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6
GOD AND THE MAN
VOL. I.
MR. BUCHANAN'S ROMANCES.
Fifth and Cheaper Edition, price 2s. 6d.
THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.
'The finest descriptive writing of which any Enghsh writer is
capable.' — Nonconformist, 'A tragedy after the Greek.' — Globe.
' No summary can give any idea of the depth of meaning and power
of this book.' — British Quarterly Review.
Fifth Edition, price 6s.
WHITE ROSE AND RED:
A Love Story [in Verse).
'A wonderful poem.' — Nonconformist. ' Painted with the hand
of a master.' — Daily News. 'Will secure for itself a permanent
name, and a long succession of readers.' — Spectator.
STRAHAN & CO., 34 Paternoster Row.
Fourth and Cheaper Edition, crown 8vo. cloth extra, -^s. 6d.
A CHILD OF NATURE.
'The work of a genius and of a poet.' — Spectator. ' Buchanan
is the most faithful poet of Nature among the new men. He is her
familiar. Like no British poet save himself, he knows her.' — Sted-
man's Victorian Poets.
Also, in preparation, in 3 vols, crown 8vo.
THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.
CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly, W.
' Facing the fire, and the great Yule log^ sits the old man.
Christian Christiansen, of the Fen.''
GOD AND THE MAN
A ROMANCE
BY
ROBERT BUCHANAN
AUTHOR OF 'a CHILD OF NATURE' ' THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD '
•the great god casteth away no man
IN THREE VOLUMES— VOL. L
Jonbon
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1881
{All rights reserved^
LONDON : PRINTED BY
SHOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
u^
V.I
pcbtcattoit.
TO
AN OLD ENEMY.
I luotdd have S7iatch\i a bay leaf from thy brozu^
Wronging the chaplet on an honoured head ;
In peace a?id charity I bring thee now
A lily flower instead.
Pure as thy purpose^ blameless as thy song^
Sweet as thy spirit, may this offering be :
Forget the bitter bhwie that did thee wrongs
^ A7id take the gift fro7n me I
R. B.
♦ *
*
This romance is the third ivork of prose fiction
from the writer'' s pen. In each of these works, a subject
has been taken, which, though poetical in itself involved
a treat7nent transcetiding the exact limits of verse. ' A
Child of Nature^ written in 1870, though not published
till nine years after, was the first of the series j the
' Shadow of the Sword ' was written and published in
1875/ the presefit work, a?zd the ' Martyrdom of Made-
line^ which will follow it immediately, were planned
together and written iji close sequence. Each of the last
three wo7'ks has a particular ' idea ' or purpose, and de-
scettds to what some critics call the heresy of instruction.
The ' Shadow of the Sword'' is a poetical polemic against
public War J ' God and the Man ' is a study of the vanity
and folly of i?tdividual Hate j the '-Martyrdom of Made-
line ' has for its the?ne the social co?tspiracy against
Woma7ikind.
R. B.
\
CONTENTS
OF
THE FIRST VOLUME.
CHAPTER PAGE
I
PROEM
I. A Winter Night's Prologue.
II. The Years roll Back : a Death-bed
III. Shadows at the Fen Farm .
IV. Sowing the Black Seed
V. Enter Priscilla ....
VI. Father and Daughter
VII. A Disaffected Spirit
VIII. Clouds in the Sky
IX. The Enemy in the Path
X. Up at 'The Willows'.
XI. Another Love Scene
5
35
63
84
107
130
158
178
201
235
260
ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I
' Facing the Fire, sits Christian Christian-
V
SON OF THE Fen' . . . . Fro?itispiecc
'All Men, each one, beneath the Sun' to face p. i
'" Help !" SHRIEKED THE Boy'. . . „ „ 98
'He LIFTED His Eyes' . . . . „ „ 161
"'You SHALL not GO," CRIED THE GiRL ' „ „ 245
GOD AND THE MAN.
PROEM.
* All men, each one, beneath the sun,
I hate, shall hate, till life is done,
But of all men one, till my race is run.
And all the rest for the sake of one !
' If God stood there, revealed full bare,
I would laugh to scorn His love or care, —
Nay, in despair, I would pray a prayer
Which He needs must grant — if a God He were !
* And the prayer would be, "Yield up to me
This man alone of all men that see !
Give him to me^ and to misery !
Give me this man, if a God thou be ! " '
• •••••
Shape on the headland in the night.
Gaunt, ghastly, kneeling on his knee.
He prays ; his baffled prayers take flight,
Like screaming sea-birds, thro' the light
That streams across the sleeping sea.
VOL. I. B
GOD AND THE MAN.
From the black depths of man's despair
Rose ever so accurst a prayer ?
His hands clench and his eyeballs roll,
Hate's famine sickens in his soul.
Meantime the windless waves intone
Their peaceful answer to his moan,
The soft clouds one another chase,
The moon -rays flash upon his face,
The mighty deep is calm ; but see !
This man is as a storm-swept tree.
And, silvern-sandall'd, still as death,
The white moon in her own pure breath
Walks yonder. Doth he see her pass
Over the glimmering water-glass ?
Sees he the stars that softly swing
Like lamps around her wandering.
Sown thick as early snowdrops now
In the dark furrows of the Plough ?
Hears he the sad, still, rhythmic throb
Of the dark ocean where he stands, —
The great strong voice still'd to a sob,
Near darken'd capes and glimmering sands ?
Nay, nay ; but, even as a wight
Who on a mirror fixeth sight,
And screams at his own face of dread
Within the dimness pictured.
He useth God's great sleeping sea
To image hate and agony.
PROEM.
He kneels, he prays, — nay, call it not
A prayer, that riseth in his throat ;
'Tis but a curse this mortal cries,
Like one who curses God and dies.
' Yield up to me, to hate and me,
One man alone of all men that see !
Give him to me, and to misery !
Give me this man if a God thou be !
' But the cruel heavens all open lie,
No God doth reign o'er the sea or sky,
The earth is dark and the clouds go by.
But there is no God, to hear me cry !
' There is no God, none, to abolish one
Of the foul things thought and dreamed and done !
Wherefore I hate, till my race is run,
All living men beneath the sun ! '
To-night he rose when all was still,
Left like a thief his darkened door.
And down the dale, and o'er the hill,
He flew, till here upon the shore
Shivering he came ; and here he trod
Hour after hour the glooms of God,
Nursing his hate in fierce unrest,
Like an elfin babe upon the breast !
B 2
GOD AND THE MAN.
And all his hunger and his thirst
Was vengeance on the man he cursed !
' O Lord my God, if a God there be,
Give up the man I hate to me !
On his living heart let my vengeance feed,
And I shall know Thou art God indeed ! '
Again rings out that bitter cry
Between the dark seas and the sky —
Then all is hush'd, while quivering.
With teeth and claws prepared to spring,
He crouches beast-like . . . Hark, O hark !
What solemn murmur fills the dark ?
What shadows come and go up there.
Through the azure voids of the starry air ?
The night is still ; the waters sleep ; the skies
Gaze down with bright innumerable eyes ;
A voice comes out of heaven and o'er the sea :
' I AM ; AND I WILL GIVE THIS MAN TO THEE ! '
CHAPTER I.
A WINTER night's PROLOGUE.
' Granddad, granddad ! look up ! — it Is
Marjorle. Have you forgotten your niece,
Marjorle Wells ? And this is little Edgar,
Marjorie's son! Speak to him, Edgar,
speak to granddad. Alack, this is one of
his dark days, and he knoweth no one.'
In the arm-chair of carven oak, stained
black as ebony by the smokes of many
years, and placed in the great hall where
the Yule log is burning, the old man sits
as he has sat every day since last winter ;
speechless, to all seeming sightless; faintly
smiling and nodding from time to time
when well shaken Into consciousness by
6 GOD AND THE MAN,
some kindly hand, and then relapsing into
stupor. He is paralysed from the waist
downwards. His deeply wrinkled face Is
ashen gray and perfectly bloodless, set in
its frame of snow-white hair ; hair that has
once been curly and light, and still falls in
thin white ringlets on the stooping shoul-
ders ; his hands are shrivelled to thinnest
bone and parchment ; his eyes, sunken
deep beneath the brows, give forth little
or no glimmer of the fire of life.
Ninety years old. The ruin, or wreck,
of what has once been a gigantic man.
The frame is still gigantic, and shows
the mighty mould in which the man was
made; the great head, with its broad over-
hanging brows and square powerful jaw, is
like the head of an aged Hon of Africa,
toothless and gray with time.
Kick the great log, and as the sparks
fly up the chimney thick as bees from out
A WINTER NIGHrS PROLOGUE. 7
a hive, his eyes open a little, and he seems
faintly conscious of the flame. Flash the
lamp Into his sunken eyes, and as he mutters
curiously to himself, and fumbles with thin
hands upon his knees, a faint flash of con-
sciousness comes from the smoulderlnof
brand of brain within.
He Is not always so Inert as now.
This, as the grave matron who Is bending
over him says, is one of his dark days.
Sometimes he will look around and talk
feebly to his children's children, and seem
to listen as some one reads out of the
great family Bible which stands ever near
his elbow; and the gray old face will
smile gently, and the thin worn hand lie
lightly as a leaf on some flaxen head. But
to-night, though it is Christmas Eve, and
all the kinsfolk of the house are gathered
together, he knows no one, and sees and
hears nothing. He breathes, and that is all.
8 GOD AND THE MAN.
All round the upland hall the snow is
lying, but over it, since last night, have
fallen, in black tree-like shadows, the trails
of the thaw. The woods are bare. The
great horse-chestnut on the hill-top has long
since shed its sevenfold fans, intermingled
with jagged brown buds bursting open to
show the glossy nuts within. Bare even
is the ash, which keeps a goodly portion
of its leaves so long, and stands scarcely
half stript, darkening in the chill autumnal
wind. All the landscape round looks dark
and ominous ; the shadow of winter is
seen visibly upon the shivering world.
* Put a drop to his lips — perhaps he'd
know us then.'
The speaker, a tall, handsome widow
of fifty, with grim, weather-beaten face,
holds by the hand a dark-eyed boy of ten,
swarthy as a quadroon. Friends and kins-
men of the family — of both sexes and all
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 9
t
ages — gather round. It Is a festival, and
all are more or less gorgeously clad, brlght-
ribbon'd caps and gorgeous silk gowns
being predominant among the women, and
blue swallow-tail'd coats and knee-breeches
among the men. Next to the centenarian,
the chief centre of interest is the handsome
widow and her little boy. She has been
long absent from England, having married
a West Indian planter, and long ago settled
down in Barbadoes. A widow with one
child, she has at last returned to the vil-
lage where she was born, and though she
has been some months at home, the no-
velty of her presence has by no means
worn away.
* Put a drop to his lips,' she repeats,
* and speak up to grandfather.'
' Grandfather!' cries the boy, taking one
of the cold bony hands.
No stir — no sign.
lo GOD AND THE MAN.
' It's no use, Marjorle/ observes the
good matron with a dolorous shake of the
head. 'When he goes Hke this, he is
stone deaf and bhnd. Some of these days,
doctor says, he'll never wake up at all, but
go out like a spark, as quiet as you see
him now.'
' And no wonder,' returns the widow.
The Book says three score and ten, and
he is over a score beyond.'
' Four score and ten, and seven weeks/
pipes a thin voice from the background.
'Ah, it be a powerful age.'
He who speaks is himself an old man,
very thin and very feeble, with a senile
smile and purblind eyes ; yet, gazing upon
the figure in the arm-chair he assumes an
appearance of ghastly youth, and feels
quite fresh and boylike.
' Four score and ten, and seven weeks,'
he repeats, ' and the master was a man
A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE. ir
growed before I was born. He puts me
in mind of the great oak by Dingleby
Waste, for It stood many a hundred year
before It fell, and now, though It be fallen
with Its roots out o' the ground, its boughs
do put out every summer a little patch
of green, just to show there be a spark of
life r the old stump yet/
The members of the family group gaze
open-mouthed at the speaker, and then,
with mouths still wider open, at the tenant
of the arm-chair ; one and all with a curi-
ous air of belono["inof to another and less
mortal species, and having nothing In
common with a thinsf so fallen and so
perishable. And still the old man does
not stir. Lying thus, he does indeed seem
like some mighty tree of the forest, gnarled
and weather-beaten and bare, uprooted and
cast down, with scarcely a sign to show
that It has once gloried In the splendour
12 GOD AND THE MAN.
of innumerable leaves, and stood erect in
its strength against the crimson shafts of
sunset and of dawn.
All the long winter evening there has
been mirth-making around him. The hall
is hung with holly, green leaf and red
berry ; and from the quaint old lamp that
swings from the centre beam, is pendent a
bunch of whitest-berried mistletoe. Fid-
dles and flutes and pipes have been play-
ing, and nimble feet have beaten merry
time on the polished oaken floor. And
throughout it all grandfather has kept his
silent seat on the ingle, and hardly seemed
to hear or see.
It is a grand old hall, fit to be a portion
of some grand manorial abode ; and such
indeed it was once upon a time, before the
old manor-house fell into decay, and
became the home of the Christiansons.
Facing the great ingle is a large double
A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE, 13
entrance door, studded with great nails
and brazen bars like a prison gate ; and
whenever this door — or rather one half of
it — is swung open, you see the snow
whirling outside, and can hear a roar like
the far-off murmur of the sea. The hall
is long and broad, and at one end there is
a wide staircase of carven oak, leading to
a gallery, which in turn communicates
with the upper rooms of the house. In
the gallery sit the musicians, led by the
little old cripple, Myles JMiddlemass, the
parish clerk. Great black beams, like
polished ebony, support the ceiling. The
fireplace is broad and high, with fixed
oaken forms on either side, and projecting
thence, two sphynx-like forms of well-
burnished brass ; while facing the fire and
the great yule-log, sits, in his arm-chair of
polished oak, the old man, Christian
Christianson, of the Fen.
14 GOD AND THE MAN.
The music begins anew, and the folk
begin a country dance. Farm maidens
and farm labourers lounge in from the
kitchen, gathering like sheep at one end
of the hall, close to the kitchen door.
Then Farmer Thorpe, who is master of
the house, which came to him with Mary
Christlanson, the old man's daughter, leads
off the dance with Mistress Marjorie, his
grim kinswoman from Barbadoes. The
others follow, young and old, and the
oldest as merrily as the youngest. Loud
cries and laughter rise ringing to the
rafters ; there is struggling in corners,
girlish laughter, patter of light and peal of
heavy feet ; and the louder the mirth
sounds within, the louder roars the winter
wind without. But old Christian sits
moveless, with his blank eyes, half-closed,
fixed on the fire. Like a fallen tree, did
we say ? Rather like some gray pillar of
A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOCVE. 15
granite rising grimly out of the sea ; with
the innumerable laughter of ocean around
it, and flight of white wings around it, and
brightness above It ; dead, dead to all the
washinor of the waves of life, and blind to
all the shining of the sun.
As he sits there, some look at him in
awe, and whisper to each other of his past,
and shakp the head ominously as they
think of his strange adventures sailing up
and down the world. For he has lived
much of his life in foreign lands, a
wanderer for many years without a place
whereon to rest his feet ; he has been a
master mariner, and a trader, and an
owner of sailing ships ; and far away, long
ago, he gathered wealth in some myste-
rious fashion, and brought it back with
him to buy the ancestral acres that his
father's father lost. A stormy life and a
terrible, say the gossips ; not without
i6 ' GOD AND THE MAN.
blood's sin and such crimes as, twice told,
lift the hair and shake the soul ; for if they
speak sooth, he has sailed under the black
flag on the Indian seas, and taken his
share in the traffic of human life. Those
who are oldest remember dimly the days
of his passion and his pride — days when
his hand was against every man, and when
his very name was a synonym for hate
and wrath. The women-folk speak, more-
over, of his strength and beauty, when his
white locks were golden as a lion's mane,
and his gray eyes bright with the light of
the Viking race from whom he drew his
fiery blood.
While the mirth is loudest, pass out
through the hall door into the night. The
great door closes with a clang ; the bright-
ness fades into the murmuring darknes^ of
the storm. Stand on the lonely upland,
and see the white flakes driving tumul-
A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE. 17
tuously from the sea ; far across the great
marsh with Herndale Mere glistening in
its centre like a great shield, and beyond
the dark sandhills which stretch yonder
like tossing billows for miles and miles
beyond, the sea itself is tossing and
gleaming, and crashing on the hard and
ribbed sand of the lonely shore. The
heavens are dark, and neither moon nor
star is visible ; but the air is full of a faint
mysterious light — like moonshine, like
starshine, like the light that is in the filmy
falling flakes. In this faint phosphor-
escence the frozen mere flashes by fits,
and the distant sandhills loom dimly in
the distance, and on every side gathers
the whiteness of the fallen sheets of snow.
Behind the great farm, with Its win-
dows flashing out like bloodshot eyes, and
its shadows coming or going on the crim-
son blinds, stretch the upland fields, deep
VOL. I. c
1 8 GOD AND THE MAN.
in drift of mingled snow and sand ; and
inland, here and there, glance the lights
from clustering homesteads and solitary
farms. A lamp is burning in every home
to-nieht, for all the folk are awake, and
the coming of the Christ is close at hand.
A long lane, deep with many a waggon
rut, and closed on either side by black-
thorn hedges, leads from the upland,
across fields and meadows, to the highway,
only a mile along which is the village, and
the quaint old village church. Listen
closely, and the faint peal of bells comes
to your ear in the very teeth of the wind !
—and look, even as you listen, lights are
creeping up the lane, and soon, shadows
of human forms loom behind the lights,
and you see the carol singers, with Wil-
liam Ostler from the Rose and Crown at
their head, coming along, lanthorns in
hand, to sing at the farm door.
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE, 19
William Ostler staggers as he comes,
and tumbles sprawling into the snow ;
whereat there is loud laughter, and
scuffling of heavy hobnailed feet. Young
men in heavy w^oollen coats, and girls In
red cloaks with warm hoods, and little
boys and girls following behind, come
trooping along the lane. Now they meet
the bitter blast upon the upland, and the
lanthorns are blown out, but with the light
from the farm windows to guide them,
they come stamping along, and, facing the
hall door, range themselves in a row.
Then William with a tipsy hiccough, gives
out the word, and the voices rins: out loud
and clear.
Scarcely has the carol begun, when all
sounds cease within the farm ; the dance
has ceased, and all are standing still to
listen. As the last note dies away, the
door swings open, and Farmer Thorpe,
c 2
20 GOD AND THE MAN.
with face like a ribstone pippin, and white
hair blowing in the wind, stands on the
threshold, with shining faces peeping out
behind him in a blaze of rosy light.
* Come in, come in ! ' he cries, cheerily.
' Welcome all ! '
Stamping the snow from their boots,
shaking it from their garments, they troop
in and gather together at the kitchen
end of the hall, where warm spiced ale
is poured for them, and chucks of home-
made cake put into their chilly hands.
Left outside in the dark, the village chil-
dren pelt each other with snowballs, and
run races in the snow, and shout shrilly in
through the keyhole, and beat with tiny
mittened hands on the mighty door.
It is close on midnight now. The
carol-singers have gone their ways, to
make their music elsewhere, and get good
entertainment for their pains. The house
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE, 21
is full of the pleasant smell of meat and
drink.
But the great hall Is empty ; empty,
that Is to say, save for the old form sit-
ting before the fire. There he crouches
still, conscious of little save the pleasant
warmth ; breathing faintly, otherwise not
stirring hand or limb.
The musicians, the labourers, the farm
maidens, are busy feasting in the kitchen ;
whence comes, through the half-closed
doors, the sound of loud guffaws, of clat-
tering dishes and jingling glasses, of busy,
shuffling feet. There is plenty of rough
fare, with libations of strong beer and
cider and ginger- ale. In the low-roofed
dining-room, which opens out up three
oaken steps at the other end of the hall,
the genteeler portion of the company sit
round the supper board, — a snow-white
cloth of linen, piled with roast and boiled
22 GOD AND THE MAN.
meats, fat capons, knuckles of ham and
veal, Christmas cakes and puddings, great
rosy-cheeked apples, foaming jugs of ale,
flasks of ruby-coloured rum, and black
bottles of foreign vintage. Farmer Thorpe
heads the table, in his swallow-tailed coat
of bottle-green, his long buff waistcoat with
snowy cambric at the breast and throat,
his great silver chain with dangling charms
and seals ; and facing him, at the other
end. Is Mary his good dame, splendid in
silk and flowered brocade, with a cap, to
crown all, that is the envy and admiration
of every matron In the happy group. On
either side are ranged the guests in their
'degree, — Squire Orchardson of the Wil-
lows, a spare thin-visaged man in deep
mourning, having the place of honour at
the farmer's right hand, and pretty Mabel
Orchardson, the squire's only daughter,
blushing not far away, with young Harry
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 23
Thorpe, a tall yeoman of twenty-one, to
ply her with sweet things and sweeter
looks, and to whisper tender nothings in
her ear. The light of swinging-lamps and
country-made candles gleams all round
upon happy faces, red and bright, with
fine shadows behind of oaken furniture
and wainscoted w^alls. The mirth is real,
though solemn ; for the wine has not yet
had time to tell its tale. The old folks
pledge each other in old-fashioned style ;
healths go round ; pretty maidens sip out
of the glasses of their cousins and lovers,
while fond feet meet, and knees touch,
under the table. There is a clatter of
dishes and knives and forks, a murmur
of voices, which only ceases at Intervals,
when the wind shakes the house and
causes the roof and walls to quake again.
But all at once, above the crying of the
wind and above all the noise of the feast,
24 GOD AND THE MAN.
rises a sound so shrill and terrible that all
mirth ceases, and the company listen in
terror. It sounds like a human shriek,
coming through the half- closed door that
leads to the hall — a human shriek, or
something superhuman, so strangely does
it ring through the merry house. Hark,
again ! There can be no doubt now. It
is the shriek of a man's voice, sharp, fierce,
and terrible.
The more timid among the company —
both men and women — keep their seats,
shiver, and look at one another ; the
braver spirits, headed by Farmer Thorpe,
push through the open door, and gather
on the steps leading down into the hall.
In the middle of the hall stands, ghastly
pale now, and terrified, the swarthy boy
from Barbadoes, his hands clenched, his
eyes staring, every fibre of him trembling
with terror. Near to him is another boy,
A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE. 25
Stronger and bigger, of coarser make and
breed ; young Walter Thorpe, the farmer s
nephew, whose father Hves down at the
Warren. A little way off their little cousin,
Mary Farrlngford, crouches dumb with
terror, her large blue eyes dilated and
misty with timid tears.
All the three children gaze one way —
the dark boy fascinated, like a murderer
caught In the act, with the murderous
look of hate and venom found by fear
upon his face and frozen there ; young
Walter a little frightened too, but pre-
serving a certain loutish stolidity ; little
Mary quivering like a reed. All gaze
towards the great fireplace, for there, still
fixed In his chair, but with head erect,
eyes dilating, and skinny finger pointing,
sits the old man, awake at last indeed !
His mouth is still open, panting, and it
is clear now that the shriek which startled
26 GOD AND THE MAN.
the company came from his throat. His
finger points to the dark boy, who recoils
in dread ; but his eyes are fixed, not on
the boy's face, but on a gUttering object
which hes upon the floor, close to the boy's
feet.
An open clasp-knife, with dagger-like
blade and steel spring, the kind of knife
that seamen use, too often, upon one
another.
Farmer Thorpe steps into the hall,
with the wondering company behind him.
' What is the matter ? ' he exclaims.
* Who was it that screamed out ? '
Walter Thorpe, who has recovered his
composure, shuffles his feet, grins stupidly,
and jerks his thumb at the old man.
* Hi77i ! ' he replies with characteristic
indifference to grammar.
^ And what — what's this '^. ' cries the
farmer, following the old man's eyes and
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 27
looking at the knife. *Eh, eh, whose
knife is this ? '
' His ! ' replies Walter again, nodding
his head at the other boy.
' Edgar's ! ' exclaims the voice of the
widow Marjorie Wells ; and as she speaks
she comes forward very pale, and touches
her son with an angry hand. ' Edgar,
what does it mean ? '
He scowls, and makes no answ^er.
' Have you been quarrelling ? ' she
continues sternly. * How dare you quarrel,
you wicked boy ? '
' He struck me,' pants Edgar, still
with the murderous look in his face.
' No, I didn't,' cries Walter.
* Yes you did.'
' I didn't — leastways till you pushed me
against little Mary and threw her down.
Then when I slapt your face, you pulled out
that knife, and tried to stick me like a pig ! '
28 GOD AND THE MAN.
A murmur of horror runs through the
company.
' You hear, madam ? ' says Father
Thorpe, sharply. ' I think your boy s to
blame, and if he was my son, I'd give him
a sound thrashing. Fancy the young Imp
carrying a knife like that, and trying to
use it too.'
' Edgar is passionate,* says the widow,
haughtily ; ' but I daresay he was pro-
voked.'
* He said that I was black,' cries Edgar,
looking up at his mother with his great
eyes, ' and that when I was a man I ought
to marry a black woman — and cousin
Mary laughed — and so I pushed him ;
and when he struck me, I pulled out my
knife, and I wozcld have stabbed him, If
grandfather had not screeched out.'
' Fine doings o' Christmastide,' ex-
claims Farmer Thorpe, shaking his head
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 29
grimly ; ' and look you now at father,' he
continues, passing across to the old man,
who still keeps the same position, with
eyes staring and finger pointing. ' How
goes it, father ? Come, come, what ails
you now ? '
At the voice of his son, the old man
drops his outstretched arm, and begins to
mutter quietly to himself.
* Eh ? ' says Farmer Thorpe, putting
down his ear to listen. ' Speak up, father.'
The words are faint and feeble ex-
ceedingly, but they are just intelligible :
' Take — away — the knife ! '
At a signal from the farmer, one of the
neighbours lifts the knife from the floor,
touches the spring, closes it, and hands it
over to the farmer, who forthwith consigns
it to the lowest depths of his breeches'
pocket. All the company look on, breath-
30 GOD AND THE MAN.
less, as if upon a veritable miracle — the
dead coming back to life.
There is a pause. Then again the
feeble voice comes from the worn-out
frame,
' My son John/
' Here, father/
' Call them ! — call the children ! ' .
For a moment the farmer is puzzled,
but seeing the old man's eyes again wander
towards young Edgar Wells, he begins to
comprehend.
' Come here,' he says sharply ; * grand-
father wants you.'
The boy at first shrinks back, then,
with natural courage, forces a smile of
bravado, and comes boldly forward. As
he passes into the crimson firelight, the
old man's eyes perceive him, and the
wrinkled face lightens. But the next
A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE. 31
Instant the feeble eyes look round dis-
appointed.
' Both,' he murmurs — ' both my chil-
dren.'
Again the farmer Is puzzled, but his
good dame, with woman's wit, hits the
mark at once.
' I think he wants our nephew Walter,*
she says softly. ' Go to him, Walter.'
With a sheepish grin, Walter Thorpe
steps forward, and so the two boys stand
face-to-face close to the old man's knee.
As his feeble gaze falls upon them, his lips
tremble, and he gazes vacantly from one
to the other from beneath his rheumy lids.
Then suddenly reaching out one hand, he
holds Walter by the jacket-sleeve, and
with the other, which trembles like a leaf,
tries to clutch at Edo^ar. But Edear,
startled by the sudden movement, has
shrunk back afraid.
32 GOD AND THE MAN,
' What doth he mean ? * whispers a
neighbour.
* Now, God be praised ! ' says Dame
Thorpe, ' I think he means the lads to
make friends. See, Marjorie, how he feels
out to touch your boy ; and hark, what is
he saying ? '
They listen closely, and at last they
catch the words :
* The children — put their hands into
mine.'
At a look from the farmer, Walter
puts his coarse brown hand between the
old man's trembling fingers, which close
over it and clutch it convulsively. But
Edgar scowls and hangs aloof, till his
mother comes forward and touches him.
* Put out your hand — at once ! '
Thus urged, the boy partly stretches
out his arm, when the widow takes his
hand and places it, like the other's, be-
A WINTER NIGHTS PROLOGUE. ZZ
tween the old man's fingers. As the hands
of the two boys touch in that sinewy cage,
which now holds them firm as iron, their
eyes meet with a momentary gleam of
defiance, then fall.
' Hush ! ' murmurs Dame Thorpe, softly ;
and there is a long silence. The old man's
lips move, but no sound comes from
them. His eyes no longer seek the faces
around him, but are half-closed, as if in
prayer.
Presently there is a faint murmur. The
farmer bends down his ear, and catches
the words, murmured very feebly, . . .
* Love one another.' . . .
Deeper stillness follows, and a solemn
awe fills the hearts of all the company.
Presently the old man's hands relax, and
with a quiet sigh, he leans back smiling in
his chair. His dim eyes open and look
round, his lips begin to move quietly again.
VOL. I. D
34 GOD AND THE MAN.
* When I was a boy . . /
They catch no more, for the words die
away, and he seems to fall into a doze,
perhaps into a dream of the days that once
have been. While he thus lies, and while
the company return with spirits solemnised
to table, let us stay by him in the lonely
hall, and with eyes fixed upon the fire, re-
call the troubled memories of his life.
35
CHAPTER II.
THE YEARS ROLL BACK I A DEATH-BED.
As far back as he could remember, — when,
though his body was a useless log, and his
eyes dim w4th dust of age, his memory
was still green, — the Christiansons had
hated the Orchardsons, and the Orchard-
sons had returned the hate with interest.
The two families were heat and frost, fire
and water, peace and war ; their spirits
could never cross each other without pain.
Physically, even, they were as unlike as tall
stalwart trees of the forest and creeping
shrubs of the common : the male Christian-
sons, tall, stalwart yeomen of six foot up-
wards ; the Orchardsons narrow-chested,
stooping figures, below the middle height.
D 2
36 GOD AND THE MAN.
There was, moreover, this great differ-
ence between them : good luck was ever
on the one ' side, while the other seldom
throve. A shilling in the pocket of an
Orchardson multiplied itself to a pound,
and the pound to ten, and the ten to a hun-
dred ; while in the pockets of a Christian-
son, hundreds melted like withered leaves,
like the cheating pieces given to foolish
folk by the fairies. The Christiansons
never could keep money ; the Orchardsons
never could let it go. For all this, and for
a thousand other reasons, they hated each
other the more.
It was such an old hate, such a settled
feud, that no one quite knew when or how
it began ; indeed, there was a general dis-
position in the neighbourhood to trace it
back to a mythical period, somewhat
further back than the Conquest. But cer-
tain it was, that even in the times of the
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED, 37
great Civil Wars, the two families were
on different sides — cavalier Orchardsons
hunted down by roundhead Christiansens,
and being hunted down in turn when at
last, with the Merry Monarch, came time
and opportunity.
Mention a Christianson to an Orchard-
son, and the latter would look evil, shrug
shoulders, and show a certain sort of easy
hate tempered with proud contempt. Name
an Orchardson to a Christianson, and it was
a very different matter ; the blood in his
veins would turn to gall, his gorge would
rise, and he would feel his strong frame con-
vulsed with wrath, while his hands were
clenched for a blow. The Orchardsons
were more than shadows on the lives of
the Christiansons; the very thought of
them lay like lead upon the breast, choking
the wholesome breath.
As years went on, and milder influences
38 GOD AND THE MAN.
supervened, the fierceness of the vendetta
between the two families died away, leaving
only a great frosty chill, in which the
families, without any active hostility, fell
farther and farther asunder. The Or-
chardsons remained at the old manor-
house, ever increasing their substance both
in money and land. The Christiansons
kept tight hold of their farms down to-
wards Herndale Mere and the sea, but it
was whispered in more than one wise
quarter that they were deeply involved,
and that when Robert Christianson, the
reigning head of the house, went the
way of all flesh, there would be revela-
tions.
One evening, late in the autumn, as
young Tom Rudyard, the doctor's assistant,
sat quietly smoking a pipe in the bar-
parlour of the Rose and Crown, with
pretty Nancy Parkinson by his side, and
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 39
buxom Mrs. Parkinson looking on with a
smile, he received an unexpected summons.
A tall young lad of about fourteen, clad
in rough yeoman costume, and carrying a
riding switch, came bolt into the room.
Tom started up guiltily, for he knew
that to enter that bar-parlour was for-
bidden to Dr. jMarshman's assistants (all
of whom had in succession ' gone wrong '
through a too great love of festivity), and
then, recognising the new-comer, grinned,
and gave a hoarse laugh. Standing thus
erect, the young doctor showed a very
long spare body and attenuated legs, clad
in a costume rather too loud for that of a
regular practitioner, and encroaching in-
deed on the privileged style of the jaunty
veterinary surgeon.
' What, Master Christian, is it you ? '
cried Nancy, with a smile ; then, seeing at
once by the boy's pale face that something
40 GOD AND THE MAN.
was wrong, she added, ' Is anything the
matter ? '
^ Yes,' answered the lad with quivering
lips. * The doctor's wanted at once up to
the farm. Father's taken bad.'
One cry of commiseration rose from
the two women.
* What is it ? ' asked Tom, reaching up
for his beaver hat, which hung on a hook
behind the door. ' Not a fit, I hope ? At
his time of Hfe '
* Don't waste time talking,' said the
boy, ' but come along. Mother sent for
the old doctor, but he's out and away at
Deepdale; so I came to look after ^^^^.*
Although he was only a boy, he spoke
with a certain authority, and through his
great height and powerful frame, looked
almost a man ; certainly a man In strength,
though his form was as yet shapeless and
awkward, and his hands and feet too large.
^
THE YEARS ROLL BACK : A DEATH-BED, 41
That he was greatly troubled and alarmed
was shown by his bloodless face and the
pale, dry lips, which he moistened every
moment with the tip of his tongue.
* It's a goodish stretch up to the farm/
said the young doctor, with a rueful glance
at the cosy fire. ' I shall want a horse.'
' Take my mare,' returned the lad,
* she's standing at the door, and she'll
carry you up at a gallop.'
' I dare say, and break my neck on the
road. I don't know a yard of the way.'
' But the mare does ; give her her
head, and she'll go home straight as a
shot.'
Doctor Tom still looked doubtful.
' I shall want my instruments, maybe.'
* Then do you ride on, while I go to
the surgery, and bring them after you.
I'll take the short cut across the marsh,
and be there nigh as soon as you.'
42 GOD AND THE MAN.
Walking out to the front door of the
inn, they saw the Hght from the porch
flashing against a great wall of rainy black-
ness. It was a wild night of wind and
rain. The sign was shrieking and tossing
like a corpse in chains, and the air was full
of a rushing hiss of water.
In front of the door, just discernible in
the darkness, stood a dripping horse, or
pony, held by a ragged stable-boy.
* Lord, what a night ! ' cried the doctor,
with a shiver, and an inward imprecation
on the inconsiderate people who were
taken ill in such weather.
' Quick ! quick ! ' said young Master
Christianson, impatiently- * Mount the
pony.'
* Is he quiet ? '
* As a lamb — only mind to give him
his head.'
Quiet as a lamb he indeed seemed,
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 43
Standing drawn together in the rain, per-
fectly still ; but no sooner were the young
doctor's long legs thrown over him, than
he was off at a bound. The rider had
only just time to clutch the bridle, and to
utter a startled yell — then darkness swal-
lowed him up.
Good Mistress Parkinson stood at the
inn door, with her daughter at her side.
' Master Christianson,' she cried, as
the lad moved away ; adding as he turned
his head, ' let me get you a drop of warm
ale, or a posset. You be soaking through.'
The lad shook his head, and buttoning
his coat tight round his throat, ran swiftly
from the inn door, leaving the good women
full of perplexity and simple pity. For
Christian, though a wild and headstrong
lad, or rather just because he was head-
strong and wild, was a prime favourite in
all that neighbourhood. ' The true Chris-
44 GOD AND THE MAN.
tianson breed/ all admitted, with wise
shakes of the head and secret admiration
— quarrelsome, irritable, fierce and fiery,
yet withal forgiving and open-handed ;
proud, like his father and mother before
him, of the old name and of the typical
family strength ; so strong and handsome,
that young maids, much his elders, had
already been known to cast tender looks
at him ; yet so simple and boy-like, that
he preferred snaring a rabbit or setting a
woodcock spring to the brightest pair of
eyes in Christendom.
Swift as a deerhound, he ran up
through the village, setting his right
shoulder against the slanting rain, until
he reached the old doctors cottage, and
knocked sharply at the little low door.
An old woman opened, and with scarcely
a word to her, he ran into the parlour, or
* surgery,' looking for the doctor's case of
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 45
instruments, and for such simple remedies
as might be needed. As he searched, he
rapidly explained to the old dame, who
knew him well, the state of affairs ; and
then, having secured what he wanted, and
buttoned them tight under his coat, he
ran out again into the rain.
Swiftly still he ran along the dark road,
not losing breath, though it was rough and
steep ; presently, with one bound, he leapt
a hedge and alighted in a field of rainy
stubble. Though he seemed to be in
pitch darkness, It was clear that he knew
every inch of the way, as, crossing a field,
he came out upon an open common or
waste, covered with dark rainy pools.
Across the common, and up a miry lane ;
then he saw flashing on a hillside before
him the lights of a farm.
When he reached the farm door, he
found it standing open, and Doctor Tom,
46 GOD AND THE MAN,
splashed from top to toe, on the point of
entering, while the little mare, which he
had ridden in fear and desperation, was
standing with head down, quiet as a lamb.
* How's father ? ' asked the lad in a
whisper, as he followed the doctor into the
hall.
A shock-headed farm-maiden answered
something in a whisper, and Christian led
the way upstairs. Passing up a broad
oaken staircase, he reached an open corri-
dor, out of which opened several doors ;
approaching one of which, he knocked
softly.
The door was immediately opened by
a young girl, about a year older than him-
self She put her finger on her lips, as he
was about to speak, and beckoned the
doctor, who quietly approached.
In a large old-fashioned bedroom,
with a polished floor of slippery black oak,
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 47
and a low ceiling close to the black rafters
of the roof, was a large wooden bedstead,
on which lay the figure of a man, a great
gaunt yeoman, with iron-grey hair and
clean shaven face. Some of his clothes
had been hastily thrown off, and by the
bedside were his high riding boots ; but
he still wore his shirt and waistcoat, the
former torn open to free the powerful
workings of the throat. His eyes were
closed, his face ghastly pale, his whole
attitude that of exhaustion and semi-
stupor, and his breathing was very heavy
and hard.
By the bedside stood a tall, pale
matron, some few years his senior, and
close to her, on a chair, was an open
Bible.
Doctor Tom came in on tiptoe, and
standing by the bedside, sucked the
knob of his stick, and gazed with rather
48 GOD AND THE MAN.
vacant eyes at the man ; then, reaching
down his coarse red hand, felt the pulse,
and found it very jerky and feeble.
' Brandy — have you given him brandy,
mistress ? ' he asked. In a hoarse whisper.
The matron nodded her head.
'Well, give him some more, at once,
please ; 'tis the only thing to keep life in
him. How did it beofln? What doth he
complain of most ? '
In a low voice, the matron explained
that her husband had been seized, while
sitting at supper, with a violent pain in
the region of the heart. He had come
in very wet and weary from a long ride
to the neighbouring market town, and he
had been fasting all day. He had been
a good deal troubled, too, she said, and
that made him neglect his food. When
he was first seized with pain, she thought
he would die at once, but when he had
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 49
drank some spirits boiling hot, he got a
little relief. Presently another attack of
pain came on, and then they got him to
bed, and put warm bottles to his feet ;
since then he had been easier, and had
seemed as if he were asleep.
As the two stood whispering together,
the sick man suddenly opened his eyes.
' Who's that ? ' he said, feebly. ' Be it
the doctor ? '
* Yes,' said his wife, ' young Mr. Tom.'
* Tell him I don't want no doctor's
stuff; I shall be all right i' the morning.'
* How's the pain, master } ' asked the
doctor.
* Middling — middling bad,' answered
the patient ; then with a groan he put his
hand upon his chest. ' There be a weight
here like a millstone, right down upon my
heart'
VOL. I. E
50 GOD AND THE MAN.
' Doth It pain you when you breathe,
master ? '
' Ay, surely ! like a knife a-cutting me
In twain. But I don't want no physic —
no, no ! '
He closed his eyes, moaning, and
seemed to sink Into a doze.
Doctor Tom led the matron aside.
' Your good man's powerful bad, mis-
tress. He'll have to be bled straight
away.'
' Is he In danger, think you ? '
' Maybe yes, maybe no. If the blood
flows free, it may ease his heart a bit ;
his viscera be gorged with black blood,
mistress, and his heart doth not get room
to beat'
So without more conversation or de-
lay, the young leech opened a vein in
the farmer's arm. The dark blood came
freely but feebly, and as It flowed, he
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 51
really seemed to breathe with greater
ease. When about an ounce of blood
had been taken away, and the artery
carefully bound up, he seemed to He In
comfortable sleep.
' He'll do now/ said Dr. Tom. 'We'll
look round In the morning, and see how
he thrives.'
The matron, who had exhibited rare
nerve during the blood-letting, and had
herself assisted without a word, now
looked wildly up In the doctor's face.
' Will my man live .^ '
* Why not, mistress ? See how easy
he do breathe, now ! Ay, he'll live, I
hope, for many a long year ! '
Down the great stairs slipped Doctor
Tom, followed by young Christian. He
was well satisfied with himself, and quite
unaware that, in the true spirit of the
science (or nescience) of those days, he
E 2
LIBRARY
IINIVFf^<;iTY OF IIIINOIS
52 GOD AND THE MAN.
had finished his man, and drawn from an
exhausted arterial system its last chance
of recovering Its shattered strength.
* Will you ride back ? ' asked the
boy.
* On the back of that brimstone mare ^.
— not I. I'd rather walk barefoot, young
master. Good-night.'
The lad did not offer to escort him
beyond the door ; but leaving him to
wander home as he might along the
dark roads, returned to the room up-
stairs, and rejoined his mother and sister.
That night none of the three retired
to rest. The mother sat watching by the
bedside, while the girl and lad sat upon
the hearth, w^aitlng and listening. Not a
sound broke the silence but the monoto-
nous breathing of the sick man, and a
faint murmur from the lips of the mother,
as, with horn-rimmed spectacles upon her
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 53
nose, and the old Bible upon her knee,
she read softly to herself.
The room was dimly illumined by the
faint rays of a wood fire, and by the light
of a small oil-lamip, which was fastened
against the wall over the chimney-piece.
Seen even thus, the boy and girl seemed
made in very different moulds : he, strong,
herculean, rough, with blue eyes, and
curly flaxen hair ; she, tall, thin, and deli-
cate, with swarthy skin, dark eyes, and
chestnut hair. The boy, in his build and
complexion, resembled the figure on the
bed. The girl resembled the wan woman
who sat reading by the bedside.
Christian Christianson was scarce four-
teen years old ; his sister Kate was rather
more than a year older. Their parents
had married somewhat late in life, and the
two children were the only living issue of
the match.
54 GOD AND THE MAN.
Both in name and frame did the rough
lad show his Scandinavian origin, his con-
nection with those far-off ancestors of his
who swept down from the north in the old
times, harried the seas and the sea-coasts,
and scattered their seed far and wide on
those tracts of territory which pleased
them best. Nothing foreign seemed to
have entered the light current of his blood.
While he lay there, rough and awkward
as a lion's cub, he might have been taken
for the heir of some old viking, bespattered
from his cradle with the salt sea foam.
But young Christian was heir to little
save the surname of his father and the
monopoly of certain fruitless feuds. His
father and his father s father had farmed
the lands verging on the great sandhills,
and within hearing of the sea ; and it was
to be supposed that he would farm them
also, when his turn came. His father's
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 55
father had died in debt, and his father had
been more or less in debt when he was
born, and the shadow of mysterious. obH-
eations had been over the house ever
since he could remember. He had been
brought up to no profession, and with no
particular occupation ; but by looking on
and using his wits, as boys can, he had
learned a little of farming, and the value
of farm stock. His education had been
rough-and-ready enough. While his sister
could play a little on the harpsichord, and
sew a fine sampler, besides being able to
read and write fairly, he possessed no
accomplishments, save, of course, those
which he had acquired by sheer force of
physical courage and perseverance. He
could sit any horse barebacked, he knew
every beast of the field and fowl of the
air, he could wrestle and swim, and he was
an excellent shot at birds on the wing —
56 GOD AND THE MAN.
this last being a much rarer accompHshment
in those days than we, with our modern
notions, might imagine. But he had little
or no taste for books, and beyond a good
ear for a tune, and a good deep voice,
which might have made him a fair singer,
little capacity for any of the arts.
As he sat before the fire, his eyes were
lifted ever and again to the pallid face of
his mother, who read on monotonously to
herself. Kate Christianson sat with her
hands in her lap, gazing at the fire. So
hour after hour passed, until it was past
midnight ; and then, all at once, the
invalid's sleep began to grow disturbed.
He tossed upon his pillow, and clutched
the counterpane with his strong hand,
muttering half-articulate sounds. Suddenly
his wife started as if stung, for she heard
the sound of a hated name.
* Five thousand five hundred pounds
THE YEARS ROLL BACK: A DEATH-BED. 57
. . . five per cent, per annum . . . Richard
Orchardson, his heirs and assigns . . .
witness . . .' Here his words became
inarticulate, until he added, gasping, his
own name, ' Robert Christianson, of the
Fen.'
Young Christian heard, and looked up
with a strange darkness on his fair face.
* Mother,' he whispered, ' did you
hear ? '
* Hush!' cried the matron with uplifted
finger ; for her husband's eyes had opened
again, fixing themselves strangely upon
hers. They watched for a few moments,
then with a low cry, the man started up
and tried to spring out of bed.
* Father ! father ! ' cried Mistress Chris-
tianson, rising and pushing him back.
* What ails you, father ? Christian, come
— help to hold him down.'
The lad sprang up, and putting his
58 GOD AND THE MAN.
Strong arms gently round his father, tried
to soothe him ; for It was clear that his
wits were wandering.
* Who's that ? My son Christian ? '
• * Yes, father.'
* Get me my hat and staff, lad. I be
going out'
' Not to-night, father.'
^ Ay, to-night. Tell thy mother not to
sit up, for I shall be late.'
' Speak to him, mother ! '
* Father, don't you know me ? ' cried
his wife.
*Ay, ay, dame, I know thee well
enough, but I cannot stay talking. I be
going out.'
* Where are you going ? '
' Down to the Willows. I must see
Dick Orchardson, and tell him my mind.'
The listeners looked at one another
aghast. The very mention of the name
THE YEARS ROLLBACK : A DEATH-BED. 59
of an Orchardson sounded strange on
those lips, but to hear one of the hated
brood named so gHbly, as a being with
whom it was possible under any circum-
stances to have human intercourse, was
positively startling.
* God help him ! ' cried his wife with a
cold shiver.
Exhausted by his efforts to rise, the
farmer sank back upon his pillow. His
breathing was now very difficult, and his
face was convulsed as if with acute pain.
They moistened his lips with brandy, and
chafed his trembling hands.
* Father ! ' cried Christian, trembling ;
and Kate, standing close 'to him, echoed
his tender cry.
The farmer opened his eyes again, and
looked round.
* Who's there? Is that my boy
Christian ? '
6o GOD AND THE MAN.
' Yes, father/
* Come closer, lad, and take my hand.
Where's thy mother ? '
* Here, father,' said Mistress Chrlstlan-
son. * Oh, Christian, thy father's dying ! '
* No, no, mother,' cried the boy.
* Tell Dick Orchardson '
So far the farmer spoke, then paused
again. Again that hated name.
There was a long pause. The farmer
lay with eyes wide open, looking upward,
and muttering to himself. They could
make nothing now of his words, and a
dreadful awe was upon them, for the
shadow of the coming angel was already
upon his face. Kate Christlanson cast
herself down by the bedside, hiding her
face and sobbing wildly. The mother
stood gaunt and pale, her dim eyes on the
man who had been her loving companion
so many long years. The lad, clutching
THE YEARS ROLLBACK : A DEATH-BED. 6i
his father's chilly hand, was trembling like
a leaf.
So they waited, and it seemed, in that
solemn moment, that the chamber grew
dark. Oh that dreadful silence of the
chamber of death ! The poet speaks of
* darkness visible ;' tJiis is silence heard —
a silence ominous and strange, in which
the very beating of the heart is audible,
and we feel the stirring motion of the
unconscious life within.
They listened and waited on. At last
a few faint words were audible.
* Down by the four-acre mere. Is that
Dick Orchardson ? Tell him. . . Get me
a light, lad, I cannot see the letters, I
cannot read. . . Ask thy mother, forgive,
forgive . . .'
One last faint cry, and the voice was
for ever still. Of what was a living face
62 GOD AND THE MAN.
but a few minutes before, only a marble
mask remained. All knelt and prayed,
for the shadow which follows all men was
in the room.
63
CHAPTER III.
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM.
When Robert Christlanson was dead and
buried, there came at last the revelations
that had long been predicted. First of all,
it was discovered in a general way that he
was far more heavily in debt than any one
had guessed ; that, indeed, his affairs were
a ravelled skein which it w^ould take all
the ingenuity of the law or all Its cruelty
to disentangle. Then, when the various
threads of obligation were separated from
each other, and the widow and her children
thought that the coast was clear, came a
letter, like a thunderbolt, announcing that
the freehold of the greater part of the
64 GOD AND THE MAN,
farm lands was under a mortgage, that the
interest was long in arrear, and that, to
crown all, the holder of the fatal mortgage
was their hereditary enemy, Richard
Orchardson of the Willows.
At first it was too horrible for belief.
The very thought was an outrage on the
beloved dead. The widow sat with stern
sceptical face, while the boy Christian was
loud in his expression of indignation. But
confirmation quickly came. It was made
only too clear that the deceased farmer, in
the extremity of his distress, had accepted
assistance from the enemy of his father
and his father's father, and had given as
substantial security the mortgage upon the
choicest of the farm lands.
Bitterer even than death itself came
the humiliating discovery ; bitterer, because
for the moment it killed all reverence and
respect for the poor dead, and showed him
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 65
as a man yielding, forgetful, and barren of
pride. Better to have starved, thought
the widow, than have sought or taken
succour from that quarter. Alas ! she
little knew how long and terrible had been
the farmer's struggle before he did yield,
how cruel the pang had been, and how
the pain of the secret had preyed upon
the poor man's heart, until it broke in
shame.
When all was thought that could be
thought, the mother and son spoke out
by the fireside, while Kate looked sadly
on.
* 'Twas a trap for thy poor father,' said
the widow, ' be sure of that. Dick
Orchardson set it many a long year, and
at last thy father, poor man, was caught.
Ah, if he had only come home to me
and told me of his trouble ! This comes
of having secrets out-o'-doors.'
VOL. I. F
66 GOD AND THE MAN.
* What shall we do, mother ? ' asked
Christian. ' Can we pay the money ? *
* Nay, my boy.'
* And Lawyer Jeffries hath given
notice that we must pay up or yield the
land.'
' One or other, Christian.'
The lad clenched his hands and
uttered a fierce cry.
* They shan't take the land away from
thee, mother. Let them try it ! I'll go
down to the Willows, and make old Dick
Orchardson own it was all a cheat, and if
he denieth it '
The boy paused, livid with hate and
rage. As he did so, his sister Kate, who
had been looking on in terror, interposed
tearfully.
* Nay, who knows,' she said, * but the
squire is more kindly than folk say ?
Why did he lend our father the money,
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 67
and help him out of his trouble, if he
hated him so much ? '
' Hear her, mother ! ' cried Christian,
' hear the foolish wench ! And yet she
hath heard the preacher say that figs grow
not on thistles, and roses spring not from
thorns. An Orchardson kindly ! Mother,
do you hear ? '
* Kate is a girl,' returned the widow,
grimly, * she cannot understand. It began
long since.*
* What began, mother ? ' asked Kate.
' The trouble between our houses. If
there had ne'er been any Orchardsons, we
should be rich folk now. They robbed
thy father's father, a hundred years ago.'
' But, mother '
* 'Tis something in the blood,' cried
the widow. ' A fox is a fox, and a kestrel
a kestrel, and an Orchardson is an
Orchardson, till the world doth end.
F 2
68 GOD AND THE MAN.
The wicked breed ! If God would blot
it out.'
' Amen, mother/ cried Christian ; and
Kate, knowing their temper, did not dare
to say another word.
So it remained in their minds as a
settled thing that Robert Christianson
had, by some kind of devilish malignity,
been beguiled into taking help of the
Orchardsons, whose sole desire had been
to crush the hapless family, and perchance
close the mortgage. They waited a little
time in great dread and anger ; but no
more word came from the lawyers, and
their whole lives, were poisoned by the
suspense.
That portion of the freehold embraced
in the mortgage included the best and
richest part of the farm lands, leaving
untouched only some ninety acres and the
old farm-house, which latter had fallen
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 69
into great dilapidation, and stood, quite
solitary, over against the sandhills, with
its face from the sea, which formed a broad
estuary two miles away. Inland before it
stretched the farm fields, in a great hollow
which had once been a fen, and still bore
that name, but sloping gradually to rich
pastures and clumps of cheerful wood.
Over these pastures and woods peeped
the village spire — the glistening of which,
in all kinds of weather, was a cheerful and
comfortable sight to the inmates of the
farm.
The very solitude of the situation gave
to the owners of the Fen Farm a feeline
of possession and mastery. Standing at
his own door, a Christianson was monarch
of all he surveyed — of the broad and com-
paratively barren acres of the old fen ; of
the narrow osier-fringed stream which
wound through these acres and then,
70 GOD AND THE MAN.
curving suddenly, ran In among the sand-
hills towards the sea ; of the rich slopes
beyond, where crops waved green and
yellow, or frosty stubble glittered, through
the various seasons of the year. There
was only the spire to remind him of the
world of men beyond, of the red-tiled
village hidden from his sight, and of the
heaven above. Then the sandhills be-
hind the house were his ; and these,
though comparatively worthless and only
affording combes of arid pasture for cattle
here and there, were large In extent, and
gave a lordly sense of territorial sway.
And among the sandhills was the rabbit
warren, let to a cousin of the family, on
profitable terms.
With the ancient freehold of the Fen
Farm went, by right immemorial, the
privilege of coursing and shooting. Every
boy Christianson might run a hound, or
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 71
handle a gun, on his own acres. Not only
did rabbits swarm In the sandhills, but the
sands were the resort, at certain seasons,
of the hare, which would seek deserted
rabbit-burrows and lie there till discovered
perdu, and hunted out, by man or dog.
Small wonder, then, if the Christian-
sons loved the place, and clung to every
inch of the soil. Even the house, though
a rambling tenement and scarcely weather-
proof, with cheerless rooms and rat-haunted
wainscots, was very dear to them for the
sake of the generations which had lived
and died within. In summer time, w^ith
its red front covered with creepers and
wild roses, its dove-cot on the red-tiled
roof, and the white doves wheeling and
settling in the sunlight, it looked quite
pretty and bright. There was an ancient
orchard, too, with broken-down walls, and
trees so old and gnarled they yielded
72 GOD AND THE MAN.
little fruit, and grass as thick and deep as
the grass that grows on graves.
But if the cruel debt of the mortgage
was not paid, what remained ? Only the
old house, and the sand pasturages, and
the arid acres of the old fen ; only, in other
words, a barren stretch of soil, not to be
farmed with profit by any but a man of
means. The pasturages and combes of
the upland slope, which ever filled the eye
with a certain sense of prosperity — the
woods where the nightingale sang in sum-
mer and the woodcock was flushed in the
frost — the rich fields which grew the best
grain — all these would surely go. It was
an ugly thought. To stand at the farm
door, and know that possession ceased at
the stream, and that the cattle grazing on
the slopes beyond belonged to another,
would be almost too much to bear.
A few days after mother and son had
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 7^
discussed that cruel business of the mort-
gage, and come to the conclusion that
devilry had been at work, young Christian
was rambling among the sandhills with
his greyhound Luke — an English dog,
with a cross of the coarser Irish breed.
Not far from the farm, he came upon
the track of a hare, printed with filigree
delicacy in the sand. The marks were
confused and mingled, crossing and re-
crossing one another, for poor Puss had
been obviously 'running races in the
mirth ' through the morning dew, but at
last the lad hit upon the true trail. It led
him a good mile between the sandhills.
On the top of each sandhill or mound
grew thick coarse cotton grass and grassy
weeds, and whenever the track led thither
he set the dog's nose to work. Presently,
reachino^ the summit of one of the highest
of these sandhills, he came in sic^ht of the
74 GOD AND THE MAN.
long flat Stretch of black sand and mud
fringed by the waters of the sea.
He stood for a time and gazed. The
sea was quite calm, in the grey silver light
of a still November day, with quiet clouds
piled upon the horizon like a range of hills.
A lobster-boat, with flapping brown sails,
was crawling along by means of sweeps
towards the distant fishing beds. On one
spot of the sands, close to the sea, was
a white swarm of gulls, sitting perfectly
moveless, save when now and then a
solitary bird would rise with sleepy waft
of wing, fly a few yards, and settle again.
All was very still, but from a sea-creek not
far distant he could hear from time to time
the cry of the curlew.
While he stood, he saw sailing towards
him, slowly, methodically, hovering always
at the same distance from the earth, a
large raven, followed at a distance of
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 75
about fifty yards by another bird, the
female. They came slowly, for each In
turn, hovering over each sandhill, on the
grassy summit of which something edible
might hide, searched the grass for prey.
From time to time the foremost bird
uttered a thoughtful croak or chuckle,
which the hindmost bird echoed after an
interval. Christian knew the two birds
well. Once, indeed, he had shot at the
male bird at very short range, eliciting
no other result than a defiant croak and a
few falling feathers. Since then, he had
let the birds alone. They too had a free-
hold of the place, and had used it for a
hunting-ground years before he was born.
He watched the birds carelessly, till
they passed in succession over his head,
greeting him with a croak of sublime in-
difference, and then, poised slanted in the
air, glided more rapidly away. Turning
76 GOD AND THE MAN,
his eyes to the sea, he saw that the swarm
of gulls had risen and were hovering in
the air, their cries, made faint by distance,
reaching him where he stood.
Riding along the sands, at a trot, was
a horseman, whom, in the distance, he did
not recognise.
Idle, and tired of hunting the hare, he
sat down and watched the rider till he dis-
appeared behind the sandhills, and the
flock of gulls settled again on the fringe
of the sea. Then, after a little time,
Christian rose and walked down the side
of the sandhill. In the smooth hollows
between the mounds, it was impossible to
see or be seen for many yards away ; and
presently, as he turned round a sandy
corner, he came full in view of a gentle-
man on horseback — doubtless the same he
had seen approaching by the side of the
sea.
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 77
A man of about forty years of age,
dressed in velvet riding-coat, breeches,
hi eh boots, and low-crowned beaver hat.
He was portly, but somewhat unhealthy-
looking, his skin being deeply marked
with the small-pox, his eyes being some-
what shrunken and inflamed, and his
hair and short-cropt whiskers of deep
black.
He was not alone. By his side, upon
a small Welsh pony, rode a boy of about
twelve years of age, evidently his son, for
he had his father's eyes and complexion
without their disfigurements. At a first
glance, he struck one as a disagreeable
boy, with a supercilious expression, and a
peculiar look of lying-in-wait. As he was
riding, he did not exhibit his chief physical
deformity. Though scarcely a cripple, he
was lame. One limb had never grown
rightly, and though he could walk toler-
78 GOD AND THE MAN.
ably and comfortably, he could do so with
neither ease nor grace.
At sight of these two figures, Christian
turned red as crimson, for he knew them
well. The gentleman was his fathers
enemy. Squire Orchardson of the Wil-
lows ; the boy was Richard Orchardson,
the squire's only son.
To his surprise, the squire rode right
up to him along the sands, and then drew
rein.
*You are young Christianson of the
Fen ? ' he asked In a sharp authoritative
voice.
Christian stood scowling, but made no
answer.
* Have you no tongue, sirrah ? I was
just coming to see your mother.'
Christian started as If stung, and went
from red to pale. Meanwhile his grey-
hound, seized by a fit of excitement, began
■SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 79
to bark furiously at the heels of the boy's
pony, which pranced and plunged, causing
its rider to utter a timid cry.
' Call up your dog ! ' cried the squire.
' See you not 'tis frightening m}^ son's pony ? '
Christian turned towards the dosf and
called It to him, with such a scowling
sneer upon his face as was Irritating be-
yond measure.
' Come, Luke,* he said, and turned
away.
' Stay ! ' cried Mr. Orchardson, in-
voluntarily raising his rldlng-whip. ' Is
your mother at home, boy ? '
No reply.
* A Chrlstlanson all over,^ muttered the
squire. * A cub of the old breed. Come,
Dick.'
So saying, he trotted off, with his son
following ; the latter, as he urged his pony
away, greeting Christian with a mocking
8o GOD AND THE MAN.
grimace. Christian clenched his fists,
while, with a shrill contemptuous laugh,
the boy disappeared.
His blood boiling with rage, Christian
stood for some minutes ; then, remember-
ing the squire's question, he began to
hasten homeward. Was it possible that
the squire meant to insult his mother by
darkening her door during her affliction.
If so, let him take care. He would at
least warn his mother.
Excited beyond measure, he ran among
the sandhills, till, emerging from them, he
came in full view of the farm.
He was too late.
The squire and his son were sitting on
horseback before the farm door ; the squire
was talking and gesticulating loudly, and
on the threshold, as if pointing them from
it, was Mistress Christianson, stern, and
pale as death.
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM. 8i
Christian strode up to the door and
joined the group, just in time to hear the
last few words of their conversation.
* I am sorry you are so bitter, dame,'
the squire was saying, ' God knoweth, I
have no wish to be hard upon you, and I
will gladly grant you grace/
*We want no grace from an Orchard-
son,' answered the dame ; ' I pray you, sir,
quit my door.'
* Yes, quit our door ! ' echoed Christian,
coming up at this moment.
* Like cub, like vixen,' muttered the
man to himself ; then, turning to his son,
who sat smiling upon his pony, he
added, * Come, Dick, we are not wanted
here.'
The boy laughed, and said something
in a whisper, which brought a dark smile to
his father's cheek. At the whisper and the
look. Christian felt sick with mingled hate
VOL. I. G
82 GOD AND THE MAN.
and rage ; and he made a movement with
clenched hands as If to advance upon the
pair, when his mother put her hand upon
his arm to command him back.
So the two Orchardsons, father and
son, rode slowly from the door, the boy
pausing a moment at the gate to give a
wicked laugh and sneer, before he cantered
away by his father's side.
* Mother, what did they want ? ' asked
Christian, trembling.
The dame did not reply ; she was too
busy with her own gloomy thoughts.
Turning back into the house, and entering
the dark wainscoted parlour, she took
down the old Bible from its niche, put on
her horn spectacles, and began to read,
as was invariably her custom when her
dark hour was upon her. Rocked upon the
dreary billows of her favourite 'Psalms,'
she felt with David the terror and the
SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM, 83
tumult of a wild unrest. In imagination,
at least, her enemies were now scattered
and smitten hip and thigh, and her soul
went up in gloomy thankfulness to
God.
c 2
84 GOD AND THE MAN,
CHAPTER IV.
SOWING THE BLACK SEED.
Emerging from her trance of wrathful
prayer, Mistress Chris tianson gradually-
led her children to understand the real
facts of the interview between herself
and Richard Orchardson. The heredi-
tary enemy of her husband and her family
had, it appeared, made overtures of a
seemingly friendly nature, and had offered,
if the dame wished it, to withdraw all
pressure for the payment of the mortgage
money. He had no wish, he said, to be
too hard on a helpless woman, or to visit
the husband's folly and improvidence on
the head of his widow. At this first allu-
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 85
sion to the dead, she had been unable to
restrain her indignation, and in a few-
fierce words she had launched her life-
long hate at her enemy's head, demanding
that he should cease to darken her door.
'Why did he come to the house he
hath made desolate ? ' she now cried
angrily. ' To lay some other trap, sure,
for the folk he hath destroyed. I knew
when he rode up, with that fox-smile upon
his face, and the boy grinning by his side,
that he meant some hidden mischief; so
that, when he spoke of kindness, my soul
went sick.'
* And mine too,' said Christian, ^ when
I met them i' the sands.'
Days passed, and the Christiansons
heard no more of the Orchardsons. They
waited and waited, in hourly dread and ex-
pectation of the fatal missive which should
announce to them that the mortgage would
86 GOD AND THE MAN.
be closed, and the money due realised on
the land. But the missive did not come ;
instead of it, there was an ominous silence.
At last, however, some weeks after the
interview at the farm-door, came another
letter from Lawyer Jeffries, on behalf of
Richard Orchardson, requesting in formal
terms, but polite, the payment of the
moneys due. To this the dame replied
curtly, saying that payment was impos-
sible, and that, to make an end, the mort-
gagee was at liberty to take what course
he pleased. This brought over Lawyer
Jeffries in person — a little, hard, dry, but
good-natured man of business, who drove
down in his gig from the neighbouring
town, ten miles away.
He was closeted with the dame for
hours, and Christian, listening at the door,
could hear high words from his mother, and
soft persuasive periods from the visitor.
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. Sj
Lawyer Jeffries strongly advised a policy
of conciliation. His client, he avowed,
had no wish to press hard upon the
widow, though she was entirely in his
power, and he himself was sure that, If
she only asked respectfully for time and
consideration, both would be given. It
was throwing words away, however. The
good dame was obstinately resolved never
to ask any favour from the man who, she
devoutly believed, had planned her hus-
band's ruin.
The little lawyer rode away In despair ;
but being, as we have said, a good-natured
man, and kind-hearted withal, he carried
to the squire such a message as seemed
conciliatory enough, and Orchardson, who
had just then no mind for harsh measures,
instructed him to let the matter stand.
So weeks passed away, and though the
Chrlstiansons were still In constant antici-
88 GOD AND THE MAN.
pation of a notice of ejectment from the rich
Fen lands, nothing more was said or done.
The doubtful peace thus attained be-
tween the two houses might have lasted
long but for one of those events, trifling in
themselves but often fatal in their issues,
which so often complicate the relations of
human beings.
One day in December, Christian took
his gun, and, followed by his sister, strolled
out over the Fen lands. Their larder was
empty, and he was looking for a hare.
Though it was winter, the weather was
almost spring-like. The mist had lifted
like a night-cap from the fens, and from
the clear patches in the sky the sun sent
down revivifying rays, as if to inspire new
joy and bring fresh hope to the heart of
every man, now Christmas-tide was nigh.
It brought cheer at least to young Christian
Christianson, who, strolling along over the
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 89
fen, with his gun flung across his shoulder,
had probably never felt more magnanimous
in his life.
The mingled feelings of stern pride
and bitter hatred, which had been handed
down to him as the woeful Inheritance of
his house, and had taken their place only
too firmly In his heart, seemed to fade
temporarily before the beneficent light of
the sky. The words which his dying father
had uttered came back to him, and re-
sounded again and again In his ears like a
wail of admonishment and pain. ' Forgive
— forgive ! ' — Yes, those had been the last
words on the lips of the poor worn-out
man, and no one had heard them but the
family whose souls, warped with hatred,
sick with pain, were only too ready to
forget that dying prayer. Christian, at any
rate, had not quite forgiven even his
father ; and as for the Orchardsons, he had
90 GOD AND THE MAN.
met hate with hate, scorn with scorn ; and
while standing up, as he thought, In manly
defence of his house, he had plunged Into
the blackest gloom of a mad Inferno. But
to-day, boy though he was, he asked him-
self why should these things be ? why not
bury the past, as generations of men are
burled, and with the help of God look
forward to bright and happy - days to
come ?
Forgive ? nay, he did not feel even
yet that he could forgive — that he pos-
sessed sufficient streno^th to reach forth
his hand In friendship to human beings
who had so often and so cruelly stung
him and his. Forgiveness such as that
would be unnatural, would demand super-
human strength and kindliness.
The utmost he could do was what he
then resolved to do : bury the Orchard-
sons deep down amid the ruins of the
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 91
sad and bitter past ; and with all memory
of their existence blotted from his soul,
try to live a new life.
He paused, and turned to his sister
Kate, who was walking- quietly beside
him.
* Kate,' he cried, * think you, when our
father lay a-dying, and said, '' Forgive —
forgive," he meant that devil's brood up at
the Hall ? '
'Nay, I know not,' answered Kate,
timidly, for she feared the theme.
* I think rather he meant mother to
forgive him for ever having taken aid from
the enemies of our house. His conscience
pricked him sore for that misdeed.'
' Poor father ! '
' But he was to blame. Small wonder
his conscience stung him.'
'Alas!'
* How now, Kate?'
92 GOD AND THE MAN.
* Perchance Squire Orchardson* meant
kindly — perchance he will be kindly still —
nay, did he not say as much ? It is mad
to cross him ; will you not forget old
troubles, and give the Orchardsons your
hand, and speak to mother, and then —
and then '
She paused trembling, for Christians
face was dark with passion.
Poor Kate was a gentle girl, with
more of her father's softness than her
mother's determination.
She was utterly incapable of feeling a
life-long hatred for the Orchardsons, not
perhaps because she was usually more
tender-hearted than her brother, but be-
cause her memory was imperfect and her
feelings evanescent. She would forget a
benefit as easily as an injury, while her
brother was capable of keenly remember-
ing both. And he did remember them as
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 93
he listened to his sister's words — he re-
membered also the feelings of gladness and
hope which had filled his soul only a few
minutes before. He remembered also his
father s dying words, and he struggled to
say ' I will forgive/ but his lips would not
utter the words.
* Kate,' he said, ' I can never forgive,
but I'll try, if I can, to forget ! '
*Nay, Christian, say not so,' pleaded
Kate, quietly. *What doth the Bible
say.^ — why, that we should forgive our
enemies, ay, seventy times seven ! '
She paused, but her brother did not
reply. His eyes were fixed with gloomy
distrust upon an object close at hand.
She turned, and beheld standing only a
few paces off young Richard Orchardson
of the Willows.
He had evidently heard every word of
the conversation, for on his pak; pinched
94
GOD AND THE MAN.
face there was a quiet sneer. If looks of
bitterness and hatred could kill, young
Christian had at that moment lain dead at
his feet. Kate, seeing with terribly sink-
ing heart the dangerous looks on the faces
of the two lads, endeavoured to become
peacemaker. She laid her trembling hand
on her brother's arm.
' Come, Christian,' she said, eagerly,
* we'll get home.*
The youth, almost frightened at him-
self, was yielding to her influence, and
would have Avalked silently away, but
young Orchardson stopped them.
' Give me that gun,' he said, ' or you
shall answer for carrying it on my father's
land ! '
Christian flushed up angrily. A hot
reply came to his lips, but with an effort
he suppressed it.
' Nay, not so fast, young sir,' he said.
SOWIXG THE BLACK SEED. 95
' The Fen Farm belongs to the Christian-
sons to-day, If It goeth to the Orchardsons
to-morrow. 'TIs you that are a-trespass-
ing, not I ; I be on our own land ! '
' You He/ returned the other ; * the
land Is ours — my father paid for It to
keep you folks from starving. 'TIs like
a Chrlstlanson to hate the hand that fed
him ! '
Christian again controlled himself with
a mighty effort.
*Nay, I'll not talk with thee/ he
muttered. ' Come, Kate.'
But the boy Interposed.
' You shall not go ! ' he cried. ' Give
me that gun, or I will take it from
you.'
Christian smiled grimly, amused to see
the puny thing stand before him, pale and
tremulous with passion, to hear him talk
of using force to one who could have bent
96 GOD AND THE MAN.
him like a reed at one touch of a strong
hand.
Kate turned to young Richard with
outstretched hands.
* Do not provoke my brother. He is
strong, and you are so weak ; I know he
would not wish to hurt you, but you say
such wicked things.'
' My father is too soft/ cried the boy
with a sneer. ' Had I my will, I would rid
the fields of such vermin.' Then he cried
more angrily, ' Why did you set your cur
at my pony's heels yesterday ? It is a
foul brute, and Aaron Hart saith it has
been seen poaching on our land. Yes,
had I my will, I would serve the master
like his dog !
Christian was silent ; for at this
moment his attention was drawn from the
speaker by an incident more terrible to
him than any that had yet happened In his
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 97
life. The dog Luke, which had been
gambolling freely all the morning about
the Fen, now crawled slowly up to its
master's feet. Every muscle In its poor
body was contracted with intense pain, its
eyes, wild and bloodshot, seemed to be
starting from their sockets, its mouth was
covered with foam, and with low piteous
moans it tried to lick and touch its master.
With a sharp cry Christian fell on his
knees beside the poor agonised creature,
while Kate, trembling with fear, pity, and
anguish, burst into passionate tears. The
dog, after experiencing a minute or two of
intense agony, seemed suddenly to become
bereft of its senses, and with one or two
wild cries, and a terrible gnashing of teeth,
fell back upon the fen land, dead.
A minute later, when Christian raised
his head, he looked straight into the cruel
eyes of his enemy.
VOL. I. H
c)8 GOD AND THE MAN.
For the moment young Orchardson
seemed frightened ; his cheeks were
ghastly pale, and he tried to turn away.
* Devil ! ' cried Christian, gripping him.
' You have poisoned my dog.'
* 'Tis false ! ' cried Richard, with a
guilty shiver. ' I — I did not touch him.'
' There he lieth dead. To your knees
— confess it — ere I strangle you ! '
* Help ! ' shrieked the boy, writhing In
the other's powerful grasp ; and Kate,
tempted beyond measure, cried * Help ! '
too. Beside himself with rage, Christian
swung the boy round and flung him from
him with one wild push and blow. He
staggered, screaming, and then fell prone
upon the ground. There he lay as if sense-
less, while Christian, affrighted at his own
violence, stood paralysed, gazing down
upon him.
* Oh, you have killed him ! ' cried
\^
^^v-^ ^
* " Help ! " shrieked the boy, -writhing in the other's pmuerjid grasp. '
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 99
Kate, bending above him, and chafing his
hand.
As she spoke the boy Hfted his head,
and showed his forehead bloody where It
had struck upon a stone. With the blood
trickling down his face, he staggered to
his feet ; then, seeing the blood on his
hands, he began to cry piteously.
' Stop ! ' cried Christian, as he turned
to go. * Tell me you did not harm the
poor hound, and I will ask your pardon ! '
Young Orchardson made no reply,
but, sobbing still, cast one look at the
dead dog, and made a movement as If to
spurn it with his foot ; then, with a blood-
stained face, rushed rapidly up the hill
Kate, still sobbing, wrung her hands.
' We are undone, we are undone ! ' she
moaned. 'What will Squire Orchardson
say when he hears that you struck his
son ?*
H 2
loo GOD AND THE MAN.
But this time her brother did not heed
her, or scarcely seemed to hear. No
furious flame of ansfer now burnt in his
heart, but on his face there was a fixed
look of horrible pity and pain. In weary
sorrow he raised his eyes to the still
smiling sky.
* Forgive ! ' he murmured ; ' nay,
father, I can never forgive now. Since
there is a God above us, why doth He let
such things be ? '
He raised the poor stiffening body of
his dog, and carried it tenderly homewards
in his arms, choking down his tears as he
went.
As he passed the house door his
mother came out to question him, and he
told her what had passed. She went very
pale, but said little ; she did not even
chide her son for his violence.
Christian laid the poor hound tenderly
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. loi
in the porch, and then all went into the
house together.
An hour later, there came a great
rapping at the door. Anticipating evil,
they went and threw the door open, and
there stood Squire Orchardson, mounted
on his black horse, and shaking his heavy
whip at them all. He was livid with
passion, and the moment he saw Christian,
shrieked aloud,
* Where is he that struck my boy ?
Where is the coward that smote a poor
lame lad ? Come out, you dog ! come out !
that I may punish you as you deserve ! '
Christian was about to leap out and
face the speaker, when his mother, grim
as death, ordered him to keep back. Ac-
customed to obey her, he paused.
*My son did not strike your son,'
answered the dame coldly ; * he fell, and
so was hurt.*
102 GOD AND THE MAN.
*'Tis a He!' cried the squire. 'He
struck him ! My boy never lies, and he
hath told me all/
* Your son is the liar, sir,' said Chris-
tian, ' if he saith I struck him. I gave him
a push in anger, and he fell upon a stone.
But he poisoned my dog ! '
* And if he did, what is the life of your
wretched cur to a scratch upon my son ?
Your dog poached upon our preserves, and
had I seen it, I would have shot It with
my own hand. My boy did well. Had
he poisoned the whole of your wicked
brood he would have done better still.'
* You are a brave man,' returned the
widow, with a cold smile, ' to talk thus to
a lonely woman. Had my man been
living, he would have reckoned with the
father as his son did reckon with the son.'
* Enough, woman ! ' cried the squire,
madly. ' If there is law or justice in the
SOWING THE BLACK SEED. 103
land, you shall all moan for this. Beggars
that you are ! I will be even with you
now. No more mercy — no, no ! I'll
grind you down to dust ! '
* Begone, sir ! you darken our door.'
And without another word, she closed
the heavy door In his face. Listening
within, they heard him muttering and
cursing aloud, and striking on the door
with his whip ; then, with a loud threaten-
ing oath, he galloped away.
They had not to wait long for the Issue
of that sad dispute. The very next day
came the legal Intimation that the mort-
gage money was to be realised to the last
penny, and that If they could not pay up
both principal and Interest, they must
yield the well-loved land.
Thus the thunderbolt fell not quite
unexpectedly, and they looked at one
another with stupefied faces.
104 GOD AND THE MAN.
Kate was the first to speak, and her
r
words were characteristic.
* Mother, mother ! do not let us be un-
done. Let me go to Mr. Richard. Let
me tell him that we beg his pardon, let me
sue for pity. I know he will listen to me,
if I plead humbly enough.'
* Silence ! ' cried Christian. ' How dare
you think of it ? Your father's blood flows
between you, and '
He paused, for Kate was kneeling on
the floor and sobbing, and the dame was
standing over her like a ghost, pointing at
her with a lean forefinger, and trembling
as a leaf.
* Christian ! ' cried the girl. * Speak
for me ! Mother ! '
Christian put his hand upon his
mother's arm. For a moment the dame
did not speak ; her lips moved, but she
was too troubled to find words. It was
SOWING THE BLACK SEED, 105
terrible to see her white stony face, with
its wrathful eyes. At last she gasped,
pointing to the great Bible w^hich stood
open upon the sideboard,
' Give me the Book ! '
Christian placed it upon the table near
her.
Stooping, she seized Kate's cold hand
and placed it among the leaves. Poor
Kate shivered and moaned, and tried to
draw her hand away, as if she feared the
touch might do her harm.
' Now, swear ! ' said the mother.
Kate only sobbed aloud.
' Swear on the Book, that you will
never again willingly exchange words with
any of that name or that blood ; swear that
in sickness and in health, as long as life
lasts, you will never take the hand of an
Orchardson or knowingly worship under
the same roof with any of that blood or
io6 GOD AND THE MAN.
name ; swear that your prayers shall rise
nightly against them, wherever you may
be.*
Kate seemed overcome with terror.
' I promise, mother — do not ask me to
swear ! '
* Swear on the Book ! '
Thus urged, Kate Chris tianson took
the oath.
The dame turned suddenly to her son.
* You shall swear too ! ' she said
sharply.
The boy swore right eagerly. Then
he stooped and caught his sister In his
arms, just as she was swooning away.
I07
CHAPTER V.
ENTER PRISCILLA.
So it came to pass, through the issue of
ill-blood between mere children, and be
tween men and women who were as chil-
dren in their foolish passions, that the
breach between the two houses widened
into a gulf as deep as hell. On the one
side of this gulf of hate and darkness, sat
the Orchardsons, rich, jorosperous, in the
full sunshine of fat meadow and plenteous
vineyard. On the other side crouched the
Christiansons, a beggared family, bitter at
heart, ever waiting for the evil hour which
might bring vengeance. The mortgage
was closed. The fat Fen lands passed
io8 GOD AND THE MAN.
into the hands of their hereditary foes ;
and all remaining to them now were the
old house, fast falling into decay, and the
barren hills and burrows of sea-lying sand.
Well, there are compensations even in
the deepest shadows of trouble. It was
something at least to have the old house,
and not to be turned out by the bailiffs,
like conies by the ferret, into the open
cold ; something more, to possess the an-
cestral sandhills, barren and desolate as
they were. At a pinch, they could at
least exist, though no human soul but
themselves knew how sore at times the
pinch became.
Fortunately, they had never been free
livers, and even in their days of prosperity
had known little but homely fare. With
keen thrift, now, they contrived to pre-
serve a decent appearance before the
world.
ENTER PRISCILLA. 109
Widow and daughter kept their
needles busy, and their spinning-wheels
as well ; so that Christian, who had a
rough boy's knack of destroying apparel,
never went otherwise than neatly clad.
And the boy, who was the idol of both,
had his luxuries too. Many a time the
two lonely women went without common
necessaries themselves in order that the
head and hope of the house might have
gentlefolk's fare.
In this sad season of poverty and
social disgrace, it is hard to say what
would have become of young Christian
Christianson if he had not relieved his
angry moods by that free physical exer-
cise of which he had ever been so fond.
The women had their Bible, their constant
means of communication with some strange
far-off Divine sympathy ; his, on the con-
trary, was not a religious nature, and in
no GOD AND THE MAN.
more respects than one he beHed his
name.
For weeks and months the shame and
outrage of that cruel legal revenge dwelt
within him, poisoning every thought and
feeling, distorting every hope and dream.
At first, but for the piteous pleading of his
sister and the sad command of his mother,
he would certainly have gone off and
committed murder. For weeks after-
wards he was in the mood, had either
father or son crossed his path, to have shot
him dead, or to have sprung upon him and
tried to tear him limb from limb.
Fortunately, his mad rage was suffered
to consume itself, and to die away, without
receiving any fresh fuel from without.
So the boy went and came, somewhat
more dark and sullen than before, but to
all outward seeming, little changed.
Years passed on, and the bitterness of
ENTER PRISCILLA. in
seeing others In possession of the ancestral
land, which stretched rich and plenteous be-
fore the very door, had begun to wear away.
Poverty was so familiar that it no longer
seemed very unfriendly or quite unkind.
The w^Idow had accepted her cross pati-
ently, and by dint of strict parsimony, had
saved a trifle. At all events, affairs could
grow no worse, — unless the very roof fell
in upon their heads, a not altogether un-
likely contingency, taking Into considera-
tion the state of the farm-repairs.
It Is to be feared that, In one particu-
lar respect. Christian had suffered seve-
rely. His education had been unduly
neglected. It is doubtful, however, if
much more attention would have been
given to his training, even had the family
not fallen on evil days. In those times,
many a wealthy farmer was too Illiterate
even to write his own name, and book-
112 COD AND THE MAN.
learning was generally regarded as so
much vanity, not to be Indulged in by
sensible folk whose lives were occupied in
tilling the land and accumulating gold.
What he lacked in knowledge, Chris-
tian Christianson gained in manly strength
and beauty. At twenty years of age, he
might have sat to a painter for a youthful
Thor.
His short clustering ringlets, his firmly-
chiselled face with Its grave blue eyes and
splendid chin, his strong yet shapely neck,
his perfectly-moulded arms and limbs,
were all in keeping. Though of great
height, he had none of the unwieldiness of
giants. His only defect was a peculiar
stoop in the shoulders, a not unusual
characteristic, I have noticed, of brooding
and determined men.
For the rest, his disposition, it is to be
feared, was sullen and stern. He had
ENTER PRISCILLA. 113
Strong and stirring passions, as we have
seen, but they had been subdued to a
gloomy sense of wrong. Brave, honest,
incapable of meanness or treachery, he
yet conveyed in his manner a certain feel-
ing of dangerous repression. His bitter-
ness against the world had been fostered
by constant loneliness ; for the family had
now few friends.
It was his twentieth birthday, and the
day, a clear June day of unusual bright-
ness, broke with warmth and splendour
over the sandhills and the sea. He had
risen early, and gone down to the sea for
a swim. Emerging from the water, light
and glistening as a naked god, and happy
for the time in the glowing consciousness
of life, he cast on his clothes, and turning
inland, he threw himself on one of the hot
sandhills, to bask in the sun.
All was perfectly still — the clear heaven,
I
114 ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ MAN,
the calm throbbing ocean, the long flat
sands still wet from the receding tide :
not a sound broke the summer silence.
All at once, however, the stillness was
broken by the sound of a voice, sing-
ing.
So suddenly did It rise, and so near at
hand, that he was quite startled. Half-
rising he listened. Yes, there could be no
doubt whatever; some one was singing
close by.
A clear silvery voice, like that of a
woman. Stranger still, the words seemed
merry and foreign, belonging to some
language he did not understand. It
seemed like witchcraft, and Christian, who
was not without his superstitions, felt a
trembling thrill run through his frame.
This lasted only for a minute ; then, rising
to his feet, he moved over the sandhills in
the direction of the voice.
ENTER PRISCILLA. 115
A few quick strides brought him
within siofht of the sino[-er.
<z> o
Down beneath him, in a green space
between the sandhills, sprinkled with
canna-grass and yellow flowers, a young
girl was walking, singing clearly to herself
as she moved and sang in the summer sun-
shine.
She was dressed in black, without one
trace of any ornament. Even her bonnet
was black, which she had taken off and
was swinging by the strings. The con-
trast between her gloomy dress and her
bright face set in golden hair was suffi-
ciently startling ; but equally as great was
the contrast between that dress and the
clear gay trill of her girlish voice.
Christian stood looking on in wonder.
He was used to country maidens, but this
apparition seemed something quite differ-
ent. She wore dainty boots and gauntlet
I 2
il6 god and the man.
gloves, and her attire, though so sombre
in colour, was of fine material and elegant
in form.
As he gazed she ceased to sing, and
stooping down gathered one or two of the
yellow flowers ; these she fastened to her
bosom, and as she did so, gave a silvery-
laugh.
Christian was fascinated. He had
never seen a human being so completely
at ease with herself and with the world.
In her complete contentedness with her
own company and thoughts, she realised
Wordsworth's lines : —
Solitude to her
Is sweet society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary song.
He looked on in wonder.
Presently the girl resumed her walk,
and her voice rose again. This time the
tune was even gayer, though the words
ENTER PRISCILLA. 117
were still foreign and strange. Then,
finishing a verse, she laughed again, out
of sheer delight of heart.
It seemed hardly fair and honest to
play the spy in that fashion, without letting
the , young lady know that she was not
unobserved ; so Christian, though he felt
bashful for the first time in his life, gave a
cough to attract her attention.
She looked up at once, and to his
astonishment, smiled and beckoned.
Scarcely knowing what he did, he
walked down towards her, and soon
encountered the full fire of a pair of
blue eyes, directed right into his own.
Then came a point-blank question.
' How long have you been listening, If
you please ? '
Christian stammered, blushed, and
looked confused. Before he could find an
answer, came another question.
ii8 GOD AND THE MAN,
' Do you belong to this place ? '
* Yes,' he said.
* Then perhaps you can help me. I
have lost my way.'
* Lost your way,' said the yOung man,
looking puzzled. * Why '
He was about to ask the question
which she at once, without hearing him,
answered offhand.
* I was wandering along the sea-shore,
and I turned off among the sandhills ; and
each Is so like the other that I got lost
amonof them.'
* You did not seem to mind.'
* Nay, but I was singing to keep my
courage up. You heard me ? '
' Yes.'
* Did you think I was singing a
hymn ? '
Christian stared, and involuntarily
shook his head.
ENTER PRISCILLA. 119
' Since it was in French, perchance you
could not tell,' she added, smiling, seeing
the shadow of a smile on Christian's face.
'Well, perchance it was not a hymn
at all, but a chanson I learned over in
France.'
There was something so frank and
artless in the girl's manner, something so
utterly different from the self-conscious
timidity and blushing stupidity of country
maidens, that Christian was perfectly be-
wildered. To be addressed so fearlessly
and carelessly by a complete stranger
was in itself a novelty. He felt for the
time like an awkward lout, tackled for
the first time by a fairy of the wood or
sea.
' Do you — live here '^. Nay, in the
neighbourhood, I mean ? '
' I am staying with my father, over in
Brightlinghead.*
I20 GOD AND THE MAN.
Brightlinghead was a small fishing
village, situated some miles away, upon
the sea-shore. .
* And you ? ' she asked.
* I live at the Fen Farm, in yonder.'
* What is your name ? '
* Christian Christianson.'
She looked at him from top to toe,
with the frank yet modest look that was
peculiar to her.
' You must be a good Christian, in
sooth, if you are like your name.'
Christian coloured up, and said awk-
wardly,
* What is your father ? Not of these
parts ? '
^ Nay,' she replied, * he is a stranger.
He hath come down hither to preach
God's Word.'
Christian wondered again ; to his
simple sense, there seemed something
ENTER PRISCILLA. 121
most Inconsistent between gospel-preach-
ing and a vision so bright and sweet.
* Your father Is a parson, then ? '
The girl shook her head.
' Nay, he is not in holy orders, though
he hath had a call. Since he heard good
Mr. Wesley preach, the Spirit hath moved
him to discourse for poor folks' conversion.'
Another change. She spoke now with
a quite different intonation, recalling the
prim phrases of the dissenting chapel.
Her eyelids drooped demurely, and the
edges of her pretty mouth were just
turned down — like a roseleaf folding.
While speaking, they had moved on
quietly towards an opening In the sand-
hills, and they were now within view of
the open sea sands.
' I shall know my way now,' she said,
quietly. ' Good day, friend.'
But Christian, with the fascination of
122 GOD AND THE MAN,
her presence strong upon him, was not to
be parted with so easily. He kept by her
side, saying :
* If you will suffer me, I can show you
a short cut back to your village. 'TIs but
going round yonder by the skirts of .the
water-meadow, Instead of winding along
the curves of the sea/
' Point me the path, prithee, and I will
take it/
'Nay, I will go with you a piece of the
way.'
The girl smiled, and looked at him
again with her bright eyes.
'A good Christian, as I said! Come,
then, good Christian ! '
And she tript along with happy un-
concern, he following.
As they went, he had a better oppor-
tunity of observing her, and the more he
looked, the more his wonder grew. She
ENTER PRISCILLA. 123
could not have been more than seventeen
or eighteen, and yet her manner had the
perfect repose of a mature woman. Her
complexion was very pale, yet clear, her
eyes matchlessly bright, her eyebrows
dark, yet her hair the lightest of gold. He
noted, too, that she had tiny hands and feet.
Her figure was slight, yet very graceful,
and she walked with a light elastic tread.
By this time she had put on her bent
bonnet, a structure of the then fashionable
coal-scuttle shape, yet wondrously becom-
ing to a plump and pretty face.
Christian had seen few women save
his own mother and sister, and such rustic
beauties as he knew were of the red-
cheeked, not to say red-elbowed, order.
Of ladies proper he knew little or nothing.
There was the vicar's wife, who might
have once been comely, but was now
sedately grim ; and her daughters — young
124 GOD AND THE MAN.
ladles with shrill voices and high waists.
Lawyer Jeffries' daughter was a bold-
looking, handsome girl, and so were many
of the farmers' daughters round about.
But the one invariable characteristic of all
these persons, plain or fair, was that they
had two distinct manners — the * stand off'
manner and the * come on ' manner — when-
ever they were in company with a person
of the other sex. In one word, they were
either flirts or prudes : in either case ridicu-
lously conscious of the sexual distinction.
Now, the curious charm about this
pretty stranger w^as her complete uncon-
sciousness of anything of the sort.
She spoke to Christian as frankly as
one young man might talk to another,
with perfect modesty, perfect unconscious-
ness, and perfect ease. She took him at
once, as it were. Into her confidence, as a
human being, and yet, all the time, she
ENTER PRISCILLA. 125
preserved a certain pretty virginal dignity,
which warned him that it would be a
dano[-erous thlnof to encroach.
So he followed her as a do:^ mlcrht
follow its mistress, happy, yet conscious
of the command of a superior spirit.
They passed along the sea-shore, along
the border of the water-meadow, and then,
crossing a field, found themselves In a
dusty country road deeply furrowed with
old cart-ruts, yet thickly sprinkled with
growing grass. The hedges were high,
and the grass all under them was thickly
sprinkled with speedwells and dog-violets.
The thick hedge shut out the distant sea,
and it seemed like walking in a wood.
Presently the maiden paused.
* You must not come any further — I
am quite right now.'
' 'Tis but a short step further,' returned
Christian, 'and I will not leave you yet.
126 GOD AND THE MAN.
Perchance before I go/ he said, ^you will
tell me your name.'
* Did I not tell you, friend ? It is
Priscllla.'
* Mistress Priscllla '
* Priscllla Sefton, at your service/ she
cried, smiling and dropping a little curtsey;
' and now, since you have proved yourself
good Samaritan as well as good Christian,
I prithee come no further/
The young man tingled and blushed
each time she played upon his name.
* I have naught to occupy me, and I
am going your way,' he replied.
* Naught to occupy you ? ' she cried,
with a smile. ' Know you not the rhyme,
" Satan doth find some mischief still, for
idle hands to do "^? But there, since you
are so willing, come along.'
So they went side by side. Presently
they came to a little bridge, arched like a
ENTER PRISCILLA. 127
maiden's foot, spanning a bright brook,
that went leaping down to the sea.
Priscilla paused, and leant over, looking
at the sparkling water. Just below the
bridge, it made a pool, fringed deep with
sedge and reeds, and in among the reeds
white water-lilies were just unfolding, each
with a pinch of gold in Its heart, and on
the banks hung wild rose-bushes, with pink
flowers fluttering open to see their Images
in the water beneath. Just then, a bright
little bird, in gorgeous summer clothing of
red, blue, and gold, darted through the
arch of the bridge, paused as If to alight
on an outreaching twig of the rose-bushes,
and then, seeing Priscilla, flew on rapidly
with a sharp cry, keeping very close to the
water, and following with rapid precision
every w^inding of the brook.
* What a beautiful bird ! ' cried the eirl.
' Do you know Its name ? '
128 GOD AND THE MAN.
' 'Tis a kingfisher/
* And look — there Is another ! '
On a stone in the middle of the pool
was a little bird with a snow-white breast,
dip-dipping In rapid motion as It stood,
with its head cocked on one side, and its
sharp eye so intent on the water that It
did not see the human forms above it.
As Priscilla spoke, it quietly slipt into
the water and disappeared from sight.
' That Is a water-ouzel,' exclaimed
Christian.
The little bird re-emerged, stood on
the stone again dip-dipping, and then,
startled, flew off after the kingfisher, down
the stream.
* How nice to be a country lad,' said
Priscilla, * and to know all the pretty birds
and flowers. 'Tis almost my first visit to
the green fields. I have lived all my life
In smoky towns.'
ENTER PRISCILLA. 129
' London born, perchance ? ' queried
Christian.
* Yes ; but since I was twelve years
old, I have dwelt with my good Aunt
Dorcas in Liege. It was pleasant there,
but I love our England best.'
VOL. I. K
I30 GOD AND THE MAN.
CHAPTER VI.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
As they lingered there, leaning over the
keystone of the little bridge, they formed
a fine contrast ; he, so mightily and
grandly made, with his sunburnt cheeks
and air of Arcadian simplicity ; she, so
delicate and fairy-like, in her tight-fitting
dress of black, with her little gloved hands
and fairy feet. Down below them In the
shadows the gnats swarmed, and the min-
nows sparkled, and the trout leapt ; birds
were singing on every side ; In heaven,
there was full sunshine ; on earth, perfect
fruition of the summer tide. Delicious
was the birds' song, delicious the cool
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 131
trickling sound of the running brook.
Like a child delighted, Priscilla listened,
and her pure face reflected the joy of aD
the happy things around her.
Young Christian looked and gladdened.
He did not know it yet, for he was a boy,
but the divine hour had come : the hour
which does not come to all (for to some
men capable of infinite affection it never
comes at all), but which, when it does
come, means transfiguration. This deli-
cate being, bringing with her the perfume
and the beauty of some unknown world,
this dainty stranger, who talked with him
already as frankly as if he were an old
friend, held him spell-bound. Yet, strange
to say, he was not tongue-tied ; to his own
astonishment, he found himself catchine
the contagion of her frankness, and talk-
ing with a freedom unusual to him.
' This is Thornley Beck,' he said ;
K 2
132 GOD AND THE MAN.
*down yonder, a mile away, it runneth
into the sea. I have seen the white trout
trying to dimb it in autumn floods, but
they cannot pass the bridge, and there are
no pools, so they cannot stay. Down close
to the sands, there be silver mullet in hun-
dreds, and the fishermen take them in the
net.'
Christian spoke as a country lad, loving
sport better than sentiment. To him, the
fishing possibilities of the beach were of
infinitely more consequence than its natu-
ral beauties, for the artistic sense had
never been born within him.
* Had I my will,' said Priscilla, thought-
fully, ' none should snare the pretty fish.
'Tis a sin to slay what the good God
made.'
The lad stared, for such talk was to
him incomprehensible.
* God made the fish for food,' he an-
FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 133
swered, ' and the beasts, and the birds of
the air. Our Lord Himself did go a-fish-
ing once.'
* Nay, 'tvvas a miracle,' answered the
maiden, * and these things are hard to
understand. God meant it for a merry
world, but our sin hath transformed it.
Had you seen what I have seen, in the
wicked city, you would be sad.'
* What have you seen } '
* Human folk dwelling in places dark
and foul ; men and women pining away
for lack of the sweet air; little babes
starving at the breast ; and I have heard
cursing and gnashing of teeth, such as the
good pilgrim your namesake heard when
he lay him down in a den.*
' What took you into such evil places ? '
asked Christian in surprise.
* I went with my father, to save souls.'
^How?'
134 GOD AND THE MAN.
* By reading to them out of the Blessed
Book, and by telhng them of Him that
loved them and laid down His life for
their sakes. I have stood by and sung
sweet hymns to them, while they smiled
and died.'
The lad's wonder deepened. The
girls words were so sad and terrible,
and yet her face remained so bright and
simple. Here and there in her intonation
he seemed to catch the twanof of the
preacher, but the manner was so different,
so calm and innocently assured.
A sudden question occurred to him,
and he uttered it at once.
* You wear black, — you are in mourn-
ing perchance ? '
She shook her head.
* My mother died long ago, when I
was a babe ; but my father doth not think
light colours seemly, nor do any of our folk.'
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 135
' Your folk ? '
*We are of good INIaster Wesley's
flock, and he himself hath sent my father
hither/
Now Christian had heard of the great
preacher, as of one malignant in all re-
spects, disaffected to Church and State and
King ; and he had heard of his people, as
of people to be avoided and distrusted by
all good subjects. Nay, in his own dis-
trict there w^ere sprinkled a few infected
individuals, who were at war with the
parson and exiled from society in general.
Notably, there was one Elijah Marvel., a
shoemaker of grim and forbidding aspect,
who would bandy words with the vicar
himself, and had in consequence lost all
custom, fallen on evil days, and alas ! taken
to strong ale — fortified by which, he be-
came even more malignant than before.
His mother, he knew, often spoke of Mr.
136 GOD AND THE MAN.
Wesley with a certain respect, but she had
never openly fallen away from the Church,
and had sent her children to church and
Sunday-school, and had a stately welcome
for the pastor of the parish whenever he
paid her an official visit. Altogether,
Christian shared to the full the popular
prejudice against dissenters of all kinds ;
for he had not learned to think for himself
on religious subjects, and took his religion
as it came to him, with the other traditions
of his race and blood. '
Priscilla noticed his astonishment, and
looked at him with grave thoughtfulness.
* You are not of my father's persua-
sion ? '
' Nay,' cried Christian quickly, ' I am
for the King.'
Priscilla's face blossomed into an
amused smile. ;
* And so are we all ! '
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 137
* Nay, I thought-
* Well, good Christian ? '
' — That Master Wesley was a Preten-
der's man, and an enemy to all good sub-
jects.'
* Master Wesley is for the Lord Jesus,
the King of kings,' she replied simply,
' and I fear you have heard him belied like
his Master before him. I would you could
hear him preach : he is so terrible, yet he
can be so gentle when he lists. His voice
is as the sounding of trumpets, yet his
smile is " kindly as the sunshine upon the
sea. Though he cometh to call sinners
to repentance, he is sorest of all upon
himself
So speaking, in her natural tones, as if
she were uttering mere matter-of-fact, she
walked on. The language of the con-
venticle had grown so familiar to her, that
it came to her lips as naturally as girlish
138 GOD AND THE MAN.
laughter. She seemed a strange contra-
diction ; so bright and fearless, and yet so
full of grave discourse ; so sweet in her
manner, yet in her matter so solemn and
even sad ; so pious-minded, yet so happy.
Now, Christian knew, even in his little
experience, that the Methodist people in-
clined more to the dark than to the sunny
view of human affairs. Cobbler Marvel
had once roundly rated the vicar himself
for cooking hot dinners on the Sabbath,
and for over-finery of personal attire. His
talk was much of Armageddon, and of
brimstone, and of the pit. Moreover,
once or twice Christian had got a peep at
certain forbidden gatherings in the open
air, where common men gathered together
and spake as the Spirit moved them ; and
he had thought their discourse the very
reverse of cheerful, nay, gloomy and dull
exceedingly. Such, in his simple eyes.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 139
were Methodists — fate-haunted and dis-
tracted men. Yet here was something so
different, under the same name : a sun-
beam of a maiden, happy in a sinful world.
Her piety was like her black dress ; it
only showed her brightness to more ad-
vantage. He had read few books, but one
of them was the * Pilgrim's Progress ; * and
already he felt that Priscllla was like one
of those shiningly- vestured beings, who
talked to that other Christian and en-
couraged him upon his way.
And now, leaving the brook behind
them, they passed along the hot lane, and
coming to the brow of a hill, saw again
the sea glittering before them ; and be-
tween them and the sea was the fishing-
village of Brightllnghead, clustering with
red-tiled houses, and brown sails, and dry-
ing nets upon the sea-beach.
Priscllla led the way, followed by her
I40 GOD AND THE MAN.
new acquaintance, and paused near a tiny
cottage, with a narrow patch of front gar-
den, upon the roadside. Inside the garden
gate stood two men, seemingly In angry
conversation.
One was a short, squat, bullet-headed
man in black, who wore a clerical hat and
carried a cane, and who was obviously In
holy orders. The other was a tall, thin
man, with a countenance of ghastly pallor,
and large blue eyes full of a somewhat
wandering light. He did not seem more
than fifty years of age, but his hair was as
white as snow.
' Now mark me,* said the clergyman,
shaking his cane, ' I will have no malig-
nant and disaffected wanderers — whom no
man knows, and who have no authority
from God or man — meddling with my
people. 'Tis my care to look after the
souls of this parish, and I want no med-
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 141
dlers. I warn you, therefore, to quit the
place, or to let my people be.'
The person whom he addressed an-
swered him, with a curious far-off look In
his eyes,
* Nevertheless, I must do my Master's
bidding.'
* At your peril ! I have but to give
the word, and they would duck you In the
horsepond, or stone you from the town.'
' For what ? ' gently said the white-
haired man. ' For telling simple folk the
v/ay to God's mercy ? F'or warning them
to save their souls alive, ere yet they fall
to the place where the worm never dieth } '
The clergyman, a very hot-tempered
little man, gave a grunt of complete
disgust.
* I know the canting jargon, Master
Methodist, but it won't do down here.
My people have been taught that the best
142 GOD AND THE MAN.
way to save their souls is to do as I bid
them, to work hard for daily bread, not to
meddle with themes they cannot under-
stand, and to honour the King and the
clergy. There, go to! You have come
to the wrong place, that is all, and the
sooner you depart as you came the better
we shall all be pleased/
With these words the indignant clergy-
man bustled through the garden gate, cast
one sharp look at Priscilla, who was enter-
ing in, and walked rapidly away.
Approaching the white-haired man
with an anxious look, the maiden touched
him on the arm. Strange to say, he did
not turn his eyes upon her, but still pre-
served in them the curious far-off look we
have already described.
* Priscilla ! '
' Yes, father, it is I. What hath been
the matter ? '
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 143
' The good pastor of the parish is
angry that I have been preaching to his
flock. I am grieved in sooth to have
offended him, but I cannot serve two
masters, and the good seed must be sown/
' Verily, father ; but come, some one
wants to speak with you. To-day I have
lost my way, and found a friend/
So saying, she took the old man's hand
and drew him towards the gate, where
Christian still stood wondering. When
they were quite close, she beckoned to
.him with a smile.
' Will you speak to my father ? ' she
said. ' Father, this is a young man who
showed me the way home. His name is
Christian Christianson.'
' A good name, at all events,' said the
man, with the glint of a smile upon his wan
cheeks, ' and I trust a fitting one. Youncf
man, you are very welcome.'
144 GOD AND THE MAN,
As he spoke he reached out a thin
white hand, and Christian now perceived
for the first time that he was bHnd —
stricken by the species of disease of which
Milton so pathetically yet patiently com-
plained. The gutta serejta, or ' thick drop
serene,' had invaded both orbs, and left
him In perpetual night.
Christian shrank back, but both father
and daughter invited him to enter the
cottage, and though bashfulness had now
fallen upon him like an uncomfortable gar-
ment, curiosity made him assent. He fol-
lowed the strange pair into a low-roofed
parlour, with black rafters and white-
washed walls. The only furniture was a
plain deal table and some chairs. The
floor was of deal, with no carpet. All
would have seemed squalid indeed, but
upon the table there was a plate of water,
with fresh-culled pansies from the garden,
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 145
close to an open Bible, very stained and
old.
The man sat down, and Priscilla mo-
tioned their guest to do likewise.
* Nay, I cannot linger,' he murmured,
flushing ; ' I will depart now, and '
' Stay a short space,' said the blind
man. * Priscilla, get Mr. Christian some
refreshment. Perchance, when he hath
broken bread with us he will remain and
offer up thanks with us to the Giver of all
mercies.'
A sweet look from the maiden's eyes
did more to persuade the lad to remain
than any prospect of praise or thanks-
giving. So he kept his seat, and tripping
forth to the kitchen, she brought him
plain brown bread and new milk, w^hich
he made pretence, for courtesy's sake, to
taste.
Meantime, his eyes sought the face
VOL. I. L
146 GOD AND THE MAN.
and figure of the blind man ; and he was
surprised to find in one so afflicted so
complete a calm. Looking closer, he no-
ticed that, though the man's dress was
plain, it was of excellent material, that he
wore wondrously fine linen, that his hands
were white and delicate, and had never
been used in any manual labour. This
puzzled him more ; for all the Wesleyans
whom he had seen, or of whom he had
heard, were common handicraftsmen or
labourers in the fields. There was, more-
over, in the man's manner a curious state-
liness and grandeur. He spoke with an
accent of extreme refinement, which even
Christian, though country-born, could not
fail to perceive.
As they sat, there was a tap at the
door, and a grim-looking man, clad in
fisherman^s style, quietly slouched in.
He was followed almost immediately
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 147
by another younger man, then by an
elderly woman leading a child, and lastly
by a good-humoured-looking blacksmith,
fresh from the forge, in his leather apron.
Some of these people were evidently ex-
pected ; for at the sound of their entrance
the blind man rose to his feet and gave
them welcome.
* Good even, master,' said the black-
smith, cheerily. * I hear thou'st had a visit
from t' parson. Well, never heed Jiim, for
he be an old wife.'
* What is your name, friend ? ' asked
the blind man.
* Seth Smith, master,' was the reply.
* Have you come of your own will to
join our circle In prayer ? *
*Ay, if you please, and I will tell you
why. Because parson he did dare me to
come and pray wl' Wesleyans. "Mind
thy own soul," said I, ** and I'll mind
L 2
148 GOD AND THE MAN.
mine," and off I came — for I'll pray in
what company I please.'
* Be seated, friend,' said the blind man,
quietly.
* And I'll tell thee more, master,' cried
the smith, who was both garrulous and
aggressive. ' They say thou'rt one o' the
right sort — a rich man who has divided all
his riches among poor folk. Now, t' parson
he gives nought, but is a swaggerer in gen-
try's company, and cares only for 's tithes.
So I be come to listen, and if I like thy
ways I'll come again ; and if I like not thy
ways, I'll stay at home.*
This at least was frank, and the stout
smith took his seat like a man who did
not mean to be imposed upon, but was
determined to criticise, boldly yet honestly,
the proceedings which were to follow.
Christian rose to depart, but at an
eager sign from Priscilla, he remained.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 149
Then he beheld, and Indeed took a part
in, the simple ceremonies of his new ac-
quaintances.
The proceedings were opened with a
short prayer by the blind man, whose face
as he prayed shone with a soft beatified
light. Then Priscilla, who was seated by
his side, gave out the words of a simple
hymn ; and afterwards, in a clear beautiful
voice, led the singing. How sweet yet
solemn seemed the tones ! Could this be
the same voice that he had heard, but a
little time before, trilling out the gay
cadence of that incomprehensible French
song ? Yes, it was the same, but the ef-
fect was so different, so holy and so grave.
He raised his eyes and peeped at her face.
A deep shadow lay upon it, and though
the eyes were still clear, they seemed full
of the sadness of recent tears.
Then the blind man began a short
I50 GOD AND THE MAN.
discourse, taking for his text the terrible
words, ' I am he that Hveth, and was dead ;
and, behold, I am alive for evermore,
Amen ; and have the keys of hell and of
death.' Commencing in a low and some-
what feeble voice, the blind man spoke of
Christ's life on earth, its pains and tribula-
tions, its temptations — which come likewise
to every man ; then of His terrible death,
rendered necessary by the iniquities of the
world He came to save. A deep awe fell
upon those who listened ; with dark Imagi-
nation, the speaker reproduced for them
the picture of that night of Calvary, which
was only a colossal likeness, he said, of the
crisis which must occur in miniature to
every soul before it can be saved. Raising
his voice, he passed on to speak of the
ever-living God, to whom the keys of
hell and of death belong. His hearers
trembled, for it seemed as If the very
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 151
spirit of earthquake shook beneath them.
The country\voman moaned and clutched
her child ; and on the smith's hard-
hammered face the perspiration stood In
great beads, while his breath came and
went like the sound of the forge bellows.
Christian, not unmoved himself, looked
again at Priscilla. She seemed listening,
but none of the trouble seemed to touch
her. To what can we compare her ? To
a sunbeam on a graveyard ; to a white
dove floating over stormy waters. Her
eye was fixed on vacancy, and her face
was quite bright. Perhaps, after all, her
thoughts were far away.
Suddenly the smith gave a great groan
and threw up his hands, crying, * Lord,
what a miserable sinner I be ! Lord,
Lord, have mercy upon me ! ' And the
others fervently cried ' Amen ! ' At this
moment Christian became conscious of an
152 GOD AND THE MAN.
Ugly face, surmounted with a head of
shock hair, gazing In through the latticed
window.
'Yaw! Methody! Methody!' shrieked
a voice ; and Immediately came a loud
howling and hooting from many voices
around. But the blind man made no
sign, and continued his discourse as If he
heard nothing. Then some one outside
mimicked the howling of a dog, and there
was loud applause.
Ceasing solemnly, the blind man made
a sign to Priscilla, and again she gave
forth the words of a simple hymn, and her-
self led the singing as before. At the
sound of the music, the noise without
increased tenfold — howls and catcalls and
savage laughter arose — and finally, a heavy
stone, hurled by some cowardly hand,
struck the window and broke several of
the diamond-shaped panes.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 153
Notwithstanding this interruption, no
one stirred ; it seemed as if all were pre-
pared for such interference. Priscilla
finished the hymn with perfect calm and
gravity, and after another short prayer,
the service concluded.
The smith strode over to the blind
man, and reached out his hand.
* Give me thy hand, master ! Thee
hast made me see what a poor lost wretch
I be ! I like thee, and I'll come again!
and if any man molests thee, I'll take
thy part.'
Then he shook hands with Priscilla
and patted her kindly on the head, for he
had a daughter of his own, he said.
Christian followed suit, and said good-
bye to father and daughter. The latter
seemed almost to have forgotten his pre-
sence, for now the service was done,
she was talking anxiously to her father ;
154 GOD AND THE MAN.
but she gave him her hand civilly, and he
thrilled at the touch.
Passing out to the road, he found
a eatherinof of some twelve or fifteen men
and boys, blocking up the way, some
scowling, some grinning. The smith went
first, with little ceremou)^, and they cleared
the way for him quickly enough ; but at
sight of Christian, they murmured loudly.
'Yaw! Methody ! ' cried the same
voice he had heard before.
Christian smiled, rather amused than
otherwise. This they took as a sign that
they might encroach, and gathered round
him ; but a closer look at his square jaw
and powerful frame kept them from laying
hands upon him.
He walked through them, and away
from them. There was a wild yell, but he
did not turn.
Suddenly a stone whizzed past his ear,
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 155
and another fell at his feet. He turned
quickly, and saw, in advance of the rest,
the thrower — a great hulking fellow of
four- or five-and-twenty, ostler at one of
the inns.
Christian strode back, and before the
other could stir they were face to face.
* Did you throw that stone ? *
The fellow grinned savagely, and made
no reply ; but the others hooted.
'Answer me,' cried Christian, 'or I'll
wring your ugly neck ! '
' Best try ! ' snarled the other ; then he
uttered a terrified yell, for Christian had
him by the throat. There was a quick
struggle, a cry of voices, and in another
minute the ostler lay like a log on the
road, with bruised body and bleeding
nose. Christian stood panting, and faced
the shrieking group.
At this moment, the group parted, and
156 GOD AND THE MAN.
there appeared the same clergyman whom
Christian had seen before in conversation
with the bHnd man.
' What's this ? what's this ? How dare
you strike one of my people ? '
* He stoned me first,' answered Chris-
tian, 'and he hath only got what he de-
serves/
* Who are you, boy ? What's your
name ? ' demanded the clergyman, sharply.
' My name is Christian Christianson,
and I dwell away yonder, at the Fen
Farm.'
' I have heard of you ; and to no good,
I promise you. Squire Orchardson of the
Willows knoweth you and yours only too
well.'
* As the thief knoweth those he hath
robbed ! ' retorted Christian, turning fiercely
on his heel.
As he did so, he saw, standing at the
FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 157
cottage door, the figure of Priscllla Sefton.
She was looking at him, with a face full of
admiring sympathy and terror. He smiled
and waved his hand to her ; then he walked
away along the road, with all his young
spirit troubled, his body flushed with
victory, and his heart trembling (though
he scarcely knew it) with the new-born
flame of love.
158 GOD AND THE MAN.
CHAPTER VII.
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT.
A FEW days after the first meeting of
Christian Christiansen and Priscilla Sefton,
Cobbler Marvel stood leaning over his
garden gate, and looking moodily at va-
cancy. His hymn-book was in his hand,
his red cotton nightcap was on his head,
and he was in his shirt-sleeves. Never-
theless, the church bells were ringing, and
it was Sunday. Cobbler Marvel's only
recognition of the day was significant,
though peculiarly simple : he had washed
his face.
He was a gaunt, grim-looking man of
about sixty, with grey hair and beard,
A DISAFFECTED SPIRFF. 159
a copper-coloured nose, and a weather-
beaten complexion. His long legs were
cased in rusty brown small-clothes and
torn stocklnes ; his shirt was of red wool ;
his waistcoat, which he wore unbuttoned,
for coolness, of brown cloth. His night-
cap was cocked somewhat fiercely over
the only eye he had — the right one — and
he had altogether the appearance of a
person who would stand no nonsense.
It was a golden summer morning, and
the sound of the bells fell sweetly on the
Sabbath air, but Cobbler Marvel was the
very reverse of amiable.
* You may ring, and you may ring,' he
muttered to himself, as he listened ; ' but
I've heerd as fine music as that played
on Satan's fiddle ; and parson may pray
and preach sarmon, but I'd as lief hear
the howlinc: of the Beast. And he'll
gang home to 's roast and boiled and fine
i6o GOD AND THE MAN.
company, and drink his port wine wi'
Old Nick at his elbow, and a wail of
weeping and gnashing of teeth all round.
Well, the Lord's above, and hell's below,
and
Adam's fall
Doth doom us all
Until the Judgment Day.'
It was a gloomy view of the world to
take for one who, despite his appearance,
was a not entirely unprosperous person.
For Cobbler Marvel stood in his own
garden, or orchard, a full acre in size ; in
one corner of it there were bee-hives,
with gold-thighed swarms hovering near
them ; and amid the trees stood the little
red-brick cottage — small, but weather-
worthy, with a bench of stone in front
for the cobbler to cobble upon in fine
weather, when he was tired of gardening
and keeping his bees in order. But
Cobbler Marvel was misanthropical by
• He lifted his eyes, and encountered the vision of a fresh young face:
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. i6i
nature, and what was worse, a woman-
hater to boot, although a married man.
As the country people past, dressed gaily
in their Sabbath best, he paused, frown-
ing and sniffing, more especially at the
women. He had not forgiven the fair
sex its original participation in the col-
lapse of human nature.
The church bells ceased, the country
people disappeared, and Cobbler Marvel
was still scowling at the country, when a
voice startled him. He lifted his eyes,
and encountered the vision of a fresh
young face, gazing at him with frank and
peaceful eyes.
* Good-morrow, friend,' said the voice,
with a ring as sweet and clear as that of
the bells.
The cobbler screwed up his eye,
looked the speaker from head to foot,
and then, failing to recognise in her any
VOL. I. M
1 62 GOD AND THE MAN,
of his acquaintances or foes in the village,
grunted defiantly.
* And why good-morrow, young mis-
tress ? why good-morrow, eh ? ' he de-
manded.
* Because it is fair weather, and the
sun shines, and it is the Lord's Day,' was
the quiet reply. ' So it is good-morrow
indeed.'
This time Cobbler Marvel did not
deign to respond, but hunching up his
shoulders scowled again at vacancy, wait-
ing to be left alone.
But Priscilla — for it was no other than
she — persisted.
' What may be your name, good
man ? '
* What be that to thee ? ' answered
the misogynist, still averting his one eye,
muttering to himself, in the words of an
obscure but pious poet,
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 163
' And Eve she came a-questioning,
And caused our father's fall.'
Priscllla smiled, and shrugged her
pretty shoulders, a trick she had learned
across Channel.
* Be not afraid, good man,' she cried ;
* I am only a simple maiden, and a stran-
ger — and you need not fear me.'
* I fear no man,' growled the cobbler ;
* nor no woman.'
' Then you mislike them, which Is
next to fear, and that, good man, is
wicked, and unseemly for a true Christian
— which I hope you are.'
Something in the calm, cool, matter-
of-fact tone startled Marvel, and he
turned his head round to glare at Pris-
cllla. Then he looked the pretty figure
from head to foot as^ain. He was not
in the habit of being tackled so quietly.
Most of the neisrhbours avoided him and
M 2
i64 GOD AND THE MAN.
feared his tongue, and even with his in-
veterate adversary the parson, he was able
to hold his own.
* And who may you be that talks
so pert ? No good, mayhap ! Get thee
out o' the way, I be thinking o' solemn
things ! *
* I have heard Master Wesley say *
' Eh ? ' interposed the cobbler, with a
start at the name.
* — That none was so solemn as Tom
Fool, and that Tom Fool, with himself
for company, was as good as two fools
in a show.'
Elijah Marvel started and gasped.
The words were not spoken rudely, but
with the quiet precision of one making a
true but apposite quotation.
Before he could speak again, the girl
proceeded.
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 165
' I think I can tell your name now,
good man. It is Elijah Marvel.'
' How learned you that ? ' said the
other sharply.
' I was bidden to seek the surliest man
in the village, and, by that token, you
are he.'
The cobbler uttered an exclamation
which, on less profane lips, would have
sounded like an oath. The sweat stood
on his forehead, and the light in his eye
grew positively baleful. But something
in the sweet superiority of the maiden
awed even him. As he stood panting
and hesitating, Priscilla came nearer.
* What a pretty garden you have ! '
(A grunt from Marvel.) * And what fine
trees, full of fair fruit' (Another grunt.)
* And you keep bees to make you honey
— I see the yellow hives, and I can
hear the busy insects humming all about.'
i66 GOD AND THE MAN,
(Another grunt.) ' I must bring my father
to hear your bees, good man, for he loves
the sound ; and, Hke good Master Wesley,
holds the simple bees a pattern set by
God for human folk/
Cobbler Marvel had started again at
the mention of the preacher's name. He
took off his nightcap, and mopped his
brow. His manner momently grew more
and more respectful.
* And who may your father be, young
mistress ? ' he inquired, in a subdued
voice.
* He is Master Sefton.'
* From London ? *
* Yes.'
In a moment the man's manner
changed. His grim features broke into
the semblance of a smile.
' Lord, lord, what a goose I be ! I
might ha' known you were from none o'
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 167
these parts, you do speak so bold. And
you be Master Sefton's daughter from
London ? I heerd he were coming to
these parts, for to spread the good tidings,
and save folks' souls alive from flaming
fire.'
' Yes ; and he has come.'
* Praised be the Lord ! There be
plenty of brands here for to pluck from
hell's burning, for the parson, he be a
Pope's man, and his flock be like the
flock o' swine that were drowndead
through entering of devils. Where be
thy father staying ? '
' Over at Brightlinghead,' answered
Priscilla, ' but we have walked over to-day,
and he is resting at the foot of the hill.'
' Nay, then, I'll come to him at once,'
cried the cobbler,
Priscilla looked at him quietly, and
smiled.
i68 GOD AND THE MAN.
' First get thy coat, good man ; my
father does not commend vanity of attire,
but he loves neatness and seemliness,
m'ost of all on the Lord's Day.'
Cobbler Marvel went very red, and,
for the first time in his life, felt ashamed
of his defiant deshabillL
* I've heerd tell as Master Sefton is
blind,' he muttered irritably, * and if so
be '
* Nay, good man,' cried Priscilla, ' what
the sun can see, God can see, and a good
Christian should be seemly clad,'
The cobbler grunted disapproval, and
muttered something about the vanity of
personal adornment, and the necessity of
every man despising vanity for the sake
of his precious soul. But the grace and
ease of Priscilla had quite mastered him,
and after a moment's hesitation he stalked
into his cottage, and in a few minutes
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 169
re-emerged, looking, for him, exceedingly
spick-and-span. Then Priscilla tript down
the road, and the cobbler stalked after
her ; and on a stile leading into a green
field just on the skirts of the village they
found the blind gentleman sitting, mur-
muring quietly to himself, with the sun-
shine on his snow-white hair.
The cobbler looked upon him with
no little respect, and when introduced to
him by name, saluted him with great
reverence. For even over the aggres-
sive mind of Cobbler Marvel the serene
self-possession and refinement of Sefton
exercised an immediately subduing Influ-
ence. After a little conversation on gene-
ral subjects, Sefton said,
* And where do our people meet to-
day?'
* In my poor cottage, master,' was the
reply ; ' and 'tis nigh upon the hour.
I70 GOD AND THE MAN.
Will you join us, master ? or if so be
you be too weary, I'll fetch them along,
and we'll worship out in the open air/
The blind man rose, and smiled as he
answered,
' I am never weary when about my
Masters work. Lead the way, and we
will come to your house. Priscilla, let me
lean upon your arm.'
* Nay, master, lean on mine,' cried the
cobbler, ' I be the stronger.'
Sefton thanked him, and took his
arm, and they walked slowly up the hill.
Priscilla followed quietly. As they went
it seemed as if all the shadow went
with them — with the grim old tatterde-
malion and the afflicted gentleman, while
all the sunshine remained behind with
the girl. She moved on lightly, with a
full enjoyment of the fair prospect, the
golden weather, the azure sky. Of these
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 171
wonderful revelations of an Almighty
Love the men saw nothing — the one
because he was physically, the other
because he was mentally, blind ; but the
maiden, in her sweet unconsciousness and
content, was at one with Nature. Her
somewhat gloomy creed, like her de-
mure dress, could not touch the bril-
liancy and purity of her young life.
Indeed, she scarcely realised its gloom,
though, from early habit, she was so
familiar with its vocabulary.
In a few minutes they were again close
to the cobbler's garden gate, which they
entered, and passing through the rows of
heavily-laden fruit-trees, approached the
cottage door. Here they encountered an
interruption, which made the moody cob-
bler look exceedingly uncomfortable for
the time being. On the threshold stood
a middle-aged and rather good-looking
172 GOD AND THE MAN.
woman, dressed In a Sunday bonnet and
bright-coloured gown, and gazing at the
cobbler, and from the cobbler to his com-
panions, with impatience and irritation
depicted in every lineament of her face.
This, if the sad truth must be admitted,
was Marvel's wife, the only person in the
village who was in any sense of the word
a match for him. Much of his hatred for
the female sex might be traced, possibly,
to the discomforts and incompatibilities of
his wedded lot. The woman was many
years his junior, and a sturdy opponent
of all innovations in Church, State, or
domestic institutions. She attended the
parish church regularly, and in matters of
doctrine was in close league with the
parson against her husband.
On seeing the strangers, she drew
back with a bound and disappeared into
some mysterious part of the cottage.
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 17^
With a low groan, expressive of com-
miseration for her or his own forlorn
condition, the cobbler led the way across
the threshold.
Entering the parlour, which was quite
empty, the cobbler assisted Sefton to a
chair, while Priscilla walked up to the
window, where sweet-smelling musk plants
were flowering in great profusion, and
fixed her large eyes longingly on the sunny
garden. All was so dark and quiet one
could hear distinctly the buzzing of the
flies amidst the musk plants — the mono-
tonous drone of the bees in the tea-tree
outside. But presently a rap on the front
door announced visitors ; and Cobbler
Marvel, trotting off, soon ushered the
new-comers into the room.
They consisted of three or four very
weather-beaten figures in wide-awake hats
and rough suits, half rustic, half nautical.
174 GOD AND THE MAN.
They entered In single file, hat In hand,
and looked around them with the vacant
look peculiar to persons entering church
or chapel.
In a few minutes all the men were on
their knees, and Cobbler Marvel delivered
an extempore prayer of no little length and
with one chief fault, that It touched rather
on the eloom than the cheerfulness of the
life of man, and dealt somewhat unmerci-
fully with sin and sinners. Then the men
stood up, and one of them began a hymn,
in which all the others gruffly joined.
After this Mr. Sefton rose, and In a
few touching words, contrasting favourably
in matter and manner with those of the
local leader, touched on some points of his
own simple spiritual experience. After
a few words of a similar kind from a
country character with a very rubicund
face and a very faint far-away voice,
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 175
and another hymn, the proceedings termi-
nated.
No sooner had the company departed
than the kitchen door opened violently, and
Mrs. Marvel, still in her Sunday finery,
sailed into the parlour.
' It don't become thee, Elijah Marvel,'
she cried, ' to turn my house into a meet-
ing-house, and set all the neighbours
scorning us, and ha' parson preaching agin'
us out o' pulpit, driving away thy custom
and breaking thy dame's heart ! If thou
must pray, pray like a decent man among
decent folk, and live cleanly. They do
say you be plotting wicked things agin'
Church and King, and soon or late
thou wilt come to be hunof on eallows-
tree.'
* Nay, dame,' interposed the blind man
gently, ' you speak of things you do not
understand. Thy good man is no plotter.
176 GOD AND THE MAN,
nor are we who are to-day his guests. We
are only grievous sinners like yourself,
seeking to save our souls.'
* And who may you be, kind sir ? '
asked the housewife, with some asperity ;
adding as she turned to Priscilla, *and you,
young madam ? '
* The gentleman is my father,' replied
Priscilla ; ' and we are strangers. But
come, father, it is time to go.'
Appeased and subdued by the appear-
ance and manner of the speaker, Dame
Marvel gave a courtesy, and became apolo-
getical.
* Your pardon if I ha' spoken sharp,
young madam, but Cobbler Marvel he
would fret a saint. Since you be gentle-
folk, as indeed we may plainly see, you
are kindly welcome. Maybe you'll rest a
bit, and taste a glass of my cowslip wine ? '
* Nay, dame, we must depart,' said
A DISAFFECTED SPIRIT. 177
Mr. Sefton, ' though I thank you all the
same.*
Leaning on his daughter's arm, he
moved to the door, while the dame, with
another great courtesy, made way for him
to pass. Cobbler Marvel hobbled after
them, with a fierce scowl at his wife, who
answered him with a defiant toss of the
head. So they crossed the garden, and
after bidding the moody cobbler farewell,
and bidding him join them at their gather-
ings in the neighbouring village, passed
quietly across the green fields towards
Brightlinghead.
VOL. I. N
178 GOD AND THE MAN.
CHAPTER VIII.
CLOUDS IN THE SKY.
Several weeks had passed away since
Christian Christiansen and Priscilla Sefton
had met accidentally on the sands, and
since that day the two had scarcely been
alone in each other's company. True,
they had met ; for was not Christian now
a constant attendant at the religious ser-
vices held In the cottage at Brightllng-
head ? Indeed, so absorbed had he
become In religious fervour that he com-
pletely forgot to watch how affairs were
going on at home. It seemed to him
now that he was continually sitting In
the little cottage listening to the beautiful
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 179
voice of the girl as she sang the quaint
new hymns, or watching her beautiful
bowed head as she joined her father in
prayer.
Then when the service was over, he,
longing yet dreading to stay, walked out
with his brother worshippers and strode
moody and dissatisfied towards his home.
But one night, when he rose as usual
to take his departure, Priscilla motioned to
him to stay, and having bowed a sweet
good-night to her father's fellow- wor-
shippers, passed with Christian out into
the garden.
It was one of those calm, still summer
nights, which are rendered even more
beautiful by their promise of a golden
morrow. On emerging from the house,
Priscilla looked round her with a sigh of
pleasure ; then she turned to Christian.
He had been looking full at her ; as soon
N 2
i8o GOD AND THE MAN.
as their eyes met his dropped, and he
turned his head away.
' Nay, friend, you have no need to turn
away,' said the girl, laying her slender
hand upon his sleeve. ' Do you know,
good Christian, of what I v/as thinking
when I looked at you to-night ?'
At these words Christian felt his whole
frame tremble, and an unaccountable feel-
ing of joy fill his heart, but he answered
quietly enough,
' Nay, Mistress Priscilla.'
' This — you will become the best
Christian In Brlo^htllno-head ! '
The young man started, looked into
the eyes that were gazing so fearlessly up
at him, and answered confusedly enough,
' Nay, Mistress Priscilla.'
' But I say yea, good Christian Chris-
tianson ; for you are good, I aver, be-
cause, although you have youth and
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. i8i
manly strength, and plenty of carnal
temptations, you withstand them all, and
while improving yourself set a good ex-
ample to others/
' Verily, Mistress Priscllla,' returned
Christian aghast, 'how do you guess all
this ? '
* I do not guess it, I know it,' returned
the girl, quietly ; ' why else should you
come so often to the cottage to the old
blind man and his daughter ? Ah ! do
not think, because I have not spoken, I
have not watched you well. I have, and
approved you ; therefore I have come out
to-night to shake hands with you in a
brave new light of hope.'
So speaking, with more than her usual
quaintness of phraseology, she held out
her small white hand ; Christian took it,
but he did not speak a word. Somehow
the girl's laudatory words did not bring
i82 GOD AND THE MAN.
with them that degree of pleasure which
he felt they should have done. He knew
that most of what she had said was true ;
he knew that he had braved the elements
and renounced many daily pleasures
merely for the sake of attending the
religious meetings at Brightlinghead ; but
he was not so sure that the fervent preach-
ing of the aged missionary had been such
a lodestone as the face of his beautiful
daughter. What would those meetings
have been to him without Priscilla ? Alas !
the world without the sun.
For a time they stood at the gate in
silence ; again Priscilla was the first to
speak.
' Good-night, Christian/ she said,
quietly. 'You have a mother, you sayi^.'
* Yes, and a sister.'
* Happy mother, and happy sister ! '
returned the girl quietly. ' Well, I have
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 183
a father for my share. I must not Hnger
longer here, so again good-night ! •
This time she returned to the house,
and Christian strode homewards.
For full seven days from that night
Christian Christianson did not attend the
religious meetings at Brightlinghead. Not
that he was over busy at home, but an un-
comfortable sense of shame made him
shrink again from meeting Priscllla. Yet
he longed to meet her, daily and hourly he
thought of her ; the whole air seemed to
be ringing with the echo of her name.
His disposition was undergoing a trans-
formation which he himself could hardly
understand. Priscllla had come ; and as a
flower unfolds Its petals before the sun-
shine, his whole nature was expanding
under the mysterious light of a woman's
eyes.
His temper grew fretful and strange,
i84 GOD AND THE MAN.
but every morning the world, In his eyes,
grew brighter ; it seemed to him that he
had never Hved before that day when he
met the sweet figure on the sands ; the
past with all its sorrow seemed to fade
from his mind, like the blackest night
before the brightening of dawn.
And Priscilla ? Was her day dawn-
ing — her night fading away ? He thought
of her face when they had first met on the
sands ; thought of it as he had seen it
night after night during the hours of
prayer ; thought of it as he had seen it
that night at the garden gate, smilingly
upraised to his. And as he did so he
dared to hope that this little pale, prim
girl had come to be to him what the sun
is to the earth, the moon to the sea.
' Yes,' he thought, * her rare sweet love
would make amends for half a century of
sorrow. Sure 'tis such good fortune as
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 185
that which makes this Hfe worth Hving. I
will try to deserve all that she thinks of
me : with the help of God I will live a
brave life and become a Christian man ! '
During all this time, as we have said,
he kept away from the cottage, because he
felt that in going thither he was playing a
double part. He longed to meet Priscilla
again alone.
At the end of the weary week he did
so.
He came upon her again walking on
the sands by the sea ; she was singing
very cheerfully to herself, but as soon as
she saw Christian she ceased, and hurried
forward with outstretched hand.
* I am fortunate to-day,' she said, look-
ing steadily into the young mans face.
* I came to seek you and I have found
you !
You came to seek me ! ' was all that
\
1 86 GOD AND THE MAN.
Christian could reply, for there was some-
thing in Priscilla's blunt speech which
completely puzzled and confounded him.
' Yes,' returned the girl, quietly smil-
ing, * I came to seek thee, friend Christian !
You know the heathen story of Mahomet
and the mountain ? ' she added, with a
still brighter smile ; ' well, my good Chris-
tian has of late become the mountain, and
to-day I am Mahomet ! '
This time Christian did not reply ;
indeed he hardly seemed to hear. He
was conscious of standing upon a sheet of
golden sand ; he knew that the glorious
golden sun-rays were falling all around
him, that the sea was murmuring musically
in his ears, that a slender figure clad in
black was standing before him, with a
face like that of an angel turned smilingly
to his ! '
How lonor he stood thus he did not
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 187
know ; his slumbering senses were aroused
by the sound of the voice which ever
thrilled him to the soul.
* What hath come to you, good friend ?
you are changing ; tell me, then, what is
the matter ? '
Here was a chance for Christian Chris-
tianson to speak. In a moment a burning
desire possessed him to take the girl's
hand in his and say, 'Yes, Priscilla, I
am changed, for you have changed me.
I love you — say that you love me too ! '
He turned towards her, he half stretched
forth his hand, he looked down into her
eyes, but before he could open his lips to
speak, Priscilla had turned away.
* I did not come with the intention of
idling away the day,' said Priscilla, quietly.
' My father is in ill cheer to-day, and would
gladly see yoii. Will you come, good
Christian } '
1 88 GOD AND THE MAN.
To all outward perception Priscilla's
manner was the same as it had ever been ;
nevertheless, there was something in the
tone of her sweet voice which completely
dispelled the young man's dream, and
brought him back to himself again.
Once more, for the second time in his
life, he was walking along the road to-
wards Brightlinghead, Priscilla Sefton by
his side — with the sunlight falling all
around them and the sky smiling its
brightest above. They walked along in
silence, and Christian was again falling
into that delicious trance which had mes-
merised his senses on the sands, when he
was again aroused by the sound of his
companion's voice.
* You have lived here all your life, have
you not ? ' it said.
'Yes, I and my folk for generations
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 189
back. I was born at the Fen Farm
yonder, and 'tis there I hope to die ! '
* In truth,' cried the girl, with a smile,
and reofainlnof somethlnof of her former
ease of manner ; ' I trust there Is yet time
for you to find a place to die in ! But
since you have dwelt here so long you
know all the country-folk around, per-
chance ? '
' Most all.'
' And among them young Squire
Orchardson of the Willows ? A fair
young man, of a goodly disposition ! '
The girl had spoken innocently enough,
with no thought or wish to wound or anger
her companion : yet the young man's face
turned from white to red in very rapid
transitions, a dangerous light kindled in
his eyes, his powerful hand clenched firmly
as if for a blow. For a time he stood
I90 GOD AND THE MAN.
Speechless ; when he did speak It was to
answer her question by another.
*What know you of young Squire
Orchardson of the Willows ? '
Priscilla looked up quickly, the change
in his voice was so marked that it startled
her. And how his face had changed ! The
frank, open, manly look had gone ; there
was an ugly light in his eyes which she
had never seen before.
'What know you of young Squire
Orchardson?' he asked again, this time
almost roughly.
Priscilla grew reserved.
* In sooth, good friend,' said she, ' I
know as little of Squire Orchardson as I
know of you. Up till a few weeks ago you
were both strangers to me, but he, like
you, has been good Christian enough to
come to Brightlinghead of an evening and
join our circle in prayer ! '
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 191
' He has come ; and yo2t — you have
welcomed him '
* In verity,' said Priscllla, coldly; *when
we open our doors to do the work of the
Lord we make all welcome ! '
Precisely in the same way Priscilla had
spoken to him before, and had made his
heart leap up for joy. ' Come, good
Christian,' she had said, 'when we open
the doors in the name of the Lord we
make ^2// welcome ! ' How blissful those
words had sounded to him then ; they
seemed to say, You are welcome to come
as often as you please and gladden in the
sunshine of my presence ; but how dif-
ferent it all seemed now ! With those
self-same words she had criven a welcome
to his bitterest foe.
The two walked on in silence till they
came to the bridge which spanned the
192 GOD AND THE MAN.
narrow part of Thornley Beck. Here
Christian paused, and held out his hand.
* Good-bye, Prlscilla,' he said.
The girl looked surprised.
* Good-bye ? and wherefore good-bye ?*
she said ; ' did I not ask you to come to
Brightlinghead ? and you said yes ! '
* I am In no mood to meet Master
Sefton to-night ! '
' Then your mood has changed since
we started from the sands ! '
* It hath ! '
The young man turned away, leaned
over the parapet of the bridge, and looked
gloomily down into the water. The girl
watched him for a moment ; then she ap-
proached him quietly and laid her gentle
hand upon his arm.
' Christian ! '
'Well?'
* What ails you ? Have I done aught
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 193
that angers you ? If so, speak freely,
friend ! '
Christian turned, took both her hands
and looked into her eyes. Again here was
his chance to utter everything ! but the
tongue clove to the roof of his mouth,
and ere he could recover himself, the girl
spoke again.
' Hath anything occurred between
you and young Mr. Orchardson ? ' she
said.
A groan from Christian. The hands
were dropped, and again he turned away.
By this time the girl had grown quite
interested : again she approached the
young man and laid her hand gently
upon his arm.
* What is it ? ' she said.
* Why do you ask ? ' he said.
* Because it may be in my power to
help you — nay, do not shake your head ;
VOL. I. o
194 GOD AND THE MAN,
tell me your grievance, and the burden
may be lighter for you to bear ! '
Thus urged, Christian told her all : of
the many bitter wrongs endured by him
and his, of his undying hatred, and long-
cherished hope of revenge ; and to all his
passionate outburst the girl listened quietly
with that calm, serene look In her eyes.
' Now tell me/ he said, as she turned
away, ' have I not good cause to hate this
man, and every one of his name ? '
She shook her head firmly.
' If you are a good Christian, you have
no cause to hate him, or any man alive.
Our Lord tells us to forgive our enemies,
even seventy times seven ! '
' Priscllla, it is not possible for a mere
man to walk in the footsteps of our Lord !'
* If he doth not try to do so, he should
not profess to be one of our Lord's fol-
lowers ! '
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 195
' I have tried — God knows I have.'
* And because you have found diffi-
culties, you have never hoped to surmount
them.'
He looked at her with a certain savage
passion and laughed.
* What would you wish me to do ? Go
to young Orchardson, perchance, and
stretch forth my hand ? '
He spoke bitterly, but Priscilla an-
swered quietly and composedly enough :
' Ay, my good friend, that is just what
I would have thee do ! '
' Then I tell you I would sooner my
hand should rot from my arm, than
be clasped with his in loving kind-
ness ! '
Priscilla turned quietly away.
* In good sooth, I had thought better
of you,' she said. ' Good-night.*
And she walked away, leaving him on
o 2
196 GOD AND THE MAN.
the bridge alone. He did not attempt to
follow her, his heart was too bitter, and he
stood leaning moodily on the bridge,
watching the slim black figure as it faded
slowly away.
His hatred towards the Orchardsons
was stronger at that moment than it had
ever been before. Priscilla had praised
them ; she had hinted that they might be
right while he was wrong ; and the thought
of this turned the one drop of human kind-
ness in his heart to gall. Were these
people, who for generations had been like
black shadows upon the lives of him and
his, destined now to cast from his lips the
only cup of happiness which he had dared
to raise ?
* O God ! ' he cried, ' it cannot be.
What have I got in all the world but
Priscilla ? What happiness did I ever
know until she came ? Sooner than he
CLOUDS IN THE SKY, 197
should come between us, I would kill him
with my own hand ! '
He remained for a time on the bridge,
wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts ;
then he turned towards his home.
It was growing late ; daylight w^as
fading fast.
After a while Christian left the high-
road and took a shorter route across the
fields. It was very quiet here, no one
seemed abroad, and Christian walked
silently along, still thinking of his inter-
view with Priscilla. Presently he paused,
gave one quick glance around ; then stood
as if listening ; a man passed by on the
other side of the hedge, and disappeared ;
then a woman came hurriedly from the
same spot, paused within a few yards of
where Christian stood, and on looking into
his face, uttered a half-terrified cry.
' Kate ! '
198 GOD AND THE MAN.
' Christian ! '
Then the two paused in embarrassed
amazement. Christian's face darkened
terribly. He recalled the man whom he
had seen moving stealthily from the spot
whence his sister had issued. He turned
upon her with a murderous look in his eyes.
* You have been talking with young
Richard Orchardson ! ' he said.
Kate did not reply, but she turned
away her head and burst into tears, while
her brother, still smarting under the wounds
inflicted by Priscilla, still mad with his
own bitter wrongs, poured upon her head
a torrent of passionate upbraidings.
' 'Tis the women, the cursed women,
who bring bitterness to every house !
What will thy mother say, I wonder, when
she knows you have spoken with an
Orchardson, and met him secretly in the
Fen Fields at sunset '^. '
CLOUDS IN THE SKY. 199
' Christian, for the love of God, do not
tell my mother ! '
'Not tell her?'
* She would hate me. She would
never forgive me, — she would turn me
from her door ! '
' You knew all this before.'
' Oh forgive me, brother, forgive me !
I meant no harm.- I cannot hate as you,
— all this bitter feud doth almost break
my heart ! '
And Kate cried so sorely and pleaded
so hard, that out of pity her brother at
last granted her prayer.
When they reached home Kate went
immediately to her room. Having got
there she fell on her knees in passionate
tears.
' If he knew ! if he knew ! ' she cried.
' O Jesus, help me, I am a woeful woman!'
For several days Christian scarcely
200 GOD AND THE MAN.
Stirred abroad, but at length, solitude
becoming too much for him, he resolved
to go to Brightlinghead and make his
peace with Priscilla. This resolution put
him In a better frame of mind ; when he
entered the cottage garden it was with the
full determination to confess his love for
her and ask for hers in return.
The cottage door stood open, he
tapped gently, and receiving no answer
walked in. Two . people sat alone in
the parlour, Priscilla Sefton and young
Richard Orchardson of the Willows.
20I
CHAPTER IX.
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH.
Christian started back as if stung, and in
a moment his face turned from crimson to
deadly white.
' Come in, Christian,' cried Priscilla,
quite unconcerned at his appearance, and
not rising from her seat ; while Richard
Orchardson, now a pale, thoughtful-look-
ing young man, plainly but richly drest,
looked quietly up, with the supercilious
smile that Christian knew so well, and
hated so much.
They were seated close to each other
in the recess of the old-fashioned cottage
window, which, although wide open, was
202 GOD AND THE MAN.
completely smothered in creepers and red
and white roses. The room was shadowy
and cool, but the humming of bees came
with a pleasant sense of sultriness from
without.
Christian's head swam, and he turned
away. Staggering out of the door he
reached the garden, and was moving
away, when he felt a touch upon his
arm.
' What is the matter ? ' asked Priscilla,
who had risen and followed him. 'Why
are you going away ? '
He looked at her as if stupefied,
but made no reply. It seemed like witch-
craft, and for the moment he resisted,
with all the force of his soul, her tender
spell upon him. Just then, to complete
his confusion, the figure of Richard Orch-
ardson appeared on the threshold. Stand-
ing up, young Richard appeared to much
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 203
less advantage than when sitting down ;
for one leg was much shrunken from the
old lameness, and by reason of the con-
traction in the limb, the body was some-
what bent. But no one, looking at the
young man, could doubt his gentle breed.
It appeared in the small white hands and
neatly-turned foot, no less than in the
pallid^ handsome face.
Sick and shaking, Christian walked on
to the gate. Priscilla followed.
* Why are you angry, friend .^ ' she
demanded.
* I am not angry.'
* That is not true,' she returned simply.
' And if I am angry ? '
' Then you are to blame,' she said.
' Wherein have I given you offence .^ '
Trembling from head to foot, and
scarcely able to articulate from excitement.
Christian pointed at young Richard, who
204 GOD AND THE MAN.
Still stood just out of hearing. The girls
gentle forehead contracted, and she looked
distressed.
* I remember now what you said/ she
said ; * and indeed Mr. Richard himself
has told me something of the feud between
your families. Yet he freely forgives you
the wrong you once did him.'
* The wrong / did him ! ' gasped
Christian.
* Yes. You struck him a cruel blow
when you were boys. He was weak and
you were strong, and you were to blame.'
Christian grew livid. On this subject,
of all others in the world, he could not
speak with ordinary gentleness even to
her ; nay, he could not discuss it or enter-
tain it at all, so terribly did it disturb his
soul. . The dark passion covered his face
like a cloud, and shocked her.
* Then alas ! what he said was true/
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 205
she cried, looking at him with angry grief.
* I am sorry for it/
She turned with a sigh, but he touched
her and detained her.
* What did he say ? What did he dare
to say ? '
* That you were cruel and unbending,
— more like a wild beast than a Christian
man.*
Christian uttered a harsh laugh. In
his present temper he was not displeased
with his enemy's estimate and description
of him ; for he felt like a wild beast, and
he wished his enemy to believe that his
hate was as unreasoning and complete.
* For his own part,' continued the
maiden, ' Master Richard is content to
let bygones be bygones. He forgives the
wrong you did him long ago, and is ready
to take your hand. Come to him, — let
7ne be peacemaker ! '
2o6 GOD AND THE MAN.
As she spoke she placed her little
hand lightly on his shoulder, and looked
up into his face with a smile so sad, so
winning, that it would have melted any
heart save one where jealousy and hate
were contending. Yes, jealousy ; though
he scarcely knew it. His cup of hate had
been full before, but it lacked until that
day the poisonous wormwood of the most
miserable of all the passions. Half- un-
consciously he glanced towards the cottage
door. There his enemy still remained,
with an expression upon his face which
seemed more like insolent contempt than
Christian forgiveness.
* Come and take his hand,' cried
Priscilla imploringly.
His only answer was a look of fright-
ful agony. Without uttering another
syllable, he flung himself through the gate,
and walked wildly and rapidly away.
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH, 207
Prlscllla stood gazing after him, lost in
sorrowful thought. When his figure had
quite disappeared in the direction of the
sea, she heard a voice at her elbow.
' Did I not tell you so ? ' said young
Richard in his blandest tones. ' The
young cub is like the old she-wolf; he
would like to have his fangs in my throat.'
She did not reply immediately ; and
he stood gazing at her in unmistakable
admiration. Standing thus, his slight
form would have offered a strange con-
trast to the yeoman-like proportions of his
enemy. His face was very handsome
and clear-cut, though its expression was
irritating and at times mystifying ; his
form and limbs, but for the deformity of
the one foot and the stoop occasioned by
it, were elegant and shapely ; while his
whole manner bespoke the gentleman of
luxury and education. He was clad in a
2oS GOD AND THE MAN.
rich dress of velvet, with front and cuffs
of the finest cambric, and on his white
finofers he wore rinses.
' I asked him to shake hands wath you,'
said Priscilla after a pause. ' I wished to
make peace betw^een you/
* And he refused ? ' asked Richard,
with an airy shrug of the shoulders. ' Did
I not say that you would w^aste your time ? '
'It is terrible to see such wacked hate
between Christian folk. Ah ! had you
seen his face ! '
' I know the Christlanson expression,'
returned Richard contemptuously ; ' some-
thing between the look of a trapt weasel
and the glare of an otter at bay.'
' He hates you so much ! And you ? '
* And I despise him infinitely.'
* To despise is almost as wicked as to
hate,' replied Priscilla, looking steadfastly
at Richard.
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 209
' How then shall I express it ? ' ex-
claimed the young man, with the ease
peculiar to him. ' I am, I hope, a fair
Christian — at least, with your good coun-
sel, I am in a fair way of becoming one —
and I have almost succeeded in forgetting
that yonder clumsy fellow once struck me ;
that is to say, I have not forgotten, since
my looking-glass reminds me every morn-
ing that he has marked me for life.'
Here he pointed to his fair forehead,
where indeed the trace of his early injury-
was still to be seen, in one faint but in-
effaceable mark. ' But what is done is
done, and, after all, we were boys. I
therefore bear no malice, and would take
the fellow's hand ; only Heaven keep me
from being long in his company, for he is
a clown. I shall never go out of my way
to do him any harm ; should he attempt to
injure me, I shall crush him, if possible,
VOL. I. p
2IO GOD AND THE MAN.
just as I would crush an adder that tried
to sting me, or a venomous insect that
settled on my hand. You look shocked,
Miss Priscilla. Well, instruct me where
I am wrong, and I will promise to obey
your counsel/
' You are wrong to despise one of your
fellow-creatures. '
* How can I help it ? ^ said Richard,
with a smile. ' Frankly, though, such a
fellow would be amusing if he were not so
monotonously dull.'
* Why did he strike you ? ' demanded
Priscilla, quickly. 'You must have pro-
voked him sorely.'
Richard coloured violently, and for
the moment, under her clear gaze, lost his
usual self-possession.
* A boy's quarrel, as I told you,' he
answered ; * I forget how it began, but
how it ended I know full well, for I was
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 21 r
the weaker, and down I went. For the
rest, the feud between our houses is- tra-
ditional ; there never was a time when
our folk were on speaking terms with
these yeomen of the Fen. 'Tis all very
tiresome and very stupid, I grant you, and
for my own part I can't afford to have an
enemy, since 'tis only a source of irritation.
Only in one event should I think it my
duty to assert myself and become the
aggressor.'
' What event ? ' said Priscilla, startled
by the peculiar emphasis in the speaker's
last words, no less than by the peculiar
look of warmth that accompanied them.
' In the event of his crossing my
purpose In one of those affairs which de-
termine a man's happiness on earth, and
perchance his qualification for Heaven.'
His look was unmistakable, and she at
once understood him ; but without a blush,
p 2
212 GOD AND THE MAN.
without the shghtest sign of self-conscious-
ness, she frankly met his eyes. This
frankness and fearlessness embarrassed
him not a little. Had she coquetted or
blushed, or drooped her eyes in bashful
fear, then and there would his bold lips
have made a confession of love ; but
Richard Orchardson, despite his slight
physical deformity, had no little knowledge
of the fair sex, and he knew that the time
was not ripe.
* But come,' he cried, * let us change
the theme. When yonder fellow entered,
you were speaking to me of your father's
plans for the future. Can you not per-
suade him to forsake this vagrant life — so
unsuited to one of his gentle breeding ? '
* Nay, sir ; nor would I attempt it.'
* Why not ? '
' Is it not a blessed thing to go about
on the Lord's work ? '
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 213
' Doubtless ; and your father, I grant
you, is as noble as one of the apostles of
old. But alas ! he has fallen on adverse
times. Everyone who disregards the
supreme authority of the Church is baited
by the parsons as either an infidel, or,
what is worse, a political malignant ; and
for proselytes you have, in most villages,
only the same. Where you strive to do
most good, you succeed often in only
setting folk by the ears. Look not angry
— have I not proved myself your friend ?
But I cannot help bethinking me of a
homely proverb of my father's — " Would
you lead a life of peace and hearts
content, keep friends with the parson of
the parish ! " '
* Alas ! the parsons chide us sorely,
wherever we eo.'
* Because you meddle with the work
they are paid to do. They would fain
214 GOD AND THE MAN.
drive their sheep to Heaven through the
Church door, and when they find you
urging them in another direction, they are
naturally angry. In sooth, most folk are
so foolish and old-fashioned that they can
be saved on no other conditions, and in no
newer way, than were their fathers before
them ; and such are the folk in these
villages. For my own part, I should
deem most of the louts scarce worth
saving at all, were I not instructed to the
contrary by the creed you teach so well.'
' There is no human being,' answered
Priscilla quietly, ' but is worthy to be
plucked from the burning. So my father
saith.'
' Even at the risk of burning one's own
members ! Ah, but your father is super-
humanly good, as I always tell you. Well,
to return to what I was saying. You
cannot live this wandering life for ever ? '
, THE ENEMY IN THE PATH, 215
' For ever ? '
' I mean that your martyrdom will
end some day, and perchance you will —
marry ? '
He watched her closely, but her face
did not change. She moved over to a
rose-bush, plucked a rose, and divided It
thoughtfully, petal by petal. Then she
spoke, as If discussing a subject of the
simplest Interest.
* I do not think I shall marry. I shall
remain with my father all my life.'
* But he Is old, and — nay, do not think
I speak out of little feeling — in the nature
of things will pass away long before your-
self. Then you will be alone.'
She shook her head, and looked
quietly upward.
* I shall never be alone,' she said.
The young man looked at her
in deepening wonder and admiration.
2i6 GOD AND THE MAN.
Though there was something in her
perfect purity and simpHcity of character
far beyond his comprehension, he could at
least feel the spell of her beauty and the
charm of her heavenly disposition. At
that moment he did not dare to speak of
love ; he was too certain that her feelings
towards him, and possibly towards all
other men, were perfectly passionless ;
but his eye burned and his face flushed,
with a baser and less spiritual emotion.
A physiognomist, observing him, would
have traced in his fine face the taint of an
underlying sensuality, which indeed was
inseparable from his nature.
' It is an ill world,' he persisted, ' and
you may one day feel its cruelty. Even
in your father's company, you are fre-
quently exposed to danger. Yester night,
had I not been of your company, the folk
here would have used you both roughly —
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 217
and wherever you go, you meet with
enemies who are very pitiless. It pains
me sorely to see one so fair amidst such
sorry scenes. You should be a lady,
leading a lady's life — not a homeless
wanderer from place to place.'
'You would have me idle,' answered
Priscllla, *or playing pretty tunes on the
harpsichord, or doing foolish embroidery,
or dancing in fine raiment. Such vanities
are not for me, good friend ; I am happier
as I am.'
So saying, she walked back to the
cottage door, where, after a few minutes,
Richard Orchardson bade her farewell.
How the young man became so fa-
miliar a guest In the cottage, Is easily told.
He had the keenest of senses for a pretty
face, and one day, as he rode by, he had
seen Priscllla standing at the gate. In all
her youthful prettiness and seemllness. A
21 8 GOD AND THE MAN.
few Inquiries at the nearest house of enter-
tainment informed him who she was ; and
soon, with characteristic assurance, he
joined the little gatherings over which her
father presided. All formalities being dis-
pensed with by these simple people, he
soon found himself on terms of easy In-
timacy ; and under the pretence of being
moved by a spirit of pious repentance, he
had endless opportunities of communing
with the object of his admiration.
Quitting the cottage, he walked down
to the village inn, where his horse (for
owing to his infirmity he seldom walked
far) awaited him, and he was soon upon
the road towards the Willows. He did
not ride straight homeward, however.
Leaving the country road on which Chris-
tian and Priscilla had lingered that bright
morning when they first met, he rode
down to the sea-sands ; and seeking the
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 219
very edge of the water, where the sands
are ever hardest and firmest, put spur to
his horse and galloped. After a good
mile's gallop, he drew rein, and walked
his steed in deep thought. His pale cheek
was flushed with exercise, and his eye
burned brightly.
At last, he turned his horse's head up
towards the sandhills, taking much the
same way that his father and he had
taken, many years ago, when they en-
countered young Christian among the
knolls. He had left the sea-sands, and
was proceeding slowly along the arid
fields which stretched just above them,
when he saw, almost blocking his path,
the figure of Christian Christianson.
Christian had been seated in dark
thought on a great stone when the ap-
proach of Richard disturbed him. He
sprang up, and for the instant the other
220 GOD AND THE MAN.
thought he contemplated personal mis-
chief. So Richard went very pale, and
with a sharp pull at the rein drew his
horse on one side, and passed. Christian
glared at him, and their eyes met. The
horseman nervously clutched his riding
whip, in expectation of an attack ; for
indeed the face of Christian looked omi-
nous, in its mad expression of frenzied
dislike. But he was suffered to pass un-
touched, and had no sooner done vSO than
he quickened his horse's pace into a trot.
Not until he was several hundred yards
away did he draw rein, and look round.
Christian stood on the same spot, almost
in the same attitude, like a shape of
stone.
That day, perhaps for the first time.
Christian Christianson knew his heart.
He was realising in its full intensity the
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 221
horror of that terrible line of the rehmous
poet, Young : —
The jealous are the dajnned.
And by the measure of his black jealousy
he was able to mete his love. The shock
of seeing Priscllla In the company of his
hereditary enemy, of the being whose
merest breath had the power to poison the
sweet air and make life hideous and un-
bearable, had revealed to him the full
intensity of his personal passion. He felt
now that to see her talking confidentially
with any other youthful man would cause
a sickening sense of envy and dislike ; but
to have seen her so close with what he
most abhorred, was stupefying and over-
whelming.
He had rushed down to the sea-sands,
and had his dark hour alone. He had
spoken out his mad thought to the sea, as
so many a poor soul has done, in default
222 GOD AND THE MAN.
of a better listener. He had raofed and
stormed, with no Hving thing to heed him,
and still his soirlt was overburdened.
Grown a little calmer, he had taken his
staff, and In a kind of dream, had written
with It on the sands, In large round cha-
racters, her name, —
* Priscilla.'
Then, taken by a sudden fancy, he had
added another to It —
' Priscilla Christl\xson.'
Again and again he wrote It, hurriedly
blotting it out afterwards with his foot, for
fear it might be read by eyes profane.
But the last time he wrote It thus,
defiance held him, and he let the bold
words stand. Yes, he cared not who read
them — If they were read by her, by all the
world ! He loved her, he would possess
772^^ ENEMY IN THE PATH. 223
her, he would make her his wife ! She
should be Priscilla Christianson in eood
deed.
And yet, how hopeless it all seemed !
He felt that, even as he toyed with the
sweet thought of possession. She was so
far above him. He was so common, she so
pure and fair. He hated his rude strength,
his strong hands, his coarse breeding.
Oh, why had he not been born gentle, like
— like Richard Orchardson, his foe !
Well, happen what might, no Orchard-
son should possess her — that he swore to
himself over and over again ; and as he
did so the murderous devil which filled the
heart of Cain crept Into his. His thought
travelled back to the sad mornino-, lone"
before, when the boy Richard lay bleed-
ing on the ground before him ; and oh !
he thought to himself, \[ his enemy had
never risen again to cross his path !
224 GOD AND THE MAN.
He walked wildly away, leaving the
name, * Priscilla Christianson/ written
large on the sands. A little later Richard
Orchardson rode over that very spot, and
had he looked down might have read the
words.
As he passed they were obliterated by
his horse's hoofs.
That night, and the day which followed
it, were hours of fierce torture for Chris-
tian ; the fiercer because he dared not, or
rather would not, show it to either mother
or sister. His mother was now very in-
firm, and seldom left her chair, an ancient
piece of furniture of black oak, with high
straight back, like that of a prie-Dieu.
Much sorrow and deep suppressed passion
had told terribly upon her senses, which
were fast beginning to fail ; but her Bible
was ever at her right hand as of old. As
for gentle Kate, she also had greatly
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 225
changed, constantly avoiding her brother's
presence, and when within his gaze, seem-
ing highly nervous and distraught.
On the morning of the second day, as
Christian stood at the door preparing to
go forth, a vision came before his eyes.
Priscilla herself was tripping up to the
gloomy house, with her brightest look
upon her.
Directly she saw him she waved her
hand, and cried,
* May I enter, good Christian ? '
He ran forward, and took her little
hand in both of his.
' And welcome ! ' he said, trembling.
' Why did you come ? '
' To see your good mother.'
' My mother ! '
* Yes. I have heard that she is sick
and ailing, and perhaps I may bring her a
VOL. I. Q
226 GOD AND THE MAN,
little cheer. Your pretty sister, too — I
wish to see her.'
' Come In,' said Christian, scarcely
knowinof what he said.
He led her gently into the dark par-
lour, where the old dame sat erect, with
the film of years upon her eyes. She did
not see them till they came quite near and
spoke her name. Then Christian told her
who the stranger was, and why she had
come.
' She is welcome,' said the dame,
gloomily.
With the sweetness peculiar to her,
Priscilla took her place by the dame's side,
and soon beguiled her into conversation ;
so that presently she brightened a little,
and relaxed her look of gloom. Then the
maiden opened the Bible, and read a
chapter in her musical voice, to which the
dame listened well content, though the
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 227
chapter chosen contained Httle of the
thunder In which she dehghted. Finally,
at Christian's request, she sang a simple
hymn, so sweetly and so simply that Chris-
tian, though he knew her gift of song so
well, was spell-bound.
As she ended, Kate Chrlstlanson came
in, and fixed her great sad eyes upon her
with timid wonder. The contrast was
strange between Kate's soft, wistful, scared-
looking face, and the perfectly peaceful
lineaments of Priscilla.
' Your sister,' said Priscilla, and kissed
her. Then she fixed upon her one of her
steadfast, truthful, questioning looks ; for
something in Kate's expression touched
her to the heart.
A little later, when she rose to o-o.
having left sunshine in every part of the
house she had entered, Christian followed
Q 2
228 GOD AND THE MAN.
her. They walked out of the old house
together.
* Your sister seems sorrowful/ said
Priscilla. ' Hath she had any trouble ? *
* All our folk have had trouble,' an-
swered Christian.
* But any great trouble ? She looks
like one whose heart failed her, and who
sought a friend.'
* A friend ? '
* Yes, — to speak her sorrows to, and be
relieved.'
*■ She has my mother.'
' Ah, that is different,' returned Priscilla,
thoughtfully; and she walked along in
silence.
She had a message up to the village,
she said, and she was going there straight-
way. Might he walk with her a portion
of the way ? She assented with a smile,
and he remained by her side.
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 229
For the time being he had almost for-
gotten the existence of Richard Orchard-
son, or of any possible rival or opponent.
He was too happy In her mere presence,
in the light of her face. In the sound of
her voice. He felt, as before, like the
men who walked with angels towards some
shining Land.
At last she paused and held out her
hand.
* You must come no farther,' she said,
smiling.
* Wherefore not ? *
* I do not wish it, that is all.'
Christian bent his head in immediate
assent, for he loved, in his strength, to feel
her mastery over him.
* That is enough. What yott wish, /
shall do.'
* Everything ? '
* Yes, everything ; except '
230 GOD AND THE MAN.
He paused reddening, for he remem-
bered how she had besought him to take
Richard Orchardson by the hand.
* Except forgive your enemy/ she said
sadly, finishing the sentence for him. ' Ah
well, the day may come when you will not
refuse me even that ! '
He turned back, leaving her to pro-
ceed upon her way. Scarcely had he done
so, than the evil spirit which Is ever at the
ear of the jealous began to ask, 'Why hath
she dismissed me ? To whom Is she telling
her message ? ' Sick with the fear w^hich
these questions awakened, he followed her
at a distance, keeping well from view.
She passed through the village, nod-
ding to Cobbler Marvel, who stood in his
usual ddshabilld at his garden gate ; she
passed the church, the village school ; then
reaching the further side of the village, she
came to a green lane.
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH, 231
All was very quiet and lonely here,
though human habitations were so close.
Entering the lane she walked more slowly,
loitered and waited, and once or twice
looked round.
Then Christian slunk back behind a
friendly hedge and waited.
Presently she hastened her steps ; and
looking out, Christian saw a figure ap-
proaching along the lane. She stood and
waved her handkerchief; the figure waved
in return. It was the figure of a man.
Christian's head swam — he could
scarcely see.
The two figures met, and as they did
so, Christian recognised in Priscilla's com-
panion the man he most hated to behold.
Christian stood rooted to the ground,
watching the meeting of the two figures.
Anyone seeing his livid, distorted face just
then would have been startled by its terri-
232 GOD AND THE MAN.
ble expression. If, as Swedenborg and
other supreme mystics have laboriously
proved, the face Is the index of the soul,
and by the face alone an 'angel' or a 'devil'
(according to the Swedenborglan termin-
ology, with its occult meanings) may be
recognised, then surely, at that moment,
Christian stood In the category of evil
spirits. All the forward-looking lightness,
all the dreamy hope and fear, of early and
noble manhood, had faded from his coun-
tenance, leaving only In their place the
black shadow of ignoble passion. Such a
look, indeed, might Cain have worn, when
he saw his beautiful altar overthrown, and
the lightning of heaven playing scornfully
upon his sacrifice.
After a minute of rapid conversation,
the two figures moved slowly on side by
side, along the green lane. Slipping from
his shelter, and keeping as well as possible
THE ENEMY IN THE PATH. 233
from view, he followed, with his eyes fixed
upon them, watching their sHghtest move-
ment. When they paused, as they did
from time to time, he paused too, sHppIng
into the shadow of the green hedge. But
they did not once look back. That their
talk was animated every gesture proved ;
and that It was pleasant talk he also knew,
for once or twice she laughed merrily, and
turned a bright face upon the face of her
companion. Never before in his life had
he felt such a sickening sense of moral
meanness. To play the spy as he was
doing was foreign to his nature ; he hated
them, he hated and despised himself ; yet
the dark spirit of jealousy had him by the
hair, and he felt powerless to resist Its
cruel hold. So he watched and followed,
look by look, and step by step.
The lane passed under a canopy of
boughs, made by tall ash-trees Inter-
234 GOD AND THE MAN. •
mingling their branches overhead ; at Its
further end stood the gate of a little old-
fashioned lodge, untenanted and fallen
into decay. This Christian knew well ; it
was one of the lodge entrances to the
many-gabled ancestral dwelling where his
enemies dwelt — the Willows.
He saw Richard Orchardson swing the
gate open, while she passed in. Some-
thing merry passed between them, and he
saw their faces turn ao^aln to each other in
the sunshine ; then they passed Into the
shadow of trees beyond and disappeared.
He felt that he could follow no further.
Duped and baffled, like the evil spirit in
the play when he saw the sign of the
pentagram on Faust's threshold, he shrank
back, and turned his weary footsteps
home.
235
CHAPTER X.
UP AT ' THE WILLOWS.
>
Richard Orchardsox and Priscllla walked
on side by side beneath the trees, a strag-
gling colonnade of ash, planted many a
long year before ; and emerging thence,
came out upon an open space of green, In
the centre of which was a large tarn or
pond, surrounded on every side by water-
willows, with silver tresses dangling and
dipping upon the water's brim. Fronting
the tarn was the house, a quaint Eliza-
bethan structure of red brick, with a
terrace, where once upon a time (If tradi-
tions w^ere true) Queen Bess herself had
walked and mused, one night when she
236 GOD AND THE MAN.
had rested, a stately guest, beneath that
roof. It was a quaint and lonely habita-
tion, only partly tenable, for the Orchard-
sons were ever a small family, and used
few of its many rooms.
Approaching the terrace, they ascended
to It by a broad flight of crumbling steps,
and came upon a semicircular space. In the
centre of which was a sun-dial surrounded
by flowers, and not far from the dial a
rustic seat.
* How beautiful ! ' exclaimed the
maiden ; and she added, looking at the
dial, ' And what is this ? '
* 'TIs our sun-dial,' answered Richard
smilingly.
' To tell the hour by ? '
* Certainly, when there Is sufficient
sunshine.'
' I have heard of such pretty devices ;
UP AT 'THE willows: 237
and see, here are the hours graven letter
by letter. Teach me to read it now.'
' Look where the shadow falls, slanting
from the index. It is past twelve o' the
clock, or rather o' the dial, as you may
see.'
' 'Tis so indeed/ cried Priscilla, watch-
ing the moveless shadow with earnest
eyes. ' But when there is no sun, how do
you reckon then ? '
' Then we go within, and look at the
clock ! '
' See the flowers, how they climb
around, as if they would cover the dial's
shining face. 'Tis a sweet thought, to
measure our days by the sunlight, among
leaves and flowers. I have heard my
father say that in old times they reckoned
time with dripping water, as they do still
with slipping sand in the hour-glass.'
' Yes ; they had the water-clock, in-
238 GOD AND THE MAN.
vented by one of their wise men. But sit
here, I prithee, and look at the prospect ;
is it not fair ? And look on what side
you will, far as you please, the land Is ours/
Priscilla sat upon the garden-seat, and
looked around as he desired. On all sides
stretched flowery walks, green plantations,
meadows, and fields of grain. Even as
she gazed, a thought came to her,
troubling her bright expression ; she
lifted her eyes to his, and said quietly
and slowly,
* Since you had so much, why did you
seek more ? '
' I do not understand,' he exclaimed,
smiling down upon her.
' Christian has told me,' she said
simply. * Your father coveted his land,
and took it from his father.'
Richard s face blackened ; the very
name of his foe came like a stinsf. But he
UP AT 'THE willows: 239
conquered his annoyance In a moment, and
replied with well-assumed quiet and in-
difference :
' If Master Christian has told you that
old tale, I hope he hath told It truly. My
father loaned to his father large sums of
money, and even when these sums were
not returned, nor the fair Interest paid, my
father In pity forbore his lawful claim.
'Twas not till the Chrlstlansons were
wickedly ungrateful, till they did us
grievous injury passing patience, that we
seized our own.'
As he spoke, Richard saw his father
approaching — a tall, stooping figure, with
something of his own delicacy of feature,
but a harsher and less refined expression.
The squire expressed no surprise either in
word or look on seeinof his son's com-
panion, but coming up, took off his hat
with an old-fashioned bow.
240 GOD AND THE MAN.
'This is young Mistress Sefton/ said
Richard, * of whom I have spoken to
you/
Priscilla rose and curtsied ; the squire
bowed again.
' The young lady is right welcome . . .
I have heard of your father from others,
and my son, as he saith, has spoken to
me much of you.'
The squire did not add that he had
heard of Mr. Sefton as a half-crazy fanatic,
with most preposterous notions concerning
religion. Under ordinary circumstances,
Mr. Orchardson, who was a staunch
Churchman, more from political than
spiritual motives, would certainly not have
received a person of ' malignant ' connec-
tions with so much urbanity ; but in this
case he had particular reasons (which he
had not explained even to his son, but
which will presently be apparent) for being
UP AT 'THE willows: 241
civil to his pretty visitor. Urged by the
same reasons, he had Interposed no objec-
tion, uttered no admonition, when he had
first heard of his son's acquaintance with
the Seftons, but had, on the contrar}^
quietly encouraged a friendship which,
common experience told him, might readily
ripen into love.
After some minutes' desultory conver-
sation, throughout which he continued to
treat Priscilla with a courtliness unusual to
him, he led the way Into the house, pass-
ing through an open glass folding-door
Into a great chilly drawing-room, the old
fashioned furniture of which was carefully
mummied up in holland cloth. Here he
summoned his housekeeper, and ordered
tea, which was served very strong, in tiny
cups of the rarest china.
' And how fares your father ? ' he de-
manded kindly, as Priscilla sat and sipt
VOL. I. R
242 GOD AND THE MAN.
the pleasant beverage. 'He is a frail man
to wander from place to place alone.'
' Not alone,' answered Priscilla, ' since
we go everywhere together.'
' Nay, but pardon me, you yourself are
but a child. It concerns me to think that
you and he, who might be dwelling in
comfort like the gentlefolk you are, should
be as houseless wanderers upon the earth.
'Tis a strange life, for both.'
' So we are often told,' said Priscilla
quietly, ' and so were the apostles told,
long ago.'
Richard glanced at his father, deprecat-
ing any controversy, and the squire, with
a smile and a nod, turned the talk into
other channels ; showed the maiden his
pictures, and his few books ; told her
carelessly some of the old legends of
the house, which were many ; and alto-
gether proved himself so agreeable and
UP AT 'THE willows: 243
charming a host that even his son was
astonished.
An hour later, Richard accompanied
Priscllla back to the village, where her
father was staying that night under the
roof of Cobbler Marvel. Returning thence,
after a pleasant parting and a warm hand-
shake, he entered the lodge gate and
walked slowly up the shadowy avenue, —
his eyes still full of Priscllla's loveliness,
his heart beating high with the dream of
possible possession.
Suddenly he started and stood still,
as a figure emerged from the shadow of
the trees and stood before him : the figure
of a woman cloaked and hooded.
' Richard ! '
' Kate ! '
The hood fell back, and showed, in
the dim light, the pallid face of Kate
Christianson.
R 2
244 GOD AND THE MAN.
' I have been waiting for you/ cried
Kate quickly ; ' thank God you're come at
last ! '
* What do you seek with me ? ' re-
turned the other Irritably. ' You came
upon me like a ghost, and — well, well,
what is it ? '
She gazed at him with great tearful
eyes, and without replying, began to sob
bitterly, and wring her hands.
He uttered an angry exclamation, and
turned on his heel.
* Go home ; we shall be seen.'
' Nay, if we are, I heed not. Things
have gone too far between us to let us
part so, and I care not now if the whole
world know how cruel you have been to
me. Richard ! for the love of God, be not
so hard ; speak kindly, Richard, and I will
try to forgive you still.'
*You are talking folly,' answered the
' " You shall not go,'' cried the girl wildly, holding him with
trunblin^ hands. '
UP AT 'THE willows: 245
young man. ' What have you to forgive ?
Good Kate, I prithee let us talk some
other time ; to-night I am in haste.'
* You shall not go,' cried the girl
wildly, holding him with trembling hands,
' No, not yet ! '
* Are you mad ? Kate, as you love
me '
' God help me, methinks 'tis more like
hate than love that fills my poor heart.
Who is she you have been walking with
so long ? '
He looked at her, and smiled without
replying.
' Will you not answer me ? Nay, you
need not, for I know her. She is the
blind preacher's daughter from Brightling-
head, and you have gone a-courting her as
you did come a-courting me ; and I have
watched you, Richard, and seen you smile
upon her as you used to smile on me ; but
246 GOD AND THE MAN.
take heed, for more than one has been
a-watching, and if I spoke the word '
' What do you mean ? ' he cried sharply,
shaking off her hold upon him, and seizing
her arm in his turn.
* Never mind,' she answered, meeting
his eyes with a curious look.
' Hark you, Kate Christianson, I am
getting tired of your weary words and
peevish ways. You used to be pleasant
company, but now '
' But now, since you are tired of my
company, you seek another's.'
' And if I do, who can prevent me ? '
She uttered a low cry, and raised her
hand threateningly.
' I can ! Nay, Richard, you need not
laugh. I can ; and I will ! '
* You I '
' I have but to speak one word '
* Speak ! — to whom, prithee ? '
UP AT 'THE willows: 247
' To Christian, my brother.'
He flunof her arm from him with a
gesture of complete contempt, but for all
that he trembled, for he knew well that
the threat was not altogether a vain one,
and the memory of that never-forgotten
day, when he lay bleeding upon the
ground, and Christian stood frowning over
him, passed darkly across his soul.
* I care neither for him nor you. If he
dares to cross my path, I will crush him as
I would crush a toad. So threaten no
more, but let me go.'
' Richard, for God s sake listen ! ' cried
the girl, suddenly changing her angry tone
to one of despairing entreaty. ' I did not
mean to threaten — in good deed I did not ;
but you are so cold, so cruel — you do make
me mad. 'Twas for your sake I came
hither to-night — to warn you against my
brother.'
248 GOD AND THE MAN.
' What ! '
' He hath been watching too.'
' Watching ? '
' He followed the preacher maiden
until she met you, and then he followed
again till you entered the lodge gate In
her company.'
' And what then ? '
' He loves her, Richard, and if you
come between him and her '
^Well?'
' He will kill you, Richard ! '
Richard grew very pale, but instantly
recovering his self-possession covered his
real trepidation with an educated sneer.
* 'TIs like your brother's impudence to
raise his eyes to yonder maiden, who is
a lady born. Do you know, good Kate,
your brother is a boor, and is better placed
at the ploughtail than at a gentlewoman's
elbow ? I do not think you can be
UP AT 'THE willows: i^c^
serious when you speak of his loving
Mistress Sefton.'
Now, poor Kate loved her brother,
and though she was naturally of a weak
and timid nature, she loved him too well
to hear him slighted of; moreover, in this
tender question she had double interest at
stake, for if Christian was Richard's rival,
Priscilla w^as, by the same token, hers.
So she replied bravely, without the least
hesitation,
' My brother is as good a man as you,
and fit for any lady in the land.'
' Bah ! your brother is a clown.'
* If he were nigh, you would not dare
to say so,' responded Kate, while Richard's
face grew paler still, and his lip quivered.
* If I were to go to him this night, and tell
him what hath past between us, do you
think he would spare you 1 — And he sus-
pects, remember that ! '
250 GOD AND THE MAN,
' What do you mean ? ' cried Richard
eagerly.
* He witnessed our parting one night
near the four-acre mere, and he taxed me
fiercely with meeting an Orchardson.
Alack ! had he guessed how often we had
met, how I had given my heart to the
enemy of our house, what would he have
said ? I dread his wrath and my mother's ;
she would curse me, for I have broken my
oath upon the Book. And they micst
know full soon ! Listen, Richard — there
is something more I came to tell you — it
is terrible, but 'tis time that you should
know.'
She put her lips to his ear, and whis-
pered ; he started as if he had been stung
by some venomous snake, and uttered an
oath.
'No!'
* God help me, it is true.'
UP AT 'THE willows: 251
* I tell you it is impossible, — you are a
fool, and you are deceiving yourself. No,
I'll not believe it/
' Alas ! the day is nigh when you
miLst believe it, and all the world too.
But I shall not live to see that day —
no, for my heart will be broken, and I
shall die.'
She hid her face in her hands, crying
bitterly, while he stood gazing at her in
gloomy dislike and irritation. Night had
now fallen, but the skies above were full
of a faint palpitating starlight, like the
ghost of day.
At last Kate looked up and dried her
tearful eyes.
* Richard,' she said, ' I have thought it
all over, and there is only one way. When
we are married *
As she spoke the word, he started,
and frowned darkly.
252 GOD AND THE MAN.
* When we are married, we will go to
my brother and ask his forgiveness. He
will be angry at first perchance, but seeing
'tis too late, he will work round in time.
Dear Richard, let us speak to the parson,
and when we are wedded man and woman
before God, perchance we may be for-
given/
The young man looked at her in grow-
ing dislike and dread, and after a brief
silence replied :
* Listen Kate ! — Let there be an end to
this folly between us twain. I am in no
mood to marry, and if I were, I could never
marry one of your house. Nay ! ' he con-
tinued, as she wrung her hands with a low
wail, ' 'tis no use to cry and plead. Be a
wise woman, Kate. Keep our secret, and
when you marry some honest yeoman, as
you may, I will take care you shall not
lack for dower.'
UP AT 'THE willows: 253
* Oh, Richard, speak not so ! You will
keep your promise ! '
' What promise ? '
* To make me your wedded wife.'
' I never promised, and if I did I repent
me. Our two houses can never be united ;
but what we know, no other living soul
need know, if you are wise.'
* No, no ! I will speak to my brother !
I will tell him.'
* You will tell him nothing, good Kate ;
you love your honest name too well. And
if you did, what then ? Do you think I
fear him ? Now, kiss me, and be sure
that I remain your friend.'
* Do not touch me ! Oh, Richard, you
have broken my heart ! '
' Not I ! — Give me your hand, and
swear.'
* I will drown myself this night ! '
* You will do no such foolish thing.'
254 GOD AND THE MAN.
* What have I left to live for ? My
brother's hate, my mother's curse. 'Twas
an evil day when I was born ; most evil
day of all, when I trusted an Orchardson.
Let me go ! 'TIs all over now for ever
and ever ! '
He tried to hold her in his arms, but
she tore herself free with a wild cry, and
ran from him into the darkness. For a
moment he seemed about to follow her,
but refrained, and stood listening to her
retreating footsteps. In good truth, he
placed little value upon her threats and
passionate words, for he was used to such
scenes. Again and again, of late, her
manner and language had been violent to
desperation ; again and again she had
threatened to let the world know of the
relations between them ; but nothing had
come of it hitherto, and he did not seriously
believe that anything would come of it
UP AT '-THE willows: 255
now. At the same time, he could not help
reflecting, with a nervous shudder, on the
dangerous character of his hereditary foe,
who, If seriously provoked, would cer-
tainly not hesitate before taking some
desperate revenge.
' The fellow Is a wild beast In my path,*
he reflected, as he walked slowly towards
the Willows ; ' as long as he breathes the
same air, I shall never be quite safe. Can
it be possible that the wench was right,
and that he presumes to raise his eyes to
Priscilla ? — And Priscilla ? She is so ten-
der of heart, that she would smile upon
the meanest thing In her path ; but her
smiles mean nothing — she would never
cast her thoughts so low. Well, be that
as It may, I wish the clown were buried
in the churchyard, or lying twenty fathoms
deep In the salt sea.'
So musing, and muttering to himself,
256 GOD AND THE MAN.
Richard Orchardson returned to the house,
and found his father awaiting him in the
/ large apartment, half parlour, half lumber-
room, which was known as the gun cham-
ber. The walls were hung with sporting
pictures, fowling-pieces and pistols, and
trophies of the chase.
The squire was reading an old book
on hunting, but looked up with a smile.
' Well ? '
' Well, father ? '
* Did you see her to her home ? A
pretty maiden, and gently reared. I am
glad you brought her to me, and I hope
she will come again. Did you see the
afflicted man, her father ? '
* Not to-night. We parted at Cobbler
Marvel's door/
* What a place to shelter one so fair ! '
* All roofs are alike to them — the
richest or the meanest.*
UP AT 'THE willows: 257
The squire rose and stood facing his
son, with a curious expression upon his
face.
* And yet, Richard, this blind preacher,
who goes about almost as a beggar, and
who has scarcely a roof to cover his head.
Is a richer man than I, your father, and
might If he chose be holding up his head
among the grandest folk in London.'
* Is it possible?' cried Richard, in no
little surprise.
* It Is certain,' said Mr. Orchardson ;
' and If he were to die suddenly to-morrow,
yonder pretty maiden would be an heiress."
* I thought he had given away his sub-
stance In charity, and lived only upon a
pittance reserved to him.'
*'TIs not quite so bad as that,' answered
the squire, still smiling. ' The poor fool
hath squandered much in so-called alms-
giving and missionary work, but the bulk
VOL. I. S
258 GOD AND THE MAN,
remains, and much of that he cannot even
touch — which is a mercy, for the sake of
the young dame, whom he might beggar.'
' How learned you this, father ? '
* From one in London, w^ho knows
him well, and whose knowledge has never
yet played me false. The pretty maiden
herself knows not of her good fortune, or
only dimly guesses it ; for her father enacts
every day and hour the comedy of being
apostolically poor. So now, son Richard,
that you see which way the hare is run-
ning, and know where her cover lies, will
you gallop still ? '
' What do you mean, father ? '
The squire laughed, and placed his
hand on his son's shoulder.
* Do you think I know not, lad, when
young folk favour one another } Well,
win her ; I tell you she is worth the win-
ning. Think you I would have suffered
UP AT 'THE willows: 259
you to go a-psalm-slnging so long, in such
company, had I not been warned that all
was well ? '
There was a long silence. Richard
sat in a chair, gazing thoughtfully down,
while his father kept his keen eyes fixed
upon his flushed face, well pleased.
At last the young man looked up.
* Father, I shall do my best, for indeed
I love the girl ; but one stands in my
way.*
* Who, lad, who ? '
Richard pointed to his forehead, with
a venomous smile.
* He who marked me for life. Christian
Christianson.'
s 2
26o GOD AND THE MAN,
CHAPTER XL
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE.
Meantime Christian was once more
having his dark hour alone; wandering sea-
ward with mad jealousy In his heart, and the
shadow of mortal hate upon his face ;
raging, fretting, planning ; darkly, deso-
lately, driven by the wind of his own pas-
sion, like a cloud In the wind of Its own
speed. Had he known the full truth that
day, had Kate found him then and told him
of the evil wrought by her own feebleness,
and the baseness of his rival, he would
have flown like a wild beast to avenge his
house's Injury, and expend his own dark
desire ; and the hours of his enemy would
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 261
surely have been numbered. But he felt
as yet in his own heart, despite his jealous
fury, that he had no righteous cause for
violence. The woman he loved had her
right, as well as he, and if she chose to
seek Richard Orchardson's company, he
had no claim to control her liberty of
choosing. Nothing had passed between
them that would justify his interference ;
and although he felt mad with her for her
pertinacity and her indifference to his per-
sonal dislikes and hates, he was in no
sense master of her life.
It seemed to him, indeed, at that time,
that all was ended between them. She
had come like a beautiful spirit on his life,
stirring its deepest fountains with a new
revivifying light ; but now it was over.
As calmly and as freely as she came to
him — nay, as it seemed, with a kinder
touch, and a tenderer smile — she had
262 GOD AND THE MAN,
gone, would daily go, to the man he hated
most. He had no power to control her.
Bitter as It was to bear, he knew It was
hopeless to protest, unless she herself
should change of her own free will. With
one so pure, so passionless, violent entreaty-
was of no avail. She was the stronger
spirit still, his mistress and his superior —
that he felt most keenly ; and his baffled
anger kept him In despair.
Was it true, then, that she loved
Richard Orchardson? Was it fated that,
even In love itself, his enemy should
wreck his life and darken his dreams ?
Yes, it was possible. Even amidst the
storm of his unreasoning hate, he felt the
superiority of Richard Orchardson in all
those gifts which are dear to women-folk :
In delicacy of nurture, in gentleness of
breeding and education, in fairness of
feature and courtliness of mien. Priscllla,
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 263
herself, was a town lady, while he was
country bred. In his own sight he was
coarse, clumsy, ungainly, while she was
delicacy itself. Could so rough a hand
as his be suffered to pluck so pretty a
blossom ? No, he felt that he was fated to
lose her, and his anguish was, that what he
lost, the enemy of his house might gain.
Had Christian been able to see deeper
into the heart of Priscilla Sefton, he might
have been a happier and a calmer man.
In her eyes, his very wildness and strength
had a fascination. Though she rebuked
his violent passions, observing them and
rising above them with her characteristic
serenity, she did not dislike him for them,
— any more than she disliked the sea for
being turbulent, or the clouds for breaking
into sullen thunder. Rather, it was a
charm to her to encounter such a nature
for the first time, as it was a charm to
264 GOD AND THE MAN.
Stand under the clouds and to look upon
the sea. Nor could one with eyes so
susceptible to natural impressions be blind
to Christian's striking physical beauty.
He was pre-eminently a handsome man,
thouQ^h his handsomeness was that of a
Heracles, perfect in strength and man-
hood ; and his face had the splendour of
perfect sincerity and truthfulness, even
when shadowed by unreasoning passion.
That her Heracles was submissive to her
slightest wish or whim, and would at her
bidding have cheerfully sat down to the
distaff, like Heracles of old, was still no
disparagement In her eyes ; for his obe-
dience was that of a strong will voluntarily
bending to a charm, rather than that of
a weak will to be conquered by the nobler
and the stronger.
F'ortunately for Christian's peace of
mind, they met again by accident that
ANOTHER LOVE SCE.WE. 265
very afternoon. As he walked In his
favourite haunt among the sandhills, he
saw her passing below him towards the
sea. She looked up and saw him, and
beckoned, smiling. He walked down to
her rapidly, scarcely knowing what he did.
' I am going down to the shore,' she
said, ' to gather green sea-moss for my
father's eyes. Will you come with me ? '
He gazed at her as if in a dream,
and made no reply ; but as she moved
on he followed close behind her.
She talked on, with her happy uncon
sciousness of manner.
* Dame Marvel tells me that the sea-
moss, boiled till it makes a jelly, Is good
for healing soreness of sight, and my
fathers eyes are very tender. Will you
tell me where to find it ? '
* Yes,' said Christian, in a low voice ;
* but the moss you seek grows on the
266 GOD AND THE MAN.
shiny pebbles below high tide mark, and
you cannot gather it now. You will see
it in great patches like stains upon the
sand ; the gray plover feed upon it in
winter, and the black brent geese swim
in to seek it, from the open sea.'
He hardly knew what he was saying,
but he spoke out of the fulness of his
country knowledge, and the words came.
She looked at him curiously, with a certain
admiration.
* You know everything, go.od Christian,'
she cried smiling; *all the flowers that
grow, and all the fowl of the air, and even
the virtues of the herbs of the sea. Will
you gather some for me to-morrow, and
bring it to me, or shall I come again ? '
* I will bring It to you. If you please.'
* We sleep to-night at Cobbler Marvel's.
Brino: it there.'
She turned as if about to leave him.
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE, 267
but he reached out his hands to detain
her. Surprised at the touch, and even
more by his sudden change of manner,
she flushed a Httle, and her smile faded.
* Do not go yet,' he exclaimed.
She raised her eyes to his face, and
saw it burning. For the first time during
their acquaintance she trembled, and partly
lost her self-possession.
* Well, good Christian ? ' she said,
forcing another smile.
'When we parted to-day, I followed
you ; yes, I suspected something, and I
followed to watch — and I saw you meet
with him. You met him, and you walked
with him upon his father's lands, perchance
into his father's house. Nay, do not deny
it, for I saw it with mine own eyes ! I
watched you, till I could watch no more,
and came away.*
The words came rapidly without pre-
268 GOD AND THE MAN.
meditation, and before he knew it he
found himself arrogating a power over
her which he knew she must resent.
But he was desperate. He scarcely
cared what he said, or what might be
the consequences of his words. He felt a
wild desire to come to open quarrel with
her, and so ease his choking thoughts —
even if he should afterwards have to fall
upon his knees and crave her pardon.
She looked at him in surprise and
pain ; when he ceased, she looked at him
still, but kept silence. Then he went on :
' When I first knew you, I thought
you were kind and good, too good and
kind to give me pain ; those first days
were the happiest of my life ; I worshipped
you — nay, the very ground you trod on,
for I thought you something so far above
me. But since he hath come t)etween us,
you have been different. You have not
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 269
seemed to care, and when I have warned
you, you have seemed to think better of
him than me. Let there be an end to it
all this day. Tell me with your own lips
that you love him, and I will never trouble
you again.'
The words were strange, coming from
one who had never, save in the most far-
off hints and looks, revealed his heart
before. She seemed greatly surprised,
nor was her surprise without a certain
tinge of indignation.
* What do you mean ? ' she said. ' Love
him ? — love whom ? '
' Hiiii — the very name chokes me :
the man you kept tryst with to-day.'
* Mr. Orchardson } '
* Yes. Is it true ? Speak ! '
' You are asking a foolish question.
If I loved any man — even if it were true,
I mean — do you think I should reply } '
270 GOD AND THE MAN,
* Then you do not deny it ? *
* You have no right to ask me.*
He leaned his face close to hers, and
she felt his breath upon her cheek.
' I have this right, Priscilla — that I am
mad with love for you myself; that my
love is torturing me, killing me; that I
would die if I knew for certain that you
loved that man.*
* You know not what you say,* she
cried quickly. ' You are a boy, and you
talk without thinking. If I did not think
that, I should be angry.'
Before she could say another word, or
move away, he was on his knees before
her, holding her by both hands.
' For God's sake, pity me. I love
you, Priscilla ! *
A warm flush suffused her cheek,
but she retained her self-possession. She
tried to release herself, but finding herself
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 271
helpless In his strong hold, struggled no
more. Gazing Intently Into his upturned
face, and meeting his ardent and reckless
gaze, she said firmly,
' You must not speak to me like that.
No man has ever done so before, and I
will not suffer It.' ^
' Then you hate me, and you love
him ? '
* I do neither.'
* Tell me the truth — I can bear It ! '
* I will tell you nothing. Release me,
sir !
But he had gone too far now to re-
treat. Having once broken the Ice, he
persisted in passionate confession. In a
torrent of burning speech, he spoke of
his wild adoration. Despair made him
eloquent, and, though usually reticent, he
found no lack of words.
* I am so 6orry,' she cried, when he
272 GOD AND THE MAN.
paused in agitation. ' I thought you a
true friend, and now, it is all different.
Why do you speak of such things ? We
are both too young.'
He sprang to his feet, with trembling
outstretched arms.
* I am a better man than he,' he said.
' Put us face to face, and let the bravest
win : unless — unless you are like all the
rest, and choose him who has the most of
land and gold.'
* I choose no one. I shall never
marry, and if I did '
* You cannot always bide alone. I
will work for you, slave and toll for you.
Tell me that I may perchance win you
if I prove myself worthy, and I shall be
content. Promise me.'
* I will promise nothing. It is wicked
to vex me so. Let us be friends. Be my
good Christian still, and I will try to
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 273
forget that you have spoken what it is
unmaidenly to hear.'
' You can Hsten cheerfully enough
when he speaks.'
* He has never spoken as you speak/
she replied sorrowfully ; ' he is gentle, and
would not so distress me.'
* But you know he loves you.'
' Nay, I do not know it.'
' He loves you, Priscilla, and v/ho
would not ? But bethink yourself — he
will never feel for you as I feel, never !
You are more to me than the lieht of
the sun, than the breath of my nostrils,
than my immortal soul. Without you 1
cannot live ; with you, I should be a
happy man — the happiest in all God's
world ! '
It was not in Priscilla's gentle nature
to be unmoved by such an appeal, spoken
with so intense and spirit-stirring a sin-
VOL. I. T
274 GOD AND THE MAN.
cerity. As she listened on, she sighed
deeply, and finally, reaching out her little
hand, she said In a voice broken by quiet
tears :
' Good Master Christian, how can I
answer you ? I am sure you speak out of
your heart, and would not willingly give
me offence ; but what can I say now,
further than I have said ? Only this, that
I would you cared for some better and
worthier woman — one who would make
you a fitting wife and helpmate, and love
you as you deserve. For myself, what am
I but a simple maiden, neither thinking
nor dreaming yet of wedlock ? My place
is with my father ; where he goes, I follow ;
and soon, perchance, we shall be far from
here.'
* You are not going away ! ' cried
Christian, with a sickening sense of dread.
* I cannot tell,' was the reply. ' My
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 275
father hath done all he can do In these
parts, and he hath man}^ calls to other
places;
' And if you go, what will become of
me ? Priscllla, I cannot live without you.'
She shook her head sadly.
* We are like two ships in the sea ; we
have spoken with each other, that Is all,
and the world Is wide. When I am eone,
you will be as you wxre before I came.
Bethink you, it is only a few short weeks
since first we met. You were well content
before I came, and w^hen I eo '
* No, no!' exclaimed Christian. 'All
is changed for me ; I myself am changed.
I am another man, In another w^orld. I
cannot live without you.'
* Nay, we have both work to do,'
answered Priscilla ; ' you in your place,
I In mine. I shall always remember you,
and this fair country place ; and I think.
T 2
2 76 GOD AND THE MAN.
good Christian, you will remember me.
Shake hands upon it ! '
He took her hand, and pressing it to
his lips, kissed it passionately.
' I will follow you to the world's end ! '
he cried.
* You will do better,' said the maiden,
withdrawing her hand gently. ' You will
try to become a better man, for my poor
sake.'
' A better man ! '
' Yes, Christian. Since you have said
so much, may I be frank with you in
turn ? Even if it could be, even if I
willed to marry, I should fear your violent
disposition.'
* Priscilla ! '
' Nay, hear me out. Your love and
your hate are both so mad, so wild. You
cherish such strange animosities.'
* Only against one man in all the world.'
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 277
'And to hate one man Is hate enough,'
said Priscllla, firmly. ' Sometimes, when
I have Hstened to you, when I have heard
your stormy words, I have been in terror
lest some day you should do some dreadful
deed.'
* God help me, and so I might If my
love were cast away. You can save me
from that, you can make me worthy in
God's sight.'
* Nay, Christian, only your heart can
do so much. You must learn to chasten
It ; you must learn that all hate Is evil ;
and when you have learned that, you will
be able to bear your cross, as our Lord
did, as any soul on earth may do.'
She turned away and walked a few
paces from him ; then pausing, reached
out her hand again, with her old smile.
* Let us part now for to-day,' she said.
* To-morrow '
278 GOD AND THE MAN.
' To-morrow I will bring you the moss
for your father's eyes ! *
' And so you shall/ she cried ; and still
smiling, she walked aw^ay.
She left him happy. Something peace-
ful came upon him, out of her gentle looks
and words. He watched her with adoring
eyes till she passed from sight ; then with
a low cry, he hid his face in his hands, and
sobbed.
Not in sorrow now. The tears came
welling up from his overburthened heart ;
for he felt she pitied him, and knowing
her heavenly pity, he did not feel wholly
cast away. There was a comfort, too, in
the fact that he had spoken ; that thence-
forth, whatever might happen, she could
not fail to understand him. So he looked
round on the earth, and on the sea, and
up to the peaceful heaven ; and he blessed,
in the name of all these, the maiden who
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 279
had come to make them clearer, to put
new hght and colour Into their ever-
changeful hues, as well as into the tangled
thread of life.
When the sun had set, he wandered
home, and entering the house found his
mother sittincr alone In the dark room.
' Where is Kate ? ' she asked. ' I have
called for her, but she does not come.'
Christian called his sister s name aloud,
and then, as she did not answer, he went
to seek her. He passed from room to
room, but could not find her. This
seemed strange, for Kate was a home-
loving girl, and seldom absent from the
house. He returned to his mother, bear-
ing a light with him for the room.
' I cannot find her,' he said. ' Belike
she has gone on some errand up to the
village, and will soon return.'
28o GOD AND THE MAN.
The dame looked pale and astonished ;
after a pause she said :*
* When did you see her last, my son ? '
* Not since before noontide. I left her
then in the house.'
* She went forth soon after thyself,
promising to be back within an hour.
Have you searched in her room ?
' Yes, mother.'
' Then go forth and look for her. 'Tis
time she was come home.'
Accustomed by habit to obey his
mother's slightest wish. Christian did not
hesitate a moment, but ran forth ; searched
all the outbuildings, looked up and down
the farm-fields ; shouted his sister's name
aloud, without eliciting any reply. It was
now quite dark, and he began to be
seriously alarmed ; for Kate, as we have
said, was home-loving, and little likely to
gad about after nightfall. Returning into
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 281
the house, he told his mother the state of
aftairs, and was at once bidden to go up to
the village and make inquiries. This he
did, but to little avail. Kate was nowhere
in the village.
Thinofs now looked ominous. No one
had seen the girl since early in the after-
noon ; and the person who had met her
last, an old labourer, had seen her hasten-
ing homeward, by the path which wound
along the side of the four-acre mere.
Could any accident have happened to
the girl ? When the moon rose, Christian
stood by the mere side, and looked at the
black palpitating water with a fearful
heart. Could his poor sister be lying
there ?
As he gazed and gazed, a vision rose
before him of the girl's pale face, as he
had often seen it lately. He had been too
much absorbed in his own new dreams to
282 GOD AND THE MAN.
take much heed of It at the time ; but
he remembered now, with a twinge of
pain, how changed she had been. Then
came across his brain the memory of
her encounter that night with Richard
Orchardson. Was It possible that they
had encountered at other times, or that
Orchardson was In any way, however
remotely, connected with the fact of her
disappearance ? No, he could scarcely
believe It. He would not wrong his sister
so much as even to entertain the suspicion
for a moment. She had sworn her oath
upon the Book, and she could never have
broken It so desperately.
That night, Kate Chrlstlanson did not
return home ; nor the next, nor the next
a^aln. Thouo^h Christian searched hlo^h
o o o
and low, he could gain no clue to the
cause of her disappearance. On the
third day they dragged the four-acre
mere, but found nothing there.
ANOTHER LOVE SCENE. 283
Pale and terrible in grief, the mother
kept her eyes on her Bible, as If the end
of the search was to be found within It.
But Kate did not come, and a shadow
worse than death remained In the lonely
house.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON : PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
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