hour in which 
 mother and daughter must part. But the 
 parting was over, the daughter had gone away 
 for ever from her home, and the mother was 
 almost cheerful. Surely women were past 
 finding out. 
 
 He made this decision and looked up at his 
 nephew. The young man sat opposite him 
 thoughtfully smoking. Robert Pennington 
 regarded his handsome face with pleasure, and 
 felt grateful for his silence. Some young men 
 would have tried to entertain him, would have 
 bored him with questions, and compelled him
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 233 
 
 to talk when he wished to think. George had 
 bided his time, and it is such trifles as these 
 that lead the heart into the most decided pref 
 erences. He leaned forward and touched his 
 nephew s hand, while his face brightened and 
 softened in every line : 
 
 " George, we have been forgetting you. Har 
 riet has usurped every thought lately, now let 
 us talk. What about the Indian question ?" 
 
 It was the subject occupying George s mind 
 at the moment. He had been wondering how 
 to bring on its discussion. For his feelings 
 and desires had changed since Bella s rejection 
 of his unworthy offer. If Bella had been will 
 ing to go with him, it would have been the 
 pleasantest and wisest solution of a doubtful 
 relationship. Situations not permissible in 
 English society might obtain a kind of obliv 
 ion there. Besides, the strangeness and dis 
 tance would be a protection against the inter 
 ference of Bella s passionate kinsmen. But 
 now there was no necessity to fear their 
 anger, why should he go into danger and 
 privation, when the situation offered him no 
 equivalent ? 
 
 This train of thought in all its bearings was
 
 234 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 familiar to him. His uncle s question was ex 
 pected, he was prepared to answer it. 
 
 " I am very uncertain about the Indian ques 
 tion, sir, and when one is uncertain I have al 
 ways heard it is best to stand still." 
 
 " Your mother is very sick." 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " Her days are evidently numbered. Do 
 you think she ought to be left alone ? " 
 
 " It would be cruel to leave her alone." 
 
 " Then stay with her, George, make her 
 last hours happy ones. When she passes be 
 yond human love, come to me. At the longest 
 it will be but a few weeks, you will spare so 
 much of your life to brighten hers ? " 
 
 "Of course I will." 
 
 " Then there is no more to be said at pres 
 ent." 
 
 This decision precisely suited George. He 
 could not bear to quite relinquish every hope 
 of recovering himself with Bella, and he be 
 lieved that when her health was restored, and 
 the spring weather tempted her to resume her 
 usual out-of-door habits, he would find some 
 opportunity to plead his cause and obtain her 
 forgiveness.
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 23$ 
 
 Apart from this hope, other things made him 
 quite willing to accept a few weeks absolute 
 retirement. He was not without resources for 
 such a life. He could make intimates of 
 books. He loved the sea. He enjoyed in a 
 selfish way that satisfaction which comes from 
 being kind to others. As a matter of personal 
 comfort, he liked to be on good terms with 
 himself. Then his relations with Kitty Din- 
 woodie and the garrison were just a little 
 strained and chilled. He could not bear to re 
 sign the popular favor he had enjoyed, and he 
 hoped that his filial devotion would put out of 
 memory that whisper, that supposition, of some 
 thing dishonorable, which had made his name 
 less pleasant and frequent on the lips of many 
 who had been used to speak it with admira 
 tion. 
 
 After Robert Pennington s departure, the 
 house soon fell into a certain quiet order, which 
 George approved. For in a few days he hit 
 upon a means of employment which comforted 
 him amply for all his disappointments which 
 made the longest hours short, and rendered 
 him indifferent to the opinion of the outside 
 world : he began to write a book of poems. In
 
 236 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 searching for rhymes he found a happiness only 
 known to poets. Unfinished stanzas went out 
 to walk with him. Rhythmic effects answered 
 the sweep of his oars. Bella was no longer a 
 subject for mortifying and painful reflection, she 
 furnished him with material. He embalmed 
 her beauty in sonnets, and her faithlessness 
 and scornful coldness lost their sting, as soon 
 as he began searching his brains and his diction 
 ary for rhymes to them. 
 
 These literary efforts, really very fair ones, 
 appeared to Mrs. Pennington to possess won 
 derful merit. Many of them brought tears to 
 her eyes, and the poor lady went gently down 
 to the grave soothed by the musical syllables 
 representing to her a side of her son s nature 
 which might have the power to elevate the 
 whole. She encouraged him with heartfelt 
 sympathy and admiration, and he rewarded 
 her with an affectionate companionship of 
 which neither wearied. For George read his 
 own writings to her with feeling and enthusiasm 
 and Mrs. Pennington listened with an attention 
 that never flagged, and a pride which expressed 
 itself in unstinted predictions of future great 
 ness.
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES, 237 
 
 Partly as a relaxation, partly as a stimulant 
 to thought, George walked much on the sea 
 shore, or if the weather were propitious pad 
 dled about the gray inlets, or even ventured a 
 short distance beyond the line of smooth 
 water. Early in January there were a few 
 days of exceptional warmth and beauty, and 
 on one of them he walked down Glen Mellish 
 to his old trysting-place with Bella. A kind 
 of sentimental sorrow, not by any means 
 painful, prompted him to renew impressions 
 already wearing dim. He was speculating on 
 the number of lines necessary to fill a certain 
 page, as he approached the big boulder on 
 which he had been used to sit with Bella. It 
 was already appropriated. A man was waiting 
 there, and he had a most uncomfortable twinge 
 of jealousy for a moment. 
 
 He approached with a manner even a little 
 defiant, but when the stranger turned his face 
 he was inclined to smile at his ready suspi 
 cions. It was the man whom he had once 
 warned at midnight, the man with those 
 strange haunting eyes which he had never 
 quite forgotten. His cigar was just finished, 
 and he rose up and flung the remnant away as
 
 238 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 George saluted him with that courtly upward 
 movement of the hand which his military 
 training had taught him. 
 
 The father looked at his son with eyes of 
 fathomless feeling. Their long, sad gaze 
 troubled George beyond his understanding, 
 and when his greeting was answered with one 
 of equal grace and courtesy, the young man 
 instantly obeyed the mysterious attraction 
 which this stranger had over him. 
 
 " Take a fresh cigar, sir," he said presently, 
 and he offered him his case. 
 
 Then they began to walk slowly up and 
 down the bit of brown, level turf, and before 
 George was well aware he was talking very 
 freely to his strange companion of his own life 
 and its surroundings. And at the moment he 
 did not think it strange that he should be so 
 familiar with them, as to fall sympathetically 
 into his experiences without requiring either 
 explanations or facts. 
 
 At first they spoke- of Bella. George began 
 to describe her beauty. The older man knew 
 her well. He had often smoked a pipe with 
 Ruthie. He could tell George all about 
 Bella s illness. He had even sat with the
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 239 
 
 family through the long sad nights when her 
 life had been in the balance. He had spoken 
 with Bella not two hours gone. He had come 
 far closer to the Clucas family than ever 
 George had been permitted to do. 
 
 "Tell me how Bella looks, sir," said George. 
 He still spoke with a little of the pride of pro 
 prietorship in his tone. It was as if he had 
 said, " Tell me how my Bella looks." 
 
 " She is not so handsome as she was ; but 
 she is a good girl. You have had love s 
 young dream, and awakened from it. Take an 
 old man s advice, sir, don t renew the experi 
 ence." 
 
 " I shall never find another girl so beautiful 
 and so affectionate." 
 
 " She is not your mate. I am no simpleton. 
 I know something of women. Will you tell 
 me why you quarrelled with Bella." 
 
 George had no objections to talk. Some 
 men lack all reticence about their amours. 
 They are not ashamed of the snubs they re 
 ceive, they are even proud of their infidelities. 
 His father listened patiently and observingly ; 
 George was showing him his whole heart. He 
 led him into little by-ways of conversation, he
 
 240 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 induced such a feeling of confidence in his 
 sympathy, that the young man did not hesitate 
 to declare that hitherto he had mismanaged 
 his life, and been something like a fool. 
 
 " You have been in love. Some men are 
 naturally fools, they are double fools in love." 
 
 " Still I must say that, among all the women 
 I have met, Bella was the sweetest and 
 best." 
 
 " The best is only best in its season, the 
 season for Bella is past." 
 
 "You think, then, that there is no hope 
 of a reconciliation ? " 
 
 " Why should you want one ? If I had in 
 sulted a woman " 
 
 "Insulted! Sir!" 
 
 " Let us be frank and we shall be friends. I 
 fell in love with you that night you struck a 
 match to tell me the time, and then took a 
 kindly thought about my life. It is so many, 
 many years since any one cared whether I 
 lived or died, since any one wanted me to 
 live, that your warning made my heart trem 
 ble. An angel speaking could not have affect 
 ed me more. I have remained here solely for 
 the pleasure of seeing you. Can t you bear
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 241 
 
 the truth from me ? You will never have a 
 better friend." 
 
 George turned his face to the speaker with a 
 blush of pleasure dyeing it rosy. He was very 
 sensitive to the flattery of women, but to have 
 a man gray and seamed with the storms of life 
 say such loving words to him, touched the 
 young fellow almost to tears. 
 
 " Thank you. I think it would be better to 
 throw away good money than such kindness 
 as you offer. You look as if you had seen the 
 world and known men. and women ; say what 
 you like to me." 
 
 " I will tell you the truth always. I will 
 share your troubles and fence them with my 
 own. No, we need not shake hands, it is 
 mostly an empty form." 
 
 " Have you been here ever since that 
 night ? " 
 
 "Yes. There is a little cottage near Scar 
 lett, the widow Sulby s. I live there." 
 
 "You must be very lonely." 
 
 " I am not without education. It is the 
 brainless who seek companionship and amuse 
 ment at any cost. If a man can think, and 
 dares to think, he can animate the dreariest
 
 242 fEET OF CLAY. 
 
 solitude. I have heard that you write poetry. 
 The glen and the gaery and the sea must all 
 have spoken to you. I should like to hear 
 what they have said. We may gossip about 
 nature and do no harm." 
 
 No proposal could so easily and so com 
 pletely have won George s heart. He recited 
 some of the most ambitious of his sonnets, 
 and the elder man was much impressed with 
 their excellence. For at that day general 
 education had not developed the faculty of 
 musical syllables, and the man who could 
 write both rhyme and reason was held as a 
 superior kind of mortal 
 
 "You are a second Byron! Give your 
 poems to the world, and it will say so." 
 
 " I doubt it." 
 
 " I would not use the word, it is unlucky. 
 Doubt is misfortune, it dogs the man who 
 dares not meet his fate. I have seen this, 
 that they who are forever doubting, fall to the 
 very wretchedness they fear." 
 
 "You seem at once so wise and so unhappy. 
 I cannot understand." 
 
 " When I was young, sir, I sowed what 
 are called wild oats. The devil harvests
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 243 
 
 that crop, and the devil s corn all goes to 
 bran." 
 
 George became very thoughtful, and the con 
 versation ceased. But the companionship of 
 men accepts silence as well as speech. They 
 do not feel that they must chatter to avoid 
 offence. They recognize the advantage of 
 supplementing confidence with thought. On 
 the gaery they stood still a moment and 
 looked around over the brown desolate earth 
 and the gray blue sea, where, toward the cen 
 tre of the watery circle, a fishing-boat was 
 lunging heavily as the deliberate rollers came 
 shoreward. 
 
 "We shall have a chill easterly waft after 
 this warm breeze," said the elder man. " The 
 wind will come in a moment, and the sea will 
 spring up like magic into a short nasty 
 lipper. Good-morning, sir. You have given 
 me a happy hour." 
 
 He walked away with the words, and George 
 stood a moment to look after him. He had 
 spoken of a happy hour, but his voice left 
 behind an echo of untranslatable sadness. 
 "What is it? What is it?" he asked; and 
 then he went into his mother s presence and
 
 244 Fr OF CLAY. 
 
 began to tell her of the new friend he had 
 found, the strange man who loved him be 
 cause he had been human enough to point out 
 a danger in his path. And he did not notice 
 the terror and amazement in her eyes, nor the 
 anxious tones in which she asked question 
 after question about the man s appearance. 
 
 " Handsome ? No, he is not, and he looks 
 as if the world had kicked him from pole to 
 pole. But one feels that he is a gentleman, 
 that he is well born and well educated. I 
 cannot make you understand, his actions and 
 his words suggest perpetual incongruities." 
 
 " Yet you call him a gentleman ? " 
 
 " He has the air of one ; that ease of man 
 ner which is as free from familiarity as from 
 awkwardness. It is not a thing acquired, a 
 man has it, or he has it not, and yet, as I 
 have said, there are perpetual incongruities. 
 I cannot explain. He was most enthusiastic 
 about my poems ; there is no doubt that he is 
 highly cultured." 
 
 " I must try and see him some day, when I 
 am able. In the mean time, I would not trust 
 him too far. He may be, you cannot tell 
 what he may be. I will rest a little now."
 
 THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 24$ 
 
 Left by herself, she sat perfectly motionless. 
 Well-disciplined women take the blows of cir 
 cumstance without outcry. Corroding anx 
 iety, hidden terror, fatal discoveries made in 
 the natures of those she loved, she could but 
 silently endure them. 
 
 " I am so helpless," she whispered. Then 
 looking out to sea, her long gaze caught a 
 boat coming swiftly towards the land. She 
 watched the man steering, and the man row 
 ing, and a smile spread over her face. " We 
 do but row, we are steered by a hand mighty 
 as it is mysterious." She seemed to see, 
 through the gloom and dull storm surrounding 
 her, this hand advancing out of the darkness. 
 Tossing upon the open sea -of sorrow, she felt 
 serene in the conviction that it was able to 
 direct and to preserve. She began to perceive 
 the shores of that land of light everywhere 
 called blessed.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 
 
 " After the burden and heat of the day 
 
 The starr} calm of night, 
 After the rough and toilsome way, 
 
 A sleep in the robe of white. 
 Are they dreaming, the sleepers pale and still, 
 
 For their faces are rapt and calm, 
 As though they were treading the holy hill, 
 
 And hearing the angels psalm ? 
 The things that were hid from waking eyes 
 
 Shine clear to the veiled sight ; 
 In the last deep sleep the pilgrims rise 
 
 To walk on the shores of light." 
 
 TTAPPINESS, like truth, has a variety of 
 1 X aspects. Many young men would have 
 found the quiet, monotonous existence which 
 satisfied George Pennington for the next six 
 weeks intolerable. But its compensations 
 were sufficient for him. He was delighted 
 with himself. He looked upon his nearly fin 
 ished volume with admiration. Matt Kellish, 
 by which name only he knew his father, stim 
 ulated him both by admiration and dissent. 
 246
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 247 
 
 " The poems are wonderful," he would say, 
 " but after all, Captain, of what use are they ? " 
 
 " A work of genius exists for its own sake, 
 Mr. Kellish. It is not intended for use. 
 Compare that beech with the plum-tree be 
 side it. The beauty of the beech is its war 
 rant; the crippled, stunted plum-tree would 
 have no place in the garden but for its purple 
 drupes." 
 
 Nor was the production of a work of genius 
 George s only warrant for the satisfaction 
 which made his life very tolerable during this 
 time. He was regaining the popularity he 
 had lost. Whatever his wrong to Bella Clucas 
 had been, it was a past wrong. Bella had re 
 covered her health and beauty, and did not 
 seem unhappy, and the young man s devo 
 tion to his sick mother was a daily and evi 
 dent act of self-denying love, an act that ap 
 pealed to the women of every household. 
 
 And it is the women, after all, that regulate 
 the social standing of men. Those who rode 
 out to ask after the dying lady were captiva 
 ted by her son s tender regard for her. The 
 mothers praised and encouraged him, the 
 daughters gave him approving glances from
 
 248 FET OF CLAY. 
 
 kind and beautiful eyes. And there really are 
 women who enjoy speaking well of others. 
 George could feel the good report of himself 
 in the grip of the men s hands, and hear it in 
 the tones of their voices. 
 
 He began to think better of himself than he 
 had done since Bella s scornful and indignant 
 estimate of him. If girls of Kitty Din- 
 woodie s rank could overlook his fault, surely 
 Bella had also forgiven. Of course it had 
 been a personal wound in Bella s case, and 
 only a general affront to sex, in every other 
 case ; but Bella loved him. That would bal 
 ance all differences. 
 
 As the spring opened he began to haunt 
 Glen Hellish and the seashore nearest the 
 Clucas cottage. But he never saw the girl. 
 She is avoiding me, therefore she still feels 
 my influence. This conviction gave him per 
 sistence, and one afternoon he resolved to 
 make a decided effort to speak to her. 
 
 It was an unusual hour for him to be abroad, 
 and if Bella still thought of possibilities re 
 garding him, she would remember this. He 
 was full of hope, though it was a day of cold, 
 neutral dimness. The trees had a voice of
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 249 
 
 complaint, and the curlews whistled overhead 
 like messengers of evil. Even to the horizon 
 the sea was gray, and the few ships on it 
 looked forlorn and cowering. But George 
 went swiftly down the glen, and was so light- 
 hearted that a Highland Scot would certainly 
 have predicted disappointment for him. 
 
 As he made the last turn his heart beat 
 wildly. Bella was standing in the door. 
 Mary sat upon the step at the threshold. He 
 drew back, and from the shadow of the rock 
 watched the girl who had been his dream by 
 day and night, the inspirer of his poems, and 
 the troubler of his conscience. She had re 
 covered all her beauty, with it the something 
 more that a sharp experience nobly borne con 
 fers. An air of melancholy softened the viv 
 idness of her color. It was like the tender 
 haze of autumn over the perfected year. She 
 had grown taller and more slender. Her 
 bright hair lay loosely around her brow and 
 nestled in short rings and curls behind her 
 ears and at the back of her neck. Some fish 
 ing nets lay at her feet, she had perhaps been 
 mending them before she stood up. 
 
 As soon as George made a movement
 
 250 FEE T OF CLAY. 
 
 toward her she saw it. He came forward ea 
 gerly with a smile parting his lips and bright 
 ening his eyes, but he was aware in a moment 
 that there was no pleasant response. Bella 
 was watching him with the passionless calm 
 of a soul that was superior to his influence. 
 There was neither love nor hate in her silent, 
 gracious figure, neither love nor hate in her 
 cold, innocent face. 
 
 As soon as she understood that he really 
 meant to address her, she turned slowly into 
 the cottage, and Mary rose and stood in the 
 door. It was not easy to meet the offended 
 mother. An inexpressible reproach was in 
 her dark eyes, she was on guard, on the defen 
 sive, ready to accuse or to challenge. 
 
 * Good-afternoon, Mrs. Clucas. Can I come 
 in and talk half an hour with you ? I have a 
 great deal to explain." 
 
 " The barefaced you are, Captain, and good- 
 afternoon indeed! A middlin bad afternoon 
 with the like of you comin into it. And as for 
 splainin , useless, useless, and not needed, thank 
 God, all clear villainy enough, and no mistake ! " 
 
 " One would think I had committed some 
 great crime in telling Bella that "
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 251 
 
 " Great crime ! Bless me, no ! The spirit 
 for a great crime is not in you. Chut ! A 
 sneakin sin against a poor girl ; the like of 
 that for you, a sneakin sin, Captain, and no 
 use in it ! The fool you were, it s the abslit 
 truth, the fool you were ! " 
 
 " Well, Mary, I know it now." 
 
 " Mary ! not from your lips. Mrs. Clucas is 
 too much. The good name itself seems false 
 from them." 
 
 " Can I see Bella a few moments?" 
 
 " Aw, then, you cannot." 
 
 " Mrs. Clucas, I am very sorry. I have suf 
 fered a great deal." 
 
 " I m not regardin what you say. Sufferin ! 
 Not you, nor like to." 
 
 " For the sake of old times." 
 
 " Clean forgot are them. Lizzen ! Come 
 here no more, lettin on to be sufferin . My 
 daughter, God bless her, is over the likin for 
 you, and there s others that are dislikin you, 
 desperate, and not tryin to get over that. 
 They ll be havin it out with you some day or 
 night, by the Lord they will! Splainin , in 
 deed ! Splain to them, and you ll find out 
 the meanin of the word, azackly."
 
 252 FEET OF CLAY, 
 
 She spoke promptly and positively, but 
 without passion, and the set austerity of her 
 face made him understand, even more than 
 her words, the uselessness of further parley. 
 He lifted his hat and went towards the sea. 
 Mary waited at her pest long enough to satisfy 
 her own idea of a calm and deliberate victory, 
 then she re-entered the cottage and shut the 
 door. 
 
 Bella stood at the table, one folded hand 
 pressed tightly on it for support. Her eyes 
 were dropped to hide the tears that dimmed 
 them. "Bella! Dear me! Is it frettin you 
 are ? And for the like of him ? Very tryin 
 of you, amazin . I wouldn t do it." 
 
 "Aw then, mother, take patience a minute. 
 I ve been to a buryin ; youth and love, a bit 
 of my soul and life, gone forever. Tears may 
 drop into an open grave, surely. It isn t you 
 that would be hard where God is easy, pityin* 
 the broken heart, and like Him for all." 
 
 " Not me, nor in me, to be hard, ma chree. 
 Go to yourself a bit. You re droopin -like ? 
 and no wondher. Give way to sorrow and it 
 will mayve give way to comfort"; and then, 
 as Bella passed within the shelter of the closed
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 253 
 
 door, " Poor thing ! A bird will cry with a 
 broken wing, and why not a poor girl with a 
 wounded heart, and yet, no good to fret, no 
 good at all." 
 
 Muttering the words, Mary went to the door 
 and set it open again and looked towards the 
 sea. "I wonder if he took the boat? He ll 
 have his hands full if he did, or I m not 
 knowin anythin . Ruthie and Gale are comin 
 home the land way, very comfible that, for 
 I m not likin the looks of the sea and sky, 
 and the gulls are cryin that sharp and peevish 
 my skin creeps lizzenin them. I wonder if he 
 took the boat, he ll be lost if he has : ill-doers 
 find ill ends, and deservin*. Aw bless me! 
 What am I sayin ? Tis a pity of him, any 
 way. And as for the bad thought in my 
 heart, unawares, but there for all, Maker of 
 sea and land, forgive it ! " 
 
 If her eyes had been clearer she might have 
 seen George pulling as a man pulls against a 
 storm of passionate chagrin and wounded self- 
 appreciation. When he left the cottage he 
 went to the beach. A boat was there which 
 
 p 
 
 he often used, a common row-boat painted 
 Jead color. It was the universal tint except
 
 *$4 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 where the glistening brown weeds draped the 
 black rocks. The heights above were coifed 
 in gray fog. A low gray sky threw down 
 leaden shadows. On the sea not a gleam, it 
 was like a huge black abyss; even the very 
 foam looked dull. 
 
 So the whole surroundings were in sympathy 
 with the young man s mood. Without care or 
 thought of the weather, he put off into the 
 gray trouble of the ocean. And for some time 
 the act of forcing his way through the dark 
 mass surrounding him had a tranquillizing 
 effect upon his wounded feelings. Failure in 
 one direction was compensated for by a sense 
 of power in another. Though the heaving of 
 the sea was constantly growing more portent 
 ous, he did not seriously consider its condition 
 with regard to himself, until he had passed the 
 Stack, and was facing the dangerous coast 
 beyond Pool-vash. 
 
 Then he rested on his oars and looked 
 around him. The tide had turned and was 
 pouring shoreward in a sombre stream. George 
 knew well the sympathy between the sea and 
 the atmosphere, and he was not astonished 
 that the wind should rise with the tide. Wind !
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 255 
 
 In ten minutes it was coming in immense 
 sweeps, lifting the water as it came. He took 
 off his coat and hat and bent himself to the 
 oars with all his might. But he was already 
 wearied, and he had none of the tough staying 
 power of the practised fishermen. 
 
 He felt terrified at the billows which tossed 
 his boat like a shuttlecock from wave to wave. 
 He was using his uttermost strength, but mak 
 ing no headway. To keep out of the current 
 setting with irresistible impetus to the black, 
 jagged rocks round Scarlett point, was his only 
 expectation. And this effort must be kept up 
 through storm and darkness until the ebb of 
 the tide, if it was possible. But his heart 
 sank, and without any conscious intention his 
 lips began to utter those short, pitiful cries for 
 supernatural help, which are the prayers of 
 human extremity. 
 
 So far the storm had been gathering its 
 forces in that singular silence which is even 
 more alarming than the wildest bluster. The 
 gloomy stillness was full of appalling mystery. 
 George looked anxiously round, and as he did 
 so he perceived a large boat in which there 
 were two men. He knew them at once, they
 
 256 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 were Ruthie and Gale Clucas, but humiliating 
 as it was to call upon them, he did not hesitate 
 to do so. His shrill cry for help broke Ruthie s 
 remark in two : 
 
 " God bless me, that s the Captain ! " 
 
 "It is." 
 
 " Callin us, and wantin help " 
 
 "Let him call. * 
 
 " The wind risin , and the tide, he ll be at 
 the bottom in half an hour." 
 
 " Bella ! He would have sent her deeper 
 than the sea-bottom, if he could." 
 
 "Help! Help!" 
 
 "A man axin 1 help at sea; we are seamen, 
 Gale." 
 
 " Let him sink or swim, as God wills." 
 
 " Mayve then God sent us to help him. 
 Just your own stubbornness, Gale, we came 
 this way at all." 
 
 " He s the worst enemy we ever had ; the 
 devil or the sea take him. I m not regardin ." 
 
 " Keep quiet. I m not likin the hound any 
 better than yourself, not I, but we ve orders 
 about our enemy, lovin* him, eh? I can t do 
 that, God Almighty bein a father, wouldn 
 expec me, but savin him is different. He ll
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 257 
 
 be lookin for that much from you and me, 
 
 Gale." 
 
 Who ? " 
 
 " God Almighty, that s who ; savin life, 
 yandher life, that s what He ll be lookin for. 
 Come, my lad, work the oars, we both know 
 what we must do." 
 
 During this conversation George, fearing 
 they did not hear his despairing cry, fastened 
 his white handkerchief to the end of one of his 
 oars, and began to wave it to and fro. The 
 white glimmer through the gray caught 
 Ruthie s and Gale s eyes at the same moment. 
 It was a sign of distress that appealed to their 
 instincts and traditions as no words could do. 
 Ruthie set his lips tight and nodded authorita 
 tively at Gale, and Gale answered by a passion 
 ate bending to the oars which signified at once 
 his reluctance and his acquiescence. 
 
 Before they reached the helpless man a great 
 wave tossed the boat so violently that in try 
 ing to balance himself he let the oar with its 
 white entreaty fall into the sea. In a moment 
 it was beyond his reach, and he was then prac 
 tically at the mercy of the storm. 
 
 Ruthie and Gale looked at each other.
 
 258 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 They had wished him dead many a time. 
 Now they had only to pursue their own road 
 and they would have their wish. No one, 
 with such a sky above and such a sea below, 
 could blame them for considering their own 
 lives first. They could avenge all Bella s 
 wrongs by simply not doing good ; there would 
 be no necessity for them to commit an evil 
 act. The thought was instantaneously in both 
 hearts, and George s cry of "Help!" smote 
 on their ears at the same moment. 
 
 There was a pause, an almost imperceptible 
 delay, and Gale said sullenly : " It will be 
 middlin hard to save ourselves. Look to the 
 aesthward ; not our fault." 
 
 " No excuse ; pull hard, a cruel heart is as 
 bad as a bloody hand. Aw bless me, we must 
 all live, or all drown ! I stand to that." 
 
 In a few minutes they had flung a rope to 
 George, and a little skilful management soon 
 brought the boats into a contact so close that 
 it was practicable for the young man to leap 
 into the larger one. He was by this time not 
 only drenched, but also faint from fear and 
 exhaustion, and he sank down in a condition 
 which made Ruthie push the water-bottle
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 59 
 
 towards him with the point of his foot. There 
 happened to be some extra oilskins in the 
 boat, and in the same manner he was told that 
 he might use them. 
 
 No one spoke a word. No one waited a 
 moment to watch the deserted boat tossed 
 from wave to wave, nearer and nearer to the 
 frightful rocks which rose out of the white 
 foam, jagged and black and full of certain 
 death. Like a giant Gale pulled with might 
 and main for the little bay at Glen Hellish. 
 Ruthie was steering, George, weary, abashed, 
 and half resentful, sat in the bottom of the 
 boat. He would have taken the extra oars, 
 but Gale, by a gesture fierce and imperative, 
 had signified his refusal to accept assistance. 
 It was no time for speech or disputing, their 
 lives were depending on their reaching home 
 before the gathering storm broke in its fury. 
 
 As it was, when they came to the landing 
 there was a wild buffeting through a smother 
 of foam. The spray cut their faces, the lash 
 ing feathers on the tops of the waves half 
 blinded them. They had to leave the boat 
 unfastened, and wade some distance in the 
 surf, for the wind was coming on tremendous,
 
 260 FEE 7 OF CLAY. 
 
 and the hurly-burly of that narrow sea made 
 itself felt in every tiny inlet. George fell 
 twice, and but for Ruthie s hand silently ex, 
 tended would have perished even when his feet 
 had touched the beach. 
 
 At the edge of the water the three men 
 stood to draw breath, and George said : " You 
 have saved my life. I am grateful to you." 
 
 Gale was as one that heard not, he had 
 already turned his feet homeward. Ruthie 
 stayed his footsteps a moment to answer: 
 
 " Only God Almighty s grace. But for His 
 name, you d have been outside His mercy." 
 
 So they left him alone in the gathering 
 gloom, and he felt their desertion more keenly 
 than he would have felt hard words or even 
 blows. Gale in the act of saving his life had 
 refused to speak to him or to lift the oars with 
 him. Ruthie had only broken the cold, unre, 
 lenting silence to assure him that they had 
 saved him for the love of God, and not from 
 any regard for himself. 
 
 As with painful steps he took his way up 
 Glen Hellish he felt this utter want of human 
 kindness, and was angry and mortified by it. 
 As he approached the cottage the fire and
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 261 
 
 candle light shone through the windows, and 
 he could see Ruthie and Gale sitting upon the 
 hearth, and the women ministering to their 
 wants. But the door was closed. If they 
 thought of him, it was only to shut him out. 
 
 He made what haste he could, but his boots 
 and clothing were wet and heavy, he was cold 
 and stiff and weary, and he was wonderfully 
 depressed, for the utter contempt of the fishers 
 for the life they had deigned to save was like 
 a physical blow to a man so greedy of appreci 
 ation and so fond of being admired. Before 
 he got to the head of the Glen the rain came 
 down in torrents ; it fell on the rocks around 
 with a keen lashing sound that blended awfully 
 with the strange noises of the wind through 
 the funnel-like Glen and the solemn roar of 
 the distant ocean. 
 
 It was nearly dark : only a wan shadow of 
 light remained in the western sky. He had 
 never been disciplined by physical suffering 
 and discomfort, it cowed him as a flogging 
 cowes a child. When he reached the boulder 
 which had been his trysting-place with Bella 
 he was forced to rest. In a vague way he re 
 membered sitting there on fine moonlight
 
 262 FEET OF CLAY, 
 
 nights with his arm around the girl. The 
 memory roused in him nothing but anger. It 
 stung him worse than the lashing rain, and he 
 made an effort to rise and go forward. His 
 strength was gone. A feeling of despair and 
 exhaustion made his ears ring inward, and his 
 senses began to fail. 
 
 At this moment he perceived a light ap 
 proaching in a rapid and wavering manner. It 
 was the light of a lantern, and must therefore 
 be in the hand of some human being. He 
 called with the frantic voice of one on the 
 verge of death and despair, and the cry was 
 instantly answered by a cheerful "Hello!" 
 In a few moments he felt strong arms around 
 him, and knew that Matt Kellish was giving 
 him brandy, and half-crying as he soothed and 
 encouraged him with words of sympathy and 
 hope. 
 
 " I saw you go away this afternoon, rowing 
 into the storm like a madman, and I did not 
 see you come back. I thought perhaps you 
 had landed somewhere and walked home. 
 But John Quayle s anxious face at the door 
 told me you were still absent, and I got 
 brandy and a light, and was just going to call
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 263 
 
 Ruthie and Gale and any other men I could 
 find, and search for you. I am glad no one 
 but myself has any part of the pleasure of 
 finding and helping you." 
 
 The kind words, the stimulating spirit, the 
 sense of protection and help restored George 
 to himself. He was soon able to proceed, and 
 in twenty minutes he stood at his own door. 
 He was much excited, talked loudly, and 
 laughed almost hysterically. Kellish on the 
 contrary was silent, almost stern, but his face 
 lighted up strangely when the exuberant 
 youth flung his arms around his neck, and 
 vowed, as he owed his life to him, that he 
 would love him as long as it lasted. 
 
 He resigned him to Quayle with a sigh. " I 
 found him fainting," he said, "quite over 
 come, and I have given him brandy. It has 
 taken possession of him, you see "; then as he 
 turned away, " I have a good mind to go and 
 see Clucas and tell him what I think of shut 
 ting a man out in such a storm. It was Christ 
 himself standing knocking at his door this 
 night, if he had had ears to hear him." 
 
 But Kellish judged a little too hardly. 
 Ruthie believed George to be quite capable of
 
 264 FEET OP CLAY. 
 
 walking to his own home, and even thought 
 the exercise would be of service to him. 
 Gauging the young man s endurance by his 
 own, he considered the danger to life past 
 when he had set him upon dry land. Even 
 Bella, who heard the story of his rescue in 
 silence, had no suspicion of any unkindness in 
 leaving the saved man to find his way up Glen 
 Mellish alone. Yet when the storm broke so 
 early Ruthie was moved enough to notice the 
 subject, and to wonder if the Captain was able 
 for it " bein tired, and \vaeke with fear and 
 the like." 
 
 " Tired " echoed Gale, " what with then ? He 
 sat in the boat bottom all the way home." 
 
 " Easy ! easy, Gale ! Be fair even to the 
 like of him. He offered to take oars." 
 
 "Aw then, do you think I would keep 
 stroke with him ? I d rather break him across 
 my knees than row with him, that s a fac . 
 Aw, the coward, the puny coward, white as 
 milk he was, and tremlin like a baby ! " 
 
 " Not used with the sea, as you are, Gale. 
 You was in a storm afore five years old. 
 The sea was your second mother, washed 
 you, rocked you, played with you, fed you,
 
 LOVE AND DEATi:, 265 
 
 taught you, made a fine strong man of you for 
 any weather. That s you, Gale ! " 
 
 And Gale looked up at his mother with his 
 bright blue eyes full of pleasure. He was one 
 of those lovable young men who grow 
 sweeter under their mother s smile, who are 
 proud of their mother s approval, and would 
 think shame of themselves if they wronged 
 her trust, or wounded her love. 
 
 This incident made a decided break in the 
 life of George Pennington. Though he quite 
 recovered from the physical effects of the storm 
 in a few days, in other respects it cut him 
 away from his previous interests. The stimu 
 lus to mental effort was gone. He could no 
 longer idealize his beautiful fisher-maiden. His 
 anger at Ruthie and Gale extended to Bella. 
 He remembered Mary s plain words with ex 
 treme offence. In fact, he was disillusioned. 
 A sudden disgust of all his surroundings made 
 his days intolerably long, and he had rather 
 dropped his former companions during his 
 poetic enthusiasm ; he fancied that such associ 
 ations took him into a lower mental atmos 
 phere than was favorable to his work. 
 
 Mrs. Pennington perceived the change at
 
 266 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 once. Nothing in nature is so sensitive to at 
 mospheric change, as love is to the mood of 
 the loved one. She reproached herself for 
 being so long in dying. When the oil is 
 exhausted, why does not the lamp go out? 
 But the circumstance caused her to make an 
 effort she had long wished to make. She sent 
 George to Douglas with some jewelry which 
 she intended to give to Harriet, and she par 
 ticularly requested him to wait there until the 
 articles had been thoroughly repaired and ren 
 ovated. " It may take you three or four days, 
 George, but the change will do you good, and 
 the Ratcliffes will be glad to see you." 
 
 The young man was ready enough for the 
 change. He bade his mother good-bye in a 
 mood of pleasant excitement. He did not see 
 the sign traced by a hand that writes but once, 
 the sign that says, " Thy hours are numbered." 
 He went away laughing, full of his commis 
 sions and his anticipations. 
 
 An hour after his departure Mrs. Penning- 
 ton called a lad that was in the household and 
 sent him into Castletown for medicine; "and 
 drop these letters in the post-office, Stephen." 
 She saw him put them in his pocket and leave
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 267 
 
 the house without remark, and she trusted 
 that the indifference of childhood would pre 
 vent his examining them ; and it is a fact 
 that those who trust to what we blindly call 
 accident are seldom disappointed. It is our 
 well-laid plans that go agley. Stephen posted 
 the letters, and never noticed, or thought of 
 noticing, their directions, though one was for 
 the hand of Mr. Matt Kellish. 
 
 That afternoon he received it. For some 
 moments he was like one stupefied. He was 
 afraid to open it, and did not do so until he 
 reached the privacy of his room. The con 
 tents gave a wrench to his heart that was a 
 physical pain. He knew, when he read them, 
 that death had come as a peacemaker: 
 
 " Life is nearly over, and I have something 
 to say to you. To-morrow morning call for 
 George. They will tell you he is in Douglas. 
 Then say that you must see me. Come as 
 soon after ten as possible. I grow weaker as 
 the day goes by. M. P." 
 
 One smiles at the efforts of a lover to look 
 well in the eyes of his mistress, but there is an 
 inexpressible pathos in such efforts when it is 
 a husband whom time, and evil fortune, and
 
 268 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 too late repentance, have made physically un 
 desirable. Many a year had passed since 
 Arthur Permington dressed so carefully, or 
 looked so anxiously in his glass for advice as 
 to the best results. Insensibly he had been 
 improved by his contact with George, and his 
 observation of the men in the little garrison 
 town, but he was still one on whom sin and 
 sorrow had left indelible and dreadful marks. 
 
 He was at the house precisely at ten, and 
 saw John Quayle standing at the door luxuri 
 ously inhaling the scent of the sea and the 
 earthy smell of the freshly turned garden. 
 They were accustomed to speak to each other, 
 and when Quayle said, " It s the spring again, 
 thank God, Mr. Kellish ! " the words, few as 
 they were, had a tone of liking in them. 
 
 " You are looking like the spring, Mr. 
 Quayle, with the violet in your buttonhole 
 and the fresh color in your cheeks, and your 
 eyes like a bit of the sky. Where is the Cap 
 tain ? I want to see him most particularly." 
 
 " Aw then, the Lord only knows. I wouldn 
 be so bold as to say. for he went to Doolish 
 yesterday mornin ." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Quayle, you must do your best
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 269 
 
 with the lady, for see her I must. If you ll 
 say it is extraordinary business and requiring 
 to be looked after at once, of course she ll take 
 your advice. And to be plain with you, Mr. 
 Quayle, it is important, very important "; and 
 as the words fell with a persuasive ring into 
 the ear and a golden ring into the hand of Mr. 
 Quayle, there was no difficulty. 
 
 In five minutes Arthur Pennington stood 
 within the door of his dying wife s room. On 
 entering she motioned him to turn the key, 
 and as he completed the act her eyes met his 
 with a look in them which carried him back, 
 back, back, to the days of his sinless boyhood 
 and his happy love. He trembled under it, 
 and his suffering face seemed to ask her not to 
 trouble these depths of memory. 
 
 "Arthur! my dear Arthur! " 
 
 " Oh, my love ! Have you forgiven me, at 
 last?" He stood still, half-way between the 
 door and her chair, and stretched out his 
 arms with an irresistible entreaty. She feebly 
 raised her own ; her smile answered him. 
 He was at her knees. He was clasping her 
 hands. Her face was laid against his, their 
 tears mingled on her white cheek.
 
 270 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 With broken words and broken kisses they 
 made their peace, they renewed their vows, 
 for eternity now ; they buried for ever, every 
 memory of their wrong and suffering. The 
 mystery of that solemn communion is not trans 
 latable, if it were, it could only be put into 
 words by a kind of sacrilege. For many rea 
 sons, however, the interview could not last 
 long. She made him sit by her side, she laid 
 her head upon his shoulder, she whispered the 
 words in his ear and on his lips that she 
 was spending her last breath to say. 
 
 " Take care of George." 
 
 " I love him ! I love him better than life. 
 If it were necessary I would give my life for 
 him." 
 
 " Listen ! He is weak where you were 
 weak. He was tempted once, and the temp 
 tation was too great for him." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! I will love him all the more." 
 
 " I leave him to you a sacred charge." 
 
 " As sacred as the holy bread." 
 
 "Harriet?" 
 
 " Trouble not about her. I have been at 
 Sutcliffe, soon after the marriage. She has 
 all she desires. She is happy."
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 271 
 
 "Arthur, dear, dear Arthur! You have 
 promised. We shall meet again beyond." 
 
 " Oh, my love ; if you should not know me ! " 
 
 " But I shall. Heaven is not full of impal 
 pable shadows. Will God give us some un 
 known being in the place of the one whose 
 image we have faithfully kept through many 
 sorrowful years ? It is impossible. He will 
 not disappoint us. We shall meet again." 
 
 They clasped hands with the promise. For 
 a moment Arthur Pennington s face regained 
 beauty, for his soul reigned supreme : it was 
 overflowing with love, with the sweetness of 
 pardon, with immortal hope, and it transfigured 
 the blemished and unlovely mask. Death and 
 love have revelations such as these. 
 
 A moment more and parting was over. He 
 had kissed her cheek, and blessed her softly in 
 the name of God, and prayed that she might 
 go in peace. Then he went so quietly that no 
 one knew when he left the house. Down to 
 the seaside he took his sorrow, and the wind 
 carried his moaning away on its wings. For 
 he hardly knew what he said, only that in his 
 agony he kept helplessly repeating God s great 
 name.
 
 272 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Hour after hour the dying woman lay quiet. 
 Her last duty was done. Her servants came 
 in and out, but she had no service to ask from 
 them. The afternoon wore calmly away, and 
 the sun sank with a majestic melancholy below 
 the waves. As she watched it, Death came to 
 her, came like a gentle night falling over the 
 stress of daytime, reverend and lovable. With 
 winged feet at last he came, touching her very 
 tenderly. The servants, entering one by one, 
 saw the ineffable serenity and the dignity which 
 the last moment had left, the seal of peace 
 after sorrow vanquished, after labor ended. 
 
 It was her desire that her body should be 
 taken to the little border village from which 
 she came. She wished to lie with the fathers 
 and mothers of her own lineage, on the windy 
 hillside where she had grown to childhood, and 
 where her only brother still lived in wealthy 
 simplicity among his flocks and shepherds. 
 Her wish was carefully complied with. She 
 lay for one night in her girlhood s chamber, 
 the next day they buried her in a small church 
 yard, where nearly all the stones bore the name 
 of Brougham. 
 
 Jt was a chill, rainy day, and every one shiv-
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 273 
 
 ered in the lonely place, though there was the 
 promise of spring in the budding trees, and in 
 the blackbirds bugling finely among them. The 
 promise of spring in nature, and the promise 
 of eternal life in the blessed words at the grave 
 mouth. But none were able to accept them. 
 They went drearily back to Brougham Hall, 
 and gathered together as their hearts led them. 
 George talked over the new life before him 
 with his uncle, Robert Pennington. Harriet 
 and her husband arranged their journey home. 
 Mr. Brougham smoked his pipe until the even 
 ing brought his guests together. 
 
 Then the blazing fires and the twinkling 
 chandeliers filled the big room with warmth 
 and light. Meat and wine, and face answering 
 face, brought comfort. With the unforgotten 
 dead in their hearts, they began to plan for the 
 living and talk of the future. The solemnity 
 of a life concluded cannot interfere with the 
 lives going on. Our ordinary existence, our 
 repasts at stated hours, the decorous garments 
 necessary, the proprieties to be observed ah 
 me, grief is a flower more delicate and more 
 prompt to fade than happiness. 
 
 Even that night there were in Brougham
 
 274 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Hall smiles, and hopes, and plans for the future. 
 God rescues our personality from the tomb, 
 but we leave our affections there. The dead 
 was still loved, but she had no longer any part 
 in their joys and anxieties. George was 
 dreaming of his future, Harriet of her home, 
 Squire Brougham of the morrow s market. 
 But out in the dark churchyard a man knelt 
 hour after hour by the new-made grave. No 
 one knew of his presence ; no one heard the 
 sobs which blended with the mournful wind. 
 He was alone with those phantoms which de 
 scend upon the soul of the mourner. " My love ! 
 My love! My wife! My wife!" so he called 
 her, until, after long hours of misery, suddenly 
 he found, he knew not what, penetrating sweet 
 ness. It sheltered itself in the recesses of his 
 heart, it filled him with rest from head to feet. 
 It was just at dawning, and he rose up and 
 went away comforted, whispering her name as 
 he went.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 YOUTH ON THE PROW. 
 
 " And in the morn and liquid dew of youth 
 Contagious blastments are most imminent." 
 
 " Time the shuttle drives, but you 
 Give to every thread its hue ; 
 And elect your destiny." 
 
 " It is the heart and not the brain 
 That to the highest doth attain." 
 
 A MONTH after the death of Mrs. Penning- 
 ton the pretty island home was closed. 
 The rooms through which the dying lady had 
 wandered with prayers on her lips, the one 
 which had been to her the gate of heaven, all 
 were dismantled and left desolate. Only Mr. 
 Kellish in the dim walked slowly about the 
 shady garden, or sat under the trees and 
 thought of her who was treading the hills of 
 God. 
 
 George hurried through the business as 
 quickly as possible. Now that his mother and 
 sister were gone from the home nest, he felt 
 275
 
 276 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 little reluctance in tearing it to pieces. Con 
 sidering his position and personal circum 
 stances he had made few friends, and the near 
 presence of the Clucas family was a constant 
 irritation. But for the companionship of Mr. 
 Kellish and the kindness of the Dinwoodie 
 family he would have felt strangely desolate. 
 For his passing devotion to the muse, and his 
 reputation as a scholar and a man fond of 
 books, had seriously injured him with what 
 is usually called society, a class who think 
 their thoughts second-hand, and who do not 
 even respect those who do their thinking for 
 them. That little affair with the fisher-girl 
 could have been got over ; every young man had 
 a secret apology for his temptation, every 
 woman in her heart threw the blame upon 
 Bella. But what can society do with a man 
 who writes, who has original ideas, who finds 
 books more interesting than the babble and 
 gossip of the mess and the ball-room ? 
 
 George understood the position, and yet was 
 inclined at times to complain of it. Indeed to 
 Mr. Kellish he complained very bitterly, for in 
 these lonely days their friendship ripened 
 rapidly. They spent most of them together,
 
 YOUTH ON THE PROW. 277 
 
 and then talked and speculated half the night 
 away. One evening some civil snub from a 
 young lieutenant annoyed George very much, 
 and its discussion with his friend was the 
 natural outcome of the affair. 
 
 " What can you expect, Captain ? You 
 think differently from these people, you act in 
 a way which is not sanctioned by their use and 
 wont. You are in a fact a nonconformist in 
 your own set, and if a man goes against the 
 opinions and prejudices of the people he lives 
 among, he is just as sure to incur opposition 
 and pain as if he ran his head against a wall. 
 You could not even take mustard with your 
 mutton, or eat your peas with a knife, and be 
 innocent." 
 
 " But what becomes of our freedom of opin 
 ion ? Is a man to be sent to Coventry who 
 dares to walk out of the groove of his set?" 
 
 " The man who dares to do it never yet 
 trod on roses, and, till human nature changes, 
 never will. But there are generally some 
 blessed stragglers as well as himself. Have 
 you read an old-fashioned book called The 
 Pilgrim s Progress? Yes? Well, you know 
 what those nonconformists suffered in Vanity
 
 278 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Fair, and you remember that in the loneliest 
 bit of the road, when the great Pilgrim was 
 very disconsolate, he heard the voice of a 
 man on the same road full of hope and 
 courage. Come, now, you haven t been quite 
 deserted." 
 
 " No, indeed ! You are always sympathetic, 
 and so is Miss Dinwoodie." 
 
 "And how sweet, and pretty, and sensible she 
 is! I think you can afford to let the crowd 
 pass you by, the stragglers from it may prove 
 the best company." 
 
 George smiled pleasantly, perhaps to his 
 own thoughts ; he was recalling the image of 
 Kitty as he had seen it frequently during these 
 days. For his own home being in great con 
 fusion, he had been a constant guest at the 
 Dinwoodies, and Kitty had revealed herself in 
 all those womanly ways which captivate the 
 heart of any man worth loving. If girls would 
 only believe it, not in the hunting-field, not 
 in the ball-room, or the tennis-court, not in any 
 of the brilliant ways of pleasure, are they the 
 loveliest. The charming woman is most of all 
 charming when she smiles upon her lover 
 from the home hearth, and when she is mak-
 
 YOUTH ON THE PROW. 279 
 
 ing sunshine and comfort in all the blessed 
 ways of household life and duty. 
 
 And as Kitty went up and down in her 
 pretty chintz frock, with its dimity ruffling 
 and bows of pink ribbon, up and down assist 
 ing her mother, or reading to her father, al 
 ways busy, always good-tempered, George 
 could not help admiration growing into love; 
 could not help making comparisons which 
 caused him many a time to blush with a hot 
 anger at the faults and foolishness of the past. 
 But however much he now knew himself to be 
 in love with Kitty, he was conscious that she 
 would resent at present any outspoken confes 
 sion. That affair of Bella Clucas was still un- 
 forgotten, he could feel it ; and there was 
 also a certain reticence due to the memory gf 
 his mother, a reticence which he divined 
 Kitty would expect him to observe. But love 
 is not dependent upon words for its assurance. 
 George did not speak, but Kitty understood 
 that he loved her. Kitty made no sign, but 
 George knew that he had her heart s first 
 affection. 
 
 It was not without a pang that he took his 
 last walk through the emptied rooms, and
 
 280 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 turned the key in the closed door. Youth 
 can afford these luxuries of sorrow. He 
 dropped a few genuine tears, and wrote a few 
 exquisite lines of lament and farewell. Then 
 with his heart thrilling with emotion, and his 
 handsome eyes misty with tears, he took 
 Kitty for a last walk before their parting. 
 They said a thousand sweet things to each 
 other by their silences, by their melancholy, 
 by their veiled glances of affection, by their 
 delays, and their soft monosyllables. 
 
 Some turn of fate brought them face to face 
 with Bella. Lace Corrin walked at her side, 
 and at that moment he looked precisely what 
 he was said to be, the handsomest lad in the 
 boats. He had a pair of oars over his shoul- 
 4er, but as he stooped his bright head and 
 eager face towards Bella s, he was the very 
 embodiment of love ; handsome, graceful, irre 
 sistible. Bella in appearance was his ideal 
 mate. His blue fisher guernsey was matched 
 by her dress of blue flannel. With its plain 
 bodice and close-fitting sleeves, guernsey and 
 dress alike revealed the fine proportions of 
 their wearers ; and Lace s bit of white collar 
 and the gay colored kerchief knotted around
 
 YOUTH av THE PROW, 281 
 
 his neck were almost repeated in the tiny 
 ruffle and pink ribbon at Bella s throat. 
 
 They stood in the glory of the setting sun, 
 and its rose and purple gave to their young, 
 vivid beauty a splendor that recalled the 
 fishermen of the Saronic Gulf, and the fair, 
 proud Corinthian girls who loved them. A 
 sudden turn brought them directly in front of 
 George and Kitty. In passing each other Bella 
 would be next to George, would be so close 
 to him that they could clasp hands. Retreat 
 for both was possible, but neither thought of 
 it. Lace simply stepped to the other side of 
 Bella, and thus put himself between his love 
 and his rival. The act brought the men to 
 gether, and Lace turned on George a face that 
 was in itself a provocation and a challenge. 
 He stood directly in the onward path of 
 George, and George had no mind to move a 
 step out of it, to avoid the offensive man. 
 Such a situation became in a moment unen 
 durable, and George, touching his cap with one 
 finger, said haughtily : 
 
 "Mr. Corrin, if you have no respect for 
 your companion, be so good as to respect the 
 daughter of Major Dinwoodie,"
 
 282 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 Before Lace could possibly answer, Bella 
 had retaken her position, and had compelled 
 Lace to advance in his own direction by one of 
 those authoritative movements rapid as light 
 and imperative as fate. Yet in this flashing 
 act of supremacy she found the opportunity 
 to dart into Kitty s eyes a glance appealing 
 and propitiatory, a glance answered by a simul 
 taneous movement of their hands, which met 
 for a second of time across the breast of the 
 man who had been dear to one, and was now 
 dear to the other. 
 
 Rapid and simple as Bella s glance and act 
 had been, Kitty understood them in all their 
 depth and fulness of meaning. When souls 
 speak to each other, words are unnecessary, 
 and a moment of time is sufficient. On Bel 
 la s part there had been a perfect act of renun 
 ciation, and it had somehow not only included 
 an entreaty for personal consideration, but an 
 assurance of her good-will and good wishes for 
 the woman whose love was to be honored, 
 where her own hand had been wronged and 
 dishonored. There are women capable of such 
 acts of nobility ; Bella was among them. 
 
 In a few moments the painful irritation of
 
 YOUTH ON THE PROW. 283 
 
 the meeting wore away in silence, and George, 
 looking anxiously at the pretty girl by his 
 side, said : 
 
 " I think I ought to confess something to 
 you, Miss Kitty, may I speak to-night ? " 
 
 " Not to-night. Before confession there 
 ought to be plenty of time for reflection." 
 
 " Some time may I confess ? " 
 
 " Some time, yes." 
 
 He. took her hand, and they walked home in 
 the gloaming with the joy of promise in their 
 hearts ; a joy unnamed and unanalyzed, and 
 all the sweeter and vaster for its beautiful 
 vagueness. 
 
 George went away early in the morning, 
 glad to leave the scene of so much mortifica 
 tion and failure. He had often wondered how 
 he would feel if brought suddenly face to face 
 with Bella, and he had found that in such a 
 crisis he had hardly thought of her. All his 
 anxiety had been about his own position. 
 The girl s great beauty had lost all charm for 
 him. He could find defects in it, where there 
 were none. He could congratulate himself 
 upon the failure of the evil scheme which had 
 once been the delightful object of all his
 
 284 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 thoughts. He could realize with a shiver of 
 dislike what a burden the girl would have 
 already become to him. But it did not enter 
 his mind to try and realize what the position 
 of Bella would have been, had not her soul 
 been purer and stronger than his own. 
 
 The little steamer, King Orry, sailing be 
 tween Douglas and Whitehaven, landed him 
 at the latter port about sunset. He under 
 stood that Robert Pennington s carriage would 
 meet him there, but he had no idea as to his 
 further journey. It was a lovely spring even 
 ing, with a whole horizon full of blue sleepy 
 ocean, seaward. Landward, there was a quiet, 
 aristocratic town, whose peace seemed to suf 
 fer a kind of invasion in the swaggering tur 
 moil made by their steamer, entering between 
 the two fine sea-walls. 
 
 Ere he had time to land, George saw what 
 he had been very certain he would see, a 
 handsome landau with servants in brown and 
 yellow livery. He was relieved at once of all 
 responsibility: "Squire Pennington s carriage, 
 sir." It had a strange sort of familiarity, 
 and the air of the servants invested him with 
 a certain proprietorship in it. Their ride
 
 YOUTH ON THE PROW 285 
 
 took them some miles beyond the wealthy 
 old town, and in the gloaming they entered a 
 park whose greenness and stillness could at 
 that hour be felt. The oaks which lined the 
 avenues, or made coverts for the deer and the 
 birds, had been growing for centuries. It was 
 a place where nature in a great measure had 
 had her will ; and such places straightway 
 become beautiful and peaceful. 
 
 The trees rustled and looked glad, and after 
 a two miles drive they parted to the right 
 and left, and showed him a large dwelling on 
 which the gray twilight fell softer than sleep. 
 There were lights in all the windows, and 
 the wide door stood open and revealed the 
 hall in a blaze of welcome. When the 
 carriage stopped before it, Robert Penning- 
 ton advanced and took his nephew by both 
 hands. 
 
 " This is the young squire," he said. " This 
 is the heir of Pennington ! You will give him 
 your love and service ? " He had turned in 
 speaking so as to face the men and women 
 drawn up to welcome the new-comer. And it 
 was impossible for a heart so fond of affection 
 as George Pennington s was not to be moved
 
 286 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 by the ready responses and the sympathetic 
 smiles that greeted him. 
 
 " Thou art grown bravely, thou art far 
 away bonnier than I thought for!" cried one 
 old woman. " Ey, but thou liked me well 
 before thou could say so, thou did that ! 
 T squire be thanked for thy home-bringing ! " 
 
 And George knew precisely what graceful 
 thing to say and what to do in each case of 
 remembrance. Robert Pennington was com 
 pletely satisfied with the young man, he was 
 proud of the object of his love and generosity. 
 Everything had been arranged for his comfort 
 in the most sumptuous style. It was evident 
 that in thus publicly acknowledging him as 
 his heir the squire determined to do so to the 
 utmost extent of honor and favor. And 
 George was left in no doubt as to his position. 
 (After dinner, as the two men sat talking over 
 the business relating to the break-up of the 
 home in the Island, the elder one said plainly : 
 
 " George, I have made you heir of Penning 
 ton. I have not taken this step without long 
 consideration. I shall not alter my intentions 
 for any light reason. I intend you to have the 
 fullest liberty. Your religious convictions,
 
 YOUTH ON THE PROW. 287 
 
 your matrimonial intentions, your political 
 views, I shall not interfere with any further 
 than as one man may advise another. Our 
 opinions on these and other matters may 
 differ, and for any matter of opinion I shall 
 not change my intention regarding your future. 
 One vice may prove unpardonable in my 
 sight: I mean gambling, either on the turf 
 or at the table. You will easily find other 
 things to interest you. The stables are full of 
 horses, and I wish you to join the hunt, to 
 take your share generously in all the athletic 
 games which belong to your years and posi 
 tion. Here, you will be second only to myself. 
 In London, you will be absolutely your own 
 master." 
 
 " Then you wish me to reside partly in 
 London ?" 
 
 " I believe in alternations of life, as long as a 
 man is able to enjoy them. There comes a 
 time, George, when we like our days of the 
 same kind, when habit reconciles us to the loss 
 of that capacity for change and pleasure which 
 youth enjoys; but until then, city and coun 
 try, drawing-room and hunting-field enhance 
 each other s charms. They make the same
 
 288 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 antithesis as that transition from wish to ful 
 filment, and fulfilment to wish, which is the 
 basis of so much of what we call happiness." 
 
 " Dear uncle, you open a delightful vista 
 to me." 
 
 " I hope so. But I am well aware men don t 
 live in such vistas without money. You will 
 find at Longman s, Leadenhall Street, .8000 
 a year to your credit. That has always been 
 the heir s allowance from the estate. No, do 
 not thank me. I understand what you would 
 say far better. I enjoy the giving more than 
 you enjoy the gift. We are quits, George." 
 
 I will deserve your kindness ; that will be 
 the best thanks." 
 
 " Precisely ; and I trust you. I trust you 
 fully ; trust your honor and integrity to the 
 uttermost. I will listen to no evil words 
 about you. Young men will do foolish things, 
 and they will have enemies glad to repeat 
 them. Unless you are your own accuser I 
 will be deaf to all such reports." 
 
 " If accusation is deserved, I will be my own 
 accuser." 
 
 " My dear George, those are wise words. 
 Come to me in any strait, I love you, and
 
 You TII o.v THE PROW. 2$$ 
 
 except in regard to the one vice I have speci 
 fied you will find me patient and generous. 
 For a gambler I have no toleration ; every sin 
 is possible to a man who can throw dice with 
 the devil, and risk time and eternity upon the 
 speed of a horse or the turn of a card." 
 
 He spoke with a stern passion, so entirely 
 at variance with his usual manner, that no 
 answer seemed possible, . and perhaps the 
 emphatic silence which followed was the most 
 forcible application of the words. 
 
 George Pennington during the past weeks 
 had made many plans for his future. His 
 uncle s letters had given him hopes of some 
 permanent good ; perhaps a pleasant govern 
 ment sinecure ; perhaps a military commission 
 equally desirable. He had even contemplated 
 the study of the law. He was prepared to 
 take the first road through life that offered, 
 and fight with all its difficulties. This splen 
 dor of opportunity, this largess of love and 
 wealth and pleasure so freely offered ! He 
 had never imagined such good fortune, for the 
 gifts of God put all our best dreams to shame. 
 And George, in the midst of the luxurious 
 comforts of his own apartments, surveyed his
 
 29 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 wonderful destiny with a heart full of the 
 warmest gratitude. He acknowledged God 
 the giver. He made the noblest resolutions 
 for his future conduct. He fully intended to 
 keep them. For the man wholly scoundrel or 
 wholly angel dwells elsewhere than on earth. 
 In humanity there is no such thing as a 
 straight line or an unmixed color. 
 
 The days and weeks that followed were full 
 of content to both uncle and nephew. George 
 was learning the extent of the estate, the 
 names and qualities of the tenants, the value 
 of every farm, the methods of agriculture, all 
 the delightful routine of husbandry without 
 its cares and labors. 
 
 The country was enchanting. His poetic 
 nature realized its beauties. He carried in 
 his heart the silence of wood and fell, and the 
 sylvan charm of an out-door life. In the 
 autumn the Earl of Lonsdale filled his ad 
 joining castle with guests, and the crack of 
 guns and shouts of the hunters were heard 
 among the stubble and in the young planta 
 tions all around. George was a speedy favor 
 ite. He ably filled the place in field-sports 
 which his uncle had Ions: vacated.
 
 YOUTH ON THE PROW. 29 1 
 
 Even the gentlemen spoke highly of him. 
 Robert Pennington had thought deeply on all 
 public subjects, and George had the art to 
 clothe his uncle s ideas in brilliant language. 
 The earl himself listened to the young fellow 
 with half-shut eyes and grave reflections as to 
 his political influence. For Lonsdale s ideas 
 of men were not haunted by time or death. 
 He recognized them as whigs or tories. His 
 sole conception of the universe was a political 
 one. In the winter, when they were both in 
 London, he resolved to see more of George 
 Pennington. It might be to the interest of 
 his party to secure so brilliant a thinker and 
 speaker. In the mean time he watched him 
 closely, for this nobleman was born suspicious. 
 If he heard the world praising anything or 
 any one, he was always disposed to define the 
 object of its idolatry as a humbug. 
 
 At the beginning of the season George went 
 to London. He had rooms in one of the most 
 fashionable streets, he had everything that 
 money could purchase to make them suitable 
 for a young man of his pretensions. Even the 
 proverbial skeleton was in his case promptly 
 and kindly dismissed. For it must be ad-
 
 292 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 mitted that the thought of the secret which 
 Lord Penrith held was a shadow in his sun 
 shine. He had not feared him while their 
 paths ran so far apart. But now that they 
 were likely to meet in the same drawing-rooms 
 and sit at the same tables, he was constantly 
 asking himself how Penrith would act. 
 
 At the first dinner given by the Earl of 
 Lonsdale the question was answered. Penrith 
 was present, but the dinner was a large polit 
 ical one, and in the crowd George did not 
 notice the friend who had once been so near 
 to his soul. Perhaps it was fortunate, for the 
 knowledge of his presence might have dashed 
 the charming brilliancy of his conversation. 
 As it was, Penrith listened with his old-time 
 delight. He made haste to see him when the 
 party rose, he clasped his hand with the linger 
 ing fervor of by-gone days, he drew him gently 
 into the seclusion of a curtained embrasure, 
 and said : 
 
 " My dear George, I want to speak to you ; 
 to assure you there was a piece of paper 
 you remember? I want you to feel as if it 
 had never been." 
 
 " I cannot feel that. Oh, my dear friend, I "
 
 YOUTH OX THE PROW. 293 
 
 "Yes! Yes! Put it out of your memory 
 With these words it dies out of mine. Upon 
 my honor! " 
 
 It is useless to say that George was much 
 moved, really moved ; that Penrith felt his 
 emotion, that their silent handclasp was a 
 bond which George knew Penrith would never 
 break. Henceforward they were friends, not 
 intimates perhaps, but conscious of the fidelity 
 of each other s hearts, and ready at any hour 
 to prove it. 
 
 During the winter he published his poems. 
 Literary fame brought him constant offers 
 of literary employment. It was the day of 
 Keepsakes and Albums and Souvenirs, and 
 every separate one solicited a little gem for 
 its pages. Squire Pennington laughed at all 
 this adulation ; perhaps he was also a little 
 proud of it, but the old earl was angry and 
 disappointed in his political protege 1 . 
 
 "Nebulous brilliance," he said tartly and 
 scornfully; "stuff that dreams are made of. I 
 am disappointed. The young man lacks defi 
 nite edge to his intellectual character." 
 
 In the midst of all this wealth of acclaim 
 George lived for many weeks with a gay satis-
 
 294 rEET OF CLAY. 
 
 faction which lacked nothing of completeness 
 but the ability to bear it without weariness. 
 For at length reaction began. The same 
 forms of adulation grew tiresome. Thoughts 
 uncalled for presented themselves. Con 
 science, which had not been troublesome, be 
 came imperative. He thought of all the noble 
 resolves he had formed ; they had been with 
 out substance and had vanished away. He 
 thought of Kitty with a sense of remorse. 
 He had sent her no token of his remembrance. 
 Among so many fair women he had forgotten 
 the claim which she had upon him, a claim 
 which no spoken words could make more bind 
 ing on his manhood. He thought, and with a 
 singular persistence, of the strange being who 
 had saved his life that night when he had been 
 abandoned at the edge of the storm by 
 Ruthie and Gale Clucas, who had become so 
 familiar with him, and to whom he had so 
 often opened out his whole soul. Plenty of 
 promises to write had been given, but only at 
 the very first had they been kept ; and that in 
 a most meagre fashion. In the midst of the 
 reckless dissipation into which he was grad 
 ually drifting, he had intervals of such re-
 
 YOUTH ON THE PltOW. 2 95 
 
 proachful reflections ; but in the main he was 
 becoming more and more thoughtless and self- 
 indulgent. 
 
 One Sabbath morning, when all the service 
 bells of London were ringing, George sat by 
 the fire listening to them. He was weary of 
 himself. Life had a bad taste to him, he was 
 half-inclined to desert the trivial interests 
 which were occupying his thoughts and time. 
 The fact was, he had been losing money, and 
 his extravagances were beginning to call upon 
 him. He felt poor, he had a bill to meet, and 
 did not know where to get the necessary funds. 
 His account was overdrawn. He was ashamed 
 to ask his uncle s help. He was only heir at 
 will, the estate was unentailed, he could not 
 therefore discount his future. 
 
 Into the midst of these unpleasant reveries 
 entered Kellish. George leaped up with both 
 hands outstretched. The love in the dark- 
 seamed face, and the joy at his warm welcome, 
 was such a real thing, that it went straight to 
 the young man s heart. He threw his arm 
 across the shoulder of his visitor and forced 
 him into his own chair, " the easiest of the 
 lot, you may be sure," he said with a laugh.
 
 296 FEET Of CLAY. 
 
 "And when did you leave the Island? And 
 how did you find me out ? I ve had breakfast, 
 but I can eat again. Let us have breakfast 
 together." 
 
 Kellish was overpowered by his enthusiasm. 
 The tears shone through his bright glances. 
 He suffered himself to be much made of, and 
 watched his gay, lovable host with an affec 
 tion that went straight to the heart, as the 
 sunshine goes to the root of a flower. 
 
 The hours went by, they never counted 
 them. They were talking of real things, of 
 the loves and hatreds of the past, and of 
 George s expectations in the future. It was 
 near midnight when Kellish spoke of leaving. 
 " I was so hungry to be near you," he said, 
 " that I have been hard to satisfy. Seeing 
 you is not enough, though I have seen you 
 every day." 
 
 "Seen me? Where?" 
 
 " I have a room opposite here. It has been 
 my whole life to watch you come in and out, 
 to read your book and all that was said about 
 it, to admire you riding in the Row, to follow 
 you to the theatre or the opera-house, where 
 you were all the play and all the music to me."
 
 YOUTH ON THE PROW. 297 
 
 " I am not worthy of so much love. Mr. 
 Kellish, why do you give it to me?" 
 
 " Can you tell me why you like De Burg 
 and dislike Martelle ? The beginnings of 
 liking and disliking are generally as simple as 
 the opening of a door. I had a hard fate 
 when I was young. I was abroad for more 
 than twenty years ; when I came back I was 
 forgotten. All I had cared for were dead to 
 me. On that night when we first spoke, I 
 was wretched and despairing. Your sweet 
 courtesy, your bright face, your actual care 
 for my life, were an incredible comfort and 
 hope. Every soul must love something. I 
 had had nothing but memories to love for so 
 long that I was starved. Do you comprehend 
 then what I made of you?" 
 
 " You are a very good fellow, and I have 
 had far more real pleasure talking with you 
 than ever I had among the laughing and 
 dancing crowds I have lately frequented. Do 
 not desert me any more. I need some one 
 older than myself, some one I can trust. Be 
 my friend, then, my true friend." 
 
 " That I promised long ago. If I could 
 only do anything for you, but you are so rich,
 
 298 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 so prosperous, so happy ! What is there left 
 to give but love? " 
 
 "You are mistaken. I am this night very 
 unhappy. I am so poor that I do not know 
 how to meet a bill that must be paid to 
 morrow." 
 
 " If a thousand pounds would be of service, 
 take them, and give me the greatest pleasure 
 I can have." 
 
 George looked at the man with utter amaze 
 ment. He had his wallet in his hand and was 
 counting out the amount in 100 bills. 
 
 " Do not disappoint me. I have no use for 
 the money, unless it can be of use to you." 
 
 " Mr. Kellish, it will be a godsend to me. 
 I will pay you " 
 
 " I will not lend it. You must take it as a 
 gift, or not at all. I do not want to become a 
 bore to you, and I should do so, if my face 
 were only a reminder of a debt. Come, now, 
 take it ! You can make me so happy ! " 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " Thank you, Captain." 
 
 There was a moment s silence, but George 
 gave his friend as he took the notes a glance 
 full of truth and kindness, and Kcllish, to re-
 
 YOU 7^1 ON THE PROW. 299 
 
 lieve the consciousness of both, lifted an old 
 Roman coin that had been used as a whist- 
 counter, and began to talk about it : 
 
 " Titus, eh ? Not a bad fellow for the 
 world he lived in, a different world from this." 
 
 " Yes, indeed ! I had a fancy once for old 
 coins. They are not worth much in the way 
 of meeting a bill." 
 
 " No, you can t buy bread and beef with 
 them, but this half-obliterated image of the 
 old Roman is a kind of wizard. Look at it : 
 the centuries collapse, England is a green 
 waste, and up springs the triumphal arch ! I 
 can see the conqueror and the captives pass 
 ing through it. I can hear the shouts of the 
 populace making a Roman holiday, but there 
 are the midnight clocks ! I must go now. I 
 hope I have not wearied you." 
 
 " You have been a great deliverance, a true 
 friend to me. Come soon again. I cannot 
 thank you as I wish to now." 
 
 He smiled an answer, and closed the door 
 softly behind him as he went away. But his 
 heart was in a tempest of fear. " He is in 
 danger, he is in danger ! I must get nearer, 
 nearer, nearer to him! If I spend all I have,
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 I -must buy the right to be at his side! I 
 must ! I must ! " Muttering such frantic 
 words he crossed the street, and admitted 
 himself to the house in which he lodged. The 
 room in it which he called his own was a good 
 room, well furnished, but desolate and uncared- 
 for. He was unconscious of its discomfort. 
 He had but one care, the danger of the son he 
 loved better than his own life. He lit no 
 light, but sank into a chair and covered his 
 face. Man would have said that he was silent, 
 but God heard the agonizing cry of his heart : 
 " The sins of the fathers ! Unto the third 
 and fourth generation ! Redeemer of men, let 
 me alone bear the burden ! "
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHER." 
 
 " Our deeds still travel with us from afar, 
 And what we have been makes us what we are." 
 
 " The soul that gives is the soul that lives." 
 
 " Measure thy life by loss instead of gain, 
 Not by the wine drunk, but the wine poured forth." 
 
 " Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising 
 every time we fall." 
 
 is a law of gravitation in the 
 X moral as well as the natural world. 
 When a young man has begun to fall, he is 
 as certain to continue his downward course to 
 ruin, as the apple loosened from the bough 
 is certain to reach the ground, unless the 
 supernatural interfere. In one case the 
 human hand may arrest the downward prog 
 ress of the apple, in the other, the hand of 
 God may arrest and sustain the falling mortal. 
 But such supernatural aid had not been 
 solicited by George Pcnnington, and for more 
 301
 
 302 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 than four years he had been falling with a 
 speed only possible to those who have gold, 
 or the want of gold, to aid them. He had been 
 conscious of his condition for a long time, 
 helplessly conscious of it, and one afternoon 
 in May he knew himself to be almost at the 
 abyss of ruin which was the terminus of his 
 downward course. 
 
 He was facing it as a man so sensitive and 
 emotional was likely to do, in unmistakable 
 terror. He had hoped until hope had nothing 
 to cling to, and his mental suffering reacted 
 upon his nervous physique, until he had con 
 stantly recurring paroxysms of feverish anguish 
 and cold despair. 
 
 He was in the same splendid rooms, but they 
 had suffered the same spoliation that had 
 blighted his own beauty and mental strength. 
 The bright sunshine revealed the unrenewed 
 wear and tear, the faded coloring, the tarnished 
 gilding, the general air of recklessness and 
 want of prosperity which shows that even me 
 nials scented the coming destruction, and have 
 hastened to take their own small advantages 
 out of the condition. 
 
 It was one item of the misery George Pen-
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHER." 303 
 
 nington was enduring, that his nature was keen 
 ly sensitive to such small things ; the stings 
 and pricks of his misfortune hurt him as well 
 as its outrageous slings and arrows. He saw 
 in the eyes of the servants, and heard in their 
 voices, the reflection and echo of a verdict 
 whose intolerable shame made him burn and 
 shiver in anticipation. 
 
 " My dear George ! " It was Matt Kellish 
 who spoke. He touched the fevered hand of 
 the young man, and turned his face to the 
 light with alarm. " You are ill. Now what 
 is -hounding you to death ? I have seen 
 your misery for a long time. Surely you can 
 tell me." 
 
 He forced him to sit down, and then placed 
 himself opposite. " Tell me, tell me all, as 
 you would have told your mother. I shall be 
 just as pitiful." 
 
 " I know you will. Oh, Matt ! if I only 
 durst tell you!" 
 
 " What have you done." 
 
 " You will despise, you will desert me." 
 
 " I will not, for anything." 
 
 " I have written a name I had no right to 
 write."
 
 3o4 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " You mean that you have forged a name ? * 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Whose?" 
 
 There was a dead silence. The faces of 
 both men were white and despairing. The 
 elder sat with his hands tightly locked, and 
 his dark, sorrowful eyes were fixed upon his 
 companion. The hands of the younger 
 hung loosely downward, his gaze was riveted 
 upon the ground. 
 
 " George ! There is surely something to 
 be done. Do not waste time. Tell me the 
 name ! " 
 
 " It was Sutcliffe s. I have been there. I 
 feel as if there was nothing to be done." 
 
 " Why ? Have you seen him ? Spoken to 
 him?" 
 
 " No. He was from home. I saw Harriet. 
 She lectured me constantly about my extrava 
 gance and all my sins. She thought she 
 was kind. I felt as if it would be impossible 
 to trust her. She has three sons now, she 
 offered to call her baby after me, if I would 
 reform. I told her not to do it, and she 
 cried. Her tears and reproaches hurt me. I 
 came away and said nothing."
 
 " LIKE AS A FATHER." 305 
 
 " Blessed are the merciful women ! Mrs. 
 Sutcliffe has never been tempted, her way has 
 been hedged in on both sides. I am glad you 
 said nothing to her." 
 
 " Harriet is the reflection of her husband ; 
 therefore I fear him." 
 
 " How much, George?" 
 
 " 90-" 
 "How long?" 
 
 " Ninety days ; there are thirty-six hours 
 remaining." 
 
 " Did you draw the money yourself ? " 
 
 " No. The note was given to Jack Derby; 
 he cashed it." 
 
 " Ah ! then I handed it to Jack." 
 
 " Yes. I was going to Pennington that 
 morning, and I asked you to give it to him 
 when he called." 
 
 " I remember. There is a way out of this, 
 George. Let me think." 
 
 He rose and went to the window, and looked 
 out of it across the square, green and beautiful 
 in the sunshine. He saw nothing of it. His 
 vision was recalling far different scenes : a 
 dark crowded, court-room with monotonous, 
 awful voices, and small gas-points struggling
 
 306 PERT OF CLAY. 
 
 with the dense fog ; a blank, stony prison full of 
 misery and crime ; intolerable humiliations, in 
 tolerable society, partings worse than death ; 
 shameful exile, and hell in mortal life. Driven 
 from one point of agony to another, his soul 
 condensed into a few moments the untold 
 anguish of years. 
 
 But the sufferings which had once shaken 
 him like a tempest had also steadied him like 
 a frost. He had the mastery at home ; he 
 could cross his desires, he could command alike 
 his weakest and his most disorderly point, 
 without any fear or mental mutiny. In a few 
 minutes of time he had conceived and accepted 
 an act of sublime affection. He had some 
 thing of the mercy of God in his heart, when 
 he returned to the side of the miserable 
 offender. It softened his touch and his voice. 
 
 " George, there is but one way out of the 
 devil s net. I must take your place, must 
 assume the guilt, and if it be necessary suffer 
 the punishment." 
 
 " I would never permit that, even if it were 
 possible." 
 
 " It is quite possible, and you must permit 
 it. In a few minutes I will convince you.
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHER:* 307 
 
 This is how it was. You owed Derby 900. 
 You were going to Pennington, and you left 
 the money with me to pay the debt. I used 
 the money for my purposes, and gave Derby 
 the forged note. Fortunately I have bought 
 several horses for Colonel Sutcliffe, and we 
 have had quite sufficient business together to 
 make it probable I would select his name." 
 
 " I forged the note. I will bear the blame." 
 
 " I forged the note. It is my fault and my 
 blame. But I have yet sufficient securities 
 left to cover the amount. I will take them to 
 Colonel Sutcliffe. He has nothing to gain by 
 prosecuting me. I have done well by him in 
 several cases. I have no reputation to lose, 
 and no one knows much about me. If I dis 
 appear who will ask why or wherefore ; I love 
 no one but you. If I let you suffer, we must 
 both suffer. If I suffer alone, I suffer alone, 
 and I have the unspeakable joy of sparing 
 you." 
 
 " You could not spare me. Night and day 
 I should be tormented by the thought of my 
 own shameful escape, and the injustice I was 
 doing you." 
 
 " A man in great emergencies must think of
 
 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 others as well as himself. Such a revelation 
 as this would kill your uncle. Public opinion 
 is the breath of your sister s nostrils ; think of 
 her shame." 
 
 " For her sake Sutcliffe might compromise 
 the matter, if he knew I was the criminal." 
 
 " Do you think so ? Then you do not know 
 the man. He is a martinet about his honor. 
 He would make a glory of his shame ; and as 
 for compounding a felony, he would see you 
 stand in every court in England first." 
 
 " Oh, Matt, what am I to do ? " 
 
 "Precisely what I tell you. Leave the 
 affair in my hands. You have got to the very 
 bottom of the devil s hill now, George. Turn 
 back ; turn back, my dear fellow." 
 
 " I will ! I will ! If you get me out of this 
 horrible mess, Matt, I vow to you that I will 
 cut loose from every entanglement. I will 
 leave London altogether. I will go back to my 
 uncle, and never wound his love or waste his 
 generosity again." 
 
 " I believe you will, George. And you must 
 not lose the estate. It is lawfully yours. I 
 mean it has been promised to you for so long. 
 You are only thirty years old, all your life is
 
 " UKE AS A FATHER: 309 
 
 before you. I am sixty. I am not in health. 
 I may not live long in any case. I have not 
 done much good with my life, let me at least 
 give you an opportunity to redeem your 
 wasted years." 
 
 Misery is misery past all controversy, and 
 misery is always selfish. To get ease at any 
 cost is its imperative demand. George hesi 
 tated and protested, but finally accepted the 
 offer of relief made him. He did it truly with 
 tears and contrition, and boundless expres 
 sions of affection, and Kellish appeared to find 
 a sombre satisfaction in the young man s love 
 and sorrow. 
 
 " I shall leave for SutclifTe to-night, and do all 
 that it is possible to do. If the very worst 
 comes, remember, George, I forged the note, 
 and I will stand to that statement though you 
 denied it to my face. You are innocent. I 
 only am to blame. There must be no half- 
 admissions. You know absolutely nothing 
 about it. Whatever I say, do not contradict 
 me. If you implicate yourself in the least, I 
 will never forgive you. Come now, let us talk 
 of something else. There is no need to dis 
 cuss what is settled."
 
 3^6 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " I will tell you a strange thing, a very aw 
 ful thing. This morning just before dawn I 
 sat here, silent, motionless, weary with mis 
 erable thoughts. The door was shut, but I 
 knew that some one entered. A great fear 
 and awe forced my soul prostrate. In a mo 
 ment of time I saw the horror of my whole 
 life. I abhorred myself. I wanted to hide 
 myself from myself. Then I knew that my 
 mother was at my side : The innocent for the 
 guilty. I heard these words, I heard, I felt ; 
 oh, Matt ! Matt ! I cannot tell what awful in 
 tercourse my soul had. It was weeping, shiv 
 ering, full of such agony as it has in dreams, 
 when the body can neither share its sufferings 
 nor its consolations. Do you think I was 
 dreaming? Is it possible for a spirit to love 
 those it has left behind ; to visit them, to 
 talk with them ? Matt, you have studied every 
 side of humanity, have you personally ever 
 known anything like this? " 
 
 " I should think I was pure clay if I had 
 
 not. 
 
 Who ne er his bread in sorrow ate, 
 
 Who ne er the mournful midnight hours 
 Weeping upon his bed has sate, 
 
 He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.
 
 " UKE AS A FATHER." 3tf 
 
 But I have been nourished upon the bread of 
 sorrow. I have sat waiting for these heaven 
 ly powers when my sorrow was far too great 
 for weeping. If they are caring for you, re 
 proaching, warning, comforting, I work with 
 them, and how great is my work ! Now I am 
 sure that my plan is right. She knows it. If 
 she foresaw the trouble, she has also known 
 what I would feel constrained to do, being 
 your friend." 
 
 " You think then it was no dream ; that it 
 was really my angel mother? " 
 
 " Do you believe that your soul exists after 
 death?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then believe that it can talk with the liv 
 ing. What is man but an imprisoned soul ? 
 If a free man can reach a prisoner, he can talk 
 with him ; if a freed soul can reach a captive 
 soul, it can talk to it. If souls survive, will 
 their affections die? What kind of a soul 
 would it be without affections ? Will not the 
 being which thinks within us before death, 
 think also after death ? Will it not think of 
 those it loved best in life? If so, will it not 
 desire to communicate with them ? And if
 
 3ts FEET OF CLA\>. 
 
 spirit can act upon inert substances, why can 
 not it act upon intelligent beings ? I have no 
 cloubt your mother visited you. While I am 
 away fasten your soul to the memory. Such 
 a visit was not idly made, find out its purpose 
 and serve it. Now, then, I must go. How 
 ever we meet again, this parting was well 
 made, I am sure of that." 
 
 They said good-bye with their souls in their 
 faces and scarce a word on their lips. But 
 their hands burned with their passionate grip, 
 and great tears sprang unbidden from their 
 secret source and dropped upon them. 
 
 The next afternoon Kellish was standing in 
 the library at Sutcliffe Manor. He had sent 
 his card to the colonel, and in a few minutes 
 he answered the request it made. He came 
 into the room smiling, with his hand extended. 
 He thought only that Mr. Matthew Kellish 
 had heard of some wonderful colt, and wanted 
 to make a few pounds by effecting a sale. 
 
 When Kellish pointedly passed by the 
 offered courtesy he sat clown a little haughtily, 
 and his manner and curt inquiry as to the rea 
 son of the visit proved to be the key-note of 
 the interview. Instinctively Kellish divined
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHER." 313 
 
 that there was no hope in this man ; and 
 after a moment s hesitation he stated bluntly 
 the business upon which he had come. 
 
 As he spoke the colonel s face grew sterner 
 and sterner. Kellish had laid what securities 
 he still possessed upon the table before him, 
 and he pushed them indignantly aside. His 
 attitude chilled and dashed the suppliant, and 
 he made the very worst of a bad case. 
 
 When he ceased speaking, the colonel said 
 sternly : " This impudent forgery, Mr. Kellish, 
 is, in the first place, a crime against the laws of 
 the country; in the second place it is a double 
 insult to myself personally. You have used 
 the name of a gentleman of honorable family, 
 an officer once of Her Majesty s army, a magis 
 trate now of Her Majesty s government, to 
 pass a fraudulent note with, and you have 
 dared to think that I would condone such an 
 offence and make myself the partner of your 
 rascality. Sir, 1 would give up every acre, 
 every shilling I possess, rather than be guilty 
 of such an infamy. You have made your con 
 fession to one of Her Majesty s magistrates ; 
 nothing remains for me but to commit you 
 for trial. I am sorry, Mr. Kellish, very sorry,
 
 3H t EET OF CLAY. 
 
 very sorry, indeed ; but I must do my 
 duty." 
 
 " Of course, sir. I would not much mind if 
 it could be done without the knowledge of 
 Mr. George Pennington. It is hard to lose 
 his good opinion." 
 
 " He knows nothing of this affair, then? " 
 " No, sir ; nothing at all ; if it could be kept 
 from him " * 
 
 " Mr. Kellish, I must tell you that I think 
 your influence upon my brother-in-law has 
 been very bad indeed. I have no doubt you 
 are to blame for all his wicked extravagances 
 and objectionable society. You are an old 
 man, you should have respected his youth. 
 In the mean time, Mr. Kellish, if you wish to 
 write to your lawyer 
 
 " I wish to write only to Mr. Pennington." 
 This letter was short and rather formal, but 
 it hurt the man who received it as much as if 
 every word was a sword-thrust : 
 
 DEAR MR. PENNINGTON : 
 
 I came to Sutcliffe to tell the Colonel I had 
 forged a note with his name ninety days ago. 
 I used the money you left for Derby for my 
 own purposes, and then gave the note to him
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHER." 3 J 5 
 
 in its place. Forgive me ! Colonel Sutcliffe 
 being a magistrate, is obliged on my own con 
 fession to commit me. I should like to see 
 you for an hour, and correct as far as I can 
 any injury I have done you, as to your 
 accounts, etc. 
 
 MATTHEW KELLISH. 
 
 This note brought George to Sutcliffe at 
 once. He arrived in the morning, and hiring 
 a gig drove himself over to the manor house. 
 In the park he met Harriet walking with her 
 children. Her brother s appearance shocked 
 her ; she left her babies with their nurses, and 
 accompanied him to the house. 
 
 " I am ill, Harriet," he said fretfully, " and 
 this trouble of my friend s has quite un 
 manned me." 
 
 " I think it is dreadful. Harry told me. He 
 is feeling awfully about his name being used 
 for such a disgraceful thing. He could not 
 sleep, and worried and scolded until I was 
 sick with a past terror ; for oh, George ! I re 
 member that affair with Penrith. I do hope 
 there is no fear of scandal from that. Do you 
 think this wrong will lead to any whisper of 
 it? I suppose I am foolish, but, oh dear, if
 
 3*6 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 you had seen and heard Harry ! I think he 
 would desert me if he knew about Penrith." 
 
 " Do let Penrith alone. Penrith is a gentle 
 man, he is something more and better. I 
 have no doubt Harry fumed : the Sutcliffes 
 must take precious good care of what honor 
 they have." 
 
 "George! You shall not speak of my hus 
 band in that way." 
 
 " I shall speak as I think, Harriet, even if 
 your husband were here. He had better not 
 fume much at me, or I will give his honor 
 something to fume about. Kellish is my dear 
 est friend ; he has done your husband more 
 than one good turn. Why, he got him Peer 
 less for fifty guineas and he is now worth 
 a thousand. I say there are times when 
 gentlemen let honor slip into something 
 kinder and nobler." 
 
 " Harry says the man has been your ruin, that 
 was the chief reason he was so hard with him." 
 
 " I will thank Colonel Sutcliffe not to inter 
 fere with my affairs. Kellish my ruin ! Why, 
 I have been his ruin. The man has given me 
 everything he had. I owe Kellish ,18,000, 
 and he never took an acknowledgment for it,
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHER." 317 
 
 or a shilling of interest. No, he never even 
 reminded me of my debt." 
 
 " There was something wicked in such reck 
 less kindness. I cannot understand it." 
 
 "The man loves me! and oh, I am so 
 unworthy of his love! so shamefully un 
 worthy!" 
 
 " I think you must be crazy, George, or you 
 are ill. I can see that you have a fever. I 
 shall send for a doctor as soon as you are in 
 the house." 
 
 " I am not going to stay in Sutcliffe s house. 
 I was only coming here to talk with him about 
 this business. Do you think I would eat at 
 his table, or sleep under his roof, after he had 
 sent my friend to prison ? I would perish on 
 the roadside first." 
 
 " So then you put this man, this forger, 
 before an honorable gentleman like your 
 brother-in-law ? " 
 
 " I put Kellish ten million times before Sut- 
 cliffe. He is incomparably his superior in 
 everything." 
 
 " I saw the man as the constable took him 
 away. He looked like a scoundrel. Such a 
 dreadful face ! "
 
 3*8 FEKT OF CLAY. 
 
 " Not half so much like a scoundrel as 
 I look. Dreadful face indeed! If you only 
 knew the reason of those scars and seams, you 
 would know a story of suffering and self-denial 
 which might make angels weep." 
 
 " Of course he could tell you anything, a 
 man like that ! Nobody knows anything 
 about him. If he were a gentleman people 
 would know." 
 
 " I know. He has honor, truth, gentle man 
 ners, and a kind heart. He had plenty of 
 money until I squandered it. He has read 
 everything, and he has thought deeply on all 
 subjects. He can sail a yacht like a North sea 
 skipper; he can climb like a Shetlander. In a 
 hunting-field he takes everything. He knows 
 a horse better than any man in England." 
 
 " And a pack of cards ? " 
 
 " Perhaps ; but he never touches one." 
 
 "And how to ruin a young man that trusts 
 him." 
 
 " Harriet Sutcliffe, I should have made your 
 honorable husband tingle for his stainless 
 name long before this, had it not been for 
 Matthew Kellish. He has saved me from 
 crime yes, crime ; he has been a conscience to
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHER." 3 r 9 
 
 me ; he has been, oh, what has he not been ! 
 I am going to the village, I will put you down 
 at this gate." 
 
 " You are ill, almost delirious. No one 
 knows what you may say. You are going 
 home with me." 
 
 " I am going to my friend. I shall stand by 
 him. I have a great mind to claim a share of 
 his fault, so that I may go with him to its 
 punishment." 
 
 " George ! George ! Oh, what dreadful 
 things you make me suspect." 
 
 " Suspect, if you wish ; perhaps you may 
 come near to the truth." He had drawn up 
 at the gate leading to the village, and he 
 assisted Harriet to the ground. She was 
 white with fear. 
 
 " You will return very soon, for my sake ? " 
 
 " No, I will not return." He nodded back 
 to her, and the very force of habit made him 
 try to smile, a momentary wretched gleam 
 over a woeful face. She could not put it out 
 of her memory. 
 
 As Kellish had not yet been formally com 
 mitted, he was able tb command a small pri 
 vate room, and there George found him. A
 
 320 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 man accustomed to the presence of criminals 
 could never have doubted a moment as to 
 which of these two was the real one. Kel- 
 lish was serene and almost cheerful ; he met 
 George with a smile which made the young 
 man sink weeping into a chair. 
 
 " I want to die," he whispered. " I want to 
 die, Matt. I am come to stay here with you." 
 
 " You are very sick, George, and you must 
 make all the speed you can back to Sutcliffe." 
 
 " I will not enter the house." 
 
 " Then go to Pennington. You can do me 
 no good. My course is plain enough. I will 
 tell you the very worst, and we will accept it 
 together. Then if you would do me the only 
 favor you can, if you would make me happy, 
 leave me alone. I care nothing for being in 
 prison ; stone walls do not a prison make for 
 me, unless you see me there. I am perfectly 
 indifferent to every indignity the law can offer 
 me, if you do not see and suffer in my sup 
 posed humiliation. My separation from you is 
 the only grief now possible to me. I do not 
 think it will be a long one." 
 
 "Years." 
 
 " Perhaps it may be seven years, I can
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHEK." 32! 
 
 reduce them to five. I may be at liberty 
 at the end of two. George I am going to 
 hit your love for me a hard blow; will it 
 stand it ? " 
 
 " Nothing can weaken it." 
 
 " I am going to tell you something of 
 myself. When I was about your age I was 
 living just such a life as you have been living. 
 I got into a desperate difficulty. I forged a 
 note on my most intimate friend. He became 
 my bitterest enemy. He prosecuted me to 
 the utmost of his power. I was sentenced to 
 twenty-five years of penal servitude. In my 
 third year I fell into kind hands. I made 
 friends ; by and by I was released on certain 
 conditions, and put in offices of trust over 
 other unfortunate sinners. In taking a gang 
 from one station to another, I nearly perished 
 with them. I received great praise for my 
 conduct at the time. I had almost ceased to 
 feel the bonds of my slavery, when my free 
 dom came. I returned to England. My 
 inheritance had been given to another. All I 
 loved were dead to me. For me to have 
 come to life again, would have made misery 
 and shame. I determined to go back to New
 
 322 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 South Wales, and went to Liverpool for that 
 purpose. Walking on the quays looking for a 
 ship, I saw a steamer going to the Isle of 
 Man. A sudden impulse made me board her, 
 and while I hesitated she sailed." 
 
 At this point he ceased speaking. George 
 had drawn close to him, had taken his hands; 
 something was interpreting their hearts, they 
 had come closer to each other than the 
 mere touch of flesh and blood indicated. In 
 a few moments Kellish resumed in a low 
 voice : 
 
 " Listen to what I intend. When I am 
 brought to trial I shall plead guilty, and 
 throw myself upon the mercy of the law. So 
 then there will be no need to examine witnesses, 
 to make accusations or defences. All will be 
 settled in a few hours. I do not fear the exile. 
 I have many friends over yonder. The climate 
 suits me. It will cure this dreadful cough 
 which has troubled me all the past winter. 
 When the affair dies out of memory, you can 
 make a trip to see this new land, it is worth it, 
 and I shall live content in the prospect. Time 
 gets over. And besides, George, you know 
 that my anchor is made fast to another world.
 
 "LIKE AS A FATHER." 323 
 
 I ride at rest or stem the waves, and if I sink 
 it is to another sea. Be comforted, dear boy, 
 and go to Penntngton. Tell your uncle as 
 much as you think best, and throw yourself on 
 his love; he has a father s heart for a prodigal. 
 I know it by my own." 
 
 The jailer came in at this point, and the part 
 ing, fortunately for George, was apparently a 
 formal one. He went to the hotel and hired a 
 carriage to take him post to Pennington. He 
 was very ill when he entered it, and the journey 
 proved a terrible one to him. 
 
 For the Lord shook the man body and soul. 
 Remorse and pity, and shame and self-abase 
 ment drove his distracted soul about her house. 
 She ran to and fro to all the doors of life, hop 
 ing to find some exit from her miserable dwell 
 ing. And oh, how this mental agony tortured 
 him physically ! From head to feet he was in 
 intolerable pain. When he arrived at his 
 journey s end he had to be lifted out of the 
 carnage. He felt his uncle s arms around 
 him, and had barely strength and sense to 
 whisper, " I am come home to die."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 
 
 " He will swallow up death in victory, and the Lord 
 God will wipe away tears." Is. xxv. 8. 
 
 " Haply the river of Time 
 
 ****** 
 
 As it draws to the ocean may strike 
 
 Peace to the soul of the man on its breast ; 
 
 As the pale waste widens around him, 
 
 As the banks fade dimmer away, 
 
 As the stars come out, and the night-wind 
 
 Brings up the stream 
 
 Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea." ARNOLD. 
 
 FROM the lowest depth there is a path to 
 the loftiest heights. In that still border 
 land lying within the shadow of death, 
 George Pennington, seeing nothing else, saw 
 this. After being many weeks in the helpless, 
 semi-conscious condition of typhoid fever, he 
 began slowly to come back to healthy life, with 
 relapses and pauses, however, which baffled 
 medicine and were only to be accounted for by 
 a continuance of the mental conditions which 
 had in the first place induced his illness. 
 324
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. &*> 
 
 His first intelligent inquiiy regarded Kellish. 
 " Has he been tried ? " he asked in a despairing 
 whisper. 
 
 "Yes," answered Robert Pennington, "he 
 got off better than he deserved. There was no 
 trial to speak of. The man acknowledged him 
 self to be a returned convict. It seems his 
 record was a very good one, an exceptionally 
 good one, and he expressed such regret about 
 the crime that he only received seven years. 
 Sutcliffe also spoke in his favor ; he says Kel 
 lish looked very ill." 
 
 "Has he sailed?" 
 
 " He was sent to Dartmoor. He will not 
 leave England at all. Why do you worry 
 about him? " 
 
 " I love him ! " he sighed wearily and closed 
 his eyes, and Robert Pennington had a sense 
 of injury in his heart as he watched the hope 
 less, wretched look on his nephew s face. For 
 three months he had been at his side night and 
 day. He had spent money freely in the settle 
 ment of the debts and liabilities of his reckless 
 London life, and yet George had not said to 
 him, " I love you." 
 
 But love s strength is sacrifice. In sickness
 
 326 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 and sorrow it suffers a sublime change ; it de 
 mands less and gives more. When the calm 
 September days brought with them so much of 
 health to the invalid as enabled him to take 
 short walks in the garden, Robert Penning- 
 ton was troubled to find that the constant 
 melancholy, at some hours the restless despair, 
 of his nephew did not vanish with his physical 
 weakness. He spoke to him cheerfully of his 
 affairs, hopefully of his future, he showed him 
 in every possible way that all the past was for 
 given ; and it did seem a little hard that such 
 magnanimity of long-suffering love could not 
 banish the regrets for a life which had been 
 altogether such a woful failure. 
 
 One evening the two men sat silently in the 
 dining-room. The wax candles made only a 
 small circle of light, but the blazing logs threw 
 fitful flashes over their thoughtful faces, and 
 made all kinds of shadowy pictures on the walls. 
 
 " George, I cannot bear this silent sorrow of 
 yours any longer. To-day I saw you in the 
 summer-house ; your arms were on the table, 
 your face buried in them. You were sobbing 
 as men never sob, unless there is some awful 
 reason for it. For false love, or even dead
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 327 
 
 love, we make no such hopeless crying. You 
 have no business troubles, your health is re 
 turning rapidly, and if you want an opportu 
 nity to wipe out every past folly there is a 
 grand one open to you. England is calling for 
 soldiers, and gallant men are doing and suffer 
 ing in a cause so just that even our hereditary 
 enemy France is on our side. George, you 
 promised me once, that if you sinned you 
 would be your own accuser. Have you any 
 thing to tell me? Is there anything for me to 
 forgive ? George, speak to me." 
 
 Then the young man lifted his bent face, and 
 in a low, intense voice told the story of his ac 
 quaintance with Matt Kellish. He told it sim 
 ply just as it happened, all his faults and how 
 Matt had borne with him, all his sins and how 
 he had reproved him, and reasoned with him, 
 and finally paid their terrible price. " I have 
 heard of guardian angels," he said ; " Matt Kel 
 lish was mine. If I had taken his advice ! 
 Oh, if I had only done as he entreated me, I 
 should not be this night the most woful soul 
 out of hell ! " 
 
 During the recital Robert Pennington s face 
 changed continually. He seemed to be full of
 
 PERT of CLA Y. 
 
 some new-born thought, and to be examining 
 it with an earnestness that was almost impa 
 tient. He asked many questions: not about 
 George s experiences, but about Kellish, about 
 his personal appearance, his age, his voice, in 
 fact, the whole interest of the confession for 
 Robert Pennington settled upon Matt Kellish. 
 
 " You have not said one word of reproach to 
 me, uncle, and yet I have deserved that you 
 should cast me off for ever. I have done every 
 thing that you told me not to do." 
 
 " Shall I be harder to you than this stran 
 ger? You are the son of my only brother, of 
 my elder brother, who was always kind to me, 
 whom I loved and admired above all other 
 men. The question of forgiveness is settled, 
 George. You know that I have forgiven you. 
 I am thinking now of this noble fellow who is 
 suffering for you. We must go and see him. 
 My political influence is great. I have hither 
 to asked no favors. I can command what I 
 ask and we must not rest until he is released." 
 
 " I ought to take his place. I never intend 
 ed to let him carry out such a sacrifice. When 
 I came to Pennington I came intending to tell 
 you all. I hoped you would have influence
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 329 
 
 with Sutcliffe. If not, I think I should have 
 been man enough to face my deserts. This 
 shameful cowardice, forced upon me by sick 
 ness which left me unconscious and helpless, is 
 not my fault ; so far I may take excuse. To 
 day I walked nearly three miles without much 
 fatigue, and as I sat in the summer-house rest 
 ing, I came to the conclusion that the time 
 had come to tell you all. I was weeping for 
 this necessity. You have been so patient, so 
 gentle, so good, and I love you truly." 
 
 "But we must do nothing without consult 
 ing Mr. Kellish. He gave you first his love, 
 then he emptied his purse for you. His 
 honor, his liberty, his life, nothing has been 
 withheld ! My dear George, he has the right 
 to say whether you are to make void all this 
 transcendent travail of soul. I am glad you 
 told me. I feel myself nobler for the knowl 
 edge of such humanity. I fear there will be 
 some necessary delay in getting permission to 
 visit him from the Home Secretary, but I will 
 take the first steps to-night, and I will write to 
 the chaplain at Dartmoor, and ask him to tell 
 your friend how ill you have been, and give 
 him hope of a speedy visit from you."
 
 33 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 George had no words to express his grati 
 tude, but his dark, sunken eyes brimmed full, 
 and the color flashed into his white face, and 
 these signs said more to Robert Pennington 
 than hurrying syllables, however eloquent. 
 When they parted that night they had come 
 close to each other. The hand-clasp, the 
 steady look, the few simple words at parting, 
 had a significance that satisfied both. 
 
 Left to himself Robert Pennington gave 
 way to uncontrollable anguish of heart. " It 
 is Arthur ! It is Arthur himself ! " he cried. 
 "Who else could have done this great thing? 
 Oh, my brother, my brother ! Your love 
 shames me! Such a sublime silence! Such 
 grandeur of self-sacrifice ! Divine Redeemer 
 of men, Thou, and Thou only, hast been his 
 teacher." 
 
 He rose with a hurry of affection. Every 
 moment s delay was a separate pain. He 
 occupied the night in writing letters, in ar 
 ranging his affairs for an uncertain absence, in 
 preparing himself personally for a journey. 
 While it was yet dark he called his servants 
 and his nephew ; they had breakfasted and 
 were ready to start when the day broke. In
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 331 
 
 forty-eight hours they were in London. Here 
 they were delayed some time. Certain official 
 forms had to be observed, and official routine 
 was not to be regulated by the impatience of 
 any suitor. Then George had a serious re 
 lapse; it was the middle of November when 
 they were able to travel westward. 
 
 The weather was wet and mournful ; George 
 thought everything around was the color of 
 ashes. The great flocks of crows flying heavily 
 and silently through the dense air gave to the 
 landscape a gloomier shade, and to themselves 
 a sense of uncanny and unfortunate com 
 panionship. They mounted higher and higher 
 till the rolling fog became cutting sleet, and the 
 horses panted and stood still in their distress. 
 They were one thousand feet above the sea in a 
 wild and howling wilderness. There was still 
 another rise of eight hundred feet, and nothing 
 but granite and withered gorse and heather 
 around them. Everything was soaked and 
 frozen. The utter forlornness of this stony, 
 misty desert entered into the hearts of both 
 men. They felt a cold despair, a silent horror 
 which could not rise even to an interchange of 
 their wretchedness.
 
 33 2 FEET OF CLA K. 
 
 As they neared the prison barracks a cold, 
 freezing wind blew the mist hither and thither, 
 and in so doing revealed as through a veil the 
 dreary granite building. Its high walls, its 
 awful portal of almost fantastic dread and 
 gloom, had a fearsome unreality. Backwards 
 and forwards rolled the heavy masses of vapor, 
 hiding and discovering the different gangs of 
 convicts at their labor, the cordon of armed 
 guards, the pickets with their ready rifles. 
 
 The men worked mechanically, unceasingly, 
 with bent heads. An air of silence and mys 
 tery and despair pervaded them. Toiling con 
 victs, watchful guards, imperturbable, resolute 
 pickets, all alike had the atmosphere of person 
 ages in some awful dream. The gloomy village 
 attached to the prison is the highest inhabited 
 place in England. No one lives there but the 
 emissaries of punishment and justice, except 
 the priests who have these lost sheep in the 
 wilderness in their spiritual care. 
 
 Robert Pennington drove to the Governor s 
 house. He had letters with him which would 
 secure every privilege he desired, and a private 
 interview with criminal 3300 was the first 
 request made. An order to this effect was
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 333 
 
 sent to the prison house, and pending its 
 execution the Governor pressed upon the 
 travellers some refreshment. Robert Penning- 
 ton forced himself to accept the kindness. 
 He was aware that the body might fail where 
 the soul would face its extremity. He drank 
 a glass of wine and ate some food, and by 
 a look of commanding entreaty compelled 
 George to do the same. In half an hour they 
 were escorted through those tremendous por 
 tals of shame. The chaplain met them with 
 a concerned face. He had a card in his hand 
 inscribed with the number of the man who 
 had once possessed a name. He looked at it 
 and then at his visitors : 
 
 " Gentlemen, 3300 is very ill. He has 
 been in the hospital for six weeks. By order 
 he has just been removed into a private room. 
 He will have solitude to die in. That is a 
 great deal here, I assure you." 
 
 He opened a door with the words and softly 
 shut it when they had entered. Kellish lay 
 upon a narrow bed. His eyes were closed, he 
 was wasted away, he was breathing slowly and 
 with difficulty. But one glance was sufficient 
 for Robert Pennington, With an incredible
 
 334 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 swiftness and solemnity he reached the dying 
 man ; he knelt at his side, he called out with 
 intensity of woful love and anguish : 
 
 "Arthur! Arthur! My brother! my brother 
 Arthur!" 
 
 A shrill, weak cry, the cry of a man from the 
 very shoal of time, answered him. 
 
 Then George knew the whole mystery of 
 love. No one needed to teach him the word 
 he kissed upon lips already kissed by death : 
 
 " Father ! Father ! Father ! " 
 
 At that cry a glory of love illumined the 
 clay-like mask. The soul leaped once more 
 into the eyes. The last tears, tears of joy, 
 softened their piercing gaze. At that moment 
 the heart of the son was drawn deep and close 
 to the father s heart, just as the heart of the 
 mother-bird is drawn down into the nest full 
 of new life. 
 
 "I have attained to the beginning of eternal 
 peace," he whispered. Earth had passed quite 
 away, he had forgotten its shames and suffer 
 ings, everything but its love. After a few 
 minutes Robert Pennington left father and son 
 alone for their last communion. Angels heard 
 its words of contrition and forgiveness and
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 335 
 
 affection with bowed heads. Death, not un- 
 pitying as mortals think, waited until the 
 solemn, tender adieu had been said. The 
 room was full of a great peace, a peace that 
 could be felt. At the last moment he regained 
 a flash of strength. He smiled bravely as he 
 looked farewell into the loving eyes watching 
 him. " I fear no longer," he said cheerfully. 
 " One has taken my hand, I am safe." 
 
 And so the red-leaved book of this sinning, 
 sorrowing, loving human heart was closed and 
 sealed forever. They took out of his clasped 
 hand a bit of paper on which something was 
 written. Uncle and nephew read it together 
 with holy reverence, and then George put it 
 next his heart. It was eight lines from that 
 glorious hymn of Stephen the Sabaite written 
 more than seventeen hundred years ago : 
 
 If I ask him to receive me, 
 
 Will he say me nay ? 
 " Not till earth, and not till heaven 
 Pass away." 
 
 Finding, following, keeping, struggling, 
 
 Is He sure to bless ? 
 " Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, 
 Answer, Yes."
 
 33 6 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 One promise had been made to the dead 
 man, that he should not be buried in the des 
 olate grave-yard attached to the prison. They 
 took him back to Pennington, to the home of 
 his youth. In that lonely Cumberland village, 
 men and women had old-world attachments 
 and with them affectionate reticences. When 
 the Squire came home with the coffin, and a 
 grave was opened in the Pennington burial- 
 ground, there were many living who knew 
 whose mournful life was ended. They glanced 
 at each other with intelligent pity, but no one 
 told the new generation the tragedy of the 
 Squire s brother. The clergyman who had 
 baptized, buried him ; and many an old man 
 and woman with silent kindness dropped a 
 sprig of box or rosemary into his grave. It 
 was snowing heavily when they laid him there, 
 and within an hour the new-made bed was 
 covered with a white mantle of stainless purity. 
 
 A month after this George Pennington, was 
 on his way to the Crimea. He hoped in that 
 campaign of suffering and danger to find op 
 portunities for doing something great in atone 
 ment for his past life. For to be its own sal 
 vation, that is ever the first dream of a soul
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 33? 
 
 repentant and aspiring. He went a little from 
 the direct road in order to bid his sister good 
 bye. For though he generally disagreed with 
 her upon all points, the family tie drew them 
 close together in eventful hours. 
 
 He found Harriet in her nursery. She had 
 just returned from a morning drive. The feel 
 ing of the fresh air was around her, and she 
 had in a marked degree the appearance of a 
 woman accustomed to the fields and woods. 
 Her bonnet was on her head, her cloak over 
 her arm, her two eldest boys clinging to her 
 dress, her baby stretching out its arms for her 
 embrace. She made a charming picture, and 
 George was sensitive of it. He kissed her 
 with an affection which made her face bright 
 with smiles, and when she saw the traces of 
 his suffering, she clasped his hand in her own, 
 and led him with loving words into her sitting- 
 room. She had wonderful things to tell him 
 about the children, and she did not notice for 
 some time that George was distrait and rest 
 less under this infliction. Then it struck her 
 that he might be hungry, and she rang the 
 bell and ordered an earlier lunch. 
 
 "You know I will not eat in Colonel Sut-
 
 33& FEET OF CLAV. 
 
 cliffe s house, Harriet. I came only. to bid 
 farewell. I am going to the Crimea." 
 
 " George, how can you be so dreadful, 
 keeping up ill-will about a creature like that 
 Kellish ? " 
 
 " That creature, as you call him, is dead. 
 Tell your husband so. Colonel Sutcliffe has 
 had his pound of flesh, has had justice. 
 When he goes to church let him remember it. 
 Let him pray, Forgive me my trespasses, as I 
 forgive them who trespass against me. If 
 God is as just with him as Sutcliffe was with 
 the dead, he will get what he gave, the outer 
 darkness for the hell of Dartmoor." 
 
 " Dear me, what does it all mean ? You 
 fret yourself into a fever about this man, and 
 while Harry was worrying over an unpleasant 
 dream he had of mother and the same dread 
 ful person, down from London comes Lord 
 Penrith." 
 
 What!" 
 
 "Lord Penrith, I assure you, and what he 
 thought, or what object he could have, good 
 ness only knows ! But he begged Harry not 
 to prosecute. He said he did not believe Kel 
 lish was guilty, and when Harry replied, The
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 339 
 
 man has confessed, he reiterated, I don t be 
 lieve he is guilty. Finally he told Harry a 
 very strange thing about the late Lord. I 
 suppose I ought not to mention it." 
 
 " You can safely tell me." 
 
 " He said his father s life had been darkened 
 and shortened by prosecuting a man for a sim 
 ilar act. On his deathbed he made this con 
 fession, and he begged his son, for his sake, to 
 be very merciful to men conquered by a sud 
 den temptation. It seems the old Lord sent 
 his dearest friend to prison, and never could 
 undo the step he took in the first hours of his 
 anger. Of course, Harry was not to be dic 
 tated to in a matter of right and wrong, but 
 he pleaded for a light punishment, and the 
 man was very mercifully treated." 
 
 " Very ! He is dead ; dead from toil and ex 
 posure that he was unable to bear. I hope 
 Sutcliffe will remember the victim of his jus 
 tice, when he lies down upon his own death 
 bed." 
 
 " You are very cruel to say such a dreadful 
 thing. And what better are you than Harry ? 
 If you think Harry ought to have passed by 
 the fault of this strange man, why should
 
 346 PER? 6 if 
 
 you not pass by the fault of your sister s 
 husband?" 
 
 " You are right, Harriet. I am not Sut- 
 cliffe s judge. Well, then, ring for lunch, and 
 I will eat it with you. Many a month may 
 pass before we may meet again." 
 
 " Now you are like yourself, George, and I 
 have something to tell you, something you 
 will be delighted with, we are going to call 
 baby after you." 
 
 " My dear Harriet, I would not advise you 
 to risk baby s future upon my name. Call 
 him Robert Pennington, then you call him 
 after a nobleman. Besides, you must think 
 for baby s interests, and Robert Pennington 
 has a large estate to leave as it pleases 
 him." 
 
 "You are his acknowledged heir." 
 
 " I am going to the war. I may never come 
 back again." 
 
 " I will not listen to such a supposition. Of 
 course Robert is a beautiful name, and indeed 
 a family name of the Sutcliffes, but oh, did I 
 tell you that I had had a letter from the 
 Island? Guess from whom, and lunch is 
 ready, I see. Come, I will send the servants
 
 AtCEPlTEi). 34 f 
 
 away, and we will have the hour quite to our 
 selves." 
 
 Harriet was a notable mistress. Her table 
 was perfection, her servants trained to the ut 
 most efficiency and propriety. And George 
 watched her giving orders and directions 
 with admiration. For she was a woman well 
 moulded to the ordinary condition of things ; 
 fitly fleshed, mentally inclined to take kindly 
 to the law of gravitation. The every-day hum 
 of humanity filled her ear with content; she 
 heard not, she never tried to hear, in all life s 
 varying noises, joyful and sorrowful, the mean 
 ing that runs through them, the measured 
 music, the central tune. 
 
 She chatted with a pleasant, confidential air, 
 affectionately curious about her brother s plans, 
 affectionately indifferent about a past which 
 she instantly perceived he was not disposed to 
 discuss. When they were half through lunch 
 she again remembered the letter from the 
 Island, and exclaimed a little at George s 
 apathy concerning it. 
 
 " Only fancy ! A letter from Bella Clucas, 
 and you have not a question to ask." 
 
 " Is it from Bella : I hope it pleased you."
 
 34* FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 " Indeed it did not. I considered it a very 
 ungrateful and ungracious answer to the one I 
 sent her." 
 
 " Then you wrote first ? I was wondering 
 if Bella did." 
 
 " I wrote because I really thought I could 
 do Bella, and of course myself also, a great 
 kindness. Mrs. Layland, who had been house 
 keeper here for forty years, died last spring, 
 and I had a frightful experience with half a 
 dozen women who tried to take her place. At 
 last I thought of Bella. I offered her the 
 entire charge of the house and servants, with 
 a very handsome salary and her own sitting- 
 room and bedroom ; and she refused ! " 
 
 " I should have been much astonished if she 
 had accepted." 
 
 " She is unmarried yet, evidently still think 
 ing of you. In such case I naturally imagined 
 that she would be thankful to be where there 
 was at least a prospect of seeing you occa 
 sionally." 
 
 " I declare, Harriet, your conscience has as 
 many jerks and turnings as a swallow on the 
 wing. Now I suppose it did not strike you, 
 that you might be purchasing your own com.
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 343 
 
 fort at the price of suffering or temptation to 
 Bella, perhaps to me also." 
 
 " I knew that you had recovered your senses 
 on that subject. Bella is quite able to take 
 care of herself, but I will get her letter and 
 read it to you." 
 
 " Mrs. Sutcliffe, that is how it begins. She 
 might have said, My Lady or My Honored 
 Friend, or something of that kind. She knew 
 very well I was Lady of Sutcliffe Manor. I 
 explained the dignity fully to her when I was 
 engaged to Harry. Mrs. Sutcliffe. Your 
 letter was very bewildering to me, and it is 
 much if I can say the right words in answer to 
 it. Service, surely, every one must do service, 
 and with heart and hands I m doing it. Love 
 though, love and not gold, the for. At first 
 I was asking what did you mean, and hardly 
 knowing for all. But Gale was reading your 
 letter and he out with it plain enough, " It s 
 her servant she s wanting you to be," and me 
 saying " ridiculous," but him getting angry for 
 all. Fishers, of course, and not counting our 
 selves quality, but very, comfortable and able 
 to pay the last farthing due, and quite content 
 with God s measure for all. Of course there s
 
 344 Pr OP 
 
 a power to do in a house like yonder at Sut- 
 cliffe, but there s gold in your hand and plenty 
 of service to buy, and so there you are ; and 
 no offence meant, and thanking you kindly for 
 the good intent, and all to that. And no 
 hindrance from any, only Gale, but father and 
 mother giving me a list to do my will, and my 
 will always to the good home I have. God 
 bless it ! What do you think of that for 
 Bella Clucas?" 
 
 " I think very highly of it ; you have only 
 yourself to blame if you feel hurt. After 
 making her your friend, you had no right to 
 offer her wages. Is that all she says? " 
 
 " It is all that concerns me specially ; the 
 rest refers to the Dinwoodies mainly. Do you 
 care to hear it ? " A slight movement of 
 the head answered the question, and she pro 
 ceeded : 
 
 " Tis a quiet life in the Island, but some 
 changes and you perhaps not hearing of them. 
 Miss Francis Caine married to an English lord, 
 and Miss Jeffcott to a lawyer from Ramsey, 
 and the Miss Hamiltons to officers, and the 
 officers going to the war, and trouble enough 
 that way. And Miss Dinwoodie has had a
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 345 
 
 heart full of sorrow. Oh, dear! Heart full 
 and hands full, but naturally sweet and kind, 
 and God good to such. Two years her moth 
 er was in the bed dying, mortals hardly know 
 ing the suffering she had, and Miss Kitty by 
 her side whether or not, night and day, and 
 after all the last word and kiss, and hard to 
 bear is them ! But still harder at hand, for 
 the Major was broken-hearted, though shed 
 ding no tear and speaking to no one till the 
 evening of the second day, and me with her, 
 and doing the best I could, but for all that, 
 her going sobbing and shivering through the 
 house, for her mother was wrapped in her very 
 heart ; and as for the Major, as I was saying, 
 wasn t the dead woman the joy of every breath 
 he took? And so on the second evening she 
 called him. He was sitting in his big chair 
 with his head in his hands, and the sweet Sun 
 day sunset sifting through the dropped blinds, 
 and all of a sudden he rises straight up like 
 one listening, and answers out clear, " I am 
 coming, Nora !" Just one smile at Miss Kitty 
 as she caught him in her arms, and gone he 
 was, for all that love and doctor could do. So 
 then the grave was made wider, and they
 
 34^ FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 buried them side by side, and all Castletown, 
 rich and poor, at the funeral ; and the parson 
 wanting Miss Kitty to stay with him, and 
 talking and reasoning a deal about it, but 
 Miss Kitty not regarding, and going back to 
 her own house. Well, then, the servants are 
 old, and very kind to her and all to that, but 
 lonely no doubt, and every one sorry enough 
 for her. " 
 
 "Dear little Kitty! I remember well how 
 the Major idolized his wife, a fisher-girl, you 
 know, Harriet, out of the cottages of Craig-y- 
 neesh, a most lovely woman, and good as 
 lovely. Kitty was never ashamed of her 
 origin." 
 
 " Kitty expressed herself in the most un- 
 lady-like and uncalled for manner on the sub 
 ject. It was false pride in her, and I and oth 
 ers were made very uncomfortable more than 
 once about it. Kitty is sentimental, that is 
 such a weak point in a woman s character." 
 
 " Have you finished the letter?" 
 
 " Nearly. Bella is kind enough to often 
 look at the house where we used to live ; she 
 writes, it is still unlet. And oh then, people 
 are saying it is haunted by a dark man with
 
 A SACRIFICE ACCEPTED. 347 
 
 eyes that burn like fire. Such foolishness ! 
 I was twice seeing Mr. Kellish in the garden, 
 walking about and thinking to himself like, 
 and the ghost would be him, never fear, and 
 nothing but good if so. That is all, and I am 
 glad she did not take my offer. Such a 
 woman would have made the house very un 
 comfortable." 
 
 " Harriet, I wish you would write to Kitty." 
 
 " I couldn t, really, George. Three years 
 ago, when we had that large winter party and 
 you spent a week with us, I invited Miss Din- 
 woodie. She had a list of the expected guests 
 and knew you were to be present. I received 
 in answer a cool civil regret without a single 
 excuse for it." 
 
 " Perhaps she had no excuse." 
 
 " Then she ought to have made one as a 
 matter of politeness. People always do." 
 
 " Well, my dear sister, I must leave you 
 now. Bring the boys and let me kiss them." 
 He laughed at Harriet s anxiety for him, and 
 amid the children s chatter and the mother s 
 smiles and tears went away with apparent 
 cheerfulness. He had no inclination to darken 
 his sister s life with either his knowledge or
 
 348 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 his experiences. She did not perceive his 
 mental anguish, she could have given him no 
 help if she had. Suffering such as he was en 
 during does not rise to the surface, it makes 
 itself a channel to the very depths of being.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 " Then my heart fainted utterly, 
 And all things seemed to darken, and 1 crept 
 A little from the gate and stumbled where 
 The graves are thickest. There the people lie 
 And weep no more the stately trees that keep 
 Their dark watch in the place of graves, are used 
 To shelter calmer faces, stiller hearts than mine. 
 In their deep shadows I fell down 
 And tried to call on God, but in that hour 
 Of agony the clouds were dark between 
 My soul and Him." 
 
 " Stir the deep wells of life that flow within you 
 
 Touched by God s genial hand, 
 And let the chastened, sure ambition win you 
 To serve His high command." 
 
 THE poorest life a man can live is serious 
 enough when seen against eternity, but 
 George Pennington s life had been one full of 
 incident and experience. All the more terrible 
 was the remorse which now continually re 
 minded him of the great love slain, of the vast 
 opportunities abused or neglected. Since that 
 349
 
 35 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 hour in which the father had assumed the shame 
 and suffering of his crime, George Pennington 
 had never felt young. He walked upon the 
 shadow of his past. The future was emptied 
 of hope. The ordinary motives which move 
 men to great deeds and renunciations had lost 
 their power over him. 
 
 He found himself at Balaklava among many 
 of the same men he had been accustomed to 
 meet in the London clubs and drawing-rooms. 
 They were enduring every extremity of phys 
 ical discomfort and suffering with a gay bravery 
 which was amazing. Love of country, hope of 
 advancement, natural courage, youthful exu 
 berance showing itself in a craving for adven 
 ture, even family pride, all proved to be ele 
 vating motives to the men whom he had only 
 known as foolish, thoughtless followers of what 
 they called pleasure. One morning he met the 
 Honorable Sydney Balfour, a handsome youth 
 who had been the darling of the last season. 
 George remembered him as an effeminate 
 dandy, lightly laughing at all noble emotions, 
 without reverence for women, whom he called 
 the fair, and to whom he uttered nothing 
 but compliments. The young fellow was now
 
 SUNRISE. 35 1 
 
 in a constant and healthy enthusiasm. Even 
 the altogether human sentiment of family 
 honor, identified with love of country, had 
 lifted him far above that well-dressed world 
 which he had known best by candle-light. 
 
 " Oh, you know, Pennington," he said, with 
 his honest, beardless face aglow, " a man with 
 ancestors has to do the right thing. Balfour is 
 a great name and recalls a thousand great 
 memories. Of course the present earl isn t 
 much, perhaps he had never a chance to do 
 anything but get prizes for shorthorns, but 
 when I see my stout uncle standing in the door 
 of Balfour Castle, I see Agincourt in the back 
 ground, and hear a pomp of fancied trumpets 
 on the wind." 
 
 " I understand, then, that your ancestors 
 guarantee your good conduct. But, Sydney, 
 I know great families who lose themselves as 
 a river does in a morass ; or perhaps the stream 
 stagnates through bare, level sands to the sea. 
 Nobility should be virtue of race, but it is sel 
 dom this result is obtained." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Good men come from good 
 men. No great deeds are done by knaves, or 
 traders hungry for wealth. Men of noble tra-
 
 35 2 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 editions and brave instincts make history and 
 build up nations. I believe in the transmission 
 of family excellence. My old uncle often says: 
 Where you have gathered strawberries once 
 you will be very likely to gather them again. 
 He never minded what mother called my 
 frivolity ; he used to say : It is the froth on 
 the flagon ; when it has settled the liquor un 
 derneath will be none the worse, I warrant. " 
 
 " Still, we are in a new era, Sydney. Men 
 of genius are slowly altering the very instincts 
 of the English people. The steam engine " 
 
 " Excuse me, George. National honor is 
 older than the steam engine." 
 
 " Still, I say we cannot judge the present by 
 the past." 
 
 " The present is moored upon the past. A 
 great deal of everything we are proudest of is 
 drawn from our ancestors. There is an alarm, 
 George ! " 
 
 " Some sentinel who has heard a leaf fall 
 and thinks it is a Russian." 
 
 " But there are the picket volleys, and now 
 the bugles on the streets! " 
 
 He leaped to his feet, his spurs jingled, his 
 steel scabbard clanked in unison, he waved his
 
 SUNKISE. 353 
 
 hand enthusiastically as he passed through the 
 low door of the Greek fisherman s hut in 
 which this conversation had taken place. 
 
 George went more quietly into. the narrow 
 street. It was crowded with artillery and 
 commissariat wagons, with hosts of soldiers 
 and officers on horseback, and a large body of 
 sailors armed with cutlasses were dragging their 
 heavy ship-guns up to camp, cheering with all 
 their might as they went. 
 
 Among the blue-shirted braves one man was 
 pre-eminent. His great size, the enormous 
 gun at which he was tugging, the volume of 
 cheerful vociferation with which he led the way, 
 attracted George. He went closer to him, and 
 found that his instant suspicion had been a 
 true one. It was Gale Clucas. In such mo 
 ments of common enthusiasm some men forget 
 their private feelings. George did. He called 
 the young fisher by his name, and lifted his 
 plumed helmet to him. 
 
 " Hello, Captain ! " was the ready response 
 and the two words brought a mist into the 
 Captain s eyes. Oh, if he could only call 
 back all the rich blessings of the past, as 
 easily as he had won again those two words
 
 354 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 of ready comradeship from the offended 
 Gale! 
 
 In the constant alarms and skirmishes that 
 occurred at Palaklava, the apple of discord 
 between the two armies, George Pennington 
 took his full share. He slept coated and 
 booted and spurred, and always ready for battle 
 at the second bugle call. He knew in their 
 extremity the deprivations and sufferings 
 which the noble as well as the peasant had 
 to endure. But he found no peace in this 
 hard discipline. All the red graves in those 
 narrow gorges could not hide from his spir 
 itual sight that long, white mound in Penning 
 ton churchyard. 
 
 He called himself continually by one awful 
 word, and it seemed as if expiation was forbid 
 den him. In the front of every danger, in the 
 thick of every fight, he had sought to lay down 
 his own life, in atonement for the life that 
 went out in the grim horror of Dartmoor. 
 The sacrifice had been refused. Once his soul 
 had been possessed by many passions, wearied 
 with many sadnesses, troubled with many fears, 
 but now it only felt the hopelessness of both 
 life and death. A face marred with sorrow but
 
 SUNRISE. 355 
 
 always light with love was ever before him. 
 He could not forget for a moment its long 
 look of disappointment ; the sad lips that had 
 asked so little from him. 
 
 If that wronged one could return ! With 
 what kisses would he cover his hands ! He 
 would fall at his feet, he would never more 
 disobey his lightest wish. Secret forgotten 
 unkindnesses came to his remembrance con 
 tinually. Oh for an hour, one hour only with 
 that dear dead friend ! He would have bought 
 it gladly with his life. Too late ! Never 
 would he find again on earth the one whom 
 he had made suffer ; never be able to tell him, 
 that in spite of all, he loved him. Ah, it is 
 the irreparable that tortures! When the soul 
 is forced to contemplate what no longer 
 exists, it has these refinements of agonizing 
 tenderness. 
 
 In the gloom of a life so full of despair one 
 great pleasure came to him. He found Gale 
 Clucas in the naval hospital at Therapia, 
 dying in the dreadful despondency of Varna 
 fever, and he took him into his own tent. 
 The young giant was weak as the new-born 
 babe ; he had succumbed to the desperate
 
 35 6 FEET OF cLA Y. 
 
 apathy of the disease. At first Gale was quite 
 indifferent to the unwearying love which was 
 working night and day for his recovery, but as 
 the fever was gradually conquered, George 
 began to reap the reward of his kindness. 
 
 " I m knowin you, Captain," said Gale one 
 night. It was bitterly cold, and George sat 
 beside him motionless, rolled up in his saddle- 
 skins. " I m knowin you, Captain, and the 
 kind you have been, aw deed, very kind ! I 
 wonder you did it." 
 
 " I was glad to do it, Gale. I was saving 
 life, that is a great thing, and when I saw you 
 at Therapia, I could think of nothing but 
 the little boat tossing on the sea, and you and 
 me, two boys just, throwing our lines from it. 
 All that has passed since I hope you will 
 forgive." 
 
 "Aw then, axin pardon myself. I was 
 hatin you bad enough, and the murder in my 
 heart, and willin to put you on the black 
 teeth of Scarlett rocks yon night, if father had 
 been in my mind ; but the cry of you was in 
 his ear and he bound to lizzen. Aw dear ! 
 the wicked it seems now, and the foolish. I 
 was hard to please them times, and very easy
 
 357 
 
 to anger : but Bella, aw yes, Bella, you was 
 wrong there, Captain." 
 
 " Very wrong, Gale. I am sorry for it. 
 You ll forget that." 
 
 " Sartinly. Bella wasn ever in danger, 
 nothin in her for any man to make bould of ; 
 not her way. I hadn no call to be so surly, 
 for Bella was allis clear as the sun ; the truth 
 was in the craythur, and the sense too." 
 
 " And Lace ? Lace Corrin, you remember 
 Lace ? " 
 
 " Very likely. Lace is in the brigade with 
 me, but in the ship, and so not in the way of 
 the fever, thank God ! A fine fellow and all 
 to that." 
 
 George hesitated a moment, then asked, 
 " Are they married yet ? I mean Lace and 
 Bella." 
 
 "The for? The young man plannin no 
 doubt, and prittin and prattin to Bella about 
 it, and the how, and the what of it, but Bella 
 very considerate." 
 
 " He has been a long time in love with 
 Bella ! " 
 
 "Lace? Aw then, love keeps, and grows 
 better for the keepin . In the Bible one man,
 
 35 8 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 better man than Gale mayve, waitin fourteen 
 years, and very fond at the end of them. I m 
 thinkin a deal of Bella, and not wantin any 
 man to be takin my sister, botherin no man s 
 sister myself." 
 
 " Hard on Lace." 
 
 " Not a bit of it. Lace quite content for 
 all, and takin his live or die from Bella s smile 
 or will, worshippin her, just iddiklus ! The 
 girl isn his kith nor kin, and wishin for things 
 is easy, but a long sea between wishin and 
 havin . Aw yes, bless God ! " 
 
 " Doesn t Lace complain ? " 
 
 "Complain is it? Very tormentin some 
 times ; takes no rest on the subjec ; at it, 
 and at it, and must know ; aw then, he settles 
 quick enough when Bella s spakin to him ; 
 very demandin is Lace sometimes ; what s 
 the use ? " 
 
 " But she will marry Lace some day ? " 
 
 " Some day, some way, who knows when ? 
 Changes every year. Wait says I to him, 
 waitin s good, hurry s bad. 
 
 " So then Bella is at the cottage yet ? " 
 
 "Where else? And the light of it, and my 
 mother s right hand, and goin through my
 
 SUNKISE. 359 
 
 father s heart like the tide of life. Mother 
 and father, and myself, who more right to 
 Bella ? Mother s not strong, and a deal of 
 knittin to do for the childer and the men, and 
 doin it, and father not carin to go to church 
 or to market, nor the boat itself without Bella, 
 leanin on her like, and mixin his life so up 
 with hers that partin couldn be ; partin and 
 livin I mean, partin would be dyin for the 
 sweet ould man." 
 
 "Was Bella willing for you to come here?" 
 
 " Willin is it ? Sendin us both in her com- 
 pellin way with the smile and the brave word, 
 What are you fishin for, boys, and fightin 
 to do ? and the like of them ; or, Aw then, if 
 I was a man I d be where they were shootin 
 the guns instead of the nets ! and the light in 
 her blue eyes, and the pride and spirit of the 
 craythur! Wonderful! Lace, says I, we 
 have got to go ; yes, says he, or she will be 
 puttin us under her feet. " 
 
 " So you came here to please Bella, and 
 not for the glory of the fight ? " 
 
 " Aw then, the glory Bella was takin in the 
 fight was the glory for us. To see her readin 
 the papers to father, and the blaze on her
 
 30 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 cheeks and the light in her eyes, and the bless- 
 in she was givin* the women, and yet envy- 
 in them that were goin to nurse the sick and 
 the wounded, but held at home for all by the 
 two lookin to her. Bella is a fine gel, none 
 like her." 
 
 "And still handsome?" 
 
 " Handsome is it you re axin ? Handsome! 
 By St. Christopher, she s far beyond it. If I 
 could draw a pictur 1 of her as I saw her last, 
 twould make your heart stand still, deed it 
 would ; wonderful handsome ! Lace and I was 
 sayin the last words, and mother, God bless 
 her, sat down in her chair when she let my 
 hands out of hers. She was puttin the Bible 
 then in their place, knowin the sweet words 
 in it well for all, but like the childer wantin 
 to feel them in her hands, and father and Bella 
 followin* us to the door, and standin there 
 with the long look in their eyes. Turn 
 round, says Lace when we got to the gate. 
 Twas worth it, deed it was ! Father had one 
 hand on Bella s shoulder, and with the other 
 he waves a blue kerchief and says he, Hooray, 
 boys, and see you drive the Rooshians back to 
 the north pole ; good enough for them, and
 
 SUNKJSE. 361 
 
 if you re doin nothin else, be showin them 
 Frenchers how to fight, and don t be trustin 
 in them ; for all their palaver, French still, 
 French still, shouts he ; and Bella standin 
 there beside him, with the sea wind blowin* 
 her hair and her blue gown, and the sun shinin 
 all over her, and the fuchsia vines dropping 
 round like a frame to the pictur , and then 
 we liftin our caps and hearin soft-like on the 
 salt wind, Good-bye, dears ! and be doin your 
 duty, allis ! That s Bella, God bless her ! " 
 
 And the eyes of both men were dim, and 
 they spoke no more that night, but as Gale 
 afterwards told Lace, "a warm feelin between 
 us, and peace and forgiveness full, and no 
 countin backwards for anything; forgettin 
 no kindness, and forgettin all else, thank 
 God ! " 
 
 So much of comfort George got from his 
 labor of love, but Gale soon went back to his 
 ship, and there is no permanent power in 
 either nature or humanity to give peace to 
 a conscience which God has troubled. One 
 dark midnight he was standing motionless 
 under arms. A small body of men were with 
 him, all on guard, and intently listening for an
 
 362 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 expected attack. Nothing could be seen a 
 foot away, for a dense fog wrapped them in its 
 chilling, depressing atmosphere. The foe was 
 stealthy, and might be close at hand, and the 
 very silence was sensitive with the presence 
 of death and disaster. 
 
 Now then, it was at this hour a word or two 
 was said to George Pennington, a word or 
 two which turned despair and darkness into un 
 speakable joy and peace. Some sweet secret 
 message of forgiveness and love which made 
 him lift his white, sad face to the unstarred 
 sky, and catch in the act of adoration a light 
 of peace unspeakable, a glory of happiness 
 such as the world knows not of. He felt that 
 the whole dark past was forgiven, and he 
 cast it behind his back. He knew that the 
 future was a new gift to him, and he conse 
 crated it by an act of momentary but irrevo 
 cable surrender. 
 
 These special and personal intimacies of the 
 soul and its Maker bring their own assurance 
 and interpretation. Though they are con 
 stantly occurring, their secret sacredness, their 
 definite personality places them beyond gen 
 eral definition. No soul thus favored wants
 
 SU1VXZSE. 363 
 
 to define them. Sufficient unto the doubt, 
 the sorrow, the sin, they come with a power 
 and a certainty which nothing in life can give 
 or take away. Those ignorant of these holy 
 intimacies may ask doubtful questions and 
 smile at such mysteries of faith. Let them 
 first unravel the mysteries of reason. Children 
 of the living God walk in mystery. Their 
 spiritual birth is a mystery, their spiritual life 
 is a mystery. And this shroud of mystery is 
 their glory, it is the awful , splendid shadow 
 which eternity casts across time. 
 
 How poor, how wretchedly poor, is that soul 
 which has never walked in those blessed paths 
 of spiritual life, remote, obscure, little trodden, 
 bordering on regions beyond this world, among 
 the secret things not hidden from the beloved 
 of the Lord. One such experience as George 
 Pennington had while waiting silently on the 
 battle-ground makes a man really a new man. 
 He had comprehended the measure of duty 
 that lay before him, the hope in the future, 
 the work to be done, the love and labor which 
 must sanctify it, although the rapture of that 
 experience lasted but a few moments. 
 
 Then the wonderful peace was sharply
 
 3 6 4 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 broken by the crack of rifles and the shouts of 
 the advancing enemy. The first words George 
 uttered after that mysterious conference was 
 the order to charge, was the rallying-shout 
 as he led his men against their midnight foe. 
 It was a hand to hand fight, one of many such 
 experiences, and almost in the beginning of it 
 George was struck down by his antagonist. 
 So often he had wished for death, had sought 
 it in the front of danger, and death had always 
 passed him by. Now the very first gift of the 
 reconciled Father was the chastisement of 
 physical pain. He was carried in a state of 
 insensibility to the hospital, and recovered life 
 only by the sharpness of its suffering. He 
 was unable to open his eyes, but he knew by the 
 modulated voices of those bending over him, 
 by the atmosphere, by the sharp cries of 
 pain around him, that he was in the halls of 
 Scutari. 
 
 He did not feel any wonder or regret. The 
 very battle-field would have been a chamber 
 of peace. But as the day went by and his 
 senses began to recover their power, he was 
 aware of the presence of some one whose touch 
 was inexpressibly gentle, whose low words
 
 365 
 
 sounded sweetly familiar in his ear. That it 
 was a woman was no wonder, for lovely women 
 flitted noiselessly about from pallet to pallet, 
 carrying hope and comfort, and making these 
 vast halls of agony almost holy places. But 
 George was certain that it was the voice of a 
 woman well known to him. 
 
 On the third night, as she bent over him 
 and moistened his lips, and gently raised his 
 wounded head, he opened wide his eyes and 
 looked at her. Her flowing hair was coiled 
 under a close cap, her plain dress covered with 
 a white apron, her dimpled, laughing face 
 grown sad and weary in its long vigils with 
 suffering and death. But George knew her. 
 
 " Kitty ! " he whispered. For answer she 
 kissed his white lips and let the blessed rain of 
 pitying love fall upon his wan cheek. He 
 made a slight movement ; she divined that he 
 wanted to feel her hands within his own ; she 
 knelt down by his side and clasped them. She 
 took up their life again at the point at which it 
 had been dropped. All that intervened she 
 buried deeper than memory could reach. The 
 entreaty in that first long look, the tenderness 
 in that whisper which could utter only her
 
 366 FEET OF CLAY. 
 
 name, she understood all they asked, and 
 granted it in the moment of asking. 
 
 What sweet, short confidences, what happy 
 promises, what love and trust and hope 
 brightened the hours of his convalescence ! 
 But both did their full duty until the fall of 
 Sebastopol permitted an honorable return to 
 private life. And it is in the way of duty we 
 meet the sweetest blessings. Kitty had re 
 signed all hoped of a happy termination to her 
 love. She believed George Pennington to 
 have completely forgotten her, she had heard 
 nothing of him for a long time. After the 
 death of her father and mother she had no tie 
 to the Island, she had no work left sufficient to 
 employ a heart so loving and hands so busy. 
 The cry of distress which touched so many 
 noble women went straight to Kitty s heart : 
 
 " God made her so, 
 And deeds of week-day holiness 
 Fell gently from her as the snow ; 
 Nor had she ever chanced to know 
 That aught was easier than to bless." 
 
 The at f raction between her and George had 
 been from the first a distinct and powerful one. 
 Nothing but his wanderings in ways beyonH
 
 SUNRISE. 3 6 7 
 
 her innocent ken had parted them ; but she felt 
 from the moment of their reunion that some 
 blessed change had taken place, some change 
 which left her free of fear, and enabled her to 
 give unreservedly, doubting nothing. 
 
 And if Kitty perceived the radical elevation 
 of her lover s character, Robert Pennington 
 was perhaps even more sensible of it. There 
 was indeed a wonderful communion between 
 the two men, a solemn interchange of holy 
 experiences which grappled their souls to 
 gether for eternity ; but with these things 
 neither tongue nor pen intermeddleth. 
 
 At the time when George had been formally 
 recognized as heir of Pennington his uncle had 
 promised that there should be no interference 
 with his matrimonial desires. But Kitty Din- 
 woodie satisfied every wish he had for George s 
 future home. He had seen her in the first 
 flush of her innocent, brilliant beauty, he re 
 membered her kindness to George s mother 
 when the lonely woman lay dying. Her devo 
 tion to her parents, her unflagging service to 
 her wounded countrymen, all these things 
 promised a wife faithful and affectionate. 
 
 So it was with delight he anticipated the
 
 FEET OF CLA Y. 
 
 marriage, and with generous pleasure he be 
 gan to prepare the Hall for Kitty s reception. 
 For he perceived that marriage would be for 
 George the noblest and sweetest vestibule to 
 the career which he now saw ready for him, the 
 opening up of new industries on the estate, the 
 remodelling of the farms and cottages, the 
 magisterial duties which he must soon assume, 
 the vision of parliamentary honors in the dis 
 tance. All these and many other issues were 
 talked over, and both were aware that in the 
 future they could work together with undivided 
 aims and sympathies. 
 
 The night before George was to leave Penn- 
 ington in order to bring home his bride the 
 two men had a long and affectionate confi 
 dence. All in the past which could sweeten 
 and solemnize the future was recalled, its bitter 
 ness was buried forever. On George s face 
 there was that light which comes from the in 
 terior of a man, the reflection of high purpose, 
 of noble love, a light not quite without the 
 slant shadow of regret. Yet by this very 
 shadow Robert Pennington foresaw the sun 
 shine of the future, for purposeful regret is 
 the seed of redemption.
 
 SUNRISE. 369 
 
 And as he looked at his nephew he called 
 to mind a certain conference with his dead 
 mother. The golden image with its feet of 
 clay was again visible to his mental vision, but 
 he regarded it now without fear. Feet of 
 clay still, but on a road where one mighty to 
 save walked by the side of pilgrims ; a road 
 where angels watched, lest at any time they 
 might dash against what would wound or in 
 jure. Feet of clay " shod with the preparation 
 of the gospel of peace." Feet of clay, " made 
 iron and brass " for all the difficult and danger 
 ous paths of life. 
 
 THE END.
 
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